The Galilean Secret: A Novel (8 page)
Read The Galilean Secret: A Novel Online
Authors: Evan Howard
But he flatly rejected her praise and said, “Blessed rather are those who hear the word of God and obey it.”
Mary pondered Nicodemus’ shocking statements as she laid out her blanket in the deepening twilight. Worshipping Jesus seemed dangerous to her. He continually emphasized
doing
the word of God: living righteously, caring for the poor, upholding justice, loving your enemies. If people shunned these hard commands and instead idolized the giver of them, wouldn’t they be sabotaging their own quest for the light? Jesus always pointed people to God, earnestly desiring their spiritual growth while remaining humble.
Further, she knew how human Jesus was—his desires weren’t different from those of every man. After the incident with the prostitute, didn’t his disciples see that? Mary expected them to be as scandalized as she was. Before she could confront Nicodemus with these concerns, she spied a traveler entering the olive grove and alerted Gabriel and Nicodemus. They stood, alarm written on their faces. The traveler moved slowly to the fire and said in Aramaic, “Hello, Mary. I have come to take you back.”
She got up and peered into the man’s welcoming eyes, dark as a starless night. The eyes studied her cautiously, their outer corners turned slightly upward, their gaze directed out from a pleasant face, striking for its contrast between delicate, almost feminine features and a heavy, black beard. The face belonged to a disciple of Jesus’ named John. She spoke crossly, “I won’t go back.”
Reaching out for her hand, he said, “You must. Jesus sent me to tell you how much he needs you.”
Gabriel stepped between them. “Please don’t pressure her. She must decide for herself.”
Palms outward, Mary held up her hands and backed away. “I couldn’t return, even if I wanted to. I can no longer be a disciple of Jesus.”
John frowned. “If you had truly given him your heart, you wouldn’t have run away.”
Anger glinted in Mary’s eyes. “You know nothing about my heart. How dare you suggest that!”
Nicodemus prevented John from responding by inviting everyone to sit down. When Mary had reluctantly conceded and they were all seated in front of the fire, Nicodemus said, “Perhaps you should give Jesus the chance to explain himself, Mary. Why would he have sent John if he didn’t have deep feelings for you?”
“Please don’t give up on him, Mary,” John said. “Jesus wants you to know how much he cares about you.” Lowering his voice, he continued, “He has become increasingly concerned about the Zealots’ reckless tactics. He needs everyone who believes in his message of peace to help him spread it. Thankfully, after he healed a man with a shriveled hand, his popularity is growing. People are coming to him not only from Judea but even from the regions across the Jordan and around Tyre and Sidon.”
Mary could feel the blood draining from her cheeks. She thought of her aunt and uncle in Jerusalem. What a relief it would be to go and live with them. She could forget about men and avoid the pain of loving one. But what about her feelings for Jesus? He had hurt her, but if she left for good, would she ever get over him?
The fire drew her in as she pondered what to do. Would returning to Jesus lead to happiness or greater pain? She had never loved a man as she loved him, but the power of her feelings terrified her. What would she do if he didn’t return them? Her breathing quickened and her pulse began to race.
And what about the Zealots? Like Jesus, she worried that they would bring the wrath of the Romans on the entire nation. To help him win the hearts of the masses could prevent a bloodbath. She also yearned to know who Jesus really was. The claim that he was some kind of a god seemed outrageous, yet Nicodemus had made her curious, and she couldn’t deny that despite her hurt, she needed to decide the matter for herself. If she went to live with her aunt and uncle, she could never do that.
The tension in her chest was unbearable. It only began to ease as she said to Gabriel and Nicodemus, her voice choked with emotion, “I can never thank you enough for saving my life and offering to let me travel with you to Jerusalem. But I do need to go back and hear Jesus’ explanation. I owe him that much—and myself too.”
Nicodemus withdrew the scroll from his bag and held it out to her. “You should take this with you.”
“No, I want Jesus to explain himself to me in person, not through a letter.” Mary pointed at Nicodemus’ bag. “Please keep the scroll somewhere safe. Someday I may be ready to read it.”
Gabriel stood and intertwined his fingers with hers, and she felt the depth of his understanding. He had suffered at the hands of his betrothed and his brother, and Mary sensed that he still had feelings for those who had hurt him, as she had feelings for Jesus.
She gave his hands a squeeze as Gabriel said, “I don’t know what to think of Jesus anymore, Mary. But if he can offer us a way out of the Zealots’ madness, I hope you can help him. Otherwise the Romans will destroy our nation.”
“After hearing how your brother and your betrothed betrayed you, I’m more opposed to the Zealots than ever.” Her rising emotion made it difficult for her to speak. “God has brought us together for a reason. You saved my life. I hope to repay your kindness someday.” She turned to Nicodemus and smiled her thanks.
Then Mary reached out to John. “In the morning I will go with you to find Jesus.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Present Day
Celibacy expresses an important truth about love. Before we can be happy with another person, we must learn to be happy alone. At its best, celibacy is a spiritual discipline that teaches us how to be intimate with ourselves. This intimacy restores the state of love, joy, peace and freedom into which we were born. In this state of abundance, love flows from the union of the masculine and the feminine within, meeting our need for intimacy in a way that no human being can. Until this union is forged, we will feel lonely and alienated whether single or married. In matters of the heart, no one can give us what we don’t already possess. From this source of all nobility, courage and joy, souls that surrender to the light of love are inspired and transformed. Beginning this very moment.
—Brother Gregory Andreou’s Journal
Village of Bil’in
Monday, April 1
THE TEAR GAS CANISTER BARELY MISSED THE ENRAGED PALESTINIAN TEENAGER. Karim snatched it up and hurled it toward the stony hillside, eyes burning, lungs heaving. The gangly boy had thrown a rock at the Israeli soldiers who patrolled the razorwire separation wall outside Bil’in, twelve kilometers west of Ramallah. Up to this point, the demonstration against the wall had been peaceful. Now, among the several hundred demonstrators, more than thirty youths were throwing rocks.
Karim’s skin turned clammy. The Holy Angels Monastery seemed far away, as did Brother Gregory’s gentle ways. But only by protesting could he oppose the extremism of both the Palestinian Patriotic Alliance and the Israeli occupation. He forced himself forward and waded into the thick of the protesters. “Stop this violence! It will never bring peace.”
The protesters ignored his shouts and kept cursing and throwing rocks. The cluster of soldiers stood in front of the electrified fence, about a hundred meters away, huddled behind tall rolls of barbed wire. The soldiers stepped around the wire and began advancing on the crowd, rifles drawn.
“Stop throwing rocks before someone gets hurt!” Karim’s throat burned from yelling, but the shouts were futile. He could barely hear his own voice above the jeering, chanting and clapping of the demonstrators. He looked to both sides and saw that some of them had stopped. An attractive young woman was running from youth to youth, waving her arms and imploring as many of the rock-throwers as possible to cease.
Most pushed her aside to continue their furious assault.
The bottom fell out of Karim’s stomach as the soldiers started marching down the dusty slope. The protesters dodged in all directions, some of them continuing to hurl rocks. A burning sensation filled his chest as the first shots rang out. He and many others threw themselves to the ground as rubber-coated bullets whizzed above their heads. The protesters who kept running weren’t so lucky. One went down and then another as the bullets found their marks. All the while clouds of tear gas plumed in the air. Friends of the protesters who’d been hit picked them up and carried them toward town.
Karim ran after them, coughing and wiping away tears, terrified of being arrested and jailed. All at once his left thigh erupted in pain as a rubber-coated bullet grazed his leg. The impact drove him forward. His tennis shoe landed sideways on a stone, twisting his left ankle. Pain shot up his leg. He fell on the gravelly limestone and grabbed his ankle, writhing in agony. Dust caked his lips and face as he lay on the sunbaked earth. He felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a woman speaking Hebrew. Turning, he saw the same slender, dark-haired woman who had tried to stop the rock throwing. He motioned that he didn’t understand.
“Is anything broken?” This time she spoke English, grabbing his arm and pulling him up. “Hurry! We have to get out of here.”
“I don’t think anything is broken. If I can get back to my motorbike, I’ll be okay. It’s at the bottom of this hill.” Karim half coughed, half choked the words in English, as she wrapped an arm around his neck and began to run.
She pointed toward Bil’in, a kilometer away. “You’re in no condition to ride a motorbike. My Jeep is also parked at the bottom of the hill. I’ll drive you to safety.”
His leg and ankle throbbed as he hobbled ahead, leaning on her for support, gagging on the acrid stench of tear gas. She was a head shorter than him—about medium height—and stronger than he expected. She continued to drag him forward as bullets whizzed over their heads. “I’ll be okay,” he said, balancing on his right leg. “If you stay with me, you’ll get shot.”
She supported him and forged ahead. “If I don’t, the soldiers will arrest or beat you. Or worse.”
Karim leaned on her shoulder and limped down the dusty, rock-strewn slope. Each touch with his left foot shot darts of pain into his ankle and up his leg. He caught a glimpse of his motorbike, parked at the end of a line of several cars. She pointed to one of them, a Jeep Cherokee with Israeli plates. “My name’s Rachel and that’s my Jeep.”
He saw that about half of the fleeing protesters had already run as far as the Jeep. Out of range of the soldiers, they were now walking past the line of cars toward Bil’in. The rest of the protesters were clustered around him and Rachel, or spread between them and the line of parked cars, running from the soldiers.
Then Karim saw something that caught his breath—an old black Mercedes. It was approaching the line of cars from the direction of Bil’in. Abdul Fattah, his father’s most trusted lieutenant, drove an old black Mercedes. Karim quickened his pace, forcing himself to breathe even as spasms seized his leg. He was fifty meters from the motorbike and the Jeep; the Mercedes was an equal distance beyond them. Karim’s only hope of getting to the Jeep lay with the protesters who were in the road, slowing the Mercedes’ progress.
He ducked and trudged forward, supported by Rachel. At twenty-five meters, he glanced up and saw that the Mercedes had stopped, surrounded by the crowd. Karim’s lungs heaved and his heart pounded as he kept moving, head down. After ten more meters, he looked up: the Mercedes still wasn’t moving. Abdul Fattah was weaving through the crowd, talking to the protesters as he went. Karim shielded his face with his free hand. When he and Rachel reached his motorbike, he unlocked the carrying case and grabbed his backpack from inside. “You were right. I can’t ride the bike. I have no choice but to leave it.”
Rachel led him to the passenger side of her Jeep. “Get in.” She opened the door and helped him.
Through the windshield he could see the distinctive features of Abdul Fattah—his forehead protruding slightly over close-set eyes, his nose somewhat flat, giving his face a concave appearance. Now Abdul was forty meters away. As the protesters cleared the road, Abdul headed to the Mercedes.
Karim reclined his seat, lay back and covered his face with his hands. “Can we hurry, please?”
Rachel ran around the front of the Jeep and leapt in behind the wheel. She honked to clear the road and drove the Jeep forward.
Karim felt as if sand was flowing through his veins. “The Mercedes?”
“We’re passing it.”
Karim’s heart lurched. He turned away from the window, keeping his face covered.
The Jeep slowed.
Had a protester blocked the way? Was Abdul about to discover him?
“The protesters were in the road, but they’re moving now,” Rachel said, speeding up. “The man in the Mercedes must be looking for someone. He keeps talking to people.”
As the Jeep headed toward Bil’in, Karim glimpsed utility poles and wires whizzing by. After a few minutes he propped himself up and saw clusters of shops and businesses. Eventually Rachel took a sharp right, pulled over and stopped.
“Shouldn’t we keep going?” Karim asked, his voice more shrill than he intended. “The soldiers will find us.”
“No one will see us in this alley.” She got out and retrieved something from the backseat. Then she came around and opened his door, holding up a first-aid kit.
“Why are you helping me?” Karim forced the words out through a grimace. “You could go to jail.”