The Caleb Collection

by Ted Dekker

  “And they would allow this?”

  “What could they do? Bomb themselves into oblivion? Perhaps it would be best.”

  “And you believe that Jordan and Egypt and the others would agree?”

  “Without question.”

  Abu looked at the large wall map to his right. “As I said, it’s my son. He believes this may actually happen.” He turned and smiled.

  Nasser wasn’t smiling. “And if your son is right, then Allah help us all,” he said.

  “Yes. Allah help us all.”

  11

  Caleb . . .”

  “Yes, Dada?”

  C “If you peel back the skin of this world, what will you find?”

  “I will find an oven.”

  “No. You will find the kingdom of God. A kingdom where the meek inherit the earth and mountains are moved with words.”

  “No, Dada. I will find a white hot oven called the desert . . .”

  The voice faded and Caleb faced a black world. He blinked and slowly opened his eyes. The sky was blue and a round ball of fire hung above his head. The sun.

  He jerked up and pain spread through his skull. He slumped back to the hard earth and groaned. But in that moment he saw that he really was in the desert. The previous night’s events crashed through his mind.

  He was in the Danakil Desert. The monastery had been taken by bandits. He was looking for help. He had to find help!

  Caleb pushed himself up to his elbow and fought to focus his vision. The white salt flats ran to the horizon, like a huge marble slab. A very thin film covered the ground. He lifted his hand and touched the tiny grains to his tongue. Salt.

  He eased back down, rolled to his side, and began licking the white salt. I’m licking the salt like an animal, he thought. I’ve become like an animal. But he kept licking because nothing seemed as appropriate at the moment. He had to go—that much he knew—but first he had to lick because his body craved salt.

  Then the taste grew bitter and he stopped.

  It occurred to him that while he was here nuzzling the ground, his parents were held at gunpoint. He struggled to his feet. The heat felt like it had weight. Hot enough to dry the tongue if you happened to open your mouth. He ran his tongue along the rough edges of his lips without managing to wet them.

  Caleb wavered on his feet for a few long seconds, unsure which direction to walk. He looked back towards the hills and considered trying to make his way to the monastery. The spring he’d stopped at last night was back there.

  But Father Joseph Hadane was not.

  He looked out to the featureless desert thinking that it was mad to wander aimlessly in this white oven. But he had to, didn’t he? Still he couldn’t. His muscles refused to walk. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff and knowing that you had to step off. Just because you knew you had to didn’t make taking that first step easy. Every corner of his mind recoiled at the thought. He stood there weaving in the sun, unable to move.

  Going back might not be such a crazy thing—I’ll drink and find my energy and then plan something logical. Father Hadane isn’t the only man who can help; there’ve got to be others. The lepers—why didn’t I just go to the lepers? I could have taken their horse . . .

  Why hadn’t he thought of that last night? But now it was a full day back and then another day to help . . . at least.

  On impulse he took a small step forward with his right foot. And then he brought his left foot up to join the right.

  Without really knowing why doing so made any sense, he began to take small wobbly steps forward, like a penguin teetering across the ice.

  Only this wasn’t ice. It was blistering salt. And he wasn’t a penguin. He was a madman. An ant wandering into a furnace. Already after only ten steps his sandals felt like they might be melting. At least he was wearing khaki slacks and a long-sleeved cotton shirt—they would keep his skin from melting. For a while.

  Caleb swallowed hard against a lump gathering in his throat. Tears of frustration blurred his vision. He could hardly see, but it didn’t matter—he didn’t know where he was going anyway.

  Professor Daniel Zakkai crouched alone in the monastery’s root cellar, outlined by the torch’s amber flames, and began tapping the floor with a small ball-peen hammer.

  The first day of exhaustive search had ended in a few hours of sleep during which it had become clear to him that, absent Caleb, he could still carry on, albeit in a very limited fashion. Maybe even dig a little. And if he was to actually dig, there was no part of the site that begged to be further examined more than the root cellar. He’d awoken and asked them to move the racks of potatoes from one end of the six-by-six-meter room to the other.

  He tapped lightly on the hard stonelike surface, listening to the tone of the echo. The urgency for discovery had evaporated after the night search. Clearly they were stuck without Caleb. But this fact did less to dampen his enthusiasm than to settle him into a more cautious pace. He often told his students that the greatest finds were exposed by the last hair on the brush in an inadvertent sweep. An exaggeration, obviously, but one filled with truth nonetheless.

  Zakkai tapped slowly, judging the depth of the concrete with a discerning ear. Most of the floors he’d tested produced a deep, dull thunk consistent with earth or rock. The walls gave off a higher toned report, and in several places the root cellar’s floor gave off a similar sound. But it was the hollow ring that his ears begged for. As of yet the sound had alluded him.

  He worked on his knees, down to the east wall, and then he began a diagonal crossing pattern to the corner. The cool air smelled musty, like earth—an odor he’d grown to love over the years, like a soldier might love the smell of gunpowder.

  If they found the Ark . . .

  Zakkai stopped himself and looked blankly at the wall. If they found the Ark . . . The phrase had an absurd ring to it. His mind drifted back to the day David Ben Solomon had first stepped into the doorframe of his office. He knew Solomon from the news, of course. The rogue Knesset member who spoke boldly about the Temple’s restoration. It had always surprised Zakkai that the man continued to win his seat in the government. And then Solomon walked into his office and wooed him with words that made Zakkai wonder why he hadn’t become prime minister yet.

  “There was a time when God dwelled with Israel,” Solomon had said. “Without God, Israel always has been and will once again become like the dust of the desert. And even knowing this we refuse to build his house?”

  Somehow those words had led to the imperative that Zakkai take an extended sabbatical and join Solomon in a new plan of his. This plan to find the Ark of the Covenant. It was as if Moses had walked into his office and given new orders. Watch thou Raiders of the Lost Ark and do thou likewise.

  Of course, his methodical search was nothing like Indiana Jones’s, not nearly so romantic or adventurous. Until now. Now he was tapping—Zakkai resumed his tapping on the floor—alone in a subterranean cellar thinking thoughts like if I find the Ark. Absurd.

  And yet, one thought of the Templar’s letter and the . . .

  A hollow thud echoed in the room and Zakkai froze, his hammer cocked forty centimeters above the floor. He tapped the floor once and blinked.

  He hit it again, harder this time.

  It was like hitting a drum.

  Zakkai’s heart crashed into his chest. He slid his hand closer to the wall, noting that it held a tremble. He struck again.

  The sound swallowed him—the sweet, sweet tune of emptiness.

  Zakkai scrambled to his feet. “Rebecca!” Rebecca was gone. He spun for the door. “Samuel!”

  The radio! The radio, you idiot. He snatched up the hand-held and pressed the toggle. “Samuel, I think I may have found a room.”

  There was a pause before Samuel’s voice rasped over the box. “Come again.”

  “I need a couple men down here right now. I think I may have found something.”

  “You have found the Ark?” a stunned voice a
sked.

  “No! A room.”

  “I can’t spare any men, Professor. We have a perimeter to watch.”

  “And I have a relic to find!” He paused, his head spinning. “Send Jason down.”

  “Without a guard?”

  “We are in the root cellar . . . put a man at the front tunnel if you want. But I need some help. And make sure he brings a pick.”

  Samuel didn’t respond.

  Zakkai dropped to his knees and began tapping quickly, marking the rough outlines of the soundings with white chalk. The chamber below crowded the cellar’s wall, behind the racks which had held the potatoes. Now a square, roughly one meter by two meters, marked the black floor.

  “Now you’re going to start tearing things apart?” Jason demanded, ducking through the small wood door.

  “Jason! It was behind the racks. I knew there had to be a cavity here somewhere.” Zakkai had decided yesterday that he liked the man, despite the natural tension drawn by the circumstances.

  Jason dropped a large pick to the ground and stared at the markings. “What does that prove? A hollow spot in the cement.”

  “But you wouldn’t have built over an opening this large! Don’t you see?” Zakkai grabbed the hammer and struck the floor. It echoed satisfactorily. “You built on a floor, but we’re hearing a chamber under that floor.”

  “And?”

  “And? Don’t be daft, man!” He was perhaps too expressive in his exuberance. “We have found an entrance into Caleb’s childhood chambers.”

  Jason stared at the chalk marks and finally nodded. “Maybe. I guess that’s something.”

  “It’s more than something, my fine friend.” Zakkai grabbed the pick.

  “So now you’re going to ruin our root cellar?”

  “Please, Jason. I personally will pay to have your precious cellar restored to its moldy old self. We are talking history here!”

  “If you find the Ark.”

  “Worth it, don’t you think?”

  Jason eyed him. “You swear to fix it. Either way.”

  “Yes.”

  With a glint in his eye, Jason stepped forward and took the pick. “So what are you waiting for? Not sure how to handle a pick?”

  He swung the tool with the ease of a man who’d dug too many holes without the advantage of a backhoe. The sharp point buried itself in the rock.

  12

  The spring was a blessing. The fact that Caleb’s tracks led beyond the spring towards the desert was not.

  They traveled in silence mostly, Rebecca to the front and Michael to her left and behind, half a camel. The beasts plodded on soft hoofs, rocking with each step. Their tan hides twitched with the occasional fly, and they blinked against ever-present gnats eager to feed at the moisture in their eyes. They smelled of hay and dung, but perched so high on the hump, Rebecca caught a full whiff only occasionally.

  The terrain had flattened from its steady descent, and patches of white salt replaced the loamy sand of the hills. They came to an acacia tree—the last one before the desert by the looks of it—and Rebecca pulled up under its meager shade.

  “I thought the Negev was hot.”

  “Wait till we get to the desert,” Michael said.

  “I don’t think we’ll be going into the desert. Only a proper idiot would walk in on foot.”

  “Maybe he is a proper idiot.”

  She humphed and nudged her camel forward. They moved on with the sun at their backs now. To anyone seeing them trudging along on camels dressed in tan khakis with desert hats and leather boots, they might look like two lost archaeologists. Not that there was anyone to see them this far out.

  “Do you mind if I speak frankly, sir?” Michael asked after a while.

  “Go ahead. I don’t think we have curious ears out here.”

  “What do you make of this mission?”

  She knew what he was asking but played along anyway. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re over fifteen hundred kilometers from Israel, laying siege to an empty monastery and now chasing a monk into the desert.”

  “He’s not a monk and I don’t think he went into the desert.”

  “A madman then. You can’t seriously believe we’ll find the Ark of the Covenant.”

  There it was. “You don’t believe it exists?”

  “Sure it exists. But I’m not sure it will ever be found. There are other ways to wage a war than to walk through deserts on camels looking for a gold box.”

  She eyed him sharply. “A gold box?”

  “The Ark is—”

  “I know what the Ark is. I don’t know your faith—for all I know you don’t believe in God. But for any Jew who still believes in God, the Ark is no gold box.”

  “Of course, I know—”

  “No, I don’t think you do, or you wouldn’t have said it,” she said. “The Ark of the Covenant is Israel. Do you understand this? We have never been a true nation without it, and we never will. It’s the dwelling place of God on earth. The Temple was built to house it, and our religion has always centered around it. Without the Ark there is no need for a nation to protect it, is there?”

  “We have a nation now.”

  “You call this tiny experiment which has sputtered along for fifty years a nation? No, Michael, we’re trying to become a nation, but we are not really a nation, not yet. My father says that we’re a sapling trying to become a tree.

  But every day the dirt is being washed from our roots and we watch it float downstream and argue over its color. There’s your nation. And we refuse to turn to the gardener—to God—for help because we’ve forgotten why we were planted.”

  The desert was fast approaching, and Caleb’s tracks did not stop.

  “I’ve never heard it said like that,” Michael said.

  “I don’t know if we will actually find the Ark—frankly I doubt it. But I can tell you that this evidence we have is enough to bring most archaeologists panting.”

  She turned to him and smiled. “It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it? In New York a thousand traders are yelling at the Big Board, desperate to make a few dollars; in Paris lovers are sitting beside a canal for a portrait; in Jerusalem two rabbis are sitting at the Western Wall, arguing about whether a woman should be allowed to hold a weapon. And here we are, in the most remote corner of the earth, on the heels of literally the greatest discovery of all time. Who knows what treasures are hiding under this sand, but believe me, soldier, we’re not looking for a gold box. We’re looking for the presence of God. The only hope for Israel. No bomb, no politician, no man—not a million men—can accomplish what the Ark can accomplish for Israel.”

  They rode on, and Michael remained silent. It was no wonder Israel was losing its soul, Rebecca thought. Not even her soldiers understood her destiny.

  They came to the edge of the desert an hour later. It was then, for the first time, that Rebecca realized their prey was no ordinary man.

  “His tracks go in,” Michael said.

  Sure enough. She could see where the light coating of dust had been disturbed. He’d walked in twenty meters or so, then laid down before standing and continuing into the heart of the salt flats.

  “He’s tired,” Michael said, pointing to the weaving trail.

  The footprints disappeared into a seemingly limitless horizon. He could be a kilometer out, he could be ten kilometers out, although unless he had some protection from the sun and a tank of water she guessed it would be closer to a kilometer. Either way they would find him soon.

  She shook her head. “I would take on a battalion of Palestinians over this any day. What possesses a man to go in there on foot?”

  “What possesses Palestinian children to throw rocks?” Michael responded.

  “Brainwashing.”

  “So maybe his brain is washed. It’s a hot day.”

  “Well, let’s just hope he still remembers what will lead us to the Ark.” She slapped her camel. “Come on, he can’t be far. Let’s get him and
get out before nightfall.”

  The camel snorted, reluctant to step onto the salt.

  Rebecca smacked the beast again, and it finally slumped forward. The last of the sand fell away, and they rode out onto the forbidden flats.

  It had been a leper colony, not a village, and the fact had sent Ismael into a fit of sorts. He blamed it on the frustration the woman had brought him. The Jew-witch made him kill the three lepers—a man, a woman, and a child, who’d come out in their rags to ask him why he was taking their prized possession.

  At least that’s what he assumed they were asking him. It didn’t matter. He was so startled by their sagging faces that he spun and shot the first through the head. Seeing the man topple backward filled him with a sense of purpose. The girl and the woman lepers became Jews in his mind, and he shot them too.

  Unfortunately, the shot had frightened the horse and it took him half an hour to get his hands back on the animal.

  Now it was midday and he had only just found the camel’s tracks.

  Ismael rode without a saddle, and the mare’s sweat had soaked his pants. When this was done, he would shoot the horse. He lifted his rifle and sighted at the distant desert. Waves of heat shimmered across its surface. He had grown up in the desert; he doubted the Jew had. Her camel could outlast his horse, but she could not outlast him. Not in the desert. It was the one bright side to this unfortunate delay.

  Ismael lowered the glasses and kicked the horse.

  Zakkai stood back, panting. It had taken them nearly six hours to carve out the two holes that stared up at them like black eyes. The first had ended in a shallow chamber, no more than seventeen centimeters deep and maybe fifty centimeters wide. What purpose it served was beyond either of them. It had taken Zakkai twenty minutes to persuade Jason to continue.

  Now it looked as if his argument had vindicated itself.

  “So what do you make of it?” Jason asked.

  “Hand me the torch,” Zakkai said, reaching his hand out.

  Jason plucked the fire stick from the wall and pushed it into Zakkai’s hand. “How big is it?”