The Transmigrant

by Kristi Saare Duarte

  Hours later, a dog barking in the distance woke him. He tried to sit up but failed miserably. His pounding head dragged him back down, as if someone were squeezing it in a vise. Bile rose into his mouth, and he had to swallow several times to keep it down. His whole body felt embalmed, like a buried pharaoh. He wanted to die. Surely death would be kinder than this.

  On the mattress by his side, Yochanan peered at him. When he realized why Yeshua was moaning, he scampered downstairs and returned with a jar of goat’s milk. “Drink this. And then you’ve got to sleep some more. You’ll feel better.”

  By the time Yeshua awoke the second time, the sun had passed the horizon and his headache was gone. He crawled out from under the sheet and sauntered down the stairs, steadying himself on the wall.

  “Oh, there you are!” His mother greeted him with a cautious, worried smile. No doubt, Yochanan had told them of his condition. “Here, have some lentil soup. It will restore your spirit.

  Yeshua sat at the table and ate a few nourishing spoonfuls under the watchful eyes of his mother and aunt.

  After the meal, it was finally time to make their way to Jerusalem, where Abba and Uncle Zekharyah were waiting. Across the hills, they passed vendors pulling carts of produce and women balancing jars of water on their heads. In the far west, vultures circled over large wooden crosses where crucified revolutionaries hung dead, like ready meals for the birds of prey. And there, at last, the sacred city spread out on a hilltop before them like a patchwork of sand-colored cubes in a hundred different shades.

  Yeshua gasped. High up on the mount stood King Solomon’s temple, blinding white and begging to be adored. Even grander than he had imagined, its pillars and glistening alabaster walls reflected the rays of the midmorning sun. And in the center rose the gold-rimmed sanctuary, the heart of God. Yeshua started running, his cousin close behind. He couldn’t wait another second. They scrambled down the muddy paths through the olive orchards and all the way up the hill and through the town gate. They rushed through the labyrinthine streets, pushing their way through the masses. The place hummed with chaos, a melee of pilgrims and merchants, all moving toward the same destination. Yeshua’s heart pounded as he ran along the wide paved temple road through a bazaar flanked by craftsmen’s stalls: tailors, potters, weavers, and silversmiths. Everything imaginable was on sale, even the unblemished lambs and pigeons reared specifically for sacrifice. It was hectic, messy, and loud—and absolutely wonderful.

  His mother and aunt had fallen behind, but Yeshua couldn’t stop now. After all these years, the temple was finally within his reach.

  With Yochanan right behind him, Yeshua climbed up the wide stairs to the mikvehs, the cleansing baths outside the temple, and past the pilgrims who rested outside. He paced in place as he waited in the long line of older men. Once it was their turn, the boys skipped down the steps as if God didn’t have time to wait, quickly splashed water on their heads, and jumped out, wringing their tunics as they ran up the final steps. Yeshua could hardly breathe. The walls of God’s own house towered above him. No matter how many times the temple had been looted and desecrated, it remained, holier than anything else in the entire world. It justified everything his rabbi had said: the Yehudim were the chosen people, and Yahweh’s temple belonged to them.

  “Where might you think you are heading?” A Levite blocked the temple gate with his staff.

  Yochanan rolled his eyes. “The temple.”

  “I see that. But what—”

  “Pesach. Eh, don’t you know my father, Zekharyah? The priest?”

  Yeshua wanted to sink through the ground. His cousin was so rude. “We’ve come to celebrate Pesach, like honorable Yehudim,” he said, and shoved Yochanan in the ribs.

  The Levite grunted but accepted their shekels. When he stepped aside, Yeshua rushed inside, fell to his knees, and kissed the holy ground.

  The Court of the Gentiles, the largest square he had ever seen, bustled with thousands and thousands of people. Groups of worshippers sought shade from the relentless sun under the colonnades that surrounded the plaza. Yeshua slithered through the crowd and climbed the stairs to the men’s court. Inside, a crowd of priests tended the sacrificial fire, which devoured the offered animals with insatiable hunger. The stench of burning carcasses blended with the sweet scent of frankincense and spices. Yeshua pinched his nose to keep from gagging. And then he looked up. In front of him stood the most magnificent structure of all, the Holy of Holies. Adorned by columns and crowned with a row of golden triangles, the tall building held the inner sanctuary, where only the high priest was allowed entry. Yeshua’s knees weakened. One day, he promised himself, he would be invited inside.

  Yochanan grabbed his hand and pulled him to the side. “It’s time,” he whispered.

  “Time for what?”

  A group of lyre-players had appeared on the stairs in front of the Holy of Holies. When they struck the first chords, dozens of singers joined them, and the courtyard filled with a heavenly chorus. The large doors of the Holy of Holies opened, and the stately high priest Ananus emerged in the doorway. His white beard glistened in the sun as he raised his hands above his bejeweled turban to announce his arrival like a young and powerful Abraham. When he descended the stairs, his shoulders crouched under the weight of the heavy purple gold-trimmed cloak and the hefty breastplate that hung from his neck. The crowd fell into silence. Yeshua held his breath.

  Ananus fingered the twelve jewels of his breastplate, as if reminding the crowd of the twelve tribes of Israel. He drew a deep breath, cleared his voice, and then spoke. Divinity seemed to flow through him across the worshippers who had gathered. Yeshua’s entire body trembled and his eyes filled with tears; this man had been ordained by God. He closed his eyes and drank in every word. What a privilege to be here in Yahweh’s own house with God’s own shepherd.

  Every morning after that first day, following prayers and breakfast, Yochanan and Yeshua stole away to the temple. For hours, they listened to the temple priests speak with other pilgrims and marveled at their guidance on how to conduct their lives and how to best serve God. Yeshua loved the stories about the Messiah who was supposed to arrive any day now. How he longed for the day when the savior would return the rule of Palestine to the Yehudim and restore their dignity and freedom.

  Every now and then, Yeshua ventured a question.

  “I’ve been wondering, how will we recognize the Messiah when he comes? What exactly will he look like?”

  The priest stroked his beard in thought.

  Yeshua continued: “How can we tell if he’s a true prophet? If people don’t believe he’s the Messiah, they will kill him, won’t they?”

  “We will simply know,” the priest said, although he sounded anything but convinced. “God will open our eyes.”

  “But what if the Messiah is afraid of being stoned to death? The law says to stone false prophets, doesn’t it?”

  He continued questioning. He asked why the law required the burning of a city that had turned to idol worship. Why couldn’t the priests explain why it was wrong instead of hurting the poor people who lived there? Didn’t God realize that innocent women and children would lose their homes, too? The priests laughed at his eagerness, and Yeshua flourished in their presence. He could tell they respected him, perhaps even admired him. He belonged here, among all the other teachers. He decided right there and then that he would devote his life to studying Yehudi law and literature, and learn all there was to know about the traditions. One day, he promised himself, he would come back as an equal, as a priest. God had asked him to, hadn’t he?

  When the day came to return to Capernaum, Yeshua embraced his cousin with all his might. Yochanan was the most interesting person he had ever met, the only other person his age who knew anything about the scriptures and was willing to engage in philosophical discussions, pondering the relationship between reason and revelation and how the different thoughts complemented each other. Yeshua had learned more in this one we
ek than in his entire life. He felt older, wiser, and more mature. And he had fallen in love with Jerusalem. There was no other place like it in the world.

  Uncle Zekharyah held Yeshua at arm’s length to bid him good-bye. A crooked grin spread across his face.

  “What I hear, young man, is—you would like to study the scriptures?” His voice cracked, and his dry tongue licked his lips.

  Yeshua nodded, glowing with pride.

  “What do you say: would you like to become a priest?”

  Yeshua blushed. “Well, yes, I’d like to, very much—”

  Uncle Zekharyah burst into a hearty laugh. He clapped his hands and roared, “That will be the day, my boy. That will be the day!” He wheezed for air and continued his ugly laughter until it ebbed into coughs. Then he pulled Yochanan to his chest. “But this boy, my dear Yeshua, he will be a priest. Like me. Like my father. Because this boy was born of the priestly order of Abijah. And you?”

  Yeshua stared at his feet. He could feel his father’s eyes drill through him, embarrassed.

  “And you, boy, are a carpenter.”

  Yeshua heard Abba clear his throat. Tears burned behind his eyelids. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep them from falling.

  “Of course. I am a carpenter. Like my father. And like his father.” Yeshua wanted to run out the door and never come back. What if all the priests in Jerusalem were like his uncle? What if they viewed him as nothing more than a simple carpenter? Yeshua couldn’t bear it. His head pounded, and the blood rushed to his ears.

  When Abba apologized for his son’s vanity, Yeshua wanted to disappear into the morning fog.

  “I have packed you some meat and vegetables…” Aunt Elisheba said, trying to lighten the mood, but her husband’s ridicule hung heavy over them all. Abba, Ama, and Yeshua had been put in their place. They were the poor Galilean relatives visiting the high and mighty Zekharyah.

  Yeshua forced a smile. He refused to let his uncle see his weakness.

  Chapter Five

  Capernaum, Galilee, AD 8

  Back home, memories of the temple occupied Yeshua’s thoughts night and day. He knew he belonged there, no matter how many times his father told him priesthood was not for him. What did they expect him to do—work as a carpenter the rest of his life and forget about God? There had to be a way.

  He lived for the rare moments when the rabbi let him read a passage during the Sabbath service and basked in the praise that his neighbors showered upon him. Whenever that occurred, the long days at the workshop making doors, benches, and window shutters changed into opportunities for contemplation. The quiet work allowed him to think about God and ponder questions to ask the rabbi the next time they met. In time, his reading in Hebrew improved, and soon, rumors of the well-spoken child spread to the villages around Lake Kinneret and the synagogue filled with strangers. Yeshua’s faith sprouted again. Perhaps he could somehow convince Abba that priesthood was his true calling after all. Maybe he could find a way to bypass the rules.

  But all hope was shattered the day a neighbor, with his wife and daughter, knocked on their door.

  Abba perked up.

  “Come, Yeshua, greet Mr. Iakobi,” he called. “You are familiar with the stonemason, are you not?”

  Yeshua politely wished him peace and crunched his nose. The triple-chinned stonemason reeked of sweat, and the smile on his meaty lips was more fake than a Roman’s vow. Yeshua sat next to his father as his sisters brought out trays of grapes and cheese with goblets of wine for the men.

  At the other end of the courtyard, Mrs. Iakobi and her daughter chatted with Ama at the other end of the courtyard. The girl’s blue eyes glimmered with admiration as she gawked at Yeshua from the distance.

  “I’ve heard you in the synagogue.” Mr. Iakobi’s words stumbled in a lisp over a lazy tongue. “Such eloquent speeches. Quite perceptive, you are.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And are you as clever with your hands as you are with the word of God?”

  Yeshua hesitated, racking his brain for the right words. He wasn’t a very good carpenter. Mediocre at best.

  Abba elbowed him.

  “Woodwork, it’s an art,” Yeshua said at last. “He who works with his hands, head, and heart is not merely a craftsman; he’s an artist. And when I chisel a door or a bench, I think of God.”

  The mason nodded.

  “A bench is my creation. As we are all God’s creations.”

  When Mr. Iakobi clapped his hands, Yeshua knew he had found the right words. He hadn’t lied, merely evaded the question.

  And so the evening proceeded with questions and answers, wine and food, laughter—and resounding claps from Mr. Iakobi’s flabby hands. By the time he formally presented his dewy-eyed daughter, Yeshua was light-headed with both wine and pride.

  “Come, meet Chava, my daughter. She’s nearly twelve, wouldn’t you believe. Next month. Isn’t she lovely?”

  At closer look, the girl was as plain as a doll made of clay. With a plump face covered with pimples, the only pretty thing about her were soft blue eyes that radiated with anticipation.

  “I’m honored to meet you. My name is Yeshua.”

  They stared at each other, a few feet apart, aware that their parents hoped to see sparks flying. There was not even a flicker. The chemistry was stillborn.

  “What do you reckon?” Abba asked Yeshua after the guests had left.

  “I guess he’s a fine man. But he’s so fat, he couldn’t even fit onto one single cushion.” Yeshua laughed.

  “No, silly boy, the young lady.”

  “She’s a girl,” Yeshua said, and shrugged. “But did you see her mother? She didn’t take off her veil all night long.”

  Abba walked over to the vat to wash his face. “He’s an affluent man, one of the wealthiest in Capernaum. Even Galilee.” He looked straight at Yeshua to make sure he was listening. “You do understand that Chava would be an exceptional wife for someone like you. You could chisel your doors to pieces and still never be poor.”

  Wife? His father wanted him to get married? But he wasn’t yet thirteen.

  “I’m not sure, Abba,” Yeshua tried. “Maybe I’m not the kind of man who gets married.”

  “Nonsense! What drivel is that?” Abba slapped his face so hard it burned. “A man who has no wife lives without joy, without blessing, and without goodness!”

  Of course the Lord wanted all men to be married, but he just couldn’t marry a girl with a face like an overripe apricot. He would rather wilt and die.

  “Every man needs a woman to clean and cook for him.”

  Yeshua shrugged away, but Yosef yanked him back.

  “You plan to reside with us the rest of your life, is that so? Have your mother work off the skin of her knees for you? Or would you like your sisters to serve you as well? You do realize that your sisters will marry one day, and your mother and I will not live forever? What will you do then? Prowl the streets like a beggar?” Abba slammed the bedroom door behind him.

  Yeshua fought back tears. He escaped up to the roof to ask the stars for guidance. His father was right. He would have to marry one day. But not yet! Tomorrow morning, once Abba had calmed down, Yeshua would ask to wait another year or two. He would still be young at fourteen or fifteen. There would still be girls left to marry, wouldn’t there?

  He lay on his back and counted the stars until his eyelids grew heavy. As he was drifting to sleep, a shooting star raced across the sky. Yeshua pushed himself up on his elbow and giggled. A sign from God!

  “Thank you, Lord,” he whispered, “for always being by my side. I know I can rely on you to help me grow and learn more so I can be in your service. That’s all I want. And when I’m ready, I’ll trust you to bring me the right woman to be my wife. But please, only when I’m ready.”

  Despite his prayer, the days and weeks that followed saw the house overrun with visitors from around Lake Kinneret offering up their daughters. Every man within a day’s travel a
nd with a daughter of marrying age knocked on their door. Some girls were pleasant, others intolerable. Some were beautiful, others homely. Some families tried to buy his father’s approval with fancy gifts, whereas the wealthier families offered only their own company. The house filled with jars of wine, flowers, fruits, and pastries of every kind. Yakov joked that they would all grow fat before their father selected the most profitable match, but Yeshua didn’t laugh. He didn’t want to marry any of them.

  Aware of his father’s impatience, he pretended to contemplate the offers. “Yes, maybe this one,” he said every now and then, only to withdraw his approval a couple of days later. “I think I made a mistake. I’ve heard bad things about her.”

  With every new prospect, Yeshua’s panic grew. One of these days, Yosef would make a decision, and his dream of becoming a priest would be over. There had to be a way out of this.

  One day, when Yeshua visited the local tool sharpener in the market, he noticed a childlike monk in a mustard-colored robe resting on a ledge by a watermelon cart. Yeshua approached him with an open smile.

  “Shlama,” he said in Aramaic, a greeting of peace most pilgrims understood.

  “Shlama, brother,” the monk answered. He raised his hand to shade his eyes against the sun’s glare. “Please sit down and share my cup of water.”

  Yeshua had to blink twice. He had never met a traveling holy man who spoke Aramaic before. He sat next to the youth and accepted a sip of the muddy water.

  “What brings you to Capernaum?”

  Yeshua learned that Dhiman, the monk, was almost exactly the same age as he, and equally devoted to a spiritual quest. “I can’t be a priest, though,” Yeshua said with bitterness in his voice. “I know every scripture almost as well as our local rabbi, but he’s not really a priest, he’s a potter. He serves God only on the day of Sabbath.”