Tomb : A Novel of Martha (9781451689136)

by Landsem, Stephanie

  Isa’s mouth dropped open, and the chill of the wind changed to a warm flush on his skin.

  The woman—young, but no girl—glowed like a precious ruby stuck in a tarnished setting. Her hair was like a raven’s wing, black and glossy, and her eyes shone like polished onyx. Isa’s gaze was drawn to her skin, tawny and smooth, from a high brow to smooth cheeks, down her long graceful neck. He stopped himself from looking even lower and brought his eyes back to her face. Pomegranate lips parted as she stared at him.

  Nikius watched him, a slow smile spreading over his misshapen face. “My daughter. She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

  Alexa tossed her head, and her tunic slipped off one shoulder, exposing even more smooth skin.

  Isa swallowed hard. How could such a beautiful woman have sprung from this man’s loins?

  She looked at him with wide eyes rimmed in kohl. “Just what did you drag home this time, Pater?” She purred like a jungle cat.

  “He’s the one from the tombs.”

  One arched brow rose. “The mad one?”

  “Aye. And you’re to give him some food. And something to wear.”

  Her languid gaze went from Isa’s matted hair to his dity feet. “What if he tries to kill me?” She didn’t look at all frightened by the prospect.

  Isa’s face burned. Kill her? Is that what they think of me? He opened his mouth but couldn’t find a word to say to a woman this beautiful.

  Nikius pulled a rickety ladder out of a pile and leaned it against the house. “I have a feeling in my gut that this boy wouldn’t hurt a flea on a camel’s hind end.”

  Alexa stepped closer to Isa. “I hope you’re right.” She smelled of juniper berries and something else . . . something earthy and sweet.

  Nikius jutted his chin toward the flat roof. “You sleep up there.” He stomped through the maze of refuse and pushed open the courtyard door. “Stay out of the village, boy. They’d just as soon kill ya as look at ya there.” He threw a glance at Alexa. “Get him some food, before he falls over.”

  “You’re leaving me alone with him?” Alexa’s eyes swept over his scarred chest.

  He was leaving him alone with her? Isa took a step backward, stumbling over a rusty mattock and quickly righting himself.

  Nikius laughed, furrowing his face even more. “Don’t worry, son. She don’t bite.” He slammed the courtyard door behind him.

  Isa swallowed hard. He was alone—and practically naked—with a beautiful woman who looked at him as if he were a meal and she hadn’t eaten in days.

  If she didn’t bite, why did he feel like he’d just been thrown into the lion’s den?

  Chapter Twenty

  She picks out a field to purchase; out of her earnings she plants a vineyard.

  —Proverbs 31:16

  MARTHA POUNDED THE barley on the stone grinder, wishing she could pound some sense into her brother’s head. Betrothal to Simon? Was he turning into a raving madman?

  Lazarus stood silently, watching her with a hopeful face. Penina sat beneath the fig tree, mashing chickpeas and roasted garlic into a paste, her mouth pulled down, her eyes darting from Lazarus to Martha.

  Martha poured more barley on the grinding stone and bent over it, turning away from Lazarus. She’d woken with anticipation this morning, not the usual twist of anxiety and weight of worry. It was the preparation day for Purim, her favorite day of the year. Tonight, they would take Zakai to the synagogue to hear the story of Esther, how her faith had saved her nation from the evil plans of Haman. After, they would give gifts of food to their friends and alms to the poor.

  As she’d immersed in the mikvah earlier in the day, Martha had smiled at the remembrance of last Purim. They had still been in mourning for Abba, but the law allowed them to put their sorrow aside for the feast. They had all eaten together, even Lazarus and Josiah, laughing and acting out the drama of Esther going before her husband, the powerful king of Persia.

  Little Adina had played the part of Esther, trembling with fear as she went before the king, asking for his protection of her people. Zakai, as usual, had begged to be Mordecai, the wise counselor, and Lazarus gave in to the children’s demands to play the part of the king. No one wanted to be the evil Haman, but Josiah had good-naturedly agreed. Penina laughed along with their antics, and Safta’s old face had creased into something resembling a smile.

  Martha pounded the barley into fine meal. They wouldn’t feast on roasted lamb and honey cakes this year. She had little in her storeroom, far less than when Abba had been alive. But everyone she loved would be together. She and Mary wouldn’t talk about Jesus—at least not if she could help it. It would be a chance to put aside her worries for one night.

  And now Lazarus stood here, with his preposterous idea.

  Martha poured the flour into the mixing bowl. Why must Lazarus even talk of a betrothal? As if he didn’t know how impossible it was. “Did you agree to it?”

  Lazarus frowned. “I wouldn’t do that, Martha. Not without your consent. But, Marmar.” He crouched down beside her. “I think this is the answer to our prayers.”

  Martha raised her eyes to her brother’s face. How could he think that?

  Safta sidled closer, one of Zakai’s birds cooing in her wrinkled hand. “Betrothal to Simon the Leper?” She made a sound like a low whistle. “Jumping from the pot into the fire, are you?”

  Martha sank down on her heels and let her hands idle. Even Safta knew this was a bad idea, and she couldn’t remember what day it was. Didn’t Lazarus understand why she couldn’t marry?

  Lazarus sighed and glanced at Safta. “Come to the orchard with me, Martha.” His gentle hands pulled her up, and he led her out of the courtyard door. He put his arm around her shoulders as they walked. Now they could talk freely, away from Safta’s sharp ears. And she knew what Lazarus wanted to talk about.

  Lazarus stopped when they reached the trickling stream. The morning clouds had cleared, and the sapphire sky stretched to each horizon. The breeze whispered in the trees, and frogs croaked in the reeds. Across the river, the apricot trees showed the first misting of green on their spreading branches. But the beauty of the morning and the music of water over stones failed to soothe the anxiety quivering in Martha’s chest.

  Lazarus turned her toward him. “Martha, I promised to look after you. Promised Abba.”

  She looked at her feet. “I know. But—”

  He pushed her chin up with one finger. “Listen, Martha. Simon is a good man. He will be a good husband to you, forgive our debt to him, take in Penina and even Safta. Only a brave man would take on our grandmother.” He tried to coax a smile with a small one of his own.

  The love she saw in his face was sincere but so was the determination. Her baby brother was the head of the family, and he knew as well as she that they were close to destitute.

  Abba had lost everything after she came home with Zakai. He’d never blamed her, but she knew it was her fault. Shouldn’t she pay the price?

  “But what about . . . ?” She couldn’t bring herself to give words to the shame they never spoke of. She motioned to the orchard.

  Lazarus pressed his lips together. “I swore an oath that I would tell no one of that night, Martha. Lying is a sin, and we’ve been lying about Zakai for years.” He let out a breath. “I will not bear false witness on your marriage contract.”

  Martha dropped her chin and leaned against Lazarus. The ketubah that he must witness was clear: Here, in the city of Bethany, Simon the son of Elezar says to this virgin, Martha, daughter of Sirach . . .

  This virgin, Martha.

  The law was equally clear on what happened if the bride was found not to be a virgin on her wedding night: If the evidence of the woman’s virginity is not found, they shall bring her to the gate of her father’s house, and there her townsmen shall stone her to death. And then what would happen to Penina, to Zakai?

  Lazarus knew her thoughts; he knew the law as well as any man in Bethany. “Tell him, Martha. Now, be
fore the betrothal. The Almighty showed mercy on him, forgave his sins and cured him from his affliction. Simon will show you the same mercy.”

  Martha raised her eyes to her brother, who was always willing to see the best in everyone. She couldn’t afford to be so trusting. “Give me more time. At least until after the harvest.”

  Lazarus scowled and ran his hand through his hair as if he wanted to pull it out. “Tell me you’re not still waiting for him.”

  Martha stepped back and shook her head. “Of course not. It’s been seven years.” It would be foolish to still wait for a boy who was gone.

  “Seven years, Martha.” He shook his head. “If he ever shows his face in Bethany . . .” His fists clenched at his sides.

  “He won’t.” Martha wrapped her arms around her chest. Isa would never come back. He must be dead; it was the only reason he would have deserted her. And she’d spent seven years mourning him. But could she marry Simon . . . tell him of her shame? Was Lazarus right about his mercy?

  “You must tell him soon. We can’t wait.” Lazarus looked away.

  Martha put her hands on her hips. She’d always known when her baby brother was keeping something from her. “Why?”

  He answered too quickly. “Because the year of mourning is over. I promised Abba. I told you all that.” He looked away, toward Jerusalem.

  But it wasn’t everything. Her heart sank. Was he really going to leave them?

  “Tell me the truth, Lazarus.”

  But Lazarus didn’t answer her. His gaze had sharpened toward the south, and his brows pulled down.

  She looked to where goats and sheep grazed in the southern pastureland, and a shadow darkened the horizon. “Is there a storm coming?” Thank the Lord, they needed the rain desperately.

  Lazarus shaded his eyes.

  Martha looked again. Something wasn’t right about the soot-colored cloud hovering past the grazing animals. Rain coming from the south? From Egypt? And it was moving far too fast. Her heart stuttered, then surged in panic.

  Lazarus turned to her, his alarmed face confirming her fear.

  She grabbed him by the shoulders. “Go. Get Josiah and Mary. Everyone. Anyone you can find.” She whirled toward the house. She needed baskets, jars, anything. Why wasn’t Lazarus moving? “Go!” she yelled over her shoulder. Martha whispered a desperate prayer as she ran. Please, please, let them pass by. Not the garden. It’s all we have.

  Penina and Safta jumped as Martha burst into the courtyard. “Baskets,” she panted, running to the stash in the corner. “Hurry. Locusts.”

  By the time Martha, Penina, and Zakai had gathered all the baskets they could and ran back to the garden, the black cloud had doubled in size and was heading straight toward Bethany. Martha shoved a basket at Penina. “Hurry!” She began to strip fingerling cucumbers from the vines. “Get the artichokes.”

  Mary and the girls ran across the meadow, the baby strapped to Mary’s back. “Girls, get the beans,” Mary directed her daughters. She bent to help Martha with the cucumbers.

  Lazarus and Josiah came running with more baskets.

  A low buzz vibrated through the air. Martha willed her fingers to move faster. If they saved the vegetables, they could bring them to market tomorrow. It wouldn’t be as much as they had hoped, but . . .

  Martha glanced over her shoulder. The sun had dimmed, and the blue sky was fast disappearing behind a dusk-colored cloud. The drone of countless wings beating the air swelled to a roar. She hadn’t finished one row, and there were at least a dozen more.

  The swarm descended. Each insect, as long as her finger, glistened with iridescent wings. They settled on her hair and crawled on her face, their threadlike legs scratching over her skin, crawling over her legs and up her tunic.

  Sarah screamed. Adina brushed frantically at her sister’s hair.

  Locusts covered every green plant—the cucumbers, the artichokes. They bent the asparagus like trees before a storm. The whir of wings subsided, replaced with the grind of thousands upon thousands of jaws—biting, chewing. The garden, their livelihood, their only chance . . . buried under a living carpet of destruction.

  Lazarus pulled her arm and pointed to the half-filled baskets at their feet, locusts covering them like a blanket. “Save what you can.”

  She gathered the baskets, scooping and brushing the insects away, stacked as many as she could carry, and ran for the house.

  They burst into the courtyard. A few locusts crawled in the dirt and landed on the fig trees and shrubs along the courtyard walls. Zakai swatted at them, and Penina crushed them under her sandaled feet.

  Martha and Mary dumped what they had saved—asparagus, beans, a handful of artichokes—into empty jars and covered them with cloths. Lazarus and Josiah entered with their baskets, brushing insects from their clothes and hair, stomping them into the ground as they fell.

  Lazarus bent over. His face was pale and pinched; his breath came in gasps. “This is it. All we could save.” He put his head in his hands. “What will we do now?”

  Martha sank down beside the meager remains of their garden, not even a tenth of what they would have harvested. She covered her face with her hands. All the days spent planting, watering, and weeding . . . wasted. What would they do now, with so little to sell at the market? She blinked hard to stop the tears. Weeping would not bring back the harvest, and tears would not feed her family. Why, Lord? Why have you cursed us? But she knew why.

  She was still being punished for her sin.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  She is girt about with strength, and sturdy are her arms.

  —Proverbs 31:17

  MARTHA PULLED ANOTHER jarful of water from the cistern and carried it back to the courtyard, her worries pressing heavier than the jar on her shoulder.

  She’d gone to the synagogue last night with Zakai, and again this morning as the feast day of Purim dawned. She’d listened to the story of Esther, responding with “Cursed be Haman” and “Blessed be Mordecai.” But gratitude did not fill her heart.

  She’d brought gifts of almonds and dates to Elishiva, and bread and olives for Simcha’s mother and little brother. Giving gifts of food and charity had always been one of her favorite parts of Purim, but how soon would her own family feel the pinch of hunger? Would the Lord provide, as Lazarus always claimed?

  At least she still had the jar of nard; thank the Most High she’d stopped Mary from using it. She’d take it to Jerusalem after Purim and trade it for oil and wheat. That, at least, would see them through until well after Passover.

  Martha set the water jar in the shadow of the courtyard wall, close to where Safta huddled, her eyes closed and her mouth open, snoring like a camel. Penina sat at the loom, her hands flying across the weighted threads. The Purim feast would be meager at best. Barley was all she had for bread, but if she flavored it with rosemary and thyme it would do. She would roast what they had of the garden vegetables, seasoning them with garlic and plenty of chopped herbs. A few dried fish and olives would go to Lazarus and Josiah, along with the last of their wine.

  Martha leaned against the wall’s sun-warmed bricks, suddenly so weary. She needed to speak to Lazarus about their plight, but he’d dragged himself to his sleeping mat last night—without eating and without a word. He hadn’t risen even now, with the sun well above the horizon. Her burden of worry magnified. Was Lazarus too young to take on the responsibilities of the head of the family?

  She pushed herself away from the wall with a heavy breath. Keep busy. There was much to do before the feast. She trudged to the fire to start the immersion of the vessels. At least they would all be together for the feast day.

  A sniffle and a muffled sob caught her ear. Zakai sat in the corner, his rabbit in his lap and his face wet with tears.

  “What is it?” She crouched down beside him.

  He stared at the willow basket where he’d kept a fuzzy caterpillar for days, feeding him handfuls of vetch that grew in the meadow. “My caterpillar is
dead.”

  Martha ran a hand down his sweet face. This, at least, she could fix. “He’s not dead, my sweet. Look.” She pointed to a lump on one of the willow switches. “He made a cocoon. He’s getting ready to be a butterfly.”

  Zakai’s brows bent down. He examined the gray mass carefully. “A butterfly?” He frowned and looked at her suspiciously.

  “Trust me. A beautiful butterfly will come out. Just wait and see. Now hurry and help me; we have much to do before the celebration tonight.” His face brightened into a smile that warmed her heart and lifted her worries. If only all her problems were this easy to solve.

  Zakai rubbed the tears from his face. “Are Mary and Josiah still coming to the feast tonight?”

  Martha pulled her knife from her belt and started peeling the papery skin from an onion. “Yes.” Mary wouldn’t miss Purim.

  “And the baby, right?”

  Martha smiled. Little Natanel would be a good distraction from her worries. “Of course. He can’t be without his mama.”

  “And his abba, right?” Zakai brought her a basket for the onion skins.

  Martha felt a prick of sadness. A baby needs his mama, and a boy of six needs his abba. “Yes, and his abba.”

  Zakai’s unruly brows came together. “Question or command, Marmar?” It was a game they played often, but this time his voice was serious.

  Martha cut the onion into quarters. “Question.” She could tell he had one.

  Zakai’s looked sideways at Safta, then whispered to Martha, “Did you know my abba?”

  Her eyes stung as the acrid scent of the onions reached them and his words cut into her heart. If only she could answer with the truth. If she could just say it out loud for all to hear and end these years of secrets. Yes, I knew him, and I loved him. He was sweet and shy and handsome. And he loved me. And he would have loved Zakai, too. She blinked hard and threw the onion pieces in the pot.

  “I just wish I knew something about him.” Zakai’s mouth trembled.

  She wiped her knife on a cloth and tucked it back into the sheath at her waist. He wasn’t asking for a lot. Just to know something of the man who was his abba. Wasn’t that the least she could do? He’d never meet him, not now.