Take This Cup

by Bodie Thoene

  A message inscribed on sheepskin fluttered to the floor at my feet.

  The rabbi picked it up, read it, and passed it to me. “Nehemiah. This was written to you, I think.”

  The comment startled and confused me. Written to me? How could that be? What did he mean? At the rabbi’s urging I read the letter aloud.

  “INSTRUCTION—

  CUPBEARER GUIDED BY THE HAND

  OF THE ALMIGHTY,

  FEAR NOT,

  YOU OF CHILD’S HEART WHO DRAWS FORTH

  THE CUP OF JOSEPH’S SUFFERING.

  TAKE BENJAMIN’S COINS FOR PASSAGE

  AND BEAR JOSEPH’S CUP HOME TO JERUSALEM.

  THE CUP OF SUFFERING,

  JOSEPH’S INHERITANCE

  FOR THE ONE WHO IS TRUE KING OF ISRAEL.

  HIS NAME IS SALVATION,

  WONDERFUL,

  COUNSELOR,

  SON AND HEIR

  OF HOLY PROMISES,

  AS FORETOLD WITHIN THESE WRITINGS.

  AS JOSEPH’S LIFE A PROPHECY PORTRAYED,

  THE SUFFERING

  SAVIOR OF ISRAEL’S CHILDREN,

  SO THE LORD HIMSELF,

  CONCEIVED BY THE HOLY SPIRIT,

  BORN OF A VIRGIN,

  WILL BE BORN AS A BABE

  AND SUFFER FOR OUR SAKES,

  THE TRUE REDEEMER OF ISRAEL.

  CUPBEARER TO THE KING,

  GO FORTH TO HIM WITHOUT TREMBLING.

  FOR THE SAKE OF HIS BROTHERS

  MESSIAH

  MUST DRINK THIS CUP.

  HE WILL PARTAKE OF SUFFERING

  AS JOSEPH

  SAVED HIS BROTHERS,

  WHO SOLD HIM AS A SLAVE.

  THEREFORE WATCH AND WAIT HERE

  FOR A SERVANT CLOTHED IN WHITE RAIMENT

  WHOM THE LORD WILL SEND TO GUIDE YOU

  THROUGH THE MOUNTAINS

  AND LEAVE YOU WHERE THE PLAINS BEGIN.

  IT IS WRITTEN ‘WHAT MAN INTENDS FOR EVIL,

  THE LORD INTENDS FOR GOOD.’

  The rabbi whispered in awe, “The cup. From the Book of Beginnings. It was for you these instructions are given.”

  “Not me. I’m just Nehemiah, son of Lamsa and Sarah.”

  Rabbi Kagba wagged an admonishing finger. “But named for the cupbearer of the King who rebuilt the walls of Jerusalem.”

  “But not me, sir.”

  “You drew it forth. You hold the silver cup of Joseph the Revealer of Secrets, dreamer of dreams. The cup Benjamin carried away in his grain sack . . . could it be? The cup Baruch the Scribe spirited off to hide during the exile! Nehemiah, break the strings. Open it!”

  Urged by the rabbi to haste, I tore at the leather, finally slipping it off the package. Joseph’s cup, black with tarnish, tumbled out onto the rabbi’s bed.

  We stared at it a long moment without speaking, neither of us moving to touch it.

  It seemed unremarkable—the size and shape of a Kiddush cup, blackened inside and out. Time and tarnish had concealed any beauty of Joseph’s ancient chalice. It seemed not only ordinary but common and ugly. It was not even worthy of a thief to steal such a thing.

  I began to rub the tarnish with my cloak, much as I had learned to clean dishes for my mother without being told to do so.

  The rabbi stopped me. “No. Leave it tarnished, boy. It is a disguise. Concealment and protection. It appears a thing that no thief will value. Unpolished. Black and worthless in the eyes of men. But when you see him, Messiah, Jesus of Nazareth, then you must clean the cup and present it to him.”

  “You must come too! You’ll know what to do, Rabbi. I will carry it, but you must—”

  The old man wagged his head wearily. “No, my boy, I cannot. This task has been given to you. I will stay here awhile.”

  “Zimri and his men . . . what if they find you?”

  “Listen, now. Don’t interrupt. I will rest here in the cave. Look about. You will gather food for me. Bring firewood. There is water in the pool just there. When I recover, I will return home. I will find your parents, if they live, and tell them the task the Almighty has given to you.”

  “But how can I go without you?” My voice quaked with panic. “Jerusalem?”

  “Our footsteps were guided to this place, and we were hidden from the eyes of our enemies. It was you who moved the stones and found the scrolls and the ancient treasure.” The old man blinked at the fire.

  I waited, knowing that some important thought had struck the rabbi. “What is it, sir?”

  “The note said . . . in Benjamin’s sack there was the cup and also money. Twenty pieces of silver. The price for which Joseph’s brothers sold him into slavery. Aye. The instructions speak of coin for your passage to Jerusalem. Draw out the silver that is there for your journey.”

  Reaching deep a second time, I found the heavy money pouch in the bottom of the jar and held it up triumphantly. “Look!”

  “No need to count it. It is said Joseph’s brothers sold him for twenty pieces of silver. And Joseph put the same amount of silver into Benjamin’s sack and sent him on his way. Money is nothing. But the cup you hold is the sign of God’s love and mankind’s redemption.”

  “The real treasure is . . . this?” I frowned at the black, remarkably unremarkable thing. Hard to believe it had any value.

  “The cup . . . but not just any cup. Nehemiah, you will wait here with me. Wisdom now will visit you in dreams. It is written: At the proper time the Lord will send a servant clothed in white to guide you to safety through the mountain passes.”

  “But how long, Rabbi? What if he doesn’t come?”

  “He will come.” The rabbi closed his eyes with a contented exhale. “Aye. This was all seen and known long afore you were born. He will come.”

  “And after he leads me out of the mountains? And I am left alone at the plains? What then? How will I get safely to Jerusalem? I am a boy. Zimri will catch me and sell me if he can. The route is full of men like him. How can I know who is safe?”

  The rabbi considered the question. “I know of a place. You will come to a caravansary along the great caravan road. Take one coin to the master of the inn. Tell him you were sent ahead to prepare a place for your family. He will give you a chamber. You must stay and watch all those guests who enter. There will be many rough sorts, indeed, happy to steal a boy and sell him. So watch the travelers until you see Jews who gather for morning prayers and rest on the Shabbat Day. While they are adorned with phylacteries and prayer shawls, approach them with one silver coin. Tell them you are separated from your family. That your brothers are in Jerusalem and your brothers will pay them if they deliver you safely to Jerusalem, to your family. Do you hear me, boy? Obey my every instruction.”

  I drank in the words. “And you will find my mother and father? And tell them everything?”

  “Aye. If they are alive.”

  “And if they are . . . dead?” I could not conceive of such an outcome. Whatever manly courage I had gained at being divinely appointed to an important task threatened to evaporate.

  The rabbi continued, “Then you alone will find your brothers. And your mother’s parents on the Street of Weavers. But most important, remember: you are Nehemiah . . . cupbearer. Before all else, you must first seek and find Jesus of Nazareth. He is son of Mary, and Joseph is his foster father. Bring this, Joseph’s cup, only to Jesus.”

  “When? How?”

  “When you see Jesus enter Jerusalem, proclaimed as King. Then allow no one to take this from your hands but Jesus. No one but you is anointed to present the cup to the King. Reveal the cup’s identity to no one. Speak of its discovery to no man or woman along the road, lest they slay you and steal the treasure. Let everyone you meet believe the cup is a black, worthless thing, the last possession of a lost boy who seeks his brothers in Jerusalem.”

  Chapter 12

  As Rabbi Kagba pored over the manuscripts that had been freed from the clay storage jars, I set to work foraging for supplies. I hauled an improvised broom behi
nd me with which to brush away my tracks as I walked.

  From time to time I heard the insistent whine of horses across the canyons or above our hiding place. Was Zimri still on the prowl in search of a valuable slave?

  I felt the nearness of the enemy. I lived as though my enemy were right around every bend in the trail.

  The mountains were thick with wild crops sown by some ancient unknown hand. Apricot trees grew from craggy outcroppings. Mushrooms the size of fired clay platters provided the main meat of our meals. I toasted these over smoky coals, infusing them with flavor. A lifetime of helping my mother dry the wild fruits and vegetables had given me the skill and knowledge to preserve food. I prepared a packet of supplies for my travels and packaged the rest for the rabbi’s journey home.

  Daily Rabbi Kagba grew stronger. Perhaps he would be ready to travel at the same time I set out for Jerusalem. The old man made certain my soul was well fed for the journey as well. For ten days and nights the rabbi read aloud the prophecies about the Messiah from the scrolls of the prophets. He told again the story of what he had witnessed in Bethlehem: the stories of shepherds, of angels, of the infant king pursued by the brutal soldiers of the usurper Herod.

  “The babe is grown up now, boy! How I long to speak with him of heavenly things come down to earth!”

  At night I lay my head on the pillow and gazed up into the flickering shadows, half expecting a white-robed character to step from the paintings and call me to come away.

  But each night I slept a dreamless sleep and awakened as dawn crept through the entrance to our shelter.

  On the eleventh day a great storm swept over the peaks and howled at the mouth of the cave. Water dripped into the pool inside the cavern. The rabbi slept deeply in spite of the crash of lightning against the boulders above us.

  I crept toward the portal to see the fury of the gale. Rain fell slantways. A jagged bolt fractured the blackness as it blasted a gnarled pine tree. The ground shook. Bark and limbs exploded and burned. Not even the torrent of rain quenched the embers.

  Gradually the downpour slackened, and the wind was tamed.

  Silence was broken only by water dripping from the trees. In the east, the full moon rose, outlining thunderheads in silver. The clouds seemed like the mountains of a distant world.

  Chin in hand, I lay for a long time at the mouth of the cave, expecting God to walk up the hill and call my name. At last I could not keep my eyes open. I rose and tossed a few more sticks onto the coals and stretched out my hands to warm myself. Then I staggered back to bed and lay down.

  Perhaps the servant of the Lord was not coming after all. The letter had been written hundreds of years before. Maybe the Almighty had forgotten. Maybe he had even forgotten where he had put Joseph’s cup, as very old people sometimes forgot things. Ah well, what was one more day in this place? The rabbi was growing stronger, was he not?

  I yawned and closed my eyes. The warmth of the fire flowed over me like a blanket pulled up around my chin. I remembered my mother tucking me in. Soft fleece and soft words. I smiled, almost feeling her nearness. Sleep came over me.

  The fire had burned low when I heard the wind whisper my name: “Nehemiah. Cupbearer to the King.”

  I replied to the rabbi without opening my eyes. “Yes, sir? Do you need something?”

  The rabbi did not reply. While I waited, I dozed and again heard my name distinctly. “Nehemiah. Get up.”

  Now I rose and went to the rabbi’s side. “Yes, sir. What is it you need?”

  Rabbi Kagba turned over and blinked up at me in confusion. “What is it, boy?”

  “Did you call me, sir?”

  “No. What is it?”

  “There was a fierce thunderstorm. I watched until I was too tired. When I lay down, you called to me,” I explained.

  The old man said, “Not I.”

  “But I heard your voice.”

  The rabbi put a finger to his lips. “Shhhhh. Go lie down. And if you hear the voice again, answer in this way: ‘Here I am, Lord.’ ”

  I returned to my mat and waited, all sense of drowsiness lost in expectation. Water dripped into the pool. The embers crackled and hissed. Hours passed, but now there was no call. I drifted back to sleep at last.

  “Nehemiah . . .” The voice was deep and resonant, as though it came from a deep well. “Nehemiah! Cupbearer to the King.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s my name.” I recalled the rabbi’s instruction. “Here I am, Lord.”

  The voice replied, “Nehemiah, get up. Put on your cloak and sandals. Take up your provisions and the cup. It is a long journey. My servant stands outside the portal. He waits for you.”

  I glanced toward the entrance.

  Someone . . . or something . . . glowed white in the moonlight.

  I stammered, “T-tell him I . . . am coming.”

  I gathered my things without waking the rabbi. I heard movement—the crunch of gravel and a treading underfoot of fallen leaves. My own voice seemed like the voice of a stranger. “Yes, I’m coming!”

  For a moment I stood above the sleeping form of the old man. Would I ever see the rabbi again?

  Rabbi Kagba opened his eyes. “So, Nehemiah, the one you have been waiting for? He has come, as the Lord said he would?”

  The luminescent being passed before the portal.

  “Yes. He’s there,” I confirmed. “Yes, look. See how he moves! White like a candle.”

  The old man sat up and nodded. “Hurry. And the Lord be with you!”

  I turned away as my teacher spoke the benediction at my back. I hesitated as the hope of a holy destiny became a reality. Stepping forward out of the warmth of cave, I croaked, “It is me. Nehemiah.”

  Something like a sigh replied. Suddenly the familiar, beautiful face of the Great White Hart peered at me.

  “You!” I exclaimed.

  The thick neck bowed deeply, presenting to my view the sign of the cross at the center of the antlers.

  Stretching out my hand, I touched the crown of my old friend. “You! Clothed in white! Who better to lead me? Adam’s beloved hart!”

  The hart knelt in the mud and, with a turn of his head, indicated that I should climb onto his back. Grasping the thick base of the antlers, I mounted, swinging my leg over the withers and settling in.

  The creature swayed and rose to his full height.

  I clung tightly to the antlers. “All right, I’m ready!”

  Facing west, the hart took a few paces. And then, as if he had wings, he leapt up the embankment and entered the dark, trackless forest.

  Fireflies danced in the brush as if to light the way for us. The rhythmic chirp of crickets accompanied the song of nightingales and hoot owls.

  The hart’s warm back and rocking motion lulled me to a pleasant drowsiness. Hovering on the border of slumber, my head jerked up. What if I fell to the ground? What if I dropped the sack containing the treasure?

  A myriad of stars shone through the branches of the trees, in imitation of the dancing fireflies. I adjusted the shoulder sling and held tightly to the fleece bag containing Joseph’s cup.

  Even if I fell and the beast continued on without me, I hoped I would not lose the treasure.

  As if sensing the unsteady seating of his passenger, the hart halted on a stony precipice overlooking the plain. A vast valley spread out beneath us. Reflected moonlight on the waters turned the rivers of Eden into silver ribbons.

  I unfastened my belt, then wrapped it around my waist and secured it to the rack of antlers. Once I was safely tied on, the great animal set out through the forest again.

  There was little sound to accompany the swift movement of the hart. His hooves seemed to barely touch the ground. Only an occasional cracking of twigs was heard. The hart’s steady breath rose in a vapor from flared nostrils as he flew onward.

  Near sleep, I squinted toward a bright gleam on the far side of the mountain slope. Fire and smoke meant humans were near. Humans meant danger to me and my mount.
r />   Were these the same men who had hunted me for the bounty of a slave? And how much would the magical hide of a white hart fetch in the court of some potentate of the East? I guessed that every piece of the mythical beast would fetch a high price in the dark arts marketplaces, where sorcerers and court magicians searched for ingredients for potions.

  I stroked the hart’s thick neck. “Did Adam teach you how to carry a man on your back? Did you fly with him over the mountains of Paradise?”

  The hart snorted and effortlessly leapt over a fallen tree.

  Hours passed. My head bobbed forward. I began to slip. The hart turned his muzzle and nudged me upright onto his back.

  At last I could not keep my eyes open any longer. My head fell forward, and my fingers released the strap of the sack containing Joseph’s cup. The hart evidently did not notice the clank of the precious cargo as it tumbled out of the bag and onto the ground.

  It would be many hours before I realized I had dropped the treasure somewhere on the trail.

  Chapter 13

  Morning dawned, lighting treetops like a stand of verdant candles. I burrowed deeper into the warmth of the hart as we lay side by side in the sage. The steady drumming of the hart’s heart pounded in my ear. I opened my eyes to see that I was in the center of the hart’s harem. Does and yearlings dotted the gentle slope of the hillside where they slept at night. How many were there in the herd? Perhaps as many as fifty, I guessed. Their tan hides concealed them from the eyes of any human or other predator traveling the narrow track below.

  As if on cue, the clumsy clopping of a troop of horses echoed from the trail, disturbing the peace. Yet the does did not stir from their hiding places. I tried to sit up, but my protector gently placed his chin over me in warning: Stay down! Keep quiet!

  A gruff human voice spoke. “I think it’s time we push on.”

  Another answered, “You were stupid, Gomer. We could have had the woman, too, if you hadn’t let her do herself in.”

  “Not my fault, Zimri! I turn my back, and she’s off the cliff.”

  “Do you know what she was worth?”