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Whenever Raanan managed time away from mopping and general maintenance around the spa, he took his motorbike into the hills not far from the Dead Sea coast.
His father had warned him of the dangers exploring the barren hillsides, so Raanan always carried an old but well-maintained Beretta, with an extra clip. Useful for snakes and similar human vermin that prowled the traveled routes and occasionally the more rugged areas.
Raanan always left his grandfather a map the night before his excursion, detailing where he’d be. Raanan’s elders counseled him, stating his ventures were a waste of time.
When Raanan’s grandfather was a teenager, archeologists and treasure seekers had already spent decades combing the hills, digging at every ancient settlement no matter how small, exploring every crevice or cave that might contain ancient treasures. There were no more artifacts of value, only a few pottery shards. No more ancient scrolls to be found. But Raanan knew his elders were wrong.
As on every other time out, Raanan hid his motorbike, pulled out his flashlight, and examined his meticulously drawn map against the pre-dawn landmarks and the wooden stake he’d driven into the hillside during his last visit.
A few minutes later, the teenager began climbing toward what he’d labeled grid section 197. Raanan shivered with enthusiasm, imagining the fame and fortune he’d earn. And the satisfaction of proving his grandfather wrong.
As the sun rose the heat increased. Raanan took another sip of water from his canteen and surveyed the rock-strewn hillside. He spotted a change in the color scheme, probably in grid 198. Experience told Raanan it suggested a minor landslide, possibly uncovering something new. With a practiced eye, he studied the terrain and planned his approach.
The footing was treacherous, and the sun continued to climb higher in the sky. The resulting heat began to sap Raanan’s strength. Fist-sized rocks tumbled down as he angled his way toward the site of the slide, all the while reminding himself to make a special note on his map so he wouldn’t waste time exploring the same territory twice.
Raanan’s heart raced. What at a distance appeared to be a narrow fissure, housed a hole roughly 70 centimeters in diameter. Raanan calmed himself; he’d been disappointed by similar finds. He adjusted the beam of his mini-flashlight and shone it in. A cave, and deep!
He slid off his backpack and took a steadying breath. With the flashlight clenched between his teeth, and the wooden stake in hand to fend off any snakes or scorpions that might have taken up residence, he climbed in. The walls were solid and unlikely to collapse. Beyond the opening the tunnel widened and angled upward. Raanan had to push some rocks aside before crawling past them.
After fifteen feet his flashlight’s beam terminated on a wall, announcing the cave’s end. The explorer let out a depressed sigh but, determined to finish the job, he climbed forward on his elbows for a final inspection. There, in the back, rested something. Rounded, gray with hints of brown. A clay pot? And topped with a lid!
Raanan reached ahead to push a dust-covered rock aside. It was lighter than he expected and his fingers curled into two holes. He spun it around and stared into a pair of dark orbs. Several seconds passed before it registered, causing Raanan to drop the dead man’s skull.
Tsivyah crept up on his older brother, Nadab, as quietly as his sandaled feet would allow. The morning sun brought warming air, and Nadab faced the closed window as if praying for a breeze to blow upon his lightly bearded face as he sat perched on his stool. Since Nadab was practicing on rectangular cuts of parchment instead of scrolls, he leaned over the square wooden table instead of the long stone one.
After stretching his fingers and closing his eyes for several seconds, Nadab dipped his stylus into the terracotta inkwell and continued writing.
Tsivyah inched closer and held his breath while peering over Nadab’s hunched shoulders, squinting to read what his brother had written. Tsivyah’d guessed right about transcribing, as he could see the section of exposed scroll and what his brother inked. He couldn’t yet read Greek, which his brother had recently begun translating under their father’s watchful eye.
Tsivyah skimmed the Hebrew lettering his brother meticulously practiced, striving to improve his control and clarity of script. The intense concentration always left Nadab oblivious to all else, except the infrequent patrols by Roman soldiers, men he hated. Those always distracted him and left him in a bad mood.
Tsivyah scanned the parchment and immediately caught sight of the first letter combination he’d learned to recognize: Yod, Shin, Vav, Ayin. Y’shua. He even knew the oral translation into Greek: Jesus.
Tsivyah’s eyes darted from the scroll to the parchment and back. The youth was sure he was comparing the corresponding section of the scroll with the lines his brother had just inked. The words transcribed didn’t match. Tsivyah’s gasp betrayed his presence.
Nadab jumped to his feet and stood between Tsivyah and the table. “What are you doing? You should be bringing up water.”
Tsivyah stepped to his left, trying to catch another glimpse of the parchment on the table. “I’ve finished that task.”
Nadab slid do his right, blocking his ever curious brother’s view. “Father assigned other chores.”
“He sent me to get you.” Tsivyah stepped back and crossed his arms. “I saw what you wrote. The Messiah never spoke those words to the Pharisees.”
“You don’t know that, younger brother.”
“I do. I have listened to Father, and to Uncle Boaz. And I can read.”
“You are too young to know.”
“I am not.” Tsivyah pointed around his brother, from parchment to scroll. “What is written there you did not copy from there.”
Nadab gritted his teeth. “It is what he should have said.” Responding to his brother’s wide eyes, he added, “It is just practice anyway.”
“It is wrong,” accused Tsivyah, sensing now, for once, he had the high ground on his brother.
Looking down, Nadab’s eyes narrowed. “You will say nothing of this to Father. Ever!”
“I should and I shall.”
“If you do, younger brother, I shall let it be known that you have gazed upon Adva from afar when you should not have.”
The statement stunned Tsivyah. Ovadia’s eldest daughter was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. And he had spied upon her when he shouldn’t have. How did Nadab know?
Nadab smiled. “It is difficult to guess who would be more angry, Father or Odvadia, Adva’s father.”
Tsivyah didn’t intend to give up the high ground without a struggle. “Just because I have sinned, does not make your sin any less.”
“I have not sinned,” said Nadab.
“Then show Father what you have written.”
It was Nadab’s turn to cross his arms. “Father does not care what I write so long as my skill improves.”
Tsivyah stomped his foot. “What you have written should be burned.” He guessed Nadab would keep the false transcription, hiding it in the box Grandfather had given him.
“Your oath, younger brother, that you will not tell anyone of my writing. And you will not destroy my writing either. Any of it.”
“Or?” asked Tsivyah, his voice beginning to lack confidence.
“I have already told you, younger brother.”
Tsivyah’s head hung in defeat. “It is wrong that you have written what you have, older brother. But I will not say a word to anyone. And I will not burn or destroy what you have written.”
In the end, Tsivyah knew what he must to do.
Nadab would forever have the moral high ground; he could reveal his younger brother’s sin at any time. And even though Nadab claimed there was nothing wrong with his false transcriptions, Tsivyah knew Father would not approve. But Nadab could destroy them at any time, abolishing evidence of his wrong. Tsivyah wasn’t sure how Nadab knew of his desire for Adva, and the dark path it had led him down, but he needed to keep Nadab’s tongue restrained.
Because of his oath, Tsivyah could not mention or destroy his brother’s writings. That didn’t prohibit taking and hiding them. Tsivyah could secure the wrong his brother had scribed while keeping his oath.
As Tsivyah prepared and set his plan into action, his heart felt heavy, as if stained by the same black ink his brother had used. Even so, he hid a clay urn behind sacks of wool in the stable. The urn selected was rarely used and not likely to be missed or sought after by his mother. He also obtained a beeswax candle stub from his uncle’s home.
Then, the morning Father, Nadab, and Uncle Boaz set off north for two days and one night to trade wool blankets for grain and wine, Tsivyah raced through his chores. When Mother and Aunt Avigayil were busy preparing food, he took the writings from the gifted box. He carefully rolled them in a fold of goat skin and secured it with a leather thong before stealing out to the stable.
Father had taken both the ox and mule, so the stable was empty and Tsivyah worked undisturbed. He placed the wrapped papers within the urn and sealed the lid using candle drippings. Then, after bringing up more water in the afternoon, Tsivyah snuck off into the nearby hills with the sealed urn tied securely in a sack slung over his shoulder.
It had been three summers since Grandfather had fallen, unable to move his left arm and leg. Earlier that day, a Roman centurion had knocked him to the ground for not stepping aside quickly enough. Later that night, the family’s patriarch lost the ability to speak and before morning’s first light he was dead. Each day for a week after his grandfather’s passing, Tsivyah had wandered into the hills. On the seventh day he came across a cave, a thing he kept secret, especially from his brother.
Tsivyah trotted into the hills toward his secret cave, constantly looking over his shoulder. Guilt, more than the prospect of his mother or aunt, or even a shepherd looking for a lost sheep, cried out for vigilant caution. He ran along an old goat path, watching the steep hillsides before stopping at the base of a particular one. Tsivyah wiped sweat from his brow and scanned the area one last time before beginning the climb up to the crevice that held his cave.
About halfway up Tsivyah stopped. Chewing his lip, he considered his deceitful actions. No, he’d gone too far to change his mind now. He would hide the urn containing Nadab’s false writings. In his cave they would be safe, and he could bring them forth as proof of his brother’s wrong should Nadab ever speak of his younger brother’s sin.
It wasn’t a difficult climb for Tsivyah; he’d made it many times. The sun had long begun to drop in the sky and, despite the cave tunnel angling slightly upward, weak sunlight penetrated its depths.
Tsivyah caught his breath while perched on a small ledge to the right of the crevice. Not a cloud in the sky, nor a soul in sight. He leaned over and looked into his cave. The small pyramid of rocks he’d set had been disturbed: knocked over but not scattered. Once, the previous year, a young wildcat had taken up residence. Then, Tsivyah had noted tufts of fur near the entrance, and a stone tossed into the cave earned a snarling response. A week later, Tsivyah found the wildcat’s carcass at the base of the hill.
He chucked one of the pyramid stones into the cave and listened to its clatter. A second toss gave the same result. Checking one last time around the entrance, he slid the sack from his shoulder and placed it in the cave mouth ahead of him.
When he first discovered the cave, Tsivyah found it much less confining. He’d even been able to turn about by slinking his body around in the knob-like alcove to the right near the cave’s end. Not anymore with three years of growth. Tsivyah crawled into the cave, pushing the urn-holding sack ahead of him. His body blocked much of the light, so he stopped and allowed his eyes to adjust. While waiting, he untied the sack and pulled out the urn. By touch more than sight, he could tell it was still sealed and uncracked.
Tsivyah considered the cave’s shadowy contours. At some time in the past, someone had widened and smoothed it. Probably a thief or renegade, someone seeking to evade Roman soldiers.
Tsivyah was near the cave’s end when the sound of wind caught his ear. He froze. The sound wasn’t coming from the cave’s mouth behind him, but just ahead, to his right. He recognized the chilling, rasping noise. Ef’eh — viper!
What could he do? Pushing the urn ahead of him, Tsivyah’s right arm was extended and exposed to the venomous snake in the alcove. He could just make out the dark shape undulating and rubbing its scales across one another, sounding its threat.
Sweat poured from Tsivyah, some of it into his eyes, stinging them. The saw-scaled viper continued its agitated threat. The boy didn’t know what to do: try to draw his right hand back slowly and creep back out of the cave, or yank back and scuttle away as fast as he could?
What would his father do? His father would never have gotten himself in such a position. His brother, Nadab? He would shove the urn at the snake and then try to get away. But if he missed the snake, he’d have swung his hand left into the serpent’s venom-filled fangs. Tsivyah decided his best chance was to yank his right hand back; his left was protected by the urn. And then back out fast.
Tsivyah counted to five, paced by his racing heartbeat, then jerked his right hand back. The viper shot forward, missing. Instinct cried out for Tsivyah to jump away, and he did, slamming his head against the cave ceiling.
White lights flashed before Tsivyah’s eyes and he felt dizzy. Then, the viper stuck again. The bite, injecting a deadly neuro- and hemotoxic cocktail, sent fiery pain into Tsivyah’s left wrist. His thoughts were clouded as he shook his arm free of the snake. He unsteadily began crawling backwards, the white light closing into gray. He dropped, unconscious, with a prayer asking forgiveness on his lips.
Debbie Hollins trailed behind her father, up the steps and out of the lecture hall. John Hollins, associate professor and biblical scholar, nodded to several graduate students as he waited for his daughter to catch up.
“I imagine that wasn’t very exciting,” he said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I have office hours until noon. Only one scheduled appointment, then lunch.”
Debbie adjusted the strap to her book bag. Watching her dad discuss ancient Hebrew culture while fifty students wrote furiously in their notebooks or tapped away on their laptops almost put her to sleep. She’d done her best, trying not to yawn and embarrass her father. Still, ‘Take Your Daughter to Work Day’ was better than sitting in pre-algebra. Debbie learned one thing for sure: History never changed. Mr. Ulm, her 7th grade American History teacher, used yellowed and stained overhead transparencies just like her father.
“This way, kiddo,” said Debbie’s dad. “We’ll take the stairs.”
Debbie had been in her father’s office plenty of times and never once was it exciting. A wooden desk facing the single window, gray file cabinets, chairs with orange striped cushions — probably from the 70’s — packed bookshelves filling every wall, and two long tables, one lined with stacked papers, most clipped into file folders.
But today, something was different. “When did you get that?” Debbie asked, pointing to the twenty-two inch LCD flat screen monitor. She knew it was against university policy to access games through the network, but she’d brought her Dirty Dancing DVD. He’d let her watch it last summer when he wasn’t using the computer.
Dr. Hollins smiled. “I convinced the department chair that your old man’s eyes needed it to complete his work.”
“Who is your appointment with?” Debbie asked, trying to determine if her father would be on his computer. Even if he wouldn’t let her watch a movie, she could work on her essay, telling what she saw and learned during her day at her father’s work.
“My graduate assistant, Anthony Stilzonie,” he said, switching on his computer. “You remember him from the barbeque?”
Debbie nodded, recalling Anthony. Tall with dark curly hair, and a big nose – but in a handsome sort of way. He stuck out from the other grad students in her father’s department. He was smart and funny, but Debbie thought he worked too hard trying to be the center of attention.
Just as Debbie got out her iPod, her father’s grad assistant knocked on the half-opened door before hurrying into the office. He stuttered in his stride, before flashing a toothy smile. “Debbie, right? I forgot Dr. Hollins said you’d be with him today.”
Debbie smiled back, trying to decide if he remembered her name from the barbeque or because her father said she’d be there.
Anthony set a stack of papers on the empty table, but held onto a clipboard. “Here are the quizzes from section one of your Sociology of Religion.”
“How did they do?” asked Dr. Hollins, leaning back in his office chair.
“Pretty good. I put a sticky-note on three you might want to look at.” Anthony strummed his finger over ragged loose leaf papers held by his clipboard.
Debbie slipped in her iPod’s earpiece but kept the volume low so she could hear what her father’s grad assistant was dying to tell him. Maybe something she could put in her essay. She’d already forgotten most of what her father had talked about during his morning lecture.
Her father sensed his assistant’s excitement as well. “What else have you got for me, Anthony?”
The grad assistant spread his clipped notes across the table. “This is so unprecedented!”
Debbie watched her father press his hands together at the fingertips and nod knowingly.
“Come on, Dr. Hollins.” Anthony held up several pages that looked like photographs of ancient-lettered jigsaw puzzles along with his handwritten English translations. “You’ve already translated this!”
“Okay, Anthony, tell me what you came up with.”
Anthony talked ten miles a minute, pointing and gesturing, and totally unable to sit down. He went on and on about how what he’d translated would change Christian dogma and religious canon. Debbie never missed church, and had attended Sunday school since the age of three. But she had trouble following what Anthony was saying.
Her father continued to nod and jotted an occasional note on a legal pad and finally interrupted his graduate assistant. “Anthony, before you go any further, I have a few questions for you.”
Anthony’s eyebrows rose. “Okay, shoot.”
“First, did you study and become familiar with how the scribe formed each letter of the Hebrew alphabet?”
Anthony nodded.
“And after that, did you determine, for this particular set of writings, how many scribes there were?”
Anthony pointed to his first page of notes. “I believe there was one. Only one.”
“I agree,” said Dr. Hollins, turning to open a document on his computer. “Did you note any variations?”
Anthony pointed to another page in his notes, like he was trying to reinforce to his mentor that he’d indeed done his homework. “Yes, I did. For a few hours I thought it might be two scribes.”
Dr. Hollins nodded, then turned back to his computer screen and highlighted a section of the pieced-together ancient Hebrew text. “Such as here?”
Debbie knew something was up with her father, that he was going to reveal something to his grad student. She’d heard the same calm voice, seen the same intense look in his eyes, the same creases in his brow. And she bet that Anthony wasn’t going to like it.
Anthony squinted. “That’s one of four instances, Dr. Hollins.”
“And what’s different about this as compared to the majority of the text?”
Possibly sensing a trap, Anthony shuffled through his notes. “On average, I measured the size of the lettering. Roughly ten percent smaller. With five percent less space between the letters.” He set his handwritten notes down. “But the lettering is virtually identical in formation. Thus, only one scribe.”
“What about the spelling?”
“The name Pilate is spelled differently in the smaller, more narrowly spaced lettering. But I researched, and although quite rare, the spelling in the passage you’ve highlighted has been observed in two other instances in scrolls roughly dated to that time period.”
Dr. Hollins said, “I agree with the archeological assessments and carbon-dating of the skull and other remains found in the cave. The writings date to roughly the mid-second century.”
“But...” Anthony began.
“You know my view on idiosyncratic theories.”
Debbie had no clue what her father had just said, but Anthony did.
“Are you implying that this set of writings is in some way Gnostic? This text is clearly an example of the Gospel of Luke.”
“One could argue that the identified passages contain elements contrary to Christian doctrine.”
Anthony stood erect and crossed his arms. “So, who’s to say this scroll isn’t accurate? Luke was a companion of Paul. Neither was an eyewitness to Christ’s life.”
Dr. Hollins pressed his fingertips together. “The content of Luke agrees with Matthew, Mark and John. No contradictions. Makes him an accurate historian, interviewing and recording eyewitness accounts, including the disciples.”
“Right,” said Anthony, pointing to the screen. “But it’s clearly there. No missing fragments, or guesswork. The writing is there. The words are there.”
Debbie looked at the screen filled with cryptic lettering, wondering what they were talking about.
“This is an important find.”
“I disagree. Unless a second instance is located. Nobody will take it seriously, Anthony.”
“They will. The translation is clear.”
“Let me rephrase. No one scholarly or knowledgeable will. You may garner a few interviews, maybe even a one-hour documentary. But the sensation will fade, as will your credibility.”
Debbie watched Anthony’s jaw muscles tighten, his cheeks redden. Even so, her father stood and put his arm on his grad assistant’s shoulder. “Think it over, Anthony. Our community is pretty small. Would the short-term notoriety be worth risking your reputation? Possibly your acceptance into a doctoral program?”
Anthony took a deep breath and exhaled. His eyes fell on Debbie, widening as if he’d forgotten she was in the office. “What are you going to do with the translation, Dr. Hollins?”
Debbie’s father gathered up Anthony’s papers and handed them back to him. “We’ll publish it, of course. In the proper context.”
“It’ll end up nothing more than a footnote.”
“If that’s what it merits. We’ll discuss it tomorrow, over lunch. My treat.”
“Okay,” said Anthony, shuffling toward the door. He turned, showing a weak smile. “Good to see you again, Debbie.”
Debbie didn’t know what to say, other than, “You too.”
As Anthony’s echoing footsteps faded, Dr. Hollins asked his daughter, “So, that should be something interesting for your essay.”
“He seemed pretty upset with you, Dad. What was he talking about?”
Debbie’s father signaled her over and brought up a new picture on the screen that showed a narrow cave with a clay pot, a skull, and a few scattered bones. “For decades and still to this day archeologists search the Holy Land for caves like this one, harboring ancient scrolls. This one was found by an Israeli teen, only several years older than you.”
“That skull looks pretty creepy. Was it from, like, a slave, buried with it all?”
Her father shrugged. “Maybe. Possibly the author of the scrolls.”
“What’d he write that Anthony thinks is so important?”
“Debbie, we’ve watched documentaries. Ones claiming to have found the burial tomb of Christ, or a lost gospel?”
“Yeah, until you get mad and turn ‘em off.”
Her father laughed. “Yes, I do tend to do that.”
Debbie playfully rolled her eyes. “After making me and Mom sit down and watch it with you. But what did Anthony find?”
“Okay, Debbie. First, let me tell you what Anthony forgot.”
Debbie returned to her chair, trying not to frown. She knew her father would answer her question, eventually.
“One of the most important lessons that can be drawn from the ancient scrolls found,” he explained, “is that the Bible has been copied with amazing faithfulness for thousands of years. And manuscripts like this are compared to other ancient texts of the same passage, looking for similarities and differences. Which texts it predates and which it postdates. For clues as to how it was transmitted.”
Her father switched back to the picture with a section of text highlighted. “This one appears to have been transcribed, copied from one scroll to another.” Gazing intently at the writing, he added, “Let me put it this way. As evidenced by the overall text, this particular scribe appears to have been inexperienced, and in four identified instances, he inserted a nonstandard verse into the text. Smaller, less sure strokes and misspellings, suggest those parts weren’t copied.”
“Come on, Dad. Why? What’d he write?”
“Okay, Debbie. You know some scripture. Let me read what the scribe wrote and see if it sounds right to you. ‘And when they were come to the place, which is called Calvary, there they crucified him, and the malefactors, one on the right hand and the other on the left. Then Jesus said, Father forgive them — except for Pilate and Herod and those that arrested me — for they know not what they do’.”
“That isn’t right.”
Her father nodded.
“What does it mean?”
“Possibly that someone — this scribe, or his community — had an agenda.”
Debbie thought back to Mr. Ulm’s history class, one of his boring lectures. She might have even earned extra credit with her observation: “Trying to change history by rewriting it?”
“Fictional History” first appeared in Bewildering Stories,
October 2009
If you enjoyed Genre Shotgun, try Outpost by Terry W. Ervin II.
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About the Author
Terry W. Ervin II is an English teacher who enjoys writing Fantasy and Science Fiction. He is an editor for MindFlights, a guest columnist for Fiction Factor and is the author of The First Civilization’s Legacy Series which includes Flank Hawk, Blood Sword and Soul Forge (forthcoming).
When Terry isn’t writing or enjoying time with his wife and daughters, he can be found in his basement raising turtles. To contact Terry, or to learn more about his writing endeavors, visit his website at www.ervin-author.com or his blog, Up Around the Corner, at uparoundthecorner.blogspot.com.
