Thorns of Glory, page 13
“Let me see this Finder,” I insisted.
She glared at me. “Why?”
“If it’s what you say, asking no conditions of whoever uses it, why should you be afraid to reveal it?”
“Oh, I’m very afraid,” she confessed. “Nimrah would slit my throat. He’d bleed me out like a coyote to get it back. I will not bring it out into the open so recklessly. Nimrah could be watching. By now he has many spies—even among the people camped in Bet Ani—waiting for the right moment to strike and steal it back.”
“You, yourself, admitted that Nimrah is a sorcerer,” said Melody. “If this Finder were designed for good, it could never be used for evil purposes. Only God’s purposes.”
Hamira made a dismissive grunt. “I used it to find Joshua.” She looked at me. “I used it to reunite you with your loved ones. Was this not a good purpose? A godly purpose?”
I opened my mouth. I didn’t have a reply.
“I will show you the Finder when it is right,” said Hamira. “But not as you demand.” She added bluntly, “This conversation is at an end.”
Oh yes, this situation sounded very familiar. This Oracle of Cohor, whatever it was, had Hamira by the throat. Sadly, I felt like I was the least-qualified person in the room to judge or help her. Or maybe . . . maybe I was the most qualified.
Mom tried one more angle. “If you will not show it to us, will you show it to the Master?”
“Master who?” I asked.
Mom and Melody smiled warmly.
Tears came to Melody’s eyes. “You don’t know, do you? You don’t know where you are.”
I became impatient. “I’ve asked several times already. The twelfth of Nisan, year three-thousand and whatever. Where are we?”
Mom grasped both of my hands. “The first century, Joshua. He’s here. He’s within a hundred yards of this very stable, inside the home of Simon the Leper.”
My head was swimming. “Who are you talking about? Who’s here?”
“Someone we’ve already met,” added Melody. “Although, you may have been too young to remember. We met Him at the Temple grounds in Bountiful. You were only four years old.”
I stared at her face, my eyes blinking. “You mean . . . the Mes—the Mes— You mean Jesus?” I spoke the name very quietly, like something fragile. I was a little breathless.
Mom smiled more broadly; Melody nodded.
“Yes,” my mother confirmed.
“No,” said Hamira adamantly. “I will not show this man the Finder. I do not know Him!”
“Hamira—” said Mom pleadingly.
“NO!” she declared again. “Do you not listen to the people of this encampment? His so-called ‘followers’? People are starting to doubt He’s a prophet at all. Their irritation, their anger, is becoming palpable. Why do you trust the judgment of this man?”
“Don’t you feel anything when He speaks?” asked Mom.
“When He speaks?” Hamira huffed dismissively. “Shortly after we arrived here with Joshua, He was arguing with His brothers. In turn, His brothers argued with His disciples. They feel He is behaving like a fool.”
“When did this happen?” asked Mom.
“I overheard them when I fetched water for Joshua,” said Hamira. “He’s no longer inside the house. Or on the premises. He walked away in frustration. No one knows where He went.”
Arguing? Brothers? I didn’t even know Jesus had brothers.
Despite what Melody said, I had an indelible memory of that radiant figure amidst the ruins of the holy temple in the city of Bountiful. I remembered being encompassed by what looked like a ring of fire, and I remembered heavenly beings—angels—circling around us in a ring of their own. I was so young, the memory so old. It was like a dream now, but it was too vivid. It was no dream. It’d really happened. Still, I couldn’t picture the Man who’d blessed me that day arguing so heatedly with His “followers” of the encampment.
“What’s going on?” I asked Mom and Melody. “Why are Jesus and so many family and followers here?”
A pall settled over them, like a shadow moving over the sun. Neither of them seemed to know where to begin.
“This is the week,” said Mom. “The final week before . . .”
I waited. “Before . . . ?”
A tear slipped from Melody’s eye. I think she’d have broken down emotionally, but Mom wrapped her arms about Melody’s shoulders. She reached out and pulled me into the embrace. I resisted at first. Mom hadn’t answered my question, but she was determined, so I let myself be drawn in.
With Mom’s arm around my shoulders, she said solemnly, “In two days . . . it will all be over, Joshua. His ministry. For three days, we’ve witnessed so many glorious events. Today is the fourth day of the week. Tomorrow night, at sundown, begins the Passover. The day after that . . . it will end.”
I leaned back so I could take in her face. “He’s about to be arrested?”
Mom nodded.
“This is the first century a.d.?”
“Yes,” said Melody.
“And you’ve been here for three days?”
“Longer,” said Mom. “That’s just how long we’ve been here, in Bethany, where the Savior has been residing with His disciples and relatives. Everyone is here. His whole entourage from Galilee. Tents and canvases are pitched around the house, upon every open spot of ground.”
“Does He know . . . about you?”
Mom looked at me strangely. I thought, Stupid question. The Messiah knew everything. I asked in a different way. “Has He spoken with you? Have you told Him directly about Uncle Jim? About Gid and Sabrina?”
“Of course not,” said Mom.
I screwed up an eyebrow. “Of course not?”
“Didn’t you hear what we said?” Melody scolded mildly. “Tomorrow night is the Passover Feast. The Last Supper. The Atonement of mankind is about to occur. Our problems . . . are nothing by comparison.”
“Where is He?” My tone was full of resolve. “I’ll talk to Him.”
“No, Joshua,” Mom insisted. “You will not burden Him with something like this.”
“That’s crazy!” I said. “He’s God! There is no problem He’d consider ‘nothing.’ The lives of three people we love hang in the balance.”
“For Him, the lives of every soul ever born and unborn hang in the balance,” said Mom.
“His disciples don’t understand what’s happening either,” added Melody. “His own family doesn’t understand. Many are bitter. Depressed. Hamira is right. The discontent is growing. Don’t you think the Redeemer has enough on His plate for the next two days? He has more than you or I could ever comprehend.”
“Fifteen seconds,” I said. “I just want to talk to Him for fifteen seconds. He could solve our problems with the snap of a finger.” I turned to Hamira. “Where is your black oracle? He’ll tell us immediately what it is. We’ll know just by the look on His face.”
“I don’t need Him to tell me what it is,” grumbled Hamira. “I already know. And this ‘Redeemer’ of yours is only a man.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Was this the same Hamira I’d kissed in the torchlight? I’d thought this girl was dead. I’d been grief-stricken for days, believing I’d abandoned her to certain destruction. These weren’t the words of the Hamira I thought I knew. This wasn’t the same person who’d risked her life to save the record of the brother of Jared. She’d changed. Her brother had caused this change. He’d altered her way of thinking.
No. It was this Oracle of Cohor that’d changed her. It’d changed her the same way Akish’s sword had changed me. Listening to Hamira talk, looking into her face, it was like gazing at a mirror reflection of myself from several years ago.
Mom corrected Hamira. “He’s the Son of God.”
“He’s a deceiver,” said Hamira. “These people who gloat over Him . . . they’re all fools. Why are you so enamored of Him?”
“Why are you so against Him?” asked Melody. “You’ve never heard Him speak.”
“I’ve heard enough,” said Hamira. “What mysterious thing do you think I should be hearing?”
“Your Finder,” I repeated to Hamira. “Show it to me.”
She backed away. “You may be a warrior. A commander. You’re not my commander, Joshua. You have your own Finder. Show Him that.” That last word had almost snagged in her throat. Her face reddened. She’d regretted saying it. Something was wrong.
“Where is it?” I asked. “The Liahona? Where’s my uniform and the rest of my stuff?”
I searched the room. The blue-green plumage of my Fox Division helmet and the rest of my regalia sat in the opposite corner, but I couldn’t see my weapons. I took several long strides to where my items had been heaped on the straw. My sword and arrows were missing. I riffled through the rest until I found my belt and the leather satchel that had carried the Liahona. Where is it? The satchel was empty. It wasn’t here!
“Hamira!” Melody cried.
I turned quickly, in time to see Hamira flee out into the daylight.
I became frantic. “What’s going on?” I asked Melody and Mom. “Where’s the Liahona?”
“Liahona?” asked Mom. “The Liahona?”
“Yes, the Liahona.” I gritted my teeth. “She took it. Hamira took it!”
I burst outside, rounding the building in the direction Hamira had fled. My temper was roiling. I wasn’t paying attention; I collided with a man, nearly barreling over the top of him. He grasped my shoulders to slow me down—an act of self-preservation.
“Apologies,” I said quickly.
I scanned the area. As Mom had said, tents and other shelters had been assembled everywhere. I also saw a stone house, gardens, hedges, but no Hamira.
I turned back to the man I’d nearly trampled. “Where did she go? Did you see where that woman ran?”
The man wore a brown tunic. He had a thick beard, short hair. I might’ve expected him to be angry, curse in my face for nearly bowling him over. Instead, his expression was calm . . . placid. It seemed he’d already forgotten our collision. His eyes took me in. Encompassed me. The transition was weird. A second ago, he’d looked preoccupied. Now he studied me with an intensity that . . . I can’t put it into words. I froze in my tracks, unable to look away.
He shook his head slowly, then blinked. It was a long blink. Time stood still as he closed and reopened his eyes. “She doesn’t have what you seek. Others are responsible. But it’s safe. You will find it again.”
“What do you mean? What are you talking about?”
He couldn’t possibly mean the Liahona. He knew nothing about—
Who was this man? Nothing about him was noteworthy—except his gaze. His eyes held me captive, read my mind. Read everything about me.
He ignored my question. “Go after her. She needs your help.”
“Do I know you?” I asked awkwardly.
He smiled mildly. “Yes.”
My heart thudded. Compared to his voice, my own sounded harsh and grinding. His words were . . . musical. Penetrating.
“Who are you?” I whispered. I was trying, I suppose, to match his tone. But he hadn’t whispered, which compounded the lameness of my effort.
“I am Yeshua,” He replied, “of Nazareth.”
For countless seconds, I gaped dumbly. What was I doing? Was I searching His expression for something familiar? Something I recognized? His hair was uncombed. His eyes were red, either from weeping or sheer exhaustion. His skin was bronze, like that of practically every other citizen of this land, as they spent much of their lifetime in the sun. There was even a patch of pink on His nose, peeling from sunburn.
“Jesus of Nazareth.” I wasn’t asking a question, just tasting the words. He nodded. The breath finally left my lungs.
He was right. I did know Him. From that day in Bountiful. Yet . . . that day was in the future. It hadn’t arrived. By the reckoning of time—normal time—He and I wouldn’t meet for . . . months? A year? Still, when He’d answered yes, He’d meant something eminently deeper. Of course the Savior knew me. He knew me the way He knew so many billions of other men, women, and children. He knew me the way He knew every soul that belonged to Mother Earth. Nevertheless, I couldn’t place His face. Nothing about the Messiah struck a note of familiarity, at least physically. I felt as though I’d been misled by my own expectations.
His simple tunic was damp from the morning rains, frayed along many hems. It was also disconcerting that His cloak wasn’t white. It was tawny, like most other mantles or cloaks worn by Jewish pilgrims. It had crimson and black stripes on the sleeves, a style I supposed was associated with His home district.
I may have left the modern world at the age of twelve, but I still had a vivid memory of movies and television shows about Christ—Ben Hur, The Greatest Story Ever Told, countless Church movies. In virtually every depiction I’d ever seen, Jesus’s cloak was a dazzling white. Didn’t matter if it was a scene before or after His Resurrection. This made it easy for the viewer to pick the Savior out of a massive crowd, like a beacon. His hair wasn’t even long. His beard was thick—thicker than in any modern painting I’d seen. His cloak had smudges of dirt or charcoal, particularly around His knees. His hands appeared recently washed, yet grime was visible under every fingernail, inside every crease and scar. Why not? Why should His hands be different from any other farmer, fisherman, or carpenter in ancient times? Or that of a mechanic or construction worker in the world of my parents?
Who’d started all those silly traditions about the Messiah’s appearance during His mortal life? Well, they had it wrong. I half-wondered if the person before me wore a disguise. But no. These were His mortal trappings. What was missing was the immortal glory I recalled from Bountiful. I guess I’d never thought about how dramatic that difference, that factor, would make Him appear. How could someone like me, who’d first laid eyes on Him as a God, ever hope to recognize Him as a mortal? The secret, I decided, was in those eyes. In His gaze. A person like me could peer into those eyes, gauge his heart rate, gauge his breathing and come to an appropriate conclusion. In that way, I suppose, recognizing Him lay within a person’s heart and lungs. Certainly not inside their brain.
I realized I’d fallen to my knees. At some point—not sure when—I’d grasped His hand. Or had He grasped mine? Tears pricked at my eyes, but for some reason, the ducts refused to overflow. I felt like a goldfish peering at Him from inside a fishbowl.
“Master,” I said. My hands quivered. “Forgive me. I didn’t—”
“Rise, Joshua,” He said quietly.
Unsteadily, I came to my feet. I dabbed my eyes on my sleeve and realized Mom and Melody were standing behind Him, beaming with smiles. Others were gathering. It occurred to me that finding Him here, on the lee side of the stable, probably meant He was seeking some kind of solitude. I’d sorta botched that for Him. I couldn’t have named the Jewish men suddenly swarming us, but some were certainly His future Apostles, the Twelve, as well as the earthly brothers Hamira had mentioned. Women had gathered too. The throng was about to overwhelm Him, dominate the area where He stood, in an effort to overhear every word and breath. I had mere seconds to speak.
Words tumbled clumsily out of my mouth. “We need your help. My aunt, my cousin—They’re missing. They—”
“Give the Master space!”
Someone’s hand pushed me away. Others encircled Him on all sides. I was shut out. Everyone wanted His attention—simultaneously. Two of the men had a different appearance from the others. No beards, green-and-white tunics—expensive-looking garb by comparison to most other disciples and Galileans.
A stocky man with curly sideburns and a burgeoning beard hastily introduced these strangers. “Master, these men are Greeks from the north. Luke and Alexander.”
The droopy-faced Greek named Alexander spoke up. “Rabbi Yeshu, we are proselytes from Antioch. I am a citizen of the Empire and a scholar of the Word. My companion, Luke, is a physician. We have studied much in the company of the Hebrews in our community about the coming forth of the Shekinah, the Messiah. Some say that you are that man, yet it is also our understanding and a cause of much consternation among us to learn that you, yourself, make no claim to your glorious call.”
Jesus turned away and sort of mumbled, “Then, you will be pleased.” He turned back and nodded. “The hour is come. The hour has come when the Son of Man is glorified.”
“Then,” said Alexander tentatively, “shall you return later to the hallowed Temple grounds to demand your throne? Perhaps on the day of the feast?”
All muttering voices and shuffling feet fell silent. The gathering eagerly awaited His reply. The Savior looked weary. Yet with the same calm tone He’d used to address me, He said, “Truly, truly, I say to you that unless a kernel of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone. But if it dies, then it bears much fruit.”
More murmuring. The people didn’t like this answer.
One of the disciples—the stocky Galilean who’d brought forward the two Greeks—said quietly, as if the words were meant for Jesus alone, “Why do you speak this way? In riddles? You will not die, Master. No one is going to die.”
The chatter intensified. The Savior opened His mouth to say more, and one of the older disciples, a large burly man—possibly the one named Shimon “the Rock”—held up his hands to silence the crowd.
The Messiah added, “Whoever loves his life will lose it; and whoever loses his life in this world will preserve it in the life to come.”
In dismay, the Greek named Luke said, “Rabboni, we are here to know if we should serve you. Yet you seem to say that you, and all those who follow you, must die.”
