Before Winter: Chapter 21

Twenty-One: The Village

“We lost the parchments Paul sent us to pick up, you know.” They were trudging along under the sun, and Timothy talked, to keep John Mark grounded in reality. The man was shivering, but his skin was hot and dry.

“Stolen?” Mark asked horsely.

“I don’t know. I never noticed they were gone until the next morning. I thought...” Timothy trailed off into silence. He had not decided whether to tell Mark about what he had overheard. It was so little to go on, Mark would think he was crazy to drag them all the way to Philippi in chase of the coppersmith.

“Alexander.” Mark coughed the dry dust out of his throat.

Timothy stopped dead in his tracks, and Mark almost fell over as his momentum carried him forward. “What?” How could Mark know?

“Saw him…in the crowd. Maybe he took the parchments.”

“He tried to kill us both!” The anger that had been seething inside him since he had seen Alexander the night before boiled up into a passionate outburst, and he forgot that Mark did not know what he was talking about.

“No.” Mark jerked his head. “Strange.” The word was slurred, and drawn out a little. Timothy looked at his friend in concern. His eyes were almost shut, and his face was flushed red. The settlement that Timothy was aiming for was still several miles away, he guessed, and he was beginning to fear that Mark would not make it. For his sake, Timothy refrained from arguing over the subject of Alexander again, despite the fury that surged through him at the thought of the man’s utter treachery.

Instead, he switched to discussing their next move. “When we reach this town, we will find food and drink. You will get well, and I will find a boat to take us across the Hellespont to the Thracian peninsula. From there we can get to Philippi, where I know we will be welcomed, and can find a ship going to Rome.” He spoke cheerfully, hoping that Mark could not feel his tiredness, the trembling of his limbs.

“N-no…money.”

Timothy sighed. Even when Mark was so sick he should not be talking, he managed to find the weak points in his plan. “Perhaps we can get someone to accept surety.”

He gave up talking after that, focused on putting one foot in front of another and keeping Mark upright. Another hour they walked, and the sun rose higher in the sky. Burning thirst consumed Timothy, making him forget even how hungry he was. It seemed as if they had been traveling in this nightmare for an eternity, before the village appeared in the distance, rising above them on a small promontory, facing the sea.

Somehow, amid the curious glances of the inhabitants, Timothy got Mark up the hill, and into the center of the cluster of houses, to the well. The water revived Mark a little, and he was able to support himself. By now they had an audience of idle onlookers, and Timothy addressed them.

“My friend is sick. We need food.”

A few of the children tittered, but one bearded old man stepped forward. “Come with me. I will give you rest.”

Timothy started, amazed to hear the words of Christ on the lips of this stranger. Could the man be a fellow believer? He had already turned and was striding away to the far side of the settlement, and Timothy hurried after him with renewed vigor.

When they reached the old man’s house, a short distance from the well, Mark collapsed. Timothy and their new friend managed to get him inside, and laid down on a bed.

“He just needs rest, for now.” The man straightened, and scrutinized Timothy. “Let me take a look at that leg of yours.”

He gestured to a chair, and Timothy sank down on it in relief.  “What is your name, sir?”

“You may call me Malachi.”

Surprised, Timothy examined his face more closely. “You are a Hebrew? You do not look it.”

Without reply, Malachi squatted down, and began massaging Timothy’s knee with his fingers. Getting up again, he strode into the back room, returning in a moment holding a pot filled with ointment. He applied this liberally to the knee, rubbing the skin until it was absorbed. The area was still very tender, and a few times Timothy grimaced at the pressure.

“That should bring down the swelling, and help with the pain.” Malachi rose to his feet. “Now, I will bring you some bread and wine for you and your companion.”

They ate and drank, thanking Malachi over and over for his kindness, but he waved off their words.

“It is nothing to me!” he insisted.

For three days they stayed in his home, and he refused to accept any surety from them—they had little enough to offer—or a promise of future payment. Each morning he left, after making sure they were provided for, and they did not often see him again until evening. On the third day, since Mark seemed better, Timothy broached the subject which had been constantly on his mind.

“I saw Alexander when I went back into Troas.”

“Is that why we had to leave so suddenly?” Mark looked up with interest.

“Not exactly...someone recognized me, and I feared he would raise the alarm.” Timothy paused. “He said that he was behind the attack on us.”

“To you?” Mark raised his eyebrows.

“No, no. He was talking to some sailor, trying to get passage on a ship to Philippi…” Timothy broke off, uncomfortably.

Mark was staring at him. “And this is why we are really going to Philippi?” He asked quietly.

“Well, it will not add that much time on our way to Rome anyway,” Timothy said. He could sense Mark’s disapproval, and tried to defend his decision. “Paul asked us to bring his books, so shouldn’t we try to get them back?”

“I do not think it is wise.”

Mark said nothing about going back to Troas, however, so Timothy let the subject drop, unwilling to argue with his friend over the matter. Instead he turned to a different question.

“On the way here you contradicted me when I said Alexander was trying to kill us, and said that something was strange. Do you remember?” he probed.

“I thought it strange that we were not dead.” Mark frowned. “Why leave us outside the gates, when they could as easily have thrown us into the water?”

Timothy shivered at the thought. “It could be that they were afraid to take such an irrevocable course of action.”

With his one good shoulder, Mark shrugged. “How can we tell? It was foolish of me to ask the question—idle speculation will get us nowhere.”

“But what else have we to do?” Timothy inquired.

Pushing himself up on the bed so that he was propped up a little, Mark responded, “Get me a piece of parchment and a pen.”