Rebekah's Treasure

by Sylvia Bambola

  Zechariah nods, pulls the ax and a handsaw from the cart, then gives the ax to Aaron. Before Esther and I even get started, he’s off, whistling some tune I’ve never heard, and heading for the forest. And Aaron has to sprint to catch up, as Esther and I begin unloading the wagon. She carries an empty jar while I carry the basket of lentils to the back of the house where we’ll store them, out of everyone’s way, until the house has been repaired.

  While I walk, my mind is full of thoughts I’m determined to share. I must tell Esther what’s on my heart. It’s long overdue. “I miss my husband, too,” I say softly, as Esther positions the jar in front of me. “I know how you feel.”

  At once, tears wet Esther’s face. “Then how can you bear it? How can you bear being away from Papa?”

  It’s good to hear Esther speak, even in such a surly tone. “I bear it because I must,” I say, pouring lentils into the wide-mouth clay jar. “And so must you. If it’s God’s will, Papa and Daniel will survive. Let God strengthen you through this. He is more than able.”

  She brushes away her tears with the edge of the cloth on her head. “The world is upside down. I don’t know if I can live . . . if I want to live in it without Daniel.”

  “Don’t speak so! It’s God who gives the gift of life. Can you say to Him ‘I no longer want it’?”

  Esther looks at me; her forehead is as furrowed as the fields behind our new house. “You’ve seen what the Romans do to the men who oppose them. How they’re nailed to trees.” Her eyes widen. “Suppose Daniel . . . suppose . . . .”

  “Hush.” I brush my fingers lightly across her lips. “It’s not for us to suppose. It’s for us to go about the business of living. You’re young and strong. When the war is over we will need young and strong women to help rebuild, and to raise up Godly seed for the Lord.”

  When I see that Esther has stopped her ears to my words, I close my mouth, and in silence we carry our new purchases and stack them neatly at the back of the house. After we finish, I inspect the grounds. The house, a good size, is surrounded by a low wall—important for containing our animals when we get them. In the corner is a large hole. I check it briefly, then wave for Esther to come see.

  “Look, a stone-lined pit for storing grain. It needs to be replastered, but otherwise it’s in good condition.”

  “But it’s empty.”

  I pat Esther’s cheek good-naturedly. “Then we’ll fill it. And when we do we’ll bake our bread in there.” I point to the nearby domed oven, which also appears in good condition.

  But Esther has lost interest. She stands gazing out over the wall. At first I think it’s because she longs for Jerusalem, but then I realize she’s looking at the beautiful limestone hills a little beyond our house. The hills are covered with rock-lined terraces, terraces that are full of gnarled olive trees and lush grape vines. Dotting the slopes are cisterns carved into bedrock. And tucked among them are olive and wine presses. Tall standing grain waves in fields near the hills, and closer to the house are fig trees and several pomegranates. And mingled among them all are well-tilled plots filled with vegetables.

  “It’s a pleasant land,” Esther says wistfully. “We could have made a good life here, Daniel and I.”

  Her words, mingled with the breeze that carries the scent of wild rosemary, suddenly unlock the secret in both our hearts. “I’m angry with my husband, too, for not coming with us.” I put one arm around her thin shoulders. “For choosing to fight for Jerusalem while leaving us defenseless.” We stand together for a long time, staring off into the distance; two women who understand a common heartbreak.

  As it turns out, the house is beautiful—at least I think it is. The roof is repaired, the door back on its hinges. And all the walls, inside and out, have been freshly plastered. There’s nothing left to do but pray a blessing over it and move in. Dozens of my neighbors have gathered to hear Zechariah’s prayer and to celebrate this happy day.

  I glance at some of the people I’ve come to know during the past weeks: Mary, the wife of Simon the bottlemaker; Leah, the aging widow; Obadiah, the carpenter, and his wife, Tirzah. Hannah and her husband Amos, the cheesemaker. Rina, a young widow, and Ira, a carpenter who specialized in making plows and winnowing forks and other tools for farming. But many others have come too—all followers of The Way, and all have, in generosity of spirit, helped clean, plaster, repair. I’ve never experienced such love, such outpouring of goodness. They have so little yet give so much.

  But my joy is marred by the distracted look on Aaron’s face. He’ll not be with us long. More and more he looks to the hills. It’s only his love for me and his kindness that has kept him here this long. He has not said it, but I fear he’ll leave soon.

  And Esther, my sweet Esther, burdens my heart, too. Sadness stoops her like an old woman. And she takes no delight in the company of others. Nothing I say helps. I know it’s for God to heal, but still I try, with words of encouragement and little acts of kindness. She nods, she smiles—if you can call that stiff upturn of her mouth a smile—then looks at me with dead eyes. Oh, how those eyes haunt me. I see them even in my dreams.

  What would I do if there was no Zechariah to cheer me? Or these precious saints, these fellow believers who have gathered in front of my house today? I’ve prepared a small feast to show my gratitude—a simple fare of leavened bread and cheese and watered wine. But there’s another reason, too. Perhaps God will open Esther’s eyes. Perhaps He’ll cause her to see. Look, Esther, look. These people have suffered, too.

  I leave Mary, the bottlemaker’s wife, who is examining a wine skin, and go in search of Zechariah. I’m anxious for him to say the blessing so the festivities can begin. Suddenly, I hear a voice coming from the side of the house.

  “Soon I must leave, for I have sworn an oath.” It’s my son’s voice.

  I slip closer and see Zechariah and Aaron standing together. Concealing myself behind a tower of willow baskets, I watch. Zechariah appears to study Aaron. He rubs a finger over his sizable nose and frowns as if making a discovery.

  “Then, you haven’t come to settle here?” He finally says.

  “I made an oath.”

  “Yes, yes, an oath. To fight in Jerusalem, I suppose.”

  My heart thumps like a drum as I watch my son. His face is tense.

  “I’ve only stayed these past three weeks to see that my mother and sister are properly settled.”

  “Of course, of course. And now that they are, you’ll be leaving?”

  “Yes, tomorrow, at first light.”

  My breath catches. I had hoped for a few more days. Just a few more days.

  “But what I need to know, Zechariah, is that they’ll be safe from those Greeks on the other side of the wadi; those Greeks who have no Torah to govern them. Is there justice here for a Jew?”

  Zechariah smiles. “Safety? Justice? For a Jew? You don’t ask for much, young Aaron.” He shrugs. “Still, we can praise Hashem for one thing. There will be little interference from Rome. Pella, like the rest of the Decapolis, governs herself. All the leaders are chosen from within. But ever since the Gischalites wiped out the last bunch, Argos has been running things. I guess you could call him the head troublemaker.” Zechariah holds his large barrel-chest and laughs at his own joke.

  Aaron doesn’t seem amused. “Argos, the little idol maker?”

  Zechariah nods. “Don’t let his size fool you. He wields great influence. Many Gentiles believe he has supernatural powers; powers to heal, to interpret dreams and to control the weather. He’s forever braiding and unbraiding his hair. Like all his sect, he believes knots have magical powers.”

  I see Aaron’s hand move to the dagger that he carries hidden in his robe. “Then perhaps I should take care of him before I go.”

  Zechariah appears horrified. “And bring Roman justice down on our heads? The man is a citizen. And so proud of it, too! His wooden diptych hangs on the wall of his shop where everyone can see it from the doorway. The hinged boards
are always open to reveal the official record.” Zechariah rests his large hand on Aaron’s shoulder. “Be at peace, young Aaron. Aside from Argos and his sect, the other Gentiles are harmless enough. Oh, they think we’re strange, for they believe we eat our own God when we break the bread, but for the most part they leave us alone. They’re content to worship the little stone gods they’ve crammed into niches throughout their homes, honoring them with libations and wafers. But Argos . . . that worshipper of Isis . . . he is dangerous. He senses we believers have real power, and this frightens him. Only last month, Amos was badly beaten when Argos and some of his followers found him praying in the field. And the month before, Mary, Simon’s wife, was followed and harassed when she crossed the wadi. It made her so fearful, she stayed indoors for days.”

  “How did that Egyptian abomination come to be worshiped here?” Aaron says.

  Zechariah looks stunned. “Surely you know the cult of Isis is widespread. Since Caligula, it has greatly flourished.”

  “In Jerusalem we don’t concern ourselves with idolatry.”

  “To be sure. But in Ephesus it’s all around us. Tiberius tried to destroy this Isis cult that Mark Antony officially established, but Caligula revived it. That mad man rebuilt the Iseum Campense and established the Festival of Isis, even donning the clothes of a woman in order to lead the rituals. Now shrines of Isis pepper the hills of Rome. And who has not heard how even Vespasian and his son, Titus, incubate in the Iseum to induce an inspired dream or vision?” Zechariah laughs, goodnaturedly. “Unless, of course, you are from Jerusalem.”

  Aaron wrinkles his forehead. He’s clearly scandalized. “Years ago the Hasmoneans always purified a pagan settlement before moving into it. Pray well, Zechariah, and beseech God to cleanse this wretched place.”

  I back away. So . . . in addition to worrying about my family and the Romans, I must also worry about these followers of Isis.

  “Fire! Fire!” someone shouts.

  Zechariah’s prayer of blessing over my house still hangs in the air, and my guests have yet to sip their first cup of wine in celebration. But all is forgotten as we rush to the blazing grain fields. It appears the fire started in the barley fields where the crop has already been harvested, but is quickly spreading to the wheat—the wheat which will ripen in less than two weeks. Some of the men who have run ahead have already stripped off their robes and are using them to beat the flames. I pull off my head covering as I run to join them. The wind is not in our favor. It blusters and snorts around our heads. Already a quarter of the field is destroyed.

  Zechariah is beside me, his giant arms slamming his robe, over and over, against the wall of fire. He stands his ground, refusing to give way, all the while saying the name “Argos” under his breath, as if a curse.

  For over an hour we beat the flames with our clothes, men, women, children—all who have arms and legs and breath to do so. Some of the older women bring jugs of water from the spring to pour over the smoldering rags in our hands. Cinders and smoke fill the air. Our eyes sting and tear. Our nose and mouth are clogged with soot. We cough, we gag, but we stand and fight. And when it’s done, more than half our crop is destroyed, and Simon the bottlemaker’s arms have been so badly burned we fear he’ll lose one or both of them.

  Aaron is gone. He left early this morning. I think of him now as I cover my head with my new square of brown homespun purchased from the widow Leah. Then I fasten the cloth with a plaited cord. From time to time, Leah sells a possession or two in order to live, and someone in the community always buys and always pays more than it’s worth. It’s a way of helping her out. Torah commands us to care for widows and orphans. There’s no shame for either to take alms, but Leah is proud. So this is the system the community has come up with. I’ve already decided to buy Leah another head covering when I can think of an appropriate excuse for giving her a gift.

  “Esther!” I shout as I descend the ladder from the second floor to the broadroom below. We must not be late.” I glance into each of the other three rooms on the first floor, but I don’t see my daughter. “Esther!”

  “You needn’t shout, Mama,” Esther says, coming in from outside. Her hair is not plaited, but hangs in knotty cascades around her shoulders.

  “Quickly, daughter. Prepare yourself. They’re gathering even now as we speak.”

  “I’m not going, Mama. I don’t feel well.”

  I look at Esther’s thin, pale face; into her dead eyes. Then I feel her forehead for fever. She’s as cool as the spring water in the wadi. “Then you’ll not be gathering with the believers?”

  Esther shakes her head.

  “It will do you good to get out. And they’ll pray for you. You need their prayers, Esther.”

  My daughter stands her ground. “Surely they can pray for me even if I’m not there.”

  “Yes . . . I . . . suppose.” My heart is uneasy. I don’t like leaving her. She isolates herself more and more; fellowshipping with no one, and going out only to do her chores. She has even forsaken the normal polite greetings to those she passes. “Well . . . rest then,” I say, knowing Esther is ill, but not in body. And it’s not rest she needs, but a renewed mind.

  It’s cramped, and the odor of dung from the nearby sheep wafts overhead. In my hand I clutch my stone cup, the cup which Zechariah has asked me to bring. I was surprised by his request. The cup has always been important to me, but for the first time I’m beginning to understand it might be important to others as well. Zechariah was certainly moved after I told him about it and he examined it. And when he saw the tav carved in its bottom, he told me how some rabbis believe that the Israelites applied the lambs’ blood on the doorposts and lintels of their homes in Goshen in the form of a tav, as a cross. And this, according to Zechariah, foretold of the three crosses at Golgotha; foretold of the sacrifice of our Lord between two thieves.

  “Everyone will be here soon,” Zechariah says, standing near the gate of the sheep pen. “It’s not Solomon’s Porch,” he adds, with a twinkle in his eye, referring to the place that the followers of The Way favored when meeting in Jerusalem’s Temple. “But it’s holy ground, nevertheless.”

  We cluster in his courtyard, the late-morning sun beating on our heads. Clucking hens peck the dirt around my feet, and nearby a donkey brays as one by one the believers trickle in. They wear their poverty as well as their troubles, and appear strained, tired and worried. No one talks about it, but everyone knows there’ll be a shortage of wheat because of the recent firing of the fields. And that means nothing to barter with in the Gentile shops.

  Zechariah greets everyone by name. I’ve never known a man so jovial. Oh, how he hugs and kisses the brethren, each in turn! His love, like the seeds in a pomegranate, seems endless.

  We unfurl our rush mats and place them on the ground, then take our seat. One by one we begin to pray. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the strain on faces eases; a faint glimmer of hope returns to troubled eyes. After all, didn’t the Master promise He would never leave us or forsake us? We have not been abandoned. We have not been forsaken. We are remembering that we’re not alone. One by one, prayers of petition become prayers of thanksgiving. Some prayers turn into songs. And though our words are different, we are one voice; one sweet and lilting voice that floats to heaven and fills the air with a fragrance like incense. We are remembering. Slowly, slowly, slowly, a faint smile appears on first one face, then another. How long we sing and pray, I cannot say, because time has stopped for me, and so has all my straining and striving, and yes, my worrying, too.

  We’re still uttering praises when two men carrying a litter and, with it, a foul odor, join our assembly. I know that smell. I’ve come to know it these past four years of rebel infighting in Jerusalem. It’s the smell of a gangrenous body. The praying and singing stop as whispers ripple through the crowd, “Simon. It’s Simon the bottlemaker!” People begin standing to get a better look.

  What a sad sight he is! I’m on my feet, too, and can see him over the h
eads of those in front of me if I stand on tiptoes. His arms are black and covered with oozing sores. His eyes are closed and his face, the color of wax. He looks more dead than alive. His presence has caused my spirit to plummet. Just one glance and I have tumbled from the mountain top into the valley. We are all tumbling. I can see it on everyone’s face. I think we would have all gone home right then and there, carrying our heavy hearts like the men carrying the litter, if Zechariah had not stepped forward and opened the codex in his hand—the writings of John the Apostle.

  His voice is like thunder. “‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God . . . .’”

  I close my eyes and listen. The words are like falling dew. Oh, how parched I am! We’re all parched—made waste, like our land, by the Romans. There’s not one among us who has not felt Rome’s heavy hand. But it’s the beginning we must remember. We must return there, to God, to the beginning.

  I tilt back my head and without fully understanding why, open my mouth as though trying to catch the precious drops.

  “‘. . . In him was life; and the life was the light of men . . .’”

  Oh, the words, how they comfort! I stand very still. Those around me become still, too. We’re all drinking now.

  “‘. . . But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God. . . .’”

  How long Zechariah reads, I cannot say. But when he’s done, when he finally closes the codex, I feel as giddy as a girl and actually laugh. Some others do, too.

  “Oh, dear ones, what a glorious treasure we have in earthen vessels,” Zechariah say, his face beaming like the sun, his eyes moist with tenderness. “Let us remember what a sacrifice it took to make it so. Let us do as our Lord commanded. Let us break bread together. Let us drink from one cup.”

  Everyone nods. “Yes, let us remember His sacrifice.”