by Brock Thoene
What were they speaking of?
Once again Zadok’s blade glittered in the lamplight. With practiced skill he skinned the dead lamb, then divided its bloody fleece into three parts.
As Emet shuddered and wondered at the callousness of it, Lev tied a strip of fleece to each of the three white lambs.
Zadok knelt beside Ha-or Tov and Avel. “It’ll be all right,” he said to the boys. “Now where are we at? Here, Old Girl,” he crooned to the distraught and pacing mother. “Here’s your flock.”
Emet held his breath as Zadok placed a lamb under Old Girl’s nose. Cautiously at first she sniffed the fleece, which held the scent of her dead baby. She withdrew a pace.
The lamb, clearly frightened of Old Girl, struggled in Zadok’s grip, casting around imploring looks that Emet believed were aimed straight at him.
Old Girl advanced and sniffed again.
Then she nuzzled the lamb’s head and neck, swiped her tongue over the baby, and made low crooning sounds of her own. When Zadok released the baby she tottered uncertainly at first . . . and Old Girl nudged her firmly toward her udder. When she pushed the baby again from behind, the lamb’s head butted Old Girl’s bag . . . and everything fell into place.
The three white orphan lambs in their borrowed coats were accepted by Old Girl with barely a struggle. Soon they were nursing as the aged ewe made happy, chuckling noises from deep in her throat.
Avel had remained silent as they watched the gruesome operation of skinning the dead lamb and transferring its hide in pieces to the backs of the three orphans. Ha-or Tov was among the trio, guiding each to Old Girl’s milk-swollen udder.
Zadok and Lev stood up stiffly and exchanged glances. They seemed content that there would be three survivors at least.
Emet huddled over the pen of the languishing charcoal-colored lamb at the back of the stable. The rejected baby lay limp and near death in the straw. His mouth was slightly open, breath coming in shallow gasps.
“What about this one?” Emet asked.
Lev responded gruffly, “He’s a goner, that one. Dead by morning. Mother won’t have him. He doesn’t want to eat from my hand anymore. I’ve tried. Sorrow’s killed him, and there’s an end to it.”
This pricked Avel’s emotion. He knew what it was to want to die. And he knew how wonderful it was to have lived. He joined Emet, peering through the rails at the pitiful sight. Yes. The black lamb was dying.
“Can’t we put fleece on him too?” Avel asked.
“Not enough to go round.” Lev began to clean up.
“There’s a scrap left over. From the head,” Emet argued.
Zadok stared at the carcass of the stillborn. He chewed his lip in consideration. “Well, then, bring the thing here to me.”
Little as he was, Emet scrambled over the fence and managed to gather the rejected black lamb in his arms. It would not, or could not, walk, so the boy passed it to Avel, and the two of them carried it forward to where Zadok and Lev were working.
Zadok took one look inside the mouth of the baby and warned Emet, “Not much color in his gums. I can’t say this one’ll make it even if Old Girl accepts him.”
But Emet’s expression pleaded with the old shepherd that they should at least try to save him. “I’ll care for him,” Emet promised.
Avel knew Emet was good for his word. After all, Emet had hauled around the dead carcass of a sparrow until Yeshua had breathed life into it. At least the black lamb was still breathing.
Zadok replied, “We can only do what we can do. The rest isn’t up to us.”
And so the remaining scrap of fleece from the skull of the stillborn body was stripped away. Zadok fitted it securely to the head of the fragile creature in Emet’s arms. Dark ears poked through two holes, and strips of hide were tied under the baby’s chin. But the cap had no evident restorative powers. The black lamb lay weak and unresponsive against Emet’s chest. The boy stroked the cheek and crooned to it.
Lev muttered that this was a waste of time and energy. But Zadok silenced his assistant with a stern expression.
“What next?” Avel asked on behalf of Emet, who was uncertain what he should do next.
Zadok instructed, “Help Emet carry the baby into Old Girl. She’ll need to get a sniff at his head. That will tell the tale. She’ll trample him if she knows he’s not her own. If she accepts him, we might have a chance, but then he’s got to have a will to eat. To live.”
The black appeared to have no fight left in him, Avel thought as they brought him toward the muzzle of the ewe. Old Girl blinked at them, lowered her nose, snorted, and turned away.
Zadok coached Avel and Emet. “Give her a minute. That’s right. Stand away while the others nurse. All right, then. Bring him under her chin. Slowly. Present the top of his head. Let her get a good whiff. Yes. Yes. She’s interested.”
The black lamb, fearful of the ewe, struggled weakly to escape.
Avel noted the intensity of Emet’s expression. He was a good lad, even if he was too small to be of use and too headstrong to be practical about things.
Emet’s voice chirped, “See, Old Girl? You’ve had a lovely baby here? Give him a kiss? Eh, Old Girl?”
The ewe lowered her broad, smiling face to inspect the package once again. Nostrils flared as she probed the bloody fleece bonnet. Her enormous tongue shot out and tipped the fringe for a quick taste. And then she gave a resonant bleat of possible acceptance.
Again the baby struggled to escape. After all, his own mother had nearly killed him with a kick when she saw he was not correctly colored.
Avel caressed the baby’s head. Emet imitated the language of baby sheep with surprising accuracy.
“Come on. Come on.” From Old Girl’s flanks Ha-or Tov urged them to bring the baby back to where the milk flowed like the proverbial Jordan.
Avel and Emet, with Old Girl’s conditional approval, waded into the thick of twirling tails and contented slurping. With difficulty they parted the triplets and managed to work the black lamb’s face close to the teats.
Zadok directed them, “Emet, hold his mouth open. There. Yes. That’s the way. Now Avel, you take hold of a teat. Direct it toward his mouth. Give a squeeze.”
Avel obeyed the instructions. The first stream hit Emet on the cheek. He scowled and lifted the lamb’s face until it intercepted the milk.
“Again! Get his interest! He’s gotten used to being hungry! Wake him up!”
Amazingly Old Girl didn’t seem to mind the crowd of baby lambs and boys pushing in at her flanks. Avel grasped the soft finger-like teat and gave it yet another pump. Again milk spurted out in an astonish ingly strong stream!
This time he was right on target. The baby black’s tongue darted out for a taste. He wriggled in Emet’s grasp.
Zadok encouraged them, “Put his mouth right over it. Yes. There y’ are. Yes. He’s got it! Hold him there! He’s not strong enough to compete. You’ll have to hold him up, or the sisters will drive him off!”
Avel held the teat within reach as Emet pushed the baby’s face right against the source of nourishment. Time passed as Avel milked directly onto the baby’s tongue. Milk dripped down onto Avel’s clothes, soaking his feet. Emet was splashed with misdirected spray. Once or twice Old Girl turned her woolly head around to see what was going on back there.
Would the baby never catch on?
And then, suddenly, the eyes of the black lamb sparked with interest. As though waking from a trance, he kicked his delicate forelegs and struggled to stand. The three sisters crowded in. The scene was a tangle of baby lambs’ behinds and milk-soaked boys—all aimed at the same target.
“All right, boys,” Zadok cheered. “Give him a bit of room. Let him have it on his own, Avel. Come out from there. Emet, stay with him. Put your hands under his belly. Prop him up! That’s it!”
Avel scrambled back as the baby lunged and latched on fiercely to Old Girl’s spare faucet. Trembling with excitement, the baby began to suck on his own. His ta
il swung to and fro, finally erupting into a swirl of delight.
At the final linkup Old Girl bobbed her head approvingly. Avel imagined he saw the old ewe’s wide mouth turn up in a sheep smile. Of course it couldn’t really be true.
But it looked like it all the same.
GALAH
When Emet next woke, he was pleased to find that he knew immediately where he was, and that he was grateful to be there. It was a pleasant, secure, content awakening, unlike any he could remember.
To the mingled scents of thyme and sage, mint and lavender, another pleasant smell was added: the aroma of flat bread toasting beside the fire. Emet yawned and stretched. His two companions roused at the same time.
In the other room Zadok moved a kettle off the fire.
When had they come back? Or had the nighttime excursion truly happened at all?
The shepherd rattled the tongs when he lifted the pot. The noise was louder than was strictly necessary, Emet thought.
Neither dog was in sight, but through the open front door glorious yellow sun streamed in. A thin mist hung over the green slopes. The fragment of a rainbow flickered on a beam of light against the vapor, set to dancing by a bit of breeze.
Zadok abruptly appeared to notice the boys, as if he had forgotten their presence. “Still abed? You princes of Judah, that y’ sleep so late? You’ll get no breakfast!”
That brought the boys tumbling out in a tangle of arms, legs, and Ha-or Tov’s wiry curls.
“Put up your bedding,” Zadok growled.
Fleeces and pallets were folded and stowed, and the three companions waited expectantly beside the table.
Zadok raised his nose to the herb-laden ceiling. “Did three boys follow me home, or three goats? You stink! Out and wash, out and wash!”
“Where, sir?” Avel asked.
“Follow me,” Zadok said, toting the kettle of hot water along.
Behind the house, around the side away from the garden, were the necessary and another structure enclosing a natural stone hollow.
Though merely a depression in the rock, the cavity resembled a mikveh, the bath used for ritual cleansing before religious ceremonies. Zadok emptied the steaming kettle into the tub, then added three buckets of cold water from a barrel.
“Dump your clothes on the ground,” Zadok commanded gruffly. Then, muttering to himself, he added, “Washing won’t do . . . need boiling! What’re y’ waiting for? Jump!”
The three complied.
Zadok indicated clumps of hyssop and soapwort bound together with twine. “Scrub,” he said. “Ears and neck. Hair too. Clean clothes on the bench. Make it quick!”
Emet was almost afraid to exchange any words with Avel and Ha-or Tov in case a scrap of conversation would cause a delay. Bathed, he stood up to climb out when Avel said, “Lemme see your nails.”
When Emet displayed his fingers, Avel shook his head. “He’s sure to check,” Avel noted.
Ha-or Tov nodded solemnly.
Finally, scoured thoroughly, Emet went to the piles of clothes. Simple tunics with cords to tie around the waist were folded and waiting, but another gift was underneath: each boy received a pair of boots. Made of sheepskin with hardened leather soles, the hides were stitched with the fleece inside.
Emet could scarcely believe how much better his feet were since yesterday . . . or how different Zadok’s manner seemed over the same elapsed time. “What changed?” he hissed to Ha-or Tov.
Emet’s red-haired friend shrugged. “Maybe he’s grumpy at night,” Ha-or Tov ventured.
Once back inside the house, each boy received a platter of toasted bread, goat cheese, and sliced apples.
Emet ate everything, and when he shyly lifted his head, Zadok refilled his plate. “You three are so skinny if you were lambs I’d not give a penny for the lot,” the shepherd said.
When half an apple and a wedge of cheese lay untouched on Emet’s plate, Zadok ventured a question. “What education have you had?”
Emet ducked his head, but not before he saw Avel and Ha-or Tov exchange embarrassed glances.
No one spoke for a painfully long pause, then Avel offered, “I know my alef-bet, sir.”
Harrumphing, Zadok asserted, “All right, then. Days for work and nights for study. And no complaints, or out you go.”
Emet’s heart soared. Had he heard correctly? Had they just been offered a chance to stay?
Avel, ever the doubter, asked, “I thought you weren’t taking any more apprentices this season.”
Emet wanted to strangle him.
Grabbing one braided cable of beard with each hand, Zadok tugged thoughtfully. “Why else would y’ be sent here? Of course you’re apprentices. Didn’t I say so?” Zadok snatched up his staff. “You’ve had enough to eat? Rested. Clean. Belly full. A good beginning. From now on you’ll not eat till your ewes are fed. You’ll have to learn the way of it.”
“Our ewes?” Avel asked excitedly.
Zadok pinned him with a steady gaze. “Y’ don’t think you’ll stay here without earning your keep, do y’? It’s lambing. Lev could use a hand. There’s work to be done. The flock comes before all. Before your own comfort.”
The words sounded harsh, but Emet sensed that here was the day’s lesson: feed the sheep before yourself. Hadn’t that been what Zadok had done with the boys last night? Washed them. Bandaged their wounds. Fed them. Put them to bed before he thought of himself.
Thus began their instruction in shepherding.
Zadok set off to the lambing pens.
Avel ran after him at a jog, almost matching the enormous strides of the shepherd. Ha-or Tov was next in line, his gangly legs and long spindly arms gyrating clumsily in all directions. Emet, being smallest, brought up the rear. A dozen paces behind, he was heeled by Blue Eye, who nosed the back of Emet’s leg as though he were a straggler in the flock who must be urged forward.
Red Dog, tongue lolling in an openmouthed canine grin, sprinted joyful circles around them.
Breathless as he ran to catch up, Emet glanced down at the Tower of the Flock. There was enough of everything in this magical place for him to live here content for the rest of his life! Enough was everything! Had he ever imagined there could be enough? Stomach full. Washed from head to foot. Dressed in clean clothes. With a prospect that he would be fed again, have clean water in which to bathe and a bed upon which he could sleep! Migdal Eder was a boy’s paradise! Now he understood why Yeshua had sent them into the care of this curious old man.
Bright sunlight flooded the hillsides. The first of a Jerusalem-bound flock was being herded up the road. The din of two thousand departing sheep was countered by the insistent racket of bawling lambs and bleating ewes in the stables.
And then Zadok paused mid-stride to glare at the castle of Herodium high on the hill beyond Beth-lehem. A Roman standard was raised on the parapet as a flurry of trumpet blasts announced that Imperial Rome was awake and watching the people of the sheepfold.
Emet, Avel, and Ha-or Tov followed the old man’s gaze.
Zadok’s face hardened with resentment. His lips tightened as though he were holding back a curse against the soldiers who occupied the fortress. “Stay away from there,” he menaced. “They’re devils. All of them.”
“The dead king’s palace,” Ha-or Tov murmured somberly. And then to Zadok, “Who was he?”
The shepherd raised his finger absently to the scar beneath his eyepatch. It was a long moment before he replied. “The man who built that banqueting house was supper for worms long ago, boy. Those who occupy it now will also be food for maggots. We’re comforted by that. What was can’t be changed, can it?”
“What would they do? Soldiers and such,” Ha-or Tov persisted. “I mean if someone was to go up there.”
“We tend the sheep here and mind our own business.” Zadok raised a warning finger. “Stay clear of that place is what I’m saying.” He dismissed Ha-or Tov’s question, turned from the blatant display of Roman authority, and moved on, this
time more slowly.
Emet glanced over his shoulder at the mountain where evil presided. He shuddered. Ghosts and devils danced on the walls. Avel had told him so. But whose ghosts? And how many devils? And did they ever swoop down upon Beth-lehem and take boys as prisoners? Emet wondered.
Nakdimon hurried to Gamaliel’s Jerusalem home, located not far from his own in the southwest corner of the city. As always, the forecourt was crowded with people. Some sought Gamaliel’s patronage in obtaining positions. Others were there because the learned man was also a magistrate who acted to settle civil disputes. One such case was in progress even as Nakdimon arrived. The clash appeared to concern a shipment of broken pottery.
Gamaliel acknowledged his nephew’s entrance with a raised eyebrow and nod, but continued listening to the presentation of the defendant. At his elbow a young man Nakdimon recognized as one of Gamaliel’s talmidim took notes.
While Nakdimon settled against one of the plastered wall panels painted to imitate green marble, Gamaliel delivered his verdict. The decision went in favor of the plaintiff, but stopped short of giving him all the relief he sought. The two men left grumbling and shaking their heads.
“Difficult judgment?” Nakdimon inquired.
“Not at all!” was the reply. “Both sides are unhappy. That means I handled it properly. Anytime either of the parties leaves entirely satisfied, then I’m the one who’s been wronged. Completely one-sided guilt is a rarity in lawsuits, or have you forgotten everything I taught you?” Turning to his secretary, Gamaliel said, “Saul, dismiss the others. That’s enough for today.”
Drawing up a wicker chair close to Gamaliel’s own seat, Nakdimon didn’t delay his recitation for any small talk. As soon as the secretary was out of the room Nakdimon said, “I’ve seen such amazing things! Do you remember how we sensed the divine fire from Yochanan the Baptizer? Well, Yeshua is the wind! He’s a healer, a magnificent teacher, he sees into men’s hearts and . . .” Nakdimon leaned forward. “He can raise the dead! I saw it myself. There are others I have asked to testify. El’azar of Bethany. His sisters. Marta and . . . Miryam, who has become a follower of Yeshua.”