Читать книгу Embedded - Marc Knutson - Страница 8

Sandstorm! There is perhaps nothing worse, or more excruciatingly annoying, than having road dirt and gritty particles collecting on your teeth. Nevertheless, such was the windy way as I left the city limits of southern Jerusalem, heading for Bethlehem. The road was littered with cracked pebbles and dry, dusty well-trodden Israeli soil. The rains had withheld themselves from the Middle East for many months, and the whipping dust made us pay for the lack of water. All I could think of was my morning shower, like, why did I even take one? The sweat line along my forehead was forming dust cakes, and my parched mouth regretted that I hadn’t finished all of my orange juice at breakfast. I couldn’t seem to form enough spittle to eliminate the mud clods that were forming in my throat. Breathing through my nose had almost become impossible as the passages were filling and closing shut, and the measly rag I had hastily tossed around my face didn’t seem to offer the filtering that I had expected of it. The sun was high overhead beating down on the road and its travelers. Inwardly I scolded myself for not getting on the road sooner, or even simply waiting for later in the day when the sun was lower in the west. Nevertheless, I was miserable, and just wanted to get to a Bethlehem hotel, re-shower and start my day over again.

The never-ending cavalcade of sand grit was conspiring to blast off the outer layer of my forehead, and with the wind howling past my ears, I hardly looked up as I walked. But in all that external violence swirling around me, I could sense that a fellow journeyman was nearing me from behind. Westerners are always told to be on alert when alone in the Middle East. Moreover, weather conditions didn’t alter the danger or the warning. If someone was coming up on me, I had better be on guard, despite the conditions.

“Are you going to Bethlehem?” came the voice from the nearing stranger, speaking at a volume level just slightly louder than the surrounding howl of the wind.

I pretended that I hadn’t heard him, and kept my head down, looking forward, and clutched my laptop. I was not going to allow my computer to get stolen by some highway hooligan. I thought that I had left Jerusalem by myself. I hadn’t noticed anyone else on the road with me at all. Then again with all the swirling dust that suddenly found itself airborne, anyone could have entered the road undetected. I felt that I had carefully paced myself from other fools like me trying to get to Bethlehem in a windstorm. Yet somehow this man has caught up to me.

“Say,” came the voice again, it had grown louder, indicating that he was coming up on my left side. I threw a slight glance over my shoulder, being careful not to turn my face and its covering totally sideways to the cross-cutting wind, so that it wouldn’t catch an edge and rip the wrap off my head.

“Are you headed for Bethlehem?” he repeated. Now he was along my left flank, and looking directly at my face. He didn’t seem to be bothered by the blinding sand. I found it interesting that he didn’t even have a wrap around his face, as was called for by the conditions. Amazingly, the wind had diminished to a slight breeze and afforded us an opportunity to speak without having to yell.

“Yes,” I responded in a hesitant tone. Being on my guard, I didn’t feel comfortable enough to greet him with a pleasant “good-day” nor offer any friendly expression on my face until I was able to establish who he was, and what his intentions were. “I am headed to Bethlehem, who’s asking?” came my interrogative tone.

“My name is Eshek. I’m also headed for Bethlehem. Want some company? You can’t travel alone on these roads, too much evil walks these same paths.” I found myself looking directly into his Middle-Eastern dark eyes. It was difficult to break their hold on me. He, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be from the area. His skin was dark complexioned and his irises were a deep, dark brown, bordering on black. His clothing was certainly cultural. However, curiously, he spoke in marvelously clear English. There was no telltale heavy Hebrew or Arab accent. He had my interest, but I didn’t let on to him that he had. Remaining aloof and nondescript, I responded,

“Eshek is your name? Where are you from? Why are you headed to Bethlehem?” I wanted a little more information before I acceded to a travel companion.

“Yes, Eshek is my name, I’m from Jerusalem and I have business in Bethlehem. Who are you, where are you from and why are you headed to Bethlehem? Like you, I would like to know more about who I am traveling with.” He responded with a tone of sarcasm. I suppose my tone of voice betrayed my thoughts, he knew what I was thinking and what the intent of the questions were. It softened me a bit that he, too, was not sure who he was traveling with, but not enough for me to lower my guard.

“My name is Steve Stanton. I’m a journalist for the World Observer Gazette. I’m headed to Bethlehem on business also.” I felt I owed him that much, but not a word more. “If you feel that you want to tag along for your security, that’s fine with me, however, I am not a conversationalist, and have many things going through my mind, so with all due respect, do not expect conversation from me.”

“Mr. Stanton,” Eshek spoke in a softer, quieter tone. “I have no desire to share my life’s story with you, but if I can feel assured that you are not a highwayman, and that your intent is to reach Bethlehem as safely as I, and that you are not out to rob me along the way, then we can travel together in safety, do you at least agree with that?” I discovered that we weren’t having to yell over the howl any longer. Taking advantage of the break, I lowered the scarf from around my nose and mouth and marveled that the wind had faded off to a gentle breeze almost as quickly as it churned up to a gale force. The confounded weather in this area of the world was so fickle. Eshek chose to wear his scarf around his shoulders, but I didn’t really care, because I really didn’t care. That was his choice, and as far as I was concerned, I was still alone, even though I could hear the crunching of pebbles beneath his feet along the path now more distinctly.

We traveled in silence for about three hundred more yards when Eshek broke the silence,

“Mr. Stanton, may I call you Steve? What are you writing about today, Steve? Does it have to do with Bethlehem?” I found Eshek being a bit too friendly for two strangers who had just met on a road, and I took offense to his presumption that I would allow him to call me by my first name without my permission.

“Eshek, I will call you Eshek because that is the only choice you have given me, I do not wish to discuss neither my business nor my writing assignments with you. If you wish to pick up a copy of the publication next week, you can read about it.” I realized that that sounded harsh, but I wanted him to get the point that I was not interested in talking with him.

“Furthermore, Mr. Eshek, it is imperative that I spend time with my thoughts right now.” I found myself in a modest explanatory mode, almost as if it were against my will. Something was causing me to say more than I usually would, and I felt that whatever it was, I was struggling to resist. “An effective journalist goes over and reviews things time and time again in his mind, developing his story and differing angles he may wish to take in his approach to the story he is developing.” Why did I tell him all that, I didn’t need to, nor did I really want to, yet I felt compelled. I continued hearing the words come out of my mouth, but not having given permission for them to leave. As a stopgap measure, I rudely barked out, “I need to be left alone. Walk with me if you wish, or walk ahead of me, but I insist that I must be left alone.”

Once again, I was looking directly into his eyes, as I begged off his attempt at conversation. That’s where I discovered the root of my loose lips, his eyes. With a slight raising of his right eyebrow and a stare that could kill, he said, “All right then, Mr. Stanton, I shall leave you alone. In fact I will simply walk ahead. We are not far from the town now anyway. It was a pleasure to meet you. I trust the feeling is mutual?” Back home they would have said that his tone of voice was quite surly and disrespectful, however, I wanted him away from me. Far away. With him tagging along I really couldn’t think straight.

His gait picked up as he began to pull out ahead. I returned to my slightly head down position as I felt the breeze beginning to pick up, and sand once again crashed into my face. As I lifted and secured the scarf back into place around my mouth and eyes, I saw Eshek, about ten paces ahead of me, suddenly stop, and turn to address me again. He had an unmistakable air of unfriendliness written all over his face. I slowed down so as not to overtake him. Once again I grabbed hold of my laptop and looked at him with an expressionless stare.

“Mr. Stanton,” he began, with a low, dour voice. The wind once again seemed to dip just in time for him to speak his words. “This thing that you seek is not alive. This mission that you are on is a waste of your time. The stories of a messiah are old men’s tales, ancient fables developed by men to hold themselves accountable to an invisible God. You have no story here. It’s nothing but a hoax. You should be writing about economic or political issues of the land and leave these fairy tales to children’s writers. There have been many so-called messiahs who have come and gone. None were he. People’s hopes were inspired, only to be crushed on the rocks of despair. Go home, Mr. Stanton. Leave this messiah fable for the weaklings who need a crutch to get through life. Go home, Mr. Stanton.” With that, he turned and walked away, obscured by a slurry of sand and dust. While flying particles impaired my vision, I could vaguely see that there was a strange opacity about him as he disappeared.

Within minutes he had disappeared down the road, and must have made a turn, for as the wind gasped it’s final gusts, I didn’t see him anywhere. That left me with an eerie, sickened feeling.

I reminded myself to check with my science editor back at the Gazette to explain what causes that type of phenomenon. As a journalist, I have experienced many things in documenting my stories. Few things made me feel uncomfortable, but that sure did. Somebody was interested in my story as much as I was. That this man would walk up to me, want to befriend me, yet all in the name of stealing my story, or throw me off the track angered me. I determined that there was one important task that I had to perform when I returned to the hotel, and that was to confront Kahan. He must have been telling somebody about my inquiries. Thankfully I could see the outskirts of Bethlehem, which caused me to focus back on my assignment: find the Shepherds Bazaar and Amal.

It was not difficult to find the bazaar; all I had to do was follow my nose. The stench created by a mixture of hot, sweaty people, mingled with the odors of sun-dried meats, hanging above the edges of the concession tables, was literally a “dead” give away.

The bazaar was indeed bizarre, and it appeared that I had arrived there at quite a busy time. Ducking and dodging the canvas edges of the tent awnings, I found myself aimlessly weaving my way in, around and through the late afternoon shoppers. My senses all shifted to high alert. I scanned faces, looking for trouble, as I was being jostled and pushed by every Bethlehemite and their brothers who had all happened to be at the bazaar when I was there. Yet, as I looked at them, they didn’t appear to even see me. They were apparently so focused on the concession tables and haggling for a bargain that I was merely in their way. It was getting old quick, and I was getting tired of the bumping and shoving and oozing between them when I spotted two men talking. One looked like Eshek, but I couldn’t make out the face of the other. I didn’t like Eshek, I didn’t trust him either, but maybe now I could play on our road encounter and seek some assistance from him. Perhaps, between he and his friend, they may know where I could locate Amal. The two men were about twenty feet away as I approached. Bounding up and down on my tiptoes, I attempted to look over the passing crowd and stay on track towards Eshek. It made me feel like a fishing bobber in a moving stream. For a moment it appeared that Eshek looked at me and saw my approach, but just as I thought I caught his glance toward me, two huge bazaar shoppers rudely knocked me sideways. As I struggled to regain my balance and lock on to Esheks’ position, he was gone.

It was at that time that I felt a sharp pain in my left side, just slightly under my rib cage. I initially ignored it, but it occurred again. With innate reflexes, I reached down to the area that was exhibiting the pain, and I discovered that it wasn’t being internally caused.

My discovery was someone’s finger poking at me. With my left hand, I grabbed the right wrist of the offender and with my right hand I grabbed the index finger that was jabbing my side. Then scanned the crowd to see who was wincing in the resultant pain. To my astonishment, nobody visibly writhed. I applied more reverse angle on the finger, which elicited a groan, two people deep. Pulling the arm forward I was able to draw the attacker toward me. I estimated that if he were to stand at perfect attention, he might break the five-foot mark. For his size, he sure had an annoyingly sharp finger. Having been distracted by his probing made me realize that perhaps this was a ruse to steal my computer. I decided that the small bruise that would form would be a minimal expense to pay if my laptop were stolen. So, I released his hand and finger, and swiftly felt for my carrying case. Thankfully, it was still there.

The little man that was causing me such an annoyance stepped forward, massaging his wrist and visibly displaying that I had inflicted some sort of retaliatory pain on his finger. As a precautionary maneuver, I began to step back in case he was accelerating to a frontal, less cloaked, attack.

He looked up at me, and through squinting eyes and clenched teeth said, “Hey, why did you do that to me?”

Staying on guard, I kept my hands close to my side, at the ready position to defend myself in case he leapt toward me.

“All I was trying to do was get your attention. You were so focused looking in the other direction that I couldn’t get a response from you. So, I poked you in the side. You didn’t need to amputate my finger.”

With throngs of people still swirling around us, I felt his conciliatory tone ease the tension of the moment. I lowered my guard, but only just slightly. His wince turned into a half smile. Being as I am a six-foot man, looking down at this short, stocky fellow, meant that I would have to redirect my precautionary peripheral vision dangerously away from the crowd flowing about me. I wasn’t so sure that I wanted to do that. So I glanced at him, as I threw a terse response back, “Who are you? And why are you poking me in my ribs?” I immediately looked back up again, always the defensive position in this unfriendly environment.

“I told you, I wanted to get your attention, but you wouldn’t look at me,” came his sarcastic response.

“Wouldn’t look at you,” I found myself responding defensively. “Sir, I couldn’t even see you in this mob.” I nearly had to shout at him in the din of noisy bazaar bargain shoppers. Every concessionaire seemed to have three or four people haggling with him at once. It was a wonder that any business ever was transacted. Furthermore, how could these vendors ever make a profit if no one ever paid list price? I made a note to myself that I should do a story on that some day.

“Oh, is that a joke about short people?” was his wry response.

“No, of course not. It was the truth.” I couldn’t believe that I was actually stooping, in more ways than one, to talk to this man. “You have to admit, you are not a giant among men.”

“That hurts, sir. We have only just met, and now you are poking fun at me, belittling me and my stature.”

“I am merely returning a jab for a jab,” I said, amused at how I was so witty at a time like this. Now I was really off guard, and sort of taken by this man. So, I asked, “What did you want from me anyway?”

“I saw you bouncing through the bazaar. You appeared to be by yourself. Foreigners shouldn’t be at this bazaar alone, at least if you want to keep your money, watch and even clothing. It is very dangerous. And that laptop you think you are hiding, everybody within Bethlehem can see that you have it. You’re lucky it’s still in your possession.” Immediately, I felt my hands reach for my side where the computer was hanging. Thank goodness, it was still there. I was beginning to warm up to him. He had an air of innocence that was alluring. Yet, he appeared to be quite astute to the situation and the surroundings. There is a difference between innocence and naiveté, and he came across more on the innocent side.

“So, what is your name anyway, Shorty?” I responded without thinking. I really couldn’t resist. His face was so disarming and friendly that I felt as if I had known him for a long time, and I could poke at him without thinking it would hurt his feelings.

With a scowl he responded, “I think I have made a poor choice, I think I will just leave you to the bazaar wolves and go about my own day. I have plenty of things to do without having to put up with a strangers insults.” Dropping his look from my face, he lowered his head and began to make a left turn away from me. I reached out, placed my hand on his right shoulder and exerted enough negative force to prevent him from fully turning from me.

“No, no, no, I’m sorry,” I blurted out. “Let’s start over.” This man could be a godsend and perhaps even a great asset if I work it right. Perhaps he can lead me to Amal, and the additional resources that I was going to need if I was to get the background information for my assignment.

“My name is Steve Stanton, I am a journalist for the World Observe Gazette. I am here on an assignment.” Pointing my index finger at him, I asked, “And you are . . . ?”

“I help foreigners. They usually slip me a little help in the form of coins.” He still spoke in a pouty tone and stared down at his feet. He was definitely playing on my conscience and was doing a good job. It was obvious that his drama was designed to elicit a few more “sympathy” coins, a sort of penance for my offence, and he was working me well.

Reaching into my pocket, I felt for some coins and retrieved them. Without counting the amount, I reached my closed fisted hand out to him and offered the un-audited amount to him, “Okay, here are a few Drachmas for your assistance.”

His open right hand reached out to intercept my gift. The rattling of the coins dropping into his hand appeared to have a direct electrical connection to his face, as it lit up at the clinking sound, like people in Vegas when a jackpot is paying out. He now turned full-faced towards me and asked, “Where would you like to go my friend?”

“Well, for starters, ‘my friend,’ friends usually know each other’s names. You know mine, now, what do your friends call you?” I felt a bit smug, and even a little more in control.

“I am Ashar. I live here in Bethlehem, and I work wherever I can. Right now, I am working for you. What’s next? Where do we go? Who do we see? When can we get started? You know the meter is running now, and the coins you gave me will soon run out.” With that he reached his hand out to my arm and grabbed hold of my sleeve as if he were going to guide me through the throngs of shoppers. But I had not given him directions of any kind to go anywhere yet.

“Whoa, Ashar, hold on!” I shouted as I stopped him short of pulling me over. My voice attracted a number of sets of eyes to look my way. All of the sudden I felt extremely uncomfortable. “Ashar, I need a shower. Help me find a hotel room. Then I will spell out our plan.” Cracking half a friendly smile, I looked at those who were staring at me. It seemed to assuage their concerns, and they went back about their business. Just then I felt a tug on my sleeve again, and we were off through the crowd with Ashar in the lead.

“Come on Steve, I know the right place for you to clean up,” he said with assurance.

“Ashar,” I shouted as I tried to regain control of our gait. The more I resisted his pull, the more he grabbed hold of my sleeve and tugged harder. “Ashar, I need to find someone first. I should have told you why I was even here in the Shepherds Bazaar in the first place. Slow down. No, stop! Let me explain.”

With that, he stopped so fast that I nearly ran over the little guy. Turning to me he said, “Who is it that you are looking for?” The look on his face almost scared me. His chipper attitude, that happy-go-lucky smile, turned into a grim, extremely concerned dour expression. Clearing my throat, as if I felt I was in trouble, I said, “I’m looking for a fellow named Amal. He is the brother-in-law of Kahan, the maitre’d at the King Herod Hotel in Jerusalem. Apparently, Amal has some information that I need to inquire about. Do you know of Amal?”

His face lightened up a bit. “Sure, I know Amal, everyone here knows of Amal.”

I found myself whispering under my breath, “Geesh, is everybody in this country connected to each other somehow?”

“What did you say?” asked Ashar. “I didn’t hear what you said.”

“Nothing Ashar, I was told that he had a booth here at the bazaar. Is that correct?” I know I sounded exasperated, but I was hot, tired and on a mission.

“We are not very far from him. Turn around Steve!” he exclaimed in a loud voice.

Quickly I turned, and standing only inches from me was a tall, bearded fellow, stopped in his tracks, staring directly into my face. His hands were folded into fists as they rested on his hips. The scowl on his face proved that he wasn’t necessarily having a nice day, and now it was being interrupted again, apparently by me. I looked him in the face and said, “I’m going to go out on a limb with this one, I presume you must be Amal?” His expression changed from the scowl to a nondescript wry smile, and his hands left his side, unfolded from fists, and with both index fingers pointing at me he said, “Yeah, I am, and I hear you’re looking for me.”

With a rather bedazzled tone of voice I asked, “Now, how in the world would you know that I was looking for you?”

His response took me by surprise, “Your friend Eshek told me.”

Instantly I blurted out, “Eshek is not my friend. I merely met him on the road. He tried to strike up a conversation with me, but I didn’t bite on it. His is no more my friend as you are sir.”

“Did not Kahan send you to see me?” he asked. Once again I was taken back. “How did you know before I got to you that Kahan referred me to you?” Now this was getting too weird, even for me.

“You have questions about things of the Torah, I have answers for you. If you would like them, then you must follow me, this is not a good place to talk.” With that he waited for half a second for my facial response. Denying him what he was looking for, I turned and looked at Ashar, who responded to my glance with a quiet, reassuring, nod of his head. He was silently telling me that it would be all right to follow Amal. Additionally, I also took it as saying that I was going to get the information I was looking for. As I was preparing to answer Amal that we’d follow, he said, “We cannot talk publicly about your subject. The Romans don’t like it and neither do the Pharisees, or Herod for that matter.” With that he pivoted his burly frame away from me, and with a barely audible voice said, “Well then, follow me. Let’s get out of the bazaar.”

His giant strides made it difficult for me, but I followed as closely as I could. It was wonderful making such headway at this time of day in the bazaar. He acted as a snowplow for me, moving people aside by his huge frame, and all I had to do was walk in his wake. We strode to the end of the courtyard that served as containment for the bazaar and made our way through a colonnade of pillars to a doorway that lead to a stairwell.

Amal was graceful in his movements. He was tall and strong, but he moved swiftly. Without breaking stride he glanced over his shoulder at me to make sure I was still with him, and at the same time, was able to look over and past my shoulder to see if any uninvited guests were accompanying us. Once assured, he began to descend down the darkened stone steps. This was certainly a building that the Romans had built. It had all the architectural fingerprints of Roman design, and it descended deep below the courtyard. Illuminated only by oil lamps that hung at strategic intervals, it was difficult to see where we were going. Amal reached up and removed one of the lamps from the stairwell wall, which cast an immediate shadow of his form directly behind him. The stairway was dark, cool, damp and quite spooky. I wanted to memorize all our turns and how many landings we encountered in case I needed to recall them should it become necessary to make a hasty retreat. There have been times, I thought to myself, where every once in a while in my journalistic endeavors I would personally challenge my own decisions. Especially those that made me push outside a comfort or safety level, all for the cause of getting a story. The deeper we descended these stairs, the more that challenging feeling began to creep in. This was surely one of those times.

Nearing a door at the end of a long, musty corridor, Amal reached for the handle and slowly opened it into a small, candle-lit room. There was a round, makeshift table in the center of the room where a lone oil fed wick flickered as it rested atop an earthen jar. Along the walls stood wooden racks that I wasn’t sure what they were used for. Strewn around the floor, in no specified arrangement, was an assortment of mismatched and oddly patterned stuffed cushions. Amal motioned for me to be seated. I looked down and peered into the dimly lit room to find a cushion to sit on. The lowlight environment made it difficult to make out seams and cushion edges. I picked one that I thought would be comfortable enough in the situation and began to sit down, when suddenly my eye discovered that there was movement on the cushion that I had singled out. Acting just as startled as I was, a frightened rat scurried away from the landing zone that I had selected. The goose bumps appeared on my arms as quickly as the rat fled. I didn’t like this, and I wasn’t sure if it was going to be worth it.

Closing the door behind us and assuring that it was secure, Amal broke the silence and whispered, “I am sorry for the intrigue Mr. Stanton, but it is critical that we speak of these matters of the messiah in secrecy. The Pharisees are very jealous. They will have the Roman guards alerted, we’ll be seen as seditionists to the Roman government, and eventually tried in court without representation, and most assuredly,” he said with a heavy emphasis on the word, “we’d be sentenced for death and torture on one those hideous crosses. You probably saw them lining the main road between here and Jerusalem?”

“I’ve seen them,” I responded in a disgusting tone. He was right in using the term “hideous” to describe the Roman crosses. I had read a report in a widely circulated medical magazine about the cruelty of the Romans and what agony awaits people sentenced to death on a crucifix. I distinctly remember putting the article down because of the gory details. “Amal. I wish to neither draw attention to our meeting, nor risk first- hand knowledge of a cross. However, I need to ask certain questions that will give me background on this movement that is emanating out of the Nazareth area. Tell me about the stories of the miracles. Tell me what you know about a religious man that people are identifying as their messiah. Why do they call him messiah? What do they mean, and why is it so special to them?” As my questions flowed from me, they also picked up in rapidity. Amal held out his hand, palm down, to indicate to me that I was either too loud, or there were too many questions, or both.

“Slow down Mr. Stanton,” he said in a barely audible whisper. Silence draped the darkened room as noises of sandals walking past the door could be heard. We could tell that they were headed away from the door, but suddenly stopped and headed back toward our room. The rattling sounds of keys on a key ring forced all eyes in the room to focus on one spot of the door at the same time the door handle. Several attempts were made to fit the right key into the lock as we all sat in motionless silence. After a few attempts, it became obvious that the intruder didn’t have the right key and, out of frustration, walked away. Amal raised the index finger of his right hand to his still pressed lips, while holding his left hand out, in the palm down attitude, to indicate that no one was to say a word or move until the coast was clear. As the sandal bearers footsteps faded away up the stairs, Amals’ whisper finally broke the silence, “That was close. We must keep our voices down and our meeting to a minimum of time.”

“Lucky for us he had a wrong set of keys,” I interjected in a low voice.

“No, Mr. Stanton, lucky for us we know how to jam locks from the inside so that his keys would appear to him as the wrong one,” responded Amal. Standing up, Amal slowly made his way over to a wall deeper in the room. He went about 15 paces, stopped and reached up for a stone that appeared to jut out slightly from the balance of the other stones on the wall. Wiggling it just slightly, it loosened enough for Amal to extract it from its un-cemented position, leaving in its wake, an apparent cavity in the wall. Reaching in to the empty chamber, Amal retrieved a tube of what appeared to be rolled up parchment paper. Walking back over to where we were seated, Amal began to speak in a low voice. “I want to show you, Mr. Stanton, what we believe. This is a copy of a sacred scroll. As commoners, we are not suppose to have personal copies of God’s words, at least that’s according to our religious leaders. The members of the Sanhedrin, forbid having any part, or parts, of the Torah in the public’s hands for they believe that only they have the power from God to read, understand and thus interpret it for the common populace. So, Mr. Stanton, I am sure you can appreciate our position in the need to protect our copy, right?”

“Amal,” I began, “I’m a journalist, my readers must feel that they can trust me and what I write. My sources have to feel that they can trust me to protect them as a source. I have the double duty of double trust. I don’t reveal my sources of information. I can’t reveal my sources or else I would eventually lose credibility and have to change careers. It’s not only a tradition among journalists, but it’s a celebrated and controversial aspect of our trade. We would not get many stories if people didn’t trust us. For what it’s worth, I appreciate your trust in me.”

Through my little soliloquy on trust, Amal remained motionless as he tenderly held the scrolls of paper under his left arm, sort of shielding them from me with his body. Feeling convinced that I had earned the right to see the scrolls, Amal retrieved them from under his arm and carefully laid them out on the table before us. I reached for my laptop, opened it up on the table also. I was going to be sure that I left nothing to memory and noted everything that he had to say about this messiah guy.

Reverently making motions with his hands and mumbling some sort of Jewish prayer under his breath, Amal began to unroll the papers. “The Torah is our holy text,” Amal said as he began his religious instruction to me. His face took on a whole new tone of reverence. His wry smile was replaced with deadpan seriousness, which created an even more ominous tone in the dingy and damp room, “Authorship has been ascribed to Moses. The scrolls speak to us of the beginning of time and of the history of the Jewish people and the Laws of God for man. There are those who believe that the Torah and the writings of Moses subtly speak of God’s ultimate plan for man, that of saving man from his own sin. However, it is the latter writings of the prophets that speak to us of a coming messiah, the one who is to be sent by God Himself, to rescue us from the curse placed on man from earlier sins.”

The serious look on his face as he spoke confirmed his convictions to this as truth in his mind. He began to point out specific sentences of words that were revealed on the papers. “While we have not yet secured the full document, and to be sure we are working on that, what we have here is a partial scroll of the later prophets that I spoke of,” he began, “I am not going to take you through all the history of the Jews, whether as a nation, or as a people, I will simply get to your interest point, is that all right Mr. Stanton?”

I’m a naturally curious person as it is, but his tone of voice, body language and serious expressions drew me in to want to learn more from him, but time was precious, and we were in a dangerous place.

“Amal, I am fascinated, and want to hear it from the beginning, but I believe you are correct in getting to the point, any veering off course may expose us to a greater probability of discovery here, and I don’t wish to experience a cross.”

“We are in agreement about that, to be sure,” responded Amal. “The prophets speak of the messiah as a king. A man of peace, a savior from sin, and our protector from an eternity of separation from God in sheol. The members of the Sanhedrin perceive any testimony of a king of the Jewish people that is alive today as a threat to their own power over the people. That’s why we must keep our conversations to ourselves and to others who believe He is alive today. You may consider us a secret society if you will. The local conversations are full of conjectures and controversy, but it is from these scrolls that we get the real truth.”

“The information that I’ve gathered so far,” I interrupted, “is that he was supposedly born here in Bethlehem, and that apparently he currently lives and has lived for a while now in Nazareth. They say he was a common boy there, working with his dad as a carpenter. I’ve gathered that his name is Yeshua, and that he has already begun to gather followers, a band of men whom they say he approached and asked to join his group, or who were personally hand-picked by the carpenter. And now that he’s grown up, he’s picked up the mantle of messiah. Am I close?”

“When you consider the awesomeness of God, it is not too preposterous, nor beyond the realm of human belief that the messiah could have been born here in Bethlehem. The latter prophets spoke of Bethlehem as the birthplace of the coming messiah. Additionally, it is my strong suggestion, Mr. Stanton, that you speak to some other friends of mine,” Amal interjected. I could detect a tone of defensiveness; somehow, he thinks my question was condescending his beliefs. “These friends of mine,” he continued, “are former professional sheep herders. They’ve long since retired, but they’ll confirm that there was a flurry of public activity about thirty years ago. But what’s so extra special about these men is that each and every one of them, to a man, is willing to go to the grave, claiming to have seen the messiah. They speak of that evening that he was born and how angels certified the birth and where to find the infant messiah. To an outsider, or skeptic, Mr. Stanton, it’s a wild story, but they stick by it. And, I stick by them and their story. Their whole lives changed. Truth does that to a person. To live all your life being told to look forward to great things, and for centuries of lifetimes, that great hope never develops. Until, one day!” Typical of the middle-eastern man, his hands flew up in the air as he emphasized his words, he continued his animations as he finished his sentence. “Up until then, Jewish women prayed that they would be the bearers of the “Meshiach,” the Hebrew name for messiah. But God’s timing is not man’s timing. Then all of a sudden, while minding your own business, tending to and protecting your flock of sheep, God sends angels to appear before you, right in the middle of the night, with a birth announcement that is from out of this world. And not just before your very eyes, but to all that were in the field that night. Can you imagine the feeling as they stood at the very spot?”

Amal was getting quite pumped up. “And there he is, the Meshiach, within arms reach, the very one that the prophets have been speaking of simply lying there, only one stride away from all that man has hoped for.” He hesitated to find the right words, “Since the beginning of man.”

He was on a roll now, “There he was, the one that was on his way to rid us of the Roman domination, even of future domination from interfering world powers! The awesome reality of it; truth, hope and eternity, alive in the manger. God becoming man, to save man from himself.” Stopping at that point, Amal raised his hand to his mouth, and began to apologize, “I am sorry Mr. Stanton. I got off track. In my zeal to get you the facts, I got caught up in the excitement of our movement.” He continued rather sheepishly, “However, I believe every word of what I just told you. Would you like to meet them, the shepherds that is?”

“Amal,” I said with compassion and understanding of his sincerity, “you need not apologize for something you are passionate about; to me it lends credibility to what you are telling me. It’s from your heart and it speaks of truth, honesty, and a definite bedrock of credibility. Yes, I would like to meet these men and develop more background.”

Again, we could hear footsteps, accompanied by voices, bearing down on our meeting room. I asked, “Why is there so much interest in this room?”

Amal wrinkled his brow and motioned to hush up. It was obvious that he heard noises in the hallway. It was voices he heard, and they were getting closer. There were at least two men, maybe three. A distinct sound of armor clanking echoed in the hallway. One of the men apparently told a joke, as laughter filled our room as if the door were open. With a mixed look of fear and anger, I stared directly into Amal’s eyes and, in a low but terse whisper I asked, “Who are those guys, and what do they want with this room?”

Amal responded in a low, conciliatory voice, “They want to eat their lunch.”

With an incredulous look, and another quick scan about the room it suddenly made sense where we were. “Do you mean to tell me,” I began in a slow, wishing I were wrong, tone of voice, “we are in a Roman soldier break room?”

“Well, “Amal responded, “I must speak the truth. Yes.” His eyes sort of dropped away from my face, and once again were fixed on the door. He continued, “But not to worry Mr. Stanton, they always go away. They fiddle with the lock then curse it for its fickleness. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. That’s usually because we’re in here. Then they go somewhere else to eat their lunch, or take their afternoon naps. Not to worry.” And with the wave of his hand he dismissed the idea of being discovered by Roman soldiers.

“Not to worry?” I exclaimed. But Amal shut me down with another, “Shh—they are right outside the door. They’re laughing so loud they don’t hear us in here. They’ll go away soon.”

As Amal predicted, the keys stopped rattling in the door, and one of them cursed the lock as predicted, and in unison, they began to walk away. Their clanking armor sounds began to dwindle down the hall.

Turning to me with a broad grin and arms outstretched, Amal gloated, “There, see, I told you not to worry, Mr. Stanton.” His white teeth glowed brilliantly in the candlelight. I wasn’t as gleeful as he was.

“You mean to tell me, Mr. Amal, that you have brought me into a Roman soldiers break room where they eat their lunch, and place their spears in those racks, and sleep on these cushions, and we could be considered enemies of the state if we were caught talking about this subject, and we simply walk in and take over the place?” I wasn’t sure if I was angry, out of pure fear or just spouty because of the adrenaline coursing through me. Instantly, I threw a glance at Ashar, who had sat there all that time without interjecting even a peep.

“Are you worried about your newly found friend here Ashar?” Amal asked as he gently reached over to Ashar and pulled him over to his side. Then, plastering on that big grin of his again, Amal said, “Ashar is one of us, well Mr. Stanton, I mean, one of our group, my group, believers of the messiah of Judah. The very one that you know to come from Nazareth. Ashar is a special friend; after all, it was I who sent Ashar to find you at the Shepherds Bazaar. Did you think he really just helps strangers through Bethlehem?” Now it was his turn to be sarcastic.

“I really don’t care about who all your friends are right now, Mr. Amal,” I spouted back quite indignantly. Actually, I did care who his friends were, especially if they were in the same room. We were in a rather precarious place, and knowing that we were all on the same page helped me. Amal could tell from my surly reaction that I was certainly not pleased at this moment. In a calmer voice I asked, “How could you possibly think that you could get away with this for very long?”

Amal responded, “Mr. Stanton, if word got out that there were those who were scheming to overthrow the Roman government in Judah, where would you begin to look for them?” Without giving me a chance to answer he blurted out, “Would you look for them in your very own lunch room? No, probably not. You would begin out in the hills and search caves. So, we thought that we would be the safest right here in their own camp.” There was almost a sense of arrogance in his voice, that tone that emanates from someone who has used logic that was difficult to refute.

“How many does us represent?” I started to ask, “How many do you think there are that believe the messiah is alive today and is here to end Roman domination?” Ever since my education, I couldn’t take comments at face value. I always had to ask questions. Now was the time we needed to get out of there, and fast, and I was performing an interview!

“There are literally thousands of us Mr. Stanton,” Amal responded, “We are scattered all over the country, and we are excited.” Amal looked to Ashar for affirmation of his statement.

Ashar finally spoke up, “Mr. Stanton, we know that you have come here to write articles about the Meshiach, that’s the word Jews use, you use the word “messiah.” And we are grateful that someone of your stature and a publication of such world renowned prominence, like The World Observer Gazette, would even show interest in our cause, but we want to make sure that you see and hear the truth of the facts. There are detractors out there that don’t want word of the truth getting out. They are, of course, people in high places for which the Meshiach will unseat as he comes to power. They don’t want to acknowledge his existence because that spells the end to their wicked ways.” Ashar suddenly began to sound like a scholar.

He continued, “Furthermore, Mr. Stanton, we are a blessed nation, and these are blessed times because the blessed one has chosen now to arrive!” He almost sounded as if he were lecturing me. I believe he may have thought that to himself too as he concluded, “Er, sorry, Mr. Stanton. I, as Amal does, get very emotional about our future, especially since it was foretold to us for so many generations now . . . and here we are, living in the midst of it! Praise be to Jehovah for taking care of us.”

Amal interrupted, “Ashar, please, when those guys have cleared the hallway, head to the Bethlehem Inn and confirm to them that Mr. Stanton has arrived and that they need to prepare his room.” Ashar nodded in agreement.

Amal looked at me and said, “Mr. Stanton, when we heard you were on your way, we took the liberty of reserving a room for you at the Bethlehem Inn. Usually, travelers that arrive here in the late afternoon can’t find a room, so we pre-booked it for you. We trust it will meet your accommodation needs?” Without waiting for my response, Amal slipped over to the door and leaned his right ear against it. Apparently the men in the hallway had left, as Amal carefully unlocked the door and peered through the slit that appeared between the door and the jamb. Without saying a word, he motioned to Ashar to leave. Ashar looked at me and whispered, “I will meet you in the lobby of the inn in ten minutes. I will tell them to make sure there is plenty of hot water.” He made a motion to poke me in the ribs, but I lurched out of his way to avoid his bony finger. With that, he broke into a huge “gotcha” grin, and stealthily slipped out of the room and disappeared.

“I will make arrangements with my friends to meet you for dinner tonight, is that ok Mr. Stanton, or would you prefer to wait until morning?” Amal asked.

“No Amal I don’t want to wait until the morning, I am interested in meeting your shepherd friends. They sound intriguing, and it also sounds like they will have plenty of the background information that I still need in advance of my article. But I feel I must shower first, get this grit off of me and allow the adrenaline to level out.”

Amal turned to me with the utmost serious look on his face. “Very well then, we will see you there at seven o’clock. But, Mr. Stanton, you have never been here in this room! Do you understand that? No one must know that you have been here, even among my closest friends. Not all my friends are aware of our headquarters, and they shouldn’t know because not all of them can keep their mouths shut. It’s a shame, I know that we are such a tight group, but we can’t trust all of them. I hope that doesn’t give you the wrong impression of our people or our cause, Mr. Stanton?”

In an almost conciliatory tone I responded, “No Amal, I don’t have the wrong impression at all, as a matter of fact, it is an all too common concern with journalists.”

“Okay, now you must head down the hall and back up the stairs we came down, do you remember?” Amal had a deeply concerning and ominous tone again. Cautiously I responded, “Yes, I . . . I, remember.” The fleeting thought that flew through my brain, like a flash of an adrenaline rush was, “what am I doing here?” I always hate it when that hits me like that. “What are my concerns Amal? The guards?” I asked as if I didn’t really know the answer.

“Actually, no, Mr. Stanton, you will easily explain to the guards that you are a tourist who got lost down below. I am more concerned about the synagogue security team. They are tougher on strangers in the hallways near the synagogue. They are not afraid to detain people for days. Why? Because they are jerks! Now, when you get to the top of the stairs, go left and stay along the inner wall. Once you are ten to fifteen meters away from the entrance, you’ll be all right if anyone stops you. Tourist, remember! Not a journalist! Now, God speed, and I’ll see you at seven o’clock.”

I began to whisk by him as he concluded, “And,” with his index finger pointed at my face, “Listen to all the shepherds say to you, don’t ask a lot of questions until they are done. They are blessed because they were the first people that God told to go look for the messiah in the manger. Ask all you want, but wait until they’ve told you their story. You will be blessed too! Shalom, Mr. Stanton.”

With that, I ran down the hall, up the stairs and at the door, I peeked around the doorframe. I looked for conspicuous movement along the rows of bazaar tables. It appeared that no one had seen me come up the stairs, so I inched out onto the walkway. As moments went by, and distance in feet slipped under my shoes, my gait began to increase. The more distance I could make from that door, the better I would feel. Then I heard a voice coming from behind one of the pillars that I had been using to block the view from the bazaar.

“So, you still think you have a story here, Mr. Stanton?” came the words from a familiar voice behind me.

“Er, sorry sir, I don’t believe I understand what you mean.” I began to say as I slowly turned to face the voice. It was Eshek! “Please excuse me, Mr. Eshek. I think that was your name. I am headed to my hotel for a shower and some rest.” I tried to sound as indignant as I could.

“You may continue sir, I am not here to keep a fellow traveler from his shower or rest. Have a pleasant evening, forgive me for interrupting your stroll.” I shuddered. I couldn’t stand him, and I almost got the impression that the feeling was mutual. I wanted to get as much distance from him as I could. As I worked my way to the Bethlehem Inn, I couldn’t figure out why he had so much interest in me.

Waiting in the lobby was Ashar, just as he said he would be. He took me to my room, bid me a speedy “shalom,” and backed out the door. Instantly I found my shaving kit, the shower, and started the water. Checking my watch, I found that I had three hours before my meeting with the shepherds, and I was tempted to spend all three of those hours in the shower. But I knew that I had some typing to do and to strategize a storyline around what I have just learned. As the shower drenched me with grit-rinsing water, my thoughts were of this upcoming evening meeting, leaving me to wonder what in the world would the importance of these shepherds be to this unfolding assignment.