The Well

by Stephanie Landsem

  Shem put a firm hand on her shoulder, as if she had tried to rise. “You won’t make it at all if you don’t rest. It is a long walk to Nazareth, and we’ve barely started.” He handed her his water skin. “I’m surprised you could keep up with me.”

  Mara nodded at the water skin and the purse tied to his belt. “You planned to go all along?”

  “I planned to make you see sense. But Mechola warned me that you were stubborn.” He frowned at her as though she was a willful child.

  She turned her head away before he could see her blinking back tears. He was angry with her. He regretted helping her already. She took a long drink of water and gave the skin back to him. He probably didn’t want to speak to her at all, but she had to know. “Shem . . .” She hesitated, looking at his swollen hand and grazed knuckles. “What happened at the trial?”

  Shem rubbed his battered hand. “I don’t know exactly. Zevulun . . . He had too many men. They had it planned. She confessed—then everything happened at once. They grabbed me, Abahu, anyone who wasn’t throwing rocks. By the time I got away . . . I’m sorry, Mara.” He looked down at the ground.

  Mara puzzled over his words but didn’t ask the question hovering on her tongue. Why was he helping them? It didn’t really matter. He was the answer to her prayer even if he didn’t believe in the Taheb. “Thank you, Shem,” she said, almost whispering. “I’ve been nothing but trouble to you.”

  Shem’s mouth twisted into a half smile. “Don’t thank me, Mara. Trouble would find me with or without you.”

  Chapter 20

  Shem checked on Mara, trudging behind him. She was still close, her shoulders hunched and her head down. The rocky path wound around hills and dipped through ravines and brushy screes. As the sun streaked the sky with pink clouds, a dry desert wind came out of the east, blowing dust into his burning eyes and parched throat.

  Zevulun won’t get away with it. I will get justice for Nava. But how?

  If only they could report Zevulun to the Romans. He would be punished—severely—for carrying out a stoning. But Zevulun’s threat echoed in his ears, “Surely you, of all the men here, would not want to bring Roman attention to Sychar?” No, he couldn’t report Zevulun, but neither could Zevulun report him. Any Roman intervention would doom them both.

  Zevulun was a merchant. And so was Alexandros. Why didn’t he think of it before? He knew of history and languages, not business. But he did know someone well-connected in the world of buying and selling. He’d send word to his father. Ezra was good at revenge; he’d heard him rant of it often enough. With Ezra’s connections, they would find a way to make Zevulun and Alexandros pay.

  They wouldn’t have to involve Rome. Shem and Ezra would exact their own justice, and quietly. Shem had seen his father stoop to threats, bribery, even blackmail to get his way in business. They would kick Zevulun and Alexandros where it hurt the most—in their money pouches.

  He could send a messenger from Engannin to Caesarea. A fast horse would get there by early evening. Then, when he returned to Sychar, he and Ezra would find a way.

  They were moving fast and would reach Engannin soon. Then the open road—with new dangers—that led to Nazareth. And then . . . then they could go home. Hopefully with the prophet, this Jesus who Mara so desperately believed would heal her mother.

  What made her think that Jesus could do such a thing? Jesus had not even spoken of healing while staying in Sychar. He had performed no miracles. There had been the talk of the miracle at the wedding in Cana. Turning water into wine. But nothing about curing the sick. No. This was a fool’s journey, and he was the fool. At least they would get justice when they returned to Sychar.

  Shem didn’t want to see the prophet again. He didn’t like how he felt when Jesus looked at him. He felt afraid. Not afraid of the man, Jesus, but afraid of something. He rubbed his stinging eyes. There were plenty of real dangers to fear on this journey.

  “This is bandit country, or worse.” He jerked his chin to the hills, pockmarked with dark caves. Mara shuffled closer. What would she think if he told her that the real danger to them would be Roman soldiers, searching for a Samaritan with a scar?

  As they labored up the last hill before Engannin, Shem saw a group of men advancing toward them. “Mara!” His arm shot out to stop her.

  “Unclean, unclean!” the men cried.

  “Step back!” Shem called out to them. He took Mara’s arm and slowly advanced toward them. “Lepers,” he whispered. “Don’t worry; they won’t hurt us.”

  The men backed away, their threadbare clothes and stained bandages whipping in the hot wind. They continued to cry out and lament, asking for mercy from God and man. One tall man stood apart from the rest, watching in silence. His embroidered cloak was finely made, but his face was wrapped in soiled linen.

  As Mara and Shem reached the top of the hill, they could see down into a narrow valley. More lepers lay on the ground near poor huts and dark caves. Their arms, feet, and faces were wrapped in cloths. The stench of putrid flesh reached them even from a distance.

  “Is that where they live?” Mara asked, her face pale.

  “It is where they die,” Shem replied. “They are Jews and Samaritans together, here in Dotham.” And the God of Abraham doesn’t hear the prayers of either.

  He fumbled with his money pouch. “There are probably more in the caves. I’ve heard that there can be as many as a hundred lepers living here together.” His heart pinched in pity for the miserable people. “These are the lucky ones.” He nodded to the group still crying out to them on the ridge. “Those—lying on the ground—they will not live much longer.”

  “May the Lord have mercy upon you,” he raised his voice to the lepers. The Lord has had little mercy on them so far. But if God wouldn’t help them, at least he could. He shook two silver shekels from his purse, chose one, and returned one to his belt. He laid the coin on a flat stone near the path. Mara gasped, her eyes wide. It was a great deal of money, but these poor wretches needed it more than he did. One shekel would be more than enough to accomplish what he needed in Engannin, with plenty left to get them to Nazareth and back.

  Shem urged Mara on. He looked over his shoulder to see the tall man retrieve the coin that would be enough to feed them all for weeks, then bow deeply to Shem. His words carried over the wind, “Perhaps one day we can return your kindness.”

  Returning the bow, Shem suppressed a grimace. How could a band of dying lepers ever help him on this ridiculous journey? Unless they could go to Sychar and infect Zevulun and Alexandros with their disease. They, at least, deserved a long, tortured death.

  “We’re leaving Samaria now, almost in Galilee,” Shem said as they came within sight of the gates of Engannin. It would be more dangerous here. Not for her, but for him. It was true that Roman soldiers usually ignored the Jews—unless they were hunting one.

  He pulled his head covering closer, glad that his hair and beard had grown during his weeks in Sychar. His dark curls were almost long enough to hide the scar from any passing Roman soldier.

  They reached Engannin just as the sun rose fully above the horizon. As they stepped onto the broad highway, Shem motioned for Mara to adjust her mantle and cloak. That would have to do. He’d like to hide her face from every man they passed.

  Shem adjusted his belt and strode toward the village, ignoring Mara as any good Jewish or Samaritan man would do. Roman soldiers, wild dogs, bandits, slave traders. It was just a matter of time before their luck ran out. If God had no mercy on the lepers, who had done nothing wrong, he would have none on Shem. No, it was up to him to finish this foolish journey and get Mara back to Sychar safely. And then, whether Nava lived or died, he’d see justice done.

  • • •

  Mara stood in Shem’s shadow as he pointed to almonds and dried figs at the first shop they found in the Engannin marketplace. She kept her eyes down. Could they tell that she was Samaritan? What would they do if they found out? Run her out of town?

>   Shem could pass for a Jew from any of the big cities—Caesarea, Jerusalem, even Damascus. She shifted impatiently as Shem fumbled for his money pouch. The sooner they got out of Engannin, the safer she would feel.

  Shem handed the shopkeeper the bright silver coin. The greasy man’s jaw dropped, and his eyes bulged. He hurried to gather enough bronze to exchange for the shekel.

  “Is there a messenger that will go to Caesarea?” Shem asked as the man poured a handful of bronze into his open hand.

  The shopkeeper eyed the gleaming coins in Shem’s hand. “Yes. Yes, sir. I can get a message to Caesarea.”

  A message to Caesarea? What was he doing? Perhaps sending word to his family that he had left Sychar. He wouldn’t tell them why, would he?

  “How fast?”

  “I have a fast horse. I could get it there by tonight, sir. At the latest.”

  Shem raised his brows. “A horse? In this town?”

  The shopkeeper bobbed his head so hard that his head covering flapped around his ears.

  Shem chose two bronze sestertii from his hand and poured the rest into his money pouch. “Get me something to write with.”

  The shopkeeper scurried away. He came back with a scrap of well-worn papyrus, a lump of what looked like burnt wood, and a split reed.

  Shem took the materials and crouched down on the ground. Mara leaned over to watch him spit on the cake of black coal and stir the reed in the liquid. He smoothed the papyrus over his knee and began to write with sure, quick strokes.

  It was like watching a dancer or a skilled musician. She’d seen writing before, but the priests in Sychar labored over each mark on the paper. Shem’s message flowed from the reed to the papyrus in just moments. When had she started thinking of him as a farmer? He was a scholar, better educated and more skilled than any of the priests in Sychar. And destined for more than olive farming.

  The shopkeeper hovered nearby with the stub of a beeswax candle. Shem rolled the papyrus into a tube. He tipped a dribble of hot wax on the seam, slipped the gold ring off his finger, and pressed his seal into the wax.

  The shopkeeper held out his hand.

  “Let’s see that horse first,” Shem said, tucking the rolled message in his belt.

  The man bowed and called down a dank alleyway. A small boy—hardly older than Asher—scurried up leading a battered donkey that wouldn’t make it to the next town, let alone Caesarea.

  “This is your horse?” Shem looked doubtful. “And this boy is your messenger?

  The man nodded. “He’ll ride hard. He’ll be there by nightfall or get a beating when he comes back.” He eyed the coins in Shem’s hand like a starving man watches meat roasting on a spit.

  Shem crouched down beside the boy. “Get this to Ezra ben Aaron, the merchant.” A flash of bronze passed between him and the boy.

  The boys eyes widened. He slipped the coin into his mouth and ducked his head.

  Shem slapped the other coins into the man’s hand. “If the message doesn’t reach my father tonight, I’ll be back to talk to you about it.”

  He prodded Mara into the street.

  What was he doing? What was all that about? He’d just given most of his coins away. But Shem didn’t explain his actions to her as they marched through Engannin under the watchful eyes of every merchant and villager.

  And he didn’t explain when they reached the outskirts of the town and filled their water skins at the well. It was none of her business. She was just a Samaritan girl. Why should she expect him to tell her what he was doing?

  • • •

  When they had walked well past Engannin, Mara let Shem guide her to a stand of laurel trees. The sun, now their enemy, blazed well above the horizon. She sank down into the soft, shaded grass with a sigh. She might just never get up again.

  She surveyed the land around her as she ate. So this was Galilee, ruled by the half-Jew Herod Antipas. She had heard stories of his wickedness and had pictured Galilee as a smoking Sodom or Gomorrah, but it was beautiful. A stream sparkled in the lush green meadow. Crocuses and lilies glowed in the marshy ground. She breathed in the perfume of the sweet fennel and cool, clean mint that sprouted around them.

  Shem blessed and broke the round of bread sent by Mechola and gave her half, along with the almonds and figs he had bought on the way through Engannin. “Here. This will help.”

  Mara snuck a glance at Shem. He watched the road, rubbing his short, smooth beard. Should she ask him what the message was about?

  Abruptly he turned to her. “You should not speak, I think.”

  “What?” She fumbled with her bread. “I wouldn’t—I mean, I don’t.” What did he mean? She hadn’t spoken to any of the people they had passed. She couldn’t. A woman didn’t even speak to her own husband in public. Only in the privacy of their home or among other women could she speak freely. Did he think she didn’t know that?

  “No.” He raised his hand. “No, I mean when we meet others on the road or in the towns. They might be Romans or Greeks. They might speak to you.” His eyes rested on her face.

  “Your accent will give you away as a Samaritan. We’ll be safer if you let me talk, now that we are in Galilee. I don’t have the country accent that you do. We could pass for Jews, here, and be safer.”

  “Oh.” Heat crept up her cheeks. “I thought . . .” What did she sound like to him? A dim-witted country girl? She inspected her hands, clutched around the bread. They were dirty and callused, and her nails were ragged. He was so learned, so polished, and she was so—well, a poor Samaritan girl. One that wasn’t even offered a bride price. She nodded silently.

  He propped himself up against the trunk of a tree. “Get some sleep,” he told her.

  “Sleep? Can’t we—”

  “Mara.” He interrupted her with a flash of impatience. “Don’t argue. You can’t walk all night and all day. Just rest a little.”

  His tone stung, but she knew he was right. She lay down on the soft, cool grass. Her eyes were so heavy. Just a little while, she promised herself. Then they would get to Nazareth, and the Taheb.

  Doubt wrapped around her like a dark mantle. What if Jesus wouldn’t even speak to her? He was the Taheb and she was just a worthless girl, despised even by her own people. And traveling alone with a man who wasn’t her husband. She wasn’t even worthy to speak to him, let alone ask for a miracle. What made her think that she deserved it?

  • • •

  Shem leaned back on his elbows and watched Mara sleep. Someone has to stand guard. She slept so peacefully, the lines of worry finally smoothed from her face. What had her life been like? Harder than his, he was sure. She probably thought him the spoiled son of a rich man, and she was right; the last few weeks had seen the only hard work he’d ever done.

  He pictured the pampered girl that his father had chosen for him in Caesarea. Her family owned ships that went to ports throughout the Roman Empire. She would be a pretty, obedient wife and spend her days trying to please him. The thought of her stirred nothing in him. Even dirty and tired, Mara was beautiful, and she didn’t even seem to know it.

  He sat up straighter and ripped a handful of leaves from the bushy plant beside him. The cool scent of mint drifted over him. He should tell Mara the truth. She deserved to know about him. But she looked at him with such gratitude, almost with awe. She wouldn’t be so grateful if she knew that his stupid words had brought her mother to trial.

  He crushed the leaves in his hand. And what would Mara think if she knew that soldiers still searched for him in Caesarea and maybe even Galilee? If she knew he had murdered a man? And if Nava died, he’d have another death on his head.

  Trouble found him, he’d told Mara. But what if it was the other way around? Did he really find trouble, as his father claimed? Here he was again, putting himself in danger. If they were attacked, he’d have no choice but to fight back. He might end up killing again.

  Shem jumped as Mara sat up with a startled breath. “Did I sleep long?” She
looked at the sun, still near the top of its downward slide to the west. “We should go; we must hurry.” She struggled to sit up and adjust her mantle and tunic.

  Shem’s gaze dropped to her feet as she uncurled her legs. Her ankles were covered in bright red blisters crusted with blood. “You’re bleeding, Mara.” Why hadn’t she told him? He rolled to his knees and cupped her ankle, all sharp bones and sinew.

  “Please, don’t. I’m fine.” She pulled her foot back and tried to tuck the tattered garment over it.

  He tightened his grip. “Wait. I mean it. Let me see.” He shook his head. “These sandals . . . they don’t even fit. Of course they gave you blisters. What were you thinking?”

  “I . . .” She bit her lip. “I didn’t have any. Mechola gave them to me.”

  He swallowed, silently cursing his stupid mouth. “Well, you can’t go barefoot on this road. Look, let me do something.” He reached to his belt and pulled out his dagger.

  Mara sucked in a breath. “What are you going to do?”

  She stared with wide, frightened eyes at the blade in his hands. What did she think he was going to do to her? “I’m just getting you a bandage. You can’t walk like this.” He nicked the hem of his tunic with the knife, then ripped off a long strip of linen.

  “Oh,” she cried out. “Your tunic.” She reached out toward the now ragged hem.

  Shem couldn’t believe his ears. Every stride up and down those hills must have felt like walking through hot coals. She protested as he wrapped the linen strip around her blisters, but he ignored her. He carefully treated both ankles, wrapping extra cloth around them to keep the sandals from rubbing. There. That would have to do.

  “Better?” he asked, glancing to her feet as they stepped back out on the road.

  She nodded. “How much longer?”

  “We’ll be in Nazareth before mid-afternoon. But we’ll need water and food before then.” Shem checked behind them. No dust clouds on the road. Little could be seen around the bend ahead of them. Meadows stretched to either side, empty of all but green grass and singing birds. So far, they were safe. But it was still a long way to Nazareth and back.