“You scared me, Captain. You really scared me. I was getting ready to send the U.S. Cavalry out after you.”
“I told you he’d show on time, Doc,” Clarence said heartily.
“Piece of cake. I’m an old time traveler from way back,” I replied airily in a tone I hoped matched Clarence’s. My breathing was shallow and rapid, my skin pale and clammy. I wasn’t fooling anybody, and we all knew it.
“O.K., pal,” Clarence said briskly, “let’s go into the conference room and get you suitably attired for the occasion. We’ll also go over the rest of your gear.”
He and I walked into the conference room in silence. It was dark and cool inside, with a huge air conditioner churning away for all it was worth. My clothes were laid out on the table. They were woven by hand in precisely the same way all first century Palestinian clothes were. The hand stitches, the type of thread used—everything was absolutely authentic. Not only that, but the clothes had been “aged” and covered with road dust, so as to give the impression that the wearer had been traveling a great deal.
“Cheer up, Lightfoot. There are hundreds of thousands, maybe hundreds of millions, who’d do anything to be in your shoes.”
“In my sandals you mean,” I said, shrugging into the outfit. “Whew! Did they have to make the clothes smell so bad?”
“Atmosphere. Authenticity. Trust them.”
“The CIA?” We both laughed.
“Look, you don’t have to go through the rest of your gear. I’ve gone through the checklist five times. It’s all there.”
“O.K.”
“We’ve still got a bit of time. Let’s just sit for a spell. Try to relax.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Maybe this will help,” Clarence said, producing a hip flask. He wasn’t a drinking man, so I was surprised. He unscrewed the top and held it under my nose. Then I was even more surprised.
“Tulapai! Where in the world … how …” Clarence held up a hand.
“I’m in the Secret Service, remember? We have our ways.”
I took a mouthful. “It’s tulapai,” I confirmed. I haven’t smelled or tasted any since some old men on the reservation brewed up a batch once when I was home from college on vacation.” I passed the flask to him, but he waved a hand.
“How do they make it?” he asked, trying to take my mind off things.
“Well, I only saw it done once, and now only the old ones know how. As I understand it, first you soak corn thoroughly in water, then put it away to sprout. Then you dry it and grind it by hand on the metate or grinding stone. Then comes the tricky part—knowing which and the correct amounts of weeds, roots, root bark, seeds, and other stuff to add to it. Each good tulapai maker has got his own secret recipe. Anyway, the mix is poured in five-gallon cans, water is added, and it’s boiled for hours. Then its transferred into empty cans, and the mash is reground. The residue is added to the liquid again, and then more hours of boiling. You set it aside for about a day to ferment, and there you are.
“Sounds like mighty potent stuff.” I shook my head.
“Only if you drink it in large quantities.”
“What’s a large quantity?
“About two gallons.” I passed the flask back to him after I’d taken a second mouthful. “Thanks.”
“You don’t want anymore?”
“No thanks, Clarence. I’m driving.”
“Cigarette?” he asked uncomfortably.
“Blindfold?” I countered. “Clarence, take it easy, you’re more nervous than I am. If such a thing is even possible.”
“Sorry, Lightfoot. Look, I have a favor to ask.”
“Name it.”
“If this works, if you do see Him, get to speak with Him, please ask Him …”
“About Cindy?” I interrupted. Startled, he could only nod.
“I was going to do that anyway, Clarence. I figure nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“Thanks. I only wish your attitude was a bit more positive.”
“You guys selected me because I have a neutral attitude.”
“True. But I know that if you ask Him, and, if He says the words, Cindy will be healed.”
“I’ll ask him … about Cindy … Clarence, I guess you don’t need me or anyone else to tell you this … but Cindy’s some girl. There are some people who can never be defeated. You can kill them, but you can’t defeat them. Cindy is such a person. She would have made a fine Apache, Clarence.”
“Thanks, Lightfoot,” He stood up. “Ready?”
“Now’s as good a time as any, compadre. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to maintain my mandatory Apache stoicism.” I grabbed the document canister, and Clarence took the bag that contained my gear. Dr. Jankor and two others were waiting for us right outside the conference room door. We followed them in silence, our footfalls echoing hollowly in the cavernous building. We went through a maze of ductwork, transformers, switching consoles, and lead shielding, traveling in an ever diminishing spiral, getting ever closer to the core of the cyclotron itself. Finally we ascended a flight of stairs to a platform. We gathered around an opening in the ductwork. Inside the ductwork was a metal grating measuring about eight feet square.
“O.K., Captain,” Dr. Jankor said, “just lie down on your back in the middle of the grating. That’s right, just put the canister alongside you. Now, Mr. Jones, if you’ll just put the captain’s gear on his other side. Good. All right. Now here’s the drill. O’Brien, first we’re going to be closing the overhead cowling. You’ll then be sealed in a spur of the cyclotron. Next, thousands of small jets of air will come up from below. You and your equipment will be suspended on a cushion of air. We’ll accelerate the stream of tachyons to the precise speed we need to send you back to your target time slot. Then we’ll focus the beam on that part of the moon’s surface we’re going to use as a reflector. Next, we’ll divert the stream through your spur, much as one would use a railroad switch, and you’re on your way. Next stop Galilee. God willing.”
“Well put, Doctor,” I replied.
“Look at it this way. If the worst happens, and, if we’re completely wrong, or, if there’s an equipment malfunction, you’ll never know what hit you,” he said jovially. “Remember, we’re talking in terms of two ten-millionths of a second.”
“Thanks.”
There was an awkward silence, while everyone, including me tried to think of something suitably inspiring to go into the history books along with this moment. Clarence whispered something in Jankor’s ear, and the doctor nodded in response. He motioned to his two colleagues, and they descended the steps, leaving me and Clarence alone together. He extended a firm hand, and I shook it. Then, without ceremony, he grabbed the cowling and began to lower it.
“Today is a good day for dying,” I said.
“Only the mountains live forever, my brother,” responded Clarence with the words of the Apache Death Chant that had a strange comforting effect on me. Just before the cowling closed completely, I saw a solitary tear run down the cheek of the Secret Service agent. Then all was blackness.
25
Have you ever accidentally rolled out of bed in your sleep? Suddenly there’s a rude thump, and you lie there for a moment in the darkness, trying to figure out where you are, what time it is, and what happened. Well, that’s exactly what my trip was like. I could spend hours or days with a thesaurus and possibly succeed in making it sound more exciting. In fact, I almost feel an obligation to do just that. But then it wouldn’t be the truth. The truth of the matter is that the greatest journey of all time lasted two ten-millionths of a second and was as anticlimactic as can be.
Evidently, I had materialized a few feet above ground and fell the rest of the way. No damage, fortunately. I just had the wind knocked out of me. But I lay there a long time, more from psychological shock than from anything else. The Rubicon had been crossed. I was fully committed. Now there could be no turning back. I lay there for perhaps half an hour before I
sat up, looked around me, and took stock. It was twilight and getting dark fast. The all-important canister had survived the trip, as well as my traveling bag. There were no signs of any humans or animals about. The terrain was rocky and desolate, there was a chill to the air, and an unfriendly wind whistled eerily through the hills.
I knew that if everything had come off as planned, I was now on a small plateau overlooking Chorazin, a village situated on a bluff north of and approximately 885 feet above the Sea of Galilee. As I said, it was growing dark quickly, so I got up to reconnoiter. First things first. I had to locate the prearranged burial site for the document canister.
It took me no more than five minutes to locate the peculiarly shaped rock formation that I’d spent so many hours studying from photographs. Studied so much in so many photographs taken from every imaginable angle in every possible lighting condition, that I would have been able to recognize it in my sleep. I paced off the designated twenty paces and began to dig. They’d provided me with a small spade about the size of a U.S. Army entrenching tool, but made of first century materials in a first century fashion. After I’d buried the canister, I sat trying to decide whether to hit the road then or to get some sleep and wait for the daylight before moving. I decided on the latter and was rummaging around in my traveling bag when my hand felt something cold and metallic. Dumbfounded, I pulled out my Colt .45 Peacemaker. It was in a shoulder holster, and I found a note with it:
Lightfoot—
In addition to a multitude of human beings who can bring you to harm, first century Palestine is also populated with wolves, big cats, the Syrian brown bear, and several species of vipers. I thought you might have some use for this.
The Jones family sends love and prays that God will watch over you and protect you.
Clarence
P.S. Inside you’ll also find your blanket.
What a guy, I smiled to myself. I took off my cloak and tunic and strapped on the shoulder holster. Then, after I put my tunic back on, I used my British commando knife to slit an opening that gave me ready access to the gun. After I replaced my knife in its neck sheath and put my cloak back on, I tore Clarence’s note to shreds, then watched the wind blow the pieces away. “Good-bye, old friend,” I whispered.
It had long been one of my boasts that I could go to sleep anytime and anywhere I chose. My mother used to poke gentle fun at me by telling me that it was the Irish blood in me. But try as I might, I couldn’t get to sleep that night. I was just too keyed up. So after an hour or so of restless tossing, I rolled up my blanket, put it in my traveling bag, and, after taking my bearings from the stars, struck out eastward. In that direction I knew, lay the Jordan, and once there, I’d simply follow it south, hopefully running into numerous people along the way, since it was a major artery for trade caravans and pilgrims. From other travelers I’d be able to get the latest news about the whereabouts of Jesus Christ.
It was true that Clarence had cautioned me never to travel alone at night. In fact, in some areas, it wasn’t even safe to travel alone in broad daylight. But I just couldn’t help myself. The moon was full and the sky cloudless and bright with light from a thousand stars. That being the case, even though the terrain was tricky, I told myself there was more than enough light to ensure that I wouldn’t stumble and fall into some abyss or walk off some cliff. And as for human and animal predators, was I not Aloysius Lightfoot O’Brien, a Chiricahua Apache warrior? Was I not trained in armed and unarmed combat? Didn’t I possess sound judgment, experience, and a Colt .45 Peacemaker? There was no way I was going to be the first Apache in history who was afraid of the dark. A man has his pride.
As I worked my way eastward and downhill, I intersected a narrow game trail, which in turn led me to a road. It was not much of a road by twentieth century standards, but it is what passed for a road in that time and place, which is to say that it was wide enough to accommodate an ox cart, and it was fairly level.
If anything, the sky seemed to grow brighter with each passing moment, so I relaxed and began to let my mind wander as I walked along. Why, I asked myself, have men voluntarily put themselves in dangerous situations since the beginning of time, why? What ever possessed me to agree to do such a thing? In my case, I could rule out a lot of the obvious and usual motives right away. Not for the money. They had supplied me with enough gold to see me through a couple of years of walking around (hopefully with Jesus Christ), plus a rather large cache of gold and precious stones in the canister that I was to remove when I put in my records and reburied it. That cache was more than enough to set me up in a nice business of my own after the job was completed. But it wasn’t the money. Of that I was sure.
For glory then? No way. If my mission was successful, the only people who would ever know about it wouldn’t even be born for another two thousand years. Why did I do it? I had no theological ax to grind. I didn’t care much one way or the other about the man known as Jesus Christ. I was after no Holy Grail. For mankind? For the pursuit of knowledge? No. I was a simple man, and, despite Ike’s and Clarence’s pep talks about the importance of the mission in terms of the influence of Christianity on world history, art, literature, philosophy, music, laws, and so forth, they were speaking about concepts that I had neither the equipment nor the inclination to grapple with. No, I hadn’t volunteered because of any lofty dedication to expand the frontiers of human knowledge.
As I plodded on through the night in first century Palestine, I came at last to the reluctant conclusion that it was nothing more than line proximity. There is an old, indeed, an ancient theory, as old as the hills and man and danger. Perhaps it’s been around for so long because it’s true. There is a line between life and death, goes the theory, and the closer one gets to that line, to sudden death, the more intense one’s experiences become. All the perceptions are heightened, thoughts come with crystal clarity, colors are more vivid, and the ranges of the senses of smell, hearing, and touch are multiplied a hundredfold. When a man has looked leering Death full in the face and experienced that strange exhilaration that comes with it, all subsequent experiences are anticlimactic. Some men get hooked on that feeling and spend their lives going back to the line in constant attempts to recapture it. That’s what drives a man to volunteer for more combat missions that he has to, or a cop to want a tough beat, or a man to race automobiles, or walk a circus tightrope, or skydive, or any of a number of things that no rational person would do.
Perhaps it was the Theory of Line Proximity that was at work here. In flying combat missions, I’d approached the line many times. When I was shot down and fighting my way back to Allied positions, I came as close as a man can get without actually crossing the line. In those days, I drank in the wonderful multicolored sunsets like a man dying of thirst attacks a canteen of cool water. I saw distinctly each shade and hue and tint. I marveled at the symmetry of tree leaves, acutely aware of each tiny branch in the incredible networks of veins. I felt, reveled in, really appreciated the warmth of the sunlight on my face. Such were the thoughts that were going through my mind when I heard a voice come from immediately behind my right shoulder, only about fifteen yards back. I was getting careless; I should have heard him approaching at forty or fifty yards on a night like this.
“Wait, friend! May I journey with you a way?” There was a false heartiness in the voice, and, as he got closer, I decided that I didn’t much care for his small and beady ferret-like eyes either.
“Certainly, friend,” I replied, matching his phony smile. Both of us were sizing each other up, although I’d like to think that I was less obvious about it than he was. The syphilitic sores on his forehead didn’t do much for his looks either.
“Where are you bound?” he asked me.
“Southward toward Capernaum, where I hope to find a teacher, one Jesus of Nazareth.” Ferret Eyes looked at me quizzically.
“Your speech. Your accent. I have never heard the like of it before. Where are you from?”
“A far-off land,�
�� I replied, gesturing vaguely to the west.
“Are you a merchant of some sort then?”
“No, friend, Just a humble seeker after truth,” I answered honestly.
“Aren’t we all?” he mumbled distractedly, peering at a dense thicket just ahead. In a casual gesture, I scratched my back and felt the reassuring presence of my knife in its neck sheath. I waited for him to make the first move.
“I have heard him speak, this Jesus,” Ferret Eyes said unexpectedly. “Frankly, if you have come a great distance just to see him, you have wasted your time.”
“What makes you say that?” We were getting closer to the thicket, and the tension was mounting. I should have listened to Clarence.
“Oh, he is a holy man. Of that, there can be no doubt. But he speaks nonsense. Half of what he says is in riddles, and the other half naïve, childish prattle. Nonsense. You and I are men of the world, are we not? We know the ways of the world. This Jesus has evidently led a very sheltered life, and does not. He babbles foolishly of loving one’s enemies, of his kingship in another world, of … nonsense.” He waved his hand in a deprecating fashion and gave a very bad portrayal of a man suddenly struck with an idea. If he’d been a cartoonist, he would have drawn a light bulb over his head.
“My new friend, let us travel no further this night. You are new to this area and perhaps know little of the dangers that can befall a traveler in these parts. Thieves and murderers abound. They lie in wait for the unwary. I know of a small hut but a stone’s throw away. Though it is small, it is snug and comfortable. I have used it often when making this journey. It is just through there,” he said, indicating the thicket. Although this guy didn’t put much stock in what Jesus said, he was obviously a disciple of P.T. Barnum if he thought I was going to follow him into that undergrowth. It was a set-up, and it was clear that he had at least one accomplice.
Fifth Gospel:The Odyssey of a Time Traveler in First-Century Palestine Page 14