So Much Depends

Story by Mrs. Rosé

| AUTUMN 2019 ISSUE | FICTION

This story was inspired by William Carlos Williams’ poem “The Red Wheelbarrow”, which gave this story its name and a poetic style to follow.

Jacob had gaped at the sight: Jerusalem filled with foreign Jews, travelers here for the Passover. Little did the passers-by know just how foreign Jacob was and across what distances he had traveled.  Jacob’s accent revealed that he did not hail from Judea, or Galilee, or Samaria; neither did he look like he resided on this side of the world. The dusty man now ambling down the hill from the place called The Skull, admiring the morning sun as he headed towards a garden tomb, was not even from this particular millennium.

He reflected on the sum total of his achievements, the years of studying quantum mechanics and the space-time continuum, of meticulously researching the ancient clothing, customs, languages, and of writing the miles of code, always unsure if it were even possible. As he passed through the garden gates, his success overwhelmed him nearly as much as the sights, sounds, and smells of the marketplace had when he arrived. Jacob had moved about the city for days, constantly reassured that his daring technical prowess had paid off: Jesus who was called the Christ had been among them in Jerusalem. The roads and thoroughfares still echoed with reactions to His sensational arrival eight days ago, and His crucifixion only five days after that.

Jacob realized that it had only been eight days since he had embarked on his own journey and arrived at his own destination. Eight days prior, he had held his prayer book and hymned in his church with his wife and two squirrelly boys as the congregation celebrated Palm Sunday. Jacob had focused on the colorful stained glass behind the pulpit, but his mind’s eye had focused elsewhere: on the small black iPhone in his pocket. A mundane object to obsess over, except that this particular iPhone had been hacked, and that Sunday afternoon, the dangerous download, the alien application, the perilous program would run for the first time.

Later, as his family napped and read in their late-day Sabbath laziness, Jacob wrote them a letter, kissed it, and whispered goodbye to his wife and two sons; he left the envelope on the breakfast table, slipped into the garage, and headed down to his basement workshop.  He wasn’t afraid, for he loved the Lord and his faith made him strong. His faith, in fact, had fueled this passion all these years. Jacob was determined to be the most extraordinary evangelist there was, offering tangible evidence that Jesus was an actual human, a historical figure, and that He had, in fact, risen from the dead. After that, his impossible program could be sold to the highest bidder (Apple? Samsung?), and folks could do whatever they wanted with it; he would retire a wealthy and satisfied man.

Jacob had changed his clothes and paced slowly into the middle of the darkened room. His face glowed in the bluish light as he thumbed the iPhone unlocked, tapped in his code, and scrolled left to find the tiny square with the icon of a cross and an hourglass. He hesitated for a second, inhaling and exhaling slowly, and slowly lowered his thumb and tap-opened the app. He knew what he would see: he had programmed it himself. The only aspect of this entire endeavor that worried him was the fact that this program would only run if the original screen remained intact; should the iPhone’s glass screen crack or shatter, it would also permanently shatter the connection with the quantum wormhole network, leaving him stranded in space-time. But Jacob’s friends knew that he was exceedingly sure-fingered and that he prided himself for never having dropped ANY of his phones, much less his iPhone, so Jacob, unworried, prayed, shrugged, and launched the program.

It worked.

Eight days ago, like Jesus Christ the Messiah, Jacob had also arrived in the same Jerusalem, appropriately dressed, speaking the languages, knowing the customs, and anticipating the world’s most extraordinary Passover Week.

So far, not only had his astonishing iPhone app functioned beautifully, every aspect of his plan had been successful: he had surreptitiously taken photos of all twelve disciples and Jesus Himself as they ministered in the city; he squeezed into the Pharisees’ illegal trial and captured footage there too. Images of his Lord’s awful, ungodly beatings, His painful walk to Golgotha, and His brutal death on the cross were not only on Jacob’s iPhone; they were permanently seared into his memory as well. All that remained was to secure the final proof: images of the Risen Christ, complete with nail-scarred hands and feet.

Jacob approached the tomb where, to the Roman guards’ surprise (not Jacob’s), the stone was rolled away and the tomb empty. The flustered guards, knowing what this failure could entail, hurried off in furtive conversations, trying to conceive of a lie to spare their jeopardized lives. As their voices and footfalls faded, Jacob heard other, softer ones in the trees behind him. He crept closer and peered at a woman kneeling before a man in a white robe.  The resurrected Jesus held up His hands and told her not to touch Him, and as He did, Jacob snapped the picture; the wounds on Jesus’ hands were unmistakable.

As Jacob headed back to the city to return to his wife and family (and anticipated fame and fortune), he marveled at the successful near-completion of his endeavor. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t hear the approaching thudding footsteps on the path. A tall gangly fisherman crashed into Jacob, and Jacob’s adrenaline surged with the impact. As a second man whooshed past Jacob in pursuit of the first, Jacob, stumbling, realized with terror that he was no longer holding his iPhone.  He circled, seeking the device – no, NO, NOOOOO!

YES!

It rested face down on the stones right behind him. He turned and scrabbled for it, blinked, took a deep breath, and turned it over.

so much depends
upon 

a dropped ebony i
Phone

face down on the
pavement

cracked, or
not?