Take This Cup (12 page)
Even when the danger of discovery had passed, it was clear we would not be going farther that night. I foraged for evergreen branches, using pine needles and a thin layer of dried leaves to make a bed for the old man to lie upon.
The rabbi gratefully spread his cloak and stretched out. He was waxy and ashen in the dim light. His cracked lips were parted as he slept, and his breathing labored.
I sat in the shadows in the mouth of the cave and scanned the terrain beyond. No sign of our pursuers. Had Zimri and his men given up their quest for a slave to sell? Had they set out for Jerusalem and the rebellion?
A heaviness settled over me, like nothing I had ever felt. I was homesick. Scared. Filled with dread at the nearness of our enemies. Had my mother and father been killed? What had become of the shepherds we had left behind? What good were shepherd staffs against sword blades?
The old man stirred. His voice trembled as he spoke. “I . . . I must have dozed off. A pleasant dream. You and I set out for Jerusalem to see the great King.” He paused.
“It will be dark soon,” I said. “Are you cold, Rabbi? Shall I build a fire tonight?”
The rabbi continued as if I had not spoken. “And when we entered the great Temple, there were your mother and your father. And yes, even your dog.”
“My mother and father?”
“Yes,” the rabbi wheezed.
“Alive?”
“Oh yes. There among thousands who came to greet Jesus. Son of Joseph. Son of Jacob. And you . . . in my dream you were carrying something . . . a gift for the King.”
“Shall I search for something for us to eat?”
“Asparagus. I saw some growing beside the path. Ah, this land was truly Eden.”
I nodded, but remembered that if this had been Eden, death had still entered here. The old man seemed very near to Paradise. “I’ll go find something for us to eat, then. You rest.”
The rabbi’s arm raised slightly in agreement and then fell back on the bed. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I found a plot of wild asparagus and filled my tunic with big, thick stalks. Nearby, a blackberry vine was loaded with ripe berries. A few mushroom caps rounded off the harvest. I discovered a clutch of eight partridge eggs in a thicket. I had seen hungry herders puncture holes in the shells and suck out the raw yolk, but I much preferred eggs as my mother cooked them.
I took only four of the eggs, leaving the others in the nest. Raw or cooked, such nourishment would help strengthen the rabbi.
Clouds like great fortresses heaped upon the heights. There would soon be another thunderstorm. Laden with the bounty of the mountain, I hurried back to the shelter.
Rabbi Kagba was propped up but shivering. I displayed the harvest.
“A man could live here forever . . . if a man could live forever.” Kagba smiled. “I don’t fancy eating my eggs raw as some do.”
“You’re shivering. I’ll build a fire and dry out the air and . . . we can cook them.”
Kagba lay back and stared at the gloomy ceiling as I labored to build a fire on the floor of the cave. As sparks cast by the rabbi’s flint and steel caught amid leaves and pinecones, I breathed the flames to life and fed it with sticks and dry foliage.
“My father said a man must know how to make a . . .” My words trailed away as I raised my eyes to the ceiling and I gasped. The walls of the cavern, suddenly illuminated, were alive with painted splendor. Shadows danced upon primitive paintings.
“Well done, Nehemiah.” The rabbi seemed cheered as he stretched his hands to the blaze. He chuckled at the visions all around us.
“What are these?” I looked into painted stars and spotted the constellations of the Cup and the Virgin.
Kagba was delighted, but not surprised. “A Jew has been here before us. Look there. The story of Joseph, son of Jacob, in his coat of many colors. Aye. There is the boy, Joseph, in his splendid coat. The coat, a gift of honor from his father. And Joseph dreams . . . the sun and the moon and stars bow down to him. He tells his brothers they will one day bow to him. And there, the coat torn to shreds and Joseph is sold by his jealous brothers . . . Joseph’s hands bound as he is led away to Egypt by slave traders. In prison with the baker and Pharaoh’s cupbearer.”
Every inch of the interior was painted with the biblical account of Joseph’s life. And there, in the last frames, was Joseph’s silver cup buried in the grain sack of his brother Benjamin to trap him. And, finally, Joseph weeping over his reunion with his brothers.
“Who did such a thing?” I turned round and round in place, examining the panels in awe.
“One who knew the story well, I think,” Rabbi Kagba whispered.
“But why? Why paint the story of Joseph here?”
The old rabbi considered. “Here in a cave for hundreds of years? Someone lived here, plainly. Someone who had reason—”
“But who? Why?”
“Whoever he was, he knew the story of the Prince of Egypt. Perhaps he was on the run. As we are, eh? I would think one who was trying to escape the captivity of Babylon. Everything means . . . something.” Kagba closed his eyes and smiled slightly. For the first time in days, as warmth radiated in the space, some color returned to his gray-green complexion.
As the old man slept, I searched for stones to use in the cook fire. In the corner of the cavern was piled a heap of rocks. I sorted through them, looking for a flat rock to heat and cook on.
I examined stones and discarded them. At last I found the perfect rock for cooking. When I tugged at it, several stones tumbled down. The top of a clay amphorae protruded from the opening left there.
“Rabbi!”
The old man had dozed off again. His breath was steady and even.
I tore at the heap, revealing four sealed storage jugs. Each was about two spans high.
Should I open them? What if something terrible was in them? I had heard of shepherds stumbling across burial caves and making grizzly discoveries.
Human bones?
Pagan gods?
Some terrible curse written on a parchment?
I decided to wait until the rabbi awakened.
Heating the flat stone red-hot in the coals, I then cracked the eggs and fried them. I waved eggs and berries and warm asparagus on a broad leaf beneath the nose of my teacher.
“Rabbi? Wake up. I have dinner for you.”
His eyelids fluttered open. “Well.” The rabbi inhaled deeply and struggled to sit. “Well, now. My boy. Look at this. A feast.”
“It will make you strong.”
He accepted the leaf plate. “How did you manage this, Nehemiah? Fried eggs.” He prayed the blessing without waiting for an answer.
“Amen.” I jerked my thumb toward the rubble heap and the four containers. “I found the stone over there . . . see? On top of the clay jars.”
The rabbi plopped a whole egg into his mouth and turned
his head to follow my gesture. “What!” he exclaimed around his food. “What are those, boy?”
“Under a heap of stones. I was looking for a cooking stone. I didn’t mean to uncover them, but you see, there they are.”
The rabbi swallowed and waved a stalk of asparagus in the air. “What have you found?”
Weighed with remorse, I sat back on my heels. “I’ll put everything back, sir. I was only looking for a flat rock, you see, and . . . I can put it all back as it was. I . . . was afraid.”
Kagba’s eyes gleamed. “No. A Jew like ourselves lived here for a very long time. He would not live in a place of desecration. Eat. Such good food. You are a fine cook. Finish your meal, and we will see what treasure our friend left for us.”
A
flash of lightning illuminated the world outside the cave in monochrome shades. Thunder followed, opening the heavens with a torrent of rain. Water sluiced off the rocky ledges and streamed down the embankment, but the cavern remained dry. The previous occupant had chosen his home well.
The fire burned low. The rabbi reached out from his bed and touched each clay jar as if they were old friends. “Something very good, I think. I heard of a man . . . ah, well. No use speculating until we know, eh? We need more light, I think.”
I heaped dry wood onto the embers and stood back as the flames caught hold and blazed up. The branches crackled. The old man’s skin took on the color of parchment. He made an attempt to stand but winced and gave it up. “You’ll have to be the one, Nehemiah.”
I licked my lips and picked at the red wax that sealed lid to base. The wax was brittle and broke in pieces with the digging of my fingers. Within minutes the first lid was free.
I hovered over it, with my hands encircling the neck of the jar. Waiting for the rabbi’s instruction, I glanced up to see an almost childlike eagerness on the face of the sage.
“All right, then,” the old man whispered hoarsely. “Open it.”
I nodded once and pried it open. It made a popping noise
as air trapped for centuries rushed out. The sweet aroma of lavender scented the space, overpowering the wood smoke. I sat back. The rabbi must be first to see.
The old man leaned forward. “Tilt the opening toward the light, boy. I cannot make it out.”
I obeyed. A soft sigh of pleasure escaped the rabbi’s lips. He smiled as he reached in and took hold of the contents, pulling out a scroll wound in supple sheepskin and tied with strips of leather.
On the exterior of the scroll were Hebrew letters spelling out the name of the author.
The rabbi extended it, face up, toward me. “You must read it.”
I squinted in the light. The ink was distinct, undimmed by centuries. “ ‘Within is the SCROLL OF BARUCH BEN NERIAH, SCRIBE OF THE PROPHET JEREMIAH. Written in his own hand. Various writings of Jeremiah about the exile.’ ”
“So.” Rabbi Kagba cradled it like an infant. “As I rest and recover here, the good Lord has given us something to read and study. You know of the scribe Baruch. Companion to the prophet.”
I exhaled with relief that my teacher had been correct. The jars were not full of evil, frightening things, as I had feared. “He helped Jeremiah hide the Temple treasures. I am happy there were not bones inside.”
“Only the flesh and bones of history.” Rabbi Kagba mopped his brow. “What was, what is, and what will be.” The rabbi swept a hand over the Joseph murals. “There is a legend concerning a treasure that Baruch carried away. Hidden until the day when the Messiah will come to Jerusalem.” He frowned. “Well then. Open the others. Hurry!”
The second container held the complete scroll of the prophet
Jeremiah and the book of Nehemiah, as well as a number of short documents containing an inventory of Temple treasures.
The old man scanned them quickly, running his finger down the list. “Ahhhh. Here it is! As I thought it might be.”
He laid the list aside. The third jar held a tightly rolled copy of the five books of Moses—all protected in the exact same manner as the first scroll.
The last jar remained to be opened. I plucked at the red wax seal and pried the lid off, welcoming the
whoosh
of ancient air. I peered in. This time there was no scroll, but a fleece-wrapped package.
“Rabbi Kagba. It’s not like the others,” I said, some nervousness returning.
“Fetch it out, boy. My hand is too large.”
Reaching in elbow-deep, I grasped the prize and brought it into the light. Beneath thick wrapping, with smooth leather on the outside and fleece on the inside, I felt something the size and shape of a cup. Three strands of knotted leather bound the hide to it. On the exterior of the skin the label read, BEHOLD THE SILVER CUP OF JOSEPH, SON OF JACOB, PRINCE OF EGYPT.
A message inscribed on sheepskin fluttered to the floor at my feet.
The rabbi picked it up, read it, and passed it to me. “Nehemiah. This was written to you, I think.”
The comment startled and confused me. Written to me? How could that be? What did he mean? At the rabbi’s urging I read the letter aloud.
“INSTRUCTION—
CUPBEARER GUIDED BY THE HAND
OF THE ALMIGHTY,
FEAR NOT,
YOU OF CHILD’S HEART WHO DRAWS FORTH
THE CUP OF JOSEPH’S SUFFERING.
TAKE BENJAMIN’S COINS FOR PASSAGE
AND BEAR JOSEPH’S CUP HOME TO JERUSALEM.
THE CUP OF SUFFERING,
JOSEPH’S INHERITANCE
FOR THE ONE WHO IS TRUE KING OF ISRAEL.
HIS NAME IS SALVATION,
WONDERFUL,
COUNSELOR,
SON AND HEIR
OF HOLY PROMISES,
AS FORETOLD WITHIN THESE WRITINGS.
AS JOSEPH’S LIFE A PROPHECY PORTRAYED,
THE SUFFERING
SAVIOR OF ISRAEL’S CHILDREN,
SO THE LORD HIMSELF,
CONCEIVED BY THE HOLY SPIRIT,
BORN OF A VIRGIN,
WILL BE BORN AS A BABE
AND SUFFER FOR OUR SAKES,
THE TRUE REDEEMER OF ISRAEL.
CUPBEARER TO THE KING,
GO FORTH TO HIM WITHOUT TREMBLING.
FOR THE SAKE OF HIS BROTHERS
MESSIAH
MUST DRINK THIS CUP.
HE WILL PARTAKE OF SUFFERING
AS JOSEPH
SAVED HIS BROTHERS,
WHO SOLD HIM AS A SLAVE.
THEREFORE WATCH AND WAIT HERE
FOR A SERVANT CLOTHED IN WHITE RAIMENT
WHOM THE LORD WILL SEND TO GUIDE YOU
THROUGH THE MOUNTAINS
AND LEAVE YOU WHERE THE PLAINS BEGIN.
IT IS WRITTEN ‘WHAT MAN INTENDS FOR EVIL,
THE LORD INTENDS FOR GOOD.’
The rabbi whispered in awe, “The cup. From the Book of Beginnings. It was for you these instructions are given.”
“Not me. I’m just Nehemiah, son of Lamsa and Sarah.”
Rabbi Kagba wagged an admonishing finger. “But named for the cupbearer of the King who rebuilt the walls of Jerusalem.”
“But not me, sir.”
“You drew it forth. You hold the silver cup of Joseph the Revealer of Secrets, dreamer of dreams. The cup Benjamin carried away in his grain sack . . . could it be? The cup Baruch the Scribe spirited off to hide during the exile! Nehemiah, break the strings. Open it!”
Urged by the rabbi to haste, I tore at the leather, finally slipping it off the package. Joseph’s cup, black with tarnish, tumbled out onto the rabbi’s bed.
We stared at it a long moment without speaking, neither of us moving to touch it.
