by Tracy Groot
The room was dim. Muted light came in from the window near the ceiling. It had to be close to twilight. He lifted his hand in front of his face. The splints were gone. He remembered ripping them off a few days ago . . . maybe a week ago.
How many days had he lain here? How many days since . . . ? He did not ask them.
He would create fancies in his mind; with any luck, the physician would make a mistake, give him a powder that hastened death. Annika said he should be up and around by now. They were preparing for the journey to Jerusalem; didn’t James want to go? Then he’d better eat more eggs. Better drink more milk. Better try and take some bread.
He would soil himself in the bed, if it didn’t cause them more trouble. At first he needed their aid to visit the brush. He would totter, leaning on an arm, through the cool stone passage to the smallyard and through the workroom. One day he could finally shed the indignity and go himself, always shambling back to Jude’s bed. He didn’t miss the pain in Jorah’s face when she thought he didn’t see. He didn’t miss how quiet the workroom got when he passed through. He just didn’t care.
He wondered where everyone was. Though he didn’t really listen to the daily sounds around him, he was aware of them. Now he heard nothing at all.
He would hang himself, but that would cause them more work; they would have to take his body down, go through the purification rites for touching a dead body. He could not do that to them; he was not worth more of their trouble. Someday he would be strong enough to make it to the ridge. To the same place where they wanted to cast down Jesus. He chuckled at the mockery in it. Trouble was, the fall did not always kill. He would have to make sure to launch himself headfirst.
He became aware of the figure in the corner gradually, the hair prickling on his arms when he realized someone was there. Dim in the shadowy corner, swathed in folds of indigo, head trussed in crisscrossing folds of white, the figure sat motionless. His gray beard tumbled down his chest. His eyes glittered, set deeply in sockets with wide purple crescents beneath. James could feel his skin rise an inch, his neck hairs prickle.
“I am Balthazar.” The man inclined his head and touched his fingertips to his forehead. His dark face had marked him as a foreigner, but his speech made certain of it.
“What do you want?” James whispered. His eyes darted to the passageway.
The man’s shoulders and hands came up in an elaborate shrug. “Ask the One True God.”
“Where are—where is my family?” Horror crept over James, and he tried to keep his mind from ghastly things. He had heard of the things some foreigners did. Offered humans as sacrifices to their demon gods. Why didn’t he hear anyone? Who could have allowed this stranger—this Gentile—into the room of a sick man? James pushed himself to a sitting position, kicked away the blanket, and set his feet on the ground.
He didn’t like it that he could see the man better. The indigo robe was grubby with stains. The edges of it were frayed. He could smell the man from here—sweat and dirt, foreign sweat and dirt, greasy and strange. The turban was not white; it was gray with grime. A walking stick was propped against the wall.
“They are at the Sabbath meal at the home of your brother, the one called Joses. Precious children he has. They like my cinnamon sticks.”
“Annika . . .”
“She is with them. Are you thirsty?” Balthazar went to a small table set with a pitcher and cups and a jar with the powder. He poured a cupful and brought it to James. James took the cup, noticing as he did so the deep, ugly scar on the top of the man’s hand. Hair did not grow there, and the scar pulled the skin tight so the man could not fold his fifth finger. He noticed James’ observation.
“I was too close to an oil libation for Ahura Mazdah,” Balthazar said as he started back to his seat. “‘Trust the one with the scars,’ Reuel used to tell me. ‘The scarred ones know.’” He chuckled deeply. “It was the last oil libation I offered.”
He paused at the little table to pick up the jar with the powder. He sniffed it, took a pinch of it, and rubbed it between his fingers. He tasted of it and nodded. “Blueblade. There is someone around here who knows herbs. You must have a nasty taste in your mouth—this explains your breath.” He set the jar down, then settled himself in the chair and arranged the folds of his soiled robe.
He smelled bad?
The old man rested his chin on his knuckles and kept an odd little smile on his face as he gazed at James, a smile that did not do much to settle the prickles on James’ skin. What does one say to a stranger in one’s room? How could he know for sure the family was at Joses’ place? Balthazar spoke before he did.
“Amazing, is it not, the confines of a miracle? It was once an animal trough. Then, for years, this place.”
That did nothing to settle the arm prickles.
“How did he know when to leave? Was it spoken in the wind? Whispered in the rushes?” the man mused. He looked at James’ bunk, set with beams into the wall. He looked at Simon’s bed next to the wall. He looked past the bed to the curtain of Mother’s—of Jorah’s—chamber. He looked at the animal skins on the floor, at the tunics folded neatly and placed on the recessed shelf. He tapped his fingertips against a slight smile and gazed at the oil cruses set in a smaller recess.
He looked at the ceiling as though he had never seen its like; it made James peek up. Sycamore beams overlaid with rushes, packed down with clay to support summer activities on the rooftop—like every other home in Israel. What was so amazing? But this Balthazar took in the entire room, from the ceiling to the floor, with the curiosity of—a seeker. His eyes finally rested on James.
“Forgive my sense of wonder. It has never left me. Did she keep the box?”
James stared at him, tensed to spring for the doorway.
“It may be presumptuous of me. She may have given it away long ago. I inquired of the others; they know of no such box. Not even Annika.” The man made the shape of a box with his hands. “It was silver. The cover was inlaid with the finest lapis lazuli. Perhaps you have seen it?” he asked hopefully.
Should he shout for his brothers? But he heard no sounds from the courtyard, none from the workroom.
Balthazar sighed. “Perhaps it was not the box at all. Perhaps the memory of a time long passed has somehow fuddled itself with today. It would have been nice to see it again.” He briskly tapped his head. “I am getting old, you know.” He grimaced at the ceiling. “Perhaps I am the only one who cares about that. Old to be making long journeys.” A smile began and deepened. His teeth shone white in the darkening room. “But I like the journey. You do not like the journey until you are older. Tell me, James, are there songs of descent?”
“I want you to leave.”
Balthazar nodded. “Of course you do. But I cannot, not yet. Are you sure you have not seen the box? Silver? Inlaid with—”
“The finest lapis lazuli. No, I have not seen the box. I wish you well on your quest. Please leave.”
“It was filled with frankincense.”
James cocked his head a fraction. A memory rustled.
“It was Baran’s gift. I never thought to bring my own. Reuel would have, but then I never wanted to go. Baran’s was the gift of a dying man.” He tapped his fingertips to his lips. “I never told her that, you know. It seemed . . . inappropriate at the time.”
“Never told who?” James asked slowly.
“Your mother. I never told her the frankincense was from a man who died on the way.”
The cup slipped from James’ hand. He was on his feet so fast his head exploded with sparkles. He grabbed the top bunk, staggered backward from the man. The back of his knees caught Simon’s bed, and he sat down heavily.
“They were only stories! How my brother was born under an omen, and . . . and . . . how there were visitors. They were . . . only stories.”
The old man leaned forward in his chair, concern full on his face. “You have been sick many days. Be at ease, James.”
“I heard t
he stories all the time when I was a child, very young. But people mocked us. Then Mother did not want to talk about it anymore. She said she treasured things in her heart, best left there.” James looked Balthazar over. It was impossible.
“Perhaps I will fetch Annika. She told me to get her if you—”
“She said there was a star.”
Balthazar sat motionless. Then he gave a single nod.
“There were other gifts,” James said, his throat suddenly dry. “Gold . . .”
“From Gasparian. A golden plate.”
“Myrrh . . .”
“From Melkor. In a fine enameled amphora.”
“They were given by visitors from the East.” James licked his lips. “Some said they were reputed to be kings.”
Balthazar chuckled softly at that.
James shook his head. “Even if it were true . . . they were supposed to be kings.” He looked Balthazar over, top to bottom. Someone who looked less a king, he could not imagine. “Are those the garments of a king? What kind of a king wears the clothing of a travel-stained vagabond?”
Balthazar thought on that, and an enigmatic smile came. He tapped his lips musingly and nodded. “Yes, James. Exactly.” Then his head came up, and the smile faded. He blinked several times, put a hand to his stomach, then said in surprise, “It is time for me to go.” He drew a deep breath, held it as if testing it, then let it go. “Yes, it is time. I will fetch Annika before I leave.”
He rose and took up his walking stick with a flourish, gave the room one last gaze, and went to the passageway. Then he stopped abruptly and turned.
“Another thing Reuel used to tell me, young James. ‘Consider it all joy, Balthazar, when you face your many trials; tested faith is faith to endure.’”
He inclined his head, touched his fingertips to his forehead, and was gone.
12
TRUST THE ONE with the scars. It was a hazy thought between the dreaming and the waking, something his father used to say. James had noticed the scars on the back of Joseph’s hand one day and traced his fingertips over them. Joseph looked down at James and patted his shoulder, and said, Trust the one with the scars, boy. The scarred ones know.
Sunlight spilled through the rectangular window near the ceiling, made a rectangular patch of brightness on the brown and black goatskin on the floor. It was a dream. That man in the corner, the strange things he said . . . Things like that belonged to dreams. His eyes traveled from the goatskin to Simon’s bed. Something beneath the bed caught his eye, and then his breath. A cup.
James sat up quickly, eyes fixed on the cup. He tossed aside the covers. “Annika?”
He didn’t wait for her to answer. He got to his feet and headed for the passage, pausing a moment for the sparkles in his sight to go away.
He walked down the three long steps in the passage to the smallyard and swung himself around the corner to the workroom, as he had done since he was a boy. The corner of the passage was worn smooth from many hands swinging around. He pushed through the curtain and paused at the sight of the workroom. Nathanael alone was there, working on a donkey saddle at his bench in the corner. He looked up when James came in.
James was about to speak when he noticed the bundles near the doorway.
“Passover,” James whispered. He looked at Nathanael. “We are preparing for the journey to Jerusalem?”
Nathanael eased the donkey saddle against his bench and straightened. The look on his face was one of wariness. “Yes.” He looked James up and down. “How are you feeling?”
James thought about it. He touched his fingers to his stomach. Tender at the press. Then he held his hand in front of his face; new pink scars covered his knuckles. He flexed his fingers. They were stiff and felt sore. He vaguely remembered the pain in his hand, remembered soreness these past many days. But he felt better than he had in a long time.
“Better. When do we leave?”
Something in Nathanael’s face shifted. “I am to remain here with you. The others leave tomorrow.”
Stunned, James said, “Tomorrow?”
“Judas said this is the latest they have ever left for the festival. He said if they make good time they should be there for the first day of the feast.”
He had lain around in that bed for three weeks! But he had no time to deal with the shame of that as well.
“Where is everybody?”
“Simon has gone to purchase the Paschal lamb. Jude is getting the tents out of the storage barn. Jorah is right behind you.”
He turned. Jorah stood holding apart the curtain, her face pathetically hopeful.
“James? Are you feeling better? You are looking better.”
When last he saw her, really saw her, the flawless skin was splattered with his own bloody bile. She seemed thinner but no less beautiful. He could never say how sorry he was for all he had put her through. That shame he would have to bear. And he would, for her.
“I am better. Thank you, Jorah.”
“Are you hungry? Come, have something to eat.”
Meekly he followed her. He paused at the curtain to look at Nathanael. The amber eyes were filled with coldness. He had never seen coldness there. Anger, yes, but not this. He let the curtain fall into place to obscure it.
James washed at the cistern and dried his hands on a clean towel.
The butter swing was back in the old corner. Dye pots, one much battered, lined up in their familiar place. The couches, too, had been restored to their positions, though one of them was more lopsided than it used to be. There were no longer two laundry baskets, only one, and that empty. Bunches of herbs hung upside down from nails. Propped against the wall was a slate. A blank slate.
He could not say he was sorry. It would diminish his guilt, and he at least owed her his guilt. He could only wish the place was the crazy way Jorah had wanted it. Wish for a chance to eat that fish soup again.
She gestured to the couch and quickly went about preparing a tray. It hurt to watch how eagerly she sliced bread, scooped butter from a crock, filled a cup with watered wine. He was not worth it, he wanted to tell her, but it would only hurt her. He would not hurt her again. God help him, he wouldn’t.
How many times had he promised himself that?
He would never strike Simon again . . . how many times had he broken that one? He would never curse when he bruised himself in the shop; he would never think unchaste thoughts about Keturah; he would never wish murder upon those who tried to cast Jesus down the precipice. He would never want to kill Joses for that calm superiority of his; he would never . . . And he had broken them all. Again and again and again. He knew he could hurt Jorah again, and probably would. He could not rein in the anger. He had tried and failed so many times. He was weak against himself, another accursed misery.
She set the tray before him, clasping her hands, eyes flitting over the tray. Then she said, “Oh! A napkin,” and dashed to get it.
She gave him the napkin and stood expectantly, that pathetically eager look on her face. She mistook his not moving and immediately sat beside him to take his bread and butter it.
“No, Jorah, I can do that,” he pleaded gently, and took the bread and knife from her. “Thank you. It looks good. It smells good.” And so it did. She waited until he had taken a mouthful; then he looked at her in surprise. “It is good, Jorah. It really is.”
She beamed her pleasure. “Like Mother used to make. I never liked Jerusha’s mother anyway.” She whirled away from him with a lightness he had not seen since Mother left. She went to the water pots in the corner and took up the largest.
“I have to go to the well. Call on Nathanael if you need anything.” She headed for the curtained passage.
“Jorah—”
She stopped. But he could think of nothing to say. How could he tell her how much she lifted his heart, lifted it and weighted it both, with the reminder of his deeds? How could he tell her how much she meant to him?
“Not everyone leaves,” was all he
could say.
The sudden sweet smile gave off more warmth than the sun. She blew him a kiss and disappeared through the curtain.
The bread was delicious. The butter sweet and cool. The wine tasted better than any he had had before, even that day at Cana, and this was watered.
“You don’t deserve them.”
He looked up to find Nathanael leaning against the doorway, arms folded, eyes cold.
James chewed and swallowed, forcing the bread down. Strange to hear his own phantom thoughts spoken aloud, not by himself.
“I know.”
Nathanael must have been looking for a fight, because by his sour grimace, the answer disappointed him. He pushed off from the doorway and went to the water dipper near the cistern. He removed the cover, dipped a ladleful of water, and drank, then lowered the ladle to peer at James.
“What did that old fool say to you?”
James set his bread down. “Then it wasn’t a dream.”
“Not if dreams are smelly and walk about saying, ‘Have you seen the box? Silver with the finest—’”
“Lapis lazuli. How long ago was he here?”
Nathanael looked at him as though he was crazy. “Just yesterday. He left just before sunset. While it was still Sabbath, I might add.”
James nodded. It felt like yesterday that the old man was here, but he wasn’t sure. The days fell behind him like dreams best forgotten.
Nathanael wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and replaced the ladle on the hook. He slowly strolled toward James. “You will not make the trip. You are not strong enough.”
“How do you know I am going?”
“The look in your eyes.”
James looked away. Nathanael’s eyes made him uncomfortable. He studied his bread, then peeked up again.
Nathanael kept coming. It made James send a quick look to the dye pots—they were not filled. But he would not dunk a sick man, would he? He glanced at the amber eyes. Oh yes, he would. James shifted on the couch and tried to concentrate on the bread. He picked bits from it and stuffed them into his mouth.