Second Touch (9 page)

the Hawk and his catch landed softly on the ground. As Cantor approached, he put a chunk of meat on his glove. The Hawk, though he knew the game well, mantled his wings in possessiveness of the prize. Cantor bent toward the ground and presented recompense. Gravely, with great dignity, the Hawk relinquished his grip on the lure and stepped across to the glove and his reward. On other days Cantor and Lily led a parade through the settlement. Flanking Baruch were two friends near his age, Scrounger and Catcher. Together the three boys were allowed the duty of taking turns feeding the Hawk as he trained. Once away from the distractions of the chickens in their coops, Cantor cast the Hawk and he darted onto the highest branch of an apple tree. Cantor and Lily walked on, while a dozen children strung along after her on both sides. Strolling, not too quickly because Scrounger and several others used crutches, Cantor led the Hawk through his schooling. The bird moved ahead when he was ready, needing no cue. Sometimes he was in full view of the audience, posted like a sentinel on the dead snag of a lightning-blasted oak. Sometimes his whereabouts could ¬only be guessed at from the tinkling of the bell on his ankle. When the procession plunged into the willows along the dry creek bed, the Hawk was completely out of sight for some time. After a few minutes Cantor stopped and called Baruch to his side. From a pouch the boy carried, Cantor retrieved a dead mouse and placed it on top of the glove. Then, raising his gloved fist in the direction where he had last heard the bell, Cantor whistled sharply. Darting and turning, weaving through gaps in the foliage that scarcely admitted sunlight, the Hawk swooped toward him. The dive seemed swift enough that it would knock Cantor down or carry the bird right past. But with scarcely one extra beat of his wings, the Hawk settled lightly on Cantor’s fist. Lily loved Cantor and she loved the Hawk. These outings muted the ¬ever— present gloom over Mak’ob, at least for a time. They stopped children from talking about death. Despite the narrow confines of her world, Lily was content, having a family, a future, and a hope.

It was late. Lily lay awake and listened to Deborah’s ragged breathing. At any moment Lily expected to hear the rattle in Deborah’s throat, followed by the long sigh of death. But hours passed and it did not come. Lily was exhausted. Why could she not sleep? She tried to pray. Only broken phrases and solitary words escaped her lips. Lord? You. Can you? Scared, Lord. Deborah. Baruch. Alone. And Jekuthiel. Cantor! Oh! Lord! Without him, what? Home. Papa milking the cow. Mama kneading bread. Clearly. So clear the memory! I remember home! Oh! Mama? Do you think of me?

Her prayers were nonsense. Jumbled-up thoughts. Overwhelming longing. She felt lonely and yet could not define the reason. The waning moon, framed in the entrance to the cave, illuminated the mat where Deborah slept so restlessly. Lily could clearly see the rounded mound of her stomach. Pregnancy. A beautiful thing, anywhere but Mak’ob. Would Deborah survive to give the child life? And after the baby was born? How long could Deborah keep it? Lord! Sorrows! Place of separation! Lord! Do you? Can you? Oh! Remember? Suddenly Lily was aware of a halting step on the gravel path that led to their dwelling. The figure of a man stood silhouetted by the moon. Instinctively Lily pulled the thin blanket up to her chin. And then a whisper. “Lily?” “Cantor.” She sat up. “What are you doing?” “Couldn’t sleep.” “Me neither.” “Want to come talk a bit?” “A minute. Maybe.” Deborah stirred but did not awaken as Lily wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and slipped out into the cold night air. Cantor smiled and waved his stick toward the big boulder where they often sat together and discussed ¬everything. Without speaking he led the way up the slope and spread his cloak on the stone for them to sit on. She sat beside him and hugged her knees. They watched as the moon sank lower on the horizon. At last she broke the silence. “Soon we’ll be in our own shelter.” “And when I ¬can’t sleep I’ll reach out and there you’ll be.” He finished her thought. He did that often. “You suppose we’ll still come up here? Sit on this old rock?” “Sure. We’ve solved all the problems of the world up here.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Now, look. The moon is leaving. ¬I’m always sorry when it sets.” She was determined to be morose. “But the stars are shining.” “Good old Cantor,” she replied. “You won’t let me be sad even when I want to.” “No. No. Not if I can help it.” “Well then. It’ll be good when we’re married.” “Yes. After the baby’s born. The rabbi says that’s ¬only right. Deborah needs you now. But once the child is born . . .” “I think . . . Jekuthiel’s not coming back,” Lily confessed. “I’ve thought that for a long time. But you ¬can’t let her know you think it.” “I won’t. I ¬wouldn’t.” They both knew that such a thought expressed would be Deborah’s death warrant. “She’s barely hanging on. Hoping he’ll come.” “¬I’m sorry,” Cantor said at last. “It’s despair that’ll carry her to the

dying cave, not the sickness.” They sat in silence, contemplating this for a long time. The moon vanished. Stars carpeted the heavens. Cantor cleared his throat. “I wonder sometimes—” he squeezed her hand —“what’s behind all the stars. I mean, just behind the curtain, you know?” “I thought you knew ¬everything,” she teased. He covered her eyes. “I think about it. Yes. Nights like this. When the dying cavern is so full. I think about how the worries of this world blindfold our souls. Little things keep us from ¬really seeing. You know?” He removed his hand. “But look up. See? That’s how it is when worry ¬doesn’t block our vision. And when we die, the blindfold will be altogether gone. That’s what we have to look forward to.” “But, Cantor, not too soon. Not for you and me. Now that we have one another.” “I’ll bet it’s beautiful, behind the curtain, Lily. I mean, ¬really beautiful.” “I prayed the other day,” she ventured. “I ¬really prayed, you know? That when it ¬comes for us . . . that you and I could both see it at the same time.” “Yes. A good prayer.” Cantor embraced her. “I’ll tell you something that happened when I first met you.” “You were my first friend here in the Valley.” “After you came I stopped caring so much that I was dying. And once I knew I would have you to love for the rest of my life? It made ¬everything right, somehow.” “Me too.” She swallowed hard, hoping they would have time together. A long time. ¬I’m praying again, Inventor of Love. ¬I’m asking. No, ¬I’m begging. Please give me and Cantor years and years together. Even with ¬everyone dying around us. Years . . . sitting up here on our old stone, looking at stars and wondering. And when it finally ¬comes, let us take off the blindfold together.

6 With Pentecost past, the spring season of religious holidays was completed. The next big festival, Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, was still several months away. Ceremonial duties completed, High Priest Caiaphas turned his full attention to administrative affairs. The latter category included dealing with Yeshua of Nazareth. Even with the country preacher reportedly out of Judea and heading back to the Galil, Caiaphas demanded that he be kept informed. He wanted no slipups this time, no chance that another riot could break out and he be blamed. Eglon reported the dismissal of Zadok and another instance of interference by the Roman centurion. “Peniel is not there. But I’ve learned Marcus

Longinus is leading a delegation to Nabatea. Shall I go back and drag Zadok here in chains?” Caiaphas angrily refused the suggestion. “More important matters need our attention. Since Yeshua’s left Yerushalayim, what’re your plans?” he demanded. “You missed arresting him; you missed killing him. Now what?” “There are thousands around him when he teaches. He travels surrounded by his talmidim,” Eglon explained. “A hundred or more. Plus an inner circle who’re never far from his side.” “No excuses!” Caiaphas warned. “What’s your plan?” “It’s his closest group that interests me,” Eglon said, scratching his beard and staring down at the passersby below the wall. “One of them will turn traitor?” Eglon shook his head. “Working on that angle,” he admitted. “But no luck yet. No, ¬I’m thinking of adding a new member, as it were.” “Slip a spy into his camp? But who can we trust who won’t instantly be suspected?” “Been giving that some thought,” Eglon said. “Doubt if that boy, that Peniel, would have any trouble getting close.” Eglon raised his hand to stifle a protest. “Not that I think the boy’d turn traitor. Heard how he spoke up in the council. No, but if we plant someone next to Peniel . . . the boy’s so trusting. The plan is simple. Instead of killing Peniel, we follow him to Yeshua. If he vouches for our man, we’re in.” “Do you have an agent in mind?” Eglon nodded slowly, deliberately. “Yeshua likes to surround himself with the am ha aretz, the common folk. Likes to heal beggars, does he? Let’s send another beggar along and see what happens.”

From the second-story terrace of Simon ben Zeraim’s Capernaum home it was possible to look down the full length of the Sea of Galilee from north to south. To guests who remarked on the marvelous view Simon replied that on a clear day he could see himself making money. When new acquaintances fell for this ploy, he pointed out the triangular sails of fishing boats. Simon then reminded them that fully a quarter of the tilapia caught in the lake ended as dried fish sold by the House of Zeraim. Clouds hung heavy over the western hills. Whitecapped waves scudded across the lake. The fishing scows stayed home. Even so, Simon could still note the increase of his coffers. Yellow morning light on the plain around Magdala revealed the dark emerald inscription of grapevines written on the parchment of the paler green slopes. The juicy clusters of fruit would soon find their way into Zeraim winepresses. But today, as for all the five days since returning from Jerusalem, Simon paid no attention to either ships or waves. He ignored the visions of both heavenly colors and earthly profits. His attention was focused solely on the mortar and pestle that stood by his elbow and the unfolded wooden frame of the wax tablet propped up before him. Consulting the scribbled notes again, Simon added a pot of olive oil

to the mortar and then a handful of bay leaves. When these had soaked up their fill of the oil, Simon crushed them against the sides of the stone bowl with short, rapid strokes of the alabaster pestle. Three drops of sweet gum were added next, then a shekel’s weight of costly frankincense. The perfumed resin was sticky and difficult to force into the solution. It clumped and refused to add its virtue to the mix. Simon transferred the concoction to a fire-hardened clay jug, then secured the container on a stand over a charcoal brazier. Satisfied that the brew was heating gently, the Pharisee turned his attention to a leather scroll. The rolled-up parchment lay partially covered by his prayer shawl and his gloves on a nearby table. Where had his attention been that he had allowed such a thing? Nervously he twitched the shawl aside from the document. When he next covered his head for prayer, perhaps some defilement would transfer itself from the scroll to his shawl to him. Simon could not think of any specific regulation covering such a transaction, but he always erred on the side of caution where the Law was concerned. He decided to substitute his second— best head covering for the suspect one until he could investigate the matter. The wind rose even further, gliding down the funnel of the upper Jordan from the heights of Mount Hermon. The breeze that sighed around the eaves of Simon’s house raised prickles on the back of his neck. He heard accusation on the currents of air, condemnation in the rustle of the leaves of the sycamore fig towering over his house. Simon rebelled emotionally against the charges. The scroll was not Torah or interpretation, true enough, but its contents were not evil. It was even reputedly of ¬Jewish origin, although written in Alexandria, in Egypt. The bookseller, Ma’im of Gadara, swore it dated from the time the son of the murdered high priest Onias had fled there. Practical advice, that’s what it was, no more immoral than a recipe for rosemary and garlic chicken or a commentary on the proper production of perfume. Simon’s mixture was warming nicely, the frankincense giving off its sweet— spicy aroma, mingled with the sharper tang of the bay leaves. Jerusha liked perfume, Simon thought. She especially favored sandalwood. Dabbing it behind each ear, she would then place a single drop in the hollow of her throat. She never put perfume there unless he was watching. She would always wait until he glanced her way before anointing herself there. Other images tumbled over Simon like a great fall of stones from the heights of the limestone quarry outside Hazor: Jerusha on their bed in the moonlight. Jerusha inviting him, welcoming him, smiling at him. Silvery rays dancing over her tawny skin. The arch of her neck when he kissed the perfumed secret. Simon felt again her nails on his shoulders. All his passion, all his desire, concentrated, seemed condensed into that one dab of perfume, signaling she was his alone. “Father?” Jotham queried from the landing of the outside staircase. “Are

you cooking something?” Simon whirled around. In his haste to conceal the wax tablet and the scroll with a sweep of the prayer shawl, he bumped the bubbling flask with his elbow. The support scooted sideways. Simon grabbed for the tilting jug and seized it. There was an instant before the temperature of the heated clay registered; then Simon yelped and flung it from his burned fingers. It shattered against the wall. “Get out!” he bellowed at his son. “Get out!” Jotham retreated from his father’s wrath. “But I ¬only came to say—” The contents of the pot splashed across the scroll and prayer shawl. A trail of droplets leading back to the oil lamp caught fire, igniting the fringes of the shawl, the ragged border of the parchment. “Get out of my sight!” Simon bellowed, snatching up a three-legged stool as if to brain his son with it. “You idiot!” Jotham fled back down the staircase. Simon threw the prayer garment and document to the floor, then stomped out the flames with sandaled feet, but not before shawl and scroll were both ruined. The cleanup would have to wait. The servants, having seen an enraged Simon on other occasions, would maintain a respectful distance until summoned. But Jerusha might well come up to investigate the commotion. Besides, even though Jotham had fled back down the exterior stairs, he might still have reported to his mother what he had seen. Some explanation would have to be offered. Gripping his burned hand by the wrist, Simon scanned the room. The sticky sweetness of charred frankincense cloyed the air much the same as the bubbles of oil smeared his worktable and oozed onto the floor. And Simon’s deliberations moved just as ponderously, as gummed together as the now useless scroll and defiled shawl. What if the mixture had worked? Would Simon ¬ever be able to reproduce the proportions again? A noise reminded him of the need to intercept his wife, and Simon hurried down the staircase. It was well he did so, for Jerusha’s foot was even then on the bottom step. “What’s happened?” she asked. “Jotham flew by me! All I could get from him was that you’re going to kill him! And what have you done to yourself?” Simon grimaced as she took his injured hand in her delicate fingers. “It’s nothing,” he said, closing a concealing fist. “Nothing!” she exclaimed. “Your skin’s blistered. Here. Let me put it in a bowl of cool water.” There was such tenderness in her voice, such compassion for his injury. Her love for him flowed from her words, her eyes. He felt her willingness to take his pain and ease it by the sharing. Her profound concern touched Simon’s deepest longing. For an instant . . . “Don’t bother,” Simon snapped, jerking his hand away. “I left strict instructions that I ¬wasn’t to be interrupted. Jotham startled me, that’s all.” Simon led the way into the kitchen at the rear of the house.