“We are what we are,” said Jehoash.
That I’d done things that won’t go away.
“We do what we do,” said Jehoash.
I’ve done a lot of bad things.
“I don’t know what it means anymore,” said Jehoash.
I’m waiting to do some good.
We never returned to Martha and her family. The storm, the animals in the fields, the family, the young children, the stream, it’s all just a vague memory. But something hit home. Jehoash and Reuben have begun to lead us into a new pattern.
We try to do good. We make agreements with rebels and rich families. We’ve guarded farms and property, monitored a stretch of road to prevent ambushes. Jehoram grins and says that we’re being given food and drink and a roof over our heads to keep ourselves away. For a while we worked to track down a band of thieves and chase them out of Judea. We were paid by the head, but Jehoash said we shouldn’t kill them. There was almost a fight when we came asking for the money. Another time, we were paid to take care of the security of a well-off man and his entourage while they traveled to Jerusalem. And now we’re accompanying two men to the same city of peace. They’re from a rich family, but they paid their own way and didn’t want anybody, not even their father, to know that they’d gone, or where they were going.
But in spite of this, it’s as if something or other were still clinging on to us. Reuben’s starting to get fed up, and something’s come over Jehoash. He doesn’t like all the people who hire us. He says they give us money but don’t want to be seen next to us. We’re just tools for them, he says, we’re just something they use to dig in the ground or to move rocks.
One evening when we were talking together, Jehoash said that it would soon be over.
“I can feel it coming,” he said. “I can’t hold it back.”
He had laid his sword and knives down in front of him and stroked his fingers over the blades.
“I don’t want to kill again,” I said, and Jehoash looked up at me.
“You have to sleep, don’t you?” he asked. Before I could answer, he continued: “You have to eat, you have to drink, you have to shit, you have to piss. This is like that too. I can’t hold it back. I’m not somebody they can buy, I’m not an animal they can tame.”
On our way toward Jerusalem, Reuben says that we’re leaving a pattern behind us.
“Where we’ve walked, we leave a pattern drawn in the sand, an outline in the earth,” he says.
“You’re talking like a prophet,” Jehoash tells him.
Reuben goes on: “We’ve got mixed up in the wrong pattern.” Jehoash tells him he should shut up about this pattern of his, and they almost start fighting. Jehoram’s sores are bothering him more; Jehoash says it’s the warmth. Meanwhile, Reuben thinks we should go back to Sychar and take it easy for a while. He wants to visit a woman called Anna. But Jehoash says the coast and the sea air would be better for Jehoram. This makes me think about the sea and Martha, and whether she’ll ever get to see the vast plains of water or hear the heavy sighing of the deep.
The two men who are with us try to get us talking. They ask Reuben about his weapons, but Reuben won’t answer them.
“Come on,” one of them says. He has no beard, his face is smooth, and he says they’ve got weapons too, they’re carrying tools for the liberation.
Reuben stops and holds out a hand.
“Let’s see,” he says. “What have you got?” The man with the smooth face takes out a knife and puts it in Reuben’s hand.
“It’s small,” says Reuben.
“It’s big enough,” says the man with the smooth face. “I’ll be quick.”
“You’ll have to strike true,” Reuben tells them. “If you don’t strike true, you might meet resistance, your victim will still be standing, maybe shouting. You won’t have time, will you?”
The one with the smooth face turns to the other man. “What did I tell you?” he says. “They know their stuff.” Reuben is about to say something, but then he’s interrupted.
“We’re going to take the life of one of the priests at the Temple,” says the man. “We’re our people’s resistance movement, and we’re fed up with not being listened to. Everything’s been tried, but this time they’ll see how hard we can hit them.”
Reuben doesn’t say anything next, he just looks over at Jehoash and shakes his head.
“We’ll have nothing to do with that,” I tell them. “We’re taking you to Jerusalem, and that’s all.”
“You’re our brothers, you’re of the same people as us,” the one with the smooth face continues. “We’re rising up against the occupying powers, we’re the spearhead that will start the great wave washing the army of darkness into the sea.”
Jehoash mutters something about everybody speaking like prophets now.
“We’re all fighting the same battle,” says the other man. He’s missing a finger from each hand, and his eyes point in different directions. “You fight in the mountains. We’re taking the war to the cities, to the rich, to the ones collaborating with the rulers.”
“We’ve got nothing to do with it,” says Jehoash. “We’re being paid to take you to Jerusalem, that’s all.”
But then the two men say, almost in unison, “We won’t say anything, we’re true to God. If they get hold of us, we’ll stab ourselves! God is great!”
Then they start telling us about their plans, how they’ll walk up to the Temple Mount, get into the Temple, wait until they see the right one, how one of them will talk with the guards, while the other one gets going. Reuben asks who they’re going to kill, and the one with the missing fingers says a name I’ve never heard before. Jehoash tells him to shut up.
“I don’t want to hear what you’re going to do,” he says. “I don’t want to know the name.”
“He’s not one of our priests,” says the other man. “He’s been appointed and works with the occupiers; he deserves to be slaughtered like an animal.”
Jehoram starts grinning, and the two men fall silent. They don’t like Jehoram being there and constantly try to stay as far away from him as possible.
“They’re not listening to you,” says Jehoram, pointing at Jehoash. “They just talk and talk.”
“You won’t survive,” says Jehoash, “you won’t get away. The soldiers are based right next to the Temple. They’ll track you down and nail you up.”
“You don’t see,” said the eight-fingered one. “We’re carrying tools for the liberation. God is with us, even if we’re not successful. We’re being occupied, the army of darkness rules over us, but God’s light will shine most strongly.”
Jehoash shakes his head.
“Save your energy,” he says. “There’s still some way to go to Jerusalem.”
But the one with the smooth face doesn’t want to stay quiet. He says they’re used to this.
“Far too many people don’t want to take part,” he says. “Far too many sit there, waiting for a miracle. You tell each other stories about Moses and about the prophets, but you won’t listen to the Word of God, you won’t let God’s will happen. Your prophets will sit there, talking, they’ll travel all over this holy land of ours until they disappear in the desert. We’ve stood face-to-face with this prince of light, Jesus of Nazareth. He’s a fool. He wants to rise up against the occupiers with empty hands, open arms, and holy words. They’ll tear them to pieces and nail them up. I’ll tell you what the priests up there in the Temple in Jerusalem do with holy words. They piss all over them.”
“Have you met Jesus?” I ask them. They both nod.
“We met him in the valley below Mount Gilboa,” says the eight-fingered man. “We spoke with him and his followers. There were women and children there. You can’t take people like them into war.”
“That’s enough,” says Jehoash. “It’s time for a little rest. We’ll take a break here.”
The two men with us stop and sit down. I walk over to Jehoash. It’s silent, except for a b
ird singing from a nearby tree.
“Why are we stopping?” I ask. “Shouldn’t we walk a bit before darkness falls?”
“Nadab,” says Jehoash, taking hold of me, “do you remember what I told you that night when we were awake?”
I try to work out what he’s talking about.
“Sometimes I lose my way,” he goes on, “but I always find it again. I’ve tried to do the right thing, we’ve served other people, kept away from what we used to do. But they can’t buy me, I can’t sell us, we’re not owned by the wealthy. I can’t change who I am or what I am. Perhaps there have been evenings when I’ve wondered whether I could become somebody else. But we’ve tried this out now, and the more we’ve done, the longer we’ve spent doing it, the longer these two rich men’s sons speak, the surer I feel. We’ll go back to what we were, what we’re meant to be.”
I still don’t understand what he’s talking about.
“You said you didn’t want to kill again,” says Jehoash, “but we are what we are. Get ready, Nadab, show me who you are.”
8 A LIGHT GONE
His face was a fresh, rosy color, his eyes blue. He was beautiful, and he was the king of Jerusalem. That’s why he called himself David, and all the boys in his band, his court, were called David II, David III, David IV, and so on. There were seven girls in the band, and they were given the names Bathsheba I, Bathsheba II, Bathsheba III, all the way up to Bathsheba VII. David had heard the stories from Joseph, who let them sleep in the back room facing out toward the stable. Of kings and wars, of queens and the voice of God.
Joseph called David “little one.” He had no father, no mother, but he had Joseph: a booming voice, sinewy hands with yellow nails, a long, shabby beard that prickled when he kissed. David was one of the small and vulnerable ones, but he had to fend for himself. He helped out in the kitchen, cleared tables, and was responsible for sweeping the floor in the morning. When he began bringing others with him, Joseph had nothing against it, as long as they all worked and helped him run the place. There, in the back room at Joseph’s place that faced the stable, was where David’s short time as king began. There, in that back room, the others swore their allegiance to him, and he swore to be their king and rule them fairly.
That’s why there was only one thing for David to do when Bathsheba VII came back, all beaten and torn up. Just as water runs downhill, as the sun runs its course, as fire lights up the sky, as night turns everything to darkness: he had to punish the culprits.
When they could get Bathsheba VII to talk, she told them what had happened. David held her hand the whole time, and he stroked her forehead and her cheek, even the mark of the beast that covered half of her face and ran all the way down her body. Little Bathsheba VII cried and cried, but David told her to be strong. He told her to close her eyes and think of the taste of pomegranates, how their color was as bright red as the tears of angels. He told her about the great sea and how it sparkled in the day, how it sparkled at night, how it never stopped sparkling, in spite of its enormous depth and all the unknown creatures that dwelled down at the bottom. David had never seen any sea, and he’d tasted a pomegranate only a few times, but he’d heard grown men speak of all sorts of things as he went between the tables at Joseph’s.
For Bathsheba VII, a new world was opening, as this was the dream she carried in secret. That something miraculous would happen, that it must happen, that David, her king, would open, that his heart would open, that one morning she would lie in his hands and be saved. She was only Bathsheba VII, but now she was there with him, and he was there with her.
For David, this was the first time he’d seen darkness gather around him. He knew what evening and night were, but he’d never seen such a darkness as the one that was now gathering in the corners, up beneath the ceiling, indeed even around the eyes of some of the people standing near him. He wondered where the light had gone while Bathsheba VII had been speaking.
There were rules in David’s kingdom in Jerusalem, the city of peace. One of the rules was to stay away from the Temple, the territory of the Temple Dogs. David recognized this, he acknowledged that his royal power didn’t reach all the corners of the kingdom. The Temple Dogs had their own king, Saul, and he and David had never met. They shared Jerusalem between them.
Bathsheba VII struggled to explain why she’d gone up to the Temple. First she said that she’d gone to fetch something up there, but she couldn’t explain what it was she was fetching. Then she told them about a family who’d asked her to join them, since she was alone. Eventually, and this was the version of the story that David and all the others believed, it became clear that Bathsheba VII had quite simply been tricked into going up to the Temple by one of the Temple Dogs. The boy, who’d also had a mark on his face, a scar stretching from one cheek to the other right across his nose, had told her she was allowed. The boy gave her safe conduct. The Temple Dogs wouldn’t do anything to her, as long as she held his hand. But when they’d got up to the Temple, the boy wanted to kiss and lick and taste Bathsheba VII, so she tore herself away from him and ran. She ran as fast as she could, with the boy barking behind her, and then she was caught by the Temple Dogs, who took her with them and did all they wanted and could to her. It was so painful for her to tell that David had to hold her still until her whole body stopped twitching and trembling.
He had to punish them, and he knew how. He was the king, he’d make everything right again. But he’d seen the darkness, it’d shown him what had been started. All the stories he’d been told, of kings and wars, of queens and the voice of God: there was a pattern there, and he knew it. Everything’s built up, and everything’s torn down. Then it’ll be built up again, and the same thing will happen again. Once it’d been started, nobody could stop it.
The next day, David asked everybody to go to Joseph’s and help out. If Joseph sent them away, they were to go into the back room and stay there. He took out some coins he’d been saving, which were all he owned. He went over to Bathsheba VII, kissed her, and told her it would all be over soon.
Without Joseph seeing him, David took a cloak Joseph used only when he went to the Temple, and he put it on. It was far too big, but it was clean, and there weren’t any holes or wear marks on it.
When he went up to the Temple, he kept close to a father who had three children with him. He walked right behind them so nobody would think he was there alone. He followed the family some of the way, then he left them and stayed close to another family of two women and two little boys. David carried on like this, back and forth across the temple precinct, until he spotted the boy with the scar who’d tricked Bathsheba VII. The boy was sitting like all the Temple Dogs did at that time of day, kneeling down with a small bowl in front of him. David knew that they barked at each other, he knew that was their signal. If the boy barked, he’d be exposed. But the Temple Dog kept his head up, so that everyone passing could see the way his face had been cut up.
David noticed a temple guard standing some distance away, and when nobody was staring in their direction, David went up to the boy with the scar and dropped the coins he’d brought with him in the bowl. Then David ran straight to the guard, shouting, “Thief, thief, he took my coins.” The guard turned toward him.
“He stole my money,” David shouted. “He stole my money.”
The guard moved and came over to David. “Where, boy?” he asked. “Where is he?” David pointed at the boy with the scar, who realized only now what was happening. He got up, picked up his bowl of money, and ran off, barking. But the guard was already after him. The boy disappeared into the crowds, but then another guard emerged, holding the boy tightly. The guards lifted up the boy, took the money, and threw his bowl on the ground, smashing it. They called across to David, and David went over to them. The Temple Dog they were holding between them stared at David, but before he could say anything, the guards asked David how many coins he was missing. David told them how many. One of the guards bent down and gathered up all the coins
that were lying there from the smashed bowl. He gave David the ones that were his and ruffled his hair.
“Go to your father and your mother,” the guard said. “Tell them that no wrong happened that wasn’t righted again.”
“Liar,” the little boy yelled now. “Liar.” But one of the guards slapped the boy on the face, shutting him up.
“Thank you,” David said to the guards. “My mother and father are waiting for me, they’ll be pleased when they hear how you helped me.” And to the boy, he said softly, “Nobody touches my queens.”
The guards took the boy with them. David knew that they would hurt him, they would lock him up, and eventually they’d throw him in the pits with the thieves and rebels. But before that, maybe even there and then, the Temple Dogs would find out, and Saul would learn what David had done, so David hurried back to his own kingdom. He ran through Jerusalem, all the way to Joseph, who yelled at him, asking him where he’d been and why he was wearing his clothes. David said sorry, but Joseph hit him and sent him out to empty and clean out where the adults did their business.
When he was finally allowed to go to bed, his band were waiting for him. They cheered and praised David; indeed, David was received as the king he was. The rumors and stories of the deeds he’d carried out had reached them all. Even Bathsheba VII got up to sing his name.
That night, David dreamed that he was standing on a plain that reached out as far as the eye could see. The grass beneath him was green, and the wind made it rustle and ripple. When he lifted up his eyes, he could see that the night was coming in over the plain like a fluttering blanket. But behind the immense darkness, he could see something blinking faintly, and he reached out his hand and said something. He woke up and couldn’t remember what he’d said, or why he’d said something to the small, blinking light.
Bathsheba VII stayed with David and Joseph for the next while. Joseph didn’t want to have her in the tavern, and she had to stay at the back of the kitchen, where nobody could see her. David told her everything that had to be done, and Joseph praised them for getting everything done so quickly these days. But one evening, Joseph took David aside and told him he wanted to speak with him.
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