The Damascus Way

by Janette Oke

  She awoke to the sounds of her own sobs. Dorcas whimpered in her sleep, no doubt drawn to wakefulness by her mother’s crying. Abigail tucked the blanket around the child and rose silently from the pallet. Dreaming of Stephen was something that had happened quite regularly back in the months when Dorcas was still an infant and Abigail had felt her soul torn apart by her loss. She had been relieved – and yet also felt bereft – when the dreams had gradually diminished, then stopped.

  She settled her shawl about her head and shoulders and slipped from the room. She sensed eyes watching her, but when she looked into the adjoining rooftop room, Martha appeared to be asleep.

  Abigail had thought she was over the worst of her mourning, she told herself as she crept silently down the outside staircase. This nighttime experience had caught her utterly by surprise, leaving her feeling not only sad but defenseless. As if Stephen’s death had just happened.

  She circled around toward the front door and felt her heart give a silent wail, then a nearly wordless cry of anguish. What am I to do . . . ?

  Tears veiled her sight as she took one step up to the front portico. She stopped and turned as she felt more than saw a glow.

  Abigail cleared her eyes. And there was Philip.

  The disciple was kneeling in the dust of the road at the juncture where the village lane opened into the area fronting the cliff face. The night was filled with an unearthly luminescence. The glow was strong enough to turn the surrounding houses a gleaming silver. But the light itself was nothing compared to the sensations filling Abigail’s heart. The silence was as powerful as the light, a force that commanded her attention. There was no room for anything, save a tiny glimpse of eternity, one that washed away the fears, the uncertainties, even the sorrow left by her dream.

  Abigail dropped to her knees in the dirt. She could see nothing other than Philip now lying prostrate . . . and the light. Whatever the message – whoever the messenger out there in the road – the gifts of power, of love, of hope filled her heart and whispered silent assurances to her mind.

  Long after the light faded, Abigail remained as she was. The stones bit into her knees, her back ached from her position. But even these were mere assurances that she had witnessed a miracle . . . and lived. The discomforts reconnected her to this earth. They reminded her that she was there for a purpose. She welcomed the soreness and prayed.

  She heard footsteps, and lifted her head as Philip crossed the road toward her. Slowly Abigail eased herself to her feet.

  Philip’s face carried a trace of the illumination she had seen in the square. He spoke with a breathless wonder. “I am called to the south. To the road between Jerusalem and Gaza. I must leave immediately.”

  Abigail looked to the east. A slight flush announced the arrival of a new day. She nodded her understanding.

  She followed him into the house to start the fire, then climbed the stairs to waken Martha.

  There would be no more sleep this day.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  The Megiddo Plains

  After a quick breakfast, they walked down the winding road with Philip – Abigail and Martha along with Dorcas and Alban. They led one donkey for the disciple’s journey, another in case Alban tired on the way back up, and Dorcas rode a third. For once, the early dawn’s breaking light was clear and the air windless. When shortly they reached the valley floor, the day and the walk had warmed them enough that they laid their winter cloaks upon one animal’s back.

  They were obviously feeling subdued by the night’s events. Only Dorcas remained untouched, singing softly to herself, patting the donkey’s mane in time to her melody, pointing out all items of interest as they passed. Abigail had said nothing about her dream since she had no idea what it meant, or even if it was anything more than reaction to physical and mental exhaustion. Philip’s encounter with the Unseen was another thing entirely. Abigail had described to the others what she had seen of it, though she still felt she had witnessed something not truly of this earth at all.

  When the village road eventually leveled off, with the southerly juncture now in view, Alban said, “There is so much I wish to say. To ask. But . . .”

  “And I also,” Martha agreed when Alban did not finish.

  Abigail was vastly relieved to hear them voice sentiments identical to her own. “I feel as though I have so many thoughts and impressions trapped inside me.”

  Philip stopped and turned to face them, his features still carrying a trace of that ethereal light.

  Alban said to him, “I have been enriched by your teachings, Philip. I feel that our days together have been a gift. And yet . . .”

  Philip remained silent, watchful.

  Alban started again, “And yet I feel as though I know you no better than when we first met. Forgive me, I mean no offense.”

  Philip nodded, as though he expected the puzzling statements. He took his customary time in responding, finally saying, “Those of us called to spread the Lord’s message are all very different from each other. We have contrasting gifts and strengths. Who can argue that I share any noticeable trait with Peter, save our love for God? And yet the commission given us by Christ before he returned to his Father is identical for both of us.”

  Abigail was reluctant to speak. But Philip’s silence suggested he was waiting for one of them to respond. She began slowly, somewhat hesitantly, “ ‘Go into all the world and preach the gospel.’ ”

  Martha nodded slowly. “So the challenge is to do that without getting in the way of the message.”

  Alban added, “He must increase. I must decrease.”

  Philip’s smile only made the illumination stronger. “That is it precisely. How can I live so that when someone sees me, they are pointed to Jesus? When I speak, is it the Messiah’s truths they hear? How can I live that no power is seen to be mine, no authority, no crown, no glory. It all belongs to him. I am the willing, loving servant, providing hands, feet, voice, eyes, and ears for the Holy Spirit to use.”

  “It is the challenge we all should accept,” Alban said slowly. “Once again I am blessed by your words.”

  They joined hands and prayed, the four adults and little Dorcas as well. For Philip’s safety and for the unknown purposes that were sending him south. They prayed for one another. They prayed for the days ahead, and for the growing community of believers here in Nain, as well as the hearts brought to faith during their journey. The prayer was timeless, the joining together as one so strong Abigail felt the same sense of power she had experienced after her dream. And when they finished praying, she also felt a calm strong enough to see Philip off with a glad heart, then turn to the others and say, “Let us go see where I am to work and serve.”

  The group reached the market of Megiddo fresh and ready for the day. The market stood at the intersection of five major Roman roads. The places of business here were more like actual buildings than mere market stalls, the rear of each being fashioned from blocks of stone. Some families lived above their shops, though Abigail could see why most preferred to maintain their true homes above in Nain. The hillside village was protected from the wind and enjoyed broad vistas. The Megiddo Plains were both dusty and vast, extending to the northwest and southeast, circled on its other two sides by the hills of Galilee.

  “Your enemy here is the wind,” Alban explained. “And the wind blows almost all the time.”

  “And the heat,” a voice called from the storefront they were passing. “Enjoy the cool of winter while you can. Because for five months each year, this earth you stand upon is an anvil, the sun a hammer.”

  The man emerging from the stall appeared to be little more than leathery skin over bones. He was as tall as Alban but could not have carried half his weight. The traditional Samaritan robes might as well have been hung upon the branches of some dead tree. Yet his smile was friendly, his eyes bright. “You are here to stake a claim for Jamal’s stall?”

  “I am,” Alban said. “My name is Alban, and
Jamal has deeded the stall to me, along with a house up in Nain. I am entrusting it to our friend Abigail here,” he explained, motioning toward her.

  “Yesterday I watched your comrade standing over my friend and praying for his healing,” the man said. “I saw him stand and dance and shout. The night before you arrived, my wife and I had gone to him to pay our last respects. We grew up together, he and I.” He offered Alban a work-roughened hand. “I am Yelban. I serve as village elder in Nain, and the same here at the market. I believe you have passed these ways before.”

  “Many times. I serve as Jamal’s guard captain.”

  “I thought I recognized your face. The family who tends the first corral of sheep, they pointed you out. They claim you are a fair man and honest in all your words and deeds. They say Jamal is fortunate to have you.”

  “I am honored they would speak thus.”

  “It is far more than any would say for the scoundrels who last tended the stall.”

  “Jamal suspected them of stealing from him.”

  “They did indeed, and not just from your merchant prince. They robbed everyone. If they patted your back, you should search for your purse.” Yelban waved them toward his left. “Come. I will show you what remains of your business.”

  The shop held a prized placement, at one of the elbows where all the roads joined. The structure showed the world two faces. From the front it was a traditional storefront, with a long awning and sunlit shelves where wares could be displayed. In the rear, it was a two-storied stone fortress. The back chamber was one great room without windows. The former occupants had taken the roof ladder when they left, along with all the goods and anything else they could cart away.

  When Abigail, Martha, and Alban, with Dorcas climbing right in front of him, clambered up the ladder borrowed from a neighbor stall owner, they saw that the roof was enclosed by more stone, forming a wall at chest height. Dorcas ran over to the wall, begging to be held up to see over the edge.

  Yelban pointed out a caravan approaching from the north. “The market knows when a caravan is on its way. They always know.”

  Alban smiled. “I have heard that the wind tells them.”

  “More often, we hear from our associates in other caravans.” The village elder had a merchant’s grin, merry and demanding at the same time. “You can use the roof here for sleeping on some nights. The lower chamber is your strong room. Keep enough supplies in there for five days, for if the winds strike, you will be going nowhere. You know the word khamsin?”

  “Windstorm,” Alban said. “The scourge of all caravans. That and bandits.”

  “The hills act as a giant funnel, driving the heart of every storm right through this plain. Or so it will feel when those winds strike.”

  Alban said, “Jamal tells me the stall is set up to sell Samaritan weavings.”

  “Carpets, tapestries, cloth, robes, tents,” Yelban confirmed. “Almost every village woman here weaves. Others work at fashioning shorn wool into thread, or they dye cloth into colors. Samaritan cloth is known throughout the empire.”

  Martha looked around at the empty shelves, then raised open hands to her shoulders. “But there is nothing here to sell.”

  “If the villagers trust you, they will provide their wares and wait for payment till you sell them.” The man nodded vigorously. “And that arrangement includes me.” He shrugged. “I receive a small share from all the merchants to pay for the guards and upkeep of the village corrals.”

  Abigail quailed at all she did not yet know or understand about the whole endeavor. “I . . . I am ever so grateful for your wise assistance.”

  “You already have friends in Nain, you know. The man you healed was the village headman before me.” He gripped the ladder and started down, then halted to ask, “Do you carry the man Philip’s gift of healing?”

  Martha responded for them all. “We can lay hands upon those in need, and pray. Just as the disciple did. All else is up to God.”

  “And you will not charge?”

  “How can we ask for money in return for what is not ours to claim?”

  “The wizard will not like to hear you say that.” Yelban’s smile was the last they saw of him. His parting words came over the top of the ladder. “I warrant you will forge trust wherever you go.”

  Abigail gave herself to tasks she knew and understood. The stall and storeroom and living chamber all needed a thorough cleaning. She swept the floors with a thatch broom the previous tenants had either overlooked or deemed too paltry to take. Alban and Martha walked with Dorcas to the communal well and returned with two leather buckets brimming with water. They also brought rags and a makeshift mop – all borrowed from neighbors, along with the news that the entire market was talking of nothing save their arrival.

  Alban added, “Some other stall holder wanted to take this place over, but Yelban would not permit it.”

  “He is both an honorable man and our ally,” Martha announced stoutly.

  Abigail asked Alban, “Shouldn’t you be resting after all you‘ve been doing today?”

  “In truth, I feel as though Philip’s prayers yesterday were meant as much for me as for the man upon the bed. I cannot remember feeling better than now,” he assured her.

  “It is not fitting that you be scrubbing floors like a servant,” Martha muttered.

  He chuckled. “You say that to one who began his military duty cleaning stables.” He dipped a rag in the bucket, then paused and looked around at them. “Didn’t our Lord himself wash and dry the disciples’ road-soiled feet? I too want to have that servant attitude.” He scrubbed another segment of the floor, then spoke the words Abigail had been half afraid she all too soon would be hearing. “I should be leaving shortly for Capernaum.”

  Abigail saw her daughter’s lips draw down, and she quickly crouched beside the little girl to halt the protest before it was formed. She held Dorcas close and spoke to Alban. “Your own little son must be missing you. And your wife too. Isn’t that so, Dorcas?”

  Her daughter did not answer but managed a small nod.

  Alban rinsed his rag, then switched his attention to wiping down the front wall. “I won’t be leaving just yet, my friends. Leah would want me to make sure the weavers treat you fairly.”

  “We will be glad for every hour we have together, and then see you off with grateful hearts.” Abigail gave her daughter another squeeze. “Won’t we, dear one?”

  Whatever Dorcas might have been preparing to say was cut short by a youngster who appeared so suddenly in the doorway that Martha gave a little cry of surprise.

  The boy was perhaps ten or eleven and blade thin. He gasped out, “I am Yelban’s son. My mother has been stricken. My father says, ‘For the love of the one who guides your steps, please hurry.’ ”

  As they quickly emerged from the empty shop, a caravan appeared on the northern horizon. “Phoenicians,” the boy tossed over his shoulder as he ran ahead of them. “Bandits with camels. They will bargain for hours and spend coin like it was their own blood. This way.”

  He beckoned them quickly on through the square, now a hive of activity. Youngsters scampered out toward the approaching caravan, many with wares draped over their arms. Stall owners rushed about, rearranging and polishing their goods, calling to others with frantic impatience. The lad hurried his charges toward what appeared to be the largest stall. Abigail thought the sheltered front portico was as broad as her village house. Servants hurried to set the tables with fresh carafes and utensils, while two women had begun roasting an entire sheep over a stone fire pit in front. The boy motioned them through the tavern and into the rear alcove, where they found Yelban kneeling beside a pallet. “They have come, Father.”

  Yelban did not look up. “I am in your debt.”

  “There is no debt,” Abigail responded, bending over the woman, lying white-faced and still as death. “We seek nothing save to serve our Lord.” Alban and Martha nodded their encouragement, and said they would be praying back a
t the stall.

  Abigail nodded as her two friends departed and settled Dorcas on the floor nearby. “Be a good girl and stay here while Mama speaks with our friend.”

  Dorcas’s eyes were round and solemn. “You make her not sick?”

  “Perhaps, with God’s help.” Abigail knelt beside Yelban. “What happened?”

  “My wife is often seized by pains to her forehead and temples. One moment all is normal, the next, as you see her.” Yelban dipped a cloth into a basin, squeezed out the moisture, then gently laid it on the woman’s brow. His voice was scarcely above a whisper. “Everything hurts during times like this. Noise. Light. Movement. Sometimes the pain holds her for days.”

  The woman’s expression showed a tightly concentrated stillness, as though unable to even draw a proper breath for fear of making the pain worse. Her brow was deeply furrowed, her lips compressed to a thin line, her eyes clenched shut. Abigail asked, “What is her name?”

  “Jasmina.”

  “May I pray for her?”

  “I would beseech you to do that and anything else that might help.”

  The son now ran into the room and stationed himself by his father’s other side. He whispered urgently, “The Phoenicians are here.”

  Yelban clearly was reluctant to leave his wife. He looked his distress at Abigail. “As elder, I must speak for all the market. There are sheep to sell, and the corral – ”

  “You must go – please,” Abigail said, lifting the cloth from his wife‘s forehead to dampen it again. “I will stay with her.”

  Yelban stroked his wife’s cheek with one hand. “Be well, my dear one. I will return as soon as I can.”