Philip tells the tale of his sister Rivka.
Philip is the youngest of five brothers. After him, last of all, came his sister Rivka. As she grew to be a child, all the village said she was cursed. Her face was thick and round, with a flat nose, and her eyes were squint shaped. She was slow to learn to speak, and slow of wits. But she was kind and good, and Philip loved her.
When the boys of the village mocked her and called her Rivka Cursegirl and tried to piss her feet, Philip drove them away with his fists.
Philip’s mother taught the girl to do women’s work, to cook and weave and sew. Everything she did took long, but she did it with joy.
There came a day when Philip’s mother could no longer wash clothes in the lake, on account of the big agony in her back. She sent Rivka to do the work, but the women of the village mocked her and spat her and called her Rivka Cursegirl and refused to let her wash with them, for fear they would bear a cursed child themselves. But a girl cannot wash clothes alone, on account of evil men who would do a wickedness on her.
So Philip went with her and helped with the work and took a good care on her until the day Rivka became a woman and her father sold her to some man who lived in a place called Kursi, a goy village on the east side of the lake.
I never heard such a thing, that a man of Israel would sell his daughter to be the woman of some goy.
Philip made a rage on his father and said he would not allow him to sell Rivka to a goy.
His father only grinned on him and said the matter was done.
Every day for the whole year of the betrothal, Philip made a rage on his father.
His father grinned on him and said the matter could not be changed.
At the end of the year, the goy came for Rivka.
Philip saw at last it was no use. He tried to run away with his sister to Capernaum, but he was only fourteen and had not thought the matter through. Before they got a mile from home, his father caught them and took the girl away and gave her to the goy, and Philip never saw her again.
Then his father tied Philip’s hands to a tree in the village square. He tore off Philip’s tunic, exposing his nakedness. He beat Philip with an old anchor rope from his boat. He beat him until the blood ran off his back in a river, and the men of the village came and said that was enough punishment for a disobedient son.
His father said Philip was not his son anymore.
The men of the village told him to stop beating Philip.
His father made a big rage on the matter. He shook the rope in their faces and beat Philip ten times more. Twenty times more. Thirty times. Fifty.
Then his father made a great gurgling sound in his throat and fell over and died.
All my body is in a sweat more cold than the Jordan River. That was a bad tale.
Rabbi Yeshua wears the face of a man hearing a tale the second time. “Friend, you are a kind man and brave.”
Philip says nothing. His eyes are hollow, and he looks as he has just been beaten with a rope again.
Rabbi Yeshua says, “Friend, my sister’s wedding feast is in a week from today in a village near Nazareth. Shimon the Rock and Big Yaakov and Andre and Yoni are coming to the feast, and I wish for you to come with us. I see you are a kind man and brave, and I have need of kind men who are brave.”
Philip stares on Rabbi Yeshua with the wild eyes of a man who is drowning. He leaps up from the ground and runs away as fast as any man ever ran.
I am shocked that Philip ran away. “Rabbi Yeshua, what did you say that was wrong? I thought Philip would be amazed that you are a prophet who knew already all about his sister. Why does HaShem make cursed children? We had a cursed boy in our village, and he used to go in every house in the village as it was his own home. Some said he did not know better, and some said he did. One day he went in the house of Honi the woodcutter, and Honi beat him with his fists, and he died. Honi said the boy did a wickedness on his daughter, only the daughter said he did not. My father said it was a wrong thing to beat the boy, because he was slow in the wits and did not know what he was doing. The village hazzan said HaShem made the boy cursed and if Honi the woodcutter was angry on the matter, he should be angry on HaShem. What do you …”
Rabbi Yeshua’s eyes are closed. He has the face of a man who listens to a quiet voice far away. Tears run down his face. When he speaks, his voice is cracked. “Do not call a child of HaShem cursed.”
I feel as I am stabbed in my heart.
I think sometimes I ask too many questions.
I think sometimes I speak without thinking what I am saying.
I think sometimes I am the biggest fool there ever was.
Chapter Nineteen
Yeshua of Nazareth
I do not understand what just happened, and I am desperate to know what it means.
I woke up and saw that Yoni was gone from our camp, and I went looking for him. He was not at the rock where all the men go to make a piss. I walked all around the camp and saw only one man awake, sitting under a fig tree praying to HaShem. Then I went to the river, and there was Yoni and this man Philip.
Philip was wringing out Yoni’s tunic, and I could see it was all clean.
Philip said, “What do you think, Yoni Many-Questions? Even if there are no women here to make it clean, is it still clean?”
Yoni said, “Did your mother teach you that?”
And my mouth opened all on its own account and said, “His sister taught him that.”
Also, I knew the whole tale of his sister and what befell her.
I do not know how I knew all that. I knew it faster than I had time to think the words. I knew in an instant all that Philip told us afterward in the fourth part of an hour.
I have been waiting weeks and weeks to hear from HaShem on the matter of how I am to go to war against the Great Satan, and I have heard only shards and whispers, and I am more confused than I ever was because HaShem says nothing.
And in one instant, HaShem told me more about a girl I was not asking on than he has told me in two months about the mighty thing I am desperate to know.
HaShem filled up my heart with the tale of a girl treated with a mighty cruelty.
We had a boy born in our village the same year Yosi was born, and all the people said he was cursed. Shimon the baker’s daughter bore him. Some in the village muttered behind their hands that the woman sinned, to have a cursed child born. Shimon the baker scowled on them and asked what was the sin. Some said one thing, and some said another, and some said the child should be thrown off the precipice, whether anyone knew what was the sin or not.
People talked on the matter long, and after two years, the child crawled away when no one was looking and fell in the leather-man’s piss-pool and drowned.
That was what I heard.
I was only a boy, and I believed the tale.
Now I wonder how the child got in the piss-pool, for there is a bank around it higher than the height of a child.
I think there is a dark secret in my village. I think it is a mighty wickedness, that some in a village can call an innocent child cursed. I think it is a mightier wickedness, that a whole village can believe a small child could drown himself, and nobody should ask even one question on the matter.
Yoni talks and talks.
I try to hear his words, but my own sorrow drowns all his words. Tears run down my face for the cruelty of my village.
Yoni says something about HaShem making a child cursed.
It takes all my strength to say, “Do not call a child of HaShem cursed.”
Yoni sucks in his breath as I have slapped him.
I did not mean to hurt him.
Yoni stands to leave.
“Stay,” I say.
Yoni sits.
I sit with my eyes closed trying to hear the voice of HaShem. In the fourth part of an hour, all the camp will be up. My brothers will ask what I mean to do. These men of Capernaum will ask what I mean to do.
I do not know what I should d
o, and it rips my heart not to know.
All I have heard from HaShem is that I should go to the wedding feast.
Something will happen there, but I do not know what.
I feel as I am a fool, to ask these new friends of mine to come to the feast, when I do not know why. I feel as I am a bigger fool, that these friends of mine think I am a prophet, when I hear nothing from HaShem but a few whispers.
“Rabbi Yeshua!” shouts a voice.
I open my eyes.
Philip walks toward us, holding the hand of the man I saw praying under the fig tree. I see they are good friends, for they move as one, like men who walk together much.
I stand to meet them.
Philip says, “Rabbi Yeshua, here is my friend Natanel. What do you know of him?”
I know nothing of him except I saw him sitting under the fig tree praying. I open my mouth to say so, but my voice makes words I never thought. “They say in your village that Natanel the hireling is too honest, and they mean he is a gullible and a fool. They call him Gullible Natanel, but I say HaShem loves an honest man.”
Natanel stares on me for a moment in a big shock. Then he scowls on Philip. “What did you tell him on the matter? How does Rabbi Yeshua know what people say in our village?”
Philip shakes his head. “Ask Yoni Many-Questions if I told the rabbi one word on you.”
Yoni grins. “How could a man be too honest? Are you a hired man? My father hires men to work in his fleet of boats, but he never said one of them is too honest. My father would be glad of having you work for him. Do you know Shimon and Andre, whose father is Yonah the fish-man? They used to live in Bethsaida and came to Capernaum six years ago on account of the border tax. Their father is partner with my father, whose name is Zavdai. You may have heard of him, for he is a big—”
“Yoni, just answer the one question!” Philip shouts on him. “What did I tell Rabbi Yeshua about Natanel?”
Yoni shrugs. “Nothing, of course. Rabbi Yeshua said you had a sister named Rivka, and you were amazed and came out of the river, and Rabbi Yeshua asked you to explain the matter to me, and you told the whole tale, and then Rabbi Yeshua said you should come with us to the wedding feast of his sister, and then you ran away. Why did you run—”
“Who told you our village calls me Gullible Natanel?” Natanel asks.
Nobody told me. HaShem told me. I do not know how.
Yoni says, “Rabbi Yeshua is a prophet and he knows everything. Also he is a tsaddik and a son of David. He saw HaShem, did you know? Our prophet Moses saw the hind parts of HaShem and lived, and that was a mighty wonder, but Rabbi Yeshua saw the face of HaShem and lived.”
I make a grin on Natanel. “I saw you praying under the fig tree, and I thought you were a righteous man. And then when Philip brought you here, HaShem told me the rest, how they say in your village that Natanel the hireling is a gullible and a fool. And HaShem says an honest man is a thing he loves more than gold.”
Natanel’s eyes narrow. “If you are a prophet, then what was the matter I was praying on under the fig tree?”
I wonder why people think a prophet knows everything. I open my mouth to ask how should I know what he was praying, but my tongue makes words of its own accord. “Friend, why do the goyim make a rage, and why do the people think on a big foolishness?”
I do not know why I said that.
Natanel the hireling stares on me as I am a Messenger of HaShem. His mouth hangs open and his eyes grow large, and he looks as he has forgotten how to breathe. His knees buckle and he collapses to the ground, chanting the words of a mighty psalm of David the king.
“Why do the goyim make a big rage?
Why do the people make a big foolishness?
The kings of all the lands stand up
And the mighty make a counsel together
On Yah and on his Mashiach:
‘Let us tear off their bonds!
Let us throw off their ropes that bind us!’
But he who sits on the heavens laughs.
The Lord makes a mock on them.
So he will speak to them in wrath
And terrify them in his rage:
‘I set my king on Zion,
On my mountain of righteousness.’
I will tell the decree of Yah.
He said to me,
‘You are my son,
Today I have become your father.
Ask from me
And I will give
The goyim for your heritage,
To the ends of the earth for your possession.
You will beat them with a club of iron
To shatter them like shards of clay.’
Now be wise, you kings,
And learn, you judges of the earth.
Make a service to Yah with fear
And make a joy with trembling.
Make a kiss to his son
Or he will be angry,
And you will be destroyed in the road.
His rage ignites in a moment,
But happy are those who put their trust in him.”
When Natanel the hireling finishes, I do not know what to say. He chanted the whole psalm of the coronation of the king of Israel, the son of Yah.
“Rabbi, you are a prophet of HaShem!” Natanel says. “I was praying that HaShem would send Mashiach, the son of David, the son of Yah. If you say you are the king of Israel, I wish to be first to join your army.”
I did not say so. I said only a few words of a psalm. I see now why his village calls him Gullible Natanel.
Yoni says, “Rabbi Yeshua, what is it like to be a prophet? I always thought prophets were angry on everyone, but you are not angry on everyone. Is that because you are a tsaddik? The village hazzan said a prophet was for telling the wrath of HaShem, but you told the kindness of HaShem to Philip, and then you told what was in the heart of Natanel, and I think that was also a kindness. Does HaShem tell you kind things only about the people he loves like his own children? What does HaShem tell you about the Great Satan? When will you tell the wrath of HaShem? Also, who is the first Power you are to smite? Is it the King of the South? I think it is the King of the South.”
Now it is me whose knees feel so weak they will not hold me.
Yoni said a thing just now that shocked me.
I have been waiting and waiting for HaShem to speak to me on his wrath.
And I hear nothing, only a few whispers.
Then I look on a man who needs kindness, and HaShem tells me more kindness on that man in a moment than a scribe could write in a month.
There is a thing wrong with me.
All my life I heard I am to redeem Israel.
To redeem Israel is to do battle with our enemies.
To do battle with our enemies is to smite the four Powers.
But how am I to smite the four Powers, if all I hear from HaShem is kindness?
If these men knew the truth of the matter, they would not call me a prophet.
They would call me a liar and a gullible and a fool.
Chapter Twenty
Miryam of Nazareth
It is a walk of four days to reach Nazareth from the place where Yohanan the prophet tells repentance to Israel. For four whole days, I hear nothing but talk of who is the first Power. My sons love to argue. These new men love to argue—Shimon the Rock and Big Yaakov and Andre and little Yoni. There are two other men who joined us, Philip and Natanel, and they also love to argue.
My sons think the first Power is Syria or Egypt or Babylon. The new men think it is Egypt or Babylon or Syria.
My heart is like a lump of lead. I do not care what is the first Power or the second or the third or the fourth. I care that my son will leave me undefended. I know I should be brave, and I am shamed that I am not brave, but it is true. I am not brave. I am terrified. My son should make a justice on me first. Then he can go smite all the Powers he will find.
When we see Nazareth, it is the afternoon of the sixth day of the week. The vill
age elders sit just inside the gate, looking west down the hill, watching us climb the steep, twisting path. They smile on my son Yeshua. They smile on my other sons and my daughter. They smile on the new men who joined us. They smile on Little Yaakov’s concubine. They smile on Yehuda Dreamhead’s woman.
They do not smile on me. Their lips curl and their noses rise as they smell the haryo of a dog.
I wish I can run away and hide. I wish HaShem will come and burn them down. I wish Yeshua will smite them.
He holds my hand, and that is good, but it is not enough.
We come in the gate and turn right and walk through the village square and down the short street to our house.
Yosi and Thin Shimon rush inside, shouting for their joy. Their women stayed home with small children all these weeks. Tonight, they will warm their men.
Little Yaakov shows the new men where they are to sleep. There are six of them and the weather is still fine, so they will sleep on the roof. I do not know where we would put them if the weather was foul.
The young women set to work making a feast. There will be lentils and chickpeas and broad beans and onions and spices from Babylon in the stew tonight. Dates from Jericho. Figs and raisins from Nazareth. Many rounds of bread. We will drink a whole amphora of wine that my brother-in-law made.
We will need water, but the young women are all working like bees.
I take a waterpot and call for Yeshua, and we walk.
When we pass the gate, the elders call out a greeting to Yeshua.
He grins on them and calls out a greeting to them. He is holding my hand. When he holds my hand, I feel brave of the village.
We walk past the ovens of Shimon the baker.
Still I feel brave of the village.
I see two small girls of the age of five playing in the dirt. They sing a song they are too young to understand. It is a song I have heard many ten thousand times. One girl sings a line and the other sings the next and then the first sings the next.
“Once there was an evil tale
An evil tale
An evil tale.
Son of Mary Page 13
