Rebekah's Treasure (10 page)

Aaron wrinkles his forehead. He’s clearly scandalized. “Years ago the Hasmoneans always purified a pagan settlement before moving into it. Pray well, Zechariah, and beseech God to cleanse this wretched place.”

I back away. So . . . in addition to worrying about my family and the Romans, I must also worry about these followers of Isis.

“Fire! Fire!” someone shouts.

Zechariah’s prayer of blessing over my house still hangs in the air, and my guests have yet to sip their first cup of wine in celebration. But all is forgotten as we rush to the blazing grain fields. It appears the fire started in the barley fields where the crop has already been harvested, but is quickly spreading to the wheat—the wheat which will ripen in less than two weeks. Some of the men who have run ahead have already stripped off their robes and are using them to beat the flames. I pull off my head covering as I run to join them. The wind is not in our favor. It blusters and snorts around our heads. Already a quarter of the field is destroyed.

Zechariah is beside me, his giant arms slamming his robe, over and over, against the wall of fire. He stands his ground, refusing to give way, all the while saying the name “Argos” under his breath, as if a curse.

For over an hour we beat the flames with our clothes, men, women, children—all who have arms and legs and breath to do so. Some of the older women bring jugs of water from the spring to pour over the smoldering rags in our hands. Cinders and smoke fill the air. Our eyes
sting and tear. Our nose and mouth are clogged with soot. We cough, we gag, but we stand and fight. And when it’s done, more than half our crop is destroyed, and Simon the bottlemaker’s arms have been so badly burned we fear he’ll lose one or both of them.

Aaron is gone. He left early this morning. I think of him now as I cover my head with my new square of brown homespun purchased from the widow Leah. Then I fasten the cloth with a plaited cord. From time to time, Leah sells a possession or two in order to live, and someone in the community always buys and always pays more than it’s worth. It’s a way of helping her out. Torah commands us to care for widows and orphans. There’s no shame for either to take alms, but Leah is proud. So this is the system the community has come up with. I’ve already decided to buy Leah another head covering when I can think of an appropriate excuse for giving her a gift.

“Esther!” I shout as I descend the ladder from the second floor to the broadroom below. We must not be late.” I glance into each of the other three rooms on the first floor, but I don’t see my daughter. “Esther!”

“You needn’t shout, Mama,” Esther says, coming in from outside. Her hair is not plaited, but hangs in knotty cascades around her shoulders.

“Quickly, daughter. Prepare yourself. They’re gathering even now as we speak.”

“I’m not going, Mama. I don’t feel well.”

I look at Esther’s thin, pale face; into her dead eyes. Then I feel her forehead for fever. She’s as cool as the spring water in the wadi. “Then you’ll not be gathering with the believers?”

Esther shakes her head.

“It will do you good to get out. And they’ll pray for you. You need their prayers, Esther.”

My daughter stands her ground. “Surely they can pray for me even if I’m not there.”

“Yes . . . I . . . suppose.” My heart is uneasy. I don’t like leaving her. She isolates herself more and more; fellowshipping with no one, and going out only to do her chores. She has even forsaken the normal polite greetings to those she passes. “Well . . . rest then,” I say, knowing Esther is ill, but not in body. And it’s not rest she needs, but a renewed mind.

It’s cramped, and the odor of dung from the nearby sheep wafts overhead. In my hand I clutch my stone cup, the cup which Zechariah has asked me to bring. I was surprised by his request. The cup has always been important to me, but for the first time I’m beginning to understand it might be important to others as well. Zechariah was certainly moved after I told him about it and he examined it. And when he saw the
tav
carved in its bottom, he told me how some rabbis believe that the Israelites applied the lambs’ blood on the doorposts and lintels of their homes in Goshen in the form of a
tav
, as a cross. And this, according to Zechariah, foretold of the three crosses at Golgotha; foretold of the sacrifice of our Lord between two thieves.

“Everyone will be here soon,” Zechariah says, standing near the gate of the sheep pen. “It’s not Solomon’s Porch,” he adds, with a twinkle in his eye, referring to the place that the followers of The Way favored when meeting in Jerusalem’s Temple. “But it’s holy ground, nevertheless.”

We cluster in his courtyard, the late-morning sun beating on our heads. Clucking hens peck the dirt around my feet, and nearby a donkey brays as one by one the believers trickle in. They wear their poverty as well as their troubles, and appear strained, tired and worried. No one talks about it, but everyone knows there’ll be a shortage of wheat because of the recent firing of the fields. And that means nothing to barter with in the Gentile shops.

Zechariah greets everyone by name. I’ve never known a man so jovial. Oh, how he hugs and kisses the brethren, each in turn! His love, like the seeds in a pomegranate, seems endless.

We unfurl our rush mats and place them on the ground, then take our seat. One by one we begin to pray. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the strain on faces eases; a faint glimmer of hope returns to troubled eyes. After all, didn’t the Master promise He would never leave us or forsake us? We have not been abandoned. We have not been forsaken. We are remembering that we’re not alone. One by one, prayers of petition become prayers of thanksgiving. Some prayers turn into songs. And though our words are different, we are one voice; one sweet and lilting voice that floats to heaven and fills the air with a fragrance like incense.
We are remembering
. Slowly, slowly, slowly, a faint smile appears on first one face, then another. How long we sing and pray, I cannot say, because time has stopped for me, and so has all my straining and striving, and yes, my worrying, too.

We’re still uttering praises when two men carrying a litter and, with it, a foul odor, join our assembly. I know that smell. I’ve come to know it these past four years of rebel infighting in Jerusalem. It’s the smell of a gangrenous body. The praying and singing stop as whispers ripple through the crowd, “Simon. It’s Simon the bottlemaker!” People begin standing to get a better look.

What a sad sight he is! I’m on my feet, too, and can see him over the heads of those in front of me if I stand on tiptoes. His arms are black and covered with oozing sores. His eyes are closed and his face, the color of wax. He looks more dead than alive. His presence has caused my spirit to plummet. Just one glance and I have tumbled from the mountain top into the valley. We are all tumbling. I can see it on everyone’s face. I think we would have all gone home right then and there, carrying our heavy hearts like the men carrying the litter, if Zechariah had not stepped forward and opened the codex in his hand—the writings of John the Apostle.

His voice is like thunder. “‘
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God .
. . .’”

I close my eyes and listen. The words are like falling dew. Oh, how parched I am! We’re all parched—made waste, like our land, by the Romans. There’s not one among us who has not felt Rome’s heavy hand. But it’s the
beginning
we must remember. We must return there, to God, to the beginning.

I tilt back my head and without fully understanding why, open my mouth as though trying to catch the precious drops.

“‘. . .
In him was life; and the life was the light of men
. . .’”

Oh, the words, how they comfort! I stand very still. Those around me become still, too. We’re all drinking now.

“‘. . .
But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God
. . . .’”

How long Zechariah reads, I cannot say. But when he’s done, when he finally closes the codex, I feel as giddy as a girl and actually laugh. Some others do, too.

“Oh, dear ones, what a glorious treasure we have in earthen vessels,” Zechariah say, his face beaming like the sun, his eyes moist with tenderness. “Let us remember what a sacrifice it took to make it so. Let us do as our Lord commanded. Let us break bread together. Let us drink from one cup.”

Everyone nods. “Yes, let us remember His sacrifice.”

Zechariah extends his hand toward me. “Rebekah has brought us the cup of our Lord’s last supper.”

I had forgotten the cup, and look down, now, almost surprised to see it there, nestled in my hand. I bring it to Zechariah. He passes it to a man who fills it with wine. Then Zechariah reaches into a basket near his feet, pulls out a large round loaf of flat-bread, and tears off a piece.

“In this way his body was broken for us.” He lifts the piece into the air. “Jesus said to do this in remembrance of Him. I remember, Lord. I remember what you did, how you suffered, how your body was broken. I remember how you were beaten and pierced. All for
me
. I remember.” With that he puts the piece of bread in his mouth and passes the loaf to the woman next to him. She breaks a piece, eats it, then passes the loaf
to another. This is done over and over again. More than once Zechariah has to pluck a fresh loaf from his basket before everyone has broken their piece.

At last, he takes the cup of wine from the hand of the man who’s been holding it all this time, and lifts it into the air. “Jesus also took a cup, and he told the twelve it was the cup of the new covenant, a covenant of blood,
His
blood which is shed for the forgiveness of sins. Oh, dear ones, let us remember that Jesus became the lamb, our Passover lamb, and shed his blood so we can apply it to the doorposts and lintels of our hearts, and pass from death into life.” He’s almost weeping now. “I remember, Lord,” he says sipping from the cup.

We all take our turn, sipping the wine then passing the cup. Moments after I’ve taken my sip there’s a stir among the crowd. People’s heads press together as they whisper. Then the whispers grow louder, until finally someone shouts, “A miracle! It’s a miracle!”

“Praise be to our Lord and Savior,” someone else yells. And then everyone seems to shout at once.

“The Lord is in our midst! The Lord is among us!”

“Forgive us oh, Lord, for our unbelief.”

“Have mercy on us sinners.”

“How great is Messiah, Son of the living God!”

What is happening?
I stand on tiptoes but still can’t determine the reason for the excitement. People are bent over the litter, obscuring Simon from view. Finally, I reach into the crowd and pull on Mary’s tunic. “What is it? What’s going on?”

She turns. She’s crying and laughing all at once. “It’s Simon, my husband. The Lord has healed him. He . . . his skin . . . his skin is as soft and pink as little Joshua’s here.” She points to the infant in Tirzah’s arms.

And so our beleaguered community experienced its first miracle.