The Lord will appear ... his feet shall stand on that day on the Mount of Olives, which is opposite Jerusalem on the eastern side . . . and the Lord God will come and all his holy ones with him.

Thorn closed his books and turned out his desk lamp. He sat for a long time in silence. He wondered what these books were, and who had written them, and why they had been written at all. And he wondered why he believed them, and yet why he rejected them. To believe them made one's efforts futile. Were they all just pawns for the mightier forces of Good and Evil? Were they puppets being manipulated from above and below? Could there really be a Heaven? Could there really be a Hell? He realized these were the questions of an adolescent and yet he could not help but wonder. He had felt it recently, the sensation of powers beyond his control. Not random powers but purposeful ones; sensations that made him feel weak and impermanent. And more than that; helpless. That, at the bottom line, was what it all meant. He was helpless. They were all helpless. They didn't ask to be born and they didn't ask to die. They were made to. But why, in between, did there have to be such pain? Perhaps humankind was more amusing that way. Perhaps they provided entertainment.

Thorn lay on the couch and slept. And his dreams were filled with fear. He saw himself dressed as a woman, yet knowing he was a man. He was on a crowded street and stopped a policeman, attempting to explain that he was lost and afraid. The policeman refused to listen, instead directing traffic around him until it came so close that he could feel the breeze. The breeze grew in intensity as the traffic moved faster, and Thorn felt as though he were caught in a gale. So strong was the wind that he could not catch his breath, and he gasped, hanging onto the policeman who refused to acknowledge he was there. He cried out for help, but no one could hear him, his cries drowned out by the howling wind. A black car suddenly swerved toward him and he struggled to get out of its way. But the wind pushed him on all^ides, holding him in place. As it bore down, he could see the driver's face. It had no features, yet it emitted a laugh, the flesh ripping open where a mouth should have been, spewing blood, as the car came bearing down.

At the moment of contact, Thorn awakened. He was gasping for breath and bathed in sweat. Slowly the dream left him and he lay immobile. It was early morning, and the house was quiet. He fought the urge to weep.

Would the evil never end?

Chapter Seven