Embedded. Marc Knutson

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СКАЧАТЬ on Steve, I know the right place for you to clean up,” he said with assurance.

      “Ashar,” I shouted as I tried to regain control of our gait. The more I resisted his pull, the more he grabbed hold of my sleeve and tugged harder. “Ashar, I need to find someone first. I should have told you why I was even here in the Shepherds Bazaar in the first place. Slow down. No, stop! Let me explain.”

      With that, he stopped so fast that I nearly ran over the little guy. Turning to me he said, “Who is it that you are looking for?” The look on his face almost scared me. His chipper attitude, that happy-go-lucky smile, turned into a grim, extremely concerned dour expression. Clearing my throat, as if I felt I was in trouble, I said, “I’m looking for a fellow named Amal. He is the brother-in-law of Kahan, the maitre’d at the King Herod Hotel in Jerusalem. Apparently, Amal has some information that I need to inquire about. Do you know of Amal?”

      His face lightened up a bit. “Sure, I know Amal, everyone here knows of Amal.”

      I found myself whispering under my breath, “Geesh, is everybody in this country connected to each other somehow?”

      “What did you say?” asked Ashar. “I didn’t hear what you said.”

      “Nothing Ashar, I was told that he had a booth here at the bazaar. Is that correct?” I know I sounded exasperated, but I was hot, tired and on a mission.

      “We are not very far from him. Turn around Steve!” he exclaimed in a loud voice.

      Quickly I turned, and standing only inches from me was a tall, bearded fellow, stopped in his tracks, staring directly into my face. His hands were folded into fists as they rested on his hips. The scowl on his face proved that he wasn’t necessarily having a nice day, and now it was being interrupted again, apparently by me. I looked him in the face and said, “I’m going to go out on a limb with this one, I presume you must be Amal?” His expression changed from the scowl to a nondescript wry smile, and his hands left his side, unfolded from fists, and with both index fingers pointing at me he said, “Yeah, I am, and I hear you’re looking for me.”

      With a rather bedazzled tone of voice I asked, “Now, how in the world would you know that I was looking for you?”

      His response took me by surprise, “Your friend Eshek told me.”

      Instantly I blurted out, “Eshek is not my friend. I merely met him on the road. He tried to strike up a conversation with me, but I didn’t bite on it. His is no more my friend as you are sir.”

      “Did not Kahan send you to see me?” he asked. Once again I was taken back. “How did you know before I got to you that Kahan referred me to you?” Now this was getting too weird, even for me.

      “You have questions about things of the Torah, I have answers for you. If you would like them, then you must follow me, this is not a good place to talk.” With that he waited for half a second for my facial response. Denying him what he was looking for, I turned and looked at Ashar, who responded to my glance with a quiet, reassuring, nod of his head. He was silently telling me that it would be all right to follow Amal. Additionally, I also took it as saying that I was going to get the information I was looking for. As I was preparing to answer Amal that we’d follow, he said, “We cannot talk publicly about your subject. The Romans don’t like it and neither do the Pharisees, or Herod for that matter.” With that he pivoted his burly frame away from me, and with a barely audible voice said, “Well then, follow me. Let’s get out of the bazaar.”

      His giant strides made it difficult for me, but I followed as closely as I could. It was wonderful making such headway at this time of day in the bazaar. He acted as a snowplow for me, moving people aside by his huge frame, and all I had to do was walk in his wake. We strode to the end of the courtyard that served as containment for the bazaar and made our way through a colonnade of pillars to a doorway that lead to a stairwell.

      Amal was graceful in his movements. He was tall and strong, but he moved swiftly. Without breaking stride he glanced over his shoulder at me to make sure I was still with him, and at the same time, was able to look over and past my shoulder to see if any uninvited guests were accompanying us. Once assured, he began to descend down the darkened stone steps. This was certainly a building that the Romans had built. It had all the architectural fingerprints of Roman design, and it descended deep below the courtyard. Illuminated only by oil lamps that hung at strategic intervals, it was difficult to see where we were going. Amal reached up and removed one of the lamps from the stairwell wall, which cast an immediate shadow of his form directly behind him. The stairway was dark, cool, damp and quite spooky. I wanted to memorize all our turns and how many landings we encountered in case I needed to recall them should it become necessary to make a hasty retreat. There have been times, I thought to myself, where every once in a while in my journalistic endeavors I would personally challenge my own decisions. Especially those that made me push outside a comfort or safety level, all for the cause of getting a story. The deeper we descended these stairs, the more that challenging feeling began to creep in. This was surely one of those times.

      Nearing a door at the end of a long, musty corridor, Amal reached for the handle and slowly opened it into a small, candle-lit room. There was a round, makeshift table in the center of the room where a lone oil fed wick flickered as it rested atop an earthen jar. Along the walls stood wooden racks that I wasn’t sure what they were used for. Strewn around the floor, in no specified arrangement, was an assortment of mismatched and oddly patterned stuffed cushions. Amal motioned for me to be seated. I looked down and peered into the dimly lit room to find a cushion to sit on. The lowlight environment made it difficult to make out seams and cushion edges. I picked one that I thought would be comfortable enough in the situation and began to sit down, when suddenly my eye discovered that there was movement on the cushion that I had singled out. Acting just as startled as I was, a frightened rat scurried away from the landing zone that I had selected. The goose bumps appeared on my arms as quickly as the rat fled. I didn’t like this, and I wasn’t sure if it was going to be worth it.

      Closing the door behind us and assuring that it was secure, Amal broke the silence and whispered, “I am sorry for the intrigue Mr. Stanton, but it is critical that we speak of these matters of the messiah in secrecy. The Pharisees are very jealous. They will have the Roman guards alerted, we’ll be seen as seditionists to the Roman government, and eventually tried in court without representation, and most assuredly,” he said with a heavy emphasis on the word, “we’d be sentenced for death and torture on one those hideous crosses. You probably saw them lining the main road between here and Jerusalem?”

      “I’ve seen them,” I responded in a disgusting tone. He was right in using the term “hideous” to describe the Roman crosses. I had read a report in a widely circulated medical magazine about the cruelty of the Romans and what agony awaits people sentenced to death on a crucifix. I distinctly remember putting the article down because of the gory details. “Amal. I wish to neither draw attention to our meeting, nor risk first- hand knowledge of a cross. However, I need to ask certain questions that will give me background on this movement that is emanating out of the Nazareth area. Tell me about the stories of the miracles. Tell me what you know about a religious man that people are identifying as their messiah. Why do they call him messiah? What do they mean, and why is it so special to them?” As my questions flowed from me, they also picked up in rapidity. Amal held out his hand, palm down, to indicate to me that I was either too loud, or there were too many questions, or both.

      “Slow down Mr. Stanton,” he said in a barely audible whisper. Silence draped the darkened room as noises of sandals walking past the door could be heard. We could tell that they were headed away from the door, but suddenly stopped and headed back toward our room. The rattling sounds of keys on a key ring forced all eyes in the room to focus on one spot СКАЧАТЬ