Daniel Keohane - Margaret's Ark

She wasn't exactly half-naked his time, having gone to bed fully dressed. Tonight she'd been certain the angel would pay a visit. Her certainty had most likely been spawned by the guilt she felt for lying to Marty.

David rose from the table but did not approach her. “No, Margaret, you are dreaming, I assure you. The other night was a dream, yet not a dream. I don't suppose that makes any sense.”

She stormed forward and slammed both fists into his chest. It felt like punching a feather pillow. He made no move to defend himself. “Marty Santos saw us! We were really there!”

David kept his hands in his pockets. He nodded. “Yes... in a way. You needed to be there physically, to feel the area, to sense completely what I wanted to show you. But you were also safely in bed.”

Margaret punched him again, shouted, “How can that be? I was either in bed or I - “

The angel's face darkened. “Stop asking so many damned, insignificant questions!”

She stepped back. David glared, took a step forward and continued, “Now shut your mouth and open your ears!” Margaret backed up again. David followed. “In fifty-five days, millions of people on this planet are going to be dead. Do you understand dead ? I think you do! Dead !”

She covered her ears. “Shut up! You're not an angel!”

She turned away and knelt hard on the ground, feeling nothing but a vague sense of solidity beneath her.

David was dark above her, his skin fading to the same shadowy resonance as his clothes. “We have too much to do,” he breathed. “I don’t need to screw around any further with you and your pathetic denial. I'm no demon. I am an angel to the Lord Most High, sent to pass His message to those He deems suitable to lead you people to salvation.”

“But why -”

“Don't you ever ask why again, do you understand me? What will happen will happen out of the natural order of the world, the end of a countdown set in motion at the very beginning of time. God will not stop it, must not. It is the natural order of things. But He will use this moment to test your faith, and to save as many from death as possible since, for many of them, their death will be eternal. Praise the Lord for His mercy and compassion!”

He leaned over her and shouted, “Now get off your ass and build His ark! “

Margaret awoke with the bedside lamp shining in her face, the ceiling moving in swirls above her. She was crying. Small, gentle hands were on her arm and shoulder.

“Mommy, it's OK. You were having a bad dream.” Katie rubbed her arm, back and forth with both of her hands.

Peeking from behind her big sister, a sleepy, wide-eyed Robin looked hopefully at her.

Margaret whispered, “Oh, my God,” then sat up in bed and gathered her daughters to her.

* * *

Talk radio programs had already become constant companions at home and in the car, both mocking and acknowledging her sanity. This wasn’t a local phenomenon. There weren't thousands of them, not yet, but enough to set Margaret to realize she wasn't alone. If these few brave souls were already acknowledging what was happening, how many others were not?

The reaction so far had been to suppress the callers completely, but not before playing with them like cats to mice. Everyone assumed this had become the latest trend in crank calls. Only the religious stations took the calls with some semblance of acceptance.

After last night’s dream, Margaret assured the girls that it was only a nightmare. When Katie asked if it had been “about Daddy,” Margaret almost broke down crying again. Instead she said yes, and that was the end of it.

She knew whom she should talk to. Nick Mayhew was a young pup, but he was her priest. He'd have an opinion. The absolute last thing she wanted was to let her class find out she was one of the “nutcases” they begun gossiping about all day at school. The names they used for these people varied, but the tone was similar. It was best to keep God out of the schools for now - the first time she'd ever thought that was a good idea.

Which made her confession to her senior science class all the more surprising. The conversation began quietly between two girls, until Carl Jorgenson overheard and he began his usual posturing.

“Hey, ladies,” he called from his own table. “You're more than welcome over at my boat any day.” One of the girls blushed; the other glared at him and said, “You would build one of those, you creep. Just to lure young -”

“You’re still mad at me for breaking up with your sister?” He interrupted, putting on his best, hurt face then added, “She dumped me , you know.”

“Enough,” Margaret said reflexively without looking up from the pop quiz she’d been grading. Grateful for the distraction and not the least bit interested in the experiment Margaret had assigned, Carl said, “Mrs. Carboneau, what do you think?”

She looked up. “About what?”

He shrugged. “Well, if God is going to flood us out, how's he going to do it?”

She should shrug off the question, but the boy seemed genuinely curious in his own, cute way. She put down the pencil and sighed. “Well, I assume rain is the method of choice.”

And that was it. Everyone stopped working and offered their own views. God’s wrath versus God’s mercy. Did Margaret actually believe them, they asked? She struggled to remain vague in her answers, but her voice had an underlying tone of fear she hoped was masked. She steered the discussion to the possible physics of a modern Great Flood – this was a science class, after all. The ensuing debate was lively.

“We're pretty much spread all over the place,” Carl said at one point. “How's God going to make that much rain? Flood the oceans?”

“God’s not doing it,” one girl countered, then shrank away from the discussion behind the veil of her long black hair.

“Melt the ice caps!” another suggested.

“Pretty boring waiting a million years for that,” Margaret suggested.

The girl with the hair blushed and said, “I read a story once where the Earth stopped turning and everything flew out into space. Maybe something like that?”

“More than likely,” Margaret said. “Without he centrifugal force of the planet's rotation, we'll be slowly crushed to death by gravity.”

“Well, that's no good,” Carl said. “Can’t have both.”

“Nothing's impossible with God.” Margaret tried to smile when she said this, make the comment sound lighter than she intended.

“We have flooding with rain all the time,” argued another. “A hurricane, like they had in Louisiana and Mississippi. Or another tsunami. A really big one.”

“It's not going to happen!” This spoken by the girl who’d been sparring earlier with Carl. The discussion moved on, as these usually did, to people. Those claiming to have been visited by God, by angels or demons, all predicting the same doom.

“They’re just a doomsday cult.”

“All across the country?”

“They're planted to cause chaos. They’re no better than terrorists.”

“Mass insanity.”

“Maybe they're telling the truth.” This one was ruled out too quickly. By that point, Margaret was out of her seat and leaning against the front of her desk. Suggestions were offered to round up the “prophets” and send them to an island or even jail. More than a few agreed. Like a concert fan stuck in the midst of a crowd pressing closer to the stadium doors, Margaret watched the atmosphere change. Those against the “prophets” spoke louder. Those more compassionate grew quieter. Carl Jorgenson, she noticed, was doing more listening, looking with unbridled interest to both sides of the discussion. Weighing his options, or waiting for a chance at a good joke.