Second Touch (37 page)

In all other matters Simon knew himself to be guiltless. He kept the commandments. He offered the sacrifices. He tithed of all he owned, even down to counting out the tiny grains of poppy seeds and specks of cumin so as not to deprive the Almighty of His due. Simon turned over and shivered as air sneaked in ¬under the thin cover. He struggled to find a comfortable place to lay his head. There was none. Maybe it was a curse. That was it. That magician named Yeshua, or Miryam the harlot, the witch, had put a spell on him. “Simon!” Jerusha hissed his name. “Where are you?” he called. “Shhh! The guard is asleep ¬under the fig tree. I brought you some things.” Over the ledge she pushed a bundle wrapped in a warmer cloak. It landed with a soft thud. “There’s a skin of wine and some bread and dried fish. It’s all I could get for now without raising suspicion.” “Bless you!” Simon whispered back. All Simon had been allowed by order of the synagogue council was a jug of murky water and a stale loaf of barley bread. “Thank you, Jerusha. You’re the best! The best wife, the best companion, the best helper.” “They won’t let me see you,” Jerusha explained. “They think I might help you escape . . . or maybe they think I have it too! Oh, Simon, ¬I’m frightened! What’re we going to do?” “Bring me the chaulmoogra,” Simon instructed. “I’ll use it even if ¬I’m here. When the priest checks again I’ll already be cured.” Silence. “Jerusha,” Simon whispered urgently, “did you hear? I said, bring the potion.” “Simon,” Jerusha said wearily, “I’ve been watching you rub and swallow that oil ¬every day. Don’t you think I know the truth? It ¬hasn’t done a thing, except maybe make you worse.” “No!” Simon exploded. He stopped to listen, afraid his outburst had awakened the guard. Then when things continued quiet, he resumed, “It just needs more time.” Simon would not admit that it was hopeless. Jerusha continued timidly, “I have another idea. My father knows the Healer. We could ask my father for help. Maybe he could get us to see Yeshua of Nazareth. He’s done so much good, and they say he can heal anyone.” “Never!” Simon shouted. “He’s the reason ¬I’m here! It’s a curse!” “What? Who’s there?” challenged a sleepy but belligerent guard. “I love you, Simon,” Jerusha said, disappearing in the darkness. “Not Yeshua!” Simon bellowed. “Bring me the priest! I know what to do. Bring him!”

Gideon lay perfectly still, listening. Peniel’s breathing could be heard in the gaps between Amos’ snores. The

dwarf’s sonorous buzz was enough to wake the dead. Of course, in the case of the beggars, dead tired was beyond the reach of even that. Farther away, ¬under the overhanging boughs of an oak, lay Jekuthiel. His halting breath came first in hesitant sips, like the call of a hidden night bird. These noises gave way to the desperate gasps of a drowning man before he subsided again. Gideon rose from the ground, wrapped his cloak around him, and set out in the dark. On the heights above the canyon in which the travelers were camped was a village appropriately named Shion—“wall of strength.” At sunset ¬only a handful of windows glowed orange, but that glimpse was enough to give Gideon his direction. Fifteen paces beyond the olive press at the south end of the settlement he turned sharp left. A few minutes’ walk brought Gideon to a ¬deserted farmhouse, tumbling down and surrounded by weeds. From the acacia trees on either side of the path three shadowy figures rose from the gloom. A knifepoint at his stomach and the clout of sour wine in his nostrils halted Gideon’s progress. Alek’s recognizable accent confirmed the identity of his assailants. “Take me to Captain Eglon,” Gideon demanded. “That I can and that I will,” Alek concurred. “But alive or dead? Now that’s the question, eh? That’s the question.” “Tickle his ribs with the blade,” one of the other troopers suggested. “See how well the cripple dances.” “Bring him here!” Eglon’s gruff interruption put an end to the horseplay, but not before Gideon’s forehead and face ran with the sweat of fear. Inside the wooden hut Gideon was thrust into a corner, a lone oil lamp on a shelf above his head. The cripple was confined within a cone of flickering illumination. Parts of the roof were open to the sky. Sharp-nailed fingers of the acacia trees scraped the back wall when the wind urged them. Bats roosted inside the shack, leaving urine-soaked piles of their droppings ¬under the rafters where they hung. If any place could be the dwelling of demons and ghosts, this shack fit the requirements. Eglon paced in front of Gideon, playing with a pair of daggers. The shadow on the wall displayed a demon with long claws. “We’re close,” Eglon stated. “Yeshua. What’d you learn?” “He’ll be preaching near Shunem. We can get there by noon and—” “Quiet!” Eglon barked. “¬I’m changing the plan. Look for me tomorrow at dawn. ¬I’m ¬only warning you tonight so you’ll keep your yap shut.” “Dawn? What?” A horrible stench wafted in on the night breeze. “Must be something dead. Something dead ¬under the floor,” Alek complained. “¬I’m taking your place, see?” Eglon continued. “Herod Antipas and Lord Caiaphas want this job finished up. So when Peniel meets Yeshua, I’ll be

the one with him.” “But Peniel knows you! He’ll never . . .” A knife hissed past Gideon’s right ear, impaling a heart-shaped pattern in the wood grain of the wall. “He won’t dare say no to me now, will he?” Eglon chided. “I . . . ¬I’m sure you know what you’re doing.” “See you remember that.” The guard captain’s fist slid into Gideon’s vision and the cripple flinched. Eglon wrenched the knife free of the wall. “Don’t get any idea of backing out,” Eglon warned. “You ¬can’t run far enough or hide well enough to escape me if you cross me. Now get out of here.” Gratefully, with many muttered pledges, Gideon escaped the hut. Alek helped the cripple on his road by a well-aimed kick that sent the beggar sprawling. When Gideon returned to the camp, Peniel and Amos were still sound asleep. They gave no sign they’d even moved. Gideon peered into the cave of murk ¬under the oak boughs. He could not see Jekuthiel. Gideon strained his eyes to confirm the leper’s presence but made no move to get closer to where the chadel lurked. The cripple concentrated on separating Jekuthiel’s tormented breathing from the rustle of wind in the oak, but eventually Gideon fell asleep without succeeding.

226 Peniel awoke before dawn and climbed a low ridge to gaze west across the fields of Issachar. The great dome of Mount Tabor sprawled in his view, anchoring the southeast corner of Galilee to keep it from flying up into the azure bowl of heaven. The mountain summoned Peniel to Shunem and the reunion with Yeshua—something he craved above all else. It was a glorious morning. The fields stretching across the plain toward Tabor were a patchwork cloak of muted golds and browns, greens and grays. Shorn of their coats of barley, stubbled fields grazed by sheep were stitched together by stone walls. Dark green squares of vineyards alternated with the lighter greens of olive orchards. How greatly he had changed, Peniel thought, as he reveled in the vision. Not long ago Peniel had found his way around Jerusalem in perpetual darkness . . . and had not been afraid. Then new light dawned and for a time he had been lost, confused by the jumbled images presented to his untrained eyes. At first he had to shut out the tidal wave of vision-born impressions in order to go forward. But since? Peniel desired light, craved light, moved toward even the lamp in the graveyard like a moth to a flame. He’d witnessed the horrors of cripples and emaciated children and the ravages of leprosy, and yet . . . and yet he could not conceive of going back to the eternal night of being blind. Not now that he had seen the honey and ginger stones of Jerusalem . . . the blue-and-white banners streaming above the Temple . . . the flower garden

of faces. Peniel saw the aroma of a ripe fig resting in his hand. He had observed the wind wrestling with tree branches. Before there had ¬only been its sigh in his ears and the tug of its invisible hand on his cloak. He had seen the image of his own features, and now when he thought of himself, his self—his identity—irrevocably included that view. He had seen Yeshua’s eyes and smile. He longed to see them over and over again. What an amazing gift was sight, too precious to imagine. Peniel resisted leaving his personal watchtower. Finally the sounds of rustling in camp reminded him that Yeshua was ¬only a half-day’s hike away. Time to get the others up and moving! The ashes of last night’s fire were a soft-edged puddle on the stony ground. A handful of dry brush and scraps of oak bark would get a blaze going again. Gideon sat on the ground, leaning back against a boulder. The cripple’s eyes were wide, staring. He did not speak. “You’re awake?” Peniel asked with surprise. “Waiting for me to build the fire? Where’s Amos?” Then Peniel saw the dwarf. The small man’s frame was pressed against the trunk of a tree as if he were tied there. Amos did not speak either. His hands seemed stuck behind his back and across his mouth a rag was knotted. “What’s . . . ?” Relentless arms grabbed Peniel from behind, pinned his arms to his sides. When he struggled, a bony fist struck him behind the ear, making his head ring like a bell. Peniel called out for Gideon to help him, but the cripple raised his hands helplessly. They were tied together, as were his ankles. Eglon appeared in front of Peniel, smirking. “You ¬really think you’d get away? Think you could wander halfway to Damascus without a by-your-leave from your betters? Think again!” “Leave from a Samaritan pig?” A backhanded cuff from Eglon’s knuckles tore Peniel’s lip. “Save the compliments for later. You’re taking me to Yeshua, see?” “To Yeshua!” Alek cackled from behind Peniel’s left shoulder. “Not a chance,” Peniel replied. Where was Jekuthiel? Was the leper still free? Or was he already dead? How had the others been captured so easily? “Oh, I think you will,” Eglon corrected. “Bring them back to the farmhouse,” he brusquely ordered the other soldiers, “where we won’t be interrupted.” “What about the leper? The leper?” Alek asked. “Not here, is he?” Peniel’s hopes jumped. So Jekuthiel remained free. Eglon sneered. “Probably crawled off somewhere to die. You want to search through the bushes for him, you go right ahead, Alek.” “Not me! Not me!”

“What’s he able to do, anyway?” Eglon laughed harshly. “Ask someone for help, and him a leper? Not likely, is it? All right, bring ’em on.”

Lily awoke wondering, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Not a cave in Mak’ob. Not a starry canopy. Not a mournful memory of her childhood. A real home—unpretentious but pleasant. Lily recollected that she was in the gatekeeper’s cottage of a rich woman’s villa in Magdala. How long had she slept? She stretched, yawned, felt refreshed. Better physically than any time in recent memory. Rubbing the stub of her left hand with her right, she reconfirmed the reality of her leprosy. The numbness of encroaching tsara’at was still there. The long nightmare of being chedel had not vanished with the morning light. Yet Lily had a great sense of peace. She tested the instinct the way one climbs a rickety ladder, uncertain if it will bear the weight. But the sensation held. There was no fear here. Instead there was unexpected kindness. Sitting up, she studied the bandages wrapping her legs. Blood from her wounds had seeped through. She felt no pain. The dullness was a reminder that the warning of pain was necessary in life. Lily considered again what Cantor had told her about souls grown hard and unfeeling from the leprosy of sin and bitterness. How easy it was for those without compassion to view the open wounds of another’s life as weakness. Only one person had entered the cottage and sat unafraid at Lily’s bed. Only one had dared to touch her. Feed her. Carry the burden of her story. In the neatly overlapping layers of dressing Lily sensed again the gentleness and caring of that one fearless woman. “Good morning, dear,” said Mary. “¬I’m almost done here.” The cheerful woman sat in the corner of the room behind the head of the bed. Light from a narrow window streamed over her shoulder. Across Mary’s lap was Lily’s wedding gown, washed. Restored. Mended. A garden on the fabric. Mary put a final stitch in the hem, raised the pattern to the light to examine her work, and nodded her satisfaction. She bit the thread and tied it off. Mary passed the dress to Lily. Rents and snags were all neatly repaired, ¬every wound replaced by tiny, finely embroidered roses. Somehow Mary had worked the restoration into a pattern of tendrils and blossoms. The result was no patchwork of mismatched renovation but a flawless whole. It was as if the end result had been in the mind of the maker all along but hidden somehow. “Thank you,” Lily breathed. Overwhelmed by the love and compassion in ¬every stitch, she repeated, “Yes. Yes. Thank you.” With a matter-of-fact nod Mary said, “You’re rested. And that’s good.

You’ve a journey ahead of you. There’s someone you’ve been searching for. Yeshua is his name. Yeshua of Nazareth.” Lily’s heart beat faster. “The Prophet.” Couldn’t she just remain here in this place of solace, sheltered from the scorn and loathing of the world? Mary seemed to read her thoughts. “You must go to him,” she instructed. “He can mend much more than a torn garment.” Retrieving the gown from Lily, Mary folded it carefully. “How will I find him?” Lily asked, trusting Mary’s word. “Follow the road leading south from Magdala toward Shunem. You’ll find him near there. A few others will be going that same way I imagine.” Mary’s eyes twinkled. “I’ve made up a package for your journey. Food enough. A half-dozen smoked quail. You like quail? And bread too. A skin of water for you.” Lily thought of the lone quail she had lost when she ran from the traveler with fire in his hand. And now even that loss was somehow restored. “The One. They say he’s the one all Israel has been looking for.” “Yes. All of Israel. One person at a time. That’s the way he likes best to meet the needs of the world. Yes. One at a time. Lily, he’s the One you’ve been searching for.” “But even if I do locate him,” Lily fussed, “how will I ¬ever get to see him? Up close, I mean. Thousands crowd around him. And if I get close enough . . .” She paused and gestured with her blunt limb at her bandaged legs. “Even if . . . ¬I’m still tsara.” Setting the mended dress on her chair, Mary approached a shelf near the head of the bed. From it she took a small parchment scroll tied round the middle with a scrap of pale blue yarn. “I know Yeshua well.” She smiled with amusement as she handed the roll to Lily. “This is a personal petition from me on your behalf. When you get near enough to see one of his talmidim, hand this over. Say it’s for Yeshua from me. From Mary who tends the babies at Magdala. They’ll take you to him,” Mary concluded confidently. “But what then?” Lily queried. “Even then . . .” Mary acted as if she ¬didn’t hear the question. She busied herself wrapping the wedding dress in clean folds of linen, securing the bundle with more of the sky-colored yarn. “You’ll be wanting this,” she said, tucking the parcel into a leather pouch by the door. “And ¬don’t fret about the baby. He’ll be here, fed and cared for. He’ll be all right till you come back for him.” Come back for him? Lily could not imagine what those words could mean. Such a hope was too far out of all experience—a distant mountaintop hidden by too many intervening hills and valleys. Once more Mary stood beside the bed, this time waiting for Lily to rise. When she did so, Mary reached out and grasped Lily’s half hands . . . lifeless hands. Dying hands. She lifted Lily’s decaying fingers and brushed them with her lips. As a mother kisses the wound of her child.