13th Apostle (19 page)

Day Ten, early afternoon
Downtown London

“If anything happens to me, there are a few things you need to know,” Sabbie began.

Gil had just completed the quickest cross-traffic change of lanes ever maneuvered in the history of driving and, as per Sabbie's instructions, was in the process of making an illegal U-turn, when she broached the subject of her imminent demise.

The green sedan was nowhere in sight, apparently left behind in the wake of Gil's stunt-level driving.

She was right. Not a problem after all.

“Look, could we discuss this when we get where we're going? If you ever decide to tell me where that might be,” he added.

“Get out and let me drive,” she said.

He ignored her order. The road ended one hundred feet ahead. “Which way?” Gil asked. “Left or right? Which way?”

“Right, and take it slowly. I'm trying to get the scroll back in the box. It doesn't fit anymore.”

“Now what?” he asked.

“Follow the signs to the train station,” Sabbie said. “And tell me when you're a couple of blocks away.”

It was useless to ask her how he would know when they were a few blocks away when he'd never been there before. She was trying to coax the scroll into the rotted and disintegrating box. It was no easy job given that the scroll was twice as bulky as it had been before she unrolled it.

“The hell with this,” he heard her mutter, then he watched in wonder as she produced two huge reinforced paper shopping bags. Sabbie slid the blanket-wrapped scroll into one and, into the other, the ancient box.

Satisfied with her solution, she sat up and peered over Gil's shoulder.

“Good, we're almost there,” she said, as they approached the station.

So, we're taking the train.

It made sense, given that the green sedan would be looking for their car.

“Now, do exactly as I tell you,” she said slowly. “For once in your life, don't ask questions.”

Instinctively, Gil's gaze flashed to the rearview mirror.

There it is, as if we never lost it.

The green sedan was on their tail and, this time, it was not content to stay a car's length away. With each second, it gained on them. In less than a block it would overtake them, and it was obvious that was the driver's intention.

“Hard right,” she shouted. “Now!”

Gil turned to see if the lane was clear.

“Now!” Sabbie repeated.

He gritted his teeth and cut the wheel without knowing what car might be coming in the opposite direction.

“Now drive straight, no matter what. Don't stop, don't turn, just go straight.”

Two curbs and three speed bumps slowed them down a bit, but Gil did as directed.

“Now, pull to the curb and get out,” Sabbie commanded as they approached the passenger drop-off area of the train station. “Leave the keys. Follow me.”

Gil threw the car in park and left it running. He was by her side in a few strides. She was going full speed with the two shopping bags in tow. They ran into the railway station, across the slippery floor, and past the ticket windows.

He had no breath to ask her where they were going. It didn't matter anyway. He wasn't about to debate the matter.

The driver from the green car had abandoned his sedan and was in pursuit. Sabbie and Gil had the clear advantage for the moment but, at some point, they would have to come to a stop, and Gil could not imagine what good this race could possibly do.

Sabbie dashed toward a revolving door exit. As she approached, she apparently realized the slow-moving door occupied by even slower-moving people would put them in jeopardy. She hesitated, then changed directions. Gil almost ran into her. She turned, shoved aside a large trash can that blocked a glass and metal door, and pushed hard on the door. To his amazement, it swung open under the weight of her thrust and, in an instant, he and Sabbie were out of the building and onto the side parking lot.

The big black town car took Gil by surprise. It cut them off, nearly ran them over, then screeched to a halt in front of them. When the passenger door opened, Gil expected the worst. But Sabbie piled into the front seat and ordered him to follow her in.

“Slam it, slam the door,” she ordered, as the car began to move. They were off, away from their pursuer, away from the train station, just plain away.

Three years before the Crucifixion Bethany, East of the River Jordan

No matter how he positioned himself, Micah's back ached incessantly. The summer robes clung and twisted about his body. The stifling air, filled with dust and the odor of animal droppings, filled his chest. He tried to remind himself of how fortunate he was to be riding on his old and faithful ass, while others walked such great distances, but the self-directed rebuke simply served to irritate rather than to humble him.

I am getting too old for this.

In his youth he would have eagerly anticipated the excitement of adventure. It had been a decade since he left his father's weapons enterprise and had established himself as a jewelry and metal crafter. He had endured more than his share of the filthy accommodations, barely edible food, and perilous encounters necessitated by his business excursions. It had become clear that no matter where one might journey, there seemed to be a commonality as to the best and the worst in man.

More than a decade had passed since he had walked these streets. They seemed not to have changed at all. The poverty, the filth, the debauchery, remained unaffected by the years. In his youth, Micah found his father's easy condemnations of the poor to be abhorrent. Now, he saw the miserable masses in much the same way.

As he liked to say, he had become a practical man. The dreams of his youth had died with the loss of his wife and yet-to-be-born first child. Their fate had been determined by a legionnaire who had urged his horse forward, trampling the young woman, heavy with child, who had been unable to get out of his way.

Lena was the love of his life, a free-spirited woman who would not tolerate an arranged marriage and had come to him as his equal. Strong and forthright yet soft and loving, she was all things. With her and for her, he had been happy to do anything.

After her death, nothing mattered. He had neither the desire to broker the sales of fine metals and crafts, nor the wish to take up his tools. Friends cared for him. They fed him when he cared not for food and housed him when he could not face returning home.

For one year Micah remained a dead man, rousing himself only to go to the temple to recite Kaddish, the traditional prayer by which her soul might be elevated to Olum Haba, The World to Come.

Then, on the anniversary of her death, as he recited the Kaddish prayer, Micah's pain was miraculously lifted. No longer twisted in agony, the reason for his Lena's death and that of their innocent babe had become clear. There was no reason, there was no deliverance, and clearly, there was no God. Tall, calm, and free, he left the temple never to return again.

With a new purpose fashioned from bitterness, he struggled to reclaim his craft and rebuild his life. He might have succeeded, for he needed little to survive, had not Herod Anipas levied yet another tax, this one on all goods bought or sold in Galilee. It had been the deathblow to far better established metalsmiths than he and, though Micah was willing to take on any type of labor, those few opportunities that still existed were given to men with families or high connections, both of which he no longer had.

His father had been right all along. Financial security was more important than a righteous life and trust in self, rather than in God, was the intelligent man's only path. Now Micah was returning home, ready to face the man whom he had denigrated in his youth, and to ask forgiveness as well as help.

The night before he was to leave, as Micah packed for his journey, an old friend delivered an unexpected blow.

“You can't go home,” Jeremiah cautioned.

“Why not?” Micah asked. “There is nothing here for me but poverty and debt. Those few who still have money know better than to flaunt their self-indulgence by wearing the jewelry I craft. It is useless. I have failed. I will go back to my family and beg for their forgiveness and help.”

“That door is no longer open to you.”

“You are wrong,” Micah said. “A father's love does not so easily vanish no matter how many years have passed. And my mother, she will welcome me with open arms and tears. And, perhaps, a fine and lavish meal.” Micah laughed as his stomach growled loudly in anticipation.

“No, Micah, they won't,” Jeremiah said solemnly.

Micah stopped packing. “What are you not saying?”

“After you left, your father did more than disown you,” Jeremiah admitted. “Every night he went to Temple and said Kaddish for you.”

“He included me in prayers for the dead? No, he couldn't have!” Micah cried in disbelief. “You must be mistaken.”

It had been true, however, for Jeremiah had borne witness to a father who would rather count his son as among the dead than to allow him to make a life of his own. At the time, Jeremiah had not the heart to tell Micah what he had seen with his own eyes. As the years passed and Micah had traveled far from the home of his childhood, it seemed less and less important. But now there seemed little choice.

Much to Jeremiah's surprise, however, Micah, without so much as a word, resumed his preparations for his trip and, next morning at sunrise, bid his friend good-bye.

“But why would you go back?” Jeremiah asked.

“I don't know,” Micah answered. “It is what I must do.”

“There is nothing there for you, my friend.”

“Nor is there anything here,” Micah concluded.

Now, after long days of travel, Micah approached Nazareth. It may have been the long ride, or the pounding heat, or the fact that today, on his thirtieth birthday, he had nothing to show for his life other than a few pieces of silver and copper he had crafted himself. Whatever the case, he was empty and directionless and, though a good meal and some respite from the blazing afternoon sun might have helped to heal his body, it would not have lessened the void that engulfed his soul.

The steady roll of his old mount, slower with each hour in the blazing sun, lulled him into a troubled sleep. Through his dreams came the sound of a woman's cries. Micah pushed away images of Lena that once again threatened to haunt him and forced himself awake.

His old mount had stopped to graze by the river's edge at a spot renowned to be the place where David escaped during Absalom's rebellion a thousand years earlier. This point along the Jordan put them an hour or two south of Galilee.

Micah's journey had been swifter than he had anticipated, and he welcomed an unexpected rest at the place he had once loved as a boy. It was here, in the late afternoon, that the farmers' wives would come to rest and the soft background of their voices had often lulled him to sleep in the tall grasses.

Today, more than a hundred people had congregated on the banks; some huddled in small gatherings, some stood alone in silence. All watched one man, taller than most and broad across his tanned shoulders, clad only in a white sindon wrapped round as a loincloth. His dark hair and beard, dripping with water, shone almost golden red in the sun. Waist-deep in the river, he cradled a young woman, guiding her to shore, as she cried with exalted shouts of joy.

On their approach, an old woman seated among others her age, rose and joined the small group that waited at the water's edge. Though the crowd that waited seemed to close in front of her, the man in the sindon beckoned the old woman to join him. She took his hand and allowed him to guide her to the middle of the flowing water steadied by his gentle hold.

Two men joined them and gave support to the old woman as the taller man poured water about her head. When it all was completed, she silently made her way to shore. She appeared transformed and walked straight and steady, as if the years had been washed from her body as well as her soul.

Micah dismounted and approached her from behind. She turned as if knowing he was there, smiled, and embraced him. Then, without a word, she moved on, enfolded by the welcoming arms of some of the onlookers.

A sweet sadness overwhelmed Micah. He wanted to reach out and draw her back. Filled with a yearning, an almost imperceptible song that lingered just out of earshot, he longed to feel what she felt, to know what she knew, what he, too, had once known; that which life's pain and struggle had since worn away.

A prayer formed on Micah's lips. He entreated God to deliver him from his bitterness and his anger. Nothing more did he ask save for the chance to serve God once again, in word and action, and to bring joy and hope to others as did this man before him.

Then, as if he himself had received the ablution, Micah moved through the crowd. He had been transmuted to the man that a less painful life might have produced.

At Micah's urging, those who waited for baptism allowed the sickest and weakest to come to the fore. He insured that each was to be taken to the river according to his need. Micah's voice, calm and reassuring, engendered trust. Those who had been restless or quarrelsome now waited patiently. When the baptisms had been completed, Micah turned from the river and walked toward his horse.

“James,” called the baptizer to his friend on the shore. “Go ask that man to remain, I wish to speak with him.”

“But tonight we were going to…” James argued.

“Quickly, James!” the man ordered. “Quickly! Don't let him go.”

James did not move to the task.

Another, who called from the shore, approached the baptizer and in a voice that Micah could overhear, explained James' reluctance. “We don't know if it's a good idea for you to see him, Yeshua. James and I don't like it. He could be a Roman spy. Maybe someone from the Temple. After all, in the little time he's been here, he's practically taken over. The people seem more willing to listen to him than to either James or me.”

The baptizer ignored the explanation and called once again to the shore. “James, stop him. Ask him to join me for the evening meal. Do as I say!”

Grumbling, James complied, moving as slowly as he might as to be unable to catch up.

Micah moved slowly to ensure the invitation would be delivered and that he would accept.

 

They did not speak on the road to the nearby public house. James and Peter quietly disappeared. Once their mounts had been cared for, Micah and the baptizer settled down to a simple but much welcomed meal. Micah's host introduced himself.

“I am Yeshua ben Yosef,” he began. “How came you to be who you are?”

Micah had no explanation for either his life or the transformation he had experienced that very day. “I know not yet,” Micah replied.

“As do any of us. Perhaps that is why we meet today,” Yeshua said smiling.

Micah nodded. He could barely bring himself to gaze into the eyes of one who had inspired such respect as to make him feel almost unworthy.

Yeshua urged his guest to recount his past, and Micah spoke with an honesty he had not known since he talked with his beloved Lena.

“I could recite the journeys that make up a man's life, the trade routes I have traveled from Tyre and Sidon on the West or the caravan roads from Damascus to the Northeast. I could regale you with stories of my adventures along the great imperial highways that traverse the whole of Palestine or the knowledge I have gained in Antioch and along the Egyptian frontier. But I think that is not what you truly desire, is it?” queried Micah.

“No, it is not,” answered Yeshua. A smile of amusement spread across his face.

“Then I will respond to the question your heart wishes answered,” continued Micah. “I have traveled far and wide. I have journeyed in search of knowledge and wealth, not always in that order. I have had the wisest of teachers and have been the most willing of students.”

In his youth, Micah explained, a loving and wise metalsmith showed him a world and the man within himself that he might otherwise have never known. After he left his father's home, Micah spent time exploring the world before pursing his own metal craft.

For a short time, he dwelt with Apollonius from Tyana, who believed that the practice of illusion was justified when it was used for the good. The great teacher, renowned for his knowledge of healing and pain-alleviating potions, also instructed Micah in the use of “loving deceptions,” sleights of hand that caused an otherwise intelligent man to overlook that which appeared right before his eyes. From manuscripts and from those schooled in their teachings, Micah studied the simplicity of Lao Tzu, the wisdom of Confucius, and the discipline of Buddha. Only then was Micah ready to start raising the family that others had begun a full decade earlier.

Yeshua nodded. “You were wise to travel and to learn. Now you are well versed in the ways of the world.”

“It is true,” Micah agreed. “Yet nowhere in my daily life have I been able to apply these teachings nor the miraculous works they may allow one to manifest. Fortune has made me wise, but it has left me without purpose…until now.”

“And now?” asked Yeshua.

All was changed that day, Micah said. He had been compelled to bear witness to the futility of his life and the pointlessness of his existence. “Now, I am changed. I have been returned to myself,” Micah said.

“You have not yet been baptized,”

“No,” answered Micah, “nevertheless I have been transformed. I have touched those you have touched. The spirit was in them as it was in you and…” Micah looked steadily into Yeshua's eyes as he continued, “and it has filled me with the purpose that lives in you.”

Yeshua seemed transfixed. He had ministered to countless converts, he said, and he had healed the minions, but none had spoken to him as did Micah. To others he was the leader, the healer, the father. To Micah, he was a brother. And this, he had yearned for, for too many years.

Long into the night they spoke, as old friends, as equals. Each related his story; each listened in turn. Teachings, understandings, losses, dreams and, most of all, purpose; they shared them all. Together they were stronger than either had been alone. Though it was never put into words, it was understood that Micah would stay and join in Yeshua's ministry.