Daughter of Cana

by Angela Hunt

  An anxious frown crinkled Joanna’s brows. “I’m not sure we should search for a wild animal.”

  “But it sounded like a small animal.” I pushed at the tall grass and studied the slope that ran down to the seashore. I saw nothing unusual.

  Jude sighed as Joanna retreated behind the donkey. “The sun will set soon,” he reminded me.

  “I am eager to reach Capernaum, too,” I reminded him. “I only need a moment.”

  I stepped into the grass, aware that I might encounter a rabbit, a snake, or a rat. My sandals offered no protection from a snakebite, and if I discovered a rat’s nest, Jude would never stop for me again. But the cry I heard sounded bigger than a rat or rabbit, and more urgent . . .

  I took another step into the tall grass. Maybe I had imagined the cry. Thomas was always accusing me of hearing things, so I closed my eyes and listened in a silence so thick the only sound was the quiet pounding of my pulse. We were alone. No fishermen were on the lake, no boats or nets waited on shore. This desolate area lay between two cities, so any sound must have come from an animal, and animals knew how to fend for themselves.

  “You should make noise,” Joanna called. “Chuza says a snake will flee if he hears you coming.”

  “That is good to know.” I lifted my voice, hoping Chuza had given his wife sound advice. “If you are a snake, please leave . . .”

  Ahead of me, something shivered the grass, and my heart nearly stopped beating.

  Jude must have seen the movement, too. “Tasmin!” His voice thundered in rebuke. “Get out of there.”

  I was about to turn and retreat, but then I heard a distinctively human cry. Tiny fingers parted the grass in front of me, and I saw a little boy crouching among the stalks. He wore no clothing, and bloody scabs marked his pale skin—wounds from sharp reeds, I presumed, or insect bites. Liquid dripped from his noise, mottled scabs covered his lips, and his brown eyes were deep enough for me to fall into . . .

  “Oh!” I fell to my knees and gestured to him. “Come here, little one. Why are you hiding in the grass?”

  The boy hesitated, then stood and staggered toward me, crying in earnest. I gasped in surprise when his arms went around my neck. I awkwardly patted his back and felt sharp bones beneath the thin covering of skin. Whose child was this, and how long had he been out here?

  I met Joanna’s wide gaze. The sight of the child had startled her as well, but now she opened her arms. Gratefully I walked over and gave the child to her, then watched as she murmured soft words and lowered the boy to the ground. Together we knelt and looked him over.

  “How old do you think he is?” I asked.

  “Two or three years, I would say.” She ran her hand over his thin arms and legs. “No broken bones. No cuts other than these bites and scratches.”

  “Who would leave a boy out here?” I asked. “Or could he be lost?”

  Joanna shook her head. “His family might have been part of a caravan, so he could have been lost along the way. Sometimes children wander when their families stop to eat. The family moves forward again, unaware that their child has slipped away.”

  “So we need to find his family.”

  She nodded, then inhaled a sharp breath. “There is another possibility. Most children are weaned at three. If his family could not afford to feed him, they might have abandoned him in the hope that someone else would take him in.”

  I stared at her, stunned. “How could anyone do that?”

  “The concept is an ancient one—the Greeks and Romans still leave unwanted babies for the wild dogs.”

  “But surely no Jew—”

  “We are not blameless in this matter. When our fathers turned from HaShem, they sacrificed their children to Molech, placing their babies in the fire. The prophets were horrified—HaShem was horrified. Such things should not be done, but when men turn their thoughts from Adonai, they place their pleasures above the holiness of God-given life.” She ran her hand over the boy’s tousled hair and pulled a burr from his curls. “Do you have a name?” She smiled at him. “Are you called . . . Jacob?” The child shook his head. “David?” Again a headshake. “Why don’t you tell me what your name is?”

  The boy stared at her, his eyes filling with tears. He stuck his thumb in his mouth and began to wail in earnest.

  “Poor thing.” Joanna drew him close, cradling his head against her breast. “I’m sure he’s terrified.”

  I tilted my head. Joanna was old enough to have adult children, and she was free to travel. Perhaps she was free enough to raise another child . . .

  “Do you have children?” I asked. “You seem to know what you are doing.”

  The flicker of a smile rose at the edge of her mouth, then faded away. “We had a daughter and a son, but both died from a fever. Adonai has not seen fit to bless us with others.”

  “I’m sorry. I wondered because you seem so comfortable with the boy.”

  “Comfortable? Yes. And heartbroken. But HaShem is faithful, and His mercies are new every morning.”

  She rubbed the crying boy’s back and looked at me. “What about you? Have you younger siblings?”

  “None. I have a twin brother, though, and he is my other half. That’s why I have to find him in Capernaum and take him back home.”

  “If Adonai wills.” She looked over at Jude, who had led the donkey down to the lake for water. “Jude? We are willing to go when you are ready.”

  Jude pulled the donkey from the water and led him up the hill. When he drew closer, he looked at the child in Joanna’s arms and lifted a bushy brow. “And what are we doing with him?”

  “Taking him with us,” Joanna said, clearing a space for the boy on the pack saddle. “Perhaps someone in Capernaum will either recognize him or be willing to take him in. But we cannot leave him here.”

  Jude glanced at me, then nodded. “Let us go, then, and hope Adonai leads us in the right direction.”

  We finally spotted Capernaum, an old city shining in the melon-colored tints of the setting sun. This thoroughly Jewish town was located just off the highway that ran from the Great Sea to Damascus, so the settlement was well fortified. A Roman garrison—a smaller structure than the massive complex in Jerusalem—had been built into the city wall, and soldiers walked on its flat roof, keeping watch over the highway. On the ground, just outside the gate, a group of elders sat in a semicircle, enjoying the honor accorded them, while a group of women sold their wares in a booth not far away.

  As the women eyed the setting sun and put away their goods, an energetic group of Torah scholars argued about a point of the Law, their hands moving in emphatic gestures and occasionally slamming an open palm. A few of the older men, quiet and dignified in their long gray beards, cast inquisitive eyes on us as we walked past, yet no one stopped us or inquired about our visit.

  From snatches of conversation that reached my ear, I learned that news of Etan’s wedding had traveled faster than we had. “I heard it from eyewitnesses,” one merchant was saying. “The Nazarene took water from a common cistern and turned it into wine!”

  “I have seen him at the well,” another man said, “and he looks as ordinary as you and me. What makes him a king? His mother is a common woman, and his father was a carpenter.”

  “He lives with Simon Peter’s family,” a woman inserted. “Would a king live with a fisherman?”

  “He comes from the house of David,” another man argued. “His father was Joseph, son of Matthat, son of Levi, son of Melki, son of Jannai, son of Joseph, and so on until David. Did Adonai not promise us another king from the house of David?”

  Ahead of me, Jude guffawed. I grimaced, hoping none of the men had heard him. The last thing we needed was an argument with one or more of these strangers. They had no idea that Jude was Yeshua’s brother, but Jude, who had probably grown weary of the conversation of women, might be eager for a robust argument with men who held strong opinions about Yeshua.

  When I saw him turn and stare at one fel
low, I quickened my step and caught his arm. “Please don’t.” When he scowled at me, I pinched the flesh beneath his sleeve. “We have no time for this sort of thing. The sun will soon set, and we have yet to find our families and prepare for the night.”

  Jude cast a derisive glance at the men, then nodded. “You are right; it would be wiser for me to avoid a confrontation. Perhaps you should ask those women about our families.”

  Leaving his side, I walked over to a table where a woman was packing up a collection of clay bowls. “Shalom,” I said, smiling. “We are looking for Yeshua of Nazareth, who is traveling with a large group. I believe they arrived here two or three days ago.”

  The woman’s round face relaxed in a smile. “I saw them camped on the lake shore.”

  “Good.” I pointed to a road that appeared to lead toward the lake. “Is this the best way to go? Around the town?”

  “You could go to the lake that way,” she said, “but you won’t find Yeshua there. He and his people left this morning.”

  “They’ve gone?” I gaped at her. “But they invited us to join them.”

  Jude appeared at my side. “Where did they go?” he asked, his voice rough.

  The woman arched a brow. “If you want to know that, you should have arrived earlier. People leaving Capernaum do not always tell me where they are bound.”

  Jude flushed. “They must have told someone—”

  I placed my open hand into the space between Jude and the woman. “Thank you for your help,” I told her while pulling Jude away. “We will go into the city and ask a few others. You have been most helpful.”

  I released Jude’s arm when we reached the donkey. While he sputtered in frustration, I grasped the donkey’s halter and led him, Joanna, and the boy into Capernaum.

  “She had to know where they went,” Jude said, trailing behind the donkey. “Women like that know everything.”

  “Why would she lie to us?” I countered. “Perhaps she was home when they left the city. Perhaps she didn’t ask because she doesn’t care. But your brother lives here now, so someone will know where they were going.”

  The streets of Capernaum were clearing as we ventured into the heart of the city. We walked past shuttered shops and homes where lamplight fringed the doorways. Joanna stayed beside the donkey, keeping a steadying hand on its passenger—the boy had fallen asleep on the pack saddle.

  “We should find a place to rest,” Joanna said, nodding toward the child. “And we need to find food—we have an extra mouth to feed, and this boy will be hungry.”

  “The woman said Yeshua camped on the shore,” I reminded her. “Maybe we should set up a camp there. One of the fishermen might have overheard their plans.”

  Jude snorted. “Fine. But we need to make camp before dark.”

  We followed the curve of the road and soon came to the eastern edge of town, where a well-worn path led toward the lake. Breathing in the mingled scents of water and fish, I led the way to the shore. I peered down the path, hoping to spot some kind of shelter, but all I could see was sand, shrubby bushes, and a few overturned boats.

  “We can camp there,” Jude said, pointing at the boats. “I’ll help you set up, then I’ll go look for food. I’ll have to hurry before they close the gates.”

  “Go now,” I urged him, leading the donkey toward the boats. “Joanna and I will build a fire.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course.”

  Jude hesitated a moment, then turned and left us alone in the gathering darkness.

  As Joanna and I unloaded the pack saddle near the overturned fishing boats, I struggled to hide my disappointment. I had hoped to be spending the night in Thomas’s company, surrounded by a sizable group. Instead I was camping outside with a man, woman, and child I barely knew. I was not afraid—I trusted Jude and Joanna—but I had been confident that Thomas and I would be reunited before sunset.

  Countless times during the day I found myself turning to look for my brother, but then remembered he was not around. I frequently bit back words I would have said, words he alone would have understood. A hundred times I had swallowed Thomas always says and If Thomas were here . . .

  Would I ever find him again?

  When everything had been unpacked, I sat on a blanket and rested my elbows on my knees. Thomas’s absence was so overwhelming, so palpable, I felt like his shadow sat beside me, a mocking, taunting remnant of my twin. Wherever he was, did Thomas feel my absence? Did he miss me as much as I missed him? What had it been now—four days? Four days without Thomas. Endless, frustrating days.

  My gaze drifted toward the east, where the setting sun had spangled the sea. Waves crested rhythmically against the shore, a soothing sound that would soon lull us to sleep . . .

  For Thomas’s sake, I would not mind sleeping on the narrow beach. I knew the lake could occasionally spawn fierce storms, but the wind was warm and the sky clear.

  Joanna took the sleepy child from the donkey and set him on a rock. I helped her roll out blankets. Since she had a blanket of her own, we put ours together and created a space large enough for two women and the boy to stretch out. “I suppose we could crawl beneath one of those boats if it rains,” she said, one hand on her hip as she looked over the area. “But with a fire, it might be more pleasant to sleep under the stars.” She lifted a brow. “Do you think Jude is capable of defending us if necessary?”

  I laughed. “Capable? Sure. But perhaps the question is not whether he could, but whether he would.”

  “Why? Is there some trouble between you two?”

  I blinked at her. “I don’t know why I said that. I suppose I was thinking of my brother, who would defend me from anything. I . . . I suppose I didn’t think anyone else would want to defend me.”

  She sank to the blanket. “You and Jude have something in common, then. You are both seeking a brother.”

  I nodded. “He wants Yeshua to stop traveling and return to the family business. I want my brother to come home and stop following this would-be messiah. Thomas has no business leaving me and our father alone.”

  Joanna nodded as she filled a small clay lamp with oil from a stoppered pitcher. “This will do in place of a fire,” she said, placing the lamp in the sand. “As for me, I don’t think Yeshua is a would-be messiah. I believe he is the One we have been waiting for.”

  I shot her a questioning glance. “Because you heard a voice from heaven?”

  “In part.” She bent her knees, then locked her arms around them as she looked at the watery horizon. The setting sun behind us had turned the eastern sky purple and pink, a glorious ending for a long day.

  “Is this not the right time for the messiah to appear?” she asked. “Our people returned from exile after proving we could not keep the Law. We learned we could not, so why have we become so determined to keep it now?” She laughed softly. “Manaen and Chuza have spent hours discussing these things. When we went to the Jordan to see John the Immerser, we did not go to be convinced of anything. Chuza hoped to tell Antipas that the Immerser was simply another fraud. But then we saw Yeshua—quiet, simple, and lowly—and we heard John declare that ‘Yeshua is the Lamb of God, the One who will take away the sins of the world.’”

  I looked up, confused. “What does that mean?”

  She waved her hand, clearly at a loss for words. “I’m not sure. But if HaShem has sent him to take away sins, then that is what he will do, for how could HaShem fail in his purpose?”

  A flush raced like a fever across her lovely face. “The prophet Jeremiah testified that Adonai would bring us back from exile because He loves us, and He always will. And the Lord said, ‘Behold, days are coming when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and with the house of Judah—not like the covenant I made with their fathers in the day I took them by the hand to bring them out of the land of Egypt . . . After those days I will put my Torah within them. Yes, I will write it on their heart. I will be their God and they will be My people .
. . for I will forgive their iniquity, their sin I will remember no more.’” She tilted her head and smiled. “Does that sound like a Lamb of God who will take away the sins of the world?”

  I blew out a breath. “Lambs are meant for sacrifice. Do you think Adonai would send our messiah only to have him die?”

  A momentary look of bewilderment crossed Joanna’s face. Then she shook her head. “Chuza and I have asked ourselves the same question. We don’t have all the answers, but I know one thing—what Adonai has promised, He will do. And if John says Yeshua will take away the sins of the world, then he will. How will He do it? I am content to wait and see.”

  We sat in silence for a few moments, then the child began to cry. Joanna gave him a pitying glance, hugged him, and patted his back. “I can feel his ribs,” she whispered. “And I have nothing to give him.”

  “Wait.” I pulled a half-finished loaf of flatbread from my bag. “I have this.”

  Joanna took the bread and broke off a piece, then offered it to the boy. He brought it to his mouth, but instead of biting it, he licked it like a ravenous dog.

  Startled, I looked to Joanna for an explanation. “Why does he eat like that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She pulled the boy’s hand away from his face and tipped him backward to better see inside his mouth. “He has teeth,” she murmured, “though they are not arranged as they should be. Wait.” A frown darkened her face. “I have never seen anything like that.”

  “What?”

  Gesturing for me to come closer, she tipped the boy’s head toward the lamplight. I saw a few teeth in his pink gums, then I gasped. The boy’s tongue was . . . wrong. Deformed. Instead of being long and rounded at the end, the tongue had two ends, neither of which seemed to reach his front teeth.

  I recoiled in horror. “Is this the child of the devil?”

  “Of course not.” Her mouth dipped into an even deeper frown. “But he was born with some kind of deformity.”

  “How can he eat with a tongue like that?”

  “Or talk?” Joanna shook her head. “No wonder he couldn’t tell us his name—I wonder if he can speak at all.”