The Angel and the Cross

by Sigmund Brouwer

  Now, I’m not saying that you should go ahead and cheerfully do what’s wrong so that you can be forgiven. If you do things even though you can easily foresee the consequences – like, say, jump in front of a moving school bus or run your fingers through a chainsaw – that’s not a mistake. That’s simply being unintelligent. There are things in life – like the abuse of drugs, alcohol, and cigarettes – that obviously will hurt you. Maybe not as quickly as stepping in front of a moving school bus, but just as surely.

  If, however, you are doing the best you can at whatever you’re learning, mistakes will always be a part of it. If these are mistakes that you are truly sorry about – ones that require forgiveness - Our Father will grant forgiveness through His Son. The important thing for you humans to remember is that you must get back up again every time, just like a baby learning to walk.

  Decisions.

  As the cart moved through Jericho, I was nearby and unseen. I could see danger just ahead in the form of a Roman soldier about to stop the cart.

  This was not danger for Quentin, but for the task he’d been called to fulfill by Our Father. If Quentin made a decision to throw off the blanket and call for help, I was not to interfere. Quentin would be granted release from what Our Father wanted him to do. Our Father never forces His children to follow His will. It’s a glorious thing that He gives them a choice.

  And it’s a thing of great responsibility.

  Quentin had a decision ahead of him. Would he leap from the cart and return to his safe life as the son of a Roman general, or would he remain hidden?

  I had my instructions to help him, but only if he chose Our Father’s task over his desire for a seemingly safe life. . .

  Chapter Twelve

  “Halt!”

  The voice of a Roman soldier reached Quentin and Shel under the blanket.

  Salvation! All Quentin had to do was lift the blanket!

  “No man passes through the city gates without being searched,” the stern soldier voice continued.

  “Sir, I am a poor trader,” another voice replied, “bringing these blankets to Gilgal. Only half the day remains, and I must reach it before nightfall. Otherwise bandits-”

  “Step aside. The son of our legion’s commander has been kidnapped. Nothing passes through unsearched.”

  All Quentin need do was cough loudly and the blankets would be lifted to reveal them. He could then avenge Eli’s betrayal. And, being able to recognize Barabbas, he could assist in the capture of the Zealot leader and help destroy their rebel gang.

  Quentin knew Shelomith, rigid with worry beside him, was thinking the same thoughts. So why was he hesitating?

  With dismay he realized he, too, was holding his breath wild with hope that they would not be discovered. Quentin wanted to remain where he was, hidden and about to leave the city - with the enemy. He did not want Shelomith to be arrested because of her involvement in the kidnapping. He also remembered the angel’s message. Who was Shel’s God? What task was Quentin supposed to fulfill?

  There was only one way to find out. He had to remain hidden. And hope that the soldier would not search their cart.

  The seconds passed slowly.

  Another voice reached them. It was quiet but authoritative. “Let him pass.”

  Quentin knew that voice. Pelagius!

  “Of course,” came the soldier’s humble reply.

  “Thank you, kind sir,” the trader said, speaking to Pelagius. “You are obviously a Roman of high distinction. Perhaps I could interest you in fine quality blankets!”

  Quentin imagined the stony stare that Pelagius would be giving the trader during the brief silence.

  “I shall be on my way,” the trader finished weakly.

  The creaking of the cart began again.

  **

  “I say we simply announce ourselves and get out and walk beside the man,” Quentin whispered to Shel. “This heat is killing me. And this trader probably has water.”

  “He may be anybody,” Shel whispered back. “You’re a fool to trust a stranger anywhere outside the city. Wilderness surrounds us. And you are worth a fortune to anybody who captures us.”

  She had a valid point. Quentin hoped she wouldn’t always be right, especially since she seemed so determined to stay close by. They had been traveling for two hours, more than long enough to put them in the high, almost mountainous hills between Jericho and Gilgal.

  “Pelagius will protect us.”

  “You’re running away from him. Remember?”

  “But --” Quentin was about to tell her who had spoken to the soldier at the city gates, but the trader’s voice interrupted him.

  “Ho, ho, darling. Did you say something?”

  The donkey did not reply.

  “This heat is addling my poor head, darling. It seems the very bushes are speaking. Unless it’s you!” The trader laughed at his own joke.

  Quentin could not stop the impulse that overcame him. Eli - a picture of the gentle old man filled his mind once again - had once spent a month teaching him the trick of throwing voices. For a long while, Quentin had played many tricks on the servants of the palace, making his voice seem to leap from baskets of clothing or out from behind closed doors.

  Quentin guessed that the trader often spoke to the donkey, passing the time as they traveled. He grinned to himself in the darkness underneath the blankets, then pushed the blankets upward enough for a crack of daylight to appear.

  “How can you call me darling?” Quentin projected the words outward and strained them in a high pitch that a donkey might use.

  Shel punched him.

  “What!” the trader croaked.

  “You pull this load for a change,” Quentin continued. “Then you may call me darling.”

  The cart stopped and the trader’s feet quickly shuffled forward.

  “Say that again!” the trader pleaded. “Say it again so I can watch your mouth move. Otherwise, I’ll truly believe I am crazy!”

  Shel bit a giggle before it could explode.

  Quentin remained quiet until the cart began to move again.

  “I don’t like your breath, either,” Quentin screeched. “Chewing on garlic day after day.”

  “Aaack! Darling!” The trader jumped forward this time as the cart stopped suddenly. Quentin and Shel heard the sound of the trader’s footsteps as he walked to the donkey. “I promise never to touch garlic. Just look me straight in the eyes, my beautiful beast, and tell me once again.”

  Silence for several minutes.

  “Oy, oy, oy,” the trade muttered as he trudged back.

  Fifteen minutes later, Quentin began again. “I’d like a bath every day. And ointment on my tired feet. I at least deserve that.”

  More scurrying and an abrupt halt. “Darling! Anything you say! Just request it to my face,” the trader pleaded.

  Shel clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming with laughter.

  “Darling!” the trader’s voice suddenly became urgent. “I see men coming down from the hills. It does not look good. We must hurry.”

  Bandits.

  They heard the crack of a whip, and the cart began to jounce wildly.

  “Faster, darling, faster! Once we make it to the top of the pass, we have a chance of outrunning them.”

  The cart bounced and swayed madly. Twice it landed so heavily that Quentin jarred his head on the splintered wooden floor.

  Voices shouted and screamed.

  Suddenly the cart slowed.

  “This is not a welcome party,” a rough voice snarled. “You’d better pray you have much to donate, trader, or you will find yourself missing a limb.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Beneath the blanket, Shel gripped Quentin’s arm so tightly that he winced. “Bandits!” she hissed. “They will take everything the trader offers, and then tear him apart anyway.”

  “And us?” Quentin whispered back. “Once they lift these blankets?”

  Shel did not reply for
several seconds. When she spoke, it was with a quiet intensity that chilled Quentin much more than his fear of the bandits.

  “Stay here,” she said. “Once they see me, they will not think to look for another. You are too valuable to die.”

  Before Quentin could decide what she meant by that comment, Shel rolled away from him to the edge of the cart and squirmed free of the blankets.

  “What have we here?” a gruff voice roared with laughter. “The trader has more to offer than just blankets!”

  “To touch me will cost you your life.” The anger and disdain in Shel’s voice carried clearly to Quentin. “This man was transporting me as a favor to my father. He will not look kindly on any harm you do to me. Or the trader.”

  “Ho, ho! And who is your mighty father?” The gruff voice laughed more.

  “Barabbas. Leader of the Zealots.”

  There was silence.

  Shel’s voice began again. “I see that you recognize the name. You do know that there is no Zealot fiercer than he. What you do not know is that his secret caves are located somewhere in these hills. His men have been watching us ever since we left Jericho.”

  What an incredible bluff, Quentin thought with admiration.

  “Why, then, do you hide beneath blankets if you are so safe?” The man’s voice held wavering doubt.

  “Fool. For the same reason I was under the blankets in the first place - to escape the eyes of Roman soldiers. They have been trying to find my father’s hideout for years.”

  “This is unusual,” the bandit said slowly. “However...”

  Something cool touched Quentin’s calf. He bit his tongue to keep from yelling. The coolness moved upward, a smoothness that could only be one thing. A snake!

  Even as he held back his moan, he knew he had made a mistake in flinching.

  The bandit’s voice changed tones. He must have noticed the movement. “And you, of course, traveled alone beneath those blankets?”

  “Of course,” Shel replied with ice in her voice.

  The snake had reached his thigh. Quentin flinched again.

  “Pull off the blankets!” the bandit ordered roughly.

  Even though he knew it meant in all likelihood that he would die, Quentin nearly cried with relief as the blankets began to shift above him. The snake was already at his belly.

  The bright sunshine blinded him, but in one swift movement, Quentin reached down and flung the snake away as the final blankets were lifted.

  The snake landed at the leader’s feet, and, momentarily stunned, lay there without moving.

  Quentin blinked his eyes to adjust to the brightness, just as the bandit snarled.

  “A daughter of Barabbas indeed. More than likely you are two runaways. This is what I will do to you both.”

  The bandit was short but built with the power of a low-slung bull. Gold flashed from his fingers and neck as he pulled his sword free and slashed downward at the snake.

  Slashed in two, both halves writhed frantically in the dust.

  Quentin shuddered.

  “Strip them all!” the bandit ordered. “I will use the sword. But I will start with their limbs. Their deaths shall be much slower. Even the jackals will have difficulty finding the pieces.”

  Quentin saw no way out by either fighting or running. There were at least a dozen other bandits, all with horses or mules.

  Strangely, as the first of the bandits grabbed his arms, he smiled sadly at the thought of dying. What a strange time to notice the beauty among these hills. The pale blue sky and faraway lines of the horizon were lost in a light haze. The shrubs bent in a lonely wind. Has God’s world – he caught his acknowledgement of the girl’s God with irritation – has this land always been this awe inspiring? Or had the moment of impending death suddenly made him realize what a gift it is to be alive?

  A shriek brought him back from his thoughts.

  A tall bandit had wrestled Shel to the ground.

  Quentin suddenly knew he could do something.

  “Stop!” he demanded. “I am a citizen of Rome.”

  His words bought a momentary pause.

  “Yes,” he continued. “My father is the commander of the legion. I am worth much more to you alive. Let the girl go, and you will receive a king’s ransom for me.”

  The bandits laughed.

  Their leader snorted. “First, the daughter of Barabbas. Then, the son of a legion’s commander. What wonderful lies!”

  His face darkened. “Kill them even more slowly.”

  “I can prove it!” Quentin did not let his voice plead. “Find someone who speaks Latin. He will know only a Roman can speak it as flawlessly as I can.”

  The leader of the bandits shuffled closer. He nodded to one of the men holding the boy. “Spare the boy. But not the girl or the trader. I am growing tired of this.”

  The leader turned his back and walked to his horse.

  Two other bandits raised their swords to strike Shel.

  Quentin screamed. It started deep inside and roared through his entire body. It was a scream of rage and hatred. “Noooooo!”

  The last echoes bounced back off the hills as he screamed his futility again. “Noooooo!”

  And as his scream of anger died, a towering sheet of sand engulfed them with the force of a tumbling stone wall.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The sand roared around Quentin with blinding fury.

  Eniji! The sandstorms which rose with terrifying swiftness in the desert were driven by a freak wind in this barren mountain pass. Quentin knew that a sudden eniji could actually drown men and camels in the suffocating sand.

  Where was Shel?

  Sand filled his eyes and nose as Quentin staggered to where he had last seen her.

  Would she be alive when he reached her? Had the bandit slain her as his last act before seeking refuge from the raging sandstorm?

  Sobbing for breath, Quentin drove himself forward, his eyes screwed shut tightly against the wall of sand. He stumbled, then fell when his feet hit a body.

  By all of Jupiter, he prayed to himself, let this be her. Let her be alive.

  His searching fingers found long hair in the rising sand. Then her fingers found his hand with a light touch in the sand’s grittiness. Alive!

  He found her ear, placed his mouth against it, and shouted, “Can you walk?” The effort nearly gagged him and he spit sand from his throat.

  Shel squeezed his hand as a reply.

  Quentin struggled to his feet, then pulled her up against the gale. There was no way possible for him to open his eyes.

  He clasped her fingers and began walking, this time with the direction of the wind, knowing they would make little progress walking into it. Even then, breathing was nearly impossible, as the sand swirled into their faces with a force that felt alive and evil.

  Shel tugged at his hand, stopping him.

  Quentin squeezed hard and tugged in return. “Keep moving!” he wanted to shout. “We must escape!” But he could not open his mouth in the driving sand. He knew that if he let go of Shel’s hand, he might not find her again in this nightmare.

  Stubbornly, Shel pulled again. Quentin held tight - the only choice he had - and followed her. He discovered her wisdom almost instantly as they blindly hit the cart.

  Blankets!

  Pressing her leg against Quentin to maintain contact, Shel tore a blanket from the cart and wrapped it around their heads.

  Quentin coughed for breath.

  “A water bag, then we go,” came her muffled cry from under the blanket. “As far as the storm takes us.”

  **

  “I swear by Jupiter I shall give alms to every blind beggar I see,” Quentin said. “Between the eniji that lasted until sundown and now this cloudless night, I now truly know the horror of blindness.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Shel replied calmly. She was less than two feet behind him and could barely see his back in the murkiness of the clouded, starless night.


  “You wish I wouldn’t help beggars? I thought you Jews -”

  “No, I wish you wouldn’t swear by Jupiter.”

  “Do we have to go through this again? For two hours and probably four miles we talked religion. I told you. You can have your religion. I won’t bother you about it. And you don’t bother me about mine. It’s called tolerance.”

  Shel said nothing to that.

  “Your religion, your angel…” he continued with slight bitterness. “Messenger from God? Ha! You Zealots cooked up a good one there. You nearly had me fooled, but I refuse to believe for a…oof!” Quentin bumped his shins into a solid ledge. “Mars! The third cursed boulder I’ve hit in the last five minutes! It’s so dark it’s like my eyes are closed.”

  From behind him came silence.

  “Alright,” he said. “I’m sorry for cursing by Mars.”

  More silence.

  “Look,” he said with exasperation. “I’ll quit this by the gods stuff around you. But you still haven’t explained where your God was when we really needed him.”

  “We’re alive, aren’t we? I believe He sent the sandstorm to save us.”

  “Why would He go to so much effort? Besides, we’re alive and lost and walking blind somewhere in the hills of the wilderness. I don’t call that being saved if…oof! These boulders! They come from out of nowhere.”

  “Should we stop?” Shel asked quietly. “After all, we have the blanket, and it would serve us well to rest.”

  “We’ve been through this, too. I want as much distance as possible between us and those bandits.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Quentin sighed. “I didn’t force you to follow me. I didn’t force you to hide in the cart with me.”

  Shel pulled on the blanket. They were using it as a rope to keep them together in the darkness of the night. “Quentin,” she said softly. “Thanks for offering to sacrifice yourself among those bandits.”

  For the first time since leaving the cart, Quentin was grateful for darkness around him. Because of it, Shel could not see the warm flush in his cheeks at the softness of her voice. He realized with sudden affection that she, too, must be exhausted and hungry.