“Cousin.”
“Your cousin . . . she can ride in our boat any time. She’d probably make a fine fisherman.”
Shem shipped his oar and moved closer to her. He covered her shaking hands with his. “Mara, you . . .” He blew out a little breath, shaking his head like he didn’t know what to say.
He looked at her as he had on the road. As though he admired her.
But those Romans were after him for a reason. It was time for him to tell her what was going on. “Shem? Why are they chasing you?”
His grip on her hands tightened, and his face turned serious. “They’ve been searching for me since I left Caesarea. Silas knew.” He shifted on the pile of nets. “He probably hoped for a fat reward for me . . . and a good price for you from the slave traders.”
Since he left Caesarea? “But why?”
Shem dropped her hands and twisted his own into the nets. “Mara.” He didn’t look at her. “I was sent to Sychar to hide. I killed a soldier. I didn’t mean to—that is why I had to cut my hair, shave my beard. My parents sent me to Sychar to protect me.”
Killed a soldier? A Roman? “You killed a Roman? How? I mean, why?”
Shem pulled at the twisted nets, tangling the fine cords with every word. “It was stupid. I tried to help a woman. My brother was there—he was drunk. The soldier, not my brother. I didn’t mean to kill him.”
He wasn’t making any sense. “So you were supposed to be hiding in Sychar? But you insisted on coming with me? If they had captured you . . . If they find you . . .” Mara struggled to catch up, tensing as she realized the meaning of his words. “Shem. You’d be crucified.”
“I know.” He stood like he wanted to walk away. But there was nowhere for him to go. He sat down again. “And I’ve put you in even more danger now that they’ve seen you. They’ll be heading to Capernaum. I’m sorry, Mara. I’ve done a terrible job of keeping you safe.”
But he was wrong. He’d carried her to her room, slept outside her door, protected her. He’d risked his life to help her and her family. The tiny seed of hope, planted along the road in Galilee, sprouted. Without her permission. Without warning. He really does care for me. She’d asked herself all along why he was helping her, and now—as hard as it was to believe—she thought she knew. She had to ask, had to know for sure. “Shem, why did you come with me?”
He took a deep breath and stared at the floor of the boat. “I didn’t want to tell you. Not now. Not like this.” He leaned forward. “It is my fault that your mother was stoned.”
Shem’s fault? No. It was Nava’s sins, Zevulun’s pride. Not Shem’s fault.
His words came out in a rush, as though he’d been holding them in. “I didn’t know . . . I followed you from the olive garden that night. I saw Alexandros’s donkey at your house. The next morning, Adah was visiting my grandmother. She was looking for him, and I told her . . .”
Mara’s breath clogged her throat. He saw Alexandros. He was the one who let the secret out. He thinks the stoning was his fault. She shook her head. No. This wasn’t what she had hoped to hear.
“Yes. It was me. I told her that he was there, at your house. I didn’t know just you and your mother lived there.” He let the rest of his breath out in a whoosh.
The sprout of hope shriveled and died.
She dragged in enough breath to speak. “You came with me, because you felt guilty? Because you thought it was your fault?” Not for her. Not because he cared for her. Out of guilt.
“Please forgive me, Mara.”
Of course she forgave him. There was nothing to forgive. He was a good man. It hadn’t been his fault, but he thought it was and he had tried to make it right. It was her own foolishness that she couldn’t forgive.
She crossed her arms over her heart. “Shem, it wasn’t your fault. It would have happened someday, probably soon. My mother is—was—unwise. You know that she had enemies who wanted this to happen. I just wish . . .”
“What?” he urged.
I wish you’d told me before. In the dark, in Sychar. Not in the bright light, with the water all around them. Not where she had to look at his face. Not where she had nowhere to run. She scooted away from him on the damp netting. He didn’t believe in the Taheb, or Nava, or her.
“I wish you had told me this before we left.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know how.” Shem spread his hands wide. “I don’t know any other way to help you, Mara, so I will get you to Jesus. It is the least that I can do for you and your mother.”
The least he could do. To alleviate his guilt. Of course he had his reasons for helping her. What did she expect? That he would put himself in danger just to be near her? Men like Shem—respectable, rich men from good families—didn’t help people like her without a reason.
It was ridiculous to feel disappointed, as though he had let her down. Finding Jesus was all that mattered—healing her mother. A thought nagged at her, circling and pecking like a desert vulture. Maybe Jesus wouldn’t help her. Why should he?
Zebedee walked gracefully down the length of the rocking boat. “I hear you go to see the Rabbi, Jesus?” he asked Shem.
She sat up straighter. Maybe he knew something of Jesus. Shem gave her a warning glance, and she bit back her questions.
“Do you know him?” Shem asked for her.
“My oldest boys follow him,” he said, with a hint of pride. His bushy beard and unruly hair gave him the look of a wild animal, but his smile was kind. “Many come to him. He can hardly stay in one place without crowds following him.”
“Why do they come?” Shem asked abruptly, then, “I mean, he is wise. Do they all come to hear his teaching? That is a surprise among the working men of Galilee.”
Zebedee grunted. “Yes, it takes more than wisdom to bring Galileans out of the water. We are not known for our scholars, but for our strength and toughness.” He flexed a burly arm, and at the last word, his laugh sounded more like a growl. He looked from Shem to Mara. “No. Have you not heard? He cured an official’s son. The boy was near death just days ago.”
Mara sucked in her breath and leaned toward the older man.
But Zebedee directed his story at Shem. “One of the officials of Capernaum—Chuza is his name—he knew Jesus, had welcomed him into his home many times. His son was very sick, near to death, we heard. We told him that Jesus had been expected back from Jerusalem for days but wasn’t here yet.
“The man was beside himself with worry. Chuza said he’d ride out to meet Jesus and his followers. I heard from my boys after—he’d found them in Cana. Chuza begged Jesus to come back with him, to cure his son. Jesus just said, ‘Go back. Your son will live.’”
Mara reached out to Shem, clutching at his arm. Jesus had cured a dying boy. She may have been wrong about Shem, but she was right about Jesus. He was the Taheb.
Shem’s brow creased, and his eyes narrowed. “What happened?”
Zebedee sat back on his heels with a satisfied grin. “Chuza came rushing home, and his servants met him halfway. They said that the boy had sat up, and the fever left him just at the hour that Jesus had spoken the words. He’s fine now. I’ve seen him myself when I delivered fish to Chuza’s house. It’s that big estate on the hill above Capernaum. Chuza is a good and upright man.”
A good and upright man. Mara’s confidence ebbed. Would the Taheb have mercy on Nava? He knew of her sins, she said, and had forgiven her. But that was then, in Samaria. Would he cure a Samaritan—an adulterous Samaritan woman—here in Galilee?
Mara’s own guilt seeped through her like venom, poisoning her thoughts. At the very moment that Jesus had cured her mother, she’d been wishing her dead. We would be better off without her, that’s what I thought. And I’d meant it. Why should the Taheb help someone like her? Wishing her mother dead, traveling with a man, dressed like a harlot?
Shem was not smiling. He rubbed the back of his neck. He was doubting, but not for the same reasons. Shem doubted the Taheb. Mara doubted hers
elf.
Chapter 28
Mara watched the rocky beach grow closer as the sun burned away the last wisps of mist curling over the waves. Bobbing boats and a scattering of huts along the beach gave way to narrow streets and squat-roofed houses. Shem and Zebedee’s sons rowed the boat into the shallow waters and threw an anchor overboard. This was Capernaum, where they would find the Taheb.
Anxiety squeezed her throat like an icy hand. She couldn’t even swallow. What if she came all this way and failed?
Zebedee jumped into the water and stretched out his arms to Mara. She put her hands on his broad shoulders and let him lift her off the boat. Zebedee held her arm as she waded to the rocky shore.
“Are you all going with us to see Jesus?” Shem asked.
“The fish will wait,” said one of the sons. “We will say good-bye to the Rabbi and our brothers before they leave for Jerusalem. I hope we haven’t missed them.”
Mara trailed behind the hurrying men. Her legs trembled, and her feet felt like they were made of stone. They passed drying shacks where great piles of scales and fish guts reeked in the morning sun. In moments, they were turning down a narrow street. Walls rose on both sides, and the smell of fish faded.
Zebedee opened a high gate without a pause and entered a courtyard overflowing with flowering shrubs and trees. He ushered Shem in, and Mara slipped after him like a shadow. There were so many people! Men who looked like fishermen, others dressed in fine robes and gold rings. There were James and John, saying good-bye to women and children. They called out a welcome when they saw Zebedee, then all the men seemed to be talking at once.
Mara shrank back into the shadow of a fig tree. Where was Jesus? Perhaps he wasn’t here. Relief whispered through her. If he was gone, she wouldn’t have to talk to him.
Finally, Zebedee remembered his guests and waved Shem forward. Shem took Mara’s elbow and pulled her with him. Her feet dragged, but her pulse pounded.
Zebedee put his hand on Peter’s shoulder. Peter listened as Zebedee spoke in his ear, his surprised gaze going to Shem. He didn’t even glance at Mara. “From Sychar? Abahu’s grandson?” He wasn’t unkind, but he was loud. The good-byes and chatter faded. Every face turned to her and Shem.
“You’re Samaritans?” Zebedee asked, his bushy brows raised in surprise.
One of the finely dressed men stepped back from them. “Samaritans!”
A woman pulled her child closer. “Don’t touch them.”
Shem curved his arm behind him as if to protect Mara from the crowd. But then the crowd parted, and one man stepped forward.
There he was. Jesus. The Taheb. Mara’s heart lodged in her throat.
“Jesus, travelers from Samaria, asking to see you.” Peter turned to Shem. “Be quick, we leave for Jerusalem now.”
Shem stepped forward.
“Here you are, Shem.” Jesus’ face creased into a smile. “It is good to see you again.”
Mara stepped back. She inched behind a big man in a fine linen robe. She couldn’t talk to the Taheb. Not now. Not with all these people around. All these Jews who hated them.
Shem didn’t make a move toward Jesus, but Jesus went to him, pulling him into an embrace and whispering into his ear. Shem’s face contorted, and he tried to pull away. He asked Jesus a question in Greek.
What was going on? Shem’s face was hard and blank. His body went rigid like he was ready to run.
Jesus seemed to be giving instructions. Were they talking of Nava? Mara heard the word “Jerusalem,” and Shem tried to step back from Jesus. Jesus finished speaking but kept his hands on Shem’s shoulders. Shem nodded but looked bewildered.
Jesus turned to his followers, his right hand still on Shem’s shoulder. “He will be named Stephen, and he will be the first of many. Stephen,” he said to Shem, “I will see you in Jerusalem.”
What was that about? Jesus—the Taheb—wanted Shem to go to Jerusalem? Jesus acted like he had been waiting for Shem. Like he’d called Shem to Capernaum. But Shem looked confused and something else. She’d seen that look before. He was angry.
He twisted around and spied Mara. He reached her in one stride and pulled her from her hiding place. “Jesus, this is why we are here. This girl needs to speak to you.”
The people stared at her. She could feel their eyes on her hair, the black ribbon on her forehead, her flimsy dress. She glanced down. Her robe gaped open, showing too much skin. Doubt filled her throat, choking her. She was sinful, too. She’d traveled alone with a man. She was dressed like a pagan whore. She had wished her mother dead. He had known of Nava’s sins; he would surely know of hers.
She dropped her head, staring at the ground, and tried to swallow. The words she had prayed a hundred times screamed in her mind. Jesus. Taheb. Please. Heal my mother. But nothing came out.
Mara squeezed her eyes shut. She heard the breathing of the men around her, their hushed expectation. She smelled the dust and the faint odor of fish, and felt the warm sun on her face. No. She was not worthy to speak to the Taheb. Not Mara, the daughter of Nava. Her heart had brimmed with hope when she heard him call, but now it was full of nothing but doubt and guilt.
She twisted and ran through the crowd, pushed through the gate, and rushed blindly down the narrow alley.
She reached the beach, the sun hot on her shoulders. Salty tears ran into her mouth, and the smell of dead fish flavored every gasping breath. Why had she thought she could speak to the Taheb? She wasn’t worthy. She must have been wrong when she thought he’d called to her in her dream. But it had been so real. She had been so sure.
She was a fool. Her mother would die. Any hope of a respectable life in Sychar was over if they found out she was gone. If she were lucky—if he would still have her—she would marry Jobab. But who would care for Asher? All because she thought that the Taheb—the Chosen One of God!—would help her, a stupid, ignorant girl. She wasn’t worthy to touch him. She crouched down on the beach and wrapped her arms around her legs, curling into a ball.
It was over.
• • •
A rough shake roused her from her misery. Shem towered over her.
“There you are. What are you doing? Come! We can catch him on the road if we hurry!”
She wrenched her arm away. “No.”
“What do you mean?” He pulled at her hands, but she hooked them around her drawn-up knees. “This is what we came for, Mara. What you wanted. Come on!”
The clatter of iron-shod hooves on stone made them both freeze. Shem moved first, pulling her up and pointing to a drying shack down the beach. They sprinted to it and ducked through the low door.
Slatted walls were hung with drying racks from floor to low ceiling. Mara put her hand over her nose and crouched in the farthest corner. The smell of fish wrapped around them like a damp blanket. Through the gaps in the walls, they saw the two soldiers that had gone north from Tiberius. Shouts in Latin were followed by familiar voices, Zebedee and his sons.
“A man and girl?
“Hmm. Did he have a scar? Yes?”
Mara clutched at Shem’s arm. Would Zebedee betray them now that he knew they were Samaritans?
The fisherman pointed away from the beach. “Might have seen them north of the city. Heading to Damascus.”
The clatter of hooves receded until only the buzz of flies, and their own frightened breath filled the silence. They were safe for now.
“Mara,” Shem whispered. “What happened back there?”
She could ask him the same thing. What had the Taheb said to him? Why had he looked like he had been waiting for Shem to arrive? “I couldn’t ask him. He . . . wouldn’t heal her.”
“What?” Shem started upward, then lowered his voice and glanced out at the road. “So you don’t believe that he’s the Taheb?”
“Don’t believe—” She stared up at him. “Of course I believe. He is the Taheb. That was why I couldn’t ask him.”
What, exactly, had happened back there in the courtyard?<
br />
“There you are, Shem.” He’d said it like he’d been waiting for Shem. Like he’d known that Shem would come. And he had.
Shem grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the shack. Zebedee and his sons were already in the boat, waving to them to hurry. They splashed through the shallows, and Shem heaved Mara into the boat.
Zebedee pulled Shem up. “The teacher told us to get you out of Capernaum. Not to Tiberius,” he added. “We’ll take you to a cove near Magdala.” One of the sons watched the beach while the other one and his father hurried to raise the sail.
Shem pulled Mara down onto the nest of fishing nets. She dropped her head close to his and whispered, “What did he say to you?”
Shem jerked back like she’d bitten him. “Who? Jesus?”
“The Taheb. What did he say to you back there?”
Shem scooted a handsbreadth away. “Nothing. Nonsense.” His face turned angry again, just like in the courtyard. “Something about going to Jerusalem, to a man named Joseph of Arimathea. Of meeting him there.”
“He changed your name. Why?”
Shem raised his hands. “I don’t know. He speaks in riddles, as always.” He pushed his hands through his hair. “Said that I would be the first of many. Blood and water and his church. Sacrifice.” He closed his eyes and pinched his fingers on the bridge of his nose. “He’s crazy.”
The pieces started to fit together, like mending a broken cup. She had thought all along that she’d been called to Jesus. Called to help Nava. But that wasn’t it. She had been called for a reason—of that she was sure now—but the reason was Shem.
The boat pitched and rocked. Mara grabbed the side with both hands.
Of course Jesus wanted Shem to follow him. He was a good man. Well-learned, just, full of compassion. But Shem needed a reason to go to Jesus. And that reason was her. Now Shem must follow his call. Shem must go to Jerusalem and do what Jesus had asked. He was to be part of the Taheb’s plan for his people.
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