by Ann Swinfen
There was little time during the regimented daylight hours of the Community for him to meditate on these things. But night after night he lay awake, sick with worry. On the night before the last day of his probation, he rose quietly from his bedroll in the dormitory amongst the other probationers and novices, caught up his blanket and slipped outside. He climbed the rising ground behind the compound, which looked eastwards. Although his feet were callused and hardened from going shoeless, he could feel the cold rising from the icy ground; that bitter breath of the desert winter, which he remembered from the previous year, set his teeth chattering, even with the blanket wrapped round his shoulders. Over the hills of Moab, the moon was rising, implacable silver. He sat down on the threshold of one of the caves that honeycombed the cliffs.
Resting his elbows on his knees, he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Oh Lord, Father in Heaven, tell me what to do!
He thought suddenly of the Teacher of Righteousness, who had founded the Community and been martyred for his faith. Was he to direct his own steps on the path to martyrdom?
All around, the desert was silent, except, far away, the lonely howl of a hyena. Below, in the valley beyond the Community’s cemetery, the salt sea, deep below all the lands of the known world, lay dead and sluggish. From its surface men netted, not living silver fish, but bitter rafts of salt and a blackened devilish harvest of bitumen. This was a terrible land. He felt a sudden dreadful longing for the sweet, rich farmlands of the Galilee, for the simple people who were peasants as he was, who spoke as he did the rough Galilean dialect that so amused the aristocratic brethren.
No sign had come from the Lord, and yet he knew what his decision must be.
The next day, after the midday meal, he sought and was granted an audience with the Mebaqqer. As he walked through the door and confronted the Mebaqqer sitting on the chair of the Teacher of Righteousness, he realised that he was expected. The man sat with his hands folded quietly in his lap and his keen eyes fixed on the probationer before him. He said nothing.
With a dry throat, clenching his hands behind him to hide their trembling, Yeshûa said, ‘Today I complete my year of probation.’
The Mebaqqer nodded, but said nothing.
‘I have learned much in the Community. I love and admire the brethren, and I honour your work.’ He swallowed hard. How could he explain? ‘But I think the life of Qumrân is not for me.’
‘You wish to join one of our camps, amongst the Sons of Israel? That can be arranged, when you have completed your noviciate.’
Yeshûa shook his head.
‘No. I think I am called to something else. I think my work must be amongst my own people, in the north, in the Galilee. Amongst,’ he said, not without a touch of irony, ‘the poorest peasants, the amê hâ-’erets.’
The Mebaqqer raised his eyebrows.
‘I have prayed for guidance, and even now I do not know if my choice is right, but I feel there is more worth in the eyes of the Lord in saving one man from sin than in . . .’ he hesitated, then went on rapidly, ‘than in living at ease amongst the ritually pure.’
A slight flush had risen in the Mebaqqer’s cheeks, and his eyes hardened.
‘We do not live at ease. Your understanding is still narrow and faulty. We prepare for the final war against the followers of the Evil Priest.’
‘I believe that there is work to be done,’ Yeshûa said, ‘amongst the common people, before that day comes.’
‘You set yourself up against the teachings of the Teacher of Righteousness? Who are you, an ignorant Galilean peasant, to suppose that you possess greater wisdom than he?’
‘No!’ Yeshûa cried in despair. ‘That is not my belief. I do not know where my path lies. I know only that it does not lie here.’
The Mebaqqer rose from his seat. He was more than a handspan taller than Yeshûa, and his very presence made him seem taller.
‘If you are cast out of the Community, you are deemed to have fallen amongst the followers of the Evil One. You may never return.’
‘I know.’
‘I had great hopes of you, Yeshûa. I believe you might have become a gifted healer. Now, that is not to be.’
Yeshûa could find nothing to say to this. The Mebaqqer paced across the room and gazed out of the window.
‘As you remain a probationer until dawn tomorrow, I will not invoke the formal rite of expulsion if you leave before then.’ He spoke with his back still turned to Yeshûa. ‘You will leave early, and must be beyond the compound before the Community rises for the dawn prayers. You will take nothing with you but the clothes on your back. Go now.’
For the rest of the day, Yeshûa kept to himself. For the last time he worked at copying the ancient precious manuscripts, and when he finished for the day he laid aside his quill and his favourite bronze inkwell, and looked around the library with regret. He knew he would never again have such riches of the mind laid out before him. Here were not only the Book, the Psalms of King David, all the teachings with which he was familiar from his studies since boyhood. There were other writings said to date from the times of Moses and of ancient prophets like Isaiah, together with searching commentaries on the scriptures, writings which were unknown in the kenîshtâ at home, scrolls kept secretly here in Qumrân in the great clay storage jars. And the teachings of the greatest leader of the Community, the Teacher of Righteousness, his prophecies about the final apocalypse, were treasured and copied with devotion by his present-day followers. All this wisdom, all these ideas and speculations, which he longed to study, to dispute, to refine and purify to discover their nuggets of truth—all these he would have to leave behind forever. Lying on his bedroll that night, he could not sleep, but watched anxiously for the first lightening of the sky outside the unshuttered window.
When it came, he said a berâkâ for dressing, though all he had to don was his sandals—scarcely worn since coming to Qumrân—for he had slept in his tunic. Then he slipped out of the dormitory as quietly as possible. It was still dark outside, though not as dark as it had seemed inside. As he made his way up the path into the hills, he thought he could hear the echo of his footsteps behind him. When he turned at the bend in the path for a final look at the place where he had hoped for so much and which he would never see again, he realised he was being followed. He sat down on a boulder to wait.
‘Did you think to leave without telling me?’ said Nathan.
‘I did what the Mebaqqer commanded.’
‘You will not return?’
‘No. I have chosen a different way, and so am cast out. You should not even speak to me, or the Community Rule could demand that you be cast out also.’
‘Take me with you.’
Yeshûa shook his head.
‘I myself do not know yet where my future lies. First, I will go back to my village, to see my family. After that, I must pray for guidance and try to find my way.’
‘I could still come with you.’
‘Your place may be here. At least stay and finish your probation. Try to find your own path. Perhaps it will be with the Community. Perhaps not. Perhaps we will meet again some day.’
Reluctantly, Nathan embraced him and headed back down to the compound, where the figures of the brethren could be seen making their way to the dawn prayer. Behind them the roofs, thatched with dry reeds, were already melting and vanishing into the eternal rock. Yeshûa turned his back on them and his face to the north.
By early afternoon of that day, my brother told me, he was making his way along the bank of the Jordan and knelt to dowse his head in the water and drink deeply. He had eaten nothing since the evening meal of the previous day, and then very little, so that now he felt light-headed. He rose to his feet and walked on. Ahead of him, he could see a man lying at ease on the river bank, his eyes closed, his arms folded behind his head. He reached the figure and stopped, looking down.
‘So you have come,’ said Yehûdâ, without opening his eyes.
Yeshûa smil
ed.
‘I have come.’
Yehûdâ leaped suddenly to his feet and grabbed Yeshûa in a fierce hug.
‘Welcome home, my brother!’
Yeshûa laughed, his heart giving a bound of delight. He knew all at once that he had been set free.
‘We are a long way from home yet. Do you perhaps . . .’ hungrily, he eyed the satchel lying on the ground at Yehûdâ’s feet, ‘do you have any food?’
Chapter Eight
Already the heat has become severe in southern Gaul, though it is only late spring. The newly planted vines are dry and exhausted, with no sign of new growth. Every day, soon after dawn, before the sun’s fierce rays strike them like a withering sword, the Jewish refugees carry water to the vines, tending each stumpy plant with tender care. The thirsty earth swallows the water in moments and the vines look as lifeless as kindling. Manilius goes about the farm in a grim, tight silence. He has gambled much on this venture and with a failure in the spring rains, all could be lost. There is still other produce to bring in some income, but with the wheat fields ploughed up it will be necessary to buy flour before winter. The bees fed well at first on the spring flowers, but now the orchard blossom has fallen and the wild flowers further up the hillside are vanishing in the heat. Fulvia always finds the heat of midsummer oppressive and this early onset has left her pale and exhausted, prone to headaches.
Julia spends much of her time in her grandmother’s room, avoiding her brothers, who are boisterous when released from their lessons. Although it faces south, a balcony on the upper floor projects above Mariam’s window, affording some shade, and the shutters are kept half closed. A bay tree in a pot below the window has grown as high as the balcony, casting out a network of sprigs and branches which stir in the rare breeze and trace patterns of leafy shadow across the cool tesserae in the mosaic floor of the room. Over the years, Mariam has been in the habit of scattering crumbs on her windowsill for the birds and they come still, perching expectant below the swaying branches, though she is no longer able to feed them. After Julia noticed the birds, she has begun bringing scraps for them and will sit for hours watching them gather eagerly and squabble and take fright and return again. Today she has been watching a female blackbird feeding a fledgling, importunate and just as large as the harassed parent.
As usual she has drawn up a stool beside Mariam’s bed and sits holding her grandmother’s hand. The hand is cool and feels lifeless, but Julia has persuaded herself that as long as she holds Mariam’s hand, she will not die. Her grandmother has not spoken for days, though Fulvia and Rachel manage to feed her a little each day—thin broth and water and gruel. Rachel is the Israelite woman, wife of Zakkai, who gave birth to a baby boy a month after the refugees came to the farm. Although they share few words in common, Julia likes her, for she is kind and patient with Mariam.
The young blackbird returned when it saw the new scraps that Julia has spread out. Now it is calling impatiently for its mother to come and feed it.
‘Stupid bird,’ Julia says softly, not wanting to frighten it away. ‘You could pick up the food for yourself. You’re quite old enough.’
‘Sometimes young things cling on to childhood, because they don’t want to grow up.’
Julia is so astonished at the sound of Mariam’s voice after so long that she starts and clutches at the hand she is holding. Mariam presses her hand in return.
‘Are you better, Grandmother Mariam?’
Julia jumps up and leans over the bed. Mariam opens her eyes slowly. Her face is ravaged with illness, her cheeks hollow and her nose grown more pointed, but her eyes blaze as brightly as ever. The rasping sound of her breathing frightens Julia, but there is no mistaking that fierce, vivid look.
‘Child, you know and I know that I am not going to get better. I wouldn’t lie to you. But I haven’t left you yet.’
Julia crouches down and lays her cheek against Mariam’s, so that her grandmother will not see that she is crying, but Mariam reaches across with her other hand and strokes the child’s hair.
‘Don’t cry, talithâ, death comes to us all and mine is more peaceful than many, though it is slow.’
‘What does that mean?’ says Julia. ‘Talithâ?’ She wants to put a stop to this talk of death.
‘It means little lamb. We used to call a child talithâ in my village. It was a term of affection. My brother Yeshûa used to call me that when I was small. Sometimes later, too, when I was quite grown. My own little lamb was Daniel.’
‘You’ve never talked about Daniel before.’
‘No.’
Mariam closes her eyes. Julia sees tears seep out of the corners, but cannot tell if Mariam is truly weeping or whether it is another sign of her age and illness.
It was the winter of my seventeenth year. I knew my mother felt it was long past the time when Yehûdâ should have claimed me in marriage and I should have gone to his father’s house. She now had two daughters-in-law to help her, both more skilled at domestic tasks than I, the wives of Yehûdes and Yoses, who remained working with my father. Shim’ôn was betrothed and would marry in the summer. I hung about the house, neither girl nor woman, fish nor fowl. I was an embarrassment. But Yehûdâ had departed again, to the promised meeting with my brother on the banks of the Jordan, and until he returned, nothing could be decided. For my own part, despite the awkwardness of my position, I felt there was much to be said for celibacy, as I watched Melkha and my brothers’ wives sink under the burden of perpetual pregnancy.
One thought was constantly on my mind: Would Yeshûa return, or had he vowed to take up the isolated life of the Essenes? I suppose all the family were wondering the same, but we never spoke of it. I presume my brothers were not overly anxious for his return, for he was the eldest son, due to inherit the largest portion. Perhaps it was cynical of me to suspect that they had such ideas. Perhaps not. Eskha was fond of him, but too absorbed in her own small affairs to give his return much thought. I am sure my parents worried about what would become of him, but my mother and I never discussed anything beyond our daily tasks. Once, I spoke to my father about it.
‘Do you think Yeshûa will come back to us, Father?’ I asked bluntly, when I had managed to find him alone, working late over a fine casket to be sent to a friend and fellow merchant of Adamas’s in Sepphoris.
He stopped his work and passed a hand over his tired eyes. His hair and beard were quite grey now. It seemed to me that he should let my brothers undertake more of the work, but none of them had his skill.
‘Like you, I hope he will come back to us,’ he said, ‘but from his childhood he’s always reached beyond us for something greater. I fear he’ll never be happy, settled as a village craftsman. Even if he does not join this sect, I think he will want to move on, move away from us.’
‘But we are his family. We love him.’ I was nearly in tears. My father put his arms around me and patted me awkwardly on the back.
‘We love him and he will always love us, but his path may lie elsewhere.’
I had other worries besides Yeshûa. Every winter for the last four years, Daniel had fallen ill, an illness that lasted until spring and left him weak and exhausted. Each year it started earlier and grew a little worse. At the onset of cold weather, he began to cough. After two or three weeks the dry, hacking cough would change into something much deeper in his chest, a thick, painful coughing that went on and on, leaving him gasping. In time he would begin to spit a greenish phlegm. He still shared my room and our winter nights were a strange mixture of fear, pain and closeness. When he woke me, despite trying to smother the noise in his bedclothes, I would creep down to the fire and make him a drink of honey stirred into hot water. This would soothe him for a while, though once he lay down again, the coughing would gradually return.
‘Tell me a story,’ he would beg as he leaned against my shoulder and sipped his drink, trying to make it—and our shared time together—last as long as possible. I was not as skilled a storyteller as my brother
, but I would try to remember the stories he used to tell me when I was small, about lost lambs or greedy misers. Daniel loved to hear again the story of how Yeshûa had released the white dove in the Temple instead of sacrificing it.
‘That is what I shall do,’ he said confidently, ‘when I go to Jerusalem to make my bâr mitzvâh vows, except I shall release all the birds from the stall.’
‘That would be stealing,’ I said. ‘Father had bought the white dove for Yeshûa to sacrifice, so it belonged to him. Though I suppose some people would say that it belonged to Yahweh, so Yeshûa had no right to release it.’
‘That’s what Ya’aqôb would say.’
‘Yes, I expect he would. And perhaps he would be right.’
‘Would you let the dove fly away, Mariam?’
‘I am only a girl. I do not make a bâr mitzvâh sacrifice.’
‘But would you?’
‘Yes, probably. Yes, I’m sure I would, if I wasn’t too afraid.’
‘Why would you be afraid?’
‘With all those priests and Levites watching? And the other people making sacrifices? And everyone expecting you to do what everyone else has done forever? I’m not sure I would be brave enough.’
‘So Yeshûa was very brave?’
‘Yes, my love, he was very brave.’
Daniel’s favourite story was another that Yeshûa used to tell me, about a village where everyone turned away a dirty, smelly beggar from their doors, all but one good woman, who was poor herself. She took him in and washed his feet, and gave him the last scrap of food she possessed, and laid out a bedroll for him on the dirt floor of her tiny house. In the morning he was gone. But her storeroom was filled with great jars of olive oil and wine, sacks of wheat and barley, baskets of fruit and pots of honey. Outside in her small yard was a herd of sheep and goats and even a milch cow!