“So stop stalling,” Ali said. “Answer the question.”
Miri sat down on the desk next to Brad.
“Well, I read all those references he gave us again last night. The one big question in my mind is whether Mormons really do represent Ephraim. But,” she went on quickly as both Brad and Ali started to speak, “the thing that really bothered me was his interpretation of Ezekiel. He made such a point of the fact that the sticks were books—the stick of Joseph was the Book of Mormon, the stick of Judah the Bible.”
“Right.” Both Ali and Brad spoke as one.
“When I got home I got out my Bible in Hebrew and read that passage.”
“And?” Ali asked impatiently as she paused for a long moment.
“At first I was really bothered. The Hebrew word for ‘stick’ doesn’t mean book at all. Its basic meaning is wood. The meaning clearly seemed to be two staffs or rods on which the names of Judah and Joseph were written. It is a prophecy that the two tribes will be reunited, but it has nothing to do with books or records. But Brother Spencer made such a point that Joseph Smith claimed it was a book. I felt sure that your Mormon prophet was in error. He should not have spoken out on a Hebrew text without knowing Hebrew.”
“Sometimes a prophet knows more than a linguist,” Brad said stubbornly.
Miri smiled. “Another assumption that one must take on faith. But,” she added quickly, cutting off Brad’s protest, “let me finish. Before challenging you on this, I wanted to be absolutely sure. So I went to the Hebrew University this morning. I got out some Hebrew dictionaries and lexicons. I found out a couple of interesting things.”
“What?” Brad asked eagerly.
“Well,” she said, “to make a long story short, I finally ended up in the office of one of my former professors, one of the foremost archeologists in the Middle East. I won’t go into all the archeological trivia, but the professor told me that the Babylonians used wooden writing books to make records.”
Brad got the first glimmer. “So—”
“So,” Miri continued, “the Babylonian word for these wooden boards is close to the Hebrew word for ‘stick.’ My professor thinks a better translation of that verse would be: ‘And he took one wooden writing tablet and wrote on it for Judah.’ ”
“So it is a record,” Brad said, surprised at her information, and even more amazed at her.
Miri nodded. “I must admit I was very impressed. Your Joseph Smith has a remarkable record.” She looked at Ali. “So to answer your question about Saturday night, I am impressed, I am troubled, I am intrigued. In a word, I don’t know.”
“Grab your club, Brad,” Ali said happily. “This girl needs to be baptized, conscious or not.”
“Oh no,” Miri protested quickly, “Remember, one ‘stick’ does not a convert make.”
“Oh, ho ho!” Ali said, making a face at her. “Very punny. Very punny indeed.”
Miri bowed her head, acknowledging her just dues. “Thank you.” She looked at Brad. “I need to call the hotel and talk to my father before we leave. I’ll be only a minute or two. May I use your phone, Ali?”
“Sure thing. It’s in my office at the end of the hall.”
For almost a full minute after she had left, both men were silent, wrapped up in their own thoughts. Finally Brad spoke.
“She really is something. If she ever does convert, she will make a super Latter-day Saint.”
“And one heck of a wife,” Ali added.
Brad had learned that trying to hide his feelings from Ali was like trying to appear inconspicuous in a business suit on the beach. “I agree,” he admitted. “If she will join the Church. That’s still a very big if.”
“And if not,” Ali asked softly, “then what?”
“Then old Brad packs his bags and heads for home.”
“Just like that?”
“No, not just like that. But he’ll do it. It won’t work any other way. Besides, what are we talking about? I don’t even know if Miri is interested in me. She hasn’t said a word.”
“Oh, brother!” Ali groaned. “If you are that dense, drawing pigs on the blackboard may be the highlight of your life.” He walked to the door and leaned against the frame, where he could see Brad and look down the hall too. “If you can’t see her feelings for you in her eyes, you’re the only one who can’t. Even her father can see how she feels.”
Brad’s head shot up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Levi quizzed me the other day about you two.”
“He did? What did he say?”
“He wanted to know what I thought your intentions were—if you liked her, et cetera, et cetera.”
“And?”
“And what?” Ali asked innocently.
Brad scooped up the eraser and hurled it at his friend, missing his head by at least a millimeter. “You know what!” he exclaimed. “Come on, what did you tell him?”
“That you were madly in love with his daughter, seriously considering an elopement, but that you would be back in time to cover your evening shift and not to worry.”
The shoe on the desk used for vocabulary training followed the eraser, only this time Brad’s aim was true. It whacked Ali solidly on the shoulder.
“Ouch!” he hollered. “All right, all right,” he cried as Brad picked up the orange. “I surrender! I surrender!”
“So what did you say?”
“I told him the truth. I told him nothing formal was happening, but that I thought you were both starting to develop some deep feelings for each other.”
“And what did he say to that?”
“Not much. I think Levi has mixed emotions. He has concerns about Miri marrying a non-Jew, and a non-Israeli, and yet he really likes you. Her mother really likes you.”
“I really like them. They are good people.”
Ali gave Brad a long, searching look. “Actually, I think Levi is more concerned about her relationship to Mormonism.”
That brought Brad up short. “Oh?”
“You know, it’s funny. The Shadmis claim that they are not practicing Jews, and yet those traditions die hard. Levi grew up in an Orthodox home. If theirs was an Orthodox home now and Miri converted to Christianity, there would be a formal funeral. Her name would never be spoken in the home again. That would be true even if she married you and didn’t convert.”
“Do you think they would react that strongly now? Levi seems to have some positive feelings about Mormons himself.”
“I don’t know. I really doubt they would kick Miri out of the home, but it would, I think, introduce a serious strain into their relationship.”
“And that would be tough,” Brad murmured glumly. “They are a very close family. And yet now that I think about it, they were noticeably cooler when I picked up Miri for church that day when you spoke.”
Ali nodded, his dark eyes thoughtful. “Not that it would stop Miri. She has a mind of her own. If she decides for baptism, she’ll do it no matter what.”
“If she decides.” They both fell silent, considering the chances of that happening.
Finally Brad shrugged, his face long. “Well, that’s a secondary worry, anyway. First we have to get her converted, and that is a big enough task for the moment.”
Nineteen
Masada! Its very name meant mountain stronghold, and that it was. It was a superb natural fortress, its sheer cliffs towering thirteen hundred feet above the lowest spot on the face of the earth, the shores of the Dead Sea. Brad and Miri were climbing up what Josephus, the ancient historian, had called the “Serpentine Path.” It snaked its way up the eastern flank of the boat-shaped mountain, each sharp switchback becoming steeper and narrower as it came up under the lip of the cliffs that ringed the top. Brad let his eyes follow the path upward, awestruck at the choice of the Jewish Zealots some two thousand years before. A six-year-old with a basket of grapefruit-sized rocks could defend the final fifty or sixty feet from a thousand troops. Fifteen thousand of the Tenth Legi
on, the best Rome could field, were held at bay by a few ragtag rebels, probably less than three hundred actual fighting men. No wonder this spot had captured and fired the imagination of the Israelis. It personified their own struggles against incredible odds.
Miri pointed to a small bench where the trail made yet another switchback. “Shall we take a break for a few minutes?”
Brad nodded, and they plopped down, grateful for the small patch of shade provided by a thatched overhang. They had been climbing steadily for close to half an hour and were still barely two-thirds of the way up. The Dead Sea shimmered azure blue in the searing heat, a mile or two to the east and a thousand feet below them. Even though it was late September, the sun could still blister the skin, and it left the air hot and oppressive.
Brad unhooked his canteen and offered it to Miri, watching as she tipped her head back and drank. Even in the fierce heat of the Judean wilderness, she looked cool and lovely. A light cotton blouse, sky blue and sleeveless, with matching shorts emphasized the slimness of her figure and the graceful line of her legs. A bright yellow scarf protected her head from the sun.
“Tastes good,” she murmured, then leaned back against one of the thin metal poles that held up the protective covering. She was right about the water, but only because out here water was at a premium. It was tepid and tasted faintly of aluminum.
Brad studied her face, calm now in repose, and felt again the tug of conflicting emotions. He leaned over, picked up a pebble, and rolled it back and forth in his hands. Yesterday his hopes had soared when she had discovered on her own the meaning of the two sticks prophecy. At other times they crashed in hopelessness. This morning as they had driven down from Jerusalem, Brad had thought she was asleep, her head back against the seat of the car, her eyes closed. Suddenly she had said, “I just cannot accept it. It doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t make sense?” he had asked.
“That God would let his own son be killed to save all men, when the vast majority don’t want to be saved anyway.”
Brad had started to explain, but it soon became clear she had been thinking out loud and did not want any intrusions in her thoughts. So he had lapsed into gloomy silence.
He flipped the rock away and watched it arc downward until it hit the mountain, making a little puff of dust. Miri opened her eyes.
“Are you ready to go?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No way.”
“Good,” she murmured lazily. “Neither am I,” and she closed her eyes again.
He watched her, knowing that soon he had to make some commitments of his own. He had left home in a state of turmoil and frustration. He had been without purpose, rudderless in the stream, irritated at his own inability to decide what to do. Those feelings were gone now. In his quest for ammunition to combat Miri’s incessant questions, he had found himself. He knew now what he wanted to do with his life, and the desire to embark on that path was becoming more and more powerful. Some of the greatest events of history were starting to unfold, and those events were intimately connected with the Mormons and the peoples of Israel—Arab and Jew. Brad wanted to learn everything he could about those intertwining destinies, and then teach it to others, ignite them with the flame that consumed him. He had been so overjoyed when he realized he’d found the answer he had been looking for, that the next morning he had spent several hours at the Hebrew University, checking out classes, programs, possibilities. By noon, however, he knew that he couldn’t get what he wanted there. He would have to become completely fluent in Hebrew to get a degree in Jerusalem, and that would take a year or more in addition to his studies. And back home, with the Middle Eastern Center at the University of Utah, he had one of America’s finest facilities right in his backyard.
He studied Miri, then shook his head. Only one thing held him here now—this beautiful dark-haired Israeli who sat next to him, totally unaware of his frustrations. How much longer should he hang on? He had money enough yet for several months. But every dime spent here now was robbing the achievement of his goal. And what if Miri converted? Would she be willing to marry him and go to America?
That thought surprised even Brad. Hey, c’mon Kennison, he said severely to himself. This girl is a nonmember. A Jew. And you’re thinking about marriage? It’s time to wake up and face reality. Just tell her goodbye, get on the plane, and go home before you’re in this over your head. He shook his head. Who are you kidding? You’re already in this up to your eyebrows and—
“Hey, you!” Miri’s voice startled him out of his thoughts. “Anybody home in there?”
Brad smiled, slightly embarrassed. “Oh, hi! Haven’t we met somewhere before?”
She nodded, only half smiling. “What in the world were you thinking? You’ve been frowning as if you were sitting on a thornbush or something.”
He searched for a quick reply. Then the rumble of the gondola broke in. The bright red car passed overhead, full of tourists who waved down to them. Brad waved back and pulled a face at Miri.
“I was thinking about those poor unfortunates who only get to ride up to the top in five minutes instead of experiencing the exhilarating pleasures of a forty-fiveminute hike in the bright and delightful sunshine.”
Miri pulled a face at him. “You’re the one who said you wanted to—”
“Don’t remind me. Tell me again how much money we’re saving by climbing up.”
Her dark eyes were thoughtful. “Was that really what you were thinking?”
“No,” he admitted after a long pause. “Actually I was thinking about how fooled we can be sometimes.”
“Fooled?”
“Yes. Like the Dead Sea.” He pointed to the panorama before them. “From a distance she holds out so much promise. She is beautiful from here. You might think at first you could satisfy all of your needs at her shores.” Brad looked into those sober, probing eyes for what seemed like an interminable moment, then finally looked away. “But when you get closer, you find the promise is not real. You have deceived yourself into thinking she can solve your problems. And you go away more thirsty than before.”
The gondola reached the top, and in the stillness they could hear the laughter and chatter of the group as they disembarked and climbed the last few feet to the top.
Finally Miri spoke, her voice soft, her eyes reflective. “But such is not always the case. Sometimes the promise is fulfilled.”
Brad glanced at her sharply, wondering if she had sensed more of his feelings than he thought. But Miri turned and gazed out over the valley and water below them so he couldn’t see her eyes.
“From the hills above Tiberias,” she continued, “the Sea of Galilee looks very much like the Dead Sea does from here. But when you come closer, you find no deception. The water is clear and sweet, the shore is lined with trees and shrubs, the depths are filled with fish. She fulfills all of one’s expectations. If one did not know there was a difference between the Dead Sea and the Sea of Galilee, one might never come down to drink and be satisfied.”
A moment earlier, she had asked him what he was thinking. Now he would have given far more than a penny to know her thoughts.
“Miri, I—” He stopped and then shook his head. What would he say? What could he say?
Again those deep, unreadable eyes probed his for a long moment. Then she brightened and smiled. “Which reminds me, how would you like a free trip to the Galilee for three days?”
“The Galilee sounds great, but not for free.”
“Hey, Mr. Proud, just listen for a moment. You’ve heard me speak about my good friend, Sarah Millstein.”
“The one who teaches school on the kibbutz?”
“Yes. She is taking the children on a tee-yool—an outing. Oh, there’s no really good English word for it. It’s kind of like a tour, a field trip, as you would say. Only in Israel it’s more like our national pastime. We love to see our land and our country.”
“I understand.”
“I promised Sar
ah I would serve as their guide. They leave next Sunday.”
“That sounds good, but I still insist on paying my way.”
“Just listen, please. The men of the kibbutz are just finishing up the harvest. They can spare only one sixteen-year-old to guard the children. They prefer two guards.”
That was one of the sobering realities of Israel that Brad had noticed. Every group of children was accompanied by armed men or women. The terrorists had no respect for age, and the Israelis knew from grim experience that they must protect their own.
“They just happen to be offering about fifteen dollars a day for someone who could accompany them. That would cover your guide’s fee.”
Brad laughed. “You are an incorrigible liar, for which I am grateful. Tell Sarah she has a guard.”
“Good. We’ll—”
“Oh,” Brad exclaimed in sudden disappointment. “I have to work for your father those nights.”
Miri blushed slightly. “I’ve already talked to him about it, hoping you would accept.” The blush deepened. “I mean, assuming you wanted to see the Galilee. Father said that was fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. He said at the beginning he promised you time off whenever you wanted it, and you haven’t asked for any yet. Sarah will hold classes for the children each afternoon and since we’ll be staying mostly on local kibbutzim, the children will be safe. I could then take you to the Christian sites, if you’d like.”
“I would like,” Brad said firmly. “The whole thing sounds great. Ali’s new English teacher should be here Thursday, so I’ll be finished at the school.”
“Fine.” Miri stood up. “Then enough of this decadent American laziness. Up, we must press on to the top.”
Brad groaned and stood up to join her, hoisting his camera bag to his shoulder. “And you criticize the Romans for being such terrible taskmasters.”
Three hours later they sat in the quiet coolness of the giant cistern on the southern tip of Masada. Cistern was a deceptive word if one thought of a well or similar storage facility. This one, hewn out of solid rock, was approximately the size of a small chapel, and in Roman times it held over eighty million gallons of water. Now it was dry and dusty, the aqueducts that fed it long in disrepair. The only light entered through the three or four openings near the ceiling, where the water had originally been funneled in. It was dim and gloomy, appropriate to the mood of Masada. They had explored the ruins on the top: the bath house, the storage buildings, the synagogue, the incredible “hanging palace” of King Herod, which clung to three levels of the northern face of the cliff.
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