Tomb : A Novel of Martha (9781451689136)

by Landsem, Stephanie

  Martha turned over again, the bedclothes twining around her legs. So many nights they had burrowed into the warm bed, whispering secrets. They spoke of marriage, what every little girl dreamed of. What would it be like? Who would their husbands be? Now Mary knew the answers to their childhood questions, and Martha was happy for her. But Martha’s future seemed to stretch before her like a starless night, bleak and hopeless. A future without Mary, and without Isa.

  She closed her eyes and pictured the apricot orchard where Isa waited. The boughs were heavy with blossoms, and their heady fragrance scented the night air. He would be standing—no, sitting—with his back against the oldest tree, the one they’d climbed as children.

  When she was married, she wouldn’t be able to see him again. It wouldn’t be right. How could she say good-bye to him forever? She loved him as much as Mary loved Josiah. As much as Abba had loved Mama. And Isa loved her. Not because she could cook and take care of the house. Not because she was obedient to the law and devout in her prayers.

  He loved her . . . because she was Martha.

  Martha kicked the coverings to the other side of the bed. She had to see him tonight. By the time he came back for Tabernacles, she’d surely be betrothed.

  They had to do something, just as Mary had said. If she could convince Isa to talk to Abba. To ask for her . . . surely there was a chance Abba would listen to him.

  Slipping off her pallet, she wrapped a fine-spun mantle around her shoulders and padded through the open door, the tile floor cold on her bare feet. She peered around the door frame into the black night.

  Abba and his friends sat around a low-burning fire in the center of the courtyard. The only way out of the courtyard was on the other side. Perhaps they’d drunk enough wine that they wouldn’t notice her. She slipped out the door, staying in the shadows of the wall.

  Simon’s slurred voice carried through the dark. “A wife such as Martha is worth more than rubies and emeralds. She is a pearl without price.”

  Abba’s voice returned, quoting the sages as he often did. “Haste in buying land; hesitate in taking a wife.”

  “You want land?” Simon’s voice rose. “Anything, my fields, the olive grove—whatever you want is yours.”

  Martha clenched her fists. She wasn’t a donkey to be bought and sold.

  “We will talk of it tomorrow, when you are sober.” Abba’s voice was serious.

  She froze in the shadows. So it was true. Abba was considering Simon. Simon was almost as wealthy as Abba, and at a much younger age. And Isa had nothing but his kinnor to his name.

  She wrapped her mantle closer around her shoulders and edged around the courtyard until she reached the door. The latch slid smoothly under her careful hands. She slipped through the opening and closed it behind her without a sound.

  Dew soaked her tunic as she ran through the knee-high grass, wishing she could keep running. Away from Abba, away from Bethany. She lifted her tunic high to wade through the icy stream that tumbled down the mountain and toward the Jordan. The rainy season had just ended, and the deep rush of water pulled at her feet like cold hands. She clawed her way up the steep embankment and entered the orchard.

  The blossoming trees stood like white-garbed maidens, their branches reaching pale arms to the sky. Fallen flowers blanketed the ground like a layer of sweet-smelling snow that soothed her mind and calmed her spirit. Yes, perhaps there was hope for her and Isa.

  A murky shadow moved at the base of the largest tree. A tall, lanky form just as she’d imagined him. “Isa.” She let out her breath in a rush.

  He stood, his hands reaching out to enfold hers. His chest rose and fell as though he’d been running. She brought her gaze to his face, a face she loved more than any other. His long lashes shadowed his eyes, and his lips slanted in the smile he saved only for her. How could she ever be another man’s wife?

  “What about Zerubabbel?” The thought of the hawk-faced soothsayer finding them in the orchard was enough to send a shiver down her back.

  Isa shook his head. “He won’t cross the river.”

  They were alone. At least for tonight. Shyness suddenly made her look away from him.

  She slid her hand over the rough bark of the apricot tree. They had climbed this tree together, eaten apricots in the light of the moon, and played games until the dawn crept into the eastern sky. Each time they’d seen each other, it had become harder to say good-bye. Isa didn’t need to speak; she knew that he was reliving the same memories.

  “Isa.” She swallowed hard. “He’s going to—I think Abba is going to settle on a betrothal for me.”

  Isa straightened, and his jaw firmed. After a long minute, he spoke softly. “If I were your father . . . if I had a daughter like you”—his gray eyes met hers and he brushed a hand down her cheek—“I’d want the best for her.”

  Tears clogged her throat. Didn’t he know he was the best for her? “If you go to him . . . ask him?” At least try.

  Isa ducked his head, avoiding her pleading gaze. “You know what he’ll say. And Zerubabbel—”

  “But you could try.” Please.

  He looked at his feet, his throat working. His voice was gentle, but she heard every word like a blow to her heart. “He’d never let us come back. You’re not even supposed to speak to me.” He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips on her fingers. “I can’t bear the thought of you married to someone else. But to never see you again . . .” He closed his eyes and laid his cheek on her palm.

  The touch of his lips on her fingers set her heart pounding. She wasn’t like other women, Abba had said. She didn’t let her heart rule her head. She followed the law, took care of her family, worked from sunrise to sunset—just as Mama had asked. She was the perfect daughter. And because of that, she would never have Isa.

  As she saw her lonely future stretch before her, despair welled in her chest and the stars blurred.

  Isa leaned in, as if drawn by an invisible force. “Don’t cry, Martha. Please.”

  She heard the pain in his voice, and her heart twisted. At least she would have Abba and Lazarus, a home and people who loved her. What would Isa have? Tears for his loneliness joined those for her own.

  He slipped his arms around her and pulled her close. His head lowered. Would he kiss her? Would she let him? His breath brushed her cheek as softly as a flower petal. Didn’t she deserve one kiss before he left her? Couldn’t they have at least that? She leaned closer and lifted her chin. His lips brushed hers, soft and warm . . . and she couldn’t breathe.

  Her arms went around his neck like they had always belonged there.

  He kissed the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her closed eyes, then back to her lips for a kiss unlike the first tentative touch, but like a starving man at a feast.

  Her thoughts muddled as though she’d drunk too much wine. Unthinkable. Saying good-bye was unthinkable. She curved into his embrace. A thought whispered in one corner of her intoxicated mind. This is wrong.

  As though he’d heard her thought, Isa pulled away. “Martha,” he whispered against her cheek. He closed his eyes as though to summon strength. “You must go back.”

  His warning clamored in her mind, but it was dull and distant. This is what Mary has with Josiah. This was what Martha wanted. Just a moment longer. Then she would go back to Abba and Lazarus and her life of obedience. Then she would go back to her lonely bed.

  She leaned closer to Isa, soaking in his warmth. The tree branches arched over them like a wedding tent; the trees swathed them in their rich perfume. Insects sang a gentle night song, and doves cooed in the branches like lovers whispering their secrets.

  She brought her lips to his again and closed her eyes. She felt the moment his strength ebbed and slipped away. He pulled her down with him, onto the bed of velvety blossoms. And for the first time in her life, Martha let her heart rule over her head.

  Chapter Four

  My son, forget not my teaching, keep in mind my commands; For m
any days, and years of life, and peace, will they bring you.

  —Proverbs 3:1–2

  LAZARUS WOKE WITH a gasp, the sharp claws of the nightmare pinning him to his sleeping mat, his heart hammering. The night closed around him, the darkness a living beast reaching out to drag him away.

  He lay frozen, a wordless prayer his only defense. Finally, his heart slowed its staccato rhythm. The stars still shone in the onyx sky, just as they had when he’d fallen asleep on the flat roof of his father’s house. The moon still hung in a golden arc, and his cousins still snored beside him.

  It was just a dream. He knew that. But the threatening shadow had seemed so real. It always did.

  He pushed himself to his feet, stumbled around his sleeping cousins, and climbed down the ladder. Martha would understand. She’d let him curl up beside her until the dawn chased away the memory of the beast. He was too old to be scared by bad dreams, but Martha wouldn’t tell anyone.

  He crept into the house, past the open area where Abba slept on his pallet and Safta snored in the corner, and into the tiny room in the back of the house. But Martha’s bed was empty, the bed coverings a tangled heap.

  The hazy terror of his dream receded as he stood beside Martha’s empty bed and contemplated a greater mystery. Where would Martha go in the dark? Abba would be angry if he found out. And if Abba was angry, Martha would work harder—even harder than usual—to make him happy. And she’d make him work, too, instead of listening to the teachers in the synagogue.

  He’d have to find her before Abba did.

  He returned to the courtyard, where Abba’s friends slept near the smoldering fire, their cloaks tucked under their chins against the spring chill. He’d listened to their talk late into the night, at least until Martha sent him to bed. In a few years, when he wouldn’t have to obey Martha, he’d stay up all night with the men talking of the law and scriptures. Abba promised he’d study at the Temple with the doctors of the law and become a great scholar. But for now, he ran errands and worked in the garden and did what Martha told him.

  He threaded his way around the guests and out the gate, hugging his bare arms to ward away the chill of the night air. In the east, he could see the first lightening of the horizon. Dawn would be here soon, and Abba would expect Martha to be baking their bread.

  Poor Marmar. She’d been mad all week. She’d banged the cooking pots and snapped orders. He knew why. It was because she wasn’t married and Mary was. Although why Mary wanted to wed Josiah, he couldn’t understand. Josiah was never called on to read from the scrolls at the synagogue, and he stumbled through the prayers. No one asked Josiah’s opinions on the law, not like they did Abba and Simon. But Lazarus liked Josiah. He was always kind, and he laughed a great deal. He made Mary happy, Abba had said when he agreed to the marriage, and he was a righteous man. If that was enough for Abba, then it was enough for Lazarus.

  Lazarus crept across the flat meadow between the gardens and the vineyard, the air damp on his face. Guests clustered in groups around low-burning fires. A few were already waking, rubbing their eyes and pulling their cloaks around them. But Martha wasn’t here, with the relatives from Galilee. Maybe she was in the gardens south of the house. He hurried toward the southern fields, where the darkness lingered. His heartbeat quickened. Even though I walk in the darkest valley, I fear no evil, for you are with me. Martha had better have a good reason for leaving.

  No, Martha didn’t want to marry someone like Josiah, but she should have married before Mary. Everyone in the village said it. Just like they said that Mary was the useless sister, the one Abba was ashamed of. That made him angry.

  Abba loved Mary. He might wish she followed the law as carefully as Martha, but he wasn’t ashamed of her. And Mary was a good sister. She took him to the Temple in Jerusalem. She let him listen to the rabbis who taught in the courtyards. And she hardly ever remembered to check if he’d done his chores.

  Martha was more like a mother—the mother he’d never known. She made sure the garden was watered, that the vegetables grew, and that they had good food to eat. And in some ways, she treated him like a grown-up. She asked him which goats were ready to slaughter and to choose the best kids for the Temple sacrifices. She depended on him and didn’t treat him like a child all the time, because he wasn’t a child. He was almost ten.

  Still, he knew why Abba didn’t accept any of the men who asked to marry Martha. Abba was afraid to lose Martha. If she were married, she’d leave them and live with her husband. He and Abba would be alone.

  If he could find her, maybe he could tell her that. Maybe then she wouldn’t be so angry. He reached the gardens and scanned the rows of beans that were just beginning to poke out of the ground. Not even a footprint. He moved farther down, to the long rows of lettuces and herbs, the spring onions, and the hills of cucumber plants. She wasn’t here.

  The first burst of light broke over the horizon, turning the blossoming trees in the orchard to gold. The orchard. It was her favorite place. Didn’t she always go there when she was sad? He should have known.

  He sprinted through the rows and reached the stream that cut a narrow gorge between the garden and the orchard. He pushed through the scrub and half slid down the steep bank to the rushing water. During the dry season, the stream was hardly more than a trickle, meandering toward the Jordan. But now the water was deep, sliding over the rocks like a black snake. A shiver slipped up his back at the remembered fear of his dream. He clenched his teeth and hiked up his tunic.

  The icy water was deeper than it looked. The current pulled hard at his feet, water swirling above his knees. He slipped on the water-smoothed rocks and went down on one knee. Water surged to his waist. He clambered up, his tunic soaked. The icy wind took his breath away as he climbed to the top of the opposite bank.

  She better be in the orchard. He didn’t want to cross that river again by himself.

  The soft light of dawn slanted over the blossoming trees, illuminating a canopy of pink-and-white petals. He stopped at the first tree and listened. He could call out for her, but what if a wild animal or a bandit heard him? He tiptoed into the deep shadows under the branches.

  He jerked to a stop. Was that a voice? Just a low murmur, but yes, a man’s voice. And then the soft tone he’d known all his life: Marmar. Relief swept through him. But who would she talk to here in the dark? Father was asleep; he’d seen him in his bed. She wouldn’t speak to a man alone, and surely not here in the orchard. Alarm replaced relief.

  He picked up a rock the size of his fist. If she was in trouble, he’d help her. He may be small, but he could fight. He’d seen the village boys hitting each other enough. He crept through the trees, his heart skipping. The murmurs grew louder, but Martha didn’t sound like a woman in trouble. And the man’s voice was familiar.

  Lazarus peeked around a trunk to a place where branches hung low enough to form a secluded alcove. His breath caught in his throat. She was with the musician—Isa, the one who sang for the wedding, the one they called the pagan. But what were they doing?

  They leaned against the trunk of the old tree. Isa’s arms were around Martha, and her head lay pillowed on his chest. Martha’s hair was loose over her shoulders, her mantle crumpled beside her on the grass.

  Isa dipped his head to kiss Martha . . . on her mouth.

  He can’t do that. Lazarus jerked back, dropping the rock as he fell on his backside. Abba said one brush against a pagan’s cloak was reason to immerse in the mikvah. What happened if you kissed one?

  “What was that?” Martha’s voice was an alarmed whisper.

  This wasn’t right. Lazarus squeezed his hands into fists. That Isa deserved a beating, but something kept him from moving forward to stop them. He drew back into the shadow of the tree. Martha would be angry if she saw him. She’d make him promise not to tell Abba. But Abba needed to know.

  Isa answered after a moment’s silence. “Nothing.” Lazarus was close enough to hear him take a deep breath. “Martha,
what will we do now?”

  “We’ll marry, Isa.”

  Lazarus edged closer, careful not to make a sound. What did Martha mean? A Jewish woman couldn’t marry a pagan. Everyone knew that.

  Isa sounded worried. “Your father would kill me before he’d let me marry you.”

  “No. He’ll have to. It’s the law.”

  Alarm jolted through Lazarus. Martha’s voice, always so sure, quivered with doubt. What made her sound like she was going to cry?

  “I don’t want you shamed, Martha. And your family, they would hate me.”

  He was right. Abba would never give his blessing. Not to a pagan.

  “Then what? What should we do?”

  Isa took a deep breath. “Zerubabbel wants to go to the Decapolis next. We always get plenty of work there. I’ll get my share of the silver this time. Then I’ll come back.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ve heard in Jerusalem, of non-Jews learning the law, of becoming one of you.”

  “You’d do that for me?” Martha whispered.

  “I’d do anything for you, Martha.”

  Lazarus almost snorted. Isa, a proselyte? He’d heard his father’s friends complaining about how some rabbis in Jerusalem let non-Jews learn the law. After they were circumcised, they welcomed them in the synagogues like members of the Chosen People. They even sacrificed in the Temple. But Abba would never allow it.

  Martha’s voice was uncertain. “And if he still says no?”

  Isa answered quickly, “We’ll go away. To Caesarea or Damascus.” He held Martha’s face between his hands. “You can’t marry anyone else. Not now . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Lazarus couldn’t believe his ears. Martha leave Bethany? She couldn’t.

  Martha buried her head in Isa’s chest and murmured something Lazarus couldn’t hear.

  Isa’s voice was rough. “It won’t be long. I promise. Then we’ll have a family. We’ll raise our children like I always wished I had been. With a mother and father.” Isa pulled her closer. “I promise you, Martha. I’ll make you the happiest woman in all of Judea.”