The Hidden Flame

by Janette Oke;T. Davis Bunn

  Gradually the group endeavored to put aside their yearning for his swift return and to reach out to those who still needed the truth of his first arrival among them. But Abigail, in spite of her longing to be a good follower, often found herself hoping that this would be the day. Doubts and fears and threats-and pain-could all be left behind when their Messiah was once again among them in person. She had felt his healing touch once already, lifting the deep sorrow in her mind and heart. And maybe this time her leg ...

  She glanced again at Jacob. She was sure that when the Lord returned, Jacob's unhappiness would once again be turned into the joyful exuberance she loved. She would gladly suffer the rest of her life if that could be so.

  Abigail was busy scrubbing cooking pots with sand and rinsing them for the next meal when Martha hurried into the kitchen, back straight, lips firmly pressed together. Abigail sensed immediately that all was not right but held her tongue.

  The older woman stopped, took a deep breath, and brushed her arm over her forehead, sweeping back a few strands of delinquent hair. She looked flushed and weary with the day's work and the afternoon heat. Body and soul weary, Abigail thought, but she did not speak. She straightened from her task and reached for a towel. Her eyes sought Martha's for an answer.

  It did not come quickly. It was as though Martha was carefully sorting through her words.

  "If only I were a younger woman," she murmured at last.

  "Why don't you sit," Abigail invited. "I still have fresh water here from the well."

  Martha sat down, her back remaining straight, chin lifted in a stubborn set.

  Abigail went to dip a cup of the cool water. Martha accepted it without comment and drank long and deeply. She passed back the empty cup, seeming somewhat restored.

  Abigail quietly took a place on the bench beside the woman. Martha would talk when she was ready.

  But after several moments, Martha still had not said a word. Abigail decided she had waited long enough.

  "You would wish to be a younger woman, you said. Why is that?"

  Martha shook her head and lifted her shawl to wipe her face.

  "Could it be a young man has caught your fancy?" Abigail added with a smile.

  Even the stoic Martha, after a shocked glance at Abigail, could not suppress a laugh.

  "A man," she mused, dabbing again at her warm brow and damp hair. "And a young one, you say. Now, whatever would I want with one of those?"

  Abigail shrugged. "You would need to explain it to me."

  "Such foolishness," Martha said with a shake of her head, but there was no edge to her tone and her chin had lowered. She fanned at her face with the edge of her shawl.

  "So-?" prompted Abigail.

  Martha shook her head and sighed. "How are we ever to keep up with the work load? There are more and more people coming every day. Peter rejoices with every new face. As I do. But Peter does not feed them. He does not spend every waking moment bending over hot stew pots or scrubbing dirty dishes. No, not Peter. He just calls them to come on in." Martha waved a hand as though welcoming whoever might be at the door.

  Abigail said nothing. She indeed knew that dear Martha was as eager as anyone to see new members joining the community of followers. But the older woman was obviously weary, overwhelmed with all that must be done. And she needed to express her feelings without criticism.

  "Do we again have additional-?"

  "A good two dozen of them. All tired and hungry, I expect. Peter has just ordered them fed and bedded. Do you see any more food in the pots? Any empty spaces where we can spread out mats?" Martha's arms swung through the air with her rhetorical questions.

  Abigail stirred. "I think we may have some bread and goat cheese left. There are a few grapes. Will it feed so many? God has blessed loaves before-"

  "Of course. And I have not forgotten it." Martha stopped fanning and lifted her shoulders. "I'm just a tired old woman, speaking without guarding my tongue. I should be ashamed."

  "You have been on your feet all day in this dreadful heat, serving countless souls. You have no necessity for shame. You-"

  "If I were a younger woman ..." But this time she smiled at the thought.

  "If you were a younger woman you would not have the wisdom and fortitude and skills that it takes to do the job. Now, Martha, you sit here and rest a spell. I will call some of the younger ones, and we will see that the newcomers are fed. Then somehow, miraculously perhaps, we will also find a spot for them to roll out their mats." Abigail hoped to coax another smile from the woman.

  Martha began to rise from her seat, but Abigail put out a hand to press the woman back in place. "You must rest. If you don't, we will no longer have your wise counsel. Then what will we do? We need you. You keep us all going in the right direction, Martha, in an organized fashion. You guide us in our doing and in our praying. We can't do it all without you."

  Tears came to the older woman's eyes. She reached out and took Abigail's hand. "I don't know what I would ever do without you, Abigail. Even with your painful leg-oh, don't look surprised, I see you wince when you think no one is looking-you still manage to do the work of two people."

  Abigail had been surprised. She'd thought she was hiding her injury. But she should not have thought to fool Martha. The woman had sharp eyes and a tender heart.

  "You sit," Abigail said gently. "I will see to what needs to be done. I have watched you, and I will do the same."

  Martha nodded, her eyes still glistening.

  Abigail was astonished to be summoned the next morning by the followers' council. When she arrived, there sat Martha, eyes fixed firmly on the leaders. Abigail entered quietly and nodded her greeting before taking a seat beside the older woman.

  "It has come to our attention," began Peter, gazing at the two, "that the work is becoming overwhelming. With the daily increase in our numbers, we need to organize better in order not to overlook anyone or overtax our workers."

  Heads nodded approval.

  "It seems that one of our biggest needs is the care of the widows and orphans. If they were kept separate from the rest of the assembly, it would be easier to meet the needs of all."

  Murmurs of agreement and more nods.

  "We have had some discussions here, and we feel we need to set up a distribution site where those who need daily rations can come and receive their allotment. They can then take the food back to their own homes or tents and cook it there. This will greatly reduce the food that needs to be prepared here. Martha proposed the plan, and it is a good one. We should have thought of it sooner." He stopped and looked at Martha in recognition.

  Why was I brought here? Abigail was wondering. Martha is well able to handle things. I am needed in the kitchen-

  "It has been noted that you, Abigail," Peter said, turning his head slightly, "are most capable and efficient. It has been suggested that you oversee these new distribution tables."

  Martha was on her feet, her face pale. "But-but I need Abigail in the kitchens."

  "We will train other girls for the kitchen."

  "We?" repeated Martha, arching her brows. "We? I don't believe I can recall your presence in the kitchen, Peter."

  Peter may have turned red, but his beard hid it. He chose to laugh. A hearty laugh. "You are quite right. I will be doing no training. But you are most capable of that, Martha. After all, you trained Abigail, did you not?"

  Martha reclaimed her seat, mumbling as she did so.

  Peter turned to Abigail. "Are you willing to serve in this way?"

  Abigail swallowed, then nodded. Yes. Yes, I am willing to serve. But the very thought of such a significant responsibility frightened her half to death. And yet she too was an orphan, and was sensitive to her companions' needs.

  "I am willing," she heard her own voice declare. Her mind was already scrambling to determine what needed doing, where she would begin.

  "Good. Then it is settled. You will talk with Stephen. He is in charge of the supply rooms. He will ad
vise you on what is in store, and he will work out with you the processes of the food distribution. If you have questions he cannot address, Stephen will bring them to council. And choose two or three of the younger women to help you as you see need."

  Peter looked satisfied with this solution, and Abigail nodded dumbly. She assumed she was now excused and rose from her place. Already Martha was a few steps in front of her.

  They were almost to the stairs when Martha spoke over her shoulder. "Now, haven't I just served up a day-old fish? I was seeking to ease our load-and what happens? Peter goes and dumps more on your shoulders than anyone should need to carry. I'm so sorry, Abigail. I never should-"

  Abigail reached for her arm. "Don't trouble yourself so, dear Martha. I don't mind. Really I don't. I am happy to serve the widows. And orphans. It's a task that with the Lord's help I can do. It's an honor to participate in this way."

  Martha shook her head, her expression saying she refused to be comforted.

  "I will miss working alongside you," Abigail hurried on. "But we will still see much of one another. I will be in and out all day long. You'll get tired of me meddling in your kitchen. I will-"

  "That's enough now," Martha said. "I know you are just trying to make the best of the situation. I interfered, and I am reaping the harvest. And that's final!"

  "Actually," Abigail dared to add, "once I am used to the idea, I think it is a good one. It does take much of the work from the kitchens. It also lets the widows and their children feel like families even in their difficult situations."

  She hesitated. "And I do think that once I learn how to do it, I will love serving in this way."

  "Humph" was Martha's response.

  "You know," said Abigail, tilting her head, "I've got a feeling this new duty might be even better than the wash tubs."

  Martha "humphed" again, but this time there was a twinkle in the eyes that turned to meet Abigail's.

  It wasn't until the quiet of the night that Abigail was able to think through what had just happened. She was to be an overseer-in an important role. Oh, not a true overseer perhaps. There would still be those above her. Stephen in charge of the storehouse. The Council. Peter. But still, she had just been given a significant task.

  The idea challenged her. Even frightened her. Could she do it? It was a large responsibility. What if she failed? The widows needed daily rations, as did the children without parents. There were many who had no remedy for their situation except for the community of believers. Daily she had noted these two groups as they came and went. Daily her heart ached as she watched them.

  Sad, empty faces, with babes in arms or young children clutching at their skirts. Or children totally on their own. Even as their faces lightened as they worshiped, she still saw their grief. They grasped for some sign that would give them hope.

  She felt honored, deeply honored, to be asked to serve in such a way. Perhaps, with the Lord's help, she would be able to bring some comfort, some encouragement, to those who came for help.

  "0 Lord God," she breathed fervently, "may I be able to serve as you served when you were with us. I will joyfully lend my hands, my heart to the task before me, in your name. Strengthen me to serve. Give wisdom. Supply the means to meet the needs. Make me a blessing to all whom I touch, I pray with thanksgiving."

  C H A P T E R

  FIVE

  THE TWO WOUNDED SOLDIERS slowed down Linux and the troop considerably. They did not approach Jerusalem until just after sunset on the third day. Jerusalem at dusk was stunningly beautiful. Torchlight and twilight's final glimmer turned the city walls the color of molten gold. A rising moon in the east washed the Kidron Valley in silver and stark shadows. Somewhere within the Temple compound, a trumpet sounded the signal for evening prayers. The city seemed to float upon its hilltop, a lustrous crown to the fading day. Despite the beauty, however, the troops did not ease their hands from their weapons until the first rider saluted the sentry guarding the Sheep Gate.

  Linux returned to the chambers he had shared with Albanseemingly a lifetime ago-above the fortress stables, though he certainly could have commanded more auspicious quarters. The Antonia Fortress was the first major structure completed by Herod the Great, father of Herod Antipas and the man responsible for the rebuilding of Jerusalem's Temple. Linux left his respects with the night duty officer, glad he did not have to deal immediately with the gruff commandant, and made an official request for troops to be placed at his disposal the following morning. One glimpse of the scroll with the imperial eagle he carried was enough to have the commandant's aide saluting and promising that all would be as Linux requested.

  He ate a leisurely supper and lingered in the baths attached to the fortress, soaking away the dust and the bruises. Then he began his quest.

  Linux tried to tell himself that all he wanted was to determine the location of his friend, the former centurion. But in his heart he knew otherwise.

  The fortress was a brooding hulk, separated from the Temple's western wall by a lane that was always in shadows. That night the lane was so empty Linux's footsteps echoed off the stone underfoot and the walls to either side. But up ahead the major thoroughfare connecting the Temple entrance to Herod's Gate teemed with activity.

  Linux felt his heart rate surge as he approached the packed avenue. The Zealots' attack was fresh enough for him to be more aware than ever of the danger the city held for a Roman walking alone and unarmed. But Linux could not bear arms and go where he wished that night. So he accelerated his pace until he was a half step off running. He glanced at every passerby, every shadow.

  He was neither challenged nor threatened, though he felt eyes on him everywhere. Linux feared he might not even find the place he sought, for his three visits had been over two years ago. And he had never made the trek at night. Nor could he ask directions, as he did not know the square's name, if it possessed one at all. What was he to say to a suspicious Judean? That he, a Roman, sought the courtyard where the followers of the dead prophet gathered?

  Linux walked until he feared he had missed the turning or had taken the wrong route entirely. The city's poorer quarter was a stone-lined warren where even Temple guards walked in threes, and rarely at night. He was about to turn back when the familiar stairs appeared to his right, as broad as the fortress lane, scarred by centuries of feet. The steps climbed to just beneath the city's interior wall. He arrived at the pinnacle and surveyed the empty plaza. Linux had only seen it teeming with people and burnished by the desert sun. But he knew he had arrived.

  The first time he had been there, an intense discussion had swirled from every side. How these Judeans loved to talk-about news of the day and politics, but mostly about their religion! Linux recalled that momentous day when he had led Alban to meet his fate. Pontius Pilate could well have demanded the centurion's head. Yet Linux's friend had walked alongside him, speaking quietly of the Judean prophet.

  Linux took a deep breath of the night's dry, dusty odors. The early spring rains were long gone. The worst heat was still ahead of them. It would not rain again for six long months.

  As his thoughts continued, Linux felt as though Alban had moved up alongside him. He heard anew the questions for which there were no answers, about forgiveness and love and a living God. The words resonated inside his head as he looked around him for signs of life.

  Then he heard quiet conversation and saw the glimmers of light around the edges of a door.

  Linux walked over to the tall double doors, obviously locked. Up close he heard the sound of many voices. The last time he had been there, these doors had been wide open, the crowd so dense the plaza's air had seemed compressed. The prophet's followers had been celebrating the wedding of his friends, and Herod had sent his guards to arrest them. Four days later, Linux had been ordered back to Italy. He had heard nothing of Alban since then.

  Linux knocked on the door. Instantly the conversation inside went silent.

  A small portal at face level was unlatched.
The door, about a foot across, was laced with iron bars, preventing a sword or spear from stabbing through. A bearded face studied him for a moment, then demanded, "What is it you want?"

  An unseen man from within hissed, "Who is it?"

  The bearded man squinted through the barred portal as he replied, "A Roman."

  Linux said, "I come in peace."

  The man was as tall as Linux with the features of a worker. Or warrior. "It is late, Roman. What do you want?"

  "I mean no harm to any of you," Linux said, raising his empty hands. "I come seeking word of a friend."

  The man was dubious. "This friend, he is a follower of the Way?"

  Linux had never heard this term before. But now was not the time to inquire about its meaning. "His name is Alban. He is married to Leah."

  From behind the man, a woman's voice said, "The Roman speaks of my guardians."

  The man did not take his eyes off Linux. "He speaks of the God-fearer?"

  "The same. May I have a word with him please?" The voice trembled a bit.

  The bearded man frowned his reluctance at Linux, then slowly stepped away.

  At first glimpse of the young woman who replaced the man, Linux's heart began to thump.

  The iron bars framed an exquisite face. And the eyes ... As she drew the covering up over her lower face, a single curl of brown hair emerged from the traditional Judean shawl. "Forgive me, sire, I have forgotten your name."