Macon that there would be phone calls and knocks at the door, and his prophetic gifts were right on the money. Ever since that Wednesday afternoon tea, visitors were coming up the long driveway to see the prophet, the Messiah, Jesus, the man claiming to be Jesus, the Avatar of Christ, or anything else people thought he was. On Thursday, just before Mrs. Macon and Brandon agreed that they should get Brandon’s ministry—and access to the ranch—organized, scheduled, and restricted, the doorbell rang for the umpteenth time. Mrs. Macon steeled her nerves and opened the door. A young man stood there, dressed in cut-off jeans and a white tunic, a shawl of some sort draped over his head and a long staff in his hand. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old. His beard was immature and wispy, he was lanky, and his face was smooth and unwrinkled. When he spoke, it was in a forced, unnatural British accent. “Hello. My name is Michael. I am seeking the Messiah of Antioch.”
