by Tracy Groot
Nathanael rose from the table, standing tall and fierce. With a fine manly sneer at Raziel, he declared, “Let me know if he leaves before dark. I will track him, find him, and gut him.”
Gut him! Wonderfully put! Annika nodded gravely, and on inspiration added, “If he so much as sticks his little toe out the door, I will clout him with a pitcher.”
Nathanael gave her a nod and with a last threatening glare at Raziel, strode out the door.
Raziel tried to call something to Nathanael. “Pardon, please, but we need to discuss the fact of—”
But Annika fiercely waved him silent, hollering, “And do not think this pitcher will break easily!” Gripping her apron with both fists, she hurried to the door to watch Nathanael stride quickly away. She turned on Raziel.
“But, madam—” Raziel began apologetically.
She waved both hands in the air. “Of course, of course. The Sabbath. You cannot leave at dark because it will be Sabbath. But who could ruin such a moment for him? Did you see the way he carried himself when he left? Magnificent!”
Raziel stared at her, perplexed, and his amazement grew when she took down two cups and plunked them onto the table.
“So. Because of the Sabbath you are my prisoner . . . Samuel from Hebron.” But Annika could contain her amusement no longer. She put her fingers to twitching lips, then startled Raziel by laughing long and hard, her large frame bouncing. She finally fanned herself with the end of her head covering and, sighing happily, reached for the pitcher and poured the watered wine.
“Now, Raziel the Famous Zealot from Kerioth—and I do not give a dried-up fig who you are—you will tell me exactly your version of the story, and you will not hold back a single detail.”
Raziel the Famous Zealot would not have dreamed of it.
Know from this day you are not alone.
James added the last nail to the jar. Forty-seven nails stripped of rust. When Nathanael returned, and once they had been assured that Raziel’s presence seemed hidden from the villagers—“Only an old man saw us, and Annika said he was half-blind anyway—” they went back to a workman’s day. All morning Jude showed Nathanael how to dovetail the mortises and tenons of a cupboard he was making. James half listened to their talk, surprised to hear Jude laugh now and again.
James went about the shop, adding the freshly scrubbed nails to the jars at the benches, including, for the first time in a long time, the jar at the corner bench. He added only a few to Simon’s jar; Simon studied Torah with Saul more than he worked in the shop these days. He eyed ruefully a half-finished bowl, carved from olivewood, waiting for Simon’s deft fingers to complete it. What he would not give for the smallest part of Simon’s talent, yet Simon himself refused to use it. What arrogance was that? Why did he have to compete with Jesus? After all, was it not since Jesus left that Simon found himself seized with a compunction to be a scribe, and in particular, for service at the temple in Jerusalem? If Jesus had not left, James was sure the shop would be patronized with the likes of Pontius Pilate himself seeking Simon’s work.
Know from this day . . . James turned away from Simon’s bench as much as from Raziel’s voice.
Idiots. They had been fool idiots. Surely the famous Raziel would not have come to the shop merely to bring Mother a scarf and spew a sentiment like “Know from this day you are not alone.” That particular deception was insidious indeed; the Zealot had a motive, and it was not to align himself with the village pariahs.
But what motive? He came and he left. James frowned as he swept flint filings from the bench to his hand. How far was Kerioth from Nazareth? It was deep south, that he knew, and west of the Dead Sea. A four- or five-day journey at the least, six if Raziel had taken the Jordan Valley way. No, the famed Zealot leader did not come to Nazareth to drop off a scarf. And was it any coincidence that an apparent disciple of his, Keturah’s Avi, had been here only last week?
One day, the fame of the Zealot from Kerioth would surely outshine that of the Zealot Judas of Galilee—Raziel only had to wait for his own crucifixion to become better known. And Raziel brought something more dangerous, and potentially more powerful, to the many Zealot factions than Judas ever had. He brought unity.
James had been a baby when Judas of Galilee led a rebellion against the Roman legate of Syria. The legate had been sent to make an official survey of resources in Judea. The survey, of course, smelled of more taxation, and Judas had roused many countrymen to revolt. He told them they were cowards to pay tax to the Romans. Their slogan became “No leader but God”—and their brave effort was put down and brought to nothing. There were simply not enough Jews who rose up with him. Coponius, procurator at the time, saw to it that Judas and his companions received the full measure of punishment for the insurrection. Their bloody crosses lined the busy Roman trade routes as warning to other Jews who cherished foolish dreams of independence. Goliath prevailed that day, and all the Davids died in agony.
Now came Raziel of Kerioth. Not since Judas of Galilee had one garnered such support—at the least, an appraising eye—for the idea of another campaign against Rome. Raziel brought a sort of dignity to the Zealot factions; he brought order. He not only had some Pharisees and a few Sadducees listening but also some from the Essenes. At least, that was the news brought to the workroom over the years. Jesus had listened to the same news, and if he did not approve of the talk of a new rebellion in words, his silence did not necessarily condemn it.
Raziel had been brought up on charges more than once, under various procurators. The latest to occupy Herod’s former palace in Caesarea Maritima was Pontius Pilate. Other than ordering short periods of imprisonment, primarily detainment for questioning, Pilate did not seem to be too concerned with Raziel. As militant as they were, Romans were fond of endless talk and elegant speeches. The rumors said this Raziel knew how to move in the Greco-Roman circles, with his smooth tongue and ability to appeal to reason. James frowned. Herod, the much-despised son of Herod the Great, also moved about easily in those Hellenistic circles. What did Raziel have in common with Herod the traitor, that they were virtually untouched by Rome?
“What are you up to, Raziel from Kerioth?” he muttered as he tossed the rag into the corner.
He shut the man away from his thoughts and rubbed his brow, considering his next project. Neighbor Eli had a broken plow, but acted as if his legs were broken too; he expected one of them to come and fix it instead of bringing it to the shop. “Plow’s broken,” he had called to James the other day—that was it. James had merely shrugged at him and turned away. Why was everyone so interested in getting him to leave the shop? He suspected Jorah had put Eli up to it.
He could contribute to the ready-made articles for market, though he was not in the mood to make a three-legged stool or a threshing sledge. Maybe a nice oblong bowl from the piece of sycamore. He was reaching for the carving box under his bench when the light dimmed in the doorway.
Keturah stood there, fingers absently brushing her lips and then the mezuzah. She unslung a sack from her shoulder as James’ eyes met hers. He straightened. Jude and Nathanael looked up briefly, Nathanael with an ensuing frown when he recognized her; then both went back to their cupboard.
The beat of his heart used to suspend whenever James saw Keturah. The fact that it quickened now, if only for a moment, was something to think on later. She was as lovely as ever. Rivulets of hair made golden from the sun coursed through darker waves of windblown brown. She was not wearing her head covering, a habit she frequently employed. As she looked at James, the long slim fingers that had touched the mezuzah tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.
Looking at her, and she at him, James felt oddly content. Something else to think on later.
“Did you ever catch up with your thieving cheats?” James asked.
Strangely, Keturah’s face flickered with something James could have taken for—no, shame was too strong a word. Perhaps regret. That expression was replaced by the one he knew bett
er, one of confident haughtiness. James kept back a smile—he liked that haughtiness.
“I did not come here to discuss those . . . Zealots,” she sniffed. She came to his bench and placed the sack upon it. “I came to discuss—” her haughtiness faltered—“employment.”
James looked from the sack to Keturah. Why was she acting so strange? “You have something for me to fix?”
“I’m not talking about your employment.” She opened the sack and one by one took cloth-wrapped bundles from it. She unwrapped each one and lined them up on his bench, then stepped aside for James to see.
The first was a bowl, carved from—he picked it up—sycamore. Beautifully rounded out, smooth as the curve of a river rock. A finish like honey satin. He replaced it and took the next item. A ladle. The handle was narrow at the scoop, widening to a carved line of roses. Next to that was a ball-in-a-cage puzzle, small and charming, with crosscuts on either end for decoration. He glanced at the other things. A beautifully carved box, much like the money box on Father’s shelf. A set of spoons, various sizes.
“Whose employment?” James asked. These articles looked as though they’d been carved by Simon himself.
“Mine.”
James blinked, then looked more closely at the ball-in-a-cage. He should have known. Those crosscuts were a favorite of Jesus.
“Cucumbers for carving,” James finally said. “He taught you well.”
Keturah nodded and pointed to one of the slender bars in the cage. “He did this one, made me watch every stroke. Then he handed it to me and told me to finish.” She smiled. “I was terrified! Such a difficult piece. But somehow it came together.”
“Father’s first lesson in carving.” James turned the fine piece over in his hands. “What did you use to stain it?”
“Fig and berry juice; isn’t it lovely? I let it steep for two days, then rubbed in the oil.”
He finished admiring it, then took the cloth and rewrapped the ball-in-a-cage. “Keturah . . .”
She whisked her hair behind her ear and spoke fast. “I know Simon will someday leave for Temple. It is no secret; my father heard it from Saul. Even now Simon studies with Saul two or three times a week. You need a carver to take his place.”
James felt his shoulders come down. He hated to quell that earnestness. He couldn’t meet her eyes as he put the ball-in-a-cage into the sack. “It would never work. You know that.”
Keturah took the ladle with the exquisite handle and put it under his nose. “Look at that detail. Look at the design; look at the stain. Of course it would work. Show these things to Simon and ask him. Show him, James.”
Why did she make him do this? Avoiding her eyes, he began to rewrap the other pieces. “Keturah . . . these things are beautiful. Better than I could do, better than—”
“He would have given me a chance.”
His hands slowed for the space of a heartbeat as he rewrapped the box. “Jesus doesn’t work here anymore.”
“No, he does not,” Keturah said icily and snatched the box out of his hands. With deliberate care, she folded the cloth over and around the box.
“What is that supposed to mean?” James demanded. Keturah leaned in front of him to get the carved bowl. The clean scent of her hair, like herbs and flowers and sun, drifted past. She was snipping back her reply, but strangely, James had trouble discerning her words. Until her anger made them perfectly clear.
“. . . to rot on a shelf? ‘She works with her hands in delight.’ Is this not working with my hands? ‘She makes linen garments and sells them.’ What difference that my material is wood instead of cloth?” Keturah held up a carved spoon. “‘Give her the works of her hands and let her works praise her in the gates.’ This is what will praise me. Just because you don’t have the sense you were born with—”
“Who denies you your carving?” James cut in.
“You think because I am a woman—”
“You are foolish, Keturah.”
Blank surprise stopped her short. That look on her face—pure bewilderment—made James want to smile. How charming that expression, and how fleeting.
Scorn resolved in her face. “Foolish? James ben Joseph, if you think—”
Suddenly James reached and placed his calloused hand under her chin. Her eyes widened and another expression, one James could not place, dissolved the scorn.
“Keturah,” James said quietly, “do you think I could bear to have you work in the same room with me again?”
Keturah’s eyes, cast in a brown so very like the fig and berry shade, grew larger. She blinked, and color flared in her cheeks. James pulled his hand away. Did the color mean she was angry with him for being so forward? When he was angry, his whole face felt on fire.
Then James became aware of the silence from the other side of the workroom. Stifling a groan, he looked sideways to find Judas and Nathanael staring at them as if at a herd of camels walking backward.
“The cupboard is finished?” James snapped.
The two jumped and nearly scrambled to their task.
“Hand me the, uh, chisel,” Jude said too loudly.
“You mean the rasp?” Nathanael asked, earning a scowl from Jude.
When James turned to Keturah, she was placing the last item in the sack. Without another word, she slipped the sack over her shoulder and hurried out the door.
James made to follow but stopped himself short.
“Go talk to her,” Jude hissed at him.
“Shut up, Jude!” he hissed back.
He turned back to his bench. He picked up his mallet for no good reason, hefted it in his hand for a lesser reason, then, muttering no good words under his breath, threw it onto his bench and dashed out the door.
Once outside, he stopped short because there she stood, at the top of the slope, one hand on her hip.
“Foolish?” She picked up as though she had not left. “I am the foolish one?”
Feeling majestically idiotic that she had caught him running after her, and looking anywhere but at her eyes, James mumbled, “That is not the only reason. It is too dangerous for you to work here.”
She followed his gaze down the slope toward Nazareth. “Of course it is dangerous, you woodenhead. But I am not interested in that reason. I want to talk about the other.”
James swallowed. He could feel the sweat begin. God of Israel, I am not good at this.
“I—you were never interested in me,” James managed to mumble, rubbing the back of his neck. How he hated this!
Keturah considered the view of the Esdraelon Plain, putting her head to one side. “No, I was not.”
What was he supposed to say to that? He switched from rubbing the back of his neck to rubbing his jaw.
“When Jesus left, my heart went with him,” Keturah said softly.
Now what was he supposed to say?
She contemplated the view as if to put it in memory. “Of course, once I realized why he left . . .” She airily folded her arms. “I am sure I would not like a prophet for a husband. Too much entertaining. I would have to be nice all the time, and gracious. I was not born for the kitchen. I was born to carve.”
As though someone had pulled back the neck of his tunic and dumped cold water down his back, James felt a freezing curtain drop at the word prophet. Jesus managed to ruin everything. James pinched the bridge of his nose and wished Keturah away.
“What I cannot figure out for the life of me is why you hate him.”
James dropped his hand to glare at her. Somehow she managed a look of condescension and sympathy at the same time. “Who said I hate him? How much do you think you know me, Keturah?”
“But you act like—”
“He acts like he is God’s answer for Israel! He should be here, running the shop. He should be on the journey with Joses and Simon, collecting timber and supplies. Instead he is running around the countryside like some Zealot, embarrassing us all to ashes.” Heat rose in his face. He did not want the anger now, not here, not with
her. He fought to push it down. More importantly, he was saying too much. He bent to pick up a few stones and sent them singing through the air down the slope.
“Embarrassing you to ashes,” Keturah repeated slowly, nodding her head in a way James did not like. “A few years ago I went to a talk your brother gave in Capernaum, before he came back to Nazareth for his—visit. Father and I went. We wanted to know what Jesus, whom we have known all our lives, had to say.”
James was listening but did not want to seem interested. He folded his arms and sighed patiently.
“I watched Jesus heal a crippled man.”
James’ stomach rippled, and he froze his face. He would not let her see how he hated this talk.
“I watched him heal a crippled man,” she repeated softly. “His leg, it was twisted at the knee. Broken as a child and not set by a physician.”
He wanted to stop his ears, but dimly, from an ache inside, he wanted to hear.
“The man had not run since he was a child. I watched him run. I watched his wife nearly faint, she nearly had a seizure from astonishment. Then she cried, oh, how she cried, and rejoiced to bring the heavens down. Then she ran, James. She caught up with her husband, and they held hands and ran.” She turned her face to him, eyes glistening. “A miracle, right in front of my eyes, enough for me to faint. How we all laughed for joy! But I will tell you the real miracle; it was the crowd. We had witnessed a thing so amazing, so impossible, and we were joined because of it. We did not even know this man, but we laughed and cried for his joy. It was . . . remarkable. It was not witnessing a miracle that changed something inside me; it was sharing it with those around.”
James did not answer, for there was nothing to say.
The mountains of Megiddo in the far distance, south and west, were overlapping shadows of varied gray, barely discernible on this hazy day. The last time James had journeyed through the plain and past the mountains was for the last Passover at Jerusalem. The family did not know, but come Passover again, just over a month away, he would not go with them. Not this time.