The Master's Quilt

by Michael J. Webb

  “You’re right, my love,” she said, on the verge of weeping. “We must have faith in Him. Once the seed is planted, if the soil is fertile, the tree will grow and bear fruit.” Esther reached down and grasped hold of the manuscripts, then leaned over to kiss Deucalion.

  “I’m waiting, Deucalion,” Malkus called from the cave entrance, interrupting their fleeting embrace.

  Their kiss forestalled, Deucalion motioned for Esther to wait at the rear of the cave, out of sight.

  When Deucalion stepped from the shadows into the light, Malkus stifled a gasp.

  His former Commander seemed to radiate light. There was a calmness and certainty about him that was beyond anything Malkus had ever seen in a man—especially in one who must know that he was about to die.

  No, that wasn’t quite true. He had seen another who behaved the same way, just before He died. The Nazarene had radiated that same light. He had looked into Jesus’ eyes just before driving the nails into His hands and feet and what he saw there had frightened him, just as the glow he saw in Deucalion’s eyes frightened him now.

  Suddenly confused, Malkus pulled his eyes from Deucalion’s searching gaze.

  Where else had he seen that light before? Of course! At the tomb. The morning the body of the Jew disappeared. The morning all the madness started.

  “Your time in hiding has been harsh on you, Commander,” he said.

  “Less harsh than your conscience has been on you, Malkus,” replied Deucalion sympathetically. He glanced at the sword hanging from Malkus’ waist. “There was never any love lost between us, Malkus,” he continued, “but I’ve never wished ill for you. Neither do I wish ill of Rome. You, as much as anyone, should know that I have always had the Empire’s best interest in my heart.”

  “Until now.”

  “You’re wrong, Malkus. I still love Rome—perhaps now more than ever. It is the madness that rots within her I seek to eliminate.” Deucalion sighed. “There was a time when the Empire was respected throughout the known world. Now we are feared and reviled. The world no longer trusts our judgment. Rome and her people have become enfeebled with their lusts. The citizenry have become blinded to truth. Because they have been fed lies for so long, they can no longer distinguish between what is real. . .and what is illusion.”

  Malkus frowned, uncertain how to respond. Deucalion wasn’t saying anything that he himself hadn’t thought about, more than once. But he had his orders. “About these documents you spoke of, Deucalion?”

  “I’ve hidden them in the city,” lied Deucalion. “They are the results of my investigation of the Sanhedrin. A man named Doras—one of the members of the Jerusalem Council has been conspiring with Antipas to overthrow Caiaphas and—”

  “Doras is dead,” interrupted Malkus.

  The news stunned Deucalion. Unseen powers had obviously been at work in his absence. He hoped Esther hadn’t overheard their conversation. “Malkus, it’s me Pilate wants,” he said hurriedly. “He believes I betrayed him; but I assure you, all I did I have done is for the good of Pilate and Rome.”

  “So you say.”

  “Think, Malkus! We are not butchers. Think about why you’re in the Legion, why you’re willing to die for the Empire in some strange and foreign land. You believe in what you’re doing.”

  “I believe only that Rome must impose order where there is chaos.”

  Deucalion tried another tack. “Let Esther go, and I’ll return with you to Jerusalem. She’s not a threat to Pilate. . .or to Rome.”

  Malkus was exhausted. Suddenly he was having trouble thinking clearly. Deucalion’s words were having their intended effect. “Perhaps you’re right, Commander,” he said tiredly. “Unfortunately, it is Annas, not Pilate who demands the woman’s death.”

  Deucalion’s eyes widened at the truth.

  Malkus cursed himself silently for his mistake. Now Deucalion would know that he’d lied about taking them back to Jerusalem. He stared at the imposing figure standing before him and winced. There was no fear, no anger in his former Commander’s eyes.

  Most unnerving of all, there wasn’t even resignation. There was only light—a disconcerting, brilliant light.

  Malkus snapped. “You’ve nothing to bargain with, Deucalion.” He drew his sword, realizing for the first time that Deucalion was not armed. “The decision is not mine. It’s over, Deucalion.”

  “Yes, you’re right, Malkus. It is finished,” he said, remembering the words Jesus had spoken on the cross: “Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.”

  He added, “I must die with my failure—but you and Pilate must live with yours. I forgive you, Malkus, and I pray to God that He is merciful when you stand before Him in judgment.”

  Deucalion’s penetrating words stung Malkus as if he had been struck repeatedly with a scourge. His legs went weak, and he began to tremble. Cursing his weakness, he started to raise his sword, but the earth heaved violently, throwing both him and Deucalion to the ground.

  Suddenly the rocks surrounding the cave entrance rolled every which way, scattering chunks of limestone, dust, and debris in all directions. The earth heaved again, this time even more violently, and an ominous roar thundered through the ravine.

  The entire cliff seemed to sway.

  Dust and small pieces of rock hung suspended in the air, choking and smothering both men.

  Deucalion covered his head with his hands and arms, as if to somehow ward off the flying rocks. Then he heard Esther scream. Her voice immediately blended with the dissonant sound of the earth being torn apart at the seams. He tried to stand, tried to go to her, but couldn’t. The earth was shaking too violently.

  Chaos reigned.

  Malkus fought his way to his knees at the edge of the cave entrance. Suddenly, a huge boulder was ripped loose from the ceiling. It clipped him on the shoulder and knocked him from the ledge. He disappeared into the ravine below with a muffled scream of agony.

  Deucalion scrambled towards the rear of the cave just as several chunks of limestone, ripped from the ceiling, came crashing to the floor inches from his legs and feet. “Esther, are you all right?” he yelled.

  There was no reply.

  Again the earth shook violently. More rocks came crashing to the floor. The light in the cave began to dim rapidly as the entrance filled with rocks and dirt.

  Outside the cave, Tacitus attempted to organize his men. The earth screamed and groaned, as if it were dying. “Gods protect us!” he cried out, shaking with fear.

  He looked across the ravine, wondering what had happened to Malkus, just as a huge, round slab of glistening white rock detached itself from the side of the cliff above the cave. In the blink of an eye it slid down the slope, filling the small oval of darkness that was the cave entrance. There was a horrible crunching sound as a hundred-ton section of limestone crashed to the bottom of the ravine.

  Within a matter of minutes the violent quaking stopped.

  An eerie silence, punctuated by intense cries of pain, settled on the ravine. As the dust and debris began to settle, Tacitus scrambled towards where the cave had been.

  He searched the rubble for Malkus as he went, calling out his Commander’s name in a hoarse voice. Minutes later he saw his superior below. Malkus was unconscious, and his leg was twisted in a sickening direction. Tacitus looked around for help. A few of the men had been fortunate, and, like him, they weren’t injured.

  He called them by name, ordering them to help him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The darkness inside the cave was as solid as the rock that now sealed its entrance.

  Deucalion called out to Esther again, his voice raspy and choked with emotion. There was still no reply.

  The violent shaking had stopped and he tried to stand. A sharp stab of pain raced up the length of his left leg. When he reached back and felt his calf, his hand came away wet and sticky. He knew it was blood, and he could feel the jacked edge of a broken bone protruding through his skin.

>   He crawled toward the back of the cave, gritting his teeth against the pain, but stopped when his hand scraped something hot. There were still some live coals from the fire. Also, he felt a slight draft of air. At least we won’t suffocate, he thought.

  He fumbled in the darkness, burning himself repeatedly, until he’d gathered up a small pile of embers. Next he groped for and found a piece of wood, half buried under debris that had been the ceiling of the small refuge-turned-tomb.

  It took some doing but he finally managed to get a small fire started. The flickering light cast eerie shadows on the cave walls. He squinted, trying to see better in the darkness. Fear clutched his heart. Where was she?

  Suddenly his eyes stopped roaming the piles of rubble. He saw her lying at the very back of the cave, covered with fragments of rock, and she wasn’t moving. Frantic, he crawled over to her. Blood trickled from her ear. She was badly injured, but she was alive! He stroked her face, wiping away dust and grime, then pulled himself up into a sitting position and cradled her head in his lap. The effort left him weak. He dozed off.

  In his arms, Esther moaned. Her eyes fluttered open. She blinked, trying to orient herself. Her mouth was dry, and her tongue felt swollen. The lower half of her body was numb. Frightened, she called Deucalion’s name in a voice that sounded like wind caressing a field of dry, dead wheat.

  When he didn’t respond, she called to him again, more loudly, more desperately.

  Deucalion’s eyes opened instantly. “Esther?”

  “What. . .what happened?”

  “Earthquake,” he rasped. “You were struck on the head by part of the ceiling.” A sharp pain coursed through his body and he grimaced.

  “You’re hurt!” she said.

  “My leg’s broken.”

  She tried to sit up, but couldn’t. “I can’t move anything, Deucalion!” she cried, more frightened than she could ever remember being.

  “Shhh. . ., it’s alright, my love. Everything is alright.”

  Esther whispered, “I love you.”

  “And I love you—more than I could ever begin to tell you,” he replied, then adjusted her head so that she would be more comfortable.

  “We’re going to die in this cave, aren’t we?”

  Deucalion nodded.

  “I thought it would be more painful,” she continued, “but it doesn’t hurt at all. I just feel so tired. . .”

  “Rest, my love. Close your eyes and sleep. When you wake, we’ll be together.”

  “Forever?”

  “Yes, my little hadassah, forever. I promise.”

  Esther smiled. “Hadassah. . .that’s what my father used to call me.” Her eyelids fluttered closed.

  Helplessly, Deucalion watched her life slip away. He held his hand above her half-parted lips, as if to catch the breath of life leeching from her and force it back inside her. He thought of Peter’s captivating words, “Jesus wept,” and he wanted to cry, but couldn’t. He hurt too much to cry.

  He remembered other words of God that Peter had said near the end of his speech that fateful night he’d made the decision to accept Esther’s God as his own. “The life of the flesh is in the blood: and I have given it to you upon the altar to make an atonement for your souls: for it is the blood that makes atonement for the soul. . .except you eat the flesh of the Son of man, and drink His blood, you have no life in you. Whoever eats His flesh and drinks his blood has eternal life; and He will raise him at the last day.”

  Afterwards, when he had questioned Esther about it, she told him the apostle had quoted the first portion out of a book called Leviticus—one of five constituting the Jewish Pentateuch and written by the great Hebrew patriarch, Moses—but that she wasn’t sure about the second part. Both of them had asked Barnabas about it and he had told them that the night before Jesus was crucified The Master had eaten a final meal with his twelve closest disciples and explained that he was speaking about the blood of the Lamb of God, the blood of the New Covenant, which was to be shed for the remission of sins of all who would believe by faith.

  Now, hours passed like minutes. Weak from loss of blood, Deucalion slipped in and out of consciousness. While he was conscious, he was extremely thirsty; however, try as he might, he couldn’t generate any saliva. When he was unconscious, he dreamed a strange, disconcerting dream:

  The land was flat, the air hot and dry.

  The two men working the field were forced to squint in order to block out the harsh glare reflecting off the dusty, rock-strewn landscape.

  No rain had ever fallen upon the field they now tilled.

  They had worked the fields every day for months now, from dawn until midday, when the heat became so intolerable that they were forced to rest until late afternoon. Only then could they return to the tilling and planting.

  The younger of the two men, although both were youthful in appearance sang quietly as he worked, oblivious to the inhospitable environment. Small rivulets of sweat trickled down the crevices of his back as he stabbed the parched skin of the planet with his crude wooden hoe. His perspiration evaporated quickly upon contact with the air, leaving his body coated with a crystalline veneer of salt.

  Although the two men were brothers, upon close scrutiny one might believe that they had sprung from the loins of different fathers. Where his younger brother was tall, lean and fine boned with narrow shoulders, the older was short and squat. His broad body sat atop stubby, thick legs, and his whole frame was covered with a thick carpet of jet-black, coarse, curly hair.

  It was apparent from the way the older one lashed out at the earth in feverish abandon that he was very angry. Every few minutes he looked up from where he labored, sweat pouring off his face, and shouted something unintelligible at the sky, carrying on a conversation with some unseen tormentor.

  Finally, having given himself over to the voice inside his head, he threw down his tool and headed in the direction of the small hut he and his brother had constructed as shelter against the sweltering intensity of the day.

  Abel looked up and wondered why Cain had left his work unfinished.

  The relentless, uncompromising onslaught of the sun campaigned through the morning. After a time, Abel finally headed for shelter, leaving the earth to battle the implacable heat in its own way.

  He searched the small hut for Cain, but it was empty. Fatigued, he took several sips of water from the clay pot sitting near the entrance of the shelter then sat down on the ground in the shadow of the hut.

  He fell into a fitful sleep and when he awoke the sun gradually slipped over the edge of creation. The smudged orange glow of day’s last light reflected off the opaque purple canvas of the sky. The moon, hazy and lavender white, hung low in the east, suspended like a giant pearl.

  He attempted to sit up, but found he could not; his hands and feet were securely bound, stretching him out upon the still warm earth like a four point star fallen from heaven. He was firmly anchored to the ground by four small but strong wooden stakes.

  A dull, throbbing ache pulsed painfully at the back of his eyes, making it difficult for him to focus clearly. His mouth tasted like he had eaten sour fruit. He felt like vomiting.

  Dazed and confused, he called out his brother’s name, his voice barely above a whisper. Minutes passed without response.

  Again he called out—more loudly this time.

  Again, there was nothing.

  Suddenly a shadow fell across him, etched upon the twilight, silent and unmoving. Raising his head a few inches off the ground, he cried out. “What is happening, Cain? What is it you want? I am bound as one would bind an animal in preparation for sacrifice.”

  When his brother finally replied, a specter of madness glazed his eyes. “You are most observant, brother. . .and it is to your credit that you remain so calm in the face of your fate.” Cain looked down at the helpless figure before him. The intensity of his anger pierced the veil of composure upon Abel’s face. “Truly the sacrifice I offer up this night shall be worthy of
the one who shall receive it,” he added.

  “You must not do this,” pleaded Abel. Fear welled up inside him, threatening to overflow his normally tranquil state of mind. Oddly, he was not afraid for himself, but for his brother. “You are deceived,” he placated, regaining control. “Your lack of faith has opened the door, allowing the evil one to gain a further stronghold. He uses you to seal his covenant with death.

  “Do not give place to him. Resist him. . .he is a lie.”

  For a moment it seemed as though the soft words of the younger would be able to turn the older from his chosen course of action. Yet before Abel could speak further, Cain withdrew his sacrificial knife, raised it high, and plunged it deep into the chest of his offering.

  Blood flowed down Abel’s stilled chest, mixing with the dusty, brown earth, blending into the blackness of night.

  Again there was silence.

  The sun disappeared over the rim of the world.

  Darkness reigned. . .

  Deucalion awoke with a start. The fire had burned down to embers and the dull, red coals glowed softly in the quiet stillness, casting an eerie light. He blinked repeatedly, trying to wash away the stinging salt of a cold sweat and shivered uncontrollably.

  “What the—” he muttered, then remembered where he was and all that had happened. He shifted position, trying to make himself more comfortable, then stared at Esther’s crumpled form. Her once warm, honey-colored skin had taken on a ash-gray tint. He glanced down at his leg and realized that he was still bleeding. The burgundy-red, liquid life blended with the dust, producing a copper-colored mud. “Not a dream. . .” he mumbled deliriously and grimaced in pain as he stroked Esther’s hair.

  Abruptly, he thought about the parchments. Where were they? He scanned the immediate area, but couldn’t see them. He groaned at his foolish concern. It didn’t really matter if he found them or not. Not only am I going to lose the only woman I ever loved, he thought morosely, but I’ve failed God as well.