Take This Cup

by Bodie

  I stepped from the shelter into the crisp air and drew my cloak tight around my chin. With a peek over my shoulder into the dim interior, I made certain Mother was still sleeping. Then I set out along the well-worn path to the boulder-strewn stream, where a pool served as a mikvah. My stomach growled. I would be glad when it was time for breakfast. When I inhaled, the scent of pine boughs mingled with the earthiness of the deserted yearling pasture. A remnant of the meadow grass remained, grazed to stubble, but by spring the sheep manure would nourish the soil, and grass would sprout and grow lush and thick for next year’s flock.

  I paused at the crest of the path and placed my hands on my hips in imitation of my father. I surveyed the wide meadow. A hawk flew above it, crying.

  I thought if I cut across the pasture, the way to the stream would be quicker. I stepped from the path and hurried toward the high pines that concealed the brook. Almost to the rim of the dark forest, I heard the rush of the water and the hush of soft wind in the tree tops.

  Then, as I neared the wood, a single doe crept forward from the cover. I felt myself blanch as I halted mid-stride. Six, seven, and then eight deer followed her and ambled cautiously toward me.

  A vision of sharp hooves trouncing Beni made me scan for a way of escape. I felt frozen in place. I could not run. The deer were much faster than the legs of a five-year-old. I could not turn to the right or the left. A dozen from the herd now blocked my path and moved to encircle me.

  The spots of the fawns were fading now. Their wide brown eyes observed me curiously. A spike-horned yearling came directly toward me, snorted, then turned away.

  Within moments nearly fifty deer surrounded me, towering over me, considering me. I had never seen so many deer in the open all at once. They claimed the remainder of the meadow. I was the intruder. The sheep had taken the best of summer grazing, and I must have the smell of those who had guarded the sheep and kept the deer from foraging the tall grass.

  I stood with my eyes level with the shoulder of a muscled doe.

  Would she charge me, as another doe had charged and struck down my dog?

  I was close enough to a weanling that I could have reached out and touched her. But I kept my arms crossed over my chest, lest the mother think I meant to attack her offspring.

  Quietly, I spoke. “I only want to wash and pray. Will you let me pass?” But the circle of bodies grew tighter until I could see only legs and hoofs and strong heads for butting.

  The sound of teeth tearing off blades of grass filled my ears.

  I wanted my mother but fought the urge to cry. It was tears, after all, that had condemned me to stay behind and face the very animals that had nearly killed Beni.

  A young buck approached and lowered his head until he was nose to nose with me. The creature could have knocked me to the ground with one quick strike. It snorted, covering me with a spray of saliva.

  I wiped my face and stuck out my chin. “I’m not . . . afraid. Not afraid of you.”

  The creature extended its neck and offered its muzzle to me. I cautiously reached out and touched the velvet nose. The buck did not draw back or flinch. Wide eyes blinked with pleasure. I smiled as I felt all my fear melt away.

  Another animal crowded in, as if eager to be touched by a human child.

  “You like me.” I chuckled with surprise and scratched the ear of a large doe.

  It was, I thought, like the story Rabbi Kagba told of Adam in Paradise, when the first man stood in the midst of all the animals God had created. They had come to Adam to receive their names. They had come at the command of the Lord to speak with their master.

  “And I like you too.” I laughed aloud. “We will be friends, see? I forgive you for what you did to my dog.” Solemn, brown-eyed faces were everywhere, all wanting to be touched. “Papa said you thought Beni would hurt your children.” My hands went from deer to deer. “But he wouldn’t hurt you. He meant no harm. He was only curious. I do forgive you, friends. But you must not hurt anyone in the camp again.”

  Suddenly the heads of the herd rose in one motion and turned toward the copse of trees beyond the thicket. The herd parted slightly, giving me a clear view to the wood. There, in the midst of the trees, stood the Great White Hart—master, father, and king of the deer. He had a pure white bib on his chest, with a buff mantle like a cape across his broad back. Antlers were so wide they nearly touched the trunks of two trees.

  I could not count the points of his antlers. There were too many. But there, in the center, was a curious pattern. The intersection of branches formed a perfect cross.

  I had heard stories of the Great White Hart as the shepherds sat around the campfire. He was real enough. He had been spotted two years earlier and had been tracked but never found.

  “Aye,” the shepherds had exclaimed. “He’s one of those who lived in Paradise with Adam afore it was sealed up. He escaped and lives on still in this land. He kills serpents. Where he grazes, we shepherds find dead snakes that were forced out of their holes when he blows water in; then the evil creatures are trampled under his feet. They say the hart’s waitin’ for the Messiah to come and redeem the broken world and open up the gates of Eden. Legend has it that he carried the sign of Messiah on him, but what that sign might be, no one knows.”

  I had dreamed of the majestic creature. Few had ever seen him. He was the legend of the mountains where Eden had once been. He had boarded the ark in the days of Noah but returned to this place after the Flood. No human but Adam and Noah had ever come close enough to touch him.

  Until now.

  I stood rooted while a corridor opened in the herd as does and yearlings and young bucks stepped back to make room for the hart to pass. He stepped from concealment and, fixing his gaze on me, passed through his herd directly to me.

  The hart halted and waited. His head towered over me. I squinted up at the blue sky. The hart’s crown, with the cross at its center, seemed to me like the branches of a tree. Thick, strong legs could have killed me with one blow, but I was strangely calm in the presence of the powerful creature.

  “I’ve heard of you,” I blurted.

  The massive head lowered until the ancient face was even with mine.

  “They say . . . you are the hart Adam knew. You lived in Paradise. You are the killer of serpents, knowing the serpent that caused the fall of men. You rode in the ark and spoke with Noah. You have seen the patriarchs.”

  The animal touched my cheek with his muzzle and breathed softly on me. It felt like a familiar, loving gesture.

  “So you are the same one they tell the stories about?” I questioned. “Oh. My name is Nehi . . . Nehemiah,” I corrected. “They don’t have a name for you in the story. The Great White Hart or Adam’s great hart is what they call you. King of all the deer.” I patted the thick, muscled neck.

  In reply the buck placed his right leg forward and bowed to me. Chin on knee, the hart held the pose for a long minute, then raised up. I thought I recognized pleasure in the king’s wise eyes.

  “Some shepherds say you aren’t real,” I whispered. “But now I know.”

  The wind sighed through the Great Hart’s antlers as if he were a tall cedar tree. Did I hear a hushed voice calling my name? Or was it just the wind?

  “Nehemiah . . . cupbearer to the King.”

  I answered the whisper: “That’s my name. Called after the cupbearer who was sent from this land to Jerusalem.”

  The voice spoke again, more distinctly this time: “Nehemiah . . . the King’s Cup.”

  I replied cheerfully, “Yes. Yes! You know my name!”

  Suddenly the hushed communication between the hart and me was interrupted by a shrill call. My mother’s terrified voice rang out across the meadow. “NE-HEH-MI-AHHHH!”

  The hart raised his head to look for the source of the unhappy sound.

  “That’s my mother. She sees you here. All of you. And she knows, as mothers know, that I am with you. And she’s afraid what happened to my dog will happen t
o me.”

  The herd stirred uneasily. The king bowed once again to me and backed away several paces. Then Adam’s Great Hart turned and trotted back into the forest.

  The herd followed as one, after their leader. I found myself alone in the field, staring after them, with my mother’s terrified cries at my back.

  The nearly breathless voice of Rabbi Kagba called to me: “Nehemiah! Boy!”

  Weeping with relief, my mother flung herself on me, touching arms and legs and caressing my face. “Nehi! You could have been killed! They could have trampled you!”

  The rabbi’s eyes scanned the rim of the forest. The tribe of deer had vanished, but a circle of hoofprints left behind in the dirt surrounded me. “He is unharmed,” the rabbi admonished my mother. “Tell us, boy. What happened?”

  Chapter 6

  Several days later my father returned for the rest of the sheep and heard my startling story. Light and shadows from the fire danced on the faces of my mother, father, and Rabbi Kagba as they questioned me again . . . as if Mama and the rabbi hadn’t already asked me enough questions.

  Father tossed a stick onto the embers. “A white buck. White, you say?”

  “Yes, Papa. Like the very old one in the stories.”

  Father leaned in close to the rabbi. “See, the child speaks of stories. Stories he’s heard from shepherds telling tall tales.”

  The rabbi held up his hand. “Not so fast, Lamsa. This is not like any legend I’ve ever heard.” The old man fixed his gaze on me. “Can you describe him again? What did he look like? The Great Hart? Pure white?”

  I shook my head. “No. Not white everywhere, but mostly. On his back he wears a sort of pale cape. That coat was more tan than white. But very pale.”

  “And his antlers?” Mother asked.

  “Very large. Woven together like a crown. And this was in the center of all.” Putting my index fingers together, I formed them in the shape of a cross. “Like this.”

  Father stroked his beard. “Such detail from a lad.” His heavy brows knit together. “But you, Sarah, you did not see the animal?”

  Mother said, “He was surrounded by the herd. I couldn’t see him, only backs and antlers, in a circle crowded all around him.”

  “And you, Rabbi?”

  Kagba’s lower lip protruded. “Nay. There was an entire herd. Acting strange for certain. Surrounding the child and then . . .”

  My mother contributed, “We began to walk slowly toward them and—”

  I finished the story. “Mama started yelling, and they all got scared. The Great Hart left first and then the others.”

  “What happened just before your mother shouted?” the rabbi queried. “You said you heard another voice say your name?”

  I gave a half smile at the recollection. “Yes. The wind through his antlers whispered, ‘Cupbearer, Nehemiah’ and ‘the cup.’ ”

  “Was it the hart who spoke?” Father asked.

  “No. I told you. A whisper. Hardly anything at all. But I heard it.”

  My father and the rabbi conferred.

  “Too much detail for the boy to make up,” Father said. “He saw something, all right. But what can such a thing portend?”

  The rabbi considered the meaning. “I have told you Messiah is alive at this very moment. He is walking among the men of Israel. The appearance of the white buck, the snake killer, Adam’s Hart, means something very significant.”

  “How can we know the meaning?” Mother queried. “Such a large thing to be given to such a small boy.”

  The rabbi put his arm around my shoulders. “We will know what it means by and by. Aye. In the future everything will be revealed.”

  Occasionally we spoke of the Great Hart as we sat around a campfire. Three times over the next summer, when I turned six, the herdsmen found snakes that had been trampled, evidence that the buck was still near. I was comforted by the knowledge of his presence.

  In the dead of the following winter, on the second night of Purim, midway through my seventh year, I stood on a rooftop in Amadiya with Rabbi Kagba. The mountain passes were choked with snow, but none had fallen for about a week. The sky was clear and crystalline, with glittering stars.

  It was the middle watch of the night. Raucous laughter still emanated from the adults in the dining room below, but the rabbi had gathered up his students by offering us an astronomy lesson. We all wore fleece coats and fleece-lined boots and were enfolded within closely woven woolen cloaks.

  Facing east, the rabbi splayed his bony fingers to mimic a bowl-shaped object. He held his hand aloft and invited me to locate that shape in the stars.

  It took awhile, but I succeeded. “There!” I said, pointing. “Over the mountain to the east.”

  “Just so,” Rabbi Kagba said approvingly. “Its name is Kohs, the chalice. Many other nations see a drinking cup there as well. What might it remind us of?”

  “The Purim feast?” one of the older boys ventured.

  “Very good!” Kagba praised. “It is written: ‘As they were drinking wine on the second day, the king again asked, “Queen Esther, what is your petition? It will be given you . . . Even up to half the kingdom.”1 It was thus that the brave queen saved our people from evil Haman.”

  So strongly was the Purim holiday habit engrained in us that at the mention of Haman’s name we all hissed and stomped our feet.

  The rabbi smiled. “It was truly the cup of salvation for us that day. And Kohs always rises in the east on Purim in honor of that occasion. That’s enough for tonight, boys. Go about your business quietly tomorrow morning. Your elders will thank you for it later.”

  That night I went to bed thinking about the cup in the heavens. I wondered if the image of the chalice was meant to remind us of other stories in Scripture. At first the only one I could recall involved Passover. There were four cups of wine drunk during the Seder feasts.

  Then it came to me: there was a cup in the story of Joseph the Dreamer. And his story involved his brother Benjamin.

  “Same name as my dog,” I said aloud for my own amusement.

  Then I fell asleep.

  Almost immediately I began to dream . . .

  I was in a banqueting hall. It was night, judging from the flickering torches in wall sconces around the room. A young man, clean-shaven—Egyptian, I thought, from his appearance—was clothed as a prince in brightly colored silk. The eleven others in the room were all thickly bearded, except one. Each wore the drab homespun robes of shepherds like me.

  Though the Egyptian seemed to be of higher rank than anyone else present, he acted as servant. I noticed something else: all the shepherds were seated in order of their ages, from the eldest to the young man whose beard was just beginning to grow in. I sat beside him and saw the light reflecting in his eyes. I was close enough to hear his breath, yet he could not see me. I said aloud, “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” but none of them heard me or looked at the place where I was seated.

  This youngest fellow came in for more attentive service from the Egyptian. In fact, he received five times as much food and drink.

  When the shepherds were filled to capacity, their host poured one more cup of wine for each, and then poured one for himself, using a shining silver cup. Hoisting the cup aloft, he saluted them. “Have a safe journey to your home in Canaan,” he said. “Salute your father, Jacob, for me. In fact, you, young Benjamin, carry my greeting to him.”

  It was then I realized what story was unfolding in my dream. The Egyptian was Joseph, whom these same men, his brothers, had sold into slavery, but they didn’t recognize him.

  Because of famine in their land, they had come to Egypt to buy grain.

  When the meal was completed, the guests thanked their host and departed. Servants appeared to clear away the platters under the supervision of a steward.

  Joseph called the steward to him and handed over the silver drinking vessel. “Tonight, go to where those men keep their provision sacks,” he said. “Fill each sack with as much
food as you can stuff in. Also, I want you to take the money they used to pay for the grain and divide that among their sacks as well. Finally,” he said, indicating the chalice, “place my cup inside the sack belonging to the youngest brother.”

  The scene I was watching shifted. It was morning. I was with the brothers as they drove a file of donkeys down a road not many miles from the city. A cloud of dust swirling up behind us resolved itself into a host of Egyptian chariots in swift pursuit. Each chariot had a driver and a spearman. In the leading chariot was the steward I had noticed at the end of the banquet.

  The warriors overtook the shepherds and surrounded us. The sons of Jacob surrendered without a fight. Their leader asked, “What is the trouble? What have we done?”

  The steward said sternly, “Why have you repaid good with evil? You stole from my master.”

  All of the brothers protested.

  Benjamin said, “Why say such a thing? Tell him, Reuben! Tell him, Judah.”

  And I said, “No! No! I know what really happened,” but no one paid any attention to me.

  Reuben argued, “We would never do that. We even returned the silver we found in our sacks when we came to Egypt the last time. We still don’t know how it got there!”

  Judah added, “Why would we steal silver or gold from your master’s house? If any of us has it, he will die, and the rest of us will be your slaves.”

  When the sacks were opened, of course the cup was located in Benjamin’s possession.

  “Isn’t this my master’s cup?” the steward said. “This is a wicked thing you did. Take them away.”

  All the shepherds exclaimed and tore their clothing, but the steward was unmoved. The Hebrew brothers were escorted at spearpoint back to Joseph’s palace.

  Once more the view in my dream changed. I was inside the palace, watching the confrontation between Joseph and his brothers. The silver cup sat on a mahogany table in the center of the room.