by Janette Oke
But even with her increasing discontent and uncertainties, ultimately it was her mother’s resistance to faith that caused Julia’s sleepless nights and daily pleas to God.
As Julia and Zoe walked to a gathering under the cover of darkness, Julia confided, “I do not know what to do. If only she would hear for herself the followers tell of the Messiah, I am sure she would understand. But she refuses to even consider going with us,” she finished sorrowfully.
Zoe was quiet for a time. “Perhaps . . . perhaps there is another way.”
Julia strained in the shadows to see the woman’s face. “If you know of another way, please speak of it.”
“You will not think I question your wisdom?”
“What wisdom? I am telling you that I am desperate for a way forward. I have tried everything I know to convince her, and Mother remains unmoved.”
Zoe half turned in the silvery light of the rising moon. “Remember what Elias said last meeting? We pray. We live a faithful life before others, that they may see the difference the Messiah has made in our lives. You are anxious. Overwrought, my dear Julia. That is not reflecting the peace that our Savior has given.”
Julia stopped midstride. “I forgot those words, Zoe. But now you have reminded me . . .”
The old woman glanced over, then away without further word.
There was enough truth in her eyes to cause Julia to wince. “Have I plagued her with my constant pleading?”
“Perhaps” was Zoe’s soft answer.
“But if we are to draw her into the group – ”
“Julia, dearest. It is the Spirit who draws people. We can only be the light.” The woman turned back to the path.
Yes. Of course. She had heard that too. Why had she not understood what it meant for her? Live a life of rightness. Seek to follow the blessed Lord, and pray for enlightenment for others. Elias had said all those things at their last gathering, and still Julia was trying to force her mother into the faith.
Julia hurried her steps to catch up to Zoe. “You are right,” Julia admitted, reaching for the woman’s arm. “I have been doing it all wrong. I must pray and let the Spirit speak to Mother’s heart. She already knows my desires. Prompting her over and over accomplishes nothing.”
“I think it has already accomplished something, Julia. Your mother is quite aware of your new faith and also of the fact that the Messiah has come. Now it is up to her to decide if she wishes to be freed from her chains.”
“You . . . you don’t mean end her relationship with my father?”
Zoe patted Julia’s hand that held firmly to her arm. “No, child. Begin her relationship with her Creator.”
Julia lifted her head at the sound of approaching feet. She was in the secluded courtyard, a piece of fine cotton and some embroidery silk in hand. She had discovered this to be a wonderful opportunity for prayer.
Her mother now stood before her, the basket designated for Jamal on her arm. Her smile was replaced with a slight frown. “It is near noon, daughter. Your father will be looking for his midday refreshment. I thought you would be coming to the kitchens to see what I had prepared.”
Julia stirred. Truth was she had not even thought about her father. Which was strange. In the past she had been anxious to hurry down the paths that led to the encampment. To see her father’s welcoming smile and his pleasure at the food she brought. But recently she had come to shrink from the trip. At first it was simply the fact that her father had not married her mother. He certainly could have. Many men, she had learned, claimed more than one wife. It was not an ideal situation from a woman’s standpoint, but it gave some measure of security. Some legal protection should something happen. Julia still agonized over her mother’s difficult situation.
And her own. Recently it seemed that every time she joined Jamal in his tent, he had some further information concerning her upcoming marriage arrangement. And even though she was well aware of what loomed on the horizon, Julia did not want to talk about it. She did not wish to even think about it.
And it wasn’t only her own welfare that was at stake. Helena was still not a believer. Julia had been praying constantly for her mother to reach out for the truth. It was so hard for her to continue to hold her tongue. To refrain from begging. But Julia, with Zoe’s steadfast backing, held to her resolve not to raise the issue again – simply to pray.
Julia stirred now. “I was not watching the sun,” she admitted as she laid aside her piece of handwork. “I will be only a moment more. You may set the basket by the door.”
“Ask your father when he will be home for his evening meal. It seems he has been getting later and later.”
“He said he is hard-pressed to have everything in order before he leaves again.”
“He is leaving?”
Julia nodded. “Yes, he said so last night when he finally came home.” She noted that already Helena’s face had clouded.
“With a caravan? I thought they had not yet returned.” Helena had rarely troubled herself with the comings and goings of Jamal’s caravans, and then only when she was told he would soon be arriving after being gone for a time.
“The main trade caravan is heading for Tyre, I understand, and likely will not return for some time,” Julia said as she picked up the warm wrap to keep at bay the day’s chill.
“So where will your father be – ”
“He has not said.” Julia did not wish to say Perhaps Damascus, in case the resentment was evident in her voice. To his real family . . . But she would never say that aloud. She knew that would only serve to further hurt her mother.
Julia reached for the basket. She was late and her father would be unhappy – unless, of course, in his flurry of arrangements he had not noted the passing of time.
“I thought he keeps you informed of his – ”
“Not always,” Julia said quickly. She leaned over to kiss Helena’s cheek.
She hurried out the door, leaving her mother with the unanswered question still lingering in her expression.
As she walked quickly along the familiar path, her thoughts churned once again. She had been praying, not only that her mother would come to faith but also for her father. She wasn’t quite sure what she wanted God to do about him. Perhaps an apology to her mother. A confession that he had not been honest with them through the years. A change of heart and a marriage that would put her mother on an equal footing with other women in the city. Even as she railed inwardly about the situation, Julia knew there were no easy answers. What could her father do? How could he undo what he had already done? Would it make things look even worse if her parents were legally married after all this time?
When she arrived breathless at the tent’s curtained doorway and swept it aside, she was not greeted by a pacing father, anxious for his noon repast. His head was still bent over a parchment – no doubt a list of goods to be packed up for transport. He hardly raised his head at her approach.
“Your food, Father,” she said as she placed the basket on a corner of the table and began to lay out the items.
“Yes, fine” was his distracted reply. He did not even turn to her with his usual smile. “I will be just a moment here.”
She noted his frown. “Is something the matter, Father?”
“This sale of linens that went to Syria. The price was not nearly as expected. I wonder if my man there is tending to business as he should. Surely he could have realized a better profit had he been astute in his bargaining. He needs to be replaced. I have had some doubts about his business sense, and this latest makes me sure of it.”
He pushed the parchment aside and rubbed at his neck. “A man can only be in one place at a time,” he said, his voice sounding tired. “Only able to care for one thing at a time.”
Yes, thought Julia. You of all people should know that.
“Tea?” she asked, holding her voice steady.
He smiled then and reached out for the cup she was holding out to him. “Now, if you had been a boy,�
�� he went on with a grin, “you could have been my right-hand man. I am sure no merchant would take advantage of you with your sharp eyes and wit.”
“But I was not a boy,” she said with more chill than she intended.
“No – and I would not have traded you for one.” He said the words with warmth, restoring some of Julia’s fragile peace.
“Sit for a minute and share my tea,” he invited. “I have some news for you.”
Obediently Julia sat, but she did not bother to pour herself a cup.
He pulled out a sheet that had been laid to one side of the table top and reached for a glass that would magnify the script. “It seems the agreement for your marriage is proceeding favorably. The family is quite anxious to close the deal to obtain the daughter of Jamal.”
He did not look at her, which meant he could not see her cringe. When he lifted his head to face her, Julia was surprised to see a look akin to pain in his eyes. “But I shall miss you.”
His voice sounded quite ragged with emotion. Julia had never seen him in this state before. He quickly cleared his throat and resumed his former self-assurance. “But life is life. One must make the best of it. You will be happy to know that I have carefully investigated the family. I have discovered no hidden flaws that need concern us. Still . . .”
But he did not finish the thought. Julia wasn’t sure whether to be sorry or relieved. All she knew was that this was not what she wanted.
CHAPTER
TEN
The Samaritan Plains
When Jacob awoke, he discovered he had slept soundly in spite of a rock beneath one rib. He groaned as he rolled over. One of the donkeys brayed a low response, as though agreeing with his discomfort. The sun was approaching its zenith and pounded down from almost directly overhead. Though the snatches of wind which managed to enter the small box canyon carried a distinct chill, the heat from the trapped sunlight was fierce. In an attempt to remain in the shade, Jacob had rolled in his sleep, and then rolled again. He rubbed at the soreness around his rib as he staggered upright.
He stood for a while, then poured water into a rock defile shaped like a shallow bowl. While the donkeys drank he checked their tethers, then refilled their oat bags. Once they were back on the road, they would not stop again until well after dark. As the two beasts munched contentedly, Jacob made himself a drover’s meal of crumbly goat’s cheese, flatbread, and dried apricots. While he ate, he studied the pile of secret goods he had pulled from the donkeys’ packs. When he finished, he announced to the patient animals, “It’s time to see if I am right about Jamal and his secret hoard.”
Before he had left camp, Jacob had appropriated four burlap feed sacks from the drovers’ supplies. Two now held food for himself and the donkeys. The satchel of messages Latif had given him rested at the top of one. The animals also carried four waterskins.
The other two sacks held sixteen packets, wrapped carefully and sealed with a coating of red wax. The same pungent mixture of clove and cinnamon and something else greeted him as he opened a sack. The packets were each slightly larger than his two fists. He selected one at random and used his knife to slice it open.
Instantly his nostrils were filled with an unmistakable scent. Jacob had often heard the fragrance described as a faint taste of heaven. He could well understand why. He shut his eyes and buried his face in the packet. He was filled with a light headiness, as though just breathing the aroma helped to free up all his senses and heal his soul.
Jacob knew that perhaps the most valuable item in the world was frankincense. It formed the core component of virtually every perfume and was used as incense in Greek, Roman, and Judean religious rites. Frankincense was a key ingredient in embalming and burials. And, perhaps most important, for those who could afford it, frankincense was considered to have powerful healing qualities. It was used for the treatment of breathing difficulties, joint ailments, and chest inflammations.
The Hebrew word for frankincense was levonah, also the unofficial name of the ancient Phoenician kingdom to the north of Judea. Phoenician traders had held a virtual monopoly on its trade for over a thousand years.
Frankincense came from a tree which only grew in one region of the Arabian desert. Jacob was aware of this because frankincense generated many of the tales shared around caravan fires. Drovers who had made the dreadful journey to Yemen and back were held in awe by their fellow travelers. The one thing worse than the deserts of Arabia was the bandit kings. Only an item as treasured as frankincense made such a journey worthwhile.
Each morsel in the packet had a slightly malleable texture and was about the size of Jacob’s thumbnail. The packet he had opened was filled with the spice the color of an old man’s hair. Silver frankincense was by far the most valuable of all. Jacob surveyed the two burlap sacks. If even half of these packets held silver frankincense, he was carrying enough wealth to purchase an oceangoing trading vessel and all the men who served it.
No wonder Latif had been so worried about his camels.
Jacob used a hemp cord to reseal the packet as best he could. The red wax coating had alerted him to the contents, for this was the traditional way of masking the intense aroma. Jacob spilled a bit of precious water into the dust by his feet and molded it into clay, which he then used to coat the cut in the packet. He used more of the mud to vigorously scrub his hands. But this was not enough to rid him of the pungent aroma. He would simply need to ensure that no one came close enough to smell him until the fragrance wore off.
He reloaded the two sacks onto the donkey that did not carry his provisions and set off. Jacob remained well off the main road, holding the position commonly used by poor Judeans. He led the two animals along a well-beaten path parallel to the road. His dusty condition left him indistinguishable from the three other donkey drovers he passed. Jacob watched as one elderly man rode while a grandson trotted alongside, picking up sticks for firewood as they traveled. Jacob moved slightly further from the road, slid from his mount, and began doing the same. By the time the climb became steep, the one donkey was so loaded down with firewood and brush that the twin sacks were completely hidden. Because the branches were desert dry, they added little to the donkey’s burden.
Jacob made good time. The wind and the altitude kept the sun from becoming too hot. Around midafternoon he found the trail he had sought, a little-used track that branched north and east, away from Jerusalem and toward the Samaritan plains. This was the riskiest portion of his journey, and Jacob wanted to have it behind him before the sun set. The trail rose and fell over mostly empty valleys, and he led the animals on foot.
Jacob passed several shepherds watching their goats and sheep. He offered a quiet greeting and did not stop. Once, when he traversed a particularly steep cliff side, he thought he heard a distant shout, as though a watchman had spotted him and was alerting bandits below. The Jerusalem hills were supposedly patrolled by Roman soldiers, keeping the Zealots well away. But even for Jacob, who had spent nearly four years guarding caravans, the trail’s jagged shifts in direction, along with the countless valleys with their endless possibilities for bandit hideouts, left him fearful he might never get out alive.
Jacob traversed yet another ridgeline, turned another bend, and stopped in astonishment as the Valley of Samaria opened up before him. And none too soon, for the sun was just now touching the western hills. Even the donkeys brayed with relief.
By the time he reached the valley floor, Jacob’s legs burned with fatigue. He tethered the animals in a shallow defile alongside ruins from some unnamed village – probably abandoned because of the danger from marauding outlaws. He could see no trough or natural depression to hold water, so he held the skin under one arm and poured it gradually into his cupped hand. The donkeys drank in turn, the hair of their muzzles tickling his palm. He then filled their oat bags and ate his own cold supper, watching the last light of day fade around him. The village’s ancient stones and remaining timbers rose into the night sky like old bones.
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He slept that night with two fragrant sacks for his pillow.
Jacob woke to the sound of voices. At first he thought he had dreamed the faint sounds. Then in the darkness he again heard low murmurs from further into the ruins.
Soundlessly he shifted his coverlet and rose to a crouch. The nearest donkey huffed softly, perhaps in its sleep. Jacob stilled it with a hand to its muzzle, all without taking his eyes from the glow off to his left. A fire was burning low, shielded from the road by a trio of ruined walls.
He had no way of knowing whether they were other weary travelers – or brigands. Either way, Jacob might well have been saved from attack by arriving so bone weary. For otherwise he would certainly have made his own fire.
Thankfully the others were camped at the ruined village’s far end. As he lifted his head above the wall nearest to the strangers, Jacob felt a rising wind ruffle his hair and smelled rain. For once he found himself grateful for the coming storm.
Clouds blanketed the sky, ensuring no chance of measuring the distance to dawn. Even so, he reckoned he had at least an hour left of darkness. Jacob untethered the first animal, then quietly lashed the sacks of frankincense and water and feedstuff and his sword to the donkey’s back. There was no hope of gathering his firewood in silence. Besides which, his safety now depended upon speed, not subterfuge. Holding the animal’s reins in his teeth, Jacob crawled across the sandy expanse and located the second donkey by the sound of its slumbering breath. He woke the beast, stroking his side and whispering to keep him quiet.