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The Master's Quilt

By Michael J. Webb

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PROLOGUE




The night sky was unusually dark, even though a full moon was rising, as if the stars of Heaven had forgotten their stage positions for the drama about to unfold. But that was not the case, because it was the kind of darkness born in the hearts of men, not in the heavens above the earth. And that was why there was a night yet to come that would be darker than had ever been.
It was a cool, unpredictable April night. A spring night pregnant with uncertainty for three of four men traversing the mount on the outskirts of the Holy City. The three followed one they called Rabbi on the well worn path pressed out of the fabric of creation, one of many crisscrossing the dusty landscape that was now only a parody of former splendor.

By day, the starkness of the locale impresses itself into the spirit of a man. At night, there is only the moon or the occasional flare of campfires to break the monotony of the darkness.

Three of the four shared a common, unspoken sense of foreboding. Gone were the feelings of good cheer and camaraderie experienced earlier at dusk. The mealtime celebration had ended on an ominous note. Their Master had announced during the feast that betrayal and denial were imminent. Cries of outrage and concern had followed. The Master had calmed the twelve with soft words of understanding and wisdom, as He'd done on several occasions during the previous three years, and a final hymn was sung.

The meal was finished and now three accompanied Him to the garden.

* * *

Deep within the slumbering city that lay spread out below the mount, an old man, his once abundant and jet black hair and beard now thinning and grey, began the task of preparing for the ensuing eight days of celebration and worship. It was just after midnight when he left his humble home and walked quietly through the darkened, deserted streets. His whole body tingled with expectancy as he inhaled the familiar musk odor of the city. He did not have to walk far, and upon reaching his destination he reached forth with a stubby, callused hand and unlatched the gate.

* * *


The men reached the garden.

The moon, only hours shy of being full, rose big and round above the crest of the mount. The bright yellow light, reflecting off the deep amber colored wood of the finely grained, squat olive trees, outlined in caricature the somber faces of the four companions. They stood silent, unmoving. And yet their shadows rippled in the moonlight. The wraithlike silhouettes bounced off the two gigantic cedars standing atop the mount and etched themselves upon the canvas of darkness.

A fine mist, with an almost imperceptible taste of salt and smelling of fish, hovered above
the arid soil.

Time slowed . . .

* * *

The old man, his senses attuned to the various rhythms in the sea of night surrounding him, moved among the animals with the practiced ease of one long accustomed to ritual. The collection of male lambs crowded in the pen none younger than eight days nor older than one year represented the finest sheep of twenty different flocks. The initial selection had been accomplished in broad daylight, and each had been chosen carefully to insure that none had blemishes or imperfections.

The old man, however, did not rely upon sight to tell him of imperfection. Instead, he depended upon his acute sense of smell for the final test. For he was blind.

He smiled and sniffed the air. The odor was faint, but it was there. He'd been asked many times during his seventy years to describe the scent, and his reply had always been the same: "I'm not sure, exactly. But I am sure of three things. I always smell the peculiar scent after only a short time among the lambs, I never smell it on more than one animal, and I know that the gift is from God."

Without further delay, he reached down swiftly and grabbed hold of a pure white lamb baying softly to his right. This is the one, he thought as he carried the animal inside the building adjacent to the pen, handing it over gently into the outstretched arms of the waiting priest.

* * *


None of the four had said a word during the brief trek. Finally, the man who'd been in the lead spoke. His voice was soft, troubled. "My friends, my soul cries out in grief and my heart is heavy with thoughts of death." He stared off into the darkness, scanning the surroundings with sagacious eyes. "I've come to this place on many occasions, when my heart was burdened and my feet weary, seeking rest . . . here in the land of My Father."
His face became somber, his voice subdued, matching the lighting on the hilltop. "Tonight is different. Will you wait with me and keep vigil while I pray?"

The three nodded their assent, not trusting speech, and watched the Rabbi walk towards the center of the garden.

"The night is short," He called over His shoulder, sighing it, rather than saying it, "and darkness is heavy upon the Earth."

* * *

The three waited, reclining against the old, stone wine press used to press olives into the life blood of the regions commerce from which the garden took its name. A gentle gust of wind nudged the mist that enveloped them like a cocoon, rearranging the night. The quiet moments froze together--into sleep--and the three companions breathed in antagonistic rhythm, as if silently rebelling against the authority of ambivalence.

Two times their Master returned from solitary separation. Two times the three were awakened and admonished to remain faithful in their vigil lest they be caught unawares. Two times they lapsed into fitful slumber, oblivious to the silent battle their Master waged.

Upon his return the third time the three were awakened abruptly by crisp, commanding words. "Rise, we must be on our way. Behold, the one who shall betray Me is near."

Before they'd gone far there was a flurry of activity. A group of angry men appeared out of the darkness and surrounded them. Judas stepped forward and said, "Hail master," as he grabbed Jesus about the shoulders and kissed him upon the cheek.

* * *

The night gave way to morning, and the morning to afternoon. The old man had returned home, slept, and was now back at the Temple.

It was time.

Although it was early afternoon, the room was dark, except for the light provided by several tall candles. The color of the wax was almost as pure white as the coat of wool covering the lamb held in the arms of the priest.
The Levite, one of several present, carried the lamb to the altar, carefully stretched it out upon the deeply stained, grooved wood, and secured its four legs firmly with leather straps. Only then did he withdraw the razor sharp sacrificial knife from his robe.

First the Levite, then the other priests closed their eyes and began to sing in unison, filling The Temple with the sonorous sound of the Great Hallel. The old man added his own deep-throated voice to that of the others, singing with vigor. Outside, in the immediate vicinity of the Temple, the sounds of the city were swallowed up by the ritual chanting.
Gradually, the singing stopped. The Levite opened his eyes and grasped the head of the lamb. He stretched the animal's neck backward, exposing the soft, vulnerable flesh to the light and the knife. His right hand was poised above his head.

Swiftly, with a precisely articulated motion, he brought his arm down, turning the blade ever so slightly as the knife dropped downward through its arc. In one deft stroke, he drew the shinning blade across the animal's neck, severing the jugular vein.

Several of the priests blew a threefold blast from their silver trumpets as bright red blood spurted from the wound. Special silver and gold ceremonial bowls caught the warm, sticky fluid, which was then splashed in one single jet at the base of the altar.

A small amount of blood escaped the confines of the altar and fell to the foot packed ground. The desiccated, yellow brown earth and the burgundy-red, liquid life blended together into a copper colored mud.

The Levite grasped the dead animal by its hind legs, took a length of rope and secured the sacrifice from two hooks mounted in staves nailed together in the shape of a T. It was flayed and the entrails were taken out and cleansed. Afterwards, the inside fat was separated, put in a dish and salted, then placed in the fire of the altar of burnt offering.

The ritual was repeated continually for several hours. There were many waiting, just like the old man, for their paschal sacrifice.

* * *

Once again, twilight settled upon the city. The old man stood in the doorway of his small hovel and stared at the sky with sightless eyes. A penetrating shiver danced a promenade up and down his spine. For some strange reason he could almost feel the darkness seeping into his bones through the pores of his skin, and somehow he knew that even though there were no clouds in the ebony sky, there were also no stars.

Hastily, he dipped the hyssop he held in his trembling right hand into the wooden bowl he cupped in his left and sprinkled the blood of the lamb upon his doorway, wondering why he felt so strange on this very special night.

* * *


The priest lit the incense. The room was smoky, the air thick with ketoret, the special blend of spices he'd prepared earlier. He took several deep breaths as he went about his tasks and smiled contentedly. His nose twitched as he savored the unique, aromatic smell: frankincense, galbanum, stactate, onchya, and myrrh.

Finally, as the thick night began to seep into the cracks and crevices of the Temple, he trimmed the lamps in preparation for the evening prayer

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