by Paul L Maier
“Oh, fine. Just like that! Well, ‘I was born at a very early age,’ as they say.” She went on to speak of the death of her mother, and of her first memories in Oxford.
“Tell me about her, Shannon . . . your mother.”
“I know very little about her. I was only a baby when she died. But she was very beautiful. You can see that from her photographs. She died quickly of some rare form of pneumonia, and this really broke Papa up for a long while. She was Catholic and he was Protestant, green Irish versus orange, but that didn’t seem to bother them, since they were very much in love.”
“Do you resemble your mother?”
“Papa says I do.”
Her mother, then, must have been something spectacular, thought Jon. “Tell me more about you and your father. Did your mother’s death bring you two closer together, or—”
“Well, I was too young to know at first. My earliest memories are of good Miss Heatherstone, our nanny. She tried to mother both of us, I think. She’d have to tell Papa what to put on when he went out, since he was so absentminded. Once we went down to the Thames for a picnic. After we’d finished, Papa actually started to drive away with-out putting the blanket and leftover food in the trunk! But yes, he doted on me, I think. He tried in his own way to make up for Mother’s absence. The only time I really felt like an orphan was when he sent me away to girls’ school. That was the pits!”
“Oh, yes,” Jon chuckled. “Your boys’ boarding schools are even worse, I hear.”
“I hated the rules, the picky, picky regulations, the uniforms . . . you wouldn’t believe the hats! Several of the girls even taunted me for not having a mother. Kids can be so cruel.”
“Did your father talk much about your mother?”
“Only when I’d ask. Then his eyes would seem to film over, he’d bite his lip, and his voice would catch. He can get quite emotional, you know.”
Jon nodded, then asked, “What about the teenage Shannon?”
“Oh, somehow I survived those awkward years.
Dear Miss Heatherstone died on my eighteenth birth-day, and we had a string of housekeepers after that. But by then I was an Oxford student—as if I had any choice!—and became Papa’s assistant at digs and such. The older I got, the better our relationship.”
That I can understand, thought Jon, as he picked away at the last remnants of Saint Peter’s fish on his plate, almost intentionally averting his gaze from his partner at the table. Shannon-by-candlelight ignited his very being. He loved her. He wanted to scream to everyone in the restaurant that he adored her. The frustration was nearly unbearable.
What now? Should he simply declare his love to her, wait for her to register shock—or worse, amuse-ment—and then apologize for mentioning it, and so play the role of unrequited fool for the rest of their vacation? No, he couldn’t take that chance. It was time to cool off.
“Ah, you don’t want dessert, do you?” he asked.
“No. How’d you guess?”
“Because that would crowd too much into your tummy for our moonlight swim. C’mon, let’s change. Then I’ll race you to the beach. Last one in’s a bearded monster of a monk!”
“You’re on!” she chuckled.
Shannon won. There she stood with her ankles in the Sea of Galilee, sporting a bikini that glowed white in the moonlight. “Ha, ha, you lost, Rasputin!” she taunted. “Why’re you looking around everywhere?”
“Just checking for the Israeli police. They’d arrest you for that miniswimsuit you’re wearing.”
“You nut!” She shoved out her foot and sent a wave splashing over him, then giggled and ran into the water. Jon plunged in after her, but she swam a rapid crawl far out into the lake. Jon followed suit, but failed to catch her.
Well, that figures, he told himself. The most desirable woman in the world in one of the most magnificent settings imaginable, and I can’t do a thing about it.
A nearly full moon had floated up over the Golan Heights rimming the eastern shore of the lake, shooting a satin-sheened path of platinum toward Tiberias. The water, almost bath warm from the August sun, was barely ruffled by scented southern breezes blowing off the Jordan Valley. How he loved that radiant creature swim-ming out there somewhere! She would never know how much.
Suddenly, his feet were snatched off the sand bar where he’d been standing, and he fell backward into the water. The head of a dripping Irish sprite surfaced to claim responsibility.
He sputtered and laughed and threw his arms around her for a friendly hug. “I didn’t know you were such a mermaid, Shannon. You seem to excel at everything, including beating up bearded monks.”
She laughed, then noticed a long, vacant stare in his eyes. “Hey, what’s the problem? Why’re you so serious?”
“Oh, I was only thinking what an incredibly lucky fellow Gideon is.”
“Gideon, Gideon, Gideon! Always Gideon! What about us? ”
“Us?”
“Yes, us! Do I have to draw you a picture, Jonathan Weber? Won’t you please, just once, take me in your arms and hold me a little? Would that be so very difficult?”
He let out a gasp of joy and clasped her tighter than she had ever been held. Then he rained down kisses on her wet cheeks, her earlobes, her neck, her chin, and finally reached her mouth with the longest, most passionate kiss he had ever given any-one. She sighed with happiness. He quivered with the unexpected thrill of it all. “Shannon, Shannon, Shannon,” was all he could whisper as his arms tightened again around her lithe body. “I loved you from the moment I first saw you at the dig, I think. And it’s gotten worse since then, much worse!”
“I love you too, Jon! More intensely than I thought possible.” She put her head on his chest in a haze of exhilaration. “But why did you take so long to express yourself?”
“I don’t know. I just didn’t think this could be possible—the Israel Antiquities Authority, the age difference, and all. Besides which, appearances to the contrary, I’m a very shy guy.”
“Mmmmm,” she purred, as she now kissed him rapturously. “It makes no difference. I’m only glad we were finally honest with each other.”
Again he clasped her to himself, almost worried that somehow she might slip out of his life, that the dream might shimmer away like some mirage. “Darling Shannon! Incredible Shannon! You’ve been the one secret source of joy for me all these weeks, even though I thought you were absolutely out of reach. I really had no idea you shared my feelings.”
“I thought I’d dropped a hint or two . . .”
“I guess I was too afraid of rejection to even notice. What a blinking coward I turned out to be!”
“You didn’t seem very cowardly up on Mount Sinai.”
“You were the one who was larger than life that day, darling. I’d had you on a pedestal before, but after your heroic performance there you hit the stratosphere. Beyond belief! Tell me once again how you took care of that crazed cleric.”
Shannon laughed. “Want me to show you?”
“Oh, oh . . . better not! But where’d you learn how to do all that?”
“I have a weakness for Ian Fleming. It’s what one of the James Bond heroines would have done.”
Jon chuckled, and they walked onto the beach. The gentle southern breeze caressed away any chills as they ambled arm in arm for several hours, celebrating the exquisite new joy in their lives. First they shared delightful revelations of how they had really felt about each other at various points in their acquaintance. Clearly, Jon had fallen in love first. She had been detained by the Gideon complication. But before long, she confessed, Jon had quickly dislodged the Israeli, and she had only been waiting for him to show some initiative. On the other hand, she couldn’t be too for-ward about her feelings for fear he was still hopelessly attached to the memory of Andrea. He admitted to her that he would never love Andrea the less, but there could hardly be any complication on that score.
“Why must we mask ourselves so?” Jon wondered aloud. “Why do people
cover their feelings instead of expressing them? Look what it cost me: two months of love with you, and that’s an irreparable loss.”
She stopped, gently twined her arms around his neck, and murmured, “We can try to make up for lost time, my darling.” Then she kissed him so vibrantly that all thoughts of time and space vanished from their horizons.
It was well past midnight when they returned to the hotel. Jon wanted desperately to spend the night with her, but there was a good chance she might resent the suggestion, to say nothing about the issue of morality. He would do nothing, absolutely nothing, to ruin the dream. He paused in front of her room, caressed her bare shoulders, and said, “Good night, my darling. You’ve made me the happiest man on earth at this moment. I know that’s a very hackneyed expression, but I really can’t find other words for it.”
“I feel exactly the same way, Jon. Thank you for . . . for coming into my life.” She gave him a long, tender kiss, stepped inside her room, and closed the door.
Courage, Jon, he told himself. You have the rest of your life to spend with that marvelous woman, if—pray God—she’ll marry me!
He undressed and went to bed. Since the air conditioning was halfhearted at best, he lay naked on top of the sheets, luxuriating in the memories of the most sublime evening of his life. Sleep was impossible, as his whole being now focused on that grandest creation of God called Shannon Jennings. “Thank You, Lord! Thank You!” he said. It was the most honest prayer he had ever uttered.
What had started as a brief holiday, a little awk-ward because one of the vacationers was missing, had now turned suddenly romantic. Their lives would never, could never, be the same. Breakfast was much more than food. It was a daylight confirmation of their overwhelming attachment. Their planned itinerary stayed the same, but nothing else did. All awkwardness, all restraints had been buried at Tiberias. Now they felt free to be absolutely genuine with one another.
Like school children on their first picnic, they fairly sailed along the roadway around the western shore of the Sea of Galilee, past Capernaum, and up to Caesarea Philippi, where the apostle Peter first confessed Jesus to be the Son of God. Jon and Shannon cavorted about the caves and grottos there like young billy goats—teasing, racing, cajoling, touching, embracing, kissing. Here were the head- waters of the Jordan—clear, cold water gurgling out from a spring in the mountainside, a perfect spot for them to defeat the heat by plunging under the waterfalls there.
They climbed the Golan Heights, peered into Syria, and camped out at Ein Gev on the eastern shore of the lake. They found new joys in each other, unexplored thoughts, delicious sensations, invigorating emotions. Should they telephone Jennings and tell him of their great happiness? Time enough for that later on, they decided.
“Jon, take me for a boat ride on the Sea of Galilee,” she said, after they had returned to Tiberias. “I’ve never done that, believe it or not, and I’ve heard about this lake ever since Sunday school.”
“Done!” he promised.
They rented a sailboat in the harbor and headed out toward the middle of the lake. “Now if Someone comes along, walking on the water, do whatever He says,” Jon advised.
“Just don’t get us caught in a tempest. Your Friend may not appear on schedule.”
No tempest, but a great calm overtook them near the center of the lake. Not even a zephyr ruffled their sails. They were dead in the water.
“I really think we ought to use this time to better advantage than just sitting here,” said Jon. “Don’t you agree, my love?”
Again they were in each other’s arms, tumbling down into the shallow inner pit of the sailboat, caressing and kissing with a passion that astonished them. Life can never be better than this, they thought.
Suddenly they heard it before seeing it. A boat was bearing down on them, crammed with tourists singing, quite lustily, “Blest be the tie that binds our hearts with Christian love. ”
Jon jerked his head up over the gunwales and saw the ship, festooned with a huge banner: “ANOTHER BOATLOAD OF BAPTISTS IN ISRAEL.” The pilgrims craned their necks at the couple from the starboard rail.
In panic, Jon tried to stand up to warn the ship, but his swim trunks caught on the jib line, pulling them down. The pilgrims could draw only one conclusion.
“Brothers and sisters,” the tour leader boomed over the public address system, “avert your eyes from such carnal misdeeds! ‘Flee youthful lusts!’ the Bible says. Instead let’s all sing hymn number 374, ‘O Love That Will Not Let Me Go’!”
Jon—his swim trunks back in place—joined Shannon in a howl of laughter, and even the scandal-ized boatload chuckled at their leader’s gaucherie.
“Are you okay?” the captain of the ship called down as his ship pulled alongside the sailboat. “I thought you might be in trouble.”
“No, no! We’re fine!” Jon called back. Mercifully, the ship sailed on toward Capernaum.
“Oh, that’ll look great in your dossier,” Shannon guffawed. “‘WEBER MOONS PILGRIMS IN GALILEE’!”
Jon chortled and said, “That Bible-quoting leader of theirs—I can quote some Scripture too.” He bent to kiss her. “Like . . . ‘How beautiful you are, my love, how very beautiful! Your love is better than wine; your perfume more fragrant than any spice. The taste of honey is on your lips, my darling. What a magnificent girl you are! The curve of your thighs is like the work of an artist. Your navel is a rounded bowl that never lacks mixed wine. Your breasts are like two fawns, twins of a gazelle. You are graceful as a palm tree, and your breasts are clusters of dates. I will climb the palm tree and pick its fruit! Your kisses are like the best wine that goes down smoothly, gliding over lips and teeth. How lovely you are, how exquisite, how complete the delights of your love!’”
“That’s so beautiful, Jon. It’s from the Song of Songs, isn’t it?”
He nodded and said, “Or as it’s sometimes called, the Song of Solomon. ”
“Let’s read it together sometime.”
“How about for daily devotions?”
He looked a final time at the form lying so magnificently in the pit of their sailboat, smiled with infinite satisfaction, and murmured, “Up, little princess. We have to catch this wind and sail home.” They had one last dinner at the hotel that had changed their lives, and then packed for the drive back to Ramallah.
“Where do you think they should hang the bronze plaque?” asked Shannon, as they drove away.
“What plaque?”
“The one that reads: ‘HERE THE GREAT LOVE BETWEEN JONATHAN WEBER AND SHANNON JENNINGS FIRST BLOSSOMED.’ On the beach or in the hotel?”
“On the front lawn. In neon!”
She nibbled at his right earlobe and then brushed his cheek with her lips. It was conduct like this that made them forget the car radio. Had they been listening instead to Kol Israel, the BBC, or any other station, they would not have been so shocked when they returned to Ramallah.
When they did arrive around midnight, they found their hotel surrounded by what appeared to be half the Israel Defense Force. Floodlights beamed against the entrance, officers with walkie-talkies patrolled the perimeter, and a pushing, shouting mob besieged the site, prevented from entering by the Israeli military.
“What in the very devil is going on here?” Jon asked the guard who blocked their access.
“Who wants to know?” he countered.
“This is Shannon Jennings. Her father’s the director of the Rama excavation, and I’m Professor Weber. We live inside here.” He pointed.
“Oh! We’ve been looking for you everywhere! Please follow me.”
He cleared a path for their car. They drove in, got out, and walked inside to find a white-faced, perspiring Jennings stalking to and fro. “Thank God you’re finally here, Jon . . . Shannon,” he nearly croaked. “Somehow, word got out! Now the world knows!”
Jon gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. He looked over to Shannon and hissed, “Worst-case scenario! ”
F
IFTEEN
What in ruddy blazes happened, Austin?” Jon burst out, not even trying to disguise his fury. “Sort it out for me!”
“An idiotic lapse in security. Gideon here was showing his cousin around the dig and—well, you tell him, Gideon.”
Ben-Yaakov looked crestfallen, chastened. “Well, it was a comedy of . . . no, a tragedy of errors,” he confessed. “My cousin Schmuel Sanderson is a stringer for the Associated Press in Jerusalem. As you know, it’s been a very ‘low-news’ August, so Schmuel was doing a potboiler on the various digs in Israel, and since yours is one of the best, it was only natural that I took him to Rama. After showing him the dig, I brought him here to see the workroom and the laboratory. Professor Jennings and Clive Brampton were gone at the time, and the other dig personnel saw nothing wrong with our little tour of your facilities. Inside the photo lab, I saw a print of your papyrus. I thought I’d show off my Aramaic in front of Cousin Schmuel, so I started reading off the first three or four lines. When I saw that this might be something . . . rather sensitive, I stopped translating immediately, and we left the hotel.
“Schmuel, of course, has this incredible nose for news. As we were leaving, he claimed he’d left something behind and went back inside the hotel. What the schlemiel did was to take photos of the print. Then he brought his photographs to Hebrew University for translation. They didn’t get it all, but they did translate enough for Schmuel to realize he had the biggest story of his life on his hands. He never contacted me first. He simply broke the story. I’m . . . very sorry, my friends. So very sorry!”
“And just what in Hades was Dick Cromwell doing, letting prints like that lie around?” Jon demanded. “And where is Dick?”
“Dick had to fly to the United States. His mother’s ill,” said Clive. “Austin and I were down at the Dead Sea caves when it happened. Maybe we’re paying the price for not having had a resident here who knew the whole story.”
“All right, first things first. How much does the world know?”
