The Well

by Stephanie Landsem

  Her mother and brother were safe and healthy. Tomorrow she would be waking up next to Enosh. Married. Why wasn’t she happy?

  Shem is leaving today.

  She would never see him again.

  Was it just yesterday, the Sabbath, that they had stood in the synagogue? That she had vowed to marry Enosh?

  After the betrothal ceremony, she had stumbled home with Nava and Asher. Deep, dreamless sleep had claimed her weary body and mind. She woke once at midday, calling for Nava. She touched her mother’s cheek, ran her hands down Asher’s strong legs, and drifted back to sleep.

  Again, late in the afternoon, she dragged open her heavy eyes. Golden sunlight slanted through the doorway. Was that Mechola’s voice that she heard, murmuring with her mother?

  “Uziel will hold the feast, of course. But Abahu has offered to provide the food and wine.”

  “Thank you, Mechola. But . . .” Nava paused. Mara snapped her eyes closed just before a shadow blocked the light.

  Nava’s steps receded. “What of Shem?” she continued. “Won’t he—?”

  “He’ll be gone. He can’t bear . . . Well, he’s leaving tomorrow morning.”

  Now, well before dawn on her wedding day, Mara slipped her arm out from under Asher and rolled to her knees, then tiptoed past her sleeping mother. Would Shem leave her without saying good-bye? Was he going to Jerusalem? Surely he couldn’t deny the Taheb still, not after yesterday. She had to know.

  Even on her wedding day, they needed water. She would go to the well. Surely one of the women there would know if Shem had left and where he was going.

  She scooped up the water jug and started up the path. Birds warbled in the cedar trees. Pink clouds edged Gerizim, the mountain of blessings, but darkness still weighed on Ebal, the mountain of curses. She reached the top of the hill and looked down on the village where she would spend the rest of her days with Enosh. Gratitude vied with sadness, in the way of a sunrise invading the dark sky.

  She passed the village. Women stopped grinding grain to stare at her. Men leading animals turned to watch her. She forced her head up. They had no power over her now. Her lips moved over her morning prayers. The Taheb—the Promised One—had come! Thank you, Lord. For Asher. For Mama. For Enosh. Her throat tightened. For Shem.

  She rounded the bend and faced the well. A few women already stood around the low wall. Rivkah and her friends, Tirzah and Adah. Of course, yesterday’s events in the synagogue had yielded a rich harvest of gossip. But would they know of Shem?

  The younger women huddled together, their eyes darting to her. Could she ask about Shem? No, anything she said would get back to Enosh. She would have to listen and hope they mentioned him.

  As Mara sent the gourd down to the bottom of the well, Rivkah sidled up to her. “Mara,” she said with a smile, as if it hadn’t been ten years since they’d been friends, “you are blessed, indeed. Enosh will be a good husband, although he is so young.”

  Mara tried to smile back. “Thank you, Rivkah.”

  “All the girls are talking about it. Two men, fighting over you in the synagogue.”

  Was that what they thought? That Enosh and Shem were fighting over her? She pulled the gourd up from the darkness. Sychar would never change.

  She sent the gourd back down as the chatter resumed around her. She heard Abahu’s name, and Mechola’s. But no mention of Shem. As she poured more water into the jar, a shadow fell on the well, and the talk around her halted. She looked up.

  Shem stood in front of her, his familiar water skin in his hand.

  Her heart jumped to her throat. His dark eyes watched her. The mouth that she knew so well curved, but it wasn’t a smile. Would this be the last time she saw him?

  She was staring. She glanced at the women. Every face was turned to them, every ear listening.

  He held out his empty water skin.

  Mara took it and sent the gourd back down the well. She couldn’t talk to him. Not now, with all these women watching, ready to run back to their husbands and neighbors and report every word. Even if she could, what would she say? It had all been said yesterday in the synagogue. She poured the water in the skin and glanced at his face. His forehead was creased, his mouth pursed. What was he thinking? Where was he going?

  Mara gave Shem the full skin of water, then finished filling her jar. Shem didn’t move. The women around the well whispered. The girls giggled. Mara’s face began to heat.

  Mara lifted the jar to her head and started back along the road toward Sychar.

  Shem fell into step beside her.

  “Shem? I can’t . . .” she whispered. It wasn’t right. She shouldn’t talk to him. They were still watching. She could not dishonor Enosh.

  He didn’t turn his head. “Shh . . . just walk with me a little.”

  They had traveled far together. Would one more short stretch of road be enough to say good-bye? Would Enosh understand that she had to talk to him, this one last time? Or would he doubt her again? Mara felt the stares of the silent women on her back, heard the whispers as they walked slowly down the road.

  Was Shem going to Jerusalem? To do the Taheb’s will? And what would that be? “Your suffering will be united to mine.”

  They rounded the curve in the road, and Shem stopped. No one could see them now.

  She had to know.

  She couldn’t bear to know.

  “Shem, tell me. Are you going to Jerusalem?”

  Shem reached for Mara’s water jar and set it on the dusty ground. “Yes, Mara. I am going to Jerusalem. To the Taheb. Because of you.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. This is what I wanted. Why do I feel like I’ll never breathe again? Shem, always willing to fight for justice, now will fight for the Taheb. What greater battle was there? But what would happen to him in Jerusalem? She wanted to tell him to be careful, but being careful wasn’t his way. She wanted to tell him again that she loved him, but that would only hurt them both.

  She swallowed the knot in her throat and forced a breath past the tight pain that filled her chest. Shem had come to Sychar thirsty—for justice, for truth, for something to believe in. He had found Jesus, the living water, and now Shem would never thirst again.

  But what of me? Can I drink of the living water?

  The answer came like a whisper. She already had. The Taheb had restored her as surely as he had healed her mother and Asher. And now she could joyfully live the life he had given her.

  Peace trickled through her, washing away the anguish of good-bye. She and Enosh would be happy. She knew it as she knew the path to Jacob’s well. Her life was here, in Sychar. With Enosh and Nava and Asher. She could say good-bye to Shem now.

  “I am happy for you, Shem.” And she was. “Go to Jerusalem. The Taheb has chosen the right man.”

  • • •

  Shem battled the doubt that cut through him like a sword. Could she be right? Had Jesus chosen the right man?

  Mara had believed when he had refused to. It had taken a miracle—several miracles—for him to understand. He was no better than Zevulun, than Alexandros. He thought he wanted justice, but all he’d wanted was revenge. Because all he believed in was himself.

  Now, his faith was still not great. It was like a tiny mustard seed. Mara’s was like a mountain—faith enough to offer her own life to make sure he went to the Taheb. And so, he would go. Because of Mara, he’d give that mustard seed a chance to grow. Jesus had claimed Shem’s soul in Capernaum. Now he would willingly give the Taheb his heart as well.

  He didn’t deserve Mara. But Enosh did.

  Shem had said his good-byes to Abahu and Mechola as dawn brightened the eastern sky.

  His grandfather had embraced him. “Send us word from Jerusalem.” He held Shem a moment longer, crushed him a measure closer. “I’m proud of you, son.”

  I promise you, Grandfather, I’ll make sure you stay proud of me.

  Mechola had gathered him in her arms and hidden her wet eyes on his shoulder. She
m kissed her downy cheek. “Watch over Mara for me,” he whispered.

  Shem had left the peaceful courtyard with a mind full of turmoil. He had come with so much. A donkey loaded with riches. A bright future in Caesarea—or at least as heir to the olive groves of Sychar.

  Now he had nothing.

  His father had, by now, received his message and would never speak to him again. Mara was betrothed to another. He was leaving with nothing but his cloak, his dagger, and the few coins that Abahu had given him. And to follow a man he didn’t even know.

  He pushed open the gate. Enosh stood just outside it, as though he had been waiting for Shem.

  The boy—no, the man—who had taken Mara from him. His heart wrenched inside his chest. Mara will marry him today instead of me.

  Shem tried to brush past him, but Enosh put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Shem. She just went to the well. Go. Say good-bye to her.”

  Say good-bye to Mara? Could he bear it?

  Enosh’s grip tightened. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

  He knows I love her. The whole town knows that she loves me. How can he bear that? And yet he grants me permission to say good-bye to her. Enosh would always put Mara before himself. Even before his own fears. Enosh had everything that Shem wanted. Why did his face seem to mirror Shem’s agony?

  Enosh stepped closer. “Shem, know this: I have loved Mara since we were children. I have hoped for this day. She is all I’ve worked for. I’ve saved every shekel for her bride price. But I thought, surely, she would marry before I could speak for her.”

  Shem looked away and stepped back. I don’t want to hear this.

  But Enosh didn’t let go. His hand tightened, sending a jolt through Shem’s shoulder. “I will be a good husband to her, Shem. I promise.”

  And he would be. But that didn’t ease the anguish in Shem’s heart.

  Now Mara stood before Shem on the road where they first met. No longer a frightened, cowering girl but a woman—sure and strong and full of faith in the Taheb.

  He loved her.

  She would marry another man today.

  He was leaving and would never see her again.

  “Mara. You were right. You were right all along. You were right about Joseph.” His brothers threw him down the well, sold him into slavery. He thought his life was over. But just when he’d lost everything, God gave him a way to save his people. The Taheb had finally come. Shem would follow him to the end—to death if he’d meant what he had said to Shem in Capernaum.

  Shem stepped closer. “When Jesus came to Sychar, I fought against believing in him. It was ridiculous. A Jew—a carpenter—from Nazareth? A man of no learning? I ran from him. But you did not run from him. You ran toward him. You could see what I—with all my learning—could not.”

  Mara met his eyes. “And now? Now what do you believe?”

  Shem blew out a long breath. “He is the Taheb. Just as you said.” He raised his face to the synagogue on Mount Gerizim, still shadowed in darkness. “The priests said that when the Taheb came, he would show them the location of the Ark that housed the word of God. But it is not on the mountain or in Jerusalem. It is him. Jesus is the Ark.” He stepped closer. “Mara, I can’t deny him now any more than the Jordan can leave its banks and run through the mountains.”

  She nodded as though she knew exactly what he meant. “Then do what he asks of you, Shem, whatever it is.”

  A hawk screamed from high in the pink and gold sky.

  Shem swallowed hard. “He said something else, Mara. He said, ‘The blood of those who believe in me will be the water that nourishes my Church.’” The words that terrified me.

  She brought her clasped hands to her heart. Tears spilled from her eyes and slid down her cheeks. “Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat.”

  She understands his words better than I do. He cupped her chin in his hand and brushed his thumb over her cheek, smoothing away the tears, as his voice dropped to a whisper. “Mara, you are not the only one who can give your life for love. You were willing to die for me—a selfish, spoiled man who didn’t believe in anything. I can give my life for the Taheb if that is what he asks.”

  He stepped back and took a deep breath. He could do this. He could leave her now and follow Jesus. “Say good-bye to me, Mara.”

  She pulled in a shaky breath, straightened, and raised her eyes to his. “Good-bye, Shem. And thank you. For taking me to Jesus, for everything.”

  He tried to smile. “I might have taken you to Jesus, but you brought me to the Taheb.”

  A blaze of daylight broke over Mount Gerizim, melting the shadows and bathing Mara in its glow. Once he had seen the beauty of just her face. Now he knew that her beauty was in her courage, in her unwavering faith.

  That is what he would take with him from Sychar. The courage and faith that Mara had given him.

  Shem etched the memory of her into his heart, then turned and walked away. Away from Mara. To Jerusalem. To Jesus. To a new life with a new name.

  Whatever Jesus has planned for his people, I will be a part of it. I will be called Stephen, and I will be the first of many.

  Epilogue

  JERUSALEM, 35 A.D.

  Cursing and screaming, the crowd of men push me through the stone gate. Outside the walls of the city, the blue sky arches cloudless and infinite. The Promised Land stretches out in golden fields and silver-green hills.

  The men in front pick up stones and throw them. The first one strikes me, heavy and sharp, tearing into my flesh. It hurts even more than I expected.

  They really are going to do this—these men who hate me, who hate the Christ most of all. But I don’t regret what I said; it was all true. My trial before the Sanhedrin had been unjust—a travesty. But this time, I didn’t care. Jesus prepared me for this, and I am ready. Ready to be the first of many to die for him.

  “Your blood will be the water that nourishes my Church.” Now, finally, I understand what he meant.

  Then come more blows. One jagged rock after another batters me, scraping skin, drawing blood. They rain down, their weight bruising muscle and bone. A big man in front shouts a curse and hurls a rock the size of a melon. It strikes my knee and brings me to the ground.

  A shout goes up, and the enraged mob surges around me. Stones come from all sides as men surround my bent body. The rocks tear open my skin and crack my bones as I am beaten into the ground. I taste blood and dirt.

  A heavy stone smashes into my temple, then another. Pain surrounds me, engulfs me like a whirlwind of fire. I give up, lying still. A hot stream of blood runs down my face and pools next to me on the dusty ground. The sound of the crowd is drowned out by the ringing in my ears.

  I bring her face to my mind one last time. You see, Mara? I too can give my life for love. Love for my king.

  There he is, the king victorious. Sitting at the right hand of God, just as he promised. He waits, far clearer than the faces of the men around me. More real than the thud of rock on flesh and bone.

  “Lord Jesus!” I can barely lift my heavy hand to him. “Receive my spirit.” A rush of peace flows over me like a river of living water.

  I cannot raise my head from the dirt, but I have one thing left to say to these executioners who surround me. One thing before I leave this life. I struggle to get enough air to make myself heard. “Lord, forgive them,” I say as loud as I can. My mouth moves stiffly, as if in a dream. My voice is barely more than a whisper.

  The angry cries quiet; the faces around me become clear. The men pause, hands raised in mid-throw, faces twisted in anger.

  “Forgive them, Lord Jesus,” I say again—stronger, louder. “Do not hold this sin against them.”

  Jesus holds out his hand, and I push myself up from the dust.

  It is finished.

  I have fulfilled his purpose. Behind me, my body sleeps, broken and empty. Before me—stretching out as endless as the sky—is the Kingdom, the Power, and t
he Glory, forever.

  SAINT STEPHEN, FIRST MARTYR

  Ora pro nobis

  Acknowledgments

  Without a doubt, this book came about through the work of the Holy Spirit. Thank you, Holy Spirit, for bringing people into my life who sparked ideas, lifted me up, gave me courage, made me reach further, and helped me to persevere.

  I’m thankful for my husband, who lays down his life every day for me. Thank you, Bruce, for twenty-three years—every single one of them good. Thank you to Rachel, Andy, Joey, and Anna. For some reason, these kids believe that their mom can do anything. Because of them, I believe it too.

  To friends who give me courage and lift me up when I most need it: Laura Sobiech, Anne Greenwood Brown, Wendy Tarbox, and Regina Jennings. And to Wacek Kucy, who may have made this book a reality by the sheer power of prayer.

  To Rachel Youngquist, sister and friend. Your wisdom and counsel sustained me many a day. Thanks, also, to my parents, Bill and Jeanette Wetzel, who measure success in faith and family. You are the richest people I know.

  Thank you to my critique groups. The day I gathered my courage to read the first chapter of The Well to The Scribblers at Stillwater Library, I felt like this crazy dream might come true. To Robert Harley, critiquer extraordinaire, and to my SCBWI group: Wynee Igel, Pat Gilkerson, LeAnne Hardy, Celia Waldock, Sarah Nelson, Mark Zukor, and Lorenz Schrenk—thank you for your honesty, skill, and friendship. And to Loretta Ellsworth, my mentor, for spot-on advice and the kick in the pants that I needed to move forward.

  Cathi-Lyn Dyck of Scienda Editorial, you are a godsend. The story of how you came into my life and ripped my manuscript to shreds is too long for this page. Thank you, Cat, for pushing me further than I dared go.

  And to you, Chris Park. How we found each other might remain a mystery, but I’m so glad we did. Every writer needs an agent like you to turn her into an author.

  Finally, my heartfelt thanks go to Becky Nesbitt, Jessica Wong, and the team at Howard Books. Thank you for your wisdom, expertise, and enthusiasm. I look forward to every page we work on together.