When Jesus Wept (19 page)

“A dust storm would be a help, would it not?”

“Sweep the locusts away like Elijah’s whirlwind, eh?”

Samson joined us at the front gate of the estate. “The men are waking, mistress. Are the trays of bread ready?”

That was when I first noticed a persistent rushing sound in my ears, like the noise of surf sliding up and back a sandy shore.

I shook my head. My lack of sleep was already affecting me. I’d be better after bread and a cup of pomegranate juice.

“Bread for the men, of course,” Martha agreed. “My women and I were baking most of the night. There’s plenty.” The hissing noise increased. Now it sounded like the rasp of a pumice stone smoothing a board in a carpenter’s shop.

Over the next moments the rush became a roaring and the rasping noise grew in volume and intensity. A wind storm indeed was approaching.

Samson cupped his hand around his right ear and leaned forward. “Your pardon, mistress. What did you … ”

I saw horrified realization bloom on Samson’s wizened face at the same instant the identical thought struck me. Together we faced Shiloh and stared at the dirty brown wave now obscuring half the northern horizon.

“That’s not dust,” I said grimly. “Martha, get inside and bolt the shutters. Put all the food into cupboards and cover the jars. The plague has arrived. Go!” I nudged her toward the house, and she obeyed as Samson lurched away toward the vines, but I stayed transfixed at the sight.

The force of the wind above the trees was stronger than at ground level. The leading edge of the locust swarm dropped first on vines belonging to Herod. My orchards and vineyards would be next.

Samson moved in a shambling lope toward the crops, shouting for Patrick as he went. “Patrick! Light the smudge pots. Light them now!”

The middle rank of pests arrived. I felt the rush of air all around me. It was not a gentle breeze but the vibration of uncountable wings.

The first of the flying invaders pattered against my face and
clothing like raindrops blown sideways. I brushed them away, only to have my hand encounter a half dozen more in midflight.

I turned to race toward the vineyards.

We had taken the precaution of buying tubs of tar. The pitchy substance, collected from the shore of the Dead Sea, was used to seal rooftops against rain. Ignited, it burned with an oily, smelly sputter that produced great volumes of thick black smoke. I hoped the stench and the heat would discourage the locusts. Even if it did not kill them all, perhaps the rest could be deflected into going elsewhere.

At the same time I had to trust I was not killing the vines by trying to save them! Thick dust or soot killed grape leaves. Intense heat would wither tender shoots and destroy the unripe fruit. Had we placed the pots of tar close enough to protect the vineyards and far enough away at the same time? We would soon know.

Patrick raced in one direction, hopping at tremendous speed on his wooden leg. Samson pitched forward at a breakneck pace around the other perimeter. Both men were swinging firepots, clay jars of embers kept alive by being in constant motion at the end of rope slings.

As each man reached a smudge pot, he paused only long enough to set it alight, then raced on to the next.

With the arrival of the swarm, it was as if the sun had risen and then immediately retreated below the eastern horizon.

Already the thorn hedges around my home and the jasmine vines twined around the pillars of my porch were covered in locusts. While my ears continued to be assaulted by the hum of wings, the din was increased by a new raucous sound: chewing.

The pitch pots were fully ablaze. Swirling plumes of black vapor rose to bar entry into my choicest vines. It was working!
As the horde of hoppers flew toward the fields and confronted the fumes, they diverted to either side.

It sickened me to see how quickly they destroyed the first row of unprotected fig trees. Settling on the branches like a myriad of tiny pruning hooks, they changed summer’s lush growth to wintry barrenness.

In order to save the Faithful Vineyard, other parts would have to be sacrificed. Nor would protecting even a remnant be easy.

The grasshoppers were a crafty foe. Like an enemy force unable to advance by one route seeks another, so too did the grasshoppers. They could not fly through the foul reek of the blazing tar, so they landed in front of my defenses.

The battle to save Faithful Vineyard began in earnest.

I shouted, having to cup my hands around my mouth and turn downwind to keep from inhaling a mouthful of pests, “Drive them! Drive them!”

Each of my seventy-two laborers was assigned a row of vines. With an empty grain sack in each hand, a man charged in, flailing on both sides.

The grasshoppers launched themselves into the air where the strengthening breeze caught and propelled them toward the opposite end of the planting.

Some flew directly into the sail-like rigs of palm fronds coated with pitch and were trapped there. Others rose on the wind and disappeared into the distance. The plan was succeeding but required unrelenting effort. Each of my human warriors moved ahead, holding the enemy at bay.

“We need more workers!” I urged Samson. “We must send a second wave to follow the first. Go to the market square and hire more.”

“How much shall we offer them?”

“Still a denarius, if they will come now. Go!”

I soon regretted not eating breakfast at my sister’s urging. There was no chance for even a bite of bread.

A water container with the lid left barely ajar was soon filled to the brim with drowned hoppers or those staying alive on the backs of their fallen comrades.

And still more of them came.

The pitch-covered traps worked so well they sagged beneath the weight of the captured locusts.

I ordered Samson, “We’ve got to replace those screens immediately, and we must send a third wave of men with sacks to keep driving.”

The wail of a woman shrieking came from my home. I ran to investigate.

Martha answered my pounding summons by dragging me quickly into the front hall. She slammed the door again before no more than half a hundred grasshoppers entered with me.

“What’s happened?” I demanded.

“Don’t worry,” my stalwart sister returned. “Someone failed to latch the shutters properly to your office. I sent her in there to fetch something, and when she opened the door … I’m sorry, but there’s a regular Pharaoh’s army crawling on ceiling, walls, and floors. It scared her, but I got the door shut tight now so they can’t reach the rest of the house.”

“But my papers? My manuscripts? They’ll be devoured!” Then I bowed my head and laughed at my own foolishness. “Perhaps they’ll eat the bills. After today there may not be any way to pay them!”

“I’m sorry, brother.”

“Never mind. I’d happily give them my office to save the vines.”

“How is it going up there?”

“Holding our own. At least, I hope so.”

A cry of “More tar! More tar, here! The smudge pots are going out!”

Racing back out, I heard Martha jam the portal shut behind me.

As the orchards of Herod Antipas were consumed, still we held the perimeter of Faithful Vineyard. I had hoped that as the sun set and the day came to an end, so would the horror of the plague, but it did not let up.

The later quantity of tar we purchased was more volatile than the first. Instead of merely smoldering, sheets of flame shot upward as the pots were ignited. Blazing tongues of fire licked each column of smoke. Locusts blundering into them became squirming, burning embers tossing on the breeze.

It was a scene straight from a prophet’s vision of Gehenna. Sheets of flame briefly illuminated flapping apparitions of men keeping locusts from landing. Workers staggered into view, flailing at the air as if battling phantoms, then plunged back into the darkness of the rows of vines.

A blazing grasshopper landed on the pitch-covered sailcloth. The entire device caught fire in an instant, becoming a fiery torch too hot to approach. Thousands of invaders were incinerated. A cheer went up among the men.

As the trap erupted in flames, we left it to become ashes. Like a captain on the deck of a burning ship, Patrick dashed about, giving the orders that hurriedly erected another and another.

Amid the darkness and the fumes and the commotion, there was no ability and no time to see if we were actually accomplishing our goal. We were killing myriads of locusts, but could we ultimately save the best vines?

Only daylight and a final relief from the plague would tell.

I staggered from row to row, alternately waving a flickering torch to chase away the locusts and stooping to check for damage. My eyes burned from the smoke and lack of sleep. My throat was parched from shouting orders.

The smudge pots were going out again. “Samson,” I croaked, “more tar.”

Putting his mouth near my ear, he rasped, “Begging your pardon, sir, but there is no more. We used it all.”

This unwelcome news shook me awake. “Then send Patrick to the village to buy more! Don’t wait.”

As he raised his chin toward the light of the burning brand, I saw it quiver. “That’s just it, if you take my meaning, sir. There is no more to be had. None.”

That could not be right. We could not have worked so hard to be defeated now. “Then in Jerusalem,” I argued. “Send men to the Street of the Roofers. They will have more.”

“Already tried, sir. The man I sent came back an hour ago. Seems all the vinedressers followed your example. There is no tar to be had in all Judea.” Samson sounded as though he were about to cry.

I clapped him on the shoulder. “We’re not finished yet. Just give me a minute to think.”

I tugged at my beard again in thought, and for the first time since the previous morning, I did not encounter a kicking insect. The significance did not dawn on me for a time, and then I noticed: the space around my head was momentarily clear of winged pests.

The torrent of airborne pests was actually slowing. Even the breeze carrying the invaders dropped, then backed around into the south, like an unseen hand pushing the grasshoppers out of my estate.

Had the relief come in time?

Fearful dawn crept up from over Jordan, disclosing three things. First light revealed whole swathes of orchard and vineyard almost completely devastated, plucked cleanly … but these were the areas we had not tried to save.

As I rushed to the brow of the hill, I learned the second revelation: Faithful Vineyard had been spared. Around the edges of the field the vines had been gnawed, but the bulk of the leaves were intact; the crop was saved.

The third sight meeting my eyes was this: while no more locusts were arriving, the rows were still full of crawling pests. Battered from the sky and stunned by smoke, they were still a menace.

And my troops were as exhausted as the winged ones. My hired men displayed haggard faces and weary limbs.

There was a stirring of air on the side of my face toward the south, and a rustling on the breeze. Then I saw another wave of black specks dotting the sky.

The flapping increased and a shadow once more fell across me from above.

I hung my head in utter defeat and exhaustion. We had lost. It had all been for nothing.

Then I heard the sounds of cheering and laughter erupting from my workers, accompanied by shouts of “
Selovs!
The
selovs
are coming! The
selovs
of the desert are here!”

Quail! Flights, schools, armies of round-bodied birds from the wadis of the Negev and Sinai converged on my vineyards. Spiraling inward as if I had summoned them, their cries encircled me, the hilltop, and Faithful Vineyard. They pounced on the locusts and feasted, snapping up insects on all sides. My new allies plucked grasshoppers from leaves and unripe fruit with savage delight and perfect accuracy.

Later that day we learned that many of the vineyards and orchards of Judea had been saved by hard work, smudge pots, and the miracle of the quail.

The vines of Herod Antipas were not so fortunate: none of them were spared.

“Master!” Patrick exclaimed. “It’s a miracle!”

“A true miracle,” I agreed. “But you are wrong about one thing.”

“Eh!”

“Call me David. I am your master no longer. You are free!”

It was rumored among the rulers in Jerusalem that Jesus had called forth locusts from the abyss to devour the fields of those who approved of the execution of John the Baptizer. Herod Antipas, whose orchards and vines had been devastated both in Galilee and in Judea, alternated between rage and terror at what had come upon him.

I received a message from Mary that wherever Jesus was welcomed in Galilee, the locusts did not come. Mary’s vines were untouched, and her crop would be plentiful this year. She wrote that the Lord and his disciples were coming to Judea for the harvest and that she had invited them to stay with our family through the high holy days.

So it was that Jesus came down from Galilee with his disciples to Judea to stay with us at Bethany.

Seventy of his close followers labored beside us to gather and crush the grapes of Faithful Vineyard. That was when young Carta, British slave of Centurion Marcus Longinus, another of the Lord’s healed, came to live with us and apprentice as a winemaker.