Tomb : A Novel of Martha (9781451689136)

by Landsem, Stephanie

  Martha gritted her teeth.

  “Is it true?” Mary’s voice rose.

  “I can’t believe she kept a secret from you that even her slave knows,” Jael whispered. “Just keep it quiet, especially from that talkative mother-in-law of yours, until Simon makes the announcement.”

  Mary’s eyes were bright as she took Martha’s elbow and pulled her away from Jael’s listening ears. “How can this be?”

  “Mary, I—I meant to tell you. I just—”

  “Martha, no.” She took Martha’s hand in hers and brought it to her heart. “Sister, you can’t. You’ll never be happy with Simon.”

  Martha’s body was flushed with heat, and her mouth tasted of curdled milk. As always, Mary didn’t understand. “Happy?” she choked out. “Not everyone gets happiness, Mary. You know that.” Many women married for protection, for security. Happiness may come later, or it may not.

  She picked up her half-full jar. If she could just get away. Away from Jael and her disapproving eyes. Away from her own sister, who didn’t understand the here and now. Martha turned away from the well but stopped in the act of hefting the water jar to her shoulder.

  A stranger stumbled across the square. A tall man, in a short tunic like the Greeks wore—not much more than a scrap of wool streaked with dirt and what looked like blood. He clutched one hand against the side of his head. Long, dark hair hung over his shoulders, and a tangled beard covered most of his face.

  “Help me,” the man choked out.

  The women drew closer together like sheep under threat of a wolf.

  A stone’s throw from the well, the injured man careened sideways, then crumpled to the ground with a muffled groan and was still.

  Mary rushed to him. “Get me some water,” she called over her shoulder.

  Devorah moved toward the well.

  “No.” Jael stopped Devorah with a raised hand. “Look at him. He isn’t from here. He’s not even a Jew.” Jael jerked her head toward the city gate. “Devorah, get your husband. Let the city judges take care of him.”

  Mary sat up on her knees. “The city judges? They’ll throw him outside the gate.” She glanced at Martha. “Martha, help me get him to my home. I’ll take care of him.”

  Martha moved toward her sister. Mary was right. If this man was a pagan—or worse, a Samaritan—Abel and the other men would let him die rather than help him.

  “Martha,” Jael’s voice rang out. “Don’t you dare touch that man. Simon would not approve.”

  Martha stood like a statue, one step away from the group of women, two steps from Mary and the injured man. Panic rose in her throat, and her damp hands slipped on the water jar. Mary, silently begging her. Jael, watching her with narrowed eyes as if this was a test.

  Her heart pounded. It was a test. One that she couldn’t fail, not now with Simon’s threats still ringing in her ears.

  You will never dishonor me.

  Martha looked at the man lying on the ground. He was hurt, maybe dying. But Simon’s wrath would threaten not only her but Zakai and Penina. Maybe even Mary and Lazarus. She couldn’t risk it. She looked away. “Mary, let the men decide what to do with him.”

  “Martha!” Mary’s voice held shock, and her face showed her disbelief. She turned toward Penina. “Penina, you’ll help me.” It wasn’t a question.

  Penina stepped forward, but Martha grabbed her arm. Penina pulled, and Martha firmed her grip. “I forbid it.”

  Penina’s brows went up, but she stayed put. Martha had never treated her like a slave, or even a servant. But this time she had to or Simon would hear about it. Forgive me, Penina.

  Martha turned away, unable to look another moment at the injured man. Her gaze fell on the women who watched Mary with disdain, and shame washed over her. She was one of them now. She had turned into the kind of woman she despised.

  Jael sidled up to her. “Don’t worry. You can’t be held accountable for your sister’s actions. Simon will hear that you chose wisely, my dear.”

  A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in her. Jael couldn’t be more wrong. She hadn’t chosen wisely; Mary had. Mary had chosen the better part, once again.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  She opens her mouth in wisdom, and on her tongue is kindly counsel.

  —Proverbs 31:26

  PENINA STAYED THREE steps behind Martha as they carried the water through the village and past the olive groves, just like a slave would.

  Martha’s mind whirled with regret. She’d had to do it. Surely Penina could see that?

  Mary would care for the injured man. She’d get Josiah, and probably Simcha, to carry him to her house. She would treat his wound and give him food and water. Mary can afford to choose the better part.

  If she was so sure, a small voice asked, why was shame welling in her like an overfilled pot, threatening to choke her? Why did her heart feel like a cold, blackened cinder in her chest?

  Martha pushed through the gate and glanced around the courtyard. Lazarus still wasn’t home. Where had he gone after Simon’s—to the mountain to pray or perhaps to the orchard? He was probably planning how soon he could leave to follow Jesus.

  She collapsed in the corner next to Zakai’s animal farm, her arms still around the jar, her face pressed on its cool, smooth surface.

  Penina slammed her jar down beside Martha.

  Martha stayed huddled on the ground. “You know I didn’t have a choice,” she said without looking at Penina.

  Jael would have marched straight to Simon like a tattling child. The betrothal would be ended before the ink dried on the ketubah and with it, their life in Bethany. Martha reached out to Zakai’s rabbit. He hopped away and cowered in the corner of his basket, his ears twitching. Even the rabbit hated her.

  She didn’t want to be like them—like Jael and Devorah—but it had happened. She touched the willow twig where Zakai’s caterpillar hid in its cocoon, looking like a lump of hardened pitch. After Zakai’s birth, she’d been forced to build a shell—a fortress—to protect her son. Now her cocoon was so hard—so petrified—she would never be able to break out.

  I’m not like them. I’m not. She pushed herself up and gathered the leftover rounds of bread into a basket. She found a handful of dried figs and some almonds. The man had been big, but he’d also looked half-starved, all muscle and bone, as if he’d gone years without a good meal.

  “Here.” She shoved the basket toward Penina. “Take this to him.”

  But Penina crossed her arms and turned her head away.

  Now what? “Don’t you want to help him?”

  Penina shook her head. She lifted her hand and placed her finger above Martha’s heart. Her eyes softened as she made her meaning clear.

  Martha stepped back. “No. I can’t do it.” Mary probably wouldn’t even let her in the door. And Simon would find out.

  Penina pointed back to the well and then at Martha’s heart again, shaking her head. That woman—the one at the well—that wasn’t her. Penina knew it, and so did Martha.

  Martha’s lips trembled, and tears welled in her eyes. Penina took the basket from Martha’s hands and set it on the ground, then gathered her in her arms like a mother, murmuring the only sounds she could, like the coos of a dove.

  Martha pressed her face to Penina’s shoulder. She’d denied help to an injured man. That was never what Abba would have wanted from her. And Mama would have been ashamed to see her today.

  Penina stepped back. Her hands said go. Go to Mary. Help her.

  Martha gulped down a sob. Could she? Mary had chosen the better part. Was it too late for her to choose it as well?

  Penina picked up the basket and put it in her hands, then pushed her toward the door. Martha took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. She gave Penina a trembling smile, but her legs shook like a newborn lamb’s as she walked out the door.

  She walked across the meadow and through the city gate. The nearer she came to Mary’s door, the more her worry grew. What
if Simon found out? He’d told her what would happen if she defied him. What if Chana was there? Or Jael saw her?

  Was this the better part? Was this what Jesus meant? To do something that made your legs quake and your hands shake? That made your mouth as dry as dust?

  The door to Mary’s courtyard stood half-open. She slipped inside silently, her hands clutching the handles of the basket. Sarah saw her first. The little girl threw her arms around Martha’s legs and buried her face in her tunic. Adina held a fussing baby Natanel.

  “What is it?” Had he already died? Was she too late?

  “Mama’s crying,” came Sarah’s muffled voice.

  Martha stepped into the house. Mary bent over the hulk of a man lying on a pallet in a dim corner, her back to the door. The sunlight slanted through the square-cut windows on each wall. Martha could see the man’s long legs, caked with dirt. A roughly woven bag lay beside him, lumpy, as though it held a load of kindling.

  “Stay outside, girls,” Mary commanded without turning, a hitch of a sob in her voice.

  Martha gave the basket to Sarah. “Take this and do as your mother says.”

  Mary turned to Martha. Her eyes were red and her cheeks shone with tears, but she said nothing. Shame burned through Martha.

  “Mary . . .” What could she say? How could she ever explain how she’d become so bound from a long-ago sin that she couldn’t break free? “I’m sorry.” It was all she could manage.

  “I know.” Mary, as she always had, held out her arms.

  Martha fell into her sister’s embrace, but her heart was still raw. She didn’t deserve Mary’s forgiveness.

  Mary knelt beside the unconscious man, but Martha hesitated. She was here now, but what could she do? The man lay on his back, his face hidden in shadow and smeared with blood. His long, soot-colored hair tangled in his matted beard.

  Who was he, and how did he get so injured when he looked as though he could take on an army? Jael was right; he wasn’t a Jew. Was he a Samaritan? Or perhaps a pagan?

  Martha wavered. She could still leave. Maybe Jael wouldn’t find out she’d been here. Mary raised her eyes to Martha’s. “You were always better at cutting hair.”

  Martha’s heart turned in her chest.

  Mary sniffled. “Remember when I cut Lazarus’s hair?”

  Emotion welled in Martha as she recalled how small Mary had been, not even as old as Zakai, and how proud of herself. “He looked like he’d been in a fight with pruning shears.” She smiled at the memory.

  Mary held out the scissors.

  Martha hesitated, the moment weighing on her like a cloak of lead. Could she take the scissors—make the choice—that Mary offered?

  Choose the better part.

  Martha went to her knees beside her sister and took the scissors from her hand. The decision was made. The walls of the little house were still standing; the sun hadn’t fallen from the sky. At least not yet.

  “Be careful,” Mary whispered. “Don’t reopen the wound.”

  “I won’t.” As if she was going to be rough with this man who looked like he might attack them both if he awoke.

  They worked together in silence. Gently, Martha pinched hanks of hair and snipped around the crusted wound. The gash started above his ear and wrapped around his head as if he’d been in the jaws of a lion. It was deep and already festering. Mary poured wine on a scrap of cloth and gently wiped the wound.

  “I know what they say about me,” Mary whispered as they worked. “The women, my own mother-in-law.” Mary pressed her lips together as if to stop their trembling. “That I’m not a good wife, that I don’t follow the law.” She waved at the proof of it in the man laid out on her floor. “That Abba was ashamed of me.”

  Martha’s hands stopped; her heart ached in her chest. I am the one who didn’t follow the law. The one Abba was ashamed of. Yet she’d let them push that shame on Mary for years. Let them ridicule her sister. “You are a good wife, Mary.” She reached out and took her sister’s hand. “And Abba loved you, you know that.”

  Mary looked at her doubtfully.

  Martha turned the unconscious man’s head and snipped carefully until a pile of dark hair lay on the floor beside her and he looked almost human.

  Mary laid her hand on Martha’s arm. “What happened to us, Martha? When did we become strangers instead of sisters?”

  Martha’s throat closed. She knew when. Her words came out in a whispered croak. “You got married . . . you got Josiah . . .”

  “And you got Penina.” Mary’s voice was small and childlike.

  What did Mary mean? “But Penina is . . .” Her friend. Her sister. The only one who knew her secret. The only one who understood. Could Mary be as hurt by Martha turning to Penina as Martha was when Mary wed Josiah?

  Mary’s mouth turned down like it had when she was a baby, trying not to cry. “After she came home with you, you didn’t talk to me anymore. It was just her.”

  Martha blinked back her own tears. And Zakai. She should have told her from the beginning. “You had Josiah and the girls . . .”

  “He’s my husband, Martha, but I needed my sister. I needed you, especially after Abba died.” Twin tears trickled over her cheeks. “I miss Abba . . . and I miss you.”

  Martha put her arms around Mary and pulled her to her. All these years, Mary thought Penina had replaced her in Martha’s heart, just as Martha felt like Josiah had taken Mary from her. Martha pulled back and wiped the tears from Mary’s face with the corner of her mantle. “I love Penina. She is like a sister to me.”

  Mary blinked as though she would cry again.

  “But you are my sister. I love you and always will. Always. And nothing and no one will ever change that.” As she said it, she knew it was true. Even Jael, even Simon. She wouldn’t turn her back on Mary ever again. “Please, Mary. Forgive me for being such an idiot.”

  Mary’s face became serious. “We have much to talk about, Martha.”

  Martha nodded. They did. It was time to tell Mary everything. Relief lightened the weight in her chest. It would be good to share her burden with Mary. They would have no secrets now.

  The man beside them moaned and shifted.

  Martha leaned over him. “He’s waking up.” They would talk later, after he was cared for.

  Mary rolled to her feet. “He’ll need something for the pain. Elishiva will have willow bark. I’ll get it.” She hesitated. “Will you—can you stay here with him?”

  Martha took Mary’s hand in hers and kissed it. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  In a moment, Mary was gone. The stranger jerked and rolled, as if he were fighting off an attacker, then quieted again.

  Martha leaned over his shadowed face. At least she could trim his awful beard while he was still asleep. She snipped carefully under his chin and up around his jaw.

  How could she not have seen that it wasn’t easy for Mary to choose the better part? It was hard. But she did it anyway instead of hiding. Instead of pretending. Like I have. How would her life be different if she’d been more like her brave sister?

  She shifted her attention to the man before her. Carefully, she trimmed around his mouth until his beard was short and neat, just as the Pharisees wore theirs. As she angled the scissors around his jaw to cut away the last of the knots, a feeling of recognition crept over Martha. Her heartbeat quickened. Why did that chin look so familiar?

  Regret and heartache for Mary disappeared, replaced with confusion, then with fear. Her hands trembled as she smoothed the stranger’s hair and leaned back on her heels, letting the light from the window illuminate his face.

  Her heart jumped into her throat.

  It can’t be him.

  But she knew that mouth, that smooth forehead, those wild eyebrows. Panic pounded through her chest. She knew the slate gray that hid behind those closed eyes.

  She inched back from the body in front of her. He is dead. He has to be dead.

  That mouth had kissed her and whispe
red promises. Those arms—no longer those of a boy, but hard and muscular—had held her close. How could he be here? And why now? Why now, Isa?

  His hands twitched and flexed. His eyes opened.

  She couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t even breathe. The moment slowed and stopped until there was nothing, not the sounds of the birds outside the window or the warmth of the sun.

  Only his voice, like a knife plunging into her heart. “Martha.” Just one word, but it changed everything.

  Isa. He wasn’t dead. But if he isn’t dead, where has he been for seven years?

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  MARTHA’S HEART BEGAN to beat again. Her breath rose and fell in her breast. The birds sang, and the sun warmed her shoulders. His hand searched and found hers. He lifted it and pressed her fingers to his mouth.

  She snatched her hand back, her mind spinning like a whirlwind. Isa. He had come back to her, but too late. Seven years too late. One day too late. Cold shock gave way to the heat of anger. If he wasn’t dead, this man who had promised to come back to her, where had he been all this time?

  She lurched to her feet, backing away from him. It didn’t even matter, not anymore. She was Simon’s wife now, or as good as married to him. And if Simon suspected, if he found out . . .

  She stared at him. Anyone with eyes would see that Zakai was his son.

  Zakai. He couldn’t know about Zakai. Not now, not ever. If he knew he had a son . . . he’d be so happy.

  She covered her mouth with her hand. He couldn’t know. He had to leave. Soon, before anyone saw what was right in front of their eyes. It was the only way for her and Zakai. And for him. She’d send him away and make him promise never to return. That’s the least he could do after what he’d put her through. But he was in no shape to leave Bethany.

  She dropped to her knees beside him. He didn’t speak. At least that part of him hasn’t changed. She whispered fiercely, “Don’t tell anyone. I mean it, Isa. Not your name. Not that you know me.” She heard the pleading in her voice. She shook him by the shoulder, and he flinched. Could he possibly know how important this was? “Please, Isa. Do you understand?”