Second Touch by Bodie Thoene, Brock Thoene

“Haven’t seen you here today. Who are you?” Peniel’s wits were frozen. He could neither speak nor move. “Are you deaf or thick . . . or something else, I wonder.” Inexorably Eglon dragged Peniel from the alley into the greater remaining light of the adjacent lane. Jerking upward on Peniel’s jaw he peered into Peniel’s face, looked doubtfully into Peniel’s eyes. “What’s your business here, boy?” “Going to the m-market,” Peniel stuttered. “Markets’re all closed for Shavuot,” Eglon returned, suspicion turning to triumph. “What do you say to that?” “At sundown the baker opens briefly so we can buy bread,” Peniel protested. “I forgot to get enough before the holiday,” he explained. “Please, sir. My master’ll beat me if I ¬don’t hurry.” “Your master, eh? Who do you work for? A potter?” “No, sir,” Peniel argued. “My master is . . .” Peniel’s mind tumbled through all the facts. He was dressed as a beggar, so he could never pass as a household servant or a shop apprentice. The bleat of an unhappy lamb struck his ear. “My master is Zadok the shepherd,” Peniel claimed. “You know him? Chief Shepherd?” Eglon grunted. The boy was the right age and description to match Eglon’s quarry, but he had come from the direction of the pens. Eglon sniffed, apparently judging the fact that Peniel smelled like a herdsman. Taking a deep breath and steeling his resolve, Peniel raised his chin and stared back at the officer. Their eyes met, locked. Eglon looked away first. “Your name?” This time Peniel was prepared for the question. “Gershon,” he replied, giving the name of his dead older brother. “Exile, eh?” Eglon said. He shoved Peniel away. “Get on with your business then.” The instant the viselike grip was released, Peniel wanted to run. He forced himself to walk slowly and remembered to turn toward the bakery, even though that meant staying alongside Eglon for longer. At the next corner Eglon turned one way and Peniel the other. They were half a block apart when the wheelwright who lived near Peniel’s parents emerged from his house. “Hey!” his voice boomed. “Is that you,

Peniel? Did you know the Temple Guards are looking for you?” Like an arrow leaving the bowstring, Peniel flew down the street. “Stop! Here, stop you!” he heard Eglon yelling behind him. The clatter of Eglon’s feet sprinting after him was joined by another and then another as more sentries took up the chase. Beside the fruit seller’s Peniel turned left; beside the tanner’s, right. Run! “Catch that boy! Grab him!” Think, Peniel urged himself. Think! Can’t head toward Damascus Gate. Too many guards there. Which are the dead-end lanes? Mustn’t turn up one of those. Double back? Run, dodge pedestrians! Eglon, puffing, no longer had voice to shout to passersby. Peniel’s legs started to ache, his chest to burn. Years as a blind beggar had not prepared him to race through Jerusalem. Deepening blue sky gave way to purple. Peniel closed his eyes and saw the route ahead clearer than before. The next fork led to a blind alley, but Peniel took it anyway. The wall across the end had a drainage ditch running ¬underneath it. Peniel threw himself headlong into the channel, wriggled through, popped out the other side. A yell of triumph turned to a yelp of dismay from the pursuers. Eglon shouted at his companions to boost him up, boost him up! The officer cursed when he landed on Peniel’s side of the wall. Eglon now ran with a limp. Peniel pulled ahead. Darkness closed in around the city, and into it, Peniel disappeared. The sounds of the chase faded in the distance.
Eglon returned to the Hasmonean Palace, which was the Jerusalem home of his master, Tetrarch Antipas. There he found Antipas at supper with the high priest. “Well?” Antipas demanded. “Have you taken care of the problem?” “The boy. Peniel,” Eglon said, “is still at large.” Antipas grimaced, so