Chapter 12

The news services were going crazy trying to film Oscar. Hordes of reporters staked out churches, mosques, and synagogues in the hope of catching him entering one. No matter how many places they watched, Oscar turned up at the one they had missed. They lined the roads in hope of finding him, but he drove past unnoticed. The best anyone had managed was to film him after leaving a holy site.

Of course, as soon as Oscar was gone, the reporters descended upon the last place he visited like vultures. Everyone was interviewed even if they hadn’t been present. The buildings were examined from rooftop to basement for anything that could explain what was happening. No natural explanation was forthcoming. The news services were not satisfied by the supernatural explanations.

Oscar and Georgia managed to stay at hotels without interference from the press. The innkeepers tended to be individuals who had rediscovered their faith. They protected Oscar and Georgia by neglecting to mention to reporters that they were staying in the hotel. Once the couple was gone, reporters learned of their stay and descended upon the hotels. Again, everyone was interviewed.

Oscar and Georgia drove around untouched by the chaos they were leaving behind. They entered and left countries without concern of border guards, passports, or other matters that usually governed international travel. Traveling in random directions, and with the changing of the seasons, the temperature became warmer. They started sleeping outdoors on occasion.

They entered Turkey one fine afternoon. The sun was bright, the air was warm, and an early spring was in the air. Oscar stopped the truck and turned to Georgia. Gesturing to the countryside, he said, “We’ve made it to Turkey.”

“I wondered if we’d ever get here,” Georgia said. She got out the satellite phone and started to set it up.

Watching her, Oscar said, “That’s a good idea.”

“I haven’t told it to you yet,” Georgia said glancing over at him. She didn’t doubt that he knew what she was planning.

“I know, but it is still a good idea,” Oscar said with a grin. He glanced out the window and said, “While you are inviting Debbie to meet us in Istanbul, I’m going to go over to that little house over there and try to arrange an invitation to dinner.”

Georgia looked at the little house feeling that it was generous calling it a house; it was more of a shack than a house. Frowning, she said, “Asking them to feed us might ruin their budget.”

“Don’t worry about that. Leave everything to me,” Oscar said with a wink. He climbed out of the truck leaving Georgia to make her call to Debbie. He paused and turned back to face her. He said, “Don’t forget to call your sister. I’m sure that she’d like to hear from you.”

“Okay,” Georgia replied.

Oscar reached the door of the house and found an elderly couple watching him from the window. Raising a hand, he said, “Hello.”

The old man, using a cane, stepped out of the house and looked at Oscar with suspicion. The small stature of Oscar reduced the man’s fear of strangers sufficiently that he went outside rather than talk to him through the window. In a voice hoarse with age, he asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m Oscar Meyers.”

The man looked at the truck by the road and asked, “Did it break down?”

“No,” Oscar answered with a smile.

“So what are you doing here?” the old man asked looking back at Oscar.

Reaching into his pocket of his cloak, Oscar withdrew a small gold coin. The flash of light from the coin immediately drew the man’s attention. It was worth more than he could expect to see for the rest of his life. Holding it out, Oscar said, “I have heard that your wife was once considered the best cook in the whole area.”

“She is a good wife,” the man said eyeing Oscar with suspicion. He thought it odd that the man spoke Turkish with the local accent. He asked, “Where did you hear that about her cooking?”

Oscar pointed upwards and smiled. The old man looked up at the sky and then back down at Oscar before he snorted in disbelief. Amused by the suggestion, he said, “So you came here to eat?”

“Yes. My wife will take your wife and grandson to the market to buy a lamb and the makings for a feast,” Oscar said.

The old man looked at the truck for a second and then asked, “The white haired woman is your wife?”

“Yes,” Oscar answered.

“You must be older than you look,” he commented.

“Her hair is white because she was touched by the Gods,” Oscar said knowing that if Georgia ever heard the old man’s comment that he’d never have another minute of peace. She still talked about having granny hair.

“Touched by the Gods?” the old man asked suspiciously. He was a good Muslim and didn’t like what he was hearing.

From inside the house, the woman screamed. She stuck her head through the window and exclaimed, “It is him! He’s the one everyone is talking about!”

The old man was split between his desire to tell his wife to stop acting like a child and wanting to act like a child himself. Finally, he said, “You’re that Magus.”

“I’m a Druid,” Oscar said knowing that they were called Magi by the people in this part of the world.

“Yes, that’s what you call yourselves,” the old man said nodding his head. He held out his hand for the coin and said, “I’ll send the wife and grandson to the market with your wife. She’ll fix a feast for you.”

“Thank you,” Oscar said.

“My name is Mustafa and my wife is Belma. My grandson is Gani.” Only after giving the name of his grandson did he realize that Oscar had known that his grandson was living with them.

While Mustafa played host, Gani set up a small table in the garden behind the house. The young man carried chairs out of the house and set them around the table. Belma prepared a feast that was fit for a king. It was nearly sunset when they gathered around the table to eat a roast leg of lamb with rice and vegetables. It was a basic meal that was very tasty.

After dinner, the women went into the house while Oscar and Mustafa stayed outside. Mustafa said, “We talk in the town about you.”

“What do they say?” Oscar asked wanting to get the opinions of masses.

“They say that the messages delivered in the mosques, churches, and synagogues apply to all of us regardless of our religion,” Mustafa said.

“Really?” Oscar asked. He had been unaware of that.

“We are bound by the same Covenant as the Jews. We are bound by the same message of love as the Christians. It was delivered by Jesus, an early prophet of Allah. We are bound by the message of Mohammed. It only makes sense that we are bound by the messages of Oscar Meyers,” Mustafa said. The old man held up a packet of cigarettes.

Oscar shook his head to decline them. He said, “It sounds strange to hear that.”

“What is strange?” Mustafa said lighting up a cigarette. It was the first he had smoked since his son had died and left him in charge of his grandson.

“The messages of Oscar Meyers,” he answered. He laughed and said, “It makes me sound like I’m somebody.”

“You are somebody,” Mustafa said looking at Oscar.

“There are some who would argue with you about that. I am one of them,” Oscar said smiling at the old man.

“There is one true God and Mohammed was his last prophet,” Mustafa said taking pleasure in the sounds of the words as they rolled off his lips. Shaking his head, he said, “I’ve heard that phrase my entire life. I felt that it made me better than others who ignored Jesus and those who ignored Mohammed. I could look down on the Jews and Christians because they didn’t listen to Mohammed. Everyone has heard you and I’m no longer special. There is one true God and Mohammed was his last prophet is no longer a true statement.”

“I’m sure that ‘there is one true God and Oscar Meyers was his last prophet’ just doesn’t have the same impact,” Oscar said with a chuckle.

Mustafa shrugged his shoulders and said, “I hate to say that it doesn’t. Something important to me has been lost. I can no longer feel special.”

“We are all special in how we serve the Powers that Be,” Oscar said.

“Islam has been changed as a result of your conversations with Allah.”

It was obvious to Oscar that Mustafa was basically a very conservative man who resisted change. The house was empty of modern goods and his manners harkened back to older times. Curious, he asked, “What do you think of that?”

The old man was quiet for a long time while considering the question. Finally, he said, “I think the world will be a better place.”

Debbie peaked over the window sill at the riot outside her apartment. From her second floor window, she was able to see the riot in all its glory. She grimaced when one group started throwing bottles at the other group. The bottles originated from the side that was trying to enforce the existing status quo between Israel and the Palestinians.

The ones she felt sorry for were the poor riot control squad that was stuck in the middle trying to keep the two groups separated. Young men and women serving their mandatory time in the military suddenly found themselves facing people who might be their family, friends, or neighbors. It was ugly.

Debbie hated the protests. It wasn’t that she feared getting hurt as a result of a riot breaking out near her. It wasn’t that they were targeting her specifically. No one had associated her with Oscar and for that she was somewhat grateful. Riots had been breaking out all over Jerusalem as a result of the words delivered to Oscar by Yahweh. What bothered her was the fanaticism of the participants.

The most vocal and violent group of protesters was a strange collection of people. It was a collection that was splintered amongst several major philosophical issues. The fundamentalist radical Jews were the largest segment. In the past, they had taken up arms against the Palestinians and opposed all attempts to make peace. Many of them felt their God had sold them out by denying that Israel had a right to exist.

The radical Jews were joined in the protests by young upwardly mobile Jews who were normally very law-abiding. These young professionals had discovered that they might lose their property or have to purchase it a second time. The chief complaint was that they had purchased property in good faith only to find that the government was taking action to take it away from them. Based on records from the late forties, the government had declared a large number of places as confiscated property that had to be returned to the original owners or their heirs.