The world had changed, in the way the people of old had dreamed. The mountains were gone, flattened under the divine hand of renewal. The night sky no longer twinkled with stars; instead, a smooth, uniform canopy covered the earth, reflecting the strange, eternal light of the Kingdom. The land was fertile, perfect, uniform. Diversity—of nature, of spirit, of thought—had been swept away in favor of order and harmony.
Like everyone else, Cameron Williams was fascinated with all that had gone on and what was yet to come. Of course, as a late martyr, he had spent very little time in heaven—just long enough to reunite with his wife, Chloe, and look forward to seeing their son back on earth at the Glorious Appearing. Now he anticipated the special dinner where his mother-in-law was to tell yet another story of Jesus.
No one called Cameron Buck now, because, he said, "there's nothing to buck here." And strange about Cameron and Chloe's relationship was that they still loved each other, but not romantically. Their entire hearts' desires were on the person of Jesus and worshiping Him for eternity. In the Millennium, they would live and labor together with Kenny and raise him, but as there would be no marrying or giving in marriage, their relationship would be wholly platonic.
"It's bizarre," Chloe told Cameron. "I still love and admire and respect you and want to be near you, but it's as if I've been prescribed some medicine that has cured me of any other distracting feelings."
"And somehow that doesn't insult me," Cameron said. "Does my feeling the same offend you?"
She shook her head. Her mind, like his, must have been on Jesus and whatever He had for them for the rest of time and eternity.
"Do you realize, Chlo', that we still have to raise Kenny in the nurture and admonition of the Lord and see to it that he decides for Christ?"
Only true believers and innocents had survived the Tribulation and the sheep-and-goats judgment to make it into the kingdom. "How many children of the Tribulation must there be," Chloe said, "who still have to choose Christ over living for themselves?"
"Children of the Tribulation," Cameron said. "I like that."
"God has been impressing on me that Kenny will be only one of many children in our charge."
"Me too, Chloe. I find that amazing."
Enza sat on a bench, overlooking the modest remains of what had once been the Alps. The jagged peaks, which once stood proud and defiant, had been leveled, leaving behind only gentle hills that barely whispered of what they used to be. She watched a group of children play in the green fields, their laughter filling the air. They were the "children of the Goats," those born after the great judgment, descendants of those condemned, like herself, to a fate of eventual damnation. But for now, they were just kids—innocent, joyful, blissfully unaware of the doom that awaited their lineage.
Enza had found a kind of peace here, in this little orphanage on the edges of the new world. She was old, so much older than she felt sometimes, but still sharp enough to guide these children. She had a few more years left before her time ran out, before she would be called to wherever souls like hers—those who had somehow cheated prophecy—were sent. Hell, perhaps. But that was for later. For now, she had a purpose.
Her eyes followed the children, their bright faces reminding her of a time long past. There was a bittersweetness to it, knowing that these children, like her, were not part of the divine plan. They were the leftovers of a world swept away by prophecy and divine will. But Enza didn't care about prophecy. These children were hers to protect, hers to raise right.
It was on a special occasion—one of the children's birthdays—that they gathered around her, asking for a story. War stories were always their favorite, especially ones with clear-cut heroes and villains. They loved hearing about battles and victories, of brave fighters standing up against evil. Enza rarely indulged them in these stories anymore. She had long since grown tired of war and its glorification. But today, she relented.
"Alright," she said, her voice carrying the weight of years but still steady. "I'll tell you a story. But it's not the kind you hear in your schoolbooks."
The children sat eagerly around her, their eyes wide with anticipation. They loved her stories, but today was different. Today, Enza would tell them something she had kept tucked away for a long time.
"This was back when I was young," she began, her eyes narrowing as she looked out over the hills. "Not much older than you, really. The world was at war, and my home was in the middle of it. I lived in the mountains—you wouldn't recognize them now, of course. They were tall and sharp, covered in snow. And those of us who didn't like the fascists, well, we had to fight back."
The children leaned in closer, hanging on her every word.
"I was part of a group called the Resistenza—the partisans. We fought against the fascists and the Nazis. I wasn't much of a fighter, though. My job was to be a lookout, a spotter. We'd set up in the mountains, watching the roads for troop movements. If the soldiers were coming, I'd signal to the fighters."
One of the children, a wide-eyed boy, raised his hand. "Were you scared?"
Enza smiled faintly, her eyes distant as she remembered. "Always. But we were doing what had to be done. We were the Other Light, the light that fought against the darkness."
The children perked up at that. "The Other Light?" one of the girls asked, her voice filled with wonder. "That sounds like a superhero team!"
Enza chuckled softly, but there was a weight behind the laughter. "Maybe it was. We were fighting for something better, something free. The fascists wanted to control everything, just like now. They wanted us all to think the same, believe the same. But we resisted. We were the light in the darkness, the ones who stood up when others couldn't."
The name caught on with the children. "The Other Light!" they whispered excitedly among themselves. To them, it sounded like a symbol of defiance, of hope. They didn't know the irony of it, the weight of that name in another context. But Enza let them have it. Let them dream of resistance, even in a world where such defiance was meaningless.
As she finished the story, one of the children, a quiet girl with big brown eyes, looked up at her. "Will we ever be part of the Other Light?"
Enza's heart clenched, and she placed a hand gently on the girl's head. "You're already part of it," she said softly. "As long as you remember that there's always another way to live, you'll always be part of the light."
The children smiled, comforted by the thought, and soon ran off to play, their imaginations already spinning tales of their own heroic deeds as members of the Other Light.
Enza watched them, her heart heavy but full. These children were her last hope, her last act of resistance. In a world where everything was supposed to be perfect, where everything had been flattened and made uniform, she kept alive the flame of individuality, of thinking differently, even if it was only in small ways.
She had a few years left—maybe more than she thought, maybe less. She didn't know where she would go when her time came, whether to the hell she was supposedly destined for, or to some unknown limbo reserved for those who had slipped through the cracks of prophecy. But for now, she was here. She had cheated fate once again.
The wind picked up slightly, rustling the grass on the low hills. Enza looked out over the horizon, where the sky canopy met the earth, and smiled to herself. The world may have changed, but some things—like rebellion, like hope—would always find a way to survive.
And so, she stayed, watching over the children of the Goats, raising them as best she could. She told them stories of the Other Light, of a world where people didn't just follow orders blindly, where they stood up for what was right, even if the odds were impossible.