The servant stumbled forward another few steps, then realized Ezra no longer followed. He returned and stood before the merchant, panting in exhaustion and fear.
Ezra heard his own breath punching out in tight gasps, as if he had just run far into the desert. He blinked and stared about him. Finally he said, "This is the potter's field."
The man stood silent, his eyes lowered to the stones at his feet.
In the distance, a crow gave a lonely cry. A rock clattered down the hillside behind them. Otherwise, there was no sound except their strained breathing.
Ezra licked dry lips. "Tell me again what happened. From the beginning."
"The apostles had gathered. Followers were coming before them and offering donations. Ananias stepped forward." The servant sounded utterly shattered. "He stood before the apostles. He laid money at their feet. Peter asked if this was everything he had received from the sale of the land. He-"
"Wait." Every word was a struggle to get out. "What right does Peter have to make such a claim?"
"Barnabas also sold land. He gave the entire amount."
Ezra blinked, dislodging sweat. Or perhaps he wept but was too stunned to realize it. "This other man gave everything he made from the sale of his own property to the apostles?"
"Barnabas is a leader among us. He performs miracles. The Spirit is strong in him. The people look to him for leadership. He casts a gentle shadow." The servant's words carried a numb and toneless quality. "I think, that is ..."
"Go on."
"My master and mistress wanted to gain a similar respect within the community. I believe ... they sought to wield the same influence."
Ezra winced, and another droplet of sweat or sorrow fell to the earth. This was very much like his sister. Sapphira always wanted to have everything her way, but never understood the price that had to be paid. Her entire life, she had been given whatever she wanted. The sacrifice and the labor were paid by others. Of course she had sought to have this power without paying the price.
Ezra felt his grasp upon the world slip away, as though he had been laid to rest in the same grave as his sister and brother-in-law. It was indeed true. Sapphira was gone.
The servant went on, "Peter was the apostle who spoke. When Ananias insisted that he had given everything, Peter accused him of lying not to the apostles but to the divine Spirit of God. Peter said that Ananias was under no obligation to give anything at all. But he had turned his donation into a treachery against the Holy Spirit. As he said this, Ananias was struck down."
"Who struck him?" Ezra could feel the rage in the base of his gut, ready to uncoil and lash out. It was good to feel something, anything at all. "Who dared strike my kin?"
"N-no one, sir. No one was even close to him."
"They threw a stone? A stave, an arrow, a ... ?" He stopped because the servant was shaking his head back and forth, denying Ezra a target for his anger even before the words took form.
"No one touched him." The servant might have been trembling with shock, his voice dulled to a simple moan. But he was utterly certain. "No one threw anything. No one moved at all. He just fell down. Dead."
"That cannot be."
The servant did not respond. His gaze remained fastened upon the rocks at his feet. But his hollow expression suggested that he saw the event happening again. Over and over and over.
"What happened next?"
"Several of the young men were instructed to ... to pick up the body and bring it here." The servant's swallow was loud in the dry, silent air. "Then your sister arrived in the compound. Peter asked her the same question. She gave the same response. Peter condemned her for lying." His voice was now barely audible. "She fell and breathed her last."
"And then?"
The servant waved his hand toward the sunlit emptiness. "The same young men brought her here as well."
Ezra tried to take in the field before him. But he felt like he was looking through a veil. Not that he needed to see it clearly-he knew what lay before him. The potter's field was Jerusalem's recent burial ground for commoners and the poorest of the poor. A lone tree grew by the furthest boundary marker, its limbs stunted and stained by the field's nameless crop. The yellow earth was tilled into dozens of mounds, hundreds. His sister was buried somewhere out there, her grave unmarked.
Ezra turned his face to the sun and allowed the tears to rise and fall. He slammed his fist into his other hand and groaned out the only dirge that would mark his sister's passage. "They will pay for this."
The atmosphere within the community remained subdued. Besides the appalling deaths, it sounded as if attacks on their members within the city were becoming sharper and more frequent.
Abigail felt increasingly vulnerable as she went about her duties. Jacob was on edge as well. As they made their way to the compound for evening prayers, she was startled when Jacob gripped her shoulder and shoved her hard against the wall. He stepped in front of her, blocking her vision and shielding her with his body. He snarled over his shoulder, "What do you want?"
A stranger's voice said, "Please-I mean you no harm. I have been sent."
Jacob remained tense and guarded. "Why are you lurking in the shadows if you mean no harm?"
"I was told to find you but to remain unseen. I assure you, I am no danger to you. I've been sent by Alban."
Jacob's voice rose. "He is here?"
"He is not far away, and he wishes to see you."
Abigail dared take a peek around Jacob. The stranger seemed harmless enough. She prayed he was telling the truth. "Where is Alban?" she asked.
"At the south camp. He wishes you to meet him there."
Abigail pushed past Jacob. "You will take us?"
"It is why I came."
"Then let us go."
As they started off, Abigail clutched Jacob's arm. "How we have prayed. And now when we need him the most, he.. ." She could go no further. In spite of her resolve to push aside the fear that had crept into her heart from the recent events, its dread left her shivering. Tears veiled her eyes until she could scarcely see where they were headed. Alban has come! whirled through her mind.
As Alban had warned them in his letter, he had changed much in the two years since their last meeting. Abigail would have been hard-pressed to recognize him had she passed him on the street. But his voice and firm embrace convinced them that he was the man they had been waiting for.
Alban drew them quickly into his tent and pulled the flap across the door. The flickering torchlight illuminated a bearded face that looked both leaner and darker than Abigail recalled. But the eyes belonged to Alban.
He was dressed in a plain tunic, with a simple band around his waist and a headpiece very much akin to that of a Bedouin. A short sword hung from his belt and a long knife from the other side. Abigail had no doubt that he could wield both with skill. She watched him pull the weapons out and lay them on the table beside a battered shield. And saw as well how Jacob followed the moves with undisguised longing.
"Jacob, my boy. I can't call you that anymore. Look at you. You are nearly my height. How could you grow like that?"
It was true. Jacob was now only half a handsbreadth shorter than the older man, though still much slighter in build in spite of muscle developed from his work lifting heavy wood.
"And Abigail. How Leah would love to see you. She misses you so. Every day she speaks of you."
"She is well?"
He grinned and nodded. "More than well. She is counting the weeks until we are blessed with a child. And sewing little garments. Already she has filled the cradle with soft blankets-and the whitest of sheepskins for him to lie on."
Abigail laughed softly. "Him, you say."
"It is a habit. If it is not he, then she will be greatly loved. I hope she will be as beautiful as her mother. And as pure of heart." He waved them onto cushions by the tent wall. "But you. Are you keeping well?"
Abigail and Jacob looked at each other and laughed. "Yes, Alban, I am more than well,
" Abigail said. Then both she and Jacob described her healing, with many questions along the way from Alban.
"Thanks be to our Lord!" he exclaimed when they were finished with the story.
"Now, tell me what else has been happening," he said. "Are things well with the brethren? I hear many have been added to the numbers."
"That is true," Abigail said. Then she glanced again at Jacob. The deaths remained a shadow that stained his features.
"Has there been trouble?" Alban looked from one to the other. "Has Rome struck against the followers with its heavy hand?"
"No. Not yet. Though daily we see Jerusalem becoming more frenzied, chaotic."
"The Sanhedrin, then?"
"They are angry with us over the preaching and teaching. In fact they put some of our number in prison a short while ago. But we all pray for courage as Peter admonishes. The teaching continues."
A moment of silence turned awkward. Alban pressed, "Will you not tell me what is wrong?"
Abigail hesitated. Where was she to begin? So much had happened, so many things crowded into her mind.
She gazed about at their surroundings. Torchlight shone on the tent walls, casting a comforting glow over the threadbare carpet and low wood table with the simple brass utensils. The water pitcher and mugs were once-fired clay, with no adornment whatsoever. When Abigail had first come to know Alban, he was a centurion and one of Pilate's chosen men. He and Leah's betrothal ceremony had been held in Herod's palace. Yet here he sat, dressed in the garb of a caravan guard, sitting amongst poverty almost as abject as her own.
And one look into the man's face told her that here was a truly happy man. Content, serene, calm in his faith. All that she was not. She saw no doubt, no worries about the future, no regrets over things that were not as he might have preferred. How she wished for Alban's strength!
When she did not speak, Jacob said, "Two men are vying for Abigail's hand in marriage. Peter put them off, saying you are her guardian and the matter would be settled when you arrive."
Alban showed no surprise over the news. "Do you wish to marry one or the other?"
"No, I do not," she said quietly but firmly. "Neither of them."
Jacob shifted restlessly beside her. "Well, I think she should give serious thought to-"
Abigail cut him off. She had no interest in Alban knowing one of the suitors was his old friend. "I have already told you I do not wish a marriage to either man."
Alban looked toward Jacob, but he merely scowled at the carpet by his feet. Alban said, "Perhaps we should wait and discuss this more on the morrow. It certainly is not something we can settle tonight."
Abigail sighed her thankfulness. She would prefer to discuss this without Jacob present.
Alban's calm gaze shifted from one to the other. "There is more, yes? I sense-"
"I work for a carpenter." The heat of passion lifted Jacob's voice. "It is loathsome. I detest it."
"You want to do something else. I see that. Do you have an idea of what you wish for your future?"
"You know I have," Jacob shot back. "Nothing has changed. I want to do what you have done."
"You still wish to join the Roman legion."
Jacob sent Abigail a look, one so strong she found herself holding back from the torrent of arguments that filled her mind. He turned back to Alban. "You offered to help me."
Alban sighed. "That was a different man who said that."
"Just the same, there was once a time when you considered it a worthy profession. And I still feel that way."
Alban nodded slowly. There was a measured pace to his words and motions, one Abigail did not recall from earlier times. As though the desert has worked itself deep into the man's bones.... And prayer as well, she added. He was far more thoughtful, and much deeper. His copper eyes held the depths of a Bedouin well. "Perhaps that too should wait for tomorrow, Jacob," she said. "It is getting late and we have traveled far. I am weary, as you must be also, Alban. Perhaps we will all see things more clearly with the morning light. Now-"
But Jacob was not finished. "Something terrible happened at the compound. It frightened me." He glanced at Abigail, revealing how the shadows had returned to his features. "I ... I don't even know if I want to go back."
Alban studied her brother. The flickering torchlight had turned the young man into someone far beyond his years. Abigail felt more than ever the threat of losing him. He was growing into his own person, and handling the traumas of life very differently.
Alban asked quietly, "What happened?"
"Two people were killed. Or died. Or something . . ." Jacob picked at a thread in the carpet. The words tumbled out as he recounted the story of Ananias and Sapphira.
Alban did not take his eyes from the boy's face. Jacob's eyes grew ever wider with disbelief, doubt, concern, and awe. By the time he was done with the tale, his shoulders were shaking.
Alban reached out a hand of comfort. "Do you wish to stay here for the night?"
"Oh yes. Could we?"
"There is room." He rose smoothly to his feet. "I'll gather extra pallets and blankets from the caravan owner. Wait here."
Abigail shut her eyes and rocked back and forth. She was thankful they would not have to sneak back through the streets in the darkness to their small dwelling. They would feel safe here.
Alban rounded up extra bedding. "I'll spread my pallet outside under the stars, right across the entrance," he told them. "Try to get some rest."
Dawn was a silver hue on the eastern horizon when the three left the caravan site and entered the city's south gate just as the first rooster crowed. Alban wore the same simple garb as the previous night, covered now by a robe worn by many desert folk against the night chill. Abigail could see his eyes searching every shadow, watching carefully for any movement that might be meant to catch them unawares. And she knew that under his folded robe, the sword remained at his side.
He asked, "Will Peter be there when we arrive?"
Jacob shrugged. "We never know. Some mornings he goes off alone to pray."
"Whom would you suggest we speak with?"
"Maybe John. Or James. Or even Nathanael," said Abigail.
"Stephen. You could talk with Stephen," cut in Jacob. "He's a good man. I can talk to him. All my friends like him too."
"I do not recall a Stephen. Is he a leader?"
Jacob shrugged again. "He is always busy looking out for people. He watches everything and cares for everyone. Isn't that right, Abigail?"
Abigail was surprised at Jacob's words. She'd had no idea Jacob was observing Stephen so closely. And, oddly enough, what Jacob had just said rang so true. "Stephen truly lives to help others."
"Stephen and Abigail work together," Jacob explained. "Abigail helps distribute food for those who have need, and Stephen supervises the donations coming in and everything that is purchased. And he keeps all the records...."
Alban laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "As we walk the market lanes," he said in a low voice, "we should perhaps keep silent so as to not draw attention to ourselves. We will continue our discussion when we arrive at the compound."
Jacob nodded and was quiet for the rest of the journey.
Peter was not there. Abigail could tell that Jacob felt relieved. The lad swiftly volunteered to find Stephen. She was happy to sit and talk with Alban in the brief interlude. While they waited she told him more details of her healing. Just talking about it altered her mood from the evening before. By the time Jacob and Stephen appeared, she felt more like herself.
Alban and Stephen were introduced and greeted one another in the custom of brothers of the Way, with an embrace and a kiss on the cheek. Jacob moved up by Alban and pressed in as close as possible when they all took seats. Abigail could tell how much her brother had missed his friend and guardian.
"I have been told that an unusual event took place recently," Alban began.
Stephen's already dark eyes deepened as he nodded. Abigail, who was watching him close
ly, realized he had been shaken by the incident too.
When Stephen did not speak, Alban went on. "May I hear your assessment of the matter?"
Stephen looked thoughtful. He hesitated as though arranging or sorting his thoughts. Alban did not hurry him.
"I was not there. I did not see it happen, but I have heard much from those who were there. It seems..." He hesitated again. "It seems that Ananias attempted to deceive and was punished. Severely, I admit. When it was found that Sapphira conspired in the deception, her punishment was the same." He shook his head.
"So Peter himself did nothing?"
"Peter? No. No, Peter did not so much as lift a hand toward them-save rebuke them. The doing was God's."
"So what do you make of it?"
"I have spent the nights since trying to find an answer to that question." He shifted on the seat and looked directly into Alban's eyes. "I do not know the answer. So I have returned to the things I do know. We are children of God. God is holy. He is merciful. But he is also just. He does not delight in punishing his own. So this ... this indiscretion was serious in the eyes of God. More serious than we as his creatures might have made it to be. Had God ignored it, would one lie have grown into two? Multiplied many times over? What would the end have been? Total disregard for who God is? Would we, as his people, eventually lose all proper holy fear?" Stephen looked down at his hands folded on the table in front of him.
"I have come to the conclusion that God, as a holy, just God, had to act as he did," he said finally, lifting his head to look directly at Alban. "Had he allowed this deceit to go unpunished, more of his children would eventually have perished than the two we lost. The evil lurking in our hearts will take over if left unchecked. God has given us a reminder of whom we serve. Just as he did in the days of Moses, when God gave the painful instruction to destroy some in order to save more. In a way, it is encouraging, blessed, to realize that we are serving Moses' God. He has not changed."
The Hidden Flame Page 15
