He entered the cave of his youth. The smell of damp earth welcomed him with a fragrance that was pungent and wonderfully familiar. All was exactly as Micah had left it. In the many years since he had been to the secret cave of his childhood, not a rock had been moved and, as far as he could tell, no one had entered his hiding place. Within the loving cool walls of the chamber, his tools and his precious hoard of silver and copper awaited his return.
He was home again, welcomed by memories of pleasure and safety of the only sanctuary he had ever known. In his youth, he had spent countless hours secretly perfecting the metal-crafting skills that had later afforded him the means of survival; here he had first imagined a life of purpose and meaning beyond that of financial wealth. Here he had felt his life begin and, ironically, here it might end as well.
There would be but one day at best in which to complete the tasks. Micah forced down the feeling of panic that rose in his chest and tried to organize his thoughts. If he ran out of time, everything would be lost. It wasn’t going to work, he thought. He couldn’t complete the scroll if he had twice the time than that which remained. Even if the message was already composed, which it was not, the simple act of preparing the copper sheet and then carefully pressing his message into it would require more time than it would take for them to follow him. And then the greater task that awaited him. If that was not completed then Yeshua’s life, his own, and perhaps that of all those who walked the face of the earth, would be for naught.
A new wave of fear caught Micah in its grip and with it the realization that hunger, rather than fear, was causing the queasiness. He had not slept nor eaten for a day and a half, and he could push himself no longer.
He dug deep into his bag and retrieved the pouch of food he had all but forgotten. The strong smell of the rancid cheese brought tears to Micah’s eyes. This would not serve him. He retrieved his wine skin and a large piece of hard bread from a second pouch. He ate and drank while he worked.
The first section of the scroll, a history of the travesty wrought upon Yeshua, had to be related in detail. Future generations would bear witness to all that had taken place, to the unforgivable betrayal as well as to the unmatched courage of he who had been wronged. While this section of the scroll must be faithful to the events, the words to be chosen were not of critical import.
It was the second section, however, that troubled Micah. It was here in this, the inner part of the scroll, that each mark pressed into the soft copper sheet had to be exact. A single error might render the writings useless, writings that bore the secret that had been passed down to Yeshua and upon which the future of mankind rested.
Yet, though a single error might bring about the most disastrous of results, too much care might well mean that Micah would not complete his task in time. Too quick and imprecise and all would be lost. Too slow and all would be lost as well.
Micah forced down the fear in his chest. He would not allow himself to think of all that depended on this moment. His skill, his determination, and, most of all, Yeshua’s love that lived within him would not allow either message to be lost.
On the way from Joseph’s, he had worried that there might not be enough copper to inscribe the tale and complete his tasks. Upon his arrival he had rediscovered the storehouse of copper sheeting from his youth. He had realized there was more than enough copper sheeting for the scroll, enough for two scrolls.
And, with that thought, all became clear. He would make not one but, rather, two scrolls. The first would bear witness to Yeshua’s wisdom, his teachings, and the ultimate betrayal of those he trusted most. In this scroll, Micah would include that which would ensure the survival of the generations to come, that secret Yeshua had revealed to him.
In the second scroll, the false one, he would hide a message within the other message, a signpost to the righteous that would point the way to the true scroll.
He would hide the true scroll in a small chamber at the back of the cave that could only be reached by crawling on one’s belly through a labyrinth of twists and turns. It was a place that he found when he was a sinewy child. Smiling, he reminded himself that he was no longer a sinewy youth. Still, he felt confident that he could negotiate the passage.
He would place the copper scroll that bore the true message in the tar-covered box that he had used to store his most precious tools. He could warm the tar with the flame of the oil lamp once more so that it might be sealed. He would place the box in the chamber at the end of the passage and there it would remain, to await the worthy soul that might find it and deliver it to the one for whom it was intended.
The false scroll he would hide in one of the nearby caves in which the Essenes stored their most precious documents. This second scroll he would fill with a spurious list of treasures and false locations so as to mislead those unworthy of the message of the true scroll.
Micah smiled at the simplicity of it all. The false scroll, by virtue of it being a listing of treasures, insured that upon its discovery it would be treated well and brought to light as quickly as possible. He who was unworthy of the message of the true scroll would see only the reflection of his greed. He, who was righteous and worthy, would see beyond the simple words, to the message within, the message that would lead him to the true scroll.
Yet Micah could not imagine how he might accomplish so prodigious a task. Two scrolls now, when there wasn’t enough time for one. And a hidden message, so written as to conceal its meaning from the eyes of the unworthy while revealing it to the righteous.
I cannot do it.
His heart sank in despair. Could it be that the story of betrayal would never be told? Far worse, might the secret that had been passed down to Yeshua be lost forever and with it, might all of mankind, itself, be doomed?
Micah closed his eyes and brought to his heart and mind the face of his friend.
“Yeshua,” he thought. “All is lost, for I fear I shall fail you.”
The image of his dear friend seemed to appear among the shadows at the far end of the cave.
“You shall not fail,” Yeshua whispered softly, and then, as quickly as he appeared, he was gone.
Even as the image faded, so a warmth seemed to rise from the copper with which he crafted the scroll, a warmth unlike any that Micah had ever felt.
Where only moments ago his arms were weary, now they pulsed with strength; where his heart had felt fear and his mind was clouded, only power and purpose remained.
Micah worked with deliberation and skill. His mind empty, as if guided by another and, in the ribbon of hours that lay between sunset and sunrise, he completed the task with ease and grace.
By the time he heard the quick clops of hooves on the gravel, all was in readiness. The false scroll lay behind a pile of rocks in one of the Essenes’ cave and the true scroll had been secured in the hidden chamber at the back of Micah’s cave. Both scrolls had been blessed with prayers. With all evidence of his labor of love well-hidden Micah moved to the entrance of his cave and waited for what God had planned for him.
Chapter 53
Day Eleven, late morning
Hillingdon Towne Centre, London
Within half an hour, Gil had withdrawn all the cash he needed from the ATM, hailed a cab, and backtracked his way to Sarkami’s. The scene he imagined was always the same. He’d knock, Sarkami would answer, and Sabbie would be looking over the strips of copper and making notes on her translation.
In one variation of his fantasy, she’d be impressed that he had sleuthed his way back without any help. In another variation, she would have been trying to reach him at the hotel. She’d be angry and relieved at the same time to see him walk through Sarkami’s door. Either scenario suited him just fine.
What he discovered, however, bore no resemblance to anything he had imagined. Small deep gouges cut into the green paint and exposed splinters of wood around each of Sarkami’s locks that had so neatly secured the back door. Two of the locks had been pried half off and the others were
missing. Gil hesitated, not certain that he wanted to enter, not able to imagine what other choice he might have.
He glanced at the nearby intersection where cars and trucks rumbled by and planned the fastest route to that haven of activity should the need arise. Soundlessly, he turned the knob, ready to slam it closed at the slightest provocation. The room that greeted him was indistinguishable from the one that had greeted him the night before. No tables had been overturned, no books thrown about, no signs, whatsoever, of a struggle. Gil moved in slowly for a better look, careful to leave the door open for a rapid exit.
The worktables remained untouched. As it did last night, the long clean table bore the same parchment sections, faux facsimile scrolls, and copper strips. Gil didn’t know whether to feel relieved or concerned. Nothing made sense.
If Sarkami had begun to cut up the copper scroll, some evidence of his work should have been apparent. A jewelry saw, some copper filings, the cloth on which he would be doing the work, something should still remain. If Sarkami and the scroll had been taken by force, there should have been evidence of a struggle, which there was not.
Gil looked anxiously around the room, half expecting to see Sabbie’s two shopping bags as she had left them last night. Nothing. No bags, no scroll, nothing to show that he or Sabbie had ever been there.
Silently, Gil moved toward the bedroom. He had not seen the room the night before. Though quite a bit neater than the living room/workroom, it looked like any bedroom might. Only a yellow flowered sweater, half hanging off the bed, marred the tidiness of the white cotton bedspread. Gil’s heart pounded with a recognition that swept up and swallowed him.
This was Sabbie’s sweater, the bright yellow sweater she wore every day, the yellow sweater that he had kept in view as they ran through the train station, the silly yellow sweater that he had always meant to tease her about, the one she had been wearing early this morning at the hotel when she went to the empty room to check on what was happening in the street. The flowers he thought it held, weren’t flowers at all. They were brown splotches of blood. Her blood.
Terror rose in Gil’s throat. The blood glistened.
Was it still wet?
His heart pounded so hard he could barely breathe. Slowly, he reached to touch the sweater. The largest brown stain was wet and sticky. Gil drew it to his nose in hopes that he would discover it was not what he knew it to be. It had no smell.
The only way to be sure is to taste it.
He couldn’t. It would be too…
Gil never finished the thought. The thin iron rod caught him squarely at the back of the neck. The yellow sweater with its brown splotches fell to the floor and, next to it, so did Gil.
Chapter 54
Day Three following the Crucifixion, morning The Caves of Qumran, Judea
The figure of Joseph of Arimathea appeared in relief against the cloudless sky. Micah raced to him in anticipation of seeing Yeshua by his side. Joseph rode alone.
“It is done. Finished. They did just as you said,” Joseph reported flatly. Then he wept into his hands.
“He’s dead?” cried Micah. “Peter, James, the others…they…”
Joseph lifted his tearstained face and said, “They came just after the guards fell asleep. They must have been waiting, watching. Even as I entered the sepulcher, they came with some others I did not recognize. Several of them overpowered me and held me while they removed his body.
“I begged them to let me attend to him,” Joseph said plaintively. “They laughed, pouring the contents of the flask you left for him into the dirt. Then they took him away. Those who remained, encircled the sepulcher and, as others approached upon hearing the commotion, these liars began shouting in ecstasy, crying out tales of Yeshua rising to the heavens.”
Micah could not believe what he was hearing, “The people believed them?” he asked incredulously.
“People believe what they want to believe. Much as you and I, these faithful did not want to know that he was gone.”
“What about the guards?”
“The commotion aroused them from their stupor and, seeing that Yeshua was gone, they became fearful. So grave a transgression might easily mean a reprisal in the form of their own death, so they joined in as witnesses to the apparition’s ascent.”
Micah’s face reflected the anguish in his heart. “No,” he cried. “I didn’t think them capable of carrying out such falsehoods. Not about the dead.”
“Nor I,” agreed Joseph. “These are but mere guards, you know. But their terror made them shrewd. Even now they are claiming that Yeshua foresaw his sacrifice on the cross and, in so doing, foretold of his resurrection.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Micah asked, “But what have they done with him?”
Joseph began to sob once again. “I know not what happened to him. I do not even know if he was still alive when they took him.”
“They will not let him live,” Micah whispered. “It would make no sense. Otherwise, why would they have discarded what they thought to be the counteragent? No, they have killed him. As surely as if they had crushed him with their bare hands.”
“I could do nothing,” wept Joseph. “If only I had been able to give him the antidote.”
“I know, dear friend,” Micah said softly as he wrapped his arm around Joseph’s shaking body, “I know.”
Micah stepped back and in a voice that grew strong, he gave careful instruction to his friend. Though he knew not why, he spoke only of the false scroll. “There is a scroll, Joseph. I have placed it in one of the Essenes’ caves up on the hill. It’s hidden in the back, behind the rocks. Flavius Josephus and I ventured there when we were under tutorage together. It was a place for us to play as adventurers. He will remember.”
“What would you have me do?” Joseph asked.
“Do nothing for now. Relate to Flavius my words and bid him take you to the cave, but do not allow either of you to be tempted to look for the scroll. Simply put to memory the cave’s location and knowledge of the scroll’s existence. The secret of where it resides should be with you both so it is not lost. Then watch and take note if the scroll is discovered by others.”
“And if it is not?” asked Joseph.
“Then if either you or Flavius dies, let the other reveal its location to two others worthy of such knowledge. Two others who are as honest and righteous as you and Flavius are. Good men are neither tempted by greed nor seduced by profit. Entreat them to do as I bid you and Flavius. Let one of those two pass on the secret location to two others who in turn will do the same for generations to come until it is time for the light of day to fall upon the message borne in the scroll. Much time may pass before it is discovered. By that time, man may be in need of the truth, especially if men such as these twelve continue to be revered and rewarded.”
“Do you think they will revere it then, those who uncover it in the time to come?” queried Joseph.
For a moment, doubt found its way into Micah’s thoughts. He had not permitted himself the thought until the words of his friend struck terror in his heart. What if no one saw past the first scroll’s ruse of treasure? What if no one ever found the second scroll? Suppose the truth was never revealed? Even worse, suppose the truth revealed was of no importance to those who were yet to come? Then mankind would be doomed.
No! He would not allow himself to waiver in his faith. Someday, a righteous man would find the trail he had left. He would discover the message and the truth it revealed and he would use it to undo all of the lies that the Apostles might yet perpetrate in the generations to come. And, when all was done, that soul for which the scroll had waited would recite the words on which man’s fate rested.
A soft breeze caressed Micah’s check. He breathed it in and was at peace. All would come to pass as it should. He could see it now as clearly as the sun and clouds and trees that stood before him; as clearly as the worried, tired look on his good friend’s face.
“You must leave now, Joseph,” Mi
cah commanded. “You must leave immediately. They will soon be here. I have shown them the way in my map.”
“But there is still time for you to leave, too. You have the horse…” Joseph argued.
Micah’s face shone with a faint smile. “There is nothing that I fear now.”
Micah walked Joseph to the horse and turned the steed toward Arimathea. “Know this before you leave, dear friend,” Micah began. “Those who will desecrate his memory with falsehoods will not succeed. Yeshua lives. He lives now as he shall live forever more. Not only in our memory but also in the hearts of those who shall never have known him.”
Micah continued in earnest. “Yeshua once said that it was better to falter in truth than to believe in lies. Because of your help, the Yeshua that future generations will know shall be the real Yeshua. His truth shall live on and it shall, indeed, set them free.”
The two men embraced, and Micah watched as Joseph rode off, the sun already fading over the horizon.
Why did you not tell Joseph of the other scroll?
Micah smiled. Man must fight for that which he holds most dear. In the sacrifice, the soul is cleansed.
He waited. The familiar sound of hooves would soon bring twelve men who would complete that which remained unfinished. He was not afraid.
Chapter 55
Day Thirteen, late afternoon
Muslims for World Truth (MWT)
Video Production Studios
London
Gil struggled toward consciousness. The smell of sweat was so strong he could taste it. Instinctively, he jerked his head back then, when he realized it was the smell of his own body, he fell back gratefully into a deep sleep.
He was twelve years old again, running free in the hot country sun, aching with the thrill of exploring the world on his own. The school term was finished and he had been liberated. Suddenly, the bright day of the dream dissolved into the dark reality of a filthy mattress in a stifling warehouse room. He was anything but free.
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