Second Touch (20 page)

“Mama is calling for Papa. See? Just there! I heard her,” Baruch insisted. “Rabbi Ahava sent your papa Outside . . . to pray in Yerushalayim. Maybe to find Messiah. Remember? To bring him back. To fetch us back a miracle.” “Why ¬doesn’t Adonai hear our prayers here? Why did Papa have to go all the way to Yerushalayim?” Lily smelled the stench that wafted through the night air. The odor was in her clothes. In her hair. No one could escape it. When she had first come to Mak’ob, the smell of others was so overpowering she had vomited for days until she became inured to it. She did not tell Baruch what she was thinking: that the Valley of Mak’ob was the one place on earth where the stink of rotting flesh was so terrible the Lord would never come. Lily had not heard the whisper of Adonai in her heart since she had come to this place. “Yerushalayim is . . . where Adonai lives. So your papa went to speak to him there. To ask him what to do about Mama and you and the new baby.” “And you, Lily?” “Oh. I reckon the Lord stopped thinking about me a long time ago.” I am praying again, Comforting One. When I was cast adrift in the sea, you promised you would carry me over. Now ¬I’m fighting the current that pulls me ¬under! I will drown soon. We will all drown soon. Even this little one! Baruch’s eyes widened as his mother’s cry was carried on the wind. “I want Papa now.” “Yes. Yes. He’ll be back. And when he ¬comes, you’ll be here with a new baby brother or sister. Right here with Mama.” Lily looked up into the star-sprinkled sky. Almost morning. She had imagined somehow that Jekuthiel would be back before the baby was born, that he would bring a miracle with him. Where was he? He promised he would come back before the baby was born! What if Deborah died before he returned? Baruch at last fell asleep in Lily’s arms. The stars faded as predawn light colored the eastern sky. At last the wind died down. A bird sang from the nodding spikes of a broom tree. Lily’s head sank lower, chin against her chest. So tired. Had there ¬ever been such a long night? So much. Too much to think about. Where was Jekuthiel? Why was he not back? Where was the miracle they had all been hoping for?

13 Peniel’s companions stirred just as he emerged from the graveyard in the gray hush of predawn. Raindrops still dripped from the tree branches. Gideon sat up, blinking, his hair sticking up in all directions as he felt about for his crutch. Peniel guessed the cripple relied so much on his wooden prop even when not standing or walking that he needed its reassuring comfort. Amos awoke with greater difficulty. A second touch of Peniel’s hand on the

dwarf’s shoulder was required. “Get away,” Amos snapped, flailing at the air with arms like short, thick clubs. “I . . . oh, it’s you, Peniel. Shanna was picking my pocket. Too clever, she is. She can show you all ten fingers and still have two around a coin!” Gideon rose, stretched, and hoisted himself on crutch and toes to gaze back longingly at the looming walls of Jerusalem. “How far’d you say it was to the Galil?” “We can make it,” Peniel said reassuringly. “It’ll be worth it. You’ll be able to run all the way back if you’ve a mind to.” “Yes, well,” Gideon intoned uncertainly, then brusquely, “we should get on the way, then. I always like to get an early start.” “Away from Yerushalayim,” Amos announced. “About time. Everybody looking down on me all the time. ‘Wonder what sin this one’s parents committed to be so cursed,’ people say! I hope Messiah makes me ten feet tall! I’ll come back and thump them all good, I will.” “Yeshua says true healing ¬comes from mercy.” Gideon noted, “First things first. The brotherhood of beggars, an army of beggars to kick out the rest! Teach them a lesson and then show them more mercy than they ¬ever showed us! The world turned upside down! Ha!” “We can be merciful,” Amos agreed. “We can be kind. We can . . . what’s that smell?” the dwarf queried, wrinkling his nose with disgust. “Listen,” Peniel said hurriedly, “someone’s coming with us. I promised. He’s coming along too.” “Where is he? Who is he? Are you sure you can trust—” From a clump of acacia trees growing just inside the cemetery gates Jekuthiel appeared. Though his back was to the leper, Peniel recognized his arrival by the wide-eyed, horrified stares on the faces of Gideon and Amos. Peniel turned. Jekuthiel looked like one of the bundles of sticks swaddled in ragged canvas toted on the backs of the poorest firewood sellers. Amos’ cry of “unclean” was stifled at the first syllable by Peniel’s hand over his mouth. “Stop!” Peniel ordered. “This is the man I told you about. The one who’s joining us.” Though ¬only Jekuthiel’s nose, eyes, and forehead were visible, the features were misshapen, grotesque. The pallid hand extended in supplication from beneath the rags was clawlike and monstrous. “Are you crazy?” Gideon yelped. The cripple hastily backed away, tripping over a stone and falling awkwardly sideways. “It’s a ghoul! A demon! The ¬only people who associate with lepers are other lepers! If we’re seen with him, we’ll all be stoned!” “Come on! Peniel!” Amos hopped on one foot and then the other. He waved his little arms like a bird wanting to take flight. “Peniel! Get back from it! It’s . . . unclean! It’s . . . get away from it!” For once the dwarf had no proverbs to define the occasion. Gideon gawked in horror. His lip curled like he might be sick. “Never been so close to one before. Get back from it, Peniel! It’s . . . accursed!” The leper stretched out his hands toward Gideon.

Gideon brandished his stick like a club in defense. “Stay back! Ghoul! Death! Corpse with breath! Come no nearer or I’ll knock your arm off with my stick!” “No! No, no, no, no!” Amos warned. “Peniel, you’d do this? No! We won’t go with you if you do this.” “I gave my word,” Peniel said forcefully. “Aren’t we all a brotherhood of beggars?” “Beggars, yes! But not living dead! Are you crazy? Messiah won’t come within miles of us if we’re with . . . it! You think the Anointed One of Israel is going to make himself unclean by touching this . . . this . . . thing? If your Rabbi from Galilee would do that, then he ¬can’t ¬really be Messiah, can he?” “His name’s Jekuthiel. Jekuthiel of Mak’ob.” “Mak’ob! Valley of Sorrow? Nobody ¬ever ¬comes outside that place alive!” “He’s got a wife. A child,” Peniel pronounced very carefully. “Inside. He was sent out by a rabbi to find Messiah. And so we’re going. I promised.”

Excitement at nearing the end of his quest drove Simon ben Zeraim out at daybreak. He had deciphered enough of the scroll to at last identify the key ingredient in the potion and how to use it. But he did not know its name or where it might be found. Simon wanted that information and he wanted it immediately. The desire—the need—for absolute secrecy in what he was pursuing forced Simon to avoid the more suitable, appropriate informants for one of his station and reputation. So he went instead in daylight to the reading room of Ma’im of Gadara. He found the lean, dark-skinned proprietor engaged in conversation with a Greek-speaking trader. “Back so soon?” Ma’im greeted Simon in Aramaic. “Does the purchase not suit you?” he asked, pointing to the pouch ¬under Simon’s arm. “No, that is, yes, it’s exactly what I hoped.” Simon faltered. “But I find I need clarification and thought you could help.” Ma’im bowed. “My poor abilities are entirely at your service, for whatever good they may do you.” To the other merchant Ma’im said, “Please excuse me,” and he led Simon to the dim recesses of a storage room. Simon wasted no time in preliminaries. Unrolling the scroll to the depiction of the tree with its leaves and fruit, he inquired, “Do you know the name of this and where it’s found? I want a supply of the seeds, but I ¬don’t know where to turn.” No further attempt to maintain the fictional historical research. Simon no longer cared if Ma’im knew the real reason for the question. “This?” Ma’im confirmed, using a two-inch-long fingernail to trace the outline of the fruit. “Yes. I know this.” Eagerly Simon leaned forward. “Where does it grow? How can I obtain it?” “Chaulmoogra, it’s called,” Ma’im offered, “in the lands far to the east, beyond Parthia, where it grows. In your language, khalav mooglah . . . ‘pus

milk.’ ” Simon’s nose wrinkled at the name, but he pressed ahead. “So far away? Do you—” he was suddenly afraid he’d come to a blank wall—“do you know anyone who sells this?” The query hung in the air for a long time. As seconds ticked away, Simon’s anxiety grew. Finally Ma’im also leaned forward until his pointed nose approached Simon’s; the trader stared into the Pharisee’s eyes. “What you propose to do cannot be achieved without the proper spells,” he said. “A word in the wrong ear could get us both stoned to death. Do I trust you that much, Simon the Pharisee?” Grasping Ma’im’s arms in his gloved hands, Simon demanded, “Tell me! You are in less danger than I am. Help me!” “It will be expensive,” Ma’im suggested, indicating the sole remaining hurdle. “No matter,” Simon retorted, throwing his hands wide. “Name it.” Ma’im’s eyes glittered. He quoted a figure that shocked Simon, despite his fervor. Swallowing once, Simon said hoarsely, “How soon?” “When can you have the money?”

Ten fingers and ten toes. Perfect. Pink little fists wagging in the air. Mouth open like a little bird’s searching for supper. Eyes dark, unfocused, but seeing! Ears like flowers, buds unfolded, just as they were meant to be. Spindly arms and legs. Kicking, pedaling legs; knees drawn up to the round tummy where the stub of the umbilical cord hung limp and useless. “See how much he looks like Jekuthiel.” Deborah studied the baby with pleasure as he lay nestled in the crook of her arm and frantically squirmed to latch onto her breast. “Don’t you think he looks like his papa, Lily?” Of course Deborah was speaking from a memory of what Jekuthiel had looked like. Lily could not see any resemblance since most of Jekuthiel’s face had melted like the wax of a candle. “Yes. A handsome little boy,” Lily agreed, smiling. So this is what Jekuthiel must have looked like. Little Baruch before he got sick. Oh what beautiful, beautiful people they must have been! “See how much hair he has!” Deborah was so proud. “Dark. Yes. Lots of hair just like Jekuthiel.” In this Lily saw the similarity. Baruch crowded in to see his new brother. “Look, Mama! No hurts on him! Except there . . . that one there on his belly. Is he tsara too?” “No. He’s not sick, Baruch. No. No. Don’t touch. Please . . . ¬don’t touch. . . . This is how he ate his supper when he was growing inside Mama. It came through there into his body. Now he eats through his mouth. This will dry up and fall off.” “Like my fingers?” Baruch frowned. “No.” Deborah struggled to keep her voice even. Baruch reached toward the baby with the stub of his little hand and touched

his arm. This time Deborah did not reprimand him. “He’s so nice. Smooth. Just like when the goats have babies and they’re all so nice. He’s all nice just like that. I like him, Mama. I never saw anybody so pretty as this.” Deborah’s eyes glistened as she reached up to stroke Baruch’s thinning hair. “You looked very much like him when you were born.” Baruch chewed his lower lip and narrowed his eyes, as though he were trying to remember the time so long ago when he was a beautiful baby too. “¬I’m not handsome now, Mama. Yochan says we lepers are monsters, chedel, he says. Like dead people—only not dead. The Outside people are afraid of us. So we stay Inside and wait.” Lily sat back on her heels as if the child’s words had struck a blow. She covered her face with her hands. Poor Baruch! Poor little one! He could tell the difference. Ten fingers. Ten toes. Perfect, smooth complexion. Yes, he could see plainly that he was different from this baby brother. “Oh, Baruch!” Deborah reached for him, pulled him down to her, embraced him. “You are still my handsome boy! What a fine, strong soul you have! Just like Papa.” Baruch seemed comforted by his mother’s words. He smiled through swollen lips. “Sure. Like Papa.” “A beautiful soul stays beautiful forever!” “Sure. But . . . will this brother get sick too, Mama?” Deborah faltered. Her mouth worked as she made some attempt to reply. “I . . . I . . . hope not, Baruch.” Lily knew the truth as well as Deborah. If the baby stayed Inside, he would become tsara. There was no avoiding it. Lily changed the subject abruptly. “So what will you call him? Have you thought of a name?” Deborah’s expression of joy turned to anguish. “Name?” “Yes. Yes,” Lily urged. “What’s his name? What will we call him?” Deborah gazed sadly at the baby as he nursed contentedly. “I . . . I . . . ¬can’t think of that until Jekuthiel ¬comes back.” A shadow blocked the entrance to the cave. The old Midwife had come round to check on Deborah. She hobbled forward, peered down at the baby on his mother’s breast. “Getting along fine there. Fine, healthy appetite. Your milk will come in strong on the third day and then!” The old woman patted Baruch’s head affectionately. “What do you think of this, boy? What? What do you think of this fine little brother? He’s a blessing, eh?” “He ¬hasn’t got a name yet. But he’s got all his fingers and toes. See here!” Baruch touched the tiny foot. The old woman interjected, “He’ll have to be named when he’s circumcised. A fine healthy son of Abraham. Yes. His papa would be proud. He’ll have to have a name on the eighth day.” Deborah did not smile. She said in a subdued voice, “Jekuthiel will be back by then.” She cast a look at Lily. “He will be back. And then we’ll decide what we must do.” Midwife fixed her gaze on Lily. One eye was marbled, white and blind. “Take

Baruch out for a while. Tend to the chickens. We must have a talk, Deborah and I.” Lily gratefully snatched up Baruch’s hand. She knew what the old woman’s topic of conversation would be. ¬I’m praying again, Considerate One. What will become of this baby if he stays Inside among us? Ten fingers. Ten toes. Altogether in one place on one perfect little person. It won’t remain that way if the baby stays Inside with his mama. No. It won’t take long for the tsara to take hold of him either. Lily mastered her sorrow at this certainty and forced herself to act as though nothing at all was wrong. Cheerfully she led Baruch outside.

Morning clouds, whipped by the wind, stampeded across the sky. Lily watched them move, wondered what distant places they would pass over in the course of the day. Cities? Farms? The sea? People. Outside people living their ordinary lives would see the same clouds Lily looked at. Would Mama, living in the west, glance up and whisper a prayer for Lily? Or had Mama forgotten her by now? put it all behind her? moved on with her life? Did Mama smile again? Maybe she had another little girl. It had been long enough. Anything could have happened. Lily wondered if she should write a letter to Mama. Tell her about Cantor. Tell Mama that in spite of ¬everything Lily had fallen in love. Tell her what a beautiful voice Cantor had. How he sang and sang and filled the Valley with praise ¬every morning! Let Mama know that even here, in this Valley, were happiness and life. Shadow and light played on the steep face of the gorge. Lily and Baruch ate boiled eggs and flatbread on a boulder. They spotted the old rabbi hobbling up the trail with the new boy, Tobias. “Rabbi Ahava! Tobias! Shalom!” Lily called, relieved when he raised his hand in greeting. The old scholar huffed. He was clearly not cheerful. “So. The baby?” “Strong and healthy.” “New life. Replacing the old. I’ve come to make the blessing.” “Deborah will like that.” The old man tugged his gray beard thoughtfully. There was something else he ¬wasn’t telling her. Something he did not want to say. “Cantor is calling for you, Lily. He’s . . . not well.” Lily felt the blood drain from her face. “Cantor? Not well. He was warm last night, but . . .” “After you went to help Deborah with the baby, he ¬didn’t join the minyan for prayers. Carpenter went to see about him. I came later. Cantor became suddenly weak. He’s asking for you. His lungs. His lungs . . . they filled in the night. You know how it can happen.” Lily nodded. Yes. She knew. And now the rabbi had told her without saying it. Why ¬didn’t he just say it plainly? “He’s ¬only twenty-three,” she argued. “Cantor’s hardly sick at all. Only