by V. M. Franck
The Sword of Ruth
The Story of Jesus' Little Sister
Past and Present
by
V. M. Franck
Cover Description
Jesus of Nazareth was my brother, a big brother I adored. He wasn't a savior at all; he never intended to be. Despite my Christian upbringing, accepting him as my personal savior never worked for me, and later I learned why.
The Sword of Ruth
The Story of Jesus' Little Sister
Past and Present
Published by V. M. Franck
Copyright 2017 V. M. Franck
Cover Art Copyright 2017 V. M. Franck
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Books by the Author
Trying Not to Drown: When My Brother Murdered His Neighbors, A Story of Horror, Loss and Learning to Overcome - nonfiction
The Day My Brother Murdered His Neighbors - nonfiction - free
Tater's Maters of Hootenanny Flats- Book 1 in The Mater's Series -fiction
Resurrection Rose- Book 2 in The Maters Series - fiction
Final Entry - Book 3 in the Mater's Series - fiction
Once Without Dying - fiction
The Sword of Ruth: The Story of Jesus' Little Sister, Past and Present - fiction
In Ways We Can't Imagine - Book 1, The St. Germaine Chronicles - fiction
The Pacifist's War - Book 2, The St. Germaine Chronicles - fiction - watch for the release
What we believe is often illusion masquerading as truth.
Chapter 1
Raven
"You've forgotten the little sister of Jesus," a voice said, echoing along the hallways of the community center.
"What? Who said that?" I uncurled myself from the step closest to the left-most set of double doors. Gripping a number ten bristle brush I stood just inside the main entrance and stared up into the shadows. As far as I knew no one else was around.
"Hello?" I said. Encircled in the patch of light at the base of the steps, I studied the hallway that paralleled the top of the wide staircase.
"Are you there?" I said.
Deciding I had imagined the voice I swished the brush in the water jar, squeegeed it out, dipped it in the tub of celestial blue and added a dab of cadmium red, burnt umber and purple. Getting the color right in the folds of Mary's robe had been plaguing me for hours.
A full-time professional artist, I had been commissioned by St. Monica's Parish to paint murals of Jesus' life throughout the retired parochial school. Assisting me were some of the best artists in the area. They had left hours earlier.
"You've forgotten the little sister of Jesus," the voice said again.
It lingered in the empty vestibule like a wispy trail of smoke. This time it spooked me.
"Where are you?" I plopped the brush in the water and decided to search for the intruder in spite of my fear. I refused to be intimidated. Regardless of what my brother had done, there was no reason to let it paralyze me. Not anymore.
"Show yourself," I said.
Behind me a door banged shut. Unnerved, I jerked around to see Tad, dressed in slacks, white shirt, tie and blazer, fidgeting with a set of keys.
"What's happening, babe? You look strange," he said and kissed the top of my head.
"You scared the crap out of me."
Grinning, he said, "I don't see any laying around. What's going on?"
I explained about the voice.
"So you heard it, too." He wore a guarded look, one usually reserved for business.
Until Tad, I had never been attracted to the businessman's look. Handsome and casually distinguished, ten years earlier he arrived at my door requesting the services of an artist to paint his company logo on the end of his building. When I turned him down, he had asked me out.
"Just a few minutes ago," he said. "I was on the Banfield. I took the Lloyd Center exit and stopped at the light. That's when I heard it, only it said, 'That's why you love the little sister of Jesus.' Of course, I started arguing with it. Jesus didn't have sisters."
"But he did." I sealed the tubs of paint, took my brushes to the basin in the supply room and began rinsing them. He followed me.
"Yeah, right, Raven." The guy I loved leaned against the doorjamb.
"They're mentioned in Mark and in Matthew. I can show you if you like. Grandma Duval pointed them out when I was little. She said it's important not to forget the women in the Bible. She said women have an inherent ease with spirituality, so they hold the real power in the religious world. Since, bottom-line, God's about spirituality, not rules, it pisses men off. So she said, men set up rules and call it God's word to strip women of that power. Which is why they nearly wiped women out of what was recorded and didn't teach them to read or write."
"From what you told me, your grandmother wouldn't use the word pisses."
"You're missing the point."
With exaggerated drama, he rolled his eyes. "It's not that I disagree with your thesis..."
"You think I talk about it too much. But you're not a woman, Tad. You've never had all that sexism directed at you...in the name of God, no less. It's even worse in the Middle East. A lot of those women are still treated like slaves."
"Unfortunately, which is one reason it's still such a mess. So Jesus had more than one?"
"It says sisters, not sister, in both places."
"So the question is, why do you think we both heard the voice? I understand why they'd talk to you. You're the artist and an Indian, to boot. But me, I'm a white man and a salesman. Us salesmen types doubt everything."
"Hell, I don't know. Besides, I'm not all Indian. There's French and German in the mix."
"Sure, but you look Native American. Your hair--all that thick black stuff is outstanding," he said, playfully tugging the braid hanging to the center of my back. "And your eyes, and your body. Lord, it's enough to drive a man mad."
"So that explains it." I grinned. "You think looks matter to spirits?"
"How would I know?"
"My brother, Avery..."
"Mister religious-right himself."
"...always said I was crazy. Maybe some of it rubbed off on you, which means you're getting a double whammy."
I stashed my painting supplies in the corner next to the main entrance.
"Ah, now that could be. It could be. Why don't we get out of here? We can ditch my car, and you can drop me off at the airport after dinner."
Back at the house I changed out of my painting garb, dressed in something a little too sexy and unbound my hair, letting it cascade over nearly bare shoulders and down to my waist. Half an hour later we were seated at a window in the bar at Pier 84, a seafood restaurant on the Columbia River. The room was half-full, the patrons engaged in sedate conversations. Across the smooth water, lights from Vancouver glimmered back at us.
"I don't see why you decided to fly," I said. "Bend isn't that far."
"I haven't had a chance to tell you. It's all about Dave Hansen. He's the guy I'm trying to talk into investing in that complex in Troutdale. Zak McClintock, the guy I met last summer at that conference, called this morning and told me Dave's taking the flight. Zak's been trying to romance Dave into some kind of deal
for years. Zak says if I can woo Dave into the idea, this could be the start of something huge for all three of us. Zak thinks I'm brilliant, so, of course, I like him," Tad said, giving me his goofy little boy grin. That and the authenticity in his eyes made me fall in love with him all over again.
"I see," I said, sighing as silently as possible.
"I know you think the wheeler-dealer mentality is leaching the life out of the planet."
"It is. At least you try to do it in an environmentally friendly way. For that reason I decided to love you in spite of yourself," I said, with a smirk. I took his hand and applied my lips to his palm.
His smile said, I love you so much. Eyes the color of a pale blue sapphire stared back at me. In some light I could see the red dot on his right contact. Wavy blond hair, a little longer than was fashionable, draped one side of his forehead. The sides and back had a business cut, a little short for my liking. He had a model's body, though he never worked out. His clothes hung well, no matter the cut or quality. At forty two, four years older than me, middle age had yet to own him.
"I still can't believe you're willing to put up with the Gestapo tactics at the airport. You can't protect freedoms by stripping them away. Ben Franklin, mister patriot himself, said something like that once. Freedom means..."
"Raven," Tad said, "the power elite do what they want, whenever they want, and they wrap it in words they think we'll swallow. People are the way people are--victims and victimizers. It's always been that way, even during the time of Jesus."
"It must have sucked to live in those days. Do you ever wonder if you lived back then, and if you might have been someone famous?"
"My mind takes me lots of places. But that doesn't mean any of it is true."
"Do you have an inkling who you might have been?"
"I keep seeing a man of rock."
"Peter?"
"That's the one, and, of course, considering how skeptical I am, it makes sense. I should have been a writer. My head is always full of bullshit."
"I noticed." I grinned and ordered a daiquiri and dinner from the waitress who suddenly appeared.
Tad ordered scotch, straight up, a plate of onions rings and deep fried mushrooms.
"I had a huge lunch," he said.
"You'll be gone two days?"
He nodded. "I'll catch a ride back to Timberline with Solomon."
We finished dinner and rushed to the airport. It was beyond midnight by the time I made it to my home on the Clackamas River on the northern edge of Oregon City. The river was visible from three sides of the house. I'd converted much of the top floor into a studio.
With a brief stop in the living room to scruff my cat, Critter, I went to bed. She snuggled in behind my pillow. Deciding to dismiss the feeling that had been gnawing at me since hearing the voice at the community center, I slipped into sleep.
Abruptly at three a.m. I awoke. Annoyed and fuzzy-brained for no identifiable reason, I slipped on my most friendly robe, shuffled along the short hall, downstairs to the dark kitchen and gazed out at the river. Yard lights sparkled over the water.
I made a cup of microwave hot chocolate, trudged back upstairs to my studio adjacent to the bedroom and absently examined the painting I was working on for the main office at St. Monica's Parish. It was a good likeness of what I thought the two must have looked like--the images that appeared in my mind. I'd be glad when it was done. I'd be even more relieved when the commission for the community center was entirely finished. I was sick of Jesus. Maybe spending more time on my book about my brother, Demmy, would help. Of course, that involved another set of problems, heartaches and taboo subjects.
The phone rang.
I gave an irritated, "Hello?"
In his sculpted business voice, Tad said, "Raven?"
"Yes, you got me, not Critter." Antsy, I perched onto my long legged painting stool.
"Ah, sarcasm, I love that about you. I heard the voice again."
"Good grief. What did it say this time?"
Sipping the chocolate I realized Jesus' nose was wrong. He was a Jew. It should be more prominent. The shade of his eyes was off, too. They needed to match his hair exactly. His skin was too light. He would have been out in the sun a lot--without sun screen. My Jesus looked too much like a washed-out European.
"It said, 'It's almost time. Remember.' You didn't hear it?"
"Maybe that's what woke me. I'm glad that client of yours offered you his reservation at Timberline. I can use a couple of days away from this stuff. Sometimes I think the whole Jesus thing is mythology and by doing the paintings I'm reinforcing belief in the absurd."
"Could be. Oh and uh...there was something else the voice said."
"What was that?"
"Choose. It said, choose."
"Choose what?"
"I have no idea," he said.
"Grandma White Bear told me that's part of the lesson. When spirits talk they don't give complete answers. If they did, we'd shine them on."
"She's probably right. Still, I'd like to know what it meant."
"She said we know, but we glaze the truth with rationalized excuses. She said an excuse is just a skin of a reason stuffed with a lie."
"She must have been one sharp old broad. Maybe she's the one who's been talking to us."
"About Jesus? She was Sioux and Innuit. She was into ravens and Earth Mother, not sweaty men in robes."
"Spirits are spirits. I doubt there's a distinction at the next level."
"Good point," I said, wrapping my toes around the rungs of the stool and peering more closely at the painting.
"You know that painting you're working on at home?"
"I'm looking at it now."
"Spooooky. It's stuck in my mind, except I keep seeing Peter upside down and feeling blood rushing to my head."
"Supposedly that's how he was crucified. Why do you think you're seeing him like that?"
"Maybe my life is upside down."
"You don't have any idea what kind of choice they want you to make?" I took another drink of the hot chocolate and slouched against the back of the stool.
"Nope, though it could have something to do with Zak McClintock."
"That wheeler-dealer guy you were talking about?"
"Yep. He said...gees what did he say? Something about property in Utah. He's totally rich and eccentric. This one scheme of his, gees, it's too bizarre to be real. He mentioned a cave, scrolls and espionage like in an Indiana Jones' movie."
"I thought you liked Indiana Jones," I said.
"I do, but not necessarily as a business partner."
"What did Zak want you to do?"
"God knows. I stopped listening when he got to the Jesus stuff. Besides, I don't want to move to Utah, even for a few months. A whole state dedicated to religion--gees."
"Okay, let's talk about it tomorrow night. I plan to ski the pants off you."
"Good, 'cause it's lonely in this bed tonight."
~~~***~~~
