The last chapter
of The Jesus Anomaly
by Jerry
Durgan
(This is the final chapter
of a novel, The Jesus
Anomaly,
after Chris has spent almost three years roaming
the mountains of North Carolina, studying the
Algonquin languages in Canada, and an
existential experience in Sedona, Arizona. For
three years he’s been researching the origins of
a parental, pre-historic Amerindian language,
but always in his mind is something that he
wasn’t able to discover, his real purpose in his
existence. Unfortunately I haven’t had the time
to do a portion of the middle of the story.
Perhaps some day.)
Retiring early,
Chris passed quickly into a sound sleep, only to
be awakened startled. His night had been a
flurry of mixed images, too-real figures in
brocade robes, tall, well over six feet, with
reddish-brown beards reaching down to
silken-covered chests. Over a dozen stood above
the crowd, highly noticeable, not only for their
size, but for the contrast between their
brightly colored robes and those of many of the
rest of the crowd generally clothed in rough,
thick bone-white and gray cassock-like clothing.
The tall ones looked to be ruggedly handsome
compared to the beggarly worn human flotsam
around them.
A
surrealistic dream where Chris saw himself
standing on a short arid hilltop dressed in a
garment wrapped under his groin, back up his
front and thrown over his left shoulder, giving
it an appearance of knee-length garb. To his
left and right were a dozen or so other young
men dressed similarly, some squatting, others
leaning against a sparse tree a few feet
away.
Chris
could hear himself speak in a language
absolutely unfamiliar to him but understanding
completely. "Behold," he is saying, "Prepare.
The time is at hand. The Lord has arisen and has
come forth before you. Believe in me for I am as
one." Pointing a finger to the crowd below, he
continued, "Don’t judge me so you won’t be
judged, for how you judge me, you too, will be
judged, and how you measure me is how I will
measure you," he warned.
As he
peered over the crowd, ice-blue eyes from the
nearest and tallest of the gathering seemed to
pierce the distance like a
thunderbolt.
Stretching
his arm out and pointing to the nearest of the
tall men, he asked, "Why do you stare at me in
that way? Why do you look at me but don’t
consider the flame that is in your own eye? Why
would you say to me, ‘Let me pull out the speck
in your eye’ when there’s a fire in your own
eye? You fraud!" he thundered, quivering.
"First get
rid of the wonder in your own eye so you can see
clearly to cast out the troubles in mine." With
that the man raised a hand as if to speak, then
turned, looked over the horde surrounding him,
and threaded his way through the crowd and was
gone. One by one, the other tall men followed,
not looking back.
Chris then
saw himself shaking, but standing ground.
Staring after the departing men he said, "Give
nothing that is holy to the dogs. Don’t cast
your wealth to the swine. They’ll trample it
under their feet and turn against
you."
Pausing
for several minutes he finally spoke again. "But
ask me and it’ll be given you. Look and you’ll
find. Knock, and it’ll opened for you. Every one
that asks, they’ll have it, and he that seeks it
will find it, and to him that knocks, it’ll open
to him. This is so in all
things."
Lowering
his voice to a near whisper, he said, "Consider.
If your son asks for bread, would you give him a
stone? If he asks for fish, would you give him a
serpent? Surely, even if you’re evil, you know
how to give good gifts to your children. Let me
ask you," he said, pausing and pointing a
finger, "... How much more should your father in
heaven give good things to them that ask him?
Always you want men to do to you the same as you
do for them? This is the law and it’s a
righteous law. It its righteous.
"But
follow the path. When you enter the gate ...
it’s a wide gate and wide is the path that leads
you to destruction if you follow it. Many will
follow that path, but because the course is also
narrow and also leads to a righteous life, a few
will find it, while too many will fail."
As Chris
watched himself staring in the direction of the
departed men, he could hear himself say, "Beware
of those false prophets who come to you in
sheep's clothing but really are ravening wolves.
You will know them by their deeds. So watch them
closely. Weigh their deeds."
Chris, in
amazement of his dream, saw himself pointing
toward a distant thorn bush in the arid
landscape, asking, "Do men gather grapes of
thorns or figs of thistles? Even if every good
tree bears good fruit, a corrupt tree can only
bear rotten fruit. A good tree cannot bear evil
fruit. Neither can a corrupt tree bear good
fruit. Every tree that bears rotten fruit will
be cut down and tossed into the fire. Every tree
that bears good fruit will be nurtured. But I
tell you, by their fruits you’ll know them.
"Though
not every one that says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’
will I enter into the kingdom. Those that do the
will, will enter the kingdom and on that day
many will say to me, ‘Lord, lord, we've
prophesied in your name and in your name we've
cast out devils, and in your name we've done
many wonderful works.’ But I say to them, ‘I
never knew you. Leave! You that work
transgressions.’ But I will say to those that
hear me and does these things, you will be a
wise man who builds his house on a rock and the
rains come, and the floods come, and the winds
blow and beat upon that house, but it didn’t
fall because it was founded upon the rock. But
every one that hears these sayings of mine but
doesn’t follow will be like a foolish man who
builds his house on the sand and the rains come
and the floods come and the winds blow and beat
upon that house and it falls. Greatly does it
fall."
With that
Chris saw in his dream himself in total
exhaustion, barely able to stand, turning
abruptly, faltering, straightening, staring
wildly back at the gathering, and slowly
departed, the twelve
following.
Chris’ bed
sheets were soaked with sweat, in complete
disarray, the dream still swimming in his head,
the taste of gall in his throat. Thirst consumed
him. His head ached as if a storm was brewing
inside his skull.
Chris
seemed to go through a transformation. Always a
somewhat nervous self, he looked tired most of
the time, dreaming nearly every night of weird
but often fascinating things, sometimes awaking
in the early hours unable to return to sleep.
Ruth commented on the circles under his eyes,
noting that his beard had grayed considerably
over the past several months.
Chris’
mother died in her sleep that cold early spring.
She had gone to bed as usual, alone in her small
wood-frame home, passing away in a quiet
solitude that had been both her comfort and her
own self-reliance.
Exhausted
and desolated after the funeral of his mother,
Chris sat numbed in the empty house that was his
mother’s. All of the shades were drawn, the
house dark in mid-afternoon. Ruth had gone on
back to her apartment to change clothes after
Chris had told her he wanted to be alone for a
while. His brothers and sisters had left to
return to jobs that were waiting.
His
childhood in the home place reeled through his
head, frame by frame, from a game of marbles to
his departure for college, his departure, again
to Furman and again to North Carolina and yet
again to Canada and the far reaches of the west.
Then the vision came. Flickering as a
candlelight in the somber quiet, a figure,
translucent, not quite
whole.
"Say not
that the end is near," a voice commanded. "for
it is not. Time has no end. And neither shall
you preach, for there are far too many preachers
of doctrines, but go about and learn and do good
works. But not in my name, for those of faith
will know your works as mine. The faithless will
not. "Faith," the voice said, "are things
unseen, the miracle of your works and mine. As
you turn one faithless to pure faith he will
turn two, and two to four, and four to sixteen
and sixteen to two hundred. Faith is the soul of
those who believe."
"Who are
you?" Chris asked. "What are
you?"
"I am that
I am," the voice answered. "When you are hungry,
eat. When you are tired, rest. Fools may spurn
me," it said, "but wise men will know what I
am."
"Return
again to the mountains and the desert," it
warned, "for there are those who would do you
harm. Return to your roots, to those who come
before you and none shall do you harm. The
voices who cry in the wilderness will guide you
through. Do not be frightened, for I am with you
as I have been since the beginning of time. Time
is without end for it is ever reoccurring. There
is within you the power to create and the power
to undo affliction, but only with faith can you
do this."
Chris’
body writhed, shaken by the apparition, afraid
to open his eyes, saying to himself in almost a
whisper, "I’ve had it all. I’ve had all I can
take of this. I must be going crazy."
Undressing, he took a long, hot,
skin-prickling shower, a thorough washing of his
hair that’d turned dark reddish brown from the
Arizona sun and long stretches in the outdoors,
and a ten-minute brushing of his teeth that felt
as if they were made of chalk, quickly trimmed
his graying beard, and a full change into fresh
underwear, jeans and chambray shirt, grabbed his
Bronco keys and headed out into the mid-morning
still-cold Charlotte air.
The Huddle
House, remarkably crowded for mid-morning, a
habit he’d acquired from the months on the road
and his association with James, gave him a shock
back into reality, a mixing again of "ordinary
folks." Something that he desperately needed.
Inside were road salesmen in wrinkled blue
suits, hunters in camouflage pants and plaid
shirts, hunting knives sheathed in well-worn
leather holsters, young families with tow-headed
youngsters in tow, forking up syrup-laden
pancakes.
The sight
snatched Chris out of the doldrums he’d been in
for weeks and again opened his eyes to the real
world, to real people and real
things.
Between
the clatter of soiled dishes hurriedly tossed
into a rolling cart for a back-room wash and the
chatter of dozens of diners, Chris ordered a
hefty breakfast of eggs, grits, Pumpernickel
toast, sausages and black coffee. The first real
appetite he’d had in days.
Taking his
order, an attractive young black waitress in a
white pin-striped Huddle House blouse, maroon
headdress and necktie, a yellow name tag
announcing her as "Sholanda," spoke to him
through a wide, white-toothed smile. "You got
troubles?" she asked. Looking up at her fresh
dark face, he widely smiled for the first time
in weeks. "Not now I don’t," Chris responded,
smiling back. "I feel better than I have for
days. For weeks."
As she
turned to place his order, Chris’ mind flashed
back to his earlier research, noticing how much
she was amazingly like a Nubian princess he’d
seen in one of the photographs of an Egyptian
tomb painting he’d collected. Sholanda was tall,
slim, high cheek bones and a narrow nose unlike
many southern Blacks, a movement of her arms and
body that flowed like a ballerina. She even had
a clipped accent to enhance the illusion. When
she returned with Chris’ order, he asked, "Where
are you from, Sholanda?"
"Born
right here in Charlotte," she said, again
smiling. "Been here all my life. Like it here
and ‘tend to stay here."
"You were
born here in Charlotte? He asked, wondering
about her accent. "Where were your parents
from?"
"Charlotte," She answered. "They were
born here, too. "So’s my gran’pa and his gran’pa
and his gran’pa. Pa says that we came over as
slaves ‘way back when."
"Have any
idea where they came from?" Chris asked,
intrigued, the first time he’d knowingly talked
to a descendent of slaves.
"Pa says
that we came from Kush, in Africa," she said.
"Never heard of it, ‘cept from Pa," she
grinned.
"Kush?"
Chris said. "Oh! The Sudan. Kush was a long,
long time ago. "You sure?" he asked.
"Kush?"
"That’s
what pa said. Stories were passed down from way
long ago. All he knew was that it was in Africa,
a long time ago."
"A long,
long, long time ago," Chris said, smiling in
appreciation of something he felt was very
interesting and very important. Exciting. Right
here in Charlotte, North Carolina, a virtual
link to the very distant past and we’ve never
recognized it, Chris reflected. Right here in
Charlotte may be a remnant of speech patterns
that could go back five millennium, or more.
Nubia, Kush, Egypt, Sudan. Centuries old right
here in Charlotte. Who’d have
guessed?
"Kush,"
Chris said to Sholanda, "hasn’t been around for
a long, long, long time. It was a great kingdom
in Africa a long time before Christ. Even before
Egypt."
"Oh?"
Sholanda said. "Want some more coffee?"
Leisurely
eating, Chris mulled over Sholanda’s fascinating
story, and then came to surface a plan that’d
been circulating around in his subconscious. A
plan, he realized, that had been formulating for
months now, ever since Sedona. Finishing up,
leaving a generous tip, he immediately headed
back toward his apartment noticing again a brown
Mercedes a few hundred yards back. Never close
but always in sight. "Screw you," he
muttered.
Straight
through his apartment door, Chris headed for the
small closet, grabbing an olive-drab
overnighter, his laptop computer, a spare
notebook and his Nikon with the autofocus zoom
lens and then to the bedroom throwing extra
pants, shirts, underwear, socks and his bush
jacket onto the bed in a lump. Sitting on the
bed’s edge he sat still for a moment, shook his
head, reached for the telephone and dialed
Tim.
"Tim?
This’s Chris. Better than I’ve been for weeks,
for maybe months. Even maybe for years," he said
into the mouthpiece responding to Tim’s "How you
been?"
"Tim ...
I’ve got over a month of leave time collected
and I’d like to take it ... to get my head
together and take care of some unfinished
business. Right now. This minute. Today," he
said to answer Tim’s question. "I’d like to
start today if that’s okay. Great. No. I don’t
have any idea where I’m going, but I’ll call you
in a couple of weeks. Great! Thanks. And Tim.
Thank you for the opportunity you gave me to
find myself. Yeah ... To find myself ... That’s
what your project has done for me. And I think
I’ve got some more answers for you ... for your
project. You may find them ‘way too fantastic to
use. You may find that the link with the Native
Americans is far older than you suspected, even
to cosmic proportions. I'm sending them to you
by UPS. Thanks again, Tim. I’ll call in a
coupl’a weeks."
He dialed
Ruth but got her answering machine. Rather than
leave a message he hung up, thinking that he’d
write her a long letter explaining everything in
detail. "It’ll be a lot easier to explain in
writing," he mumbled.
One final
act before he loaded his belongings into the
Bronco, he dialed James’ telephone and
immediately got an answer.
"Jim
Duran," the voice on the other end
said.
"James.
Chris. James. I’m taking some leave time
starting right now. I’ve called Tim and plan to
leave a letter for Ruth. A lot of stuff has
happened over the past few months and I want to
take some time off to see what comes of it," he
explained. He told James of the apparition of
last night and of the frequent dreams he’d been
having for the past several weeks. "At first
they were, to say the least, highly disturbing
... in fact scary. But I don’t think, now, that
these were all in my mind. Maybe much more than
that."
"Slow
down, Chris," James said. "Slow down. My work
over the years has led me down the path of
dreams a hundred fold. That’s part and parcel of
the paranormal that I’ve flittered about in for
the past thirty or more years. ‘In the drowsy
dark cave of the mind dreams build their nest
with fragments dropped from the day's caravan,’
a great Indian philosopher once said, so by and
large dreams are a sum and reflection of life.
Old men dream dreams, Chris, young men see
visions. So where are you
going?"
"I’m not
rightly sure, James," Chris said. "I just know
that I have to do something and by god I’m not
even sure I know what it is that I have to do. I
think back to Arizona. Maybe. It’s like you’ve
quoted to me a hundred times, ‘Faith is the
substance of things hoped for, the evidence of
things not seen’ so maybe I’m going to look for
that evidence. To see it. To feel it. To taste
it. To experience it. Anyway, I’ll call you in a
couple of weeks and let you know." Then as if a
complete and permanent parting, "James, I’ll
never be able to thank you enough for
everything. You’ve been an inspiration and a
shoulder. You’ve been more than a father to me."
With that Chris placed the phone on the cradle
and sat stone still on the edge of his unmade
bed.
Epilogue
It was
almost three years afterward that James finished
the book promised to Marion’s Sam, one that’d
been promised for more than two decades.
"That’s
the last time any of us ever heard from or about
Christopher Josephson," James wrote at the
completion of his book. "Though he promised to
call, none of us ever heard from him again.
Every now and again I hear tales of a
miracle-man in the deserts of Arizona, a Shaman
of sorts, but we’ve never been able to pin these
stories down or really tie down any kind of
authoritative knowledge of these tales. But who
knows what things lie in the future."
"World-wide, things have quieted down a
bit. There are no bush wars anywhere on the
globe that I know about. People seem to get
along with one another and there’s an air of
expectancy for something ... I know not what ...
maybe a sort of decency ... spanning this old
world of ours. Chris, I hope you found your
evidence. Your
Epiphany."
