The Second Messiah

by Glenn Meade

  He closed his eyes once more and he was nineteen again and the past washed over him …

  6

  HE COULD NEVER forget the day. It was seared into his mind as if with a branding iron.

  His parents and their Bedu driver, Basim Malik, were traveling in the front cab. Jack sat in the open back of the pickup, chatting and laughing with Lela Raul, an Israeli girl he had got to know in the last three months since her police sergeant father had been posted to the nearby kibbutz. Lela was smart and kind, with chocolate brown eyes, a sensuous mouth, and long black hair, and she’d made a big impression on a gangly, awkward nineteen-year-old.

  Suddenly the vehicle veered out of control and Jack remembered the screams of the passengers and the sickening sensation as their pickup skidded across the road, plunged into the ravine, and rolled over.

  A massive blast erupted from somewhere and he was thrown violently from the back of the pickup along with Lela, who lay sprawled nearby, and then the vehicle exploded in flames.

  Jack tried desperately to stand but his left leg was shattered, blood gushing from a nasty gash below his knee. He couldn’t hear, for there was a painful ringing sensation in his ears. Helpless and in agony, he crawled toward the wall of flame to reach the upturned pickup, but already it was too late.

  He saw the horrific image of his mother clawing wildly at the window, her blond hair on fire. His father yanked frantically at the passenger door as the cab was engulfed in smoke. The last thing Jack heard before he lost consciousness and everything faded was the muted sounds of his parents’ tortured screams.

  * * *

  When he came to he felt groggy and saw a Catholic priest kneeling over him, slapping his face. “Can you hear me? Wake up. Please wake up.”

  Jack recognized Father John Becket but he could barely hear him. He was one of a small number of Catholic clerics working on the dig. Nearby, he saw that Lela was propped with her back against a boulder, unconscious, her head lolled to one side. Another priest tended to her, a red-haired man with a strong, sculpted face. He was small and wiry, with the build of a jockey. Jack remembered him as an archaeologist with the Catholic delegation.

  Becket said, “The young lady’s concussed but she’s breathing okay. That’s Father Kubel. He was driving by the accident scene too. Father Kubel is skilled in first aid, he can take care of your friend. He thinks she’ll be fine. Do you understand me?”

  Jack nodded and saw the wiry little priest patting Lela’s face, trying to wake her. “What—what about my parents?” Jack asked.

  Father Becket looked toward the wreckage. The stench of burning flesh seared Jack’s nostrils and he stared in horror at the pickup. Someone had tried to force open the door but without success, and the windshield had been partly shattered, the dashboard turned to melted plastic, black smoke pluming out. He couldn’t see his mother or the driver but his father’s body was nearest the door, his flesh burnt like charcoal.

  The priest’s ashen expression said it all. “I—I managed to force open the door a little but the oxygen only made the cabin fire worse. I’m truly sorry. They’re all dead.”

  And then Jack’s head swam, his eyes flickered, and he drowned in darkness.

  He awoke in the intensive care unit of a Jerusalem hospital. Sergeant Raul, Lela’s father, was seated next to him. He was a tall, fit-looking man with a tanned face and dark, sensitive eyes. “How are you coping, Jack?”

  I’m not. Jack found it difficult to reply. He had lost the two people who had mattered most in his life and his grief seemed bottomless.

  Sergeant Raul said gently, “You’ve been out of it for the last three days with a concussion. But thankfully your hearing’s recovered after the blast and the doctors tell me you ought to be up to talking. Do you feel like talking, Jack?”

  “I don’t know how I feel.”

  “That’s understandable, you’ve been deeply traumatized.”

  “My—my parents couldn’t be saved?”

  The sergeant said grimly, “I’m afraid not, Jack. Basim Malik, their driver, died too. It’s a terrible tragedy. I’ve examined the accident scene and the skid marks suggest that the army driver was on the wrong side of the road. Once the fire in the cabin took hold, your parents and Basim were trapped inside.”

  Jack looked away, racked by anguish.

  Sergeant Raul patted his arm. “Lela asks after you. She’s in another ward, doing fine. She’s been checking on you the last few days but you’ve been sleeping for most of it. I know she’d like to see you as soon as you’re up to it. I hear you two have been good friends. I know Lela thinks highly of you.”

  Jack simply nodded. He could hardly speak, his heart as heavy as steel.

  “It seems you and Lela owe Father Becket your lives, Jack. Luckily he came along when he did. And Father Franz Kubel too.” Sergeant Raul paused, then added delicately, “About the scroll your father excavated. Lela said it was in a map case in the front cabin.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I couldn’t find it. And forensics found no remains of the case. But the windshield had been partly shattered. I wondered if you recall seeing the map case after the accident, Jack?”

  “No, I don’t. Father Becket told me he’d tried to force open the door to free my parents. He must have shattered the window as well. I’m sorry, Sergeant Raul, but I’m really not up to talking right now.”

  “Of course. But I need to inform you that your father’s colleagues have suggested erecting a grave memorial where the tragedy took place. It’s a particularly beautiful spot, looking toward Qumran, which your parents loved.”

  “Y—yes, of course.”

  “I also understand that your parents expressed the wish to be cremated in the event of their deaths. They wanted their ashes scattered in the Holy Land where they spent so much of their time. Sadly, your parents’ bodies were so badly burned there was little left but ashes. Perhaps I can arrange a symbolic gesture to help you carry out their wishes. I can arrange that an urn be filled.”

  Jack was overcome, fought back tears. His body felt scarred by wounds but the scars inside him were the hardest to bear. “I—I appreciate that.”

  “The grave memorial will be looked after, I promise you. Arabs and Jews have great respect for the dead. If only we had the same respect for the living.” The sergeant stood briskly, then said, “One final question, Jack, and then I won’t trouble you any longer. Do you know if the pickup had any maintenance work carried out recently?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  Sergeant Raul pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You’re sure about that? There was nothing mechanically wrong with the brakes, for instance?”

  “I—I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

  The sergeant considered, then shook his head. “No reason. Keep a firm grip, you hear? Try to stay strong, Jack. Your parents would have wanted you to.”

  Two days later, Jack was sitting in a chair outside his hospital room, his leg propped up on pillows, as he stared out absently at the parched hills beyond Jerusalem.

  As he sat there, numbed by grief, he heard footsteps and turned. A priest—small, wiry, with thinning red hair—stood there, carrying a brown paper bag. It was Father Kubel, the archaeologist who had tended to Lela. He placed the bag on the table. Jack noticed the man’s fingers were stained brown, the sign of a heavy smoker.

  “Some fruit,” the priest said awkwardly, his accent German. He looked upset. “I—I just came to say how sorry I am about your parents. They were good people. Your father was a fine archaeologist. It was an honor to work with him.”

  “That’s kind of you to say.”

  “I wanted you to know that Father Becket and I tried our best to rescue your parents. In fact, I’ve been asked by my superiors to write a report about the scroll’s destruction and the tragic accident. It will be an internal church document, of course, not meant for public consumption. But my superiors are anxious to know what happened. Your father’s wo
rk was a great asset to the dig.” Kubel hesitated. “I’m so sorry. If Father Becket and I could have done anything more, we would have, I assure you.”

  Jack fought back his emotion. “I’m grateful for what you both did.”

  Kubel placed a hand firmly on Jack’s shoulder. “I know it’s little consolation, but we will always remember your parents in our prayers.”

  Four days later Jack was discharged from the hospital, hobbling on a crutch until his leg healed. He made the final arrangements for his parents’ burial. It was to be a brief affair, yet more than two hundred people turned up, huddled in prayer along the roadway overlooking the ravine where Robert and Margaret Cane had died.

  A commemorative marker had been erected, and when the prayers finally ended Jack numbly shook the hands of mourners. Sergeant Raul waited until the crowds had driven away, then he touched Jack’s shoulder and handed him a metal urn containing a few handfuls of his parents’ ashes. “At least you can have a private moment to do what your folks would have wished, Jack. Someone wants to say hello, so I’ll leave you alone.”

  And then Sergeant Raul was gone and a voice said, “Hello, Jack.”

  He turned, saw Lela Raul. A white gauze patch covered her forehead, her pretty face bruised and drawn. It was the first time Jack had seen her since the accident and his heart lifted a little. “Lela, it’s good to see you.”

  They hugged and she kissed him on the cheek. “I don’t know what to say, Jack. I’m still in shock too. I wanted to come see you in the hospital but they wouldn’t allow you visitors for the first few days. I had to peer in at you through your door whenever I could.” Her voice broke off as she stared at the urn in Jack’s hands, then she reached out, her fingers touching his. “It must be so difficult for you. I just want you to know that you’ve got a friend.”

  Jack looked into her face, her chocolate eyes pools of concern. “How are you, Lela?”

  “I’ve felt a lot worse.”

  “How about Basim Malik’s family? They must be distraught that they’ve lost their father.”

  “It’s thoughtful of you to ask. My dad says they’re just about coping, like we all are.” Lela’s expression changed, as if there was something she was going to add but she fell silent.

  “Can you do something for me, Lela?”

  Her eyes lifted to meet his face. “Of course. Anything.”

  “Borrow your father’s car and drive me away from here.”

  “To where?”

  Jack felt overcome. “Anywhere. There’s something personal I need to do but I’m just not ready to do it yet.”

  Five minutes later, they were driving on the dusty roads toward Qumran, Lela steering her father’s blue Escort.

  “Did you think about what you’re going to do in the near future, Jack?”

  “I have to put my folks’ estate in order. Estate—that’s a joke. It’s just a small house at the end of a dirt road in upstate New York. My folks didn’t put much store by possessions. Their career never paid much but it meant everything to them.”

  “The house is where you grew up?”

  “More often than not I traveled with my folks. I got most of my education on the hoof. I guess I’d feel more at home in Qumran than in upstate New York.”

  “What will you do?”

  He had a lost look on his face as he said quietly, “Right now, I don’t know, Lela. Maybe go back to the States and finish my education.”

  She reached across, held his hand. “Am I allowed to say that I’m worried about you?”

  “I’m worried about me too.”

  “Will you write to me? Please?”

  “Sure.”

  “You don’t sound very convincing.”

  He looked at her. “I’m sorry, Lela, I guess my mind’s all over the place right now.”

  “Did my dad explain that the scroll may have been destroyed in the blaze? The forensics people found no remains of the leather map case.”

  “He told me.”

  “He asked Father Becket and Father Kubel if they’d seen it lying among the wreckage but they claimed they didn’t. Dad questioned a few other drivers who arrived at the accident soon after but no one knew anything.”

  Jack frowned. “Are you suggesting that your father thinks someone may have stolen it?”

  “No, but like most cops my dad’s just suspicious by nature. He’s got no proof that the scroll was completely destroyed in the inferno and it bothers him.”

  “Why did he ask me if any repair work had been carried out on the pickup? I almost got the feeling your father thought the crash was sabotage.”

  Lela’s face darkened. “I—I don’t think he’s sure of that, Jack. Certainly he’s got no evidence.”

  “What’s wrong? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “No. I told you, my dad’s just naturally suspicious. It’s the same with every case he works on. He’d really hoped forensics might have found at least some remains of the map case.”

  “My parents and Basim Malik were burned beyond recognition. What hope would a leather map case have?”

  “You’re right. I guess we’ll never know what the scroll contained.”

  “Right now, somehow, that doesn’t even matter. Though my dad would never have forgiven me for saying that. He was so excited about his discovery. He had high hopes it might have amounted to something. Can you turn back to the ravine now, Lela? I think I’m okay.”

  “Of course.” Ten minutes later she pulled up to the edge of the ravine and killed the engine. The afternoon sun was still hot, the sky cloudless, a strong breeze caressing the desert. Qumran lay beyond, stunning in the fading light. The pickup’s wreckage had been removed from the gully but the blackened stains from the fire were still there. Jack shivered.

  Lela asked, “Are you okay? Do you really think it’s such a good idea coming back? I don’t want you to torture yourself, Jack.”

  “For some reason I feel closer to them here, where I lost them. Does that make any sense?”

  Lela touched his hand, looked into his face. “Can I tell you something? When my mother died I learned that grief can be a very private thing. One day the person you love walks out the door and you never see them alive again. It can leave so many loose ends, so many things unsaid, because it can be all so sudden and unexpected. Sometimes it’s so very hard to come to terms. We clam up, can’t talk about it. But if ever you feel the need to talk, or you just want somebody to listen, you only have to say, Jack.”

  He gripped her hand, wanted Lela to hold him, to feel her comforting embrace, but this wasn’t the time. He clutched the urn and went to climb out of the car. “Can you excuse me a minute?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Something that my folks would have wanted.”

  Jack faced toward Qumran and the Dead Sea. He was dreading such a final act of farewell. He opened the urn and tilted a single handful of ashes into his palm, allowed them to trickle through his fingers and scatter into the soft breeze. They swirled, eddied away, toward Qumran’s tangerine hills.

  Jack thought, Is this all that remains of the two people I loved? My life and theirs simply turned to dust?

  When the last of the ashes blew through his fingers, he held up his dusty gray hand and smeared it on his face. Why, he didn’t know, except that for some strange reason, and just for that brief moment, it made him feel closer to his parents. Overcome, his body convulsed in a fit of sobbing.

  All he remembered after that was Lela appearing by his side, her arms going round him, holding him wordlessly. And so he stood there, clinging to her, both of them swaying in the desert breeze, as if at that moment each was all the other had in the world.

  Jack opened his eyes, let the past wash away. He looked out over the vast dusty landscape toward Jerusalem. Lela, where are you now?

  A hawk circled overhead, its shriek interrupting his thoughts. The months after his parents’ deaths were a reckless time when he’d done t
hings he never should have, just to bury his anguish. It was a time in his life he just wanted to forget.

  He stared down at the grave marker. Dad, Mom, I finally hit pay dirt and found a scroll. Everyone on the dig’s thrilled. Professor Green, our director, thinks it could be a pretty important discovery. I’m excited about it. I want you both to know that.

  Jack thought: I sound like a child. It was as if he were trying to impress his parents with his exam results. But he had such a powerful need to communicate his excitement with the two people who had shared his life.

  A memory came to him.

  A sunny winter’s day outside Cairo on his fifteenth birthday. Helping his father dig near some old burial sites at the Cheops pyramid, they had stopped to brew coffee, talk, and eat lunch. About that time Jack began to really feel the powerful allure of a career in archaeology. Ancient tombs, cryptic inscriptions etched in stone or onto papyrus, valuable coins, bits of jewelry, human bones, and broken pottery—this was the stuff adventures were made of.

  And as they sat and talked his father spoke about the Egyptians’ unshakable belief in an afterlife. It almost seemed to Jack that his father was suddenly conscious of his own mortality as a parent.

  At fifty, Robert Cane had come late to fatherhood. The experience had awed him. He adored his son, loved him with a depth that was sometimes frightening in its intensity. He was an emotional man, and his bright blue eyes had a hint of tears that day. “I want you to know that I love you, Jack.”

  “I love you too, Dad.”

  “You know what I believe, Jack? I believe love never dies. It’s the sole reason why we’re all here. To create love and to nurture it. And I believe the Egyptians were right, just like so many other civilizations that put their trust in an afterlife. There’s a dimension that as humans we can’t even begin to perceive, call it heaven or Nirvana or whatever you want, but it’s a dimension created by God, where we all meet again and renew our love. Do you understand what I’m saying, Jack?”