Second Touch (13 page)

“Open it,” Ma’im encouraged. Simon’s gloved fingers trembled slightly as he unscrewed the jointed tube. Could this be the answer? Could he at last have the solution to his dilemma in his grasp? A single scrap of papyrus, loosely rolled, emerged from its protective case. The exterior of the flattened reed paper shone a soft yellow against the dark red wood. As Simon unrolled it, exposing the inner surface, the lantern light glanced off a gilded border and flung back glints of lapis and turquoise illumination. Facing Simon was the illustration of a man with the head of a falcon: Horus, one of the gods of Egypt. Simon was hit by a wave of revulsion. Idol worshippers! Pagan graven image! Violation of the Second Commandment! Fighting the bile in his throat, Simon demanded, “Where’s the rest of it?” Ma’im spread his hands in a gesture of conciliation and remorse. “Surely the learned scholar Simon ¬understands my position. The value of the original is far too great to carry about this unsettled and dangerous land merely to satisfy a whim of curiosity. But this much I offer as proof that the entire scroll is in my possession . . . in my shop in Gadara. Look there.” Ma’im’s bony finger protruded from the drooping sleeve of his robe to stab at the drawing of the bird-man. Horus’ right hand held an ankh, gripping the Egyptian symbol of life by the ring on top of the cross. But it was the row of symbols depicted beneath his outstretched left hand that caught Simon’s attention. He drew his breath in sharply as he scanned the hieroglyphs. “So,” Ma’im said thoughtfully, “it does not disappoint? Does the learned Simon wish a translation?” “No,” Simon retorted. “I can make it out easily. I told you, ¬I’m a student of ancient writing, accounts going back to the days when my ancestors were slaves in Egypt. ¬I’m seeking to write a history of that period using Egyptian sources.” “Of course,” Ma’im agreed obsequiously. Simon shot a glance at the trader to see if the eyes held scorn or sarcasm, but Ma’im’s face was turned away from the light and could not be read. “It would be good for my business if other of your Pharisee colleagues took similar interests in antiquities,” Ma’im suggested. “You are not to mention it!” Simon responded curtly. Then, in a softer tone, he added, “This is original research. It’s important to me that I continue it without interruption or competition. Once complete, I’ll be happy to introduce you to ¬everyone.” Ma’im raised a placating hand. “As Master Simon wishes. You’ll come to my shop then? You know its location?” “Yes!” Simon agreed, fumbling in his mind to determine how soon he could get away and what excuse he could use for the journey. Ma’im coughed delicately. “It is customary to advance a small sum . . . a

mere token ¬really . . . for which I will gladly reserve the article, even if another offer is presented before our transaction is concluded.” Simon unlooped the strings of a money pouch from the sash of his robe and passed it over. Ma’im peered in, judged the amount to be sufficient, and nodded his thanks. “In exchange you may keep that title page until you have the rest.” Simon replaced the papyrus in the tube and cloth and secured it beneath his sash. “Our next meeting,” Ma’im noted, “will be in somewhat more comfortable surroundings. Allow me to conduct you back up.” When Ma’im stood and raised the lamp over his head, a previously unseen niche located in the wall behind the stone bench was revealed. In the alcove were a pair of stone statues. Simon recoiled from the black basalt figures. One statue was a male, seated and wearing a bowl-shaped hat. The other, simpler and yet more sinister, was a pillar whose surface bore the stylized carving of a pair of upraised hands. But instead of a face, the idol possessed a single eye surrounded by the rays of the sun. “The scholar Simon recognizes these images also? No? Perhaps his studies do not extend to the Canaanites and Phoenicians. Before your King Solomon possessed this land, it once belonged to King Og of Bashan and later to the kings of Tyre.” “But why are they here?” Simon demanded, keeping a close watch on the two figures, as if expecting them to move. “Do you deal in antique figurines as well as books?” Ma’im shrugged. “As it happens, these are not mine. In this place sometimes followers of the old ways still make appeals to their gods. You know that some link the worship of Melkarth of the Phoenicians with Horus of Egypt? But of course that is of no concern to a follower of Yahweh of the Jews.” Outside, the air atop the cistern by the olive press of Hazor was cool, even chilly. Yet drops of sweat clung to Simon’s hair and beard and burned his eyes as he hurriedly returned to the highway.

It was late when the meeting was called at Rabbi Ahava’s hut. Clean, fed, and reassured by the fact that he was in the company of dozens of children, the new boy, Tobias, slept in the children’s camp. Lily and Cantor walked toward the gleaming light in the old man’s shelter. There were eighteen members of Mak’ob’s council. Twelve men were chosen in honor of the twelve tribes of Israel. Six women were also seated as advisors. Lily, though young herself, was chosen by the rabbi to represent the children. Cantor and Lily were late. The council was already in session. Rabbi Ahava poked the fire with a stick. “This boy is the twenty-second witness to come Inside with news of some prophet. Some have said Messiah. This time we have some detail. ‘Son of a carpenter,’ the child says.” Midwife, the shadows and firelight making her grotesque features even more

exaggerated, frowned. “Rumors. That’s what they are.” Carpenter rubbed his forehead where eyebrows once had been. “I agree. As long as I’ve been here—and even Outside, before I was stricken—there were rumors among those in my guild. Rumors about a lad, that he was . . . extraordinary.” “In what way?” Ahava leaned forward with interest. Carpenter raised a shoulder in indecisiveness. “Nothing, ¬really.” “Tell us what you heard,” the rabbi urged. “I knew the lad’s father. What was his name? Escapes me now. But we all talked, you know. Everyone talked. Gossip, ¬really. About the mother. Pregnant before he married her. So there were circumstances about the child’s birth. Well, no one believed what the fellow said. Angels appearing to him and such like. ‘Marry her,’ these angels said to him. Well, I can tell you plainly, no one believed it. That’s all.” Rabbi Ahava sighed. “Gossip. Rumor. Whispers from Outside. It’s not enough.” ¬I’m praying again, God of Promises. Are the prophecies empty promises? Or is there reason for those of us who are the least of all mankind to hope? Carpenter cleared his throat. “I met the lad. ¬Pass¬over it was. Some of us in the Carpenter’s Guild traveled to Yerushalayim together. The lad was twelve years old or so.” “The age of bar mitzvah.” Rabbi nodded. “Yes. That’s it. Well, the lad spent all his time in the Temple Courts, at Solomon’s Portico. He sat all day and listened to the learned men. Not just listening but discussing Torah, as if he were a rabbi himself. They were amazed, these rabbis, when they heard him. He had no education to speak of. Common Galilean stock. Came time to leave and the lad ¬didn’t leave with us. Somewhere along the road his mother missed him. The family turned back to Yerushalayim. Three days later the lad was found in the Temple, setting the learned doctors straight on points of the Law. Nothing like it ¬ever came out of the mouth of a child. They all said so. When I heard the end of it, the lad had told his parents he was just going about his father’s business. Now I ask you, since his father was a carpenter, what’s all that got to do with his father’s business?” “How long ago was this?” Ahava stared at Carpenter intently. Carpenter calculated. “Nineteen. Maybe twenty years.” “That would make the boy . . . in his early thirties? About the age . . .” “Rumors.” Midwife sniffed. “We’ve sent poor Jekuthiel Outside to find this Prophet, this Messiah. Four months he’s been gone. Poor Deborah’s due to have the baby any day. And Jekuthiel ¬isn’t back. No one’s prayed more than I have for deliverance from this scourge, but we’ve got to face facts. Do we risk the safety of any one of us by sending someone out again? Chasing a shadow? a hope?” “Aye! We must! Hope’s all we’ve got left,” Shoemaker declared. “We’re condemned anyway. If this fellow can heal us and we miss him because we’re all snug and content to live and die in this open tomb, think what we might

miss.” “A chance to live,” said Cantor. “I mean, if he’s the prophet Elisha, as some are saying, it was Elisha who cured the leper. Just think . . . what if . . . and if we stay here . . . wait here to die.” ¬I’m praying again, God of Hope . . . what if? What if he is among us? Would he come even to us? to me? to Cantor and all the rest of us? Six hundred and twelve. Rabbi contemplated Cantor’s words. “We’ve sent one Outside alone. He ¬didn’t return.” Everyone knew that implicit in his words was the belief that Jekuthiel would not come back. Cantor spoke again. “Suppose we send out ten men. A minyan from our synagogue.” A favorable murmur circled the campfire. “Well spoke, Cantor,” Rabbi agreed. Encouraged, Cantor continued, “We choose ten faithful men from among us.” Patting the stumps of his legs, Shoemaker interjected, “They must have legs to walk on. Feet that will survive the journey. There’s scarcely ten men in all the Valley who ¬aren’t missing toes or legs. We chose Jekuthiel to go Outside because he could walk. He was a strong man. Yet he never returned.” “And you know he would have returned if he’d been able,” Midwife insisted. “For the sake of his wife and unborn child. For the sake of his young son, Baruch. We all know Jekuthiel would’ve returned if he was able.” Cantor agreed. “Then we’ll send women out too. And children of bar mitzvah age if we must. But we must send a minyan to Messiah. Ten of us. Then, if one dies, there’ll still be nine. If five die, there will still be five. Surely at least one will get through. Find out the truth once and for all if we in the Valley of the Shadow of Death have reason to hope! If there is a Messiah. If even one got through . . . think of it! Even if one could make it back Inside to report. And then we’ll know. Won’t we? Should we stop looking? stop hoping? wait here till death takes us all? Or is there a chance?” Carpenter said, “You know if ten of us go Outside there will be ten more to come Inside. It’s always that way. The same number. And if the minyan ¬comes back to report, ten will die Inside to make room for them.” “We’ll have to take the chance,” Cantor replied. “What if the ten come back healed?” ¬I’m praying! Oh, yes! ¬I’m praying again . . . what if . . . do I dare hope? Shoemaker wagged the stump of his left leg. “Now there’s a dream to dream of.” Rabbi cradled his chin in his hand. “Who will we send?” Cantor had it all thought out. “I’ll go! My stick is no hindrance. I can skip along as well as any man on two legs.” Lily’s heart sank. She thought about Jekuthiel. Gone four months. No one who left the Valley for Outside ¬ever came back. She raised her hand. “Then I’ll go as well.”

Yes! ¬I’m praying again! I’ll go Outside with Cantor! Die with him if we’re stoned! At least we’ll die together! “But what about Deborah?” Midwife asked. “She’ll need you when the baby ¬comes.” Lily pressed her lips together in consternation. “I . . . yes . . . then . . .” Rabbi thumped his stick on the ground. “So. Cantor is going. And the others?” Cantor’s expression was bright with excitement. “We’ll draw lots for the others. Choose nine others to go with me. Nine of the most healthy from among us. That’s it. We’ll draw lots from among those of us who still have strength for the journey.” “Well spoken, Cantor,” Ahava agreed. “What do you say? Aye for the plan. Nay against it.” The vote in favor was unanimous.

The leper led the way along hidden alleys, through passages, and into sewers Peniel did not know existed. They approached the northern city wall near Gennath Gate. Peniel whispered, “We’ve wasted our time. Still trapped inside Yeru¬shalayim.” Silently, apparently undaunted, the shrouded figure plunged into a culvert, beckoning the younger man to follow. Amid stinking filth, the two disappeared into a labyrinth of tunnels . . . and reemerged outside the city wall. Moonlight showed Peniel the outline of a whitewashed stone fence gleaming starkly against the dark earth. Within the gaping mouth of the enclosure were the jutting teeth of gravestones. The faceless face of Peniel’s guide was clearly illuminated. His eyes, unblinking, stared at him. Eyebrows were gone. An open, running wound was where his nose should have been. Ears were eaten away like dead leaves clinging to a tree. Surely this was not Mosheh, the great lawgiver, but a true leper! Tsara! One of the living dead who lived in the cemeteries around Jerusalem by night and came out to beg during the day. Peniel fought the terror of his imagination. Would other ghouls come shrieking to surround him? pull him down to rob him and murder him? He recoiled from the last step, shuddered on the brink of the cemetery. The apparition in front sensed his hesitation. “We’ll be . . . safe . . . here.” Peniel shook his head. “City of the dead.” “¬I’m a man . . . like . . . you . . . though . . . ¬I’m . . . leper,” the guide replied. “Are you . . . afraid . . . of me? Why not? All the guards . . . were.” Peniel was unwilling to admit that he was secretly terrified. “You saved my life.” The thing gave a wheeze that might have been a laugh. The reply was labored. Words formed through collapsing palate and wormy lungs. “Then

¬don’t . . . be afraid . . . now. This . . . safest place . . . for us. No one . . . ¬comes . . . not Temple Guards . . . not Eglon. Did I lead you . . . wrong . . . in getting outside . . . the walls?” Peniel shook his head. “Trust . . . me. ¬I’m right . . . about . . . this too. The dead . . . in their . . . graves . . . ¬aren’t offended . . . because we . . . lepers . . . take . . . refuge with them.” Peniel gulped and followed the leper into the land of death. Peniel and the leper sat down silently within an enclosure of monuments on three sides, sheltered from the wind. Listening. Listening. Were they followed? Peniel thought about this creature, one of the living dead, consorting with the ¬really dead. Were there evil spirits about? What did he fear more? Eglon? Caiaphas? Death by torture in a prison? Or the haunts of demons? After long hours, Peniel forced himself to speak. “You have a name?” “Long time . . . since anyone . . . asked. No one . . . Outside . . . seems to care . . . names.” “My name’s Peniel,” Peniel offered, but he did not extend his hand to the creature. “You?” “Je-ku-thiel,” was the reply. “The lawgiver? Just like Mosheh?” Peniel mused. Amid moon-cast shadows of family tombs and the rustling of palm branches, it was hard to separate vision from reality. “I’ve seen you somewhere.” Peniel’s mind conjured up a picture of walking the streets with Yeshua. “I know! You were lying in a doorway beside the Herodian Way! But lepers ¬aren’t allowed inside the city! I mean, you could be stoned! What’re you doing there? It must be terribly important to you.” “Life and . . . death.” Jekuthiel’s throat rattled as he spoke. Peniel was glad the darkness covered his shudder. “I came . . . Outside . . . to find a prophet . . . Yochanan. Baptizer. I thought perhaps . . . you know . . . maybe he . . . Messiah.” “But he’s dead . . . murdered by Herod Antipas. Head cut off by Eglon.” “I know,” Jekuthiel replied sadly. “I . . . almost . . . gave up. Didn’t know . . . what . . . to do. Where . . . to turn. Heard stories . . . of another . . . Prophet, but . . .” “Yeshua of Nazareth!” Peniel exclaimed. “Him. Yes. You . . . know?” “Messiah! Here in Yerushalayim! He healed me, my eyes! I was blind since birth, and now I can see.” Peniel recounted the entire tale of his miracle then added, “I was with him. That’s who I was with when I saw you.” Jekuthiel gave a cry of anguish. He rocked back and forth, as if he was mourning for the dead. “So . . . so close . . . that . . . close? Ah, Adonai! Mocks . . . me. But where . . . now?” Peniel pressed his back harder against the cold tombstone. “North. North,