Tomb : A Novel of Martha (9781451689136)

by Landsem, Stephanie

  That dawn after Mary’s wedding feast, she’d said good-bye to Isa, sure that he would return soon. He’d said he would; he’d promised. And then they would marry—with or without Abba’s blessing.

  But Isa didn’t come back to her.

  Weeks went by as she watched the road stretching into the east, standing for hours in the heat of the day. Hoping the shadow on the road would turn into the boy she loved. Hoping . . . but always disappointed as the sun set in the west.

  When weeks turned into months, she became afraid. Afraid for herself and the secret she carried. She hid the truth from Abba. But when the harvest came and her belly swelled, she had to tell him.

  As she poured steaming water over the dirty pot, memories seared her heart anew. She’d found Abba alone in the olive grove, contemplating the fruit hanging on the branches. He smiled at her and kissed her cheek, thanking her for the cold water she’d brought in the heat of the day. He’d always been an affectionate father. Not in public, of course, as the law forbade it. But in their home he showed his love for his children—even his daughters—in his warm embraces and gentle touch. But today, Martha couldn’t return his kiss.

  Her heart hammered and her voice quivered as she told him simply that she was expecting a child. He didn’t shout. He didn’t hit her. She knew he wouldn’t. He simply sank to his knees and put his head in his hands. When he finally looked up, he seemed to have aged ten years.

  “Who is the father?” he choked out. But she didn’t tell him. She couldn’t. If he knew her child was the offspring of a pagan . . . it would kill him. If—when—Isa returned for her, then together they would beg Abba to allow Isa to become a proselyte. Surely Abba would do that, for his grandchild.

  “Does anyone else know?” he’d asked.

  She’d told no one. Not even Mary.

  He rubbed his hands over his face. “Keep it secret,” he’d said, then turned and walked away, his back bent as if carrying the weight of her sin on his shoulders.

  For three days, he didn’t speak—he didn’t eat or sleep. On the morning of the fourth day he came to her with a loaded donkey and told her they were leaving Bethany. She was to help a needy kinswoman in Galilee for the winter. She had time only to kiss Lazarus good-bye and send a message to Mary.

  Three days of silent walking brought them to a simple hut in the Galilean wilderness. The woman that met her at the door was familiar—distant kin who had come a time or two to Bethany. Abba had left her there, his face wet with tears as he walked away.

  Her kinswoman was not unkind. They worked together, prayed together, made food for her grizzled husband when he returned with the sheep. Martha woke each morning with worry gnawing at her. What would become of the baby growing inside her? Would she be forced to leave the child here, in Galilee? Or would Abba leave them both here forever?

  When her time came, the birth was fast and hard. She thought her body would rip apart, that the pain would twist her into a knot. But when it was over, she held Isa’s child in her arms.

  A son.

  A son with no father to accept him. Instead, the old shepherd performed the circumcision and gave him his name.

  Zakai.

  Martha plunged the cooking spoons into the dirty water, blinking away the tears that sprang to her eyes. Zakai, a child of Israel because the lineage of Abraham was passed through the mother, but also the child of the pagan who had deserted her.

  Perhaps Abba should have just left them both in Galilee. But when Zakai was a few weeks old, Abba had returned, and not alone. Penina was with him. She was so young, barely more than a child—a brokenhearted child with no voice and swollen, leaking breasts.

  Abba had taken Zakai from Martha and held him a moment, then settled him in Penina’s arms. “This is your son,” he’d said, his voice rough with grief. “Now, let us return to Bethany.”

  Just the memory brought an ache to Martha’s chest that she could hardly stand. Her boy, her beautiful boy, who looked like Isa, was taken from her. Penina’s arms would hold him, Penina’s breasts nurse him. Martha bit down hard on her lip and laid the clean utensils out on a mat to dry.

  The trip back to Bethany had been silent. A slave girl carrying an infant, and Martha numb with agony. Tears made hot streaks down her face, and her body shook with silent sobs, but Abba was firm. “I’m doing this for you, Martha, to save you and this family from shame. It is for the best.”

  From that day forward, they didn’t speak of Zakai’s birth. Abba never again asked about the father, and Martha told no one. But each day, she watched the road for Isa to return. Each day she was disappointed.

  Martha stared at her reflection in the dirty water. Since that night in the orchard, she was tainted, unclean. Abba could have had her stoned, could have denounced her in front of all the village, could have left her and Zakai in Galilee. But he didn’t. Instead, he lied for her. And her sin ate away at him. His fields lay fallow; his flocks did not increase. Finally, his health failed. As Abba had sickened and died, she’d known that his sickness, their decline in wealth—everything—was her fault.

  Martha closed her eyes, hot tears wetting her face. She’d chosen—chosen—to trust her heart, and look what had happened. She’d been deserted. Forsaken. Betrayed. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. She wouldn’t disgrace Abba again.

  The children loved Jesus. Lazarus and Mary loved him. I love him.

  But this time, she couldn’t trust her heart. Her cousin was a good man, a good friend, and perhaps even a prophet. But he was not the Messiah.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Yes, if you call to intelligence, and to understanding raise your voice; If you seek her like silver, and like hidden treasures search her out . . .

  —Proverbs 2:3–4

  LAZARUS CLAMPED A hand over the pain under his ribs and increased his pace. The dawn was late in coming. The sun had risen over the eastern hills, but its light was blocked by a bank of thick clouds.

  He’d risen early, his pulse pounding in anticipation. He would immerse and pray, then talk to Jesus. Soon, he would become a disciple, just like John and Peter. Soon, he would be a part of the world to come.

  He descended into the declivity that housed the village mikvah, then pulled up with a start. Two tunics lay on the rock next to the gaping dark mouth, a boy’s and a woman’s. Before he could turn away, a pale form emerged from the mikvah, naked and dripping.

  Zakai let out a yell and ran toward him, drops of water flying from his wet hair.

  Lazarus bent to the boy and smiled. “Immersing before your lessons at the synagogue, Zakai?” His voice broke on the last word, and he cleared his throat. Martha had surely insisted. Penina went along with the purity laws, but only to please Martha.

  Zakai pulled his tunic over his head. “I don’t want to go to my lessons. Have you seen my caterpillar? And the sparrow I caught yesterday? Can I work with you in the orchard instead?” His words tumbled like pebbles in a mountain stream as he pushed his arms through his sleeves. He looked over his shoulder. “Please, Mama?”

  Lazarus didn’t follow Zakai’s gaze but kept his eyes on the chattering boy until he was sure that Penina had donned her tunic. His neck warmed, and heat crept up his face. Living with two women meant he sometimes glimpsed them leaving the river after bathing or the mikvah after immersing. It wasn’t a sin to catch sight of a naked body. It was only a sin if you looked upon a woman with lust in your heart. He swallowed to ease his dry throat. Penina was just like a sister to him. There was no reason for him to feel guilty.

  A rumble echoed far in the east, and Zakai clutched Lazarus’s hand.

  “Don’t worry, it’s just a storm. And we need the rain it brings. Go to the synagogue, Zakai, before you get wet all over again. You can help me in the orchard this afternoon.” After he spoke to Jesus.

  “I’ll see you in the orchard,” Zakai shouted as he bounded down the path.

  Lazarus swallowed again, as Penina squeezed water from her long hair.
With drops glistening on her polished skin, she looked like a young girl, but her damp tunic clung to a body that was most definitely a woman’s.

  He’d been little more than a boy when she had come to them. Penina had been a few years older, yet already with an infant at her breast. He had taken his father’s word, as everyone had, that Zakai was Penina’s child. That Sirach had been moved by pity for the young Hebrew girl sold into slavery with no voice, no family, and a baby.

  He watched Penina slip her tiny feet into her sandals next to the ones Zakai had forgotten—already his feet were bigger than hers.

  When had he known that Zakai wasn’t Penina’s child? Perhaps as Zakai had grown and he’d seen his light gray eyes, so unlike Penina’s deep brown. Perhaps it had been when he’d seen Martha run her hand over Zakai’s face with the look only a mother gave, or exclaim in delight as he learned to walk. Whenever it was, he had grown into the knowledge that Zakai was Martha’s son. And as his understanding had grown, so had his anger at what that pagan had done to his sister.

  And each day, he wished he’d been old enough—big enough—to teach that cowardly dog a lesson.

  But it was too late. And to speak of it would only hurt Martha. So he didn’t speak of it, just as they didn’t speak of Penina’s past or the baby she lost before she was sold to Abba.

  When they were young, he’d ferreted out a little information about Nina’s life before Bethany. She’d lived in the east, a part of the scattered groups of Jews across the Jordan. She’d been married young, but not long after, her town was raided by nomads, her husband and parents killed. She was taken prisoner and sold as a slave in Damascus.

  That was all she would tell—in her way—but he could piece together more. She’d had a child, and the child had surely died. But whether she was mute from birth or from the violence she’d witnessed, he didn’t know and most likely never would. But he knew she had lost all faith in their God. That she had turned away from him as she believed he’d turned away from her.

  Most of the time, Lazarus understood the signs she made with her hands, and Zakai could translate easily. But Martha and Penina seemed to communicate with little effort through a combination of facial expressions and intuition. When he was young, he’d been sure Penina and Martha could hear each other’s thoughts.

  Penina looked sideways at him, and he tensed. What would she have to say now? She always teased him—about being younger than her, about his love of the law or the way he did his chores. He gave back as much as he got, and their constant sparring made Martha pull her hair out. But this time, Penina pointed to him and made a sign for sickness. Her delicate face and slanted eyes showed worry.

  He stepped back, surprised. “No. I’m fine. Now go, before the lightning starts.” He’d have to be careful; Penina was quick to detect any secrets. And if she knew, she’d tell Martha. Martha couldn’t know, not if he wanted to follow Jesus. He looked at the sun. He’d need to hurry. Jesus and his people would leave soon for the Temple.

  But Penina didn’t start down the path. She stood in front of him, waiting.

  “What is it?”

  Penina shrugged, but something was on her mind.

  “Nina. Tell me.”

  She curled one arm like a pot and stirred it with the other hand, like a woman cooking. Her brows pulled down in either anger or worry.

  “Are you worried about Martha?”

  She nodded.

  Martha had hardly said a word after the meal last night but had worked until the courtyard was spotless. Surely she wasn’t still angry about his teasing at dinner. “What is it?”

  Penina stepped closer. She took his hand in hers. Her skin was cool from the mikvah, and she smelled like rainwater and lavender. Penina formed his hand into the sign he knew for man. She formed hers into one for woman and brought their two hands together. Then she shook her head violently.

  Martha doesn’t want to marry. Sometimes Penina could communicate better than anyone he knew. “But she must. I promised Abba.” He’d promised Abba he would do what was best for Martha. But wasn’t that the same thing?

  Penina’s mouth pinched, and she shook her head again.

  Understanding rushed over him. “Don’t worry,” he said quickly. “Whoever Martha marries, you’ll go with her. And not as a servant, as part of the family.” Martha would never leave Penina. And not having Zakai with her was unthinkable.

  Penina blew out a frustrated breath. She made the sign for woman again and took his hand, entwining her fingers with his. With her other hand, she pointed to herself.

  Heat burned up his neck and into his face as he realized her meaning. “You mean . . . you want to be married?”

  She nodded and stepped closer. Penina’s smile—rarer than a freshwater pearl—transformed her face.

  A pain—unlike any pain he’d known before and in the vicinity of his heart—twisted through him. He backed away a step. Of course Penina would want to marry again. She was no longer a slave, not since Abba died. And she was young enough to have many children. He imagined Penina in another man’s home, as another man’s wife, and the pain sharpened.

  He dropped her cool hand. She belonged to his family; it was his duty to find her a husband. “Of course, Nina.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I didn’t think of it. I’ll find a good husband for you.”

  Penina’s mouth dropped open, and her eyes flashed in anger. She shook her head and stomped a foot on the path.

  Now what? She was acting like he just said he’d give her to a slave trader.

  Again, she made the symbol for man and woman with each hand and brought them together. Then she poked him in the chest.

  “I know, Nina. I understand.” Did she think he was stupid? “I’ll find you a husband if that’s what you want.”

  Her mouth flattened into an angry line. She pushed past him, making a small sound in her throat, and stomped up the path.

  Lazarus watched her go. What was that about? She said she wanted to marry; then she got angry when he agreed to find her a husband. What had he done wrong? The older he got, the less he understood women, and especially her.

  It wouldn’t be hard to find a husband for Penina, even if she wasn’t as devoted to the law as Martha. Men would get in line to marry a girl as lovely as she. But the thought of seeing her married to a village man, bearing his child . . . the pain in his heart doubled.

  Martha wouldn’t want to lose Penina to another family. And what would they do about Zakai? Everyone in Bethany might believe he was Nina’s son, but Zakai loved Martha just as much as Nina. Yes, it was Martha and Zakai he worried for. Not himself, thinking of Penina in a village man’s bed.

  He pulled his tunic over his head and threw it on the rock before he descended into the darkness of the mikvah. He calmed his mind, letting the water embrace his aching body. He’d immerse and pray, asking the Almighty for wisdom. He would surely need it with these women.

  And then he would go talk to Jesus.

  • • •

  LAZARUS STOPPED FOR a moment’s rest outside the courtyard gate. The walk from the mikvah had never seemed so far. He took a deep breath and pushed through. The courtyard was deserted, except for Peter sitting in front of the fire, mopping up the last of Martha’s cumin sauce with a hunk of bread.

  “Where is the teacher?” Lazarus tried to keep his voice from sounding breathless.

  “They left,” Peter said around the food in his mouth. “Jesus asked me to tell you good-bye.”

  He’d missed him? “How long ago?” Lazarus turned back to the door. “I must speak with him.” Who knew when he’d come back to Bethany?

  Peter’s bushy brows were pulled so low they met above his prominent nose. “They’re gone, my boy. Halfway to the Jordan by now. I’m to take a message to Jerusalem, then catch up to them in Capernaum.”

  Lazarus’s heart sank. All the way to Galilee? He eyed Jesus’ closest disciple. Perhaps Peter could help him. He sat down across from him, and the words
spilled from his mouth. “I want to join you—to be his disciple. Please, Peter, what must I do to follow him?” He felt like a little boy, asking his father if he could sit with the men in the synagogue.

  Peter stopped chewing. “Join us? You sure about that? It’s not a very safe occupation these days.”

  Lazarus leaned in. “He is the Messiah. The Messiah, Peter! After thousands of years of praying and fasting and sacrifice. How could I not be a part of the coming of the Kingdom?”

  Peter rubbed his beard and looked at the ground.

  “What is it? Don’t you believe in him?” How could Peter, of all the disciples, doubt Jesus?

  “No, no, boy. You’ve got it wrong.” Peter shook his head. “I believe he is the Messiah, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “But this.” Peter’s face pulled down in a grimace. “I don’t understand him. Not but a few days ago, he said to us that he would suffer and die.”

  Lazarus blinked. Die? How could that be? He opened his mouth, but Peter held up his hand.

  “Then he said, ‘If anyone wishes to come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross.’ ”

  “His cross? But—”

  Peter went on like he had memorized the words. “ ‘And whoever loses his life for my sake will save it.’ ” He frowned as if trying to work out a puzzle.

  Lazarus stared into the fire. It was like hearing Greek or Latin. He heard the words but didn’t understand them. “What did he mean?” he finally asked.

  Peter let out a long breath. “I’m not sure. But I think we’ll all find out, and soon. The Pharisees want Jesus’ head on a platter, like the baptizer. And I think . . .” He looked intently at Lazarus, his eyes filled with sorrow. “I think we’ll all end up the same way.”