Take This Cup (14 page)

Were these the same men who had hunted me for the bounty of a slave? And how much would the magical hide of a white hart fetch in the court of some potentate of the East? I guessed that every piece of the mythical beast would fetch a high price in the dark arts marketplaces, where sorcerers and court magicians searched for ingredients for potions.

I stroked the hart’s thick neck. “Did Adam teach you how to carry a man on your back? Did you fly with him over the mountains of Paradise?”

The hart snorted and effortlessly leapt over a fallen tree.

Hours passed. My head bobbed forward. I began to slip. The hart turned his muzzle and nudged me upright onto his back.

At last I could not keep my eyes open any longer. My head fell forward, and my fingers released the strap of the sack containing Joseph’s cup. The hart evidently did not notice the clank of the precious cargo as it tumbled out of the bag and onto the ground.

It would be many hours before I realized I had dropped the treasure somewhere on the trail.

Chapter 13

M
orning dawned, lighting treetops like a stand of verdant candles. I burrowed deeper into the warmth of the hart as we lay side by side in the sage. The steady drumming of the hart’s heart pounded in my ear. I opened my eyes to see that I was in the center of the hart’s harem. Does and yearlings dotted the gentle slope of the hillside where they slept at night. How many were there in the herd? Perhaps as many as fifty, I guessed. Their tan hides concealed them from the eyes of any human or other predator traveling the narrow track below.

As if on cue, the clumsy clopping of a troop of horses echoed from the trail, disturbing the peace. Yet the does did not stir from their hiding places. I tried to sit up, but my protector gently placed his chin over me in warning: Stay down! Keep quiet!

A gruff human voice spoke. “I think it’s time we push on.”

Another answered, “You were stupid, Gomer. We could have had the woman, too, if you hadn’t let her do herself in.”

“Not my fault, Zimri! I turn my back, and she’s off the cliff.”

“Do you know what she was worth?”

I gasped as I recognized Zimri’s gruff chiding.

My fingers gripped the strap of the pack containing the cup. I pulled the bag against my chest and discovered it was limp, without shape, empty. I moaned softly, “Gone!”

The bandits’ conversation fell silent.

Zimri demanded, “What was that?”

“I don’t know . . . sounded like . . . like . . .”

“Sounded human. Like a groan.” The bandit chief pulled up his mount. “You sure we got them all? None escaped?”

“Sure. You seen as good as we did.”

Where had the cup gone? I slid my hand into the pouch and searched. My mind reeled in disbelief as I buried my face into the sack in horror.

The precious cargo must have fallen to the ground during last night’s journey!

I fought the urge to stand and run back along the trail we had traveled. The warm golden eye of Adam’s hart observed me with a kind of comprehension.

Below the resting herd Zimri shouted, “Hey! Who’s up there?”

As if by command, a covey of more than a hundred quail erupted from the dense undergrowth above the trail. They flew across the path of the bandits, drawing their attention away from the herd, away from me and the white hart.

I resisted the need to cry out in anguish, but silently screamed, “Oh God! The Cup of Joseph is gone!”

Zimri commanded, “All right, then. Let’s get along. The pilgrims will be like those quail, flocking on the pilgrim road. All headed to Jerusalem. Easy prey.”

The riders moved on.

Magpies chattered in the trees. Tears escaped my eyes and coursed down my cheeks. I turned the bag inside out. “It’s gone. Gone.” I moaned again.

One by one the herd rose and shook sand from their coats. The hart studied me with what seemed to be curiosity. The animal did not rise, as if awaiting some signal from me.

“You see?” I held the bag beneath the hart’s nose. “See here? I lost it! Somewhere along the road last night, it fell out. I don’t even know how we came to be here. I don’t know where we are. Don’t know where to look.” Once more I buried my face in the empty sack. “I don’t even know . . . when it could have happened!”

Gripping the fleece container, I jumped to my feet. My guardian remained curled on the soft earth, his legs tucked beneath him.

“What am I supposed to do now? It was given to me to carry! I was the cupbearer to the King. Now look—one night out and . . . just look!” I tore at the bushes around me and turned useless circles. “Gone. What am I supposed to do? Cupbearer to the King. I could not even care for it for a single night! Gone. How can I ever find it?”

The hart gave a deep groan, then slowly unfolded himself and rose to his full height. He nudged me with his muzzle, nearly knocking me to the ground with his suppressed power.

“What?” I sniffed. “What?”

The hart faced the forest and the wild half trail over which we had journeyed last night. He ambled toward it, gazed back at me, then strode very deliberately toward the broken brush.

I shook my head, hands hanging limply at my sides. “Crazy. What are you doing? What? It’s . . . gone! That’s all.”

Still the hart walked on calmly. Where the brush parted, the beast turned and lowered his head. He looked a question at me.

Slinging the empty bag around my neck, I said, “All right. Hopeless. But show me the way back. Show me if you can, so I can look for the rest of my life.”

The search was tedious on foot, exhausting and dispiriting. My legs ached. My sandal rubbed a blister on my heel. Sweat dripping from my forehead hurt my eyes.

“It’s the hart’s fault, God. It is his fault the Cup of Joseph is lost!” I muttered blame in the desperate breath of a half prayer as I retraced the route from the long night ride.

Hours passed. The hart, his legs strung taut like the strings of hunters’ bows, could have leapt over me and vanished in a breath. Instead, he trailed patiently behind as if waiting for something.

Waiting
for
what?
I wondered.
Why
does
he
stay
with
me? I am cupbearer to the King, and I have lost the cup!

I scoured the bushes and the ground for the treasure but was uncertain this was the path we had taken. Here and there a broken twig or branch gave sign that something big . . . and ancient and wise . . . had passed this way.

Black and ugly under ages of tarnish, the divinely appointed cup could be buried in the sand. It could look like a stone. It could hang like a fallen pinecone caught in a gorse bush. Safety, yes, for who would notice such a thing? But its disguise could also make it impossible for me to spot and recover.

What if it was buried in sand?

What if the black shape was concealed in a shadow?

The trail wound up and up. The hart’s brow was almost against my back, urging me onward.

At last we came to the bank of a river that ran deep and swift from the recent rains. Impossible to cross, nor did I remember crossing it in the night. Where were we? Where was the cup, hidden for long ages only to be lost by a foolish boy?

I sank down on a stump, buried my face in my hands, and groaned. Then I shouted at the hart, “Did you carry me across this water last night? I don’t remember! I don’t remember crossing!
What if I lost it there? What if the water’s swallowed it? Oh, I am lost! Lost! How will I ever show my face at home? How can I say to my brothers I have lost this thing I was meant to carry to the King?”

The beast stepped forward, wading up to his knees in the torrent. Pausing, he glanced over his shoulder at me. Sunlight glinted in his golden eyes.

“Then take me back if you can.” I leapt to my feet. “Carry me if you will!” Plunging into the icy water, I plastered my face against the side of the hart. The animal dipped low and positioned his antlers like a ladder for me to grasp and climb.

Scrambling up onto the hart’s neck, I slid over the withers and onto his back. And the search continued.

We moved at a slow but steady pace, retracing the path from the night before. I clung to the base of the antlers and leaned over the hart’s right shoulder. I squinted, searching the ground.

For seven hours we followed a thin, shallow tributary of the river. Gaudy butterflies with wings as broad as my hand fluttered beside me. Lizards scrambled up boulders. Squirrels bustled out of the great hart’s way. Startled flocks of partridge and quail rose in clouds.

The cup was nowhere to be seen.

In the late afternoon I noticed something large and ominous skulking just out of sight. I caught sight of coarse gray hide that appeared for an instant, then vanished in the brush.

I was suddenly aware of movement behind us: a wolf. Perhaps there was more than one stalking the lone buck, waiting for nightfall. The hart must have known we were being pursued, but he moved on steadily without sign of alarm.

How many miles had we retraced because of my carelessness? The sun began to sink low on the western horizon.

Little gray owls with white-ringed eyes perched on the branch of an ancient oak tree. A thick patch of wild wheat grew on a gentle slope near the brook.

At last the buck paused. He knelt low, and I slid onto the ground.

“Are you tired, old man?” I asked. “I haven’t seen you take even a single sip of water. Nor graze neither. I bet you’re hungry and thirsty. If you say so, we’ll stop here.”

Was the wolf watching us? I peered over my shoulder as I stooped by the water to drink from the pristine stream. I cupped my hand to scoop up the cool liquid. Raising my palm to my lips, I let out a cry. There, before my eyes in a patch of wheat, was Joseph’s cup. It stood upright beside a flat stone as if it had been carefully placed there for a thirsty traveler to use in drawing water.

I laughed and snatched it up, then held it aloft for the hart to see. “Look. Look what I found! Look where it was, all along!” The hart calmly grazed as I filled the cup and drained it, then filled it again and poured the water over my hands and head.

The hart was likewise thirsty from our journey. He bowed his head and drank deeply.

I sighed, kissed the cup, and said aloud the Scripture the rabbi had taught me when I first met the hart so many years before: “ ‘As the hart pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, my God.’ ”
¹

I held the treasure to my cheek and closed my eyes, as though embracing a brother. “Of course you would be found on a journey amongst the grain. I should have known.”

Sitting back on my heels, I slipped the cup into its sack and then slung the strap over my neck.

I was in the shadow of the hart. For the first time I noticed jagged scars on the animal’s legs and shoulders. Evidence of fierce battles both ancient and recent etched the hide like tributaries flowing to a river. A pattern of teeth marks crisscrossed the hart’s throat and shoulder.

“Wolf!” I said aloud.

Heads of dry grain hissed in the wind. The hair on the back of my neck prickled with fear of an unseen threat. But what?

Perhaps sensing danger at the same instant, the hart’s head jerked up. His nostrils flared, searching the air, and golden eyes fixed on a distant point. Ears twitching, he turned this way and that to locate a sound.

“What?” I whispered.

A low growl answered.

A massive wolf crouched a few yards away. Yellow eyes gleamed, and saliva dripped from its jowls.

On the opposite side of the stream a second snarl replied.

The hart seemed to grow even larger as his muscles hardened in anticipation of combat. He snorted and tossed his head. Instantly, he placed himself as a wall of protection between me and the ravenous wolf pack.

Clasping the cup, I dashed to the oak tree. The little owls screeched and fluttered away. Tearing at the bark, I clambered up the trunk and into the limbs. At the same instant two wolves leapt, snarling and barking, onto the back of the hart.

Suddenly four more dashed from the cover, tearing at his flanks and legs. Drops of blood splattered his white coat.