Rabbi Gabrielle Ignites a Tempest by Roger Herst

brethren.
Habit would have him return this instrument to its original place,
but its future use as a weapon couldn't be overlooked, so it stayed
with him.
    Near 0400 hours, he could just make out the
silhouette of the lift in the moonlight, now partially obscured by
cumulous clouds. Two monks were seated beside the pulley mechanism,
their hands buried in their cloaks, their heads hooded against the
mountain cold. He felt confident that, when the bell tolled for
morning prayers, they would abandon their post quickly. But when it
sounded on the half-hour they didn't move, forcing him to await new
developments. In the meantime, he crept forward until he reached
the rack with car keys. During the long evening's wait, he planned
to take with him all sets to prevent anyone from following on the
single-lane dirt track from the monastery. With the choice of three
vehicles, he was certain to find one operating sufficiently well to
take him as far as Jericho. Three sets of keys made an unnerving
jangle in his pocket.
    Thirty minutes later, he was further
frustrated to see that, while the existing guards prepared to leave
for morning song, a fresh team arrived to relieve them. One was
short and stout, the other a foot taller, walking with an athletic
bounce in his step. The pair assumed their posts with a series of
arm signals, dashing Tim's hope to gain unimpeded access to the
pulley lines. This required still another change of plans. He
briefly considered aborting his escape, with an appeal to Father
Benoit's sense of honor and reason. But upon reflection, he was
sure he had not misread the Dominican's intentions.
    He paused to gather his resolve then, no
longer worried about being seen, sprinted across the courtyard,
swinging the garden hoe above his head like a medieval sword. The
guards turned toward him in alarm, but, faithful to their vows of
silence, did not cry out for help. For defense, they had nothing
but their arms. The athletic one angled his muscular shoulder to
receive the first blow. It struck harder than Tim intended and
caught the undefended man off balance, sending him to his knees,
his hands raised above his head for a shield. The steel hoe began a
second descent for what was likely to be an injurious wound to the
head. But at the last minute, Tim pulled back, allowing the
instrument to swish harmlessly through the air.
    The fat monk stood paralyzed, his eyes
staring through thick glasses, his hands still buried in his
pockets. A mixture of disbelief and anguish twisted his
features.
    "Français? Ivrit? Español? English?" Tim
broke the silence to demand what language the monks understood.
    Still on his knees, the downed monk could
barely manage a response in a low whisper, " Ivrit."
    Tim said, " B'seder. Akshav,
takshivu li , Okay, now listen carefully to me. I don't
expect you to break your vows and answer. Just listen to what I'm
telling you."
    When neither monk shook his head in
disagreement, Tim addressed the plump one. "I'm sure you don't know
why Abbot Nicholas sent you to stop me from leaving. I'll tell you
simply that I need your help. If you refuse, I'll bash the head of
your colleague with this hoe." Tim circled his weapon over the
kneeling monk, dropping it close to his shoulder, simulating a
sinister blow, then lifting it high in preparation for
striking.
    The bewilderment on the stout monk's face
morphed into abject fear.
    "You know I have been working here for five
weeks. I've been sorting fragments from scrolls discovered at
Qumran. One is so important to the Church it must be removed
immediately. Otherwise, there will be fighting over its ownership
and it may be lost or destroyed forever. I intend to deliver it to
the Antiquities Authority for safekeeping. We can all study copies
once the original is in responsible hands. Now, help me with the
lift."
    The monk on the ground pointed to the padlock
securing the gondola and shook his head to indicate that neither he
nor his companion possessed the