The Lost Apostles (14 page)

Chapter 18

Brain researchers know that women generally use two sides of their brain at once, while men only use one. Consider, does this suggest greater potential for women, or for men? It might be argued either way, with women claiming that their brains operate more efficiently, and men insisting that they have accomplished much more than women using only half of their brains. But what have men really accomplished? Haven’t we had enough of their destructive male energy?

—Amy Angkor-Billings,
Discourses

“We’re over Palermo now,” the pilot announced to Lori, who sat beside her in the cockpit. They’d left early in the morning, and had been flying for a couple of hours. The weather had been mild and warm, with almost no wind.

Outside her window, the teenager saw the white buildings and churches of the Sicilian city below the helicopter. Another time, perhaps in another lifetime, she might have enjoyed exploring the picturesque, byways down there, purchasing food and crafts from street vendors, dining in charming outdoor cafes. But today, with her destination lying farther to the north . . . the Italian mainland . . . she had other things on her mind.

Lori felt like a bloodhound on the scent of a fleeing felon, but it was not a redolence in the traditional sense. Rather, she followed a trail through the sky that was revealed to her almost instinctually, a visceral sensation by which she discerned the spoor left in the air by Dixie Lou Jackson. It was an extension of the information she had gleaned earlier while holding hands with the she-apostles, when she learned that the UWW leader was bound for Rome. This was a confirmation of that fact.

Though she had these had two linked processes providing her with the same information, Lori still didn’t understand exactly
how
she knew where Dixie Lou was going, but she
knew
nonetheless, and she was as certain of this as she was of the breaths she took and the thoughts that rushed through the neural pathways of her brain. It was a wordless truth.

In one sense this pursuit was a compulsion for her, driven by a subconscious impulse that could not be ignored. Certainly it must have something to do with her personal dislike for Dixie Lou, especially for the Chairwoman’s part in the death of Lori’s mother, Camilla Vale.

In considering this, however, Lori took a deep breath.

The force driving her with such intensity involved much more than personal animus. She needed to stop Dixie Lou for a larger reason. Lori had eleven she-apostles with her, but where was the twelfth, Martha of Galilee? Had Dixie Lou killed her? Lori needed to find out. She needed to expose the frauds of this abominable woman, and the homicide she had committed at Monte Konos. That murder, witnessed by Lori and Alex, was undoubtedly just the tip of the iceberg.

Since the attack on the goddess circle, events had been going at a breakneck pace. Through it all, trying to keep up, Lori sensed a change inside of her, a strange feeling that she was very old. Even so, this did not fatigue her. In a conversation with Alex earlier in the day, she had told him she felt energized, stronger and wiser.

Now, feeling a powerful impulse, Lori went to the jump seat at the rear of the cockpit and switched on the small flat-screen television set, mounted on a bulkhead. She turned up the volume, heard a female announcer say that the enigmatic leader of United Women of the World was about to deliver a speech that would be telecast all over the world. News of the impending address by Dixie Lou Jackson had been on every satellite news station for hours. It was not live; the announcer said she had recorded it the evening before.

The screen flickered, and Dixie Lou Jackson appeared, dressed in the long gold vestment of a priestess. Around her neck hung a golden sword-cross on a chain. Looking very distinguished, she stood at the podium of a studio theater, gazing into the camera. The Sword of She-God, never far from her, rested on a stand at her side. Behind her stood matrons holding small children.

The Chairwoman cleared her throat. “I am in Rome, Italy, broadcasting from an unnamed studio. For the moment, security does not permit me to say any more than that. Sadly, I have enemies who wish to do me harm. I am like all of the women who have ever been threatened by men, except I am taking steps to fight back.”

I was right,
Lori thought.
She’s in Rome. . . .

Dixie Lou’s elegant robe, which Lori had never seen before, bore the green-and-orange UWW emblem on each side of the collar. Draped over one shoulder was a colorful stole adorned with twelve boxes, each of which, Dixie Lou explained to her television audience, contained an artist’s rendition of the face of a different she-apostle, as that child appeared during the creation of the sacred
Holy Women’s Bible
.

Looking on, Lori noted that one of the boxes contained the face of the counterfeit Martha of Galilee, and the other eleven faces were phony as well. None of them were the actual she-apostles.

One by one the compact black woman introduced all of the supposed she-apostles personally, from the toddlers (Veronica, Mary Magdalene, Priscilla, Sarah, Kezia, Candace, and Lydia) to the babies (Esther, Hannah, Abigail, Rhoda and Martha). These children represented all the major races of humankind, she said, and Lori thought that their appearances looked remarkably close to the authentic she-apostles. Some of them were nearly exact replicas, in fact, she thought as she looked closer. Dixie Lou must have had makeup artists perform changes to those children’s faces, because the real ones had already been seen in public.

As Dixie Lou introduced the children, matrons brought them forward. To her disgust, Lori noted that all of the she-apostles appeared to have been given sedatives. They looked listless, ready to nod off. Dixie Lou said each child was born with a different name in modern times, but revealed their apostolic appellations as soon as they began speaking in ancient Aramaic.

A story that was based in truth, but which applied to the wrong children.

Presently, Dixie Lou motioned for the matrons to step back and continued her speech, in her Southern drawl. Her often tense mood was exactly the opposite now, as she quipped about the purported she-apostles’ antics, bantered with them and announced to the women of the earth the great joy of the
Holy Women’s Bible
that had sprung from the reincarnated minds of these children. Somewhat correctly, she related the history of the book, how it included not only the
Testament of the She-Apostles
but also
The Old Testament
and
The New Testament
, edited to give the correct view of women.

Holding up a bulky, leather-bound copy of the holy book, Dixie Lou exclaimed, “These are the only true gospels!”

Wild applause ensued, but to Lori it sounded canned, since there was probably no studio audience, other than a few trusted associates of the Chairwoman.

Gesturing with her thick arms for emphasis, Dixie Lou said, “Some of you might wonder about the guard who interrupted my last broadcast, charging that we have a fake she-apostle.”

Intrigued that she was even bringing the subject up, Lori leaned closer to the screen. Dixie Lou was confronting the matter head-on, an unexpected move.

Following a pause, Dixie Lou smiled confidently and said, “Not a word of it is true. That particular guard has a history of mental illness, which she concealed from us when she was hired. We’ve posted details on the Internet. But today I have a much more important message, of the utmost importance to every woman on the planet, and to the men who love and support those women.”

You’re the biggest liar in the world
, Lori thought.

The Chairwoman took on a deadly serious expression, while calling for an end to abusive behavior by males in every nation of the world, and for the cessation of atrocities against women that were occurring at that very moment. Dixie Lou spoke of cowardly men who beat and murdered smaller and physically weaker women in brutal attempts to control and misuse them.

With her voice rising in angry crescendo, she described bride burning in India, women in China who were compelled to have abortions because of the one-child-policy, girls in the Middle East who weren’t allowed to go to school, teenagers in Southeast Asia forced into slavery and prostitution, beautiful young Bangladeshi woman burned with acid by rejected suitors, and the genital mutilation of female children in Africa.

The catalogue of atrocities was masterfully delivered.

As she concluded her speech, she went to the purported she-apostles and lifted the redheaded “Apostle Mary Magdalene,” one of the toddlers. Cradling the mock she-apostle in her arms, she rocked her back and forth and said, “This is the way of women, nurturing and loving, helping young minds and spirits grow. Unlike our male counterparts, women have not widely embraced the way of violence in the past, but this has to change for awhile. Each of us must be willing to fight for our She-God-given rights, for the sake of our granddaughters.”

She paused, then continued in a determined tone, “Women of the world, take control of your lives! Do whatever is necessary, and when it is complete the earth will be a better place. Use a knife, a frying pan, a rolling pin, your man’s golf putter or his gun to drive him back, whatever it takes. That man is bigger and stronger, so get yourself an ‘equalizer.’”

The unseen, canned audience clapped and cheered. On the screen, Dixie Lou Jackson raised her arms in front of her and smiled.

* * *

As she watched her own recorded broadcast that morning, the Chairwoman recalled her secret reason for smiling. Prior to the speech, computers had sprayed coded Internet messages to clandestine UWW paramilitary forces in her vicinity, moving them into position, focusing power. Gunboats were speeding to a rendezvous point on the western coast of Italy; underground equipment had been brought out and was being transported by cargo plane; armed female soldiers were gathering. Messages also went out to operatives in key positions—sleeper agents—summoning them to action.

The BOI would never suspect what Dixie Lou had in mind next, and would not be able to prevent it.

* * *

Hearing something behind her, Lori swiveled her chair and looked into the eyes of the redheaded toddler who stood there, looking up at her. Mary Magdalene’s eyes glowed like bright little suns, so that Lori wondered if she could continue to gaze at them without blinking. But she did nonetheless, transfixed.

Mary dipped a small hand into a pocket of her robe and brought out a handful of sand. Holding her palm flat in front of her, the sand began to shimmer bright silver, and floated in the air. The tiny grains floated around the room, over the head of the pilot (without her seeing them) and back into Mary’s hand.

With a smile, she put the handful of sand back in her pocket and returned to the passenger compartment.

Lori tried to comprehend what she had just seen, but the more she tried, the more elusive the truth became, as if it were dancing away from her. It fled understanding, concealed itself in shadowy, cosmic reaches. And she realized how pointless it was to make any attempt to understand the phenomenon, at least on the level at which her brain was accustomed to operating. For answers, she needed to go deeper, into an alternate realm that remained largely unavailable to her, an awareness that she could not force open.

The timing had to be right, she realized. In due course it would come to her if she was meant to know it, like understanding the arcane language of the she-apostles.

Lori was certain of one thing, though. She needed to catch Dixie Lou and stop her.

* * *

A half hour later, as they flew northward over an aquamarine sea . . .

Lori wandered back down the central aisle of the passenger compartment, heading for the aft galley. The pilot Rea Janeg had flown nonstop across the Mediterranean, but hadn’t slept well the night before departure. She kept going on what she called “repeated injections of caffeine,” cups of strong coffee brought to her by Lori.

While Lori filled yet another paper cup with coffee, she watched three she-apostles toddle into the galley single file . . . Priscilla, Lydia, and Candace. They looked sleepy-eyed.

“A bit young for coffee, aren’t you?” Lori asked, with a smile. The helicopter bumped through turbulence, and she grabbed a side bar to hold on, spilling some of the coffee.

The children had better “air legs” than she did, and maintained their footing much more easily. They rubbed their eyes and yawned.

“Can you make sand dance in the air like Mary Magdalene?” Lori asked, as she fitted a plastic lid onto the cup. She spoke English to the children, wondered if they could understand. Their eyes were alert and inquisitive.

Bending down, Priscilla picked up an empty paper cup from the deck, and tossed it in the air. Just as the cup was about to hit the floor in front of the children, it floated back upward, hovering in front of their faces. Lori saw a shimmering disturbance in front of the children, and heard buzzing in her ears.

The toddlers gathered around the cup, and with their mental energies tossed it back and forth among them in the air, making a game of it. All the while, they kept glancing over at Lori, as if for approval.

“That’s a pretty neat trick,” Lori said. She slipped by them, carrying the coffee forward along the aisle. Glancing back, she saw the children having trouble keeping the cup in the air. It tumbled to the deck, and they couldn’t get it to float anymore.

After making the delivery, Lori peered back into the passenger compartment. Apparently giving up on the game, the children returned to their seats, where Alex, the translator, and a matron were taking care of them. Soon the three toddlers joined the other she-apostles in sleep.

Alex was asleep himself, holding the slumbering baby Esther in his arms, wrapped in a blanket. Lori smiled at how cute he looked holding the child, whose skin was a beautiful shade of light black, a mixture of races. Earlier, Lori had seen him speak to the fussy baby in a gentle, calming tone that immediately caused her to quiet down.