Take This Cup

by Bodie Thoene

My father stooped and with a glance took in the broken body of the dog. “Nehi! Go get a blanket from your mother. Quickly. Go . . .”

  Sobbing, I scrambled back up the path toward the tent. My mother met me and scooped me into her arms. “Oh, my boy! My boy!”

  “Mama! They hurt Beni,” I cried. “The mother deer! Papa says bring a blanket quick!”

  Mother returned to the tent and snatched a blanket off a sleeping mat. Neighbors and camp children paused in their chores to shield their eyes against the sun and take in the tragedy.

  “What is it?”

  “Sarah? What’s happened?”

  “Nehi’s dog got too close to the fawns.”

  “Stupid dog.”

  “Young dog. Curious. He’s never seen new fawns before.”

  “Went out to have a sniff and . . .”

  “Good thing the boy was not with him.”

  Rabbi Kagba approached her. “Sarah. The does were protecting their young. It could have been Nehemiah hurt. Aye. Instead, it’s the dog. Be grateful.”

  Sarah nodded grimly and placed me in Kagba’s arms. The old man soothed, “There, there, Nehi. It’s finished now. We will pray. Come, Nehemiah. We will pray.”

  “Mama, ask the Lord! Get out the oil of God. Pray, Mama!” I covered my face and wept bitterly. “Lord, Abba! Save my little friend. Save my Beni!”

  As Mother jogged unevenly toward the scene, she guessed the matter was probably already settled. How could anything survive such an assault? She hurried down the path to where a circle of rough shepherds gathered around and offered unhelpful advice.

  “Master Lamsa, sir, might as well slit his throat and end it.” An elder drew his knife and offered it to my father.

  He reached for it but, at the sight of Mother, held back. “A moment, Raphael. Let me check the damage to the little fellow.”

  “He’s broken to pieces.”

  “Was he protecting the lad?”

  “No. Just trotted off on his own, like.”

  “Still a pup. Curious. They don’t know better at this age.”

  “Should have stayed with his child instead of going off to have a look at the fawns.”

  Father worked to staunch the bleeding of the dying dog.

  Beni’s fur was matted and covered in blood. He lay trembling in the trampled grass.

  The men parted to let Mother into the circle.

  “Beni. Oh! Poor little fellow.” The dog blinked when my mother knelt beside him and stroked his head. His eyes were glazed and his breath shallow.

  “Oh, Lamsa,” Mother whispered. “He’s suffering. Oh, what? What to do! Poor boy! Nehi is with the rabbi.”

  An older shepherd clucked his tongue. “Begging your pardon, sir, I never seen one this bad live. Better to end it.”

  “No!” my mother protested, and the men fell silent.

  “Sarah, look at this.” My father swept his hand over the creature. “Broken ribs, I am certain. Don’t know how many. Or if his lungs are punctured. Broken left foreleg.”

  “Please, Lamsa! Our boy loves him so.”

  The ring of onlookers did not speak. No one dared to remark on the foolishness of the master’s wife.

  Father was quiet for a long time. He pressed his lips together and shook his head slowly from side to side. “Sarah . . .”

  “Please! We must try!” Mother begged.

  My father drew a deep breath. He relented. “All right. But he’ll most likely not survive the night. Here . . . the blanket. Let’s carry him back to the tent.”

  The sunset brought on Shabbat, but my mother had not prepared dinner. Nor did she light the Shabbat candles or recite the blessings. Though the day of rest began at nightfall, Mother and Father had forgotten Shabbat.

  Exhaustion, brought on by grief, overcame me. I burrowed into Mother’s shoulder and dozed, though I was not sound asleep as they thought.

  Father cleaned Beni’s wounds with wine and oil. The dog was conscious and seemed to be aware but did not stir as my father moved matted fur and assessed the damage.

  A smoking oil lamp, casting orange light, revealed the extent of the injuries. There were eight cuts from the sharp hooves of the deer. Starting at Beni’s head, gashes covered the length of his body—right leg and shoulder, rib cage and hips.

  “They’re deep, but I can stitch them up. A clean break of his right foreleg.” Father recited the list. “I can set the leg.” He shook his head. “But I think his pelvis is broken, Sarah. Look here. When I flex his back leg . . .”

  Beni yelped and raised his head in pain.

  “What can you do for such a thing?” Mother asked quietly.

  Father washed his hands. “If it was any other dog but this . . . well, you know what would have to be done. But for Nehemiah’s sake, I’ll do what I can. If he lives through the night . . . I don’t know. About his hind quarters, we’ll have to wait and see.”

  My father stood, the bit of sacking used as a towel hanging forgotten from his calloused hands as he pondered.

  From outside, the familiar Shabbat sounds of singing drifted into the tent from the small congregation. Mother and Father exchanged a glance, realizing they had missed the sunset. In Jerusalem, the exact beginning of Shabbat was announced by a trumpet blast from the Temple wall. All work ceased immediately. But in the shepherds’ camp, the care of the animals continued as needed without fear of God’s displeasure.

  Father shrugged and lit a second lamp to see by. For several hours he labored over the injured canine. The leg was set with a splint lined with fleece and wrapped with wet rawhide. The cast stiffened as the leather binding dried. Mother later said she wished I was awake to see the care my father poured into the dog, but I was too frightened to move. I remained limp and pretended to be immersed in profound slumber.

  “Are you hungry, Lamsa?” Mother asked.

  “Aye.” Father sat back on his heels and stretched as if to signal that he had done all he could. His robes were streaked with dried blood. “I must get clean for Sabbath. Lay Nehi near Beni, so the dog can see him. Love keeps souls from flying away sometimes.” My father left the tent.

  Mother gazed at the dog. His breath was irregular. His golden-brown eyes followed her every move as she placed me on his sleeping mat and covered us. Beni blinked at me, his boy, thumped his tail once, sighed deeply, then slept.

  Would he ever wake up? I wondered.

  “Merciful Lord,” Mother prayed, “why should such a thing happen? If it is in your will, O Lord of heaven and earth, spare my son this loss.”

  Father returned with Rabbi Kagba in tow. “Sarah, the rabbi’s here, come to bring us Shabbat dinner.”

  The lamplight cast a glow on the old man’s face. He carried a basket of food and a jug of wine. “Shalom, Sarah.” The rabbi extended the food. “I knew you were too busy.”

  My mother accepted the gift and smiled at him. “I may never get used to the kindness in the sheep camp. Even on Shabbat.”

  “So unlike the city, eh, Rabbi?” Father’s face and hands were clean, and his hair braided at the back of his neck. He had put on a fresh tunic.

  Placing a cloth on the low table, Mother laid out the meal. It was a cold feast of freshly baked bread, hummus, eggs, butter, cheeses, and a variety of dried fruit. She fetched clay cups and poured the wine. She remarked she had not realized how very hungry she was until now.

  Father and the rabbi reclined as Mother kindled the candles and recited the prayers, hours late, welcoming the glory of Shekinah into her dwelling place.

  The ritual completed, Rabbi Kagba asked, “So?”

  “He might recover from the wounds,” Father said. “But if his pelvis is broken . . .” He inhaled deeply. “If he isn’t able to stand in the morning, then . . .”

  The rabbi asked, “And if the dog does not die tonight?”

  My father replied, “Tomorrow we will sacrifice Eve’s lamb.” He lifted his cup to his lips and drank before answering the question in my mother’s eyes. “In thi
s land where Eden once resided, among us shepherds, there is a secret for healing that is known and practiced still. The life of a lamb is sacrificed to save another life.”

  Mother studied Beni. I stirred and reached out to touch his muzzle. The dog labored to breathe under his injuries. His bandages showed traces of blood. Would he survive the night?

  Chapter 5

  When dawn crept over the mountains, I was already awake. I had picked my way out of the wool blankets atop a heap of hides. I crouched in abject misery next to Beni, beside the remaining coals of the night’s fire. The fear of the threatened loss of my friend bowed my head down to my shoulders.

  And yet the dog still lived, if only barely.

  Every few minutes I leaned forward to watch the dog’s bound and bloody rib cage for movement. My own breath caught in my throat as I observed each slight and labored inhale. With each additional breath I sighed and sat back, but only for a moment, as if the power of my desire was all that kept my dog’s life within its battered frame.

  Mother stirred, sat up, and caught sight of me. “Nehi? Is he . . . ?”

  “Beni’s still alive, Mama,” I answered hesitantly, fearful that being too positive might crush my last hope.

  “Well then,” my mother responded, “the Almighty has answered our prayers.”

  “But he’s still so . . . so hurt!”

  “Your father has a plan,” Mother said, rising and draping a blanket around my shoulders. “It is the end of lambing season. The flocks are safe. This is the day when the camp will offer a sacrifice to the Lord. Your father was up early, making the preparations. He wants Beni to be present.”

  “For what?”

  “He called it Eve’s lamb,” she answered. “I don’t know what it means exactly, but we will both learn soon. Here he comes now.”

  Father’s heavy tread announced his arrival outside the tent. Taking in the scene within it, he said, “All awake? Good. It’s time. Dress quickly.” When Mother and I had complied, he added, “The two of you must carry Beni. Take the corners of the blanket he’s on. Don’t drop him. Bring him and follow me.”

  Mother and I labored to carry Beni carefully, without jostling him. Mother winced as her bad leg protested the awkward position and bent posture. Biting her lip, she continued anyway.

  Beside a blazing fire, a short distance away from the tent, was a knot of shepherds. They and Rabbi Kagba stood above a lamb tethered to a stake. Mother and I gently deposited our charge near the fire.

  Bending near me, Father said, “When Mother Eve sinned and Father Adam sinned, they brought death into the world. You know this?”

  “Yes, Papa,” I agreed. “You taught me this, and Rabbi Kagba talked to us about it too.”

  “Aye.” The rabbi gestured across the landscape. “In this very place the garden of Eden once abided and the Lord dwelt here. It was on this ground the first sacrifice for man’s sin was made. The footsteps of Adam and Eve trod in this very dust.”

  “You know about sacrifice, Nehemiah.” My father used my formal name. “Then you know that the price for their sin was immediate death, except the Almighty delayed the penalty so that Adam and Eve did not die that very day.” Father raised a warning forefinger. “But an immediate death was still required. Mother Eve’s pet lamb, the darling of her heart, was slain that day. From its hide was fashioned clothing to cover their shame. Its meat was offered up as a burnt offering. Its blood—the innocent blood of the lamb—was poured out on the ground. We remember this event every time our people sacrifice a lamb or a goat or a bull and offer it to the Almighty at the great Temple in Jerusalem.”

  I looked at my father and frowned. There was no temple here, no altar of sacrifice. What was he talking about?

  The rabbi spoke. “One day an even greater sacrifice is prophesied in Torah by the Almighty. In the Book of Beginnings the Lord spoke the words of victory here, where we now stand. One day, in the time of Messiah, a ‘once and for all’ payment will be made, and then, at last, all the power of sin will be broken and death will be no more. But until then . . .” He placed his hands on the head of the lamb. “Father, accept this, our sacrifice, as an atonement for our sins. Forgive us, Lord, we pray.”

  Father gruffly ordered: “First for our sins. But there is healing in the fleece. Since all humans in our camp are well, we will use this fleece for Beni, companion of Nehemiah and servant to the shepherds of the flock. Now, my son, Nehemiah, lay your hands on the lamb.”

  I did so. I felt the quaking life beneath my fingers.

  “Now say this: ‘Merciful Father, please accept this life as a substitution for the life of my friend.’ ”

  As I repeated the words, a knife I had not even noticed flashed out from Father’s belt, and the lamb’s body fell limply away from my touch. I recoiled in shock.

  The rabbi caught the lamb’s blood in a cup, held it high, and prayed quietly before slowly pouring it onto the earth where Paradise had been lost. “Baruch atah Adonai, may our sacrifice be pleasing and acceptable in your sight. Wipe away our sins and cleanse us from all iniquity.”

  Before I even found my voice again, the lamb’s carcass was stripped of its hide.

  “Lift Beni from the blanket,” Father commanded Mother and me. “Hold him just so while I wrap him.” A moment later, as Father prayed, the lambskin was wrapped about the dog’s rib cage and hindquarters, and gently but firmly tied there. The dog was enveloped in a poultice of healing warmth. At its touch the dog opened his eyes, blinked, and wagged—only once, but I saw it. The tiniest hope crept into my heart and curled uneasily there next to my sorrow at the death of the lamb.

  “Now carry him back inside the tent and stir up the fire,” Father said.

  “Will he live?” I blurted.

  My father’s head bobbed once in agreement. “He will live. And, with the blessing, he will do well enough. You, boy, will remember what it cost.”

  “I will, Papa,” I promised. “I will.”

  Throughout the months that followed the application of the coat of Eve’s lamb, I watched anxiously over Beni. With my mother’s help, I carried him and helped him take wobbling steps. I slipped him extra food from my plate, and my mother, bless her, pretended not to notice.

  At first he could barely hobble. I bit my lip to keep from crying over his pain, and Father shook his head. For two Sabbaths it seemed that even the application of the costly treatment would not save Beni from being a cripple, unable to follow the flock . . . or worse.

  Then one morning I was awakened by a hot breath on the back of my neck. When I turned over, Beni licked my face and pawed my chest, urging me to get up. From that day forward, his recovery was swift.

  To quote my father, Beni forever after had “a hitch in his step.” Instead of running properly, Beni’s back legs moved as one, giving him a curious, hopping sort of gait. Nevertheless, once fully healed, he was almost as swift as he had been before the injury and was more determined than ever not to leave my side.

  As the seasons turned, I turned five in the summer. Then, in one night, the warmth of summer slipped away. The sheep camp awakened to autumn. Beni and I followed Father to wash at the pool and pray the morning prayers. The water in the creek was cold against my tender skin. My father’s voice was crisp as he prayed. Holy syllables lingered on the air. Across from the camp, aspen leaves danced like a shower of golden coins on the trees.

  Sheep were up and hard at work cropping the last inches of the grass that had carpeted the meadow.

  That morning Mother cooked a dozen quail. The aroma of the campfire was more pungent, making the meat tangy with a hint of incense, as sap in the wood stopped flowing.

  “Good.” Father spoke between bites. “I sent the brothers ahead to clear the lower pasture of poison weeds. A week is time enough. The tableland is prepared for the flock. Today I’ll move the yearlings. Tomorrow Zeke will follow with the ewes and the lambs.”

  “When will you be back for the rest?” Mother stirred the fir
e.

  “A few days. A week at most.”

  “We’ll break camp and be ready to move when you return.”

  I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Can I go with you, Papa?”

  My father shook his head. “Not this year, son. You stay and help your mother.”

  Though I tried to control it, I felt my lower lip quiver with disappointment. “Papa, with the women?”

  Father’s thick brows met in disapproval. “When you can hear and obey without tears, perhaps then you will be old enough.”

  Shaking off the emotion, I squared my shoulders. “It was the meat. It was too hot. Not tears.”

  Father tested me. “I am taking your dog with the others. He is old enough for training. You are going to stay and help your mother.”

  I looked at Beni. The dog’s tail waved in the air as if he knew he was going on an adventure. “But Beni goes and not me?” A single tear escaped and trickled down my cheek. There was no calling it back.

  Father’s head nodded once. That was the way it was to be. I knew that one tear had cost me an adventure.

  It was the silence of the sheep camp that awakened me. The usual bleating of the yearlings was absent as the first light of morning crept up the lavender sky and illuminated the tops of the east-facing mountains.

  I snuggled deeper beneath my fleece and tried to remember why this dawn was quieter than most. I sat up as Father’s journey to greener pastures with the young flock jolted my memory.

  “Papa’s gone,” I whispered. “Beni too.” Then I climbed out of my warm nest and planted my bare feet on the cold dirt floor. The blue light of dawn illuminated the tent flap. I watched the stars of the constellations fade. One glance at the mound of blankets on the large sleeping mat told me my mother was still asleep.

  This was a good thing, I reasoned as I dressed. While Mother slept, and my father and brothers were gone, I would have the opportunity to be the man of the house. I decided I would begin my day with ceremonial washing and prayers, as my father had taught me. Only this morning I would do it all by myself. By the time Mother awoke, I would be back from the creek, clean and ready to eat. She would be proud of me. She would tell Father that I had behaved well and thus was worthy of making future journeys with the men and older boys.