Eden (17 page)

Bread and Wine

Judas retreated from the compound walls, down the blind alley, clutching the purse as if it would save him. Out in the street the crowds were still shouting at the temple doors but the man left them to it and Eden followed him toward the city gates.

Once more the two climbed the hill beyond the city walls.

As the dog and the man had not been not missed, only the animals noticed their return. The companions were nowhere to be seen. Samson and the lambs had not moved from the cluster of trees. Quietly, Maryam emerged from the shadows and silently joined them. So only she remained.

“Back so soon?” Samson asked Eden. “What did the man want in the city?”

“He needed to talk to other men,” Eden told the donkey. “To trade in words. Some true, some lies.”

“Why would he do that?” asked the littlest lamb.

At first, Eden did not know why. But she thought for a moment, of Judas and his cloak of pain.

“To ease his mind,” the dog said at last.

“Did it help?” the littlest lamb asked.

Eden only shook her head. “Not that I could see.”

The animals fell silent at the sound of approaching footsteps.

A stranger carrying a water jar appeared on the narrow path. The newcomer seemed to know them all, greeting Judas and Maryam with soft words, then pointed up the hill to a cluster of houses. At once everyone began to climb, the animals too, walking up the slope on either side of the rocky path. At length they reached a house. But this was not a dwelling where all could shelter. A flight of stone steps clung to the outer wall. On the landing an open door showed the welcoming light of an upstairs room. Donkeys cannot climb narrow stairs and the lambs were simply too numerous.

But Eden knew how to climb!

The dog bounded behind the Water Jar Man, while Judas and Maryam followed, and the others stayed upon the hillside. Free of the narrow city streets the silly lambs became frisky and boisterous, nosing into the ropes of figs hanging by the house and nibbling at the berries on the bushes against the hillside. Until Samson told them to behave themselves and not to wander off.

Of all the animals only Eden was allowed upstairs that night. Their host put his heavy water jar down and his wife brought a stack of bowls so that all could wash. She even made a nice bed for Eden out of a folded cloak, and set down a dish of water for her to drink. Then silently the Water Jar Wife prepared the feast.

Quietly the others entered as the sun began to set.

When night's shadows darkened the windows the room had filled.

The companions passed around the unleavened bread and poured wine into goblets while Maryam and the Water Jar Wife served. Their master brought a scroll to the table so they might recite, but no one looked at it, as all of them knew the words by heart. Quietly they told the ancient story of bondage to Pharaoh and the flight from Egypt. Yet as they recited the old story of slavery and freedom, they paused in the telling to speak of other matters.

Many things were said that night and many things remembered.

Many things forgotten too, now forever lost.

But most was left unspoken.

Eden had heard the story of hard bondage before, for they told it every year. Dutifully, she tried to listen but gave up, letting the words pass over her head. But as always—when the gift of understanding went away—the smells and scents, the sounds and tastes filled the room.

Stronger now was the food on the table, dates and nuts, chopped apple and honey. She smelled horseradish, an egg with the side of its shell burnt brown, a bit of roasted lamb bone. Before long the Water Jar Wife put a large raw joint in front of her and Eden gave up listening for good.

The ceremony came to an end, the scroll was put away. Maryam and the Water Jar Wife brought to the table the meal of lentils, stewed beef, cheese, olives, and more bread.

Eden stopped working the bone. The table had gone very quiet and her master was speaking, but for some reason his words meant nothing to her. He broke bread once more and offered the pieces to each of his companions. And they took the pieces, the dry scraps of that unleavened bread, as if it meant more to them than any prize, any food, any gift—taking each broken morsel as if it were part of the man himself. And as each companion passed the jagged piece from finger to finger, a few crumbs fell from the table to the floor.

Then Eden watched her master offer his cup from one companion to the next and the wine was passed around once more. Here again, in their reverence to touch the cup, to drink the wine, their hands trembled and drops spilt as it went from man to man.

What was so special about this bread? Eden wondered. What was so special about this wine?Eden did not know. Still, Eden felt drawn to the fallen crumbs, the drop of wine. She left her bone and went to the spot by her master's chair.

She snuffed the dry crumbs. Just plain bread.

Then the dot of wine. Just wine.

Plain bread. Plain wine. Nothing special. Nothing at all.

Eden felt her master's hand stroke her silken ear. And she loved him back with every fiber of her being and with all her heart. But as the glow filled her, her real age returned like a heavy weight. The moment she loved him back, her magic youth was gone. And suddenly she realized it was him,
her master
who felt old. His burdened mind ran down his arm and into her every string and cord. When his hand finally lifted from her head the connection broke. And her strange wonderful youth returned.

Still one thing bothered Eden, and she thought about it as she worked the bone in her paws, turning it round and round as she gnawed. Not just that her master seemed weary … but something beyond this upper room. Judas had left the table and gone to the window, staring out into the dark. Eden could feel him gazing down, staring hard toward the city. And she knew his wordless thoughts as though seeing through his eyes.

Watch fires lit the city walls, and in every guardhouse and every keep an oil lamp burned, shining into the night. Upon the bare ground before the gates, people gathered at the end of the feast amongst the hovels of the destitute, those with tents and even those without tents who lived with less than nothing. All the ancient tales had been recited but no one felt their burdens lifted. And now many of the poorest in the city gathered in groups about the gates, crying aloud for one to come to them, to bring them out of bondage as all the tales foretold. Their cries echoed off the city walls and the Roman guards looked down from a great height and with great amusement, for they had beaten this conquered rabble over and over.

Nothing new in any of their pleas.

Except four cups of Passover wine and some stale flat bread in shrunken bellies.

The Roman Governor might sleep tonight, but not his soldiers. Instead the Legionaries would keep a vigil till the dawn broke like a fever, shaking and sweating—and the mob, weary from their struggles, finally crawled into their beds.

Judas gripped the wooden windowsill as if it might steady him. And he muttered, slurring his words together. “Just give us a little time, a little more time—” then tore his eyes from the walls. Judas' mind snapped shut and he let go the wooden sill. When he stopped murmuring he took all his secret thoughts with him and Eden saw no more.

Inside the upper room, Eden's master rose from his seat, and for a moment everyone at the table feared he was going to leave them, walk down the stairs and out to the city walls. Eden saw Maryam's eyes widen in fear, even as the cries down below grew louder, calling for a messiah, a deliverer, anyone to come and save them.

But no one answered the call, not that day.

Eden looked to the spot on the floor where her bone joint waited for her.

But she wasn't hungry anymore.

The Garden

Eden followed Judas down the narrow stairs and onto the hillside where Samson and the lambs waited patiently. Nearby the companions talked among themselves. Down from the upper floor, the travelers paused on the rocky slope beside the house of the feast as though unsure where to go. But instead of joining them, Judas sat apart, sitting heavily on a flat boulder beneath a twisted olive tree. He peered ahead, trying to make out the companions' familiar, friendly faces, but the darkness up the hill seemed impenetrable.

Eden tugged the hem of Judas' robe:
C'mon, c'mon, let's go
. But the man seemed too beaten to move.

“No, you go,” he told her. “They need you more than me. Go on now.”

Reluctantly Eden turned and made her way up the hill leaving Judas by the narrow path. As the darkness closed in around her the last thing she heard was Judas talking to himself, arguing again. The argument was getting worse. But his voice faded, and as she neared the cluster of companions that familiar stealthy padding reached her ears again.

Ah, the fox.

The fox had returned. So he had spoken the truth to them that he would never be far.

At the doorstep of the house the companions still spoke among themselves, trying to decide where to stay for the night. Samson the donkey looked down his long gray nose at Eden.

“No one can decide where to go,” he said. “Some wish to find a safe place on the hillside and others wish to leave the city altogether.”

Eden looked suspiciously around. Stay or flee? She didn't know.

“The fox is back.”

“Yes, I can smell him.”

“Perhaps
he
will find the best place to rest tonight.”

“Perhaps,” Samson said. “But it won't be with the lambs, they're too noisy. And it won't be with me. Donkeys snore. And a fox won't snuggle up to a dog—you'd only talk all night and then chase him around in circles.”

“No,” Eden agreed. “In the end I'd only run him down.” She put her nose to the ground and snuffed. “And he won't be bothering with the mice either. They have all gone into hiding. No feast for him tonight. He'll go hungry.”

“Then why does he follow us?” Samson asked.

“Only he knows,” Eden said.

Both the dog and donkey fell silent. Apparently a decision was reached and the companions began to follow their master higher up the slope. Eden and Samson roused the lambs and herded them to follow. Deep in the brush Eden heard the fox pattering along, so he had not given up on them. She almost started to chase him, but that would have meant leaving Samson and the lambs, so she let the fox be.

Suddenly everyone stopped.

They had come to a grove of olive trees, a sheltered garden hidden from the world below. The ground underfoot was soft with moss, the air fragrant, scented with juniper and orange flowers. The squat stone basin of an ancient olive press stood at the edge of the trees. A weary millstone rested in the mill's smooth groove, its stout wooden haft gleamed richly from the grip of nameless hands, olive oil and the turn of countless seasons.

A heavy stillness hung over the garden. The companions rested in the thighs of ancient trunks, the twisted arms of olive branches sheltering their heads. Yet Eden felt no sense of ease. Rather, the dog felt hunted, as if many men were scouring the hills for any sign of their master. Yet none of the others seemed to feel anxious, their eyes heavy with sleep. Only Eden was alert, and this secluded garden no place of rest.

But for the moment no one found them, so the dog watched and waited. Safe for now from the nameless mob, from faceless men in bare chambers, from soldiers combing the rocks and trees. While worse things waited in the dark. And yet Eden felt outcast, an exile, hidden from the troubles down below, guarding those who slept on the last night at the end of the world.

Eden saw her master find a secluded spot away from the others.

He knelt beside an outcrop of rock and began to whisper softly to himself. His murmurs went on and on, rising and falling as though speaking to an unseen listener. And Eden could tell he was pleading with a caretaker she could not see. A great presence who looked down from heaven. Who lived in every olive tree, in every blade of grass. A great seer, the first and last witness, who knew the earth through every creature that crawled or swam or flew, who beheld the world through every living eye and every star in heaven.

He spoke to the Almighty, maker of oceans and mountains, maker of the universe, who saw into the depths of time and the untold future. Eden felt her master's mind begin to break. He balled his hands before his face in prayer. This was
too much
for a single soul to know. Eden could feel his fear, and the demons of fear that preyed on mortal flesh every second of their lives. And her master began to weaken, and to weep, for nothing could stop the night from ending or the sun from coming up.

Of all things he knew, that was the most certain.

Samson joined the dog and then the youngest of the lambs came also, drawn by the sounds of sorrow. They watched their master's whispers escape into thin air, leaving only silence waiting in the shadows of the trees.