The Hidden Flame (46 page)

Stephen stumbled as he was shoved out into the breathless heat. The crowd bent to snatch up rocks, some in both hands.

Ezra felt his heart cry out, as though it were branded by the stone he now held.

Then he roared against the tide of regret and anguish that suddenly filled him, a piercing grief for he knew not what.

Ezra cast the first stone.

Stephen was struck hard. But he straightened, lifted his eyes and his voice to heaven, and cried, "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit."

The stones rained down upon him even as his face was lifted to the heavens, shining with that same light as in the Council chamber.

The last words Ezra heard him speak were, "Lord, do not charge them with this sin."

When they were done, the stones lay heaped upon the still form. The crowd dispersed like crows flying from empty bones. The elders picked up their robes and walked away. The mob was now silent. No one met the gaze of his neighbor. They drifted away, until only Ezra stood at one side, Saul on the other.

Strange, Ezra thought, he felt no satisfaction. Only disturbance. The glow on the young man's face as he breathed his last haunted him. Almost as though, instead of inflicting intended pain, they had done him a kindness.

Strange. Strange and most unsettling.

The young man in his black robes walked over and stood staring down at what could be seen of the body. Ezra hoped the man would not voice regret, for the black wings of remorse hovered just beyond his own scarred vision.

But the young man only muttered, "And so it begins."

C H A P T E R

FORTY

ALL THE WORLD LOOKED YELLOW. The sun was a mere handsbreadth from the western slopes, hanging relentlessly in a sky spreading from gold to pale blue to a darker shade. The rocks and cliffs and even the stunted pines were all coated in the same summer dust. Even the people he saw up ahead bore the same unyielding color. By the time Linux arrived, the only sign of where Stephen had been murdered was a dark stain among the rocks. He could see the followers carefully, sorrowfully, moving his body toward an open burial cave.

Linux remained apart from those grieving by the cave's opening. His eyes were dry, yet his heart felt wrenched by tears only he could sense. Or perhaps not, for a pair of men approached, one of them the rugged apostle called Peter. "A tragic day, and a glorious day," the man said softly.

Linux did not understand the man's comment. And yet he felt it resonate within his breast. A gift of inexplicable hope in a moment so dark not even the summer sun could brighten it. "They are not done, I'm afraid."

The man standing next to Peter was another bearded apostle. Linux had seen him at the head table and heard him speak and pray, but did not know his name. The second man said, "Not for an instant do I doubt it."

"I have heard the soldiers speak of it. Rumors swirl about the streets and marketplaces. The Sanhedrin-"

"The Council is forbidden from taking human life," the second apostle said. "And so they send their minions."

"You should leave Jerusalem," Linux said.

He expected argument. Peter said softly, "I am called to stay."

The second apostle turned and said to Peter, "As am I."

Peter asked, "God has spoken to you as well?"

"As clearly as ever I have known his guidance."

Peter nodded. "So be it."

Linux realized there was nothing to be gained by disagreeing. In fact, he did not feel any need to do so. These men were being directed by the same God to whom he had now given his life. Linux had never felt this more strongly. "What of the others?"

Peter continued to nod, rocking his upper body in the stiff motion of a Judean in prayer. "We shall seek the Lord's guidance on this also."

Linux said quietly, "Perhaps your God has already spoken."

Peter looked at him, his eyes an unworldly combination of grief and peace. He corrected quietly, "Our God."

"Our God," Linux agreed, and told them of what had transpired at the governor's palace, and his appointment to the Capernaum garrison.

Both apostles studied him with the grave expressions of men taking his words in deep. "We shall pray long and hard upon this," Peter said solemnly.

Linux replied, "As shall I."

Linux dreaded the visit he needed to make to the compound. He could only imagine what Abigail would be going through so soon after her excruciating loss. She deserved solitude in her time of grief. But the time and circumstances would not allow him that courtesy. Who knew what would happen next in this fever-driven city? Besides, he had made a promise to Stephen. A promise he planned to keep.

He was pleased that Martha was the one who first greeted him as he entered the courtyard. She looked drawn and somehow older. He had the strange impulse to embrace her and hold her close until she cried out all of her confusion and grief, as he would long to do if his own departed mother stood bereaved before him. But he restrained himself, not knowing how the woman would receive his condolences shown in such a manner. Instead he asked for Abigail.

Martha shook her head. "She is in seclusion."

"I understand that. And I respect it. But it is of utmost importance that I speak with her briefly. Could I ask you to convey that message to her, please?"

Martha hesitated, but at length nodded and with a deep sigh moved toward the stairway that led up to the rooms above.

She returned some minutes later. She came alone, and Linux feared that Abigail had refused to see him.

"She will see you in the kitchen. Come."

Linux thanked her and followed her.

He did not know exactly what he had thought to find, but Abigail looked far more composed than he would have expected. She was pale and her eyes were red-rimmed, but she motioned him in and indicated a bench not far from where she sat. He could see Martha hovering nearby.

"My deep sorrow for your loss," he began and saw her eyes water. "I know this is untimely. I dislike disturbing you in this time of grief, but I have made a promise, and I pray you will allow me to keep it."

He hesitated, wondering if she was following his words. She looked so distracted.

But she nodded, indicating he should continue.

"The other day ... Stephen came to me. He asked one thing. And I agreed. He ... he said that if anything should happen to him, I was to take you to Galilee, to Alban and Leah."

Her head came up and her eyes met his. The tears now slid down her cheeks.

"He knew?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps he wondered-"

"And he went to minister as he always did. That is so like him. Like Stephen." She wrapped her arms about herself and lowered her head. He allowed her that time of fresh grief.

When she was able to look his way again, he went on, "I have just received orders that I am to leave Jerusalem. I have been granted charge over the Capernaum garrison. I need to depart in two or three days."

He waited for her response. Did she understand what he was saying?

"Two or three days?" she repeated. Then she shook her head. "I will not be ready to leave that soon."

"I understand."

Linux was trying to figure out how many days the tribune and prelate would give him before demanding he leave the city. Would it be enough?

"When would you think ... ?" He let the question hang in the air.

She shook her head as though to clear her thoughts. "I ... I do not know. I just know that I need time. Here. I cannot leave yet. I need to find a way through this among the ones I know.... I need to have time to say farewell. To be with these people who love me and encourage me with their prayers and strengthen my faith. I ... I need them very much right now."

"I understand," he said again.

"It's not that I do not want to go to Leah. And Jacob. I do. And I will, God willing. But now is too soon. Too soon. Please."

She was almost pleading for his understanding. There was no way he could insist that she come with him now. "Of course," he said.

He stood. "I expect to leave two days hence. Three at the most. Should ... should anything change, please get word to me."

"Thank you."

"And when you do feel ready, send word. I will come back for you. I made a promise. One I will keep."

She only nodded.

He didn't know what else to say. He could try some of the encouraging words he had heard others of the community say to offer comfort, but he wondered if they might sound empty. False. There was no way to say what he really felt. Her sorrow touched him deeply.

"I wish you God's peace," he did say, meaning it from the bottom of his heart.

She brushed back a curl that had escaped her covering. She nodded. "It will come. I know it will. Martha says it will take time."

He studied her one last time. She looked so pale. So small and alone. So sad. But there was nothing that he could do for her but pray. He knew as he turned to go that he would carry her forlorn image in his heart all the way to Capernaum.

He had stepped to the door when she said, "Linux."

He turned, hoping she had changed her mind.

"Thank you. Thank you for being a friend. To Stephen-and to me. And, Linux, tell them ... tell them I am not afraid to die, if that is God's will."

He would have said something in reply but the words would not come. His mouth seemed too dry, his throat too tight. He nodded and went back out into the night.

It was not Abigail's deep grief that surprised her. She had lost a wonderful man. They had shared only a few weeks together as husband and wife. She was a widow now. A widow like many of those she served daily. Unclaimed. Broken. Destined for a life of solitude and perhaps a life of poverty. But even those thoughts did not devastate her. Abigail felt only the loss of the man whom she had come to respect so deeply. To love with all her heart. Her future looked so dark that it all seemed an indistinct blur.

The entire community had been so kind, so careful of her. Martha took charge, releasing her from her duties, coming often for times of prayer. Others sent messages of encouragement. With promises to pray. Abigail was given space and time.

No, it was not her grief that shook her world. She had expected and accepted this time of mourning as being hers to endure. It was after her few days of solitude when she again returned to her community for evening prayers that she felt the difference.

A dense pall of fear hung over the entire group. Previously they had sensed that persecution might come. They had tried to prepare for it. Now it was real-raw and terrifying. If their enemies could do this to a man like Stephen, who sought only to serve his community and anyone in need, every one of them was in danger. All of them!

Little groups huddled in whispered conversation. Mothers stayed home from evening prayer to shelter children. Men moved furtively, casting glances to each side as they hastened through the streets. The whole community was wrapped in a shroud of tension and uneasiness.

Abigail had also noticed upon her return that quite a number of followers were missing. Were they in hiding?

She posed the question to Martha. The older woman shook her head, and for the first time in her life, Abigail saw tears on her cheeks.