by Ann Swinfen
‘I know. But do the scriptures not say that, to save a life, we may break the rules of the Sabbath? According to the Law, it is permitted even to save the life of an ox or an ass, if it has fallen into a pit on the Sabbath.’
‘Is it permitted? Are you sure?’
‘It is,’ he said firmly. ‘Or at least Yeshûa has told me so. Now go, say nothing to anyone about where we have gone, and meet me at the top of the olive orchard.’
It seemed I was always saying good-bye. I did as Yehûdâ asked, but I filled two bags with food and hid one beneath an old apple tree before carrying the other down to Yehûdâ. He had gathered up his belongings from the house and donned stout boots in place of his sandals. In his hand he had a fallen branch that he had picked up in the orchard, to use as a staff. The bag of food he stowed amongst his other possessions in a knapsack of goat-hide slung over his shoulder. I touched the bracelet I had given him as a betrothal gift, but did not speak.
‘It shall not leave my wrist while I live,’ he said. Then he kissed me and was gone, taking long strides down the hill, leaping over the roots of the olive trees. After a moment I turned and ran back to the village. At home I slipped into my room, which I was forced to share, until the wedding, with Eskha and Melkha’s five daughters. I unrolled my bed and placed on it almost everything I owned, which was little enough. A few clothes, my reed pipe and the pearls Yehûdâ had given me, the set of animals I had carved for Daniel, and a lamb whose uneven legs meant that it always fell over. Daniel had made it for me not long before his last illness and had been impatient that it would not stand.
‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘Look at his face. This is the most intelligent lamb I have ever seen.’
‘Truly, Mariam?’
‘Truly.’
There was also a small box of cedar wood, beautifully inlaid with the star of David in precious ivory, which Yeshûa had made for me as a betrothal gift. He had given it to me quietly, after the betrothal with all its noisy rejoicing. I found that I could fit both the lamb and the pearls inside it. Finally I added to the bundle my sandals, lacing on instead the boots I normally wore only in winter, for I had taken note of Yehûdâ’s. It would be hard walking to Capernaum, and there might be snakes. I rolled up the bed with everything inside and tied it together with an old belt cord.
So far I had been lucky. None of the girls had come into the room, prying into what I was doing. I looked out of the small window, which faced the back of the house, over the yard where we milked the sheep and goats. There was no one about except the wife from the next house. When she turned away, I leaned out of the window as far as I could and dropped my bed roll into the yard. She heard something and looked round, but then went back into her house.
My heart was beating like a naughty child’s as I crept downstairs again. My mother saw me and called out.
‘Mariam? Fetch me a new jar of honey from the storeroom. And then you must put these loaves into the bread oven.’
I ran to obey. I must hurry. I did not know the way to Gennesaret and Capernaum, only that I should follow the river downhill to the valley, which was called the Valley of the Doves. After that, I could probably ask the way, but I did not want to be alone after dark. If I could follow Yehûdâ quickly enough, I might overtake him before then. I did not want to catch up with him too quickly, or he might bring me back. It was already past time for the midday meal, but everything was in confusion today. It seemed even my mother had forgotten it was the Sabbath and was preparing food. Why had Ya’aqôb not chastised her?
All this ran through my head as I fetched the honey, then carried the three loaves on the baking stone out to the oven in the courtyard. To my relief, someone had already lit it. I raked out the hot ashes and slid the baking stone into the domed clay interior, then wedged the stone door in place. I found Melkha’s eldest daughter, a sensible girl nearly eight, and told her she must watch the bread.
‘You will be able to smell when it is done. Move the stone. The bread should be golden and firm. The bread sounds hollow if you tap it with your fingernail.’
I started to run round to the back of the house, but called over my shoulder.
‘Be careful. It will be hot. Use a cloth.’
She was squatting in front of the oven and nodded earnestly.
‘I know.’
My bedroll was there in the dust. I picked it up, climbed over the wall and ran to the orchard where I had left my bag of food. Drawing a deep breath, I said a quick berâkâ for my journey. I was following my brother and my betrothed wherever they were going, and I did not look back.
My world had always been limited by the stretch of river below the olive orchard, where the boys used to swim and where we carried the clothes and household linen to wash. A well-trodden path led along the river beyond the washing-place, but I had never ventured along it. I knew it was supposed to lead eventually down to the Valley of the Doves, but I did not know whether there might be other paths leading off it, serving other villages. I thought that if I kept close to the river I could not go wrong, for I knew that our river eventually flowed into the Jordan. Apart from that, my ideas about the geography were vague. I did not know whether I should turn left or right where the river met the Jordan. Were Gennesaret and Capernaum to the north or the south? Would I be able to see the lake? Would there be any village where I might dare to ask the way?
As the path turned the corner that now hid from sight everything I had ever known, I was suddenly very afraid. A girl, travelling alone, through uninhabited country—I was easy prey for anyone, and not just wild animals. I had nothing to defend myself with except the small eating knife I wore in a sheath at my belt. Since the Roman occupation and the imposition of their tribute tax on top of the traditional Temple taxes, many small farmers and villagers had lost their lands and homes, and wandered the countryside, surviving by banditry. I began to run. It mattered less now that Yehûdâ might be angry with me, might take me back to the village. I did not want to be alone. And already the sun behind me was lower in the sky.
I could not keep up the pace for long. In many places the ground was rough and I had to watch my feet. If I fell and twisted an ankle here, no one would know where to find me. I had come to fairly dense woods, where branches sometimes met overhead and roots heaved up the ground beneath the path. I adopted a sort of jogtrot in the places where I could see my way, slowing to a walk or a scramble where the going was difficult. Each time this seemed to last longer, so that I ached with impatience. I had no way of knowing how far ahead of me Yehûdâ might be.
At last I reached clearer ground. A kind of promontory of land thrust out where the woods ended, providing a place to look out over the steep fall of land below. Beyond the woods, the lower slopes had been terraced, where the remains of an old vineyard still grew. It was no longer tended, for the vines which had once corded the ground in neat rows now embraced each other in wild disarray. The blossom was over and bunches of tiny grapes could be seen between the thick growth of leaves. A prudent farmer would have cut back some of the foliage to allow more sun to reach the grapes, and would have thinned the smallest grapes from each bunch so that the remainder would grow fat and juicy. I wondered whether this was one of the farms which had been lost to the tax-collectors. If so, no new owner had taken possession, or if he had he was a careless husbandman.
Past the vineyard a smaller path led off the main one, snaking uphill again to the left, and probably led to another village. The main path continued downhill, and there in the distance I could see a man walking away, with a fast but easy stride. I knew it must be Yehûdâ. I jumped down to the path again and began to run. The slope was steep, but I flew down that hill like one of the Greek athletes of old.
The sun had dropped below the western hills behind me and it was growing dark as I reached the level ground which must be the beginning of the Valley of the Doves. Yehûdâ was only a few cubits in front of me and at last must have heard the sound of my heavy boots on the dry soil
of the path. He stopped and looked round. My breath was coming in painful gasps, so that I could not call out to him, and at the last moment my luck failed me. I tripped over something—a root, a large stone—hidden in the diminishing light, and sprawled in the dust at his feet, grazing my knees and the palms of my hands.
It was at that moment, spitting dirt from my mouth, that I realised what I had done.
On all fours, my hands bleeding from the sharp stones, my tunic filthy, I saw myself suddenly for what I was. I could never go back to the village. I was forever marked as a woman cast out, befouled. In running after my brother and my lover, I had exiled myself from parents and family, from all decent society. It was as if a chasm had opened at my feet and I stood swaying dizzily on the rim.
Yehûdâ crouched down in front of me and lifted my hands tenderly from the ground. At his touch a shock ran through me, and my heart leapt in my breast, squeezing the air from my lungs. Our eyes met in a look of such perfect recognition that the world spun away from me. My body was disintegrating, falling apart into its four elements—earth and air, fire and water—and I flowed towards him on a burning river. I wanted nothing but to mingle my very essence with him, body and soul, spirit and substance.
I heard him draw a long, gasping breath, and his fingers tightened on my wrists. I strained towards him, as if I were drowning and only he could pull me to safety. Then a shudder ran through us both, as if in that moment we were indeed one flesh, and we both drew back.
‘No,’ I said.
He shook his head. ‘No.’ Then gently, as if I were some fragile creature—a newborn babe, a vessel of blown glass—he raised me to my feet. And all my body was suddenly cold, but for my face, which burned and burned, as if I had leaned too close to a raging fire, and seared my very skin.
In a few minutes he had me sitting under a carob tree at the side of the path and was dabbing the dust and grit out of my grazes with a cloth soaked in water from his water skin.
‘Can I drink some of that?’ I asked humbly. ‘I forgot to bring water.’
He passed me the water with a smile, as if nothing had happened, and I gulped it down like a tired donkey.
‘I can see you aren’t an experienced traveller,’ he said. ‘First requisite: water. It is good that you weren’t travelling in the worst of the heat, or you would never have been able to come this far. When did you leave?’
‘About an hour after you, I suppose. I could have drunk from the river, but I didn’t want to stop. Are you angry with me?’
‘Well, there would be little point in that, my love.’
‘I am afraid I am dishonoured already,’ I said.
‘None need know of it, if we do not tell them. We cannot overtake your brother tonight, but we must try to do so tomorrow. Then we can all arrive at Capernaum together.’
‘But tonight?’
‘Tonight we will make a small camp away from the road and then you will sleep while I keep watch. You will be safe with me, Mariam.’
‘I know,’ I said, touching his hand lightly. ‘I have always known I could trust you, ever since I was a small child.’
I could trust him. But could I trust myself?
We found a grove of carob trees a little way off to the right of the path, which would provide concealment and shelter for the night. Yehûdâ refilled his water skin from the river and we made a simple evening meal of dates and cheese. I was hungry, now that I had begun to eat again, for I had had nothing since early morning, when I had eaten a piece of flatbread dipped in olive oil. We did not light a fire, for fear of attracting attention, but the night was warm. Although I would have liked to sit up with Yehûdâ, I spread out my bedroll obediently, and lay down to sleep, while he sat a little distance away, leaning against one of the trees. The carob plantation, like the vineyard I had seen further up the hill, was neglected. Once, I have been told, the Galilee was one of the most fertile farming lands in the world, but the heel of the Roman has crushed us.
To my surprise, I fell asleep almost at once and slept deeply until the morning sun, slanting down through the branches of the carob, fell on my face and woke me. I found then that I was stiff from my long trek down the hills, and there were painful blisters on my feet. Yehûdâ had already laid out food for us, but I went first to a place by the river where I could not be seen, and washed my whole body and my hair. After that I felt better, the stiffness a little eased, though the blisters were still painful.
‘Do you think we will overtake Yeshûa before he reaches Capernaum?’ I asked, as we ate our frugal meal.
He shook his head.
‘Probably not. He fled from the village in such haste and passion, I expect he walked all night. We are used to walking great distances, he and I.’
‘I have delayed you,’ I said remorsefully. ‘If I had not come, you would be with him now, and you feared for his safety.’
‘I have kept watch all night. There’s been no sign of pursuit.’
‘They’re nothing but dogs!’ I said scornfully. ‘In a pack they will attack, but they have not the courage or the craft to pursue him beyond the village.’
He laughed. ‘You are very fierce this morning!’
‘I despise them,’ I said. ‘They were his friends and they turned on him, for no reason.’
‘Oh, I think they felt they had reason enough. It is a shock, when someone you have known since boyhood announces that he is a prophet come amongst you.’
I looked at him thoughtfully as I cleared away the remains of our meal and rolled up my bed.
‘And was it a shock to you?’
‘Yes. But I have known him better than most, and I have watched the path he has been following. He has always been set apart from us, even those of us who love him dearly.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, that is true.’
We had not far to go that morning before we reached a dusty road much wider than the path we had been following. It ran north and south. Nearby our river, the river I had always known, tumbled over a wide stretch of pebbled rapids into a broader river fringed with willows.
‘Is that the Jordan?’ I asked, in awe. A name from our nation’s past, a name almost mythical in its resonance.
Yehûdâ nodded. To him, I suppose, it was merely a familiar landmark. He turned to the left. So Gennesaret lay to the north. I hobbled after him, for my boots were becoming more and more painful.
‘Why don’t you put on your sandals?’ he said. ‘The walking will be easier here. Most of the way there is grass at the side of the road. You can walk on that.’
I sat down and removed the boots from my throbbing feet. The air on them felt wonderful. I tied my boots together and hung them round my neck.
‘I think I will go barefoot for a while.’
He raised his eyebrows at me.
‘Do not worry!’ I laughed. ‘I will put on my sandals before we reach Capernaum. I’ll not shame you.’
It was a longer walk than I had expected. We followed the Jordan north for a mile or two before we had our first sight of the lake. I caught my breath in wonder. The great sheet of water glowed beneath the cloudless sky, blue as my mother’s favourite mantle, but iridescent, like some exotic jewel, the whole surface shimmering and dancing with silver ripples. I had never imagined anything like this. It was so alive, like some lovely creature breathing joyously that summer morning.
‘Oh!’ I cried. ‘Oh, I never realised . . .’
Yehûdâ smiled down at me indulgently. I must have seemed like a child confronted with some unexpected delight, which was quite how I felt. I forgot the pain in my feet and ran forward to get a better sight.
‘Gennesaret,’ I said, ‘it means “valley of the flowers”, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes. You’ll soon see why. Flowers of every kind grow in abundance all round its shores. And it’s rich in fish. Many of the people around here make their living from the fishing. It will be fish for our evening meal tonight.’
I did not answer that. We ha
d fish from Gennesaret sometimes in the village, brought in by traders and dried until it was the texture of leather, or else salted so heavily that, however much you washed it before cooking, it made your mouth pucker. And the smell! Like corpses of animals rotting in the sun.
There was still a long walk ahead of us, but after the rocky hillside and the dark woods of yesterday, it was almost like a holiday. The air was full of the scent of oleander and jasmine. As well as the usual cereal crops and vineyards and olive orchards, and the sky-blue fields of flax, I saw smaller plots planted with precious crops like lavender, which would be harvested for their intense oils and sent to Jerusalem, or even to foreign lands.
‘Further south,’ said Yehûdâ, ‘near Jericho, there are farms growing and processing nothing but balsam. It’s so valuable that they are surrounded by high walls and guarded by armed men with dogs that would take your arm off if you ventured too near.’
I shook my head. So much that was new and astonishing!
After a while, Yehûdâ took a side road which led up away from the lake.
‘I want to skirt round Tiberias,’ he said. ‘There are people there who would know me, merchants who trade with my father. It would be best if we were not seen.’
Looking down where he pointed, I could see the new city, raw and white against the surrounding greenery. There was a harbour, and quays with large boats tied up.
‘They trade with the eastern shore,’ Yehûdâ said, ‘and the cities of the Decapolis.’
I could not believe that a within one day’s hard walking I should be almost in touch with these magical places, which had always seemed like names conjured out of the air by a storyteller.
About midday, we came to a small town called Magdala, where I donned my sandals, and kept them on. Yehûdâ bought us a meal at an inn beside the lake. I, of course, had no money, not even a pruta to my name, nor had I ever eaten a meal that was not cooked in my own home or by a neighbour. I eyed it suspiciously at first, but to my relief there was no fish, just a dish of beans cooked with herbs, some flatbread and cheese, and then some rather stale honey cakes (even I could have made better). To sit under a vine arbour overlooking the Lake of Gennesaret, however, and to be waited upon by maidservants, made me feel like a great lady, were it not for my tunic, still stained from yesterday’s fall, and my clumsy bundle of belongings.
