Eden (23 page)

Eden broke from Maryam's arms and went to her master's beam. She could barely reach his feet standing on her hind legs, but her paws scratched the wood. A drop of blood had run down her master's leg and clung stubbornly to his toe.

She whined.

The drop fell to her nose and before she knew what she did, she licked it off.

Plain blood, with that tang of iron and salt and sweat.

The carpenter soldier lent his tools so that they could pry the spikes free without tearing more of the flesh, and before Maryam crossed the dead hands upon his breast, Eden managed to put her head under his fingers, for one last moment, just a moment, as he used to pet her.

One last touch.

But there was no one there.

EVERLASTING

Fear not, little flock; for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom
.

For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also
.

Luke 12: 32–34

Two Nights and a Day

They laid the winding sheet upon the ladder, making a stretcher. But before they could place their master on this makeshift sling the Romans left their fire pit and took the ladder away.

“The ladder is Pilate's,” one of them said. “Not the priests'.” And the soldiers prepared to lug their ladder down the slope and back to the garrison.

To those clutching the body of Eden's master one of them said, “Carry him arm by arm and leg by leg if you care for him so much.”

But not the carpenter soldier. He turned his face away.

The winding sheet became their master's stretcher for the steep descent to the bottom, then to a lower rise and the resting place prepared. Eden followed Maryam silently down the face of the ugly hill. The bearers stumbled as they went, but each time a foot slipped, a knee or elbow met the ground, they righted themselves. On this last trip their burden was not so great, the body lighter than the bundles of sticks the old man had brought for the Romans' fire.

And before the sun set that day, the tomb accepted him and Eden watched the mourners roll a great stone into place.

The salty taste of her master had vanished from her mouth. As the night drew close Eden's belly twisted in hunger and her tongue swelled, growing thick with thirst. She sat with Maryam under the shoulder of a great boulder. The ground hard, scarcely any grass, but the woman folded their master's cloak and it cushioned them, keeping the cold from seeping into their bones.

Maryam's hand came to Eden's neck and the dog rested her head in the woman's lap. The tomb of their master waited silently in the dark, and they could barely see the outline of the stone covering the entrance.

Why were they waiting here?

What were they waiting for?

Eden did not know.

The moon showed its silver face through a stand of spindly trees on a distant hill and lit the rock tomb. The surface shone whitely, lighting the ground where they sat. Time passed.

Quietly other women joined them, one here, and another there, in twos and threes. Not sitting closely, but scattered across the wide ledge where they could find a touch of shelter, on a rock or beside a boulder. They covered their heads with their shawls to keep warm, which under the moon made them seem part of the earth.

Silent witnesses who watched the stone face of the tomb.

But witnesses to what? Eden could not say.

Suddenly the sound of footfalls on the path rose up from below. Not human feet, for men and women always scraped and shuffled when then moved. But the sound was hard, clear steps. And to her astonishment Eden saw Samson's old gray nose nodding up and down as he climbed. His long ears bobbed with every footfall. He carried a great load of branches on his back, and round his strong neck dangled water skins, sloshing from side to side. While the old man from the horrible hill quietly followed the donkey upward.

And the littlest of the lambs came with him too! Eden watched as the littlest lamb picked her way daintily along the steep path. A tiny bell about her neck jingled brightly through the gloom, the moonlight catching it at every step.

“We thought I'd find you here,” Samson told Eden.

“You're burdened now!” the dog exclaimed.

“Yes, but it's an easy burden,” Samson told her. “Sticks for this old man. And water for those who wait in the dark. You see, I can bring enough—more than he can carry.”

“And look at you, you little rascal,” Eden said to the littlest lamb, “someone gave you jewelry!”

“Of course, I keep them company!” exclaimed the littlest lamb. “Marking their coming and going with the sound of my bell!”

“More than that,” the gray-faced donkey told Eden. “The bell keeps us from being lost. Like a herald in the night,” Samson said, “whether rising from deep ravines or calling over great mountains, no wind can drown out the sound of this bell. A clear voice in the air, a voice of everything to come—”

“And yet its ring is so tiny you barely notice it,” said the littlest lamb.

“Like you,” Eden said.

“Yes, like me,” said the littlest lamb. “Just like me.”

The three animals fell silent.

Eden recognized this old man, the same who had brought the Romans firewood on that terrible hill. All this time ignored as one not even worthy of notice, just a few coins tossed in his direction. Yet on this night he brought wood to those who had no coins for him. The women unloaded the sticks from Samson's back and stacked them in a pile to make a fire. The old man let the women take the wood without complaint, and even helped them stack it. Eden saw Maryam fumble with her purse but the old man simply shook his head, placing his hand upon hers. He wanted no money.

Not this night.

At length, the old man passed the skins around, pouring water into empty cups, or tipping it to waiting hands until every parched throat was quenched. And water itself seemed to fill every belly, sating every tongue, and hunger was no more.

Someone struck a spark from flint and iron, the stack of wood caught and night's chill retreated from the ledge. To Eden it seemed a strange kind of campfire, for though Samson had brought a great load of wood, this fire seemed to need no feeding, burning with light and heat but no ash. And so eventually everyone on the ledge was warmed and heads nodded to their breasts. The last thing Eden saw before her eyes closed was that old man staring at her.

He sat off by himself, curiously aloof, seeking neither the fire nor company. Eden realized that since she had first seen him on the Hill of the Skull he had neither spoken nor been spoken to. Not even the Roman soldiers who merely threw him a handful of coins. Nor did he speak now, but simply stared from his spot by the great stone door. Beside him Samson stood silently, occasionally swishing his tail. And the littlest lamb curled by the old man's feet, the bell round her neck tinkling softly each time she stirred in the dark.

And so night passed into morning.

Dawn of the second day.

Eden opened her eyes and picked her head off Maryam's lap. Samson, the littlest lamb and the old man were nowhere to be seen. But she heard the tiny bell tinkling faintly in the dell down below. After a few moments even that hopeful sound vanished, and a cold wind sighed across the ledge. Maryam huddled into herself, clutching the dog closer. The fire had died, thirst and hunger returned. The women on the ledge stared out of their shawls with hollow eyes. A gray sorrow seemed to cloak them all, and some rose from their chosen rock, stepping a few paces away to weep in private.

But Maryam was not among them. The woman's eyes were dry. She did not weep. Nor had she wept with the others on the Hill of the Skull when their master spoke no more, and they brought him down from the beam. Quietly, she refolded the cloak for herself and the dog to sit on the hard ground. And it struck Eden, two days waiting felt like a long, long time.

The cold wind blew a trifle faster over the ledge, ruffling the women's shawls. They tugged their wraps about their faces, looking from eye to eye, as if the wind itself was trying to tell them a secret. But no one understood, as if the wind spoke secret words in a strange tongue from a foreign lands, far away.

Yet through the wind Eden heard the strangest sound, the murmuring of a voice, faint and indistinct. Not a voice of fear or sadness, but full of great tidings. And underneath the voice, there echoed a beating heart, hope and a second chance.

Eden's ears perked up. The faint sounds came from behind the stone door. Eden went to the rock where her master lay and began to smell keenly around the edge. Several of the women cried out and drove Eden from the sealed entrance to the cave, as if it were a place no dog should touch or even sniff.

Maryam beckoned Eden back to the safety of her arms.

“Never mind them,” the woman whispered in Eden's soft ear. “Half of them expect nothing and the other half are too fearful to hope for more.”

Eden nuzzled the woman's throat and looked into her eyes. Maryam was neither angry nor afraid. And her eyes suddenly brightened, for the faint sound of the littlest lamb's bell drifted up from the dell.

In a few moments, the bell grew louder. The littlest lamb pranced onto the ledge and Samson plodded solidly up soon after. The old man had returned, bringing more firewood and more water in the same water skins. They sloshed against the donkey's strong neck. After unloading Samson as he had the day before, the old man found his spot near the stone door on the narrow ledge and sat.

A new man followed the first. A younger man, and like the elder one, a silent type and laden down with sacks. He rested the sacks at his feet and joined the old one, sitting on a bit of stony edge that didn't seem wide enough to hold either man. But neither of them stirred, not even to draw their cloaks about them as the wind swept up from the dell tugging shawls across every woman's face. Neither man seeming cold nor tired in any way, just curiously hopeful and expectant.

The heavy scent of baked bread, dried fruits and burnt meat seeped from the sacks, flowing along the ground like fragrant smoke. Everyone knew what the sacks held—
food
—yet no one made a move to paw through them. As if they were not to be plundered yet, not yet. This was not the time to eat.

For her part, Eden had no appetite and she looked at the faces of the women sitting there. No gleam of hunger, just the brick of sadness, the rusty hook of fear. But as for Maryam sheltering Eden in her arms, the woman looked at the dog with cool certainty. Maryam knew something the others did not, and stared hard at the cave, through the very rock. As if the woman could move the stone door with her will alone.

The sun began to set again. How it moved across the heavens so quickly, Eden could not explain. One moment it stood high overhead, then the next it slid toward the horizon, reddening the sky. The wood and kindling Samson had lugged from below were built into a fire. Yet this time for some reason it did not drive away the chill, and the silence of the women grew until it covered the ledge like a heavy weight.