An Accidental Messiah: A Novel (The Dry Bones Society Book 2)

by Dan Sofer

  Finally, he stepped through the metal detector, spread his arms for the security inspection, and joined the eager throng in the plaza. He waded through the crowd toward the men’s section at the foot of the Western Wall, squeezing past Torah altars and trolleys of prayer books. Sweat glimmered on the faces of the men around him. How would he recognize God’s chosen? Would he be bearded or clean-shaven, young or bent with years? What if two messiahs claimed the crown at once? Or three? Or twenty!

  The sweaty faces eyed him with the same silent, bursting expectation. Yosef waded toward the towering, ancient stones.

  Worst of all, what if no one emerged from the crowd? What if the Messiah had changed his mind and gone back into hiding for another two thousand years?

  A gasp rose from the assembled Jewry and hands pointed to the sky. “There! Up there!”

  Yosef craned his neck and shielded his eyes from the morning sun. On top of the wall and haloed in sunlight, stood a man.

  White robes flapped around his thin frame in the breeze. Long locks of his hair glowed golden as they flowed from a white cotton beanie. He glanced down at them, gracing them with a loving, white smile.

  Yosef trembled. Joy gurgled involuntarily in his throat, as ecstatic tears seeped from his eyes. Yes! This is happening. In my lifetime.

  He had merited to gaze upon the Messiah. In hindsight, a shepherd’s robe would have been more appropriate than his formal wedding suit, but his clothing didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except for the saintly figure overhead.

  Excited whispers circled the gathering. “It’s him! Thank God!” A large man in Chassidic garb beside him recited She’hecheyanu—Who Has Granted Us Life, the blessing for momentous occasions.

  They gazed at their savior for what seemed like minutes, when a man clambered onto a Torah altar below. His white cloak and head covering matched those of the Messiah on the Wall, only his beard was red and short. He raised his arms above his head.

  “Friends and neighbors,” he cried. “Behold your redeemer. Open your ears and your hearts to his message, and your eyes will behold wonders.” He pointed to the Messiah on the Wall, then slid off the altar.

  The Redeemer spread his arms over his flock, a compassionate, embracing gesture. “Friends and neighbors. The time has come. Your suffering is over. A healing sun rises upon you, and a new hope. Your eyes will behold wonders.”

  Friends and neighbors. Your eyes will behold wonders. The repeated phrases soothed Yosef’s mind. There was a plan. The Messiah knew what he was doing.

  “But first,” the Redeemer continued, “let the blast of the shofar carry the tidings throughout the world.” With a flourish, he pulled a short, twisted ram’s horn from a pocket of his cloak, and then waved his arms in wild circles, like a man trying to regain his balance, while a thousand onlookers gasped.

  The Messiah on the Wall found his footing again and smiled, and the crowd exhaled with relief. Phew! Yosef’s heart returned to his rib cage. He wiped a fresh layer of sweat from his brow. That had seemed close. The Redeemer couldn’t fall. Of course not. He just had a sense of humor.

  High above, the Redeemer raised the ram’s horn in the air, his body swaying ever so slightly. Yosef knew that rocking motion. He had performed that dance many times during his wasted youth, usually late at night and in dark alleys that reeked of his own vomit. Yosef dismissed the suspicion from his mind. No, he’s not drunk. It’s just the breeze.

  The Redeemer pressed the shofar to his lips, drew a mighty breath, and blew hard, but for all his efforts the blast sounded like a camel passing wind.

  The crowd exchanged bemused looks but hid their smiles. Another bit of humor to lighten the mood, that’s all. But a dark pit opened in Yosef’s stomach. Something isn’t right.

  The Redeemer tossed the horn over his shoulder. “Unbelievers will doubt us,” he said. Was he slurring his words? The Messiah waved his finger in the air. “Do not fear them. When they ask you, ‘Can he walk on water?’ tell them, ‘No.’” The crowd sighed with disappointment. He had promised wonders.

  Then the Redeemer punched the air, as he cried, “Tell them, ‘He walks on air!’”

  The crowd cheered, eager to witness the miracle firsthand. Yosef’s insides clenched. No. Don’t do it! He looked about the flock, searching for another pair of concerned eyes, but all heads were turned to the heavens. Was he the only one who thought that this was a really bad idea?

  Before a protest could form in his throat, the Messiah on the Wall stretched out his arms like a tightrope walker, extended one foot, and stepped onto thin air.

  Yosef blinked. The walker leaned forward, resting his weight on the empty space above their heads. No glass or mirrors reflected in the sunlight. A bubble of childlike delight escaped Yosef’s mouth. He’s doing it. Dear God. He’s walking on air!

  “Behold the true Messiah!” Redbeard cried below, his cheeks bulging with an ecstatic smile.

  A joyous cheer rippled through the masses. A voice cried out—Hallelujah!—and a dozen more followed.

  Then the Messiah moved his other leg, stepping off the wall, and he fell like a stone.

  CHAPTER 65

  In the backseat of the Mercedes, Moshe held Galit’s hand while the suburban scenery of Baka panned across the window. The driver’s ponytail shifted as the luxury car negotiated the bumps.

  Irina’s new friend still made his skin crawl. If Rafi had wanted to treat them to a chauffeur drive, surely he would have picked them up himself? Or had Irina cooked up the surprise treat, not Rafi? If so, where was she?

  Moshe chided himself for judging a man by his appearance. He’d need to learn that lesson fast if he wanted to survive in government.

  The phone rang in his jacket pocket.

  “Where are you?” Sivan asked.

  “We’re on our way to the voting station,” Moshe said. “We’ll head to the office right after.”

  “Good. Remember, you’re registered for the International Convention Center. Yaron has a camera team at the voting box.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. The telephone poll came in.”

  “Great. Galit’s here, I’ll put you on speaker.” Time to find out where Restart stood.

  Sivan said, “Now remember, the poll went out just as the story broke and before we could answer the rumors.”

  Moshe and Galit exchanged anxious glances. Sivan was trying to soften the blow, so the results must have been terrible. “Go ahead. We understand.”

  The car rose and fell over another speed bump.

  At the end of the line, Sivan drew a long, audible breath. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “We don’t get any mandates, according to the poll. We don’t pass the electoral threshold.”

  Moshe felt the blood drain from his face. “But that’s only three percent.”

  “Three point two five percent. Out of tens of thousands of participants, only a handful said they were definitely voting Restart.”

  Galit squeezed his hand. He pictured the sea of supporters in Beer Sheba and a dozen other cities. Had they all abandoned him so quickly?

  “As I said,” Sivan added, “that was before your response hit the media.”

  He masked his heartbreak with sarcasm. “I’m sure Channel Two gave that the widest possible exposure.”

  “We have to work with what we’ve got.”

  He thanked her for the update and tucked the phone into his pocket. Avi’s false accusations had erased weeks of intense campaigning. They would be lucky to win a single seat in Knesset.

  A Karlin never quits, his father had always said. When the Arabs forced Jews out of the Old City in ’forty-eight, Moshe’s grandfather lost his business, but he started over from scratch. His own father had created a successful dispatch company from nothing. But how could Moshe undo the damage as voters already made their way to the ballot boxes?

  A sharp pain flared inside his rib cage.

  “Are you OK?” Galit turne
d to him with large, frightened eyes. He was clutching his chest.

  The pain faded. “Yeah, I think so. It’s been a stressful couple of weeks.” Had he rescheduled that cardiologist appointment? He had been reckless with his health, his eyes always on the future. If he ignored his health any longer, he might not have a future.

  Galit slumped back on the seat and gave him a wan smile. “Maybe it’s for the best, Moshe. If we’re no longer a threat to Avi, maybe he’ll finally leave us alone.”

  Avi, Avi, Avi. His ex–best friend had become the proverbial thorn in Moshe’s side. He had stolen Moshe’s wife in the past and now he had torpedoed his chances in the election. Judging by his recent behavior, Avi wouldn’t be content to live and let live when in power. The new career in politics and the dirty campaign were just stepping stones to Avi’s ultimate goal—Galit—and to get her, he’d have to do more than beat Moshe in the elections.

  Out the window, the Great Synagogue towered over King George Street. They were traveling in the wrong direction.

  “Alex, we’re expected at the International Convention Center. We should have made a left onto Ramban.”

  The ponytail bobbed. “My mistake,” Alex said in that lethargic Russian accent. “I’ll double back as soon as I can.”

  Traffic slowed, then stopped. The line of cars ran on and on toward a distant red light. They had dived headlong into peak traffic.

  Far behind them, a motorcycle horn bleated. His fellow citizens had set out to vote early so that they could enjoy the rest of the day at parks and beaches. Moshe wouldn’t mind joining them. Instead, he would have to watch helplessly as his campaign imploded.

  The light was still red. The growl of a motorcycle engine grew louder.

  Moshe leaned forward to peek at the side mirror. The biker sped toward them in the emergency lane. The rider wore a full white helmet, thick jacket, and gloves, like an off-road racer.

  The growl became a roar as the biker whizzed by their window. Then his brakes screeched and the rear wheel arced, spinning the bike ninety degrees and into the line of cars, where it halted in front of the hood of their Mercedes, blocking their path with the length of the bike.

  The biker pulled out a large handgun and pointed it at their windshield.

  “Oh my God!” Galit cried.

  Without a word, Alex raised his hands in surrender.

  “What the hell…?” Moshe blurted, although he knew exactly what the hell was going on.

  They were going to die.

  CHAPTER 66

  Voices gasped as the messiah plummeted, and the men in his trajectory pressed backward to avoid the impact, squeezing the breath out of Yosef in the compacting crowd.

  There was a sickening crack. The masses held their breath, waiting for their messiah to jump up with a smile and an “I’m OK!”

  Instead, someone at the front puked.

  Oh no!

  The press of bodies eased as the crowd dispersed in a hurry.

  Yosef stood frozen to the spot, a rock in a stream of panicked men. “Paramedics!” he cried, but none of them were listening. He turned around and stood on tiptoe to shout above the crowd. “Call the paramedics!”

  The fleeing men flowed toward the turnstiles at the exit, but one of them ran for the Red Star of David van positioned beside the security checkpoint.

  Yosef waded against the current, toward the towering wall until he reached the clearing that had formed at ground zero, like a crime scene cordoned off by yellow tape. Multitudes had flocked to greet the Messiah; fewer were willing to scrape him off the tiles.

  In the center of the clearing, the former messiah lay in a heap of twisted limbs, his white robes spattered with blood. The stench of half-digested food rose from a fresh puddle of vomit.

  For the second time that summer, Yosef wished that he had learned first aid. He turned to the white-faced bystanders. “Is there a doctor here?”

  A gray-haired and bewildered man detached from the edge of the clearing. “I’m an anesthesiologist.”

  “That’ll do.”

  The man crouched over the mangled messiah, laid a trembling hand on the messiah’s neck, then looked up at Yosef. “I think he’s dead.”

  Yosef turned around. “Stand back!” he shouted. “Let them pass!” as the medics, carrying a folded stretcher, negotiated a path through the human obstacle course.

  A paramedic pulled open the blood-stained robes and attached the pads of a defibrillator to the injured man’s chest, while his colleague pumped his heart. They stood clear and the messiah’s chest rose from the ground as an electric charge passed between the pads. The paramedics examined the still body again, then lifted him onto the stretcher and rushed him away on their shoulders. He might live yet.

  Yosef wiped his brow on the back of his hand. He had observed paramedics at the scene of an accident two months ago. The leather-jacketed biker at the Mount of Olives Cemetery had rocketed up an access road and slammed into a truck.

  That rider had survived too. Yosef had handed the paramedics a note with his own contact details, but had heard nothing since. He didn’t even know the biker’s name.

  Yosef didn’t know the name of the fallen messiah either, but he had believed in him all the same. You old fool. When will you learn?

  He stood among the clump of dazed witnesses, who stared into space like lost children.

  A finger tapped his shoulder. “You’re Rabbi Lev, aren’t you?” It was Redbeard, who had introduced the former messiah. “Rabbi Lev,” he repeated, “of the Dry Bones Society?”

  Yosef nodded. He couldn’t imagine how the man must feel. “I’m so sorry,” Yosef mumbled. “So very sorry.”

  The man gave Yosef’s hand an eager shake, his cheeks bulging as he smiled, his eyes large and radiant. “I’m Tom. Tom Levi. We need to work together,” he added, “you and I.”

  “Work together? I don’t understand.”

  It was Tom’s turn to look surprised. “Why, to spread the good tidings of course.” He laughed. “What else?”

  “You can’t be serious.” Yosef pointed at the blood-stained floor. “Didn’t you see what happened? He’s badly hurt. He might die.”

  Tom lifted his hand, palm up, like an ascending elevator. “Then he’ll just have to rise from the ashes. Everything that happens is part of God’s plan.” He became very serious. “We should talk about the Temple.”

  “The Temple?”

  Tom nodded in the direction of the Western Wall. “The Third Temple. We need to get rid of that golden monstrosity and then—”

  Yosef held up his hand. “I have to go now. I’m sorry.” He hurried toward the exit and away from the madman without looking back.

  “Nice to finally meet you, Rabbi Lev,” the man called after him. “We’ll speak again real soon.”

  CHAPTER 67

  Ahmed woke up that morning with a start. A ceiling of stone hovered inches from his nose, and the chill of bedrock seeped through his clothes, through the flesh of his back, and into his bones. His mouth tasted of dust. Outside, a valley breeze whistled.

  Where am I?

  Memories of the previous day rose in his mind: the balding older man kicking aside a chair as he charged toward him, shouting accusations; the pressure of his fingers on Ahmed’s throat; the look on Samira’s face before he turned and fled.

  He had dashed down the streets of downtown Jerusalem, running blind, trying to escape the anguish in his head, until he found himself back in Silwan. He scrambled up the stony hillside, clambered into the old burial cave, and stretched out on a rough-hewn shelf. Like the previous occupants of the tomb, he was trapped.

  When he closed his eyes, he saw her face, the disbelief, the disappointment, and the fear. He had lost her beautiful smile forever, and he wished he no longer existed. How long would it take for him to starve to death?

  His stomach rumbled. Against his better judgment, his body wanted to live.

  Why had he pushed that stupid button and stained hi
s soul for eternity? But had he not died, would he have met Samira? Was this God’s punishment for evil men—to offer them Heaven on a silver platter, only to yank the platter away? None of the fires of Hell came close to that torment.

  He lay there, suspended between death and life, and shuddered as he sobbed.

  Damas was right—he was a fool. A fool to have believed Hasan’s lies. An even bigger fool to believe that he could start over. No, he was worse than a fool. He was a monster. He did not deserve to live.

  He would lie there until his body withered. The rats would find him first. The thought made him sit up and he bumped his head on the rocky ceiling. Serves you right. A coward even in death.

  He slid off the shelf and crouched on the cave floor. The mouth of the tomb was a rectangle of blue sky. A hammer sounded in the distance, and cars rumbled on hidden streets. Arabs and Jews got about their daily business.

  He crawled to the opening, and two small birds fled from a grassy outcrop as he poked his head out of the tomb.

  The Kidron Valley sprawled below, the dry riverbed and the Gichon spring, beneath the City of David. But not a single soul in sight.

  He staggered out into the open and stretched. Dirt and dry sweat plastered his body. His hair was thick with dust. He scratched a spider bite on his ankle. Above the tomb rose the Mount of Olives, the mass of grave markers like scales on the back of a sleeping dragon. How many sandaled feet had trampled that hillside over the centuries, building and burying, toiling and murdering—and for what?

  He peed, dousing a clump of weeds in dark yellow fluid, then hobbled down the steep hill to the dusty streets of Silwan. He trudged along, dragging his feet in the dust like a zombie. Only one path remained to him.