Living Stones
by Lloyd Johnson
© Copyright 2013 by Lloyd Johnson
ISBN 9781938467578
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means - electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other - except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Published by
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Publisher
John Köehler
Executive Editor
Joe Coccaro
In an effort to support local communities, raise awareness and funds, Morgan James Publishing donates a percentage of all book sales for the life of each book to Habitat for Humanity Peninsula and Greater Williamsburg.
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Dedication
To my soulmate in life and in telling this story,
my best friend whose heart also yearns for peace
with justice in the Holy Land,
my beloved wife, Marianne.
Acknowledgments
“ … If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same.”
Kipling captured the calm through the ups and downs of life. Friends encourage when there’s more disaster than triumph—whether in life or writing a story. Providing resources of knowledge, contacts and wonderful discussions around the tumult in the Holy Land, Sandra and Brad Gerrish stand out. I appreciate Bart Shorack for his counsel. Suzie Pham as a young adult, and Leonard Rodgers of Middle East fame inspired me too.
Friends in the Holy Land gave us insights as we visited them. Among many, Usama Nicola, Marwan Farajeh, Sami and Bishara Awad. Our hearts remain with all of them in their suffering. Knowing them, we’ve begun to understand and love our brothers and sisters there.
Through colleagues in the Northwest Christian Writers Association I’m acquiring the craft of writing a story, with much yet to learn. Particular thanks go to my faithful critique partners, Kathleen Freeman, Kim Vandel and Karen Higgins, whose suggestions have ushered me from drab stoicism to heights of emotion—something difficult for a platonic Swede.
For his patience and guidance, I thank my literary agent, Les Stobbe, whose experience and counsel have proved invaluable. Working with John Koehler, publisher, and his colleagues, Joe Coccaro, editor, Terry Whalin and Margo Toulouse, I’ve been pleased with their expertise and prompt skills in taking a story and producing a quality book.
And most of all, I appreciate my wife, Marianne, for her invaluable input sharing her heart, her perspectives and her faith. As in our own adventures in the Middle East, we’ve done this one together.
Living Stones
LLOYD JOHNSON
He has showed you, O man, what is good.
And what does the Lord require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy
And to walk humbly with your God.
Micah 6:8
Prologue
Ashley Wells crumpled on the sidewalk as the synagogue behind her collapsed in a cascade of debris and dust spraying in a thousand directions. The shock wave leveled everything in its path, including Ashley and her fellow graduate student, Najid Haddad, who had been standing on the sidewalk chatting on a sunny Friday afternoon. Ashley had noticed a young Caucasian man across the street in a hoodie staring at them, but she didn’t think much of it. Other pedestrians had slowed to admire the magnificent stone Jewish house of prayer.
After their eyes briefly met, the man in the hoodie wheeled around and walked away. Ashley turned back to Najid. Suddenly a roar overwhelmed her and in the same second she was slammed to the ground. Next came agonizing pain, then blackness.
Najid stood unharmed except for minor lacerations on his arms. Ashley’s body had protected him. He turned her onto her back. “Ashley, can you hear me? Ashley! Ashley!” Blood pooled on the sidewalk. She moaned. He felt a rapid pulse at her wrist. He waved his arms. “Help! Help!” His voice was just another in a chorus of screams as people scurried to the crowd gathered in the street. Then everything blurred as sirens screeched and police and Medic One ambulances appeared. Najid stepped aside, shaking his head, wide–eyed. He trembled. “Oh God, help Ashley! Make her live!”
Emergency personnel swarmed around her, quickly pouring in IV fluids. They moved her onto a stretcher and into a Medic One van, which then sped away with siren blaring and red lights flashing. Police, guns drawn, with helmets and flak jackets, rushed into the debris of the synagogue searching for other victims.
Najid gazed at the bloody sidewalk, shaking his head. His mind whirled and echoed with the explosion, unable to focus. It seemed unreal. He had fled violence in the Middle East for a peaceful education in Seattle. In a daze, he began walking slowly past large maple trees and older homes with wooden porches. Tears welled in his eyes. The prayer kept coming, “Oh God, please help Ashley. Don’t let her die.”
Still dazed, he heard staccato footsteps behind him and someone yelling. Suddenly a policeman yanked Najid from behind, clamped handcuffs on his wrists, and pushed him into a car with blue lights blazing. Najid shuddered. This happens in America too?
Chapter 1
Robert Bentley, face flushed, stormed out of his father’s dark-paneled home office, with Conrad Bentley close behind.
“Your life has been pretty easy. We’ve given you everything you could want. Half a million dollars in trust funds.” The older man raised his hands palms up, shaking his head. “What more could you want?”
“I’m out of here, Dad. All you think about is money! You really could care less about me! Tell Mom goodbye when she comes home, if she still wants to live with you! Don’t come looking for me. I won’t be back!”
Conrad Bentley shouted back, “Don’t act so indignant, son. If you’re so high-and-mighty then why have you dabbled in drugs with Mark instead of studying at Cornell?!”
Robert raced across the mansion’s patio and vaulted over the door of his red Corvette, which glimmered with its top down. Gunning the engine, the twenty-one-year-old jerked the car into gear. The tires screeched as he roared around the circular driveway, slowing only enough for the automatic gate to open. Knuckles white on the steering wheel, he flew down the street, suddenly swerving to miss a child on a bicycle.
He slowed, glancing in the rearview mirror for any police. The elegant Long Island community had proven generous with traffic tickets.
Robert seethed, gritted his teeth, and shook his head, fingers raking his dark hair. His dad had no clue! Of medium height and slender frame, shorter than his father, he scowled and hunched his shoulders over the steering wheel.
Robert heaved a deep breath and sighed, telling himself to calm down as he headed toward Mark’s modest house. Talking to Mark might make him feel better.
One hour later, with Mark in the passenger seat and two backpacks full, they sped south down Highway 87 to the Bronx and then headed west, first on 95 and then Interstate 80. Robert’s plan to flee his family’s gilded emptiness was coming together perfectly. Mark always said he loved an adventure. He seemed to enjoy racing down the highway, top down, open to t
he sky above. Robert gripped the wheel, jaw jutted outward, teeth clenched. “I just told my dad what I think of him. You know, it made me feel good to tell him off.”
“Cool, dude. Sometimes a guy’s got to do it. OK, now tell me why you want me to go way out West with you.” Mark rolled up the window. It was a sunny day, still warm for October. “I don’t get you. Like … you kept leaving our hangout every afternoon to go to that mosque. A mosque? What’s up with that?”
“I’m not sure you’d understand. I’m sick of the way America works. It’s all about money and superficial stuff, like scrambling up the corporate ladder and stepping on everyone else in the fight to the top. New York is run by financial phonies, man, and controlled by the Jewish businesses and press. My family is into it big time, you know, but it’s not for me.”
Mark stretched with his hands behind his head and gazed at the world flying by. “They say Wall Street runs on fear and greed, and I believe them. Your family has done pretty well though.”
“I don’t care. My dad had me in business training at Cornell, and man, I hated it. I figured maybe we Westerners have it all wrong. Maybe I needed a whole different perspective on things. So I found a mosque and dropped in to hear what they had to say. It changed my life and gave me some direction and a reason to live. It’s been awesome!”
“You mean, like you had no direction for your life?”
“Yeah.” Robert shook his head and shrugged. “None. But in the mosque they have a plan. They have five pillars in their belief system and they pray to Allah, five times a day.”
“Dude, no way! Five times every day?”
“Yeah, really. They face Mecca in Saudi Arabia and bow clear to the floor, touching their foreheads. Strange, man, at first. There are lots of rules, including stuff you can’t eat or drink. It’s like hard, but it’s challenging.”
“So what does that mean for you? Sounds difficult.”
“Well, for one thing, the word ‘Muslim’ means submission to Allah. So I’m learning to submit.”
“You’re crazy, dude!”
“Well, at first I attended a mosque once in a while, but then I found the Salaheddin Islamic Center, and now I see the world as it really is. True believers see what is really happening.”
Mark turned toward Robert, grabbing the backrest behind him, frowning. “What do you mean, ‘true believers’ and ‘what’s really happening’?”
“OK, it’s how the U.S. attacked the poor people in Afghanistan and Iraq, and the Jews cop the land in Palestine. The Zionists and the United States are conspiring to destroy Muslims, Arabs, and Palestinians. So, you know, we’ve gotta help them resist and fight back.”
“How do you do that?” Mark suddenly stiffened in his seat.
“Well, look what we are doing in lots of places in the world, with the Taliban and other groups, and of course al-Qaeda. I don’t know much yet about the Salafi-jihadi ideas, but their goal is to establish ruling caliphates with sharia law in a bunch of countries, not just Saudi Arabia or Afghanistan.”
“I don’t know much about that stuff, but it sounds bad. Like, what are you planning on doing?”
“Jihad.”
“So you’re learning about jihad?! Did you get all this in New York?”
“Oh no. Now I have a bunch of friends around the world on the Internet who are far ahead of me. Like I’ve found a ton of websites and chat rooms. That’s why I’m going to Seattle. A group there is interested in jihad, and they have invited me to join them.”
Mark frowned. “Hey look, I just came on this outing for a fun road trip. I had no idea that you are considering Islam and jihad. That’s serious, dude.”
“It’s, like, the only thing that makes sense to me now. It’s us or them in the world, and I want to be on the winning side.”
“Well, if you’re on the 9/11 side, I’m outta here.”
“That American conspiracy of our own government, you know, played nicely into the West’s anti-Islam prejudice. Man, don’t you see? It amounted to a clever ploy by the CIA to turn the nations of the West against us, against Muslims.”
“You gotta be kidding! Like you actually believe 9/11 was an American government conspiracy?”
“It’s clear that our government did it!”
“Robert, I don’t think I belong on this trip. Let me off at the next exit, dude. I’ll find a bus or train back to town.”
They coasted to a stop at a strip mall just outside the city. Mark clapped Robert on the back as he reached for his backpack to leave.
“You’re going to miss a real adventure, you know.”
“I hope you survive!” Mark replied over his shoulder as he hurried out of the car.
Chapter 2
Most considered Ashley Wells beautiful. She was tall and slender, with long blond hair and sparkling blue eyes that squinted when she laughed. But when she looked beyond the mirror each day, she saw a serious young woman deep in thought about world affairs, helping animals and healing people.
Ashley had moved from her home state to get an advanced degree in zoology at the University of Washington in Seattle. She loved animals, but decided to apply to medical school after she finished the zoology master’s degree program. She had some catching up to do, including studying for the rigorous MCAT entrance exams.
As a doctor, she could serve humanity in a more forceful and meaningful way. She had grown up in a conservative Christian family in Oklahoma and the idea of service was instilled deep within her social conscience. Her parents were delighted when she decided to go to medical school.
Their support for Zionism had transferred to Ashley. She too believed that Israel should possess the Holy Land at all costs. God promised it. It should be its own state and be staunchly defended by Christians because of hostile Arab neighbors. And she followed events in the Middle East with interest. She saw them as the fulfillment of Biblical prophecy.
That was one reason Najid Haddad interested her. She had never met an international student from the Middle East. Both graduate students were also lab assistants for the beginning zoology classes. “Come in. Please, come in,” Ashley beckoned to the tall young man with black hair and a swarthy complexion who stood in the doorway. She had noticed him coming down the hall. He reminded her of one of the international soccer players on the Seattle Sounders. The small-windowed break room for graduate students contained a couple of tan lounge chairs and an old print sofa—but most importantly, a coffee maker and teapot. Two other young men sprawled in the chairs seemed indifferent, lost in their reading. “Please, come in,” she said with a broad smile. “I don’t want anyone to feel left out. Coffee or tea?” She patted the sofa next to her, indicating where he could sit.
“Tea would be fine,” he said softly. “I did learn about American customs, that it’s all right to accept a cup of tea on the first offer instead of waiting for the third one. But I don’t know if it would be acceptable to sit so close to a young woman.”
With that, one of the American grad students looked up. “She won’t bite.” He resumed his reading.
Najid sat next to Ashley, who rose to bring him a cup of tea. “Thank you. I didn’t worry that you would bite.”
“Bad American joke,” Ashley said. She pondered this athletic-looking guy who seemed mild mannered and reserved. It would be good to learn more about him. Maybe he’s just unsure of this new American culture. “Where are you from? It’s Najid isn’t it?”
“Yes, and I’m from Israel, near the town of Nazareth.”
“Really? And how long have you been here?”
“Three weeks.”
“Awesome! What do you think of Seattle so far?”
“It’s beautiful, but very busy. Everyone seems to be in a hurry. I don’t know any Americans yet. My two housemates are from Libya.”
“Your English is great. Where did you learn to speak it so well?”
“We studied it in school starting from the sixth grade.”
“So was that in Nazare
th?”
“Yes. But we studied in English at the University in Haifa.”
“Is that where you got your zoology degree?”
“Yes. But then I had another year in graduate school while applying here at the University of Washington.”
“Are you on a scholarship?”
“Of course. I could not come on my own. My father works in the olive groves near us and has to support my mother and their six younger children. So I applied for a Fulbright Scholarship and here I am.” Najid smiled for the first time.
By this time the two other grad students perked up. “I’m Brandon,” one said. He put his papers aside and stood to shake hands. “You know Ashley here, and this is Ethan.”
Najid stood and returned the handshakes. “I didn’t know her name, and I am so pleased to meet all of you.”
“So you live in Israel, not the West Bank?” Brandon asked.
“Yes, my family has lived there for generations—over three hundred years.” He sat down, sipping his tea.
“So you’re Jewish then.”
“No, but we have many Jews in our town. We are Palestinians.”
“So let me get this straight.” Brandon look puzzled. “You are Palestinian and your family goes back three centuries in Israel?”
“Probably longer than that, but we have no records older than about ten generations.”
“So you speak Palestinian?”
“No.” Najid laughed with a twinkle in his eye. “We speak Arabic.”
“Oh.” Brandon furrowed his brow. “You mean that you are a Palestinian Arab but you live in Israel? I thought all Palestinians stayed in the West Bank.”
Najid chuckled. “No, we have lived there always, before Israel existed as a country. But many of us do live in the West Bank or Gaza.”
“Do you speak Hebrew?” Ethan inquired.
“Oh yes. I played with Jewish boys growing up and learned it from them, but also at school.”
“So you must be Muslim,” Norman replied. “Which branch are you with, Sunnis or are you Shiite?”
“Neither. I’m a Christian.”
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