The Well

by Stephanie Landsem

  “He said, ‘I can’t go on this way. I can’t help you, and I can’t bear to see you so unhappy. Maybe it is better if I go away.’ She didn’t even look at him. He said that he’d spoken to the priest and was going to divorce her. He had found work in Sebaste. He was leaving us.”

  “What did she do?” Shem asked.

  “She didn’t do anything!” Mara still couldn’t believe it. How could Mama have let him go? He was so good to them. “I begged him not to go. I begged her to stop him. But she just sat there.” If only he had stayed.

  She had thrown herself at Shaul, pleading with him. He had squeezed her in his strong arms, telling her that it was best, that the priest had told him to begin again in Sebaste. They didn’t see him again . . . until yesterday.

  “How old were you?” Shem asked as they reached the top of another rise. The land and the sky stretched out around them, gold and green and blue.

  As the days had gone by and Shaul had not returned, she had taken care of her little family as well as she could. She washed their clothes and carried them up the shaky ladder to dry on the flat roof. Other days she chopped at a fallen log or gathered dead branches to provide enough fuel to make the bread.

  She pulled the weeds in the garden and turned the hard red soil. Beans, onions, and cucumbers sprouted, and she watered them with rainwater from the cistern. She harvested chickpeas and fava beans that kept well through the long winter months. She took the first fruits of every plant and set aside the required tithe to bring to the priests.

  Every day she went to the well, often covered in dung and dirt, dreading the pitying stares of the women and the whispering girls who had once been her friends. Every day she brought home water to keep her family alive. Every day, she hoped—she prayed—that Shaul would come back to them. But he didn’t.

  “Mara? How old were you?” Shem asked again.

  “I was seven when Asher was born, so about eight when Shaul left.”

  Shem let out a harsh breath. “Why didn’t they help you?”

  “Who?”

  “The villagers. My grandparents. Your aunt and uncle should have taken you in, at least. You were just a child!”

  “Oh, they did. They helped,” Mara said quickly. “Some of them, sometimes. We would have starved without them. Ruth gave us food often, whenever I asked. But her family was growing. Sometimes they didn’t have enough for themselves.

  “And some of the villagers were generous, especially at first.” She thought of Tirzah, who had good reason to despise them, yet gave them wheat and almonds every week. Until Passover, that is. And it was hard to blame her for stopping after what Nava had done. “Your grandfather still is very generous. He gives me enough oil to light the Sabbath lamp for the whole year and more for cooking.”

  She didn’t speak of the many hungry days when she had wondered where the next meal would come from. She didn’t have to; it seemed that Shem already knew.

  “But you went hungry.”

  Mara didn’t want to seem ungrateful. “It was easy for them to forget about us, I think, because of where we live. Most of the time we had enough: a round of bread or a jug of beans on our doorstep. Sometimes it was good food. Honey or almonds. But some days . . .” She stopped, thinking of the rancid oil and moldy bread that some people called charity.

  Shem snorted.

  “Some days were good, though,” she said, trying to sound less pathetic. “Mama would wake and help with the garden or weaving.” Most days, though, her mother didn’t wake until midday and then sat like a statue, staring into the fire. “My mother is not actually a widow, as you know. She is still married. And Asher isn’t an orphan. But for the most part, the villagers helped us anyway.”

  “Noach and Enosh help me with the goats. I don’t know what I’d do without them. They take them in the spring, and I get a kid or two by fall. They help me sell it for a good price. Enosh always shears them for me. He brings me their wool and more—enough to spin all year long. I sell the cloth or trade it. We were managing. Until Alexandros.”

  She snuck a look at Shem’s unreadable face. She shouldn’t have said so much.

  “Mara,” he put his hand on her arm. “I didn’t realize . . .”

  She jerked away and walked faster. “I don’t want pity,” she choked out. That’s not why she told him her story.

  He caught up to her easily. “Mara . . . slow down. You are right. You don’t deserve my pity.”

  “What?” That stopped her. What did he mean by that? Would he turn around now? Make them both go back to Sychar? He would have every right, and she wouldn’t blame him if he did.

  “Look what you’ve done. You could have given up, but you didn’t. You took good care of your mother and Asher. You were hardly more than a child. I don’t pity you, Mara, I admire you.”

  Mara blinked. Heat rushed up her neck and face. His words echoed in her ears. Never had another person admired her, ever. She hadn’t even known that she wanted to be admired. It was like being handed a cool cup of water when you were too hot and tired to even know you were thirsty. And the water was even sweeter coming from a man as learned and worldly as Shem. The man that every girl in Sychar had tried to impress admired her.

  Chapter 23

  Is this the town of Jesus, the teacher?” Shem asked at the first merchant’s tent in Nazareth. This is where Mara is putting her hope for her mother? The Taheb couldn’t have come from here. It was even worse than Sychar.

  Nazareth was little more than a collection of caves and poor houses carved into a hillside. A jumble of covered booths and tents littered the square. Men lounged in the shade, slapping at flies, while women drifted from booth to booth. Shem had hoped to find Jesus without attracting attention, but every eye in the tiny marketplace watched them already.

  “Jesus ben Joseph? The carpenter?” the man asked, lowering his pipe and spitting out the words like they had a sour taste.

  Shem nodded. He had heard the disciples say that carpentry was Jesus’ trade. “My sister and I seek him.”

  Mara leaned forward. The merchant’s eyes went to her, and his face changed.

  Shem gave her a stern glance and stepped in front of her.

  “Pah.” The man raised his pipe again. “He is no teacher. Just the son of a poor carpenter.” He looked more carefully at Shem’s fine clothing and cloak. “What do you want with him?”

  Shem drew himself up to his full height. He expected a more respectful tone, and he didn’t like the leer that the old man had given Mara. “Our business is our own,” he snapped. “Can you tell us where he is, or shall we buy elsewhere?”

  The man eyed the money bag on Shem’s belt. He shuffled forward, bowing his head. “Forgive me, sir. I can tell you only this: he came through town a few days ago. Heard he was going to Capernaum with that band of his.”

  Shem closed his eyes for a moment as a wave of despair washed over him. Mara let out a muffled gasp. “So you are sure he is not here, in Nazareth?”

  The man shook his head. “No. His mother, Mary, still lives here. But she’s gone today, visiting family.”

  Shem pointed to some dried figs and pistachios and reached into his money bag. Ten bronze sestertii left. Plenty to get them back to Sychar. But what would he do with Mara? Shem tapped his fingers on the tent pole, waiting for the slow merchant to gather the food.

  A choked sob sounded behind him.

  Shem turned to Mara. Tears trembled on her lashes, and her lips moved soundlessly. He had to get her out of the square. Finally, the merchant tumbled the fruit and nuts into his hands. Shem tucked the food in his belt and hurried Mara away.

  He turned down a line of poor houses. As soon as they were out of sight of the marketplace, he took Mara’s arm and helped her to a shady spot under a fig tree. He lifted her water skin from around her neck.

  “Sit. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  He went to the well, surrounded by women. They fell silent as he approached, their eyes traveling ov
er his fine traveling cloak and money pouch. A mother pushed her pretty daughter forward. The girl smiled at Shem and took the water skins from his hand. He avoided looking at her as she dipped water and shot him sideways glances.

  On his way back to Mara, he saw an old woman sitting in a doorway. “I am seeking Jesus ben Joseph,” he said, crouching down in front of her.

  “He is not here,” she answered. Her wizened old face turned to the east. “He went to do his father’s work, he said. In Capernaum.”

  “His father’s work? Is his father there?”

  She shook her head, and her lips stretched into a toothless smile. “Find Jesus, and you find his father, my boy.”

  He shook his head. More riddles. He thanked the old woman and plodded down the narrow street. What would he tell Mara? She would want to go on to Capernaum—that was certain. He couldn’t go there. It was too far, too dangerous, and they were both too tired. He hadn’t slept for days. At least I won’t have to face Jesus again. His last words to the teacher had been like those of a spoiled child.

  He must insist they turn back and take her home to Sychar. They hadn’t seen any soldiers yet, but his luck would surely run out if they went all the way to Capernaum. He had done his best; he had kept his promise to her. They would return to Sychar and hope for a miracle for Nava. He’d work on justice for her killers.

  Shem found Mara crumpled next to the tree, exactly as he had left her. “Mara, drink.”

  “Thank you.” She took a long drink. Her dusty cheeks were streaked with tears. “Shem,” she said, “thank you . . . for everything. But now . . .” Her voice broke and she pressed her lips together for a moment. “You’ve done so much for me, but I can’t ask you to go on.” She hid her face in her knees, but her body shook with sobs.

  Shem bit hard on his lip, wondering what to do with this heartbroken girl. There were only two choices. Go back to her mother, dead or dying, or go on to certain danger for both of them. If she didn’t find the Taheb, Mara would always blame herself. When she should be blaming me.

  “No, Mara.” He set his hand on her shoulder. He could feel her bones, sharp and birdlike. “We’re going to Capernaum.” If she thought her only chance was in this prophet, he would find him for her.

  Mara jerked her head up and stared at him.

  They could make it work. “We can get near Tiberius tonight, find a place to stay, then be in Capernaum by tomorrow midday.” His father would wait for him in Sychar. They would only be a day or two late. He’d have to be careful with his coins. An inn for two nights would take all he had.

  “I can’t ask you to—”

  “You aren’t asking me.” He grasped her hands and pulled her sharply up. “I’m telling you. We are going on.” He turned and stalked down the road, leaving her to follow in silence.

  • • •

  After a steep climb that took all their breath, they passed the tiny town of Cana. The road turned sharply east, and the rutted road began to descend through the rocky hills. Lush grass blanketed the narrow valleys, and vineyards clung to the steep hills.

  Shem glanced back at Mara, lagging behind again. What was he thinking? How would he get this exhausted girl to Capernaum by tomorrow? He slowed his pace and waited for her to catch up to him.

  “Mara,” he said, getting an idea. “Do you see this land around us?”

  Her gaze didn’t waver from her feet.

  “The Greeks have a story that explains this land. They say that one of their gods, a Titan, was walking the earth, carrying a load of rocks that he was to spread over the world. But while he walked here, his sack of rocks broke. The whole mass of rocks tumbled out between the Jordan and the sea, making this land of plains and rocky hills.”

  Her head came up, and she looked around. Her steps quickened just a little.

  Shem thought a moment. “Do you know the Greek story about the creation of man?”

  She shook her head, but interest sparked in her face.

  He increased their pace. “There were two brothers, Prometheus and Epimetheus. They were given the task of creating man by the ruler of all the gods, Zeus. So Epimetheus made a man out of mud, and another god, named Athena, breathed life into the man. Then Zeus gave Epimetheus gifts to give to all the creatures of the earth. He gave swiftness to the deer, strength to the bear, cunning, fur, wings to other animals. But when Epimetheus got to man, he had given away all the gifts and had none left.”

  Mara walked close beside him and seemed a little less miserable.

  “Now Prometheus, the brother, he loved man more than the gods. He wanted to help the mortals. So he made man able to stand upright as the gods did, and he gave man the greatest gift of all—fire. Fire had only been allowed to the gods, so Zeus was enraged. He wanted to punish Prometheus.”

  Shem saw a small group of travelers approaching them—a man walking with a woman and child on a donkey. He greeted them politely.

  After they passed, Mara asked, “What did Zeus do to Prometheus?” She said the strange Greek words carefully. They were walking quickly again.

  Shem told her that Zeus made the first woman, Pandora. “She was very beautiful,” Shem said. His eyes rested on Mara for a long moment. “But Zeus had a plan. He also made her very curious. Then he gave her a jar, but she was forbidden to open it. He sent her down to Epimetheus, who fell in love with her beauty.”

  They started up another steep hill, but Mara seemed not to notice the climb.

  “Now the brother, Prometheus, was much smarter. He didn’t let Pandora’s beauty blind him. He warned his brother not to accept gifts from Zeus, but Epimetheus didn’t listen. Prometheus warned Pandora over and over not to open the jar, but her curiosity could not be denied. Finally, she opened it.”

  “What was in it?” Mara asked, her eyes stretched wide. “Something bad?”

  Shem nodded. “Yes. All the evils of the world—sorrow, disease, hatred. They flew out of the jar, never to be recaptured. They went all over the world, spreading and multiplying. That—according to the Greeks—was how evil came to the world.”

  He stopped there, suppressing a smile at her crestfallen face. It was a good story, one of his favorites. “But,” he finally continued, “at the very bottom of the jar, there was one good thing.” He increased the pace again. “One good thing that made the world a better place.”

  “What was it?” she asked, running a few steps to get closer to him.

  Shem smiled. “It was hope.”

  • • •

  Mara thought about the pagan story. Hope was all that she had now. Hope that her mother survived long enough for Mara to get to Jesus. Hope that they would find him in Capernaum. Shem didn’t have hope for Nava. She could tell by the way his mouth twisted every time she spoke of Jesus. But he would see. When they found Jesus, he would believe.

  Her heart sped up as she remembered Shem’s words before Nazareth. He admired her. Someone like him admired her. She picked up her shuffling feet and forced her sluggish body to move more quickly. But why was he helping her if he didn’t even believe in Jesus? She thought back to Sychar, before the stoning. He had been kind to her, even then. Maybe he . . . could he feel something for her? Was that why he was here? She pushed the thought away, but it stayed buried in her mind, like a seed waiting for water and the warmth of the sun.

  They descended through a brushy ravine into a deep valley. A cedar grove cast long shadows over the road. Shem turned to her and motioned toward a shady spot. She dropped down into the long, cool grass. Her mind told her to hurry, but her body ached and her eyes longed to close and sleep.

  Shem spilled figs and pistachios into her lap, then settled down with his back against a tree. She crunched the nuts and chewed the figs in a sleepy haze while bees droned and the sweet smell of cedar and myrtle filled the air.

  Shem would be a good husband.

  Don’t be ridiculous. Even if he stayed in Sychar, he would marry a girl from a good family. She could name several who would be p
erfect for him. If she were very lucky—if they got back to Sychar without being missed—she would marry Jobab and try to outlive him. The Greek story came back to her. Hope. She could hope that Shem was different than the men of Sychar. That he knew she wasn’t like her mother, that he knew she would be a good wife. Mara’s eyes drooped closed, and her head lolled forward.

  She shook herself awake.

  Shem sighed and got to his feet. He squinted at the sun, dipping down toward the west. “It would be good to find a place to stay before dark.” He checked up and down the road once, then again.

  “Can we stay in Tiberius?”

  Shem rubbed the back of his neck. “I would not choose to stay in Tiberius. It is an evil city, full of every sort of malice. Besides, no Jews stay in the city because it is unclean—it was built over a burial site. We will find a place outside the city.”

  He stretched his arms to the sky, his back cracking, then turned and offered her his hand. She hesitated before putting her sticky one in his and letting him pull her to her feet. She found herself close enough to see the red scar through his dark beard. How did he get that? She dropped his hand as her heart sped up and her face heated. It was none of her business.

  She stepped back. “Then to Capernaum?”

  “Yes, we’ll start out early. We could be there by midday, if all goes well.”

  “Midday. She can make it until then,” Mara said to herself. She ran through her mother’s injuries again—the swollen knot on her temple, the wound at the base of her neck, the long, deep gash down her face. How many broken bones were hidden under the bruised and scraped skin? Had Mechola been able to wake her, to make her drink?

  “Mara,” Shem interrupted her thoughts, “I pray that your mother is still alive. But you must know that—if we find him—we still have almost two days to bring Jesus back to Sychar.”

  “Back?” Mara looked up at him. Maybe he didn’t understand. “But Shem, don’t you see? We don’t have to bring him back. Jesus is the Taheb, the Chosen One of God.”