Destiny

TWENTY-SIX

Marcus carried his notes and laptop from the university to his parked car. He thought about the deciphered, jumbled information he’d stumbled upon from his translations. The Kennedy connection — was it real? Was it happenstance? Why this revelation? And why now? And how did Newton come up with my name — if it is my name?

“Can I give you a hand getting that in the car?”

Marcus turned around. The man was a silhouette, standing alone in the lot, the sun setting far behind the Jerusalem Academy of Music and Dance across the street. “Remember me, Mr. Marcus? I was the one who met you at the airport.”

“Yes, yes I do. Elam Mandel, right?”

The man smiled. “Yes. Please, let me take some of the load while you find your car keys.”

“Thanks.” Marcus kept his laptop, but handed him a box of papers while he opened the car trunk. He put the laptop inside, and Elam did the same with the box. “I haven’t seen you since the morning you met me at the airport.”

“I stay pretty busy with school and work. How are you coming with your research?”

“Good, I think.” Marcus glanced around the parking lot. “Look, Elam, that day I rode in with you…you told me about a guy, an American soldier who became an Israeli general back in the mid-to-late forties.”

“Yes, he was David Marcus. You share the same surname, of course. What about him?”

Marcus blew out a long breath, his mouth now dry. “You said he was killed. Where did it happen?”

“Near Abu Ghosh. He was killed by a single shot from a lone sentry because David Marcus didn’t know the password in Hebrew. It was a very unfortunate accident. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. Are there parts of the Burma Road in Israel that are unpaved today?”

“Yes, the most scenic parts.”

Marcus parked his car off the side of the road and followed a sign marking the red trail of the Burma Road. He started walking the narrow dirt road, which seemed more like a goat trail, scraped and carved long ago from the ribs of the hilly terrain. Boulders, some large as small cars, others the size of watermelons, were strewn along the rough path.

As he climbed, Marcus could see the changes in topography, the swayback hills to the north, the Judean Mountains to the east. He continued to go up a steep hill, his leg muscles tightening, his heart pumping, lungs sucking in air scented from lilies and cedar.

When he reached the summit, he stopped and stood on an outcropping of ancient rock. Far below, he could see how the trail descended in a series of S curves dotted with native shrubs and cedars. Marcus simply stood and felt the breeze blowing across the basin from the west where the sun was melting into an indigo Mediterranean Sea. The valleys and meadows were textured in shades of olive green, dark lime and emerald. Flowered quilts, woven in white and lavender lilies, draped the sides of the hills.

Marcus sat on the rock, his feet dangling over the side, his thoughts on the recent events, contemplating the meaning of it all — if there was a meaning. What will I find here? Am I supposed to find something? I can’t even find my family’s killer. He closed his eyes. A gentle wind from the sea came across the valley, the air cool against his face. He opened his eyes. The setting sun cut through a cloud, painting the hills and valleys in hues of harvest hay, sea green and jade. His senses were suddenly very acute — the sound of birds in the trees, the hum of a bee in the flowers, the scent of almonds and olives from a field below him. He felt his heartbeat slowing, an absolute tranquility moving through his body, stillness, and a presence he had never experienced in his life until now. In this moment in time — why?

He missed the mountains of Virginia, and he missed Jennifer and Tiffany, terribly. In a slow motion replay of his life, he could see their faces as they rode the horses, the wind in their hair, the laughter — their sweet, pure laughter. He missed the fragrance of shampoo in Jen’s hair, and the way she would lock her arms around him in the kitchen when he made coffee on Sunday mornings. He remembered holidays with his wife and daughter, carving pumpkins, eating ice cream, the summers on Virginia Beach.

Marcus drew in a deep breath as two sparrows alighted upon a date palm. They chirped and flittered among the palm fronds, then the wind changed and the birds flew to a huge rock less than ten feet from him. The larger of the two sparrows had a red berry in its beak. It fed the berry to the smaller bird and then preened its feathers. The largest bird flew, turned quickly and perched on a granite rock next to Marcus, tilting its head, watching him. He could see the golden pin drop of sunset in the sparrow’s dark eyes. After a few seconds, the bird chirped and flew from the rock, the smaller sparrow flapping its wings and following. Marcus watched them fly west toward the crescent of golden sun slipping into the vacant copper sea.