Tomb : A Novel of Martha (9781451689136)

by Landsem, Stephanie

  Martha.

  Her knees were drawn up and her head bowed. The wind teased at her uncovered hair and plastered her tunic to her legs.

  Isa lurched toward her and fell to his knees.

  She jerked up, and her breath escaped in a gasp. Her face was pale and covered in tears. He reached out to her, cupping her cheek in his hand. Words swam in his mind but wouldn’t form on his tongue. Please, Martha, don’t cry.

  She jerked away and buried her face in her knees. Sobs shook her shoulders and wrenched at his heart.

  His head hurt. The orchard was spinning, and he didn’t know what to do with the woman in front of him. He ached to gather her shaking body in his arms and hold her close, to comfort her in the only way he knew how. But he couldn’t, not this time.

  When at last her sobs waned, she raised her head and took a quivering breath. “Lazarus is dying,” she said.

  Lazarus? He pictured the young boy who had found them here in the orchard. He couldn’t be twenty years old yet. What could have happened to him?

  She let out her breath. “I don’t know what to do . . . and now you’re here.” She bit down on her trembling lip as another tear slid down her cheek. “Seven years, Isa.” Her voice gained an edge of anger. “Why didn’t you come back?”

  He looked at her tear-stained face, heard the accusation in her voice, but didn’t answer. If he told her, she would despise him, and so would her family. He needed time to prove himself to her, to make her trust him again. And then, he promised himself, he would tell her about the demons, about how Jesus had healed him.

  Jesus. The idea jolted him upright. Jesus could heal Lazarus.

  Hadn’t Melech said he’d cured the sick and healed the blind and lame? In fact—understanding passed through him like a bolt of lightning—this was why Jesus sent him here, to Bethany.

  Go home to your family. Announce to them all that the Lord in his pity has done for you.

  He’d thought only of himself, of finding Martha. But perhaps the real reason Jesus had sent him to Bethany was for Lazarus. God had given him a way to redeem himself in the eyes of Martha, her family, perhaps all of Bethany. If he saved Lazarus, then they would accept him, listen to him. And find him worthy to marry Martha.

  • • •

  MARTHA HUDDLED BESIDE the tree, the wind sending fingers of cold down her back.

  Isa. He was here, with her. And as silent as ever.

  He had left her. Abandoned her. And now, when her world was falling apart, he’d returned. And there he sat, unwilling to even answer the question that had plagued her every day—every hour—for seven years.

  She pulled away from him. She shouldn’t even speak to him. She should send him away, make him suffer as she had suffered for seven years. Instead, she wanted him to move closer. She wanted his arms around her, wanted him to hold her until her racing heart stilled, until her worried mind was soothed by his quiet presence.

  Isa wrapped his hands around hers, bringing them close to his heart. “Martha. You must send for Jesus.”

  She jerked away as though he’d burned her. “How . . . what? Did Chana tell you?”

  He leaned closer, his voice rising. “Chana? No, Martha. That’s why I’m here. Why I came to you. To tell you to send for Jesus.”

  “Send for Jesus.” She repeated his words dumbly. Wasn’t that the question she’d come to the orchard to answer? “Do you know Jesus?” Isa hadn’t met him in Bethany, she knew that. He’d never spoken to anyone but her.

  “Yes. I know him.” He swallowed hard and squeezed her fingers.

  A shiver chilled her. For a moment, she’d seen a flash of fear, of desolation, in his face. Then it was gone, replaced by a conviction, a fervor, an intensity she’d seen before—when Lazarus spoke of Jesus.

  “Jesus can save Lazarus, Martha. Believe me.” Moonlight illuminated his face, his eyes pleading with her. “He is the Messiah.”

  Her heart twisted. The Messiah. Just like Lazarus and Mary believed. And now Isa, too? A pagan believed Jesus was the Messiah? How do you know? she wanted to shout. How did any of them know? She snatched her hands back and shrank away from him. “Why should I even listen to you? You left me—after you promised to come back—and you haven’t even told me why.”

  A muscle jerked in Isa’s jaw, but he didn’t speak. He rubbed a hand over his chest as if remembering a hidden pain.

  Martha pressed her trembling lips together. He wasn’t going to tell her, and she wouldn’t ask again. She let out a breath. “Besides, even if he is the Messiah, I can’t send for him. I don’t even know where he is.”

  “That’s just it.” Isa leaned toward her, his eyes burning as with a fever. “I know where he is, Martha. I know where you can find Jesus.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  MARTHA PUSHED HERSELF up from her pallet on the floor, every muscle stiff. Her swollen eyes felt full of sand, her throat coated with wool. The first rays of dawn trickled through the window with the cool breeze. Mary slept next to her, baby Natanel curled in her arms. Safta snored in the corner, and Penina sprawled at the foot of Lazarus’s bed. All of them, keeping a desperate vigil at Lazarus’s side.

  She’d sent Josiah to Bethabara two days ago, at dawn the morning after Isa had found her in the orchard. Isa had wanted to go, but he could hardly stand. She’d ordered him back to Chana’s, warning him to stay out of sight.

  Two full days of waiting, of praying, of worrying. Had she done the right thing? She prayed that Josiah hadn’t told his mother. That Simon wouldn’t find out. That her own lack of faith wouldn’t fail her brother.

  As quiet as a moth, she stepped around Mary and bent over Lazarus, her heart pushing hard on her chest. Thank the Lord, Healer of the Sick, he breathes.

  Penina jerked awake, a panicked question in her sleepy eyes.

  “He’s still with us,” Martha whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

  Penina crawled up the bed and curled beside Lazarus’s still body. She laid her cheek on his hair and closed her eyes. Martha brushed Penina’s tangled hair from her childlike face. Was it right for Penina to lie beside him when they weren’t even betrothed? Abba would be outraged. But Lazarus’s breathing seemed to ease as she curled next to him. Penina’s face smoothed from worry to peace.

  Martha couldn’t separate them. Not when they had so little time.

  Lord, Almighty One, Most High. I beg you. If he is your Anointed, bring Jesus to us in time.

  Safta awoke and held out her hand to Martha. Martha sank down beside her, burying her face in her grandmother’s shoulder.

  Safta stroked her wrinkled hand over Martha’s face. “You are stronger than you think, my girl,” she whispered.

  Martha breathed in Safta’s scent of dust and ashes and blinked back tears. Her grandmother was wrong. Safta didn’t know how weak she really was.

  Lazarus began to move restlessly, his face creased in pain. She pulled away from Safta. Lazarus would need the poppy juice again. And Penina and Mary needed food. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d eaten.

  There was much to do.

  She crossed the courtyard, hovering for a moment over Zakai, asleep in his corner beside his animals. His face was smooth and untroubled, but she knew the toll these days had taken on him. She’d snapped at him more than once as worry shortened her temper. She ran her hand softly over his hair. Forgive me, my son. Soon, Jesus would be here and the agonizing wait would be over.

  The rising sun marked the third day of waiting. If Josiah had walked fast, he would have gotten to Bethabara late yesterday. If they had left immediately, Jesus could be here tomorrow—midday at the earliest, surely by sunset. Lazarus would hold on. He must. Anxiety squeezed her chest like a vise. Please, Jesus, hurry.

  Martha stirred the blackened remains of the fire, looking for an ember. Could Jesus really be the Messiah? Lazarus and Mary believed it. And Isa said he was. He had even known where Jesus could be found. A wisp of smoke curled from the ashes.

 
But Abba . . . we must doubt. Abba would have needed proof to believe.

  She found a handful of straw and set it over the ember, blowing until a tiny lick of flame took hold. But if Jesus came, if he healed Lazarus . . . perhaps her doubt would finally be put to rest.

  The flame spread, and she added a handful of kindling. Please, Lord, be my help. Let him heal my brother. That was all she asked. Nothing for herself, just for Lazarus to live. She’d marry Simon and be the perfect wife.

  And she’d send Isa away.

  “I’ll wait for you here, every night,” Isa had said when she’d left him in the orchard two nights ago.

  As dusk fell each evening, she’d told herself that she wouldn’t see him, that it was wrong for a betrothed woman to meet a man alone, in the dark. It was adultery if anyone discovered them. Still, as the moon rose, she would find herself in the orchard, and she would find Isa waiting.

  She didn’t tell him about the betrothal.

  He didn’t tell her where he’d been for seven years.

  The first night, he’d brought a battered kinnor, repaired with twine and missing a string. He played softly, hardly louder than the whisper of the wind in the branches. The rustle of the new leaves added their own accompaniment, and the chirp of the night insects joined in the song.

  The music seeped into her heart like water into parched soil. Just for those brief moments, her pounding heart eased and the weight of her worries lightened. For just a short time, she was free of worry, free of doubt. Isa’s music, more than anything he could say or do, reminded Martha of his love for her. He had loved her not because she was the perfect daughter, or the sister who took care of everything, or the woman who made the meals and sewed the clothing. He loved her just because she was Martha.

  The second night, he sang to her. His voice was deeper, richer than seven years ago. He sang to her of the Lord’s love, of his people calling out to him in fear and trembling.

  I sought the Lord, who answered me,

  Delivered me from all my fears.

  As he sang, she watched him. He’d changed. He wasn’t just bigger and stronger. When they were younger, he had put aside his pagan ways for her. But now his faith in the God of the Jews wasn’t for her or even for Abba’s approval. She could hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes. It was his own, and it was strong. What had happened to bring him to this? And why now, when it was too late for them?

  As a girl, she’d watched his hands move over the strings, his lips as he sang the songs. So many times she’d thought about those hands touching her, those lips kissing her. His touch may have been what she wanted then, but his strength—his faith in the God they both believed in—was what she needed now.

  Now, as she fed tinder into the fire, watching it grow, she heard Isa’s song echoing in her mind. Would the Lord answer her call and deliver them from all their fears? Isa believed Jesus was the Messiah. Could his faith in Jesus be enough to kindle her own?

  How does he know? How can he be so sure?

  Zakai rose from his corner and stumbled to her side. She pulled him close, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. How Isa would love to know of his son, but it was impossible. Nothing would protect Isa if Simon found out about him. And this time, no one would save him.

  Zakai leaned against her leg. “Is Lazarus going to die, Marmar?”

  She sank down on the ground and pulled him into her lap. “No.” She forced the words through her raw throat. “Jesus will come; he will heal him. You’ll see.” If only she could be as sure as she sounded.

  The courtyard door creaked. Zakai straightened, her own thought reflected in his face. Could it be Jesus and Josiah? So soon?

  Instead, Jael stepped into the courtyard with a steaming pot. “Peace and strength to you, my dear.” Her words were correct, but her mouth pulled down in a disapproving frown as her critical eyes surveyed the courtyard.

  Zakai scrambled out of Martha’s embrace. Martha glanced at her own dirty robe, the jumble of dishes beside the fire and soiled tunics in a pile. Her household was in disarray and so was she, but must Jael look at her as if she had been sleeping with a herd of pigs?

  Jael handed her the pot as if she were giving a treasure of jewels. “At least you will have some food now.”

  “Peace be to you, and our thanks,” Martha managed to say politely, taking the pot and passing it to Zakai. The lentils smelled wrong and had bits of black floating in them. Zakai wrinkled his nose, and she gave him a warning look. Jael may have burned the lentils, but at least she was here to offer sympathy.

  Jael crossed her arms. “Is it true that you’ve sent for that fool, Jesus?”

  Alarm prickled the back of Martha’s neck. Simon’s mother wasn’t here to sympathize but to voice her disapproval. Why had she thought Chana could keep Josiah’s journey a secret? If Jael knew, then surely Simon did as well.

  “It’s a waste of time, and you know it. Jesus.” Jael’s mouth puckered like a dried fig. “What would Sirach, blessed be his memory, say?”

  Martha turned back to the dwindling fire, the mention of her father stinging her conscience. “Jesus is Lazarus’s friend. He would want to know.”

  “Hmph.” Jael crossed to the collection of pottery and bowls that Martha had dropped in a heap. “You think he’ll heal your brother, but mark my words, he’s a fraud.” She sorted the pottery by size, stacking them precisely.

  Martha rubbed her hand over her tired eyes. He may not be the Messiah, but plenty of people had seen him cure lepers, heal the lame, bring sight to the blind. If Jesus couldn’t heal Lazarus, it would be Martha’s fault, not his own. But why argue with Jael when she’d soon have to live with her?

  Jael examined a wine cup. “Anyway. He’d be a fool to show up in Bethany, him and those rough friends.”

  Martha advanced on Jael. “Then he is a fool, because he will be here.” She snatched the cup from Jael’s hands and threw it in the corner, shattering it to pieces.

  Jael raised her brows and stepped back. “You should be more careful, my dear. Those are expensive vessels.” She brushed her hands over her tunic. “I will pray for your brother, Martha. But remember, he who touches pitch blackens his hands.”

  Heat crept up Martha’s neck and into her face. So Jael thought the Almighty was punishing Lazarus, for what? Being Jesus’ friend? She fisted her hands at her sides, angry words choking her. If the Almighty was punishing anyone, it was her. Not Lazarus, who had done nothing but love his family and follow the law all the days of his short life.

  Before Martha could utter her thoughts, the courtyard door burst open.

  “Josiah!” Zakai ran to the lone man who stumbled into the courtyard, the neck of his tunic dark with sweat as if he’d run all the way from the Jordan.

  Jael moved close, her eyes alight with curiosity.

  Martha brushed past Jael to scoop a cup of water. She put it in Josiah’s hand. “Did you find him?”

  He gulped, water spilling from the corners of his mouth and dribbling over his dusty beard. “Yes,” he choked out. “In Bethabara.”

  Martha’s heart sped up. Just where Isa said he would be.

  Jael grunted like a goat choking on her cud.

  “And you told him?” She looked through the open doorway. Would he be coming? Would she see him on the road?

  “Can I go? Can I meet him?” Zakai asked quickly.

  Josiah drank down more water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Martha clenched her hands into fists, wishing she could shake the words out of Josiah.

  Josiah gave her back the cup and sank onto the bench under the fig tree, hunching his shoulders in exhaustion. “You know how he is.” He let out a deep breath. “He told me to go back. Didn’t explain why.”

  “But he’s coming?” Please, say that he’s coming.

  “Can I go, Marmar, please? Can I go to the road?” Zakai pulled at her.

  “Hush, Zakai!”

  Zakai’s face fell, and he bli
nked back tears.

  Josiah shrugged and ran a hand over his face. “I told him. I told him to hurry. I got there late in the afternoon, ate and slept, then left early the next morning. I walked all yesterday and through the night.”

  Mary appeared at the door of the house, blinking in the weak sunlight. She ran to Josiah and threw herself at his feet, burying her face in his lap while he stroked her hair and murmured to her.

  “Then he should be here,” Martha calculated quickly. “If he left yesterday morning and stopped for the night. By this afternoon, certainly.” No later than that. Her stomach twisted. And then they would see if he could heal Lazarus. Or if her lack of faith would fail her brother.

  Jael wagged her pointy chin at Martha. “I’ll pray for Lazarus, and so will Simon. The Holy One, blessed be he, hears the prayers of the righteous, my dear, not the prayers of sinners.” She bent her lips at Josiah and Mary and flounced to the gate.

  Martha ushered Jael out the gate, wishing she could slam it on her generous backside. Instead, she stood in the arched entrance, gazing down the road to the Jordan framed before her by oak trees and green fields of wheat. How many times had she stared down it, praying for Isa to appear? Hoping long after all hope was gone that he would come back to her and their son?

  Now Isa was here, in Bethany, and she watched the road for another man.

  Hurry, Jesus. Hurry.

  Jesus wouldn’t be too late. Not like Isa. Jesus would come in time.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Then you will understand rectitude and justice, honesty, every good path; For wisdom will enter your heart, knowledge will please your soul.

  —Proverbs 2:9–10

  LAZARUS OPENED HIS eyes. The golden light of late afternoon filtered through the window with the aroma of garlic and lentils. For a moment, he was a child again, waking from an afternoon rest, ready to run out to the courtyard, asking Martha for a taste of whatever she was cooking.