The Book of Longings(52)

“Yes, and the poor bring their animals and the priests refuse to accept them, claiming they’re blemished, and then they charge exorbitant prices for another one.”

“What he says is true,” Simon offered.

“Shall we speak of something else?” Mary said.

But Jesus pressed on. “The priests insist on having their own currency and when the poor try to exchange their coins, the money changers charge them excessive rates!”

James stood. “Would you force me to make the trip again this year? Do you care more for the poor than your brother?”

Jesus answered, “Aren’t the poor also my brothers and sisters?”



* * *



? ? ?

THE NEXT MORNING as the sun stirred awake, Jesus trekked into the hills to pray. It was his daily habit. At other times I would find him sitting cross-legged on the floor with his prayer shawl drawn over his head, unmoving, eyes closed. It had been so since we married, this devotion, this feasting on God, and I’d never minded it, but today, seeing him walk away in the half-light, I understood what until now I’d only glimpsed. God was the ground beneath him, the sky over him, the air he breathed, the water he drank. It made me uneasy.

I prepared his breakfast, trimming corn from the husk and parching it over the fire, the sweet aroma drifting over the compound. I glanced repeatedly toward the gate, as if God lurked out there, ready to pluck my husband from me.

When he returned, we sat together beneath the olive tree. I watched him wrap bread around a hunk of goat cheese and eat hungrily, saving the corn, his favorite, for last. He was quiet.

Finally, he said, “When I saw my brother-in-law’s infirmity, I was moved with pity. Everywhere I look, there’s suffering, Ana, and I spend my days making cabinets for a rich man.”

“You spend your days caring for your family,” I said, perhaps too sharply.

He smiled. “Don’t worry, Little Thunder. I’ll do what I must.” He wrapped an arm about me. “Passover is soon. Let us go to Jerusalem.”





viii.


We took the pilgrim road, leaving the green hills of Galilee and descending into the dense thickets of the Jordan River valley, traveling through stretches of wilderness filled with jackals. At night we put out the fire early and, clutching our staffs, slept beneath little lean-tos we fashioned from brush. We were on our way to Bethany, just outside Jerusalem, where we would lodge with Jesus’s friends Lazarus, Martha, and Mary.

The Jericho road was the last, most treacherous part of our journey, not because of jackals, but because of the robbers who hid in the barren cliffs that lined the valley. At least the road was well traveled; for miles now we’d trodden behind a man with two sons and a priest wearing an elaborate robe, but I couldn’t help feeling uneasy. Sensing my nervousness, Jesus began telling me stories of his family’s Passover visits with his friends in Bethany when he was a boy.

“When I was eight,” Jesus said, “Lazarus and I came upon a dove merchant who was treating his birds cruelly, poking them with sticks and feeding them pebbles. We waited until he left his stall, opened the cages, and set them free before he returned. He accused us of stealing and our fathers were compelled to pay him a full price. My family was forced to remain in Bethany two extra weeks while Father and I worked to pay the debt. At the time I thought it was worth it. The sight of the birds flying away . . .”

Imagining them flapping off to freedom, I didn’t notice the way his steps slowed and his story ceased midsentence. “Ana.” He pointed toward a bend in the distance, at a heap of white robe spattered with red lying on the side of the road. I thought, Someone has cast off his garment. Then I saw the shape of a person beneath it.

Ahead of us, the father and his sons and then the priest came to a halt, judging, it seemed, whether the person was dead or alive.

“He’s been set upon by robbers,” Jesus said, scanning the rocky terrain as if they might still be nearby. “Come.” He walked quickly, while I scampered to keep up. Already the others had passed by the wounded man, giving him a wide berth.

Jesus knelt beside the figure as I stood behind him dredging up the courage to look. A soft moan drifted up. “It’s a woman,” Jesus said.

I gazed down then, seeing her but not seeing her, my mind unwilling to yield to what was before me. “My Lord and my God, it’s Tabitha!”

Her face was smeared with blood, but I saw no wound. “The gash is on her scalp,” Jesus said, pointing to a mass of sticky, dark blood in her hair.

I stooped and wiped her face with my robe. Her eyes fluttered. She stared at me, blinking, and I was certain she knew me. The stub of her tongue thrashed about in her mouth, looking for a way to speak my name.

“Is she dead?” a voice called. A tall young man approached. I could tell from his dialect and dress he was a Samaritan and I tensed reflexively. Jews had nothing to do with Samaritans, regarding them as worse than Gentiles.

“She’s wounded,” Jesus said.

The man pulled out his waterskin, bent, and tipped it to Tabitha’s lips. Her mouth opened, her neck arched upward. She looked like a featherless baby bird craning for food. Jesus dropped his hand onto the man’s shoulder. “You’re Samaritan, yet you give a Galilean your water.”

The man made no reply and Jesus unwound his girdle and set about binding Tabitha’s wound. The Samaritan hoisted her onto Jesus’s back, and we walked the rest of the way with excruciating slowness.