The Magic Circle, Katherine Neville [parable of the sower read online .TXT] 📗

to leave it with George behind the post office counter. Unable to locate a cache in the scant time left between post office and airport, now I was stuck with the problem of what to do with my lethal inheritance before getting to Soviet Russia, where I knew it would be thoroughly examined and probably confiscated, posing greater danger to all concerned. Especially to me.

With that in mind, my first idea had been to destroy it. I’d thought of various methods if I had to dispatch it quickly: death by water, death by fire. But by the time we reached Salt Lake, my options seemed greatly diminished. It was far from practical to flush a thousand pages down a toilet, or to ignite a ten-pound bonfire at any of the airports I’d be passing through in the next twenty-four hours. Nor was destroying it any guarantee I’d breathe more freely, since I hadn’t a clue who wanted these manuscripts or why. How could I announce that the object of everyone’s desire was no longer on the scene? And if I did, it might prove deadly to Sam, the only one who knew where the original, ancient documents were hidden.

The solution seemed to be to hide the parcel as I’d done with the first one, where no one would think to search for it.

I knew that the lockers at the Salt Lake airport, unlike those where characters in movies stash their loot, worked more like a parking meter, renting for just a few hours at a stretch. Even if I had time to break the package up into smaller parcels and post it back to myself, it seemed as risky a proposition as just leaving it at the post office, what with Olivier, the Pod, and God knew who all else sniffing about the place. I was fast running out of ideas.

At the Salt Lake airport, I apologized again to the still-disgruntled Wolfgang for my tardiness. Once we’d checked the larger bags through to Vienna, I made a trip to the lavatory and opened Sam’s parcel: strange squiggles in foreign characters, but recognizably in Sam’s hand. I stuffed it among the working papers inside my satchel, slung the heavy duffel over my shoulder, and tried to clear my mind until our flight. Before I left the lounge, I used the phone to call a Fax 800 number and sent a brief message to Sam: Got your gift. It is more blessed to give than to receive. A message from the Salt Lake airport would clue Sam in that my trip with Wolfgang was under way. I added the tip that any messages faxed in my absence would be forwarded.

Wolfgang was waiting for me at the entrance to the cafeteria, as we’d agreed. He was holding two steaming paper mugs. He said, “I got us some tea to drink at the gate. It’s too crowded to wait here.”

Over his shoulder I saw rows of tables already packed, so bright and early, with teams of Mormon “elders”—scrubbed, rosy-cheeked young men who sipped ice water while they waited for their flights—in crisp white shirts, dark suits, and ties, their uniform backpacks crammed with proselytizing materials. Day after day, year in and year out, such young elders were scattered across the globe like dandelion fluff, on missions to spread the good word cranked out by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints straight from its heart here in Salt Lake City.

“They don’t convert many Austrians to their faith,” Wolfgang said of them as we headed down the hallway to our gate. “In so Roman Catholic a country, conversion to new faiths is rare. But in this airport there are always so many of them coming and going, these young men. To me they seem quite foreign and strange.”

“Not so strange, just different,” I told him, taking the lid off my tea and trying to sip it: it was scalding. “For instance, you’ve met my landlord Olivier. He’s a Mormon. But he’s more what they’d call a ‘Jack’ Mormon: that is, he doesn’t follow all the rules. He sometimes drinks coffee or alcohol, though they’re prohibited. And while he isn’t exactly a womanizer, he says he hasn’t remained a virgin either—”

“A virgin?” said Wolfgang askance. “Is that customary?”

“I assure you, I’m not an expert,” I said, laughing. “But according to Olivier it’s more or less on a volunteer basis—keeping yourself pure in body and soul, I mean. It seems that’s how they’re preparing themselves for salvation, at the millennium.”

“The millennium?” said Wolfgang. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s sort of the drill,” I told him. “Catholics have a catechism, right? Well, as I understand it, this is theirs: Today marks the beginning of the end, time is grinding to a halt. These are the Last Days, when the world as we know it is about to cease. Only those who’ve been purified and confessed their faith that ‘Jesus the Christ,’ as they say, is the Light and the Way will be saved when he returns to earth to judge and punish, and to bring forth the New Age. They’re preparing themselves with baptism, cleansing, and purging in these, the last days, so that each one will be resurrected into a new, ethereal body and given eternal life. Hence the name Latter-day Saints.”

“The Last Days is a widespread, ancient idea,” Wolfgang agreed. “Throughout history, it’s been the core belief of nearly all peoples on earth, eschatology, from eschatos—the farthest, the uttermost, the extreme. In Catholicism the doctrine is Parousia: the ‘presence’ or second coming, when the saviour reappears and makes the final judgment.” Then he added unexpectedly, “Do you believe in it?”

“You mean believe in the Apocalypse—‘I come quickly’ and all?” I said, always uncomfortable flirting with faith. Wasn’t reality tough enough? “That promise was made two thousand years ago and a few folks I know are still holding their breath. I’m afraid it takes something a bit more tangible to get me hooked.”

“Then in what do you believe?”