The Book of Longings(69)

It would be perfect.

I didn’t know what to think of such things or of the frenzy of longing that surrounded them. Long ago, trying to explain it to me, Yaltha said our people were desolated by so much suffering, that it created in them a deep hope for an ideal future. She thought this alone lay behind the end-time prophecies. But was she right? Jesus seemed to believe fervently in them.

He answered me, “John preaches that the day of judgment is close when God will intervene to repair the world. Already people are saying John is the Messiah priest. If that’s so, the Messiah king will appear soon.”

A tremulous feeling swept over me. Whoever this Messiah king was, he was somewhere in Judea or Galilee, going about his life. I wondered if he knew who he was, or if God had yet to break the terrible news to him.

Mary rose and began to collect our bowls and spoons. When she spoke, her voice betrayed her fears. “Son, this man you describe could be a prophet or a madman—who’s to say?”

James hurried to join in his mother’s dissuasion. “We cannot know what manner of man he is or whether the things he says are truly from God.”

Jesus stood and placed his hand on his mother’s arm. “Mother, you are right to ask these questions. James, you are right, too. Sitting here, we cannot know.”

I sensed what he was about to say. My heart quickened.

“I’ve decided to travel to Judea and discover for myself,” he said. “I will leave tomorrow at dawn.”



* * *



? ? ?

FOLLOWING HIM TO OUR ROOM, I was shaking with anger, furious that he would leave—no, furious that he could leave, while I had no such glorious freedom. I would remain here forever tending to yarn, animal dung, and wheat kernels. I wanted to scream at the sky. Did he not see how it wounded me to be left behind, to have no freedom to go and do, to always long for one day?

When I stomped through the doorway, he was already preparing his travel pouch. He said, “Fetch salt-fish, bread, dried figs, cheese, olives, whatever can be spared from the storeroom. Enough for both of us.”

Both? “You wish to take me with you?”

“I want you to come, but if you’d rather stay here and milk the goat . . .”

I flung myself at him, covering his face with kisses.

“I would always take you with me if I could,” he said. “Besides, I wish to hear what you think of John the Immerser.”

I packed our pouches with food and waterskins, tying them with leather thongs. Remembering the ornamental brass comb I’d brought from Sepphoris more than ten years before, I pried one pouch back open and slid it inside. That and my copper mirror were the last possessions I had left of any value. The comb could be traded for food. Jesus liked to say we shouldn’t worry about what we’d eat or drink, that God fed the birds, would he not also feed us?

He would trust God. I would carry a comb.

Later, I lay awake listening to him sleep, the soft clouds of his breath filling the room. I couldn’t close my eyes for happiness. It sprouted in me like a bright green shoot. In those moments, I lost my fear that I would be left behind. If he should give up everything and follow John the Immerser—why, even if he went off to be a prophet himself—he would take me with him.





xxiii.


At daybreak, I sought out Yaltha to say goodbye. She slept on her mat in the storeroom, her wool cloak pulled to her chin, her head uncovered and her hair unfurled across the pillow.

On the wall behind her was a crude depiction of the Egyptian calendar she’d sketched with a piece of charred wood. Ever since I’d known her, she’d charted the twelve lunar months, marking births, deaths, and auspicious events. When we’d lived in Sepphoris, she’d drawn the calendar on papyrus using the inks I made. Here, she could only trace the wheel on a mud wall with soot. Stepping closer to examine it, I saw she’d recorded my mother’s death in the month of Ab without attaching it to a specific day. On the fourth of Tebet, the day of my birth, she’d written my name and beside it my age, twenty-four. Then I noticed something I’d not seen before. Today was the twelfth of Tishri and next to it she’d recorded the name of her lost daughter, Chaya. Today was the anniversary of Chaya’s birth. She, too, was twenty-four.

I gazed down at my aunt, watching her eyes move behind her closed lids—was she dreaming? At that moment a ray of light broke through a crack in the roof thatch, falling on her shoulder and spilling across the earthen floor to my feet.

My eyes beheld it with curiosity. A cord of light, connecting us. I saw it as a sign of the promise we’d made to each other when I was fourteen, that we would always be joined like Naomi and Ruth—where I would go, she would go; my people would be her people. But as I stood there watching, the beam of light faded, then vanished in the morning brightness.

I knelt down and kissed my aunt’s forehead. Her eyes opened.

“I’m going with Jesus.”

She lifted her hand in blessing. “May Sophia watch over you and keep you,” she said, her voice groggy with sleep.

“And you as well. Now return to your dream.” I left her quickly.

In the courtyard, Jesus was bidding Mary and Salome goodbye. “When will you return?” his mother asked.

“I cannot say for certain—two weeks, perhaps three.”