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Authors: Jack Cavanaugh

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BOOK: Tartarus: Kingdom Wars II
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“I thought we had an agreement,” Jana screamed.

I was on my feet. Abdiel was gone. Sue was glowering. On the computer screen the professor was demanding to know what was going on.

“You didn’t lock the door?” Sue yelled at me.

“You had it propped open, I thought you—”

“I propped it open to let you in, not her!”

Jana stormed to the window and threw back the sheer curtains. “What’s this?”

In the distance, beyond the city, an unwavering beam of light blazed down from the heavens against a cloudless sky, hitting the top of Mt. Olivet. When I turned to say something to Jana, it wasn’t Jana who was standing beside me, but Sue Ling, as amazed as I.

Jana had the television remote control in her hand. She opened the media center’s cabinet doors and pointed it at the set.

A local station was broadcasting live from atop the mountain. The banner across the bottom of the screen said,
JESUS RETURNS
.

In better control of himself than he was yesterday, a genial Jesus was answering questions from reporters.

—was sudden, but how does a person return after a two-thousand-year absence if not suddenly? I know you have a lot of questions. That’s why I’m here. I want to answer them—

“Tell me you didn’t know about this!” Jana said.

“I didn’t,” I insisted.

“What’s going on?” the professor was shouting.

Sue told him to turn on his television set. He disappeared from view.

“Jana, I didn’t know!” I said again. “If I knew, do you think we’d be standing here?”

My point was sharp enough to deflate her.

We stood three abreast watching the interview.

—best way is to show you. Tomorrow I will appear again, this time in Galilee, Cana. Be prepared to see something that hasn’t been seen in two thousand years.

He disappeared. The suddenness of his departure left the reporters scrambling for places to do their wrap-ups.

Jana’s phone rang. Grimacing at the display, she turned away from us and answered it. “He says he didn’t know,” she said into the phone. “Yes, I believe him.”

The professor was back on the computer screen.

“Are they airing it there?” Sue asked him.

Apparently the professor had angled his television so that he could see it while sitting in front of the computer.

“Give me a second,” he said, watching the television. “They’re replaying the video.”

The Jerusalem station was replaying their footage of a descending Jesus. Because I didn’t understand Hebrew, the professor thoughtfully provided commentary from what he was watching.

“Apparently, this Jesus gave the Jerusalem stations thirty minutes’ notice before his return,” the professor said. “One reporter described the notification as hearing a voice in his head during a staff meeting. Nobody else at the meeting heard it.”

The professor became agitated. “There! Look there!”

He was pointing at a screen we couldn’t see.

“He’s descending—”

A video of the event was playing on our station as well, a few seconds ahead of his.

“There! There! Do you see it?” the professor said. “His feet don’t touch the ground!”

They didn’t. The feet of the self-styled Jesus clearly did not touch the ground.

“Is that something important?” Jana asked, slipping her phone back into her purse.

I explained the significance of the feet to her.

As I did, the professor mulled over the spoken instructions. “He didn’t indicate a time; neither did he specify which Cana location. He assumed we knew.”

“Do we?” Sue asked.

“Scholars don’t agree on the location,” the professor replied. Then his tone changed. He took control. “Call Choni. I want you to leave immediately. Tell him to take you to Khirbet Kana. It’s in the Bet Netofa Valley.”

Sue wrote as he talked.

“If he tries to talk you into going to Kefr Kana, don’t listen to him. I imagine that’s where most people will go.”

Sue didn’t ask the professor to defend his choice. After a quick good-bye, she closed the computer and was already packing her things.

“Did you get that?” I asked Jana.

“Khirbet Kana. Bet Netofa Valley.”

Sue scowled at me—for fraternizing with the enemy, I guess.

“We’ll meet you up there,” I said to Jana anyway. “Wait. Better yet, why don’t you follow us? Choni may know a shortcut or two.”

Sue’s scowl deepened. The ride to Galilee was going to be a long, silent one.

Returning to my hotel room, I threw a few things into a travel bag. My laptop lay open on the desk, the upright screen resembling a headstone. My unfinished first chapter was the epitaph.

It might as well have read: “Here lies Grant Austin’s publishing career.”

CHAPTER 8

M
y fears of a long, silent ride to Galilee went unrealized. Looking back on it, I would have preferred the silence.

Choni argued the entire way that we were going to the wrong Cana. He insisted the professor was wrong about the location of the biblical Cana.

“It is not in the Bet Netofa Valley. It is too far north. Too far distant from Nazareth. The valley is marshy and difficult to cross. No, all reputable scholars agree that Kefr Kana, not Khirbet Kana, is the true location.”

By all reputable scholars he meant his father and his father’s colleagues. Sue was a rock. If the professor told her to go to Khirbet Kana, go to Khirbet Kana she would. To hear her argue you would have thought the location had been printed inside the King James Version of the Bible.

I learned later that a similar discussion was taking place in the news van behind us. In the van it wasn’t so much an argument for the Kefr Kana location as it was the unquestioning acceptance of the professor’s point of view. Jana’s bow-tie colleague, a scientist by nature, wanted to know why other theories were being summarily dismissed without so much as a hearing.

As we neared Galilee, traffic thickened and soon we were slogging our way slowly north. All manner of vehicles clogged the road, not all of them motor-driven. Donkey-drawn carts, bicycles, and hundreds of walkers wanted to see what we’d come to see.

The argument came to a head when we reached the turnoff to Kefr Kana. Seeing the majority of travelers turn west, Choni became even more animated.

Sue was done arguing. She pointed north.

The road cleared, and we were able to make better time. But the heavy line of traffic going the opposite direction grated Choni’s nerves and the longer we traveled, the more surly he became.

Craning my neck, I looked through the rear window and checked the van behind us. The cameraman was driving. Jana sat in the front passenger seat. An animated Bow-tie had wedged himself between them from the back. He was pointing at the line of traffic going the opposite direction, his head bobbing and his mouth running.

I made eye contact with Jana. She motioned with her hands, palms up. What should we do? I gave her a weak smile. Not the assurance she was wanting, but it was all I had.

It was early evening when we reached Khirbet Kana. There was some comfort that we weren’t the only ones who thought this to be the biblical Cana. Vehicles meandered up and down the rustic streets of a village that was more ruins than village.

Choni pulled to the side of the road and we climbed out. Bow-tie marched up to Choni and the Kefr Kana versus Khirbet Kana argument took on new life. Sue walked off by herself, taking in the village. The cameraman opened the side door of the van and checked his equipment. That left Jana and me. I did my best to assure her that we were in the right place.

“I hope you’re right, Grant. My professional life is on the line.”

She could have gone all day without saying that. I hated the thought that I could be responsible for killing two professional lives in one day.

There were only a few habitable structures in Khirbet Kana and they were occupied. There were no gas stations. No stores. We had to make the most of two vehicles and whatever we brought with us. It was going to be a long night, but at least we were in position for the appearing.

That is, if we had the right Cana.

I checked my cell phone. There was no cell phone service either. A blessing. I wondered how many messages my publisher had left for me on the answering service.

Morning dawned clear and fresh. I wish I could say the same thing for my fellow travelers.

Choni had slept fitfully in the driver’s seat, unable to stretch out all night. He kept muttering that we had come all this way for nothing. Bow-tie kept blowing into his hand to check his breath. The cameraman squatted beside the van and faced the sun and ate a bag of peanuts. Jana fussed with her hair and makeup. Sue was awake when I woke up. Leaning against the car, she stared at the village, a motionless and silent sentinel.

I had given her the backseat for the night while I slept in the passenger front seat. Feeling the same leg cramping as Choni, halfway through the night I’d opened the door and stretched my legs outside, sleeping half-in and half-out of the car.

The village began to stir. Overnight the population of travelers had tripled. Everywhere we looked people had brought their ill and elderly, hoping for a miracle.

Still, the number of people was small compared to what we had seen going to Kefr Kana, but we were an upbeat gathering. The morning showed promise. Then, before we knew it, morning was gone.

Spirits were still high through early afternoon. By late afternoon a pall began to settle over the gathering. No one said it, but we were all thinking the same thing. We were at the wrong Cana. In our minds we could see the smiles of all the other travelers who had guessed right.

There were several false sightings. All it took to stir the troops was for someone to point to the sky and say, “Look!” or “There!” After a while, a small group thought it was funny to point and shout every two or three minutes. That got old fast.

“There!” Choni said.

I thought he was mocking us because instead of pointing to the sky, he was pointing down the road.

“No, really! There! He’s coming!” Choni insisted.

To humor him, we looked.

Jesus walked toward us down the middle of the road, his flowing white apparel rustling with each step. The heat waves rising off the road provided a nice dramatic touch. I noticed he was wearing sandals. He approached Cana in Galilee as casually as if he was doing so in the first century.

People thronged to him. Surrounded him, keeping at a cautious distance. He smiled at them. Nodded greetings. And walked into the heart of the village.

I couldn’t help but note Sue’s reaction to his appearing now that her faith in the professor had been vindicated. She pushed off from the car and, unsmiling, followed the crowd.

At first Jesus appeared to be lost. He glanced this way and that, taking his bearings and muttering about how things have changed. Finally, when he was satisfied he had the correct location, he turned to face us.

He started to say something, stopped himself, then said, “Where is everybody?”

“Kefr Kana,” a man offered.

“Kefr Kana?” Jesus repeated. “What are they doing in Kefr Kana? Don’t they know their own land?”

I glanced at Choni, who shrugged sheepishly.

Jesus said, “Let’s hope you know your Scriptures better than you know your geography. The wedding at Cana of Galilee was where I performed my first miracle. You’ve heard of it?”

Everyone claimed to know it.

“This is where it took place. You are standing at the bridegroom’s house.” When he noticed everyone trying to imagine what the house looked like from the visible foundation, he added, “Actually, you’d have to dig down five feet to find the ruins of the house, but trust me, this is the place. Let that be a lesson to all you housewives. Dust regularly. If you don’t, before you know it, you’re five feet underground.”

Disturbed glances were exchanged. This wasn’t the Jesus many had expected. Most had come hoping to hear Jesus bless the multitude and maybe see a miracle healing or two.

Jesus was unfazed by the crowd’s muted response. “As you know, the groom’s name was John. He was my cousin.”

“John the Baptist?” someone asked.

“Bingo. My water-baptizing, desert-preaching kinsman. Do you know why he lived in the desert?”

“God sent him there to preach,” an elderly, bearded man replied.

Jesus laughed. “That’s the official story. Do you want to know the truth? His betrothed drove him into the desert. Puah. We called her Poo. She had to be the ugliest bride in the history of Judaism. I kid you not.

“Let me see if I can describe her. You know what John looked like, right? Big. Barrel-chested. Hairy. Put a wedding dress on him and you would have Puah on a good day. And her cooking? Compared to her dishes, dried locusts was a treat. It took me and the disciples five days to track John down and drag him out of the desert to his wedding.

“Now you can understand why the wedding party ran out of wine. We used most of it to get John drunk. It was the only way we could get him to lead the procession to fetch his bride. That took most of the night, and when we finally got to the bride’s house, the bridesmaids had fallen asleep and their lamps had run out of oil.”

Jesus cocked his head. “That would make a good parable, wouldn’t it? Or have I already told that one?”

Jana stood next to me. She was holding a microphone out to record the audio while her cameraman shot the video.

She whispered to me, “He is quite a joker, isn’t he? And look at his feet. They’re touching the ground.”

“He’s wearing sandals,” I said.

“That makes a difference?”

Jesus went on. “As we transported John and his bride back to his parents’ house, there was music and gaiety, nuts were tossed to the children, we in the bridal party carried torches and myrtle branches, and the bridegroom wept.

“He wept during the signing of the kethubah. But you have to give John credit. As is the custom of all honorable Hebrew males, no matter how much he objected to this arranged marriage, he vowed to keep and care for his bride all the days of his life, which in John’s case, were mercifully short.

“But I digress. It was during the feast that followed that we ran out of wine and my mother took it upon herself to make it our problem. So there you have it. There were six stone jars. I had them filled with water and zap! The next thing you know we got plenty of wine.”

“How did your mother know you could do it?” Jana asked.

Jesus looked in the direction of the question and when he saw Jana, his grin spread into a warm smile. He stepped close, unaffected by the microphone. Looking past it to the person holding it, he said, “And who is asking this question?”

“Jana Torres, KTSD.”

“You speak English. Your station affiliation is not local?”

“San Diego, California.”

“The United States? You have traveled all this way and, unlike thousands of local residents, have managed to locate the biblical Cana. Tell me, daughter of beauty, how did you come to be so wise?”

Jana glanced toward me. Jesus followed her glance and did a double take. His grin widened even more. It was positively wicked.

“To answer your question,” he said, turning his attention back to Jana, “when I was young, on occasion I would provide refills of the oil jar for my mother. She didn’t ask. After hearing the story of Elijah and the widow, I thought it would be fun to see how long it took my mother to notice that the oil never ran out. She caught on quickly, and when she did I was punished, which I thought was amusing when at the wedding she expected me to produce the wine. She didn’t object to my powers when it suited her purposes.”

He swung around suddenly.

“Who wants to see a miracle?” he asked.

The crowd became agitated. This was what they had come for. Babies were held out to him. The weak and infirm were deposited as an invitation to him.

“No, no, no. Weren’t you listening to the story?” he exclaimed. “Get me six stone water jars.”

Everyone exchanged helpless glances.

“If you can’t get me six stone water jars, get me the equivalent for today,” he said, sounding miffed.

In short order an array of containers were lined up in front of him—four five-gallon military vehicle water containers and two ice chests.

“You know the drill,” Jesus said. “Fill them with water.”

The containers were filled with water.

“I need three tasters. You, you, and”—he swung around and pointed at me—“you.”

I tried to beg off. He wouldn’t let me. Jana was motioning me to do it. Sue Ling appeared skeptical. I approached the containers.

A woman offered each of us a Dixie Cup.

The first to try the miracle wine was a heavily bearded man, middle-aged, his skin bronze and leathery. He held out his waxy cup while the second man poured from one of the water containers. He sipped, made a face, and spewed the drink onto the ground.

His face scrunched with disgust, he said something in Arabic that I didn’t understand.

Jesus said, “After two thousand years, I may be a little rusty, but that was uncalled for. That’s quality stuff.”

Taking a cue from the second man, a clean-shaven younger man, I took my turn pouring. The liquid that came out of the water container was brown. He sipped it and did the same thing as the first man. I couldn’t tell what language he spoke, but he obviously didn’t like the wine.

Jesus shrugged and looked to me.

I chose to dip my cup into one of the coolers. It was the same brown liquid that had come out of the water containers. I lifted it to drink, then hesitated.

Jana was thrusting the microphone my direction. The cameraman was zooming in. Sue Ling was a portrait of concentration. Jesus looked on, amused.

With everyone watching me, I touched the rim of the cup to my lips and took a sip.

BOOK: Tartarus: Kingdom Wars II
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