by Tracy Groot
“You fixing the donkey saddle? Making it ready for the journey?”
“I will show you something I have never shown anyone. Not even Annika, and I trust her the most. Not anyone. If you think for a second I show it for pity, I will kill you. That you have forced me to do this is—” He broke off, his face full of loathing, his lip high in a sneer, and his eyes full of the closest thing to hate. “I show you only because you are the sorriest thing I have ever met. Because you have it all and you are stone-blind to it.”
Nathanael propped his foot on the low table and pulled his tunic above his knee. There, striped on his thigh, were scars that graduated all the way up. A whole line of them, each one inch apart from the next. Each scar was a palm-span wide.
“My mother has the same scars. She promised herself when she was a child that she would never do it to her own.”
“God of Israel,” James whispered.
He felt the horror on his face like a slicked-on mask. He wanted to recoil but stared, transfixed, at the bumpy lines. They were deliberate. Perfectly, hideously placed. This, done to a child? To Nathanael? The bread fell from his fingers, and he clutched his gut. How could a mother . . . ?
Nathanael leaned forward. “So you see, James, I will never understand how you can treat your mother and your sister the way you do. I defy you to tell me your mother ever gave you a scar.”
Numbly, James jerked his head no.
“Do you know what it has been like for me this past month, living with people who are kind and decent and—” He broke off with a derisive snort. “No, you wouldn’t understand. You would not know heaven on earth because you’ve had heaven all your life and have nothing but contempt for it. I lied about having an uncle, James. I have a demented mother who is a whore and a grandmother I wish were dead. Do you pity me, James?”
The scars were a soft, silvery white. Emotion he could not name bunched up inside him. James looked away from the scars to the glistening amber eyes. He tried to make an answer but could not. Tried to make words come, but they stuck fast in his throat. Pity? How could he pity one with such passion in his eyes? He would never be equal to it.
No, Nathanael, I do not pity you. How I envy you.
The boy pulled his foot off the table, and the tunic mercifully dropped past his knee. He stood for a moment, then turned away and walked toward the workroom. James opened his mouth but still could not make words. And when he did, Nathanael had already ducked through the curtain to the workroom.
“Trust the one with the scars,” James whispered.
He rose and went to the passage, pulled aside the curtain. But the workroom was empty.
Jorah pulled up another bucket and emptied it into the jar. Their own cistern was full from the rains—indeed, they had to reroute the drainpipe from the roof lest they flood the smallyard—and Jorah wanted to keep it full. When they came back from Jerusalem in a few weeks, she wanted a full cistern to scale the mountain of laundry that would accumulate on the journey. She grinned in delight —two weeks without the loathsome laundry task! Two weeks, maybe more! Once there, perhaps she could sweet-talk the boys into visiting longer with Devorah and Mother. They could find things to keep themselves amused, could they not? They could work with Devorah’s husband in his shop. Maybe they could take along some of their own tools. But then they would know Jorah’s plans, and it wouldn’t do to try and convince them to stay longer now. Perhaps she could select a few tools and secrete them away in the baggage for the journey. She would have to be careful about the selection; the boys were unaccountably fussy about their tools.
She had nearly danced to the well today. For one thing, she came late enough that Jerusha and her loathsome mother would not be there. For another—James! He was walking about, with the same old light in his eyes! Well, nearly the same. And in not many days they would see Mother and Devorah and Jesus. She could shout for the joy of it.
Passover in Jerusalem. The hope, the expectation of every Jew in the land. To see the magnificent Temple again, to gaze in wonder at the busyness of the great ancient city. So many people in one place, especially at Passover! Once she had been to Jerusalem when it was not Passover, when crowds did not choke the city streets. It was fascinating then, to see Jerusalem as it was every day, without the influx of Passover pilgrims. All the foreigners and tradesmen, the Roman officials and soldiers, the constant parade of things captivating and strange. Merchants lining the crowded, narrow alleys, some who were bold with their selling, some who merely watched others and made change. Women with their faces painted, wearing exotic clothing; important-looking men who talked with other important-looking men. The squalling of animals and babies and children. All of this, multiplied by tens of thousands at Passover.
She set the draw line in the rope-worn groove in the stone and lowered the bucket again. Only one thing could possibly dampen the joy today, something she had ignored the past several weeks—they would not all be together. James was not going. And because James was not going, it meant Nathanael—Of course, he would not have gone anyway. He was so proud of being an am ha-aretz, a Jew of the land. One who wore his ignorance of the Law like a prized medal. He would not even want to go.
But James was up and around today, and a teeny, tiny hope began to grow. Maybe . . . just maybe he could go. And if James went, then . . . well, if Nathanael was a tiny bit interested . . .
She angrily yanked on the rope and pulled it hand over hand. It was James who mattered. James was her own brother. She should be ashamed of herself, thinking of a certain boy with the most beautiful light-brown eyes she had ever seen. Eyes to make a girl look again just to see if that amazing color was what she really saw. And that smile of his, so full of mischief, so . . . charming. She abruptly realized she was not pulling the rope anymore and jerked on it to make up for her silly—
“Jorah.”
She looked up and yelped at the sight of him, releasing the line. Rope fibers sprayed as the line sawed on the groove, then instantly stopped as the bucket splashed at the bottom. Horrified because she had yelped, she ignored him and furiously worked to pull the bucket up.
“Jorah, walk with me.”
She let go of the line again to stare at him, barely noticing the bucket’s splash. She glanced around, but no one was there. “Nathanael . . .” But as she said his name, she finally noticed him. He was breathing hard as if he had been running. His face was flushed and had a shine of sweat, and nowhere was the grin.
The day he came back to the shop, after the famous dunking he had given James, he had asked her to walk on the ridge. Then, he would not look her in the eye and was blushing so furiously his cheeks would rival any shade of crimson cloth. Now, he looked her plainly in the face. Then, her heart had skittered from excitement. Now, it began a slow, strange pound. He held out his hand, and she took it. Then, they had not held hands.
She left the jar and followed where he led; she knew where they would go. He had taken a liking to the olive tree her father had ringed about with stones, the one on the ridge. He had been fascinated by the tree and, interestingly, more so when he knew Joseph had cared for it.
He kept a fast pace and did not look at her once. His grip was firm, and she held on as tight.
Joseph’s olive tree was at an outcrop just before the ridge crested. The crest was one of the highest places in Nazareth. Nathanael let go of her hand and went to a white rock that had been dislodged by rain. He pushed it back into place, then looked at the tree. Half the tree was stunted by a large, disc-shaped scar. Limbs meant to grow where the scar was grew instead straight out, then up.
“I wish I knew what happened here,” Nathanael said softly, smoothing his hand over the empty place.
“Lightning, maybe,” Jorah said, eyes fixed on him. She took the end of her head covering and wiped a film of sweat from her face.
“Hundreds of years old, maybe a thousand. Maybe more,” Nathanael murmured. “I wonder how many pruned it before your father. I wonder how many peop
le this tree has seen. Jews, Gentiles, the way this land goes back and forth. Tended by the hand of a Jew, taken up by a Gentile . . .”
She found a smooth spot of scrub grass a small distance apart and settled on the ground to watch him. He was getting close to what he wanted to say.
“You are not wearing your leather string today,” she said.
“My—? Oh. My grimlet. I forgot to put it on.”
“Grimlet?” She wrinkled her nose. “What a funny word. Is it Latin?”
He dropped beside her and drew his knees up. “Latin?” he repeated, eyes tracing the line of the tree. “No, it is not Latin.” He wiped sweat from his brow with the heel of his hand.
His eyes were still on the tree when he said, “There is so much I have to—so much I want to say to you. I don’t know where to start, or if I should at all.”
“I would not mind.”
He chuckled. “Not mind what?”
“I would not mind if you started. And I do not mind where you start.”
He looked off to the distant hills. “I did not expect you, Jorah.”
“I do not think I am going to like what you have to say to me,” Jorah said quietly. He turned to her, and she looked into the vivid eyes. So much in those eyes. Pain, and such a longing to belong, a longing he disguised with his wit and charm. Loyalty, that was plain. But what else was there? What was there for her? How she wanted to reach out and touch his cheek, brush his eyelashes with her fingertip. She should have looked away at that thought, not because it was improper, but because she was not ready for more pain. She could not look away; she did not know how much longer she could look.
“I have to go.”
“Then James was wrong,” Jorah whispered. “Everyone does leave.”
Misery filled the amber eyes. Jorah did not often see men with tears in their eyes.
“I don’t want to leave.”
She did not answer, because it would not make a difference. It did not matter how good she was, how bad she was, how anything she was. They all left. All the ones she loved, and now this one too.
“I wish—I want to—” he stammered. He reached to take her hand and pressed it to his cheek. Her heart should have leapt, but instead it filled with stones of dread. “Jorah . . .”
“Don’t go,” she whispered. She should not ask him to stay—everyone seemed to have a good reason to leave—but there it was. “Please, Nathanael. I could not bear it.”
She would have imagined it this way, if she had let herself. At the tree, how perfect, of course the tree. Here was the place to make their hearts known. She had loved him the first day he made James laugh.
“I will not ask why,” she said softly. “I only ask you to stay. I did not ask the others. I never had a chance with Father or Jesus. But I cannot help asking you.”
Nathanael let go of her hand. His face darkened as he glowered at the tree. He rubbed his hand over a tight fist and descended into a private brood.
“I did not ask for this,” he muttered. “Why him, of all people? Why did it have to be him?”
No tears flowed. How could her heart splinter this way with no tears to show for it? She felt as hollowed out as a hive emptied of honey.
The color in his face lessened, and he sighed heavily. “I want to stay. I truly do. I feel a—” he flicked a glance at her—“compulsion to stay. But your brother does not make it easy. He makes me question it all the time. I have never met anyone who can make me so angry.” He chuckled bitterly. “The strange thing is, I really like him.”
He spoke of James. A bond rested between the two, something she could not understand but knew was there.
“He likes you too,” she said absently. Then, “If you leave, will you start walking on water?”
A laugh burst from Nathanael. That beautiful grin on the heel of such gloom. He slipped a sideways look at her, eyes dancing. “You think maybe I should give it a try? Maybe Jesus and I can be partners. He can do the healing; I’ll walk on water and raise the dead.”
Her lips twitched as she tried to restrain a smile. “No. There are beautiful women out there. Jesus is not handsome, but you the girls would fall in love with.”
Nathanael snorted. “I do not think many would fall in love with a man who raises the dead.” He was quiet a moment. “They are probably terrified of him.”
They sat in silence for a time. Then Nathanael started a rock pile. He began with a layer of larger rocks, then piled on smaller ones. He scraped up pebbles and added them to the heap. Jorah helped, tossing on a pebble here and there.
“Not that one,” Nathanael said, and took the white-flecked one she added and tossed it aside.
Her brow came up as she looked at him and, keeping her eyes on his, she reached for the pebble and put it back on the pile.
“Stay, Nathanael.”
Nathanael very slowly reached to flick her pebble off the pile, then looked behind himself to find more. By the time he turned around, Jorah had put the pebble back. He picked it up and set it delicately on the toe of her sandal, then put more rocks on the pile.
“I am tired of trying to be patient,” he said. “Tired of trying to understand.”
She took a handful of pebbles from his rock pile, tossed them toward the olive tree, then took the white-flecked pebble from her toe and placed it on top of the diminished pile.
“Then just stay.”
He took her pebble and studied her a minute, then reached and tucked it under the cloth covering her forehead. She rolled her eyes up trying to see it.
“I don’t think you like Caesarea, as much as you brag about it,” Jorah said, still trying to see the pebble. “I think you would like it much more in Nazareth.”
“I don’t brag about Caesarea.”
“‘Have you ever seen an amphitheater? Herod built a fine one. Have you been to his great port? Have you been to a gymnasium?’”
“I am not sure I am meant to stay.”
Her eyes dropped to his. “How can you be sure you are meant to go?”
Nathanael looked at the rock pile. He drew his finger in the sand around it. “I suppose I am not sure.” He looked at the olive tree, then let his gaze drift. “I do not know where I would go.”
“You would not go back to Caesarea?”
“No.” He studied his sandals, then noticed the rock pile again and found a few more pebbles to toss onto it. “I hate it there. I hate the way the Jews hate the Gentiles and the way the Gentiles hate the Jews. They are all such fools. Some of my best friends are Gentiles, you know that?” He shook his head. “The fights that happen. You haven’t seen that kind of thing here, Jorah. There is not as much open hatred here as there is in Caesarea. The dividing line is much clearer back home.”
“Maybe a clear dividing line is not such a bad thing,” Jorah murmured.
“That it is there at all is plain stupidity. All these people hating each other . . . my Gentile friends see only the fighting and the squabbles. Then my Jewish friends see the Gentiles act the very same way, full of fuss and rage. Full of hate. Ha. They are more alike than they think.” He held out his hands, and his tone grew incredulous. “And then you know what? I see on both sides people who would give you the sandals they stand in. People who would go hungry to make sure you had a meal, but can they see it in each other? Oh, no. It makes me angry. I’m so caught in the middle. I belong to both, and to neither.”
He scowled his blackest. “So there you are, Jorah. I do not want to go back to Caesarea ever, not this side of the sun. Perhaps . . .” He dropped his eyes and trailed his fingers in the sand. The scowl disappeared. “Perhaps, if it is all the same to your brothers, I will come along to Jerusalem.” He shrugged a tiny shrug. “James is surely going, and I have never been. I would like to see the Temple, I’ve heard much about it.” He threw a mischievous grin at her. “Of course, Herod built Caesarea before the Temple. But at least a journey like that would give me time to figure out—” He stopped short, groaning, holding his
head. “Oh, how I need to talk to Annika. Things make sense when I talk to her.”
“And they don’t when you talk to me?”
“You least of all.”
She let one eyebrow rise. “That is either a good thing, or it is not.”
Nathanael did not answer. He was lost again, deep inside himself, frowning and adding more pebbles to the pile. He ran out of pebbles and pulled up scrub grass to sprinkle on the rocks. Despite the grimace on his face, and for the first time since she had seen him at the well, Jorah felt she could breathe again. One minute he was leaving her, and the next—maybe he would go with them to Jerusalem? Annika, Annika . . . tell him the right things. My heart depends on you.
“Perhaps we should get back,” Jorah murmured.
“Let them wonder,” Nathanael said with a small grin as he sprinkled the grass.
“Wonder? Nathanael ben—” She broke off. “What is your father’s name?”
“I don’t know.”
“What is your mother’s name?”
He hesitated, then, “Rivkah.”
“Nathanael ben Rivkah, maybe in Caesarea they can wonder, but they cannot wonder in Nazareth. I will not let them wonder.” She got to her feet.
“Perhaps I should kiss you.”
Jorah felt her eyes widen and her cheeks flame as she gaped down at him.
He squinted at her against the sun, his cheeks dimpling in a grin, and gave an innocent shrug. “What? If they are going to wonder, we should at least give them something to—”
“I said we will not let them wonder!”
He offered his hand as if he wanted her to help pull him up, but she folded her arms. He got up and dusted off his hands, then wiped them on his tunic. He surveyed the tree with his hands on his hips, squinting in the sun.
“These trees survive many things, don’t they? Fire, James said. Catastrophes, like whatever befell this one. All manner of weather. Amazing.”
“They do not have olive trees in Caesarea?”
“Sure, we have olive trees. I just never noticed them until I came here.”