The Calling | The Callling

Prologue

A single bead of sweat ran down his cheek as the man caulked his head, inching his left ear closer, straining his neck, aiming at the upstairs room. He stood on two bales of hay, on the precipice of falling, keeping his balance while doing all he could to keep quiet and hear what was being said. Each syllable uttered through the walls came with heated connotation and deliberate clips. A low light emanated from the room, lit by maybe two or three candles, flickering and wavy. Squeaky floorboards wined each time one of the men moved in the room, concealing precise spoken words, covering parts of missing comments.

“Alon, can you perceive what they are saying?” nervously whispered the other man who half hastily attempted to hold Alon from falling off the hay.

“Shhhh” Alon replied, through gritted teeth and focused eyes.

The alley where the two men occupied was dark and quiet, two small mongrels curled up near the building, quiet and warm leaving the men to their vices. Loose hay scattered on the ground over rough streets. Most dwellings near them had their lamps extinguished, with their occupants already asleep. Besides the upper room, which had the men’s focus, the only noise filling the air were random animals and a distant man snoring through an open window.

With the utmost regard for stealth Alon looked down at the man holding his legs, “Stay quiet Ezra, I can hear most of what they are saying.”

Alon reached on his toes and strained his head to pick up on the conversations coming from the upper room. Clenching his eyes closed, in order to focus better, he listened as he leaned back into Ezra’s perch. Voices could be heard, conversations understood, and names he could not match, except for one.

“This cannot be, how could it be true, we saw with our own eyes, he was killed.” Murmurs of agreement followed the statement.

“Mary knows him, she would not lie, we gathered because we all know this to be true on some level, right!'' These words floated out of the room, transfixing Alon in his place.

“What are we waiting for, I cannot say that I believe he is alive, I need to see with my own eyes.” This last statement seemed to be met by mostly silence, although a low muttered sound persisted. After a few heartbeats and nothing could be heard, it seemed they all were taking their time, thinking about what the last man said.

A strong voice as if leading the others spoke with calm ease, “John did you lock the door, we cannot be too safe, was anyone followed?”

Low murmurs filtered out of the upper room, a consensus of the negative seemed to draw out. Alon knew some of the voices, there was no doubt he was in the right place. Both he and Ezra would make a nice income for the information they were gathering and filling in the gaps would be crucial.

“These elite families only pay when they believe what they are told” Ezra thought

Both Alon and Ezra followed the one called Peter, wherever he went, and paid particular close attention on this day, the third of His death. Alon did not understand why, and he knew his place was never to question what his orders were, he would do what was asked and report back. Do not be seen, do not lose your man, and learn all there is to be learned. “Peter is foolish not to see us follow him. He seems to walk around with eyes……”

Before Alon could finish the thought his hands began to reach out for an invisible rope, as he fell without warning onto the cold cobble street. Ezra had released his hold, and Alon immediately thought it was another one of his foolish jokes. Not wanting to make any more sounds than necessary, Alon sharply looked up to find Ezra staring dumbfounded at the upper room, his hands in the same place they were before, but no longer holding him.

Furious as to what his attention seemed to be focused on, Alon followed his gaze to the closed upper room windows, covered in heavy wood, shining like the sun. It wasn’t the candles that emanated the light, it seemed to be coming from the room, brighter than the sun, brilliant with a hews of blue streaks, like a flame at its hottest. Alon quickly covered his eyes as an instinct, thinking the light would damage his retinas, although in the same instance realized he could continue his gaze without harm, unwilling to look away. The light shown from all cracks and crevasses from the room, as if on fire from the inside. Alon knew the room wasn’t on fire and he heard no sounds coming from the room. Quickly he got back up and shook Erza.

“What it is you think, what makes that light?”

Ezra rocked his head back and forth as if coming out of trance, closing his eyes for just a moment as he adjusted to Alon’s questions.

“I…I don’t know” murmured Ezra.

“Help me back up, I wish to hear what they are saying” With that Ezra helped Alon back up on top of the hay, and once again Alon leaned in to hear as best he could.

The voices were faint, fear emitted from the room, low wines and gentle moans.

“What are they saying?” Asked Ezra, still holding Alon by the back of the legs.

With a wave of the hand, Alon gestured to Ezra not to speak, focusing his attention to the room. Alon closed his eyes and with all his effort absorbed all sound from the room, trying to hear every syllable spoken, every movement made.

“Peace be with you” came a voice much different from the others. Strong, confident, and clear - spoken so the entire room could hear and not concerned if anyone outside the room was listening. There seemed something much different from this man, it was a voice he had not heard yet, a new voice. He greeted the others as if this person had just entered the room, this could not be. Alon knew this couldn’t be true, they could see the stairs to the room from where they stood.

For a long moment the upper room seemed to be held in suspense, the alley where Alon and Ezra were waiting for answers, and it felt as if the entire village fell silent. The air felt thick as he and what seemed like the world anticipated words to follow this unbearable silence.

“Why are you troubled? Why do you have doubts in your minds? Look at my hands and my feet. It’s really me! Touch me and see. A ghost does not have a body or bones. But you can see that I do.”

Alon began to sweat, he could feel his heart beating, as if running a race, this could not be true. He knew who these men were, he knew their teacher was killed, he saw the body with his own eyes, he even knew where the body was buried, having followed these same men past the tomb a few times over the last couple days. But how can it be true that their teacher was alive? What could they be seeing; how can this be true? Fear began to envelope Alon, the prophecies were true, Jesus has risen!

Looking down at Ezra, Alon knew that his old friend had heard the same thing from the upper room that he had, and he could tell that Ezra had drawn the same conclusions. Fear and worry covered his friends face and Alon saw something else, something he had not anticipated, dread. Before Alon knew what Ezra seemed to be doing, his old friend looked to the street, and all at once his legs and arms began to take him out of the alley without haste. At first Alon worried about the sound of his friends running away, but just as quickly realized that he was alone and that he might not ever see Ezra again.

With trepidation and mounting unease Alon looked back up at the upper room, he knew that what he came for had been accomplished, however, what to do next he did not know. Light continued to radiate out of the upper room, as it had before, and as his attention came back to the room, he could hear that they were talking still.

“Go forth and speak the good news….” Came out of the room as if directed at him, and Alon took this as his reason to leave while he still could. Quickly he leapt down from the haystack and ran, at first in no direction at all, but then to those who sent him, with the news that He has risen and that everything would be different!

Chapter 1

A man stood in front of a building, staring at an array of colored bricks covering its two-story exterior. The building looked abandoned, but he knew better. He expected a multitude of security; cameras and motion sensors, alarms and weapons… At least a guard at its entry, but he was shocked to see none of the above; no security at all. It felt like a trap, as if someone expected he would show up. Small clues laid out, leading to this location, only to draw him in, guard down ending his quest once and for all. He knew most people would walk away, or at least case the joint for a few hours, but that wasn’t his style and he knew what needed to be done.

A single, heavy wooden door stood century, as the lone mode of ingress and egress, akin to a sign that read, “Stay away!” Briskly, the man strode up and attempted to nonchalantly open the door, but quickly realized it would take something more. Although it took some exertion to pry open, it did so with complete silence; a sign the man took as a good omen.

Slipping into the room, the man was immediately submerged in darkness, as the door quickly closed behind him. The man expected trouble. Ready for whatever found him inside, he stood on the balls of his feet, knees slightly bent, completely still, waiting for his eyes to adjust and the many unknown threats to make themselves known. Once his eyes adjusted, he found an empty lobby, baron of furniture and worn out dirty carpets. In front of him a wall of dirty glass erected a single door at its center; behind laid an empty suite of offices. To his right a staircase led to the second floor, ominous in stature, waiting for him to enter. His instincts told him to take the stairs, and with a feeling of both excitement, and fear, he peered up to a low-lit space.

Contemplating every possible outcome, the man stood motionless; listening and waiting. He assumed his entrance would have triggered something, or set off an alarm, alerting the occupants inside. This didn’t worry or deter him in any which way; stealth was, however, his preferred method of movement. So far nothing signaled that this building held occupants. Not a trace or a sound of anything human revealed itself, although his gut told him this was about to change. With trepidation he tried the first step, silent and sturdy; so far, so good. His progression, however, raised his alert level, as a low creaking noise accompanied each step he took thereafter. If the element of surprise was still in-tact (which he doubted), it was long gone now.

He persisted cautiously as his head breached the second floor, only to find two sets of black military style boots, with toes pointed in his direction, as if to greet him. After three more steps he could see the men in full frame and quickly realized their boots told the whole story of who they were. Each stood over six feet tall. The one on the right two inches taller than his mate to the left. Both dressed in black suits, which didn’t match their boots at all. Quickly he assessed these men and figured them to be ex-military; sturdy and erect. They were extremely fit, each packing a pistol in shoulder holsters, bulging under their jackets. Not saying a word, the man kept his eyes on the two pillars, reaching the top step and waited on a reaction. The men stayed stoic, revealing very little, the taller one, who also looked slightly younger than the other, seemed the slightest bit surprised, but did his best to keep his feelings suppressed and secured.

With a stern and confident face, the shorter of the two men spoke first, “Can I help you sir?”

His voice had a strong Israeli accent and a tone of absolute authority. He must have been the senior officer of the two because his partner never gave the impression of communicating. Both stood with their jackets open and their arms hanging loose with hands open, ready to reach for their guns if needed.

The man knew they were expecting him to respond. He knew that when someone asked a question, they always expected some type of acknowledgment. A tit-for-tat kind of thing. Instead of responding or doing what these men might have expected he walked head-long, directly at them; with purpose and ease, slightly increasing speed as he went. Each man took a step back, away, guiding their hands slowly to hidden objects under their jackets. They allowed their target to enter a space between them, training on their part, something they learned in tactics school, don’t give your enemy one target, always create an advantage, unknowingly, they were doing exactly what the man wanted, playing directly into his hands.

The three men filled the small room, leaving very little space to maneuver. Neither guard drew his gun, as the notion of their target within an arm’s reach gave them a sense of control. Flanking their prey, the guards remained silent, each waiting for the man to release the pent up energy caused from the unfolding scene.

With his eyes fastened to the door in front of him, the man took his final step directly between the two guards, keeping each in his peripheral view. Neither pulled their gun, but he could see the tension was edging up-ward in the way they held their posture. It was again exactly as he had wanted.

As if talking to his next-door neighbor, in an easy tone, the man said, “I take it the Rabbi is behind door number one?” With the final trace of the word “one” clearing the space between them, and the quickness of a striking tiger, the man pivoted at his waist and delivered a devastating side kick to the groin of the man to his right. Without hesitation, the man brought his leg back under his body, crouched down with both fists near his own chin and shot in the opposite direction at the remaining bodyguard's face and neck, just as the guard’s gun cleared his coat. Each fist making contact at the same time and lifting the man off his feet, causing his head to hit the ground first, as gravity did its job. With a thump of dead weight striking the well-worn hardwood floors, the man once again returned to his attention to the first guard. Still bent over holding his crown jewels in complete agony, clumsily attempting to reach for his gun. Before he could complete the action and seek the vengeance he so desperately wished to toll out, the man, standing tall once again, stood facing him. Like a lightning bolt, no warning but always followed with thunder, the man’s right elbow connected to the back of the first guard's head, turning him off like a light.

The room felt larger now, or least it did as the last man standing. Both bodyguards, or at least he assumed they were bodyguards, were out cold, on the floor, no longer a threat.

This was not a silent undertaking, however. From the first words spoken to the final connection of his elbow to his opposition’s head, no more than ten seconds had passed. Not enough time for actionable decisions, but long enough to know an altercation was happening outside an office.

Abruptly, he opened the door. Scanning the room, he found a man in his mid-50’s, sitting in a reading chair halfway across the room. As the two men made eye contact, the man dressed like a “Rabbi” sat still like a deer in headlights, as the man began sprinting across the room, straight for the Rabbi; when they met the man, who held back as much force as possible, delivered a right jab to the side of the “Rabbi’s” head. Maybe it was the momentum of his sprint, or the frail jaw of the Rabbi, but the connecting blow knocked the Rabbi out. He crumpled to the floor in a twisted ball of loose black robe.

“Now what?” the man said under his breath.

Looking back at the two prone men in the front room, and now at the man at his feet, he took stock of his situation. He had come here to interrogate the Rabbi, and this wasn’t part of the plan, if there was one at all, but he would make it work. Taking a deep breath, the man stood and allowed the Rabbi a moment of rest, keeping his eyes on the man who could change everything. Grabbing the Rabbi by his robe and with an open palm, he slapped the Rabbi across his face, getting the effect he wanted, like a computer reboot. Releasing his robe, the Rabbi hit the ground with a thump, thus bringing the Rabbi back to consciousness completely.

Chapter 2

The Rabbi looked up, gazing at the strange man, fear masking his face, a hope of escape pleading through his eyes.

"You're still alive? Good! You know something, and I want to know what you know; how I get this information is up to you. Answer my questions and you’ll be alright"! The man spoke with a calm, controlled voice. Chain smoker grit voiced his toughness, although he never smoked a day in his life.

Nodding his head at the two bodyguards lying prone near the entry the man continued, "Killing isn’t my first option and I really detest killing holy men, but hey, lets see what we can work out. You can end up like those two, if you’d like, or you can play ball!” He said this last part, almost like an after-thought.

The room could have been on any college campus. It had the look and feel of a professor’s office. The walls were covered in bookshelves, strewn with dusty old volumes. A single well worn leather chair, floating off near a window, for reading and contemplation (he assumed), a beautiful wooden desk, neat and orderly, a single chair for the Rabbi behind the desk and two in front, for company.

The Rabbi, an older gentleman with years drawn like lines on his face, wore the fear he felt like an old glove. His attire portrayed the man as privileged, as explained in the world of Jewish hierarchy: A black full-length robe, adorned with a gold ambulant hanging loosely around his neck, now all knees and elbows crumpled to the floor after taking his wake-up slap, the Man standing above him, waiting for a reply.

"Listen, please, I’m a simple teacher. Why have you killed my boys, what do you want?" The last part the Rabbi coughed up with a mixture of blood and saliva. His voice reminded the man of Mel Brooks in Spaceballs, playing Yogurt, a bastardized version of Yoda, although meek and confused. "I don't know what it is you are looking for; I am just a teacher." The last word came out with a squeak.

He stood over and looking down at the Rabbi, sumizing how his ultimate goal had never felt so close. Nothing about this journey had been easy and he knew he had more to endure, but something about this man felt special; he also knew this wasn’t something he could quantify, but he again trusted his gut; he always did. He told himself that he wouldn’t kill the Rabbi, at the same time, he deemed nothing off the table. The Rabbi served the wrong side of his quest and his quest prevailed as righteous.

It’s always best to speak less and listen more. To practice “pause,” to “insert tension” into situations involving interrogation. He figured if he bore down on the Rabbi long enough, nuggets of information would start to flow. Patience, albeit well earned, was also a virtue, and this came with the job. Waiting was never a problem. Not many are given the opportunity to choose their path, his life endured no exception. He had been called to a task very few knew existed and most wouldn't understand. He pursued his quest with relentless drive, led by his faith, the cornerstone of his calling. The man knew how he got here, the only question that remained could only be answered by the Rabbi, where to go?

He noticed some blood splattered on one of his well-worn steel toed boots, and wondered if it was the Rabbi’s or his two goons. I’ll need to clean that later. A light brown hooded cardigan jacket, dark blue cargo pants and a small satchel completed his wardrobe. He treated all his objectives in the manner of a tactical operation, although he didn’t look the part, nor did he want to give the impression of a soldier. He would allow his actions to make the statement, not his wardrobe.

His mission consisted of a clear objective, every action or lack of action held a purpose, and at times require extreme measures. He wasn’t there to kill, or perform sneak attacks, and he didn’t play the part of a super spy. He didn’t serve a government, special interest group or do this for selfish purposes. No, he served something much bigger; an objective that could serve all of mankind, if accomplished.

Clinching and unclenching his hands, as if testing that his hands still worked, the man flashed through his reality, while waiting for the Rabbi to loosen his lips. At times he didn’t like who he had become. He could no longer afford the luxury and desire of friends, not anymore, nor did anyone know anything about him or what he did. Those of his old life that he once worked with; friends and coworkers, all a distant memory. A fact that bothered him some days. His life was so transformed now, even if he had someone to tell, no one would believe him. He accepted a purpose. A purpose bigger than himself. A purpose hard to understand, yet harder still, to achieve. Everyday seemed to be something new, and years ago, he stopped trying to anticipate the future. Instead being prepared and blindly moving forward were the only options he knew. Snapping back to the present, he once again focused on the man at his feet.

Shock and confusion spewed from the Rabbi’s face, holding him in place. His mind wouldn’t allow him to process the events happening now, or his reason for his involvement. The last few minutes were a blur. The Rabbi’s thoughts drifted to his teacher telling about a man that might hunt him down one day, for reasons he wouldn't explain, but now seemed likely. Many years had passed since he was told the story of the hunter. No details were passed on as to exactly what this man would want, or when he would come, only that he would know things about “our” time together. He always believed these warnings were an old man’s attempt to keep his disciples in line. An empty threat, through the guise of a myth. Whether true or not, either way, he knew the consequence of telling this man anything about his work, and at the same time would do all he could to preserve his life.

“God will protect me,” thought the Rabbi, although his personal confidence in this proclamation was at an all-time low. Still resting in an uncomfortable way on the ground his thoughts drifted like smoke to his boys, the two bodyguards who were meant for this exact purpose. Were they dead? He wasn't sure, but he knew they couldn't help him now.

The Rabbi wanted to believe this man was some sort of extremist, looking to harm any Jew he could find. He wanted to conclude that he was the victim of hate, nothing more. These ideas gave him solace and presented him confidence that this would end quickly. In reality, however, he knew this wasn’t true. This man had questions for him, and his instincts were to tell him nothing; what to do otherwise eluded him. So far, the man had remained silent, revealing nothing of his intentions, allowing the Rabbi to work through his options. His ability to grasp time evaded him; he didn’t know if he should say something, or remain silent. How much time had passed since he last spoke, he knew his time was running out, however he wasn’t sure what to do or say.

He thought about the secrets in his life. Things very few knew, but God had kept him safe from these secrets. "They" would keep him safe! His head was swimming, confusion spun like spiderwebs inside his brain; he believed in what he did, as long as he didnt know what it was for. He committed no crimes, but he also knew behind the scenes was a much bigger picture, with darkness he had turned a blind eye to, things he would never allow himself to know. But how could this man know about these secrets? How could this man be part of the world that he worked so hard to keep from himself? The Rabbi continued to rack his brain, trying to see the logic in this situation. Thoughts were running in and out of his awareness, searching for something, anything, to allow him the opportunity to escape from this reality and make sense of it. Then like a lightning strike, he remembered what his teacher had said: "The hunter believed God ordained his mission, I must find out if my teacher was speaking about this same man?” thought the Rabbi, as it could save his life, maybe this was all about something he could manage.

"I was told you would come one day?" the Rabbi asked, through sweaty, bloody lips, half question, half statement.

A confident smirk crossed the man’s face, no one ever expected him, although his reputation preceded him; a mark he earned through countless successful objectives. It wasn't as if he left a calling card, however, Legends were a life of their own.

His dark blue eyes divulged a determined guise as he gazed at the Rabbi, willing him to disclose what he knew. He mused how the trick to getting someone to talk, directly related to the amount of physical or mental pressure one applied. These same techniques brought him here, in this very city with this very man! His targets always knew more than they led on, a breadcrumb at a time. It was the little things that mattered, the rest was faith.

"Okay Rabbi, let's play a little game,” began the gentile in a tone of mild amusement and slight disappointment. Gently bending down to meet the Rabbi’s eyes, his left hand moving into the Rabbi’s field of vision, miming with his thumb and pointer finger the small size of an imaginary object. "Let me guess, you only serve God? Doing his work? An innocent man with no skeletons in his closet? And here you lay, struggling to make sense of all this, wondering how could God forsake you? Your instinct is to not make a bad thing worse, and keep your mouth shut to the deep dark secrets you hold. Deep down, you’re hoping, in some small sliver of a way, that you will pass the test He is putting you through right now?” His right hand raised up with a finger pointed up to the ceiling on the word “He”. “Although we both know you have secrets, the question is how big they are?"

Waiting for a reply, he stood back to a full upright position, shifting his weight from his right to his left leg. Mostly standing motionless, waiting to see how the Rabbi would respond.

Slowly, as if defeated, knowing that things were coming to an end, the Rabbi nodded his head in affirmation.

It was true! He was being hunted! “I am a Godly man, devoted and obedient,” the Rabbi said with his inner voice. Befuddled best described how he felt. Why would anyone want to harm him for what he did or what he knew? The Rabbi, steadfast in keeping his emotions inside, revealed nothing of his inner turmoil on his face. However, his mind raced, like a rabbit avoiding a fox; working the problem, hoping an answer would reveal itself, deep down knowing his worst fears might come true.

Sluggishly, the glimmer in a dream of shadows, the Rabbi’s mind focused on the money he managed. It was mundane work, allocating money from one account to another; a shell game of the ultra-rich, and one that paid him well, to do the work, but mostly to keep his mouth shut. It didn’t matter what it was for, at least that's what he told himself, except that it was benefiting the Jewish people, this much he knew. Why would he question the merits of his task, he saw no reason to ask “why?” He found contentment being a small cog in a large machine, his curiosity limited to his simple task. If his work somehow hurt others, his teacher would have never introduced him to it, or would he? Something the man said flew back into his conscious, his mind continuing to bounce from thought to thought. Did God forsake him? Why? He committed no actions that could have caused this, however, something lingered about what he did not know.

Confusion and fear continued to flood his mind, questioning everything he knew to be true, as the recesses of his mind slowly became center stage.

"Still with me Rabbi? You look a bit confused. Let me give you something else to consider.” Said the man, interrupting the Rabbi's seriatim of thoughts. “You are on the wrong side! You are no longer the chosen people, God has turned his back on you, as you have turned your back on God. The simple gift of bacon alone should have been proof enough! Give man the greatest food delight on earth and not allow the Jews to partake, come on Rabbi, you know I’m right?!!" The man said this with a grin drawing out the words, slowly, as if he were speaking to a four-year old kid, while focusing on the Rabbi’s eyes in a hushed controlled tone.

With the final words leaving his mouth, sounding as if each caused him grief, The Man could see the same reaction on the Rabbi's face that every man in his position had come to before him.

Anger bellowed up in the Rabbi as he felt the indignation of ignorance aimed at him. How dare this man attack his people, he clearly was a bigot with false truths and poor judgment, he would stand for those who couldn't, he would do God’s work. Spitting his response, the Rabbi retorted, as spittle and specks of blood flew in the direction of the man. A new resolve filled the Rabbi as he listened to the words spoken by the man. An energy from deep down in his gut, full of rage, anger, and resentment coiled in the Rabbi like a snake before it strikes.

"You are of the devil and his desire! How could God condone a man like you? You are vile and evil incarnate; your outcome is already written."

The Man grinned slightly, he had expected this outrage, although this wasn't always the case. Thinking back to a time when it caused nothing but pain and anger, when he would return in kind with his best justifications for the actions he was committing, trying to make his opponent see his point of view. Truth be told, he never felt better after snapping back, the opposite seemed to transpire instead. What he eventually learned, through time and reflection, indignation couldn’t take place in this work, his mission was God’s work. While he knew this to be true, he also understood the dichotomy of the situation. He understood that both men believed they were accomplishing the same goal; a mission set forth by the lord himself. He relied, on the contrary, with his faith in what he did, and why he did it; God can work out the rest.

"Rabbi, you and I are more alike than you might think. We are both doing the work of the lord. In the end, though, only one of us can be righteous. I absolutely grasp your point of view! I am a bad man. How could God ordain, let alone, allow a man like me walk this earth?"

He began to walk around the room, still showing a slight smirk on his handsome face, he continued. "To be honest, I didn't choose this life. I have often asked for this cup to be passed to another. Truth is, God has a plan and we each play our parts. You, the part of the repressor… Me, the part of redeemer,” finished The Man, now a few paces away from the Rabbi who sat still on the ground.

"I would say, more like the judge and executioner?” Volleyed back the Rabbi, still with contempt, using the black sleeve of his robe to wipe his mouth.

The man’s shoulders slightly sagged by this dialog; it was time to speed things up. Finding this Rabbi wasn’t an accident, and he recognized something would be gained from him.

"No and yes. Our opinions don't really matter, we are where we are, and I don't wish to drag this out. It’s time for you to answer my questions. First, let me warn you, don’t lie to me! I know more about you than you might think, and you are only providing me with a piece of a puzzle of which I have collected many pieces already.” His back to the Rabbi, looking across the room at an old desk with only a closed laptop and a single antique lamp standing guard. Turning around the man once again stared into the Rabbi's eyes and with a conviction of absolute authority asked, "Where did you school and who recruited you?"

This caught the Rabbi off guard, he wasn’t expecting this question at all. What did his education have to do with this? Suddenly he felt as if this was ridiculous and anger and rage filled him once again.

Before the Rabbi committed to the words about to leave his mouth, the man could already tell he wasn’t going to like what he said.

The Rabbi’s face contorted, eyebrows scrunched together, lips curling, and nostrils flaring. With a twist of his tongue, he began spewing a torrid spray of Hebrew invective, damning and cursing the man into eternity.

It was as if this rant would never end, and waiting for a break, The Man calmly retorted (also in perfect Hebrew), "Not likely my friend."

Chapter 3

“I’ll never get used to this” thought the man as his hand began the slow climb to his gun resting in a shoulder holster. Comprehending a language that he never learned, and having the capability to speak it without thought, “still gives me chills.” He knew stories of those who spoke in tongues, but never thought it was real. He certainly never thought it was something that would happen to him, or in such a way.

His mind drifted back to the first time it happened, a time when fate made itself aware. It's not every day someone feels as if God himself is directing his path, however, this is exactly what took place, and it shook him to the core.

As a young man he grew up in a churched family, where baptism in early life, and weekly Sunday school were the norm. God was real and this he never questioned. However, his fervor stopped there. Praying became a habit and something he would fall back on when times were tough (as do so many others in this world), or before the big game, praying for his team to win. He was an athlete, excelling at anything with a ball. He attended Catholic school, but went to a non-denominational Christian church every Sunday with his family. Again church wasn’t his priority. His parents were believers and worked hard to instill the faith they carried into their children. They were reasonable people who worked hard to love others and be loved. Not fanatics or Sunday Christians. Just hard-working middle-class folks who believed in God.

He was the all-American boy and looked the part. A standout athlete, friends for days, tall, good-looking, with a firm jaw, blue eyes, and blonde hair. He had a kind heart with a lot of competitive nature, added to the mix. Most of his peers called him a friend and he took pride in the fact that he had friends from all walks of life. He would tell people that he wanted to own his own business one day; or maybe go into medicine, but deep down he wanted to be a professional baseball player. Although, unbeknownst to him, his fate was already written, and only time would unfold that future. School came easy to him; however, he wasn’t a straight “A” student. He got by, learned what he needed and put effort in when required. Overall a quick study, but no Einstein.

The day the Hebrew language became part of his lexicon, seared into his brain as a pivoting point to a different life. Months prior subtle clues flirted in and out of his attention span, hinting at the future to come, however nothing prepared him for the events of that day

Chapter 4

…(some years earlier)…

How anyone ever found the place seemed a mystery. The establishment held the aura of a meeting place for a secret society of lowlifes; a bar with no windows, no neon, no frills at all, just the simple words on the metal door, half peeling black letters announcing, ‘Pete's Bar.’ It sat in a rundown strip mall, with next day “check cashing,” and a laundry mat next-door. Each looked as if its heyday transpired during the Regan administration. Strangers would never come here on purpose… Either you lived down the street or you drove by, never knowing of its existence.

Pulling on the door, he half expected the place to be closed, or out of business. But it wasn’t. Old rusted hinges of the highly dented door, squeaked, announcing his entry. As he walked in, he saw nothing. Pitch Black. Gradually, his eyes adjusted to a low lit interior. The inclination that this place was out of business crossed his mind, still a sincere possibility. This hypothesis was quickly proven wrong by dim light fixtures, caked with despair, and decades of cigarette smoke floating over a few tables and booths, which finally came into focus. Two round tables sat in the center of the room with two rickety chairs each. Three booths on each side of the door with worn pleather upholstery, held a couple dozing patrons, nursing drinks with melted ice cubes. On the back wall sat a long bar that from a distance looked to be caked in sticky beer, a mixture of glossy and matte patches on worn down wood. Over the bar ancient neon signs advertised beers that no longer create the good times they once stood for.

He strode up and sat at the first bar stool he saw, well-worn with cracked red vinyl, it made an uncomfortable sound as he plopped down. In a half stupor he sat unfocused waiting for what seemed like ten minutes, the bartender finally acknowledged him, which allowed him to be ready for his quick order of Bud Light on tap. The glass barely touched the bar top before the man chugged it and then ordered another. He sat there for a few minutes, watching bubbles slowly rise in the glass between his hands, doing his best to understand the strange events that consumed his life presently.

“Look at that faggot” came a strongly accented Latino voice, a little too loud for his comfort. Not wanting to draw attention to himself he slowly lifted his eyes, keeping his head still, to see which direction the voice had intended its focus. Three tough looking locals were sitting at the end of the bar, and all had eyes on him. “Apparently, they don’t like me,” thought the man.

In normal circumstances, he would never enter a bar like this, but he did today. Partly because he hoped that he wouldn't bump into any more strangers claiming to know his fate, but also because it looked like a place lost people appeared. He didn’t find himself on this side of town by accident. He knew a destination beckoned him only four blocks away. Drawing him in, his gut told him to be near, in case something big happened, but he didn’t know what. His heart would do everything it could to stay away, to defy the calling of a stranger’s ramblings.

"Fuck this guy, lost looking motherfucker!" Muttered the shorter of the three locals. He was looking directly at the man, and he wanted to make sure the man heard every word out of his trashy mouth.

"Yea man, fuck this khaki-wearing bitch!" Hissed the ugliest one. He wasn't as blatant about his tone, but also wasn't overly concerned if he was overheard.

The tall one was just nodding his head as if it didn't matter and was up for anything.

All three men were of Hispanic descent, and dressed alike. Crisp white tees, three sizes too big, coupled with impeccably pressed dickie pants, that could also be very long shorts. Various tattoos covered their arms and necks. One of them, who happened to be built like a fireplug, had tattoos on his face and a burning stare. The tall one was bald, and the other two had short cut hair, like military men.

It was obvious these guys were looking for a confrontation, someone to blow off some pent-up energy on. The man wasn't a fighter and would do all he could to talk his way out of a fight. He thought if he kept his head down and just drank his beer, these guys would get bored and give up. Besides they might be talking about someone else, it's not like he checked who else was wearing khakis.

Slowly, and nonchalantly, he looked around the room, to find only four other patrons in the bar and none stood out more than he did.

"Hey, fucker!" The fireplug raised his chin at him, staring, burning. He had the look of a man who had spent many years angry and disagreeable, with lines that blended into spectacular and intricate facial tattoos.

"What the fuck are you doing in here, ese?" continued the fireplug, his face, and eyes set on the man with unwavering focus.

Quickly the man found the bar with his eyes, hoping his quick eye contact didn’t provoke this into an actual altercation. Swiftly, he made up his mind that he would leave, waving his open palmed hand, trying to get the bartenders attention, so he could pay his tab. He wasn't exactly scared, yet, but he was also aware that if he was forced to fight these guys he would lose… badly. The bartender standing on the opposite side of the room, seeming to be having a hell of a time getting one glass in particular, clean. Round and unkept, the bartender leaned against the counter with a rag, working his beer glass as if it were the only thing that mattered in the world. To him, it was.

Thinking again that it would be best to just keep his head down, the man stared at his beer and pretended to not hear the guy, hoping he lost interest. This turned out to be a pretty bad idea, afterall.

In a rapid battering of words, the short guy grew in agitation, "Hey dumb fuck, I'm talking to you punto! You walked into the wrong bar ese! Look at me motherfucker; the rest of these motherfuckers know better not to ignore me. What the fuck are you doing in my bar?” Barking the last part, with an undertone of despair.

This time he raised his head, again looking around the bar. He saw that everyone was just staring at him. Not with malice, more like pity. Craning his head to see around the bar, the man suddenly felt the effects of his quickly chugged beer. With a light head and a slight spinning of the room, the man slowly turned back to the three agitators, "Hey man, I don't want any trouble. I'll just pay for my beers and leave,” in his best calming and passive persona. Once again, turning his head to find the bartender, hoping he would get the hint, and reaching for his wallet at the same time.

Maybe the bartender was deaf! He continued to work on that same dirty glass in his own little world, not hearing or caring, or maybe knew what was about to happen, either way the bartender ignored his side of the bar.

"Fuck that ese! It's on. I haven't kicked a white man’s ass in way too long, and you got some shitty timing, punto."

Without so much as a warning, all three were up and circling around him on his isolated barstool. Time seemed to be moving in faster than the clock, as his wallet had remained in his pocket. He didn't really have time to think about what was about to happen, one second this guy was talking about kicking his ass, the next a fist covered in tattoos came flying at the side of the head. A punch he saw coming from miles away. He had no inclination that this would be the moment his life would change forever, or that fantasy was about to become reality… but it did, and no one saw it coming.

Chapter 5

...Five months even earlier…

"It's almost time, young man!" said in elderly lady with a calm, reassuring smile.

He was on a bus, which he caught in Long Beach, heading to UCLA, where he was thinking of attending grad school. Checking out the campus, and the girls that might be lingering around.

The lady, maybe in her late 60’s, or early 70’s, looked like anyone's grandma, wise in the eyes, and kindness in her posture; the type of a lady he would help cross the street. She was wearing dress pants and a flowered blouse, accompanied by a loosely hanging cross necklace around her neck.

"Excuse me, ma'am." He responded thinking she was referring to her exit.

"Do you need any help getting off the bus?" He continued.

"No, no, I am fine. And it has nothing to do with me, young man. However, the time is coming, and I just thought you might like to know." She replied

"Oh, no. My exit is not till Brentwood." he said, thinking this lady might be losing her marbles.

“Oh sweetie, I am not talking about getting off this bus, but rather this path." She said with a matter of fact calm, sweet voice; her clear blue eyes looking deep into his.

"Oh ok, well thank you!” He said, drawing out his words with a hint of confusion. Yup, he thought dementia had her in its grasp. Not wanting to upset her, he thought he could just play along.

"Oh, young man. I know you couldn't possibly know what I am talking about, but He works like this. Just like with Noah and Jonah, God doesn't always make things clear to us all at once. But when he wants us to know, we do." The old lady said this wearing a face of half concern, half austere, speaking with a confident tone, annunciating each word as if her grandchild scraped a knee, and she wanted the little fellow to know he would be okay and to get back on his bike. As if she really wanted him to know she had sincere compassion for him.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, do you think I am someone in particular? I don’t believe we know each other." He inquired as politely as he could muster, confused as to what she was talking about. He knew his bible stories, but didn't see how a man riding in a whale and one building a boat could relate to him as he sat on this moldy bus.

"We do not know each other, and I am not what you think I am. I am just a little old lady, sitting on a bus with a message for you, from God! Your life is about to change, and this is all you need to know… For now." Pausing before she said this last part, emphasizing the “now”.

Their eyes were locked, her gaze penetrating into his soul. Suddenly he felt like he knew her but had no idea where from.

Without warning, the bus began to slow, he assumed to let someone off. The lady stood, as if on cue, with hands worn down by years of use, wrinkled and sun bleached, she reached for the back of a seat for balance. Still looking at him, she smiled and suddenly looked quite beautiful.

"Have a wonderful day, young man." She said, just as the bus stopped and the doors opened to reveal the street. Breaking eye contact, she stepped towards the exit and walked down to the waiting sidewalk below. Not once looking back at the bus or him as it moved on.

The thought of losing his mind flew across his consciences, quickly quieted by the rational mind. This was something he had never encountered. Was she crazy, or losing her mind? He didn't think so… could this be some type of joke or social experiment? Again, she seemed sincere and caring. What could she have been talking about, and if she had her wits, deliberated in the forefront of his awareness for quite some time. Why she thought her message was meant for him, he had no idea, but in the end, he had no answers and decided he would just chalk it up to another bazaar thing in life. Another unexplained event, piled on top of the plethora he already experienced in his short life.

The fact this event marked the beginning of his current path, he had no idea, although would have garnered more attention had he known.

Strangers continued to give him cryptic messages, at unassuming places, without noticeable reason. Each messenger different from the next and all came when he least expected them. The only thing each envoy had in common with the last was the color of their eyes. All blue and clear as a sunny day.