The Dog Who Was There

by Ron Marasco

  “Hi, Boaz,” Samid yelled as he and Barley walked past. “Are you feeling better?”

  Boaz nodded his head yes and said in a quivering voice, “Prisca gave me food . . . m-m-meat.”

  “I know. It was nice of her.”

  Then Samid called out to the man, “Will you play for us?” Samid made the motions of playing an imaginary flute as he whistled a tune. But Boaz just stared at him glassy-eyed and then turned away.

  Samid had noticed Barley’s reaction to his whistling. Barley tilted his head in a way that made Samid laugh.

  “If you like that, boy, wait till you hear this!”

  He left Barley sitting alertly right where he was and moved several paces away. Then he turned and looked right at Barley. Samid drew his upper lip down, put the tip of his tongue between his teeth, and blew a sound so loud and clear and bright that Barley grew wings and flew to his master, who crouched down to catch him and shower him with a celebration of pats and praise.

  Samid tried it once more—same whistle, same result. Then he walked along, high-stomached with pride. It was probably the first time he’d taught anyone anything. To Barley, his master’s whistle was like the funny voice used by the boy who played in the fields of Barley’s memory, or like his name being spoken lovingly again and again during his seven happy years with Adah and Duv. Samid’s whistle was the new signal-song of the man to whom Barley now knew he belonged.

  Dusk came softly to the camp, and the temperature didn’t drop nearly as much as it had the night before.

  So all in all, his first day at the camp had proven to be a good day for Barley.

  Except for one problem.

  No food.

  And after so many new sights and sounds and activities, Barley was ready for a bowl of Adah’s fine supper. But here, in this new home, there was no Adah and no supper.

  Not only did Samid not have any food, but there didn’t seem to be any around in the entire camp, except for the one piece of bread that Prisca had, which was so old and hard it had to be divided between her, Samid, and Hog using a large piece of thin rock. And even this stale bread hadn’t turned up until very late in the day, when it was already dark.

  Barley had watched the three of them eating and feared he would not get any bread. But Samid did what good masters do and fed his dog a piece of his own ration. While the challenging chew of this bread felt good on Barley’s teeth, it didn’t do much to fill his belly. That night Barley went to sleep hungry.

  Early the next morning, Barley looked up and saw the first streaks of morning light, then rolled over to nod back off, certain that—just like the day before—Samid and the other denizens of this place would sleep the morning away. But when Barley looked Samid’s way, Samid was still lying down but looking up thoughtfully, staring at the threadbare roof of his tent like something was on his mind.

  Since his master wasn’t stirring, Barley curled himself back into a tight ball, pushed his head even deeper into the comfortable pile of Samid’s clothes, and was just drowsing back off to sleep when he heard the sound of someone approaching Samid’s tent—and the loud voice of Hog.

  “Samid! Samid! Get up!”

  “Hog? What do you want?”

  Hog appeared, suddenly landing on his melon-size knees at the entrance to Samid’s small tent and sticking his head in rudely. He was clearly upset about something.

  “I’ve had enough. I’ve got to get some food.”

  “We all feel the same way. So don’t come barging in to talk about it! It just makes me even hungrier, you pest!”

  While this banter was very different from the early morning pleasantries Barley was accustomed to hearing Adah and Duv exchange, he lay there, morning-lazy and content, listening to the two men.

  “Are you telling me, Samid, that you’ve been able to think of anything else but bread? Or meat? Or maybe even meat with herbs and sweet milk . . .”

  “Shut up, Hog! And get out of here,” shouted Samid.

  Hog looked over at Samid. “I’m thinking of going into town. Come with me. There’s nothing to be had in this hellhole, and we have to do something to get some food.”

  “I don’t beg, Hog. You’re free to go to town and stand there with your palm up hoping citizens will toss you a crumb as they walk by holding their noses. I’d rather starve.”

  Barley raised himself up and ambled over to Samid. He lay down on the ground alongside his master, his eyes closing in half-sleep as Samid rested his huge, square-knuckled hand on Barley’s small head.

  Hog leaned forward to Samid and said in an exaggerated whisper, “I’m not talking about begging.”

  At this Samid lifted his head and glanced knowingly at Hog.

  “No, Hog. These days are not a time to be picking pockets. People who come back here from being in the city say the marketplace is overrun with Roman soldiers itching to punish rabble like us.”

  Hog became more emphatic. “I’m not talking about the marketplace and I’m not talking about picking pockets. That takes too much patience, and my belly is out of patience,” he said in a tone that was hushed but overenunciated. Samid began to listen.

  “I’ve heard about a place some merchants are using as a shortcut. A breach in the city wall, near the Shepherd’s Crook. The unlicensed merchants use it to sneak their goods into town without having to get past the Roman soldiers at the gate.”

  There was silence as Hog waited for Samid’s reaction.

  “No,” Samid said after a prolonged pause, trying hard to inject firmness into his voice.

  “Aren’t you hungry?”

  He was.

  Although having a dog around was a good distraction—and distraction is the only hope for a mind in the grip of a body’s hunger.

  Hog pressed, “All we’ve eaten in two and a half days is a finger’s worth of badger gristle!”

  Samid’s mind turned to thoughts of their meal two days before and the look on Prisca’s face in the firelight as she wistfully spoke those strange words. “Do to others . . .”

  He was snapped back to the present by Hog’s insistent whining.

  “I’m weak,” moaned Hog, loud enough that Barley cocked an eye.

  “Today is Sunday, right? Town will be full of people, no?”

  “Yes. And last night Prisca said she heard town will be even busier than usual because there are rumors that crackbrained, so-called holy man from Galilee is coming today. Prisca left at dawn to try to see him,” Hog said nastily. Then he laughed. “Though if he is so holy, what would he want with the likes of her!”

  “Hold your dirty tongue,” mumbled Samid, lost in thought.

  “Oh, never mind about that one. Didn’t you hear me? There’ll be even more people in town than usual. And that means—”

  “I know,” Samid interrupted. “It means such demand that even the worst of the bakers and butchers will be lugging their wares to town.”

  “And willing on a Sunday to be—maybe—charitable.”

  Samid rolled over and stared at Barley.

  “We have to go now, Samid,” said Hog.

  “All right,” said Samid, both intently and with defeat in his voice.

  “To the Shepherd’s Crook.”

  The journey into the city was an enjoyable one for Barley. Samid and Hog walked at a rapid clip, with Barley trotting close on Samid’s heels, his little legs working quickly to keep up with Samid’s large, worn sandals. Every few minutes, Hog would become exhausted from lugging his huge frame around and would crouch with his hands resting on his knees, panting loudly from exertion.

  “It’s not my fault!” Hog would yell above the chorus of Samid’s laughter. “I have short legs!”

  In this way, Samid, Hog, and Barley made their way to the place called the Shepherd’s Crook.

  All three of them stopped a moment to take in the sight as Jerusalem came into view, looming grand and imposing over the desolate desert landscape. As soon as they saw it, Hog collapsed dramatically onto the road and la
y there howling, “I am so tired and hungry! I am going to die right here!”

  “I’ll alert the vultures,” said Samid with a roll of his eyes.

  Samid could see, off in the distance, the main road that was the official entrance into the city. A group of soldiers stood together—a large, brawny, clanging cluster of red capes, heavy armor, and mountainous shoulders supporting heads with flashing eyes that said nothing would make them happier than to find a citizen or two to harass.

  All citizens passing through this gate had to pass the scrutinizing glare of these men unless they knew about the clandestine breach in the wall. The Shepherd’s Crook was used of late by itinerant travelers, small-time young ruffians, and lower-class merchants and tradesmen with no official license to sell their goods in public.

  The Shepherd’s Crook was a long path—too narrow to be called a road—that rested a foot or so lower than the surrounding terrain. It had been formed by one of the city’s aqueducts many generations ago. At the end of the path was the entrance to a curving loop of ancient wall—the “crook.” Samid had at first wondered if it had been a good idea for him to bring his dog without a rope. But throughout their journey to the city, anytime Samid had whistled, Barley had rushed immediately to his master’s side. Even Hog had been impressed, though he was still unhappy that Samid had brought Barley along. Samid picked up a stick and hurled it down the long path, and, to get his mind off his hunger, even Hog tossed it a few times—surprisingly far, Barley noticed, for someone who wheezed when he ran.

  The secluded curve of the crook was welcome relief from the dusty path, and the coolness of the cracked walls and stone floor felt soothing after their long trek. Hog plopped his sweaty body down and leaned his head against the wall.

  Samid joined him, stretching out his long legs as Barley stood at his master’s side. A stream of water leaking from a fissure in the wall had pooled into a large rut in the rock floor, making what looked to Barley to be a perfect water bowl. He leaned down and began lapping the cool water into his dry mouth with relish as Samid watched, smiling and patting Barley as he drank.

  Hog saw Samid grinning down at Barley and said scornfully, “What are you so jolly about?”

  “I don’t know,” Samid said, still looking down at the dog madly slurping up his drink of water. “How small his tongue looks. The sound of it. It’s funny. It’s . . .”

  Samid stopped himself. He blushed at having given Hog a glimpse of his affection for Barley. Barley, meanwhile, basked in the new sweetness that had crept into his master’s tone and was happy to feel Samid’s strong hand patting his back as he drank.

  Hog said with disgust, “I’ve always hated the way water feels on an empty stomach. I swear, Samid, at this point I’d kill for food if I had to.”

  Samid squinted into the sun and smiled.

  “Hog,” he said whimsically, “maybe we shouldn’t get into trouble today. Maybe we should just try to have a happy Sunday.”

  “What?” Hog snapped. “That dumb dog has made you soft.” And he turned impatiently and walked toward the entrance of the crook from where they’d come.

  “People should have a happy Sunday,” Samid continued, turning to Barley. “Right, boy?”

  Barley wagged his tail as he drank his last few gulps of water.

  “Hello, sir!”

  Samid’s gaze darted quickly to Hog, who was speaking to someone nearing the entrance of the crook. Barley’s eyes focused on his master, and he watched closely as his master’s demeanor shifted. Barley saw the sweetness in his master’s eyes transform into a hard, alert stare.

  Samid leapt to his feet, and Barley followed his master’s gaze toward the entrance of the crook. As Barley’s snout filled with a mouthwatering scent, a small, gray-haired baker entered the crook carrying a large sack swollen to the brim with round, aromatic loaves of bread.

  Hog spoke to the baker fawningly.

  “You must be a very skilled baker to make something that smells as good as that nice bread does.”

  “Yep,” the baker said halfheartedly as he trudged ahead, passing Samid with an idle nod as he headed toward the passage that led to the breach in the city wall.

  “My dear man,” Hog called out, following the baker, “perhaps you would allow me to help you up those steep stairs with that large sack.”

  As Hog passed Samid to catch up to the baker, he gave Samid a knowing wink. Barley noticed Samid’s muscles tighten and his glare intensify.

  “Dear sir,” Hog kowtowed as the baker kept walking, “couldn’t you use some help from a younger man?” As he walked alongside the man, he pleaded, “You see, sir, I would so like to be able to do a good deed for the Sabbath.”

  At mention of the Sabbath, the baker slowed his pace long enough to size up Hog, then replied gruffly, “I don’t need help. Never have.”

  Immediately, Samid jumped in, affecting a falsely merry tone. “Oh, don’t insult the gentleman, Hog. He doesn’t need your help. This is a man who does things his way. And though no youngster, this is a man who carries his own wares.”

  “Always have,” the man agreed, nodding at Samid.

  Fortified by Samid’s compliment, the baker adjusted his sack of bread proudly and continued on his way, as Hog shot Samid a glance that said, “Now what?”

  “But,” Samid called out, “I bet a clever merchant like him knows all the best shortcuts in the city. Maybe he can give us directions to Shiloah.”

  “Yes . . . Shiloah,” Hog sang out, understanding what Samid wanted him to do.

  “Oh, I know a good way to Shiloah,” the baker obliged as he stopped walking.

  “My friend and I are going there, and I told him Shiloah is over in that direction,” Hog said, deliberately pointing the wrong way.

  “Oh no—that’s not right. I’ll tell how you go. You take . . .” And the baker launched into an elaborate set of directions, pleased to be able to show off his know-how to two lost travelers. As he did, Hog stood in front of him pretending to listen, all the while darting quick glances over the baker’s shoulder. Samid was several paces behind the man and had begun inching toward him. Barley watched as Samid moved slowly, smoothly, intently.

  The baker was now sketching onto his palm with his finger the last details of the shortcut he was explaining. As he did, he loosened his grip on the shoulder rope of the sack. Now only a foot from the man’s back, Samid reached out his hands, spreading his fingers into a large claw and aiming for the slacken rope just an inch from his grasp.

  Then, suddenly, voices!

  Samid’s head snapped around and looked back toward the entrance of the crook. He heard the sound of men’s laughter coming from down the path—a ways off, but quickly approaching. Barley saw the hardness in Samid’s eyes evolve into a look of panic. Samid hurtled toward the entrance to the crook, his heart pounding nervously. He poked his head around the curve and saw two merchants walking in his direction. Both were younger men, one of them tall and broad, and they both carried walking staffs.

  Samid hissed a warning to Hog in a husky whisper. But Hog was so busy looming closer and closer to the unsuspecting baker that he paid Samid no mind.

  “Hog, don’t!” Samid called out.

  But it was too late. The baker looked up, and as he did, his face met a stunning blow from Hog’s meaty fist. The baker staggered backward a few steps, reeling from the blow.

  The baker, who was tougher than he appeared, widened his legs, determined to steady himself. Hog reached out and grabbed the baker’s sack. Though still stunned by Hog’s sharp blow, the baker clung feistily to his bag of bread. Hog kept one hand on the bread sack and put the other one on the nape of the baker’s neck. Then he used all the heft of his squat body to drive the man down, face-first, onto the stone ground—so hard the man’s nose broke with a crack so loud that the fur on Barley’s back rose up.

  Barley began to bark as his master ran toward Hog and the baker.

  “Stay!” Samid said firmly to Barley.


  Hog had ripped the bread sack from the baker’s back and now had his hands on the baker’s coin purse and was tugging furiously to free it. Though on the ground, his nose dripping blood, the baker was fiery and not about to let his money go. As a stream of curses flew from his mouth, the man curled himself into a ball, his knees touching his chest, and rolled every which way trying to break Hog’s stubborn grip on his purse.

  Samid tried to pull Hog off of the baker.

  “Merchants with sticks are coming up the path, Hog. We have to go! Now!”

  Hog screamed into Samid’s face, “But I almost have his purse free! And it’s a fat one!”

  “No, Hog!” Samid bellowed.

  The baker was flailing madly at Hog, and as Samid joined in the fray, the man kicked his bony legs up at Samid. When one of these kicks landed hard in Samid’s stomach, his demeanor changed.

  “Enough,” said Samid darkly. “I will end this. Now.”

  Samid grabbed the front of the baker’s tunic and pushed him to the ground. He dropped his full weight down onto the man, plunging his knee into his chest with such force the baker expelled a loud grunt. Then Samid lifted his arms and folded his knuckles into a hammer-like fist held high over the baker’s already broken teeth to summon the force he needed to land a finishing blow.

  But as he did, Samid caught sight of Barley, now standing just inches from him, looking up at Samid, frightened by what he was seeing.

  Samid’s raised fist slackened, and Barley saw his master’s ruthlessness melt. Samid looked into Barley’s eyes and said gently, “Boy . . .”

  At Samid’s pause, the baker opened his eyes and, in a last burst of do-or-die force, cocked his leg and kicked it forward, aiming right for Samid’s exposed throat, but he missed. Instead, the full force of it pounded into Barley’s thin body.