A Christmas Message Page 10

  Benedict reached into his inside pocket and placed his piece, open, on the table.

  Narraway carried his, which he had taken back from Vespasia to keep for her own sake, and set it down beside Benedict’s.

  Vespasia took the last one, which Jeshua had given her, and laid it down also.

  It was Jeshua who read them slowly, his voice hoarse with emotion.

  I was walking in the evening among the cypresses and I met a man to whom I confessed the guilt that had burdened me since the crucifixion I ordered of the heretic who thought himself the King of the Jews. I knew it was political expediency that condemned him, not any sin, and yet I agree to it.

  The man spoke to me gently and explained why it was necessary that Jesus be put to death. It was part of an eternal plan in the mind of God, and must be. He made me feel that I was forgivable, and that is surely the sweetest thing any man can hear. And as he smiled at me, I knew him, and the next moment he vanished from my sight.

  I, Pontius Pilate, of all men, have seen the risen Christ, and walked and talked with him, as if I had been his friend. This I swear.

  And it was signed at the end.

  Jeshua moved to the next, and read it more easily. It was not in Latin, but in Aramaic, his own tongue.

  I remember the light in the room when the Angel of God told me that I would bear a son who would be the Messiah all time had waited for, and he could be the son of God. And so it came to pass.

  When he was eight days old, so small in my arms, so vulnerable, the prophet Simeon saw him and knew who he was, and that the salvation of the world was in him. And yet he told me also that a sword would pierce my heart because of that salvation.

  And that too came to pass. I watched him grow and loved him. But when they betrayed him and denied him, I could not help. I stood at the foot of the cross they nailed him to, and I waited with him till the end.

  It had to be. This I understand now, and he lives. I held him in my arms again, just once, and I know the glory of God. His love is for everything that lives and it has no bounds. His purpose is sure and eternal. This I know, because I, Mary, was permitted briefly to be the handmaid of the Lord.

  And it too was signed.

  Without looking up at them, Jeshua read the last piece.

  When I was a young man I died, and was buried three days in the tomb, my flesh beginning to rot away. In my spirit I saw God, and He showed me His existence in the spirit of all men, and then he showed me their mortal lives, frail, beautiful, brief, and so precious. Lastly he showed me the eternity of joy that was possible in the path of courage and love. Man was created a god in embryo. Time has no end, and love has no boundaries.

  It was my destiny to return, to be called back to earthly life to show forth the power of God over death, over all darkness and despair. I cannot make you believe this, but I, Lazarus, above all others, know this to be true.

  It also was signed.

  Narraway breathed out slowly and his voice was husky when he spoke. “What does it mean?”

  “It means that man was born of the Spirit in the beginning of time,” Benedict answered.

  “And will be resurrected, into the eternity of his choosing,” Jeshua added. “To live forever, loving and creating without end.”

  “And in between?” Narraway said. “And what do you mean, ‘of his choosing’?”

  “I think he means that ‘in between’ is the time of choosing,” Vespasia said. “That is life on earth. The time when we choose between courage and cowardice, honor and lies, love or the denial of passion, hope, and faith. Perhaps most importantly, when we choose to forgive. Without that choice there can be no real love. Life is not one choice, it is a million small ones, between light and darkness.”

  “Is it?” Narraway looked at her curiously, trying to read in her face what she meant, if she was guessing or if she had a deep conviction. “Where is God in this? Or the power of evil, Satan, or whatever you want to call him? What you are seeing is only man.”

  “No…I think…” She searched for what she did think, for what the words were saying. What power did the parchments have that the Watcher wanted it so desperately, that he would murder Balthazar for it, and Narraway and Vespasia also, if he could, even Benedict? What did he not want them to know?

  She looked at the documents again. This was the simple, passionate faith at the heart of all Christianity: real people, walking through life with the dust of the road on their feet, not scarlet slippers, not embroidered robes, not a gold cross but a wooden one, with blood soaked into it. Embracing, above all, love. A wave of loss almost drowned her, and darkness filled the room.

  Narraway’s hands gripped her so tightly pain shot through her limbs and she had to pull away. She heard his voice saying her name, roughly, harsh with fear.

  She forced herself to open her eyes and look at the papers again. There was something infinitely precious in these words.

  Slowly her fear slipped away. “It’s a journey,” she said quietly. “The path is endless, but it is one path. We are not separate; we are merely at different stages of a journey that has no end. And one stage should not hate or despise another, not fear it, nor envy it. It all looks so clear…” She turned to Benedict. “You are the one who knows why the beginning…”

  Benedict nodded, the wide, innocent smile on his face.

  She looked at the boy. “And you guess the future, or perhaps you know something of it?”

  “I have seen,” he answered. “Little bits. Beautiful, like shards of an infinite light.”

  “And what are we?” Narraway smiled ruefully. “No, don’t bother to answer. We are the middle, the bit that doesn’t remember the beginning and barely imagines the end. We are the bit that clutches at shadows and is torn apart by hope and fear.”

  “I’m afraid, my dear, we are the bit that is the fulcrum upon which it all turns. We are the ones who decide what heaven will be.”

  Narraway was aghast. “Good God! For all of us?”

  “No, of course not. Just each for ourselves.”

  “Who do we give it to, this…this testimony from the past?” he asked.

  “To the wise men who are meeting here tonight, I imagine,” she said. She looked at Jeshua.

  “I think so,” he agreed. “This is the House of Bread—Beit Lechem. We have followed our inner stars, and this is where they have led us.”

  “There’s no one else here,” Benedict pointed out.

  “Then we wait,” Narraway said, as if he would settle the matter. He fished in his pocket and brought out a few coins. “We have food for the soul. Perhaps downstairs in the bakery they will sell us some bread for the body.”

  It was early evening when the first visitors arrived. The shadows were already deep, and new stars were pricking through the sky each moment. They could see it through the large window to the room, and even though the window was to the side rather than the front, the sounds of shouting and chanting came up from the street.

  There was a sharp rap on the door and before anyone could answer, it was thrust open. A man in a dark robe held the door for another, older man to come in.

  “Thank you, my friend,” the second man said quietly. Then, as the door closed, he moved into the candlelight. He had a long white beard and his eyes were oval, black, deep sunken, and bright with interest. He regarded them with benign surprise, particularly Vespasia. There did not appear to be any emotion in his look.

  Narraway introduced them, simply by name and without explanation. The three papers were folded up and out of sight.

  “I am a minister,” he answered. “My name does not matter.” He looked at them with a keen interest, studying their faces first, then the marks of travel on their clothes. “I see we have all come far,” he observed.

  Narraway offered him bread and wine, also from the bakery, which he accepted.

  It was not long before there was another knock at the door, and the same dark-cloaked man let in a second visitor, again without sp
eaking.

  This man’s clothes were also to his ankles, but he did not wear an Eastern robe. It was more like a Western churchman’s cassock, although it was a rich purple shade and excellent cloth. If it denoted anything, it was that he was a bishop, although there was no gold cross around his neck, nor gold ring on his finger.

  “Cardinal?” Narraway asked curiously.

  The man inclined his head. “Indeed. It seems there is only one of us left to come. Who are you?” He looked at the minister. “There is no ill news, I hope?” There was a shadow of concern in his face.

  “Faith, my friend,” the minister said gently. “Evil walks abroad but it has always been so. This is still a new beginning.” He turned to the boy. “Jeshua?”

  “Not yet,” the cardinal cautioned.

  Neither of them seemed disturbed by the presence of Narraway or Vespasia, and they were almost unaware of Benedict, who watched them all with a benign, happy bewilderment.

  The boy smiled, but did not reply.

  Vespasia was aware of a gathering emotion in the small, upper room with its view over the rooftops of the city. Who else were they waiting for? When he came, what would then happen? Would those who had brought the papers be allowed to remain? Or were they only messengers?

  It was Christmas Eve. The stars were brilliant, as if the sky had been pierced to let through some greater light beyond.

  There was a knock at the door, and the man opened it without waiting for anyone to answer and ushered in the last visitor.

  The Greek Orthodox bishop was a fine-looking man, tall and proud. His face was ascetic but gentle, as if a lifetime of self-discipline had taught him both his own weaknesses and those of others, and he had pity for all such weaknesses.

  The three men greeted one another with clear affection and then asked Narraway for the papers.

  They set them down carefully and looked at what was revealed. In each of their faces was awe.

  “The faith as it should be, which we have lost in our own pride and lust for dominion. The path of man,” the minister said for all of them. “Beginning with Mary and her acceptance, even when she could have no idea what that acceptance would carry her through. Then the fire of knowledge, for all of us, step by marvelous, agonizing step, walking in faith, struggling to believe. Then at last we cross forth into eternity, our true selves, children of God ready at last for what it will bring. Seen in these words, it is so clear.”

  The bishop smiled, but there was a sadness in his eyes. “So clear indeed. I look at him once and he is Orthodox, like me. Then he is a Protestant, like you, then a Catholic like our brother here. He is black, or white, he is of the ancients in the Americas, or of the East. He is a man, or a woman, every woman, with or without child, young or old. He…she…is God’s child, and that is all that matters.”

  “And this terrible and beautiful earth is our path,” the bishop added. “If only we could treat it with the love and the nurture it deserves.”

  “It is all so simple,” the cardinal said sadly. “Love the great God who made it, by whatever means you will. Honor all that He has made, and love your fellow man. Treat him with gentleness, forgive his mistakes as you would have God forgive yours, and all else will fall into its rightful place. The rituals you choose to help ease your path are nothing. Do what guides or soothes your way. Do not deny me my own, as if they appear foolish to you.”

  The bishop smiled. “For that, my brother, we must accept that the rituals are the way, not the end.”

  “I know…I know!”

  “We are slow to relinquish the idea that our identity is not the essence of who we are.” The minister gave a rueful shrug. “We have been a peculiar people for thousands of years, persecuted for it, feared for it, hated because hate is easier than understanding. We have paid with too much blood and pain to give up that which was so dearly bought.”

  “For all of us,” the bishop agreed. “We too were born in sacrifice. Now when we are free to do as we please, we risk fading like ghosts, and in the end dying of apathy.”

  The cardinal nodded. “What we gain too easily we too often do not treasure sufficiently to keep. I sometimes wonder if our mothers value our lives as much as their own because we entered this world from their pain. But you are right, we are paying now too much in other people’s pain. There is enough in mortal life; we do not need to add to it.” He held out both his hands and for a moment they each clasped the hands of the two others.

  “The picture is clear,” the minister said, breaking the silence. “We are all the men in these testimonies, or the women, if you will. It is all of us, journeying from the infant in spirit, through faith to accept our mortal life with all its doubt, pain, and danger, and at last becoming gentle, brave, and with the beginning of wisdom to embark on an apprenticeship to God himself. If we can teach this, a step at a time, we will build a core of love and belief that will conquer the darkness.”

  “It will be hard,” the bishop said, shaking his head. “Pride wants to lead, not to follow.”

  The cardinal shrugged. “We say that the love of money is the root of all evil, but I think it is really pride, the fear of change, of attempting something at which we may fail. The Evil One would have us court safety, and follow the lesser path.”

  “Of course,” the minister agreed. “He sows fear in the mind. But we have chosen this journey. Let us press forward.”

  The bishop looked at Jeshua. “I give you my word we will do all we can,” he said fervently. “Thank you.”

  “I know you will,” the boy said with a smile.

  One by one the priests all thanked him, then Vespasia and Narraway, then lastly Benedict.

  It was Vespasia who asked the question that she and Narraway had been thinking since the first parchment was given to them by Balthazar. “I see now that it is the journey of all men,” she said quietly. “A choice before this life, typified by Benedict. More choices in mortality…” She gestured to Narraway and herself. “And Jeshua is the future, the resurrection, if you like. All that is yet to come. But who found these, and where? Why were they hidden at all? The knowledge should belong to everyone. It always should have.”

  “It has,” the minister answered her. “Abraham knew it, and untold men before that. Perhaps Eve knew it when she accepted the knowledge of good and evil and opened the door for all of us to take a complete life, with all its chances, sublime and terrible. The knowledge is given when there is someone who will use it for good more than for evil. I do not know who decided this particular way of sharing it, but these papers were found in the desert many years ago. They were barely discovered when some pursued them for gain, some for fear of a knowledge that could plant doubt, or disobedience in the hearts of others. These are the people who cling to power in the belief that they alone should have knowledge, that it is too dangerous for the common man. And at times they have been right—but it is not their decision to make.”

  “Light is for the world,” the cardinal added, “not for the self-chosen few.”

  There was a loud bang downstairs, as if a door had been flung open so hard it had crashed into the wall beside it.

  They all froze.

  “The enemy has come,” the bishop said quietly. “We have too little time.”

  “It is as we feared,” the cardinal agreed. “We must take these and keep them until—”

  Whatever he had been going to say was cut off by shouting below and more crashes, as if furniture was being overturned.

  Vespasia looked at Narraway.

  “There’s no way out,” Narraway said gravely. “We must fight. I have a good knife. What has anyone else?”

  “We do not carry weapons,” the bishop answered, his face bleached of all color.

  “There is a way through the chimney and onto the roof, and there to the next house,” the cardinal said.

  The minister started to move toward the empty hearth. He looked at Narraway with profound respect. “I loathe leaving you thus, but the d
ocuments must be saved.”

  Narraway did not hesitate. “Go. We’ll hold them as long as we can.”

  Vespasia felt a lurch of fear, then of pride, and a great warmth inside herself. She would sacrifice her life with him, and he had no need to ask her. He knew her well enough to be certain. Perhaps that was the ultimate acceptance.

  The bishop clasped Narraway’s hand with a grip that made him wince. “We will continue to work secretly to bring all men into one sacred journey. If we do not meet again in this life, we will do so beyond.”

  The priest saluted them with a tiny gesture, then they all three went into the hearth and through a hidden door. They were followed immediately by Benedict. Only Jeshua turned and looked at them with tears in his eyes. Then he too was gone.

  Narraway looked at Vespasia once. It was too late now to touch or kiss, or say any of the myriad things that were still to be said between them. They had to be understood in one glance.

  The door crashed open and the Watcher stood there, his face a mask of rage, his eyes like burning holes in his head. He had missed the two men who separated the past and the future, and, more than that, he had missed the three men who would carry the message of eternal hope for the unity of Christendom, and perhaps one day for all mankind. He had only the present—the man and woman of today—on whom to exact his vengeance.

  His staff was long and heavy. Vespasia saw that its end was cased in iron, sharp pointed and already covered in blood where it rested on the wooden floor.

  Would he come for her first, and have Narraway watch while he killed her? No. It would be the other way around. He would not turn his back on the man with the knife. She would have to watch, then he would take his time with her, his pleasure in pain and, above all, fear.