The Second Coming by John Dalmas

Now he was prepared for the next step. He even knew what that next step would be, because Millennium had released Ngunda Aran’s May-June tour schedule.

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In June, Ngunda Aran will tour the Inland Northwest, with engagements in several second and third echelon cities: Billings and Missoula in Montana, Spokane and Richland in Washington, Boise in Idaho. In a rather thinly populated region, cities of 50,000 to 300,000 are much more important than they would be in populous regions.

Originally Calgary, Alberta, was to be included. The Canadian government, however, refused entrance to Millennium speakers on grounds that their appearance might cause public disturbances. This in spite of Millennium centers operating legally in five Canadian cities. And whatever you might think of Millennium and its guru, they are the opposite of inflammatory. Last autumn’s tour of eastern Canada—Winnipeg, Ottawa, Toronto, Montreal and Halifax—resulted in nothing more disturbing than sign-bearing pickets and a scuffle or two. In a country whose national sport is ice hockey, and whose history and politics are commendably democratic, this ruling is hard to fathom—even given Canada’s religious history, which is somewhat rockier than our own.

I recently spent six months living in the Dove Cote, accompanying Dove Tours, and visiting Millennium field centers, expecting to find evidence of dishonesty and cynicism. I was allowed to interview almost anyone I wanted to. I habitually look at the world with skeptical, investigative eyes, and I keep track of what my peers learn and say about Millennium and Ngunda. And I have yet to come across anything convincingly discreditable about either of them—anything more dignified than rumors.

That doesn’t mean there isn’t anything, but it makes me wonder about the government in Ottawa. It also helps me better appreciate the government of Florence Elaine Metzger.

American Scene Magazine

“Millennium, the Dove, and Ottawa,”

Duke Cochran

Lute Koskela had sold the aging pickup he’d been driving, along with the camper shell in which he’d bedded down so often in his recent ramblings. He’d traded with an old acquaintance for a seven-year-old Chevy sedan and $1,000, the whole transaction as legal as his fictitous identity allowed.

A thousand dollars went a long way in the Hard Times.

He too had seen the Ngunda tour schedule, and chosen where he’d make his next attempt. He had an unmarried aunt in Spokane, Washington—a divorcee, actually—from whom he hoped to get room and board at a reasonable cost. She’d disapproved of his youthful escapades and the company he’d kept, but that had been years earlier, and she’d taken in boarders since the ’90s. Computer time rented in Omaha had shown her address unchanged. He knew it as an old barn of a 10-room house in a long-declining neighborhood.

It was nearing noon when he pulled up in front. The yard was as shaggy as he remembered it, with the same old locust trees more decrepit than ever with dieback, dropping branches on the yard. The lawn was thin and weedy, occasionally mowed but otherwise uncared for. Though now, with the early spring warmth that followed winter’s snows and rains, it looked halfway decent to his uncritical eyes.

He got out of the car and slammed its door—the locks didn’t work—strode up the frost-heaved front walk to the porch, pressed the doorbell and heard it ring. A minute later his aunt opened it and paused, staring.

“Luther! What the hell are you doing here? I’d thought you were in jail somewhere, like those two crazy uncles of yours.”

He grinned. “Aunt Sing, you sure know how to hurt a guy. I’ve never been in jail in my life. Well, maybe a couple times on charges, but those were misunderstandings. They let me out without even a trial.” He spread his hands on his chest. “Innocent as a baby.”

She snorted. “You’ve gotten by a lot more on luck than innocence, Luther Koskela. And you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here. Not selling Bibles I don’t suppose.”

He laughed. “I might, if I could make a living at it. I’m looking for a place to board, and a job. I figured you might be able to provide the first; I’ve got cash for the first month.” He patted his hip pocket. “I’m a reformed man,” he added. “Disconnected from old friends that might tempt me to get in trouble. Even quit the mercenary profession. Lost my taste for that kind of thing.” He laughed. “A guy could get his ass shot off.”

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