Take This Cup (22 page)

When the loop of rope holding one end of the lever was released, the goatskin bag plunged into the well with a muffled
splash. The trio of Jewish warriors froze for an instant at the sound. When no alarm followed, the leader hoisted the bulging container aloft.

Grasping the sack with one hand, he slashed the supporting rope with his sword. “That’ll give them a surprise come morning,” he said.

The men were halfway back across the open space toward where I stood when warning shouts rang out. “Captain! Two sentries down! Spies in the camp! Sound the alarm!”

A guard in a watchtower over the gate heard the cry and hammered on a shield with his sword. The clanging ripped apart the quiet of the night. Soon the alarm was raised in every corner of Bethlehem.

At the city gate the Jewish captain paused with the waterskin in hand. “Go on,” one of his friends urged. “We’ll make it hard for them to follow. Just don’t spill it!”

Within moments a score of Philistines converged on the gate. The first rank was skewered on Jewish spears, making the others hesitate. Side by side, the pair of David’s soldiers fought within the narrow confines of the gate where they could not be outflanked.

Swords rang against shields, and men cried out with pain. A heap of fallen Philistines clogged the portal and had to be dragged aside before fresh troops could continue the battle.

The Jewish soldiers agreed it was time to leave. I also urged them to go, but they could not hear me. “Let’s go before they send a company around the outside of the wall behind us.”

With final thrusts and slashes, the pair melted into the darkness and sprinted into the brush. Within seconds, it seemed to me, they overtook their leader toting the water bag.

“Back to the cave,” Joseph warned. “Hang on.”

After a swooping flight that would have done credit to a bat, we were back beneath the terebinth. David’s men were already there. David stood beside them, examining the blood oozing from a dozen superficial wounds and calling for them to be attended and their injuries bandaged.

“Where is your cup, lord?” the leader of the trio requested.

Darting into the cave, David’s servant emerged with a silver chalice.

“Yours?” I asked.

“And yours, cupbearer,” Joseph confirmed.

Holding the cup at arm’s length, David allowed his men to raise the waterskin and fill the gleaming container until it overflowed. Drips of water from David’s well splashed my feet.

The shepherd king regarded the brimming chalice for a long time. At last he shook his head. Having the men step back a pace, David lifted the cup toward the now-graying sky. “To you, O Lord, I lift this cup.” Then, as he poured it out on the ground at the base of the terebinth, he said, “Be it far from me, O Lord, to drink this. Is it not the same as the blood of these men, who went at risk of their very lives? May I ever be worthy of how you have blessed me with friends of such courage, loyalty, and sacrifice.”

“See,” Joseph instructed me, “where the water pools on the ground and mingles with the blood of David’s warriors? Remember: even a cup of water may be a valuable offering. Remember: obtaining a drink of living water may be free and still be costly at the same time. Now wake up, Nehemiah.”

“Wake up? I’m not asleep,” I protested.

But it was Raheb who shook my arm and repeated the command. A yellow sun hung over the eastern hills. “Are you going to sleep all day?” my protector teased. “Let’s get going. Only one more Sabbath till Jerusalem.”

My first
view of Jerusalem was exactly as my mother had described it to me in countless bedtime stories: “When you see it from afar, you think it’s a snow-covered mountain, set with gold. Closer up, you’ll see that people from everywhere in the world gather to see the Temple of the Almighty.”

Then she added, “We have a reputation. No other people have a God so near and so attentive to their needs.

“If the wind is calm, the smoke of the sacrifices is a thick, black column, propping up the sky. And when the breeze carries it toward you, your mouth will water from the smell of roasting meat and spices. And oh, the music and the babble of voices. You could carry me all over the world, blindfolded, and put me down in Jerusalem, and I would know my home without looking!”

The sights and the sounds and the aroma: it was all true.

I also recalled how Mother frowned sometimes and admitted, “It isn’t all wonderful there, Nehi. It is crowded. Some parts are very dirty, and you must be watchful for pickpockets and thieves.” Brightening, she concluded, “But it’s wonderful to be there, just the same. The Temple, the Temple! There is no other like it in all the world. And your grandparents will be so proud when they meet you. So very proud!”

Now that the moment of meeting was fast approaching, I hoped her words remained true. I was nervous about the news I carried but intensely eager to see them and my brothers.

It was late afternoon on the first day of Hanukkah when I parted from the caravan at the Damascus Gate. Hosea’s charges had arrived at an inn outside the northern wall of the city. Raheb and his family were going to accompany me to the Street of the Weavers before saying good-bye.

However, just inside the battlements, patrolled by Roman sentries, we met a crowd of people flowing toward the Temple Mount. “Hold on, friend,” Raheb said, accosting a passerby. “Is it time for the evening sacrifice? Is that why everyone is rushing?”

Squinting at the winter sun obscured by clouds, the man shook his head. “It’s the rabbi from Nazareth,” he explained. “He’s teaching and healing up there on the mount. Everyone is going to watch and listen. Some say he may be arrested . . . or will flee. This may be our last chance to see him.” Pulling free, the man dashed away with the multitude.

Gathering in a doorway out of the press of the throng, Raheb said, “You hear? He’s there now—Jesus! Tobit, your eyes! We should go at once so we don’t miss him.” To me, he added, “Nehemiah? You’ll come with us. Yes? You want to see Jesus too? We’ll take you to the shop afterward.”

I wanted to see Jesus . . . but I wanted my own family more.

“Just go,” I offered. “I know my way from here. Mama taught me. It’s this way,” I said, pointing. “Two turns and the Street of the Weavers is right there. I can’t miss it.”

Raheb looked doubtful. “I don’t think . . .”

“Please,” I insisted. “I want you to. And I will see you again, I promise.” Looking pointedly at the scarf wound around Tobit’s head, shielding his damaged eyes, I concluded, “You must not miss Jesus.”

After that, our good-byes were brief. Michael hugged me, said he’d never forget me. Raheb and his sons told me I had been a great blessing to them on the trail. Raheb renewed his vow that even after paying my debt to the caravan, he still owed me far more than he could repay for rescuing his granddaughter.

All the time their eyes returned to the Temple Mount. The air rang with the clatter of sandals going to see the Healer.

“Go on!” I said again.

And they were gone.

I made my way up the crowded Street of the Weavers. Every caravansary and inn and private house was bursting with travelers who had come for the holiday. I was lucky. I knew I had a place to stay. I imagined knocking on the door of my grandparents’ shop and meeting them for the first time. What a celebration there would be!

A sudden breeze coursed through the narrow lane like icy water in a river. Snowflakes swirled like downy feathers around me.

The faces of travelers turned up in wonder as they trudged through the unusual weather. Hands extended, palm up, to catch the flakes. Children tasted frozen water for the first time. It was a sort of miraculous sign to many who believed that any unusual storm or event in nature was sent by God as a message from heaven. What was the Lord saying on this snowy afternoon in Jerusalem? To religious Jews, pure white covering Jerusalem was the Lord’s promise that Israel’s sins, though as scarlet, would soon be made as white as snow. What else could it mean?

Not all considered the weather a blessing, however. Few beggars were in sight; the storm had driven them underground. I spotted Herodian and Roman soldiers scattered among Jewish travelers. Many had come to the Street of the Weavers to shop for heavy winter cloaks. My fleece boots and sheepskin coat protected me from the chill. I was dressed as the son of a shepherd would dress in winter. It was fortunate that when I had fled I was clothed in the proper gear of a cold mountain autumn. Even so, my nose and ears were cold.

I pitied the ragged street urchins in tattered clothes who made their living as torch bearers and who lived in the quarries beneath the Temple Mount. A half-dozen boys about my age clustered around a feeble scrap wood fire burning on the street in a metal pot. The boys were known as link boys or Jerusalem Sparrows, a poor and too plentiful flock. As pilgrims passed the boys called out, offering to serve as city guides. It was not yet dark enough for travelers to need torches, so business was bad for them. The Sparrows kept one another warm by huddling close.

I thought about the Messiah I had come to find, the king named Jesus whom Rabbi Kagba had knelt before. Was Jesus in Jerusalem too? Did he raise his face to the sky and smile as snowflakes clung to his beard? Rabbi Kagba had seen him as a baby during this same season when snow had fallen on Bethlehem and the Hanukkah lights had blazed in the Temple. I knew every detail of the story, including the horrific slaughter of Bethlehem’s babies by Herod.

Thirty-three years had passed since the birthday of the Son of David. Not much had changed. The Romans were still here. The Herodian guard patrolled the crowds of Jerusalem. Where was this man called Jesus who would drink from Joseph’s cup and lead our people to freedom? Rabbi Kagba had taught me that when Jesus was crowned, there would be no more suffering or poverty.

I searched faces, but no one looked kingly to me. The poor were everywhere. Clearly King Jesus was not yet on his throne.

Snow crunched beneath my feet. I tucked my chin deeper into my coat as my anticipation grew. I felt as if I knew this lane well. My mother’s stories of her home had prepared me for the noise and the bustle of Hanukkah pilgrim crowds. Merchants
were removing woolen cloth, heavy wool cloaks, and finished prayer shawls from the fronts of shops. I knew from my mother that I would find my grandparents’ business was the best and the busiest, always crowded and prosperous. I imagined her here as a little girl, and my longing for her became almost unbearable. I refused to let myself cry. I was too big for that. I had been through too much to give in now. Only a few minutes more and my grandmother would wrap her arms around me.
Did she look like Mama?
I wondered.

Mama had mentioned the smells of the city. But today the white blanket of snow hid the sheep dung and garbage littering the pavement and filled cracks and crevasses until rough-hewn stones were smooth. Along with the scent of damp wool cloaks, the fresh, familiar tang of snowfall reminded me of winter in my mountain home.

In the midst of the holiday crowds, the pristine meadows and pine trees of my homeland seemed another world away. I wondered about my mother and father. For the first time I considered how I would tell my brothers and my grandparents about the bandit attack and my adventures as I traveled to Jerusalem. I would not be able to report as to the fate of my mother and father. Would my brothers think I was a coward for running away? Would they believe me if I told them about Joseph’s cup, the Great White Hart, and my thousand-mile trek to find the Messiah? I hoped they would not be angry that I had not returned to the camp to find out if my parents were alive.

Even so, I was energized by the excitement of seeing my brothers again and meeting my grandparents for the first time.

“Fourth shop from the high end of the Weavers,” I recited, navigating the final steps carefully so as not to slip on paving stones.

The light in the sky grew dim. I looked to the top of the street and counted down. “One . . . two . . . three . . . four!”

I gasped and halted in my tracks. The little shop of Boaz the Weaver was gutted from fire. A white carpet of new-fallen snow in front of the charred door had no footprints.