The Call to Damascus

By Rose Garretson

Historical (Biblical) biographical fiction on the life of Saul of Tarsus. This is a continuation of “The Call of Love”, both works of fiction. While it is not necessary to have read the first book, several of the characters continue their journeys on these pages. This is meant to bring hope and encouragement to all who read it. After encountering the people in the first book, I have just kept walking with them.
I have been a fan of historical fiction, history and “period” literature for many years. While these stories are meant to inspire, encourage and uplift, for the literal student of history, “The Call” series may have taken some liberties. Yes. That is true, and it was deliberately done. These stories are my Irish-storytelling heart reaching back and pulling some very relevant truths into our current world. I hope you can read these in the spirit in which they are intended, and as a result enjoy them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780359547227

Book preview

The Call to Damascus

The Call to Damascus

The Call Series:  Book Two

Rose Garretson

Cover art by W. Dan Morrell

Copyright © 2019

By Rose Garretson

All rights reserved. 

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means without written permission.

ISBN: 978-0-359-54722-7

www.KetchPublishing.com

This is a continuation of The Call of Love, both works of fiction. While it is not necessary to have read the first book, several of the characters continue their journeys on these pages. This is meant to bring hope and encouragement to all who read it. After encountering the people in the first book, I have just kept walking with them.

I have been a fan of historical fiction, history and period literature for many years. While these stories are meant to inspire, encourage and uplift, for the literal student of history, The Call series may have taken some liberties. Yes. That is true, and it was deliberately done. These stories are my Irish-storytelling heart reaching back and pulling some very relevant truths into our current world. I hope you can read these in the spirit in which they are intended, and as a result enjoy them.

There are so many dear people to thank! First of all, Jeanette Ford, who encouraged me to begin this journey in the first place. Thank-you to my second Mom, Mary Etta for her care proofreading. To my dear sister, Sandy Garretson Daenzer for reading to me when we were growing up! To Camille House Beck for being a stellar friend and another sister. And to Dan and Carol Morell for their belief, support and love. I love you all!

In loving memory of Alice Garretson,

June 13, 1924 – October 9, 2017.

- Rose

www.rosegarretson.com

PROLOGUE

He awoke hearing his own harsh cry, shaking, sweating and gripping his sword. With eyes wide open, he gazed frantically around the darkened room. He knew they were there! Even though the phantoms of his dream were gradually receding, he could still feel them hovering in the periphery of his consciousness.  It seemed they rarely left him, even in the harsh light of day.  They were always waiting. The visions were partially a remnant from his many years as a Centurion in the brutal Roman army; but lately, other specters had crept in, filling his dreams with a different kind of warfare.

Crispus arose, wiping his forehead and eyes, reminding himself it was just a dream. He was full of adrenaline, and knew there would be no more sleep this night. Inhaling a deep breath, he made his way toward the pitcher of water across the room.

After drinking a goodly amount, Crispus lowered himself into a nearby chair. He looked around the home of his youth, so familiar to him. And yet, he felt the unnamed enemies skulking in the darkness. Crispus had been home several weeks now, but the last three had become increasingly restless, particularly at night. His mind was never completely at peace, and it agitated him. He had also resumed rigorous training with his soldiers, sensing he would need to be superbly conditioned. Crispus flexed, pleased to feel the stiffness from the unceasing exercise had faded.

When he had been recalled to Rome, he had reluctantly gone, knowing his request for resignation would be combative. Still, Crispus understood putting off the inevitable would not help. He must give an account of why he desired to remove himself as a Centurion. It was unheard of! His position was one of prestige and honor; and it would require a compelling argument to be released from his duties. He thought he had resolved the situation while he was in Jerusalem, but was mistaken. A terse order from his father had been delivered to him ordering his return to his homeland, along with a demand to give an account. It was a request he could not deny.

Now, as he stood in the quiet room, he realized there was no escaping the path he must follow. It was clear to him he must leave Rome and return to Jerusalem. Nothing could induce him stay any longer. He regretted his father would be angry, but Marcus could not be the deciding factor. Crispus heard a voice calling him back – back to where he would travel the road to Damascus.

CHAPTER  ONE

Kahlil shifted in his chair, suddenly feeling a deep burning pain in the ribs on his left side. He wondered if the discomfort would be with him for the rest of his days, serving as a constant reminder of his wrongdoing. Giving a frown, he tried to concentrate once more on the parchment before him. His business was flourishing, but he felt empty. Ever since he had returned to Damascus, he had been restless and occasionally short-tempered. His normal optimistic disposition had been replaced by a brooding melancholy. The cuts and bruises he had received in Magdala had faded, but he had not recovered.

His brother, Hadi had cared for him, never leaving his side during those first days. The journey had nearly cost him his life, but somehow he had survived the vicious beating he had received at the hands of the Jewish leaders in Magdala. His memory was blurred of the day, but he could still vividly see Miryam in his mind’s eye. Afaya, his wife, had scrupulously avoided him, disdain pulsating from her every pore. When Kahlil had fully returned to consciousness, Hadi informed him Afaya had removed herself, returning to the home of her father, taking her shadows with her. Good riddance, Hadi muttered, pleased to be rid of her. Wherever Afaya was, there would be darkness.

Kahlil’s attention returned to the numbers in front of him. Their trading routes were extremely profitable, particularly the trade in steel and fine fabrics. There was a type of cloth all of his buyers were clamoring for; it was called damask, after the City. Kahlil had recently sent a large shipment along the Silk Road, where it would be purchased for a hefty sum. This would allow him to purchase silk, wine, porcelain, tea and other luxury items.  The trade routes were highly competitive and oftentimes dangerous, but Kahlil and his traders were experienced and had established themselves in key areas. Damascus was a strategic city on both the Silk Road and the King’s Highway trade routes.

He stood, stretching and strode to the open window. The vista before him was spectacular. There was no city in the world quite like Damascus, and his home was perched on a soaring rise overlooking the river pouring steadily into the fertile fields below. Some of his countrymen considered Damascus paradise. For Kahlil it was nothing more than a luxurious prison.

Subconsciously, he rubbed his left side, thinking back to the days of anticipation he experienced when traveling in the direction of Magdala the last time. Kahlil had never felt anything as powerful as the emotions consuming him in his desire to see Miryam. Now, he was left with only a bleakness, knowing surely he would never see her again. On the surface he had everything – wealth, social status, a winning personality, and he was considered handsome. All of it was pointless to him as he stood looking at the beautiful scenery before him. His life was dross.

"Go with God, he heard the echo of Miryam’s words in his memory. Clenching his teeth, he felt the cold vacuum of an ever-increasing emptiness pulling at him. God, he raged to the empty room, God? Are you there? Is there actually a deity who would care for man?" He was not a person for tears or tantrums, so the rant dissipated quickly, leaving lingering questions with no immediate answers. They tasted bitter on his tongue.

A short time later, there was a brisk knock on the door, and his younger brother entered, followed by a servant. She was carrying an intricately crafted silver tray loaded with fruits, nuts and other delectable foods. Hadi took the tray, dismissed her and placed the food on the desk where Kahlil had been working. Hadi noticed the rolls of parchment with the countless numbers only Kahlil seemed to understand. He shuffled his feet, looking uncomfortable. Physically he was a nearly identical to his brother when Kahlil had been nineteen.

I can see you have something to say, Kahlil prompted, motioning his brother to a chair near to his own.

Hadi sat, his back straight and his face infused with heightened color. Brother, he began, I have watched you now for several weeks, waiting for your wounds to heal; not asking anything, thinking you would become yourself once more, but it has not happened. I wonder what took place to create such a profound change in you.

Kahlil pretended to examine a plump fig, hoping the anguish he felt would not be displayed on his face. I told you, he began as he took a juicy bite, there were some Jewish men who took a dislike to me because I am a Gentile. It was as simple as that. They resented me trading in their region and used their fists and clubs to drive me away.

Hadi shook his head, I see…you prefer not to tell me. Kahlil, you are my older brother and I have always looked up to you; respected you; listened to you. Now I ask you the courtesy to hear me. I see anger in your eyes, and something else…I have never known you to be angry like this. And yet, there is a contained fury in you now. It scares me, Kahlil. I feel like you are going to explode one day if you keep this inside. It is like boiling oil, ready to spill out like poison. Hadi stopped, looking embarrassed at his outpouring. Brother, he leaned forward, earnestness written on his face, you have been more like a parent to me than brother. I would do anything for you. You know that, don’t you? How can I help you, Kahlil?

Silence thickened in the room. Kahlil stared at the mound of fruit gracing the tray, but not really seeing it, instead he was walking toward the Sea of Galilee, looking at a young woman who was staring at him with her heart in her eyes. Swallowing, he said in sotto voce, Her name is Miryam. Hadi sucked in his breath, hearing her name once again. She is from the area of Magdala. I met her on my travels. Kahlil brought his vision back to the present and looked into his brother’s eyes.

Hadi did not need to hear anything else. He clearly saw the torment in Kahlil’s expression. Rather than speak, he remained silent to see if Kahlil would continue.

Giving a deep, hopeless sigh, Kahlil finally resumed. I thought this – all this, he motioned to their surroundings, would be enough. It would compensate for Afaya, but it has not. It never will. I realize that now. He raked his fingers through his hair in frustration. Gaining more things is not the answer. We have more money than we can possibly spend. I have no children to pass it onto as a heritage. He gave a raw laugh, It is all meaningless, Hadi. My entire life has been meaningless.

I don’t think so, Kahlil, Hadi told him in a quiet, but urgent voice. I think there is something out there for you, for me. He gave a rueful smile at the blatant look of skepticism on his brother’s face. I am not quite sure what it is, but I feel like it is almost within our grasp. I know, you will say I am young and foolish, but I am convinced, Kahlil. I am positive we are on the verge of something happening that will turn our world upside-down. Hadi blushed a dark shade of red and blurted out, Two nights ago when I was on the rooftop, I prayed. Kahlil looked astonished. I have asked if there is a God that he will reveal himself to us. That he will somehow make himself known. Kahlil, I know you may think me mad, but I heard him! He answered me and said, Be still… and then I heard him say he is coming to Damascus!

The old Kahlil would have tipped his head back and laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks, but the new Kahlil merely quirked a brow and said, No, Hadi, you are not mad. I know you believe you heard that, and I hope you are right. I hope to God you are right, because it will take God to fix what is broken.

____________________

Hadi climbed to the flat rooftop of his home, looking into the night sky, but not really focusing on the myriad of stars arching overhead. It was here he had heard the Voice, and he hoped it might happen again, but all he heard was the sound of the gentle waterfall in the courtyard fountain. The smell of jasmine surrounded him, making Hadi smile as the fragrance always reminded him of his mother, Fellah. She was named for the aromatic flower, and he was grateful for her sweetness. Damascus was known as the City of Jasmine, and he could not imagine a more fitting name for his beloved mother. He missed both her and his father every day.

With a mental sigh he sank to the rooftop, looking toward the river. Moonlight sparkled off the water, appearing as metallic chips on the slow-moving current. Many nights he had spent in this precise location, especially after Kahlil left.  Hadi remembered the day, three years ago, when Kahlil had told him his plans to travel with the caravans. At first he thought Kahlil was jesting, but seeing the fire in his eyes made him realize he was serious.

I need to go, Kahlil said simply. If I stay here, I will shrivel up like an old pomegranate! It is of no use. I have tried my best with Afaya…I am at my wits end. It is time for new horizons.

Hadi sympathetically looked at Kahlil. Yes, you have tried with her, he agreed. I do not understand her ways, he paused, then added, her cruelty. She seems to find joy in hurting others. I am glad our parents are not here to see what she has become. Shadows. Her name suits her – she is full of shadows.

Kahlil shrugged, not wanting to dwell on what he could not change. Our business will benefit from this. I will be able to personally see the people who buy our goods, and learn their interests and desires. I will not have to hear of it second-hand. It will help us become the most powerful traders in the area! Kahlil laughed, a full-throated, robust sound, rubbing has hands together. "Ah! I can