Chapter Six

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Awakening, The Prophet

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Moses Lawd woke to the sound of his grandmother’s voice. Except joined with it were the voices of yesterday. They had dissipated slowly the night before, as he lay in bed, waiting for sleep to come.

The anticipation was there also, excitement in his veins as he pushed himself out of bed.

“Tell old old Pharoah, To Let My people go.”

He was now thirty-three years old. He looked out at the sun rising over the hills. Yesterday’s strangeness had begun with the dawn.

As if to welcome the sight, that bright orb in the sky, the song in his head rose in exultation.

Moses turned away, and thought about eggs for breakfast. The phone rang, putting an end to that. It would be a long time before he ate food cooked in his kitchen. But Moses didn’t know that yet.

“Moses, it’s Ted.”

Moses waited, as per usual, but there was a different tone in Ted’s voice. Strained.

“They have Sue and the kids. They’re going to kill them if I don’t get you to come.”

Ted never joked about his family. This was serious.

“Ted, who has them?”

There was shaking on the phone, noises in the background. A muffled thump, bam, crash. Then another voice came on the phone. “Mr Lawd. You would be wise to stay at your home until my people arrive for you. Do not leave, we will find you. If you do leave, this man’s family is dead. As it is, they are nearing death. Perhaps it would be merciful to kill them.”

Moses heard Ted shouting, “Noooo! Moses, I don’t want them to die!”

This is crazy. What is happening?

“Stay where you are Mr Lawd. All will be well .. For them at least. Possibly for you, but time will tell us the answers.”

Another saying from his world, “Time will tell us the answers.” Allan James was fond of that. A father figure to Jesse, he died early in the stories. Giving his life for Jesse, who had betrayed the old man in the end. It had brought Jesse back from the darkness.

“Listen, what do you want? I’m just a writer, and Ted is just my editor. What’s the problem? Money? Is that what you want?”

The laughter at the other end of the phone-line was deep and abrasive.

“Fool.” Click.

The phone went dead. Moses wondered whether he should call the police.

And tell them what? But if I do nothing ..

He was dialing the number for the local police station when the doorbell rang.

Moses froze, hand halfway up from the phone. He waited, listening.

“.. Police Station, how can I help you?”

Moses put the handset down, cutting off the call. He crept along to the stairs. He looked down through the windows. There were no cars in sight, and a single old woman stood at the door. Something made him look across the fields that lay between him and the main road. Coming into view was a line of black station wagons.

What was that movie? Twister. Ha.

But he had the lady to deal with, and pushed the entourage of black out of his mind.

Coming to the front door, he brushed his hair back before opening it. Reaching for the handle, the song within him burst forth anew.

“Hello Prophet.”

It was Mischa. At least, a very old Mischa. Seventy years if a day.

“I have returned for you,” She looked back over her shoulder. “And you must come now. They are approaching.”

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