The Master's Quilt (20 page)

J
oseph ben Kohath
sang to himself as he walked down the road from Bethany. He was on
his way to hear the Apostle Peter speak. Filled with joyous
expectation, he praised the Lord and thought about how dramatically
his life had changed in a few short weeks.

Pentecost had changed his life forever; he
was no longer the confused, tormented man he once was. Although he
had denied the Christos once, and although he had been unable to
find Jesus in time to tell Him he was prepared to give up his life
in order to get life, in the end Jesus had found him—through His
disciples. He sold the land his father had given him and dispersed
the funds among the poor and needy. What he had been unwilling to
do that day in Bethel, he had done gladly and with joy in his
heart, knowing that the gift he had received far outweighed any
gold or silver he could ever acquire.

“Praise be to God,” he sang softly to the
heavens. “Glory to Him in the Highest. Blessed be the Rock of my
salvation.”

So absorbed was he in his worship that he
almost missed the old man standing silently and unobtrusively on
the side of the road. Moments before the road had been empty. Where
had the man come from? Joseph eyed him from head to toe. The
stranger appeared to be part of the landscape, and yet oddly the
lamb-white robe he was wearing was remarkably free of dust and
dirt. There was not a dwelling within sight, yet the man’s feet
were as clean as his robe, as if they had just been washed.

Joseph stopped and wiped the sweat from his
brow. The harsh afternoon sun beat down upon the rock-strewn road,
and the cloudless, crystalline blue sky offered no protection from
the intense July heat. The stranger did not seem to notice. In
fact, he looked as if he had just stepped from the pool at
Bethesda. Joseph noticed something else. The man seemed to be
glowing
. The soft, subtle radiance that covered him like a
silken cocoon diminished but didn’t overpower the natural light.
When the man spoke, Joseph gasped. He knew that voice!

“I see the Potter’s kiln has dried the glaze
perfectly. . .and, as always, the result is magnificent,” came the
soft, melodious words.

Joseph smiled and chuckled, then walked
forward to greet his friend. “You’re always speaking to me with
words that hold double meaning,” he replied affectionately. “For
once, however, I think I understand.”

Uriel returned the smile but remained
silent.

“He
has
done a mighty work in me,”
continued Joseph, amazed at how different Uriel looked. “I am not
the same troubled young man you so patiently and lovingly cared for
two months ago.”

Uriel’s eyes glistened with the same light
that permeated the rest of his body. “Indeed you are not,
Barnabas,” he said.

“You know?”

Uriel nodded.

“But how—?”

“Does it really matter?”

Joseph shook his head and blurted out, “Who
are you?”

Uriel laughed and replied, “Just think of me
as a historian of sorts, my young friend.”

“What are you doing
here
?”

“Waiting.”

“For me?”

Uriel nodded. “Do you have the manuscripts
with you?”

“No, but I left them in good hands,” he
replied, wondering how Uriel knew he would be on the road from
Bethany on this particular day at this particular time. His mind
raced, trying to solve the riddle. The seed of an idea had been
planted in his mind the morning after their last conversation, when
Uriel had disappeared from both the cave and his life. Even though
it was almost too incredible to be true, there was no other
explanation. And he knew it was possible.

Uriel sighed, and Joseph had the feeling that
he was disappointed. However, when the older man spoke, his voice
contained no hint of anxiety, only concern. “The parchments are
very important, Barnabas. The chronicle of events has tremendous
significance for mankind. They must not fall into the wrong hands.”
Uriel paused, then added cryptically, “I had hoped that you would
be the one to make use of the information, but now I realize that
the Lord has other plans.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Never mind, my young friend. All is as it
should be. The Lord will guide you to whomever He has prepared. He
will insure that the knowledge is not lost.” Uriel glanced up at
the sky and nodded, as if listening to a conversation only he could
hear, then looked at Joseph and said with finality, “Goodbye my
friend. . .we shall not meet again.”

More words with double meaning
,
thought Joseph as the air around Uriel began to shimmer with a
stronger, more powerful manifestation of the same soft radiance
that had flowed from his body. Even though there had been no breeze
for several days, the air around Uriel began to whirl, and the
light began to grow in intensity. It was almost as if
the light
was alive
!

Suddenly Joseph was engulfed in a whirlwind
of dust. He rubbed his watering eyes, trying to clear them, but to
no avail. He could hear music, faintly, but he had no idea where it
was coming from.

No, not music—
singing!

Then, in an instant, the whirlwind was gone
and he was alone. Dazed, he turned a full circle.

Uriel had vanished!

Joseph’s heart pounded as sudden
understanding flooded his mind. He had his confirmation; he knew
who the old man was.

Smiling with the knowledge, he continued his
journey to Jerusalem, all the while singing

“
Hosanna, Hosanna, Hosanna
, blessed is
the Rock, blessed be the Rock of my salvation. . .”

• • •

In the moments just after sunset, Joseph
Caiaphas stood quietly in the garden of his father-in-law’s
residence, resting his back against the trunk of the acacia. The
hard, finely grained, orange-colored wood felt reassuring against
his tired, aching body.

There were times, and this was one of them,
when he felt as if the weight of authority resting upon his
shoulders was a burden he could no longer bear. Were he Greek or
Roman he might have likened himself to the mythical Atlas, standing
resolute in the heavens, stoically carrying the weight of the
entire world upon his back. Being a Jew, he knew better. The weight
that rested like one of the Alps upon his body was his
conscience.

“I have truly failed them,” he sighed out
loud to the tree, then paused and waited patiently, as he had done
in the Hall of Hewn Stones, listening for a reply. When none came,
painful understanding washed over him like a flood: he had no one
to blame for his demise but himself.

On the street below a child’s wail of fear
penetrated the quiet, and the mournful sound triggered something
deep inside the High Priest. He began to weep—tears cascaded down
his cheeks and there was no wind to dry his face.

• • •

When Annas returned from the meeting with his
son Jonathan and a small, loyal group of Pharisees, he noticed his
son-in-law standing in the garden, slumped against the acacia.

“The time has come. . .” he muttered,
watching Caiaphas unnoticed.
I must move carefully, however
,
he thought.
There’s too much at stake. I cannot allow the
Nazarene to achieve with His death what we worked so hard to
prevent Him from accomplishing when He was alive.

After a few moments he turned and silently
climbed the stairs to his room, leaving his son-in-law alone with
his thoughts, and the acacia.

Caiaphas felt a sudden tingling at the nape
of his neck and sensed he was being watched. He turned and searched
the veranda, looking for the eyes he felt watching him from the
shadows, but he saw no one. The chimes that hung above the archway
were tinkling softly, but there had been no wind for some time.
“Ah, the vagaries of power,” he whispered. “One is never truly
alone, especially in misery.”

• • •

Esther helped Abigail clear the table and
clean up from dinner. Deucalion was outside, drawing another bucket
of water with which to wash the bowls and utensils. “There’s a
special meeting tonight,” whispered Abigail to Esther, keeping her
eyes on the door. “The Apostle Peter will be there.”

Esther frowned. “Why are you whispering?” she
asked.

“Deucalion may have rescued you from that
madman Saul, but he’s still a Praetorian.”

Esther walked to the window and stared out
into the darkness. “I think I’m in love with him, Abigail. What do
you think about that?”

“I think you better let me call a physician,
because you’ve got to be out of your mind.”

Esther laughed. “You’re probably right. But
whenever he looks at me with those gray-blue eyes of his, I am
overwhelmed with love.”

“The heat has gotten to you, Esther. The only
permanent mistress a Roman soldier has is the Legion.”

“I don’t want to be his
mistress
,
Abigail.”

“What then? His wife?”

“Perhaps.”

Abigail shook her head. “You’re a Jewess, and
you’re without a covering now that your father has disowned you.
You have no idea what it’s like being cut-off from everything you
once took for granted.”

Esther grew pensive.

“Until you met me and provided the money for
this house, I lived off whatever scraps of food I could find in the
Valley of Hinnom. I had to fight other lepers, and wild dogs, just
to survive.” Abigail shuddered with the memory. “Fortunately, even
though you’re an outcast, at least you’re not a leper. But it’s
still going to be difficult.”

“I know, but—”

“No, you
don’t
know. What about money?
How are you going to buy food and keep up the rent on this house
now that Doras is no longer giving you money?”

“I—I hadn’t thought of that,” stammered
Esther, sobered by the harsh reality she heard in her friend’s
voice. She suddenly felt like a foolish child. “I suppose I could
find work. . .”

Abigail sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Esther. I
didn’t mean to snap at you. After all you’ve done for me, I had no
right to talk to you that way.” She began to weep. “It’s just that
I’m frightened, Esther. What’s going to happen to us? I can’t go
back to living the way I was when you met me. You have no idea how
horrible it was.”

Esther walked over and put her arms around
Abigail and comforted her. In spite of her own momentary fear and
confusion, she was suddenly calm. She heard a still small voice
inside, speaking to her, telling her not to fear. It was the same
voice she had heard the night Saul had tried to kill her. “All is
well, Abigail,” she said confidently. “The Lord will provide. He
will not forsake us.”

“How can you be so sure?”

The door opened and Deucalion stepped into
the room, carrying a bucket full of water. “Be sure of what?” he
asked, setting the bucket down.

“That everything is going to be all right,”
answered Esther, wiping away Abigail’s tears with the corner of her
apron.

“Oh?”

“There’s a meeting tonight in the city.
Abigail and I are going and we would like you to come with us.”

Abigail stared at Esther as if she had truly
gone insane.

“What kind of meeting?” asked Deucalion,
frowning.

“The people of the Way are gathering to
listen to one of Jesus’ disciples speak. A man called Peter.”

“I’ve heard the name before.” Deucalion
stared hard at Esther, then glanced at Abigail. “You realize, of
course, that Saul might well show up again,” he added, wondering
why he wasn’t vehemently arguing against such a foolish proposal.
“And I can hardly escort two believers to an illegal meeting
dressed as I am,” he finished, softening his tone.

Esther smiled. Deucalion had just said yes.
“The Lord will protect us against Saul if he shows up, just as He
did the other night,” she said. “And as for your clothes, I’m sure
we can find something that will fit you, can’t we Abigail?”

Abigail glanced first at Esther, then at
Deucalion and replied, “The heat has scorched
both
your
brains. I just pray we don’t run into any centurions who recognize
Deucalion.”

• • •

“Tonight is the last night of the full moon,”
whispered Pilate to Malkus as they stood together on the balcony of
Herod’s palace. “Soon, the nights will be darker than dark.” He
paused and sighed, then continued. “The moon is like a fickle
woman, Malkus. She gives us the fullness of her beauty but three or
four nights out of thirty, and then only from an untouchable
distance.”

The Procurator stared at the flawed,
celestial pearl with sunken eyes. The dark circles under his eyes
were so pronounced he looked bruised.

“How like a chaste, yet seductive, woman that
mysterious orb is,” he crooned, as if his words could massage the
pain from his aching soul. “She tantalizes us with bits and pieces
of her beauty, then disappears and remains hidden from sight just
long enough to make us weak with the thirst for her return. The
process repeats itself, over and over again, and we, love starved
suitors that we are, hunger for the completion of the seduction. We
willingly court destruction, as if ignorance is an elixir that
erases memories of unrequited passion. And we hope each time that
we shall not be denied the beauty of her silken luster.”

Malkus stood mute, and Pilate watched his
eyes flicker with uncertainty. “Come Malkus, have you nothing to
say?” he pressed.

“I await your orders, Procurator.”

“Ah, yes. My orders.” Pilate stroked his
chin, then offered a bitter smile. How unlike Deucalion this one
was. “Tonight you and I are going to find out what it is about
these ‘people of the Way,’ as they refer to themselves, that has my
Commander of the Garrison in such a confused state of mind.”