The Master's Quilt (25 page)

“Then a warm, soft wind shook the canvas, and
I thought at first that it was the beginnings of a sirocco. Yet
when I looked out the flap, the sand was still—not a grain had been
displaced.

“There was also a strange kind of light. A
light that was soft and penetrating at the same time. And I heard
singing!
Out of the light, a man’s voice spoke: ‘I am the
Beginning and the End. I have always been and shall always be. You
have been faithful with little and so you shall be given much. Go
and find what you seek in Caesarea.’”

“Never, in all the years of my life, nor in
all the years of my father’s life, and his father’s, and his before
him, has God ever spoken to a Bedouin in such fashion. That is how
I know it was the Voice of God.”

Doras started to say something, but Rachel
cut him short. “We will take the child. Where is she?”

Doras paused and stared at his daughter.

Esther tingled all over. It was as if she had
become immersed in a pool of warm, scented oil. She thought she
smelled frankincense. “I. . .I don’t know what to say. It’s all so
incredible. But what does it mean?”

“When your father, wild-eyed, uncircumcised
Bedouin that he was, appeared to us in the streets of Caesarea and
told us that story, Rachel and I knew that God had indeed spoken—He
had answered our prayers.”

“How did you know?”

Doras stood up and stared at the city once
again, as if he were seeing it for the last time. “You see, it was
the month of Adar, and the particular day we met your father was
the fifteenth—The Feast of Purim—The Fast of
Esther
. Three
months after Rachel lost the baby.”

“Why is that so special?”

“Because it had been nine months, to the day,
that Rachel had heard from God during the previous Pentecost.”

The sudden silence was deafening.

Esther began to weep.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the front
door. The insistent banging startled both Esther and Doras.

“Who can that be, at this hour?” mumbled
Doras as he headed for the door.

It was Abigail, and she was terrified. “We
have to go!” she pleaded as Doras brought her to Esther.

“What’s wrong, Abigail?” Esther asked, wiping
the tears from her cheeks.

“Pilate has a new Commander of the Garrison.
He’s on his way here now!”

“Malkus. . .” muttered Doras.

“But why would—”

“Esther, you must leave immediately,”
interrupted her father. “Do as your friend says.”

“I, I don’t understand—”

“There’s no time to explain. Just go.”

Esther stared at her father and was
frightened by what she saw in his eyes. She hugged him and
whispered in his ear, “I love you, Father. . .I will
always
love you.”

Doras pushed her away and said, “Go now,
before Malkus arrives and finds you here.”

“Hurry, Esther,” Abigail said and grabbed her
by the arm. “You promised Deucalion to be back before
twilight.”

“Goodbye, Father,” Esther said over her
shoulder as she and Abigail scrambled out the door.

“Goodbye, my precious
hadassah
,”
muttered Doras.

T
he Hebrew way of
life during the calendar year is, for the most part, a life filled
with an odd mixture of feasting and fasting. August is no
exception. It is the month for harvesting grapes, figs, walnuts,
and olives in Judea.

The Jews wisely call it
‘ab
, meaning
“fruitful.”

At the new moon there had been a fast for the
death of Aaron, the older brother of Moses and the first High
Priest of Israel. And in a few days another fast would be
initiated, one that recalled God’s declaration against murmurers
entering Canaan. Because of their sin, neither Moses nor Aaron were
allowed to enter the Promised Land. Indeed, out of all the people
over twenty, only Joshua and Caleb were allowed to enter into
Judea.

Esther looked wistfully outward from the
mouth of the cave, hidden in the rocks on the eastern shore of the
Great Salt Sea, and thought about the way of life she had left
behind. It made her sad and she wanted to cry, but didn’t. It was
too hot, too dry for tears. The air had remained still for days.
The heat was intense. When there was wind, it achieved character by
virtue of having blown in from the east, acquiring scent from the
Arabah
, the Sea of the Plain.

Esther shook her head, clearing it of the
melancholy thoughts, replacing them with thoughts of Deucalion. In
her mind’s eye she could see the two of them standing side by side
at the highest point on the cliff, looking out over the vast
panorama of desert below. She asked him what
Arabah
meant
and he patiently explained to her the subtleties of translating
words that had many meanings for many people.

“Actually the term is somewhat misapplied,”
he replied in a strong, deep-throated voice. “The literal
translation is ‘desert.’ In its purest and most proper sense the
expression is most often used to indicate the whole valley lying
between Mount Hermon and the Red Sea. The Bedouin refer to the area
as
El Ghor
, because there is so much fertility.”

“How do you know so much about this
place?”

“I read a great deal and ask a lot of
questions.” He paused, then pointed to her left, ““See that line of
white cliffs crossing the valley?”

She nodded. “They’re beautiful!”

“Because Romans are so smart, we split the
valley in two and recognize both names. The point of division
between
El Ghor
and
El ‘Arabah
is those cliffs.
Beyond them are flat marshlands that run all the way to the south
end of the Great Salt Sea. From there south to
Akabah
is the
Arabah
, and north, to the Lake of Galilee, lies the
Ghor
.”

“How clever. I bet there’s something not even
a smart Roman such as you knows.”

“Try me.”

“Doras once told me that this area is like
the wilderness our ancestors wandered in for forty years.”

“That’s a long time.”

“It’s also an extremely significant period of
time.”

“Why?”

“See, I told you that you’re not as smart as
you think.”

“I confess. Now tell me why forty is such an
important number.”

“Jews believe it’s the number of probation,
trial, and chastisement. Moses was forty when he was forced to flee
Egypt and eighty when God spoke to him from the burning bush and
commanded him to return to Egypt to rescue his people. Caleb was
forty when he was sent out from
Kadesh-Barnea
by the great
patriarch to explore Canaan.

“Canaan?”

“The Promised Land.”

“And where might that be?”

“We’re standing in the middle of it.”

Esther sighed with the memory. That
conversation was typical of their time together. They’d spent their
days alternating between getting to know one another and studying
the parchments. At night, they prayed together around the fire,
asking God for wisdom and guidance—and for strength to accomplish
whatever He told them to do.

All of a sudden Esther jumped to her feet and
ran outside.

The day was almost over and vibrant colors
were beginning to separate the dark blue ceiling of the sky into a
rare mosaic of pale pastels and strikingly resonant hues. The
beginnings of a breeze caressed her face and she did not want to
miss a moment of it. Outside the cave, the wind blew in short
bursts, cleansing the air of its staleness. “Thank you Lord,” she
shouted to the heavens, relishing the refreshing relief from the
heat.

Before she turned and went back inside, she
glanced down the cliff, through the shimmering ocean of heat that
lapped at the limestone cliffs below the cave, to the beach below.
Deucalion was somewhere down there. Even though she couldn’t see
him, she knew he was walking along the beach—a mixture of crackling
gravel with deeply stained marl and chalk—as the two of them had
done, hand in hand, many times over the past few days.

Abruptly, the prophetic words of Ezekiel
flooded her mind:
a river of water, bubbling forth from the
Temple, sweeping eastward, down to the sea, increasing in force and
power as it flowed, healing the bitter waters upon contact,
restoring life to the dead.

She remembered Simon ben Gamaliel talking
about that vision once, at one of her father’s many parties.
“Ezekiel’s vision teaches us that there is nothing too sunken. .
.too useless. . .too doomed, but by the grace of God it may be
redeemed, lifted, and made rich with life.”

Later when she saw that Simon was alone, she
asked him what he’d meant. Surprised by her interest, he smiled and
replied, “Ezekiel was speaking of our nation, Esther. However, his
vision was not only a vision for Israel, but also a metaphor for
the life of one who dedicates himself to the service of God. We who
serve in the priesthood must have the persistence of Habakkuk.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“‘Write the vision, and make it plain upon
tables, that he may run who reads it,” he continued, quoting the
prophet’s words. “‘For the vision is yet for an appointed time, but
at the end it shall speak, and not lie: though it tarry, wait for
it; because it shall surely come, it will not tarry.’”

At the time, she wondered if those words
applied to a woman who desired to serve God. Later that same night
she received the answer.

After her father’s guests had gone, she was
cleaning the house, singing to herself quietly, praising God.
Suddenly, the room filled with a soft, barely discernable haze. And
she had smelled frankincense.

Then a quiet, firm voice from within reminded
her of the significance of her name and of the fact that it was
Esther, with the help of Mordecai, who had harkened to the voice of
God and in so doing had saved the nation of Israel from certain
destruction.

Not long after that she heard Jesus speaking
to a large crowd of people. She had been overcome with emotion when
she realized that the voice that had spoken to her that night and
the voice of Jesus were one and the same. That was how she came to
her salvation.

As the sun slipped below the horizon, she
walked to the back of the cave, where she began preparing the
evening meal. She glanced at the parchments and prayed that people
would listen—and believe.

Deucalion returned just after darkness robbed
the twilight of its beauty, but before the stars awakened from
their daytime slumber. Venus, queen of the dusk, had disappeared
with June from the nighttime ensemble and no longer bridged the gap
between last light and star shine.

“I have our answer,” he said and stepped from
the deep shadows outside the cave into the dancing light from the
small fire inside. “It finally came to me today as I walked along
the beach.” He paused and took a sip of water from the bucket
Barnabas had left behind, then continued. “We must take the scrolls
to Capri. I’m convinced that’s the only way Tiberius can be made to
see that the people of the Way are not his enemies.”

“He won’t believe us,” Esther said softly,
“even if we’re able to get to him before the Legion gets to
us.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Think of what it’s taken for
us
to
believe. We’ve spent hours in prayer over the last few days and yet
we both have difficulty dealing with the enormity of the
truth.”

Deucalion replaced the ladle in the bucket
and sat down. “Still. . .we must try. We can’t ignore the burden
the Lord has placed in our hearts.”

Esther looked into Deucalion’s eyes as the
firelight danced across his face. The strength of his gentleness
and the depth of his caring filled her more with his essence than
any physical act ever would. She was glad that they had agreed to
remain celibate in their time together and let God provide the time
and the place of their union in marriage.

She walked over and sat down beside him, and
he pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her making her feel
safe and secure. “Whatever happens in the days to come,” she said,
looking into his eyes, “I want you to know that I love you more
than you can imagine. . .more than mere words can express.”

Deucalion grasped her chin in his hand and
kissed her, slowly and unhesitatingly. She felt passion surge, but
knew she must not give herself over to it completely.

It wasn’t time yet.

Deucalion pulled back and said, “We leave for
Capri tomorrow, my love. And once we’ve seen Caesar, I want us to
marry.”

Esther hugged him fiercely. “Nothing would
make me happier.”

• • •

Pontius Pilate wrestled with the night. The
demons that plagued his dreams seemed to feed off his torment and
misery. Each night they grew in stature and number.

He was lost in the dark abyss of Hades.
Charon had deposited him, along with his fellow lepers, on the dark
side of the River Styx. At any moment he expected to encounter
Orcus—the Greeks called him Pluto—and he was sweating blood. He
cringed with fear, certain the god of the underworld would see the
rotting lesions on his body and feed him to his three headed dog,
Cerberus.

He gagged as a horrible stench filled his
nostrils. It was worse than the smell that rose from the Valley of
Hinnom. He cried out with fear, although his voice was weak and
tremulous.

Sweat covered the Procurator’s quaking body.
He was lying askew on his bed, and an ocean of fear poured out
through the pores of his mottled skin, soaking his silken
bedclothes. He cried out again, this time screaming, and the raspy
sound yanked him from his nightmare.

He opened his eyes, disoriented. The darkness
covered his soiled clothing and hid his uncontrollable trembling.
“What have I done,” he moaned to the empty room, then reached over
to the table beside his bed and grabbed the flagon of wine placed
there before retiring. It was empty.