by Janette Oke
Gathering up both sets of reins in his left hand, he led the animals out of the village, heading westward, away from the voices. It was the opposite direction from his destination, but that was not Jacob’s concern. He waited until a hillock rose between him and the abandoned village before striking south, searching for the road. By the time he reached it, the faint light of a grey day was streaking the horizon ahead of him.
Jacob climbed onto the second donkey’s back, fastened the other’s reins to his belt, and clicked softly. He did not draw an easy breath until his overnight encampment was far behind him.
Jacob’s view broadened markedly with the dawn. These Samaritan plains formed a wide fertile lowland stretching from the Judean hills to the south to the highlands further north. Mount Carmel, Gilboa, and Tabor shaped a ridgeline that joined with the hills of Galilee, separating the Samaritan plain from Megiddo. These two regions were the heartland of Samaria.
Jacob was fully aware the roads through Samaria were used by Romans, Phoenician traders, Syrian caravans – and only Judeans who considered themselves Hellenized, more “modern” in culture and religious practice than the strictly observant Judeans who would no more set foot in Samaria than they would enter a Roman garrison. To do so would render them ritually unclean.
Despite this restriction, the roads were well traveled. The Samaritan and Megiddo regions remained relatively safe even in these uncertain times. Because of the flat, even terrain, most of the Roman roads and almost all of the major aqueducts passed through here. Which meant the garrisons were suitably manned and alert.
Even so, Jacob maintained the same pattern as before, guiding his donkeys along a well-beaten trail some fifty paces north of the road. By this point, his attire resembled that of just another impoverished villager. He had crawled in the dirt and slept rough and traveled hard, rendering his cloak both filthy and torn. Judea was filled with such poverty, especially in Samaria. Neither the Roman guards nor the customs agent at the crossroads garrison gave him a second glance. He was obviously too poor to pester for a bribe.
Jacob halted for his first meal beneath a garrison’s shadow, where the crossroads marked the joining of five major routes. The road straight north was the oldest, known among caravan drovers and guards by its ancient name, the Patriarchal Road, having once joined the twelve tribes. After Solomon’s death and the division of the kingdom, it became the only route that linked the northern kingdom of Israel with Judea. Since the Romans’ arrival, it had become disused and almost forgotten since the main Roman road ran westward toward Caesarea.
Jacob glanced over at a cluster of perhaps three dozen market stalls that had sprung up around the roads’ juncture. He knew the stall Alban wished for him to take over was just like these, only situated further north along the main Roman road. From where he sat he could hear the merchants hawking their wares, a singsong cadence they shouted at each passing traveler. He shuddered at the thought of spending his days in such a manner.
But as he swung his leg over the blanket covering the donkey’s back, Jacob suddenly knew if this was truly God’s will for him, he would do it. He might argue. He might rant and shout his frustration to the sky. But he would do it. The thought of going against the Lord left him quaking. He recalled the certainty with which Alban had spoken to him. Why would God speak to his guardian and not to him? Jacob asked again.
The road stretched out before him, a line of white dust beneath a sullen sky. There were few travelers heading in this direction. A distant flock of sheep dotted the fields to his left, and a lone cluster of nine camels was visible in the far distance. The solitude heightened his ability to hear beyond the wind, beyond his own thoughts, and accept the truth.
God may have spoken to Alban because Jacob had been unwilling to listen.
Thankfully, the rain never arrived. Jacob saw several dark clouds blot out portions of the valley behind him. The wind freshened, then grew stronger still. By midafternoon he needed his head scarf to protect his face and eyes from the blowing grit.
Toward evening his little procession entered the foothills marking the boundary of the Galilee hills. This region had once been as safe as any, with its Roman fortress looming atop the highest mount. But times had changed, and few of the garrison soldiers ventured out after dark. Between bandits and the Zealots, the armed soldiers still were watching their backs.
The donkeys were tired after being forced to trot all day against the wind. Even so, Jacob pressed them harder still, along with careful glances over his shoulders. Just as Herod’s palace came into view, he spotted watchers on a northern hilltop above Tiberias. Unlike the group that had shared his Samaritan ruins the previous night, there was no question who these people were.
“Hyah!” Jacob pulled the quirt from his belt and struck the donkey’s flank. The animal brayed his protest, for his sides were lathered from a hard day. But there was no choice, not if they were to arrive at all. “Faster! Run, beast! For our very lives, ride hard!”
He knew he was requiring the impossible, for donkeys do not gallop. Their shuffling gait lifts their hooves only a few inches from the earth. Even so, a donkey’s strength was revealed at such times, for they could travel longer and harder than any horse, which was why they were preferred on caravans. Horses were ridden only by guards, who needed to shift position with lightning speed. For everything else, the donkeys served far better.
Just as the two animals did now. Though continuing to protest, their miniature hooves danced over the trail as Jacob urged them on with shouts and his quirt. The Tiberian hills formed steep-sided valleys, with sharp drops into shadowy canyons. The Romans preferred to build their roads in an absolute straight line, but here even the world’s finest engineers were forced to steer their way around tight curves.
The hilltop palace of Herod Antipas was a mere shadow now, the light failing fast. Jacob heard what might have been a nighthawk calling from the hills behind him. He feared it was in fact the sound of a two-legged predator, and he whipped the donkey harder still. “Hyah!”
Rocks scattered down from the hill to his right. Jacob was fairly certain horse-mounted riders were scrambling over the rough highlands, attempting to get ahead of him. Jacob leaned down over the donkey’s neck, gripping the reins with one hand and the beast’s ragged mane with his other. He moved in close to the donkey’s ear and panted, “Do you smell the danger? Can you feel the closeness of their swords? For both our sakes, I beg you, grow wings and fly.”
He knew this route so well he could have found it in his sleep. Beyond the cutoff to Herod’s hilltop domain, the road broadened and began descending down to the Sea of Galilee. The first lights of Tiberias flickered in the gloom. Jacob crouched over the donkey’s neck, imploring for ever greater speed. The second donkey had stopped braying now, saving all its breath for the task of keeping up. Jacob risked a glance behind and saw one of the sacks had almost worked loose and was flopping hard upon the beast’s side. He had no idea whether it was the frankincense or merely supplies, and there was no way to halt and check. The sound of other hooves was much clearer now.
“Fly, my hairy friend. Fly!”
They rounded the next bend, and a third. And the hills abruptly opened. Before him, the lights of Tiberias spread out like a blanket of welcome. To his left, the first walls of the caravanserai opened up.
Jacob heard a shout of pure frustration behind him. Even so, he did not let up until he passed the guards at the caravan site’s main entrance. They had heard the cry and the hooves as well, for they stood facing outward, arrows notched and bows upraised.
Jacob did not realize how sore he was from the jouncing race for his life until he slid from the donkey’s back and his legs refused to hold him. He held himself aloft by maintaining his grip upon the beast’s mane. He flung his other arm around the animal’s neck and heaved for breath in time to the donkey’s own gasps.
The second beast snuffled its way closer until its muzzle rested on Jacob’s ribs. He releas
ed the mane so he could embrace both animals. “Well done, the both of you. Well done.”
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
The Samaritan Plains
Abigail woke to the most beautiful sound in the entire world, that of her daughter’s laughter.
She adjusted her shawl over her head and emerged from the women’s enclosure to discover that most of the camp was awake and readying for departure. Dorcas was playing with a doll the master carpenter had carved for her, as well as trying to mimic the song of her caged bird. Martha watched her, all the while helping another woman fasten a bundle of household goods to a donkey. “If I had my eyes shut, I doubt I could tell which one was singing.”
Abigail murmured, “Why was I not awakened with the others?”
“Because you needed the rest more than anyone.” Martha’s smile seemed unusually warm. “I know how you’ve tossed and turned through the last nights.”
“I must have been more weary than I realized.”
The woman alongside Martha said, “You’re out of Jerusalem and beyond the reach of the Temple guards. A mighty burden has been lifted from your shoulders. No wonder you slept.”
But Abigail did not feel relieved to have left the city. With each step northward, she felt the last remaining connection she held to her beloved Stephen being stretched to the breaking point.
Martha must have understood Abigail’s frown, for she said softly, “Look at your daughter. Is she not as lovely as the sunrise? What joy she brings to your life.”
Martha looked again at Dorcas and added, “There is so much of Stephen in her, do you not think?”
The words had been addressed to Abigail, but it was the other woman who said, “Do you know, I had not thought of that until now. But he is clearly planted in the child – his smile, his great heart.”
“His eyes,” Martha said. Then she turned her head toward Abigail and added in a lower tone, “You will always have him with you.” She patted the donkey’s side and straightened, hand on her back. “Come, dear Abigail. Let me find you something to eat.”
Their entire group seemed to travel with lighter hearts that day. Abigail heard the others speak often of God’s hand in finding them such a haven for the night. Not even the ever-present wind and the clouds’ gloom could dispel their cheer. As they emerged from the hills and the road straightened and entered the Samaritan plains, they broke into songs of praise. Dorcas sat upon a donkey just ahead of where Abigail walked, one hand intertwined in the mane and the other waving to the clouds overhead as she also sang along.
Martha moved up alongside Abigail. “ ‘Though the entire world may stand against us, still will I praise my Lord,’ ” she quoted quietly.
Abigail nodded, and wondered why her heart remained wistful.
When the song had ended, Dorcas turned and reached out her hands. “Mama! Mama! I want down!”
“You’re a big girl now. You can ask properly.”
“Take me down.”
“ ‘Please,’ ” Abigail admonished. “ ‘Please, will you help me down.’ ”
Dorcas repeated the request, then wiggled free from Abigail’s arms even before her feet touched the earth. Abigail said, “Stay close now.”
A cluster of children scampered past, squealing their eagerness for the freedom of the broad and straight road ahead. They ran alongside the travelers, filling the gloomy day with their cries.
Dorcas joined them without a backward glance to her mother, her short legs working hard to keep up. Then she broke away from the others and up to where Linux walked alongside the horse carrying Alban. She skipped up and down, her small hands lifted high. Abigail watched as Linux laughed, then reached to heft her onto the horse in front of Alban. Alban stroked the little girl’s curls, then said something that made her giggle.
Martha hummed a soft note, observing, “The entire group joins in her happiness, Abigail. It is a gift to all of us.”
By midmorning they had arrived at Neapolis, the destination for three of the families. The fields surrounding the town looked fresh, fed by the recent rains. Farmers were busy harvesting the last of the autumn crops, both fruit and late-growth olives, while others scythed fields of golden hay. Yet it seemed to Abigail that the workers all stopped and watched their passage.
Linux must have noticed it too, because when she heard Dorcas call for him to carry her, he instead lifted her off the horse and brought her straight back to Abigail. “Keep her close.”
“Is everything – ”
“We shall see soon enough,” he said. “Tell the other families to gather up their children.” He turned away quickly. “Watch for my signal and stay alert.”
The fields swept like golden carpets right up to the doorsteps of the town’s first houses. Yet even here the sense of unease continued, for people gathered in doorways to stare at the procession. Abigail saw a man turn and speak into the house’s shadows. A few seconds later, a lad came racing out, leaping the side fence and scattering a flock of sheep to race toward the center of town.
An old man leaned against the post supporting the next home’s roof. In a querulous voice he called, “Where do you come from?”
“Jerusalem,” Philip responded.
“You be them that follow the crucified prophet?”
“Jesus of Nazareth, the risen Lord,” Philip confirmed.
Alban called out, his voice still weak though loud enough to be heard, “We come in peace.”
Abigail watched anxiously as Linux moved back toward one of the families that was hoping to remain in Neapolis. He spoke quietly with them, then raised his voice and said, “We travel with cousins of Ben Isaac.”
Alban added, “We have some elderly with us. And infirm. Is there a place where we may water our animals and perhaps find shelter?”
The old man pointed them down the road. “The public well is up ahead, by the market square.”
Linux thanked the man, and he stood alongside the road as the families continued on by. He did not speak. Abigail knew that by then all the travelers were aware of his grave disquiet. As she passed him, she saw the knuckles of his hands, chalk white where they gripped his stave. His features were taut, his eyes constantly searching ahead and behind.
Dorcas said, “What is it, Mama?”
“Shah, child. We must take care and stay quiet now.”
“I don’t like it.”
Abigail bent over and lifted the girl into her arms. “You are safe here with me, my Dorcas. We will pray to be brave. Can you do that?” Dorcas nodded and held tightly to her mother’s neck and was quiet. She was an armful, especially after the morning’s walk, but Abigail did not set her down.
As they entered the main square, Martha whispered, “Let me take the child.”
“No, it is all – ”
Abigail’s words were cut off by a woman’s voice. “Is it you?” she cried, her high-pitched voice piercing the quiet of the group.
The travelers halted as one. The animals tossed their heads nervously, their masters’ tension making them skittish. One donkey brayed, but otherwise there were no further sounds.
The woman had now emerged from a side lane, and she rushed forward with arms outstretched. “Have you come at last?” she cried out again. She moved from one traveler to the next. “Are my prayers finally answered? I have long prayed for someone to come and teach us.”
From the front of the line, Philip said, “Do I know – Am I recognizing you?” He moved toward her.
The woman turned and ran forward, exclaiming, “Praise our God! He has heard me.” She dropped to the dust at Philip’s feet. “Oh, master!”
“I am not he and deserve no such title.” Philip gently took her arm and lifted the woman to her feet. “You were in Sychar, were you not?”
“Yes, good sir. At Jacob’s well.”
“I remember now. Our Lord spoke with you.”
“I gave him water from that well. In Sychar, where I lived then.” Her voice was lower, but her wor
ds still carried in the stillness. People were now emerging from every lane and shadow and doorway. Moving forward, gathering around Philip, the woman, and the travelers, until they filled the entire square. The woman was saying, “And the Rabbi, Jesus, gave me the water of life. And it changed me – it changed everything!”
Philip was smiling. “And you have told this news to your friends and neighbors.”
“Oh yes, over and over – all that I could, which was not very much. Almost nothing.” She wiped her face with one hand. “But you have come here. And you now can tell them all that I cannot.”
Alban said softly from atop the horse, “Perhaps we should first see to the needs of our group. Then we will talk with you all.”
“You all know Helzebah, this kind woman of Sychar. You know her story. How she came to draw water from Jacob’s well in that village, and Jesus himself was seated there while his disciples left to buy food.”
Philip was standing on the rock wall surrounding the public wells and troughs forming the center of a large square, bordered by market stalls and other buildings. Abigail thought one of them appeared to be a synagogue. Their animals had been fed and watered, and were now quartered in stables off to the left. The three families had been reunited with their kin, and gradually their welcome had been taken up by many other clans of the town. They had brought food and tea and even offered a large dwelling where the elderly, the young ones, and the infirm could settle for some much-needed rest. Abigail could see Dorcas among several other small faces peeking over the roof’s edge, watching them from beneath a shelter of woven reeds. The child was vigorously waving with both hands to her mother, and Abigail responded with a little wave of her own, then turned back to listen.
Philip was saying, “Our Lord Jesus promised this kind woman the chance to drink his life-giving water. Friends, I am here to make that same offer to you today.”
Abigail looked around the square, packed with people in every direction, a sea of upturned faces. Many of the other roofs surrounding the square were also filled with listeners. The wind had calmed, and Philip’s voice rang out clearly over the masses. “Whoever drinks the water of life, that which is offered by Jesus the Messiah, will find a wellspring rising up inside. The Messiah came to bring this gift to all who will accept it. He invites all of us to receive the gift of eternal life.”