236878's blog: "The Wormwood Conspiracy"

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CHAPTER ONE The Deception OCTOBER, 31 A.D. The sky is as black as the darkest night imagined, filled with gloomy clouds colliding as they billow. A powerful wind is advancing from every direction, as if ready to unleash a hurricane. Thunderous roars can be heard as bright, crisp, eye-piercing lightning stretches out like mighty fists, destroying anything in its path. The earth shakes violently and rocks shatter into dust. Graves are unearthed and tombs are opened. Screaming, shouting and crying are heard for miles. The beasts of the field are seeking refuge from what appears to be a terrible disaster, as if the world is going to shatter into a million pieces. A woman’s voice is heard, painfully crying and sobbing, as she holds her head in her blood stained hands. “Heee’s dead! Uhhhhh! Heeee’s dead! My son is dead! Please take him down, take him down!” The Roman soldiers guarding the man are terrified of what they are witnessing. They begin crying and questioning in their minds what they have done. Believing now whom they’ve just killed. The wind has blown the robe off the dead man. One of the Roman soldiers picks it up and stuffs it behind his chest plate. Down the road, a small group of men can be seen approaching. One of them goes to the lamenting woman. “Sister?” he says reverently as he gently places his hand on her shoulder, in hopes of calming her. She turns her head slowly and lowers her hands. The look on her face is that of horror, and sorrow. “Sister, I’m the Chief Servant of the house of Joseph. He has sent me to you. He has pleaded with Pilate to give him the body. We will bring him to the tomb built for my master. He will be at rest there.” The woman raises her head slightly. There’s a sense of relief and hope in her eyes, in hearing the words of the man. Still sobbing, she nods her head in agreement. “Come on men, get him down from there, and be careful.” The crew strains as they slowly lift the wooden beam out of its hole. They lower it to the ground. The nails are gently pulled from the hands and feet of the man. There is no movement from the man, confirming he is truly dead. “No man could endure this sort of pain and wounding,” whispers the Roman soldier who caught the robe, turning his head away as the chief servant and his men continue to remove the body from the cross. The chief servant and his men carry the lifeless body, escorted by the two Roman guards, to a nearby garden. There, a group of people are gathered, along with the owner of the tomb, Joseph of Arimathea. The people begin wrapping the body in a blanket. “Stop!” yells Joseph. “I have a special blanket of flax weave. We will use this to wrap him.” Joseph helps wrap the man in the blanket with spices such as myrrh and aloes. The body is reverently carried into the tomb. Joseph is vigilantly watching as they carry him. He directs them to the main chamber, as he pulls the string on the drape to the opening of the second portion of the tomb. They place the man on the middle shelf of the tomb, alone. The servants’ grunts are drowned out as they roll the stone slowly over the entrance to the tomb. Only crying, wailing, and prayers of the handful of loved ones and followers of the man can be heard throughout the garden. A loud noise from the stone is heard as it is laid to rest in its final position, forever covering the entrance to the tomb. At that moment, the group falls silent, and all that is heard is the stone settling. A chain is then attached to bolts imbedded in the rock, as a seal to secure the stone covering the entrance. A sign is placed on the chain in the center naming the man as the KING of KINGS. The people in the garden give their condolences to the mother of the dead man as they slowly leave the garden with broken spirits. She lays in front of the stone, crying and pounding her fists in the dirt, “WHYYYY? WHYYYY!” Two Roman guards stand on either side of the stone, as if they are expecting something to happen. One of the Roman soldiers yells out to Joseph, “Sir! Sir!” Joseph turns around. The Roman soldier motions Joseph to come back. Joseph deliberates for a few seconds, then starts walking toward the soldier. “Yes?” Joseph responds, puzzled. “Sir, while you were wrapping this man’s body, I noticed that you had them stop and you gave them another blanket. What was so special about the blanket you had?” Joseph is taken aback by the soldier’s questions, but answers him anyway. “The blanket was passed down through many generations in my family. We were made the caretakers of this holy cloth. It was told to us that the blanket had great power and was left on earth by God himself during the time of the Great War in Heaven. We would know when the right time to use it was upon us. I knew this was the right time.” “I understand. That is extraordinary. This man, Jesus, was special, wasn’t he?” “Yes he is,” Joseph answers. “I’m on my way now. Goodbye, sir.” “Goodbye, and thank you,” graciously replies the soldier. Joseph turns and finds his way out of the garden. The two soldiers glance at each other as Joseph slowly walks out of sight. They continue to stand on either side of the stone, amazed by what has happened. The woman is still at the stone, grieving. All that is left in the garden are the two soldiers and the grieving woman. Nothing else can be seen or heard. *** LIREY, FRANCE, 1400 YEARS LATER The sun is setting on the small town. The streets begin to empty as the day is ending and people are returning to their homes. The women are emptying the dirty water from their laundry for the day. The sounds of children laughing can be heard in every direction, as they separate and run home with their toys and games. The clomping of horses on the cobblestone streets is heard, as they carry their passengers to their destinations. The aroma of fresh bread baking in stone ovens, and ale brewing from the tavern, engulf the air as the townspeople prepare their suppers. The small buildings and large trees are turning pink and orange from the setting sun, and their shadows are stretching as far to the east as they can go without breaking. An old man, slumped over in years, is hobbling through the city, clothed in a dark-colored, dirty robe with a hood over his head and no coverings for his feet. He is carrying something in his arms. He is holding it tight, as if his life depended on it. People stop and stare, puzzled by this stranger, as if to say he has broken their daily routine. They cannot see his face, but only his nose and the long beard protruding from the man’s hood. A young man approaches him. “Sir? May I help you with your burden?” The old man replies, ungratefully, in a harsh voice, “NO! This is mine!” As he clutches the object in his arms tighter, “Be gone, boy!” The young man, dismayed by the response, respects his wishes and leaves him alone. The old man sees the sign of the town tavern. He has felt the pain of his stomach begging for food for quite some time, and it has been a while since his last drink. He feels for his sop hanging tightly at his side to make sure he has enough currency. Without looking or letting loose of his precious item, he feels his sop with his callused, weather-beaten hands. He thinks he has enough for bread and wine. He approaches the stairs to enter the tavern. He can hear the sound of music and laughter inside. He hesitates, then slowly reaches to push the door open. He slowly steps into the tavern. He looks around and notices most of the patrons in the tavern are giving their attention to the musicians and entertainers performing in one corner of the bar, and slips in unnoticed. He smells the odors of damp, old wood and burning candles, which remind him of his youth.