The rest of the mourners curled in their cloaks around the fire. Martha stared into the flames—trying not to think, trying not to feel—until the moon was high in the sky and everyone was asleep.
Isa must go. Tonight. And she knew what to say to make sure he never came back.
She crept through the bodies strewn about the courtyard, slipped out the gate, and stumbled toward the dark blur of the orchard, feeling as if another death were upon her. Down the embankment and across the trickle of river, and she was in the orchard.
She found him standing in the shadow of their tree, just where she knew he would be. He straightened when he saw her and stepped out to meet her. He looked better—steadier on his feet—than he had the last time they’d met. His slate-gray eyes were filled with pain but this time not his own.
“Martha.” In his voice—just saying her name—was the solace she’d needed these past days. All she needed to soothe her grieving soul was right here, just a step away.
But she couldn’t receive the comfort he would give. Not this time. You are stronger than you think, Safta had said. Now she must be. She couldn’t give up, as Penina was doing. She could still protect Isa and Zakai.
“Martha.” His voice was choked. “I thought he’d come. . . .”
She crossed her arms and stepped back, swallowing the tears that threatened.
“He is the Messiah.” Isa reached out, his voice desperate as if he knew her doubt. “You must believe me, Martha.”
“Believe you?” She pulled away as if his touch were a scorpion’s sting. She’d wanted so badly to believe in Jesus. Just as she’d wanted to believe that Isa would come back to her. But like Isa, Jesus had abandoned her in her time of need. She closed her eyes to shut out his face, his earnest eyes.
She hardened her heart. It was the only way to get through what she had to do next. But before she sent him away, she must know. She opened her eyes. “Question or command, Isa?” Please, say question. Please, Isa, answer my question.
• • •
ISA CLENCHED HIS jaw and tried to think of something—anything—to say. He knew the question she had for him. Where had he been? Why hadn’t he come back to her? And he couldn’t answer it. He couldn’t bear to see her pull away from him even more. He had been so sure that Jesus would come. That the Messiah would heal Lazarus and then Lazarus would embrace him as a brother and bless his marriage to Martha.
But Jesus hadn’t come, and Lazarus was dead. How could he tell her now and make her despise him?
“Question or command?” she asked again.
He stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I can’t . . .” He looked at the ground, his feet—anywhere but at her accusing eyes. “I can’t answer your question.”
Her words were as sharp as flint and hit him like arrows. “Then your command is to leave, Isa. Leave Bethany, and never come back.”
Go away and never come back? She didn’t understand. He had to make her understand. “No, Martha. Please. I came back to you.”
Her mouth trembled, and her eyes were bright with tears. “It’s too late. You’re too late.”
Go home to your family, Jesus had said. Surely he wouldn’t have sent Isa to Bethany if he had no one waiting for him. He spoke quickly. “Please, Martha, we’ll marry like we planned, I don’t have much—”
“I can’t marry you, Isa.” She took a shaking breath.
If she would only listen to him. He would take care of her; he’d do whatever he must to make her happy. “Martha, I—”
She cut him off with a fierce look. “Isa, I’m betrothed.”
He heard her voice but couldn’t make himself believe her words. Betrothed? She couldn’t be. Why hadn’t she told him?
Martha’s voice dropped to a whisper. “As soon as the mourning is over, I’ll marry.”
It couldn’t be true. She was his. She’d waited for him. And he’d come so far for her.
She turned aside, as if she couldn’t bear to look at him. Her voice cracked. “You ran away, Isa. And you stayed away.” She shook her head and swallowed hard. “It’s too late.”
Understanding pierced his heart. It had always been too late. His dreams of life with Martha and her family had been just that—ridiculous, foolish dreams. She deserved better than him. Sirach had known it. Lazarus had known it even as a boy. And if he was honest with himself, he’d known it all along.
She closed her eyes. “You need to go, Isa. Before Simon finds out about you.”
Simon. He’d heard that name from Chana. Simon’s fields, Simon’s olive groves. Simon, the doctor of the law. The kind of man Sirach had wanted for Martha. The kind of man she deserved. “But what about . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. “Does he know about us?”
She met his eyes. “He knows I’m not a virgin.”
Her words hit him like a slap in the face. What he and Martha had shared in this orchard was nothing more than a shameful picture in another man’s mind. A defilement that lessened her worth in this other man’s eyes. And it was his fault.
She turned her face away. “He’s a good man, Isa. But if he finds you here . . .”
She didn’t have to say it. Simon would want to kill him, and Isa didn’t blame him. Isa had taken what wasn’t his and run away like a thief, a coward. Martha deserved someone better.
And she’d found him.
He leaned closer, almost close enough to touch her. Everything in him demanded to pull her to him. But it was too late—he was too late. She stared up at him, her lips so close he could kiss them. But they weren’t his to kiss, not anymore. They never had been.
He stepped away, and the cold night wind cut between them. “Is this what will make you happy? Is this really what you want, Martha?”
She covered her face with her hands and laughed—a short, joyless laugh. His heart felt like it would tear in two. If she was betrothed to such a good man, why did she look so miserable? But her next words were like a stone rolling over his tomb.
“I want you to run away again, Isa.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, and she didn’t meet his eyes. “And this time, don’t come back.”
Chapter Forty-Five
She brings him good, and not evil, all the days of her life.
—Proverbs 31:12
MARTHA DRAGGED HER body across the dark meadow, her last words to Isa echoing in her mind like the beat of the funeral drum.
Don’t come back.
Don’t come back.
She didn’t see the sky lightening in the east; she saw the pain dawning in Isa’s eyes, the hurt in the face that she loved more than any other. At least now he’d be safe from Simon’s wrath.
Is this what will make you happy? Happy? She would never be happy again.
Her breath hitched in her throat. How quickly Isa had believed her. How willingly. She’d thought it would be harder to send him away, but it had been easy. Easy to convince him she’d chosen a better man.
As she pushed through the gate, she found her courtyard in an uproar. Women threw on their cloaks; men shouted orders and filled water skins. What was going on, an exodus?
Penina ran to her, her hands flying, her eyes filled with worry.
“Slow down, Penina.” Martha couldn’t understand a thing except that something had happened to raise Penina from her stupor of grief.
Chana came, wringing her thin hands before her. “I thought he was with you, I did. Here, with his cousins.”
Martha’s heart jumped to her throat. “Who?” Not Zakai. Please, Lord of Mercy. “Penina, what—when did you see him last?”
Penina signed. Yesterday. She’d seen him in the corner with his animals. Not long before dusk.
“And he wasn’t with you last night?” She clutched Chana’s arm.
“No. You told him he couldn’t.”
Safta’s old face pinched. “I woke up, and he was gone. So were the animals.”
Penina pulled at her sleeve. Martha followed her to the corner of the cour
tyard where a torch sputtered, illuminating empty willow cages and baskets. The birds and the lamb. All gone. Even his rabbit cage was empty. Her stomach twisted into a knot.
“But where would he go?” And why would he take his animals? She hadn’t seen him sleeping before she left for the orchard; she’d been so worried about Simon, about Isa. “Where’s Mary?”
“She went home last night.”
“Safta, did he say anything, anything at all?”
The old woman shook her head. “He didn’t say a word all day, but . . . he might’ve heard you carrying on with Penina.”
“Penina?” What did Safta mean?
“About Penina leaving and her not wanting Zakai, and then you said you wouldn’t take him. I’m guessing they could hear you all the way to Jerusalem.”
“We didn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . .” Martha stumbled. That’s not what she’d said, was it? She looked to Penina, who shook her head, her eyes wide and worried.
Martha rubbed her face and pushed herself to her feet. Zakai had hardly spoken since the burial. And she’d been so caught up in her own grief . . . Could he really have run away? And with so many mourners here, had no one seen a little boy leave with enough animals to fill an ark?
Martha didn’t know what to do next. But Safta did.
Safta raised her voice. “Go,” she ordered the women, “to the village, ask at every house. He must be somewhere.” She squeezed Martha’s arm. “Josiah. Check Simcha’s.”
Martha leaned against her grandmother, taking strength from her thin frame. He wouldn’t have gone anywhere else, would he? Not to Jerusalem or toward the Jordan. Not on the roads filled with bandits and wild animals. Panic rose in her.
Not Zakai. She couldn’t lose him, too.
Safta turned to the rest of the men—relatives, merchants, a few Pharisees. “Check the river and the path to Jerusalem.” She sent them in every direction. “That boy knows every cranny and cave in the valley,” she mumbled to herself. “If he doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be found.”
Martha sank to her knees. Lazarus, and then Isa. Please, Lord, don’t take Zakai, too.
Chapter Forty-Six
Lord, open my lips; my mouth will proclaim your praise. For you do not desire sacrifice; a burnt offering you would not accept. My sacrifice, God, is a broken spirit; God, do not spurn a broken, humbled heart.
—Psalm 51:17–19
ISA LEANED AGAINST the trunk of the tree, too weary to move.
A dove cooed in the oak tree; the spring frogs and insects sang along the stream. His world had ended. How could life go on around him?
Run away again. And this time, don’t come back.
Her words hurt more than Zerubabbel’s stick, more than the demons’ torture. Isa’s head pounded in the rhythm of the chirping insects. This time, he wouldn’t act like a child. He would do what was best for Martha.
She’d left, walking across the carpet of brown leaves, and she hadn’t looked back. And why would she? She had a good man waiting for her. A righteous Jew, just as her father had always wanted for her. She would be happy. Surely that was a small comfort?
He watched the sun rise over the eastern hills, his eyes gritty, his heart raw.
He’d been so sure that Jesus had sent him to Bethany for a reason. But it hadn’t been to save Lazarus. He had died anyway. And not to marry Martha. Before the summer heat, Martha would marry another man, a better man.
Go home to your family, Jesus had said. He’d gone back to the only family he’d ever known, and been sent away.
Announce to them all that the Lord in his pity has done for you. He’d been too afraid to tell them what Jesus had done.
He’d failed in everything. He wouldn’t go back to Chana’s. He had his kinnor and the clothes on his back. He’d follow the stream to the Jordan. It didn’t matter where he went now. Without Martha, he’d always be alone.
He started downstream, passing the outskirts of Bethany and continuing east to the Jordan. As he pushed past a copse of juniper bushes, a snuffling by the stream stopped him.
Could it be an animal, drinking from the trickle of water? He peeked through the branches. No, it was a boy. Probably seven or eight years. He sat curled in a ball, his head on his knobby knees. Shaggy black hair hid his face, and his skinny back shook with sobs. Next to the boy lay a lumpy traveling bag and a battered water skin. The bag twitched suspiciously.
Isa cleared his throat. The boy jerked his head up, his red-rimmed eyes widening at Isa. Isa held out his empty hands. He didn’t want to scare the boy.
“Who are you?” the boy asked, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
Was he lost? Isa took a step forward. “My name’s Isa. And Bethany’s that way.” He motioned behind him.
The boy put his hand on his bag. “I’m never going back there.”
So he was from Bethany. Isa took a few steps closer. The boy seemed familiar. “Who’s your father?” He was probably looking for him right now.
“Don’t have a father.” The boy shrugged. “And my mama doesn’t want me. Nobody wants me there.” He sniffled again.
He was younger than Isa had thought, probably no more than seven years. And running away. A mother in Bethany was frantic by now. Isa sat down beside him and swung his kinnor from his back. “Who’s that in the bag?”
“My rabbit. He’s going with me.” His mouth trembled. “I let the rest go.”
“The rest?” If he kept him talking, perhaps he could find out where he belonged.
“A lamb. And a dove and two sparrows. And a snake Mama didn’t know about.”
Isa nodded gravely. “It was good to let them go. They wouldn’t have got along in that bag.” He plucked at a string; the note hung in the air.
“No,” the boy agreed, his eyes on the kinnor. “Where are you going?”
“Across the Jordan. No one in Bethany wants me either.” He strummed a minor chord. It was the truth.
The boy straightened. “Can you really play that? Can you teach me?”
“Maybe.” Isa felt a smile tug at his mouth. He’d been younger when he’d learned. “We’d have to ask your mother.”
The boy’s mouth trembled. He turned earnest eyes on Isa. “Take me with you. I can make a fire, cart water. I’m a good worker.”
Isa looked at the boy, and something warmed his torn heart. This boy would be good company. Isa could teach him to play. He’d treat him better than Zerubabbel had treated him. And he wouldn’t be alone. Isa settled his back against the sandy bank and strummed a new chord. “Your mother, did she beat you?”
“No,” he scoffed, as if it were unthinkable. Fortunate boy.
“Starve you?” Isa raised one brow. Not with those strong legs and bright eyes.
The boy looked down and didn’t answer.
No, this boy was well cared for, maybe even loved. “Perhaps she wanted you to take a bath.” He looked like he’d slept in the mud beside the stream.
But the boy didn’t smile. “She said she didn’t want me.”
“She said that? You heard her?” His fingers slipped on the fret to sound a discordant chime.
Zakai nodded, and a tear slipped out of the corner of his eye and slid a clean path down his dirty cheek. “I’m sure. She told Marmar to take me, and Marmar said no.” His voice hitched at the last word.
Isa straightened. Marmar? “Martha, the daughter of Sirach?”
The boy nodded. “Mama cries all the time. And Lazarus . . .” He sniffled again. “Marmar told me he wouldn’t die. She promised.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I miss him so much.”
So this was Penina’s child? He’d heard about Martha’s former slave. She was a foreigner, and mute. Chana said most of the village women didn’t trust her. What did she say? That Sirach had taken Martha to Galilee, and they had come home with a slave girl and an infant. Just as Mary’s first child had been born.
The boy pushed his shaggy hair away from eyes the color of river rocks.
How could he be so familiar when he’d been born after Isa had left Martha in Bethany? And to a woman he’d never seen?
Something wasn’t right. “What’s your name?”
“Zakai.”
“And where is your father?”
Zakai shrugged. “I don’t know. Marmar said . . .” He stopped and clamped his mouth shut as if he’d almost spilled a secret.
Isa leaned closer. “Did she—did Martha know him?”
Zakai’s unruly brows came together, and he looked uncertain. “She said once that she did.”
“What else did she say about him?”
Zakai eyed the instrument in his hands. “She said that he was kind and good. And that he played the kinnor and had the voice of King David.”
Isa’s heart stopped. Time slowed as he looked at the boy in front of him. His gray eyes . . . So much like mine. His smooth brown skin . . . So much like Martha’s. Understanding flowed over him like a river, each truth flowing into the next, too quick to grasp at once.
How could he be so stupid?
He had left Martha with child. Sirach had hidden her shame under the guise of a slave’s child. Martha waited for him—how she must have wished him back—had borne his child, and never told who the father was. A wave of nausea passed over him. If she’d been found out, the judges could have had her stoned or, at the very least, driven her out of Bethany with her child. Alone and unprotected, a death sentence in itself.
Martha, I’m sorry.
Isa reached out as if to touch Zakai’s hair. He had a son. A child that was his and Martha’s. A family. Go home to your family.
Anger welled within him, but with it, realization and understanding. He had a son, and Martha had kept that from him. But she had been afraid, he could see that now. Afraid of what would happen if the people of Bethany found out who Zakai really was. He knows I’m not a virgin, she’d said of her betrothed. But did he know that the father of her child was back in Bethany? No. Martha had been protecting him when he should have been protecting her. And his son.
He stood up, swinging the kinnor behind him on his back. “Come, Zakai.”
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