The End of the Magi
Page 32
Ronen drew a long, slow breath. “Then I will wait with you, my friend. For a time.”
Myrad took a few moments to eat and then rose in search of his wife and father-in-law, to tell them they would be remaining in Jerusalem for a while yet.
CHAPTER 40
“Aren’t all these who are speaking Galileans? Then how is it that each of us hears them in our native language? Parthians, Medes and Elamites . . . we hear them declaring the wonders of God in our own tongues!”
Acts 2:7–11
Myrad bided his time in Jerusalem along with the rest of the magi, all of whom seemed content to wait until Yeshua’s promise of power came to pass. Roshan shared in that contentment, though Myrad caught her in unguarded moments staring toward the eastern horizon. Walagash, however, came directly to the point.
“We can’t stay here much longer,” he said. Age deepened his voice to a low rumble.
In truth, Myrad’s feet had started to itch. Or more accurately, he missed the feel and freedom of being on horseback. “Why not?”
“Because Aban cannot handle the business all by himself indefinitely. Sooner or later, he’s going to encounter a very great opportunity or a very great risk, and he’s going to have to make a real decision, not just act as caretaker.” Walagash took Myrad’s silence for argument. “Why are we staying here?”
When he looked up from his cup of wine, he found Roshan staring at him in a way that told him she shared the question. He set his cup down and voiced his doubts out loud for the first time. “Because I’m hoping that, thirty years after Gershom’s death, Yeshua will give purpose to Gershom and all the rest of us who kept the calendar.”
Walagash gripped him by the shoulder. “What more purpose do you need? God gave you the dream of His star. You kept the calendar faithfully. You’ve spoken to those who have seen Yeshua alive again.”
Myrad ducked his head, hesitant to put his need into words. “I want something for myself. I want a new task to give meaning to the one before.”
He expected Walagash to argue with him. Instead, the old merchant surprised him. “I understand, Myrad. You hope that God will allow you to serve Him.”
A hole opened deep in his spirit, a desperate longing. “Gershom adopted me into his task. He had the same dream as I. If there had been no threat from Musa, would God have given me the dream as well? I want to know that God can use a man like me.”
“We’ll stay,” Roshan said. The look in her eyes told Myrad she understood the anguish that went with his doubt. He reached out and took her hand in his, still overcome after so many years that she chose him to be her husband. What had he ever done to deserve such wealth?
A few days later, word came to them that the disciples who’d been closest to Yeshua had left the city. The rest of the magi—all of those who still held positions within the Parthian Empire—departed from Jerusalem to make their way back. Only Ronen and Yehudah remained to hold vigil with Myrad, who rose each morning with the same question in his heart. What am I waiting for?
Weeks passed with no word of the disciples, the days growing steadily longer and warmer as Judea embraced summer. Then at the end of the Hebrew month of Iyyar, word finally reached them that the eleven were just outside the city.
“Has it happened already?” Ronen asked. “Have they received this power Yeshua spoke of?”
They scoured the city, following rumors like dogs on the scent, until they found them at the Mount of Olives just outside Jerusalem. The disciples waved to them in greeting as they approached, picking their way across the rocky slope. Myrad tried to keep up, but the rocks confounded his gait and slowed his steps. By the time he arrived, Yehudah stood before Simon. Something had happened to the disciples during their time away from the city, but it left the deepest traces on Simon’s face. Myrad had never seen peace and grief combined in such strength in his entire life, especially in the expression of one so young.
“We saw him again,” Simon said. “Yeshua.”
“You had a dream or a vision?” Yehudah asked.
“No. Yeshua is risen! There is no need for dreams or visions. I saw Him as I am seeing you.” He reached out to grab Yehudah’s shoulder. “I touched Him as I am touching you. He spoke to us as a man speaks. He ate with us.” Simon nodded toward the city. “He told us to return to Jerusalem and wait for ten days.”
The years of keeping the calendar had ingrained in Myrad a sense of time he would carry with him the rest of his life. In ten days, the city of Jerusalem would celebrate the Feast of Weeks in the Hebrew calendar, seven weeks after Passover.
If waiting was difficult before, now it became a torture unto itself.
Myrad found himself pacing the inn, the streets, and the path to an empty tomb that no longer required mourners to weep over it or soldiers to safeguard it. His right foot ached, and he found rest impossible. The city of Jerusalem filled with those from the surrounding area to celebrate the feast, and he couldn’t help but search their faces in an attempt to recognize any from Yeshua’s trial and crucifixion, wondering what part they’d played. Finally, mercifully, the day of Pentecost arrived. Myrad woke at first light, though waking would be a charitable description. He rolled from his bed to dress.
“Come, Roshan.” He shook his wife’s shoulder. “Today is the day.”
She stirred, rising. “I remember when you were always last out of bed. It doesn’t seem so long ago.” She yawned. “That’s right, it wasn’t.”
“Come,” he said again, his heart beating against his rib cage. “You can joke later. We have to get to their house.”
She rose, still yawning, dressed in her best linen, and ran a brush through the wealth of black hair that still begged for his touch. “Why is this so important to you, to see this coming of power?”
The question brought a stop to Myrad’s pacing, providing a means to halt the ceaseless fidgeting that had marked the last ten days. “I’ve been surrounded by miracles for weeks now. We arrived to see Yeshua, but I never saw Him heal the lame or the lepers. I didn’t get to see Him bring Lazarus back from the dead, and in all the times He’s appeared to others since His resurrection, I’ve not been there. I’m always too late, too slow, or in the wrong place.”
She shook her head, but her eyes reflected kindness. “But you’ve had your miracles, Myrad. God kept you alive time after time. In the desert. When pursued by Musa. In the storm and flood. He gave you and the other magi the miracle of the star. I was there.”
“That was a long time ago.”
She spread her arms. “Has He gone anywhere? He has other people to see to, people who need their miracle. Would you have God perform for you the rest of your days just so you can believe? That’s not belief; it’s the opposite.”
“How did I manage to marry a woman so wise?”
She took three steps until she stood close enough to bring him into the circle of her arms. “You gave me the desire of my heart when no one else could. There are two types of wisdom, one of the heart and one of the mind. You’ve always had the first and most important of them, but now you need the second. See your life for the miracle it is. You’ve been highly favored by God. Accept it.”
He nodded, but inside he still ached for purpose, for some task to replace the one he’d inherited from Gershom.
Walagash joined them at breakfast, and afterward they left the inn, each of them carrying two loaves of bread to make the customary offering at the Temple. They walked the streets with Yehudah and Ronen, none of them speaking. After leaving the Temple, Myrad gave Yehudah and Ronen his answer to Roshan’s question. “I’m going home tomorrow.”
The magi turned, their eyes full of questions.
“Whatever happens today is enough for me.”
The two men nodded, yet it was the feel of Roshan’s hand in his that brought the comfort he needed. Her warmth and approval filled him with peace.
An hour passed while others from the city, drawn by instinct or rumor, joined them until soon a thousa
nd or more people surrounded the house. Perhaps it was Myrad checking the position of the sun that allowed him to hear it first: a low rushing sound coming from the clear sky. Soon the sound grew louder until it became a burst of wind through the streets, tugging at his ears with the suggestion of voices.
The crowd swelled as people ran out of shops and homes. Searching for the source, they found themselves drawn to the house where the disciples of the dead prophet were gathered. The wind and the sound continued to grow, and fear replaced curiosity as the onlookers added their cries to the noise.
Then the door opened, and the disciples emerged from the house, each of them wearing a flame of fire above his head. Myrad blinked and the flames were gone. Had he only imagined them? The sound of the rushing wind died then, and the quiet that followed was absolute.
The disciple Simon stepped forward. “People of Jerusalem,” he called, “hear me. The word of Yeshua has been fulfilled this day in your presence.” Myrad leaned forward with the rest of the crowd to listen to Simon, but he couldn’t think clearly. Some inflection in Simon’s voice caught his attention, filling him with wonder as if he were a boy in the market once more and Gershom were speaking to him all over again.
Persian. Simon was speaking Persian. Myrad blinked again, this time struggling to reconcile an eloquence that surpassed his own and Gershom’s with his memory of the disciples.
The rest of the eleven came to stand beside Simon and added their voices to his. Their words filled the air like a chorus from the streets of every city in the world.
“This Yeshua whom you slew . . .” Simon continued, and the cadence of his voice shifted. Beside him, Yehudah, Roshan, and Walagash jerked as if they’d been struck. Roshan’s eyes grew wide, and her lips parted in shock. “They’re speaking Parthi. That’s impossible.”
On it went for hours, the disciples proclaiming the death and resurrection of their Master in multiple languages, eloquently, leaving every foreigner in the street befuddled. When they switched to Greek, Myrad shook his head, unable to conceal his wonder. This was no pittance of the language a merchant might use to barter with another. Rather, these were the spoken words of men steeped in Greek since birth, educated in it, not the words of fishermen in rough linen. With every shift in language, the men and women around Myrad cried out in wonder and shed tears. As the disciples switched to languages unfamiliar to him, strangers in the crowd wept openly in amazement just as he had.
Finally, the burden became too great and someone called out, “We are undone! What are we to do?”
Myrad heard Roshan and all those around them echo the words. Tears streamed down his face as he added his voice to theirs, and their pleas grew until it echoed in the streets.
“Repent,” Simon told them, “and be baptized in the name of Yeshua, and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.” He scanned the crowd before him. “The promise is for you and your children and for all who are far off.”
Hours later, at nightfall, they met at the inn, each of them speaking of what they had seen, their voices flowing and cascading over one another, mixing and parting like floodwaters. Laughter and tears filled their conversation late into the night until, at last, their excitement ran its course and they quieted in contemplation of the miracle they’d witnessed. Myrad passed a wineskin and loaf of bread to Yehudah and Walagash, who sat beside him. He smiled to himself, looking at the bread, the wine, and everyone in amazement. Would anything be ordinary again?
“What will you do now?” Yehudah asked him.
“Do? What does anyone do with this?” Even as the words left Myrad’s lips, the answer came to him. He smiled at Walagash. “Do you remember when we first met and you traded with Esai?”
Walagash nodded. “I bartered your Torah for the chance to trade in silk. I think you did more trading than I that day.”
Myrad laughed. It seemed everything brought him joy now. “I’m going to take a lesson from Esai and purchase a Torah, and a complete Tanakh as well. I saw the Messiah the prophets have spoken of for hundreds of years. I want to know everything.”
Yehudah smiled. “And what will you do with all your knowledge?”
“Gershom told me that knowledge is only useful if it’s shared.” He reached out to take Roshan’s hand. “A merchant goes everywhere. What I have seen and witnessed will go with me. What about you, magus?”
Yehudah and Ronen exchanged glances, and Myrad got the impression the two had already discussed the matter. “No longer,” Yehudah said. “I used to pride myself on that title, on being one of the magi. Call me disciple now.”
Acknowledgments
With every book I become more aware of how integral to the writing process my wife, Mary, has become. She listens to ideas, encourages me, and helps me proof the manuscript. Thanks also need to go to my agent, Steve Laube, for sharing his wisdom yet still listening to a relatively wet-behind-the-ears writer like me. At Bethany House, I would like to thank acquisitions editor Dave Long, who showed a surprising willingness to listen to my pitch and an openness to a quick deadline. As well, thanks go to Luke Hinrichs, my new editor who pushed me to write the best story I could. New friends are always a joy.
Patrick W. Carr was born on an Air Force base in West Germany at the height of Cold War tensions. As an Air Force brat, he experienced a change in locale every three years until his father retired to Tennessee. After high school, Patrick saw more of the world on his own through a varied and somewhat eclectic education and work history. He graduated from Georgia Tech in 1984 and has worked as a draftsman at a nuclear plant, did design work for the Air Force, worked for a printing company, and consulted as an engineer. Patrick’s day gig for the last thirteen years has been teaching high school math in Tennessee. He has a wife and four amazing sons, all of whom are far more riches than he deserves.
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Table of Contents
Cover
Half Title Page
Books by Patrick W. Carr
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Contents
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
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