Rebekah's Treasure (16 page)

I know I look foolish. My mouth forms a silly upturned arch, grinning at seemingly nothing. But I don’t care. I’m walking arm in arm with Esther down the dusty path to Zechariah’s. Her hair is neatly plaited and covered with a new linen head covering the color of ripe grapes. Her clean tunic is tied by a finely woven belt of dyed goat hair. Her face, free of shadows and dark broodings, shines.

“
Maranatha
!” says Mary, wife of Simon the bottlemaker, as we pass her house.

Even before I can answer, Esther surprises me by responding. Though her “
Maranatha
” is barely audible, it sends my heart soaring.

“Save us a place,” Mary yells, as she waters the stock, “that is, if my Simon ever finishes trimming his beard. And they say women take all day to ready themselves!”

To my greater shock, Esther giggles. When was the last time she giggled? I can’t remember. Surely the prayers for Esther, all those prayers of so many faithful saints, are finally being answered. Surely God is pulling her from that dark place where she has been living, and back into the light. I’m so happy I could dance. Instead, I sing Psalms in my head, and before long I’m singing them out loud. Soon, Esther joins me. I can’t believe it! I glance at her to make sure it’s really so. And yes, she’s singing, faintly at first like the mewing of a kitten, then louder and louder. I refuse to spoil the moment with thoughts about tomorrow.
Today
, Esther is awake from her slumber.
Today
, Esther walks with the living. And I rejoice in that. And so we go, the two of us—arm and arm, awash in shimmering sunlight and accompanied by the sweet chirping of sparrows—singing how the Lord is our Shepherd. And we do this all the way to Zechariah’s.

Zechariah’s courtyard is swollen with the thunderous sound of our voices. Flustered chickens squawk and flap their wings, and run madly in circles. The donkey brays then kicks against the gnarled oak, and a
dozen sheep bleat out a ragged rhythm, while we, the small insignificant church of Pella, bellow songs to our God and actually believe He will hear.

“‘Oh Lord our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth!’”

We’ve been singing for hours, Esther too, which surprises me still, for she was never able to carry a tune and has always been self-conscious about it. Her voice now mingles with the host of others. The very air is perfumed with praise. Our hands extend toward heaven, our faces tilt upward as our hearts strive to touch the great I AM; some in petition, some in awe, and some like mine, in sheer gratitude.

Truly, there is nothing too hard for You, Lord
.

Mary and Simon stand nearby, and every time Esther sings off key, they look at me and smile. I think they’re the only ones who witness my miracle, who know that something wonderful is happening.

When the last Psalm is finished, Zechariah motions for us to be seated, and I’m disappointed. Oh, I tell you, I could have sung all day! Shuffling sounds and whispers float through the air as people squat or unfurl rush mats and sit. I notice, with added delight, that three Gentiles have crossed the wadi to join our service. One is Kyra, the young servant girl from Argos’s shop. Leah holds her hand and whispers softly in her ear.

All the while, Zechariah, that large bear of a man, has been tenderly cradling the codex of John in his arms, the very arms that have tenderly cradled us—the weak, fragile church of Pella. But he looks rather somber, I think. His customary smile is missing. And come to think of it, he didn’t greet us believers with his usual hug when we first arrived. I suppose my own joy over Esther made me overlook it until now. But no matter, he will read from John’s codex then speak to us again about how Jesus is coming soon, and after a while his troubled heart will no longer be troubled.
Speak, Zechariah, speak
. I glance at Esther.
Oh, Lord, let her hear his words
.

But to my surprise, Zechariah hands the codex to a man near him. “I hope you will remember all I’ve taught you these past two weeks
’ about our precious Lord’s soon return. And even if it’s not as soon as we think or hope, we must remember that our earthly life is brief, and our hardships nothing when compared to the joys of everlasting life.”

I shift uncomfortably on my mat. This is not like Zechariah. His tone is too somber, his mouth too rigid, his eyes darting around too nervously as though wishing to avoid our gaze.

“And,” he says with a sigh, “it’s important that we continue to do what we did this morning, that is to praise God no matter what the circumstances or even when our hearts are as heavy as an anchor.” He thumps his large barrel chest. “Like mine. It’s heavy for I know more hard times are upon us. I don’t know why God has chosen to test us so sorely, but last night I heard news, news so crushing that it is sure to break the heart of every Jew.”

At once the mood changes. People move nervously this way and that. They shift their legs, they cough, they whisper, they adjust their head coverings.

Zechariah opens his palms to heaven as though in prayer. It’s only then that I notice tears rolling down his cheeks and onto that wiry gray beard of his.
What has happened?
His lips part but nothing comes out. He tries again. “A visitor . . . a carpenter who escaped from the Lower City, lies sick . . . in my house,” he finally manages to say as he lowers his hands and allows them to hang like scrips by his side. “He came last night from Jerusalem and has told me that the New City—Bezetha, the Second Quarter, the Antonia, all have fallen. And the . . . Temple . . . our
Holy Temple
. . . has been . . .
destroyed
.”

Groans, then loud cries, erupt throughout our ranks. Men rip their tunics. Women cover their faces and weep.

“Eleazar has fallen by the sword. Simon and John have fled to the Upper City. Thousands upon thousands lie dead inside the city walls. Thousands more outside. Pray! Pray without ceasing. Pray for God’s mercy. Pray that Titus will have pity on those still alive.”

There’s not one among us who doesn’t have a friend or relative in Jerusalem. I rip my own tunic.
Oh Ethan, my love! Oh, my sons! My Aaron
and Benjamin, Joseph and Abner. Have you all perished, too
? If Eleazar has fallen, surely they have as well, for they would never leave his side. And they would give their last drop of blood to defend the Temple. I double over as though I’ve been kicked. My heart, so full of joy just moments ago, now pounds out notes of unspeakable pain. We are all weeping and wailing as grief rolls over us—all except Esther. She sits beside me, rocking back and forth, and never utters a sound.

I deposit the last donkey chip into my willow basket. I once abhorred this job, but I’m used to it now—gathering animal droppings for cooking fuel. I’ve even come to know that donkey dung, if stacked loosely, makes a fine fire, and doesn’t smoke as much as the dung of goats or lambs. It’s become just another chore, like sweeping our flat rooftop or rolling up the bedding. We have all learned to do things we must, in order to survive.

A gentle wind strokes my face, then plays with my loosely plaited hair. Already the early morning sun burns like a furnace on my bare head. But I don’t care. It feels good to be outside; good to labor with my hands. For days I’ve driven myself, working the fields or my vegetable gardens until I drop with exhaustion. But the work has brought a measure of peace, and helped me stop agonizing over what I cannot know.
Do Ethan and my sons still live?
This is the question my hard work has helped to silence. I’ve finally placed it in the alabaster box of my heart, sealing it until the Lord opens it with His answer.

But Esther . . . she neither cries nor speaks. And though she has worked as hard as I, the work has failed to purge her pain. I see it on her face. It’s always there—in the tight set of her lips; in her dull, blank eyes; in her crinkled forehead. But I refuse to give up, and continue adding more chores to her load. Even now, she’s inside crushing grain to mix with milk for our new kids and lambs. Next, I’ll send her to till a new
garden, the produce of which I plan to give the widow Leah and to our beloved Zechariah.

I’m about to carry my filled basket of dung to the oven when I notice several lambs hovering around my legs. Others bleat loudly nearby. Curious. Esther should have prepared their food by now.

“Esther.” I walk to the doorway, then place my basket near the entrance. “Esther?”

The house is strangely quiet, causing me to tread softly across the paving stones. I look in one room then another. In the third, I find my daughter. She sits hunched on a tall stool, her back to me. In front of her is a small table containing a mortar and pestle and some grain. “Esther, the lambs are hungry. What’s taking so long?” When she turns, I see a bloody knife in her hand. “
Esther
. . . what . . . has happened?
Esther?
”

She appears not to hear. And those eyes! Dry empty wells. There’s nothing there. She doesn’t even see me. I grab a clean rag and plunge it into the nearby water jar. Carefully, I remove the knife from her hand before washing the blood that covers her arm from elbow to wrist.
Has she tried to kill herself?

As I wipe away the blood, I see a dozen small cuts, like rungs of a ladder, on her arm, and my fear turns to anger. Esther has been cutting herself like some heathen mourning her dead. “How could you do this?” My voice is stern.

Esther remains silent.

“You don’t even know if Daniel is dead!”

More silence.

“Speak to me!” I shake her roughly trying to force words from her mouth, but the only sound that comes is a long, low wail.

“
Oh Esther
.” I cradle her as she wails and rocks back and forth. And silently, I place her in God’s hands for the hundredth time. What else can I do?

“Have you heard that Ira and Rina plan to wed?” Leah says, blowing through the front door of my house like a strong wind.

I look up and smile. I’m sitting on a stool, my foot resting on an overturned willow basket, my tunic tucked between my thighs and belted at the waist. I roll coarse dyed wool back and forth across my bare leg. I’m nearly finished. When I am, I’ll spin it on my spindle.