The Brother's Keeper

by Tracy Groot

  There were no Sabbath prayers at its beginning, when the sun had set. And nobody could go to be with Mother—Jerusalem was too far away. From Bethany it was nearly twice the distance allowed for a Sabbath day’s journey. He could not go to Mother or . . . Jesus until tomorrow. There would be spices to gather. A burial cloth to purchase.

  Devorah had the baby, and Joses had his wife and children. James wanted the box. He searched through the cart after they delivered Nathanael to the doctor. He traced their steps back. It was gone. Perhaps the lamb wasn’t the only thing Joab had disappeared with.

  “Are you awake?” Judas murmured.

  “I’m not sure I slept,” James said.

  “Me neither.”

  James pushed himself to a sitting position, settling against the wall. After a moment, Judas did the same.

  The last time they had been in Devorah’s home together was last Passover. Not much had changed in Matthias’ workroom. James studied the tools on the shelf above the two benches until tears blurred them from his sight.

  “What happens now?” Judas asked dully.

  “We go back to Nazareth,” Simon answered from the other side of the room, his back to them.

  A tap came at the door. James whisked his arm over his face, and he and Judas exchanged looks. Simon twisted to look. Jude got up to answer it.

  Joses stood in the doorway. The sight of him at the door brought the cursed capriciousness. James hung his head and allowed the tears to drip. Joses came in and closed the door softly behind him, then went to where Simon sat against the opposite wall. He settled beside him, drawing up his knees.

  Presently Judas murmured with a sad half smile, “Just like back home.”

  And so it was. The brothers in the workroom, together to take the news of the land. The brothers together for another family crisis. It was what James needed more than the box, what made him cry when he saw Joses.

  He wiped his nose and said, “Good to see you, Joses.”

  Joses nodded. By the look of his face, he had not slept either. It was slightly swollen and more exhausted than James ever remembered. The reddish tinge of his beard and his hair made his face white.

  “How are Ben and Hepsi?” Simon softly asked.

  “I haven’t told them. Not yet. Hepsi keeps asking why I’m so sad.” He pressed his lips and looked down.

  Joses was there. The only brother to . . .

  James asked what he dreaded most. “How is Mother?”

  Tears now seeped from Joses’ eyes, and he didn’t bother to wipe them away. “You would have to ask John that. She stays in his home.”

  “Who is John?” Simon asked dully.

  “Not one of us,” Joses whispered. At length, he wiped his face and said, “What happened to the apprentice?”

  As Jude quietly told the story, images of meeting Joses at the gate yesterday when he returned from Jerusalem flickered in James’ mind. He had walked with another, whose arm was tight about him, supporting. James didn’t know who it was, only that the kindness of it made James weep afresh. At the sight of his brothers waiting at the gate, Joses had stopped short, then dropped his head and wept as well. They ran to him.

  “Who was the fellow you came in with last night?” James asked when Jude had finished.

  Joses looked at James. “What do you mean?”

  “The man who walked with you from Jerusalem.”

  Joses glanced first at Simon, then at Judas. “I came alone.”

  James blinked. But . . . of course. It must have been awful for him. What had Joses endured? He had not spoken of it. “You came to Bethany with a man who had an arm around you,” James said quietly. “It’s all right, Joses. It doesn’t matter.”

  But Joses was not the only one looking at James. Simon fixed him with a strange gaze, and Jude was looking at him too.

  “Joses came alone, James,” Simon said.

  “He came alone,” Judas said quietly.

  James stared. He was sure . . . He gave a rueful chuckle. “I could say I had too much sun yesterday, but . . .”

  “We need to see how Nathanael is,” Judas murmured. “And Jorah.”

  Jorah. How was Jorah taking it? She was at the home of the Bethany physician.

  “Nathanael will not survive.” It came from Simon in a rough whisper. “We need to be with Jorah.”

  “Did you speak with the doctor?” Joses asked.

  But the capriciousness struck again, this time with Simon. His fists were white on his knees, and he began to tremble. Muscles twitched in his face as he worked furiously to stay controlled. His words fumbled first, then came in a low, teeth-bared growl. “I want—to know—about those scars of his,” he managed. He rubbed his face hard and gave a growling cough into his hands. “Tell me, James.”

  “From his mother,” James said bleakly. “They were from his mother.” Simon’s face tightened. He nodded and rubbed his hand over his fist.

  The tefillin. “Simon . . .” James began.

  “Shut up, James,” he said.

  “It meant so much to him.”

  “Shut up!” A curse followed, and Simon dug at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

  “It was because of the Temple, you know,” Joses murmured. Like everyone else, his eyes were stained red. He stared distantly as he spoke. “A few days ago he—overturned the money changers’ tables in the Temple compound. ‘Stop making my Father’s house a robber’s den. My Father’s house is a house of—’” His voice caught.

  “Defiant to the end,” Judas murmured.

  “Prayer,” Joses whispered, lips trembling. “‘My Father’s house is a house of prayer.’”

  “‘My Father’s house,’” James mumbled. He frowned. Why did those words sound familiar?

  “I remember too, James,” Joses said. He put his head back against the wall, letting tears stream down his face. James squinted at Joses. It was there but so vague.

  Joses sniffed and wiped his nose. “Don’t you remember? Judas and Simon were too little. We were in—”

  “The caravan,” James suddenly said.

  “Yes. We left for home. And suddenly Mother and Father realized Jesus wasn’t with us.”

  “Couldn’t find him anywhere,” James supplied wonderingly as the memory trickled back. “They were frantic.”

  “Remember where we found him?”

  “Back in Jerusalem, at the Temple.” He gave a hard chuckle. “Talking with the scribes and the leaders.”

  Joses had a strange look. “Do you remember what he said to Mother and Father?” He pressed his lips together. “He said, ‘Why were you looking for me? Didn’t you know I had to be in . . . my Father’s house?’”

  Quiet crept through the workroom. The weeping would come again; it would take one or more of them soon. For now, the sons of Joseph were together in quiet.

  She was the doctor’s wife, and her name was Abishag. Abi, her husband called her. She was soft-spoken and kind, and busied herself in the little alcove of a kitchen, peeking in on Jorah now and then. Outside the pain, Jorah noticed Abi wiping her own eyes as she went about her work.

  Abi wore a two-piece head covering. Fine white linen swirled snugly about her head and neck, concealing all but the oval of a droopy, aging face. The white linen was capped by heavy green cloth that fell away behind her back. Jorah had not seen a head covering like it. And she was not sure she had ever met anyone uglier. Great yellowed teeth jutted from Abi’s mouth, teeth like a horse’s. Sometimes she pulled her lip down to conceal them, but the lip would ride back up. She had a faint silver mustache and silver hairs on her chin.

  The weeping came again, wringing from her another ounce of misery, and Jorah cried into her sodden, wadded head covering.

  Abi came at the sound. She sat beside Jorah on the guest bed, patting her back and wiping her own eyes.

  “There now, child,” she murmured. “My heart just—” She squeaked and covered her face with a cloth. She blew hard into it. Jorah jumped at the sound
.

  Horribly, the loud noise made Jorah giggle. Abi pulled the cloth from her face, and her wet eyes crinkled with an instant smile. “It’s nice to hear someone laugh at that again. I scared my own children with my blowing. A shofar blast, they called it.”

  “Thank you for . . . the food . . . the bed . . .”

  “A pleasure to me, child.”

  Jorah twisted the damp cloth in her lap. “May I see him? He needs a familiar face.”

  “The doctor is puzzling out if there is more he can do. He does not give up, not while there is breath. So far, the lad has breath.” Abi dabbed at her nose with her cloth. “There is a saying, child . . . ‘While I breathe, I hope.’ It’s the doctor’s own creed.”

  “Nathanael’s hope died yesterday.”

  Her own words were thin in her ears. Weeping did not accompany them—a strange thing because it was the first time she had spoken aloud about the death of Jesus. Her face felt thick and heavy, as she did on the inside.

  Presently Jorah asked, “Do you know of Lazarus?”

  Abi pulled her lip over the teeth and nodded. “The doctor tended him in his illness.”

  “Did Jesus really . . . ?”

  “Ask anyone in Bethany. Ask Lazarus. The doctor was there when he died.” The teeth came out as she smiled the crinkly smile, her eyes sparkling. “And four days later, I was there when he lived again.”

  Jorah searched those eyes. “Then Abi, tell me why . . . why does he call a man from his grave . . . why did he do those things . . .” Her throat constricted, making her voice small. “And he made people happy . . . and then he—”

  The weeping came, and Abi’s arms came around her.

  “They all leave, Abi,” Jorah cried. “They all leave me.”

  “Sweet child,” Abi murmured, rocking back and forth with Jorah. Abi took her crying cloth and pressed it to her face. She blew mightily into it, then wept along with Jorah.

  22

  THE THIRD DAY

  In the afternoon of the third day, strange reports began to trickle into Bethany from Jerusalem.

  Men gathered in groups at the city gate, discussing the news, inquiring of those entering the city from the Jerusalem road. Three rumors were repeated most often from various travelers at various times in the day. Some left for Jerusalem to see if the things were so, but came back bewildered, repeating the same three rumors:

  Jesus has risen from the dead.

  His body was stolen by his disciples at night.

  The veil of the Temple was torn in two, top to bottom.

  These three reports were equally declared as true, equally decried as false. Other reports came in, things that seemed shameful to put on the lips: reports that other tombs had opened besides that of Jesus. Reports of Lazarus-like incidents; appearances of those known dead, walking from their tombs into Jerusalem. Reports of fantastic things that happened when Jesus the Nazarene died upon the cross.

  Rumors flourished, but of them all, the three were most talked about.

  The brothers gathered in the workroom to discuss these things, this time with Matthias. They were tired of trying to conceal their identities at the city gate. Too many deluged them with questions. Too many showed them sympathy or contempt.

  James began it, looking angrily at the others. “Haven’t we gone through enough?”

  “Apparently not,” Jude said, jaw working. “I cannot perceive of anything more vicious—”

  “Cruel,” Simon stated, his face blank.

  “Spiteful,” Joses whispered.

  “—than rumors such as these. I wish Mother were here with us. It makes me ill to think she hears these things too.”

  “What if . . . it is true?”

  The brothers looked as one upon Matthias, seated on a stool near the doorway. Matthias was darker than any of the brothers, both of hair and of complexion. His beard was square and thick for one so young, nearly ten years younger than James. He should have looked away at the gazes full upon him, but he did not. Matthias was from Bethany, after all. Home of Lazarus.

  “What if what is true?” Simon snapped. “Which one, Matthias? That he has risen from the dead, or that his disciples stole the body to make it seem so? Or how about the one with the veil? Do you really believe that, Matthias? Torn top to bottom? Do you know how thick that veil is? It would take God himself to do something like that.”

  “Lazarus is my friend.”

  Chills stole up and down James’ arms. What bothered James more? What Matthias said or the way he said it? That simple confidence.

  “We have been through enough,” Simon stated. “I say we find Mother and leave for Nazareth as fast as we can. Escape it all. We are fools to stay.”

  “It is still High Holy Week,” Joses murmured. By his tone he knew it didn’t matter.

  “Best time to go.” Simon shrugged widely. “We can avoid the crowds and all the nasty things that come with them.” His arms came down. “I can just hear what they will say now.”

  “What if it is true?” Matthias insisted. “What if your brother has risen from the dead? How can you ignore the possibility? I say we go to Jeru—”

  “It is over!” Simon bellowed. “For three years we all tried in our own way to put up with it. To accommodate him. But—”

  “No, we didn’t,” James said quietly. “We failed him.”

  “Don’t you dare come to that conclusion for me,” Simon said.

  James rested his head against the wall as he gazed at the beams above. “I could have been with him. I could have walked by his side like those twelve friends of his. Jesus and me, like it used to be. Maybe I was meant to be one of those twelve.”

  “Where is that kind of talk going to get you?” Joses demanded.

  “Stop it, James,” Judas said wearily. “There was nothing you could have done. Nothing any of us could have done. Joses was right all along . . . it was bigger than us. But it’s over now. Even his followers are dispersed. We have to try and put it behind us.”

  “Maybe you can do that,” James whispered. No, please, no weeping now. Not now.

  “We all have to, James,” Joses said. “We all do.”

  James looked at Joses. “And tell me how we do that, brother. He was innocent. He did not deserve a death like that.” He had not felt the gut pain in so long, but there it was, searing out his insides. He dug his fingers at it. “He did not deserve that kind of—”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Joses suddenly shouted. Angry tears sprang to his eyes. “Don’t you—James, they shoved a crown of thorns onto his head! They had a sign—it said ‘King of the Jews’—nailed above him!”

  James wanted to crawl from the words.

  “I saw his back,” Joses choked. “It was so striped—so covered with lashes you couldn’t see—”

  But a groan strangled from James’ throat, and he wrapped his arms over his head. And a growl came from Simon, like a warning.

  “I was there! To see your own brother—it was bad enough—but even worse was—even worse . . .”

  The door slammed. Joses was gone.

  “He was good. He was good. It just doesn’t make sense,” James whispered. “Not a death like that.”

  If he dared, he would kill himself—why be a part of a world that crucified people like Jesus? And if he dared, he would go to Simon, self-sufficient Simon, who fell to his side and lay clawing the floor, helplessly shrieking his grief. And if he dared, he would go to Judas, who rocked back and forth saying over and over, “Clouds without water, trees without fruit.”

  Matthias rose from his stool and went to the door. “I cannot believe it is over,” he said quietly, perhaps not expecting to be heard. “Lazarus lives.” He put his hand on the door. “He lives.” He slipped from the workroom, following Joses.

  Joses strode quickly from Matthias’ home and broke into a run. Even worse was knowing what he couldn’t bear to tell the other brothers, because they had had enough. Even worse was the report he had learned w
hile in Jerusalem, that his brother had been sold out to the priests by one of his own disciples. By the one Joses had seen—and ignored—in the Temple compound.

  Judas Ish-Kerioth. Ish-Kerioth. Ish-Kerioth.

  Even worse was knowing he could have prevented his brother’s crucifixion.

  Matthias could not keep up. His sandals pounded to a halt, and he braced his hands against his knees, breathing hard. Joses still ran, toward the outskirts of the city, toward Bethphage. Matthias straightened, watching Joses run. He had his hands over his ears, but he could still hear that unearthly wail. He watched until Joses disappeared down the road before starting back.

  He had to find out for himself. It could not be over. Lazarus was his friend.

  The villagers had given direction; this had to be the place. But Joab stood before the doctor’s door and could not knock.

  He clutched a cloth-wrapped bundle and sent glances at people who passed, wondering if they were curious about what he held. A treasure like none other, if they only knew. If they knew, he would be attacked and robbed.

  But nobody seemed to notice him. The news from Jerusalem had everyone in Bethany talking this morning. It was precisely that news that brought Joab to this doorstep.

  The Teacher had risen! Joab looked in wonder at the cloth-wrapped bundle. He had risen, and so here was Nathanael’s hope. He only had to get this silver box to him, and he would not die. Joab had watched and listened; he was there when the brothers discovered the box disguised in wood. He was there when they spoke of it, and he had learned of its awesome significance. It was almost as if it had remained cloaked until this space in time, this very moment when someone would need it the most.

  Surely the box had powers. The man whose gift it had been had risen from the dead! After three years of healing others, performing miracle after miracle, confounding the smart people and affronting the important, he crowned his achievements with the most magnificent of all.