“Unsure what I was dealing with, and afraid that I might burn down the yeshiva or something, I took them down to Earth to experiment. Good thing I did too. Because when I focused my ruach into the prism of the crystals the things went berserk and I ended up torching a few dozen acres of Siberian forest. I put the fire out with a wet whirlwind. Up here with our higher vibration, I might have turned Heaven into Hell. I’ve since figured out the right balance and have fine-tuned it, so now we can use them here or there. I’ve also discovered other uses for the crystals.”
“You see,” Virgil said. “None of that would have ever occurred to me. Even Captain Volk was impressed.”
“Yeah, well, that little trick seems easy compared to finding a way to communicate with Captain Cyrus across dimensions. We can communicate face-to-face now, but across time and space…” I stopped mid-sentence as my own words triggered a memory. I leaped to my feet. “Wait a second…!”
“What is it?” Virgil said, standing, sensing I was on to something.
“Come on. I’ll explain on the way.”
“Where are we going?” Virgil asked jogging alongside of me.
“The cave.”
“But we are to the level where we don’t need the help of the cave.”
“We might for this,” I said, and then I recounted the nearly forgotten experience of my extraordinary close encounter with Rabbi Yisrael ben Eliezer, better known as the holy Baal Shem Tov, or Besht, the acronym from the words comprising that name.
“This I’ve got to see,” Virgil said, as we took a seat on the smooth granite floor of the Midrashic Cave.
Virgil was not well acquainted with the life and teachings of the Besht. He had read about many of the stories and legends that surrounded his mystique, but he hadn’t had time yet to really study the man’s life and work.
“It’s just a shot in the dark, Virge. I can’t promise that what I witnessed will happen again.”
“We have nothing to lose,” he said. “Besides, I’d love to see his Midrashic Record anyway. Are the stories true?”
“Many, but even in the Midrasha we can’t observe miracles.”
“Well, like, did he really cross a river on a handkerchief?”
“We can see him at the river’s bank. We can watch him take out a handkerchief, lay it on the water, take a step…and then we see him on the other side.”
“Wow, but why can’t we see what happens in between?”
“I don’t know, but maybe because it is a miracle. The records that we are able to access document only what occurs on a specific plane, in a specific dimension, and what makes a miracle a miracle is the transcending of that plane and dimension. That’s my guess, anyway.”
“Well, let’s get going,” Virgil said eagerly.
We prepared ourselves and quickly settled into the requisite meditative state. A minute later we were soaring through the Midrasha.
We returned to the scene where the Baal Shem Tov had winked at me, to his Shabbat table at his very modest home in the small town of Mezibush, in the Ukraine.
“Rebbe?” a student said. “What do you see?”
“I see,” the Besht replied, looking right at me and stroking his beard, “that we are never alone.”
This time I didn’t fly off in fear. Virgil and I were, in a sense, hovering in the corner of the room. To him we likely appeared as silhouettes of sparkling light. The young yeshiva students around the Shabbat table strained to see what their rebbe was looking at, but we were invisible to them because they lacked his adaequatio and were nowhere near his level of kedusha, or holiness.
To his students, the Besht seemed to have fallen into one of his trances. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time that they had witnessed that far-off stare of his. They knew well the stories of his soul ascents. It was also common knowledge among the faithful that God’s ministering angels attended Shabbat, the Sabbath. Every Shabbat meal was, and still is, preceded with the song Shalom Aleichem, of which the first verse reads:
Sha-lom a-lei-chem, mal-a-chei ha-sha-reit, mal-a-chei el-yon, mi-me-lech ma-l’chei ha-m’la-chim, ha-ka-dosh ba-ruch hu.
Peace unto you, ministering angels, messengers of the Most High, of the supreme King of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.
For the students of the Baal Shem Tov, then, that their master might be experiencing one of his visions was not that unusual.
The Besht smiled and said in thought mode, something he could do with us because we were angels: “I thought you’d be back. I see you brought a friend. I am honored by your visit. Welcome to my humble Shabbat table.”
“No, Rabbi,” I said, “it is we who are honored.”
“Kohai,” Virgil said, “he can see us and speak to us! What kind of man is this?”
“Just a man,” the Baal Shem Tov said. “A man who loves our Maker with complete trust and emuna.”
“Rebbe,” I said, “we need your help.”
“If I can be of any, just ask.”
“The future has become a very dark place.”
“The yetzer hara,” the Besht presumed, deeply concerned.
“Yes. The yetzer hara has almost completely overtaken humankind. My friends and I are doing what we can to prevent the nightmare, to pull your human brethren back from the abyss they are dangerously close to toppling into, but I fear our efforts may prove too little too late.”
“Go on,” the Besht said.
“We have a friend who is with the humans, but we don’t know how to speak with him.”
“A friend? A man?”
“A man now, but he used to be one of us. He was my rebbe.”
The Besht arched his eyebrow in curiosity. “Interesting…”
“It’s a long story, but he sacrificed himself in order to try and save the world.”
“I see, but what help can I be?”
“Master, somehow you have managed to transcend time and space and are able to speak to us face to face. If we knew your secret, then perhaps we can open a channel of communication with our friend on Earth.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know how this is happening. You came to me, remember?”
“That is so,” I said. “Nonetheless, you are able to see and speak with me. Why?”
“Why? Why not? I expect to see you! I have always known that you and those like you are there, are here, and that you are as real as these precious young students at my table. I have been conversing with HaShem’s holy messengers all of my life.”
“You expect us?” Virgil said.
“But of course. I expect to see the miraculous every day. I don’t see angels and Heaven’s holy tzaddikim every day, but nor do I need to. I know you are there. I know the Master of the Universe observes and cares for every living thing. Does your friend expect to see or hear from you?”
“Not really. I mean, not like we’re doing now.”
“Why not?”
“He—we—didn’t think it possible. My friend and I here, we are not archangels. As far as angels go, we’re pretty low on the ladder.”
“Says who?” the Besht countered.
“Um, well…no one, actually. We just never knew of such a case among our kind.”
“Now you know,” the Besht said. “Is your exiled friend a man of faith? Does he have emuna?”
“Absolutely!”
“Then I see no problem. You are malachim, messengers of the Holy One, blessed be He. You are charged to carry out the Almighty’s Divine Will. If things are as bad as you say, and I suspect that they are, considering all that my people have been witness to since we were exiled from our land… By the way, what time is it now?”
“It’s some two-hundred and seventy-five years since you received your share of the world to come, Master.”
“And mankind is still here?” the Besht asked.
“It’s been a very rough ride, Master,” I said.
I didn’t have the heart to inform him of all the slaughter that his people were to suffer ahead, of
the many pogroms that were still to occur, and the Holocaust that would decimate so many descendants yet to be born.
“And this time it’s different?”
“I’m afraid so. The humans have fallen to the forty-ninth level of spiritual depravity and are just hanging on by their fingernails.”
“As HaShem commanded Joshua,” the Besht said, “‘Be strong and of good courage, do not fear and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.’”
“Thank you, Rebbe. We will do our best.”
“I’m sorry I was not of more help.”
“You have done plenty. Please pray for us.”
“Of course.”
“One more thing, Master,” Virgil piped up.
“Nu?”
“Did you really cross a river on a handkerchief?”
The Besht smiled mischievously. “You ought to know better than I that that is a small thing. Do you see Moishe there to my right, the doe-eyed one with the first struggles of a beard? He can say, ‘Ribbono Shel Olam,’ Master of the Universe, a thousand times in a row! And young Anshel to my left, small as a rabbit, thin as a twig, he schleps pails of water, two at a time on a stick across his back from the river to the homes of the elderly on the hillside every morning, all the while joyously singing Psalms. And there, across from me, Chaskel, the lad with the beautiful, long, golden payot streaming down the sides of his still smooth face, he has committed the entire Torah to memory! He volunteers at the orphanage and every child in his care becomes a mighty little tzaddik!”
“I get that,” Virgil said. “But I’d still like to know about that handkerchief.”
The Baal Shem Tov shrugged, lifted his hands in surrender, and with a wry smile said, “I didn’t have a tablecloth.”
12
Corrupted
“Come in, Mr. Baer,” Professor Matterson said. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”
Gideon Baer, dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and loosened red tie, strolled into the professor’s office. He pretended to give an approving appraisal of the room, and then casually turned his attention to the professor’s trophy wall. The wall displayed Matterson’s numerous diplomas, awards, and accolades. Framed photographs of Chauncey Matterson with various VIPs hung interspersed between the professor’s many laurels.
“Looking for someone in particular?” Matterson asked, noting Gideon’s inspecting eye.
“Me.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I have the honor of you gracing—”
“There I am,” Gideon said, pointing to a small figure in the background at an outdoor wedding party. That Cyrus guy, he thought, had told the truth.
Matterson approached the wall, and squinted. “Oh, well look at that,” he said. “That is you. Kinda tiny though. Sorry.”
“The smaller I am the better I like it.”
“Such humility is rare these days.”
“Humility has nothing to do with it,” Gideon said, lifting the picture from the wall. He withdrew a switchblade from his coat pocket and flicked it open.
“Um, what are you doing, Mr. Baer?”
Gideon slipped the blade into the back of the frame, popped out the cardboard backing, and removed the 12 x 8-inch photo. He rolled it up, stuffed it into the inside pocket of his jacket, and handed Professor Matterson the empty frame.
“Hey! That’s—!”
“Mine,” Baer stated.
Matterson, his eyes on the switchblade, balked. “Well, yes, of course,” he said. “I forgot about your line of work. One can never be too careful, right?”
Gideon didn’t reply. Instead, he returned his attention to the wall, scrutinizing each photo, until one in particular stood out. Gideon moved in for a closer look.
“When was this taken?” he asked, tapping the photo’s glass pane with the blade of his knife.
It was a picture of Matterson standing on a yacht among a group of men and two women, a martini in his hand. Everyone was dressed in fine attire, as if they were at some official affair. The professor seemed to be conversing with the eldest in the group, a white-haired man with weepy, sandbagged eyes. Beside the elderly gentleman, two brawny men stared into the camera, scowls on their faces, like they were sending the photographer a stern, rebuking message. Gideon pegged them as the old man’s bodyguards.
Matterson stepped up for a closer look. “About a year and a half ago. Why?”
“Ritzy event,” Gideon said. “You really get around, Professor.”
“It was part of a fundraiser that I was attached to.”
“I see. And who is this?” Gideon pointed to the elderly man in the photo. He looked to be in his eighties.
“That’s our main sponsor, Alexander Rosso.”
“The reclusive multi-billionaire,” Gideon said.
“And that’s his yacht,” Matterson boasted. “A beauty, isn’t it?”
“Are you two friends?”
“We only met in person this one time,” Matterson said regrettably. “He doesn’t appear much in public, as you seem to know.”
“But he appeared for you?”
“Not just me, of course. For the NGO I was helping to start. Mr. Rosso is a highly respected philanthropist.”
“In some circles,” Gideon remarked. “Are those his bodyguards?”
“I wouldn’t know about such things. I’d think that’s your specialty, Mr. Baer.”
“Who are the ladies?”
“You don’t get out much do you? They’re famous actresses. They also helped in getting our little organization off the ground.”
“What kind of NGO, Professor? I’m a giver. Maybe I’d like to contribute a little something.”
“I rather doubt that, Mr. Baer. We’re trying to save the world.”
“Hey, I’m all for saving the world.”
“Save it from people like you,” Matterson clarified. He smiled. “Nothing personal.”
Matterson walked over to his ergonomic chair and sat down, motioning to Gideon to take a seat on the black leather couch nearby. Gideon pulled over a folding chair instead, preferring not to sit lower than the professor.
Chauncey reached across his desk and grabbed an envelope, the kind an invitation comes in. He pulled out the card inside and showed it to Gideon.
“I got this last month from Mr. Rosso,” he said proudly.
Gideon took the elegant-looking invitation and read it. It was an invite to a summit meeting at Alexander Rosso’s east coast residence.
“I’ve heard of these summits,” Gideon said. “All the movers and shakers will be there. I didn’t know you were one of them, Doctor.”
“I plan to be,” he said confidently. “I’ll be representing that NGO I mentioned. I’m working on my presentation now, in fact. The leaders of all the various groups that Mr. Rosso helps support will be there. I’m even in charge of handling some of the logistics, like lining up some of the caterers, for instance. It’s quite an honor. But enough about me.” He retrieved the invitation and tossed it back onto his desk. “Tell me, Jed,” he said. “What do you have for me?”
“A few questions.”
“Oh…kay, but I was hoping for answers, not questions.”
“Tell me, how many times did you meet with this Cyrus character?” Baer asked.
“Once officially, and maybe three times all together. He was involved with a colleague of mine, and so I ran into him a couple of times.”
“A colleague?”
“Ellen Veetal. She’s a TA, actually. Her office is down the hall. Why?”
“What was she doing meeting him?”
“She came across him during a study she was performing at the time regarding—don’t laugh—the paranormal. She thought he might be a good subject.”
“She was also your fiancé, was she not?”
“Huh? Um…well, yes, but we have since broken up. Irreconcilable differences, you might say. But that has nothing to do with the reason I put the call in. The man is clearly
a threat to national security. He knows—hell, I don’t know all he knows or how he knows it, but it is very suspicious and certainly deserves checking out.”
“Uh-huh,” Baer said. “Did your break up with Ms. Veetal have anything to do with this Cyrus?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think he was mowing your lawn?”
“What? Mowing…?”
Baer rephrased his question. “Do you think they were having an affair?”
“No. I mean…no.”
“But you blame him for your break up.”
“I didn’t say that,” Matterson protested. “However, if you must know, I believe that the odds of my honeymoon being only weeks away would be much higher had he not entered the picture.”
Gideon smirked. “Despite your ‘irreconcilable differences?’”
“He was certainly a distraction and an irritant to our relationship. But why are you interrogating me? It’s him you should be grilling!”
“I’m just doing my job, Professor. I wouldn’t be in your office right now had you not put in that call. Now, tell me, to your knowledge, has Ms. Veetal had any further contact with Mr. Cyrus since you two broke off the wedding?”
“I…don’t think so. Isn’t that something you ought to have learned by now?”
Baer ignored the professor’s question. “You said that you met this man three times. What did you discuss?”
“Like I said, two of the times I just bumped into him. The first time was in Ms. Veetal’s office. The second was later that day at a restaurant. Nothing significant was discussed, just the usual pleasantries one exchanges. The third time was in this office. Ms. Veetal arranged the meeting, as part of her research. This Cyrus fellow turned it into an unprovoked attack on me.”
“Attack?”
“Nothing physical. The man always plays the perfect gentleman, but he sought to embarrass me in front of Ellen—Ms. Veetal.”
“Why would he do that?”
“To change the subject. He didn’t want me exposing him for the fraud that he is.”
Shooting Eros - The Emuna Chronicles: Complete Boxset: Books 1 - 3 Page 40