by Tracy Groot
What a paradox indeed. At one time, it would have been Jesus to bring him so far north, had he conceived to pay the family a visit to persuade their brother for the cause of Israel. Nothing could make him leave his Miriam, or his work for Israel. Nothing but a voice that exacted obedience, a voice that demanded that he Seek James, a voice he knew at his core. It was more than a voice; it was a presence, the Presence, the life force that he could sense in a hot wind sweeping in from the Negev, or in a beautifully formed vase. Miriam, in the end, had insisted he go, lest he torture himself with another sleepless night. The decision to take the journey made him sleep like a baby for the first time in a week, and the next day he left Miriam at the doorway, wondering if he would see her again.
The things he had told James’ family early this morning—no, Raziel was not proud of those things. He’d had to devise something, because Seek James was not tidy. It was raw and echoing; it came with no buffering advice. It left Raziel to come up with a reason for his presence. He had told them things Miriam had never said, but she might have. Those words were very like Miriam. She had only given him her scarf so he could take it out and breathe deeply of her fragrance when he needed to. How he missed her! How he longed for her wise counsel and her companionship. The things he would have to tell her when he returned.
Miriam, you were right. I found James, and you will not believe who he is. Miriam, I thought I had failed on my outlandish mission . . . but James came, and with him, one more chance by the One True God. And strange, Miriam, do you know when I was released? When I told him he was miserable because he had not decided. I spoke those words, and the great stone on my chest gained wings and flew away.
Laughing, Raziel lifted his hands and turned in a joyous circle.
I come, my love, I come! It is out of my hands, and I am lighter than a down feather. Set a candle by the window for me, my love. I come.
9
THEUDAS WOULD BE refilling his cup. Zadok ben Zakkai would be boasting of another exploit with one of the servant girls from Pilate’s palace. Bargil would be eyeing every passerby with cold suspicion, and Ephrem would be joking with Philo. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what his friends were doing right now.
He could shout himself purple at the God of the compulsion, but it would not do any good. He could rave and foam and spit like the demoniac from—Nathanael snorted. That fellow wasn’t foaming and spitting anymore. Well, he could scream anything he wanted to the God who said, Seek James, but Nathanael somehow knew that this cursed compulsion would not leave.
In the darkness he brooded on his haunches in a thicket of trees on the ridge, looking down on the neighborhood below. He had seen James come and, half an hour later, had seen him go. James never saw him. If he had been looking for Nathanael, he took a long time at Annika’s to do it. Was it possible he went to speak with Raziel? Nathanael was too far away from James to see his face when he passed. He would have liked to know what—
No. He was done with this crazy family. Done with Nazareth. His mother probably missed him . . . maybe she did . . . and his friends, well, at least he’d have a story or two to tell them when he got back. When he got—back.
He scratched his neck and tossed another pebble into the little pile he had been building. The only thought more miserable than staying was going back. Back to Caesarea. Back to friends who, a few weeks ago, he could not imagine being without. Now the very thought of lounging about with them on the harbor made him want to writhe for the suffocation of it.
“Where does that leave me?” he growled at the deeply violet sky. “You were the one who brought me here. You were the one who sent me on this adventure. I was supposed to be like one of those men of Israel. This was your idea, not mine.” He punched his fist at the stars. “You got me into this. Why don’t you take your Seek James and—and give it to Zadok ben Zakkai? He is the son of a priest. What were you thinking to choose me? The son of a whore.” He shook his head in bitter amazement.
The fact that the compulsion remained, unchanged, not a whit stronger or lesser for all his anger, made him even angrier. He felt the compulsion with every breath. He felt as though someone had given him a dose to hear better, see better, think better. It felt like an . . . awareness. Stitched to his soul, with no hope of tearing it out. With it came the sense that someday it would leave, but it would not be on Nathanael’s terms. And that part made him livid.
In the back of his mind, like the rustle of Mother’s wind chimes, was the thought that he had a choice in this. He could leave Nazareth, go back to Caesarea, and eventually the compulsion would die out. He knew how it would go . . . the way Theudas would holler from the top of Sebaste’s Cliff and leap off into the Mediterranean surf . . . a strong, clear shout would become a descending cry, no less strong but dimmer for the distance. Seek James would descend within him, dwindle away to silence. It horrified him.
He did not want it to be a choice. He wanted someone to blame. And really, what choice was there? He had never felt more alive in his life. Never more full of doubt, never more scared, and he would sooner die than admit that to his friends. He had never had a burden like this. He did not want it to leave.
He squeezed a fistful of pebbles. Those sons of Joseph, they didn’t know how good they had it. Spoiled brats, the lot of them, and that Jesus included. How could Jesus leave behind everything he had? Brothers, a sister, a mother who—
Jesus left behind a normal life. He left behind scheduled meals and tidiness and nice neighbors. He left behind order. Didn’t Nathanael have the hardest time of all behaving as if all this wonderful life about him was normal?
Jesus left behind a home full of good memories, for all the things James had told him this past week, all the things Annika said. That Joseph, he was a good man. A righteous man, the good kind of righteous, and Nathanael knew the difference. Folks like Joseph were rare. Nathanael would have liked him, he knew. Nathanael liked anyone who treated people with dignity. Annika never remembered he was a bastard; Zadok’s father, Zakkai the priest, never forgot.
He let the pebbles drain through his fingers. Nathanael had a feeling that Joseph would have liked him, maybe. Joseph would have seen something in him, that he was honest—that he tried to be—and most of all that he was loyal. Joseph would have treated him as Mary did. He had never met anyone like Mary.
He did not want to compare his mother to Mary; it wasn’t fair. Mary surely had had a perfect little childhood, adored by her parents; his mother had scars on her legs given her by her own mother. Mary grew up in a cushion of love. His mother grew up with a drunken father, whose favorite thing to do was to cuff her on the back of the head when she wasn’t expecting it. To avoid the blows, she tried hard to be a good child. But it did not matter if she was good or not, and to this day, anytime a hand moved suddenly around her—to swat a fruit fly or scratch a nose—she would flinch. Nathanael hated his grandfather, hated him in his grave. He would have killed him, old man or not, had not the wine already done so. He hated his grandmother too. She treated Nathanael nicely but treated his mother with an insidious amount of contempt—not enough for his mother to throw her out when she came to visit, but enough to make Nathanael wish his grandmother would stay away.
Mary had the childhood his mother deserved. It was not Mother’s fault she was the way she was. Nathanael was very sure she would be . . . different today . . . if her own mother had been like Mary. Or Annika. He had never known anyone like Annika. A pity, that one could not choose one’s own grandparents.
Nathanael slowly pulled up his tunic, inched it above his knees. The scars on his thighs, bumpy horizontal stripes like terraced stone walls on a hillside, were old now, turning white. It was not Mother’s fault. If she had had a childhood like Mary’s . . . if she . . . it was not her fault . . . she never meant it . . . and the only tool Nathanael could not bring himself to touch, in that grand assortment of tools at the carpenter’s shop, was the razor.
The tunic fell back i
nto place, and Nathanael picked up another handful of pebbles. Caesarea or Nazareth. Caesarea or Nazareth. The family probably hated him now, dunking their precious brother. Spoiled, contemptuous brats, the lot of them. He hated every one. James, next time he saw him, would fire him on the spot. No use showing up at the shop tomorrow. No—it was Sabbath. Well, no use showing up at the shop the day after.
He glanced over his shoulder into the murky night. He had a scratchy feeling of late, that the night had eyes. He sometimes felt a gaze upon him even in the daylight, but when he turned to look, no one was there. The other day he even thought he saw—what was his name? Avi?—with his friend in the marketplace. But when he looked harder, they were gone. He grimaced, and the pebbles ground against each other in his fist. The suspicion was probably joined in some way to the compulsion. He was hounded, from within and without.
Caesarea or Nazareth. Seek James or a dwindling shout. He gazed at the candlelit village below and squeezed the pebbles till they squeaked.
“‘Out of my way, old fool’? You cannot do better than that? Use your imagination, boy. How about ‘Out of my way, you with the breath of a thousand camels’? Or ‘Out of my way, you donkeyless pile of wrinkled age spots’? If you are going to insult someone, make it interesting.”
Of course, the young man with the unflattering scowl, who had jostled him as he passed, could not understand a word he said. Not many knew the tongue of Persia in these parts, even fewer knew the dialect of his village. Oh, Balthazar could speak Aramaic. It was simply nice to let loose in a good scathe of a decent language now and then.
The sun crept up the horizon, heading toward a cap of gray. Not many were on the roads today, contenting Balthazar. Well, he missed their songs of ascent, to be sure. Today he passed parties camped beside the road, and sometimes he caught a snatch of music. It would be good to hear the fullness of the joyful sounds tomorrow. But for today, he would enjoy a road less traveled, less congested with caravans of people on their pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Today was their Sabbath, emptying the road, and today he would leave many miles behind him.
He greatly delighted in the sights that accompanied the bustle of the roads these days. He loved to watch fathers point out places to their sons, surely telling them of the ancient events that had happened at the spot of their fingertips. He watched them openly marvel at the wonders beyond their villages, at the historic places and ancient monuments. They did not hide the thrill of journeying to their holiest of cities.
Balthazar found himself humming one of their psalms of ascent. I will lift up my eyes to the mountains; from whence shall come my help? My help comes from the Lord, Maker of heaven and earth. Wonderful words with a richly resonant tune. Sometimes the pilgrims would break into a sort of skipping dance; how he longed to join them at times, to celebrate with them under the loving gaze of the Creator. He chuckled to think of it, imagining the looks on their faces. A pagan, matching joyous fluid steps to their own—a Gentile, the Unclean, uniting with them to fling arms to the sky in a grand celebration of the One True God. They, to celebrate their Passover, God’s great and terrible deliverance of his Jews from cruel bondage. He, to celebrate being chosen again.
He wondered if there were psalms of descent; soon his direction would veer from that of Jerusalem. Yesterday he had crossed the Jordan River and had passed the ancient city of Jericho. He had chosen to rest near the remains of a fortified tower, hundreds and hundreds of years old. He made sure he was near enough to a family so he could hear what the father said to his seven children, whom he had gathered about him, seating them near him on the ground.
The young father had told the story of Joshua and the trumpets of Jericho. Balthazar had listened and nodded, thoroughly enjoying the sweet young faces of rapt attention. He watched the attentive mother, the patient and earnest young father. What a beautiful sight it was, family. How much his people could learn from these Jews.
Enchanted, he had forgotten himself yesterday and had offered one of the little ones a stick of cinnamon. The mother, though polite and smiling, had whispered gently in the ear of the little one. The child, dark eyes solemn and wide, ducked behind his mother’s skirts, but peeped out long enough to catch Balthazar’s wink. Balthazar had nodded to the young woman and withdrawn the offered treat; he understood perfectly and felt a little abashed at the slip. Strict Jews could accept nothing from the hand of a heathen, not without a purification rite.
Perhaps he had made them uncomfortable too, by eating so close. Jews were not allowed to eat with the heathen. So Balthazar picked up his things and moved himself farther away. Sadly, it was out of the hearing of the young father, but it was for the comfort of the family. He continued to watch them as much as he could without appearing to stare openly; it was simply that the road was long and lonely, and this lovely family so very vibrant.
The thump of his stick was hollow on the Roman road. Balthazar adjusted the pack on his shoulder and wondered if the family had reached Bethphage yet. The young man had told him he had cousins there, to stay with during the Passover celebration. The strictest of Jews did not even converse with the heathen, but fortunately for Balthazar the young father did not seem to hold with this particular tradition. While he replaced articles from their meal into their basket lashed to the donkey saddle, he called amiably over to Balthazar. “You are traveling far?”
“Yes. Far. Galilee, I am thinking.”
“Ah, Galilee is beautiful in the springtime. In a few weeks the rains will pass, and the almond trees will blossom. Beautiful white flowers. Looks like snow from afar.”
Balthazar had nodded from where he lounged against his pack, eating his bread. “We also have almond trees where I am from. Nothing like the sight of a grove of blossoming almonds.”
“You are from the East? Very far?”
“Very far. Have you heard of Susa?”
The father paused at his pack. “That is far. How long have you been on the road?”
Balthazar had chuckled as he glanced at the wide stones used to pave the roads. “A very long time, but on this one, not long enough. Would that the Romans could pave every byway. Makes for a faster and easier journey. You are going to one of your feasts?”
The young man nodded.
“Tell me,” Balthazar mused, “is frankincense offered to your God for part of the sacrifices of this feast? I see the lambs with the caravans; I know these are for your sacrifices . . . but I wonder about the frankincense.”
The man shrugged. “It is used in grain offerings, but it is not specifically a part of Passover. Why do you ask? Do you sell it?”
Balthazar had given the man some sort of response; he did not remember what—he did not wish for the young father to know he had been a pagan priest. He had actually wondered if Mary still used Baran’s box for frankincense. Though he was familiar with some of the customs of these people—he snorted—enough to make him an expert on Jewish affairs back home—he still was unsure what part frankincense played in worship. In his own country, frankincense was a typical offering to Ahura Mazdah’s flames. Baran’s gift was appropriate for a man who wanted to be well represented to the new . . . to the ancient . . . Deity.
Perhaps it would not rain today. He surveyed the cloudy sky, striated with gray but broken here and there with patches of blue. He would like a day to dry out down to his skin. When he had started the journey, he had not given thought to protection from the rains; the winter rains had not yet begun. He had traded spices for a cloak coated with beeswax somewhere near Babylon, but the wax was now cracked and crumbling. He had spent an entire season on this road.
Balthazar’s walking stick thumped the paved road in dull hollow thuds, rhythmic and comforting. He wondered how the nice young father and his sweet family were doing. Humming one of their songs of ascent, he made for Galilee.
“Hear, O Israel, Adonai is your God. Adonai is one. You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your might. Take to heart these ins
tructions which I charge you this day. Impress them upon your children. Recite them when you stay at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you get up. Bind them as a sign on your hand and let them serve as a symbol on your forehead. Inscribe them on the doorpost of your house and on your gates.”
“Amen,” murmured Joses, Judas, and Simon.
James glanced about the workroom at the brothers and settled on Joses. He nodded at him, and Joses took up the benediction.
“True it is, that you are Jehovah our God and the God of our fathers, our King and the King of our fathers, our Savior and the Savior of our fathers, our Creator, the Rock of our salvation, our Help and our Deliverer. Your name is from everlasting, and there is no God beside you. A new song did they that were delivered sing to your name by the seashore; together did all praise and own you King, and say Jehovah shall reign, world without end. Blessed be the Lord who saves Israel.”
“Amen,” responded James, Judas, and Simon.
James glanced at Judas and nodded. Judas took up the first eulogy. He cleared his throat and began.
“Blessed be the Lord our God and the God of our fathers, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob; the great, the mighty, and the terrible God; the Most High God, who shows mercy and kindness, who created all things, who remembers the gracious promises to the fathers, and brings a Savior to their children’s children, for his own name’s sake, in love. O King, Helper, Savior, and Shield. Blessed are you, O Jehovah, the Shield of Abraham.”