Alabaster

by Chris Aslan

  Now we’re alone and I sense that the teacher wants to explain something to me.

  “You know that I could save Malchus, but not your father,” he says. I feel tears prick my eyes at this. “I was able to save Malchus because he came to me. I can only be in one place at one time.”

  “Then why didn’t God send more of you?” I ask.

  “I’m the only one,” he says. “But after I finish what my father wants me to do here, I’ll return to him and then I’ll send my spirit. I’ll be everywhere.” He notices my puzzled look. “Like an olive,” he explains, but I am still mystified. “It has to fall to the ground or be eaten by a bird until there’s nothing left but the seed, and it’s from this seed that a new olive tree grows.”

  “Are you telling me that you have to die?” I ask, and the teacher nods. I swallow. “Isn’t there another way?”

  He shakes his head sadly. “But, unlike all those sheep for sale in the market today, I’m willing to lay down my life. It’s the only way.”

  I still don’t really understand and feel my eyes well with tears. “Will I see you again?”

  He shakes his head. “Not like this.”

  “So tonight will be the last time?” I ask. He nods. “Do the others realize? Do you think they understand?”

  The teacher smiles. “I don’t think they want to,” he says. “I have tried to explain to them. Most of my other apprentices aren’t as quick to grasp these things as you.”

  He has called me his apprentice again, and I feel happy and heartbroken at the same time. Malchus returns and then I hear Marta calling me. As the sun sets, the dry spring air quickly becomes chilly. I’m glad we’re not expecting our guests to sit up on the roof tonight. The chill soon ends the spontaneous feast and then I’m busy washing people’s feet and carrying lamps and dishes of dried fruit and nuts up the ladder. There are fewer than twenty of the teacher’s apprentices here and they all fit in the upper room along with some of Yokkan and Eleazar’s closest friends.

  Aunt Shiphra and Mara join us and help boil and serve mint tea. For a moment I’m in the kitchen area alone with Marta. She already knows about the plan for Eleazar and Malchus to leave tonight, although we haven’t had a chance to tell Eleazar himself yet. I’ve barely had a chance to speak to him at all, although there’ll be time enough.

  “Miri, why do you look so sad?” Marta asks.

  “Marta, he’s going to his death,” I say. “He told me. He’s going to the capital tonight and he knows that he won’t leave alive. He’s choosing to go. He says he has to let them do it. He has to die, like the sheep being sacrificed, to open the way for us. Then he won’t be stuck in just one body or in one place at one time. Or at least, I think that’s what he said. I’m not sure I understood everything. Oh, and he talked about olives. He said something like, ‘Unless a seed falls to the ground and dies there can’t be any fruit.’”

  Marta’s brow is furrowed deep in thought. I know better than to interrupt her. “Unless a perfume jar is broken, the fragrance cannot be released,” she says quietly. She looks up and holds my gaze, waiting to see if I’ve understood her intent.

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” I ask, a smile playing on my lips.

  “This is the time, isn’t it?” She raises an eyebrow. “It was given to us and now we give it to him.”

  I try to swallow but there’s a lump in my throat. “Father would be proud of us right now,” I whisper.

  We go into the inner room and open Mother’s chest, rummaging through the old tunics until we find the alabaster jar.

  “It’s so beautiful,” sighs Marta, tenderly polishing it with a corner of her tunic. “Can you imagine the skill needed to carve something so delicate and fragile without breaking it? You’d think they’d have made it with a stop or a lid or some way of opening it that didn’t involve destroying the whole thing.”

  “The perfume seller in the capital told Father that it was the jar of kings because only a king could afford to break something so precious that could be used only once,” I say.

  “Then this is for him,” says Marta. “Twice he gave us back our brother.” She carries the jar out into the kitchen area.

  “What is that?” Aunt Shiphra looks with wonder. “Did the teacher give it to you?”

  Marta doesn’t even hear her, passing me the jar and returning from the storeroom with the heavy wooden mallet she used to stake her loom into the ground.

  “Marta, are you sure about this? What about your dowry?” I say.

  Marta just grins as she kneels down. “Do you remember how worried we were after the earthquake when we thought the jar might be cracked?” she says, hefting the mallet in her hand. Neither of us could ever have imagined that one day we would wilfully break the jar. “Hold it upright at the base,” she says, and takes a practice swing at it.

  “What are you doing?” asks Aunt Shiphra in alarm.

  “It’s our gift,” I say, and I look up at Marta. “Now!”

  The mallet swings and connects with the top of the jar. A crack works its way down the top and we see a few drops of spikenard bead along it. The scent is heavenly.

  “Again, but harder this time,” I say, and Marta grunts as she brings the mallet down, cracking the top of the jar straight off and leaving a spatter trail of spikenard up Aunt Shiphra’s robe. She gasps in shock and surprise but also in delight at the scent that has been released.

  “Quickly,” says Marta. “Take it up the ladder before any more spills.”

  I scurry up with the jar raised, feeling the spikenard dribbling down my hand and wrist and up the inside of my sleeve. It’s viscous, like oil.

  At the upper room I hurry inside, dripping spikenard all over the carpets, to where the teacher is reclining.

  Then I take one of his feet and I pour.

  How do I describe the fragrance? I’ve never smelled anything like it, so I don’t know what to compare it to. It’s rich and warm and a little heady. For me, it’s the smell of him.

  The scent fills the room, intoxicating everyone. They’re speechless as I kneel before the teacher, taking his other foot in my hands and pouring more spikenard inexpertly through the jagged hole we’ve made in the jar. Spikenard spills everywhere and I pull off my headscarf to use as a mop. Without my headscarf, my hair falls around me and catches in the liquid, so I use it to wipe his feet as well.

  “It’s the most precious thing we have,” I whisper to the teacher, “apart from our brother.” I’ve just knocked the jar over but it doesn’t seem to matter as I think it’s empty. “It’s not enough, I know, but we want to honour you and to prepare you for what’s to come.”

  “Thank you,” says the teacher gently. I feel the healthy solidity of his feet, so sturdy and full of life. This body will soon be broken and destroyed, like the jar. He chooses to do this for us. I fight an overwhelming desire to tell him to run with Eleazar and to save himself. I know he could. I know he won’t. I glance up and his eyes are glassed with tears and my heart feels as broken as the jar beside me and I start to weep. I wipe and I weep, whispering my adoration.

  I only stop when I hear Malchus say icily, “Let go of her.”

  One of the teacher’s apprentices, looking furious, has grabbed Marta by the wrist. “You stupid girls,” he snarls. “Do you even know what spikenard is worth, especially a jar of that size?”

  “Yahuda,” the teacher warns.

  “No! I’m the one who has to keep us all fed. And what about the poor? She should have sold the jar instead of wasting it.” He’s pointing at me.

  “You’ll always have the poor with you, but soon I’ll be gone,” says the teacher. “She’s preparing me for my burial.” He looks at me. “Miri, this act will never be forgotten. I’m telling you, wherever people follow me they’ll hear of this and remember it.”

  Yahuda still glowers at me, his nostrils flaring. “Guh!” he grunts and then storms down the ladder.

  “Thank you,” says the teacher
, and slowly draws his feet away. He lowers his voice. “Now, take Eleazar out of here before you tell him to leave. There can be no goodbyes,” he whispers. I nod, sniffing, and pick up the broken jar and a few shards of alabaster and place them in an alcove beside the lamp. I go over to Eleazar and ask him and Malchus to come down to the kitchen area.

  Eleazar has still barely said anything to me. “Some of the apprentices are really angry about the waste,” he says to Malchus, and then turns to me and plants a kiss on my cheek. “That was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life,” he says.

  “You mean ‘lives’,” I say smiling.

  “Is your wrist hurt?” Malchus asks, putting his arm around Marta tenderly.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says, leaning into him, unashamed.

  “I’m proud of you both,” says Eleazar, and then frowns. “What did the teacher mean about being prepared for his burial? Everyone saw today; he’s more powerful than death.”

  “El, you have to leave,” I say. “It’s not safe for you here, or for the teacher. Malchus will explain along the way. I’ll tell Yokkan for you. You can’t go back up there; the teacher said ‘no goodbyes’. You just have to leave now.”

  Marta has already prepared a bundle with an extra robe, travelling cloak and some dried fruit and nuts, and hands Eleazar a pouch of coins. We hold each other tightly, the three of us. Then Marta kisses Malchus tenderly on the lips, and Eleazar and I exchange a quick smirk. “We’ll pray for you,” she says, as they slip out of the door.

  I put my arm around her.

  We’re about to climb back up to the upper room, braving the disapproval of those who think we’ve wasted the jar.

  “Let’s just go up on the roof for a moment,” I say, and we keep on climbing. I’m not sure why I suggested this. It’s cold, and my hair and headscarf are still wet with spikenard. “Marta, will you hold my legs still?” I ask. I clamber up onto the wall at the corner, standing tall. Tree blossom still obscures our view of the main road but behind it, as I crane my head, I see the bob of moving torches coming towards the village. There are a lot of torches.

  “Quick,” I say, spinning round and almost losing my balance. “We have to warn the teacher. They’re coming for him.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The morning sun slants through the window opening into the upper room. In their hurry to leave, someone forgot the cloth belt of their robe, and one of the lamps was knocked over and the oil has stained a carpet. The largest stain is in the middle of Mother’s finest carpet where the spikenard soaked in. It’s ruined the carpet, of course, or maybe it’s made the carpet even more precious to us. The room still smells intoxicating, masking the underlying residual odour of too many unwashed men in a confined space. I still smell amazing, and am loath to ever wash my hair or headscarf again. If I ever have the good fortune to smell spikenard again, it will always remind me of the teacher.

  We’re meant to be clearing up, but Marta has sat down heavily, and gingerly prods her jaw. She’s had less experience with beatings than I have.

  “Has the swelling gone down?” I ask her.

  “I think he might have knocked a tooth loose,” she says, wincing as she probes inside her mouth.

  “If there’s one thing to be said for my ex-husband, he knows how to throw a punch,” I say.

  “You can tell he’s had practice,” Marta says, which makes me grin – a mistake because it stretches my lip, which starts bleeding again. “Seriously, I can’t imagine what it was like for you enduring all those beatings alone.”

  I nod. “But I wasn’t afraid at all last night, knowing that you were there, and also that it would take more than a few punches for us to tell them anything.”

  The previous evening, Yokkan led the teacher and his apprentices around the village, getting to the main road just after Halfai, Ishmael and the other religious leaders blazed up to the well, armed with swords and torches.

  We just had time to snuff out all the lamps upstairs before Halfai hammered at the door. When they saw that the teacher had already left and demanded to know where he’d gone, I tried to delay them to give the teacher more time to get away. I mainly just asked questions about who exactly they were looking for and why they wanted to arrest someone who had done nothing but good. Eventually Ishmael lost his temper with me and lashed out, and then, when Marta tried to stop him, she got a few punches as well. If they’d found the teacher we would have heard about it by now. He got away.

  Only now as I stare at the depression he left on the cushions against the wall, and the spikenard stain on the carpet, does it really sink in that although his presence is still so fresh, we won’t see the teacher again. I feel sad, but I also feel an unexpected sense of peace. I reach down to pick up some of the shards of alabaster I missed last night. “Miri, your wrists,” says Marta. I look down at them and the scabs left from where I scratched them have completely gone. When did that happen? “He must have cured you,” she says. “How are we going to go back to life like it was before? I can’t imagine life without him.”

  “We won’t,” I say. “He’s coming back, just not in the same way,” I say. “Remember what he told you? ‘I am the rising.’”

  I can’t explain it, but I feel that there are things I’m only just beginning to understand about him.

  “What should we do with the broken bits of alabaster?”

  “I’ve put them all with the remains of the jar up in the alcove.”

  Marta goes over to it and peers inside. “You know, there’s still some spikenard left inside – just a bit.” She lifts the broken jar and inhales it deeply. “We could pour it into something – maybe even sell it.”

  I come over and peer in, tilting the jar. Then I feel as if the teacher is just behind me and the feeling is so strong that I turn around. There’s no one there, but I know what to do with the remaining spikenard.

  “Can I have it? There’s someone I want us to see.”

  Marta looks at me quizzically.

  “I’d like to visit Shoshanna, Rivka and Imma. I want to pour at least a drop on each foot.”

  Marta looks baffled. “Imma, I understand; after all, she did warn us yesterday about what would happen. But why Shoshanna? And Rivka’s shown you nothing but spite.”

  “I know,” I muse. She’s right, of course. But until now I’ve never thought about why Rivka is so bitter. What made her that way? I think about Shoshanna and how ruled she is by the fear of what others think about her. Then there’s Imma. Is she happy with Ishmael? Has he ever laid a hand on her?

  “What about Ishmael?” says Marta, unconsciously rubbing her freshly bruised jaw.

  I shrug. “Come with me,” I say. “They’re no less deserving than we were. They need him just as much as we did.”

  We pick up the broken alabaster jar with the remaining spikenard and leave everything else to tidy up later. I notice the swirls and whorls in the alabaster that used to fascinate me so much as I wondered what the future held. Now I don’t need to know.

  I don’t know why, but I find myself thinking of Mother. I can still hear her telling me what all women in our village tell their daughters: “Mariam, a woman’s honour is as fragile and as beautiful as a butterfly’s wings. What is a butterfly without wings, except a worm? Remember this. Guard your reputation, for it is more precious even than a husband or sons.”

  How would she feel if she had lived to see me now? We walk down the street together. One of the elders sees us and spits on the ground in contempt. I am a bad woman; at least, in the eyes of many in our village. And yet I hold my head higher, as I feel that Mother would have told me to do, as I walk on with my sister. I am not a worm. I am a woman and the teacher called me his apprentice. Life might not be any easier than before the teacher came, but it is better. I feel wistful, but more than that, I feel an overwhelming sense of peace; not that everything will be alright, but that I will never have to face it alone.

  As we walk back up to the vi
llage, my senses are filled with a heady lightness. We pass Cured Mariam, who is anxious to know that the teacher got away safely. She inhales deeply, smiles, and then she’s gone. At the well some greet us and others turn their backs. The teacher has brought division to our village. I don’t think anyone has been left entirely unaffected or entirely neutral. But even the women who turn to shun us lift their heads and breathe in the scent. They can’t help closing their eyes and inhaling the fragrance that still emanates from the broken shards in my hand, from my matted hair, and damp headscarf.

  Everything smells of him.

  Acknowledgments

  I hope you’ve enjoyed this book. If you’d like to discover the original source material for yourself, it can be found in the biblical accounts of Luke (chapter 10) and John (chapters 11 and 12). You can find them here: www.biblegateway.com

  Thanks and apologies to Revd Helen Shannon. Your sermon on the alabaster jar got me daydreaming an origins story, which meant I stopped listening to what I’m sure was a great preach.

  Kenneth Bailey’s book, Jesus Through Middle Eastern Eyes (SPCK), helped me see that I knew first-century Palestine better than I’d realized and gave inspiration for me to tackle this time period. Thanks to Naures Atto for helping me with the original Aramaic names of the biblical characters and to Richard Bauckham for providing me with contemporary names of that time and giving constructive feedback on the first chapter. I’m also indebted to “the internet” in general, particularly Wikipedia, for helping me with general research.

  Thank you, Mum and Dad, for letting me monopolize your dining-room table for a summer, bringing this story to life.

  I’m also grateful to Omar Al-Hayat, Cathy Priest, Rosie Edser, Naomi Morton, Dr Iain Pickett, Dr Tim Campion-Smith, Caroline Titus and Dr Jenni Williams for their helpful feedback, and special thanks to Pat Alexander, Anne De Hunty, Robin Whaley and Emma Goode for helping shape this story.