Second Touch (18 page)

expansive darkness of the Judean countryside. Behind them loomed the city whose walls channeled orange light skyward, as if from an immense glowing cauldron. “Told you we’d make it,” Gideon announced. “Knew they ¬weren’t as smart as the likes of us. But it’s too late to travel farther. So where do we spend the night?” A warm wind from out of the desert collided overhead with the cool, moist breeze off the sea. A bolt of lightning flashed. Thunder growled in the east. Peniel could see that Gideon was afraid of what lay ahead. “Don’t worry about that,” Peniel said encouragingly. “I know just the place.” The choice of the graveyard as a refuge was not instantly approved. “There’s good shelter from the storm that’s coming. Nobody will ¬ever think of looking for us there,” Peniel urged. “Of course not!” Gideon retorted. “Are you crazy?” Amos demanded. “Evil spirits? Demons? The demon-possessed? Maybe even . . . lepers? So far we’re alive. But luck without sense is a sack with holes.” There was a barely controlled edge of panic in the dwarf’s voice. Rain began to fall: big, fat, methodical beads, hinting at a deluge lurking inside the racing black clouds. Lightning arced behind the veiled sky, leaving a sharp aroma on the breeze. Thunderclaps butted heads, spilling warm rain like pattering drops of blood. “Under those trees along the ditch!” Gideon suggested. “Better than a graveyard!” Amos announced. Peniel conceded the point. Perhaps a late-night rendezvous in a cemetery was not the time to introduce their remaining traveling companion. “Then hide yourselves,” he said, “in that ditch over there. We’ll go on at first light.” “What about you?” Gideon queried warily. “Where’re you going?” “I’ve got some . . . something I have to do,” Peniel replied.

It was their house. Small. One room. Cantor’s. Lily’s. Until he left in the morning this would be their universe. As if it had always been. As if it would always be. This one night. This one room. Lily. Cantor. An eternity of love reflected in the microcosm of this night. This place. Lily. Cantor. ¬I’m praying again, Knower of Our Souls. Tomorrow he will leave me. Can you make tomorrow never come for us? Make time stand still? Give us this moment forever? Torrents of rain bucketed on the Valley, but inside the hut was dry. Cantor had made it ready for her. The floor was carpeted in newly cut palm fronds. Fresh. Clean. A blanket of sheep fleece was spread out. Soft. Warm. The two sat opposite one another, holding hands in the darkness. “The smell of rain. A gift to us, Cantor. Sweet. This rain on our wedding night. Listen.”

“What do you know about . . . love, Lily?” Lily, suddenly shy, whispered, “Cantor? I . . . ¬don’t know anything.” “You ¬didn’t ask Deborah?” “I was . . . too . . .” “Well, then—” Cantor’s voice trembled—“I asked Rabbi Ahava what should be done. He told me some. A little. He says that the Lord made man and woman to fit together. And that it’s a very fine thing. The Lord made a man and wife to take pleasure in one another.” “I have always found pleasure in your company, Cantor.” “There’s even more to it than that. I mean, you’ve seen the rams with the ewes. Yes?” “Oh.” “That’s what I mean. Carpenter was married when he lived Outside. To a very nice woman from the sound of her. She liked Carpenter very much. He sired five children before he came here, you know? He explained . . . things . . . to me. Details, you know?” “Well, then.” Lily reached for him. “You’ll teach me?” “I will . . . show you . . . if you like.” “All right then.” “Yes.” Cantor touched her face. “All right.” He pulled her close. Her heartbeat raced as he fumbled with her clothes. He held her in his arms. Stroked her. “Yes?” “Nice.” “And this.” His lips brushed her cheek, her throat, her mouth. Fire uncoiled deep within her. Through his quickened breath he asked, “Yes? Lily? This? All right, Lily?” “Yes! Teach me, Cantor! Teach . . . me! I want to learn . . . ¬everything!” “We’ll learn . . . together.”

Lily slept in the arms of her husband. Warm. Did he have a fever? She laid her ear against his chest. The heartbeat was deep and regular. How she wished he would wake up again. The rain had stopped. At the far end of the Valley a dog barked. It was after midnight. Moonlight briefly appeared from behind a passing cloud and then vanished again. Lily heard the sound of footsteps on the muddy path. The piping voice of Baruch called, “Lily? Lily? You in there?” Cantor stirred and sat up. He coughed. “Lily?” “Baruch’s outside.” She pulled on her shift. “Lily?” The boy sounded desperate. “You in there?” Cantor snapped, “Yes. Yes. She is. What do you want at this hour, boy?” “It’s Mama,” Baruch explained. “She said I should get Lily. Bring her back. And get Midwife, too. Mama says she’s sorry to disturb, but it’s time. Baby’s coming.”

In the tiny rented room in Gadara, Simon ben Zeraim pored over the Egyptian

manuscript. Unrolled on the table before him was a document composed on papyrus with a mixture of powdered charcoal mixed with oil. The markings, though faded from the passage of time, were still legible enough if Simon tilted the page of flattened reeds toward the sputtering lamp. The Pharisee scrutinized another sequence, then rubbed his tired eyes. What time was it? The midnight watch was long past. Simon heard the exchange of challenge and password as the captain of the city guard made his rounds. Even with the door bolted and a curtain firmly pinched in place across the lone window, Simon looked up from his study at ¬every passing footfall in the street below. Another turn of the scroll revealed a cryptic diagram, together with some notations. The illustration appeared to be a tree with drooping, narrow, pointed leaves. One side of the tree was shown with star-shaped greenish white flowers. Simon’s excitement grew. The next turn of the spiral exposed several drawings of a dark brown fruit. One rendering depicted a section through the egg-shaped growth, exposing twelve or fifteen black seeds. This was the answer! Simon knew it, and none too soon either. His right hand, the one he had burned, was considerably crabbed, stiffly disobedient. Simon struggled to hold the page of the scroll in place. Bordering the diagram on both sides was a double file of hieroglyphics: falcon, bread, water, sky, life, then another symbol whose meaning Simon did not recognize. He consulted his memory. He thought it might mean oil or perhaps pitch. Moistening the tip of the sharpened reed in the dish of water by his elbow, Simon touched it to the round cake of dry ink in his wooden writing case. With definite strokes he recorded his conclusions in Hebrew on a smooth sheet of leather. Halfway through his effort Simon studied his fingertips thoughtfully, then completed his copying chore. Laying aside his pen, Simon laced his hands together and stretched his arms over his head, arching his stiff neck and back. The oil in the lamp was almost exhausted. Simon refilled the lamp’s reservoir from the jug, though his sight was blurring. The subject was too important to allow fatigue to make him careless. He’d rest awhile then resume his perusal. Simon was both eager to return to his home in Capernaum and disturbed about the prospect. Discovery haunted his ¬every outing. How much longer could he live in such uneasiness of mind? As long as necessary to find the way out of his dilemma, he reminded himself. Rerolling the scroll, Simon put it in a linen sleeve and tucked both it and his notes into a leather pouch, which he tied carefully shut. This parcel went into the bottom of his traveling case, to be covered by spare robe and tunics, all shoved beneath his bed. Only then did Simon blow out the lamp. Lying down on the bed made of cords,

he composed himself for sleep . . . or tried to. The face of Horus, the falcon-headed god of the Egyptians, haunted his dreams.

Inside the cemetery Peniel called softly, “Jekuthiel.” Thunder rumbled in the distance. “Jekuthiel?” Silvery lightning grasped the rim of the eastern sky with crooked fingers. Rain pelted him and ran in rivulets from headstones. Peniel’s heart pounded with fear. Breath came in short gasps. He recognized the unreasonableness of his dread, tried to talk himself out of it. Why should he be scared? A graveyard. What was it? An early summer thunderstorm was not uncommon. The leper was just a man in a decaying body, not a demon. A mouse skittered away ¬underfoot. Startled him. The lonely hoot of an owl sounded. The rush of blood in his ears threatened to deafen him. The downpour soaked his clothes. He closed his eyes, preferring darkness to sight. “Jekuthiel?” He opened his eyes again just as a shapeless mass detached itself from the shadows ¬under an acacia tree and limped to meet him. “Thought . . . you’d left without . . . me,” Jekuthiel panted. “I have two friends with me. I left them outside. They won’t come in here. Never mind the rain. They’d rather get wet than come in. But me? I’ve been cast out of the synagogue. My mother says ¬I’m dead to her. Can’t get much more unclean than that. So, I bought you bread. A few dates.” Peniel offered a cloth-wrapped bundle. Jekuthiel ¬didn’t immediately reach for the sack. “Go on. Take it. You must be starving.” “Come . . . a place . . . to shelter.” He led Peniel down a slick path toward a newly hewn tomb in the rock face. The leper ducked and entered. Peniel hesitated, frightened of what he would find inside. The leper called to him, “It’s . . . never . . . been used. New. See? Just finished. Look . . . there . . . beside you. Still a heap . . . of broken rocks. Not hauled away yet. Come . . . on . . . before you drown.” Lightning forked, striking a tree beside the city wall. The thunderclap nearly knocked him down. Peniel held the cloak tighter and entered the tomb. Plenty of headroom. A clay lamp burned feebly on a narrow stone ledge. By this light the leper looked like a dead man, half rotted. As if a corpse had awakened long enough to devour a cake of figs. This eerie sight gave more credence to the myth that lepers were ¬really human bodies inhabited by demons. “There’s a lamp?” Peniel hung back at the entrance, ready to run if his fears proved true. “The workmen . . . left this lamp . . . burning . . . today. They’re almost . . . finished. New tomb . . . carved . . . rich man’s tomb. Heard them say . . . rich merchant.” “Well, then. No worse than the rock quarry, I suppose. If it’s never had a

dead man in it.” Behind him another jagged flash lit the sky. Rain drummed. “We’re . . . safe . . . here. Your two . . . friends?” “Ah, them. They’d never set foot in a cemetery after dark. Dark’s nothing to me. But . . . them? Darkness. A tomb? And they’d rather be washed away in a deluge than . . .” “Than come near . . . a leper?” Peniel wiped water from his face. “Well . . . yes.” Peniel sank down on the dry stone floor. It was as far away from the leper as he could manage without remaining outside. Seated in the recess where a body would one day be placed, Jekuthiel devoured the provisions. “Good.” He chewed the dates with difficulty. Perhaps the disease had begun to eat away the roof of the leper’s mouth, Peniel thought. “Good,” Jekuthiel said. Then, unexpectedly, he began to sob softly. “I was . . . afraid you . . . ¬weren’t coming . . . back. Didn’t know how . . . I’d go . . . on.” Odd, Peniel thought. He could not imagine confronting anything more frightening than a leper in a tomb in a cemetery at night during a thunderstorm! And yet it was Jekuthiel who spoke of fear. “My wife . . . my child. But . . . sent to find . . . Messiah. If I fail . . . no hope left . . .” “We’ll go together.” Peniel squared his shoulders. “Your friends . . . they’ll . . . travel . . . with me?” “It’s a long road. They’ll keep us in sight.” Peniel composed himself to sleep, wondering what the day would bring.

12 Peniel lay stretched across the threshold of the tomb like a sentry. The night air was cold but fresh compared to the putrid odor of the leper who shared his strange lodging. The flame of the oil lamp guttered and died. Peniel’s last waking thoughts were troubled. After all, here he was in an open grave with one of the walking dead, in search of the Messiah, while a band of cutthroats sought his life. Not exactly the stuff sweet dreams were made of. Maybe Mama was right: Peniel was as good as dead now. A failure. Even if he was able, he ¬couldn’t enter the Temple again. Could never sit at Nicanor Gate. How could Peniel be more defiled than this? More exiled from all the laws of Torah? More outside the camp of his people than this? In the company of a leper, who in all of Israel would listen to what Peniel had to say about the wondrous sign Yeshua had given to him? At last Peniel slept. Rain pelted down. He was vaguely aware of someone stepping over him to enter the tomb. Then, rumble like thunder. A flash of light. Followed by a whisper, Peniel! . . . Peniel! The scent of lavender filled the space. So. A visitor had entered

his uneasy dreams. “Ulu Ush-pi-zin.” A firm touch on his shoulder urged him to sit up and make room. He opened his eyes, surprised to see the leper fast asleep on the ledge. Towering over him was a dark-eyed, coarse-bearded fellow with a shepherd’s staff in his right hand. Outside, tethered to a large stone on the rubble heap, was a donkey. “Shalom.” Peniel sat up and braced his back against the wall. Shalom, Peniel. It’s raining. May I share your lodging? Peniel recognized the voice. Mosheh, the lawgiver. By now such dreams did not surprise Peniel. He welcomed the chance to discuss Torah with someone who knew something about it. Had Mosheh come to chastise him for violating ¬every precept about staying away from that which was unclean? “Enter then, exalted wanderer. Be seated, faithful guest . . . if you like. It’s dry here. But ¬I’m duty bound to warn you this is a tomb. No dead man’s ¬ever yet been in it. It’s newly carved, as you can see by the rubble heap where your donkey’s tied. But there’s a leper sleeping where the dead man will lay one day, so it’s defiled all the same. And ¬I’m defiled as well because I’ve touched him. I admit it. I may as well have eaten a whole hog. A big fat one at that. There’s the truth of it.” You talk a lot, Peniel. “Point taken. Just thought I should warn you. Not that you ¬don’t have eyes to see and a nose to smell him just the same as me. Mama’s right. ¬I’m a failure. Look at me. If my brother, Gershon, were here, he’d know what to do.” Is it my turn to speak? We ¬haven’t much time, and I have a lot to tell you tonight. Peniel settled in, pleased that Mosheh did not mind the tomb or the leper. “Will you tell me about parting the sea with that staff of yours? leading our people out of bondage in Egypt? drowning the horses and charioteers of Pharaoh? No. No. Not tonight. Nothing so well known as that. But just as important all the same. About the love of our Messiah, the heavenly Bridegroom, and His redemption of His bride. Listen. I’ll tell you a story about Gershon. “My brother? Have you met him, then, where you come from? Is he there with you?” Of course. But I ¬haven’t come to tell you about Gershon, your brother . . . but about my firstborn son, Gershon. “You named him Exile. Because you were in exile from your family. You were in Midian.” That’s it. Forty years. Married to the daughter of Jethro, a priest of Midian. Zipporah was her name. It means “Little Bird,” like a sparrow. And so she was. Plain. Small. Lively. A good wife. A good mother. “Sounds pleasant enough.” That she was. I loved Zipporah, my little sparrow. Loved her even though the blood in her veins was not the blood of Yitz’chak, Ya’acov, or any of