The Master's Quilt (29 page)

Dazed and confused, he called out his
brother’s name, his voice barely above a whisper. Minutes passed
without response.

Again he called out—more loudly this
time.

Again, there was nothing.

Suddenly a shadow fell across him, etched
upon the twilight, silent and unmoving. Raising his head a few
inches off the ground, he cried out. “What is happening, Cain? What
is it you want? I am bound as one would bind an animal in
preparation for sacrifice.”

When his brother finally replied, a specter
of madness glazed his eyes. “You are most observant, brother. .
.and it is to your credit that you remain so calm in the face of
your fate.” Cain looked down at the helpless figure before him. The
intensity of his anger pierced the veil of composure upon Abel’s
face. “Truly the sacrifice I offer up this night shall be worthy of
the one who shall receive it,” he added.

“
You must not do this,” pleaded Abel. Fear
welled up inside him, threatening to overflow his normally tranquil
state of mind. Oddly, he was not afraid for himself, but for his
brother. “You are deceived,” he placated, regaining control. “Your
lack of faith has opened the door, allowing the evil one to gain a
further stronghold. He uses you to seal his covenant with
death.

“
Do not give place to him. Resist him. .
.he is a lie.”

For a moment it seemed as though the soft
words of the younger would be able to turn the older from his
chosen course of action. Yet before Abel could speak further, Cain
withdrew his sacrificial knife, raised it high, and plunged it deep
into the chest of his offering.

Blood flowed down Abel’s stilled chest,
mixing with the dusty, brown earth, blending into the blackness of
night.

Again there was silence.

The sun disappeared over the rim of the
world.

Darkness reigned. . .

Deucalion awoke with a start. The fire had
burned down to embers and the dull, red coals glowed softly in the
quiet stillness, casting an eerie light. He blinked repeatedly,
trying to wash away the stinging salt of a cold sweat and shivered
uncontrollably.

“What the—” he muttered, then remembered
where he was and all that had happened. He shifted position, trying
to make himself more comfortable, then stared at Esther’s crumpled
form. Her once warm, honey-colored skin had taken on a ash-gray
tint. He glanced down at his leg and realized that he was still
bleeding. The burgundy-red, liquid life blended with the dust,
producing a copper-colored mud. “Not a dream. . .” he mumbled
deliriously and grimaced in pain as he stroked Esther’s hair.

Abruptly, he thought about the parchments.
Where were they?
He scanned the immediate area, but couldn’t
see them. He groaned at his foolish concern. It didn’t really
matter if he found them or not.
Not only am I going to lose the
only woman I ever loved
, he thought morosely,
but I’ve
failed God as well
.

All at once, the cave was filled with a
brilliant white light—a shimmering luminescence that was both
soothing and penetrating.

Deucalion gasped.

Before him stood a man dressed in white. “I
am Uriel,” said the silver-haired stranger, “and I’ve come to tell
you that you and Esther will not die here in this cave.”

“What?” Deucalion moaned.
I must be
hallucinating
.

Uriel nodded and smiled, then said “No,
you’re not imagining—I am real.”

Oddly, his body seemed light as a feather.
Was that
singing
he heard? Suddenly, recognition dawned.
“You were at the tomb!” he cried.

Uriel nodded again.

The Light. . .the sound. . .
the
singing
. It all came back to him now. It had all been real.
“The parchments,” he pleaded, full of remorse. “You must take the
parchments! How will the believers know the truth if they don’t
read the scrolls?”

Uriel shook his head, thinking of the
wild-eyed Saul. “The Lord has many servants,” he replied
cryptically. “Chosen ones you cannot imagine. . .and purposes no
man can fathom.” Then he disappeared as suddenly as he had
come.

• • •

Darkness reigned outside the cave. The moon
was barely a sliver of light in the starry sky. Tacitus and three
men had managed to carry their semiconscious Commander to the
temporary camp they had set up along the shore of the Great Salt
Sea.

Malkus winced in agonizing pain, but still
managed to give orders. “What happened to Deucalion?” he wheezed,
coughing up bright red blood.

“Buried in the cave,” answered Tacitus.

“How. . .many. . .lost?”

“Five, sir.”

“How long was I unconscious?”

“Several hours.”

“My leg—”

“It’s broken in three places.”

“It’s hard to breathe. I feel like I’ve been
kicked in the chest by a horse—no, by several horses.”

“I think you’ve also broken several
ribs.”

Malkus grimaced. “I’m sure it’s nothing
life-threatening.”

“No, provided you don’t lose too much blood,”
Tacitus warned.

Malkus stared at his second-in-command for
several minutes, then said, “I am not responsible for Deucalion’s
death. Do you understand? His blood is on the hands of his God.” A
spasm of pain racked him, but he didn’t cry out. “We shall return
to Jerusalem at once,” he added. “I must report to Pilate.”

“But Commander—”

“At once, I said!”

“As you wish, Commander. Hail Caesar.”

D
eucalion
Cincinnatus Quinctus tasted fear. The flavor was cold, like iron,
and it lay on his tongue with the sharpness of a battle
sword.

Around him stretched a stark and shadowy
landscape. He gripped a spear in his sweaty right hand, tight
enough to soak the wooden handle. Cautiously, he walked towards a
mound littered with skulls. The mound, adjacent to the narrow glen
called Hinnom by the Jews, held three wooden crosses.

In the distance a wild dog howled. He turned
in the direction of the unnerving sound and saw the city of Rome—or
was it Babylon? Sweat burned in his eyes and when he blinked, the
scene dissolved.

Around him the shadows shifted, seemingly
alive with things that made his skin crawl. Even though it was
almost summer, and he was in the middle of the desert, he suddenly
felt chilled to the bone. He walked on, shivering uncontrollably.
Finally he stopped before the center cross and looked up.

Above him a man hung with His head slumped
forward, so that his chin touched his chest. He wasn’t breathing.
There were three bloodied holes in his body; one in each wrist, and
one through both feet, where the two-pound nails that secured Him
to the crossbars had punctured His olive colored skin. He reminded
Deucalion of a flayed animal pelt, stretched taut to dry.

Deucalion began to weep, full of remorse,
knowing that he, and indeed all mankind, was responsible for the
man’s crucifixion. He cried out with all his heart, “Father,
forgive me. . .”

Suddenly there was a sound as a rushing,
mighty wind and a blinding white light consumed Deucalion. In the
midst of the light stood the Nazarene, dressed in white linen, His
hair white as snow. When He spoke, His voice was soft, yet
resonant, penetrating but not intrusive. And His words were full of
power. “Know this, Deucalion Cincinnatus—I Am the Resurrection and
the Life: he that believes in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he
live.”

Then, as abruptly as he had appeared, Jesus
was gone.

Startled, Deucalion cried out and was
immediately awake. He blinked repeatedly, adjusting to the harsh
light that still burned in his eyes, realizing that it was the sun
that was causing his discomfort. He stared at the crystal blue
heavens until his eyes flooded with tears.

He was outside the cave!

He sat up and stared down at his leg, amazed
at what he saw and felt. There was no pain. . .no blood. . .no
evidence at all of the horrible wound he had sustained in the
earthquake.

Beside him he heard a groan.

“Esther!”

“Deucalion?” came the muffled reply.
“Wha—what happened?” she asked, groggily.

Deucalion shook his head. “I’m not sure.” He
stared at her in amazement as she sat up. “How do you. .
.feel?”

“Strange. . .like laughing and crying at the
same time. What about you? I thought I heard you cry out a moment
ago.”

Deucalion grew pensive. “I was dreaming about
the day at the cross. It was a dream that I’ve had many times the
past few months, yet this time something was different.”

“I don’t understand.”

He told her about the original dream, then
explained, “This time, the Nazarene appeared before me in a blaze
of light. And He spoke to me! Then He just disappeared. That’s when
I cried out and. . .woke up. . .outside the cave. . .here, beside
you.”

Still dazed, Esther shook her head. “So it
was all just a dream—the cave, the soldiers, the earthquake and—”
she shuddered, unable to finish the thought.

Deucalion continued to stare at her, a
strange gleam in his eyes. Finally he reached out, touched the back
of her head, and gently probed her hair with his fingers.
Satisfied, he stood up and walked several feet to a narrow hole in
the side of the cliff, where he knelt down and examined the ground
around the opening.

He found dried blood on the rocks.

“Not a dream—”

“What?”

Deucalion stood slowly and walked over to
where she was still sitting. “No, my darling,” he replied, then
laughed loudly, “it wasn’t a dream.” Feeling more alive than he
could ever remember, he reached down and helped her to her
feet.

“Then how—?”

Deucalion smiled and took her in his arms. He
could feel her heart pounding against his chest, and that caused
his own heart to beat more quickly. In an instant he saw
realization flare in her beautifully alive jade-green eyes.

“A miracle,” he announced loudly, just before
she too smiled and kissed him with abandon.

M
y name is Vashti. I
was born thirty-three years ago on the island of Crete, where my
father, a Roman, married my mother, a Jewess. I was named after the
first wife of King Ahaseurus because my father said I was
extraordinarily beautiful and because I, like my mother, have eyes
the color of the purest jade.

It has been seven years since mother and I
came to Alexandria. Seven years since the Romans destroyed our
Temple at Jerusalem. Seven long years since Father died. I never
understood why he thought he had to return—why he thought he could
make a difference. Or why my brother Cincinnatus went with him.
Now, after what Mother told me last night, I think at last I
understand. And for the first time since Father left us, my heart
is at peace.

My mother and father often told me the story
of how they met, and how Father was once the commander of Pontius
Pilate’s Praetorian Guard in Jerusalem. I never grew tired of
hearing how they met at my grandfather’s house, how Father became
entranced by the sight of Mother, how they both became outcasts,
and how the death and resurrection of the Nazarene brought them
together. It is an extraordinary story; one I think my husband
would delight in chronicling, were it not for the burden he carries
in his heart.

Even more incredible is the miracle of how
they were delivered from certain death by an angel of God. His name
was Uriel, and he was responsible for rescuing my parents from the
depths of a cave that had been sealed by an earthquake on the
shores of the Great Salt Sea.

More than any other part of Mother and
Father’s incredible story, it is their miraculous deliverance from
death, as well as God’s supernatural restoration of their physical
bodies, that has intrigued me the most. I have often wondered why
God spared them. And now I think I know—it has to do with the
scrolls.

Father was always reluctant to talk about
them with me. Mother would only say that they were very important,
that they contained incredible information about mankind’s true
enemy—the accuser of the brethren. However, before he left for
Jerusalem, Father finally consented to tell me about some of what
he read in the parchments given to him by a man named Joseph. At
long last I understand his reluctance to speak of what he had read
penned there, and I shudder to think what would happen should they
fall into the wrong hands; but that is not likely to happen.

When Uriel rescued my parent’s, the scrolls
remained behind, buried in the darkness of the cave meant to be
their tomb. Perhaps that is indeed best. I don’t know. I’m certain,
however, that God’s ways are higher than man’s. If He desires for
the information contained in the parchments to be revealed, it will
be so. No man, or demon, can prevent it.

My heart still aches with the loss of Father
and my older brother. We were such a happy family together, before
Vespasian and his army laid siege to our most holy city, Jerusalem.
The four of us did almost everything together. In our own small
way, our family was responsible for bringing the message of the
Nazarene here to Crete. Although we’ve always had to be careful
about who we talk with about our faith, many came to the meetings
Father held in our home. All were hungry to hear the truths that
the Son of God had spoken when He walked among men. Even though it
was dangerous for all of us, our small group of fellow believers
continued to grow. During the meetings, which were all held under
the cover of night, my brother and I would sit by the flickering
candle light and listen, enthralled by all we heard. My heart
soared in those times of refreshing. I felt as if my soul was a
bird, set free from its cage, free to fly in the heavens.
Cinncinatus, being the man that he was, seemed less intrigued than
me by what we heard, but he listened, and learned as well. I’m
certain that’s why he made the choice—to go with Father to
Jerusalem.