Author's Note: This short story is intended to be read after The Light Between and before the upcoming new installment, Hope's Light.

If you have yet to experience the saga - the tale starts here:

Into The Light

Hope you enjoy!

 

Bethlehem

by Erisian

A Light Novelette

 

 

The travelers had gathered in Jerusalem’s lower city not far from the hippodrome, the great stone-worked amphitheater built by the king to curry favor with his land’s conquerors in the hopes to placate their need for sport made by the speed of horse and blood of man.

The eldest of the three, wearing a loose and tasseled robe of grey blended with stripes dyed a deep blue, shifted uncomfortably upon his camel. Grunting from nerves shouting spiked agony, he then adjusted the tilted sudarium wrapping about his head, the cloth as white as the thick beard brushing against his wide chest.

His darker-skinned companion noticed. “Your back ails you?” Unlike his fellow camel-rider, the man’s own head was uncovered and gone were the tight black curls that had adorned it the night before when the three, dining at the caravansary, had agreed to journey together. His mantle’s fabric mirrored the sharp scarlet of the defiant sun currently rising against the escaping night, and the numerous marks from his tribe’s ink and purposeful scars covering face and skull lent a severity to features which otherwise would have been considered youthful.

“Not the back but the hips,” groaned the eldest. “The hazards of age, Balthazar, nothing more. What you yet look forward to.”

“May it ease as the great sun dawns.” Solemnly did he speak with a voice of deep baritone, though also with a hint of amusement.

“Bah. Not likely while stuck upon this stubborn creature!”

The third of their group had dismounted and moved a few yards away to sit directly upon the road. A small lit brazier rested at his side, spilling clouds of incense to cleanse air and spirit - though the heady scent of its spice and resin dispersed quickly in the early morning wind. Before him were arrayed multicolored crystals and stones, and the clean-shaven man of middle-age murmured quiet litanies while rocking back and forth upon the dirt. In contrast with the finery of his companions, his garb was of a patched robe of faded purple over threadbare tunic, and simple sandals of leather and twine had been kicked aside so bare feet could feel the earth. At random intervals the odd implements had been moved in position or angle, as if adjusted upon a map only the chanting man understood.

Shaking his head, the eldest muttered to the second, “How long do you think this will take?”

Dark fingers tapped against a tattooed chin. “Melchior attempts to divine the power flowing through the ground with greater precision than any but him could achieve to guide our way.”

“Yes, yes, so he said. But for how long?”

The one called Balthazar looked to the south, sharp eyes more black than brown peering past the houses. “Let him finish, Gaspar. Surely your advanced years have taught you patience?”

“Patience? Such is for those with the illusion that they have plenty of seasons remaining to their lives.” Tugging on his beard, Gaspar turned attention to study the marked man. “Tell me, are you comfortable with this quest? Already the idiots from Arsacid with their broken Koine revealed too much of the prophecies - both when they arrived in the city and then in court. I fear…” The old man fell silent, unwilling to say it.

“First we find the child as ordered. Then we shall discuss the full implications of the King’s decree levied upon all who followed the wandering star.”

“You seem quite sure that there indeed will be discovered such a scion. Yet I have found prophecy to be a fickle matter, conveniently applied after the fact and commonly twisted to an awkward fit - or even then outright revised. As a man, my heart has hopes - but far have I journeyed, and well have I learned to leaven such yearnings with practical suspicion.”

“Even with such a clear sight streaming across the twilight’s constellations?”

“Especially then. Such events have been known to be naught but harbingers of suffering. Though this feels different - as if a great joy has descended and awaits fulfillment. It is uncanny, this sensation.”

“Beware, then. For always does there come a price for revelation.”

Gaspar contemplated his companion, for while appearing to have reached maybe only four hands-worth of years the man’s words and intensity belonged to one at least twice those in number - if not more. The incongruity disturbed him in a way he found hard to articulate, and so he remained quiet.

After another minute, the dark man’s lips offered a slight smile. “Ah, good. Melchior almost has it.”

“How can you tell?”

The smile upon Balthazar’s face broadened.

White eyebrows raised towards the wisps trying to escape from below the cloth atop Gaspar’s head. “You already know where we should go?”

“I suspected. Worry not for your troublesome hip - we shall arrive well before the sun reaches its zenith above.”

“Hmph. I asked the others about you, you know. Yes, even those excited fools in their many white robes. Some offered warnings to avoid you - but your words to the King were pointedly concise with understanding of the situation.” The old man’s attention focused. “We all followed the fire across the heavens, it is true. But the rest of us - yes, even myself despite my inner cautions - are filled with such rare excitement. Yet while you spoke in eloquence - with more fluency in Greek and Hebrew than even I can muster - your manner was that of a soldier preparing for war.”

Gaspar paused then, but getting no response he continued. “I have met many generals in my travels, you see - men chafing for their lord or emperor to give the orders to march and do what must be done. They were like bows stretched taut and held for too long before their wielder, with arms trembling, launched their arrow. And you, my friend, have the bearing of one who has finally been unleashed and now speeds with sharp and deadly purpose towards your target - though it is clear that it is not Herod whom you serve. This is why I wished to join you specifically, for it speaks of a deeper knowledge which the rest of us are missing - and my caution wishes to hedge this confusing yet exuberant swelling within my chest.”

Balthazar still remained silent, the resolution burning behind the black eyes more confirming than refuting the observations offered by his companion. But before Gaspar could probe further, Melchior gathered the various scrying implements and rose to re-sandaled feet. Especially slender within the thin robe and matching violet cloth belted around his midsection, he had trouble mounting the camel due to his shorter stature. Finally, with effort and an assist from Balthazar’s strong hand, he settled upon the riding blanket.

“The lines within the blessed mother earth,” the diviner announced in a voice much softer than those of his companions, “they converge upon Bethlehem.”

“Yes,” Balthazar said with a satisfied nod. “That shall be the place. Well done, Melchior. Well done!” He urged his camel forward.

The compliment’s recipient nodded thanks, but also quickly pulled a shawl about face and head - to cover both the umber lengths of hair falling to shoulders as well as the rosy flush spreading across cheeks otherwise pale.

Nudging their own camels with reins and feet, Gaspar and Melchior then formed a line behind the man in brilliant crimson. And while Gaspar kept tugging on his beard as he stared at the enigmatic man’s strong back, Balthazar himself gazed fixedly ahead - and towards the burning light which only he could see.

This was not the first time he had followed such a sight, though it had been an uncountable set of cycles of moon and seasons since that glow had first called him across a continent. Then too had he arrived only to be sent further along by a king whom he did not serve.

 

A leather-wearing soldier knelt upon the stone floor, and he was not alone in doing so. Joining him was a man clad in expensive cloth dyed a multitude of colors, whose beard of wild salt and pepper curls were kept in shape only by careful and regular pruning.

Before them sat a throne of gold and silver, upon which the mighty king of great renown leaned forward - wearing only an ankle-length kaunake that hung from waist to floor and left the deeply tanned and well-muscled chest bare except for the well oiled beard resting against the skin. Arrayed around were the cobalt blue glazed stone walls of his court, where relief after relief of beasts of forest and myth, of hunter and hunted, shared their tales etched in cuneiform for all to witness and admire.

The king, still gripping the curved sword his guards had taken from the visiting soldier, addressed both guests.

“From the West have you both come, facing the hardships of distant travel. Yet neither of you arrive with items to trade. One with only blade, simple hide over tunic, and eyes of fiery will, and the other with servants and guards, scrolls and tablets. I would hear why. Speak.”

Taking in the grand palace and its many men-at-arms, the young soldier complied. “I follow the voice of a spirit, oh great king. For the turn of many seasons has her beacon illuminated a solitary path, with her murmurings offering comfort upon each dawn. When first she did call, the elders consulted and then bid me follow. And in fulfilling this duty I now am here.”

“I know of your people. You bear the marks upon your skin of a fighter twice your age.”

The soldier grinned. “Many were the battles I fought and won before her call, the youngest of my tribe to ever join and bring victory to the lines of war. And many are those who attempted to force me into slavery as I followed her way.” With dry amusement he added, “And many are the graves now dug beside those roads.”

The king tapped the sword in acknowledgment. “This edge is indeed sharp.” He fixed attention then upon the other man. “And what of you who have come from the lands of Canaan?”

Lifting to a sitting position while still on knees, the richly dressed and scholarly man considered. “I, too, have followed a dream, oh great Nimrod, mighty hunter, king of Babylon and more.”

“The same dream as this warrior?”

“You and I both know it to be likely, do we not?”

The king’s eyes grew cold. “I mis-like uninvited manipulations. Even those by her soft hands.”

“Would she have done so if not necessary? I have followed in faith, with dreams disturbing yet true of days long past. And, if you will excuse my boldness, it appears your eyes are clearer than mine in these matters, oh great king. She allows me but glimpses, nothing more. Enough only to become unsettled.”

In puzzlement, the soldier stared between scholar and king. However, having learned the harsh lessons imparted by brambled branches applied by many elders upon his hide, he remained quiet.

Standing suddenly, the king brandished the sword, and his eyes followed its edge from tip to metal and wood handle. “Coincidences are not where she is concerned! And yet I had hoped…” Frustration tensed muscles able to draw the heaviest bow with ease, and he shook his head. “The two of you, arriving here and now, is a message. One as loud as the lack of my riders’ return from Eridu.”

“Eridu?” It was the scholar’s turn to appear confused. “Is that not also within your domain? What then lies at Eridu?”

“A task I meant to personally oversee until the needs of the army overrode such. A possibility to correct an insult and great wrong done upon me.”

“An insult, mighty king? Whose?”

Nimrod, standing tall over them, prodded the scholar’s forehead with the tip of the sword.

Hard enough was the pressure to draw a small bead of blood.

“Yours. And hers.”

Meeting the king’s glare, the scholar did not flinch nor wipe away that which trickled down between brows more brambles than bush. “Then how can this be made right?”

The king laughed then, a bitter and hollow sound which echoed across the throne-room before he turned back to his throne. “Your presence announces that it cannot.” His back, now visible, had several long scars of its own running along its length. “This time, at least, she provides warning of what is to come.”

Not understanding, the dark-skinned soldier opened his mouth to speak - but the scholar, with a paler hand stronger than expected, gripped his arm in counseled caution.

Sitting again upon the seat of metal, the king once more gestured with the blade. “Go then! She will of course guide you to Eridu. Retrieve what I left there in safekeeping when the military need for my presence elsewhere grew too great. What becomes of it after, I care not. Keep it, burn it, bury it. May its cursed words never again be within my sight!”

“And what would that be, oh great king?” asked the scholar. “What has been left behind?”

“You’ve not realized? The tool inherited from my great-grandfather, Noah. That which I’d hoped to use to set myself free. You should know of it if you but try, for by its reported words you arranged for it to be delivered unto my family.”

Eyes widened above a pock-marked nose upon which dripped a single line of red.

The king gave a curt nod. “You see? You know. Now go. Both of you. Go and do whatever is required. I will not interfere.” Tossing the sword, it landed with a loud clatter on the stones before the soldier. “A rod of my authority will be provided, woe unto them who dare push it aside!”

Bowing low, the scholar then pulled away the fighter who had immediately taken back his weapon. Together they exited the throne chamber, and then the palace itself.

Only when down the steps and well past guards who provided the scholar with a length of carved oak stamped with the King’s personal symbols, did he stop to let the warrior give voice to his many questions - youthful exuberance causing his words to rapidly stumble one over the other.

“Did the same spirit truly guide you here? Red of hair and sublime with grace? And what is this tool of which the king spoke?”

Catching his breath, the scholar had need to pause before replying. “She did indeed.” With a deep sigh shoulders slumped as if all his many years had descended upon them in full. “I’ve enjoyed a quiet life, studying the ancient texts in peace, but now…” He shook his head. He then answered only the second query. “The hunter king received a tremendous gift from on high, given unto his forebears that it might enlighten their way.”

“Then why is he so upset?”

“Because his spirit is great - greater perhaps than all but one of the sacred host - and it is now aware of how trapped upon this world it has become. Only recently, after her summons awoke my slumbers, have I too felt the confines imposed upon us, yearning for that which as a man can never be.”

“What do you mean?”

The scholar considered the soldier. “Do you not feel it? Fortunate are you, if such has yet to claim your senses: the discomfort across the spine for that which is fiercely missing, the resultant loss of the freedom of the skies and beyond, the knowledge and certainties denied those who stand upon mud and stone forever without the capacity to comprehend. But most of all, the ache for heaven’s touch to sustain us directly with its everlasting and brilliant glory. I wish…” Whatever statement he meant to say faded instead into sadness, the words left unspoken.

Returning the sword to its sheath, the soldier shook his head. “What you speak of, I know it not. But you say the great king shares of this ailment of spirit?”

“Worse than I, I am sure. And now I fear he has loosed an arrow he cannot control beyond the sky, and the two of us shall pay the price of it.” Wiping at his forehead and nose with a sleeve, he looked at the red-stained smear left upon the garment. “This will be the least of the blood shed upon its feathered shaft and sharpened tip before all is finished.”

The soldier’s eyes flashed. “Our goddess herself shall sustain us, and her brilliance shows the way.”

“May El forever bless her acts. Come, my retinue is by the docks and we have much distance yet to travel down the river that brings life to these lands.”

Following, the soldier considered and then flushed with pride. After proving his merit on the fields of battle, a great spirit had chosen him and led him across deserts and water, fields and fortresses - even unto a mighty king’s palace. Surely the deeds required would be worthy of a great and heroic epic. One, perhaps, that would forge his name immortal.

And the glow until now thought unique to his sight had shifted, shining as a brilliant demand instead from the south-east.

“Fear not, my goddess, my light,” he whispered to himself as they moved through the busy city, “For I shall not fail.”

 

Even at the plodding pace of their camels, the bright sun was still a wide angle from its zenith while it shined upon the three as they wended their way up to the small village nestled against the caves provided by the hill. The houses of Bethlehem perched together upon their hilltop, flat structures of stone under a sky clear but for a few scattered wisps of cloud. Each home therefore overlooked the open spaces below of earth and scrub upon which their shepherds guided many a flock between where the Judean desert beyond ended and the settlements around Jerusalem began.

Through these settlements it was decided that Melchior should lead them, for he was most familiar with these roads of dirt and stone and knew the people. As they passed not just livestock but the owners who tended them, there were those amongst the villagers that Melchior stared at the most - an expression openly wistful yet sullenly downtrodden hiding fitfully behind the shawl occasionally blown free by bursts of dusty wind.

Gaspar, keen eyes always observant, noticed the correlations. Considering for awhile, he finally commented to their darker companion when Melchior himself had dismounted and stepped away to relieve an urgent need, for he had consumed too much wine when they earlier had broken their morning fast.

“You see it, Balthazar, do you not?”

Deep eyes ever aimed towards their destination and perhaps beyond turned, refocusing on the here and now. “I see many things.”

“I meant not our quest. Rather the sadness lurking within the heart of our especially skilled geomancer.”

“Men bear many sorrows while placed upon this world.”

“Of course, of course. But is it not sadder still when the body and spirit - through no fault of each - are misaligned?”

The man in crimson cloth jerked in surprise, needing then to give a reassuring tug to the reins in order to calm his camel which had tossed its head in protest. “What mean you?”

Gaspar, wondering at the sharp reaction, pointed to the bushes where Melchior had gone. “Only that our friend here has a spirit not matching the clay through which it moves.”

“I have seen many spirits. His is as any soul of man, though perhaps with a brighter inner spark than most.”

“Bah. You still don’t see. Have you not noticed his attention towards the women we pass by? Especially those surrounded by children or carrying a little one yet to be born?”

“What of it? Men’s attentions are ever thus.”

“With lustful desire, yes. But it is not the longing for such intimacy which pains him. If, as I have heard, you truly have the talents to see past to spirit - you should look again and with more care to detail.”

Those distant eyes considered first the man slowly tugging on his white beard and then shifted towards the low bushes and the figure behind. “Ah.”

“Well?”

“I believe I understand.”

Gaspar shifted his perch upon the camel’s back yet again to ease the burden against his hip. “When I was a young boy, so long ago, I had an uncle - a kind and generous man - whose inner torments were strong enough to break rabbinical law regarding the clothing one should or shouldn’t wear. Such a tragedy.”

“Tragedy?”

“Discovered, he was shamed by family and shunned by the community. He did not survive that winter, for its ice and snow fell unusually thick. Often I have wondered about it, even unto questioning a rabbi. In tears was my uncle driven away, yet what could have motivated him to do such things? We debated and pondered, searching what has been written for clues. Nothing was settled, of course, but be it due to reincarnation and a soul unable to release its previous inclinations, or a demon’s cursed manipulation, or even simply a divine challenge given in Hashem’s wisdom to experience and overcome, there have always been those who wish their skins held opposite of what had been granted them at birth. Most become outcast, separated forever from all whom they love. Imagine living alone day after day within a mismatched vessel, such cannot be an easy fate.”

Balthazar looked down at the reins in his hands. “No,” he finally said quietly. “It is not.”

“Hmm. Melchior comes. Say no more on this, lest we embarrass him. I only hope that in this star-chasing journey our beardless friend is not seeking a miracle beyond his reach.”

Readjusting the shawl while walking back to join them, Melchior again needed a helpful hand to mount his bleating camel. With another blushed nod of thanks, he continued to lead them forward.

Slowly and without further conversation, they proceeded up into Bethlehem. When only a few houses away from the top - and while Melchior chewed at a lip and peered about through a translucent crystal - Balthazar suddenly stopped his camel, turning it to approach instead a shirtless man working alongside the slender dirt road. The man’s skin was well-tanned, and a curly black beard broadened an otherwise narrow face.

“Hail and greetings, good sir,” said Balthazar, speaking the local tongue of Aramaic.

The man startled, shaken from his concentration of carefully mixing the correct amount of water with clay to form the mortar needed for the stones. He prepared to fix a damaged section of a wall surrounding the front of a two story squarish home. “Good morning, sirs?”

“I am called Balthazar. Would you do me the honor of telling me your name?”

“Yosef, sir, of Nazareth.” Using the light azure cloth around his neck to wipe away the sweat from his forehead, he squinted as the sun lay directly behind the newcomer’s heads.

“You are of the line of King David.” This wasn’t spoken as a question but a statement, causing both Gaspar and Melchior to inhale sharply in surprise.

“I…my father and uncles always said so, sir, but I never gave it much credence.” Confused, the man raised a calloused hand to shade his eyes. Stone dust and clay covered his dark-haired and rugged chest, and he stood amidst the tools of the trade needed to cut stone to the best shapes in order to affix them to their brethren.

“You are indeed of that holy line, Yosef of Nazareth - it shines clear upon your spirit. And we are the first of many to come who wish to witness the wonder bestowed upon you from on High.”

Yosef swallowed. “Yeshua. You’re here for my Yeshua.”

“Might we meet with him?”

“He is only two years old. He knows nothing-”

Balthazar interrupted with a raised hand. “We shall be discreet. But we have traveled far, good Yosef. And the holiest of stars has led us here from afar.”

Not knowing how to refuse, Yosef bowed his head. “We live but a few houses further up this road.”

“We ask only for an introduction.”

“Then I will take you to him.”

The three dismounted. Leaving the tools where they lay, Yosef walked before them up the street until reaching a similar stone house also set against the mountainside with its caves providing cooler rooms for storage.

Calling to his wife, Yosef bade her bring their son forth. Clutching at her robes as they approached, a toddler with ruffled curly black hair peered around his mother’s skirt as caution blended with open-eyed curiosity.

As they approached the pair, the ground beneath Melchior’s feet began to sing to his senses. For they too had bore witness to miracle and the power within the earth shimmered and swayed with it still. And stranger still, around each of Balthazar’s footsteps it was if his sandals also struck a chime.

Each a perfect note resounding straight through Melchior’s soul.

And as the boy got closer, the song within the earth swelled as an entire swelling symphony’s crescendo to each of the child’s bare footsteps.

Gaspar, even with ancient creaking joints, was the first to fall to knees in supplication. Melchior, transported still by the orchestrations overwhelming his senses, sank more slowly to the singing earth as tears began to roll down his hairless cheeks.

But Balthazar, gazing directly into the light that burst across his vision shining so strongly from within the boy, stood stiffly. Bright was the sight and clear was its source, and he too shed a tear to trail across many painted scars.

Though it leaked neither from awe nor joy.

“Gabriel,” he whispered, the name heart-wrenchingly choked forth into the dry Judean air. Closing eyes that yet peered across endless sands of time, his legs too finally gave way. “This still is not the promise sought each day since the great tower fell!”

 

Only a handful of tents lined the freshly-flooded expanse of the southern desert that lay outside the newly constructed city defenses. Unlike the northern mountains, here no trees grew to provide the needed poles to hold up hides from which to escape the direct heat of the burning sun above. Therefore these few huts had required their wooden bones to have been delivered down the winding river in the crafts of bundled reeds, carried alongside the military officers who now made use of them.

And as high as the walls were, the rising tower behind them dominated all.

Layer after rectangular layer of earthen bricks had been carefully laid, each additional level smaller than the previous that the structure’s stability was maximized as it rose higher and higher. A grand staircase directly approached the first rise to grant entry within, climbing any further required use of additional steps embedded inside. And at the top, workers busily focused on completion of the final square apex and its planned curved dome for where tower met sky.

The sounds of many men laboring alongside the construction filled the air, as brick after brick was prepared to add to the great work. Rows of slabs sat drying open to the air and wind, while nearby yet more were fired in kilns dug into the earth. Here materials were hardened for suitable use and then lined with bitumen to seal and protect the inner and less prepared bricks from the monsoon rain’s eventual harsh erosions - though somehow there were far more active fiery kilns than possibly could be supported by the sparse brush surrounding the settlement.

It was to one of those few tents that the scholar and warrior had been brought, the king’s oaken rod having declared their authority over the stripped garrison guarding the redevelopment of this once-lost city.

Their captain, a man clad in a bronze breastplate over heavy leather studded with copper, was not pleased by their arrival as evidenced by the fierce scowl hovering between a pair of large gold looped earrings dangling beside a well-trimmed beard which still was as thick as the fur upon a bear. Forced to acknowledge the authenticity of the rod, he simply asked, “What does the great king command?”

The scholar and the soldier who accompanied him exchanged glances. Tired were they from the journey, but urgency filled their hearts.

“We must inspect this monument, this temple, ordered to be raised in the king’s name.”

Snorting, the captain crossed arms of well-developed sinew. “Our king no longer commands behind the walls. The priests have taken over, as our messengers should have informed him! Where is his army?!”

Putting hand to the curved sword belted at his waist, the soldier from the adjacent continent said, “The king’s riders never returned.”

Anger blossomed upon the captain’s face, but it then paled with fear. “He’s dared to go so far.”

“Who?” the scholar asked. “Who has dared?”

“Adapa, en-priest of Enki, he who was charged to build this temple.”

“Then it is he who we must meet,” said the scholar, and the well-traveled soldier with him nodded dangerous agreement.

The captain’s hand stroked over mouth and beard. “Such could be problematic.” Seeing no reaction from the newly arrived pair, he added, “The priests, they have great power. By their words are fires lit even without kindling, and the air itself twists to raise packed stones into their places up on high.” A fist bearing several rings of silver shook with anger. “We were left with a gutted squad, I haven’t the men to overcome such arts! Should you enter, you go alone. We shall not follow.”

“Perhaps that is why I am here,” said the dark-skinned soldier.

The captain was unimpressed. “You have not seen what they can do.”

“Yet,” said the scholar, “we must go.”

“So be it, should that be the king’s command upon you. May your gods - whoever they may be - grant your foolishness their favor. And if they do not, may they instead escort you to afterlives of peace and plenty.”

The soldier opened his mouth to retort, but the scholar quickly spoke first. “We appreciate your blessing.”

Grunting, the captain stepped beyond the tent’s flaps and into the bright day’s heat.

Before the man of war could follow, the scholar stopped him with a hand placed against the leather-covered chest. He spoke then, in a tone more harshly focused than the warrior had yet heard cross the man’s lips.

“You must swear to do as I command when we arrive to this temple. No matter what that may be. Promise me.”

“Why?”

“Because of what must be done. And because she whispers to me that it must be so.”

“You hear her?”

“Yes.”

Experienced fighter’s eyes glinted, and he extended a hand. “Then I place myself entirely within your words.”

Grasping wrist to wrist they nodded one to the other, then they too left the tent’s sanctuary from the sun to make their way to the gates set in the wall surrounding the settlement. By displaying the rod of authority were they allowed entrance and led to the front stairs of the towering temple, and there below the first step were they bidden to wait.

While the linen-robed priests hurried upwards to notify those within of their presence, the scholar spoke quietly to his companion.

“You feel it, do you not?”

Indeed the former soldier did. A tingling rushed through his limbs, as if they stood upon a precipice. As if, could he only slip his skin, then what would emerge would be far beyond anything he’d ever imagined.

And also it was as if a distant family he had never known shouted loudly to his soul with open and welcoming arms.

With an uncertain swallow, he asked, “What is this?”

“Gathered resonance for a tremendous working of power.”

“To do what?”

“If I am right, something that should not be.”

The soldier wanted to ask further, but many muscles across his back began to spasm. In irritation he attempted to flex away the awkward tension spilling through confused shoulder-blades yet nothing quieted them.

By the time the tendons finally stilled of their own tired and aching accord, three figures were almost to them - having together hurried down tall stairs upon slippers of silk and leather. All had shaved heads deeply tanned, and all wore the same style of light robes - colorfully dyed in swirling patterns of an empty summer sky and the golden poppies which joyfully dance in its fields below.

The one in front, however, also wore many glittering precious stones and metals upon fingers and wrists, as well as from his ears and draped across his chest. He carried a stout and well-polished staff, and from the tight cloth around his waist hung a slender canister of carefully folded copper. It was he who spoke, after looking over the two weary and unwashed travelers with apparent annoyance. His long beard of muddy brown curled wild in the hot breeze - and his eyes flickered with uncertain focus, as if unable to settle on visions near or far.

Or beyond.

“Who demands audience?”

The scholar answered, holding up the carved rod. “We who were sent by the Great King Nimrod.”

“And? Do you bear a message from the great yet distant king?”

“Are you the en-priest Adapa?”

“I am.”

“The king wishes to know what transpires here.”

Genuine puzzlement flowed across the high priest’s face. “His riders carried my full report. Are you not here with his replies? Is he coming as bid?”

The two priests behind him stiffened, their eyes darting one to another.

The scholar lowered the rod. “None arrived to deliver unto him.”

One of the other priests, a woman with piercing eyes the shade of the southern seas, tried to put a hand to Adapa’s shoulder. “Perhaps they got lost-”

The hand was instantly shaken free. “Lost? Lost?! Did they not arrive here in safety, knowing full well the roads and ways? The return would have been well known to them!”

The other tried to interject. “Great Adapa-”

Spinning to face them both, Adapa shook the bead-adorned staff. “They were to report our tremendous works! We have succeeded far beyond the king’s vision, and he should know of it!”

“What,” asked the scholar carefully, “have you achieved, oh priest of Enki?”

Still facing the rising temple, Adapa spread arms wide as if to hug the massive structure. “Glory! Revelation of mysteries secret and also divinely profane! Truth in the face of unholy deception!”

“What truths?”

Pulling the staff back before him, the high priest leaned against it as his voice howled at the sky. “That we were betrayed! By those most vile and treacherous!”

The robed man and woman each tried to touch Adapa upon arm or shoulder, but again the high priest threw their gestures aside to turn back towards the scholar and soldier.

“The flood!” Adapa shrieked, swamp-flecked irises sparking with horror. “Enki has showed me the truth of it!” Breathing deeply, his focus flickered again into place and more steadily he continued. “Legends say the gods desired to wipe out the people for their wickedness and offense in the eyes and ears of Enlil. But that is not so. We were innocent. Innocent!!”

The soldier frowned. “What flood?”

“He knows!” Adapa growled, pointing at the scholar. “By the tassels of his garments are his people known to me. They too recorded our suffering under the torrential rain and flooding tide! But what is not said is that those from above came down and spread corruption first. And by their misbegotten offspring were the rest of us doomed and all laid waste!”

Looking to the scholar, the soldier asked, “Is he right in this?”

The scholar’s grip upon the rod tightened. “The people of those days learned much that they should not.”

“Civilization! Knowledge! Power! Are these so wrong?” cried the high priest. “But they did not only slaughter our people, oh no. They locked away all who were not of man, shattering the union between spirit and flesh into a house divided.” Weeping openly, again he pushed away companions attempting to pull him back up the stairs. “It is a false deity above who does such a thing! The gods of our people, no longer can they walk beside us, no longer can we touch their comforts! They too suffer as we do!”

The woman again pleaded. “Please, Adapa, come with-”

“No! No.” With trembling shoulders, the high priest again drove the staff’s end against the stone under their feet before glaring once more at his visitors. “You too suffer. Both of you. I can see it! This world is not your home. But this imprisonment need not be.”

It was the soldier who spoke. “Because of this temple.”

The high priest’s teeth gleamed brightly under the high-noon sun. “Yes! Across the lands far and wide have we gathered remnants, pieces once touched by those who imprisoned us. Shards of their crystal cups, weavings from their immaculate robes, metal from their heaven-forged blades, and yes even their bones left to rot under the earth. The secret resting places of these relics, all are revealed to me.” A hand patted the copper cannister at his waist. “Can you sense it? The echoes of their effusive patterns, pulled together once again, each item ensconced within this structure - and by our priests’ weavings upon the stones have all become bound as one.”

The great bushy brows above the scholar’s eyes contorted. “How?”

“My friend,” said Adapa, “Oh my friend from far-off Judea - there is much I can teach you. We have relearned what was lost - the true pronunciations of our race’s inheritance! The language our spirits once employed to name the trees, the flowers, and the animals - the words by which all was made manifest. Behold!”

The high priest lifted again the staff to aim it at the empty sky. And with a single spoken word a spark of brilliant lightning flashed from horizon to horizon far above, its crescendo of thunder cracking across all.

Without the presence of a single cloud in the otherwise empty sky.

The soldier’s hand again found the hilt of his weapon, and all color fled the scholar’s cheeks.

Leaning close to them conspiratorially, the high priest chuckled. “I know the secret of the true power of men’s souls. And with those from across all kingdoms who have come hither for revelation, we will speak our words of truth to tear all free from this prison. We will free our gods, both those beyond the locked gate and those cruelly bound within the shells of men. And more!”

“More?” Asked the soldier - for the scholar’s head had lowered and closed eyes, an ear tilting as if trying to hear something else entire.

“Yes more!” cried the high priest. “With the strength of this secret and this temple set upon the lines of the world’s power, we shall unite to strike down the false throne that lies behind all! We shall visit our justice upon those who so slaughtered and imprisoned us! They and their works shall all be laid to waste!”

With glee, Adapa shook again his staff, casting mad laughter and the sound of shaking beads at the vast and open sky.

A hand touched the soldier’s arm. While the priest and priestess tried once more to calm their leader, the scholar quietly spoke.

“Fulfill your oath to me, my friend.”

Preparing, the soldier’s fingers flexed against the leather grip of his sword. “I am ready.”

Still with eyes shut, the scholar breathed his command.

“Then kill me. And do so quick.”

If there was hesitation, it was but for a single heartbeat. The sword in one instant motion from sheath to target lashed out, driven skillfully by well-practiced muscle.

And after, the scholar’s head tumbled bloody to their feet, there upon the edge of the rising stairs.

It was the woman who reacted first with a piercing shriek, though that was quickly followed by Adapa’s stunned cry. “Why?!”

The soldier stepped back, holding the blade ready between them. “Because she wishes it.”

“Who?!”

No chance for reply was given as a rumble filled their ears - this time not from the sky.

But from the earth.

As the drums from below gained strength and fury, the brightness above fell dark - eclipsed not by moon but something else: a tremendous circle of power, forged of the holy names, stretched outward to block sun and more as a terrible wind began to stir across the surrounding desert, its fury picking up speed and force with each passing moment.

“What have you done?!” Adapa screeched, and with a hissed word the air around the staff churned into a whirlwind to launch itself at the soldier.

As the earth beneath his feet trembled, the soldier instinctively raised forearms to block an attack not of steel but of power.

A power beyond that of magic and air, a power of spirit and the foundation of elements, a power which then shattered against a pair of black and gold bracers suddenly encasing the soldier’s forearms, an armor which had not been there at the moment of the power’s unleashing by the priest.

Disbelieving such a defense, Adapa cried out and attacked again. “Impossible!” Blast of wind followed bolt of lightning and even boiling water scorched between them. And all cascaded harmlessly against a shield of crimson flames rising from the matching elegant yet stolid bracers. Word after word, attack after attack, nothing could cross those protective fires holding firm.

To the soldier’s arms were they a perfect fit, and a perfect rightness of their presence upon his wrists suffused him. Through their use came also a much older gaze which began to burn with their own crimson fires from behind his eyes.

As he stepped forward to reach for the en-priest, the earth heaved, seizing upwards several feet only to fall back before instantly doing so again, and all were scattered aside by the ground’s horrible groaning fury as stone stretched and bent as if become an ocean.

But there between lurches, the soldier saw more. His red-haired dream stood tall with hand outstretched, her gown of purest ivory gossamer silks fluttering as if within only a fraction of the tempest now surrounding them. And facing her with an upraised palm pressing against hers was the scholar, though his translucent image flickered with that of another: of one hooded and framed by night-spread wings and whose outstretched and stained hand was darker even than the circles that had eclipsed the sun.

An impulse tore the soldier’s eyes from the two figures and he looked up into that covered sky. Within those circles of sacred writing, the golden script so tantalizingly outside his comprehension began to shift - as if another sentence was phrase by phrase being added to the whole.

The shaking grew stronger still, and the howling wind carried also the cries of those within the great temple. Stone after stone, brick after brick, all continued to collapse inward to crush everything held within, and a tremendous cloud of dust billowed towards the blackened sky.

Then, in an instant, all was still.

Choking, the soldier pulled his tunic up from under the chest leathers to cover his nose and lips. All fires from the mysteriously manifested bracers had immediately faded and were gone, and above the sun shone once more. Though its orb now burned as the color of blood through the tremendous clouds of dust rising to meet it.

Both the image of the scholar and the shimmering lady of his dreams had also disappeared.

From a few feet away he heard coughing. Moving carefully with sword still ready, he stood over the high priest who had fallen to knees to hold the broken pieces of his staff. Between coughs the man’s throat convulsed, but nothing but meaningless and tortured sounds emerged.

Adapa looked up at the soldier as realization dawned upon his face in astounded horror. “The sacred language, the words! They’re gone! Taken from my mind, taken from my tongue! All of them - only babble remains!”

“Then,” the soldier heard himself say, “you and Man are not yet ready to wield them.”

Rage fought past the dirt smearing the high priest’s twisted face. “I desired only freedom!”

“You desired vengeance.”

“Was that wrong?”

“The Judge of Judges has deemed it so.”

After another choked cry, Adapa fell silent. Fumbling at his waist, he then held out the copper cannister. “Take it,” he spat. “Look upon its cursed pages and then dare tell me we were wrong! Take it and go!”

The soldier paused but then did as bid, the metal cold to the touch. Leaving the high priest amidst the rubble of the man’s dreams, he climbed over the debris of the outer wall and made his way to where the remnants of those few tents lay. All settlement guards and workers busily scrambled to help survivors - or were still actively fleeing out into the desert in sheer unbridled terror.

Reassembling a tent using unbroken pieces taken from the others, the soldier finally dropped to knees under the reasserted shade now blocking the restored noon-day sun. After a sip from a flagon of water he’d found nearby, he opened the cannister, pulling free the carefully-wound scroll within.

Laying it upon his lap, bracer-clad hands spread the parchment open. The same golden script as witnessed in the sky spilled across the page and thereby across his vision entire. Convulsing, he could not even scream as his body suddenly burned with a fire it could not hold, nor shout as his thoughts became flayed with endless memories they could not comprehend. And his heart…his heart cried with an unending need it could never fill.

And the gentlest of arms which were yet were not there held him as eyes wept, while whispers filled ears that all had not been for naught. Whispers that the day would come when he would find, here upon the Earth, the promise his winged and glorious spirit had once glimpsed within the light of lights when all around was deeply mired in ageless blood and terrible war.

Whispers that despite the tremendous pain, he needed - most of all - to have faith.

For only then would she who was to be the manifestation of that promise come and set him free.

 

Gaspar sat stunned upon a thickly woven rug alongside his companions, repeatedly murmuring to himself the same continual phrase:

“Truly I have witnessed the King of Kings.”

Between the merchant’s fingers rested a wooden cup, its rosy contents full and forgotten.

The geomancer sat by the open entrance to the house’s guest room, legs folded below the violet robe as he stared wistfully into the brightness outside at mother and child laughing in the courtyard. The woman’s raven hair flowed free as she held up the boy that he might feed the eager camels clutched strands of hay. And every time Melchior’s gaze fell upon the promising roundness of stomach not entirely hidden by her robes, he would sigh and take another swallow of the sweet berry wine.

While Yosef again refilled the sighing man’s cup from a large clay jug, Balthazar stirred from where he had retreated against a wall in the darkest corner. He had refused Yosef’s wine, and instead sat silently staring at the entwined patterns of the rug visible between crossed ankles. It was clear something had deeply disturbed the man, but when asked he had stoically refused to respond.

“What,” said Melchior as the boy outside gleefully picked up more straw, “exactly is this blessing?” Turning his head, he looked to the sunless corner. “The earth itself rejoices to his touch. Is he truly the…” The words died upon lips, unsure if such should even be spoken.

Flexing a hand that in the ambient glow from the outer doorway somehow appeared more red than black, Balthazar finally spoke.

“He is an aspect of Elohim made manifest unto the world.”

Yosef, remembering his pregnant wife telling of a vision of an angel of grace and beauty, startled but stayed quiet. He had thought it just a dream at the time, but the child…even he could feel that the boy was something more. But now these three men of wisdom had confirmed both hope and fear. “What does this mean? What must we do?”

The tradesman stirred, pointing the full cup at the father. “We should alert the Sanhedrin. Once they confirm-”

“No!” Gaspar’s sentence was cut short by a sharply barked command. Balthazar had leaned forward, black pupils floating on seas of ivory which bore harshly into the older man. “That is precisely what we must not do.”

Melchior objected. “But Herod-”

“This goes beyond Herod. Beyond Judea.” The obsidian marked face regarded them all. “Think, and think carefully, gentle men.”

“Surely we must do something!” Gaspar waved a hand, and wine overflowed the rim to stain fingers with its chill. “All in the land should rejoice!”

But Balthazar shook his head. “You see only a power, a king, for you are blinded by the spirit.” Pointing then to Melchior, the man of the crimson robes asked, “Tell me, what do you see when you look beyond that door?”

Again Melchior stared without, and again he sighed. “I see a boy, rejoicing in his mother’s love.”

Balthazar nodded. “And that is what must be protected.”

The old tradesman’s brow disagreed. “But surely we should at least provide the best tutors, he will need-”

Again his words were cut by the firm baritone. “He needs none of that! Nothing more than what his father would have naturally given. His spirit is indeed beyond all measure - but here and now, he is a boy. Innocent and free to live a life as a man, here with his family - here in the grace of their love without expectation for more. Give him this, and it may be the greatest gift of all. Corrupt not his life with words of promised power and glory, surround him not with those who would scheme to take advantage!”

“The angel Gabriel - she chose my Myriam,” said Yosef more to himself than the others as he began to understand. “She chose for him to be ours.”

“And who are we,” said Balthazar as his sternness swayed into a more resigned timbre, “to question her wisdom?”

Melchior however remained troubled. “But he could work miracles, he could do impossible things.” Worrying at a lip, he stared back out into the lights of day and more.

“Someday,” said Balthazar. “When he is ready. The boy’s path will not be easy, for he will eventually feel the pull of the immensity of his soul. When it does, it shall be for him a constant struggle. Yet here, in this world, are his feet. Upon those he must first find purchase.”

Another melancholy sound came from the one in purple. “But I had hoped…”

“There are other paths to achieve that which you seek.”

“Sir?!” Flushing, Melchior spun back towards the room to find his companions gazing upon him. Not in ridicule, nor in jest, but with ready compassion.

Gasper offered a warm and kindly smile. “We know, but fret not. You are amongst friends.”

“I’ve said nothing,” stammered Melchior. “Done nothing to show-”

“It is writ across your soul.” Balthazar said more quietly. “Along with the scars of the terrible struggle fought against the confines within which it is bound.”

Melchior’s cheek trembled. “You understand? How…?”

“We are different,” said Balthazar with a weary exhale of his own. “Yet also the same.”

Gaspar raised an eyebrow in curiosity at Balthazar’s statement, but instead of pursuing that thread decided to follow the topic already at hand. “You spoke of other paths our Melchior here could pursue. What are they?”

Balthazar raised a finger. “There once was a blind prophet in the Hellenic lands, a man who spent many years transformed into that which the geomancer desires. Though she eventually tired of femaleness and then restored herself.”

Blinking, Gasper transferred the cup to his other hand so he could finally wipe the wet fingers dry. “You speak of Tiresias.”

“I do.”

Melchior’s shoulders fell. “That is but a story.”

“I assure you the tale contains truth. And his is only one of many possible methods that come to mind.” Wry amusement crossed the face of marked ebony. “You bear witness today to the glory of the infinite made finite, yet you question whether legends may contain truth?”

Hope soared, before smooth cheeks slumped again. “But I know not of such things!”

“Whereas I have seen such directly. Trust in me, and I will help you with what plagues your spirit at each and every dawn.”

Eyes widening, the geomancer nodded, not sure of what to say. The need struggling against uncertainty writ across his features however spoke volumes.

Yosef, not entirely understanding, spoke up. “What of my boy? What of Yeshua? You said others were coming for him.”

Gaspar, having finally taken a long draught of his wine, now spluttered. “The white-robed magi! If they witness, and they then report to Herod…” He fell silent, not wishing to insult their host by saying ill of his king.

Slowly did Balthazar rise to his feet. “Melchior’s skills are greater than theirs, but they too will eventually follow the pulses in earth and sky.” Looking to Yosef, he said what Gaspar would not. “You, the boy, and his mother should flee. For Herod will suffer no threats to his rule. He attempted to hide it with false modesty in the court, but his intentions are clear. Indeed,” he said while contemplating his companions, “Gaspar should not return to Jerusalem, and Melchior should come with me.”

“With you…” Melchior murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

“As my apprentice, that I may instruct you towards your goal - should you so choose.”

With a sleeve, Melchior wiped eyes free of gathering moisture. “Such is really possible?”

“I tell you again, it is. Though such will take effort and sacrifice, as all true challenges require. Are you willing?”

“I…” Hesitancy surged, but fresh resolution replaced it as Melchior’s eyes steadied with a new sharpness. “I am. Whatever I must do.”

“Then we travel together. Both of us shall also take new names, for Herod will send runners to find us. Especially you.”

Melchior nodded, and with a stare beyond the door towards this new future, a peace fell across shoulders easing by faith alone: the faith that his spirit could finally be released of her tremendous burden.

Fresh wetness streaked across calmed cheeks, and this time Melchior let them fall free.

Gaspar smiled and raised his cup. “And I shall go to the coast.” After a swallow, he managed a rueful chuckle. “I thought myself too old for any more long journeys, but suddenly I sense mercantile opportunity in the land of cedars to the north.” He groaned and shook his head. “My poor hips.”

“What of us?” asked Yosef. “Where should we go?”

Looking past the father to the red-haired angel hovering translucently behind him, Balthazar met the gaze of she who only he could see. “You will be guided tonight, just as was your ancestor Daniel. It is best that we do not know of your destination, that we may not inadvertently reveal the secret to the wrong listening ears.”

But the father shook his head. “I have work here, and I need that money to care for my family. We have no means of travel.”

Gaspar drained his cup dry, and with creaking joints he also stood. “In my packs I have gold aplenty to aid you.”

Moving aside so the tradesman could exit towards the camels, Melchior brightened before also stepping towards their supplies. “And I have bags full of frankincense, it is all worth a goodly sum!”

Putting a strong hand on the shoulder of a father startled by his guests’ sudden generosity, Balthazar said, “And I have several satchels of myrrh and other rarities. Fear not, good Yosef, your family shall not travel as paupers.”

“I…I thank you sir. But what if,” the stonemason paused, “What if we are discovered? May we call on you?”

“Of course. As may your boy should he have need once grown. Though I give warning that my presence alone could be more burden upon him than benefit due to my own nature.”

Clearly puzzled by that statement, Yosef asked, “Your nature?”

Balthazar squeezed his shoulder. “It matters not this day. What does is your son.”

Yosef, though still curious, put it aside to focus on practicalities. “But where will you be? And you said you would take a new name…?”

“If you must, send word to the town of Sepphoris in Galilee. As for a name, let me think.”

The deep-voiced man marked by ritual and experience paused to stare past the doorway towards the others. From within the shadows of the house he watched the little boy outside turn to face him. A wide smile blossomed upon the child’s face much like the sun breaking through thick clouds of thunder, and the boy offered a shy yet openly innocent wave - one remarkably without any of the sorrows of war or the hurtful tragedy of a great family torn asunder by betrayal and rage.

For the boy knew not of such things.

An ebony-skinned hand waved in return, and with a sudden booming laugh the man cloaked in crimson gave his answer.

“Call me ‘Kalos’, for today I have seen true beauty shining forth from within your blessed child!”

As he and Yosef exited the house together, the Archangel Camael, Prince of Heaven and Regent of the Seat of Light but now called Kalos, nodded in acknowledgment to she who still watched over them. For over two thousand years had he walked the Earth awaiting the fulfillment of her whispered promises.

What then was two thousand more?