by Tracy Groot
They started for the ridge path, but Jorah stopped. She felt for the pebble in the fold of her head covering, then turned back and placed it carefully on top of Nathanael’s rock pile. She whirled to face Nathanael. He rolled his eyes and started straight for the rock pile.
“It stays!” she shrieked, laughing and pushing him away.
“All right, all right,” he grumbled, holding up his hands. “Who can argue with one of Joseph’s tribe?”
On the way back, they spoke about what had to be done yet to prepare for the journey. They spoke about the provisions, what they had, what was yet needed. They spoke about what had to be done to the house to leave it for a few weeks, and Jorah even confided her hope that they could stay in Jerusalem—in Bethany—a little longer. On the way back, they did not hold hands. It gave Jorah more hope than ever.
A gentle wind swept up from the valley, rounded on the ridge, stirred about the scarred old olive tree. Gray and green leaves fluttered in the delicate breeze, releasing drops that still clung from an early morning rain. The wind briefly rocked the white-flecked pebble on the pile, then left the tree and coursed along the ridge, down the hill, rustling the head covering of Jorah ben Joseph, ruffling the hair of Nathanael ben Rivkah. It caught their laughter and swept on, tumbling down to the valley below where it first began.
13
FROM THE INSIDE of the cave, Joab sat and watched his friend brood on his haunches, watching the road below. Occasionally, Avi carved a piece out of the hunk of moldy cheese and stuffed it into his mouth. Cheeks bulging, he chewed away as he studied the road. Joab did not think Avi knew how unflattering it looked, the way he always stuffed his cheeks so full. Why not take normal bites, like a normal person? Maybe Avi thought it looked manly.
Joab grimaced and looked at the dried-up fig in his hand. It worked up more of an appetite to chew the things than it was worth. Might as well chew a piece of goat hide. “Bah,” he muttered, and tossed it aside.
Normal food. A normal night’s sleep. A normal day, with normal people. He had given up much to take up with Avi. But the cause was everything. It’s what Avi said all the time. The trouble was, it was not as exciting now as it had been at the beginning. Scrounging for food. Sleeping like vagabonds. Joab scratched his ear, sure another flea had found a home. He was getting tired of the whole thing.
He should be in Jerusalem now, helping his father pick out the Paschal lamb. This was the first Passover Joab had ever missed. But what would Avi think if he voiced his silly sentimental feelings about Passover? The cause. The cause was everything.
Somehow it was important to the cause that they seek the carpenter’s apprentice. Joab scratched his other ear. He wasn’t sure how, but Avi was the smart one. Avi called the apprentice a “pretty lad,” with those strange bright eyes of his. Joab shook his head. He had no desire to look in those eyes again. He did not say this to Avi, of course; Avi had called him a coward once. He would not give him cause to do it again.
“Avi, what if we missed them? What if they are not even planning to go up to the festival?”
Avi did not answer, which meant Joab had said something stupid again. Avi told him once he would not waste his breath answering stupid questions.
“How much money do we have?”
It was the first thing Avi had said to him all day. And Joab had learned not to remind Avi that the money was his own. When a man joined the cause against Rome, all personal possessions became common—the cause was everything. He stifled a sigh; used to be, his pockets always jangled with coins when he had worked for his father at the dye works.
“I only—we only have two silver dinars and a few coppers.” The cache had become seriously depleted with the first side trip to Nazareth. The whole point of their journey, when they had started it over a month ago from Hebron, had been to meet with the Zealot leader Jonathan of Gush Halav, near the Phoenician border. To veer off and see Nazareth on the way had been Avi’s idea.
Joab privately thought that if they had not diverted into Nazareth, they would have never wasted so much time or money—but Avi had insisted on visiting the home of the Teacher.
“We may have to pick up a job here or there,” Joab said ruefully as he slipped the coins back into his pocket.
After meeting for several days with Jonathan, whose zeal for the land would put Raziel to the test, they began the long journey south to report back to the enclave in Hebron. But Avi could not get the apprentice out of his craw. They left the Roman road, which traversed the land from Phoenicia to the Sea of Galilee, and veered west—again—to Nazareth. Joab stifled a sigh. They could have been in Jerusalem by now. They could have made it to Passover. He wondered what would have happened if they had never stopped to visit Nazareth the first time. They could not hold out here much longer.
“Maybe they decided to go through Samaria. Quicker by a day or two,” Joab said.
Avi did not answer.
Joab shrugged to himself. Maybe it was a stupid suggestion, but it made sense to him. The Galileans had fewer qualms about traveling through Samaria than the Judeans. They almost seemed to welcome the danger, as suited their uncouth natures. Joab’s father did not hold much with Galileans. Galileans had the beauty of the land, it was said, but Judeans had Jerusalem.
Avi rose smoothly from his haunches. “We go back to the crossroad. I will watch the road to Beth Shean; you will watch the road to Shechem.”
Joab’s eyes widened. Did Avi think Joab was right? He scrambled to his feet, glad for some action, if only for a different locale. He grabbed a burlap bag and began to stuff it with their bedrolls and meager provisions.
Avi’s voice was a mere mutter as he stood with his hand against the cave wall, gazing at the road below. “Nobody makes a fool out of Avi ben Aristobulus.”
Joab hesitated, clay plate in hand, then wrapped it in a dirty towel and stuffed it into the sack. He didn’t know why they were doing this, but Avi knew what he was about. Surely a mere grudge could not distract Avi from the cause. It all worked into the plan somehow.
He barely caught the next words Avi whispered, and ignored the ensuing chill at the back of his neck.
“. . . shall see who the Teacher has to heal. If you don’t bleed to death first.”
Consider it all—what? James snorted to himself as he brushed the bread crumbs off the plate and stacked it on the others in the cupboard. Consider it joy to face trials? Last he heard, a trial was something difficult. Something like controlling your temper or giving up Keturah. Consider that joy? What kind of craziness was that? He shook his head as he wiped the serving tray and slid it into its place next to the cupboard. Balthazar’s Reuel was a strange one indeed. But then, he was a foreigner. Perhaps it was a custom of theirs to relish pain as some kind of sacrifice to—what did the old man call his god? Ahura something-or-other.
Murmuring the post-meal blessing, he went to the smallyard and washed at the cistern. But he could not get the words out of his head. They were not only baffling but irritating. He pushed through the curtain and went to his workbench.
He was embarrassed by its neat appearance. A workbench only looked this neat when a brother was away on a journey. Simon had a finished olivewood bowl sitting on the side of his bench, apparently awaiting a second coat of stain. An inkpot and a parchment lay next to the bowl. Was he planning to take his writing implements to Jerusalem? Was he still learning from Saul?
Jude’s bench was strewn with an assortment of things. Hairy twine, an awl that had come apart at the handle, scraps of goatskin, and two new tools James did not recognize. James looked away. Three weeks. He had been in that bed three weeks.
He turned to look at Joses’ bench and to his surprise found it neat. No wood chips or white stone dust on the floor near it, no project awaiting completion, every tool in its place. James’ gaze drifted from the bench. He vaguely remembered overhearing something in the past week or so. Had Joses left for Jerusalem already, with Abigail’s family? Yet another shame fo
r those hazy weeks of dullness; they were surely waiting for James to recover, something that should have reasonably happened two weeks ago. Every year since Joses had married, the two enjoined families had made the pilgrimage to Passover together. Neighbor Eli went too, and Keturah and Therin, and Annika and Simeon. Safety in numbers and great enjoyment too.
In recent years, the traveling company had changed. Simeon died first, then Joseph. Then Jesus left, and soon after, Devorah. James did not know why he had expected everything to remain the same. Of course things would change. He was just never ready for it.
Consider it joy when you face your trials. He could not think of a more stupid, foolish notion than that.
“Consider it joy?” he said angrily. Why? What was the point? Joy that Jesus left, plunging the family into three long years of tumult? Joy to see Keturah and not to be able to tell her that—
A sweat broke on his brow. Breathing hard, he braced himself against his bench. Unaccountable panic began to trickle over him, as though he stood beneath a thin waterfall. He wanted his bed. He could not do this. He could not deal with anything, God help him. Just his bed, just to bury himself beneath the blanket.
“I cannot do this,” he whispered hoarsely. He gripped the edges of his bench as the trickle of panic increased. Anger, and now anxiety? Fear? Was he going mad? His breath came in short gasps. The bed—all he wanted was his bed. He was safe there. Safe, if only he could get there.
No! He had to go to Jerusalem. For some reason he had shaken off the lethargy of the past weeks and he—he had to warn Jesus. Surely, as Joses suspected, there was a plot against him. He had to tell him of the plot and that he, James, was on his side. He was, wasn’t he? But all he wanted was the safety of his bed. He couldn’t move.
“James, you all right?”
Simon was at his side.
“S–s–s—”
“Here, let’s set you down. Easy, now.” His brother’s arms came around him, helped him let go of the bench. Simon pulled out his stool and helped him sit. “Easy, James. That’s it. That’s better.”
The panic began to abate. Focus came. Simon was sitting on his own stool in front of him.
“You all right?” Simon asked again. James wet his lips and nodded. He felt trembly, sweaty as from a broken fever.
Simon looked at him closely. “You are better, somehow. You look—well, terrible, but you seem . . . different.”
James nodded. If he only knew. He felt just a hairsbreadth from insanity, and yet . . .
“Simon . . . I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
He swallowed hard to wet his throat. “Everything.”
Simon studied James. “Good to see you up.”
James nodded and looked away. “Did you get the lamb?”
“Yes. It’s tethered outside.”
“I want to go.”
He had not thought far enough ahead to fear this moment, because surely his brothers would try to talk him out of it, in his condition. He was the reason they were leaving so late, perhaps forcing them to take the quickest route through Samaria. That they had not left at all amazed him.
“I was counting on it. The donkey can spell you when you get tired.” Simon looked at him evenly. “You will make it.”
James blinked, momentarily speechless. “Thanks for waiting.”
As was Simon’s style, he would not let the honesty get thick. He stood and glanced outside. “Have you seen that apprentice of ours? The four-wheel needs to be gone over; the railing came apart at one of the corners. I need to get to the granary for a sack of feed for the donkey.”
“Are we going through Samaria?”
“Yes. It will be all right. If we keep our eyes open at all times, we should not have a problem.”
“Whom are we traveling with?”
Simon hesitated. “Just us.”
“Us, meaning . . .”
“You and me, Judas and Jorah. Maybe we can talk Nathanael into coming. It would not hurt to have an extra pair of eyes.”
Or an extra pair of muscles. James frowned. If it were not for him, they would have traveled much more safely, in the company of Joses and his family, along the Jordan Valley route. “When did Joses leave?”
“Last week. Joses—”
James waved him silent. Who was he to hold up the entire party? “They were right to leave. You should have left with them.”
“Joses wants to find Jesus as soon as possible. He wants to warn him.”
“About that disciple?”
“About both of them, Judas and Raziel both. Joses is worried. I wish he would let it go. I have had time to think on it, and I—” he flicked a look at James—“I think Jesus knows what he is about. This Judas has been with him for three years. Three years. That is a long time to plot, especially for a Zealot. Maybe Judas went into it thinking he could—”
“Change Jesus, as everyone else does. Then he learned better.” In the bright of day, without the unaccountable panic, the notion of a plot against the Prophet of Peace seemed a little ridiculous. But it was time to change the subject, because it had been a long time since he had agreed with Simon about anything. He would not ruin it. “What of Therin and Keturah? Did they go with Tobias?”
“Yes.”
James nodded. He looked at the pile near the doorway. “Well, what do you want me to do? What needs to be done?”
Simon glanced at him uncertainly. “James . . .”
“I can do some.” He needed to do something. “I will stop when I have to.”
His brother nodded. “All right, then. The bitter herbs need to be gathered. Jorah has them drying in the courtyard. The tithe needs to be—never mind, I will take care of that. Perhaps you can check the awnings; they need to be secured before we leave.” He rubbed the back of his head. “We need to fill the waterskins. Oh, and sandal tacks. Pack a bag of them, with the tack mallet.”
“Did Annika go with Tobias?”
“Annika is not going this year. She says she is too old for the journey.”
This was a surprise. Women were not obligated to make the pilgrimage, but they usually went. Why would she not want to go?
“Annika will never be too old for the journey. I wonder what her real reason is.”
Simon shrugged. “She says she has too many things to take care of in her neighborhood. As if it would fall apart without her.”
“It probably would. She will be missed.”
“What will you miss more?” Nathanael said as he strolled in the doorway. “Annika or her honeycakes? Myself, I am torn betwixt the two.”
Nathanael went to his bench and picked up the donkey saddle. He looked it over, found the place he wanted, and laid the saddle across his bench. He looked over the tools on the pegs above the bench and selected a sharp awl and a mallet. Then he launched into one of his sailor songs, learned from the harbor at Caesarea, and set to work on the saddle.
Changeable as the Sharkiyeh east wind, that one. One minute stuffing James’ throat full of his own sin, the next as placid as the Sea of Galilee after a storm.
“Nathanael, when you’re done with the saddle, the four-wheel needs to be fixed,” Simon said. “A corner came apart at the rails. Check the wheels, too, and put together a repair kit.”
Judas came in, wiping sweat from his face with a grubby towel and at the same time kissing the mezuzah. “Tents are airing. We had a few winter guests in there. A mama scorpion made a nice home for her—” He stopped short when he realized James stood at his bench. He looked from James to Simon and back. “James?”
“Risen from the dead,” Simon quipped.
James grinned. “Call me Lazarus.”
Judas squinted at him warily. “Are you—?”
“I’m fine.” James glanced at Simon. “And I am going.”
That made Judas throw a fast look at Simon too. Something unreadable flickered between the two. Strangely, Simon wore a look of satisfaction. Jude still had a wary frown, but it gradually f
aded into something like relief.
“It’s about time you got your carcass to work,” Jude muttered as he tossed his sweaty towel at James.
James snatched it in the air, threatened to throw it back at him, but instead slung it at the apprentice. It caught him full on the face and snuffed his raucous song.
For the third time in his life, James performed the ritual belonging to the head of the house at the time of Passover.
Those who remained of the tribe of Joseph in Nazareth, plus a scrappy apprentice from Caesarea, stood outside the doorway to the home. The bundles and packages lashed securely to the four-wheel made the donkey appear hitched to a small mountain at the foot of the slope. Jorah was already softly humming a psalm of ascent, though she probably didn’t realize it. She had spent the morning patrolling the grounds with her slate, like a Roman centurion inspecting a departing cohort. Ever fond of lists, Jorah consulted the slate and made a fat line through every item when the task had been completed. She had snapped out commands like a field general—“Simon, lock the shed. James, stow the feedbag. Judas, put the pay for Jotham under the rock by the plants. Nathanael, make sure the cistern drainpipe is secured. All of you, visit the brush before we leave.”
Nathanael had seemed almost eager to go, once asked, and preparations made yesterday fly. The pile at the doorway had diminished as one by one the bundles were stashed in the cart. The house was swept and the workroom tidied. They had got to bed late last night, each dropping exhausted to his bunk.
Faces scrubbed, hair combed, wearing their favorite and most comfortable traveling garments, the five were anxious and ready to depart for Jerusalem. First, though, came the obligation for Passover. James took the candle and raised it to Jude, who lit it with a burning twig. James drew a breath. He had rehearsed the words all morning long, the words that had long belonged to Joseph. Then, once, to Jesus.
“Blessed art thou, Jehovah our God, King of the Universe, who has sanctified us by thy commandments, and commanded us to remove the leaven.”