by Bodie Thoene
Mother lay in the tent with me at her side. She says I nursed and then slept. A trickle of milk escaped my full lips. She wrapped my fingers around her thumb, kissed my forehead, and whispered, “I know who you are. Though your father will name you for a mighty man, a great man, you are my little lamb. You will always be that to me.”
My father returned at daybreak. With his hair swept back from his face, he looked like a young man as he stood over Mother and me.
“Well?” she asked.
“He is to be a servant of the Most High. The Lord has revealed it to me.”
She patted the edge of the bed, eagerly inviting my father to sit. “Tell me.”
He grabbed a jug of cold milk and took a long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he sank down beside her.
Father took her hand. “Nehemiah. That is his name. Like the one who rebuilt the walls of Jerusalem. Look at those hands. The hands of a wall builder, don’t you think?”
“Nehemiah. Does this mean our son will return to Jerusalem?” my mother ventured.
“The Lord has spoken. On behalf of all in my family who remained in exile, our son will return . . . for some mighty purpose, it will be. The Lord has spoken this to me clearly.”
“For a mighty purpose. Then I will be content.”
On the eighth day of my life, my father lifted a calloused palm and squinted toward the brightening eastern horizon. The sun had not yet appeared above the peaks of the Bersheesh range, but he studied the fading stars carefully. When he could no longer distinguish Regulus, the Little King star marking the paw of the Lion of Judah, he muttered, “It’s time.” Raising his voice he called toward our tent, “Sarah! Bring the child.”
My mother, cradling me, stood with Hepzibah in a circle that included my three brothers, a brace of shepherds, and Rabbi Kagba. A chorus of “Baruch HaBa . . . Blessed is he who comes,” greeted me.
Even though it was the Sabbath, when all ordinary work was prohibited, this particular ceremony was not only allowed to continue, it was required.
Rabbi Kagba explained: “The eighth day . . . always. We stand here in the shadow of Bersheesh, which we remember is the same expression as the first word in Torah. Here, beside the Mountain of Beginnings, beneath the same crags that witnessed the dawn of creation, we continue an unbroken obedience to that commitment. A special blessing attaches to a son of Abraham who is joined by covenant to the Almighty on his Sabbath day. Such a one, it is said, is selected by the Lord of the Sabbath for a divine anointing, because the Almighty breaks his own law of Sabbath rest to welcome the newcomer into our people. Please give the child to his eldest brother to hold, on this, the ordained eighth day.”
When Mother detached me from her breast, I gave a full-throated yelp of protest.
The rabbi smiled. “In fact,” he added, “the only time we do not circumcise on the eighth day is if there is risk to the health of the child. Clearly,” he said, indicating how I brandished two clenched fists, “such is no concern today!”
Ezra, my youngest brother, stifled a yawn, and this action spawned a wave of similar motions among the shepherds newly come from the night watches.
“And,” Rabbi Kagba instructed, “we perform this ceremony early in the day, because we should always rush to complete a mitzvah, a duty, and never delay it or put it off.”
A rough-hewn wooden bench had been padded with a fleece and topped with a woven woolen cloth for the ceremony. The group drew nearer together to witness as the rabbi opened a leather case and withdrew a small, sharp blade. My eldest brother unfolded the swaddling from around me.
Without speaking, Rabbi Kagba delivered a message by upraised eyebrow to Hepzibah and received a nod in reply. The midwife stepped slightly behind my mother. The rabbi had seen more than one mother faint at the sight of her son’s blood and always made sure someone was prepared to catch her.
“Blessed are you, Adonai, King of the Universe,” Kagba intoned, “who has sanctified us with your commandments and commanded us in the ritual of circumcision.”
While the last syllable of the blessing still hung in the morning air, the rabbi flicked the knife in its duty and the act was complete. They tell me that, instead of crying out, I frowned and tightened my jaw. This stoicism brought expressions of approval to the faces of the shepherds.
While Kagba staunched the blood, Father loudly bellowed, “Blessed are you, Adonai our God, King of the Universe . . .” When he realized that his shouting was not needed to cover any crying, he moderated his tone and continued, “King of the Universe, who has sanctified us with your commandments and commanded us to make him enter into the covenant of Abraham, our father.”
And the witnesses responded, “As he has entered into the covenant, so may he be introduced to the study of Torah, to the wedding canopy, and to good deeds.” As yet still unnamed, I was rewrapped and cradled by my brother.
Eber, one of the shepherds, poured a cup of wine from a goatskin bag and handed it to the rabbi, who raised it aloft.
“Each time we welcome a son of the covenant,” Rabbi Kagba said, “we prepare our hearts for Messiah. ‘Blessed is he who comes,’ we proclaim, renewing our hope that the Anointed One is coming.” Then he added, “And I have seen him.”
This announcement caused a stir among the onlookers.
Unwilling to interrupt the ritual, Kagba waved away the buzz of questions. Instead of answering, he prophesied over me, “This son of Abraham will, with his own eyes, see Messiah in Jerusalem. It is time for the blessing of the wine.”
When Kiddush had been said for the fruit of the vine, Kagba touched his finger to the liquid and placed a drop on my lips. Mother says I sucked the dark red fluid thoughtfully.
“Now,” Kagba demanded of Father, “what is his name?”
“He shall be called . . . Nehemiah.”
“Nehemiah,” Kagba repeated with approval. “Cupbearer to the king and rebuilder of walls. Very good. So, Creator of the Universe, may it be your will to accept this act of circumcision as if we had brought this child before your glorious throne. And in your abundant mercy, through your holy angels, give a pure and holy heart to Nehemiah, son of Lamsa, who was just now circumcised in honor of your Great Name. May his heart be wide open to comprehend your holy law, that he may both learn and teach, keep and fulfill, all your laws. Amen!”
I was returned to my mother and tucked next to her heart. I’m sure I gave a man-sized sigh and snuggled contentedly closer to her.
Though it was barely past sunrise, the feast in honor of my circumcision began. A large tent, its sides rolled up, had been arranged on the grassy plain as a pavilion. It was sizable enough to contain all the herdsmen not on duty. They reclined in a great circle on heaps of hides.
Platters and trays loaded with food were carried around and cups splashed with wine. It was, after all, another mitzvah to celebrate the life of the newest member of the covenant, even if I, the guest of honor, was fast asleep.
“So, now, Rabbi,” Father demanded, waving a green onion for emphasis, “you must tell us your tale. You say you have seen the Messiah?”
Scratching his beard, Kagba leaned back and stared toward the southwest. “I met him just months after his birth,” he said. “By now he would be a grown man, in his twenties. He is somewhere, learning, studying, listening . . . waiting for the call of the Spirit that will prompt him to reveal himself. I’m sure of it.”
“Don’t be so vague!” Father insisted. “Tell us plainly, who is he?”
“He is called Jesus, the son of Joseph, whose father was named Jacob.”
“Like Jacob the Patriarch was the father of Joseph the Dreamer,” Mother murmured.
“Just so,” Kagba agreed approvingly. “I noticed that connection as well.”
“And why haven’t we heard of him before?” my father inquired. He counted on his fingers in thought. “If he was born in the time of Old Herod of despicable memory, why are we only now learning of him?”
&n
bsp; The rabbi sat up straighter at that. “It is because he was born in the days of the Butcher King that you haven’t heard of him,” he suggested. “But let me tell my story in its proper order.”
Father shushed the other conversations around the meal. “Fill your plates,” he said, “but listen to the learned rabbi.”
The shepherds needed no urging to load their platters with heaps of rice and lamb stewed with tomatoes. Then they settled back to be entertained.
“You know I have some knowledge of the stars,” Kagba said modestly. “Many years ago I located something in the fourth book of the law. You all have heard it: ‘A star shall come out of Jacob.’1 Now, many teachers believe this foretells the coming of the Messiah. But I, and others, wondered if his birth was linked to the sight of an actual star in the heavens.
“For many years I studied and pondered, searching the night sky for clues and struggling with ancient texts by day. I was not alone in my quest. There was a great man of our people named Balthasar who lived”—Kagba gestured toward the east—“over the mountains, in Ecbatana. We wrote to each other, sharing knowledge and anticipation.
“And then one spring, we saw it: the wandering star the Romans call Mars, that we call Ma’adim, the Adam. It was joined to the Atonement star that resides as the heart of the virgin. You remember? ‘The virgin shall conceive and bear a son’?”2
Kagba paused to scoop up some lamb with a piece of flat bread and munched before continuing. “I will not try to recount all that I witnessed over the next year or so, but let me say that there were wondrous sights in the skies: the Righteous King star joined to the Lord of the Sabbath, over and over again, until I became convinced the birth of Messiah must be at hand.
“I traveled from Tarsus, where I had carried out my studies, to Damascus, and who do you think I found there? My old friend Balthasar, come all the way from Parthia on the same errand as myself. Other scholars assembled too—from Ethiopia, from India—all with the same goal: to greet the newborn king.
“The stars led us to Jerusalem, where Herod was ruling, but he claimed to have no knowledge of a newborn king of the Jews. He said he wanted us to continue our research so that he might worship this child too.
“We were led on to Bethlehem, of which the prophet Micah wrote, and there we found him: a small child, born to parents from Nazareth, but living for a time in Bethlehem. We worshipped him there—Old Balthasar, the others, and myself. We gave him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.”
“But you still haven’t told us why no one else knows of him,” Father insisted.
Kagba looked grim. Turning toward my mother, he said, “Sarah, child, I wonder if you would see if there are some pomegranates? I’d love to have one.”
When Mother rose obligingly, passing Nehemiah to Hepzibah, and was out of earshot, the rabbi explained. “One of our number was warned in a dream that Herod meant to harm the child. So we did not return to Jerusalem, but fled the country a different way. It was right after that when Herod . . .”
Father’s eyes saddened as he recognized the tale. “Murdered the boy babies of Bethlehem. I remember hearing of it!”
“But Jesus and his parents, warned by us, escaped into Egypt. Thereafter I lost track of them. But I know,” Kagba said forcefully, “that he lives and must be revealed. It is my goal to seek him out and to see him again before I die.”
“When? Now?”
Kagba shrugged. “It may not be for years. But I will know when it’s time, just as I knew those two decades and more ago. Then I will find him again. And the Lord revealed to me this: your newborn son will play a special role.”
Chapter 4
The Perseid meteor shower came around the fourth summer after my birth, marking again my birthday. I had, by then, shortened my name to Nehi, and would answer to nothing else.
My father often remarked that I was a strong child—strong of will and body. I towered over other children my own age by a head, and my shoulders were broader as well.
“Built like his mother,” my father remarked to Rabbi Kagba as my mother hefted a large water jar and limped toward the tent. “A crooked foot doesn’t even slow her down. And the boy’ll be strong as an ox. Smart too, eh?”
Rabbi Kagba agreed. “It’s Sarah’s doing. She is a good woman. A good mother to all your sons. For a four-year-old to know his letters by sight and sound.” He shook his head in awe. “The lad recites the Shema and Kiddush letter perfect. The lad will be reading Torah by this time next year.”
All the families in the camp enjoyed my birthday feast. My father chose a woolly, black-and-tan sheepdog puppy named Beni as his gift to me. The puppy was the most aggressive in the litter, and his needle-sharp teeth grasped the hem of the new coat Mother had woven for me. Beni and I enacted a brawl, which ended with me giving him a swift kick. The pup accepted my dominance, but the new coat was already torn.
That night the puppy and I slept together on my mat. My mother repaired the tear and questioned Father about the dog. “Nehi is so young, Lamsa. How will he know what to do? How to take care of the creature?”
“You don’t understand how it is out here. Every boy needs a dog. They’ll grow up together, those two. Their hearts will be knit. Within a few months, you’ll see. Beni will be Nehi’s protector. Stand between him and an angry ewe, for instance. Or some wild animal. Beni is bred to give his life for his master, even if his master is only a boy. Later he’ll serve Nehi as he learns his duties with the lambs.”
My mother bit off the thread and examined the mended hole. “Almost good as new. I had intended it to be like Joseph’s coat, you know? Something unique for our son. Special.”
My father stooped and kissed her forehead. “Ah, Sarah, what’s a little tear in the hands of a weaver? His coat . . . mended now. Not perfect. But it’s right for the coat of a herdsman’s son to show a little wear.”
Within days Beni and I were inseparable.
With the passing months, the young dog assumed the role of protector, just as my father had predicted. Beni remained at my heels as I played with other children. Even though Beni was only a growing adolescent, he placed himself fiercely between me and all other canines. Stiff-legged, snarling, and barking, Beni let the pack know that I was his human lamb to care for, and no stranger could come near without permission.
My father had chosen the right companion for me.
My mother was comforted by the relationship between the dog and me. I could not sleep unless Beni was curled up next to me. This miracle of shepherds and their herd dogs was unlike anything Mama had ever witnessed in Jerusalem. In the city, cats kept as mousers were the only household pets.
By the next spring Beni was no longer a puppy but a lanky young dog. He flashed a white set of adult teeth and was the envy of the pack of herd dogs.
One day clouds had gathered on the high mountain peaks, a portent of an afternoon storm. A massive thundercloud towered above the crags, fiercely bright in its highest reaches while oppressively dark beneath.
A herd of roe deer, with newborn, spotted fawns, grazed near the sheep. I came to my mother and asked, “Mama, I want to take Papa his meal.”
She scanned the distance between the tent and the spot where Father sat with his staff in hand, about 150 yards.
She packed the lunch basket, then stroked the dog’s head. “Stay on the path,” she instructed me. “Don’t wander.” Then, “You watch over Nehemiah, Beni.” The dog wagged his tail, and we two set out.
I held my father’s meal with one hand and clasped Beni’s tail with the other. We walked the long way round, skirting a pasture dotted with new lambs and their mothers.
Then I noticed the fawns and let go of Beni’s tail. I pointed. “Look, Beni! New baby deer! Look at the two tiny ones. Pretty little things.”
The dog paused. His eyes traced my gesture across the meadow. Two dozen buff-hued does, and half again as many fawns, grazed at the rim of the forest between me and my father. The route was much shor
ter to cut through the herd of deer rather than go around. The dog struck out on his own, turning to look as if expecting me to follow him. I hesitated a long moment but remained on the path as my mother had commanded.
I called to my dog, “Come on! Beni, come back!”
Tail still wagging, Beni trotted toward the newborn fawns. After all, his young master had pointed to the fragile creatures. A signal to a stock dog was a command to be obeyed. Did I mean for Beni to herd them, to bring them back?
Dozens of black-tipped ears pricked toward the dog. A score of sable-ringed muzzles lifted to sniff the air.
Suddenly alarmed, one doe wheeled around. Her body became an animated wall, protecting her startled fawn.
The first threat to Beni came from a large, round-rumped doe, the mother of twins. She lowered her head and pawed the ground, warning the canine to come no closer. Oblivious and unafraid, the dog trotted on toward the herd. The doe squealed, preparing to charge. Beni had trespassed into the fawns’ nursery.
Beni tucked his tail and, confused by the doe’s aggressive behavior, hesitated. A brace of angry mothers encircled him. Sensing danger, the dog bristled and barked. He bared his teeth.
Two does charged, lashing out at Beni with sharp, accurately aimed hooves. Beni yelped and fell. He tried to rise but was knocked back. First one doe struck with powerful front hooves; then a second doe pounced, bringing the full weight of her body onto him. A third pounced again. The young dog was unable to escape repeated blows as he was butted and kicked from all sides.
I froze and shouted, “Papa!” My terrified cries drew Mother from the tent.
My father bellowed and swung his shepherd’s staff around his head as he sprinted toward the melee of attacking deer. They scattered. With their little ones, the deer sprang into the forest, disappearing into the shadows of the deep woods.
Bloody and near death, Beni lay panting in the grass. Weeping, I stumbled to the battered body of my friend, then dropped to my knees and began to wail.
