Empire's End

by JERRY JENKINS

  Though Alastor had but fewer than seventy feet to walk to deliver the missive, I carefully rolled it and sealed it with wax. I found him tidying my pile of parchments, apparently in preparation for my burying them. They remained facedown as he arranged them in a crisp stack. I was alarmed, however, by his grave expression.

  “What is it, Rabbi?”

  “Nadav is missing.”

  Missing? If there was one rule in an encampment of refuge it was that everyone knew where everyone else was at all times. While I enjoyed my solitude from just before dawn until just after midday, not a person over the age of twelve in Yanbu had a doubt about my location. Some may have had to search to find the exact rock outcropping where I stationed myself, but it would never have taken longer than half an hour to fetch me.

  “What is Anna saying? He couldn’t be far.”

  “He took a horse, Paul.”

  “He doesn’t own a—”

  “He took one of the new men’s horses.”

  “Meeting a caravan? Buying or bartering?”

  Alastor shook his head. “This is entirely unlike him. He’s always been suspicious, but he understands our rules. He’s never been any trouble.”

  “Anna?”

  “Some of the elders are questioning her, and she’s crying.”

  “Because she’s frightened, worried? Or because she knows something and is not saying?”

  “I fear the latter. But Zuriel will get it out of her.”

  “You should be there, Alastor. He can be overbearing.”

  “Perhaps he needs to be.”

  “Anna and I have always gotten along,” I said. “Perhaps I could—”

  “Oh, Paul, no! You dare not show your face just now. Many fear this may be about you.”

  “About me? You don’t think—”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Nadav hasn’t trusted me from the beginning.”

  “I know. But I’d sooner think he’d rally the others to cast you out than seek help elsewhere that could expose us.”

  “Rabbi, you need to be there.”

  “You’re right,” he said, rising. I must have looked worried about my letter. “I haven’t forgotten,” he added, reaching for it.

  Suddenly, strangely, drowsiness overtook me. With so much on my mind, I couldn’t explain it. I had my parchments to bury in the hide Alastor had provided, and now I needed a covering of some sort for the hole I’d dug—while avoiding curious and perhaps hostile eyes. Plus I was desperate to know when Alastor would deliver my message and when Taryn would read it, what she would think, when she would respond, what she would say. And hovering over all this like a fresh storm cloud churned the matter of whatever Nadav was about.

  I carried the parchments to my sleeping area and wrapped them snugly in the hide, setting the package deep into the hole. When I ventured outside for something to fill it that would be easy for me to remove each time I wanted to access the pages, I felt as if I were wading in deep water and longed to lie down.

  Trying to ignore the raised voices coming from the common area, I perused my workbench, gathering scraps of wood left over from the hide-drying frames I had fashioned. I also collected scraps of hide and fur too small for tent repairs. These nicely camouflaged the hole without making my parchments hard to retrieve. But once I had finished, the fatigue that had begun nagging me now overwhelmed to the point where I could barely move. I made my way to my sleeping mat and sat, hoping the feeling would pass.

  My eyes fluttered and closed and I couldn’t resist stretching out on my back. I wasn’t aware of falling asleep, but I found my mind a mix of everything that had occurred that day, interspersed with the account of Isaiah seeing the Lord on His throne, high and lifted up.

  The ambient noise of the camp faded to silence, and suddenly it was just me lying in the stillness, unmoving. No wind, no tent flaps, no footsteps, no animal noises, no conversation, no insects, no birds, no crackling fires, no water sloshing. Nothing.

  I felt transported, and though I knew—or believed—I still lay on my cot, it was as if I flew silently through the roof of the tent and into the sky, past the slightest wisps of clouds and toward the sun itself. Yet even my flight created no sound.

  Below lay the symmetry of the twenty-four large tents I had built or repaired, hulking black mounds on the desert floor, encircling the common area comprising the well, the livestock pen, the corral. Children played, women talked, men worked, and a crowd, headed by the elders, milled about the entrance to Nadav and Anna’s dwelling. How was it possible that the cacophony that had to be rising from all that activity had not reached my sleep chamber—where I had the distinct feeling I still lay? Nor did it reach my ears as I winged my way above the sun, which felt every bit as real.

  Had my unexplained weariness been of God for the very purpose of this ethereal journey? Of one thing I was suddenly certain: I was not napping. I did not know then, and neither have I been able to determine since, whether I was in my body or out of it, but this was clearly God’s doing. He was transporting me, at least my soul, somewhere to show me something. I was no longer tired, no longer vexed, no longer worried about Taryn or Corydon or Alastor. I did not fret about my calling or the warnings of persecution I would face when He sent me to the Gentiles.

  I felt a peace as vast as the heavens.

  Wherever God was leading, whatever I was to experience, I sensed it was for my edification and that I would be back with plenty of time to engage again in earthly pursuits. For now, however, they did not matter. Body and soul or just soul, I didn’t care, my being now majestically rose above the sun itself. I found myself among the stars, dazzling in their sheer whiteness against the blue blackness of the unending immensity of the heavens.

  On I soared, for how long and how far I have no reference point or memory. All I know is that I had transcended the earth and sky where the clouds and sun resided and now fearlessly sailed—I don’t know how else to express it—not upon the sea but through the star-strewn inkiness of the heavens. What made me consider that my soul had left my body was that I felt no wind, no heat, and no cold, and in that immeasurable darkness, illumined by only the dazzling orbs, I should have been shivering.

  For whatever interlude I spent traversing the colossal canopy of the night skies, I suddenly left it and found myself thrust into a brightness so infinite that no description of its colors could ever do it justice. That I was able even to keep my eyes open against its brilliance was all the evidence I needed to know this was God’s domain.

  Unable to speak aloud, in my spirit I said, Lord, what would You have me—

  Be still.

  Obedience was the only option.

  All I dare say is that I saw a door standing open in paradise, and there before a throne lay a sea of glass like crystal. On the throne sat One more beautiful than precious gems in a rainbow, surrounded by the thrones of many others in white robes and crowns of gold. And I saw lamps of fire and lightning and heard thunder and a voice like a trumpet making utterances in a language I had never heard but that I immediately comprehended to the depths of my soul and knew that I would never be permitted to repeat.

  While I have never been tempted to speak of what I heard that day, the mere experience entirely removed from me any semblance of doubt about the existence and nature of God Himself.

  Having been granted a glimpse of what awaits those who trust in Christ and His work on the cross for their salvation, I felt fortified for whatever lay ahead—regardless the task, obstacle, or hardship.

  How could I worry about things so banal as what might happen to me at the hands of men on earth when I knew what awaited me in heaven? If God Himself was for me, who could be against me? The One who did not spare His own Son but delivered Him up for all of us, how would He not with Jesus also freely give us all things?

  Who or what would I ever have to worry about again? Who could separate me from the love of Christ? Could tribulation or distress or persecution or famine or
nakedness or peril or sword? In all these things I would be more than a conqueror through Christ who loved me.

  Neither death nor life nor angels nor principalities nor powers nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, would be able to separate me from the love of God in Christ.

  Awestruck, I realized that God’s preparation of me was nearly complete, for I no longer feared for my life. I had been willing to be His slave since the day He had found me, but a bondservant unafraid to die for his Lord is a weapon to be reckoned with.

  Wherever I was, in whatever form I was, however long I had been gone, and whenever I would return for the task to which I had been called, I felt imbued with unshakeable courage and power. I viewed myself as an eternal being, ready to be used up and poured out in the service of my Lord. To me, to live was Christ, and to die was gain.

  I was suddenly back on the mat in my sleeping chamber in Alastor’s tent. How long I had lain there, I could not tell. But it was dark, so it had been hours. I smelled food, yet I was not hungry. And all the normal earthy sounds had returned: the wind, tent flaps, sand hitting the walls. Animals. Footsteps. Conversation.

  Light from a lamp flickered on the curtain that separated my quarters from the rest of the dwelling, so I assumed Alastor was back. What was the news of Nadav? Anna? Taryn? My letter?

  I wanted to rise, to make my way out, but I could not move! Neither could I open my mouth to call out. Somehow this did not alarm me. It all seemed part of the experience God had bestowed upon me. Was I to have no say in my own life anymore? Would He raise and move me at His will? Was that the kind of full surrender He required of me? I was willing, but was it necessary?

  I was more curious than worried, but I confess I was relieved when I heard a visitor arrive and recognized Zuriel’s voice.

  “I trust Nadav more than Paul or Saul or whoever he is, Alastor,” he said. “But we must be prudent. I say we amass all our arms and prepare to defend ourselves.”

  “I don’t know,” Alastor said. “The strength of our location is also our weakness. We are low so we are hidden. If the Romans know where we are, they know the force required to overwhelm us. We would be indefensible.”

  “Nadav would not do that to us. He may be foolish, but he is not suicidal.”

  “I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing,” Alastor said. “But he has never trusted Paul and no doubt thinks he is doing the right thing.”

  “By doing what? If he wants Paul out, he should have brought the matter to the rest of us for a vote. He might have been surprised at the support he found.”

  “Not from me,” Alastor said.

  “Even now, Rabbi? If you’re still for him, you’d be opposed by your own daughter.”

  That pierced me. Did Zuriel know that, and was it indeed Taryn’s sentiment even after reading my letter? Lord, spare me this torment so that I may serve You unfettered.

  My grace is sufficient. My strength is made perfect in weakness.

  Was I to boast in my infirmity that the power of Christ would be manifest in me? Would this lost love, this reproach, be part of the persecution, the distress I would suffer for His sake? I prayed not.

  My grace is sufficient.

  From the other side of the curtain Alastor and Zuriel agreed that three watchmen be assigned that night. Zuriel left, saying, “I would have one keep an eye on Anna. She knows more than she is saying.”

  Alastor’s silhouette filled the entrance to my sleeping area and he whispered, “Are you awake?”

  I still could not speak, and apparently in the darkness he could not see me staring wide-eyed at him. But perhaps he detected a difference in my breathing, for he moved into the main area and soon returned and hovered over me with a lamp, lighting my face.

  “Are you all right, my friend?” I was relieved to realize I was not totally paralyzed, for I was able to press my lips together and make a face at him. He quickly set the light down and helped me sit up. “Can you speak?” I shook my head. “Are you ill?” I shook my head again. “Just mute,” he muttered. “I’ll get you some broth.”

  I wanted to decline, as I was still not hungry, but I needed his company. He rushed back in and handed me the bowl and a chunk of bread. When I did not reach for it, he asked, “Are you paralyzed, too?” I tried to affect an apologetic expression but am afraid I looked merely sheepish. He sat and fed me, dipping cold, dry bread in the tepid soup.

  I chewed slowly, breathing deeply, not nearly as concerned as Alastor looked. I was certain I was feeling the aftereffects of my encounter with the Lord, which I did not feel at liberty to talk about, even if I had found my voice. I was, however, desperate to know how things had gone with Taryn.

  Yet when words came, accompanied by deep emotion, I was as surprised as Alastor by what I said. “I miss the boy.”

  The old rabbi laughed heartily and set the food aside. He embraced me and said, “So do I! And he asked about you.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t know what to say. I looked to his mother. I didn’t want to make promises I couldn’t keep. Taryn just shrugged. Now what is the matter with you? Why couldn’t you talk, and why couldn’t you move?”

  “I don’t know, Alastor. After I buried my parchments, a great weariness overtook me.”

  “When I returned you were sound asleep and slept for hours. I worried about you, but you must have needed it.” He lifted my hands and flexed my arms. “Do you feel that? Can you push against me?”

  “I can feel your touch, but it is as if I have been drained of all strength.”

  “The food will be good for you, but if you can stand, you should. We should take a walk before you sleep again.”

  “Give me a few more moments.”

  Alastor told me of the increased security and of the failure to coax any more information from Anna. “Some speculate that Nadav is giving us away. Others, myself included, give him more credit. He would never do such a thing, especially with his own family to think about.”

  “Then where do you think he is?”

  “Trading, buying, I don’t know. But he will be removed from eldership upon his return, regardless the reason. He has taken a reckless course of action. Even if he had a valid reason, going without telling anyone is inexcusable. It’s a bad example to the newcomers. We must have discipline or we’ll have anarchy, and then all will be lost.”

  I felt tingling in my legs and the urge to stand, so I asked Alastor to help me. Though I was wobbly, we were able to make our way to the common area, where more people than usual were out after dark in small groups. They fell silent and stared, some glowering as we passed on our way to the easement area. Alastor hung back and faced the camp as I relieved myself and rejoined him.

  By the time we reached the flickering ring of light from the torches, I had full use of my limbs and felt better, though inside I still glowed from my vision. I had to write of it before I slept again, and I looked forward to the next morning’s fellowship with God.

  I was saddened as we passed Zuriel’s tent, knowing Taryn and Corydon were within. “Do you know whether she has read—”

  “I merely gave it to her, Paul.” Alastor said. “I didn’t press her.”

  “She knew it was from me?”

  He looked at me in the low light as if I’d asked a ridiculous question. “Who else would be writing her? You are the only person here who can’t approach her.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I’m sure she saw your mark.”

  “She examined it?”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that.”

  “You didn’t see her break the seal?”

  “Paul, please. If you must know, I saw her not break the seal. She set it aside.”

  “She didn’t discard it.”

  “She did not. But now you know as much as I do, so you may stop asking.”

  “I apologize.”

  “I understand your curiosity, but this is bet
ween the two of you and I’d rather not become the mediator.”

  “May I trouble you for one more answer?”

  Alastor stopped between our tent and the one next to it and sighed. “One.”

  “Did she fix our supper tonight?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “She did?”

  “That’s two.”

  “Yes, but I mean, did—”

  “She and Kaia baked this afternoon, and she sent me home with a bit. There was enough for you, though she didn’t make it obvious she had done that on purpose.”

  “But you think she did?”

  “I did not think about it.”

  “Think about it.”

  “I don’t think she thought about it either. She’s been in the habit of cooking for four, and there was plenty.”

  Inside the tent he lit a lamp. “I’m ready to retire. You slept much of the afternoon.”

  “I won’t be up long. I will have to find something to eat before I leave in the morning.”

  “No.” Alastor pulled the curtain aside and pointed to a basket of grapes and a damp cloth. He pulled aside a corner of it to reveal a lump of dough. “The bread can be fried quickly atop the oven there.”

  “She sent that for me?”

  “I did not say that. And neither did she.”

  “But clearly—”

  “Don’t make more of it than it is, Paul. Assume she’s looking out for me.”

  “You can think what you want, Alastor. And I will think what I want.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  I wrote for an hour, doused the lamp, slept more soundly than I expected, then before dawn proved less of a baker than even I expected. But telling myself the breakfast was a gift from a woman who could have entirely shunned me, I enjoyed the light repast nonetheless and headed out.

  All three watchmen made a point of stopping and questioning me, and it was obvious they had conspired to delay me this way. They all asked the same questions and warned me of the same dire consequences if I were to betray the trust of the commune. I felt the color rise in my neck, and my old nature made me want to lash out and resort to condescension and sarcasm to show them they didn’t even have the intelligence to insult me properly. But I refrained, praying silently that God would give me the strength to stake out the higher ground.