by Tracy Groot
“James?”
“I—”
He had her full attention now. As was her way, she waited patiently. He looked down, wishing for the courage to say it. He toed pebbles on the path with his sandal. In the end, the courage came from his own mother. She was risking everything, again, for him. But he could not say it looking at her. It was enough to say it. He fiddled with the leather strap on the hamper.
“Mother . . . I am less sure of who he is than who I was when he was here.”
It did not make sense, but there it was, the whole truth. He busied his fingers with the strap some more until he risked a squint at her.
The broad smile on her face startled him. And she never did reply. She just kept that smile on him until it faded, then took up the path again for Eli’s place.
11
LIFE FELL INTO uncertain routine. Uncertain because one never knew what to expect with Jorah as the new woman of the household.
Mary had been gone a week now, though Jorah’s changes started the next day. First she rearranged the courtyard. The tripod swing that held the newly replaced butter skin was no longer in the corner James knew from his birth, but on the opposite side of the yard. The dye pots were now lined up on the adjacent wall, though James could not see any good reason for it. Jorah had plans to put in a mosaic floor in the smallyard, and was often found with slate and chalk, busily at work designing it.
The brothers took most of it in good humor. Jorah had been denied her own household. Who could begrudge her a few changes? So they kept any murmurs to themselves and endured all the reorganization with general good cheer—until the day of the bread.
“Midmeal!” Jorah called from behind the curtain flap. Simon, James, and Judas all exchanged glances. Late again, six days running. Ben and Hepsi had come to fetch Joses over an hour ago.
Jude propped a plank against the wall and went outside to call Nathanael. James untied his leather apron and set it on his stool. He and Simon traded a wary look.
“I wonder what it will be this time,” Simon muttered as he replaced a tool on the pegs.
“Minted barley?” James grumbled back. “Dried fish with a ‘nicely spiced’ relish?”
“Date cakes—made with cumin instead of cinnamon?”
“Have mercy on us all,” James groaned. He was about to push aside the curtain flap when he spied a fat ball of uncleaned wool on the floor near Father’s bench. He picked it up and followed Simon through the entryway.
The brothers washed their hands in the bowl near the cistern, wiping them on the towel from the nearby hook. Simon gave the towel a look before he handed it to James. James looked at it and curled his lip. Funny how he never noticed before that the towel was always clean when they used it. This looked as if it hadn’t seen the inside of the washtub since Mother left. He took the towel with him to toss into the laundry pile.
Jude and Nathanael came through the passage, chattering as they came.
“Then what happened?” Jude asked.
“Theudas grabbed the man by the robe and said, ‘I am a Roman citizen.’”
“Wait!” James protested. “I haven’t heard this one. Save it for the meal. And if you want your hands clean, wipe them on your clothes.”
“Hello, boys,” Jorah greeted them pleasantly when they came in from the smallyard to the courtyard. “I hope you’re hungry.”
She had rearranged the couches again. They were no longer near the wall in the center of the courtyard; they had been dragged closer to the far wall, near the storage alcove. The low table was between the couches, spread with the midday repast. James paused at Mother’s—at Jorah’s—wool basket on the way to the couch. He waited until he had her eye, then held the fat ball of wool at arm’s length with only his fingertips, and let it drop into the basket. She did not think it funny.
“Sit,” she ordered with a lapse in the gracious-hostess tone. “It’s getting cold.”
“What is getting cold?” Simon muttered, only loud enough for James to hear. James pressed his lips together to keep back the smile.
“Today we are having fish soup flavored with horehound and fennel,” Jorah announced with clasped hands, “and bread made with four different kinds of grain.” She beamed and gestured to the couches.
The men seated themselves, none too eagerly. After the thanksgiving, Jorah passed out the pottery bowls and began to ladle out the soup. Jude sniffed doubtfully at the steam rising from his bowl and looked at James. James took a tiny whiff and glanced at Simon. Simon ventured putting his nose over the steam, then pulled back with a grimace he barely managed to hide from Jorah.
“Smells good,” James lied.
Jorah smiled as she passed out the spoons. “Thank you, James,” she said demurely. She passed the breadbasket, and everyone took a small loaf. It felt heavier than usual in James’ hand but looked safer than the soup. After a glance at the others, James took a bite. It crunched. Loudly. Jude’s eyes widened, and he stared at the loaf in his own hand.
James chewed arduously, crunching down on something with every bite. Simon blanched and dropped his bread into his soup to let it soak. Nathanael seemed miraculously unaffected; spoonful after spoonful of the soup went into his mouth. He tore off a chunk of bread and ate unconsciously until he noticed the looks on him. He stopped mid-chew, glancing at them suspiciously.
“Good soup?” Jude asked him hopefully.
Nathanael shrugged. “Fine,” he said with a full mouth.
“Try it, James,” Simon encouraged. James held up his loaf and continued to chew for his answer. Simon peered at his bowl.
“How is the bread?” Jorah asked.
“You know me,” Simon said with a weak smile, holding up his bowl to show his bobbing loaf. “I like to dip my bread.”
“James?”
He held up his loaf and continued to chew. But, lying, he wiggled his eyebrows approvingly.
“I got the recipe from Jerusha’s mother,” Jorah said, satisfied. “It didn’t seem quite right so I added, oh, a pinch of this and that. Same with the soup.” She took her own bowl of soup and tried a spoonful. She frowned in concentration, glanced at the soup kettle, then tasted it again. “Maybe I added too much horehound. Just a little too much. Do you think?”
Jude tasted his soup. His narrow face seemed even more pinched as his mouth worked over the soup. He took his napkin and wiped his mouth. “Maybe just a little,” he managed, his voice oddly strained.
“Jorah, is there something wrong with the grindstone?” James asked when his mouth was finally free. “Do you want me to adjust it?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
He cleared his throat and regarded the remains of his loaf. “It appears the flour has a . . . coarser texture than usual.”
“I did that on purpose. Jerusha’s mother says a coarser grind is better for you.”
“Oh.”
The meal progressed in silence until finally James sat back and summoned any strain of diplomacy he could possibly possess.
“Jorah,” he began, “I think you are working too hard.”
She looked at him in surprise, holding her spoon over her bowl.
James gestured about the courtyard. “You have double the work since Mother left.” The overflowing pile of dirty laundry testified to that. Never before did it take two large baskets to hold it all. Jorah seemed to think the extra basket solved the problem. “You are taking care of all of us, doing an—” he swallowed and would not look at his brothers—“admirable job, but I think you are troubling yourself too much.”
Troubling herself? How many hours did she spend scribbling on that slate board, plotting out intricate mosaic designs only to erase them and start over? How many times did she rearrange the furniture? And since when did the kitchen area look the way it did? Dirty bowls all over the place, dirty spoons, spilled flour, opened spice jars, the chopping board still littered with vegetable peelings . . .
“Thank you, James,” Jorah said, pleased. “It’
s nice to be appreciated.”
James wet his lips and glanced at the others. He got no help from his brothers, the cowards, who stared hard into their soup and probably silently cheered him on. With any luck, he would be a hero after this day. “What I am saying is this: Owing to how much work you have to do—”if it weren’t for James, all the potted plants would be dead by now—“why don’t you ease up on yourself and prepare meals for us that are more . . . plain?”
“Plain?” she said flatly.
“Not every meal,” he quickly said. “Just now and then. Just some dried fish . . .”
“With plain old bread,” Simon added wistfully.
“Roasted grain with a little salt.” Judas sighed.
“Some olive oil to dip the bread in,” Simon said and added quickly, “You know how I like to dip my bread.”
“But Jerusha’s mother says too much olive oil is—”
James cut her off. “Enough with Jerusha’s mother!”
Jorah drew herself up and gave James a stare frosty enough to chill wine. She set her bowl on the table with a clatter.
“Jorah, I love you,” James pleaded. He gestured with both hands at his bowl. “But I cannot eat this soup.”
“The honesty is thick this morning,” Simon muttered. At James’ ensuing glare, he swallowed and added, not looking at Jorah, “James has a point.”
“You truly have an . . . imaginative way with cooking, Jorah,” Judas said gently, “but I think we all prefer meals that are less . . . adventurous.”
“More plain,” Simon agreed.
“Like Mother used to make,” James added, then could have bitten off his tongue. “Not that we are comparing your ways to—”
“What are you talking about?” Nathanael said, his face bewildered. “There is nothing wrong with Jorah’s cooking.”
James sent Nathanael a smoldering look that Jorah could not see. It was obvious the boy had been born with no sense of taste; that or he had spent too much time in that grand amphitheater in Caesarea, learning the ways of those traveling pretenders. Or it could be another reason. The same day he came back to work, a red-faced Nathanael had stammered his way through a request to take Jorah for a walk on the ridge.
Jorah folded her arms, and the look on her face grew darker and darker. James braced himself for the blow, but instead, the brothers watched as the crimson shade lessened. Then, horribly, Jorah’s eyes began to fill and a tear escaped down her cheek.
“It’s not that bad,” Judas protested quickly.
“I’m eating, I’m eating,” Simon said and shoveled soup into his mouth.
“Now look what you’ve done.” Nathanael glowered at James, with the same hooded look that preceded the dunking in the dye pot. “All she does is work herself crazy for you boys, and this is how you—”
“Jorah, please,” James said helplessly. “I am so sorry. I did not mean—”
Jorah waved him off and quickly brushed away the tear, jerking a shoulder. “It does not matter. It is not your fault. I do not blame you.”
“Jorah,” James said miserably. Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut? He could live with dirty laundry, with unpalatable food. To see his sister cry . . . he would endure anything to—
“Why did she leave?” Jorah whispered. The courtyard grew still.
Simon stared at nothing; Jude studied his bowl. James and Nathanael kept their eyes on Jorah.
“Everybody leaves,” Jorah said as more tears slipped down her cheeks. “Father. Jesus. Devorah. Mother. There was a time when everything was perfect. I remember that time, like a dream. I keep—I keep trying—” Her face tightened. Her voice went up a notch. “I keep trying to understand. I try to make it work, you know, in my head.” She gulped a breath. “‘God’s will,’ I keep saying to myself. God’s will. But how could he will so much misery on us?” Her face contorted. “Why does everyone leave?” She dropped her head to bury her face in her lap. Her choking cries were the only sound in the courtyard.
His face stinging with shock, James watched the shoulders of his sister shake as she sobbed. He had never seen her cry like this. His own breath came faster. No, this he could not endure. Not Jorah. Not his sweet sister, who laughed easily, lived wholeheartedly. Not Jorah! The precarious calm he had nurtured since he spoke with Raziel . . . it had the strength of a spiderweb against a swinging cudgel.
The fury rose within, streaking black and red. In one move he rose and hurled the pottery bowl across the room, where it exploded against the wall, spraying soup and shards. Another explosion went off in his stomach, bending him double. The pain stoked the fury insane.
Bellowing rage, he overturned the table, raised a couch over his head, and heaved it. He screamed things vile and exhilarating to the God who had wreaked his will on them. What did Jorah ever do? You could not pick another family to inflict with scandal and shame? Suddenly the pain in his gut was not near enough; he spun to the wall and drove his fist into it, then dodged from hands that tried to catch him.
Jorah says this is your will—then maybe it’s time for me to serve other gods! He slammed a dye pot against the wall and kicked over another. Why shouldn’t I say such things, Jorah? It is truth! My brother is the truth!
He needed pain as he needed breath. He sidestepped a charging Nathanael to try to drive his fist into the wall again, then raged at those who tried to quell the fury. He could never quell it himself, not until it was done. Who were they?
Convulsions bent him double, and he vomited a river of bloody bile. He staggered, then slipped in the gore, collapsing in it. He drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms about them. Through a sticky haze, past someone’s legs, he saw a battered dye pot on its side. Jorah’s anguished face replaced the pot. She was crying his name, but her lovely cheek was spattered with his blood. He reached trembling red fingers to brush it away.
Who I was when he was here who I was when he was here who I was when he was here who I was when he was here who I was
“I have seen it before. A sickness of the body tied to a sickness of the soul. Mix this into warm milk, Annika . . . not sure how much good it will do . . .”
Who I was when he was here who I was
“I know he can heal him! We can at least give it a chance!”
“Simon, we do not even know where he is.”
“Passover is three weeks away! He must be near Jerusalem. All we do is look for the crowds—keep our ears open and look for the crowds.”
Who I was . . . Passover is not three weeks away, it’s four. Four . . . should be preparing for the journey . . . should be on the road by now . . . bundles by the doorway . . .
“Who was that, Simon?”
“Some old man looking for James. Wanted to know if Mother still had some box, crazy old fool. I sent him away. How much milk did he take today?”
“Nearly a cup. We need more of the powder.”
“I will send Nathanael.”
“Tell him to fetch an extra tunic for me. Tell him to give a pruta to Jotham.”
I am less sure of who he is than who I was when he was here. I know that doesn’t make sense, Mother. Nothing much does these days. I miss you, Mother.
“Been a while since I have seen those beautiful brown eyes. With any sense in them, anyway. Oh, don’t give me that look. They are beautiful. A certain young girl who has been here every day would agree.”
He was looking at the bottom of his own bunk. That meant he was in Jude’s bed. He turned his head to see Annika settled in a chair next to a small table with cups on it. She looked tired. She was not wearing her head covering. Gray wisps framed a face pleasantly wrinkled, pleasantly round. Achingly familiar.
“Good to see you, Annika,” he whispered.
“Good to see you too.”
Tears pooled and spilled over his nose. He was so ashamed he could not even say it. Making them worry, clean up a grisly mess. Broken pottery, broken couch, broken kettle. He turned his head from her to the wall. Jude had etched h
is name in the limestone when he was six. James reached to touch the name and saw the bandage covering his hand. Three fingers were splinted. The things he had shouted, the things he called God, the things he called his mother, and Jesus. He closed his eyes.
“I would like to see you get more than a cup of milk down today. The physician says the powders may help knit your stomach back together. The powders will account for the taste you have in your mouth.”
Why didn’t he die? He was not worth Annika’s ministrations. She took care of widows and orphans as though unaware she was a widow herself.
“Hepsi picked you flowers. They’re over there on the shelf. Look, James. The first flowers of spring.”
Couldn’t she see what he was? He brought down grief and pain on this family. The rage, he could not control. Joseph would be ashamed of him. Jesus would be ashamed. He never used to be like this. His temper had vexed him since he was a child, yes, but not like this. The only time the rage let him alone was when he gave it free rein . . . then he had release . . . and then, when it was done, he hated himself. Why could everyone control their tempers but him?
“Milk first, for a few days. Then we will mix in some honey. Then eggs. I think some olive oil will help buffer your stomach too.”
“Go away, Annika.”
Did he really pick up that couch and send it to the other side of the courtyard? He squeezed his eyes shut. The shame came in weighted billows.
Annika was saying something else; he didn’t listen.
Jorah . . . how could he even look at her? Didn’t she have enough to worry about? Nathanael was right. Nathanael was the only honest one around here. He had hoped the boy would one day be his brother-in-law. But he was not worthy of it. Nathanael treated Jorah and Mother better than he did.
He could not hear what she was saying, only the babble of his own shame.
“Again?” Annika gusted a sigh. “He vexes Simon to madness. Let me talk to him this time. James is not up for visits from his own family, let alone a vagabond from the East.”