Old and Wise
By Storie
Seacouver : December 1999
“Because it’s a farce!” Methos’ tone
indicated that he had expected his companions to know this.
“Sacrilegious so-and-so,” Joe muttered, and
maneuvered down the hall, out of sight.
“Did it ever occur to you that it might be considerate
to keep certain opinions to yourself?” Duncan fixed Methos with the darkest
expression he could muster, which wasn’t especially intimidating on a man
holding a flocked camel under each arm. “What is myth to you might be a sacred
truth to someone else. You could hurt a friend’s feelings with your flip
comments. Ever heard of ‘live and let live’?”
“But the truth is exactly what I’m talking about,”
Methos insisted, unwrapping an Oriental figure in elaborate costume. “Read the
Bible for yourself, Duncan. These guys weren’t kings, they weren’t from the
Orient, and nowhere is it written that there were only three.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just try to be more polite
about these things around Joe, all right? And around anyone else for whom the
holiday holds some Christian meaning.”
Methos sighed in exasperation as he placed the
figure on the floor beside its camel.
Syria, northeast of Damascus : January : 3 B.C.
Melchar pulled the linen robe snug around his
neck, reluctant to cover his head despite the unmerciful stoning by hard, tiny
particles of sleet. He subconsciously envied the laborers in their woolen
clothing: unadorned, signifying their caste, but warmer than the richly dyed
cloth reserved for the royal priesthood. It was pointless, this deliberate
exposure to the elements. The sky was overcast and the Star, though it could
yet be discerned, would soon be banished by the dawn.
He clutched to his chest the parchments on which
he had carefully charted the celestial phenomenon they had pursued through the
past months. No less than a dozen Median priests were scattered about squinting
toward the heavens as they studied Mithraic prophesies on scrolls, drew astrological
maps and recorded their own accounts of the event. Behind them, amidst the
clatter of a caravan settling for a day of rest, a singular noise penetrated
Melchar’s own study with persistence, alerting him that a once-small problem
was growing steadily critical. With a farewell glance to his elusive quarry, he
lowered his head against the cold and damp and hurried into the camp.
The tent had been erected and a fire warmly
blazed. Beltazaar crouched against the flame, trembling with fever, rendered
breathless and weak by an incessant cough. He opened his eyes when Melchar
clasped under his arms and drew him into the tent.
“How does it look for me now?” His voice was
little more than a whisper.
Melchar had hoped the question would not arise,
for he could not lie to a friend and an elder. He allowed his eyes to meet
Beltazaar’s rheumy gaze and the old man nodded in resignation.
“So be it as the stars have said,” he murmured.
“So be it, but for one request. I desire that my eyes might behold the
fulfillment of the prophecy before I am gathered to my fathers. Can you cling
to my life for me, Melchar, until then?”
Melchar squeezed the old man’s bony fingers. “I
will prepare the tea.”
All the medicines in the world would not prevent
the inevitable; Melchar had consulted the constellations, prescribed herbs,
applied poultices to Beltazaar’s throat and chest until the hide peeled in
protest. He could bring about relief of the aching stiffness in old joints,
comfort against digestive disturbances, a cure for sleepless nights, but this
particular illness defied his medical expertise. Progression would slow,
whether out of generosity or mockery Melchar could not tell, then bear down
again, brutally pressing life out of Beltazaar’s frail body. Age was a traitor
equal to the malady, formidable foes sharing a pact against the ancient magus.
There was little Melchar could do in retribution.
Beltazaar talked while Melchar brewed the tea,
alternately reciting liturgies and rambling incoherently about the battle
between Ormazd and Ahriman as though it were taking place right in front of
him.
Or within him, Melchar winced.
“Amesha Spenta!” Beltazaar abruptly
proclaimed, staring wide-eyed at Melchar.
Bountiful immortal. But the old man could not know. Melchar pretended to ignore
the pronouncement as he cradled Beltazaar’s head and poured the tea between his
lips. The sedative effect was almost immediate. Melchar brought out a Khordah,
recorded by his own hand, and read prayers to Beltazaar until the old man fell
into exhausted slumber.
Seacouver : December 1999
“Happy Birthday and Joyeaux Noel.” Methos handed Duncan
a package. “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.” The gift he laid in Joe’s arms
was conspicuously shaped and reacted to movement with gentle sloshing gurgles.
Joe picked at the wrapping.
“If this is what I think it is, I may just have to
forgive you for those earlier comments about my choice of Christmas music.”
Methos smiled, sadly. “Please accept my apologies.
I meant no offense. The ‘three kings’ song aggravates my devotion to historical
accuracy.” Joe cocked an eyebrow and grinned. “That song, and these things,”
Methos nudged a bearded wise man with his toe. “The story is a legend based on
assumption, and no one seems to care about the reality.”
Joe shrugged. “Most Christmas traditions are based
on variations of customs that have passed down from ancient times; not many of
our holiday celebrations are rooted in reality. That shouldn’t stop you from
enjoying them. After all, consider your magi, there: however many of whatever
they were, they were following a star they’d never seen before based on a
prophesy that may or may not have been divinely inspired, on blind faith that
the star would lead them to a supernatural king at some point along the way. If
the rest of the story is fiction, it’s no stranger than the few facts that we
do know.”
Methos’ smile warmed into soft laughter as he
shook his head at the bottle in his hand. “Well,” he took a sip, “I certainly
can’t argue with that.”
Israel, north of Jerusalem : January : 3 B.C.
“If it weren’t so ungodly cold,” Melchar hissed
into the night. He rode a fine horse, an intelligent steed that responded well
to discipline. The animal’s good nature and sensibilities were tasked to the
limit, however, by the presence of a camel on a lead. Beltazaar insisted he was
strong enough to ride without assistance, so Melchar reluctantly resumed his
own place in the caravan for the darkening hours following the sunset. After
the moon peaked and began her descent toward the western horizon, however, he
heard Beltazaar coughing more frequently and noticed that he swayed unsteadily
forward in his saddle. Melchar moved alongside to lead Beltazaar’s mount for
the remainder of the night.
“How is he,” Darek drew his horse alongside Melchar.
“He looks bad.”
“He is weak and tired and old,” Melchar responded,
carefully impassive. “He is very sick.”
Darek gazed for a moment at the Star and turned to
Melchar, stricken. “Beltazaar has been a father to me, a mentor.” He swallowed
hard. “He always has an answer to my question. Who will answer my question when
Beltazaar is no longer among us?”
“A place of rest awaits him, until Ahura Mazda
triumphs over Angra Mainyu and welcomes the virtuous souls into his kingdom,”
Melchar reminded him. “Meditate upon the scriptures and take comfort in knowing
that you will see Beltazaar again in the afterlife.”
The words did not help, but both pretended
otherwise. Darek pulled ahead in the caravan, leaving Melchar alone with his
own regrets, hopeless wishes and helpless tears. He distracted himself from
Beltazaar’s condition by focusing on the guiding Star and contemplating the
prophecies by which the magi pursued this alien light.
The Jews had been carried away captive into
Babylon nearly half a millennium ago. When Cyrus ascended to the Persian throne
some four decades later, he promptly conquered the Medes and proceeded to take
Lydia and Babylon, thereby inheriting the captive Jews. One year after that,
Cyrus issued a decree permitting the Jews to return to Palestine and rebuild
their temple. Many of the captive Jews, however, chose their new life under
Persian rule over the opportunity, and the burden, of restoring Jerusalem.
Their descendents held faithfully to ancestral custom and faith and, as a result,
the Jewish prophecies were almost as well known among the magi as their own
Zoroastrian scriptures. Both religious studies predicted that a new star would
herald the arrival of a supernatural messiah of royal birth.
The brilliant entity the magi now followed had
appeared one night more than a year prior, vanishing at dawn to be seen no
more. No more, that is, until three months afterward, when preparations for the
journey had been completed and they had set out westward across the desert,
uncertain how far away in time and distance the assumed King would be found.
The Star had reappeared that night to the consternation of some and the delight
of all, for it proved not a stationary planet but a light that traveled without
the limitations of orbit or the boundaries of constellation that commonly ruled
the solar system. It was a miracle. It was a wonder. The Median priests had
pursued their Sign faithfully every night thereafter.
A ripple of unrest began at the head of the
caravan, the leaders slowing and pointing both straight ahead and toward the
sky. By the time Darek rode back to Melchar, the entire procession had halted.
Darek answered before Melchar asked.
“The Star appears to be slowing.” His breath
caught in his throat with excitement. “We must have achieved our glorious
destination! In the morning we will enter Jerusalem and enquire of Herod the
King as to whether we may gain audience with the child Prince.”
Jerusalem : January : 3 B.C.
Their entrance into the city was met with wide
eyes and jaws agape, this contingent of a royal priesthood who had traveled
more than one thousand miles in the wake of a Star that, it was foretold, would
lead them to a god-king. Deity or not, it was nevertheless in the best interest
of politics to welcome the Prince into the world with due benevolence. It was
never too soon to nurture good relations between ruling entities. Thus they
rode into Jerusalem on carefully groomed and costumed horses, Median
astrologers dressed in their finest apparel, mistaken by many to be exotic
kings and foreign rulers on the mere basis of first impression.
Seven magi presented themselves to Herod, who
received them with ill-concealed trepidation. Melchar was of necessity among
them, for he alone was fluent in the native dialects. Introductions were barely
accomplished before Herod inquired as to the purpose of their visit.
“We have come to pay homage to the new King, whose
birth was announced by the Star of prophecy.”
Herod blinked without expression, but his face
slowly turned crimson as he cogitated on the implications of Melchar’s answer.
As the revelation sank in, Herod called forth a weak smile and a number of
priests from the local temple to explain what such prophesies could possibly
have to do with Jerusalem.
Nothing, at this point in time, Herod’s priests
informed him. The Jewish messiah, the King of the Jews would, according to the
prophet Micah, be born in Bethlehem of Judea. A sign of the birth would indeed
be the appearance of a brilliant new star in the heavens.
“A Jewish King,” Herod arose from his throne and
descended the dais. He strolled away from the magi, then turned abruptly to face
them. Melchar distrusted the emotions that twisted Herod’s features with
amusement and rage. “When did this Star first appear, that would have announced
the child’s birth?”
Melchar reluctantly told him. “About sixteen
months ago.”
Herod nodded thoughtfully. “I must also pay homage
to this King,” he said at length, to Melchar. “Do seek him out and, when you
have found him, bring me word again, that I might visit the divine offspring
and serve him with appropriate respect.”
Seacouver : December 1999
Duncan studied the Bronze Age dagger with an
expression of equal gratitude and surprise. “Sure you aren’t parting with
memories too sweet to share?” he joked.
“Letting go of the past, one piece at a time,”
Methos responded with a brief smile. His gaze lingered again on the nativity
set.
Duncan rolled his eyes at Joe, but the Watcher was
becoming both concerned and curious as to Methos’ covert interest in the image
of the Ethiopian king.
Bethlehem : January : 3 B.C.
Beltazaar was, if nothing else, determined. He had
rallied from the verge of death yet again, awed as the rest when their caravan
crested a hill and looked out across the City of David. Their celestial guide
was no longer moving; it rested, still and serene and brilliant and
unmistakable, above Bethlehem.
Melchar dismounted and reached up to Beltazaar.
“We can sleep through the remainder of the night. We will search for the Jewish
messiah in the morning.”
“No,” Beltazaar protested. “We must find him now,
while the Star yet shines. His own people do not appear to know him, and we are
strangers here; how will we recognize him, when no man can lead us to him, if
we have not the Star to guide us?”
The message flowed like water throughout the
caravan and the other magi, whether in agreement with Beltazaar or out of
venerable respect, moved the caravan to the outskirts of the city. Leaving camp
underway, the magi continued into Bethlehem, searching for a place in which the
rays of light descending from the Star might meet the earth. Most walked, but
Beltazaar remained aboard his camel and Melchar rode his horse alongside. Dawn
would be coming soon; they hurried as best they could among the narrow streets
in search of the destination that should fulfill a world of prophecies.
They failed. After splitting up and searching the
whole of Bethlehem, no place was found of which the Star seemed especially
fond. After a dejected consultation, the magi trudged wearily toward the edge
of town, beyond which lay their camp.
And there it was. A small house, plain and
unpretentious, with a tiny woodshop attached to one side. It was the last home
on the outskirts of town, and they had trotted right past it hours before in
their haste to enter the city and locate the King. They stared at the simple
home bathed in Starlight, and Melchar shuddered as an involuntary chill wafted
the hairs on the back of his neck. He glanced at his contemporaries and found
similar reactions expressed on each face. They stared in reverent wonder until
Darek broke the silence. He spoke quietly, as though fearful of being the one
to interrupt the moment.
“We must return after the family has awakened. We
should back to camp now and record the last of the Star’s journey and its
destination; we need to prepare our gifts for the King.”
Seacouver : December 1999
“Where are you going? The weather is nasty out
there. I can hear sleet against the window.”
Methos pulled his jacket snug around his neck and
glanced at Joe. “There is one more gift I need to get.”
Joe snorted. “Good luck. Tomorrow is Christmas
Eve; I wouldn’t want to brave the masses that are going to be out tonight.”
Methos smirked his trademark smile. “Don’t worry;
I’ll survive.”
Duncan couldn’t resist: “Take care that you don’t
lose your head!”
Methos shot him a patronizing grin as the elevator
descended from the loft.
Bethlehem : January : 3 B.C.
Breakfast was accomplished on the merits of convention,
prepared and eaten in a vague acceptance that it must be, and therefore was,
done. Bethlehem awoke before dawn had fully exchanged her diaphanous nightwear
for daytime garb. The city was bustling with activity by the time the magi and
half the strength of their caravan approached the little house on the outskirts
of town.
Darek would have knocked on the door, had the
appearance of a man from the woodshop not spared him the effort. The stout
young carpenter, perhaps in his early thirties, gaped in astonishment at the
regal entourage before him. Melchar stepped forth and introduced them as the
Magi, the priesthood descended from those who served Zarathusthra for the kings
of the ancient Median-Persian empire, come to worship the Jewish King whose birth
was announced by the strange new Star.
Instead of expressing even greater incredulity at
this announcement, the Galilean relaxed as though such a visit were a perfectly
normal occurrence and pushed open the door of his house for them. “I am
Joseph,” he announced simply. “The child and His mother are here. You are
welcome in our home.”
They entered softly, as though afraid to disturb
some holy scene, but were immediately put at ease by the squeal of a young boy
scampering through the room, closely pursued by his mother.
“Mary,” Joseph nodded in her direction, “my wife.
The child you sought is Jesus.”
Melchar looked the young mother over with dismay;
she was a lovely girl, hardly more than a child, and would not be a woman for
years yet to come. He wondered if civilizations would ever advance to the point
that fathers would allow their daughters to become women before giving them in
marriage on the erroneous belief that as soon as a girl begins menstruating she
should begin bearing children. It grieved him to see girls not fully grown
carrying babies in their bellies, struggling to give birth, often dying in the
process. This girl should have been allowed to become a woman before becoming a
mother, he complained inwardly; she should have been allowed to fully mature
before having her bones so violently broken in childbirth. No vigorous man in
his thirties could comprehend the torture he was capable of inflicting on a
young virgin wife in the name of duty, procreation or even, sometimes, love.
But this child was fathered by a God, and a God
would have had no choice in the matter, Melchar thought, if He wanted His son
to be born of a virgin. Even God would have had to select a girl for the job in
order to fulfill His promise, because social structures rarely permitted a girl
to complete her teen years unmarried and childless.
His reverie was interrupted as his companions
drifted alongside and past him, filling the room and gazing with adoration at
the boy in his mother’s arms. Melchar looked around their little home, struck
by the incongruence of a King born to a carpenter. A King should possess wealth
and riches, not only for luxury and comfort, but because financial prosperity
was necessary for a ruler to have. How could the boy possibly hope to ascend to
any throne from these humble beginnings? Melchar was glad of the gift he had
chosen for the child. He stepped forward and lowered a cloth bag to the ground
beside Mary’s feet, opening it to reveal the gold coins inside. Her eyes
widened and misted over as she sat on a stool beside the gift with the boy on
her lap.
Others moved forward, then, with gifts of gold,
jewels, fine linens, offerings befitting the grandest of Kings. Melchar smiled
in approval. The foundations for prosperity were laid. Melchar wondered about
the kingdom this child would someday rule.
Darek approached, knelt before the boy and offered
an alabaster box of Frankincense, a sweet odor burned throughout the centuries
in religious ceremonies by priests offering oblations to their gods. Others
came behind Darek with similar gifts, all befitting a member of a royal
priesthood.
Melchar’s arm was grasped firmly in a trembling
grip as old Beltazaar moved past him on his way to Jesus. The elderly man sank
heavily to the floor by Mary’s feet and held forth a jar. Melchar’s stomach
gripped as he realized what it contained even as he understood, in accordance
with the Jewish predictions for the child’s eventual death, the significance of
such a gift. The child gripped the jar of myrrh with both hands as Mary took it
from Beltazaar and placed it on a table behind her stool. The boy reached out
to Beltazaar, who took the child from Mary into his own lap. Beltazaar rocked
the child and sobbed, heartbroken, as he recited the prophecies that foretold the
death of the man the boy would someday become.
Jesus cuddled against the old man and stroked his
shoulder, then drew back and playfully grabbed Beltazaar’s beard. “Don’t cry.”
He pulled down on the beard until he could kiss the wrinkled brown cheek. “Abba
loves you. Abba’s!” He pounded a small fist against Beltazaar’s chest. “Mine!”
The boy clapped his hands with exuberance and threw his little arms around
Beltazaar’s neck and squeezed tight as though he would never let go, while the
old man clung to the child and wept with unspeakable joy.
Seacouver : December 1999
Methos cursed the weather in the lost language of
the Medes, lost because it had not been documented before deceasing under the
influx of other languages that pervaded that region more than two millennia
before. Methos wondered who had come to the conclusion that such records did
not exist and how many others, like him, held such precious records in their
possession. Many a historian would give his life ten times over to possess any
one of Methos’ chronicles. He wriggled his shoulders coyly within the warmth of
his jacket; what they don’t know can’t hurt me; and keyed a number into
his cell phone.
“Curator’s office,” announced a tired male voice.
“Hello, Thomas, this is Adam.”
“Adam Pierson! How the devil have you been? The
museum is exceptionally grateful for your anonymous loan through the holiday
season. The artifacts are so appropriate for this time of year. We’ve had
literally thousands of visitors enamored of your Persian and Turkish
antiquities, especially those that hold specific relevance to the traditional
Christian themes. I can not begin to imagine how you managed to acquire such a
collection, and I can’t thank you enough for your willingness to share these
things with the museum.”
“Well, since you put it that way,” Methos’ voice
conveyed his smile, “I did call to ask a favor.”
“Name it. If it is within my power, you will have
it.”
Methos briefly stated his request and Thomas was
eager to comply.
“That’s it? I was afraid you would ask to borrow
something I do not have the authority to release. Come on by, then. I’ll be
here until at least midnight, anyway. Just knock on the side door. I’ll brew
some tea.”
Arabian Desert : February : 3 B.C.
“Melchar, awake! Hurry!”
Melchar responded to the panic in Darek’s voice by
abandoning his bedding for the chilly night breeze before he was even coherent.
He staggered, almost fell, as he muzzily realized that Darek was sprinting away
through the camp. Melchar pulled himself together and trotted after the younger
man, forcing himself to full consciousness as he ran.
Melchar smelled the stench as he approached the
tent. A group of men had already moved Beltazaar out under the open sky and
were dismantling his tent in order to burn it. Darek was weeping, heartbroken.
“We were talking, and he began speaking nonsense,”
Darek explained. “I could tell he was sick and I told him I would go and bring
you with your medicines. He called out to the boy Jesus, to the Jewish God, and
then he collapsed.” Darek raised tear-filled eyes to the sky. “It was the dream
that finished him. It was too great a dream for a frail old man. It was more
than he could bear.”
Melchar gave orders to wash the body as he
returned to his own tent to collect the spices and fragrances used in
embalming. He shuddered at the memory of that night in Bethlehem. After a day
spend in the presence of Joseph and Mary and the child King Jesus, the magi and
their attendants had collapsed into a grateful sleep in their camp outside the
city. Beltazaar experienced a violent dream that night, a visitation from the
God of the Jews who instructed him that the magi should return to their
homeland via a different route because King Herod meant to take their lives and
the life of the child they had traveled so far to see.
Melchar wanted to share this dream with Joseph and
encourage him to join the magi, with his wife and child, in order to escape
Herod’s intentions. Beltazaar shocked everyone by refusing to alert Joseph to
the danger, insisting that the same God who had spoken to him in a dream would
speak to Joseph as well in order that he might spare the child’s life. They had
broken camp immediately and set out due east, toward Jordan, before daybreak.
They were now in the middle of the Arabian desert,
miles from cities and civilizations, and Melchar had no spices with which to
embalm the man who had been to him, also, a priest, a father, a mentor. He
enquired throughout the company for spices, frankincense, myrrh, anything he
might use to prepare Beltazaar for a proper burial, but none were to be found;
all such possessions had been left behind in Bethlehem, gifted to the child
King.
Melchar raged, he wept, he beseeched the
constellations for those things he so desperately needed and in the end,
prepared the fragile old body in accordance with custom: removing the vital
internal organs and placing them in jars, cleansing the abdominal cavity and
filling it with sand in lieu of the frankincense, myrrh, and other aromatic
spices that should have sweetened the precious, deceased body. He wrapped
Beltazaar tightly in strips of clean cloth and watched in helpless despair as
laborers buried his beloved friend under the desert sands.
Seacouver : December 1999
A tear dropped to the earth and a snowflake
drifted softly down to land in it: a world of sorrow cleansed, for a moment, by
purity, perfection and flawless beauty. The snowflake melted and the tear was
gradually surrounded by myriad other droplets until both tear and snowflake
were washed away, leaving in their wake a timeless memory.
Methos sighed and shuddered and rapped sharply on
the curator’s door.
Thomas greeted Adam with an enthusiastic hug, took
his coat, sat him in front of a heater and shoved a delicate porcelain teacup
in his hand. Methos inhaled the warm, spicy fragrance as he sipped from the
tiny cup, placed it gingerly onto its saucer, and settled the fragile affair
onto the table beside his chair.
“In a hurry?” Thomas inquired. “Of course, you
would be. Look at the time, both the hour and the day! I haven’t much family
with whom to celebrate, and so I forget to show proper respect for the
schedules of those who do. Please forgive me.” He led Adam into the museum,
through a labyrinth of corridors to the gift shop. He produced a ring bristling
with keys, selected one without even looking, and unlocked the door.
Adam went straight to a display of imported
containers of various sizes, created from various materials, and selected a
small alabaster jar, approximately two inches tall, with a tight fitting lid.
“That is it? This is all you wanted? You may have
it, Adam. No, I won’t accept payment. Happy holidays. Ah, blasted telephone. I
had better take this call. You know the way to your collection, don’t you Adam?
Go on ahead, and I will catch up with you.”
Methos looked over the display of his memoirs,
each item conjuring forth its own memory. Hasting to accomplish his task before
Thomas should catch him in the process, he wrested the lid off a large
alabaster jar and, using a spoon from a different era, filled the small
container with a couple of scoops from the larger one. He then replaced both
lids, wiped the spoon clean, and returned to the gift shop. Thomas was involved
in intense conversation and it appeared he would be thus occupied a while.
Methos tucked the ancient spoon into Thomas’ pocket by way of a gift, and let
himself out into the cold.
Jerusalem : April : 45 A.D.
“Bless you for meeting with me,” the diminutive
elder took Melchar’s hand in greeting. “I have wanted to speak with you and
learn more about you since you introduced yourself to me outside the temple. I
still do not understand why you insist that you were with the magi who visited
Jesus when he was but a child. You are yourself too young to have been there at
all; you would not have even been born then!”
Melchar smiled. “I am older than I look; believe
me. I heard you were writing his story. I thought I might be able to provide a
few details.”
“You accept me, then, as a follower of Jesus.”
Melchar tilted his head in perplexity. “I
understand you were one of his disciples; that you witnessed firsthand the
sermons he preached, the miracles he performed, the love he showed every one he
met, regardless of their caste within the social structure.”
“Thank you,” the gentleman nodded. “Many people
never really accepted me as a man of God,” he informed Melchar wistfully. “I
had been a tax collector before Jesus invited me to follow him. I was a new man
from that day forward. But people remembered who I had been before. I had hurt
people, cheated them, took money from them that they needed to survive and
caused some of them to have to beg for their very bread. I am so sorry I did
such things. In some cases I was able to make restitution after I became a
disciple. But some people, no matter how much you change or how much remorse
you express for your errors, will never forgive you. They are so filled with
memories of what you were that they can not see the better man that you have
become. This is sad, but that is the way of it.”
Melchar nodded in mute agreement.
Seacouver : December 1999
“Ah, he has returned!” Joe strummed his guitar for
emphasis. “He did indeed survive!”
“You’re dripping,” Duncan complained. “At least
stand on the rug.”
Methos complied as he peeled off his jacket and
stepped out of his wet shoes.
“No luck?” Joe asked.
Methos retrieved his jacket in response and pulled
a small jar from one of the pockets. “Who is that for?” Duncan wanted to know.
“It is a gift for your crèche; for one of the
members of your crèche.” Methos knelt beside the figures on the floor and
stuffed the little alabaster jar into the saddlebag of the camel that belonged
to the Ethiopian King.
“What is it, and why, if you don’t mind?”
Methos smiled at Joe. “I don’t mind. It is myrrh.
Tradition has it that this king, Balthasar, offered myrrh to the Christ child.
Gaspar offered Frankincense, and Melchoir offered gold. Myrrh, however, was
special; it was a product that a wealthy man of that period would store away
against the event of his own death, to ensure proper embalming and burial.
Chances are that if Balthasar presented myrrh to Jesus, he was giving his own
supply away.”
“He could have bought more for himself later,” Joe
surmised.
“I am sure he would have,” Methos gently touched
the porcelain hand of the Ethiopian king. “Had he been granted the opportunity
to do so.”
“I won’t offend you by singing the song,” Joe said
regretfully.
“You can sing it,” Methos said. “I don’t mind. But
would you mind skipping the first verse?”
Joe grinned. “You got it!” His fingers
effortlessly located the chords and he began to sing: Born a babe on
Bethlehem's plain; Gold we bring to crown Him again...
Methos closed his eyes, leaned back against the
coffee table, and listened. At the fourth verse he accepted a bottle from
Duncan, got to his feet and joined in: Myrrh is mine; its bitter perfume
breathes a life of gathering gloom; Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying, Seal'd
in the stone-cold tomb…
He clinked his bottle against Duncan’s, then
against the gift of Maker’s Mark that Joe hovered possessively near. “Merry
Christmas,” he smiled at the crèche; “to everyone who celebrates the season in
the tradition of their choice.”
“Merry Christmas,” Duncan and Joe echoed the
sentiment, and all stopped to listen to carolers walking the streets below.
Hark, the herald angels sing…
“You know, Matthew was the only disciple who wrote
about the journey of the magi. The physician Luke records the visitation of the
angels to the shepherds, but he says nothing about the heavenly host breaking
into song…”
Methos ducked a projectile ornament thrown by
Duncan, and another hurled by Joe as he scrambled into his shoes and grabbed
his jacket.
“See you guys tomorrow,” and he fled to the
elevator.
“Yeah, we can’t have Christmas without the
turkey!” Joe yelled after him.
“Luke the physician,” Duncan mused after Methos
had gone. “Do you think he and the old guy might have been contemporaries?”
“We’ll never know all the things that old man
could tell us, because there are too many things he isn’t willing to share,”
the Watcher retorted. “And even if he would…I’m not sure I’d want to know it
all.”
Duncan laughed as Joe threw back his head and sang
lustily along with the carolers.
Hark, the herald angels sing! Glory to the
newborn King!
Christmas blessings and holiday hugs,
Storie