“I am headed to Bethlehem, who’s asking?” came my interrogative tone.
“My name is Eshek. I’m also headed for Bethlehem. Want some company? You can’t travel alone on these roads, too much evil walks these same paths.” I found myself looking directly into his Middle-Eastern dark eyes. It was difficult to break their hold on me. He, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be from the area. His skin was dark complexioned and his irises were a deep, dark brown, bordering on black. His clothing was certainly cultural. However, curiously, he spoke in marvelously clear English. There was no telltale heavy Hebrew or Arab accent. He had my interest, but I didn’t let on to him that he had. Remaining aloof and nondescript, I responded,
“Eshek is your name? Where are you from? Why are you headed to Bethlehem?” I wanted a little more information before I acceded to a travel companion.
“Yes, Eshek is my name, I’m from Jerusalem and I have business in Bethlehem. Who are you, where are you from and why are you headed to Bethlehem? Like you, I would like to know more about who I am traveling with.” He responded with a tone of sarcasm. I suppose my tone of voice betrayed my thoughts, he knew what I was thinking and what the intent of the questions were. It softened me a bit that he, too, was not sure who he was traveling with, but not enough for me to lower my guard.
“My name is Steve Stanton. I’m a journalist for the World Observer Gazette. I’m headed to Bethlehem on business also.” I felt I owed him that much, but not a word more. “If you feel that you want to tag along for your security, that’s fine with me, however, I am not a conversationalist, and have many things going through my mind, so with all due respect, do not expect conversation from me.”
“Mr. Stanton,” Eshek spoke in a softer, quieter tone. “I have no desire to share my life’s story with you, but if I can feel assured that you are not a highwayman, and that your intent is to reach Bethlehem as safely as I, and that you are not out to rob me along the way, then we can travel together in safety, do you at least agree with that?” I discovered that we weren’t having to yell over the howl any longer. Taking advantage of the break, I lowered the scarf from around my nose and mouth and marveled that the wind had faded off to a gentle breeze almost as quickly as it churned up to a gale force. The confounded weather in this area of the world was so fickle. Eshek chose to wear his scarf around his shoulders, but I didn’t really care, because I really didn’t care. That was his choice, and as far as I was concerned, I was still alone, even though I could hear the crunching of pebbles beneath his feet along the path now more distinctly.
We traveled in silence for about three hundred more yards when Eshek broke the silence,
“Mr. Stanton, may I call you Steve? What are you writing about today, Steve? Does it have to do with Bethlehem?” I found Eshek being a bit too friendly for two strangers who had just met on a road, and I took offense to his presumption that I would allow him to call me by my first name without my permission.
“Eshek, I will call you Eshek because that is the only choice you have given me, I do not wish to discuss neither my business nor my writing assignments with you. If you wish to pick up a copy of the publication next week, you can read about it.” I realized that that sounded harsh, but I wanted him to get the point that I was not interested in talking with him.
“Furthermore, Mr. Eshek, it is imperative that I spend time with my thoughts right now.” I found myself in a modest explanatory mode, almost as if it were against my will. Something was causing me to say more than I usually would, and I felt that whatever it was, I was struggling to resist. “An effective journalist goes over and reviews things time and time again in his mind, developing his story and differing angles he may wish to take in his approach to the story he is developing.” Why did I tell him all that, I didn’t need to, nor did I really want to, yet I felt compelled. I continued hearing the words come out of my mouth, but not having given permission for them to leave. As a stopgap measure, I rudely barked out, “I need to be left alone. Walk with me if you wish, or walk ahead of me, but I insist that I must be left alone.”
Once again, I was looking directly into his eyes, as I begged off his attempt at conversation. That’s where I discovered the root of my loose lips, his eyes. With a slight raising of his right eyebrow and a stare that could kill, he said, “All right then, Mr. Stanton, I shall leave you alone. In fact I will simply walk ahead. We are not far from the town now anyway. It was a pleasure to meet you. I trust the feeling is mutual?” Back home they would have said that his tone of voice was quite surly and disrespectful, however, I wanted him away from me. Far away. With him tagging along I really couldn’t think straight.
His gait picked up as he began to pull out ahead. I returned to my slightly head down position as I felt the breeze beginning to pick up, and sand once again crashed into my face. As I lifted and secured the scarf back into place around my mouth and eyes, I saw Eshek, about ten paces ahead of me, suddenly stop, and turn to address me again. He had an unmistakable air of unfriendliness written all over his face. I slowed down so as not to overtake him. Once again I grabbed hold of my laptop and looked at him with an expressionless stare.
“Mr. Stanton,” he began, with a low, dour voice. The wind once again seemed to dip just in time for him to speak his words. “This thing that you seek is not alive. This mission that you are on is a waste of your time. The stories of a messiah are old men’s tales, ancient fables developed by men to hold themselves accountable to an invisible God. You have no story here. It’s nothing but a hoax. You should be writing about economic or political issues of the land and leave these fairy tales to children’s writers. There have been many so-called messiahs who have come and gone. None were he. People’s hopes were inspired, only to be crushed on the rocks of despair. Go home, Mr. Stanton. Leave this messiah fable for the weaklings who need a crutch to get through life. Go home, Mr. Stanton.” With that, he turned and walked away, obscured by a slurry of sand and dust. While flying particles impaired my vision, I could vaguely see that there was a strange opacity about him as he disappeared.
Within minutes he had disappeared down the road, and must have made a turn, for as the wind gasped it’s final gusts, I didn’t see him anywhere. That left me with an eerie, sickened feeling.
I reminded myself to check with my science editor back at the Gazette to explain what causes that type of phenomenon. As a journalist, I have experienced many things in documenting my stories. Few things made me feel uncomfortable, but that sure did. Somebody was interested in my story as much as I was. That this man would walk up to me, want to befriend me, yet all in the name of stealing my story, or throw me off the track angered me. I determined that there was one important task that I had to perform when I returned to the hotel, and that was to confront Kahan. He must have been telling somebody about my inquiries. Thankfully I could see the outskirts of Bethlehem, which caused me to focus back on my assignment: find the Shepherds Bazaar and Amal.
It was not difficult to find the bazaar; all I had to do was follow my nose. The stench created by a mixture of hot, sweaty people, mingled with the odors of sun-dried meats, hanging above the edges of the concession tables, was literally a “dead” give away.
The bazaar was indeed bizarre, and it appeared that I had arrived there at quite a busy time. Ducking and dodging the canvas edges of the tent awnings, I found myself aimlessly weaving my way in, around and through the late afternoon shoppers. My senses all shifted to high alert. I scanned faces, looking for trouble, as I was being jostled and pushed by every Bethlehemite and their brothers who had all happened to be at the bazaar when I was there. Yet, as I looked at them, they didn’t appear to even see me. They were apparently so focused on the concession tables and haggling for a bargain that I was merely in their way. It was getting old quick, and I was getting tired of the bumping and shoving and oozing between them when I spotted two men talking. One looked like Eshek, but I couldn’t make out the face of the other. I didn’t like Eshek, I didn’t trust him either, but maybe now I could play on our road encounter
