Destiny

FIFTY-ONE

Marcus exited the Old City through Lion’s Gate. He walked by Golden Gate, which had been sealed closed for twelve centuries, and up to Jericho Road toward the Mount of Olives. Within a few minutes, the sun was turning the clouds in the west into tapestries of mauve and scarlet. Walking east on the ancient road, the Old City was to his left, the air warm, the smell of cedar trees and dust in the breeze. He hiked past the western slope of the Mount of Olives and the Jewish cemetery, thousands of rectangle crypts casting long shadows in the sunset.

Bahir had told him to watch for the golden onion-shaped domes from the Church of Mary Magdalene. Soon, he spotted the iconic Russian architecture of the seven domes, like fairytale castles aflame with reflections of an orange sun dipping below the horizon. Near there he would find the Church of All Nations and the Garden of Gethsemane.

A dozen or so tourists exited from the church with a mosaic of Christ above the arched entrance. The montage was of Christ with his hands open, his eyes looking up, flanked by people bowing their heads. A kneeling woman held a child in her lap. Marcus studied the mural for a moment. As the tourists walked by, a fleshy man, face shining with perspiration, wearing a disheveled Nike golf shirt, looked back at the mural and said, “They told us the wall painting tells the story of the Day of Judgment. Damn inspiring, you know?”

Marcus nodded. A woman next to the man said, “The church is closing. We were the last people in there today. C’mon, Randy, the group is ahead of us, and we gotta catch the bus.” They left and Marcus walked toward the side of the old church where a small black-and-white sign, shaped like an arrow, spelled ENTRY. Above the stone entryway were the words HORTVS GETHSEMANI. Over that was a white stone chiseled to resemble a shield. Carved into the shield was a large cross with a smaller cross engraved into each of its four quadrants, for a total of five crosses. Marcus felt his pulse quicken. ‘…from the five crosses…to the head of the garden…’

There was the creak of hinges in need of oil. Marcus looked down when an elderly Russian nun, face pinched from sun and time, shoulders stooped, reached up to shut the iron gates. Through the bars she said, “I’m sorry. We’re closing for the day.” She nodded and turned to walk away.

“Is this the head of the garden?” Marcus asked.

“The head? What do you mean, sir?”

“I’m not sure, really.”

She tilted her face and looked up at Marcus, blinking hard a few times, the orange sunset giving her eyes the hue of aged pennies. “I don’t think the garden has a head or a tail, for that matter. For the last hundred years or so, people have come though this gate.”

Marcus smiled. “By head, I meant an entrance, beginning, and end…or an exit.”

She nodded. “I must go now. Good evening, sir.”

“Wait, please. Is there a statue somewhere in here? Or is there a painting of someone crying…one eye is weeping and the other is not?”

“The mosaic on the front of the church…it is said our Lord is weeping in the picture. I do not know if He sheds tears from only one eye. I must leave now.”

“I know you have rules, but may I look around the garden? I promise to lock the gate on my way out.”

The old nun considered the request for a moment. A sudden cool wind blew in from the belly of the Kidron Valley and tumbled over the Mount of Olives, jostling the boughs of a eucalyptus tree near the gate. Then the wind stopped as abruptly as it had arrived. A rooster crowed somewhere in the hills behind the Church of Mary Magdalene. The nun seemed to stand a little straighter, her eyes searching Marcus’s face. She touched a silver cross hanging from her neck. “May you find what you seek,” she said. “Enter, please. I’m Sister Nemov. I have supper to fix for others up the hill. Just pull the gate shut when you leave. It will lock on its own.”

“Thank you. I’m Paul Marcus.”

Sister Nemov nodded, eyes closed for a second. She clasped her hands together, knuckles the size of pecans, swollen from arthritis, and stood to one side when Marcus walked through the open gate. She said, “Perhaps you would want to enter the church. It is very beautiful. The Holy Rock of Agony is there, too.”

“I appreciate that.” Marcus looked around the entryway. There was nothing but old, cut stone and a cobblestone path bordered by white lilies and flowers he’d never seen. “Those flowers smell like junipers.”

The old woman smiled. “They are called Myrtus. It’s a Hebrew word.”

Marcus thought about his conversation with Nathan Levy. Code named Myrtus.

Sister Nemov said, “Most people call them myrtle, and it’s the leaves which have the pleasant smell, not the blossoms. However, the blossoms always reminded me of stars, maybe the morning star, because they have five petals.” She nodded, turned and walked up the hill, limping slightly on her left side moving toward the golden domes of the church of Mary Magdalene.

Marcus stepped into the Church of All Nations, the smell of burning candles, incense, and scented oils wafting from the small sanctuary. The altar, framed by four large marble columns, was made of white stone. Behind it, from floor to ceiling, was a vertical mural depicting Jesus praying on a rock, olive trees to the left and right, an angel hovering high in the sky above him.

Marcus walked slowly, looking at the murals, statues and paintings. He came across a rock, resembling a section of granite, undulated with pits and swells, maybe ten-by-ten in size. It was in the middle of a hall, past a simple altar, where just beyond it, seven candles burned. A few spotlights illuminated a carved image of Jesus hanging from a wooden cross. A small wrought iron barrier surrounded the rock on the floor. It was apparently installed to prevent people from walking across the stone, but diminutive enough to allow them to kneel and touch the rock.

Marcus could see that the creamy white stone was darkened in places near the edges. It was tinged with light browns and mustard yellows, colors a flame could turn a marshmallow. He assumed it was from the multitude of hands that had pressed against the stone supporting people and their prayers. Marcus stepped to the edge of the ancient rock. He looked up above the altar to the image of Jesus nailed to the cross, the light from the flickering candles casting moving shadows over the cross. He felt tightness in his chest, his mouth dry…to the head of the garden, one eye weeps for man, and one sees revelation in the direction of the temple measured by Solomon, a rose without thorns blooms under a new sun. The truth is found fewer than two hundred shadows of the moon, for the shadow is to the seeker as the seeker is to the shadow.