The Brother's Keeper Read online

  Praise for novels by Tracy Groot

  “[The Brother’s Keeper is a] lyrical and affecting first novel.”

  BOOKLIST, STARRED REVIEW

  “Groot vividly portrays both the heroism and the horrors of World War II. With the July release of Christopher Nolan’s film Dunkirk, there is bound to be interest.”

  LIBRARY JOURNAL ON THE MAGGIE BRIGHT

  “Groot’s well-researched, inspirational historical tale . . . will be compelling and memorable for a diverse audience.”

  BOOKLIST ON THE SENTINELS OF ANDERSONVILLE

  “Groot has done good historical homework. . . . The pacing is page-turning. . . . This Civil War–era story grapples with fundamental moral questions about decency and conscience—questions that can be asked about all wars.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, STARRED REVIEW OF THE SENTINELS OF ANDERSONVILLE

  “Richly detailed, engrossing historical fiction.”

  KIRKUS REVIEWS

  “If the truth hurts, [The Sentinels of Andersonville] is like a knife to the heart. . . . This story of a Good Samaritan shines brightly as the characters place themselves in danger.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES, TOP PICK REVIEW

  “Groot . . . does good historical work with details and subtle psychological work with her characters. WWII-era novels are popular; this is a superior, page-turning entry in that niche.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “Scrupulously researched and lovingly written, Flame of Resistance plunges the reader into an exhilarating story of courage, grace, and one endearing woman’s leap of faith.”

  THE BANNER

  “[A] well-paced, beautifully written historical novel. . . . Entertaining and compelling.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, STARRED REVIEW OF MADMAN

  “Groot cleverly combines historical research, Scripture, and thrilling imagination to create an ingenious story built around the Gerasene demoniac described in Mark’s and Luke’s Gospels. It’s one of the best fictional adaptations of a biblical event I’ve had the pleasure to read.”

  ASPIRING RETAIL MAGAZINE

  Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.

  Visit Tracy Groot online at www.tracygroot.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  The Brother’s Keeper

  Copyright © 2018 by Tracy Groot. All rights reserved.

  Previously published in 2003 by Moody Publishers under ISBN 0-8024-3105-4. First printing by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., in 2018.

  Cover photograph of Jesus copyright © Pearl/Lightstock. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Mark Anthony Lane II

  Published in association with Creative Trust Literary Group, 210 Jamestown Park Drive, Suite 200, Brentwood, TN 37027. www.creativetrust.com.

  Some Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Some Scripture quotations are taken from the New American Standard Bible,® copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

  The Brother’s Keeper is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Tyndale House Publishers at [email protected] or call 1-800-323-9400.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Groot, Tracy, date- author.

  Title: The brother’s keeper / Tracy Groot.

  Description: Carol Stream, Illinois : Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., [2018]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017039696 | ISBN 9781496422224 (softcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: Jesus Christ—Fiction. | Jesus Christ—Family—Fiction. | Bible. New Testament—History of Biblical events—Fiction. | GSAFD: Christian fiction. | Bible fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3557.R5655 B76 2018 | DDC 813/.54—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017039696

  ISBN 978-1-4964-2225-5 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4964-2224-8 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-2223-1 (Apple)

  Build: 2018-01-29 14:14:05 EPUB 3.0.1

  For the One True God

  Your wind breathes where it wishes,

  moves where it wills, sometimes

  severs my safe moorings. Sovereign gusts—

  buffet my winds with your blowing,

  loosen me, lift me to go

  wherever you’re going.

  —Luci Shaw

  and

  For my brother and sister,

  Rick Harmon and Darla Fitzpatrick

  (Not bad, sharing a dedication with the Ruler

  of the Universe. Don’t let it go to your heads.)

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Jerusalem, AD 57

  Author’s Note

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Preview of The Stones of My Accusers

  Acknowledgments

  TO EACH OF THE FOLLOWING, I am in debt.

  Kathy Helmers, Moody Publishers, and LB Norton; Bernie Groendyke and Ron McClain; D. Michael Hostetler and staff at Nazareth Village, Nazareth, Israel; Amy Sample PA-C and Jill Smidstra; Rich DeVos, Lisa Groot, Karla Huitsing, Anne-Marie Jacobson and Bob “The Forgotten Disciple” Jacobson; Riva Cohen; John and Tami; Ed and Karla; Joel and Bonnie; and most of all, Jack.

  Prologue

  JAMES. Seek James.

  The madness was upon him once again. It prodded when his steps lagged; it prickled when he stopped. It drove him as it had the first time, a time when Balthazar’s companions knew its pursuit and had none but to heed as well. No glowing orb in the sky accompanied the madness this time. His eyes drifted to the place it had once hung.

  Alone now. Riven from all familiar, thrust into mile after mile of barren strangeness. Alone, save the madness.

  “I am too old for this,” Balthazar muttered to the purpling heavens. He gained the top of the knoll and paused, as much for breath as to survey the patterns of the sky. He rubbed the back of his hand over a crusty mouth.

  “I could do with some water, let alone a lamp in the sky.”

  It was easier then. Follow the star, the madness had told him. Where the simple injunction had lacked ceremony, he himself made up for it: The drivemasters wanted to know where their journey lay, so he threw grass to the wind. He listened to crickets. He turned in a circle three times while chanting some nonsense, then consulted the charts and pointed imperiously: west. Much more credible than pointing to a lamp in the nighttime sky.

  Now he had no star. No charts. All of his companions were gone, presumably. Gasparian for certain. Probably Melkor. Alazar had not returned with them from the first journey. And a fourth, Baran, had never arriv
ed.

  The old man sank to the earth and from his shoulder bag pulled out a waterskin. He loosed the fitting and rubbed a few drops of water over his ridged lips. Very different, this journey. Very different from that of long ago.

  They had found Baran a day outside of Susa. He was nearly dead when a scout came back with the news that a traveler lay on the roadside, part of his leg eaten by wolves. Melkor was not for stopping; the poor wretch would be dead within the hour, he said. It was not the first time Melkor had been wrong.

  Balthazar had cursed six different gods and their uncles when he saw Baran’s wound and realized he had left the medicaments at home. The young man was well into the bone fever, past fetching back, by the time the entourage reached him. The scout had sharp eyes; only a scrap of wool alerted him to the man wedged in the rock and debris. How the poor, miserable creature had come to these straits, they never learned. He spoke few words before he died, and nothing of his circumstances. No explanation save “wolf,” no travel gear or possessions save a box wrapped in cloth, protected by his ravaged body. Extracting the wretch from the rocks was less painful to watch than his pathetic attempts to keep the box at his side.

  “Balthazar, have you your herbs?” Gasparian asked in a low tone as Alazar and Melkor tended the man. “Alazar left his, and I would not give a shining beryl for what Melkor has in his bag.”

  “Nor I,” Balthazar agreed, though he had to add, “Mine are home as well.”

  If Gasparian’s raised brows had annoyed him, more so the bag he’d left behind. It was new, recently made for him by his mother, a length of cloth with several little pockets sewn in three rows. Ties were sewn at the ends; he could neatly roll his powders and herbs and secure the bundle with the ties. He had filled it with all he could gather and dry and grind and prepare in the little time he had to do it—and then forgotten it.

  Forget a blanket; forget a packet of bread. To forget his medicaments vexed him to the roots of his teeth. Eight weeks out of Zabol, and still it vexed him. But the herbs left his mind as he grew aware of Melkor.

  Melkor stood unwrapping the square bundle, taken from the dying man. Balthazar heard the whisper of a groan and watched the young man feebly reach toward his possession.

  “What have we here?” Melkor mused as the cloth fell away. Balthazar blinked as the sinking sun caught the box in a silver gleam. Curious, the box, but he did not look long. His eyes went from the wasted form on the ground to Melkor, who did not seem to notice the feeble, reaching arm.

  “Melkor . . .”

  “This looks like lapis lazuli.” He brought the box closer to his eyes. “It is lapis. Some of the finest I have seen.”

  “Melkor, give him back his box,” Balthazar said.

  Melkor regarded the man at his feet. “Maybe he stole it from somebody.”

  In two quick strides, Balthazar reached Melkor and snatched the box from his hands. He paused long enough to make sure Melkor saw his glare, then knelt and placed the box on the man’s chest. He took the man’s arm and circled it about the box, and saw gratefulness deep in the tortured eyes. He smiled back, then looked down to the leg, where Alazar was gingerly pulling away cloth. Alazar hissed softly and sat back on his heels.

  It was likely the stench of rotting flesh as much as the sight of the grievous wound that set Alazar back. Balthazar winced at it, then met Alazar’s eyes. Alazar sighed grimly and rose to consult with the others.

  One of the drivemasters arrived with water and dribbled some into the man’s grime-coated mouth. His face was waxen white, like a dirty candle. Balthazar brushed grit from the man’s chin, then realized he was trying to speak. He leaned closely.

  “Wolf,” the man whispered.

  Balthazar nodded and patted his shoulder. “Do not speak, my friend. Save it for getting better.” This brought a stare from the drivemaster, which he ignored. “Perhaps you are far from home, as am I. A nasty business, traveling on these strange roads.”

  “Baran,” he whispered.

  “Your name is Baran?” He touched his fingertips to his forehead. “I am Balthazar, in the company of the strangest lot of miscreants ever assembled under the heavens. I would tell you of our business, but you and I both would not believe me.”

  “Balthazar,” Gasparian called behind him.

  He gave Baran’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I will be back.” The drivemaster trickled more water into his mouth.

  Alazar, Melkor, Gasparian, and one of the drivers stood apart in consultation. Balthazar knew the outcome from five paces away. By Gasparian’s dark look and Alazar’s sad one, and by Melkor’s folded arms, he knew they meant to leave him.

  Balthazar stopped short and lifted his chin. “His name is Baran,” he said, feet planted apart.

  “An unfortunate wretch,” Melkor murmured. His eyes drifted to Baran’s wound.

  “The wretch has a name,” Balthazar said evenly.

  “We cannot stop,” Melkor replied.

  Balthazar could feel his teeth clench. What was it about Melkor that set his molars to grinding? His teeth would be powder at the journey’s end. He looked at the others. Only Gasparian met his eyes.

  “I think Melkor is right,” Gasparian said, doing little to conceal his reluctance for the decision. “We all feel the urgency to move on. You know of what I speak.”

  “But the light in the sky—”

  “It is more than that,” Melkor cut in.

  “That is not what I mean!” Balthazar hissed. Yes, the urgency . . . the unseen prodding to move on . . . yes, it was there. They all felt it. “What I am saying is, do you suppose the one who put that light in the sky would mean for us to leave this man at the side of the road?” He shook his head. “I will not believe that.”

  They all began to talk at once.

  “Our commission,” Alazar began pleadingly.

  “We have a responsibility as emissaries of our people,” Gasparian started.

  “We cannot fail.” Melkor pulled himself up.

  Balthazar put himself under Melkor’s nose and glared contempt into his cool, dark eyes. “We have failed already if we leave this man to die alone.”

  Why couldn’t the universe have left him to his herbs? He was not made for this, this madness. He turned away from the others, unsure where to go, then simply began to walk and walk fast.

  They would send Gasparian, he knew, because Gasparian was the only one he trusted.

  And indeed, presently Gasparian puffed alongside him. “How about slowing down for an old man?”

  “Not until I do not want to kill Melkor.”

  “Ah, you will keep this pace until Judea?”

  Balthazar couldn’t stop the smile. “Perhaps there and back again. All the way back to my village.” The thought of his village brought a pang of homesickness, and his steps slowed.

  He looked at the hills surrounding them, shaking his head. Every day he saw something new. Every day he hoped Reuel lived long enough to hear of the wonders beyond their village border. The mighty fire altars at Nakshi-Rustem; a giant-sized statue of Cyrus the Great.

  “Do you wonder what we are doing out here, Gaspar? In my village, I was an herbalist and a second-rate priest. The gods strike me, I had no desire to guard the holy fire of Ahura Mazdah.” He looked sideways at Gasparian. “You did not hear that from me, understand?”

  When Gasparian nodded, he continued.

  “Our high priest was too old for the journey. It was heartbreaking. I never saw such longing. Reuel had the gift, as no one in our village has ever had before. He spoke often of a coming omen, a great portent from the west. No one really listened—until the star appeared and the council came to our village. Then suddenly, a humble old man no one gave a wormroot for is a hero. He was selected for the journey, but everyone knew he would never make it a week outside the village.” Balthazar’s steps stopped altogether. “Reuel thought he was doing me a favor.”

  Gasparian looked over his shoulder, down the road to the waiting entou
rage. “Balthazar . . . ,” he began gently.

  “I do not know if I believe, Gaspar. Worse, I do not know if I care. What do you think about that?”

  “I think we have to be going,” the older man said. “Baran will die. Melkor thinks he will not last an hour. We can make him comfortable.” Doubtfully, he added, “Melkor has a few powders with him that can ease the poor man’s pain.”

  “I would not give his powders to a murdering zealot. Melkor may be a first-rate priest, but he is no herbalist.”

  “Come, young friend. You may not believe, but I do.”

  Balthazar cocked his head. “Enough to leave a man to die alone?”

  Gasparian’s gaze did not flinch. “Yes.”

  Balthazar looked away and said, “Now, that is passion. Reuel would be proud.”

  “Balthazar.”

  But he was not listening anymore. He looked down the road at the stopped entourage. The drivemasters were checking supplies, adjusting cinches, and inspecting ropes and stays. Alazar was kneeling next to Baran. Melkor was rummaging in one of his packs. Shortly they would be on the move again. Two months of this, from sunup to well into the night, with nothing but the star and the madness. Two months and many more ahead.

  Ahriman take him; he was done with it.

  He started for them, aware of his grinding molars, aware of the long journey back home. A solitary journey and unsafe—he might end up like Baran—but he would be free. Back to his herbs, back to everything normal, back to where things made sense. To a place where a man with a name would not die alone.

  “I know that look,” Gasparian said, hurrying to his side.

  “You have never seen this look.”

  “I know it well. Do not make a hasty decision, my friend.”

  He stopped short to scowl in Gasparian’s face. “You do not seem to realize there has been a mistake. This was Reuel’s mission, not my own.”

  Gasparian returned the look thoughtfully, shaking his head. “There has been no mistake. You have been chosen for this. As was I. As was Alazar. And Melkor. We must press on.”

  Balthazar felt the anger recede, replaced by something worse. He had thought Gasparian was different from the rest. Ahriman take him, he thought.