Tomb : A Novel of Martha (9781451689136)

by Landsem, Stephanie

  He blinked, and his head moved in what could have been a nod. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he was gone, his face slack, his limp hand falling to his side.

  Mary rushed through the door and dropped to her knees beside Martha, a jar in her hand. She struggled with the wooden stopper. “We’ll put it in water and—” Mary caught her breath, the jar forgotten in her hand. “Martha. Isn’t that—?” She stared at the man on the floor. “Martha, it’s Isa.”

  Martha’s heart sank. She needed Mary’s help to keep him hidden. And for that, she’d have to tell her. About Zakai, the orchard. All of it.

  Mary nudged her aside and laid her hand on Isa’s slack face. “Thank the Almighty. Zakai will finally have his father.”

  Martha stared at her sister, her mouth dropping open. Mary knew? “How did you . . . How long have you known?”

  Mary blew a breath through closed lips, sounding much like Safta. “You didn’t think I believed Abba’s story, did you?”

  Martha blinked. Yes, she had thought that. “Why didn’t you tell me?” What a relief it would have been to not hide her secret from Mary.

  “I wanted you to tell me.” Mary’s face showed the years of hurt. Years Martha couldn’t get back. “When you left with Abba . . . I wanted to ask. Then you came back with Penina, and you were so different. So sad. I thought something had happened to Isa.”

  Something had happened to him, but she didn’t know what it was. “I’m sorry, Mary. I should have . . . I wanted to . . .”

  “I know.” Mary squeezed her hand. “But now you can marry, and Zakai will have his abba.”

  “I’m betrothed, Mary. It’s too late. He’s too late.”

  Mary looked at her like she was speaking Greek. “You can’t marry Simon. Not now. Isa is Zakai’s father.”

  “But Lazarus will never—not to a pagan.” And Lazarus had never made a secret of how he felt about Isa. “Besides, Simon would have to break the betrothal.”

  And Simon would make her—and Isa—pay the price.

  “The Lord will give us a way, Martha.” Mary pulled her close. “You’ll see.”

  How could she believe that? What way and how?

  Suddenly, a frantic shout came from the courtyard, and Chana burst through the door. “Girls!” she gasped out. “Come quick!” Her thin face was red, as though she’d run all the way across Bethany.

  Martha jumped to her feet. What now? Had Simon already found out about Isa?

  Chana panted. “It’s Lazarus.” She caught another breath. “Come, both of you. Your brother is sick.”

  • • •

  MARTHA’S FEET POUNDED alongside Mary’s as they ran through Bethany, their tunics tangling around their legs. They lifted them to their knees, not caring about the startled looks as they passed the houses in the village and raced through the village gate.

  Martha’s chest ached for breath. They’d left Isa in the care of the biggest gossip in Bethany, and all Martha could do was pray. Pray Isa would stay quiet. Pray Simon wouldn’t find out who lay injured in Chana’s home. And pray Lazarus wasn’t seriously ill.

  Their sandals clattered into the courtyard and through the house. Lazarus lay on Martha’s bed, his eyes closed, his face ashen. Penina sat beside him, worry on her face and Zakai clinging to her tunic. Simon stood in the corner, wringing his hands. A flash of relief crossed his face, and something else—guilt?—when he saw Martha. She didn’t have time to think about it.

  She went to Penina’s side. “What happened?”

  Simon spoke up, his voice loud in the small room. “I found him in the orchard. I didn’t know what to do.”

  Martha cut Simon off with a look. “Penina? What’s wrong with him?” She bent over Lazarus. Her brother looked old. Ancient. His eyes were sunken, his skin the color of parchment.

  Penina’s mouth trembled, and tears shone bright in her eyes. She brought Martha’s hand to Lazarus’s forehead. His skin was hot and dry, as if he’d been standing next to a fire. “Get water; we must cool him.”

  Simon stepped closer, the fragrance of myrrh making her stomach turn. “He seemed fine when he came to my home.” He cleared his throat and stood straighter. “Maybe a little quiet. Now that I think on it, a bit pale. He left quickly.”

  “And then?” Martha loosened Lazarus’s tunic.

  “I checked on my workers in the southern field. When I returned, I found him in the orchard.”

  Penina came with a bowl of water and a cloth. She leaned over Lazarus and pulled down his tunic, uncovering him to his waist.

  Martha’s heart wrenched at his bony ribs. When had he become so thin? But as Penina straightened, Martha’s heart seemed to stop beating altogether. A lump, swollen and the size of her fist, protruded from her brother’s side.

  Martha gasped, and a sob broke from Mary.

  Martha thought back desperately. He hadn’t been eating well for weeks. And he’d gone to his bed early and stayed there late into the morning. She’d been so worried about Simon, about Penina and Zakai. Her eyes blurred with tears. How could she not have seen what was happening to Lazarus?

  Martha rubbed her eyes. She needed to think. As she took Simon’s arm and pulled him toward the doorway, he stiffened at her touch. Why should he when they were betrothed? “Accept our gratitude, Simon. The Most High surely brought you to Lazarus in his moment of need. And now he needs his family.”

  He swallowed and lowered his voice. “If he doesn’t recover . . .”

  She shook her head. “He will.” He has to.

  He rubbed his reddening neck. “Please send word if you need anything. Anything at all, all I have is yours.”

  There was one thing he could do. “Simon, would you—I mean, if you could—”

  He stepped closer. “Anything, Martha.”

  She leaned back, away from his round-eyed stare. “A physician. The one from the upper town in Jerusalem.” He’d treated Abba. He would know what to do. And it would get Simon out of Bethany for a few hours.

  “Of course.”

  She returned to Penina, Mary, and Zakai in the bedroom.

  Zakai ran to her, and she wrapped him in her arms. “He’ll get better, won’t he, Marmar?”

  “He will, Zakai. I promise you, he’ll get better.” She pressed her face to his shaggy hair, shutting her eyes to the scene in front of her. But when she looked up, it was all still there. Lazarus, lying motionless on the bed. Mary and Penina, looking at her with tear-filled eyes. Waiting for her to tell them what to do.

  But Martha didn’t know what to do.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  She watches the conduct of her household, and eats not her food in idleness.

  —Proverbs 31:27

  SIMON BROUGHT THE physician within hours. He was thin, with sad eyes and a nose like a vulture. Lazarus opened his eyes and tried to answer his questions, but his voice was weak.

  “How long have you felt the pain?” Months, Lazarus said.

  “Weakness?” Every day.

  “Have you been able to eat?” Lazarus shook his head before closing his eyes and dropping back into the netherworld—somewhere between a restless sleep and senseless pain.

  The physician examined him. The lumps under his arms, his pallid skin. Lazarus groaned and moved restlessly when the man prodded the swelling beneath his ribs.

  “There is nothing to do but pray,” he said to Martha, his eyes drooping above his beaky nose. “This will help the pain.” He gave Martha a small jar. Simon passed the physician a silver coin as he showed him out.

  Nothing to do but pray? There had to be some way to help him. In her storeroom, she ransacked her supplies. Rosemary, dill, a pinch of cinnamon. Bottles of unguents she had used for Abba—camphor, mustard, sandalwood. Surely there was something that would cure him? She couldn’t stand by helplessly and watch Lazarus die.

  Simon stood nearby as she sifted through bottles and jars. “Martha, about the betrothal.” He twisted his hands together. His face was guar
ded, as if he wasn’t sure what to say.

  Martha pressed her lips together. Now wasn’t the time to talk of marriage, not with Lazarus struggling for breath. “Yes, Simon.” She tried to keep her voice calm; he had just paid for the poppy extract they would never have been able to afford. “When Lazarus recovers, we will announce the betrothal, just as he wanted.”

  Simon’s brows shot up in surprise, and he seemed to search for words. “Of course,” he finally said. “Your brother will recover. And then we will announce the betrothal.” He ducked out the door as if wild dogs were chasing him.

  Martha swallowed her irritation. Yes, the betrothal should be announced, but didn’t she have enough to worry about with Lazarus ill? Finally, she unearthed cumin and dried rue. They were said to cure many illnesses. If she mixed them with a dose of the poppy juice, perhaps he would sleep well. And sleep would restore him, everyone knew that.

  In the courtyard, Martha poured boiling water over the powdered rue. How could Lazarus have kept this from her? And for so long? When he was well—when he got better—she’d tell him what she thought of his foolishness. She wiped a hand across her wet eyes. And he would get better.

  For hours, Zakai had worn a path between Lazarus’s side and his animals in the corner, watching Lazarus for signs of life as closely as he watched his cocoon. Waiting for both to emerge from their silence. Now, he came to her. “Can I go to Mary’s?”

  “I told you no, Zakai,” she almost shouted. He couldn’t go there, not with Isa.

  His mouth trembled, and he blinked hard. Safta glared at her and put her arm around Zakai, pulling him close.

  Martha turned back to the fire, wishing she could take back her harsh words. But she couldn’t risk Isa seeing him. Mary and Josiah had gone to the Temple to pray, but before she left, Mary had checked on Isa. He hadn’t spoken a word, Chana had reported, and only woken to take water and a little food.

  Martha swirled the rue in the hot water. She needed to see him, to send him away. And she would, as soon as Lazarus was better. She strained the mixture and added a few drops of poppy juice and a spoonful of honey to make it go down easily.

  In the house, she pushed the cup into Penina’s hands. “Give him this. I’ll stoke the fire.” Hot coals in the brazier beside his bed would fight the chill on his skin that had replaced the fever. Martha pushed more wood into the flames, then straightened the coverings on the bed.

  Penina hadn’t left Lazarus for a moment, but now she took Martha’s hands in hers, stopping her frenzy of activity. She pressed Martha down to sit beside Lazarus. Stay, she motioned.

  Martha tried to rise. “No. I must . . .” There must be something more to do than sit with anxiety eating like a worm in her belly.

  Penina signed again. Stay with him. Then she settled at the foot of the bed and closed her eyes.

  Martha covered her face with her hands. She didn’t want to look at Lazarus, didn’t want to see his sunken cheeks, the hollows around his eyes, his skin the color of ash. He was dying. She could hear it with his wheezing breath, smell it on his skin. Was this really all they could do? Be with him. Stay with him as he left this world?

  He stirred, and his eyes opened, cloudy with pain. “Martha.”

  “I’m here, Lazarus.” She offered him a weak smile.

  He grimaced. “The betrothal.”

  She set her hand over his cool fingers. First Simon, now Lazarus. Why must they talk about that now? “Don’t worry. I’ve spoken to Simon.”

  Lazarus struggled to speak again, his voice so soft she had to bend close to him to hear. “I’m sorry, Martha.” He winced and closed his eyes.

  Martha stroked his cheek. Why should he be sorry? He was doing what he thought was best for her. For all of them. It must be the poppy juice, muddling his thoughts.

  He seemed relieved, squeezing her hand and letting out a rattling breath. He closed his eyes and drifted away. Martha laid her head on his chest. Just a moment’s rest, that’s all she needed.

  • • •

  MARTHA JERKED AS she heard the courtyard gate slam. The light was dim. Had she slept that long? As she sat up, Mary rushed in. “Martha,” she said, her voice breathless. “There is something we can do.”

  “What?” Anything. She’d do anything.

  “We must send for Jesus.”

  Jesus? “Do you think—could he?” Hope flickered in her heart. Could he heal Lazarus?

  Mary grasped Martha’s hands in hers. “I know he can. We’ve heard so much. He’s cured the blind, made the lame walk. Surely for someone he loves like Lazarus?”

  Lazarus stirred. “No,” he whispered. He tried to rise. “I forbid it,” he gasped, slumping back down on the bed.

  Martha looked from Lazarus to Mary. It would be dangerous for Jesus. Everyone knew the authorities were looking for him. And Lazarus didn’t even know about Simon’s threats. Bringing Jesus to Bethany would be dangerous for them all.

  “Martha,” Mary went on as if her brother hadn’t spoken. “He can save Lazarus. We must send for him.”

  A tide of doubt flooded her spark of hope. What had the men said when they talked of Jesus? That there was one place he couldn’t heal . . . Nazareth. They had no faith in him.

  Lazarus moaned, as if trying to speak, then faded back into a restless sleep.

  Martha pulled Mary from the room and out into the twilight where Josiah hunched over the fire. Penina followed, her brows pulled down.

  “I don’t know, Mary.” Her voice wavered.

  “We have to, Martha,” Mary whispered.

  “But Lazarus said no.” He’d forbidden it. And if he knew what Simon had said . . . What if she put them all in danger, and then Jesus couldn’t heal Lazarus because of her lack of faith?

  “He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Mary countered.

  Mary waited. Penina watched, Martha’s own doubt reflected on her face. Josiah stared at the fire. Martha’s pulse quickened; the familiar anxiety seeped through her limbs, paralyzing her. Even if Jesus could cure him—if they brought him to Bethany despite the risk—there was still one problem. “Where is he?”

  Josiah shrugged. “They say he’s hiding. But I could ask in Jerusalem. Someone may know.”

  They all waited on her decision. Josiah and Mary. Penina. Martha’s chest tightened, cutting off her breath. I don’t know what to do. She needed to be alone. Until this wave of panic passed, she couldn’t even think. She turned away and stumbled out the door. Mary’s voice calling her name faded as she ran into the gathering dusk, across the meadow, and through the stream. She scrambled into the orchard and threw herself down under the shadows of the apricot trees, burying her face in her hands.

  You are anxious and worried about many things, Jesus had said. She was. Worried for him and for Lazarus. Worried for herself and Zakai and Penina. And now there was Isa to worry about as well. Her worry weighed on her like a mountain of stone. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t decide. How could she know what to do?

  There is nothing to do but pray, the physician had said. She closed her eyes and prayed as she had never prayed before. Please, Lord. Tell me what to do.

  Chapter Forty

  I will teach the wicked your ways, that sinners may return to you. Rescue me from death, God, my saving God, that my tongue may praise your healing power.

  —Psalm 51:15–16

  PAIN SHOT BEHIND Isa’s eyes as he stumbled toward the wall around Bethany. His head pounded, and the streets tilted.

  He wasn’t waiting a moment longer to see Martha.

  When the old woman who had given him water and food left the house, he’d seen his chance. He’d dragged himself from the pallet and crept through the falling dusk. A cold wind brought the scent of cooking fires, but the smell of food didn’t tempt his empty stomach.

  He recalled bits and pieces since the men had attacked him. Women gathered around a well. Raised voices. Martha’s stricken face when he opened his eyes. She hadn’t been happy to see him. Don’t
tell anyone. His heart dropped at the memory. But what had he expected? For her to slaughter the fatted calf and prepare him a homecoming feast?

  He hadn’t said a word—as if he could have gotten a word in. The old woman hardly took time to draw a breath. The little girl—Sarah was her name—she was tiny, but brave enough to creep close to him when she thought he was sleeping. He’d whispered questions to her.

  “Martha . . . do you know her?”

  She nodded, her eyes big.

  “Where does she live?”

  She looked over her shoulder, where the grandmother babbled to the baby. “In my grandfather Sirach’s house, blessed be his memory.”

  Blessed be his memory. Sirach was dead and Martha yet unmarried. Hope warred with shame and regret. He knew why she hadn’t married, and it was his fault.

  He must speak to her.

  He passed through the village gate, deserted while the men had their evening meal. Dust spiraled through the dry meadow, filling his eyes with grit. The world shifted as a wave of dizziness passed over him, and the emerging stars lurched over his head.

  The pain beating in his head magnified his despair. If Sirach was gone, Lazarus would be the man of the family, and he surely hated Isa. Lazarus had seen them that morning in the orchard, seen Isa make a vow to Martha that he didn’t keep. Lazarus knows what a coward I was. And if Lazarus knew about the demons, he would despise him even more.

  He reached the imposing gate to Sirach’s courtyard. Torches blazed on the arched entrance, the wind making the shadows twist against the walls. His thoughts jumped and tangled, as chaotic as the dancing shadows. He couldn’t go in there. Not like this. He’d wait for her in the orchard, like he always had. She would come there.

  He splashed through the shallow trickle of the stream. Dead leaves blew in the chill wind, fluttering against his wet calves. If she came, what would he tell her? It didn’t matter; he just wanted to see her.

  He pushed aside the low-hanging branches. There was the tree he sought, the oldest tree, in the center of the garden. Its branches swayed and creaked in the wind. His heart jumped. There, underneath the heavy branches, a form as familiar to him as his own face.