The Master's Quilt
Read The Master's Quilt Online
Authors: Michael J. Webb
Tags: #fiction, #suspense, #adventure, #action, #historical, #supernatural thriller, #christian
Michael J. Webb
The Master’s Quilt
Copyright 1991 by Michael J. Webb
Second Edition 2002
Smashwords Edition
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Thank you Father for loving me first so
that I might love You. Thank you Jesus
for turning a “heart of stone” into a “heart
of flesh.” And thank you Holy Spirit for never
leaving me nor forsaking me.
May this work glorify You, Triune God,
and You alone.
To my precious wife, Ophelia— you kept the vision
alive
in your heart when it died in mine.
The life of Deucalion Quinctus, Commander of
the Garrison under Pontius Pilate, is changed forever by the
crucifixion, burial, and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth, by his
sudden love for the beautiful outcast, Esther, and by a bundle of
parchments given to him by a mysterious stranger.
Events surrounding the
Christos
trigger an avalanche which threatens empires–the relentless guilt
of Pilate, the frightening ambition of Herod, the uncertain future
of Caiaphas, the violent madness of Saul of Tarsus, and the guiding
hand of the Watcher, Uriel. Yet, over it all the tenacious love of
God weaves a remarkable tale of spiritual power and
inspiration.
This compelling historical novel brilliantly
pictures dramatic spiritual conflicts in first-century Israel; webs
of religious and political intrigue that have world powers wavering
on cliff’s edge.
First book in the
Giants in the Earth
trilogy, exciting spiritual thrillers spanning two thousand
years.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
E
ven though a full
moon was rising, the night sky was unusually dark, as if the stars
of heaven had forgotten their stage positions for the drama about
to unfold. But that was not the case, because it was the kind of
darkness born in the hearts of men, not in the heavens above. And
that was why there was a night yet to come that would be darker
than had ever been.
It was a cool, unpredictable April night—a
spring night pregnant with uncertainty for three of four men
traversing the mount on the outskirts of the Holy City. The three
followed the One they called Rabbi on the well-worn path pressed
out of the fabric of creation, one of many crisscrossing the dusty
landscape that was now only a parody of former splendor.
By day, the starkness of the locale impressed
itself into the spirit of man. At night, there was only the moon or
the occasional flare of campfires to break the monotony of
darkness.
Three of the four shared a common, unspoken
sense of foreboding. Gone were the feelings of good cheer and
camaraderie experienced earlier at dusk. The mealtime celebration
had ended on an ominous note. Their Master had announced during the
feast that betrayal and denial were imminent. Cries of outrage and
concern had followed. The Master had calmed the twelve with soft
words of understanding and wisdom, as He had done on several
occasions during the previous three years, and a final hymn was
sung.
The meal was finished and now three
accompanied Him to the garden.
• • •
Deep within the slumbering city that lay
spread out below the mount, an old man, his once abundant jet-black
hair and beard now thinning and grey, began the task of preparing
for the ensuing eight days of celebration and worship. It was just
after midnight when he left his humble home and walked quietly
through the darkened, deserted streets. His whole body tingled with
expectancy as he inhaled the familiar musk odor of the city. He did
not have to walk far, and upon arriving at his destination he
reached forth a stubby, callused hand and unlatched the gate.
• • •
The men reached the garden.
The moon, only hours shy of being full, rose
big and round above the crest of the mount. The bright yellow
light, reflecting off the deep amber-colored wood of the finely
grained, squat olive trees, outlined in caricature the somber faces
of the four companions. They stood silent, unmoving. And yet their
shadows rippled in the moonlight. The wraithlike silhouettes
bounced off the two gigantic cedars standing atop the mount and
etched themselves upon the canvas of darkness.
A fine mist, with an almost imperceptible
taste of salt and smelling of fish, hovered above the arid
soil.
Time slowed. . .
• • •
The old man, his senses attuned to the
various rhythms in the sea of night surrounding Him, moved among
the animals with the practiced ease of one long accustomed to
ritual. The collection of male lambs crowded in the pen—none
younger than eight days or older than one year—represented the
finest sheep of twenty different flocks. The initial selection had
been accomplished in broad daylight, and each had been chosen
carefully to insure that none had blemishes or imperfections.
The old man, however, did not rely upon sight
to tell him of imperfection. Instead, he depended upon his acute
sense of smell for the final test. For he was blind.
He smiled and sniffed the air. The odor was
faint, but it was there. He had been asked many times during his
seventy years to describe the scent, and his reply had always been
the same: “I’m not sure, exactly. But I am sure of three things. I
always smell the peculiar scent after only a short time among the
lambs, I never smell it on more than one animal, and I know that
the gift is from God.”
Without further delay, he reached down
swiftly and grabbed hold of a pure white lamb bleating softly to
his right. This is the one, he thought as he carried the animal
inside the building adjacent to the pen, handing it over gently
into the outstretched arms of the waiting priest.
• • •
None of the four had said a word during the
brief trek. Finally, the man who had been in the lead spoke. His
voice was soft, troubled. “My friends, My soul cries out in grief
and My heart is heavy with thoughts of death.” He stared off into
the darkness, scanning the surroundings with sagacious eyes. “I’ve
come to this place on many occasions, when My heart was burdened
and My feet weary, seeking rest. . .here in the land of My
Father.”
His face became somber, His voice subdued,
matching the lighting on the hilltop. “Tonight is different. Will
you wait with Me and keep vigil while I pray?”
The three nodded their assent, not trusting
speech, and watched the Rabbi walk towards the center of the
garden. “The night is short,” He called over His shoulder, sighing
it, rather than saying it, “and darkness is heavy upon the
earth.”
• • •
The three waited, reclining against the old,
stone wine press—used to press olives into the life-blood of the
regions commerce—from which the garden took its name. A gentle gust
of wind nudged the mist that enveloped them like a cocoon,
rearranging the night. The quiet moments froze together into sleep,
and the three companions breathed in antagonistic rhythm, as if
silently rebelling against the authority of ambivalence.
Two times their Master returned from solitary
separation. Two times the three were awakened and admonished to
remain faithful in their vigil lest they be caught unawares. Two
times they lapsed into fitful slumber, oblivious to the silent
battle their Master waged.
Upon His return the third time the three were
awakened abruptly by crisp, commanding words. “Rise, we must be on
our way. Behold, the one who shall betray Me is near.”
Before they had gone far there was a flurry
of activity. A group of angry men appeared out of the darkness and
surrounded them. Judas stepped forward and said, “Hail Master,” as
he grabbed Jesus about the shoulders and kissed Him upon the
cheek.
• • •
Night gave way to morning, and the morning to
afternoon. The old man had returned home, slept, and was now back
at the Temple. It was time.
Although it was early afternoon, the room was
dark, except for the light provided by several tall candles. The
color of the wax was almost as pure white as the coat of wool
covering the lamb held in the arms of the priest. The Levite, one
of several present, carried the lamb to the altar, carefully
stretched it out upon the deeply stained, grooved wood, and secured
its four legs firmly with leather straps. Only then did he withdraw
the razor-sharp sacrificial knife from his robe.
First the Levite, then the other priests
closed their eyes and began to sing in unison, filling the Temple
with the sonorous sound of the Great Hallel. The old man added his
own deep-throated voice to that of the others, singing with vigor.
Outside, in the immediate vicinity of the Temple, the sounds of the
city were swallowed up by the ritual chanting.
Gradually, the singing stopped. The Levite
opened his eyes and grasped the head of the lamb. He stretched the
animal’s neck backward, exposing the soft, vulnerable flesh to the
light and the knife. His right hand was poised above his head.
Swiftly, with a precisely articulated motion, he brought his arm
down, turning the blade ever so slightly as the knife dropped
downward through its arc. In one deft stroke, he drew the shinning
blade across the animal’s neck, severing the jugular vein.
Several of the priests blew a threefold blast
from their silver trumpets as bright red blood spurted from the
wound. Special silver and gold ceremonial bowls caught the warm,
sticky fluid, which was then splashed in one single stream at the
base of the altar.
A small amount of blood escaped the confines
of the altar and fell to the foot-packed ground. The desiccated,
yellow-brown earth and the burgundy-red liquid life blended
together into a copper-colored mud.
The Levite grasped the dead animal by its
hind legs, took a length of rope and secured the sacrifice from two
hooks mounted in staves nailed together in the shape of a “T.” It
was flayed and the entrails were taken out and cleansed.
Afterwards, the inside fat was separated, put in a dish and salted,
then placed in the fire of the altar of burnt offering.
The ritual was repeated continually for
several hours. There were many waiting, just like the old man, for
their paschal sacrifice.
• • •
Once again, twilight settled upon the city.
The old man stood in the doorway of his small hovel and stared at
the sky with sightless eyes. A penetrating shiver danced a
promenade up and down his spine. For some strange reason he could
almost feel the darkness seeping into his bones through the pores
of his skin, and somehow he knew that even though there were no
clouds in the ebony sky, there were also no stars.
