by Bodie Thoene
“Who can say?” the porter said, laying his arm across my shoulders. “Tomorrow or next week? Who can say?”
It was not the answer I hoped to hear.
I was back in the Zakho synagogue for the evening Havdalah service. By this rite Sabbath ended and the new week inaugurated. I tasted the wine and savored the aroma as the box of spices was passed around. The sharp sweetness of cinnamon, cloves, and myrtle pepper mingled with the penetrating tang of laurel and the exotic allure of orange peel.
Making sure I used all five of my senses, just as my mother taught me, I admired the entwined flames of the braided candle. Extending my hands, I sensed its warmth while I listened to the blessing:
“Blessed art thou, God, our Lord, King of the Universe,
who distinguishes
holiness from the everyday,
light from dark,
Israel from the nations,
the seventh day from the six work days.
Blessed art thou, God,
who distinguishes holiness from the everyday.”
When the candle was extinguished in the last of the wine, the end of the Havdalah service brought Sabbath to a close. Some of the men dipped a fingertip in the wine and touched their eyelids with it for good luck. Neither Rabbi Kagba nor my father had ever followed that custom, so neither did I.
Outside the synagogue a pair of torches lighted the entry. There was no illumination between the religious building and the caravansary, but the latter was only a few paces away.
I had only stepped into the darkness when I heard shouts of alarm and hoofbeats approaching at high speed. From the direction of the bridge came a horseman at full gallop.
The mounted man was upon me almost before I had time to react. I looked up and saw a black-cloaked figure on a black steed bearing down on me. Flinging myself out of the way, I had only a second to spare as the rider thundered past.
Flashing hooves dug sharply into the soil exactly where I had been standing.
But the nearness of sudden death was not what made me quake with alarm.
In the momentary glimpse of the mounted man’s face provided by the torches, I recognized Zimri! Had the bandit chief also noticed me?
The assassin hurtled through Zakho without pausing and dashed away into the countryside beyond. There was no sign I had been spotted, no signal that the rebel was returning.
Yet still I could not stop myself from also bolting into flight. Ignoring calls from Asa, asking what was wrong, I sprinted across the stable yard. Up the stairs I charged, taking the steps two at a time.
There was no authority in Zakho to whom I could report, no one I trusted with my complete story, nothing to be done.
All of my anxiety centered on the cup! Unreasonably, I was suddenly fearful for its safety.
Inside my room I tore the covers off the bed and gasped with alarm. It wasn’t there! The Cup of Joseph was not at the head of the bed. I rummaged through the fleece and coverlet, hoping I had tossed the sacred object aside without meaning to do so.
Down on my knees I went, handling and squeezing each bit of fabric. It was then that I saw it: a dark bundle, partly unrolled, lying between the wall and the bed frame at the head of the bed.
I snatched it up, feeling the comforting solid form within the folds. Even then I was not fully reassured until I unwrapped it completely and cradled the black, nondescript chalice in my arms.
The parcel had merely tumbled off the pallet, probably when I slammed the door on my way to the synagogue. I vowed to never leave it behind again.
The vision of Zimri galloping past slammed again into my thoughts. The bandit was still out there, somewhere. He had not been after me this time, but if we met again I would certainly be in danger.
I could not stay in Zakho any longer. The need to connect with a safe caravan and leave this part of the world behind was stronger than ever. I prayed earnestly for the remainder of my stay in Zakho to be brief. I wanted to travel with the right companions in a caravan to Jerusalem, but mostly I felt an urgent need to get the journey underway.
I bolted the door securely. Reknotting the fabric, I patted the sacking around the cup into a more comfortable shape. Using it for a pillow, I fell asleep.
Chapter 17
It wasn’t even dawn when the bawling of camels and the shouting of drovers woke me. A new caravan had arrived at the caravansary.
Standing on the balcony, I studied the new arrivals. I counted forty beasts of burden, a good number for safe traveling. I saw family groups come in together and be assigned quarters beneath my room.
The man who strode about giving orders to everyone must be the master. He was of medium height and build, with sturdy shoulders and muscular forearms. The fringes of his prayer shawl proclaimed him to be an observant Jew. In fact, all the men in this caravan appeared to be respectable Jews.
Emerging from the inn, Asa greeted the newly arrived chief by shouting across the yard: “Hosea! Welcome! We looked for you these three days past.”
“Had a new baby born on the crossing between here and Ecbatana,” the leader called back. Hooking a thumb over his shoulder, he gestured toward a baby camel lurching unsteadily beside her mother. “Had to stay over a day, and that put us too late to get here before Sabbath. But here we are. Food ready?”
“Fresh bread, butter, and dates. Come inside and eat.”
“I will, soon as I see all the families properly disposed and the animals fed.”
“Sir,” I called down to Asa, “might I join you for breakfast? I’d like to speak with the caravan master.”
“Hosea?” Asa returned. Then, guessing at my purpose, he added, “You could not do better than him, lad. Come down and welcome.”
Hosea was even more muscular up close than he had seemed from a distance. The caravan captain had a puckered scar on his brawny right forearm. He was gruff but not unkind when he spoke to me. “What’s this about joining the caravan?” he asked. “Where are your parents, boy? Is it true they sent you to make arrangements?” Hosea lowered his chin and looked down a long, crooked nose. “The truth, now, mind.”
“Yes, sir,” I agreed. “I am supposed to go to my grandfather’s shop in Jerusalem, in the Street of the Weavers. My brothers are already there. My parents will be joining me later.” It wasn’t really a lie so much as a hopeful utterance, I told myself.
Asa, seated beside me on a wooden bench next to a smoldering fire, turned, and looked at me. “Why the story, then? About you being sent here to set things up?”
“My good friend, Rabbi Kagba, said I should tell people that my parents were coming soon. He said then no one would take advantage of me. He said when I found observant Jews I could trust them and then I could explain.”
I still did not make reference to the cup, nor to the special mission that had been assigned to me. I had told enough of the tale to get me to Jerusalem. The rest was no one’s business. “When I heard that you keep Sabbath,” I added to Hosea, “I was sure God had sent the right caravan for me.”
Hosea laughed, exchanging a glance with the innkeeper. “So I’m an answer to prayer, am I? There’s few would make that claim about me.”
“I can pay.” I explained the bargain the rabbi had insisted was fair. “You will be paid the rest when we reach the Holy City.”
Hosea waved away the reference to pay. “I believe you, lad. That’s not the issue. I cannot take you, alone as you are. Someone must be willing to be responsible for you. See that you’re fed. Doctored, if needed. Assign you your duties. On my caravans everyone works if they want to eat.”
“I’m a good worker,” I maintained stoutly, looking to Asa to back me up.
The caravansary owner nodded.
“All right, let me locate the family I think will serve your need. If they agree, then I’ll take you on. Mind, now,” he said sternly. The bench legs squealed on the wooden floor as he stood and pushed away from the table. “It’s no easy task you’ve set for yourself. We walk fro
m sunup to sunset, six days a week, and then tend the animals before we rest ourselves. And there’s no turning back. This time of year it’ll take six Sabbaths with the blessing of the Name . . . eight if we’re unlucky. You still want to sign on?”
I nodded vigorously.
Hosea expressed his approval. “You will be able to help this family, I think. They are making this journey because of some healer they heard of. Jesus, I think his name is. One son is going blind, and the other son’s wife is barren.” The caravan master shook his head. “It’s a long journey. I hope they find what they’re looking for.”
Hosea returned with an older man and his wife and two children younger than me. “This is Raheb and his good wife, Reena. They are traveling west with their sons and daughters-in-law, and these, their two grandchildren.”
“Pleased to meet you, Nehemiah,” said Raheb, a pleasant-seeming man, nearing sixty, broad of build and face. “Here are Beryl”—he tapped a small girl of about four on the shoulder—“and Michael.” He lightly thumped the head of a boy a year or two younger than me. “These two require a lot of looking after,” Raheb said. “And they’re a bit small for their chores. But you look strong. Shepherd, I hear? Would you help them in exchange for your meals?”
“Gladly, sir,” I agreed.
“Then it’s settled,” Hosea offered. “We leave day after tomorrow at daybreak. You can start helping by watering the camels today.”
By the time we were a few days’ journey out of Zakho, I had learned a great deal more about Raheb’s family. They were loving, pious, close-knit, and diligent. Raheb was a hard worker, his advice sought as frequently as his muscular strength, and he made both available in a cheerful, modest way. Reena was a good cook, caring and unflustered by life amid dirt and sweaty camels, never shirking her labor but always finding time to hug Beryl or tell Michael a story.
They were both a comfort and a grief to me. My guardians represented a place of plenty and safety after all my running and hiding . . . and also a constant reminder of how much I missed my own parents.
I learned more about my temporary family than just their character. I came to understand their motives as well, much to my surprise.
Going on pilgrimage to the Holy City was something all pious Jews aspired to accomplish. Torah enjoined three pilgrim festivals each year: Tabernacles, Passover, and the Festival of Weeks that culminated in Pentecost. Among devout Jews living far from Jerusalem, it was a custom to pay a substitute to appear at the Temple. This allowed distant believers to participate in the sacrifices by proxy in those years in which they could not travel. Ever since my mother moved to Amadiya when she married Father, my Jerusalem grandparents had performed those ceremonies for us.
This year I would be going myself.
But the circumstances that took Raheb and his children to Jerusalem involved more than fulfilling a religious obligation. Raheb’s son, Tobit, father of my friends Michael and Beryl, had an eye disease that was robbing him of his sight. His eyes watered constantly and were often glued shut in the morning when he awoke. He was so sensitive to the glare of the desert sun that he kept a headscarf wrapped about his face by day, peering out at the world through narrow slits.
Raheb’s other son, Yacov, was wed six years earlier, but he and Dinah had no children. She was barren. She doted on her niece and nephew, but a lurking sadness never fully left her face.
What shocked me was learning the cause of their deciding to make aliyah this year: the presence of Jesus of Nazareth.
Stories were swapped around a community campfire. It seemed that everyone had an opinion about the rabbi from Galilee. “I heard once there was a crowd so great it was impossible to get near him,” one traveler reported. “So four companions tore off the roof of the house where Jesus was and lowered their crippled friend down to him. This Jesus told him to get up and walk . . . and he did.”
“That’s all?” a scoffer challenged. “No magic words? No special prayers?”
“No, but he did say the man’s sins were forgiven.”
Mutters of “Blasphemy!” and “Who does he think he is?” swirled around the leaping flames.
“Perhaps he’s a madman, deluded,” another remarked.
The original reporter continued, “Jesus asked them if it was harder to forgive sins or to heal a paralyzed man. He said making the man walk was the proof he could forgive sin too.”
I did not know what to make of that tale. How could I understand a man who claimed to be able to forgive sins? Didn’t that authority belong to God alone? Wasn’t Messiah supposed to be a leader who would be like Moses? Or like Joshua? A man who would free us Jews from the power of Rome and restore David’s kingdom?
My doubts were echoed by the next speaker. “He’s a charlatan! Mark my words: he’s just another swindler, claiming to be a messiah . . . right up until he and all his followers get themselves crucified. We don’t need a healer, or a smooth-talking liar, or a philosopher! We need a strong military leader. We need another Judah Maccabee.”
There were murmurs of agreement at these words. We were hoping to arrive in Jerusalem by Hanukkah, celebrating the rededication of the Temple after the famous Judah the Hammer defeated our foes two hundred years earlier.
Tobit stepped forward into the firelight. Since it was night, his eyes were unbound, but they were red and inflamed all around them. He squinted painfully in the flaring brilliance and wiped away tears that coursed down his cheeks. “I have heard he gave sight to a man born blind. Born . . . blind! No one has ever heard of such a thing. Perhaps it isn’t true. But if it is, if he will touch me and keep me from losing my sight, I will follow him, warrior or not.”
“I heard,” Hosea rumbled, “that he even raised the dead.”
“Now you’ve gone too far,” someone sneered. “Is he supposed to be Elijah or Elisha?”
Hosea said, “I have a cousin in the synagogue in Capernaum. He’s the one who told me the cantor’s daughter was dead and Jesus brought her back to life.” Then, speaking very carefully and deliberately, the caravan leader pronounced each of these words: “Or are you calling me a liar?”
The one who issued the objection retreated immediately. “Spoke hastily . . . please forgive me . . . some misunderstanding.”
When we went to bed that night, I found the Cup of Joseph to be more uncomfortable than usual as my pillow. How would I know whether Jesus was worthy to receive it or not? If he was not who Rabbi Kagba hoped, what would I do with it? Why was I carrying it across a thousand-mile journey away from home, if it turned out to be all wrong?
Then I thought about Tobit’s eyes and Dinah’s weary sadness. “Almighty, for all their sakes, make the stories be true,” I prayed. “And let me know the truth without mistake.” I remembered the White Hart and my vision of Joseph the Dreamer. I was sent to Jerusalem for a purpose. The cup had come to me, out of all those who had carried it or who might have found it over the centuries. I was the one appointed for this reason, even if I did not yet understand it.
Chapter 18
We journeyed across the Land between the Rivers—Mesopotamia, as the Greek-speakers called it. Despite the promise of abundant water in its name, the area was in the grip of a prolonged drought. Dry, dusty plains stretched for miles, punctuated by all-too-rare clumps of trees and occasional muddy pools. Wells, some of them dug back in the days of Father Abraham, still furnished the life blood of the trade routes.
Hosea urged us to use our water sparingly. “I plan each day’s journey to take us from watering hole to watering hole,” he lectured the group. “But there are no guarantees. A sandstorm or a greedy caravan that gets there first . . . either of these can upset the plan. If we are forced to go a second or a third day on just what we can carry, then so be it, we will.”
“And what happens if it’s four days?” someone asked.
“Then those who have not been careful will either beg or begin to die,” Hosea said.
The very next morning we rehearsed
Hosea’s warning. Raheb made certain every waterskin for our group was completely filled before we left the well. It was my duty to haul the bulging, dripping bags out of the water source. Tobit and Yacov saw to it that they were secured to the packsaddles of the camels.
During the very first week of our journey, we experienced the truth of Hosea’s words.
Before dawn the camels began bawling as if jackals ran amid their lines. Raheb and Yacov dashed about with drawn swords but found nothing.
Just as they returned to the remains of the previous night’s campfire, the tremor struck. The earth rolled and pitched beneath my feet. A tent collapsed on Reena and her daughters-in-law, but they were not hurt.
We sorted ourselves out and resumed our travel.
When it was almost evening, we arrived at a place Hosea called Beth Mah-buwah, the House of the Spring. What we expected to find was a sheltered spot with water seeping out of a rock face. Our leader said the spring filled a pool to overflowing.
Instead, we found the cliffside fractured, the spring dried up, and the pool split, drained and empty.
“The earthquake,” Hosea muttered. “In ages past one tremor broke the rock and started the fountain. Now another has closed it again.”
“Could another reopen it?” Raheb asked.
“Not soon enough to help us,” the caravan leader responded. “Nor would you want to be close by when it did.” He gestured to a heap of boulders that had fallen from the top of the precipice. “That would have crushed anyone too close. Still, we camp here tonight anyway,” he ordered. “Well away from the cliff, in case the earth is still not comfortable. Use your water carefully. With the blessing, we should reach another well by tomorrow night . . . but we cannot know until we reach it.”
On the next day’s march Raheb’s family was at the front of the caravan. Michael trotted along beside me. My new young companion kept up a constant chatter about whatever popped into his head: what he named each of the goats we herded, what he would see in Jerusalem, the earthquakes he had felt when home in Ecbatana . . . and water. Often he talked about water.
