Before Winter: Chapter 22

Twenty-Two: A Small Boat

The thirty-third year since the resurrection of Jesus Christ, on the twenty-seventh day of the eighth month.

I am writing this at John Mark’s insistence, since he cannot use his right hand. He wishes to record our miraculous escape from the hands of men who were intent on our destruction. Indeed, God has been very good to us, bringing us to this place. Our host is most gracious, though he volunteers no information about himself. Apparently, he lives in this house by himself, but we have no knowledge of his friends and associates. It would seem that he is a seeker of God from his actions, but no word to that effect has passed his lips, despite our questions and hints. Bearing a Hebrew name, he has no trace of the Jew in his features. My wounds are healing well, but Mark’s arm is still inflamed. It would be best if we could stay here for several weeks, but to get to Philippi before the winter weather makes sailing impossible, we must set out again soon.

Pausing in his writing, Timothy looked up at Mark. “I still feel it would be best for you to stay here, while I continue on to Rome. It is not safe to travel with such an injury.”

And to have any hope of catching Alexander still in Philippi, I must travel faster. Knowing that Mark disagreed with his wish to find the coppersmith, he did not voice his second reason, but he knew that his friend would suspect it all the same.

“No doubt, but if I sought safety, I would still be in Cyprus,” Mark retorted. “Paul asked you to bring me, and I intend to come. Besides, I want Luke to take a look at this arm, and make sure you set it properly.”

“It is not something to make light of,” Timothy muttered, but he dropped the subject, knowing that Mark’s mind was already set.

When Malachi returned in the evening, Timothy enquired where they could find a small boat, to take them across the Hellespont. He was beginning to explain, once again, that they had no money, but Malachi waved him silent.

“I will find you a boat myself,” he declared. “My nephew is a fisherman, and I can get the use of his craft for an afternoon.”

They settled that they would set out in two days time, and Timothy was relieved that the man did not ask why they were not sailing from Troas. He was reluctant to make known the circumstances of their departure from that city, even to one who had befriended them.

At the appointed hour, Mark and Timothy began walking down to the sea front, where Malachi had assured them he would be ready for them with the boat. It was not far, since the town was quite small, but when a trader, driving a cart full of supplies that he was delivering to the docks, offered to give them a lift, they accepted thankfully.

As they were strangers in the place, the man naturally asked about their business, and Mark replied cautiously, steering the conversation away from their own affairs to talk about their host of the last several days.

“A good man,” Mark concluded enthusiastically, “who fears the Lord.”

Timothy frowned at him, worried that this remark would provoke more awkward questions, but the trader appeared to be on another train of thought entirely.

“Malachi, you say?” he mused. “I have not heard of such a man living here, and I bring my wares to trade every week. It is passing strange; I thought I knew every person in the town.”

Wondering, Mark and Timothy looked at each other. There was no time to ask further questions, as they had reached the port. Thanking the man who had given them a lift, they walked toward the boats drawn up on the shore.

A young man accosted them. “You are the travelers who wish to be rowed across to the Thracian shore?”

When they confirmed this, he motioned to a boat. “A man instructed me to take you. We can depart whenever you are ready.”

“Malachi?” Timothy asked. “Was he the man you talked with?”

The stranger shook his head. “I cannot tell you that. He gave no names, but there are few visitors to this place, and I had no doubt I could find you easily enough. Your fare has been settled, so I had nothing to complain about.”

The creaking of the wooden oars against their locks, and the swish of their blades through the water were the only sounds that accompanied Timothy’s thoughts. Why had Malachi not met them at the waterfront, as he had implied that he would, but sent this young man in his place? Mark was silent, leaning against the gunwale, but from his expression Timothy guessed that he was also considering the new mysteries that surrounded their host. Another unsolved problem of their journey. Timothy sighed to himself, doubting that they would ever discover the answer.

The boat traveled at an angle, across smooth water. The sun, beating down on Timothy’s back, made him drowsy, and his head nodded forward to rest on his chest. He did not realize that he had dozed off until he was jerked back into consciousness by the boat grinding into the rocks that made up the shore of Thrace.

Thanking their boatman again, they stood with the waves lapping at their feet, watching him as he set off for the other side once again, then turned and began the weary trudge to Philippi.