Flor Edwards - Apocalypse Child: A Life in End Times

APOCALYPSE CHILD

A LIFE IN END TIMES

A Memoir

FLOR EDWARDS

Turner Publishing Company

Nashville, Tennessee

New York, New York

www.turnerpublishing.com

Copyright 2018 by Flor Edwards. All rights reserved.

Apocalypse Child: A Life in End Times

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee to the Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, (978) 750-8400, fax (978) 750-4744. Requests to the Publisher for permission should be addressed to Turner Publishing Company, 4507 Charlotte Avenue, Suite 100, Nashville, Tennessee, 37209 (615) 255-2665, fax (615) 255-5081, E-mail: .

Limit of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty: While the publisher and the author have used their best efforts in preparing this book, they make no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. No warranty may be created or extended by sales representatives or written sales materials. The advice and strategies contained herein may not be suitable for your situation. You should consult with a professional where appropriate. Neither the publisher nor the author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damages, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or other damages.

Cover design: Maddie Cothren

Cover artwork: Jesse Lucas

Book design: Glen Edelstein

Author Photo: Jasmin Kuhn

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Edwards, Flor, author.

Title: Apocalypse child : a life in end times : a memoir / Flor Edwards.

Description: Nashville, Tennessee : Turner Publishing Company, 2018.

Identifiers: LCCN 2017055998 | ISBN 9781683367680 (pbk. : alk. paper)

Subjects: LCSH: Edwards, Flor. | Family International (Organization)--Biography.

Classification: LCC BP605.C38 E39 2018 | DDC 299/.93 [B] --dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017055998

Printed in the United States of America

18 19 20 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Everything is ceremony
in the wild garden of childhood.

Pablo Neruda

Looking back, I can say with certainty,
that beyond the madness, yet amidst the chaos,
it was a magical childhood. The only thing certain about
childhood is that it begins with magic.

APOCALYPSE CHILD

SHORTLY AFTER MY SEVENTH BIRTHDAY and before the monsoon season came that year, Tamar, my twin sister, and I took to killing butterflies for fun. We didnt know that every time we rubbed the powder off their wings we played God, shortening their lifespan by days, which, for a butterfly, means years.

From our limited knowledge of science, which wed learned from encyclopedias, we knew that butterflies only had six weeks to live, so when we succeeded in catching one, we transferred it to a glass jar and thoroughly inspected its minute detailsthe long spindly legs, the sparkly iridescence of the wings, the waving intuitive antennaeas if by keeping it contained we could somehow prolong its delicate life.

Look, Tamar told me, holding a mature monarch by its spongy body so as not to tamper with its wings, their wings are identical, just like us. I examined the black veins that broke through the butterflys deep orange, canvas-like wings, a fire-red map of the Amazon River Id seen under B, for Brazil.

I nodded. Just like us.

Sometimes the butterfly escaped through the thatches of the woven bamboo net. Sometimes the butterfly disappeared, as if by magic, and we moved on to our next captive. We were predators. Most often we killed the butterfly, rubbing the powder off its wings until they were paper-thin and see-throughsix weeks of caterpillar metamorphosis shattered in an instant.

Afterward, we conducted an elaborate funeral on a nearby hill that sloped up to the base of a high wall surrounding the yard. I knew the walls were there so no one could see in and to keep us safe inside. High walls surrounded every home I had lived in. At the top were loops of barbed wire or jagged glass etched into the cement so no one could climb over.

The butterfly funerals were a grand procession complete with old black shoeboxes in which to lay the fallen insects, prayers, Bible verses and poems written on crumpled pieces of paper, and small wooden crosses patched together with twine. We chose our burial site atop a grassy knoll under a baby palm tree that sprouted a relief of shade from the merciless sun. After adorning the makeshift grave with exotic wildflowersorchids and poppies, hibiscus and honeysuckleand blankets of fern, we sent the butterfly with a sigh of guilt to its unknown afterlife, a life as clandestine and enigmatic as the creature itself.

All I knew about the afterlife I had learned from Father David. He was the leader who would guide us, like Moses, into the End Time, a period that was fast approaching and was predicted in the Bible, in the book of Revelation. He said I was a chosen child of God, and I was to be Gods End Time soldier. He was Gods chosen prophet, preparing us to save the world from the Great Apocalypse, which would come in 1993, when I would be twelve years old. Father David claimed to be the mouthpiece of God. He lived in hiding with an entourage of followers, including his wife, Maria, and his son, Davidito, Little David. He sat on his throne in his top-secret hideout, predicting our future and deciding our fatea fate that included possible martyrdom and certain premature death.

The gate separating our yard from the dirt road outside was boarded with wood. I knew I wasnt allowed to leave or I would be punishedor worse, consumed by the wickedness of the world. In the afternoon, when the sun softened its rays, we were allowed to go outside for one hour as long as we stayed within the perimeters of the walls.

Besides keeping us safe, I knew that the walls were also there to keep the evil spirits out. I became fascinated with this Spirit World that could not be seen or felt but only experienced through some unknown sensea sense I believed I was developing keenly, an awareness that was becoming as acute and sharp as my physical senses. A sense that had slowly, over time, overridden my capabilities of reason or logic.

During recess, when no one was looking, I pressed my nose against the metal bars of the gate and searched for other signs of life. I found a tiny crack in the wall and stared through the peephole. I saw a slow-moving rickshaw, or a shimmering snake, or a mother carrying a child on her back while balancing a bucket on her head. The beauty I saw, within the walls and without, was enough to turn my heart inside out.

If the evil spirits hid in living creatures, like Father David said, I thought they must be beautiful. And surely they mustnt be as dangerous as he had led us to believe. Maybe it was that year when I began to wonder what it would be like to live outside, among the host of evil spirits, instead of safe and protected within the walls.