Rebekah's Treasure

by Sylvia Bambola

  I back away. I know what temple he speaks of. Zechariah told me about the ancient Canaanite temple, the one that sits across the wadi ’ north of the city, and how Argos had it rebuilt, patterned after the temples in the Nile delta. I close my eyes not wanting to imagine what evil is performed there. “The cup is pure. I cannot give it to you,” I hear myself saying, then at once feel Argos’s hot breath on my face, smell the stench of his sour vapors.

  “I’ll destroy your house!”

  I open my eyes. He’s but a hand’s length away, glaring at me like a demon with flaming eyes. When I remain silent, he flicks his hand in the air, and at once his companion, with the end of his club, begins overturning the baskets on the floor and scattering their contents.

  “Don’t provoke me,” Argos hisses, “or you’ll lose more than your house. Demas likes nothing better than to employ his club in the smashing of heads.”

  My knees shake beneath my tunic but I remain silent.

  Demas is now working the shelves. His flailing club sends baskets and wooden bowls crashing to the floor. Next he whacks the pouch of salt, bursting it and sending it to the ground, followed by a cone of sugar. When he has emptied the shelf, he looks at the one above it—the one containing the cup, along with three other cups, more wooden bowls, and some spare oil lamps. He raises his club, ready to smash everything, not even considering that one of these four plain cups could be the prize. But just as he extends the club as high as he can and is ready to bring his full fury down upon the shelf, he lets out a shriek.

  “My eyes! They burn! Oh, my eyes. Put it out. Put out the fire!” Demas drops his club. “Ohhhhhhhhhh.”

  “Wash them with water and stop your howling,” Argos growls as he glances at the shelf, perplexed.

  Demas stumbles to the door, feeling for the large water jar near the entrance. “Yeeeee! It burns! Yeeeee!” he screams, then runs from the house without even stopping to wash.

  “What sorcery is this?” Argos says, turning to me. “What have you done?”

  “I’ve done nothing.”

  Outside, Demas’s shrieks and howls are loud enough to wake the neighbors. I hear their sleepy voices calling out. Argos is clearly nervous, and anxious to be off before anyone appears. Even so, he pauses to put his face to mine. “This is not over. I will have the cup.” With that, he picks up Demas’s fallen club and bolts out the door after his companion.

  “What’s wrong, Mama?” I hear a tired voice say overhead. “What was all that noise?”

  When I light a lamp and look up, I see Esther peering over the top of the ladder, and though I know she can’t see me clearly in the semidarkness, I smile. “It was God doing another miracle.”

  Argos, the thief. Argos, the tormenter of women. That’s what people call him now. Everyone is outraged over his attempt to steal the Holy Cup, the Cup of the Lord. It was better when it was just my cup. It wasn’t such a burden then. But its weight is becoming too heavy for me. For the elders, too, I think. It has forced them to act. Headed by Zechariah, a small group of believers have confronted Argos and demanded justice; and, Jepeth, the metalsmith, was paid with contributions from the community to make two bells, one for the upstairs and one for the downstairs of my house, to ring at the first sign of further trouble. And all this without my prior knowledge. But that was weeks ago, and aside from the two bells that are now in my house, nothing good has come of it, for Argos stood his ground before the men of our community and called me a “liar.”

  Now I look at one of the bells as I ready myself for the wedding. It is not small and delicate like those attached to the hems of the priestly robes my father or Ethan once wore. Rather, it is larger than a man’s hand and resembles a cup with a thick-lipped barrel-shaped body and handle. It is made of sand-cast copper, and creates a frightful clamor when rung. I wish I could ring it now as an alarm to God. Would He hear? If He did, I’d say, “What is happening with my Esther? Why aren’t You helping her?”

  She has refused to go to the wedding. All my scolding, threats, and crying have availed nothing. She is immovable. A mountain of resistance. I blame her father, for she has his temperament. Oh Ethan, if only you were here! If only you had left Jerusalem with us! And then I feel the familiar anger. I don’t want to be angry. But there it is, bubbling in my stomach like a pit of bitumen. If only Ethan had come with us. If only he had made our sons . . . my sons, come too. If only Daniel had come. Then we would all be together. We would all be happy.

  What am I to do? Can you hear me, Lord? My voice is a clanging bell crying for help. Am I a widow? Have I lost my sons? Will I lose my daughter, too? Have pity on me. You are my only help. You are my refuge and strength. In You do I trust.

  Esther watches me from the corner of the room. She sits on a rush mat wearing a threadbare tunic that is mud-caked along the hem. Her hair is a mass of tangles. “It’s not too late.” I force a smile and point to the beautiful gray garment with thin red stripes that hangs from the wall peg. “I’ll wait while you wash and dress.”

  Both of our tunics are newly purchased from one of the Gentile shops across the wadi. I did it hoping to please Esther, hoping it would pull her from her deep despair. And though I hated taking more coins from my semadi and squandering them on such trifles, I even purchased a box of kohl and a small bronze spatula for applying it to our eyes. But best of all, I bought a tiny clay phial of sweet cane perfume. It’s been so long since we’ve scented our bodies.

  I adjust the veil over my freshly plaited hair. “You would look so lovely in your new tunic, and with the kohl on your lids you’d . . . .”

  “No, Mama. Must I tell you again that I’m not going?” Determination and defiance harden her face like plaster. “Can’t you understand how impossible it is for me? I, who should have danced at my wedding, am forced to wonder if I’m a widow before I’m even a true bride.” She leans her head against the cool of the wall as a hot wind blows through the small open window, and with it, the noise of people gathering in the street below. “I rejoice for Ira and Rina, but I don’t feel well and would make poor company. I have no wish to cast a shadow over their happiness.”

  “But Esther . . . .”

  “Let it alone, Mama, and go in peace.”

  “But . . . .”

  “Please, Mama, let it alone.”

  My lips pucker like dried figs as I tie a colorful braided cord around my veiled head. It’s useless to argue any longer. And after a final glance at my thin, pale daughter I head for the ladder. Oh why don’t you hear me, Lord? I clang and clang and still you don’t answer.

  The rug is heavy. It pulls my right shoulder—where it’s rolled and draped—downward. I’m surprised I can carry it at all. I’m more surprised that it’s finished in time, though it took most of the night to do it. I only hope I can get it to Zechariah’s without damage.

  The sun beats fiercely overhead. There’s little breeze. With each step, the rug feels heavier. As I pass Leah’s house she calls my name and waves. I respond with an awkward jerk of my head.

  “You look beautiful,” she says, coming alongside me.

  “You, too.” I huff and puff under my burden. She carries her own load—a large tray of bread balanced on her head. Even so, I see she wears the new embroidered headscarf I gave her yesterday as payment for the loaf of olive and rosemary bread she made me, in spite of her insistence that my payment far exceeded the worth of her bread.

  “You shouldn’t have done it,” she says in a near whisper, fingering the scarf with her free hand. But her shining eyes tell me how much it pleases her. Then, appearing embarrassed, she calls to Tirzah who walks ahead carrying baby Joshua, and with a wave “goodbye” bustles toward them leaving the smell of rosemary wafting behind her.

  The street is crowded now. Everyone is heading for Zechariah’s house for the marriage ceremony and banquet to follow. People scurry past me, dressed in their best tunics and brightest smiles, and laden with gifts.

  I walk slowly, falling more a
nd more behind the others as I trudge beneath my load. Dust swirls around me and sticks to the perspiration bathing my face. I’m the last to arrive, and when I do, sweat dampens me from head to toe. My tunic is rumpled, my arms and shoulder nearly numb. It is Zachariah who comes to my aid, may Hashem bless him, and takes the rug, then slings it over his own shoulder.

  “I heard that Ira asked you to bring the cup,” he says, his forehead glistening with sweat as he heaves the heavy rug across one of the many wooden benches placed around the courtyard to hold the gifts. “Did you?”

  I wrinkle my face but say nothing.

  “I must agree with you this time. I too disapprove of someone wishing to have the cup present only to ensure them ‘good fortune.’”

  “I love these people, Zechariah. But I cannot let this love keep me from speaking out any longer. This fixation over the cup must stop.”

  “Be patient with them, Rebekah.” Zechariah’s face crinkles into that big, generous smile of his, the smile that seems to say there’s enough love in his heart to encompass the whole world. “These are dark days. I know they should be looking to Jesus, but desperate times can make people want something tangible, something they can see and touch. Something they can cling to. But they’ll come around. You’ll see.” He pauses to tug on his beard. “And fret not. So will Esther. Give her time. She’ll come around, too.”

  No wedding procession followed the bridegroom to the bride’s house. The customary train of friends and family was represented by one—a nephew and sole living relative. Neither did the bridegroom accompany his perfumed, veiled bride back to his house—a neat modest dwelling near the wheat fields. Instead, he walked her—accompanied only by her one living relative, a male cousin half her age—to Zechariah’s, where the entire community awaited them.

  And the wedding ceremony was neither elaborate nor lengthy, but consisted of the drawing up of a legal agreement, witnessed and signed by Zechariah. Next came the blessing, and a reading from John’s codex. But the feast followed tradition. Before the wedding, Ira and some of the men erected a moderately sized wooden frame at one end of Zechariah’s courtyard. Then, under Leah’s supervision, women covered it with fringed linen curtains to form a canopy, after which they decorated the entrance with palm branches, pink lilies and vines of blue ipomeas. It was under this beautiful canopy that Ira and Rina sat during the feast.

  And the food! It made my mouth dance! Even King Solomon, who was no stranger to lavish feasts, would have been pleased. There was Leah’s savory bread, Mary’s succulent date cakes, Amos’s tangy squares of goat cheese covered with herbs, bowls full of olives from our collective groves, roasted pigeons from both Hannah’s and Naomi’s dovecotes, a huge pot of mutton and lentil stew that Tirzah made, dandelion greens, cucumbers, and melons gathered from everyone’s garden—not to mention flagons and flagons of mulled wine. Oh, it was wonderful!

  Except for one thing.

  All during the ceremony, and for part of the feast, loud, incessant chanting poured from the Temple of Isis just north of us. When even Ira’s and Rina’s face began to show the strain of this nonstop idolatry, Leah took matters into her own hands and began singing and dancing. Soon others joined in. And before long, women were whirling around in joy; and both voices and instruments masked the heathen clamor.

  The temple is quiet now, while we continue our noisy celebration. Mary plays her tof, a small hand-held drum, a woman’s instrument; Obadiah, the carpenter, plays a kinnor, the lyre-like instrument of King David. Two other men play flutes. And Leah continues dancing with the women. I don’t know where she gets her strength. It’s as if she’s young again. Perhaps Ira’s and Rina’s wedding has brought back memories of her own marriage. She forced me to dance with her once, but I won’t again. Let her revel in the past. I can’t. I don’t want to remember what I have lost. So I sit with Tirzah and her baby, and . . . eat. Even now, I’m shamelessly preparing to devour my third date cake. But I barely swallow the first bite when I hear a gruff voice overhead.

  “It’s that cup, that accursed cup. You’ve used it to cast a spell on him!”

  I look up and see Argos bathed in sunlight and pointing a shaking finger at me. His hair is arranged in yet another variation of knots. His clean shaven chin juts upward as if trying to give more height to his short stature.

  “What has happened?” I say, bewildered.

  “Oh, you liar! You sorceress! You know full well what’s happened! Demas is blind! Since coming to your house . . . since he . . . it’s your doing. And that . . . that . . . cup’s. You used it to rob him of his sight.”

  “Did I lay one finger on him? Did you hear me utter one evil word against him? Even when he overturned my baskets? Even when he smashed my things with his club? Did I say a word?”

  “Ah . . . yes! Under your breath. I heard you! You whispered evil incantations and drove him from your house, screaming.”

  “He was an uninvited guest, an intruder who broke into my home, as did you, and threatened me. But I didn’t return evil for evil.”

  Red streaks flame Argos’s neck and cheeks. “Lies! Lies! You would turn the world against me with your lies if you could. I know what you’ve told the shopkeepers.”

  “I’ve told them nothing.”

  “Then . . . your agents! They’ve been busy telling everyone how we came in the middle of the night to do you harm. Oh, what falsehood! In front of all these people I call you a liar! Demas and I came only to transact business, to purchase one of your possessions. We would have given you good money. Far more than it’s worth. You know it’s true! But there you stand, bold faced; daring to accuse us while denying your own wrongdoing! Denying that you made a man blind. Very well. I won’t argue. I will only demand that you give me the cup so I can undo your sorcery.”

  A dozen men have crossed the wadi with Argos, and now stand behind him, Demas included. The poor, blind Demas stretches his neck this way and that as if trying to catch every word. Two men—his guides by the look of how they hold his arms—flank him, while Demas sniffs the air like a dog, then tries to lay hold of it with an outstretched hand, all the while panic etching his face.

  Before I can stop myself, I wave to the guides and tell them to “bring him forward.” Oh the boldness! I’ve never experienced the like. It overpowers me. So does the love I feel for these ill-advised men whose masks of anger can’t hide the fear in their eyes. But instead of stepping forward, the men move back, dragging Demas with them. Only Argos remains rooted in place.

  “Don’t listen to her. She plans more evil,” Argos shouts.

  “Demas, if you want your sight, come, and we’ll pray for you in the name of Jesus.” Why did I say that? The words just tumbled out as if spoken by another. Will God restore his sight? If He doesn’t, what will these men do? But too late. Demas is already straining against those holding him. “Come,” I say, feeling a renewed boldness. “Receive your healing.”

  At once Zechariah forms a circle, a circle of those willing to stand in the gap for this Gentile, among them the newly married Rina and Ira. When it’s clear Demas is willing but that his two guides won’t bring him, Caleb, the young shepherd boy, and Japeth, the metalsmith, walk past the gauntlet of Argos’s hatred to retrieve him.

  And then we pray. Each in our own words, each storming heaven with our pleadings and petitions. I don’t know how long we prayed. It felt like minutes. But when I open my eyes, the sun is nearly gone and Demas is sprawled flat on his face in the dirt.

  “See how God has knocked him to the ground, as though he were a reed,” Mary says, gripping my arm. “I felt His power, and thought I would fall, too. That’s when I grabbed you. But you never noticed. You were too deep in prayer.”

  “Is he . . . is he healed?” I say, feeling my former boldness slip away when I notice that, with the exception of Argos, all his companions are now standing within a hand’s distance behind us, watching with keen interest. “Is he healed?” I repeat.

  Mary shrugs j
ust as someone shouts, “He’s stirring. He’s waking up.”

  “Move back. Give him room.” Zechariah gestures with his hands, then uses his large frame as a buffer against the crowd. And as we retreat, Demas pulls himself up into a sitting position.

  “What . . .? What has happened?” he says, holding his head. “Did someone hit me?” He moans, then rubs his eyes.

  It’s so quiet I can hear the air passing through my nostrils.

  Demas remains sitting in the dirt. It covers his face, his tunic. It floats around him in low, soft clouds. But he appears not to notice.

  “Well! Can you see?” someone yells.

  Demas looks confused, as if he’s forgotten why he came into our circle in the first place. Then a smile splits his face. “Yes! I see! I can see!” In a flash, he’s on his feet, dancing and kicking up more dirt and laughing like a madman. “I can see!” And then everyone is laughing, and hugging and kissing and praising God. Even the Gentiles are laughing and lifting their voices in praise to this unknown God; this God who does miracles; this God Who heals the blind. Everyone, that is, except Argos. He stands far off with his arms folded across his chest, and scowls.

  “Esther! Wait until you hear the news!” I enter our house and stop. It’s so dark. Why didn’t Esther light the oil lamps? We always left at least one burning in our front room at night. “Esther!” I crane my neck trying to hear any sound that will tell me which room to enter. But I hear the bleating of sheep through the open door and nothing more. Quickly, I light a lamp. Could she be spinning in one of the side rooms? I rush through the downstairs, checking everywhere, then remember her claim of ill health. So, she was telling the truth. She really wasn’t well. Certainly news of Demas’s healing will cheer her.

  Rushing to the ladder I shout, “Esther!” Still no answer. She must be sleeping. Like Ethan, when he was younger, Esther can sleep through anything. Once, in our house in the Upper City, a servant knocked over his lamp setting fire to one of the rooms, and though there was enough shouting and screaming and running to wake the neighborhood, Esther slept through it all. And didn’t she sleep through most of Argos’s recent mischief?