Second Touch (36 page)

Temple officials who maintained a long-standing hostility toward the brotherhood of Pharisees. Moreover, he was a Jerusalem native, ¬only in the Galil visiting relatives. Simon could not hope for any sympathy from him. Nevertheless, Simon made his appeal. “There’s been some mistake. I—” “Take off your clothes,” Eli ordered coldly. Simon sputtered. “I won’t!” Eli shrugged. “Tsara who fail to obey the directions of the priest shall be stoned.” “But ¬I’m not . . .” Eli waved one finger. A rock the size of an apple hit Simon in the back, making him duck and cradle his head in his hands. When no more missiles followed, he cautiously looked round to see Eli holding up a hand, ordering restraint. “Remove your clothes,” the cohen said again. Simon could not undress without first removing his right glove. A groan of revulsion spread outward amongst the onlookers at the sight of Simon’s crabbed right fist. Embarrassment. Shame. Indignity. Humiliation heaped itself on Simon’s head. Every mark on his body was discussed in the company of strangers. In the bright sunlight flooding the pit there were no secrets. The thickening of Simon’s earlobes was noted, the red marks at his hairline, the angry welts on his ribs and flanks. “From being dragged here!” he protested. “Just happened. It’d be the same for any of you!” But there was no escaping the condemnation of the twisted right hand and the visible sore on the left. “The Law,” Eli ben Sholom stated, “is very clear. Book of Vayikra. Parashah 27: If someone develops on their skin a swelling, scab, or bright spot which could develop into tsara’at, he is to be brought to a cohen. If the bright spot is white and goes deep into the skin it is tsara’at; he is unclean.”74 “Wait!” Simon begged. “You ¬can’t see how deep in the skin it is. There’s a provision for waiting, checking again.” If ¬only Simon could get home. In a week more the chaulmoogra would have done its work. He’d be better. All a mistake, they’d say. We wronged you, they’d say. Please forgive us. Eli interlaced his fingers across his belly. “Not in this case. The evidence is clear.” “No!” Simon protested. “Seven days! Give me my due! Let me out of—” Hands holding stones reared up all around the pit. In a tone that allowed no argument the cohen added, “Tonight you stay here.” Then, to the chief of the synagogue, Eli instructed, “Guard him. Rig a shelter over his head and give him food and water. But he is not to be allowed out. Tomorrow he’ll be examined again.”

The village of Magdala was quiet in the sweltering heat of midday. Lily, carrying baby Isra’el, entered in search of the orphanage.

The milk goat was hungry, tugging at her rope as she lunched on bits of grass along the road. Hawk glided to perch on a rooftop—waiting, watching— as Lily limped slowly past. He followed in peripatetic flight. Mama. Gone. Gone. Mama. Gone. Gone. Lily had been so distracted by the joy of expectation she had not imagined that Mama might not be there. Lily would have been content just to see her. Content with just one moment. One word. Would have reached out, content, even without touching Mama. Content to lay the baby in Mama’s arms. Content to watch Mama’s lips brush the cheek of the baby and pretend that it was her cheek. Content as the door closed in her face. Who could have dreamed Mama would be gone when Lily came home? Who could have imagined home empty of Mama? Not a day had gone by since Lily was forsaken that she had not pictured Mama there, smiling beside the hearth. What now? What now? The face of Mama floated in a void before Lily as she trudged numbly forward. What now? Lily’s yellow wedding dress, caked with blood and dust, hung in tatters on her thin body. She took no pains to conceal her leprosy. What was the point? If anyone had bothered to look closely at her trembling hands or bloody legs, they would have seen that death, uncloaked, was her close companion. But no one who passed her on the road spared a second glance. She was simply another ragged beggar. Common as an earthenware cup with the word hope glazed on the rim. This was Lily. Between yesterday and today, hope, fired bright red in the kiln, was worn away. A stone block used as a watering trough for livestock was near the well of Magdala. Lily stooped to drink from it. An older woman with a water jug on the rim of the well studied Lily through dark, sad eyes. “I have fresh water. I have a cup.” “No. No . . . thank you.” “Where are you going, girl? You, and the baby?” “I’ve come . . . because they said . . . they told me . . . there is a place in Magdala where I could leave the baby and someone would care for him and he would live.” “Yes. The villa of Lady Miryam. Not far. I’ll take you. Your leg. You’re bleeding.” “Come no closer. ¬I’m tsara. Chedel. From the Valley of Mak’ob.” Then quickly, “The baby is healthy. His mother’s dying. I’ve carried him Outside. He’s not sick. No need to fear him.” “I’ve never found a baby I was afraid of. What happened to your leg?” The woman left her water jar and came round the well toward Lily. Near enough to touch. She seemed unperturbed by Lily’s confession as she examined the wounds. “Thorns.” “What’s your name?” “Lily.” “Come on then, Lily. I’ll pluck them out. Wash your wounds.”

“You ¬didn’t hear me. Don’t come near! ¬I’m . . . untouchable.” “Is that so?” The woman reached out and put her arm around Lily’s shoulders. Embracing. Comforting. “This way, Lily. Come along. You must be tired. Are you hungry? You’ve come a long way to save the life of this little one.” Lily began to weep. Her shoulders shaking beneath this unexpected first touch of kindness. How long had it been? How long since anyone but another leper had dared to reach out to her, embrace her? “Come along, Lily. To the house. I’ll see to your leg.”

“You can rest in the infirmary,” the woman told Lily. “You’ll have it all to yourself today. You can sleep there. Rest there. The journey is long.” The infirmary was a small stone cottage, built on the grounds behind the great estate on the shore of the lake. Young women, some clearly pregnant, others carrying tiny infants, came and went from the villa. A red-haired young man spaded the garden as a trio of girls hung wash on a line. A number of residents looked on with mild curiosity as Lily and her guide entered through the gate in the high wall. Hawk perched above the gate. Lily’s guide waved and called to the youth with the shovel, “Carta! Come take the milk goat to pasture!” He obeyed, jogging toward them. “Welcome.” He glanced approvingly at the infant. “Well this one’s a boy, that’s plain enough. Handsome fellow. ¬I’m glad he’s a boy. I could use some company. All girls this week.” “This is Lily.” The woman touched Lily’s shoulder. Lily flinched, unaccustomed to being touched. The youth bowed awkwardly. “Shalom and welcome.” Lily backed a step, looked away from his frank glance, and did not reply. The woman instructed, “Carta, I’ve left the water jug back at the well. Please, would you?” “Sure. Well, then . . . welcome to you.” He wiped his hand on his tunic and led the goat away. The woman watched him a moment, then said quietly to Lily, “You must be very tired.” “¬I’m not allowed to be here. You see. With people. Not allowed to be touched.” “Come. I’ll take the baby inside to the nursery. Tavita will feed him. Wash him. While I work on your leg.” An edge of panic pushed at Lily’s throat. So this was good-bye. Isra’el had found his place and now Lily would be sent away, never to see him again. “May I say farewell? hold him? one last time?” The woman put a steadying hand on Lily’s arm. “Let me wash and clean your wounds. Old Tavita will feed him. Watch him until you’re rested. Then she’ll bring him out to you if you like. That’s all. That’s all I meant. You may stay with him as long as you like.”

“But. The others. Shouldn’t be near me.” “You may stay here in the cottage until you’re ready to travel. No one will mind.” “Why are you so kind to me?” Lily searched the gentle face for some explanation. Did this woman ¬really fully comprehend what Lily was? An outcast? “How far have you traveled, Lily, to save this little one? Tell me, why did you put yourself at such risk for him? suffer so much to bring him out of the Valley to safety?” “It’s not his fault the world is such a cruel place. He committed no sin. He’s not to blame for his suffering. It’s not his fault that his mother is a leper. Dying. Not his fault no one wants him. If I hadn’t brought him out, who would?” “Well spoken. Yes. My reasons are something like that.” Lily studied her for a moment. About forty-five years of age. Ordinary. Hands calloused. Knuckles skinned from pulling up the bucket at the well. Brown hair framed a round face made friendly by deep smile lines around her eyes. Yet such sad eyes. Eyes that seemed to see past ¬everything and probe Lily’s very soul. Deep brown eyes with flecks of gold. “Tell me, please. Your name?” Lily asked. “Mary, widow of Yosef, carpenter of Nazareth. Now wait inside the cottage. I’ll take the baby in to Tavita.” Lily lingered in front of the cottage as Mary carried Isra’el up the steps of the villa. Surely Mary had not intended for Lily to enter the structure. Perhaps somehow she had misunderstood the seriousness of Lily’s disease. Mary returned a few moments later with bandages and a stack of clean clothes. “Come inside.” “¬I’m a leper.” “Tavita will send out something for you to eat.” “I ¬haven’t been inside a house in six years. Not in a real house. ¬I’m forbidden.” Mary took Lily by the elbow and compelled her to enter the cottage. “Are you hungry? You must be hungry. Look here. Such a lovely dress you’re wearing. The thorns have torn it just there. But we can wash away the blood and stitch it up. ¬I’m sure of it. A little embroidery will close the tears, and no one will ¬ever know it was damaged. Roses. Yes. If you like, I’ll embroider roses just there and there. There. Along the hem where the thorns snagged it. Do you like roses? I’ve brought another dress for you. Not nearly so fine as yours, but put it on. You can wear it until we wash yours and repair the damage. My fingers ¬aren’t as nimble as they used to be, but still I can fix it good as new. Do you like roses?”

A river of anguish flowed from Lily as Mary patiently plucked the barbs of rose thorns from Lily’s wounds. And Lily told the gentle lady ¬everything. Everything.

Life as it had been before. Mama. Papa. Old friends and neighbors. The elders of Capernaum driving her away. Stumbling into the Valley of Sorrow one morning half starved and terrified. Deborah and her family taking her in during those first terrible weeks. Jekuthiel. Still half strong with his half hands. Still handsome and beloved in Deborah’s eyes. Their sons. Two little boys. Lily, like a sister to them. Lily learning to laugh again as they lived together in the cave just above the Valley floor. Jekuthiel kissing Deborah farewell. Jekuthiel setting off to find Messiah. To bring Him back. To beg Messiah to set free the 612 captives of Mak’ob. Jekuthiel never coming back. Rabbi Ahava who taught Torah to dying children as though they would live forever. Yes. Forever. The children of Mak’ob singing in the choir. Yes. So many children. Children in the dying cave crying for their mothers. Palm-leaf shrouds enfolding tiny remains like gentle hands. Yes. Gentle hands. Cantor’s gentle hands. Lily beside Cantor as they sat on the stone in the night. Naming stars. Learning names. Wondering about the One who made them. Wishing. Hoping. Searching for that glimmer of first light that might be The Light they all longed to see soaring down from heaven to set free the 612 captives of Mak’ob! Soaring. Yes. Cantor and the Hawk. Soaring. Cantor with the children. Cantor. Beloved friend. Cantor. Lily’s dress. Beautiful. Lily. Beautiful. Beloved in Cantor’s eyes. The wedding. Their little house. The night. The one night. The joy. Together. Gentle hands. So gentle. Deborah’s baby born. No room for even one more life in the Valley of Sorrows. Six hundred and twelve. Cantor. Leaving without Lily. Leaving Lily without Cantor. The shroud of palm branches. Gentle hands holding Cantor like a bird. Cantor in the grave. Cantor. Lily longing for death. Lily. If she could see Mama one more time. Offer Mama this baby. A living child in place of the child who lived in living death. The baby. Deborah. Jekuthiel.

The baby. Six hundred and twelve. The journey Outside. The night beside the stream of rejoicing. The wedding dress. The house. Mama! Mama! The light in the windows lying to Lily’s heart. Telling her that ¬everything she ¬ever longed for was inside. Mama gone. Mama exiled like Lily. Driven out because of Lily. The faces of strangers. Curious. Suspicious. Hostile. The roses she and Mama planted by the walk. Roses. Thorns. The tearing of her wedding dress. A final mocking of her journey home. All. All of this and more, spilled from Lily’s broken heart in a torrent. She lay facedown on the mat as Mary’s gentle hands plucked the broken thorns from broken flesh. Gentle hands. Unafraid to touch the untouchable. Washing. Anointing. Bandaging. Gentle heart. Listening. Listening. Listening. Gentle fingers taking up the ruined wedding dress. A needle. Thread. Yes. What was torn could be mended. Yes. Better than before. Everything was possible. By this kindness, this courage, touching what was untouchable, loving the soul within the ragged flesh, Mary plucked thorns from Lily’s heart. Then peace, like Mama’s roses, bloomed in the twilight. Fragrant. Gentle. Peace. How long had it been since . . . There, in the little cottage, Mary embroidered rosebuds while Lily slept.

The miserable blanket Simon curled up in was not adequate, even though the night was not especially cold. Why offer anything better to a chedel? his captors questioned. It would just go into the desert with him or have to be burned. No need to give something better to someone stricken by tsara’at. Simon was unable to sleep in the comfortless pit. The stones ¬under him were cruelly uncompromising. Facing an uncertain future, Simon had plenty of time to think. Other people became tsara’im, not Pharisees. Certainly not Simon ben Zeraim, the Pharisee. The am ha aretz—they who were not careful about the washings—they became tsara. Gross sinners, unrepentant, wicked hearts, greedy, self-righteous souls—they became tsara. There was some cosmic mistake at work here . . . unless . . . unless . . . Unless Simon ¬really was being punished for allowing that woman from Magdala into his home. He had not been strong enough in denouncing her, hadn’t spoken up soon enough against the wiles of that so-called Teacher from Nazareth. Simon resolved that as soon as he put this misunderstanding behind him he’d go back to Jerusalem. He’d offer his full services to the high priest. Simon now ¬understood what damage Yeshua’s heretical preaching could do. He had to be stopped. Simon would take a personal interest in seeing it done.