Man Called Blessed

CHAPTER ONE: Fifteen Years Later... David Ben Solomon turned from the window overlooking the Old City's night skyline and faced the old man. "So you have a tale that will change the life of every Jew. Every Jew has a tale that will change the life of every Jew. In the end they never do." He paused, studying the man. "We don't have all night. Get on with it." The hunched Falasha Jew bit off a reply in his foreign tongue, Amharic, and then sat unsteadily on the chair, favoring his shiny brass cane for support. A large white candle at his elbow cast amber hues on the mud walls, but he could see neither the light nor the five faces watching him from its shadows. His blind eyes had frozen to slits many years ago. Rebecca thought the Ethiopian Falasha Jew must have passed the hundred-year mark judging by the wrinkled flesh hanging off his skeleton. Solomon just stared at him. If the Falasha priest hadn't been blind, Rebecca imagined he'd be drilling her father with an indignant stare. The servant boy who had guided the man here spoke beside the door. "He says that he won't speak to a man who does not show proper respect," the boy said nervously. "He is a keeper of truth-a great elder in Ethiopia." In the shadows, Avraham Shlush, her father's rugged bodyguard, stood with arms crossed, peering at the old man past a frown. Next to him Professor Zakkai stood with hands in pockets, leaning against the wall. The archaeologist had a one-track mind and, as of yet, this meeting clearly wasn't on it. They were here because her father, David Ben Solomon, had been told that the old Falasha priest had information critical to the Temple Mount, and any information critical to the Temple Mount was, in one way or another, lifeblood to the leader of the Temple Mount Advocates. "Forgive me, Rabbi," Solomon said, using the respectful title. "But I have been told many things before. I'm growing tired of stories." The Falasha priest didn't move. His jaw was covered in a ragged gray beard. A tan tunic badly in need of a good scrub wrapped his frail body. The bright red beads around his neck and the shiny golden cane in his hand stood in contrast to everything else about him. But then the Falasha Jews, better known as the Black Jews of Ethiopia, had always been an enigma. A throwback to ancient Judaism. Unlike other Jews scattered to the four corners, the Falasha were the only living Jews who still practiced blood sacrifice among other ancient Jewish customs. Very few historians could agree on how Judaism first made its way into Ethiopia, but it had appeared suddenly, remarkably intact. In the remote Falasha villages of Ethiopia, Judaism had remained virtually unchanged for at least a thousand years. Perhaps two thousand or longer. Like a fly frozen in amber. An enigma. The old priest looked as though he had just pried himself out of that amber and made his way back to Jerusalem to find God like so many of his countrymen. Perhaps to find the Messiah. Rebecca blinked in the dim light. But the Messiah isn't here, is he, Rabbi? You have come back to a bankrupt nation which refuses to make room for God, much less the Messiah. Her father spoke again, his voice gentle now. "I beg your forgiveness, Rabbi." He regarded the old Jew with amusement now. "Thirty years ago I would have spared no effort to hear your story. But I've given my life to the fruitless pursuit of rebuilding the Temple and these days I find myself wrestling more with doubt than dancing with hope. Surely you understand." Her father stood tall, dressed in black slacks and a white shirt. He'd always favored casual clothes, and his latest obsession in archaeology suited it well, Rebecca thought. His hair was white and his firm jaw line clean shaven. "I don't doubt the prophecies," he continued. "You'll have a hard time finding a Jew with as much passion to see the prophecies of the TemBright, Bill is the author of 'Man Called Blessed' with ISBN 9780849943805 and ISBN 0849943809.