Apocalypse Read online

  There were others as well. Pastor Holmes sometimes laughed about the “Bank of Edna Williams” when lecturing to the elderly woman about the street people she was always trying to help. “You can’t support the world, Sister Edna,” he’d say. “You can’t love all of humanity.”

  “The Lord has provided for my needs,” she would reply. “I have good friends who will never let me starve. But you’re wrong about changing the world, Pastor Holmes. Don’t you think I can help just two people turn from their path and find a life that is right with God?”

  “Of course I do,” the minister said and laughed.

  “If you or I, or anyone can change just two people in their own lifetime,” Edna persisted, “don’t you think they could influence two more people for good?”

  “That’s a reasonable assumption,” the pastor replied, not quite certain where she was leading him.

  Edna smiled triumphantly. “Then you don’t have to go very far before everyone on earth has a chance to change. We each affect just two lives for the better and pretty soon the entire world, billions and billions of people, have given their lives to Jesus.”

  “You’re talking about the thousand-year reign of Jesus following Armageddon, aren’t you?” asked the pastor thoughtfully.

  “It doesn’t matter what it’s called,” responded Edna. “I’m not even sure it matters what comes before as long as it’s in God’s hands. But I truly believe that if each of us tells the story to two others, tells it with the Holy Spirit’s guidance, His kingdom will truly rule.”

  Walking the streets at all hours, befriending the friendless, Edna was scoffed at, ridiculed, and taunted. But she was also embraced and loved, even by those who thought she was just a crazy old lady with strange ideas, which was why she never moved, not even when Helen offered to buy her grandmother an uptown condominium near her own. “This is where the Lord has put me,” Edna insisted. “This is where I do my work. When He is ready to take me home, I’ll go joyously. Until then, try to see my neighbors as I do.”

  Helen would visit as often as she could, and called her grandmother two or three times a week. Worrying about the old woman’s safety, yet also somehow realizing such concerns were unnecessary.

  It was a typical Tuesday night when Helen Hannah called her grandmother a few minutes after the WNN Evening News signed off the air. “What a wonderful newscast you had tonight, Helen,” said her grandmother.

  “Wonderful? Grandmother,” she replied. “We ran stories about riots in the Golan Heights, violence between families of Holocaust survivors and the Ku Klux Klan in Skokie, Illinois. There was a flood in Nevada, an uprising by the generals in China, and the torture trial of General—”

  “Yes. Yes. I saw it all,” the old woman interrupted. “Tragedy in Europe. Tragedy in the Middle East. Tragedy in the United States. Tragedy everywhere. It’s a time of trial for many people. I hope you and your crew remembered to pray for the folks you’re reporting on.”

  “Grandmother,” Helen said patiently. “I know how your faith sustained you when Mom and Dad died and you had to raise us kids, and I know how you live your life with faith. But have you been buying some of those ‘happy pills’ they sell on your street? The world is going to hell these days. In my television journalism classes, the professors used to joke about how ‘if it bleeds, it leads.’ We’re taught to look for something visually horrible—a shooting, a riot, a plane crash site—and hook the viewer with it. Then you put a piece of happy news at the end so hopefully the viewer will tune in the next night.” She sighed. “Do you know what our ‘happy news’ choices were for tonight? A war in the Balkans where only thirty people died compared with one hundred the day before, or a plane crash in Paris where a cat and two dogs were found alive in the smoldering wreckage. Everything else was war, threats of war, famine, earthquakes, plague, and, of course, bad hair days for half the movie stars in Hollywood . . .”

  “You’re teasing me, dear,” her grandmother replied. “But I’m serious. Remember what I’ve been telling you about our Bible study of the end times. Yes, the world is a mess, but that is just to let us see the hand of God in our lives. The worse your news broadcasts, the closer we get to Jesus. Sometime soon, any day now, in fact, there will be a rapture of the saved. After that, whoever is left behind at your network can report on the greatest story since the birth of our Savior.”

  “I wish I had your faith, Grandmother,” was Helen’s retort. “Every century there are people who predict the end times. A new millennium just brings out more of them. Do you know how many calls our network gets from people announcing the end of the world? The second coming of Jesus? The imminent landing of UFO’s or the takeover of the White House by little green men from Mars? Maybe not all of them are crazy, but I don’t think even you could tell which ones among them have a vision of the future and which ones are psychopaths.”

  “It’s not what people say,” Edna insisted. “It’s what’s in the Bible. From Daniel to Revelation, we’re shown God’s plan. I am sad for those who suffer, but the more our times reflect what is written, the closer we come to His return.”

  “We’ve been through this before, Grandmother,” said Helen, trying to hide her annoyance. “I suppose I believe in God. I suppose I even believe in Jesus. But I also know without question that my parents were good people and I needed them desperately. I needed their love. I needed their wisdom and they were taken from us.”

  “And all you got was this old lady,” Edna responded, her feelings hurt.

  “No, that’s not it, Grandma,” countered Helen. “You couldn’t have loved me more. Now that I’m older, I think I even understand how if you hadn’t been a wonderful mother to Mom, she couldn’t have been so wonderful to me. But I also know that I would have had your love whether Mom and Dad had lived or died. I wanted you all, Grandma. I wanted them and you. Sometimes, even now, I cry myself to sleep, questioning how God can exist and still allow such a tragedy. And then . . . And then I just hurt so much I don’t know what to believe.”

  “I know. I really do understand,” Edna interjected softly. “And despite your questioning, God understands too. Your mom was my daughter, and I loved your father like a son. There is no greater pain a parent can bear than the loss of a child. I expected your mother to bury me, not the other way around. I wanted her to grieve for me as I grieved for my mother, and she grieved for her mother before her. That is the natural way. And yes, I, too, was angry with God. I would have taken her place if I could have. Instead, I have to wait out my years here before going to be with them. But until then, you and I just have to accept His plans for us, to remember that ultimately He is in control.”

  “Does that really bring you comfort, Grandma?” Helen asked intently. “Is that how you found hope in tonight’s newscast?”

  “It truly is, Helen,” Edna answered. “And one day it will help you find hope, too. Why else would we want to carry on if not to fulfill His plan for our lives? You just watch. What is happening today in our lives, in the stories your network is covering, is unique in human existence. It is only a matter of time.”

  Chapter 3

  BRONSON PEARL KNEW he was going to have a problem when the flight attendant asked him to remain on board as the other passengers disembarked. He’d already been through customs in England, where he’d been on assignment for WNN, before boarding the flight back to the States. Helen Hannah was supposed to be waiting for him in the parking area, so what was the problem, and why was the flight attendant keeping him longer than the old man in the wheelchair and the little girl flying alone to meet her parents?

  The pilot finally opened the cockpit door and said, “Okay, Shirley. They’re in place.” Turning toward Bronson, he held up a copy of Time magazine. “Great picture of you on the cover, Mr. Pearl,” he said. “Nice having you on board.”

  And then he knew. Helen had done it. Helen had really done it.

  Bracing himself, Bronson Pearl left the plane and started up the ramp. He c
ould hear them before he could see them, a half dozen WNN staffers, each with a different toy instrument. There was Chet, the intern from the news department, with a tiny trumpet in his large hands. There was Linda, the receptionist, on harmonica. Gareth, a newly hired sports reporter, had a toy piano, and Imogene, one of Helen’s researchers, played a miniature saxophone. Ian, from advertising, held a kazoo, and Afi, the new hire in public relations, jammed with a tissue and a comb.

  The music was off key, but recognizable; the theme from the “Bronson Pearl Report” on WNN, his weekly broadcast commentary.

  He looked for Helen, not certain if he wanted to kiss or strangle her. For years he had half-joked about his lack of success. He had been featured on the cover of TV Guide and on the inside pages of People magazine. Broadcast magazine had done an article on how he’d been able to gain the trust of so many key world leaders. His salary had increased to the point where, if he really wanted he could retire and spend his days fishing up in the Pacific Northwest as he claimed he’d always wanted to do.

  Not that Bronson Pearl had ever fished in his life. But he had once done a story about fishermen, average people who relaxed with a line in the water on a warm summer’s morning. It seemed an idyllic life, and he’d often vowed to spend his retirement years doing nothing else.

  Yet deep down Bronson knew he would never live out his fantasy. He loved his work regardless of the unwanted attention it brought him, and he’d finally adjusted to being a cable network star. “But I would like theme music,” he’d said with a laugh.

  “Theme music?” Helen had echoed. They had eaten at a posh restaurant in Lower Manhattan and were strolling back to her apartment on a balmy summer night.

  “Theme music,” he repeated. “Haven’t you ever noticed the shows where, every time the good guy goes into action, you hear music? That’s what I want. Theme music that plays everywhere I go. Now that would be real success.”

  Helen had laughed. “Bronson, you’re crazy.”

  “Maybe,” he replied. “But you can’t tell me you haven’t fantasized about your own theme music.”

  “Okay, Bronson,” she sighed, with a smile. “The day you get your picture on the cover of Time magazine, I’ll get you some theme music.”

  That had been months ago, one of those times too many stories of man’s inhumanity to man had left them both exhausted, a moment of silliness that Bronson now remembered with chagrin.

  The makeshift band moved behind Bronson as he walked from the arrival lounge. They matched his step, saying nothing, ignoring the stares of other passengers, tooting and honking for all they were worth.

  “Helen . . . ,” said Bronson, with mock anger. “Where are you?”

  It was then he saw the poster at a newsstand. Time magazine’s cover for the current week, with the headline “Bronson Pearl: The World’s Most Trusted Newsman.”

  Helen Hannah stepped from behind it holding a piece of paper, a pencil, and a grin of delight in his embarrassment. “Look . . . Over there!” she shouted, attracting the attention of passing passengers. “The man with the theme music. I’d know him anywhere. I’ve got to have his autograph!”

  “Helen, I’m going to kill you,” hissed Bronson as she rushed to his side. “I’m going to marry you and then I’m going to kill you.”

  Helen ignored him. Grinning broadly, she continued loudly, “I’m your biggest fan, Mr. Pearl!” Bronson kept walking, his face flushed, as his coworkers from WNN tagged along, playing his theme over and over

  As they passed one of the bars, a rather large man, who’d apparently had a few too many in the airport lounge, moved unsteadily off his stool and stepped in front of Bronson. “I’ve been watching you, Pearl,” he said angrily. “You celebrity types are so rude. Why don’t you give the lady your autograph?”

  Helen handed him the paper, trying to keep from laughing as the stranger watched him scribble his name.

  “Can’t you say something personal to the lady?” the man insisted, his breath sour and his eyes bloodshot.

  “How about ‘to my greatest fan, a beautiful and gracious lady’?” replied the exasperated Bronson. “That make you happy?”

  The man nodded. Helen burst into laughter. The rest of the WNN crew managed to continue playing, more out of tune than ever.

  “I owe you,” said Bronson.

  “I’m looking forward to it, Bronson,” she quipped, then smiled. “Time magazine . . .” She looked at him for a moment, then kissed him tenderly. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispered.

  Bronson smiled, lost for a moment in her eyes, then looked back at the spectacle behind them. “Helen,” he pleaded, “could we get out of here? I’ve never felt so foolish in my life.”

  Helen stopped, her face assuming a hurt, hangdog expression. “What’s the matter, Bronson?” she whimpered, then burst into laughter. “Don’t you like your theme?”

  They called themselves Women Who Witness, Arab and Israeli, Christian, Jew, and Muslim, most in their thirties and forties, but a few were barely out of their teens and among them, a few widows. Some were much older, having lost not only husbands and sons but also grandsons. Some followed traditions dating back thousands of years while others were totally contemporary. But they all wore the same modest head and body covering serving as both a gesture of respect for their orthodox Islamic members and as a way to conceal their identity.

  They could be found as silent witnesses in the midst of a riot or a war zone, a reminder, they said, that there are no winners in such conflicts. Violence always means a grieving mother, wife, or daughter. To kill because of where someone was born or because of the language they speak, or because of how they worship the Creator is an abomination. The women said they were militant in their love, lifting their voices in prayer and song, each speaking in her native tongue—Hebrew, Arabic, English, Russian, or any of a dozen other languages. “God hears all,” they claimed. “God understands all.” They spoke out angrily against the atrocities in their midst, sharing their personal tragedies and taking a stand not as a buffer between opposing forces but as prophets who put their own lives on the line for the sake of the truth, their very presence articulating the senseless horror of war.

  Initially the news media treated them as just a novel photo opportunity, striking figures amid the masked youths hurling stones and the police firing rubber bullets into hostile mobs. They were not generals or kings, presidents or religious leaders, and although some had attended college and graduate school, others could barely read or write. None of the women sought personal glory, never using their real names. They traveled along using routes that constantly changed, depending on a network of sympathizers, safe houses, and disguises. To do otherwise was to risk arrest and torture, putting at risk those who did not know a spouse or daughter who was a Women Who Witnessed.

  The names they gave to the press and the authorities were those of historic women who had obeyed God and changed the world. One called herself Miriam; another, Sarah; a third, Elizabeth. There was a Hannah, a Mary, a Salome, a Eunice, and many others. Each was a reminder of a biblical event, an account of God’s faithfulness unto death and beyond. Each namesake had endured difficult times: Sarah had been barren; Mary a humble Jewish teenager with a unique destiny; Eunice, the Jewish wife of a Greek and mother of Timothy in the early Christian church.

  The witnesses had come together by chance—each having lost a son, a husband, a brother, or a father in the senseless violence that was spreading throughout the Middle East. They met in marketplaces and hospitals, synagogues, mosques, and churches, sharing their stories, as if guided by the hand of God, with women who were officially considered enemies. Each saw in the grief-stricken faces a mirror of her own soul. They gradually accomplished the “impossible,” uniting in love, bonding in shared experience, and transcending the superficial differences that once had kept them apart.

  In grief they became the sisters of Eve, whose son, Abel, was murdered through the greed, jealousy, and anger
of his brother. In grief they became the sisters of Mary, whose son was killed on the cross in fulfillment of prophecy. They had not failed to see God’s hand in such sorrows. They knew all was done according to His purpose, but they were mothers first, and mothers grieve the loss of even a wayward child. Their tears formed a communion that predated written history and would continue as long as man turned his back on God.

  Early members of Women Who Witness also identified with Mary Magdalene; Mary, mother of James; and Salome, who had discovered the empty tomb of Jesus. They were the bearers of sorrow, but also the harbingers of the Good News, challenging the evil that seemed to be overwhelming the Middle East.

  Women Who Witness first appeared in Jerusalem, at the endlessly disputed site of the Temple Mount, contested by followers of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Many believed that God had once been physically present there and would return there to rule the earth. Yet in His absence, men had defiled the holy place by killing each other in His name. And so the women stood in silent prayer while rubber bullets, rocks, and tear gas exploded all around.

  It was Franco Macalousso who first sensed the potential international influence of Women Who Witness. It was impossible not to be stirred to compassion by their sincere desire for peace, and even though they spoke of different holy books and were of diverse faiths, they were not committed to any one teaching. By being inclusive, they no longer felt themselves to be Christian, Jew, or Muslim. They were determined to abolish divisiveness in spiritual creeds.

  Macalousso had begun meeting with the women, gaining their trust as he revealed his own plans for world peace. Flattered by his attention, they were impressed that someone as well known and respected as he should take the time to listen to them. While they knew little of his history, little of his life, what mattered to them was that he had cared about their cause. When they gave him their support, they felt they were endorsing a man who understood the need for peace at any price.