And Their Numbers Grew
Sample Chapter
“He is despised and
rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief” Isaiah 33:3
The stench of old sweat, horse manure,
and rage presses against me like the thousand bodies jostling for position
before the dais, where Pontius Pilate overlooks the crowd.
Two criminals stand at either side—one,
stripped and bloodied from the lash, remains silent, while the other strains
against his chains, cursing his guards.
I stare at the first man seconds before
his penetrating eyes find mine, and a fire erupts inside my gut, dancing across
my skin. His presence is so palpable it paralyzes me. It’s as if every fiber of
my being strains toward him, begging to connect, but I can’t fathom why. I
shake my head, breaking our connection when Pilate raises his hand, and a hush
falls over the crowd.
“Whom do you want me to release for you, Barabbas,
charged with sedition and murder, or Jesus, who is called Chrĭstós?”
Chrĭstós? Why is Pilate calling this Jesus anointed one? I pry my gaze to the
group of Pharisees huddled before the governor. Arrogant, insolent fools, the
lot of them. “Give us Barabbas.”
What? They ask for a murderer over a
man they named Chrĭstós? What has he done to deserve such
revulsion?
A servant scurries across the podium
and hands Pilate a scrap of parchment. Is that fear or anger I see clouding his
countenance? He cuts his eyes to the right, looking past the red drape, but I
can’t see who stands beyond. Pilate frowns, offers a quick, barely perceptible
shake of his head, then turns his attention back to the crowd.
Where did the Pharisees go? I scan
the area and find their black cloaks weaving amongst the crowd like dark
spirits spreading doom. The men whisper and gesticulate, agitating the mob
until the whole courtyard roars like the sea in a storm.
Pilate lifts his hand again. “Which of the two do
you want me to release for you?”
“Barabbas! Barabbas!”
The look on Pilate’s face resembles a Roman
who has gorged himself on food and wine to the point of vomiting. A
green cast taints his cheeks.
As the crowd quiets, Pilate stands from his judgment
seat. “Then what should I do with Jesus called Chrĭstós?”
“Crucify him!”
“Crucify him!”
“Crucify him!”
Pilate steps to the edge of the dais, his arms outstretched, imploring the crowd. “Why? What wrong has he done?”
Exactly. What was this Jesus accused of doing? I glance at the nearby
faces of those calling for his death. Their eyes blaze like wild animals on the
hunt, their expressions blood-colored with
rage. Would they kill someone they call Chrĭstós?
Why?
Then, I remember the prophets of old, many of whom suffered hideous
deaths at the hands of those who were supposed to lead God’s people. I turn my
face back to Jesus. Is he a prophet? Is that his crime?
My first Pesach since moving to Jerusalem, and this is what I find. Not
that I’m surprised. The Temple’s
corruption is renowned—and
predictable since the idea of the Holy God
living confined in a physical building is heresy. But murdering innocents—and using the Roman occupiers to accomplish the crime? How
low our leaders—and our people—have fallen.
Screams of “Crucify him!” reverberate off the courtyard’s stone walls.
Pilate stands, his arms loose by his side, staring dumbfounded over the
heads of the milling crowd. Two men shove another to the ground. As another
kicks the victim’s
side, someone
grapples him by his arms. Three more
men join the brawl, and with that, the crowd erupts into fists, pounding
stomachs and pummeling faces. Roman soldiers stride
into the center to break up the combatants,
causing more agitation.
I
duck and weave through the crowd, dodging the commotion, hoping to get a closer
look at the man called Chrĭstós. What is it about him that drives this
kind of extreme reaction?
As I approach the podium, Pilate dips his hands in the water bowl on the
table beside his elevated seat. “I am innocent of this man’s blood. You take
care of it yourselves!”
He snatches a cloth from the table and dries his hands like someone
scrubbing off dung
before waving it at a guard. “Release Barabbas.”
One of the Pharisees standing near me calls out to Pilate. “Let his
blood be on us and our children!”
Fool. Doesn’t
the Pharisee know he is cursing his lineage?
With a gesture from Pilate, two soldiers grab Jesus by the elbows and
drag him from the dais. The crowd jeers as they disappear behind the
crimson curtain.
Barely audible through the crowd’s clamor, I hear what
sounds like a woman keening. I follow the sound to discover a figure leaning against the stones along the platform’s
edge. Her fingers spread across the stage like claws
scrambling for purchase, as if she could clutch the unfolding scene and force
it to a halt. Her head is down, her shoulders shaking beneath her black shawl.
Perhaps she knows who this man is and what he’s done to
deserve crucifixion.
“Kyría, if you please, do you
know this man, Jesus?”
Her head jerks around at my greeting, her reddened, weepy eyes wide.
“Apologies, I did not intend to frighten you. I thought you might know
the man since you are…”
“Yes. I know him.” Her wailing boils from deep in her chest, exploding into a new fit of flinging herself against the stones.
I fidget
as I wait through the worst of her self-abuse. As she
quiets, I circle around to face her and try to speak gently. “What did this
Jesus do wrong?”
Her voice is a wisp of wind. “Nothing.”
“Then, why is he being crucified?”
The woman looks at me, but this time, her stare is a strange mixture of
gentleness and agony. “He is Messiah.”
How did that explain this mock trial? If his claim was one of many false Messiahs across the region, their so-called ministries
were usually short-lived, and no one bothered with them. So, why would the
Pharisees single this man out among so many? “What makes you believe he is the Chrĭstós?” Skepticism sours my tongue like vinegar.
The woman doesn’t seem to notice my tone. She spreads her wracked,
bleeding hands open before me. “I was tortured and broken—tormented in my mind
and wounded in my soul.” She gazes toward the crimson curtain, her eyes glazed
in mist. “But he healed me and made me whole with a single word. Only Messiah
could do this.”
“Why kill him, then, if he is indeed the Chrĭstós?”
“Everything has happened just as he said it would. He said in Jerusalem,
he would be arrested and would suffer at the hands of the elders, chief priest,
and scribes. He said they would kill
him.”
The tiniest flicker of light glimmers in my mind, pushing back against
my normal incredulity. Didn’t the prophets of old suffer in much the same way?
Don’t the scrolls of the prophets predict the suffering of Messiah?
But it’s ridiculous—a nobody in rags? With no army? How could this man
bring down Rome?
Moving as slowly as a drip of honey from a hive, the woman pushes from
the dais and shuffles toward the passageway out of the courtyard, blending into
the milling crowd.
“Wait! Where are you going?”
Her voice sounds distant and as pale as her skin. “I must go to him.”
The spectators wander from the courtyard, no doubt anticipating a
gruesome display of nails and blood. I have no stomach for it. Yet, as the
woman disappears beyond the archway, I find my feet joining the stragglers
against my will, despite my disdain at the Romans’ and Israelites’ fascination
with punishment and death. I imagine their inner voices saying, at least it’s not me. My thoughts center
more on the truth—if not for God’s mercy,
that would be me.
I’m carried along on a wave heading to shore until I’m deposited along a
narrow road just beyond the walls of the praetorium. I hear the wet smack of a
whip biting into flesh, accompanied by cackles, jeers, and guttural moans. How
much more can this man take?
“Hail the King of the Jews!”
The murmuring crowd silences and parts like the sea before Moses as the
bloodied man, his head encircled by a crown woven from thorny jujube branches
with a purple robe slung haphazardly across his back, staggers onto the road.
“All hail the King of the Jews!”
The crowd erupts in mocking laughter. “The King of the Jews! The King of
the Jews!”
“Look at him. He’s no king of mine.”
“Crucify him!”
“Blasphemer!”
“He has a crown—he must be a king.”
“We have no king but Caesar!”
I scan the area for the weeping woman in black but find only vicious
faces.
Jesus grimaces as a Roman guard rips off the robe. Air whistles between
my teeth when the falling robe exposes his shredded back. How is he standing?
“Get on with it.” A young man throws a rock and hits Jesus in his ribs.
A nearby soldier shoves the man to the ground—apparently, the joys of torturing
another human are reserved for Romans.
Two soldiers strap a thick wooden beam across shoulders flayed like the
hide of a rogue horse, and Jesus stumbles beneath its weight. I’m not sure I
could carry that beam—let
alone after torture. What keeps this man from collapsing?
Jesus shuffles forward a few steps, then wavers. Smeared, bloody
footprints mark his passage. After a few more steps, he staggers
left, the beam tilting toward the ground. One of the guards cracks a whip and barks a command. Somehow, Jesus rights himself
before falling and continues to reel as the
crowd jeers him from every side.
There. There she is. At the crest of the hill, I
see her black cloak—her eyes trailing Jesus’ every step as if
by her will, she can make him slough off the
cross beam, heal, and free himself from the
Roman soldiers. How strange it must be—to have personal experience with
his healing power and watch while he refuses to heal himself.
How strange, indeed.
She reaches out in
anguish, crying,
“Jesus. Jesus.” Her dirt-stained face is awash with tears.
If she keeps this up, the
throng will beat her into the soil. I push across the
street behind the grim procession and make my way around the curve toward the
top of the hill.
A few other women clustered near the woman in black cry out his name and
reach for him.
After
Jesus reaches the top of the hill near the group of
women, he drops to his knees, looking toward the woman
in black, and speaks. I strain to hear his words over the crowd’s
shouts when the
woman falls to her knees beside him and reaches for his face. Before she can touch him, a guard kicks her in
the chest, and she sprawls backward, lost in the churning mob.
Another soldier grabs a tall, broad-chested foreigner’s
cloak, pulling him to Jesus’ side. Two more guards unstrap the beam from Jesus, who cries out as they
lift it from his shoulders.
“You.”
One of them points to the cloaked traveler. “Carry it.”
The same soldier pulls Jesus to his feet and shoves him forward.
Blood stains the crossbeam and the stones of the road as the traveler
falls into step behind Jesus.
The mourning women step into the road behind the
foreigner, creating a macabre procession between parallel lines of shouting
antagonists.
Is the woman in black among them?
As I shove my way through onlookers, someone points and
whispers, “His mother.”
I gaze
in that direction—she must be one of the mourners.
But surely, the woman in black is too young to
be his mother. Since she’s not lying in the dirt by the side of the road
and I still can’t find her, my best guess is to follow the march as it winds
along the narrow street.
The rising sun blinds us—mourners and hostiles, accused and accusers,
Romans and Jews. Nothing matters to the
sun as it blazes its equally merciless, brutal glare. I push to reach the mourners, but the mass of bodies wars against
my progress.
As
the path winds and twists through Jerusalem, the
crowd grows with each turn. Who is this
man to draw such attention from across the spectrum? To produce such ire,
having done nothing wrong—at least, according to Pilate and the woman weeping
by the dais? To cause such extreme reactions in both hatred and devotion?
I’ve made up my mind. I will search out this man’s followers.
Someone will be able to explain why this is happening to him—surely.
About
A History of the Two Worlds
Herein is made known the story of the Way Wards and the creation of the second world. My name is Weaver, and I am a Whisperer. I am of the species, Watcher, and my particular whisper is the story.
I remember when the second world was joined with ours, and the Way Wards walked beside Whisperers on the First World. They heard the Music then. The Music is the song of the Divinethos, the First before all, which connects all things and creates all things and establishes all things. Now, the Way Wards’ world is divided from the First World, and Whisperers must go to the second world to whisper the Music in their ears, or they would not even know the Divinethos exists.
The world of the Way Wards is cloaked in Tempor. Tempor is like a thick sludge that captures all creatures on their world, so none can traverse freely. They are trapped like bugs in amber, only being able to move moment by moment in a single direction. It is a truly torturous way to live.
Because of the veil of Tempor, the Way Wards cannot see our world or come into it. But because we flow in the Music still, Whisperers can travel between their world and ours, as if the veil is lifted from our side but is an impenetrable wall on theirs. It is our calling to enliven the Music in the Way Wards once again, so the Whisper can once more rule. So, we whisper the Music. Some listen. Some do not.
Don’t make the very common mistake of thinking one species of Whisperer is higher than another. We all exist together as one and as separate, and each species has a purpose, equal to the others. My fellow Watchers and I have the distinction of observing all. With the two worlds divided, it is our job to both sing with the Music on our world, and to take our songs to the second world.
The Watchers are not allowed to influence the Way Wards. The Metanoi is the species of Whisperers who can influence. However, even the Metanoi have limits, because the Divinethos has decreed no Whisperer may change the choices of the Way Wards or make their choices for them. It is sad, really. But so says the Divinethos. As it is so it is.
The ‘Ro species helps touch, stir, and move the hearts of the Way Wards, to help them glimpse the Music and hopefully remember the Divinethos. This species of Whisperer has the most beautiful songs. They really are very sweet to the ear. The Bellator species, on the other hand – well, suffice it to say, you do not want to end up on their bad side. They love the Way Wards with a fierce devotion. If not for the Bellator, the Way Wards would never again hear the Music and would sink into darkness for eternity. This story ending is too terrible for me to contemplate.
Whisperers are not perfect. In fact, Skia Skotos and the Dark Whisperers are to blame for the division of our two worlds – but I am getting ahead of myself in the story.
The Way Wards have been changed by their separation from the Music. The division meant their sarkikos would wither and perish, something no Whisperer can even comprehend. The Teleilogos has attempted to explain perishing to us, but an ending makes no sense except within the constraints of Tempor, which we do not know. The tragedy of an ending, the finality of it, seems unbearable. I don’t think I even want to try to understand it.
The Way Wards whose stories I tell are the ones who despise the chaos and division and feel the deep loss of the Music in their hearts, even if they don’t yet know what it is they are missing. For those Way Wards, I have the most hope.
In the beginning, the two planets were a single planet, where a variety of sentient species lived in harmony. The Whisperers are one of the species. We are made of light and energy and move freely through space and time. There are four species of Whisperers: the Watchers, the Bellator, the Metanoi, and the ‘Ro. The other species are all matter-based creatures.
The Jasperi are tree dwellers with green skin and fluffy tails. They are a skittish group – all, that is, except Amadah, one of the Wards important to the rejoining of the two worlds – and of course, the child known as Kindra. I will not speak of her story, for it is hers to tell.
Emraldi, grassland dwellers, are bright, winged creatures with pearlescent skin. Little Aleshanee has an important role to play in the rejoining. She still hears the Music.
The Topazi are desert dwellers, very dragon-like, if you have heard the stories of dragons from other worlds far away, but without a dragon’s wings. The Topazi, Fala, is crucial to the success of the quest. His strength and wisdom may save them all in the end.
The Jacinthi live on the high mountain. Their wings are white or shades of blue and purple, but they have arms along with their wings, feathers on their sarkikos and faces, and long, flowing hair. Their leader is Angeni, and I fear for her. She teeters on the brink because of her pride in her many giftings from the Divinethos, and since she has forgotten the Divinethos, nothing remains to stay her false sense of importance.
The Saphiri dwell in the ocean. Their tails are various shades of blue and silver. Misa and her father, Towila, will play key roles before the end of the journey.
The Onyxi, cave dwellers, are strange-looking, black, fur-covered lumps who are quite timid, but they have hearts of gold, especially Enla and her friend, Yiska. They are unusual for Onyxi in that they still have hope.
The Carneli, cliff dwellers are vicious carnivores, but the one who will come along on the quest has a vast capacity for love. His name is Kilchi.
The Chalcedi are also winged creatures who live in an aerie on the other mountains. They equal or exceed the Jacinthi in size but have none of their intelligence. They are, however, fierce warriors. Should they side with the Dark Lord…well, let’s hope that does not happen. One named Cholena may yet be saved.
The Turqosi live in the wetlands. They are a warrior race whose spit melts their enemies’ skin off their bones. Long and lean of sarkikos with a frill around their heads, they will be a force for good or ill before the end. Leenha, their leader, is quite impressive. She rules with an iron fist.
The Chrysoli, plains dwellers, are large, stately, golden creatures with huge manes, but I regret to inform you that they keep slaves, an abominable act for any species. Yet, the Divinethos holds out hope even for them.
And finally, the Amthysti – a selfish, grasping, arrogant species – they live in a golden tower in the center of the world. Ogima, as I understand it, has a significant part to play, even though he will not be on the quest with the others. I pray that does not mean his part is on the side of the Dark Ones.
So back to my history lesson. A revolt took place on the First World when a faction of the Whisperers, led by Phaini, joined with the twelve matter-based species to try to overthrow the Divinethos (also called the Forever, and the One Before All, who deserves all honor and glory and praise). Phaini, a Metanoi, was able to influence many Whisperers and the other species to join him and try to usurp the throne. In response, the Divinethos divided the one world into two. The First World remained as it was created, a place of great beauty, with crystalline waterfalls, emerald plains, and mountain spires reaching into a brilliant sky, unbound by Tempor.
The Divinethos made the Second World a reflection of the First World, except it was bound by Tempor, having a beginning and an end, so all the colors and richness of the First World is muted. The revolutionaries were exiled to the Second World. As a result, those Whisperers lost their light and were left only as energy. They are now called Dark Ones. Phaini changed his name to a god-name – Skia Skotos – and gave all the Dark Ones god-names as well, such was his hideous pride. Now bound in Tempor, the twelve species’ lives also have an ending. Each life lasts only a span of cycles, which is an unbearable loss for us all, but necessary to prevent the darkness from infesting the First World like the disease it is.
Over the course of thousands and thousands of years, the twelve species’ descendants forgot about the First World and the Forever. The Dark Ones’ influence grew, and violence, division, and struggles for power became their norm.
Then, a thousand years ago, a huge war broke out between the twelve species which almost destroyed the planet. Entire land masses on the world were rendered uninhabitable. With only one land mass left, the twelve species signed a treaty giving each a region of land and prohibiting any and all contact between the different species. Violation of these provisions was punishable by death. So, the different species have had no contact for over a thousand years.
Now, the end of the Second World is approaching. If the two worlds are to be rejoined before it is too late, the First World’s Whisperers must bring all the species together, and we must try and help those on the Second World who will listen – if any still have ears to hear.
Communique
From Messenger
Communique from Messenger, the Watcher, to the rest of the Whisperers:
My fellow Whisperers, the task you have undertaken is of the greatest importance to the Divinethos. If the Second World is not reunited with ours before their sky light’s final fall, all the created will be forever lost. The Way Wards would never again hear the Music and would sink into the dark morass once and for all. This terrible fate is not the will of the Divinethos. And so, you must succeed.
Brothers and Sisters, as you journey to the other world, you must remember, because their world is bound in Tempor, the Way Wards cannot traverse freely. They are trapped like bugs in amber, unable to hear the Music on their own. When you step into Tempor, you, too, may lose your ability to know what was, what may be, and what will be, and may only see what is. By necessity, you will leave your sarkikos behind on our world, lest Tempor cause you to wither and cease. But this will make your task even more difficult, as the Way Wards will not perceive your presence with their natural senses. Your great sacrifice in these matters is known and appreciated.
My fellow Watchers will remain behind and will use the Music to communicate with you, to keep you apprised of developments as your wards make their choices. You may Whisper what you hear in the Music to your wards; however, the Divinethos has decreed the Way Wards will always have a choice, so you may influence only. Metanoi Whisperers, you will be of great importance in this aspect of the task.
Be on your guard, for the Dark Ones will have no compunction about violating this decree and will not hesitate to use any means at their disposal to interfere and overcome your influence with your wards. Rely on your Bellator brothers and sisters to defend you. ‘Ro, you will not be able to hear the words of the Dark Ones. The Divinethos has determined your hearts need to be protected from their evil, for your hearts must be pure to touch the hearts of the wards. You, also, must rely on the Bellator.
I know it is difficult to comprehend, but most of the Way Wards have forgotten the Divinethos exists. Yes, I know…but remember, they cannot hear the Music. Well, most cannot. You will need to rely on the few who still perceive the Music and who still believe to convince the rest, for belief is required to rejoin the worlds. The Teleilogos has gone before you and will help in this matter.
Breathe in the free air one last breath, then fly, dear friends. Fly. May the Whisper carry you and may the Great Love guide your every step.
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