Take This Cup

by Bodie

  Beside the entry was a half barrel set in the ground as a watering trough. Plunging my head into the chilly water did little to make me more alert.

  “Trouble?” I asked.

  “Matters I must attend to,” he replied. “But also, there is something waiting for you in the Holy City.”

  “For me?” I said doubtfully, plucking a bit of straw from my hair.

  Joseph did not explain but turned to greet Lazarus as he strode across the courtyard.

  No one slept well after Jesus made his strange, ominous prophecy. Lazarus bore a pained expression.

  “Nehi?” I heard Avel’s voice call from inside the stable.

  “Make your good-byes,” Joseph instructed. “We’re leaving right away.”

  “You’re leaving?” Ha-or Tov asked.

  I shielded my eyes as sunlight beamed over the rooftop. “Master Joseph says something is waiting for me.”

  My trio of friends gathered around me.

  Peniel joined us.

  “It must be something good,” Peniel observed.

  We stood in sleepy silence, hugging ourselves awake. We were not trying, yet could not help overhearing the conversation between Joseph and his friend Lazarus.

  “I have many sources,” Joseph said. “In both palaces—Herod’s and Lord Caiaphas’s. I even know a few of the servants in the governor’s household. Whatever they are plotting, I’ll find it out. I’ll be able to warn you before you come to Jerusalem.”

  “We will come,” Lazarus responded. “You don’t know him as I do. He’ll not draw back. His face is set like flint on Jerusalem. This is why he came. And as for me, I’ll never be afraid of death again.”

  Birds in the mulberry tree awakened, and the air resounded with chatter. There was a hint of sage and lavender on a gentle breeze.

  Behind us Jesus called out, “Shalom, Joseph. Lazarus . . . and my boys.”

  I stepped into view so Joseph would know I was ready to leave and also because I wanted to speak to Jesus before we departed.

  “Rabbi,” Joseph said, “I have something I want to give you.” Summoning me to his side, Joseph sent me to get the dark blue cloth pouch embroidered with David’s harp and the Lion of Judah.

  When I retrieved it from Joseph’s saddlebag and presented it to him, he looked at me with a question in his eyes.

  I nodded my approval.

  Opening it, Joseph withdrew the specially ordered prayer shawl my mother had made. “I want you to have this,” Joseph said, presenting it to Jesus. “It was woven by Nehemiah’s mother for me. But the boy agrees . . . we want you to have it.”

  Jesus accepted the prayer shawl. “In time for morning prayers. Also in time for Passover.” He seemed pleased. Putting it around his shoulders, he embraced Joseph and thanked him. “It is beautiful.” He directed his praise to me. “I am a carpenter by trade, but I know fine workmanship in cloth. Your mother is an artist.”

  “She is . . .” I took some comfort that Jesus spoke of her as if she was still among the living. Of course, he could not know everything because I had not given him all the details. Then, I thought, perhaps Jesus did know about the battle and the bandits. After all, he knew that I would be there, bringing Joseph’s cup. “Yes,” I concluded. “My mother is the best weaver in the world, some say.”

  Jesus ran his fingers along the hem of the cloth. “Yes. Of course she is.”

  “And,” I blurted, “I’m almost done polishing the cup. I worked all night off and on. I’m afraid that, if we are leaving, something might happen to it. Please, sir, I want you to take the cup.” I stepped forward and tugged the bundle to the front of my waist. “Before anything . . . before you go to Jerusalem.”

  Jesus shook his head. “No. You are the cupbearer, are you not?”

  Emet shoved my wooden sword into my hand. “And other things. The other Nehemiah slept with a sword, they say.”

  Jesus nodded. “So he did. Cupbearer. Builder. Soldier. So I have a special assignment for you. Before Passover I will come to Jerusalem.”

  An excitement stirred in me at his words. The King was coming! Maybe he had not meant what he said last night about being tortured and killed. Maybe the one he referred to was not himself?

  I asked, “When will you come, Lord?”

  “You will know when I approach.” The flock of birds rose from the mulberry tree and flew as one toward the sunrise. Jesus put his hand on my head. “Cupbearer, you will meet me there. Bring the cup to me then as you were instructed. Yes? There is only one right time to give it to me.”

  Chapter 30

  On the way back to the Holy City, I made one attempt to ask my master, Joseph, what could possibly be waiting for me. Rousing himself from a deep reverie, he offered a wry smile. “I’m sorry, Nehemiah. I am thinking about a great many things right now. I will not let Lazarus or Jesus be assassinated when they come to Jerusalem. But right now I have to ponder who I can trust . . . and who I can’t.” Giving a cautionary gesture, he concluded, “You won’t be disappointed. I promise.”

  With that, I reined my donkey to a halt until Joseph’s horse was half a dozen paces in advance. Then I resumed following. I made no further attempt to unravel the mystery before the heights of the Temple loomed ahead.

  After the storm the sky was fiercely blue, the air severely clean. A pale yellow sun still struggled to warm the landscape, but that day there was no wind competing against it.

  We traveled the main highway running north to the Galil. Every half mile or so another converging stream of humanity poured in alongside us. Rivulets of tramping pilgrims coalesced into a river going to David’s City. The Passover pilgrimage was already fully in motion. Those who had come from farthest away were the earliest en route—pious travelers from all corners of the world, seeking the Temple of the Almighty.

  With the increased number of visitors and the lack of wind, the pillar of sable smoke from the sacrifices was twice as thick as I had seen it before. It towered far up into the heavens.

  The sight reminded me of my mother’s description of her home. It made me miss my mother and father worse than ever. It was so wrong for me to be here without them.

  We approached the city by way of Damascus Gate, the same direction by which I had arrived with the caravan.

  Dismounting, we left our animals in the care of a groom. As we passed through the gate, we were scrutinized by a hard-eyed Roman decurion. The Imperial officer had his full contingent of ten troopers lining the sides of the gate. Each was in armor and carried shield, short sword, and javelin.

  “Taking no chances with rebels,” Joseph muttered to me.

  We stood on the main thoroughfare of the city. I thought we would follow it toward Joseph’s home, but instead we took the first turning. We veered into the commercial district, the same part of the city as the burned-out remains of my grandparents’ shop.

  My stomach turned over, and I felt queasy. Did we have to go this way? It was an all-too painful reminder of my lost childhood, my missing family. I knew my grandparents weren’t coming back to the Holy City until after Passover. There was nothing for me there now except sorrow.

  “Come along,” Joseph urged, seemingly oblivious to my distress. But he’s a good man, caring for his friends’ safety, I reminded myself. I must not be too selfish about my own feelings.

  The Street of the Spice Merchants was one short row of shops before the Dried Fruit sellers, and then the Potters’ stalls. Following that area were the Cloth Dyers. The Street of the Weavers was just beyond.

  In the distance a dog barked. It was not an angry sound nor a fearful one, but a joyful noise of recognition. Instantly I was carried in my deepest longing to the last time I had seen Beni, my best friend: on the night of Zimri’s attack. On the night when everything in my life changed, already some seven months in the past, a lifetime ago.

  And then I saw him . . . or, rather, he saw me.

  Bounding toward me in his singular stiff, plunging lope was Beni’s wo
olly, black-and-tan mottled form. I had only a moment to shoot a bewildered, wondering look at Joseph and catch a glimpse of his smile in return before Beni bowled into me at full speed. Knocking me over, the herd dog planted his forefeet on my chest and licked my face. I bubbled with laughter, pushed him away, then pulled him back again.

  For Beni to have made the journey all the way from Amadiya to Jerusalem could only mean—

  I jumped up.

  My mother, the hem of her robe lifted to her ankles so she could manage her limping run without tripping, dashed toward me, calling out my name. Coming up the street behind her were my father and brothers and Rabbi Kagba.

  Mother swept me into an embrace, held me by my shoulders to look into my eyes, then crushed me to her again. All the while Beni danced on his hind legs around the scene, while passersby gawked.

  “How? What?” I questioned, lifting my gaze to my father.

  He knew exactly what I was asking. “We won the fight. But we had some injuries. Me”—he pointed to his head—“and Beni must have two of the hardest heads in Gan Eden. By the time we set out to follow, you were over the mountain.”

  Rabbi Kagba arrived, slightly out of breath and puffing. “Nehemiah, how you have grown. I met your father searching for you and told him the direction you had taken. When we reached Zakho, your caravan had already left.”

  “And then,” Father added, “an early snow closed the passes for a time and made us later still. But now, here we all are.”

  Mother on one side, Father on the other, and Beni, smiling in the way only herd dogs can grin, we entered the Street of the Weavers. Instead of the depressing ash heap I had seen before, a new shop rose in its place. The walls were up, the roof was on, and the hammering and sawing suggested the interior finish was progressing. A workman fitted the sliding panels on the street front that would open to display the wares to potential customers.

  “We rented a house across the street,” Mother explained. “It’s small, barely big enough for us all, so your grandparents won’t come up from Joppa until the new shop is complete. After Passover.”

  My teacher plucked at my elbow. He thumped his thumb against the bundle containing the cup. “Have you seen him?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And he is everything you told me . . . and more. He is coming here for Passover. I am to complete my mission then.”

  Joseph of Arimathea, who had not wanted to interrupt our reunion, spoke at last. “And I find I must order another prayer shawl. Nehemiah is right about Jesus of Nazareth. No man ever spoke like he does, or does the things he can do. I gave him the first shawl. He has promised to wear it at Passover.”

  Every day potential customers came to the place where our shop was being rebuilt. They asked the workers, “Where is it? The place where the world-famous prayer shawls once were sold?”

  I heard the workmen answer, “Burned to the ground. Gutted. Being rebuilt, as you can see. But nothing to buy here now.”

  And the people went away disappointed.

  There was nothing to be done. The work always took a little longer than one expected, the foreman explained to my father. So we were told we must be patient.

  One morning, from the balcony of the rented house, Mama peered across the street as the workmen set the shutters of the new weaver’s shop in place. “Oh! I can see it now. As it was . . .”

  I was at the opposite window, playing with Beni. Papa was at the table going over papers with my three brothers. We all looked up to listen because Mama’s voice was so soft we knew she was not speaking to us.

  Wistful, remembering the glory of the old shop, she said, “I was too lame to go play with the other girls . . . not as lame as I am now. But I had such joy. I used to sit there in the window as a girl and weave and sing the songs of the loom, while the pilgrims came to listen on all the holidays.”

  Papa’s face appeared pained. “Sarah, the new shop may be done before Passover.”

  She clucked her tongue, knowing it was impossible. “My loom is a thousand miles away. My father and mother are weaving for sailors in Joppa. My sisters are selling prayer shawls from their houses. And I have nothing to offer. Our prayer shawls . . . all the world once came here. Now even the sign is gone, and the shop is vacant for the first time since the days of the Maccabees. One hundred and sixty years of the forefathers of Boaz the Weaver. And it will not be ready when the pilgrims come.”

  My elder brothers exchanged looks with Papa.

  He sighed. “Well, Sarah, you never know. There’s always next year. And maybe a miracle. It could happen.”

  “We’ll be back in our mountains . . . Gan Eden, among the flocks next year.” She turned away from the window.

  Beni left me and sidled over to my father to be petted.

  For a minute, Papa’s lower lip protruded slightly, as it did when he was in deep thought. Then he dismissed her melancholy, all business now. “I am sending these three sons to Joppa today to carry samples of raw wool, fabric, and a letter to the exporter. They must stay with your parents.”

  Mama limped to her chair and sat down. “Of course. My parents will welcome them. But will the boys come back in time for Passover? Or will our table in this house of exile be empty except for us few?”

  Mama loved to cook for large crowds. Passover in the shepherds’ camps back home had always been packed with joyful celebration. The thought that my brothers would also be absent made the holiday seem bleak and lonely.

  Ezra asked me, “May I take your dog, Nehemiah? I’m training him, and we’re getting on well. No fields around here to work him. Do you mind?”

  Beni smiled and wagged at me eagerly, as if to ask permission. The city was not fun for him. Nothing much for a dog to learn here. Only Jerusalem’s cats to chase and neighbors who complained about barking.

  “All right, then.” I felt left out. My brothers were going, and I must stay. There was still Joseph’s cup, which I polished every day as I awaited the arrival of Jesus.

  And so it was settled.

  My brothers and my dog set out for Joppa that very morning. In the afternoon I wandered over to the shop and watched carpenters sand the cabinets.

  A new, unfinished sign was laid out on the woodcarver’s bench. The carver carefully fashioned letters on the plank. Only one Hebrew word was so far engraved on the signboard: BEIT, which means “house.”

  I asked the woodcarver, “Will it be ready to hang before Passover?”

  He laughed at my question and did not look at me as he lightly tapped the chisel to begin the next letter.

  So it seemed that Mama was right. Nothing would be ready by Passover. The pilgrims would come, hoping to buy the most beautiful prayer shawls in the world to worship and pray and then as a shroud in which they would be buried. This year they would take away nothing. As their fathers and grandfathers had come generations before, they would come to the fourth shop from the head of the Street of the Weavers, but they would find an empty shell.

  It was less than two weeks until Passover. I watched from the window of our rented house as the lanes of the city became glutted. The stalls of Jerusalem overflowed with goods. Drovers leading donkeys loaded with merchandise navigated through the crowds. Early pilgrims packed the narrow lanes and shopped for souvenirs. Fresh bedding and newly washed clothes hung like multicolored flags from the upper balconies of every shop and dwelling along the Street of the Weavers.

  Across the street, stone masons and carpenters put finishing touches on the lower story of our rebuilt shop. Cabinets and shelves and countertops were fitted. Upstairs our residence was being painted. Papa had promised to pay the artist that very day.

  Mama’s leg was swollen and painful. She leaned against my father’s arm as we entered the building to inspect the work. The smell of clean sawdust and chiseled limestone hung in the new interior.

  Mama ran her hands over the smoothly sanded countertop. “Beautiful. I can see a bolt of fine fabric laid out here. And, over there, stacks of prayer sh
awls on the shelves. Oh! My mother and father will be so pleased, Lamsa.”

  “Close your eyes.” Papa led her to the opposite corner of the room, where something big was covered by a tarp. He pulled the covering away, revealing a brand-new loom. “Now look!”

  The frame of the loom was painted with grapevines—like the heavenly loom she had once dreamed about in the wilderness of our mountains.

  Mama gasped and clapped her hands together, then stroked the wood as though it were a harp. “Oh my! My! To work on such an instrument! But who will play this?”

  Papa kissed her cheek. “My love, you know it is for you. We’ll stay here in Jerusalem for a time. Rabbi Kagba says the new King of Righteousness will reign here. We will stay in Jerusalem. The great city of blessing. I have given instructions to our eldest son. With the help of my steward, he will return and tend the flocks. He is the heir and will rule the flocks in my place. I’ll return from time to time to oversee his work. But now I am at an age where I want to return. Jerusalem must be our home and the home of Nehemiah now that Messiah will reign.”

  Mama wiped tears away. “My dream, Lamsa. My prayer—that Nehemiah could attend Yeshiva here in the city. We’ll attend his bar mitzvah on the very mountain where Abraham offered his son Isaac to the Lord. There’s time enough to prepare for our future. Now, this year in Jerusalem . . . and always! How can I tell you what I feel?” When she leaned heavily on the countertop, I knew her leg was in great pain.

  Perhaps my father had also seen how difficult it would be for her to journey back to our homeland. I wondered if that was perhaps a part of the reason for his decision.

  The master builder swept his hand toward the steps leading to the upper story. “Sir, the main room upstairs is completed. A few weeks only and the bedchambers . . . ready to furnish. But now? The large upper room is ready—a beautiful room, as you commissioned, sir. The artist just completing the wall mural of Paradise, the garden of Eden from whence you come.” He laughed. “A place I would like to dine, if I may say so.”

  Mama brightened. “Passover seder? Here? Jerusalem. Our first meal. Now that will be Paradise.”