The Emmanuel Project

by Ronald Brueckmann

  But he was through with the military. He knew that for sure. It had become an exercise in futility. He saw it every day on the news. Political correctness had taken priority over public safety and national security. With the type of enemy Israel was facing, that strategy was doomed to failure and he did not want to be a part of it. But what did he want? He didn’t know. He needed time to think.

  A visit to the cemetery in Ma’agan Michael was a good place to start. There on a hill overlooking the sea, where his mother and grandmother and grandfather lay side by side, he happened upon an old friend from his days at the kibbutz. After some reminiscing and more than a few glasses of red wine, she revealed that the kibbutz was badly in need of field hands. With fewer Israelis committing to the communal lifestyle, and a temporary ban on Palestinian work permits, the harvest was in jeopardy. It was just the opportunity he was looking for. Away from the worries of the world, with the sun on his back and his hands in the dirt, maybe he would be able to figure out who he was and where he was going.

  A few months of farming gave Viktor the time he needed to decompress. And armed with a fresh outlook, he accepted a professorship at Ben-Gurion University in Beer-Sheva, resolutely settling into the sedate academic life. It was a good life, a meaningful life. But as the months passed, the routine and the repetitive boredom of teaching threatened to smother him. The research opportunities given a junior professor were inconsequential, the challenges insignificant, and the tedium overwhelming. He found himself pacing the midnight campus like a caged tiger, drinking too much, taking unnecessary risks, flirting with students. He knew he had to get out of there before he did something stupid.

  It was then that the Team contacted him in the form of a gorgeous American physicist. She was like a life preserver tossed to a floundering soul. She told him that the Project wanted him back. She told him they needed him. They thought he was uniquely qualified. They offered him purpose. More than a purpose, they offered a chance to make a real difference. Viktor Jankowski did not think twice and he never looked back. He had no idea of what he was in for, but he now knew that the Team was the real deal, the top scientists in the world; Allison Hollister was proof of that. Whatever it was they were planning had to be extraordinary. They brought him along slowly and monitored him closely, revealing their objective in measured doses. Every day was an adventure. The more he learned about the Project, the more it captured his imagination. And with his mind so thoroughly engaged, the beautiful American physicist moved in to capture his heart. He offered no resistance.

  When the Project leaders finally described the mission, Viktor was stunned. Nothing in his military service could have prepared him for what they proposed. Nothing in creation could have prepared him. It was preposterous. At first he thought they were joking. When he realized they were serious, he experienced what could only be described as an out-of-body event, like someone returning from the very edge of death. As they presented the Project and revealed his role, the softly lit conference room seemed to fade under the enormity of the revelation and his perspective shifted to a point somewhere high above the conference table. He was acutely aware of every single person in the room—the physicists comically sneaking peeks to gauge his reaction, the engineers pretending that it was all just business as usual, the psychologists staring straight through him, their eyes seeming to bore right into his brain. And behind him, Allison Hollister, one long leg draped casually over the other, long blond hair pushed behind her ears, cascading down over her shoulders and shimmering like corn silk against her denim shirt. He could see the silver buttons rise and fall with her every breath, the simple gold hoops in her earlobes, the ID clipped to her collar, with the photo that made her look like a teenager. She was looking at the back of his head, unconcealed affection in her clear hazel eyes, concern furrowing the flawless skin of her brow.

  If what they told him was true, it would be the adventure of a lifetime—no, more than that, so much more. Like that cheesy old American television show declared, he would be boldly going where no man had gone before. Once he got over the initial shock, the idea did not frighten him at all. In fact it electrified him. How could he not accept the challenge? It was a role that suited him perfectly; suited him physically, emotionally, and intellectually. He had been created for the mission. It was like his whole life had prepared him for it. He had the skills, the abilities, and the education. He had no wife, no children, and few personal ties. He hadn’t seen his father or his sister in years. They probably already thought him dead. No one would even miss him. No, that wasn’t entirely true. He realized at that moment, there was one person who would miss him. Allison Hollister, the kindhearted, angel-faced genius; she would miss him. In a strange way, it made his decision even sweeter.

  As he prepared for the mission, and the days counted down toward Jump day, Viktor’s relationship with Allison went into overdrive. Time was at a premium and they spent every free moment together. They ate every meal together. They spent every night in each other’s arms. People talked. But Allison cared nothing about the gossip. In the short time that remained, she clung fiercely to her brave Israeli warrior, careful to conceal her sadness. She longed to keep him there in the here and now. Surprising herself with the depth of her own feelings. Surprising herself with thoughts of marriage and settling down and growing old together. It was all new to her. She had never felt that way about a man before, this wanting to share a life together. But when forced to face the brutal truth, she knew those dreams could never be realized. That was not the kind of man Viktor was. She could plead with him. She could demand that he back out of the mission and stay with her. And he might do it for her. But surely, someday he would end up hating himself…and her…for that decision. So she focused on her work as best she could, loved him while she was able, and cried when she was alone.

  So focused was Viktor on his mission that he was oblivious to Allison’s emotional struggle. He wasn’t without feelings of his own. Yet he had accepted from the start that their time together would be limited. How could it be otherwise? They were both adults. They both knew what he was there for. He had a job to do, a duty to perform. And it was the opportunity of a thousand lifetimes. He had to go. Surely she understood that, too. She wasn’t a schoolgirl. She had a Nobel Prize for physics hanging on the wall of her apartment.

  A few weeks after the mind-blowing presentation, the Team informed Viktor that they would be recruiting an archeologist to work with him. They were looking for someone who was well versed in Israeli antiquity and they asked him for a recommendation. An archeologist well versed in Israeli antiquity? Surely they knew his father was the foremost authority on the ancient Middle East. Surely they had investigated his background to that extent. But he played along and proposed that they consider Dr. Robert Jankowski of Tel-Aviv University. He assured them that the professor was eminently qualified for the position, and the Team leaders enthusiastically agreed. With his time running short, Viktor was a happy man. He had found purpose. He had found love. And now, he might get one last chance to connect with his father before venturing into the unknown. He just hoped his old man would accept the Team’s offer.

  Dr. Robert Jankowski did accept the offer. And once he got over the crushing disappointment that he wouldn’t be the time traveler himself, he got down to work and devised a plan for the trans-millennial communication. The Team endorsed his strategy and followed up with several excruciating weeks of risk assessment and procedural analysis. Satisfied that the plan was workable, Robert was finally allowed to meet with the test subject. It was a bittersweet reunion for both of them. A bit formal at the beginning, they quickly put the ruinous past behind them. Acknowledging that they didn’t have the luxury of idle time, the men worked valiantly to rebuild the relationship that had been shattered so many years before. It was a homecoming of sorts, except the roles had changed dramatically. Now both of them grown men, and proud of each other’s accomplishments, they reunited as equals. Viktor no longer was Robert�
�s little boy. Still, the professor couldn’t help but be frightened for his son and the journey he was about to undertake. A journey that made interplanetary space travel seem quite ordinary. After all, apart from limited forays into the future, the physicists were still only working with theories, extrapolations, probabilities, and educated guesses. Even if the experiment was a complete success, and Viktor survived the Jump, and landed where and when they intended, he could never return. Never.

  CHAPTER 49

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  Yehuda Ben-Ephraim raised the oil lamp to illuminate the intruder’s face. “Tell me who you are,” he demanded. “Why are you pounding on my door at such a vulgar time of night? Have you no decency?”

  The intruder leaned heavily against the wooden gate, teetering on legs that seemed incapable of supporting his weight. Steam poured off his body, stirring the cool night air. He tried to speak, but no sound passed his lips. Summoning the last flicker of his strength, he reached out a trembling hand to the old man before slipping unconscious to the ground, his blood-soaked cloak leaving a dark smear on the sun-bleached boards.

  “Oh no, not again,” sighed Yehuda. “Eliana, come out here and help me. Quickly now.”

  Eliana appeared beside him. More than a daughter, she was his right hand, never straying far from his beck and call.

  “It looks like we have another of our patriots run afoul of the Romans. Wake your mother. The boy is bleeding. And assemble the servants to carry this poor unfortunate into the storehouse. Quickly now, he is bleeding badly.”

  “Yes, Father.

  Yehuda lifted the shreds of the boy’s cloak, recoiling at the profusion of wounds, the quantity of blood. The boy’s face was filthy, thickly coated with mud and gore. The little skin that did show through the grime exhibited the lifeless patina of goat’s milk.

  “You poor thing. When will you young fools learn? You cannot defeat them with your sword. Only the Almighty can triumph over their armies. Only he can free you from their tyranny. Why must you waste your life so?”

  Under the glow of torchlight, the household labored through the night to stabilize the young warrior, cleaning and binding his many wounds, employing poultice and balm and suture, applying compresses for his fever, administering cannabis and willow bark for his pain. Efficient and effective, it was obvious they had performed such tasks before. Upon closer inspection, many of the young man’s injuries proved to be superficial, merely scratches and scrapes and cuts and bruises. No bones appeared to be broken. But a gash on his lower leg and a ragged slice on his shoulder went deep and required special attention. On his left side, just above the hip, an irregular hole marked his flesh both front and back. It appeared that something had passed right through him. Only clean blood flowed from that wound, so Yehuda felt confident that no internal organs had been pierced. This injury he coated with a mixture of balsam and yarrow oil, and left it uncovered to drain. They had done all they could. Yet the boy’s color remained ghastly. He had lost too much blood. With dawn approaching, they retired to their beds, the boy’s survival now in the hands of the Almighty.

  At sundown the next day when Yehuda returned from the village, he was relieved to see the boy was improving. The bleeding had been staunched, the bandages were free of discharge, and his breathing was deep and regular. He rested peacefully on a clean pallet while Eliana and her mother hovered over him. For some reason, they seemed especially attentive to the young man. And his improved condition reflected that attention. Yehuda felt an overwhelming pride swell in his breast. He knew he was the recipient of many blessings, surely more than he deserved. And the two extraordinary women who shared his life were his most precious blessings. He never failed to thank Yahweh for his good fortune.

  “Praise be to the Almighty for you two women,” he proclaimed. “You have worked a miracle. You truly have the healer’s touch. The boy appears so much better. Has anyone come to claim him?”

  “No, Father,” Eliana replied.

  “Has he awakened yet?”

  “Yes, Father, he has. Come over here, take a closer look at him.”

  Yehuda stepped around the pallet, moving quietly lest he disturb the boy. Eliana raised a lamp to the sleeping boy’s face. The women had bathed him, and now Yehuda could clearly see his features. He leaned in close, not quite believing his eyes.

  “Oh my…oh my…do you know who this is?” he asked the women. “This is Viktor Salvo…Septimus’s adopted son. He was here last season. You remember him, do you not?”

  “Yes, Father, of course I do,” Eliana replied. “You were trying to play matchmaker with us. You made me out to be some flawless jewel. I remember it very well.”

  “He was such a remarkable young man. I thought there might be an opportunity for all of us. And I just described you the way I see you. It was not my intention to deceive the boy. Did I speak falsely?”

  “No, Father.”

  “What has this boy gotten himself into? I did not recognize him yesterday. His face was a mess. And he was dressed in rags. What is he doing here? Has he joined the Zealots? Does Septimus know about this? Did he say anything?”

  “He did not say very much, Father. He was terribly weak. He could barely speak. All he did was thank us for helping him. He kissed mother’s hand. Do you wish to question him?”

  “No, it is not necessary. Poor fool. Let him sleep. When the time is right, I will send word to his father. He will come to retrieve the boy. Until he arrives, we must protect him. I know Septimus would do the same for me. If any Romans come to the gate, we will tell them what we always tell them—absolutely nothing.”

  CHAPTER 50

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  Viktor awoke slowly, his mind muddled, his body stinging beneath the many bandages, his left side throbbing painfully from the more serious injuries. As his head cleared, he looked down at the clean linen that bound his wounds and gradually focused on the figure sitting silently at the foot of the bed.

  “Yehuda Ben-Ephraim…it is you,” he whispered. “I made it. I actually made it. I thought it might be a dream. I remember heading for Jericho…but not much else. I did not know where else to go.” Viktor paused, searching his memory, a memory made dim and cloudy by the horrors of the previous days. “I cannot even remember how I got here. Thank you for taking me in. You saved my life.”

  “Do not thank me. Thank the Almighty. He surely guided you to this house. And thank my wife and my daughter Eliana. They have looked after you like a prince.” Yehuda moved to the boy’s side, laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Do not try to get up yet. You have many injuries and have lost much blood. You must rest.”

  Viktor sank back onto the soft pallet. “Yehuda…when I came here…was anyone with me? A big man? A man named Tamir?”

  “No, you were alone.”

  Viktor slumped even deeper into the bedding, his mind’s eye peering unsuccessfully into the past. “I wonder if anyone else made it out of that killing field. I wonder how I made it out. Why I made it out. It was horrible. We were like sheep to the slaughter. The Romans—”

  The old man held up his hand to silence the talk. “I do not want to hear any more. The way of the sword is not my way. I appreciate your sentiments. I am not without such feelings myself. But it is not my way. The less I know, the better. I am not a good liar. As far as I am concerned, you are the son of my friend, and you were attacked by bandits on the road to Jerusalem. That is all I know. That is all I need to know. Do we understand one another?”

  “Yes, Yehuda Ben-Ephraim.”

  “I will send word to your father after the feast days. He will come for you. Until then, you must rest and regain your strength. You are safe here. We are pleased to have you here with us. Especially my daughter Eliana. She—”

  “Feast days,” Viktor stammered. “How long have I been here? What day is it? When does Passover begin?”

  Swinging his legs over the side of the sleeping pallet, Viktor felt for
the floor with numb toes before pushing himself upright. Immediately, the room began to spin and he dropped back onto the bed, red rosettes blossoming on his bandages.

  “You cannot go anywhere in your condition, young man. I do not want to know what happened to you. But the Roman patrols that have been racing into the hills toward Jerusalem will demand an explanation for your condition. And they know how to loosen a man’s tongue. Things are always strained during Passover, and this year is worse than most. What with all the pilgrims and the bandits and the Zealots and the new Roman governor…there is sure to be bloodshed. It is not safe for you out there on the road. Take shelter here in my home. Spend the Passover with us. Wait for your father to come for you.”

  Viktor did not argue. Respect for his gracious host ran too deep to permit dissent. “Yes, Yehuda Ben-Ephraim,” he replied. “I will do as you say. I owe you my life. But I must ask one thing of you. Do not contact my father. Septimus is not in good health and I do not wish to burden him with my troubles.”

  Yehuda gave the boy a skeptical sidelong glance and slowly shook his head. He began to speak, but thought better of it and held his tongue.

  “I am lucky to have a friend in you,” Viktor continued. “Your wife has treated me like a son. And your beautiful daughter has dwelled in my thoughts ever since I last had the pleasure of your hospitality. Without you good people, I would surely be dead by now. I know that. To your eyes, I must look like a fool. Like some thick-headed oxen walking the thorny path of misfortune. But I know what I am doing. I know what I have to do.”

  “You are hurt. You need help. You need to be near people who will care for you.”