Angel Dust - Part III
by John Wolf
“Yes, it’s the Deus doxology. Must be. It’s the prayer song for the final hour. Admonitio, caveo dies terminus of vicis—warning, beware of the end of times. Then it gives the prayer song to sing at Gabriel’s horn.”
“Can you sing it English and it’ll still work?” I said. He laughed.
“No, you sing it in Latin.”
“Oh.”
“You know, Billy, this is something scholars have been searching for forever. We all felt the Bible was full of ciphers, but it all seemed fruitless. Here’s the test. Will it still work with the Torah—the Hebrew bible?”
It took another trip to the library and an hour or so—yes, it was the same message in Hebrew.
We sat there under the yellow light in the library looking at each other.
“So, tell me again where you got this?”
“An angel left it behind after I hit him with my truck.”
“What?”
“The angel turned to dust and I took the message home. Later, another angel came and transformed the page into English.” His eyes were rolling around, and then fixed on me.
“An angel?”
“Yep, two of them.”
“No garage sale?”
“Nope, I thought the real story wouldn’t be believed.”
“I wouldn’t have until the crows landed. Crows are like God’s thugs.”
Now I had to snicker. “Sure. So what’s next? I thought part of that message said something about telling a leader and we had a couple of weeks.”
Click on this: next column
“Here it is 2012 with elections in November. Can you imagine how the press would spin this if we contacted Washington?” The professor seemed to accept the fate of the message and unable to find the motivation to do anything more.
“Yeah, and then there’s the Mayan thing about their calendar coming to end,” I pointed out.
“Are you sure a Mayan didn’t give you this?” Then he laughed.
“That’s not funny. No, an angel did. I swear.” Somehow my conviction didn’t seem convincing.
“Well, I will make a copy of the song for you and one for me. I suggest when you hear the horn, start singing.”
“From dust to dust. I want to take Russell, too.”
He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders as he concluded, “Well, I can stop researching old bones now. I’ll just wait and ask Him in person.”
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John is a writer in progress. Word by word the trail of communications gets clearer. Maybe someday the message will be picked up by a distant ear and the effort to be heard will have been reached. Until that day, the keyboard clatters endlessly into the night. |
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