The Caleb Collection Page 55

  “Well, you’d better get used to your hellhole because you’re going to be there another two days.”

  Ismael jerked up. “Two days! That’s crazy! What about Rebecca? I can’t just sit here in this stinking pit for two days!”

  “You can and you will. Unless you want to go after her on foot.”

  Ismael closed his eyes and swallowed.

  “I’ve arranged for a team of elite forces to be transported to Yemen, fully armed and provisioned. They will be joined by a guide who knows the desert, and then flown in a Hercules to your location. We’re assuming they can land on the salt flats. Is this right?”

  “Yes. How many men?”

  “Ten men, a dozen horses, and two Jeeps. I will put them in your command, Ismael, but only on one condition.”

  “Of course.”

  “You will have twenty-four hours to track down the woman. If you find her, you will kill both her and this Caleb. But either way you must return to the monastery and kill whoever you find there. The monastery is the prime objective. Do you understand? They wouldn’t still be there if they hadn’t found something to keep them there.”

  “How will you know my location?”

  “We already have it from the satellite phone. You cannot afford to fail, Ismael. And you can’t afford to be exposed. The men will be dressed as civilians, but we don’t have the time to remove markings from all the gear. The Ethiopian government will take exception to Syrian troops shooting up their country.”

  “Don’t worry—the only people out here are natives.”

  “No, Ismael, you are wrong. The Ethiopians actually believe they had the Ark. They will defend it to the death. The Jews are not your only concern.”

  He hadn’t thought about that. Either way, with fresh horses and ten men, completing his mission would be a simple matter of execution. Failure would be nearly impossible.

  “Just get the Hercules here. I won’t fail you,” he said.

  “Forty-eight hours,” Abu said. “Go with God, my son.”

  “Go with God,” Ismael said. But he didn’t really feel like going with God.

  God had deserted him.

  19

  Deep in the white desert Caleb slowly began to lose himself to the heat.

  Or perhaps he was finding himself.

  He’d spent several hours with Elijah wandering the camp, learning of the tribe’s strange ways which really were not so strange at all. They held a kind of inexplicable appeal that put a lump in Caleb’s throat. Something that screamed of his youth—a simplicity of devotion. A look of delight in their eyes that drew him. The monks, married or single, male or female, all shared the same obsession: Christ. Not the Christ known by the world, necessarily, but the Christ of the New Testament. The one who’d said you cannot enter the kingdom of heaven unless you become like a child.

  Elijah was Hadane’s right-hand man, it turned out, and despite his jovial attitude towards nearly everything they encountered, he struck Caleb as a treasure chest stuffed with truth. Hardly surprising, actually, considering he’d lived in the desert for forty years.

  What was slightly more surprising was Miriam’s wisdom. She was twenty-five, he learned, and not only had she taken the vow of celibacy, she seemed thrilled with the notion of spending her days staring into God’s face, alone. But of course, it was never alone, because God always lured and touched seekers who stumbled into camp.

  “You’re so isolated out here,” Caleb said.

  “And this from a man who lives in a monastery?”

  “We serve whole communities. Lepers.”

  Miriam smiled. “Most people seem to be under the false notion that small doses of religion on a weekly basis somehow sustain the spiritual man. We don’t see it that way, Caleb. If you’re dirty, you become clean by taking a bath. Imagine trying to clean yourself with a few droplets of water each day—no matter how good your intentions, the droplets will never amount to enough water to wash your body. Isn’t it better to be doused with buckets of water?”

  “And who is the water?”

  “God is. He drenches us. And when someone like you wanders into our camp, they inevitably walk away dripping wet.” She smiled. “You’ll see. What is better, to sprinkle hundreds of people each year with tiny droplets of truth, or to immerse those few God brings us in the springs of life? It was the way of John the Baptist.”

  He’d never thought of it that way.

  Neither Elijah nor Miriam seemed capable of appreciating the danger he’d fled, not because they were dimwitted, but because they seemed convinced that all was safe at the monastery. When he asked for an explanation, both of them smiled and told him that the greatest battles were always fought in the heart. And Father Hadane had told them that this battle was indeed for the hearts of man, not a gold Tabotat hidden in a stone building. By midday his worries of the monastery had faded. In an odd way, Caleb felt like he had come home.

  By midafternoon he began to cave in on himself.

  He sat by Miriam, listening to her soft voice talk in ways he hadn’t heard since Dada had died, and his chest ached to taste Dada’s passion once again. But it was God’s passion, Miriam told him, and maybe he’d misplaced it.

  She hadn’t known Father Matthew—Dada had left the tribe before she was born. But her mother had known Dada, and she’d told Miriam that she’d never met a man with such devotion.

  A buzz had come to Caleb’s head while she talked, and he could not dislodge it. It was as if an airborne intoxicant hovered over the whole camp, and he’d breathed enough of it now to send him around some invisible bend. A bend of sorrow and desperation, a kind of smothering panic.

  “I heard about you, Caleb,” Miriam said quietly. “When you were a child, you were a pure vessel. I can’t understand why you have turned your back on the Father.”

  Caleb had settled back on the sand at the words, swallowed by his own agony. Miriam let him lie there, in anguish, for a long time before touching his forehead.

  “I have never seen such a sensitive spirit,” she whispered. “God loves you dearly, child.” And then she had left him.

  When Caleb stood two hours later, it was growing dark. He took a few steps on numb legs and then turned to face the camp. Something was happening to him because he was standing here in the desert, swaying on his feet, staring at these monks’ tents thinking that he should become a monk. But that was crazy, because Jason and Leiah were being held back at the monastery!

  “Caleb.”

  He turned and faced a man standing in the breeze, his white robe whirling around his ankles, like Moses. It was Elijah.

  “He will see you now, Caleb.”

  Elijah took Caleb to the last tent, winked, and pulled aside the flap. Caleb ducked in and the canvas closed behind him.

  Two amber lamps flickered on a small desk in the middle of the room. Behind the desk, a single cot lay in the shadows and beside the cot, one bookcase filled with books. There was no other furniture—only the same rainbow-colored rugs and pillows Caleb had seen in the other tents.

  He stood still, not sure what to expect. Hadane was not in the room as far as he could . . .

  “Hello, Caleb,” a deep, soft voice said.

  He spun to his right. A man sat cross-legged by the wall, hidden in the shadows of several large pillows.

  “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you.” The man stood and walked out to Caleb. He was a frail man, shorter than Caleb by a foot, and bald on top.

  He came right up to Caleb, looked up with light blue eyes, and smiled. Caleb saw the fading pigment immediately—on the Father’s nose and his cheeks. It wasn’t advanced yet, and it might not be easily recognized if you didn’t know, but Caleb knew.

  Hadane was a leper.

  The man reached up and touched Caleb’s cheek lightly. “So, you’ve come after all.”

  After all?

  “And do you still believe?”

  “Believe? Yes . . . I think so.”

  Hada
ne turned away and walked toward a large red-and-yellow rug at the tent’s center. “Well, if you don’t mind sitting with a leper, then sit, my son.” He clutched his white robe, pivoted, and sat cross-legged to his haunches with practiced ease.

  Caleb sat in front of him, matching his posture.

  An awkward silence settled over them. Aware of Hadane’s gaze on him, Caleb looked around the tent, feigning interest in the pillows and desk. At any moment the old man would speak and set the meeting at ease.

  But Hadane didn’t speak. He only smiled and watched. What could the man possibly be thinking?

  “Is there something I can help you with, my son?” Hadane asked.

  The gentle voice drew Caleb, and he looked into the man’s soft baby-blue eyes. They seemed to swim in pools of mystery.

  Caleb dropped his eyes, suddenly afraid he might not be able to control the emotion that suddenly rose through his chest.

  Outside he could hear Ruth shriek as she chased after Daniel, but the noise didn’t take his mind away from the tent. Out there, a woman was laughing and the fire was crackling, but in here Hadane was just smiling, perfectly silent, and it made Caleb’s heart pound.

  “I knew your father,” Hadane said. “I have spent my life trying to love God as he loved God.”

  Caleb swallowed at an ache gathering in his throat. It made no sense, really. Nothing had happened to make him so emotional.

  “Matthew used to visit us often. He was very proud of you. He told me once that you had a belief so pure that it put him to shame. That you took Christ at his words, without question.” He paused. “I think that you have lost your first love. You have misplaced your belief.”

  It was the last straw, although only one of the very first straws. Caleb lowered his head and fought to keep from crying. His head swam and he began to panic. What was happening to him? He was beside himself for no reason. The questions that had spun through his mind all day felt silly sitting next to this man whom they called Hadane.

  Then Caleb couldn’t contain himself. He sat there on the rug and began to weep long tears of sorrow that took his mind from the tent. He was in the monastery with Dada; he was in the old American theater singing with the wind full in his face; he was at the foot of his bed, begging God not to turn his face.

  “Do you know what children like to do, Caleb?” Father Hadane asked. “They like to dance.”

  Yes, they like to dance.

  “Do you know what King David did around the Ark of the Covenant, Caleb? He danced.”

  Caleb glanced up at the Father.

  “Do you know why David danced around the Ark? Because he was in the presence of God. And in the presence of God you sometimes become like a child. We are keepers of the secret of the Ark, Caleb, and we like to dance.”

  The old man suddenly grinned mischievously. He scrambled to his feet and began to dance a strange jig of some kind, across the rug and then back. A large smile lit his face.

  Caleb stared in shock.

  Hadane looked at him and winked. He seemed to double his efforts in a loud clear song. He waved to Caleb to stand.

  “Dance with me! Dance with me!”

  Unsure of what else to do, Caleb stood on shaky legs.

  “Dance, Caleb! Dance like David.”

  The sight struck him as so odd that he let out a short laugh, which only seemed to encourage the old man more. He stopped suddenly and faced Caleb. The tent fell silent. A child yelped outside.

  Father Hadane let his arms fall to his side. He began to bob up and down, vertically. Then his bob became a bounce, straight up and down. Caleb felt his heart tighten.

  “Do you remember this, Caleb?”

  “Yes.”

  “Father Matthew used to dance like this. Do you remember?”

  “Yes.” Tears were flooding Caleb’s eyes now, and Hadane was bouncing higher.

  “You used to dance like this when you were a child. Do you remember, Caleb?”

  “Yes. Yes.” When he was a child, he had danced like this. Like a child in the kingdom. Like the old man was dancing now. Across the stage for the whole world to see through their cameras.

  “You must learn to dance again, Caleb. Dance with me!”

  Caleb’s knees refused to move. He bobbed a little with fists clenched, furious and humiliated and wanting to jump as he had never jumped. But he could not dance. It seemed ludicrous to him. He was not that little boy any longer. He was a grown man, and for whatever reason, the idea of jumping like a fool horrified him. He was crying in earnest now.

  Hadane threw his chin up and yelled at the ceiling, uncaring of Caleb’s humiliation. “Come on, Caleb! Dance, dance, dance! Become a child with me. We are in the presence of God! We are in the presence of the Ark. Become like David!”

  Caleb gritted his teeth and hopped once. Then twice. Then he groaned loudly and began to bounce.

  The weight fell from his chest like a sack of grain cut loose.

  He began to leap as high as he could, sobbing still, but now with desperation.

  “Dance, dance, dance!” cried the old man on each hop.

  Caleb wasn’t sure exactly when it happened, but somewhere in there he connected with his childhood for the first time in a decade. He was hopping up and down as he had in the fields with Jason and Leiah once, but he could just as easily have been flying like Peter Pan.

  And then they weren’t just hopping. They were skipping and dancing. Caleb was the first to roll, and then Father Hadane rolled on his heels, a somersault that would make any young boy envious. He came out of the roll laughing and leaping. They were making a ruckus, but those outside either couldn’t hear or didn’t care.

  It took Hadane and Caleb fifteen minutes to settle down. They sat, panting between laughs. No words, just laughs and heavy breathing. Nothing else had been said.

  Father Hadane finally took a deep breath. “Now, that’s better, don’t you think? You came for help. What is it?”

  “My father, Father Matthew, told me once that if I ever didn’t know what to do, I should find you.”

  Hadane nodded. “They are after the Ark of the Covenant, the resting place of God. But the resting place is not there.”

  “And if it was, surely Father Matthew would’ve told me.”

  “I didn’t say the Tabotat wasn’t there; I said the resting place of God isn’t there.” He smiled and tapped his chest. “It is here. As for the Tabotat, only you will know.”

  “So . . . when you said that we were in the presence of the Ark, you meant here?” Caleb tapped his heart.

  “Yes.”

  “Then why did my father insist I come here?”

  “Because the resting place is in danger.”

  “I thought you said . . .” Suddenly Caleb understood.

  Hadane nodded. “Yes. The child who once focused the eyes of the world on Christ has lost his own sight. Misplaced his love. His faith. That is why you are here.”

  “But I do still believe!”

  Hadane hesitated and looked deep into him. “Do you? You believe what?”

  “I believe in the power of Christ. I may not be living up to those beliefs, but I do believe.”

  Hadane smiled sympathetically. “I am going to tell you a few things, Caleb. If you are willing, they will change your life, but you must open your heart.”

  “My heart is open.”

  “We will see. But your beliefs are wrong and so your love is gone.”

  “No. I don’t think my beliefs are wrong. But tell me—”

  “I have just told you. Your beliefs are wrong. You say that you may not be living up to your beliefs, but by definition, this is impossible. We always live up or down to our beliefs. Beliefs are the rails which govern our lives. Our trains roll on them whether we like it or not. If your train is not rolling on the set of rails which you claim are yours, it’s because you have diverted your train to another set of rails—these are your true beliefs now, not the rails you left. Unless you first understand t
his, you can never find what you seek.”

  The words floated through the air, like notes of a magical melody. Even before Caleb had the time to piece Hadane’s reasoning together, he knew it was true.

  “If I say I believe, but do not follow, then I do not believe at all,” Caleb said, more to himself than to Hadane. The brother of Jesus had said that. James.

  Hadane nodded once. “It is the greatest misconception in Christianity today. That what you once believed, you will always believe. That to profess is the same as to believe. That a profession made twenty years ago somehow trumps what you really believe today.”

  Hadane stared directly into Caleb’s eyes. “In reality, most people who call themselves Christians do not believe in Christ at all. Their train is not on his rails. They do not live what they say they believe, because in reality they don’t believe it. Not really.”

  Father Matthew had said the same a hundred times, and it came back to Caleb like a long lost tune. Caleb spoke, mimicking his own father. “To believe in Christ is to follow him. To be his apprentice with full intention of living as he lived.”

  “In his footsteps,” Hadane continued. “Casting all aside for the sake of the treasure.” They were quoting the same teaching of Father Matthew’s, and it was like oxygen to Caleb’s soul.

  “Tell me more,” he said.

  “There is nothing more until you face the truth about yourself. You cannot surrender what you do not possess. You cannot truly surrender yourself unless you possess yourself. The first thing you must possess is the truth about yourself—that you have allowed your beliefs to drift. This truth must reach beyond your ears and your memory and sink into your spirit or nothing else will matter.”

  At one time, Caleb might have said these very words himself. Now the notion that he might not really believe as he once did struck him as a vile thing.

  He blinked and shifted his eyes from Hadane. Is this possible, Father? I would never forsake you! A lump rose to his throat again.

  “Blessed are the meek,” Father Hadane said. “Blessed are those who are persecuted; blessed are they that mourn; blessed are the poor in spirit. Very few really believe these, Caleb. Very few even really intend to follow this path. It is the narrow path.”