Of the fourteen books of the Septuagint, eleven were accepted in the Roman Catholic canon. Some of the clues to where the Antichrist would next appear had to thus be in the books of the Apocrypha. At this juncture, none of the faiths on the planet could afford to neglect the works of the ancient texts simply for political reasons. Why weren't the books he needed, the research materials that were vital to assisting the cardinal and ultimately the pontiff he'd been asked to protect, here then? He needed a decent library that housed obscure texts!
The fact that each faith was still feuding over semantics and whose doctrine came first or was more valid rankled him no end . . . and why his own hierarchy still refused to recognize the basis of it all coming from Kemet was beyond his comprehension. Moses even studied in Egypt where the forty-two laws of Ma'at were in force prior to the Ten Commandments. Why did the truth threaten people? The Darkness could only be defeated by the Light of the truth-and the truth was knowledge in its purest form, which was in turn power. The darkside had mastered burying the truth with lies and illusion and human infighting . . . didn't people understand!
The elderly cleric briefly closed his eyes; the urge to yell out was so compelling. Tools, guidance, help from the angels . . . Divine intervention had been given to humankind in many forms since the beginning. Even the stars foretold truths, and Kemet's science of the stars, along with that of the Chinese and Mayans, was accurate down to predicting when Pluto-the planet of death and endings-would collide with the galactic center, spelling unparalleled change. Last year, it hit . . . and since then, the end of days spiral had begun.
And, yet, with all that he knew as a Templar, he was bound to a damned wheelchair! If the angels wanted him to help avert the crisis that was quickly bearing down on humanity, then why would they leave him disabled? It didn't make sense. There was no logic to this at all.
He couldn't get to his secret Templar locations where unabridged texts and invaluable, original scrolls were hidden, because that would divulge and endanger centuries-old secrets-that would require breaking his vows. At his age, after all he'd endured throughout his life without wavering from his commitment to thebrotherhood, death was a better option than such forfeiture. Yet it was also impossible to even access the abridged Masonic lodge libraries because they weren't on sacred ground . . . and his personal safety was an issue with those who so-called nursed him. Adding insult to injury, his requests for certain texts were met with skeptical optimism.
That's why there was no other way. He would walk again, would be self-reliant, would get what he needed for himself, andwould not remain a captive of frightened men! Time was evaporating while his shortsighted clerical brethren quibbled about where he should search for information!
Father Patrick stared out of the leaded, beveled glass windows of the seminary, pure outrage causing tears of frustration to fill his eyes. The night had become his enemy, too, holding him hostage inside a diocesan facility like a child. Yes, he was an old man-but he was still a warrior! The doctors could find no true physical cause for his sudden infirmity. Therefore, it was purely spiritual in nature and he refused to be confined at this important hour. His mission was clear.
Once strong hands, turned feeble by the ultimate demon attack, gripped the arms of the wheelchair.Trembling biceps gave out under his unsuccessful attempt to stand. His mind was so able and yet his body now bitterly betrayed him. But he would not give up, not ever.
Didn't those in the healing profession who surrounded him understand how maddening itwas to be like this now after all his years of personal independence? Each day had been the same; the seemingly endless passage of time that folded into the nights that he'd only recently learned to fear. But this night would be different. He'd decided that as he'd opened his eyes in the morning and, as usual, it had been necessary to call a nurse to help him with something as profoundly private as maneuvering to use the bathroom.
He no longer wanted to hear platitudes regarding his past accomplishments from Rabbi Zeitloff or Imam Asula, no matter how much he loved them or they him. Couldn't his fellow Covenant brethren understand how it felt to have critical work to do, but to be trapped in a body that didn't function?
Monk Lin's patient counsel suddenly came into focus as fatigue got the better of him. Just like he had to stop struggling in the wheelchair right now, Lin had said that he had to stop warring with his condition, stop the rage, and use it to his advantage. How was that possible?If God would simply grant him the wisdom . . .
A prayer of humility found its way inside Father Patrick's embattled mind.Oh, Lord, use me as your vessel in whatever wayYou deem fit . . . I surrender to Your will. What, Lord, would you have me do to protect your people?
As the words filled his mind, sudden peace followed, consuming all the questions and doubts that had plagued him for months. Rage gave way to clear discernment, and from that grew a strategy that made him smile.
"The darkside thinks I am an old man and an easy link to siphon," the cleric said aloud to the Divine presence he felt. "Then let them take a dose of poison from me."
"Yes, let them drink from your vessel a bitter elixir," a gentle, disembodied voice said. "Just as I led Enoch and promised him, they may hide your stories, disguise your witness, but your truth will be known in time. There are many ways to fight the unholy."
Tears streamed down Father Patrick's face. "Uriel?" he whispered, bowing where he sat and crossing himself.
"Yes," the voice said, growing in strength as a warm golden light surrounded the priest. "The children's most precious of secrets have been divulged. . . .Templar, you above all your brethren know the power of secrets and when such tender shoots of a new harvest in the garden of men must be protected. Tuck these knowings back into hiding by not hiding yourself. Let the Darkness move within you, claiming victory and knowledge, but we will plant that which they seek within you, corrupted, and shall take back that knowledge from the unclean, which we must reclaim through our clean vessel and servant-you. Have faith in this final hour, knowing that you have provided our side with the most profound of gifts . . . you have been a warrior to the end and you have not failed your mission."
The angelic presence was gone as quickly as it had spoken, but the warmth and peace it emanated remained. Father Patrick smiled as he looked out of the window, staring across the street from the huge Gothic building made of stone to the more modern Lankanau Hospital just across the busy road. His hands found new strength, but this time he didn't fight his wheelchair to escape it. Steady palms moved his wheels forward and he discovered the surprising ability to open his private room door. The long corridor didn't dissuade him, nor did navigating the eerily vacant environs to find the elevator make him turn back.
There was no fear as he silently waited for the lit button to signal and the elevator doors to open. He was a warrior and would be till the end. There was no second-guessing the archangel's request for him to have faith. The personal visitation was an honor of a lifetime. No matter the outcome, he'd been told to stop hiding so the angels could use him as a vessel. His path had been cleared-the normal security guards, nursing staff, and seminary personnel were divinely nowhere to be found.
Giddy with awe, Father Patrick chuckled to himself at the so-called coincidence . . . there was no such thing as coincidence, everything in Heaven and earth was divinely orchestrated by a master plan.
Blind faith propelled him from the sanctuary of hallowed ground down the handicapped access ramps and along the extensive network of driveways on the moonless night. The humid air felt good on his face, just as the vision of his long-dead wife opening her arms made him weep with joy. He'd missed her so . . . she and his son had been the cornerstone of his previous life before his vows, and she'd come back.She understood . She was proud of him; her gentle smile said all had been forgiven. Although his son's suicide had scarred them all, the two people he'd loved most in the world waved at him from just across Lancaster Avenue. His beloved wife and son had come to see him. His hands were steady on his wheels, propelling him forward, off the pavement, and over the curb as his heart burst with indescribable joy.
He never even felt the impact of the bus.
"No!" Carlos shouted, leaping up off the pew and almost toppling Berkfield.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Berkfield said quickly, pulling back his hands. "I was trying to do the healing without hurting you, man."
"Forget the damned healing!" Carlos shouted. "Just get off me!"
"It's his third eye," Damali said gently to Berkfield. "It's not what you did; it's what he just saw."
Guardians rushed over, panicked, literally holding their breaths as they waited for Carlos to reveal what had stabbed into his third eye. But Damali knew. The team watched in horror as she covered her face with her hands and doubled over as though she'd been punched in the gut.
"Madre d' Dios, they finally did it!" Carlos walked in circles for several seconds, holding his skull as silver tears glittered in his eyes, unable to even put words to the tragedy.
"What's up, man?" Shabazz said,rushing forward even closer with the others as the Guardians pummeled Carlos for answers with rapid-fire questions.
"Talk to us, man," Yonnie said, beginning to pace. "What's the deal?"