Prologue
The sun, bracketed by a calm sea and cloudless sky, gave off an intense glare. Having grown up and lived most of his life in Huntington Beach CA, Phil didn’t notice. White crows feet sat at the corners of his eyes, testament to habitual squinting against the sun’s glare.
Phil watched Becky, his surfing partner, carve her way to the beach. He missed the wave she rode to shore, and now he looked over his shoulder for another.
Soon he was splashing out of the water to join his group lying on beach mats. Becky was drying her short hair in a towel. Donna, Phil’s daughter, was face down letting the sun bake her back. Natalie was propped up on a beach chair reading. Sandy, owner of a custom surf board shop, was smiling at Phil and asked, “Like it?”
Phil stuck the test surf board Sandy lent him into the sand and replied, “I wish I was skilled enough to give you a proper critique. It seemed fine to me.”
“It’s a good design,” Becky added. She possessed credentials as a retired surfing competitor. Sandy smiled at her comment.
“So it’s not too sluggish for a good surfer, nor too squirrely for a novice?”
“It’s a good mix of stable and quick, Sandy. Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s that I’ve never designed a board for mass production,” Sandy groaned, his Viking bulk and demeanor sagging at the thought of selling out to the Man. He fought the idea of mass producing a surf board for years.
Phil grinned, but looked away so Sandy wouldn’t see it. They had known each other from high school, and the relationship was complicated.
Natalie glanced up from her reading to say, “The foundation for our republic is terrorism, genocide, and slavery. We built this country on the backs of American Indians and African slaves.”
“What are you reading?” Donna exclaimed. “An anti-American manifesto?”
“It’s something on Liberation Theology.”
Donna rolled over, “All nations became what they were by assimilating what went before. America is different because its founding documents insured freedom and equality.”
“I know,” Natalie said. “We’ve struggled to achieve those ideals and fought to defend them as well. I don’t have a problem with that. My problem is how to justify watering our transplanted tree of liberty with blood.”
“We ended slavery and eventually made reparations to the Indians,” Donna countered with an edge to her voice. “I don’t see your point.”
Natalie leaned over to grab a soda from the cooler. The others had, by now, seated themselves around the matronly Natalie and the outspoken conservative college girl Donna.
Natalie went on, “I’m not sure this is important, but since ‘you reap what you sow,’ I’d rather be prepared than blind-sided.”
Donna’s defensive demeanor softened, “There are those who say 9-11 was when America got what it deserved -- the chickens of terrorism had come home to roost. I can’t see any value in that argument. It’s just plain mean. We’ve helped the world to the point where our own economy is threatened by foreign markets we helped build. We are a good people, a good country.”
“Who sometimes still do stupid things, and elect people not fit for duty,” Natalie added. “Growth comes from owning one’s mistakes and learning from them.”
“Yeah,” Donna snickered, “but a lot of folks use our mistakes to try to tear us down. I’m a little sensitive about America-bashing.”
Natalie nodded, “Your generation is a lot like my parent’s generation. You have a simple and secure faith in government.”
Becky snorted a laugh.
“And your generation,” Natalie smiled at Becky, “has no faith in anything. My generation, the Boomers, sought to end the option of global suicide. Question authority was our motto. It still is.”
“For what purpose?” Donna challenged.
“Authority needs to be confronted simply because it’s authority. Otherwise the corrupting influence of power will have no counter-force.”
“I mean, why now?” Donna explained. “Why go off on this Liberation Theology kick right now?”
Natalie lifted her chin, drawing their attention to a blond-haired man in flowered blue baggy shorts. She said, “Lilith told me he was coming. Our next task is tied up with Liberation Theology.”
The bronze-skinned, blond vision of perfection stopped before the group and grinned. “Hecate, Mary, Medusa, or Eve -- they all came with their sacred animal, the snake. Life is never without Death. But then there was Themis. She is one of the oldest goddesses, and the poets say she and Gaia are of the same nature. Themis, though, is prophecy incarnate. She is what religion is made from. As such her name also means Doom -- things that are fixed, static and settled. You must reset this precursor to the Law.”
“Did anybody tell you your manners suck, Manuel?” Becky challenged the archangel. “Is it too much to say, ‘Hi, how are you? It’s been months since I’ve seen you. How’s it been going?’”
“It isn’t relevant to our relationship,” Manuel shot back. “I want Phil out of my patio. The mundane trivia of your lives since our last mission is of no interest to me.”
“Wanna beer?” Sandy asked.
“No,” Manuel frowned at him. “What I want is your attention. The patriarchal bonds holding Themis are loosening -- sort of a direct result of Jehovah’s change of heart -- and you need to help shape Themis’ new stance.”
“How?” Becky asked.
“I don’t know,” the angel’s voice was exasperated. “We’ll have to talk to Metatron about it.”
“When?” Becky pressed.
“Right now, if you’re free.”
Natalie spoke up, “We can meet at my place in a couple of hours.”
They nodded agreement to the suggestion, and Manuel turned to go. Sandy tapped him on the shoulder, “Sure you don’t want a beer? You look like you could use one.”
“That stuff gives you hangovers,” Manuel observed. “But your concern for me is duly noted.”
Sandy smirked, “Good. I need all the help I can get.”
The angel drew looks from everyone on the beach, Phil noticed, and then he just disappeared, which no one seemed to notice.
They packed up and left the beach. Phil drove to his efficiency apartment after dropping Sandy at his house. There he showered and changed into jeans and polo shirt, ate a sandwich Sheila his demon housekeeper fixed for him, and headed to Natalie’s condo.
As he drove he became aware of mounting excitement. Another adventure was beginning. Once dreaded and resisted, these adventures, he realized, had become a reason for his existence. At first, both he and Manuel determined En Sof, the Great Mystery that powered the dizzying array of plateaus of Creation and the varied entities who populated them, linked their brainwaves together. When Phil achieved a certain state in meditation, the single remaining activity from his hippie days, he bounced into Manuel’s patio. The angel figured the only way to rid himself of the intrusion was to teach Phil how to navigate the realms of Spirit on his own. En Sof, it seemed, had other plans.
Phil had become a catalyst for change -- a mutating agent injected into this new Axial Age. His companions, as Natalie just observed, represented each generation: his daughter Donna, the Millennials; Becky, Gen X; and Natalie, the Boomers. Each brought a different intensity and focus to the challenges they faced. Each of them also knew a different worldview -- the three that now clashed for dominance: the Traditional, the Modern, and the Post-modern. Hence the new Axial Age. Mankind held before itself terrible choices. The Traditionals seemed bent on destroying the world rather than letting the world crush them. The Moderns clung to profit margins at the expense of long-term survival of the species. The Post-moderns sought to flatten the playing field so all could be happy, but they had merely repressed everyone’s life-force, thwarted man’s potential, blocked spontaneous growth, and denied the expression of man’s sensuous capacities.
It was a mess Phil had slowly matured into seeing. Yet the enormity and complexity of the mess the world was in left him both stricken with helplessness and charged with faith. There was a way out, but he didn’t know what it was. He could only follow the weird destiny before him.
