The Tale of Father Noah
I see Father Noah cutting down many trees outside our village. He clears a place on his land and stacks wood for a big boat.
His enemies come to ask on the matter. They make a mock on him, for we live on a hill and far from the sea.
Father Noah says nothing and works on his boat.
Years pass. Five. Ten. Twenty. A son is born to Father Noah, and then another, and then another. The boys grow to be men and work with Father Noah on the boat.
Their enemies gather around to make a mock on them. They laugh them to scorn. They call them fools and simples. They throw haryo on them and run away.
Those evil men should die. I hate them. HaShem hates them.
Father Noah says nothing and works on his boat.
More years pass, and the frame of the boat is done.
More years pass, and the shell of the boat is done.
More years pass, and the inside of the boat is done.
Father Noah and his sons spend a whole year sealing up all the outside with pitch.
Their enemies come with torches to burn the boat.
Father Noah and his sons fight them off with clubs.
I am glad they do not sit idle while their enemies come to destroy.
At last, the boat is done all over. Father Noah has worked a hundred and twenty years to build the boat. He sends his sons all around the land to find animals. They bring sheep and goats and horses and cows and camels and donkeys and pigs. I wish they had not brought pigs, for they are unclean and vile. I cannot count all the animals they bring. I will ask Yoni how many, but I think it is more than a hundred. I feel sorry for Father Noah and his sons, for all those animals will make haryo. That will make a big stink in the boat, with only one window. I never thought on that until now.
Father Noah brings his woman and his three sons and their women, and they go in the boat. They close the door and seal it up.
All Father Noah’s enemies gather around the boat to laugh on it and make a mock on him.
I laugh to see those wicked men, for they do not know what is to come. They do not believe HaShem will punish them for their sins.
They shout Father Noah for a fool. They throw haryo on the boat. They make a piss on the boat.
I smell the stink of the haryo and the piss. It is a bad stink.
I am angry on them, but I do not shout them for fools. HaShem will punish them, and then I will laugh.
One day passes, and they shout Father Noah for a fool.
Two days pass.
Three days, four days, five days, six pass, and every day they shout Father Noah for a fool.
On the seventh day, I know they will be punished. They do not know it, but I do, for I have heard this tale many times. The seventh day will bring the wrath of HaShem to smite them.
The seventh day dawns clear and hot.
Father Noah’s enemies gather around and shout him for a fool.
Something dark appears above the horizon, small and black. It creeps across the sky toward the boat.
Father Noah’s enemies see it and make a mock on it. They do not know what is a cloud, for they never saw one.
Another cloud comes, and then another.
Soon all the sky is black with clouds. The air has a wet smell. I can feel it myself—cold and sharp. A breeze springs up, and it makes me shiver. It grows to a wind, and I wrap my cloak tight around my shoulders. It begins to howl, and my ears hurt.
I am beginning to mislike this tale.
A fat drop falls on my head.
Another one.
More.
Many.
I am wet. My whole head is drenched.
This is a bad tale. There is a thing wrong with this tale.
I am watching from inside the tale.
But I am watching from outside the boat.
All Father Noah’s enemies are angry on him. They beat on the sides of the boat. They shout on Father Noah for mercy.
I shout on Father Noah for mercy.
The rain falls harder now. I see it falling in sheets. Lightning shoots down from heaven. Lightning is when HaShem is angry on people. The thunder follows, so loud it makes me deaf. That is the sound of HaShem shouting. HaShem has made a mistake, for he should not be angry on me. A wrong thing has befallen.
I beat with my hands on the boat, shouting for Father Noah to open.
He does not open.
All the ground is wet to the level of my ankles.
I should climb a tree, but I think that is not enough.
I know there is a hill not far from here, Mount Tabor. That is a big hill. I run for that hill, faster than I ever did.
All around me, others run.
When one falls, I step on him and keep running and do not look back.
It is the walk of two hours to reach Mount Tabor, and I run all the way in a white flame of fear. When I reach the mountain, my side aches and my heart hurts and I wheeze like the bellows of Shmuel the iron-man.
Many others have come here. We all run up the mountain. It is steep and rugged. The winds blow on me. The rains drench me. All around, I hear men shrieking. Women wailing. Children crying.
I run and I run and I run. Once, I look back and see the boat Father Noah made, floating on the water.
I climb higher.
Two men are at the top, each trying to climb on the same tall rock. They beat each other with fists. They scratch. They bite. They gouge eyes. One kicks the other in the underparts and makes him fall. He smashes the man’s head with a club and then climbs up on the rock. There is room for another. I climb up after him. The waters lap up behind me.
I stand on the rock with that wicked man.
He looks on me with hate.
I look on him with hate.
The waters climb to our feet.
We are forced close together.
He smells like piss.
I smell like rage.
I see in his eyes he means to kill me.
He sees in my eyes I mean to kill him.
The water licks my ankles.
I rush on the wicked man.
He rushes on me.
I scream with the righteous rage of HaShem, for this man is a wicked murderer.
We smash together.
He knots his hands around my throat and spits my face. “Now you will die, you spreadlegs!”
I shove my thumbs in his eyes.
He screams and falls off the rock, pulling me with him in the water.
I scream more than I ever did. I am so cold I cannot think. I sink under the water, sucking water in my lungs.
It stings like death.
Miryam of Nazareth
“Imma! Imma!” Yeshua’s arms wrap tight around me.
I am weeping. All my face is wet.
He pulls me onto his lap and holds me.
I cannot see for all my tears.
I weep and I weep for my terror.
I hear the sounds of the others stepping away. They mutter things I cannot hear.
I do not care what they say. They do not know what I have suffered.
I clutch Yeshua and breathe in his warmth. I am safe with my son. Yeshua will protect me. Yeshua will defend.
But I do not know why he told such an evil tale.
If Toma the boat maker ever asks for this tale again, I will box his ears until they fall off.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Yoni of Capernaum
I am lying awake on the roof of Rabbi Yeshua’s house, trying hard to sleep. Shimon the Rock snores loud. Big Yaakov snores louder. The others sleep like dead men—Andre and Philip and Natanel the hireling and Toma Trouble and the tax-farmer.
I do not see how they can sleep at such a bad time. Tomorrow will be a big trouble. Little Yaakov says it is Rabbi Yeshua’s fault.
I wish we were far from here, only Little Yaakov says being far from here is what made the trouble. He says the village is angry on Rabbi Yeshua for doing big things in other places.<
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I do not see why that is his fault. He comes here to do big things, and they make a rage on him, so why should he not do big things in other villages, where they do not make a rage on him?
Tomorrow, Rabbi Yeshua must find a way to lance the boil.
Only I do not see how he will lance the boil.
The silence down below in the street disturbs me.
Why should silence disturb me?
That is a strange matter.
I think on it and then I see what is the trouble.
The silence is too much. The silence is the silence of men trying to be silent.
I rise to a sitting position.
I rise to a crawling position.
I crawl on silent hands and knees to the parapet of the roof.
I look up at the sky. We are three days past the new moon, and now the moon has gone down. I do not think the night is old. I think it is near midnight. If I make a caution and raise my head slowly, I will not be seen against the stars. Perhaps I will not see anything either, but I must try.
I listen with both ears.
Men are moving on the street below. Men in bare feet, not speaking.
I think I smell the sweat of their rage.
Or else that is the sweat of my fear.
Slowly, slowly, I raise my head to the level of the parapet and look out.
They brought oil lamps, several of them.
That is good—I can see them. But it is bad—they might see me if I make a sudden move.
Something gleams in the light. They brought metal tools, or weapons, I cannot be sure. Also leather buckets, only I cannot see what is in the buckets.
Slowly, slowly, I lower my head. I feel faint and I cannot catch breath. My heart runs fast in my chest, faster than it ever did.
If they came to kill us all in the night, I should shout the alarm.
Only if I shout the alarm, our men will rush out in the street, sleepy and unaware, and there will be a big fight, and we are overnumbered, and that will go ill on us.
Little Yaakov says there are fifty men of the village. I think they are all below me in the street. They carried weapons and buckets here, which means they do not care that they break Shabbat. That means they have a big rage, for a man does not break Shabbat without a mighty reason.
We are thirteen men, and the only way out of this house is through the door that goes out on the street from the courtyard. That is a narrow door. Only one man can go through at a time. If our men rush out in the street, it will not be fifty angry men against thirteen. It will be fifty angry men against one man alone, thirteen times.
I must not shout the alarm, not yet, for that will make a warning on the men below, and it will terrify our men, and they will act and not think.
I must think first.
Why did they bring weapons?
To kill us, of course.
But why did they bring buckets?
Buckets are no use for killing.
I must look again to understand the matter.
Slowly, slowly, I raise my head.
I do not see anyone.
I see the glow of oil lamps.
I see the shadows of men stretching long out into the street.
They must be all pressed up close to the wall of the house.
What is the meaning of that?
I hear the soft rasp of metal on stone, slow and slow, at the edge of my hearing.
I wait.
I think the men are spread all along the front of the house. I think some must have gone around the sides. They are doing something to the walls, that is all I can say.
I do not hear them preparing to attack.
I think this is a bad matter.
They do not mean to kill us.
They mean to do something worse, only I do not know what.
I wait and I wait.
After the fourth part of an hour, the lights below move out into the street again.
I lower my head and listen.
Silent feet pad away from the house.
Silent feet pad up the street toward the village square.
I raise my head and look.
I see oil lamps.
I see men walking with light feet and light buckets.
I see something smeared on one of the buckets, brilliant white in the light of the oil lamps.
Plaster.
White plaster.
They plastered the house.
That is a very bad matter.
The days of the smirch are over.
The village has decided that Rabbi Yeshua is a mamzer.
Yaakov of Nazareth
I slept like a stone last night, and that is good. Today will be a hard day. We will go to the synagogue, and Yeshua will try to reason with the village, and they will make a scorn on him. They will not make a fight on him, because it is Shabbat, and a man does not make a fight on Shabbat. But tonight, after the going out of Shabbat, the village will gather in the village square for songs and tales. The weather is fine, and they will wish to celebrate. Then, I do not know what will befall. If we go to the square tonight, there will be hard words. Sometime in this week, there will be a fight. Yeshua is not ready for it.
But I am ready.
We eat the morning meal in a big silence.
Yeshua’s eyes are turned inward.
Shimon the Rock looks from side to side as he is unsure on himself. This is not his village and he does not know how he should act.
That boy Yoni looks as he knows something.
Thin Shimon looks as he knows something.
I do not think either of them know anything. They both of them think they are clever, but I piss on their cleverness.
After we eat, we prepare to go to the synagogue. Yosi’s woman and Thin Shimon’s woman have their children to attend to, so they will not go. Imma never goes. My woman makes to go with us, for she loves a crowd. Also, Yehuda Dreamhead’s woman makes to go.
Yeshua walks out first to the street. He sucks in his breath.
I go out just after.
The wall of the house is all plastered over, white as a tomb.
I suck in my breath.
My woman sucks in her breath.
Shimon the Rock comes out and sucks in his breath.
All our men come out and suck in their breath.
That boy Yoni does not suck in his breath.
My woman takes hold on my arm. All her body is shaking.
“You will stay home today,” I tell her.
Yehuda Dreamhead’s woman falls down in the street shrieking in her fear.
It takes me and Yehuda Dreamhead both to lift her up.
Yehuda Dreamhead takes her to the house and pushes her in the door.
My woman clutches on my arm. “Stay home with us and defend.”
I shake my head. “You are not in danger. It is Yeshua I should defend.”
I turn to see where is Yeshua.
He stands a few paces away with his back to us. Thin Shimon is in front of him, grinning.
That is a foolish thing, to be grinning on such a time as this. Thin Shimon is not so clever as they say, if he does not see what a big danger we are in.
My woman calls out, “Yeshua, stay home with us today.”
Yeshua turns and looks on her. “Shlomzion, my sister, please you will watch over Imma.” He comes and takes her hand and speaks softly in her ear and leads her back in the house.
When he comes out, he pulls the door tight behind him and shouts, “Bar the door and do not open except for one of us!”
The iron bar scrapes the door on the inside.
We walk to the village square with eyes hard open.
I think there will be a bad trouble sooner than I expected. I think the village will not allow Yeshua in the synagogue. They have declared him mamzer, and Torah says a mamzer cannot go in the assembly.
When we reach the square, men are going in the synagogue.
I do not see any women.
I expected to s
ee Old Yonatan standing at the door of the synagogue to tell Yeshua no. Old Yonatan is president of the synagogue now. It was him, many years ago, who told Yeshua no, on the day all the rest of the village told him yes.
Today, all the village will tell Yeshua no.
But Old Yonatan is not standing at the door.
Yoseph the leather-man is not standing at the door.
Nobody is standing at the door.
I do not like the look on this matter.
I hurry to come level with Yeshua, to tell him what I think, that we walk into a trap.
His face is set hard, and his steps are quick.
He gives me a strong face.
I never saw such a face on my brother. Bold and fierce.
We march across the village square.
We march to the door of the synagogue.
We march inside the synagogue.
Three rows of stone benches go up in steps on all sides to the walls.
The synagogue is mostly full, but there is a place near the front, on the left side, three rows clear, enough for all of us.
I do not like the look of this. Usually, the last places are near the door. I would have wished to take place near the door.
All the places near the door are taken.
We all take seats. I go up to the farthest row and put my back against the wall. I smell a trap. When you walk in a trap, you should protect your own back.
Yeshua takes place on the front row. The tax-farmer sits beside him.
That is a bad matter. I will protect Yeshua’s back, for he is my brother.
I will not protect the tax-farmer’s back.
The last men of the village come in and take place.
I do not see one woman here.
Usually there are boys to the age of four who come, but today there is only one.
Shimon the baker brought his grandson.
The boy’s right eye is still empty and blind.
All the synagogue is silent as Sheol.
Old Yonatan rises and makes a cruel grin. “Thin Shimon, come, you will lead the prayers and read Torah.”
They always ask Thin Shimon to read Torah, for he is the only man of the village who reads well.
Thin Shimon goes forward.
I see what will befall, and I am glad on it.
Son of Mary Page 48
