The Master's Quilt

by Michael J. Webb

  “Why doesn’t she return to her family?”

  “They want nothing to do with her.”

  The door opened, and Abigail stepped inside. The straw basket she carried was filled with a variety of plump, juicy vegetables. She eyed Deucalion suspiciously, noting the Roman uniform, but there was no fear.

  When Deucalion looked into her eyes, he saw the same strength reflected in them that he had seen on the faces of the men and women at the woodworker’s shop—before Saul went berserk. What was it about the Galilean that inspired such calmness in the face of the unknown, even after His death?

  “This is Deucalion,” said Esther.

  “The Praetorian who rescued you and Joseph from Saul?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he looks like he needs a decent meal,” said Abigail, setting down her basket. “If he’ll bring me some water from the well, I’ll make us a stew.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Joseph 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 hi
s 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.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Deucalion, Esther, and Abigail worked their way to the front of the crowded courtyard, where perhaps a hundred people had gathered to listen to the tall, heavy-set man with thick, calloused hands.

  Abigail had found an old tunic and a cloak that fit Deucalion. He was certain no one would recognize him from a distance. He also wore a girdle around his middle so it would be easier to walk. It had a pouch on the inner seam in which he placed the small bag of money that had been thrown at him the night he was ambushed. He had yet to spend any of it, however. But now, he knew what he was going to do with it. After the meeting, he would give the money to Esther; she was going to need it now that Doras had disowned her.

  He wondered if Esther was as conscious of his presence as he was of hers. She stood to his left and whenever her bare arm brushed against him, he felt a tingling sensation ripple through his arm. Also, he could swear she smelled like frankincense.

  A number of lanterns had been placed around the perimeter of the courtyard and the flickering light shone in the faces of the crowd. Esther saw Joseph clearly and waved at him. When he saw her he smiled and motioned for her to find him when the meeting was over. She nodded her agreement.

  Deucalion had been extremely nervous at first and had constantly searched for any sign of trouble. But the man called Peter had been speaking for almost an hour and nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Even though the apostle was obviously unschooled—a fisherman someone had said—his words held power. No one in the audience seemed restless, and now Deucalion found himself captivated by Peter’s forceful words as well.

  “. . .no doubt some of you are familiar with the story, but I would like to share it with you anyway, because i
t holds special meaning for all of us. Jesus had a close friend named Lazarus and there seemed to be a spiritual bond between the two of them that transcended the flesh.

  “Not long before our Lord was crucified, He was ministering outside of Judea, somewhere beyond the Jordan, when He received news that Lazarus was sick. . .on the verge of death. Instead of leaving immediately for Bethany, as we who were with Him expected Him to do, He waited a full two days before returning to Bethany. Thomas questioned Him about this, and Jesus answered by saying that Lazarus’ sickness was not unto death, but would be for the glory of God.”

  Peter’s story tugged at Deucalion’s soul and pulled him to memories of another tomb. What is it that is so compelling about this man’s words? he wondered, then shook his head and again focused his attention on the disciple.

  “When Jesus finally decided it was time to return to Judea, some of us tried to talk him out of the journey. We were fearful because there were Jews who’d tried to stone Him to death on previous occasions and would most likely try again, given the opportunity. Jesus was unconcerned and He rebuked us for our fears.

  “When we pressed Him to tell us why He insisted on returning, He said that Lazarus had died, and that He was glad for our sakes, because we would now have yet another opportunity to exercise our faith and believe that He was who He said He was. Thomas again spoke up and said, ‘Let us also go, that we may die with You, Lord.’

  “By the time we arrived in Bethany, Lazarus had been dead and buried four days. His corpse was beginning to stink in the sweltering heat, and we could smell the stench ten cubits away from the stone sepulcher. His sisters, Mary and Martha, were beside themselves with grief. Jesus wept.”