The Birds and The Bees

The Birds and the Bees

In New England a pewter canopy of clouds dominates the sky from October to May. This   caused me to wonder why the Pilgrims didn’t immediately move to Florida after their disastrous first winter here. Then again the British weren’t known for their joi de vivre. Maybe they stayed because they felt they didn’t deserve any better. I have imagined William Bradford looking up and saying, “Oh brethren, a gray sky is God’s smile upon us, wicked sinners we!”

On this October morning, over three hundred years after Bradford set foot in the New Jerusalem, my disaster of a car was coughing its way down route 495 carrying me to a job that was more than a paycheck but less than my true calling. Traffic was horrible because the endless construction on route 3, which had been going on for six years now, required reducing three lanes of traffic to one. Route 495 was a daily heart attack, or stroke. Drivers who were used to it took deep breaths and prepared for the complex dance of pushing to the left lane; a signal light, a hand wave, courtesy and aggravation mixed. This continued for two slow miles. My worn out tape of “Oklahoma” was blaring through crackling speakers and I hummed along with it as I looked up. A flock of birds began flying across the horizon above the highway, their appearance a black ribbon against a gray sky.

            “It must be some kind of migration.” I said to myself.

A minute later the flock stretched from left to right as far as I could see, breathtaking, an undulating river of life moving west at a good clip. Although beautiful to view I didn’t think it wasn’t extraordinary, until five minutes later when the ribbon of birds had thickened and I realized that there must have been hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of birds moving across my field of vision.

            “Aren’t they going to run out? Where are they all coming from?” I asked aloud as a driver waved me to cut in to the line.

            I waved back thankfully and saw traffic beginning to move at a normal speed ahead of me.

Taking one last look at the flock I said, “Bye, Bye birdies.” I put my car into second gear for the first time in a half-hour and prepared to accelerate when the truck in front of me slammed its brakes on and swerved to avoid the one in front of it.

“Oh man…” I moaned as cars around me slowed came to a halt. “What are you stopping…” My sentence was cut short when I looked up.

In the stream of birds was an image of the most famous person in the world. There was no written physical description of him, yet his image was universally recognized. His face was the subject of the greatest works of art in Western civilization. He never wrote a book or traveled more than a hundred miles from the place of his birth and he was executed in a torturous manner reserved for the worst criminals.

“Jesus…” I said, not meaning it as blasphemy.

Indeed, the most recognized face in the world was being created in the sky by the pattern of flying birds. The image didn’t move along with the flock, it remained stationary in the sky, like a gargantuan black and white newspaper photograph. Traffic was stopped. I put my car in park and like everyone else, got out to look.

“This is so cool.” Said a teenage boy standing with his mother. She was clasping onto the boy’s shoulder as if he would fly away.

I stared at the undulating image, caught between a desire to kneel down in worship and a visceral fear prompting me to cover my face. My sense of reality and my understanding of how God operated in the world were upended.

The man next to me said, “It’s just an illusion, like that so called ‘face on Mars’. This is crap. I’m going to be late to work.”

He got into his car, slammed the door, rolled up the window and turned his stereo up loud enough to rattle my teeth. I shared a look of bemusement with a woman who heard what he’d said. The image was still in the sky. I stole another quick glance around, noting that traffic on both sides of the highway was now stopped as far as I could see. Everyone was pointing up, looking, and whispering.

People began moving towards one another, hesitantly, as people do when they happen upon an accident. New Englanders are usually reticent about talking to people whom they don’t know but the image in the sky was so far beyond a normal event that I heard strangers speaking to one another about spiritual things. Five minutes later I saw the end of the flock in the distance. The image remained motionless above the highway as the tail end of the migrating birds moved into it. The birds left the spot where the image was. The picture disappeared, one pixel at a time, East to West, until we were left to watch the flock recede into the distance. Several people applauded.

“That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen, ever! Better than ‘Cirque de Soleil!” Said a young woman who was jumping up and down. She had large breasts that almost moved up and down with her. I tried not to stare.

            “Did we just see a miracle?” Someone said.

            “You know it might be some kind of new weapon the government’s testing, some kind of space beam. It’s all mind control and the start of the one world government run by the Trilateral Commission, the Vatican, and the Jews.” Said a man who was looking at the image in the tiny screen of his digital camera.

Looking over his shoulder I saw the face clearly. It existed in reality and was not something created in our minds. People asked him to send copies of his pictures and handed him business cards and scraps of paper with e-mail addresses on them. He mentioned a fee.

            “I’m going to see if I can get some money for these. I don’t think anyone else had the presence of mind to take pictures. They’re just trying to confuse you! Don’t be fooled.” He shouted at the crowd of people around him. “Five dollars a copy!”

After a few minutes people meandered back to their cars and we were on our way back to our perspective jobs, yee ha. For the entire day I could not get the image of his face out of my mind. I was walking and talking in a dream, filled with a peaceful euphoria. My co-workers asked several times if I was ok. Something prevented me from speaking about what I saw. At lunch I went out to my car, listened to the midday news and watched the sky. One would think that hundreds of people seeing an image of Jesus in a flock of birds would at least make the local news. The news stations reported that a large flock of birds had caused traffic to slow to a crawl but nothing was said of the apparition. I thought that was ironic because the media latched on to every instance Christ’s or Mary’s face had been seen on moldy bread, tortilla chips, concrete underpasses, glass windows of office buildings, and in pictures of distant galaxies.

After lunch I resumed my duties as an English teacher and vice-principal of a small school run by a large Pentecostal church. While my seventh-grade class was reciting poems from memory, my eyes continually drifted to the window. Francis, the class clown, had butchered John Donne’s “The Earth’s Imagined Corners” by speaking it in the voice of a popular cartoon character. However, an incongruous combination of Christ’s face in my mind and the words of the poem in my ears brought tears to my eyes. After a minute I realized the entire class was looking between Francis and myself, waiting to see what I would do.

            Francis said in a stricken voice, “I’m sorry Mr. Smith! I didn’t know it would hurt you. I was just…”

            “Trying to be funny?” I completed his oft repeated excuse.

I addressed the class, “Did he memorize the poem properly?”

They nodded affirmatively, looking apprehensive.

            “Did he deliver it clearly and with proper pronunciation ?” I asked.

            “Yes.”

            “Mostly.”

            “Great job geek.”

            “Good voice! Can you come to my little brother’s birthday party and do it?”

 The tension in the room was broken by our laughter.

“You get an ‘A-’ Francis, good job but next time recite your poem in your normal voice or you’ll lose half a grade. Class dismissed!” I said while writing an “A-“ in my grade book and gathering my folders for the next class.

The students just sat there smirking at me.

“Come on, let’s get a move on.” I said.

“Mr. Smith, there’s still fifteen minutes of class left.” Said Sarah, my brightest pupil.

“Oh, right…so whose next? Gary?” I pointed to a tall basketball player whose voice was still changing and he moved to the front to recite his poem. The class cast questioning glances at me until the bell rang. My eyes continued to drift to the windows.

On the way home that night traffic again slowed to a crawl near the section of road where the face had appeared. Dozens of people were camped out in the median strip and in the breakdown lane peering up at the sky. Many had digital cameras pointed up. Blue lights of state and local police cars dotted the area. The Commonwealth’s finest were attempting to move people out of the median and back into traffic.

On impulse I took the very next exit, still miles away from my home and had dinner at a restaurant I had passed by for five years but never eaten at. Forty minutes later my fingers were stained with the best barbecue sauce I’d had in years and my stomach full of succulent meat that had melted in my mouth. A glance at one of the mounted televisions tuned to ‘round the clock New England news revealed traffic to be all but stopped on my route home. I ordered dessert and coffee.

The next morning I awoke an hour early and planned my trip to work with the strategic acumen of General Patton. There was no need. Two dozen state police cars were lining the highway where the face had been seen. Troopers held lighted wands and were urging traffic forward. I was an hour earlier than usual and decided to stop and buy two dozen doughnuts and enough coffee for the teachers and staff.

Since it was Wednesday I had to prepare the music for our weekly chapel service. It was not part of my job description, the music teacher really should have done it, but he didn’t want to and I was a good enough worship leader to do it without boring the kids or the adults. I practiced alone in the large auditorium that served as the church’s sanctuary, theater, and general assembly room for the school until I heard girls screaming.

Working at a school you learn to differentiate the various sounds children make. Crying had several degrees of anguish, as laughter had several layers of joy. These screams were of the terrified, unhappy variety. Taking off my guitar and running outside I saw two third graders and their mother pounding on the door to the early drop off.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Did someone try and hurt you?”

“Look!” Cried the mother and she pushed the doorbell over and over again. Her daughters cowered behind her.

I looked where she was pointing and saw only the brick face of the gym’s outer wall.

“What? It’s just the gym.” I said.

“No, really look!” She said.

The early drop off monitor opened the door and the girls and their mother bolted inside. The mother, whose name I recalled was Amy, opened the door an inch and said, “It’s bees!” They’re both allergic. Are you going to call an exterminator or should I keep them home for the day? Maybe I’ll keep them home just in case.” She said.

Looking at the wall of the gym I started to say, “There are no bees here or anywhere…”

The wall moved. It undulated like a wave of water on the sea that had lost its sense of direction and was oriented perpendicular to the Earth. My eyes adjusted and I saw that it wasn’t the wall that moved but bees on the wall, millions of them. Curiosity overcame my fear and I walked up to the gym wall, made of bees.

The gym was fifty feet high and fifty yards long. The insects were piled on one another at least ten deep, hanging on to the one below them with the bees on top flapping their wings. I could feel, rather than hear, a low thrumming sound being generated by the swarm. I backed away slowly and stared, fascinated by the living wall of insects.

The side door opened again and Amy hissed at me, “Get inside now, before they attack you. Mr. Smith!”

I was about to ask her how she thought they were all holding on to the wall when she opened the door wider and yanked me in by my tie, slamming the door shut behind me. “You can thank me later.” She said.

We were used to snow days in New England but we’d never had a “bee day” before. It sounded so idiotic that I told the office staff to inform parents by phone or at the main entrance that the plumbing wasn’t working and therefor we could not legally have school that day. I taped off the area where the bees were and made sure none of the staff parked in the back lot. The principal arrived but only to pick up her briefcase, she had a conference in Boston that morning. I told her I would take care of the problem. She thanked me and took a few doughnuts.

When the exterminator arrived around lunchtime I showed him the bees and he informed me that I would have to hire a specialist.

            “Aren’t you in the business of exterminating? Can’t you just point your spray at them and take them out?” I asked.

The twenty-something “pest control specialist” informed me that bees were a protected class of insect that only a trained apiarist could exterminate. He referred me to a woman in New Hampshire. Thoughts of going out there with kerosene and a lighter popped into my mind but sound judgement triumphed over my imaginative ideas.

I called the bee expert but she informed me that the earliest she could be there was late the next day. With no students and no boss around I managed to plow through a stack of old paperwork and projects. At six I took a walk around the building, careful to avoid the bees, and read a book on a hill overlooking the school. Winter would be hard. Spring hadn’t come soon enough this year. I was reveling in wearing only a sport coat in October soon I would have to bundle myself in layers of rayon, down, and wool.

I closed my book and stood up, stretched and yawned, then prepared to pack up for home when I saw it. At first I though it must have been a trick of the light, the sun setting on the building. It was not.

The bees spelled out a word, or rather their bodies adhered to every surface of the gym wall except for where the letters of the word were. My immediate thought was that something in the building had caused the bees to adhere to the surface in that particular shape. The building had been a Jewish temple before the Pentecostals bought it. I considered that a pattern of honey sprayed on the wall might attract bees. The letters were sharp edged and clear as a computer printed document. I snapped a picture of it with the little camera built into my cell phone.

It had been a long time since I’d studied Hebrew, an even longer time since I’d translated anything longer than a paragraph in one sitting. I translated this word easily. As the sun dipped over the horizon I watched the bees hold their places and maintain the word until it was too dark to see.

I drove home with a curious sense of dread hanging over me. Instead of my usual routine of dinner, reading or television, and sleep, I took out my Hebrew bible and plowed through the entire book of Jeremiah, staying up well into the early morning hours to complete it. The next day, Saturday, I slept in a little later than usual and went to school to check the bees. They were still there. The word was not. Saturday activities at the church were cancelled and the pastor  was trying to find a space to rent for Sunday services in case the bee lady failed to show. I showed him the picture of the word on my cell phone but he thought it was just a trick of light and shadow.

            I said, “Robert, for a Pentecostal you have no appreciation of the supernatural.”

            “John, for an Episcopal you have a pretty good imagination.” He replied with a laugh.

In my office I emptied the bulk junk mail in my e-mail account; six-hundred offers for things I wouldn’t accept if they were free and delivered to me gift wrapped. In my regular account I composed a letter to a friend in England and deleted lawyer jokes my sister, a corporate lawyer, sent me. As I was sitting there I received twelve more e-mails in my bulk account, most for “male enhancement cream” or “natural virility tablets.”

            “Mercy, what’s the country coming to?” I asked aloud.

            “Starvation and plague. Hello Mr. Smith.” Answered a voice from behind me, causing me to jolt in my chair.

            “Oh, you startled me!” I said. I turned around and saw a short, thin, blonde woman in her forties wearing a white beekeeper suite, holding the headpiece under her arm.

            “I come in peace.” She was unsmiling but held out her hand, which I shook. She had a fierce grip.

“Ingrid Gutman, at your service. We spoke on the phone. I’m sorry I startled you but my last job was only a half-hour away and instead of heading home I thought I’d just come over and do the job if that’s alright with you?”

            She had an accent that could have been Norwegian, or Icelandic.

            “Well I’m just the vice principal of the school but Pastor will be ecstatic that you came. He’s been calling around trying to find an alternative place to have Sunday service.” I said and followed her out to her truck which was stacked to the gills with apiary supplies. There were enough honey jars to keep a sleuth of bears fed for a year.

            “Here, put this on.” She pushed one of the bee suits in my arms and pulled her own headpiece over her head. “Are you allergic to bee venom?”

            “No, I’m not. Do you want me to help?” I asked apprehensively.

            “Sure, you don’t mind do you? This suit will protect you against stings. I need you to hold the ladder while I go up and try and find the queen.” She helped me pull on the suit then got a smoke pot going. I knew that would calm the bees. I hoped it would calm me as well.

            “So you say they’ve been sitting on a wall for two days?” She asked.

            “Yes, that’s about right. It’s all very strange. Have you ever seen bees do something like this?” I asked.

            “No, it’s highly unusual. They aren’t acting like normal bees. Usually they stay inside the hive unless they’re hunting for food. Do you know much about bees?” She asked.

            “Well, I taught sixth-grade science one year and we did a unit on them. I know this isn’t normal.” I said, hoping I didn’t sound stupid as we rounded the corner to the gym wall.

            “Oh my God.” She said as we approached them. “What is this?”

The insects were still there but they were bunched up in little clumps. When I looked at them up close they made my skin crawl. They were still clinging to each other and undulating. Ingrid was staring at them, walking along the wall and looking at the up close. She pulled one off the surface with plastic tongs and examined it, then put it into a little jar. After collecting a dozen more samples I asked her what they were for.

            “How many queens are usually found in a hive Mr. Smith?” She asked.

            “One per hive, right? Please call me John.” I said.

            “Well John, what if I told you that every bee I’ve been able to look at so far has been a queen?” She said.

            “What? That’s impossible. How could there be so many, and what about their individual hives? Where did they all come from?” I asked.

            “My son is a zoologist at UNH. I’m going to see if he can get down here with a team. This could be a groundbreaking case of…well, something. Can I use your phone?” She asked.

            “Of course you can.” As I handed her the phone I remembered the picture of the word the bees had spelled out and brought it up to show her. “Look at this. Tell me what you see, if anything.” I said holding the tiny screen up for her.

She looked at it and squinted, then pulled on a pair of red horn-rimmed glasses, which made her look immediately younger and cooler.

She said, “I see a group of letters. Is it a Philippine word? Cambodian? I’m not too good with Eastern languages.”

            “It’s Hebrew actually. The word it spells out is ‘Repent’.” I said, looking to see what her reaction would be.

            “Really? What happened to the word, is it still there?” She asked taking a step backwards and looking up, trying to make out the letters.

            “They were gone after a while.” I opened the phone for her so she could call her son. “Listen, this is all very interesting, and strange, but we really do need the building back. If there’s any way you can get rid of the things we’d appreciate it.” I said.

            “Let’s use that phone of yours to get a picture for my son. We can send it to his phone right? Can you take a few close-ups?” She asked.

I took ten shots of individual bees then we walked up the hill to get a wide-angle shot. All the while we were walking up the hill she rattled off facts about bees and how it was unprecedented that so many queens would congregate in one location. Her Scandinavian accent was beautiful to listen to and I wondered if she were married.

We stopped at the top of the hill and gasped in disbelief. As we stood there in the mid-morning light of a beautiful fall day my eyes were transfixed upon the image of Ingrid, made of bees, on the side of the building. I finally looked over to her and saw that she was wiping tears off her face, crying silently. Digging in my pocket I found a clean but crumpled tissue and held it out to her.

            “Your face wasn’t there this morning Ingrid. There was no image there before you came.” I snapped several pictures of it but Ingrid snatched the phone away from me.

            “No, it’s too…” She said something in her native language. More tears flowed down her cheeks.

I didn’t understand what was going on inside of her but I’d counseled enough miserable people to know the best course of action was to just shut up and be there. Ingrid cried for about ten minutes.

            “Are you a religious man…what was your name, John. Do you believe in God?” She asked.

            “I do, yes. I am a Christian.” I said.

            “I was an atheist. My parents were Communists who had no need of God, only Marx, Lenin, and Stalin. I didn’t believe their Communist ideas but their atheism made sense to me. After I left home and got married my husband and I had two children. Nothing will make you turn to God faster than having a child.” She laughed and her eyes brightened. “So I prayed a little every day. Bryndis, my daughter, got cancer when she was eighteen. She lasted a year. I was mad at God and blamed him. My husband, who was already an alcoholic, drank himself to death. I thought about suicide. A few months after he died I was about to take enough sleeping pills to end my life when a swarm of bees flew around our house, many got inside and I was stung seven times. As I was pulling out the stingers I remembered that when my daughter was dying of cancer she said to me once, ‘Mama, if you are ever in any trouble I’ll send bees to protect you.’ At the time I thought it was the pain medication talking. My daughter was a believer in God and Jesus. She thought that my husband and I were going to hell and told us so on many occasions. After she got cancer she stopped telling us that and made us read the bible to her as she lay dying. She probably thought that we would be converted.” Ingrid stopped and took a deep breath. “Before she died Bryndis told me that she would send me a sign that she was with God and Jesus. Again, I thought it was the pain medication talking, and after she died and my husband was gone I took my son and moved to America. Do you know where I was going before I came here? I just picked up a large prescription of pain pills from a doctor I know. I just didn’t feel like living anymore, now this!” Ingrid blew her nose and cried a little more.

            After a few minutes I said, “I don’t know what to say Ingrid. I’m so sorry for your losses. Do you think that God is sending you a message by showing you a picture of yourself in the bees?” I asked, caught between incredulity and wonder.

            “Oh, no, that isn’t picture of me. It’s Bryndis.” She said quietly.

I looked back and forth between her face and the one on the wall. I could see now that the image of the woman on the building was younger, with a slightly higher forehead  and rounder nose. I knelt down on the long grass beside Ingrid and wondered what I should say, if anything. She solved the problem for me by taking my hand and saying the Lord’s prayer. I jumped in half-way with her then listened as she spoke a prayer in her beautifully cadenced native tongue.

            “Amen.” Said Ingrid.

            “Amen.” I said, astounded at the day’s turn of events.

            “I am sorry. I cannot stay or solve your bee problem. You will have to find someone else. Oh look! Her image is changing into something else entirely.” Indeed, the image was gone, replaced by nothing.

She stood up abruptly and we made our way back to her truck. I helped her pack her supplies away and watched her drive off. The pastor came out as she was driving away.

“Who was that?” He asked.

“The exterminator.” I said, still shocked at the turn of events.

“Did she solve the problem? I can’t find a place to hold services tomorrow. John?” He asked hopefully.

“I think you’ll have to keep looking. She couldn’t take care of the problem Pastor, I’m sorry.” I said.

“I’m calling the elders together to pray over the um… insects and take authority over them in Jesus’ name. We’re going to cast them out! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Maybe the enemy is clouding my mind.” He began walking back inside.

“Pastor?” I called.

“Yes John?” He said as he continued to walk away.

“Are you positive this isn’t from God? Because if God’s using the bees to do something he wants done, won’t you be getting in his way if you and the elders pray against it?”

He stopped in his tracks, turned around to look at me, frowned, then continued walking inside. I should probably have kept my mouth shut but I was sure that God often used things that disrupted our normal lives to get our attention and further his plans. On the way home I prayed that I wouldn’t be blind to what God was asking me to do. Why I hadn’t told pastor about what happened with Ingrid? He wouldn’t think it unusual in the least for God to touch someone through a miraculous event. I wasn’t his favorite employee. I probably should have kept my mouth shut.

Church the next day was refreshing for no other reason than the ordinariness of the service. I’d grown up in a strict fundamentalist Baptist home but gravitated towards liturgical worship when I left home for college. This sent my parents and siblings over the edge because the only contact they had with the Episcopal Church was the openly lesbian rector who had a cable access show in our hometown. I had never married and that made my joining that denomination even more suspect in their eyes. My parents were thrilled that I’d gotten a job at a conservative Christian school. My father always said, in the most serious voice, “We’re all praying for you.” at the end of every phone conversation or visit. I love my parents but rarely went home.

I enjoyed playing the organ for the service and received several compliments on the Bach prelude and fugue I performed.  I was also invited out to Sunday dinner with the Kippen family who had befriended me the first Sunday I’d visited there, six years ago. Helena and Dan had been my friends and confidants and watching their children grow made me wish I was married and bringing up a family of my own.

            “So John what’s up with the birds and the bees?” Asked Helena, looking pregnant and matriarchal. This sent a cascade of smirks and chuckles among their teenaged children.

            “Well, I was driving to work and saw a giant flock of birds and in the flock was a face.” I related the story of the face in the flock as Helena, Dan, and their six beautiful children ate their ice cream sundae’s as if it were the last dessert ever to be served. New Englanders were passionate about their ice cream in the same way Southerners were nuts for their biscuits.

            “Wow, interesting story. I wonder why no one’s said anything about it? And what’s this about bees at your school. Cindy Marks told me that school was closed down for a few days.” Asked Dan.

            “We’ve had a bee problem. A swarm is living on the side of the gym wall. Want to see a picture?” I asked, and passed around my phone camera for them all to see. “They’re all queens. Isn’t that unusual?”

            Mary, their oldest daughter raised a fist and said, “Girl power!” loud enough for the elderly couple to turn around and look. Her father shot her a glare.

            “Katie, don’t get chocolate sauce on his phone.” Said Helena as she wiped my phone with a napkin. “Oh God, it’s a Hebrew word!” She said, scrolling through the pictures. “And a face too! Is this real? Are you putting us on? Maybe someone drew the name and picture in honey and the bees just stuck there?” She asked. “I wonder if this has anything to do with all those people going naked in New York?”

Dan was more sanguine about it. “I wouldn’t read too much into it. Why would he be trying to get our attention now?”

            “Isn’t he always trying to get our attention?” Said Mary.

The children became unusually quiet after the picture made its way around the table. Their youngest, Greta, was crying silent tears.

            “What’s wrong honey?” Asked Helena.

Greta whispered something into her mother’s ear. Helena frowned and said, “I’m sure it was just a dream. Don’t worry about it.” She stroked Greta’s head.

Their oldest child, Matthew, leaned over and spoke to me. “Mr. Smith. Greta and I saw something the other day.

            “Matt, it’s supposed to be a secret!” Piped up Greta. She had a lisp and “secret” came out as “theecret”.

            “Mr. Smith we saw a flock of pigeons on the ground outside the school library last week. They were spelling out a word.” Matt was a levelheaded young man of fourteen. Matthew wanted to attend the U.S. Air Force academy and learn to fly jets but he wasn’t given to flights of fancy.

            “What word was spelled out Matt?” I asked.

            “War.” He said.

Helena erupted. “Matthew David Kippen! What did I say about talking about your nightmares around the others?” Turning to me she said, “I’m sorry John. It must have been something on television the kids saw. They all have been having nightmares about a war and lots of buildings being destroyed, people killed, horrible things. They’ve been talking about it to each other and feeding off each other, making it worse.”

All conversation at the table stopped and the cheerful mood at the table evaporated like dry ice in the sun.

Mary spoke in a firm but respectful manner. “But Mom, we’re all having the same dreams? Isn’t that like…a sign from God?”

“You’re all having the same dream?” I interjected.

“God gave us the bible and the voice of the Holy Spirit. Why would he be putting messages in flocks of birds?” Asked Dan scornfully.

“God can use anything he wants to. They’re all his, right? He used a donkey, a whale, locusts, all kinds of animals didn’t he?” Countered Mary.

“Mary has a point.” I said.

“Maybe it’s just coincidence, random patterns that just happen to last a bit longer than usual, that’s all.” Said Helena.

“Now you’re rationalizing. What I saw lasted at least seven minutes.” I caught the waitress’s eye. Ice cream was calling to me.

“Maybe it’s the devil trying to trick us! Arrrrr!” Said Luke, who made horns over his head with his index fingers and a wicked face at the younger children, who laughed.

“Who do you think is doing it Mr. Smith?” Asked Matthew.

“It’s Jesus!” Shouted Greta, who was standing on her chair looking out the window.

“Well it might be but…” I began.

“No, up in the sky, look!” Greta pointed out the window and we all looked out as three crosses appeared in the sky moving in our direction. Everyone in the restaurant was standing up and trying to get a better view. As the crosses came closer I could see that they were created by some kind of bird. When they were nearly over our heads we saw that the almost perfectly proportioned crosses were flocks of Canadian geese. We rushed out of the restaurant, herdlike, and stared up at them. I got out my phone and snapped a few pictures as they flew above us. The kids were all talking at once in a jumble of fear and excitement. Dan and Helena were holding each other as we watched the birds fade into the distance.

A woman standing next to me said, “It’s nothing, just a wind blowing the birds into what we see as an “X” that’s all. People are crazy if they think they can see anything in the sky except clouds and sun. There are no signs. It’s all bunk!” She went back inside, muttering about the slow service.

Looking back over to the Kippen family I saw that they were all standing in a circle holding hands in front of the restaurant, praying.

The alarm woke me at quarter to five the next morning. I was on the road by six, wondering if the bee problem had been solved. The school janitor called me on my cell.

            “John, the bees are all dead. They were all just lying there in a pile next to the gym wall. I cleaned up the bodies.” He said.

            “Where did you have church yesterday?” I asked.

            “Pastor rented the Elk’s club and we had service there. He said he’d leave the bees in God’s hands.” He replied.

I hung up and wondered why all these strange things were happening. I took a sip of my guilt free Nicaraguan coffee and made a mental list of all the things I needed to accomplish that day.

            “Thank you Lord for this great cup of coffee.” I said. At that moment a baseball- sized hailstone shattered my windshield and hit my forehead sending me into instant unconsciousness.

            “Mr. Smith? Mr. Smith, can you hear me?” A hand was patting me on the shoulder.

            “What happened? Who are you?” My mouth was dry. “Can I have some water?” I ask.

Someone raised the bed and moved me into a sitting position. A straw was pushed into my mouth. I sipped and swallowed gratefully. My head was throbbing.

            “What happened? Did I hurt anyone? Where am I?” I started to move my legs over the side of the bed but was prevented by a pair of strong hands.

            “Don’t try to move. Your legs are fine. It’s your eyes that are out of commission, scratched corneas courtesy of your windscreen. You have a concussion so we shan’t be letting your sleep. ” Said a voice with a British accent.

            “I’m in an English hospital?” I asked.

            “No such luck dear boy. You are in St. Joseph’s Children’s Hospital. The hailstorm caused so many casualties they sent you wherever they could.” The man’s strong hands pushed me down on the bed. “Stay here. Someone will be by later to check you.”

            “Wait, how may people were hurt?” I asked.

            “Three hundred dead, a thousand injured. Don’t ask why you were spared, it only makes your kind even more self absorbed.” He said, enigmatically. “They’ve given you something for the pain. You’re not going to feel quite yourself.”

I heard footsteps padding away from me. My head felt detached from my body. I had no idea how long I had been there. Gradually I realized that I was in a corridor of the hospital. People were constantly coming and going. I didn’t sleep but rested in comfortable numbness. I had to pee.

“Hello?” I said. “Anyone there? I need to go.”

            “Oh, you’re awake.” It was the English doctor. “Take my arm I’ll lead you to the loo.”

The orderly, or whoever it was, helped me up and led me to the bathroom and I did my   business. I waited.

            “Hello?” I said. “Hello? Is anyone there?” I asked, trying not to speak too loudly. Being blind was awful.

I made my way back to where I thought my bed was, the little hospital nightgown providing nothing in terms of insulation. Eventually a nurse saw my plight and led me back to bed by the arm.

            “I’m sorry Mr. Smith. We’re filled to capacity and had to call in extra staff to help. We called someone to come and pick you up.” She said.

            “My British doctor abandoned me.” I said.

            “We have no British doctors here. You must have met a Good Samaritan.” She said. “You’re being released. I’ll your things ready so you can go, ok?” She patted my and got me ready to leave.

After receiving instructions about my eye care from a doctor with an Asian accent I was released to the care of the Kippen family whose children enjoyed the novelty of taking care of a blind man.

            “We can play scrabble and say the letter choices to you! You’re on my team.” Said Greta, pulling me along to their car.

            “I want him on my team. He always wins the word games. I can almost beat him at chess though.” Said Matthew.

            “I’m pretty sure chess is out for a while.” I said.

            “And we can read to you like you always read to us.” Said Luke, who rattled off a list of comic books whose hero protagonists were sentient sponges from another dimension.

            “I can’t wait.” I said.

            “Kids, I’m sure Mr. Smith wants nothing more than to be left alone in peace and quiet for a while. His bandages come off the day after tomorrow. John your car will be ready today. Dan took care of it for you. Your insurance covered everything. Apparently you had an ‘Act of God’ clause in your policy.” She said.

            “You’re too kind. I can’t thank you enough.” I said.

            “It’s the least we can do after all the time you’ve spent tutoring the kids.” She said.

            “They’re great kids, it’s a pleasure.” I said as two of the children put me in the car and did the seat belt for me. I felt old.

            “And anyway John, why do we always label natural disasters ‘Acts of God’? Why does God get blamed for all the bad things that happen to us? He makes beautiful sunsets too. They ought to give him credit for those.” She asked.

            “I think most people do, but beautiful sunsets don’t wreck your car do they.” I said.

“We’re glad you’re ok, lots of other people died.”  She said.

“Anyone we know?” I asked.

“Not yet, they’re still sorting things out though.” She said with a touch of fear in her voice.

 “Are you sure you want a blind man in your house for a few days? ” I asked.

“Of course we do. We might be entertaining ‘angels unaware’ and the kids want to play pin the tail on the donkey with you. Isn’t that right kids? I really have to pee. Be thankful you’re not a woman.” She said.

The car screeched and skidded to a halt. I was thrown forward and heard loose toys and other objects catapult forward like tiny missiles. Helena swore and the children yelled in fear.

            “What’s wrong?” I asked, aggravated that my blindness prevented me from knowing even the most basic information.

            “Traffic is stopped on both sides of the highway. Oh my God! Kids, do you see what I’m seeing? Where’s my cell I have to call Dan.”

The car doors opened and everyone got out. I listened to people all around us speaking in reverent, fearful whispers.

            “What does it mean?”

            “Is it really there?”

            “How can it just hang in the sky like that?”

            “Is it the end of the world?”

            “It’s nothing, just a trick of the light. You’re all staring at an optical illusion.”

The last voice, a young woman’s, was louder than the others. I heard her move off to get into her car. Mary took me by the hand and led me forward a little.

            Greta said, “Uncle John, it’s a face in the sky. It’s…his face.” She whispered with awe. “It’s just like the crosses we saw in the sky, but it’s made of insects.” 

            “Uncle John, I saw a herd of zebras cross the road.” Said Mary. “Is this the end of the world?”

            “No, not yet it isn’t.” I heard the voice of my British doctor next to me. I was startled.

            “Oh, Dr. um… I didn’t get your name. Why did you abandon me in the bathroom?” I asked.

            “Didn’t you find someone to help you? At any rate you have larger issues to consider.” He said.

            “What larger issues?” I asked.

            “Your blindness isn’t going away I’m afraid. In fact for the remainder of these wonderful days you are going to stretch out your hands and be led where you do not wish to go.” He said.

An icy chill ran down my spine.

            “Who are you?” I whispered, moving closer to him. My arm brushed up against something hairy and warm.

            “I am merely a facilitator in these glorious and terrible times. Have you noticed that despite the fact the Master’s image has been clearly presented to the world many people still refuse to believe what they see in front of them? It is a curious fact about your kind that they will invent the most improbable fantasies to avoid seeing reality.” He said.

            “Why am I going to be blind?” I asked, crestfallen.

            “Oh come now, there’s no need for self pity. The Master has blinded you so that his works might be known on Earth.” He said.

            “What works?” I asked.

            “Uncle John, there’s a monkey next to you! Mom I told you there were animals all over the place.” Said Mary. I heard Helena gasp and the other children utter exclamations running the gamut from glee to stunned disbelief.

            “I’m not a monkey dear girl.” Said the doctor.

            “It’s ok Mary, he’s a doctor.” I said.

            “Actually I am a mountain gorilla. You should know the difference young lady. Doesn’t this family have public television? It is almost time for me to go. Come around children, I will not bite you, vegetarian you know.” He said. I heard the Kippen family move around us.

            “How can a mountain gorilla be talking? Did God give you a voice, like the animals in Narnia?” Asked Greta.

            “Dear children, Mr. Smith asked me what works the Master wishes you to show to the world. Do you know, little ones?” He asked. “It’s not a trick question.”

            “I can’t believe I’m talking to a mountain gorilla.” Said Matthew. “But if I had to guess I would say ‘Love your neighbor as yourself and do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ Is that right sir? I still can’t believe I’m talking to a gorilla.” He said with excited amazement.

            “That is correct young man. Would someone else venture a guess as to what other things might be gained by your tutor being blind?” He asked.

Mary said, “Will it give us a chance to show some self-sacrifice? I mean, if he’s really going to be blind won’t we have to look after him all the time?”

May the Master bless you! You are both absolutely correct. I seem to have attracted a crowd. If I weren’t so polite I would give a proper roar and chest thumping to clear away these gawkers. Jewel! I say, Jewel, over here old boy.” He shouted.

I heard shouts and screams from people all around us.

“Is this really the end of the world? Is…is He coming back soon?” Asked Matthew.

The doctor, or gorilla, didn’t answer but I heard more gasps and squeals of delight from the girls as a horse galloped up to us. I heard other people scream and run away from us. The gorilla, or doctor, took my hand and pulled my ear to his mouth.

“I know your secret. So faithful in chastity, it is a rare gift old boy. Pouring out your life quietly and in service to others, a eunuch for the Kingdom. The Master is going to repair that which was broken, after all ‘It is not good that man should be alone.’ is it? The Master will send you a wife because time is short and the days are evil. Goodbye Mr. Smith.” He said.

I heard a voice that was neither male nor female say, “Get on my back Puzzle, we are needed elsewhere.” Then I heard the sound of galloping hooves and the enigma wrapped in a mystery vanished.

            “Uncle John the faces are gone.” Said Mary. “This is too weird. Is the Apocalypse supposed to be like this? Mom I’m scared.”

Before terror took hold the rest of the children Helen took control and started barking out orders.

            “Come on kids, show’s over, traffic is starting to move again. Let’s go home. Matt, get the little ones buckled in. Mary, Stop crying and get my sunglasses out of the glove box. Don’t forget to buckle in Uncle John. Dan’s going to freak when we tell him what happened. It’s a wonder I don’t give birth right here.”

As we drove away towards an uncertain future tears streamed down my face. Matthew noticed and pushed a tissue into my hand.

            “Sorry.” I said.

            “It will be all right Mr. Smith. Don’t you remember the last line from that Milton poem you had me memorize?” He asked.

            “Which line is that Matt?”

            “They also serve who only stand and wait.”

THE END