THREE FROM GALILEE
The Young Man from Nazareth

by Marjorie Holmes

(1985, sequel to Two From Galilee, a love story of Mary & Joseph)

To my wonderful husband, Dr. George Schmieler, whose patience, confidence and encouragement spurred me on at times when the task seemed impossible, and whose keen insight and suggestions were a genuine contribution to this book.

Acknowledgment:
I want to acknowledge the invaluable help of Dr.
Roy Blizzard, former instructor in Hebrew, Biblical
History and Archaeology at the University of
Texas. Dr. Blizzard studied at the Hebrew University
in Jerusalem, has worked on archaeological
excavations throughout Israel, speaks fluent
Hebrew and is the author of Let Judah Go Up First
and coauthor of Understanding the Difficult Words
of Jesus. It has been my privilege to accompany
him on several historic and archaeological seminars
in Israel. He is one of the few Americans licensed
to guide in Israel. Dr. Blizzard has been my constant
consultant for accuracy in writing this book.
If there are any errors, they are not his, but mine.

Author's Note:
This book is a novel, a work of fiction. I do not
pretend to claim that this is the way things actually
happened; only that, given the facts of Jesus' life
and times as we know them, this is the way they
could have happened.

It was written humbly, with great reverence and
love and conviction. I can only pray that most
people, Jews and Christians alike, will read it as a
believable and dramatic retelling of the story we all
know so much (and so little) about.

As John, Jesus' favorite apostle, wrote in concluding
his own account of his Master's remarkable
life: "And there were many other things which Jesus
did, which, if they should be written down, every one,
I suppose that the world itself could not contain the
books that should be written" (John 21:25).


BOOK ONE: Boyhood

Chapter 1
HANNAH HAD BEEN restless all night. Her husband,
Joachim, beside her on the pallet, heard the dry
rustling protest of the straw tick repeatedly as she
threshed about, felt her small bony hand groping
for his. A habit she didn't even know she had, but
one that always moved him strangely. She had been
so young when he first brought her to his bed--scarcely
twelve--and so frightened. But in sleep, at
least, so trusting.

As he had clasped that tiny claw long ago and so
many times since, he clasped it now, stroking it,
trying to soothe her.

"Mary!" she cried out plaintively. "Mary."
"Hush," he muttered, though his own heart
broke. "It's all right, Hannah, my little one,
she's--the Lord is with them."
If his wife heard, she gave no sign. With a little jerk, the hand was withdrawn. She turned her back and began to breathe deeply. Now it was her husband who lay troubled, staring into the darkness.

Where were they? It had been weeks since a messenger from the caravan had brought them Joseph's letter. Their obvious poverty smote Mary's father. For it was written, not even on papyrus but on a shard of pottery, this letter saying Mary and Joseph were leaving Egypt at last. "Jerusalem should be safe now. I'll surely find work there." Mary and the child were well, Joseph added.

Hannah had wept wildly. "But when are they
coming home?" she demanded of Joachim. "When 
will I ever see my grandchild?"
"Now, now, they will write again," he told her.
But this silence. This strange silence. Mentally 
Joachim lay tracing their journey. They would come along the coastal plain, the Derech Hayam, Way of the Sea. He hoped they had joined a caravan. He thought of robbers--and of that devil Herod. For the news of Herod's death, which had brought such great rejoicing, was only to be followed by a cruel blow: another monster was mounting the throne, Herod's son, Archelaus. This news evidently hadn't reached Joseph before they departed.
No, now, stop it. Worries loomed larger in the darkness, multiplied, did no good. 
Joachim kicked off the coverlet, creaked heavily to the doorway, then turned and trudged back to tuck it about the small figure hunched against the wall.
A lamp burned in the niche beside the cupboard where a bag of goat's milk hung. Joachim reached for the bag, tempted, but sternly put it back that he might first whisper his waking prayer of thanks to God "for having returned to me my soul, which was in your keeping." It had special significance 
for him this day as he prayed fervently as well for
his daughter's safe return. Joachim then drank
deeply of the milk, its cool raw strength a solace to
his dry throat. He wiped his grizzled mouth and
stood staring out the window, a big blunt country
man still in his nightshift. His hair, once bushy and
red as a torch, had thinned and faded, but the curly
mat on his chest was still vivid.

He gazed out the window, grateful for morning.
Birds were beginning to chirp. In the gently
graying light he could see the mountains, the
fields, and nearby the outlines of the sheep
fold, the cistern--and the shed where the ox was
kept. The place where the whole strange business
had begun. His shed! An ancient tumbledown
shed. For it was there, Mary had told them,
incredibly, in that very shed, that an angel had
appeared before her, bearing news so profound it
would change her life forever--and for that matter,
their lives as well. A story it took almost superhuman
faith to believe. But he had believed. And
in time, even Hannah... _His shed, Joachim
sometimes realized, in awe and wonderment.
Later, he and Hannah had learned that the heavenly child itself was born in a cave. Among the beasts! They were bewildered. Nothing they had experienced heretofore had shocked them quite so much.
The sodden earth smelled sweet. A cock's crowing drilled the silence; other cocks began to answer from neighboring hills, a raucous, faintly comical chorus that lifted his spirits. Soon it would be time to get into the fields; things were less threatening by daylight, and work helped.

Joachim turned, startled at the patter of footsteps.
"Hannah!"
Her thin flyaway hair was already skewered atop
her head. Unlike him, she was fully dressed. "Our
daughter will be home this day," she announced.
Her tone was firm, almost flat, but her deep-set
eyes were excited. "Before nightfall."

"Hannah, don't," her husband pleaded.

"But they're coming, they're on their way," she
insisted. "I know it, something tells me! I knew it
the minute I heard the cock crow. Mary, it kept
shouting, Mary!"

Reluctantly, Joachim laughed. He would never
understand her. "It said nothing of the kind to
me."

"I'll need more wood for the fire. And food--more
milk. Joachim, you didn't drink that whole
skin?" she scolded. "Well, no matter, Esau can get
more. And meat--Joachim, don't work in the fields
today, it's too wet--slaughter a lamb."

"A lamb!" he protested. "That's extravagant. We can't spare a lamb right now."
"Well, then, a kid. Surely we can have meat for our daughter's homecoming."
"Hannah, stop." He caught her wrist, firm with his intense little wife when he had to be. "You must not count on this. I can't let you be hurt."
"Never you mind about that," she said defiantly, almost gaily. Twisting away, she began breaking sticks across her knee. "For once, just once, believe me--the way you were always so quick to believe Mary," she could not resist adding.

Instantly she regretted her words. Poor Joachim,
standing there in his nightshift, looking so stricken.
Loving their firstborn no more than she did--no,
that would be impossible, for Mary was her
pride, her passion--but in a way that sometimes
maddened Hannah, for it somehow shut her out.
Also, it was most unusual, this relationship between
her husband and their daughter. Didn't good Jewish
men thank the Lord every day "that thou has not
made me a woman" and generally prefer their male
children? It was almost unseemly, the way Joachim
acted. But then they were so alike, those two--both
dreamers, even Joachim, beneath his gruff exterior.
They'd had their little games and songs and secrets
from the time Mary was a tiny girl. To Hannah's
dismay, even when Mary was older it was her
father she more often turned to. Hannah felt
baffled and forsaken even as she remembered.

But this was no time to rekindle old coals. Not
when she and Joachim had drawn so close in their
mutual concern. Not when her own conviction was
so strong.

Impetuously, she flung her wiry arms around him. She had to stand on tiptoe to reach his broad chest. "I know, I know, I'm not as devout as you; I would never claim God spoke to me, not even in a dream. But something has told me. We must get ready, for they will be here this day."
Sighing, Joachim stomped back to their chamber. But a strange sensation was rising up within him to match her mood. Such folly, he warned himself. Exasperation, an almost constant companion, warred with his love for Hannah. His helpless
abiding tenderness. Hannah, so tiny, dry, and caustic, who had little imagination and so was often impatient with those who had. Yet who could be so
stubborn about her own ideas. And so devastated when proven wrong. To resist her, however, was fruitless misery. And there was always the chance, he consoled himself--in this case the sweet possibility that she might be right.
The children had roused and began to appear. They were overjoyed at the news. Only Esau, their eldest, who was blind and crippled, seemed puzzled,
realizing that actually there had been no word. Nonetheless, they flew to do their mother's bidding. And by midafternoon when Salome, married now and expecting a child herself, came trudging up the hill, the house was scrubbed and
shining. Hannah had flung the doors wide. Fresh palm branches were strewn on the floor. The sun was bright once again, drying the glistening
puddles. Even Esau had hobbled into the fields and plucked an armload of wild lilies. Salome helped her mother plunge them into water and set
them about. a sweet explosion of scarlet and gold and blue that filled the humble rooms.

Outside, she spoke quietly to her father. "Why is our mother so sure?"
He shook his head, grinned faintly. "I am the last person to explain the ways of your mother. She even wanted me to slaughter a lamb."
"A lamb!" Salome exclaimed. "In the middle of the week? Not even on a feast day?"

"I know, I know, but your sister--after all she's been through--" Joachim shuddered, unable to speak of it further, the thing that haunted him and
made his wife cry out so often in the night: the butchery of all those babies in Bethlehem. How Mary, Joseph, and the child had had to flee for
their very lives. "When she does return it will be a feast day indeed! As for now, to appease your mother I at least took some large fat ducks to be
properly killed."

"And if she's disappointed?"
His big rough hand went to his brow. "She'll suffer, we'll all suffer. She'll have one of her headaches, I fear. But wait, let's not expect the
worst. Your husband will come up for supper. I'll open a fresh wine jug; we'll celebrate anyway. And who knows?" Slowly, deliberately, he turned his
whole body, searching the road that led into the village, his eyes anxious, willing the sight into existence.

Except for a boy herding his goats, the road was vacant. Joachim could hear the bleating of the animals, along with the voices of his family from
the yard, where a fire was already kindled under the spit. To his dismay, Hannah insisted on preparing the ducks early. Joseph, she said, liked his fowl well done... And suddenly another scene came flooding back, another night of commotion and anticipation at the cooking of a duck: The night Mary had overridden their objections and invited her beloved to eat with them. A time when
Hannah had disapproved of Joseph so violently the very thought of his joining them had sent her to her bed.
"I'd better go help," Salome said. She stood a
moment regarding her father--a tall, pensive girl,
already motherly at fourteen. She carried the baby
in her plumpish, dimpled body with an air of both
humility and pride. There was a serenity about
Salome that went strangely with her youth. She
was very fair, with her lovely skin and large velvety
eyes, but plainer, even so, than Mary. She was
resigned to the fact she would never be as dear to
Joachim as his first daughter. "Try not to worry,
Father." She pressed his arm. "I do hope Mary
comes soon."
The sun was getting lower beyond the olive
grove. In the blue distance, Mount Tabor was
drawing on its cloaks of mauve and purple.
Matthew, ten, already in from herding the sheep,
was perched on the fold, counting them carefully
with his rod as they entered. Joachim could hear
their gentle blatting; he answered his second son's
wave.
It was later than Joachim had thought; the other animals must be fed.
He headed for the stable, slow-footed, determined
to prolong his chores, dreading what awaited his return. He crouched through the low door, began forking hay. The place smelled musty from the rains, strong of animal hides and dust and the tang of the rustling hay. The fragrance of roasting fowl began to drift inside. Joachim sensed the increased
activity, and when he heard voices shouting his
heart lurched foolishly. But striding to peer out, he
saw it was only the children welcoming Salome's
husband, Ephraim.
Joachim could hear him laughing. Ephraim was a
big fair fellow, young and exuberant; he had bright
friendly eyes and a way of making everyone feel
better. Joachim was suddenly relieved and fortified.
Bracing himself, he went forth to meet his son-in-law.
But he could scarcely bear to look at Hannah,
who could no longer postpone the meal. Curtly she
ordered the children to carry the smoking meat
indoors. The ducks lay, crisp and brown and succulent,
bigger than Joachim remembered and almost painfully festive. Grimly Hannah was
putting last-minute touches to the low table. He
could see, as she handed him towels for the
washing, that she was fighting back tears. But
when he reached out a hand to comfort her, she
twisted aside.
"We will put a portion aside for them. The day
is not yet over!"
Then, as the men and boys sat down upon the
cushions, as Joachim lifted his hands for the
blessing, a little cry escaped his wife. She flung
down her serving tool and ran for the door. Here
she emitted another cry, a sound of such triumph
and rejoicing it was almost like an animal in pain.
Joachim arose, incredulous. The others sprang up too, pushed past him. By the time he reached the door, all the family were flying down the hill,
Hannah in the lead, arms outspread.

Joachim did not follow. He couldn't; something
held him, some sweet yet awful paralysis that
would only allow him to support himself here at
the sill, his big arms braced. She was home at last,
their darling, his darling; she was safe. Enough just
to savor this knowing. It must be enough, for his
legs felt weak. And there was something more: Let
Hannah have this first precious moment with
them.

For he remembered how he had had to restrain
her that bitterly cold morning when the young
people had set off from Nazareth for Bethlehem,
Mary big with child, but so pathetically small
herself as Joseph led the donkey. He remembered
the fog, the cold, the dark looming mountains, and
how Hannah, in her desperation, would have run
after them, crying out so late--too late--the words
it had taken her so long to utter: "I believe, oh,
Mary, I believe!" No, let her be first to embrace
the three who were approaching.

Sternly, Joachim tried to compose his working
face. His eyes were wet; he could scarcely see them:
they were like figures in a dream--Joseph, once
again cheerfully leading the donkey, and Mary,
now bouncing along beside it, waving and smiling
even as she supported the child who proudly rode
its back. My grandchild! Joachim realized, shaken.
My first grandson.
Hannah carried the child excitedly inside: a beautiful boy, a little past two years old. His small brown sandaled feet dangled, his arms clung tightly
around her neck. He had an explosion of blue-black
curls and huge sweet shining eyes. Like his parents,
he was deeply tanned from the desert sun.

"We all look like Bedouins," Mary said, during
the laughing and hugging and crying. Her teeth
flashed white in her strangely dusky face. It was
very becoming. She was even more beautiful than
her family remembered. "And we're so unkempt,
but there was no place to stop without spending the
night."

Mary was gazing around the room, this room of
her childhood she had dreamed of so long. Its spicy
fragrance of fire and food, the flowers, the familiar
chests and cupboards--how could they be so much
the same? As if she had never been away. And the
people, these dear faces and voices--the same, the
same, and yet even in these few years, so changed.
For a startled minute they seemed to her almost
strangers. Esau had shot up taller than she was.
Little Salome, big with child. Worry had darkened
the circles beneath her mother's hollow eyes.
Joachim's bushy hair had thinned; his broad shoulders
were no longer so erect... It hurt, it hurt to
notice. In a burst of tenderness, Mary ran to
embrace them both again. "And we were so anxious to get home!"
But she too was different now: a mother, a woman who had traveled far; she sensed that her family was a little in awe of her. She and Joseph were indeed weary and travel-stained, however.
Hannah, refusing to set the child down, ordered
her other daughters to fill the basins, a task Salome
already had begun.

"And you must be hungry. We'll reheat the supper.
Fortunately; there's plenty. I knew you were
coming!" her mother triumphed. "Didn't I.
Joachim? Didn't I foretell their return this very
day?" She kept kissing the little boy, who was
gazing about, bewildered. But when his father
appeared in the doorway, he struggled and held out
his arms.

Joseph, with the help of Esau and Matthew, had
been unloading and watering the donkey. He was
taller than Joachim remembered, even more handsome,
and certainly more mature. His bearing,
always graceful and self-assured, had a new
authority about it as he entered the room to
embrace them. His shoulders seemed broader to the
arms Joachim flung gratefully about him. Those
still-radiant sea-gray eyes--there was something
newly sober about them, too. Truly he had proved
himself as a man; he had seen their daughter
through a strange ordeal, even terrible danger, and
brought her safely home. Their Mary and--her
child.

Joachim turned to fill his gaze with the little
boy, who was crying, striving to reach his father.
"Now, now," Joseph soothed, kissing Hannah as
she reluctantly gave him over. "He's just tired."
"And hungry," Hannah declared. "We must feed him. Grandmother must feed her little one at once." She flew about, deriding her own neglect,
ordering Judith, her eight-year-old, to help clear
away the food and warm it. "But don't touch the
milk. I myself will pour it for this precious baby."

Already Hannah had staked her claim to this, her
first grandchild.

Salome, who would soon be in labor herself, felt
only a brief pang as she trudged about doing her
mother's bidding. Salome had never envied her
sister, who was so beautiful, always so poised and
sparkling, drawing everyone to her. Salome's own
nature was shy, a bit submissive; she found it hard
to meet people's eyes. But she had a way of looking
up suddenly, with a quick little smile that charmed
them.

She had worshiped Mary since childhood, been
inconsolable when they were apart. And the mystery
of Mary's conceiving had only intensified her
devotion. Salome had been so young when it was
first discovered that Mary was with child... and
not yet married! Her distraught parents, how they
had tried to spare her. Salome hadn't understood
their story, only that the whole family must
rally in loving defense of Mary, who could do no
wrong. Of all the children, Salome had been the
most worried about the three so far away from
home. But now here they were, warm, real, alive!
She could hardly contain her relief and delight.

What did it matter that though her mother's
fierce little heart loved fully, it had such a special
place for the few on whom it fastened? Let Hannah
rejoice in this child, as both parents had rejoiced in
Mary above all others. God must have his reasons. 
Washed, changed, and fed, the little boy was soon
toddling about the floor. His young aunts and
uncles adored him, vied for his attention. Matthew
was chasing Judith in a game of hide and seek
which made the baby shriek with laughter. Esau
cheered from the darkness.

"Except for a couple of Egyptian children, he's
had no one to play with," Mary told Salome as
they washed the dishes. "And to think he'll soon
have someone else," she marveled. "You, my little
sister, married!" She hugged the warm sweet bulk
beside her, in which a new heart beat. "How
wonderful that the Lord has blessed your womb."

"It's been a great comfort to our mother.
Salome looked up with that quick, half-shy little
smile. "She will attend me, of course. Oh, Mary,"
she said intensely, "you will never know how much
she missed you. We sometimes feared for her
health."

They both regarded Hannah, who was searching
the cupboard for a ball of yarn and some clay
rattles that Esau's skilled fingers had fashioned for
his nephew's homecoming. Usually the youngsters
were not allowed to play in the small crowded
house, but tonight was exceptional. It was still too
wet for the family to visit on the roof; the men
were gathered around the glowing fire, plying
Joseph with questions about Egypt. Mary and
Salome hung up their towels and sat watching as
Hannah joined the children on the hard-packed
clay foor, tossing the ball to the little newcomer, 
then scrambling about to help him find it. The
sisters smiled; it had been years since they had seen
their mother so animated.

Joachim smiled too, turning to watch them. How
the little boy responded, clapping his hands,
hugging Hannah in return when she caught him
fervently to her. Joachim's eyes were fixed in
wonder on the child, puzzled, searching--for what?
A curious sense of hope mingled with his vague
unease.

"I love his name," Salome said. "Jesus. A fine
old name, although never before used in our family.
It's beautiful, it suits him. I'm glad you chose
it." As Mary hesitated, Salome pressed her hand.
"Was it terrible for you, Mary? Were you very
frightened?"

"Yes, at first."

"And later, in Egypt?"

"Often there too," Mary acknowledged. "But
Joseph comforted me." Her eyes sought him out,
where he stood in earnest conversation with the
men beside the embers. Even his shadow in silhouette
against the whitewashed wall was fair--so
fair that even now, weary as she was, and surrounded
at last by those she had been so homesick
for, she longed only to be near him. "Oh, Salome,
no one will ever know how brave he was, how wise
and strong, how hard he worked for us!" Mary
sprang up, suddenly overcome with the wonder of
it all: their incredible journey, their deliverance.
"And God was with us," she added fervently. "It
was he, even he, who sent us." She went to pick up
her child. "It's late. We must take him home,
Mother, and put him to bed."

"Home?" Hannah protested. "But you've only
just arrived! And this is your home too. That
house, the house you left, will be cold; it isn't
ready."

"Father tells me he's taken care of it for us
against our return. Joseph will build a fire--" She
was suddenly unutterably tired. The vision of her
own home, after the years of exile, was almost too
sweet to believe.

At her signal Joseph stood up and came to claim
the boy, holding him tenderly, his son. The others
rose too, surrounding them, begging them to change
their minds. There was plenty of room, they insisted.
Plenty of pallets and covers. And they
wanted to hear more about Bethlehem, the events
that had driven them into Egypt, the village where
the little family had lived, within sight of the
Pyramids! In the first hours of reunion, of washing
and eating and clearing up, there had been many
questions and answers, a lively exchange of news.
But they were eager to know more.

Joachim interceded. "No, now, let them go." He
too was exhausted, he realized. "God has brought
them home. For now, let that be enough. We will
have a lifetime to talk." He set about preparing the
torches to light their way.

Mary's brothers held them high, leading the little
procession down the steep old streets. The night
was chill. A light rain had begun again, spattering
the pomegranate and olive leaves. Their silver
glistened in the tarry-smelling flames, and the air
was sweet with blossoms. Mary ran a little ahead,
face lifted, drinking it in, tugging at Joseph's hand,
eager to see the house they had dreamed of so long.
Her parents walked behind.

Hannah had insisted on coming too, throwing a
shawl over her head, taking the child from Joseph,
and carrying him wrapped snugly in a lamb's-wool
blanket. Carefully she picked her way over the
cobbles, clutching him to her breast. He was soon
too heavy for her, however; when she stumbled,
Joachim reached out his arms. "Let me have him."

Half fearfully, Joachim gathered Jesus close. It
was the first time he had touched his grandson.
Something had restrained him, as he had felt restrained
at seeing the trio approaching--Mary and
Joseph and the tiny stranger on the donkey--as
before a mirage that might disappear. Now, as he
felt the precious weight across his shoulder, the
warm tender breath against his cheek, a great shout
of joy arose in Joachim, a sense of some tremendous,
almost absurd relief.

Why, he's just a little boy! he realized--although
what he had expected he didn't quite know--a perfectly
normal little boy who looks like Mary.

The evening flashed before him, scenes so merry
and natural Joachim wanted to laugh: the chasing
about of all the children, Hannah's getting down
on the floor to play with them. Joachim was so
shaken he had to press the child tighter. How long
it had been since he had seen his wife in such a
mood!


Chapter 2
IT WAS SPRING now, truly spring--the second week
of April, for the doves had returned. Mary awoke
one morning to the sweet incessant music of their
crooning. Looking out the tiny slit of window, she
saw them--some pied, some fawn-colored, but
most of them white as rain lilies--festooning every
tree in the garden, perched on walls and bushes,
dipping their dainty heads to drink from the wet
sparkling grass.

A cry of delight escaped her. She ran to lift up
her boy and carry him to the window to see. And
later, as they walked to the well and home again,
the birds were everywhere, fluttering and singing,
clouds of them, as if little living winged bouquets
had dropped from heaven to welcome them home.

Not a sign of them was to be seen a few weeks
before, when Mary and Joseph had trudged their
last weary mile into Nazareth. Yet here they were,
on schedule. You could count on the doves; there
was no deviation from their migration, not even by
a day. As the prophet Jeremiah had written, you
could always "observe the time of their coming." 
Rejoicing, Mary set down her jug and ran after Jesus, who was darting about, trying to catch them in his hands. "Birds, birds!" he shouted, laughing
as they darted off with a silvery drumming of
wings.

"Come, darling, we will see the birds when
Mother has finished her baking and we climb the
hill."

Mary sang too as she opened the little bag of
locust flour she had brought all the way from
Egypt, and mixed it with spices and honey. Her
heart, like the doves, had scarcely left off its
singing since her return. She felt akin to the
doves, and grateful, as if God had sent these little
messengers in welcome and reward, to observe
the time of her own homecoming--and something
more: to celebrate her life in its own new season.

For she realized now that she had been just a girl
when she left, a very young girl, scared, confused,
torn between her desperate love for Joseph and the
awesome responsibility the Lord God himself had
seen fit to put upon her body. No, more than her
body--her very soul. But she had returned a
woman. She had become a woman in that stable, in
their ordeals on the desert, in the want they had
known in Egypt, in Joseph's arms. Toughened by
suffering, uplifted by love, she had failed neither
her God nor her husband.

She could go forth into the morning, head high,
fearing nothing, a proud young wife and mother
leading her beautiful son. The women at the well
confirmed this; they threw their arms around her
in welcome, made a place for her in the line. There
was the creak of rope and buckets, the sloshing of 
water into their vessels, a merry chattering above
the mooing and blatting of animals at the trough.
They vied to be first to share the village news, the
latest gossip. Her own seeming fall from grace no
longer mattered; they lavished kisses and compliments
on her child.

Even her cousin Deborah, who now had two
little girls clinging to her skirts. "Mary, Mary, why
are you always so favored?" Deborah wailed.
Deborah had a catlike beauty, a lively, excessive
quality that made her dear. Their mothers had
never quite succeeded in making them rivals. "Isn't
it enough that you snatch the handsomest man in
Nazareth from the rest of us? Do you have to
produce such a firstborn son?"

Mary hugged her, relishing the old exaggeration:
caustic, playful, half envy, half genuine affection.
"Nonsense. Your Aaron is a wonderful man, and
your daughters couldn't be more fair."

Smiling as she remembered, Mary put the cakes
onto the coals. They were made from a recipe
given her by a Bedouin woman. How kind and
hospitable those dusky, jet-eyed people. Several
times they had offered shelter in their long black
tents: once from a sandstorm, again on bitter cold
nights when jackals howled and there was nowhere
else to turn. Mary had winced to see the women
and children eagerly pulling off the heads and
wings of the locusts, creatures that at home only
spelled disaster, then drying the brittle bodies in
the sun to be beaten into flour. But the little locust
cakes were delicious.

She would carry some to Salome. Her sister had
given birth two days before. Only a daughter, to
everyone's disappointment. Nonetheless, there
would be a celebration feast. Oh, there was so
much to celebrate, and the doves proclaimed it! She
would take Jesus out among the birds again, as she
had promised. They would climb the plateau that
encircled the town, so she could show him his
homeland. They would follow the back route, and
on the way they would gather flowers.

The dew was still heavy in the grass; their
sandals were quickly soaked. But even this seemed
wonderful after the brutal heat of Egypt. Sometimes
Mary's throat still went parched and dry, and
she would gulp whole pitchers of precious water.
Her skin had lightened somewhat, but its sense of
burning remained; she felt burned to the bone,
seared by some fierce yet sacred fire, perhaps
necessary to her own cleansing and reshaping. That
must have been what God willed for her--and for
Joseph. But even as the Lord had led their forefathers,
he had brought them up out of Egypt!
They had returned to Nazareth and to Galilee, the
very flower of Israel. Their Promised Land. Pray
heaven they would never have to leave it again.

Two hawks dipped above them, and higher in
the sky black specks of vultures hung motionless, as
if held by invisible threads. Something cold and
nameless brushed Mary's heart. She rejected it
violently. No, no, the threat was past, and she
would not even think of the future. For now let it
be sufficient, this bright sweet release into the cool
breezes of the mountains, the jeweled wetness
beneath her feet. On impulse, Mary fell to her
knees and, like the birds, plunged her face into the
moist clover. And Jesus, watching, did the same.
What a mimic he was. Already he had little ways
like his father, Joseph. Some people, eagerly
scanning his face, even thought he resembled
Joseph. Another miracle? No matter; it was enough
that the two loved each other so much. The little
boy could scarcely wait for his father's step at the
door in the evening; he would fly into Joseph's
arms. They would wrestle and play until Mary
must make them stop. Joseph was already teaching
him songs and psalms and whole passages from the
Torah. In time, as was proper for Jewish fathers,
he would teach his son his own trade in the
carpenter shop.

Mary and her boy climbed on, clouds of doves
whirring up about them at every step. The redwinged
blackbirds had come back too, and finches
and canaries, yellow as the vivid golden karkom
and daffodils that paved the rolling hills. Butterflies
dipped above the fragrant blossoms, and the
steady hum of bees was background for the crooning
chorus of the doves. But it was the doves that
gave them most delight, spurting up in pairs,
flirting their outspread tails.

The child's short legs tired; Mary lifted him to
her shoulders. He liked to ride there, straddling her
neck, clutching her forehead, surveying the world.
And what a world it was from here! Below them, in
the hollow, lay Nazareth, looking like a toy village
of winding streets and shops. Its small, whitewashed
stone-and-plaster houses clung to the
surrounding hillsides. Other hills undulated as far
as the eye could see, peering over each other's
shoulders, then pitching into the Plain of Esdraelon
or the valleys of the Jordan, or soaring to magnificent
heights.

A brisk breeze that always blew in from the
mountains tousled the boy's hair and twisted
Mary's skirts as she pointed them out: "Over there
in the distance, beyond those blue ridges--that's
Mount Carmel. And closer, to the east--look, my
darling, there is Mount Tabor. The psalmists have
likened its rounded form to the breast of a beautiful
woman. And that peak farther north is Mount
Hattin. Though we can't see it from here, neither
of them is far from the Sea of Galilee. There are
many fish in its waters; sometime your father and I
will take you there."

She had set down her basket. She kept turning,
breathing deeply of the cold bright air. "And look,
to the right, where the sheep are grazing. Those are
your grandfather's fields, where I used to play.
Your grandfather Joachim would sometimes let me
ride the ox--" she laughed-- "to my mother's distress.
His house is hidden by the trees, but we can
see the beauty of the mountains from there too."

What joy to drink all this in once more! Nothing
she and Joseph had seen in their travels could
compare--except, perhaps, looking down from the
Mount of Olives on the sacred Temple in Jerusalem.
Certainly not the Pyramids, those huge moldy
tombs stabbing the sky, or the Sphinx, secret and
ominous, crouched on its paws: ugly monuments to
long-dead kings, with only the lonely burning
desert stretching endlessly toward the horizon.
Mary shuddered. But today, oh how God had
blessed her, for here she stood presenting this
beautiful panorama to her son. Did he understand?
No matter, for this was his home. He would grow
up here; soon, too soon, he would be running about
by himself, exploring these heights and fields and
forests without her. Already his little limbs seemed
to be stretching out, as if reviving in the mists and
dews of Galilee, like a parched plant after rain.

Mary gripped his legs harder, pressed her lips
against his knee. Then she set him down and gazed
into his big excited eyes. For the doves had flocked
here too; they were basking on the sunny rocks,
walking in their little bobbing way among the
flowers. As before, Jesus scampered among them,
hands outstretched.

The sun was bright; the air was sweet with the
perfume of hyacinths--whole hillsides were painted
with their blue, as if someone had dumped on them
buckets of sky. Scarlet poppies bloomed among
them, like scattered drops of blood. Knee-high
daffodils swayed in the wind. Mary knelt to gather
some for her basket. When she looked up she saw
that Jesus had somehow managed to capture a
dove. He was squatted on the path, stroking it,
talking softly to it. Then she saw, to her dismay,
the open snare trap in the grasses behind it. Many
people set these traps, wanting the birds for food or
sacrifice. The poor thing must have been caught,
and Jesus had released it: a female, Mary sensed,
ready for nesting. Another bird, which could only
be its mate, hovered frantically overhead.

Cradling the white treasure carefully in his
hands, Jesus brought it to Mary to admire. "See, it
likes me, it didn't like the net!"

"Yes, sweetheart, let it go, it wants to fly. It
wants to lay its eggs." As she spoke, the male
fluttered to their feet and began a ploy of limping
off, dragging one wing.

"Here, bird, here!" Jesus shouted, running after
the mate, trying to present his captive to him; but
the female only flew to the child's shoulder and
nestled there.

Jesus stood very still, frightened but awed. His
black curls were wind-tossed. His tunic was very
white in the sun. And as he stood so, the male dove
returned, no longer alarmed, it seemed to Mary,
and calmly perched on the other shoulder. A smile
broke across the child's face. Cautiously reaching
up, he cupped both feathered bundles and held
them tenderly against his cheeks. Then he opened
his hands. The birds fluttered an instant as if, it
seemed to Mary, they were reluctant to leave; then
they spurted upward, singing a song of love and
joy.

The scene was as sudden and brief as the clouds
that sometimes appear over the mountains and
vanish almost before the eyes can comprehend. Nor
was it so very strange, Mary told herself. It could
happen to any little boy. Why then must her heart
pound so? Why this sense of some trembling elation,
mingled with an anguish she could not
explain? It was one of many things she must
ponder in her heart.
"Come, now," she said, and ran and caught him
fiercely to her. "We must be on our way."

They found her father's house alive with women
and children about to picnic on the grass. New
babies always brought them swarming, long before
the official celebration. Salome was the center of
attention, holding her red-faced swaddled daughter
as proudly as if she had been a son. Only her
mother-in-law sat a little apart, a fat, rather disgruntled
woman, looking unimpressed.
Hannah bustled about seeing to the food, in her
glory. She loved eating outdoors where there was
room to spread out, and the birds and grasshoppers
and even the buzzing flies added to the liveliness.
Also, this spontaneous gathering represented
a triumph. Over the objections of Salome's in-laws,
Hannah had insisted her daughter come home to be
delivered. After all, if she the mother was to
act as midwife, she was the one to be convenienced.
"Ah, but there was a battle," Hannah had informed
Mary mischievously earlier. "To keep the
peace I was forced to relent. But I knew the Lord
would not let me down. As you know, your sister
never fails to spend a part of each day with me."
Hannah let this sink in as she vigorously stirred the
pot. "Thus it was that she was here with me when
the pains struck. Here she was, and here she will
stay until the time of her purification."

The gibe was not lost on Mary. Salome was indeed
a more dutiful daughter, she knew regretfully.
Salome had not fallen desperately in love and
insisted on having her way, but obediently accepted
their choice of the tinner Ephraim. Evidently it had
proved a happy match, except for his mother and
sisters, who seemed to quarrel a great deal. Was it
perhaps to escape them that Salome fled their
company each day to be with her mother? Yes,
surely, in part, for Salome was quiet and peace-loving.
But Mary sensed that Salome clung to her
parents not only to comfort herself but also to try
to compensate for the suffering her sister had
caused them.

Mary's heart went out to all of them as she
remembered her own rebellion, and the shame that,
however innocently, she had brought upon Hannah
and Joachim: the pregnancy they could not, dare
not even attempt to explain. The truth would only
have made them laughingstocks in the village.

For Hannah, to whom pride meant so much, this
was devastating. And then the cruel shock of
realizing that she was not even to be present at the
birth of her first grandchild! No wonder Hannah
was so determined to have it her way when it came
to Salome's baby... And then the long separation.
Nearly three years! Mary could not bear to
think of her parents' pain--she thrust it aside, it
would have shattered her if she let it. No, no, she
could not even imagine how she and Joseph would
feel if they had to be separated so long from their
child.

In an access of love, Mary went to embrace
Hannah, who was directing Judith to pass more
cheese and dried fruit among the circle of guests,
seated on cushions around the new mother. "I
brought some cakes for the celebration," Mary said
eagerly, "but why wait? I baked some little locust
cakes."

"Locusts?" Hannah shuddered. "Vile noisy
pests that devour the corn. I would sooner eat pork
than have such a thing pass my mouth."

"They are very nourishing, Mother, when dried
and ground into flour," Mary insisted. "And the
bread and cakes they make are very good, especially
the sweetened cakes."

"No, no, throw them out, throw them to the
dogs."

Mary flushed, trying not to be hurt. How
quickly her mother had fallen into her old sharp
habits--even now, Mary thought, bewildered,
though she loves me with a passion--as if to
punish me for things neither of us can understand.
In Mary's homesick dreaming, she had almost
forgotten.

"I will do nothing of the kind," Mary said
lightly. She kissed Hannah's cheek to allay the
words' effect. "Come, Judith," she called. "Help
me, we will carry them to Salome to decide."

Some of the women had overheard. They took up
the merits and demerits of locust cookery, with
Salome's mother-in-law surprisingly its most ardent
advocate. Rousing from a kind of disapproving
torpor, the woman began to talk, while greedily
devouring the cakes. It seemed that for years her
family had harvested the descending hordes, carried
them home in baskets. On and on she went in her
boring, authoritative voice. Locusts needn't just be
pounded into flour, she claimed; they were
delicious pickled or fried in olive oil.

Hannah was disgusted. Heathens, she thought.
Smithies, pounding those creatures--and their
pans. Inconsistently, though she and Joachim had
picked Ephraim out, they felt superior to his
family. Almost as they had felt superior toward the
family of Joseph ben Jacob. It was not a matter of
money, for Joachim had but a few sheep, a single
ass, and an ox. Also, his oldest son was both blind
and lame. But his two other sons were vigorous and
all three daughters beautiful. There was a kind of
lofty self-assurance about Joachim, burly farmer
that he was; he understood the Law, his word was
respected, he carried weight in the synagogue.
While the sheer zest and spunk of his wife's
personality made them a team to be reckoned with.

Hannah was not easily bested. In the midst of
the flattering remarks about the cakes she ran to
catch up Jesus, who was rolling around on the grass
with several other children. "My grandson!" she
announced, strutting around to show him off. "Did
you ever see a child so beautiful? And you should
hear him, he's already reciting the psalms!"

Embarrassed, Mary crouched by Salome, who
was nursing her baby. Its head was like a silken shell, warm and fragile. Mary stroked it, filled with yearning. "I'm sorry," she said. "It is just our
mother's way. She is really very proud of your darling Naomi."

Salome laughed softly and pressed her hand.
"There is no need for us to explain our mother to
each other, Mary. We each love our children, and
we love each other. That's all that matters."

Mary felt better, once more elated--and hungry,
she realized. She followed Hannah into the house,
where a small struggle ensued over who would feed
the child. Mary gave in. Hannah had missed so
much already, and she was so much older, she
would have fewer years to enjoy him. Suddenly the
fact of her mother's mortality smote her: the lines
so deeply etched on the gaunt little face, the wispy
hair even thinner; a pathetic but vaguely comical
pink bald spot showed through. And her hands
were so wrinkled; the hands that were spooning
soup into Jesus' mouth were even shaking slightly,
Mary noticed.

It was the hands that did it. Mary threw her
arms about both of them where they sat beside the
oven and wept, using the diminutives of her
childhood. "Oh, Mama, Mama, forgive me! I will
try to be a better daughter to you. I too will come
to see you every day. I will have more babies for
you to deliver and for my father to hold upon his
knees."

Tears she'd forgotten how to cry ran down her
cheeks. Some dry, searing, frozen thing had locked
them back or burned them from her. The savage
heat by day, the nights of brutal cold. And terror,
sheer terror, during the time of their flight and
hiding, for soldiers had followed them well beyond
the border; she would never forget the sound of the
horses' hooves or the thresh of sabers beating the
bushes. Sometimes she fancied she could even
smell again that chill, wild, leathery odor of men
and beasts.

She had not cried then, for Joseph was with her,
and God was with her, and to cry would have been
weak and unworthy. A breach of faith. "How brave
you are," Joseph said many times. But it was not
bravery that sustained her; it was something else.
Something stronger, fierce and strange and
curiously free, and in its own way curiously
pleasing. For she was a different person out there
so far from home; she was a girl no more.

But here, now, in this room, with her mother's
warm, tart-sweet little body against her... her
mother's scent, even her sharp-sweet tongue...
Mary dissolved.

"What's this?" Hannah drew back. "Now, now,
hush, child, you have made me spill the soup!" But
her own eyes filled, fastening avidly on Mary.

Jesus wormed down from her lap while the two
held each other, rocking to and fro, weeping. They
wept for all the mothers and daughters since Eve.
They wept for the awful misunderstandings, the
separations and reunions. They wept for love.

"You didn't write," Hannah moaned softly.
"You could have made Joseph write more often.
We nearly went crazy, we were so worried. We
nearly went out of our minds!"

"Mother, Mother, you don't know what it was
like!" Mary cried. She gripped the bony arms,
almost shaking Hannah in her frenzy, as if Hannah
were now the child. "Traveling through the desert
with a baby so young. It was a very hard journey;
we could have died! If it hadn't been for the
Bedouins who took us in--"

"Why didn't God protect you? Why, why, if he
were truly the one who chose you to bear his Son?"
"If?" Mary gasped. "Mother, don't tell me you
harbor doubts even now?"

"No, no, forgive me. I am only an ignorant
woman, not as familiar with the Scriptures as your
father. There is so much I don't understand."

"Nor do I," Mary said. "I only know this: we
suffered. And we will no doubt suffer again. God's
purpose is beyond my comprehension. I only know
that he brought us safely through. He will never
abandon us--or his Son."

She wiped her eyes.

"Someday I will tell you all about it. How hard
Joseph worked when we finally settled in Giza. He
was a brick builder, he made bricks with his bare
hands. We were terribly poor, and his back was
nearly broken from his labors. There were no runners,
at least none we could trust to bring you
word. Remember, we Israelites are still looked on
with suspicion by many Egyptians to this day, at
least in most places--"

It was hopeless to convey, at least right now.
Jesus had escaped, they realized; they must find
him. They were neglecting their guests and
Salome.

"Yes, yes, forgive me." Hannah hugged Mary
more tightly. Then, feeling slightly guilty, yet
united in a wonderful new way, they went back
into the yard.

By midafternoon the other women had gathered up
their children and departed. Mary lingered, holding
her sister's sleeping baby gently against her heart.
She too should be off. It was a long walk, and she
must start the evening meal. Also, she had hoped to
drop in on Joseph's mother, Timna. But duty held
her. To leave Hannah for Timna right now seemed
a kind of betrayal. Here too the doves mourned,
bees droned above the flowering almond and
oleander trees. Hannah drowsed on the grass at her
feet, Jesus in the crook of one arm. Mary was
reluctant to break the spell.

Presently she was aware of the soft plod of
hooves as Joachim led the ox up the path. Jesus sat
up quickly, wriggled free, and ran to meet them.
And shouting a greeting, Joachim scooped him up
and placed him on the shaggy creature's back.

Mary, half asleep herself, sprang up, thrust the
baby back on Salome, and ran after them, protesting.
"No, no, set him down!" Hannah too scrambled
frantically to her feet. But the boy was
ecstatically clutching the beast's fur.

"See, see!" he shouted, eyes shining. "See me
ride the ox!"

Joachim led them past the women again, round
and round the yard. He was smiling faintly, but
determined, asserting his own claim at last to the
child. "You know I won't let him fall," he
declared, half amused by their outcries, yet
scornful. "Let him enjoy the ride. As you used to,
Mary," he reminded.

"I was much older!" Mary wailed. She and
Hannah were clutching each other, hearts pounding,
in league against him.

"You were a girl. This is a man child."
Resolutely, Joachim prodded the beast, and
slowly it began to trot, carrying the boy on
toward the shed. Joachim trotted beside it,
supporting Jesus with one hand. A foolish sense of
release was flooding him. As if Yahweh himself
were finally freeing him to enjoy Mary's boy.
Something had held him back, a reluctance, half
awe, half the feeling that he should feel something
more... a restraint at odds with his own
puzzled observations. How could it be? This little
one who ate, slept, laughed, had to be protected,
sometimes even had to be scolded... this,
the Holy Child? The deliverer of Israel?...
The very Son of God.

Over and over Joachim wrestled with it,
unknown to anyone, least of all his daughter or
his wife. Yet what had he expected? A winged
cherub? A prophet, a priest? A grown man? He
was stricken with the absurdity of his own imaginings.

Suddenly all this was ended. The incident of
the ox brought Jesus and his grandfather close. The
child could hardly wait to reach the little farm on
the edge of town, where, as he grew older, he
would run into the fields to seek Joachim out.

Joachim would pause in his plowing or reaping
and smile to see the lithe figure bounding toward
him up the hill. There developed a subtle rivalry
between him and Hannah for the youngster's affections.
When Jesus was very small, Hannah had the
edge; she had time to rock him and play with him
and ply him with sweets. He was especially fond of
her fig cakes. Once he stuffed himself and was
sick.

"Mother, you must stop spoiling him, you and
Father," Mary pleaded.

Hannah turned from the basin where she was
wringing out a cloth soaked in water and vinegar,
her favorite remedy for everything. "You know
this child cannot be spoiled," she said surprisingly.
"No one on earth could accomplish such a
thing."

"You've succeeded in making him sick!"
Hannah bit her lip, contrite. "Forgive me, so I
have." Humbled, but clucking softly to him,
Hannah bent to place the cool cloth upon her
grandson's brow.

Actually, Mary felt a tender tolerance for her
parents' foolish contending. Praise heaven it was
not so with her and Joseph. And it had never been
so with Joseph's parents, despite his father Jacob's
over-fondness for the wineskins. Their rooms
adjoining the carpenter shop had been a place of
much laughter and singing, blessed with his
mother's gentle presence--Timna so patient with
her husband's weakness, for Jacob was amiable and
loving whatever his state.

Timna still lived there; it was a joy to have her
so close. Timna too adored Jesus, but her love did
not devour and demand. Her son's house was just
up the cobbled alley, above a cave where Joseph
kept lumber and some of his tools. The little boy
came running into Timna's quarters almost every
day, radiant and lively, wanting to bestow his latest
treasure--a flower, a beetle, a sparkling pebble--before
darting back through the drapery to join his
father in the shop.

Mary came too, usually bringing Timna jugs of
water and things from the marketplace.
"Mary!"
"Mother Timna!"
They would embrace as eagerly as if they had
been apart a long time. Then they would set about
their work, grinding, weaving, sewing together,
visiting in the way they had during those last
precious months of waiting for the baby, before the
trip to Bethlehem. There had been a mysterious
rapport between them ever since Joseph first
brought Mary home. White-haired, heavy-breasted
Timna, poised and gracious but so warm, unperturbed
by the fact that Mary's pregnancy made it
impossible even to have a wedding feast. She only
seemed to love her son and his chosen bride the
more.

Now this devotion between them was intensified
by the fact of the child, whom Timna was always
to believe her own blood. He was the very image of
Joseph, Timna was convinced, though she would
not dream of contradicting Hannah, who was always
pointing out how much Jesus favored the
family of Joachim. Timna must reject the uncomfortable
feeling they gave her sometimes, as if they
had some prior claim. Or, since the homecoming of
these three, as if they were privy to some secret
knowledge concerning the child. Timna was miffed
and half amused. But no, it was just their way, she
reminded herself. The happiness of Joseph's little
family, that was the main thing, and that she and
Mary were so dear to each other.

One day when Jesus was nearly four, the two
women could hear Joseph and the boy beyond the
drapery, roughhousing again, throwing sawdust,
rolling in the shavings. Mary's foot paused on the
treadle. She tilted her head, smiling. How alike
their laughter sounded. Their voices were also
much alike already. "Those two! I probably should
stop them."

"Let them play," Timna said. "Childhood is so
brief, my Jacob always said. The burdens of manhood
come all too soon. It's good for both of them."

Presently there was the sound of sawing. Timna
went to pull back the drapery, then beckoned to
Mary. Jesus was perched on the work table, holding
a board for his father. The little saw and mallet
Joseph had fashioned for him lay nearby. A shaft of
sunlight from the open door gave the small tools a
silvery brilliance and shone bright on the two faces,
bent soberly now to their task. Mary caught her
breath at how comely they were, working away in
the afternoon sunlight, chatting, singing, or looking
up to answer the greetings which people called in
from the street.

How peaceful her life was, how joyful. She could
feel God's blessings raining down warm in the
sunlight; she could almost gather them in her
fingers, out of this glittering shaft with the dust
motes dancing. A lane of light that did not stop
with Joseph and Jesus but flooded Timna, making
a nimbus of her thick white hair.... To have such
a mother-in-law--they were like Naomi and Ruth,
they sometimes told each other--to have such a
house only a few steps up the hill. The fine strong
house Joseph had built for her with such feverish
ardor during the time of their betrothal. They had
had so little time to enjoy it between her return
from Aunt Elizabeth's in Jerusalem and the shocking
order from Herod that had driven them out on
their wanderings.

But now, to live there at last, to have her own
little house to keep. To be able to carry its water,
tend its garden, clean it, cook in its oven, light its
lamps, adorn it with flowers. To make it snug and
happy for these two wonderful men God had given
her. And to witness every day how much Joseph
loved this son, who was not of his loins but was so
proudly of his heart.

Even as they stood there marveling, Joseph
looked up from his saw. He was whistling. He
reached over to tousle the boy's black curls. "Jesus
is a big help," he boasted. "See how fast he's
learning."
His gray eyes, sweet with their secret, held
Mary's.
For the long months of sacrifice and denial were
over. The One who had entrusted them with this
sacred life was a God of love. It was not his way to
punish those who had served him so well and
already suffered so much. To have doomed them to
raise his child, to live together, yet forbidden to
love each other, would have been impossible for the
very author and giver of life, and their home
unnatural for his son. Joseph was now her true
husband, as God had ordered the men of Israel to
be. And Mary was his true wife.

Mary had never been so happy. She was almost
dizzy with it, so that the room swayed slightly, she
had to grip the door. Timna looked at her, concerned.
"My dear, are you unwell?"
"No, oh, dear Mother Timna, no, although I do
have a joyous thing to tell you!"


Chapter 3
THEY NAMED THE baby Joseph, after his father.
Joseph barred the shop from customers, all that
day of Mary's labor, but worked savagely at his
bench. Hannah had ruled that he must not be with
her. A part of him was outraged; had he not seen
her daughter safely through that unforgettable
night so far from home when no midwife was to be
found? If he was worthy then, he told himself, if
God himself had deemed him worthy, why now
exact the ancient taboo? Yet Joseph also felt spared.
He wondered if he would be equal to seeing Mary
go through such agony again.

At last, toward evening, Timna appeared to
summon him. Hannah, disheveled but beaming,
had just placed the swaddled newborn into Mary's
arms.

And there she lay, his heart's darling, cradling
their son. His son. His blood mingled at last
with Mary's, a male of his own flesh lying there
hot and red and sweet with life, sucking life from
her breast.
Mary said it first, even before he reached her
pallet. "Our son, Joseph. Oh, my beloved, I have
given you a son!"
Joseph was too moved to speak. He kissed Mary
over and over, her hair, her eyes, her cheeks. He
kissed the baby's moist black head. Eyes wet, he
arose to embrace his mother, who'd kept Hannah
company during the long vigil. Hannah, busily
scrubbing up, felt his hands around her tiny waist.
To her sputtering astonishment, he picked her up
and whirled her around like a child.
"No, no, no, you will disturb them! Be off to get
Jesus and to tell Joachim."
The marketplace was emptying, shopkeepers
pulling down their awnings, people hurrying home.
Joseph strode through them, radiant, announcing
his joyful news. "A son, a son!" they exclaimed,
clapping him on the back and passing it along to
others. "Mary has given Joseph ben Jacob another
son."
Another? He hurried on, in a dazzled confusion,
for it was true and yet not true. No matter, let it
be; all that mattered now was that Mary was truly
his wife. God had not robbed him, as it had
seemed in that shocked and desperate time when
Mary first told him she was with child. When, sick
unto death, he had heard his own voice crying,
"Whose?" And she must tell him, try to make him
realize--
No, no, that agony was over. And no child would
ever be more dear to him than the one he had
delivered with his own hands that night of her
travail in Bethlehem. But surely the Lord who was
raining so many blessings on them lately would
understand his high heart today.
Joseph paused, in his climb up the hill, and
lifted his eyes to the sunset bannering the sky.
Gratefulness flooded him. He sensed, as Mary did,
that these were to be their happiest years. Reunited
with her family--even Hannah loved him now.
Her little disputes with Joseph, as with Joachim,
only seemed to enhance her fondness for him. The
shop prospering. If he and Mary were favored with
other children he would build an addition to their
house--his brothers would help as they had before.
... No, now he was going too fast! Heaven forgive
my eagerness.
Joseph stood for a moment, shaken. That little
boy he could see in the distance, tagging after
Matthew, who was leading the sheep in from pasture.
... A rosy haze bathed them. He could
hear the tinkling bells, the bleating, and, as the
sheep drew nearer, the drumming of their hooves.
He saw Matthew give the crook over to Jesus, as
they disappeared in a veil of pink dust behind the
fold...
Your Son, God, whom you entrusted to me as
well as Mary! The enormity and wonder of this
smote him afresh, a sudden startling realization of
the responsibility he still bore. It is not hard to
serve God, he thought, when the Lord himself
directs you, speaks to you in dreams... Four
times, he remembered, to his amazement, this had
happened: first, when the angel told him he should
not fear to take Mary as his wife; then, that he
should take Mary and the child and flee with them
into Egypt; again, that they should "go into Israel,
for they are dead who sought the young child's
life"; and, finally, that they should not return to
Judea but turn back to Galilee.
Each time Joseph had responded, moved forward
by commands and events beyond his power either
to question or understand, propelled too by the
danger and drama involving Mary.
But what of now, when the danger and drama
were past? When the voice of God no longer
roused him from dreams? Joseph sometimes lay
expectant, listening, hoping for some word of
direction; he heard only the mice nibbling in the
rafters, the cry of an owl, the soft music of his
beloved's breathing against his cheek. What of
now? Now when things were well with him, and
his own son slept at Mary's breast?
For the first time he felt inadequate, almost
afraid. But this he knew, and he said it aloud:
"Jesus will never have cause to feel unwanted. He
will always be the firstborn of my household."

Matthew had lifted Jesus up to perch on the
gates of the sheepfold; the child was holding the
crook over them as they tried to crowd through.
"See, Father, see!" he shouted as Joseph approached.
"I am counting the sheep!"
"Yes, my son." Joseph ran to hold him.
"But come, I have wonderful news. You have a
brother!"

Jesus was elated. The coming of each baby
thereafter became for him a special gift. As the
eldest, he was first at his mother's bedside,
first to kiss her and wipe her brow and lift up the
swaddled miracle for the others to admire. "See
what our mother has given us!" he would
announce; then, at a signal from Joseph, the baby's
name. A rich harvest of children, for again and
again the Lord blessed Mary's womb. After Joseph
came Ann, then James, Simon, Judas, and finally
another girl, Leah.
Mary could scarcely believe her good fortune, for
it was soon after the birth of Joseph that she
realized she was pregnant again. The new baby,
Ann, was in her arms and little Joseph barely two
when Jesus started to school. Mary stood in the
doorway with them that first day as Jesus and his
father set off hand in hand. It was a bright autumn
morning, cool and crisp, with birds singing. She
wanted to cry for love and pride in them, over the
pain of missing Jesus already, a longing to call
them back. How handsome they both looked, the
light falling on their new white tunics as they
strode along. The fairest in Nazareth; and Jesus
would surely be the brightest in the class. Then she
caught herself--she sounded like Hannah!
The boy was bouncing with eagerness, proudly
carrying his little bag of bread and cheese. His
black curls bobbed jauntily under his round velvet
cap. But at the last minute before they rounded the
corner to the synagogue, he hung back, turned
almost forlornly, and gave them a wistful wave.
Eyes wet, but smiling and calling encouragement,
Mary uncurled the baby's tiny fingers to wave
back. Then she stooped and gathered up her
second boy, holding his sturdy little body close.
Her arms and her heart ached with the precious
weight of her children. "God go with him!" she
cried softly. And again she remembered her mother
standing thus, eyes hungering after departing sons.
A wave of tenderness swept her.
I've been neglecting her, Mary thought. I will
take my mending and my little ones and go up to
share this day with her. Suddenly it seemed almost
too much, this happiness.
Truly my cup runneth over!
Sometimes at such moments Mary felt almost
guilty. For there was suffering in the land,
suffering and unrest. There was no escaping it:
The men spoke of it endlessly; it hovered over her
little family like a menacing cloud. For Archelaus,
ethnarch of Judea, had proved as terrible a despot
as his father, Herod--deposing the high priests, demanding even more staggering taxes to build more lavish palaces, slaughtering the Jews who
cried out against him--three thousand in a single
massacre of pilgrims to the Passover shortly after
she and Joseph had returned to Galilee. And his
brother Antipas, tetrarch of Galilee, who ruled over
Nazareth, was not much better.
Mary would never forget the people's tragic
and futile rebellions. That first Passover there
had been rumors of possible uprisings in Jerusalem.
Filled with a dread premonition, Mary had begged
Joseph not to go with her father and brothers for
the annual celebration.
"My darling, you know I must go," he told her.
"It's the Law. And would that you might go with
me." He kissed her and picked up Jesus, hugged
him against his chest. "As you will, when our boy
is older." He caressed her with his eyes. "In any
case, you are in no condition to travel."
He was right. Mary was carrying their child. Yet
she was desperate with fear during the long week of
waiting; and when at last she ran to the door to
meet him, it was a grim and shaken husband that
plunged into her arms. The crowds of pilgrims that
swarmed the Temple had been in an angry mood,
he told her, some of them threatening the soldiers
sent to restrain them. "A few hotheads began to
throw stones, and others began to shove. There
was bloodshed, Mary." Shuddering, Joseph looked
up from where he was fiercely scrubbing his
hands. "They sent reinforcements. On horseback!
Through the courts, up the sacred steps. Riding
people down, using their swords. We escaped, but
it was horrible." His usually calm young face had
gone gray. Mary ran to embrace him; she had
never seen Joseph like this. It was a moment before
he could go on. "And now they are crucifying! The
crosses--we saw the crosses lining all the roads."
A few weeks later Joseph brought home word
that rebels had actually seized control of the Holy
City. Nazareth, focal point of the caravan routes,
received news almost daily. Zealots and self-appointed
saviors were proclaiming their rule
throughout the land. Roman legions were on the
march to suppress them, savaging whole villages as
they went. In Sepphoris, the capital, only four
miles away, a man named Judas, whose father had
been put to death by Herod, had gained a following
and was claiming the crown.
Madness, sheer madness, Joseph and Joachim
agreed, while Mary listened, helpless. The time
was not yet ripe for sedition; it could only mean
punishment for everyone.
One night they were roused from sleep by the
blatting of the ram's horn from the synagogue. By
day the blowing of the shofar meant exciting news
or signaled the start of the Sabbath. But at night
those two bone-chilling blasts over and over could
only mean danger. Joseph sprang up and ran to the
window, where an eerie brightness was raining into
the room. They were aware of the smell of smoke,
and suddenly, of the heavy pounding at the door.
"Hide the child," Joseph ordered. He rushed to
his couch to gather him up. "Take Jesus out the
back way, into the cave!"
Mary obeyed, heart racing. In a few moments
Joseph came for them, however. It was only
Joachim, gruff, breathless, urging them to get
dressed and come home with him. "The Romans
are burning Sepphoris. That man has gotten too
powerful; they're burning it to the ground. The
troops will be marching this way." Matthew had
already gone for Salome and her family. Everyone
would be safer on the little home farm.
Lamps were being lit, a few people were running
in the streets. There was the acrid smell of wood
burning, even a few cinders falling, for Sepphoris
was so close. Yellow flames tongued the sky. Mary
would never forget their tortured dancing.
At Joachim's the whole family had gathered
on the moonlit hillside to watch in horrified
fascination. The grass was wet beneath their feet; a
sweet earthy scent blew in from the mountains.
Silvery olive trees cast shadows. The men strode
about expressing their outrage or simply stood
mute, shaking their heads. Throats dry with
excitement, curiosity and alarm, the women
huddled together, ghostlike in their cloaks or
shawls, children at their knees or in their arms.
Both Jesus and Salome's baby, Naomi, were wide
awake, bright-eyed, pointing to the skies. Their
mothers wondered how much of this they would
remember.
It was the last major rebellion; more severe
restrictions were imposed. After that things were
actually better, people realized, or at least easier to
endure. Squelched, punished, humiliated by these
heathens--pagans whom God did not even deign to
speak to--the proud Jews bided their time. He
would come, the faithful argued, their deliverer
would come; and not just some upstart from the
provinces, but a ruler able to overthrow any earthly
Caesar and establish God's kingdom on earth... 
Such times of ordeal and stress--were they not
exactly what the prophets had said would precede
his coming? Why then should they curse such
trials, or even protest and bemoan them so much?
Were they not a sign?
These fierce laments and feverish predictions:
Mary had heard them since childhood. Yes, and
her mother before her--all Jewish women for
generations--like some dark wild background
music for the simple drama of their lives. But now
sometimes Mary's heart stood still to hear them,
and she wanted to fling her hands over her ears.
Her secret lay heavy but sweet within her, like a
precious jewel with which she longed to comfort
them. But mostly she tried not to listen. Soon, all
too soon, God's will would be revealed.
For now let this be the time of happiness, the
time of loving and begetting, her husband's arms
around her in the night and all her children safe.

For Jesus, school was at first a shock. The
synagogue, always noisy and crowded on the Sabbath,
seemed strangely empty, echoing to the boys'
voices and that of the schoolmaster rabbi sitting on
the platform before them, austere and at first
frightening, his dark bearded face peering at them
from under his draped, tasseled prayer shawl.
The boys sat in a semicircle on the hard bare
floor. At one end of the room stood the curtained
chest containing the sacred scrolls. Small ruby
lamps burned before it like alert red eyes, giving
off an acrid smell of oil and incense and slightly
filming the air. There was the fragrance of the
cedar benches along the walls, the smell of well-scrubbed
boys and morning; beyond the open slits
of windows birds sang, carts rattled by. The boys
sat trapped and anxious yet excited, as the master
slowly unrolled the scroll.
Now it was beginning. Soon he would discover
how much or how little they already knew. "We
always start with Leviticus," he said. "The third
book of the Torah. A very important book, for it
teaches us the essence of our religion. Can anyone
tell us what that is?"
"You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God am
holy!" several voices responded eagerly. "You shall
love your neighbor as yourself!"
"Yes, yes, good--and what else?"
Jesus was leaning forward, shy, hopeful, anxious
to do well, yet trembling, filled with a nameless
fear and dread. He strove to answer--about the
rules for being healthy and clean--but his voice
could not be heard above the babble. "Sacrifice!"
the others were saying. "It teaches us about
sacrifice."
"Yes. The first half of Leviticus deals with
sacrifice, which has always been an important part
of worship among all races of men." The teacher
paused, searching them with his stern but kindly
eyes. "But for Jews what kind of sacrifice? Human
sacrifice like those pagans who worship Molech
and other false gods?"
"No, never!" the boys murmured in horror.
"That's right, never. And what do we offer up to
die in our place? That's right--animals, the finest
of our flocks, the beasts and birds. They are our
substitute."
The man came down from the platform, folded
his arms, and began to lecture as he paced,
thoughtfully, gracefully, in measured tread, the
four tassels on his shawl corners dancing. "Now
the creatures acceptable for sacrifice are five: the
bullock or ox, the sheep or lamb, the goat, the
pigeon, and the turtledove. And these creatures
must be without blemish: pure, like you, little
children, so that the sacrifices are pure... And
the kinds of offerings are these: the burnt offering,
which expresses our surrender to whatever God
wills for us; the peace offering, to express our
gratitude for his mercies and blessings; the sin
offering, to show our sorrow at having broken his
laws and our desire to be forgiven and united with
him again."
Reb Solomon halted, fixing them with those
expectant, gravely searching eyes. "Do you understand?"
The other boys nodded. Jesus looked miserably
out the window, throat dry, heart racing.
"Well now, we will start. To learn these truths
we will go directly to the sacred book and repeat
the passages aloud, over and over, that they may be
written forever on your hearts. Follow me as I
recite for you the first passages wherein the Lord
gives to Moses the manner of the sacrifice.

"And the Lord called unto Moses... Speak
unto the children of Israel... If any man of
you bring an offering unto the Lord, you shall
bring your offering of the cattle, even of the herd
and of the flock... "

In unison the boys began to chant, to follow as
their fathers had taught them; but soon some were
rushing ahead, others falling behind, and the
master must stop them and start over. He was very
patient. He pronounced all the words carefully,
beating time. His big bushy face had a mole beside
his nose. Jesus watched him transfixed, trying to
hide his mounting alarm. He could hear him, but
he couldn't seem to make out the words, let alone
say them. His tongue felt frozen.
He had cringed before these words even when
Joseph spoke them, shuddered even then, safe in
the crook of his father's arm: the pictures they
evoked too horrible to comprehend--yet distant
and unreal, like some of his grandfather's tales. But
now--today! Here in the big echoing synagogue on
this first day, booming from this huge man who
was like a great if gentle beast himself, rhythmically
padding, the boy was lost, confused, frightened,
unable to join this bewildering chant of blood and
fire.

"And he shall put his hand upon the head of the
burnt offering... make atonement... And he
shall kill... and flay... and cut it into its
pieces... and shall put fire upon the altar. . . .
And the priests . . . lay the parts, the head, and the
fat. . . . But its inwards and its legs . . . wash in
water; and the priest shall burn all...."

Jesus hunched into himself, swallowed, covered
his mouth. Something was whimpering deep inside.
Don't let me be sick, it pleaded, don't let anybody
see!

"And if his offering be of the flocks, namely,
of the sheep, or of the goats...." The sheep! The
pet lamb that tagged him about. The goats so playful,
with their leaf-shaped ears and golden eyes.
The big patient thick-muscled ox plowing the
fields, with him riding on its back sometimes. And
the pigeons, the doves--the pure white doves!

"And the priest shall bring it unto the
altar, and wring off its head, and burn it on
the altar; and the blood thereof shall be wrung
out at the side . . . and he shall pluck away its
crop with its feathers and cast it..."

Jesus writhed, made a small choked sound, for it
was as if the strangling hands were on his own
throat--he could feel them. He was burning,
drowning in a sea of blood and flame, fighting
like some poor doomed thing to survive. Yet a wild
and desperate protest filled him at the same time:
Why should these innocent creatures die for him?
No, no, he couldn't bear it, he loved them; if
something must be slain, he would rather die for
them!
To his horror Jesus realized the room had fallen
silent. The rabbi, seeing the boy's white face, had
halted. "Jesus," he asked, concerned, "why don't
you join in? Don't you feel well?"
Jesus was staring in awful fascination at the
rabbi's hands. Those hands, so big and harmless as
they gestured, were growing larger . . . larger .. .
approaching ... reaching out ... they had become
a priest's hands about to be laid upon him for the
sacrifice!
"Would you like to be excused?" the man asked
kindly.
Jesus shrank further into himself, wanting to cry.
No, no--he tried to frame the words, but only a
mournful bleat came from him, like that of a lamb;
he was going to throw up if he didn't escape! ...
He went home shamed and stricken. "They
laughed at me!" he told his parents. "I have
disgraced you."
Mary was nursing her baby, she could not go to
him; but Joseph rushed to him, protesting, and
held him. "You could never disgrace us," he said.

"It's the animal sacrifice," Joseph told Mary
later. "We talked about it at length. You know how
much he loves every living thing. I hope I made it
clear that God's laws are always for our own good.
He will participate tomorrow, he promised. And it
will be easier later when they deal with holiness.
Holiness, cleanliness, right living. He will have no
trouble with that part of the book." Joseph hesitated,
puzzled. "Jesus knows all the passages
already; he would have recited the whole book for
me, if I wanted. In fact, the whole Torah!"
"But I didn't think you had studied the whole
Torah."
"We haven't," said Joseph.

His father was right. Jesus soon redeemed himself.
He could even keep pace with the older
students, although he strove to hold back, dreading
the scorn that comes with envy. His head swam
with the mystery of his own knowledge; it was as if
everything he studied he already knew and yet
must experience in ways he did not understand.
Genesis was almost too familiar, he knew the
story of creation too well, it was as if he was
there, a part of it, drowning in the blankness, the
darkness when the earth was without form and
void. He must bring some order out of it! His face
went pale with striving. Once again the words froze
in his throat.
"Come, Jesus," said the master. "Speak up! I
will allow you to lead us; speak up, recite."
Once again Jesus ducked his head, huddled into
himself, dumb, though the wonderful words sang
on and on in his mind: And God said, Let there be
light; and there was light. And God saw the light, that
it was good: and God divided the light from the
darkness. . . . Freely and sweetly Jesus saw and
heard and swam in the light . . . yet he shrank
there, frozen in fear and darkness.
Puzzled and stubborn, the rabbi tried repeatedly
all day. He was not a harsh man, merely determined.
"This is ridiculous. You are not stupid, and
your father has taught you well. What will your
father think?"
Jesus gazed up at the rabbi, suddenly no longer
afraid. "My father loves me," he said simply. "My
father understands."

One afternoon the rabbi stopped in Joseph's
shop. Jesus had run off into the hills, as he often
did, to be with his grandfather.
"I have come to discuss your son," the rabbi
said, uncomfortably. His tone was half complimentary,
half concerned. "A very bright boy, yes,
very bright, but in some ways I find him
disturbing."

Joseph put down his plane, planted a foot on the
bench, and eyed the man levelly. He had a sensation 
of threat, almost as on that night when he
stood guard at the door of that Bethlehem stable,
wanting to bar the sages from intruding on his little
family. Rabbi Ezra was no sage; he was actually a
burly tentmaker, and stripped of his scholarly garb,
not even very imposing. Yet Joseph felt defensive.
"In what ways, Rabbi?" he asked courteously.
"Your son's imagination goes well beyond his
years."
"God gives different children different gifts."
"But when an imagination is so vivid as to upset
him, how can we be sure it is of God, friend
Joseph, and not--forgive me--of the devil?"
Joseph laughed shortly. "This gift, I assure you,
Rabbi, is not of the devil."
"I meant no offense," said the rabbi. "It's just
that parents don't always realize. You must realize
you have a very special son."
Thoughtfully, Joseph stroked the board he was
planing. How smooth it was to his rough fingers,
tawny and shining, a length of pine. Across his
consciousness drifted an almost sensual memory of
the table he had made as a betrothal gift for Mary:
a beautiful thing. How he loved her. Finally he
lifted his eyes, his composure belying the tangled
pain and pride in his breast. "His mother and I
realize," Joseph told him.
"In time," said the rabbi, now anxious to
make amends, "Jesus should be sent to study with
a really fine teacher in Jerusalem. One of the
scribes, a scholar like Hillel, for example. Someone
who can give him far more than I can. As you
know, I am just a poor tentmaker."
"And as you know, I am just a poor carpenter,"
Joseph said, smiling. "But, God willing." He
stood up and held out his hand. "Thank you for
coming, Rabbi. If it is God's will, we will find
the means to send him. People like us can only put
their trust in God."
Suddenly, on common impulse, the men embraced.
Joseph told Mary of the encounter that night as
they sat on the rooftop, after the children were in
bed. They discussed it a long time, wondering....

For Jesus, learning to write, however, was new
and exciting. He loved the smell of the smooth
wax-covered tablet and the feel of his sharp-pointed
stylus forming the letters of the Hebrew alphabet;
then, a little later, writing the lessons with pen and
ink on parchment. His grandfather had bought him
a little copper inkstand; it was a wonderful thing
with a case attached for the small reed pens; he
could stick it slantwise in his girdle in the manner
of scribes or merchants and strut about without the
ink's spilling.
His mother would make up his ink of lampblack,
gum and water, putting a few palm fronds in the
stand to keep the ink from drying. She loved to do
this for him, and at night after his afternoon spent
in the shop or running in the fields, it pleased
her to see him crouched on a cushion at the table,
copying the Scriptures, his fine-boned olive face so
earnest in the lamplight, his fingers carefully
forming the letters with the thick black ink that she
had made. She would come to stand over him and
watch, pierced with a queer delight in the acrid
tang of the ink, the scratch of the pen on the white
papyrus. Papyrus was growing more plentiful and
cheap; Joseph had bought a quantity from a peddler.

Mary moved nearer one night, entranced by the
shape of the black letters upon the creamy white.
There was a mystery about them that spoke suddenly
and terribly to her soul, these letters forming
words. Words had enchanted her since childhood,
perched on her father's knee, learning the
Scriptures by rote as he spoke them to her. She
soon knew the Torah as well as her brothers. But
Joachim had refused to teach her to read and write.
"A woman has no need of such things," he
declared, as he tousled her hair. "There are scribes
for writing, and it is not the custom that women
should read; why should they when they have
husbands to do it for them?"
Now, strangely, a great word hunger roused up
within her. Her son with his words--she must
know what they were saying. It seemed critical,
vital, like a command she must heed.
"Would that I too could read and write," she
heard herself saying.
Jesus looked up, eyes bright. "I will teach you!"
Joseph, who was rolling up his own scrolls to be
put into the cupboard, laughed and came to put his
arm around her. "Your mother is busy with her
babies," he said. "She has no time for such
things."
"I am not too busy for anything so important,"
Mary insisted. "I want to learn, I must learn!" She
turned on him, unlike herself, stubborn and angry,
close to tears. "Why do men deny us something so
harmless that could be so dear to us?"
Joseph was shocked. He felt bewildered and
ashamed. "Mary. My dearest! You know I would
never deny you anything within my power to give.
Only tell me, why do you want this so much?"
"Some day our son will be a great teacher
himself," Mary said. "When that day comes he
may go away from us. If so, I pray he will write to
us. I want to be able to read his words for myself. I
want to be able to write to him!"
Jesus reached up to take her hand. Drawing his
mother down beside him on the cushion, he placed
the pen in her trembling fingers. "Hold it thus,
not too tight," he said. "Now make the stroke,
carefully, carefully."
Joseph stood watching as she scratched away,
forming the alphabet. Jesus smiled proudly up at
his father. "She will make a fine student, Father.
Our mother is wise as well as beautiful." For a
moment he sat adoring her with his huge dark eyes.
"Thank you for choosing her for us."

The bond between Jesus and his grandfather
deepened. Joachim found himself watching for that
little white tunic and curly head to appear in the
distance and come bounding to him over the hills,
begging to push the plow or swing the scythe.
Joachim would lift him onto the ox and let him
ride, as he once had Mary. It still amused and
satisfied him that the women would scold him if
they knew. Occasionally Joachim would leave his
labors and trudge the whole afternoon with his
grandson to find the sheep.
Hand in hand, or with the boy racing ahead, they
would scramble over rock fences, push through
thickets and brambles, cross the sunny green
meadows, listening for the bells. Usually Matthew
did not let the sheep wander far, but sometimes he
led them to drink at a stream miles from home.
On these jaunts they would often pause to rest,
under the lacy shade of a terebinth tree or beside a
ferny, flower-filled gully where the water spilled
chill and foaming over great boulders into the
stream.
And as they walked or lay gazing into the sky,
Joachim would tell him the legends and tales of
ancient Egypt and Israel. Whimsical, poetic,
scholarly, simple, some so beautiful they brought
tears to the child's eyes, some so horrible his
blood ran cold. Two he would never forget: about
the teraphim, those household images considered
oracles able to foretell events.
"Egyptian idols in human form. Vile, vile, they
would sometimes kill a firstborn child and mount
its head upon a plate of gold, with the name of an
unclean spirit, beneath its tongue."
"No, Grandfather, no!"
"They would put lighted lamps before it and
pray to it for answers to their questions. But as
Zechariah the prophet warned, 'The teraphim
speak vain things.' "
Loveliest was the legend of Yahweh's song: How,
when God created the world, he asked the angels,
"What do you think of it?" Ah, but it was
beautiful, they told him, but one thing was lacking
and that was music. "Music?" asked the Lord.
"But the birds sing, the brooks babble." "The
music of people worshiping you," said the angels.
"Wait," said God, "just wait; I will put music in
their throats so that they too may sing." But the
angels told him, "That is not enough; they must
sing with their hearts forever, waking or sleeping,
praising you for this wonderful world you have
made."
"And that," Joachim assured Jesus gravely, "is
why we must never forget to thank and praise our
maker from the minute we first draw breath in the
morning until we close our eyes in sleep."
Drowsily Jesus lay on his stomach, listening. It
seemed all the music of the universe was playing
and singing within his own being. The water's soft
liquid shouting as it plunged over the rocks... the
birds trilling, ringing their tiny bells, plucking at
unseen harps with little beaks, notes that spilled
from their throats in a sweet cascade... the gentle
rhythmic soughing of the trees. It seemed that his
own heart would burst with it, this music of life
with which God had drenched the world; he could
not contain it. He sat upright and began to sing, a
sudden outbreak of song that startled his grandfather,
for it had no words that he recognized, only
a magical tune that set his own heart dancing.
"Come, Grandfather, sing with me!" the boy
said, springing up. "It's right that we use our
throats to praise him."
"Yes, if he has put an angel like yours in your
throat," grunted Joachim, "instead of a frog like
mine."
"You have no frog, Grandfather, only a good
strong bass that makes the melody richer. Anyway,
frogs are part of the choir that sings in God's
garden."
"Boom, boom, boom!" Joachim laughed. "All
right, we will sing together." And clapping their
hands and making up words of praise as they went,
they began to climb the rocky gorge.

One day they found that a lamb had somehow
crept down the cliff and was perched on a rock,
afraid to leave. "That boy!" Joachim was frowning
as he squatted to peer over. "He's been told not
to run off. He will feel my stick." An idle threat,
for Joachim never beat his children.
"Don't worry, Grandfather, I will rescue the
sheep." Before Jesus could be stopped he was
scrambling down the embankment and had reached
the rock where the lamb was cringing.
Joachim watched in fear, wishing for a rope. The
descent was too precarious for his own weight; if he
slipped, all three would be hurled to the rocks.
Jesus looked up, laughing, the lamb in his arms.
Nimbly he climbed back, eyes shining. "I'm big
and strong, Grandfather," he boasted. "Never be
afraid for me."
Beyond lay the high green pastures where Matthew 
let the sheep graze, often with some half-wild
goats brought there by Rosh, one of his friends.
Sometimes the older boys suffered Jesus to join
them, even to spend the night with them beside
their fire under the stars, singing, playing their
instruments, or just lying with their cloaks over
their faces, talking. As time went by it was more
and more their company he sought instead of his
grandfather's.
Joachim would stand shielding his eyes for sight
of the boy in vain; or Jesus would appear at the
foot of the hill, wave and call out a bright greeting,
and then be off, with Jubal, the wild dog he had
rescued from a pack of jackals, bounding at his
heels. At first Joachim felt resentful, stricken, a
trifle shocked. Somehow he had thought Mary's
son would be different: not like the others, so
cruelly quick to abandon their elders when the
blood of youth called.
Even Mary. But no, he must not dwell on that.
. . . Stolidly, wincing but trying not to be hurt,
Joachim would go back to his plowing. He couldn't
blame the boy. It had been getting harder to keep
up with him. Joachim's bones ached, his breath
gave out, he often had to stop to rest on a pile of
stones. I'm getting old, he realized, with a pain in
his breast that was appalling. Anxiety clutched him
and a shaken tenderness as he thought of Hannah--their 
dear years of bickering closeness. He
thought of Mary, precious Mary, and his other
children. But most of all he thought of this
grandson.
Joachim lifted his eyes to the clouds coasting
overhead. Lord, just let me live long enough to
witness his wonders. Perhaps even to see him free our
people, be crowned the true king of Israel!

Matthew's friend Rosh was about sixteen, a
handsome dark-skinned boy who seemed only half
tamed, like his goats. He was like the Greek god
Pan, playing his flute as he pranced around the
fire, a spray of fragrant jasmine in his hair, golden
earrings flashing. His teeth were very white, his
breath was sweet with cloves. He was something of
a desert rat, having followed the caravans with his
father, a camel driver. He carried seeds and little
sweet dom tree berries, which they would munch
while he sprawled on his side, telling them tales of
his travels--often by starlight, the bells of the
tawny beasts clanging--the colorful saddles and
trappings . . . the loads of goods--gems, silks,
spices . . . escapes from lions and robbers . . .
teeming marketplaces, palaces and harems . . .
bazaars where, to wild music, slave girls with ankle
bracelets were dancing.
Matthew's eyes glistened to hear him. Matthew
was a plump, amiable boy with a mane of red hair
like Joachim's. Patient and cheerful, he had
enjoyed playing big brother to Jesus. Now he was
changing, beginning to chafe at a life of simply
tending sheep for his father. His smile, usually
thoughtful, was quick with Rosh. "See, see!" he
would tell Jesus proudly. "There is a world beyond
these hills. These hills won't hold him long."
There was a pagan excitement about them, fascinating
to the younger boy, yet disturbing. They
seemed to have a secret between them.
One night when he was ten, just as they were
lying down to rest, Rosh came to crouch beside
him. "Here, I have a present for you, Jesus." From
beneath his cloak he drew a slim luminous object
and pressed it into his hand.
The boy sat up, astonished at its chill weight in
his fingers, its pale alluring glimmer in the
firelight. An ecstatic horror smote him, a sweet
and nameless stabbing. He was holding the naked
figure of a woman; a serpent entwined her legs and
suckled at her pointed breast. His heart beat wildly,
he shuddered. "What is this thing?"
"You don't know?" Both doubled with laughter.
"Astarte, you baby," Rosh informed him. "The
Canaanite goddess of passion!"
"No!" For the sweetness in his bowels had
turned to hell. He found himself running, blindly
running, toward the chasm.
Shocked and scared, Matthew dashed after him,
caught and restrained him at its edge. "Stop, you
little fool, you'll fall!"
Jesus struggled free and hurled the obscene thing
from him. It twisted for an instant, a pearly flash,
mocking in the moonlight as it plunged into the
water. Breathless, all three bent to discern its fate
upon the rocks below. It had vanished. There was
only the roar of the falls, the white leaping spray.
"We're sorry," Matthew said anxiously, an arm
around his nephew's shoulder, leading him back.
"We meant no harm."
Even Rosh was contrite. "We shouldn't have
done that," he said, trotting along beside them.
"He's too young. He's different."
Jesus lay awake most of the night, or so it
seemed. From beyond the hill came the mournful
laughter of the jackals. Ominous, threatening, like
the goddess, whose silvery smile drifted all around
him, now near, now far, weaving through the
sounds, making a hideous sweet music. The music
writhed up from somewhere in her breast, coiled
glistening into the yelping throats of the jackals,
laughing with them, drawing closer. The music
was cold and silvery, like chilled water, spewing
from the breast where the serpent suckled...
Jesus threshed about, lifted a hand to fend off the
smile, now one with the jackals, the serpent. His
hand struck the hard ground, prickly with grass.
He half roused, innocent yet guilt-stricken, shaking
with alarm. Were the sheep safe? Yes, they huddled
nearby; he could smell their flat oily odor, was
conscious of their occasional restless stirrings in his
sleep. And the goats too, those slim-necked creatures
with ears like drooping leaves and wonderful
amber eyes. Silken in the moonlight, they too knelt
peacefully sleeping.
A great love for all God's animals flooded him;
he wanted to shelter and envelop them in his own
being. He wanted to go to his friends and shelter
them as well. No matter that they were older, he
wanted to protect them, reassure them. So go now,
rise up and go to them! Yet a great weariness
overwhelmed him. Shivering, he gathered his cloak
closer around him, and huddling deeper into it, he
slept....
The sky was rosy with sunrise when Rosh woke
him; the fire was crackling afresh with dry grass
and thorns; there was the toasty smell of the wheat
kernels Matthew was parching in a pan. They
greeted him brightly. Rosh was slicing a melon,
pink as the sky. "For you, my friend," he said,
giving Jesus the largest piece.
Their eagerness to make amends consoled him.
But even as he squatted there munching, the
howling of jackals again split the chill mountain
air. Closer now. Dangerous. Either the beasts were
hungry, or already drunk with blood and ravenous
for more. Matthew and Rosh sprang for their rods.
Alert, experienced, they ran to check their herds:
no strays. They stood watching as the pack flowed
over the ridge, yelping, leaping, tossing something
in the air, then streaking after it. For it was
running, desperately running, a small creature
already mutilated but fighting for life.
Jesus' heart froze. "We must save it!" He started
forward, but Rosh put out a calm brown hand to
restrain him.
"Never mind, it's just a dog."
Just a dog. A breed almost as despised as
the jackals, for dogs also roamed the hills for
carrion or slunk about the streets thieving food.
Yet it lived, it lived, and he must save it. He could
feel the meadow grass beneath his bare feet as he
ran, wildly, instinctively, as he'd run toward the
cliff's edge last night. And the other two were
following, yelling and howling, brandishing their
heavy clubs, beating almost joyfully at the beasts,
kicking them, cursing them, driving them off.
It was over in a few minutes. The pack vanished
almost as swiftly as the graven image in the waters.
Only a cloud of dust and a trail of blood marked
their passage. And there at its end lay their prey: a
half-grown pup. Small, brown, quivering, barely
breathing, but looking up at them with pleading
eyes. Its back was broken, its tail chewed nearly
off. Blood trickled from its nostrils. Starved,
scabby, and almost hairless even before the attack,
yet it begged piteously for life.
"Don't!" Jesus cried, as Rosh picked up a rock.
"It's already half dead. Put it out of its misery."
"No, no, don't." Jesus dropped to its side.
Talking softly to it, he gathered up the dirty
battered body. It lay against him, helpless, trusting,
gazing at him with its stricken black eyes. Then, as
he stroked it to quiet its trembling, he gasped in
amazement, for the dog's small pink tongue began
to lick his hand.
Matthew laughed, half disgusted. "Filthy thing,
what're you going to do with it?"
"Carry it home and bind up its wounds."
"Home?" Both boys hooted. "What will my
sister say about that?" Matthew asked.
Jesus held the dog closer. "I know my mother
would never refuse to help a hurting thing."
Mary cried out at sight of them. Her son's tunic
was bloodstained; he was even smeared with
excrement, for the poor little thing in its terror
could not control its bowels. "A dog?" she gasped.
"Oh, Jesus, no!" Yet she held out her arms, as she
had for the pigeons and other wild things her
children brought her, and warmed it at her breast.
Then she bade young Joseph to light a fire to heat
water to bathe it. The other children raced about,
excited, eager to help, bringing towels and the
herbs and salves kept in a cupboard. Their father,
hearing the commotion, joined them and sent back
to the shop for wood to fashion splints. Still
shuddering, the dog lay, heart pounding yet
submissive, head on its paws, black liquid eyes
beseeching them.
"We'll do what we can to ease its suffering,"
Joseph said, as he knelt to bind up the fractured
limbs. "But we must realize its back is broken; it
probably won't live."
"It will live," Jesus insisted. "I know it will live.
I have asked God to heal it."
"We hope it will live," said Joseph. "We will
all pray for its healing. But if it does we will have
to release it. Dogs belong in the fields."
The dog was finally wrapped in a blanket and
put in a basket beside Jesus' bed. Later in the night
Mary awoke to hear her son sobbing. Carrying a
lamp, she tiptoed around the pallets of the other
children. The basket, she saw, was empty. The
small battered bundle was cradled in his arms. "He
came to me!" Jesus said. His face was radiant even
as the tears rolled down his cheeks. "He crawled
out of his box and dragged himself to me. He is
healed, Mother, I felt it, God is healing him! But
he mustn't go back to the fields," the boy pleaded,
"or the jackals will attack him again. He must live
with us."
Troubled, Mary sat down beside them. Her own
fingers crept to the warm little head. "That would
be very unusual, my darling. You know Jews don't
keep dogs; only Egyptians keep dogs.
"Uncle Cleo does."
"Well, yes, Cleo. A few rich people like
Cleophas." Mary laughed. Joseph's oldest friend
Cleophas rode a horse as high-spirited as he was,
and beside it paced a hound he had brought from
Cairo. But then Cleo had always been a law unto
himself: merry, arrogant, thinking his father's
money could buy him anything. At one time, even
Mary's hand. Mary smiled to remember. Poor
Cleo--his astonishment had been almost comical
when her father gave her to Joseph instead. And
Hannah was so distraught she took to her bed; she
had been so anxious for Mary to have the merchant's
son.... How strange life was, these battles
caused by love. Yet now Cleo was like a favorite
uncle to her young.
Mary was stroking the puppy cuddled close to
Jesus. "But it isn't the custom for people like
us to have a dog."
Jesus sat upright. "Bad customs should be
changed, Mother! Dogs are God's creatures. Dogs
need people and people need dogs. It's a bad
custom not to love and care for dogs."
Joseph relented, of course; he could deny his
family nothing. And with a speed that astonished
everyone, the dog healed. They named him Jubal
for the joy he brought them. Also for the way he
tried to join in when they were all singing and
tootling away on the instruments Joseph had
fashioned for them: timbrels, a flute, some horns,
even a lyre. Esau, Mary's blind brother, helped
him; Esau had an uncanny feeling for musical
things. The candles in the shop burned late as the
two labored to make the wood like satin, the metal
bright, eagerly testing the tender strings. Joseph
had never been happier. Almost every night, after
prayers and the evening meal, he would gather his
family on the rooftop, and there, head cocked,
beating time and smiling proudly even as he piped,
Joseph would lead them.
Mary, putting the last dish in the cupboard or
laying the fire for morning, sometimes felt like
dancing to hear them, her darlings, like so many
birds on a bough. Wiping her hands, she would
scurry up the steps to sit beside Joseph on a
cushion, listening with her shining eyes and her
heart.
It was cool there under the stars; jasmine spilled
its white fragrance over the wall, sweet . . . sweet
as the sounds they were making, so young and bold
and yet plaintive in the night. Her whole being
seemed in tune with this music of her life. The
very stars seemed to tilt toward her, sparkling,
blazing, as if they too were striving to speak or
sing. How close God seemed! Mary had not heard
the voice of her Lord since childhood; not once
since that incredible experience in the shed. Not
even the voice of an angel, although, strangely,
angels had spoken repeatedly to Joseph in dreams.
Yet on such nights she felt as if the whole company
of heaven were swirling close, blessing her, blessing
her. Compressing as much happiness as possible
into these few years.
For deep within her, on quite another level,
Mary walked a secret and lonely road: aware, ever
aware, of the changes sure to come... .
Cleophas often dropped in on these evenings,
still darkly handsome in his fine striped silks and
jewels, bringing presents for the children. His own
marriage had been a sad one. His wife was sickly;
she had lost three babies before fleeing in disgrace
to her parents in Acre. Cleophas had gone after her
repeatedly, to no avail. Mary and Joseph welcomed
him. They knew he envied their happiness, yet it
comforted him to be near them.
"Cleo! Uncle Cleo!" The children pressed their
instruments upon him. "Come join our music!"
With a vigorous hug for everyone, he would perch
on the parapet, and pretending at first to be
confused, pluck clumsily at the lyre. "No, no,
Uncle Cleo, you are holding it upside down!" the
younger ones would shriek. "Ah, like this?" His
eyes, under their sleepy lids, twinkled. Suddenly
long sleek fingers flew, rings sparkling, his voice
rang out, and oh, such merry melodies as now,
raced toward the stars. The little dog, lying at
Jesus' feet, would lift his head and howl.
"Listen, he's singing too!" the children claimed.
"That pariah?" Cleophas teased. "That bobtailed
wretch? He's trying to tell us to take him back to
the jackals."
"No, no, we love him, he's beautiful!" They beat
at Cleo with frantic fondness. "God sent him to us
and healed him! His sores are all gone; see his
shiny coat? Even his stumpy teeth grew in straight
and strong!"
"He's still limpy," Cleo persisted, laughing as he
fought them off. "He will always have a stubby
tail."
"At least he has a heart." Joseph grinned. "Not
like that cold-blooded hound of yours. Where did
you get him, out of a tomb?"
They were always trading insults--Cleophas
vehement, often outrageous, Joseph cool, composed,
amused. It had been so since boyhood,
this mocking affection between them. Joseph had
worried about Cleo--his wild ways. Once he had
even fought him to the ground over Mary, bloodying
his best Sabbath robes. Yet they remained
close. Their eyes met now over her head. How
small and dainty she still was, after her day's work.
She wore a soft little blue garment, tied at her tiny
waist; she had wound a ribbon through her dark
hair. A few curly tendrils escaped as she moved
about, gently but firmly quieting the children. So
young, so small and virginal . . . for a moment it
seemed incredible that she should be their mother.

Jubal was devoted to them all, especially Mary, but
Jesus was his idol. The dog slept beside him at
night, and followed him to school, where he would
flop down on the synagogue steps and wait
patiently until the boys came shouting from their
studies. Then, with a yip of delight, he would leap
to greet his master.
Toward midafternoon, in the courtyard of her
house, Mary could hear him barking, a signal that
her sons were coming. In a minute Jubal would
hurtle through the heavy drapery at the doorway,
eyes bright, tail frantically wagging. Mary hugged
him and gave him his bite of the goat's cheese or
sweetmeats she had waiting. Meanwhile, her oldest
daughter, Ann, helped her pour mugs of milk and
portion out the treats.
The children swarmed in, Jesus tallest--nearly as
tall as she was now--followed by young Joseph,
whom they had taken to calling Josey, and James.
Josey was a ruddy, noisy boy, very active and
aggressive. He liked to climb, wrestle, throw
things, grab things. He was inclined to be
belligerent. He was always teasing James, who was
more gentle, a shy child who had his aunt Salome's
way of looking up at you with a sudden charm
from beneath lowered lids. James was often
bewildered and frightened at Josey's antics, running
to Jesus for comfort or protection. How fast they
were growing, Mary's heart protested. Next year
Simon would join them; Jude would be at her
skirts a few more years. She was grateful for
toddlers and daughters.
Jesus hugged his mother, tried to pick her up in
the manner of his father and swing her around.
"No, no, stop, you'll hurt yourself!" she cried,
laughing. The others hurled themselves at her too,
vying for her attention. The younger ones sometimes
quarreled about it.
Today Josey folded his arms and scowled darkly
at his cake. "You gave Jesus the biggest piece!"
"Oh, dear, I didn't mean to," Mary worried.
"Let me give you some more."
"Then there won't be enough for Leah," said
Jesus. Wiping his mouth, he shoved his slice across
the table. "Here, take mine."
"That isn't necessary," Mary said sharply.
Sometimes she felt impatient and confused. Why
must he always be so sacrificing just because he
was the oldest? She loved them all so much, and
she tried so hard to be fair. "Stop fretting, Josey,
and go help your father in the shop."
"What about him?" Josey pointed to Jesus, who
had taken up his flute and gone out to perch on the
doorstep in the sun, testing it dreamily, playing a
little refrain that came to him, over and over. It
sang of the world's loveliness in the green and
golden spring.
"Your brother has already spent years working
with his father," Mary told them. "Now it's your
turn, you too must learn his trade."
Jesus gave a guilty start. He put down his flute.
"Come on, we'll all go. Won't we, Jubal?" He
snapped his fingers to the dog. In a minute the
three boys were traipsing amiably down the hill
together, the little dog trotting merrily in the lead.
Mary, still holding her towel, stood in the
doorway watching. How beautiful her sons, all of
them. Comely, with a casual grace that came from
Joseph. Except for Simon and Jude, who were still
chubby with baby fat, they were like young gazelles....
Jesus, though: How could she define his
special beauty? His mop of black curls--more
abundant and shining, like a nimbus around his
head, it seemed to her sometimes. And his eyes--the
mysterious sweetness and radiance of those
eyes. At first blue-black, they had lightened to a
clear golden brown, rimmed by lashes longer than
her own. They were like pools, reflecting all they
saw. "Jesus talks with his eyes," Timna remarked
one time. "He seems to drink in the world and love
it with his eyes."
Jesus was different from the others. Not that they
were less dear, Mary hastened to assure herself; not
that she loved them less. But there was no denying
he was different, no possible way for her to forget.
Although in raising her family, she must try.
What did he think about, wandering the hills
with his dog, alone or in the company of other
boys? What did they talk about? Mary wondered
uneasily sometimes. They were old enough now to
notice girls; and the girls were very much aware of
Jesus, that was plain. Yet in some ways he was still
a child. He never returned from one of his jaunts
without bringing her wildflowers or some treasure--
a shard of pottery, a bright stone, a stork's
white silken feather. And only last week a lizard
with unusual colors.
She remembered the pleasure with which he had
laid it on her palm to admire, its coat glistening
now purple, now emerald, now rose, its eyes like
tiny jewels. But as they both stood marveling, he
had asked suddenly, in a voice of indignation,
"How can people do it?"
"Do what?"
"Cruel things. When we have so little time and
the Father has given us such a beautiful world.
Yesterday, coming home from school, some boys
tried to stone Jubal."
"Oh, no!"
"I had to save him again--from children. But
men, too, beating their donkeys. You've seen them,
Mother, we all have. And women, even women at
the market, carrying live chickens upside down,
their poor heads dragging, eyes so frightened." His
own eyes were stricken. "And men hurting each
other. The Romans, the terrible things they are
doing to the Jews. Even Jews fighting, enslaving
each other. God's world is so beautiful, Mother,
how can people do such things?"
Mary's heart beat faster. "It is not God's will
that they should," she said, speaking carefully.
"Perhaps, when the Deliverer comes, all this will
change. The Messiah--when he comes, surely even
cruelty to animals will cease." She was gazing at
her son. How much did he already realize? How
much should she tell him?
Jesus seemed deep in thought. "Yes," he said at
last. "Yes, surely...."

Ann had finished drying the cups. She climbed
on a stool to put them away on the shelf, then ran
to fling herself against her mother. Ann was much
like her grandmother Hannah, quick, fervent, sensitive,
curious, with the same lively, deep-set eyes.
Arms clinging, she pressed her head with its dark
circlet of braids against her mother's breast.
"Why are you crying, Mother?"
Startled, Mary wiped her eyes. "Oh, my
goodness, am I?" She returned her daughter's
impassioned hug. "I'm crying with love for all my
children. I worry sometimes about what life may
hold for you. I wish I could keep you like this
always."
"Especially our eldest brother?"
"Yes," Mary acknowledged. "For this is his last
year in school. That is always a time of change for
a family."
"Will he go away from us?"
"Oh, no. Not for a long time yet."
"Then what troubles you, Mother?"
"I don't know," Mary said helplessly. "Except
that he will soon be a man. Soon Jesus will complete
his first fast and go to Jerusalem with his
father and me for the Passover."
"But this time we will all go too!" Ann
exclaimed. "Father promised, he promised!" She
began to dance around in her delight. "He said that
when Jesus is twelve and is presented at the
Temple we can go too."
"So he did," Mary remembered. And the festival
was barely a month away. None too soon to start
preparing for the journey. She must speak to her
parents. Joachim always took her brothers. Perhaps
this year Hannah could be persuaded to come
along. They would stay with Elizabeth, all of them;
not just Mary and Joseph, as usual, but the whole
crowd. The house was so big and her aunt had
often begged them to come.
Ann's excitement was contagious; Mary felt it
too, more than ever, as she planned. The mere
thought of seeing Elizabeth again always made her
spirits soar. They had so much to talk about, they
poured out their hearts to each other as they could
to no one else in the world. For both of them their
annual reunion was the highlight of the year. And
this time it would mean more than ever, because
Jesus would be along! For years his aunt had been
eager to see him, and to have him meet his cousin
John; but Joseph, for reasons of his own, had been
reluctant to bring him until he was older. Though
Joseph hadn't told her, Mary knew it was partly for
the child's own safety; her husband was still
haunted by the memory of that Passover massacre
some years ago.
Well, Jesus was twelve years old now, Mary
thought in great anticipation. It was time they took
him to the Temple. And, to make the occasion
even more joyful, at last the two boys so near in
age could get to know each other.


Chapter 4
IT SEEMED TO Hannah that Joseph had been a fool
to promise his family this journey.
Struggling up from a restless sleep, she lay
worrying. Joseph had been to Jerusalem often
enough himself to know how hard it was. Bad
enough for grown people, let alone children, along
those rough country roads. Still muddy, some of
them, especially through the boggy Plain of
Esdraelon and along the Jordan; others dusty,
rocky, weed-grown. She thought of the mountains,
the treacherous climb through the bleak wilderness
of Judea before they could get to Jerusalem.
Carefully, fearfully, Hannah lifted a hand to test
her head: no longer throbbing as it had been these
past three days. That bitter quarrel between
Joachim and Matthew over the sheep! But no, she
dared not . . . she had other things to ponder.
Well, she just hoped Joseph took a couple of
extra donkeys along so some of the children could
ride. One thing certain, Hannah would go this time
if it killed her. As she felt, groping for her
garments, that it might. Yet she could not allow
Mary to cope with the trip without her. I must go
along to help her, Hannah told herself, dressing
hastily lest she miss the departure. Long before
daybreak she'd been aware of Amos and his father
tramping around by lamplight, leading up the
donkey and trying to keep him quiet as they loaded
him with supplies: bread, cheese, blankets, water.
Hannah ran a comb raggedly through her hair,
slapped her own cheeks smartly to get the blood
flowing--and recognized now the real reason she
must not be left behind.
Didn't she always keep the children while Mary
and Joseph made their annual pilgrimage? Except
for the years when Mary was expecting, and that
time when little Ann had been down with a fever,
they had been in Hannah's charge: hers to pet and
spoil and make behave while their parents set off
like sweethearts to join the caravan. It was good for
the two to get away, of course, but how about her?
She felt very close to those children; hadn't she
earned the right to be along when they first set
eyes on the Holy City? Especially Jesus. Hannah
caught her breath. Twelve years old now, and
being presented at the Temple. That child, that
beautiful child whose coming had been such a
source of anguish--and blessing. How could she
bear to miss it? Her own grandson!
It was going to be a fine day to start a journey.
Hannah had sensed it, despite her misery. A thick
mist had risen in the night, white as the garments
of God, muffling the mountains, blotting out the
sheds and fields, but through it birds were already
cheeping and chirring. A pink light was seeping
across the sky. There was a hiss of wet grass, a
smoky smell of tar as Amos stamped out the
torches at the door.
He cried out in protest to see her, wrapped in her
heavy hooded cloak against the chill. She looked
wan but determined. "No, Mother, please, you
mustn't try to come! Much as we long to have
you." Amos was her third and youngest son, a tall,
fair, narrow-featured boy with a pleasant smile but
rather anxious eyes. He still clung to his mother,
eager for more attention than Hannah could bring
herself to give. Even now, when he was sixteen and
betrothed, he managed to annoy her. "Remember
your head."
"The Lord has taken away my headache,"
Hannah insisted, trying not to sound impatient
with his concern. Her small deep-set eyes peered
out almost impishly from the hood. "Perhaps the
Lord deems it is high time I too pray at the
Temple for my sins." Deliberately, she held out
her arms to Amos rather than Joachim to help her
mount the donkey. "Especially since your brother
will not be with us," she said sharply.
Silently, Joachim tightened the final strap. He
wasn't surprised. He had felt sure Hannah would
come, had even made a little seat for her. Pray
heaven her anger at him would soon pass. Though
it was a serious thing Matthew had done: running
off to Magdala with his friend, leaving the sheep
with a hireling! And the hireling had fled,
evidently before a lion. Three sheep had been lost,
one of them torn to bits--a newborn lamb! Joachim
was appalled; he wished he hadn't shouted at
Matthew when he came home, but it was high time
he learned responsibility. Matthew at least must
stay behind and try to find the other sheep.
Still, the ache of Matthew's absence was heavy
upon Joachim as they set off. He tried so hard to
be a good husband, a good father. Not once since
his sons were old enough--at least the two who
were able--not once even since the massacre, he
grieved, had he turned his steps toward Jerusalem
at Passover without both of them by his side.
The donkey lurched, picking its way down the
steep cobbled hill in the fog. Hannah hung on
grimly, every jolt a threat to her still sensitive
head. Yet excitement was rising within her. She
herself had not been to Jerusalem in years. To
get away from Nazareth after so long, to visit her
sister Elizabeth once more, enjoy the city, the
crowds! . . . This year, she had heard, more
families than ever were heading for Jerusalem. For
at last things were a little more peaceful for the
people of God; a feast was again a time of holy
celebration: especially for Nazareth this Passover,
when so many boys were going up to be presented.
Half the village, it seemed, was pouring down
narrow streets and alleys toward the fork where the
caravan was to form.
A small crowd had already gathered when they
arrived. Through the shifting veils of mist Hannah
could see Joseph and his family. Two donkeys,
thank goodness. And Salome and Ephraim, who'd
had enough sense not to bring their daughter. All
laughing and talking, in a holiday mood. Jesus
raced up to greet them, eyes bright, curls bouncing
under his velvet cap. Mary had cut down an old,
rather faded robe of Joseph's for him, but it suited
him, it became him. How beautiful he was--surely
fairer than any of his classmates gathered around
the rabbi--how young and firm and warm to her embrace.
Hannah clutched him to her.
"Oh, Grandmother, I'm so happy you're better.
My heart would have been sore without you."
Jesus was looking eagerly about. "But where is
Matthew?"
"Matthew is being punished," Amos announced.
"Matthew is needed at home!" Joachim snorted.
He reached over to grip his grandson's shoulder,
taking comfort from it. Jesus was compensation; it
would be a fine journey, after all.
Hannah slid down from the donkey and hastened
to Mary. The children were racing about, bouncing
with excitement, and Mary only stood there smiling.
Didn't she realize they could get lost in the
gathering crowd? Even get stepped on by a mule?
Hannah was startled to see several mules--and
with a pang she realized, too late, that even
Esau might have been able to endure this journey
had Joachim hired a mule for him. Poor blind
Esau. Oh, she shouldn't have come, shouldn't have
left him! For a second Hannah couldn't bear it: the
memory of how bravely he had stood waving to
them from the door. Hush, now, he'd be fine with
Judith looking after him. Judith was a good girl,
betrothed too, to a fine young farmer named Saul;
there would be two marriages in the family within
the year. Oh, the Lord had truly blessed her. If
only Matthew...
But no, she would not let pity or regret ruin this
day. Hannah spread her arms to receive the other
grandchildren, who came swarming to her. Playfully
she defended herself against the assault of
hugs and kisses. "Mercy, have mercy, you will tear
me apart!" But she was smiling. Striving to be like
Mary, who always seemed so happy.
That smile, those shining eyes: Mary had carried
herself about so since childhood, as if she held in
her heart some treasure. But now, with a houseful
of children to cook and wash for, just carrying all
that water...! And the weaving and sewing,
mending too--the earnings of a carpenter had to be
stretched--it hurt Hannah that Jesus must set off
in a faded robe. Why didn't Mary fret and storm
like other women? Her cousin Deborah, for instance,
though her husband gave her everything.
Or even Salome, who was often troubled--Ephraim,
she confided to Hannah, was not always so
merry at home.
It was a love secret, of course: the thing between
Mary and Joseph, the way they still looked at each
other. After all these years! They even held hands
in front of the children. Hannah envied this
bitterly, even as her heart cried out in gratitude
that this was so for her daughter. As Mary ran up
to embrace her, Hannah held her fiercely.
"Never mind how I feel." She dismissed the
questions. "You need me. I'm going with you!"
A small group of men and animals had gathered
around the caravan leader, a tough little brown
man with a face so deeply etched it was like a map
of his travels. He had to shout to be heard. As usual, they would take the long arduous route necessary to avoid corrupting themselves by any
contact with the Samaritans, those hated half-blood Israelites from the northern kingdom. Today across the Plain of Esdraelon, then down the Jordan
valley, to spend the night in Beth-shan. Bethshan was a pagan city, also called Scythopolis, or City of the Scythians, by the Greeks. But there was a fertile,
well-watered site where they could camp, as well as a Jewish quarter where some of them could find lodging. The second night they would be far from
any towns, but the Paschal moon would be full and
their campfires merry, somewhere along the
Jordan. The third night they must rest well in
Jericho, for the following day would be hard,
through the steep stony wilderness of Judea. But at
its end--Jacob, their leader, paused, grinning--they
would see Jerusalem.
"Jerusalem, Jerusalem!" The magical name was suddenly on everyone's lips. Shouting it, singing it, the parade began to move, led by the youths, who
were soon far ahead, Amos and Jesus among them.
Their fathers had insisted. "Go now, join them, we can manage the creatures," Joseph said.
"Yes, go on." Joachim had to pull the reins from
Amos, who was dutifully holding back, though his
whole being yearned. "Enjoy yourself." With a
kind of grudging affection Joachim gazed after his
now eagerly running son. "A good boy," he said.
"Amos can be trusted. Not like Matthew!"
He told Joseph about it as they tramped on,
leading the asses along roads that were not yet
dusty, for the dew was still wet, the trees sparkling.
People were laughing and talking, harnesses
jingled, there was the thunder of many hooves--a
few horses and mules among them--and the steady
shuffling of sandals.
"I wish I hadn't been so hard on him," Joachim
said gruffly, "but he's old enough to know better. I
felt he should stay behind to look for them." He
blinked hard, eyes remote but grieving. "Tell me,"
he asked abruptly, "did I do right? Maybe now
more than ever Matthew needs to pray and ask
forgiveness at the Temple."
For a moment Joseph couldn't answer. His own
young sons had come racing up from the ranks of
women, begging to join the older boys. Their
father refused; he didn't think it safe, for one thing,
but mainly he wanted Jesus to be free of them. To
appease the children he lifted them onto the
donkeys and let them ride.
"You know that better than I do, Joachim, you're
a more experienced father than I am. I can only
hope that someday I'll be as wise as you are in
dealing with my children."
"Well, Esau, of course--" Again that fleeting
grimace of pain. "What can a man do, with his
firstborn son so afflicted? Matthew--I had counted
on Matthew to take his place, but now I'm not so
sure. I still have Amos, of course. Amos is
dependable; I know Amos would never desert me."
They were interrupted by another burst of young
voices. The girls, released by their mothers, flew
by like a flock of birds. Nervous, giggling, excited,
they scurried in pursuit of the youths. For a festival
march was the one time they could mingle, laughing
and singing and chasing each other, sharing a
drink of water at the well or a cold meal beside the
road. And at night, when the family tents were
pitched, they would build their own fires a little
apart, to play their instruments and dance under
the Paschal moon.
Watching them, Joachim's grizzled face brightened.
He grinned wryly. "Ah, sons! Let them enjoy
themselves while they can. After marriage it's too
late."
Joseph too was smiling. "My marriage to your
daughter, Joachim, is far from a joyless thing. As
for Jesus--yes, a boy grows up too fast." He spoke
thoughtfully as they trudged on. "The day will
come when he too will have some important decisions
to make. Until then, we just want him to be
happy. Mary and I have prayed that nothing,
absolutely nothing, will spoil this trip for him."

The roads were better than people had feared.
Roman crews had been out for weeks repairing
them, and erecting new mileage markers. And at
every turn, it seemed, new pilgrims waved the
caravan down. For this was the season when the
men of Israel dropped everything to pay tribute to
their Lord. Never mind that the barley harvest was
barely over, the wheat crop beginning to gild in the
fields; that despite all precautions, thieves might
come in the night to steal what they had just
labored so hard to garner; that a man with enemies
might find them even mean enough to sow tares in
the ripening grain. They must go, they must go up to 
the Holy City, where at last the Messiah might--yes, must sometime--appear.
Perhaps at this very Passover!
For it would surely be at Passover, many priests
and doctors of the law believed, when they celebrated
their miraculous Pesach, or passage out of the bondage of Egypt. What more appropriate hour for their own Deliverer to be sent, one even greater than Moses? And once he set foot in the Temple... ! Just how this would happen, neither
the priests nor the people quite knew. Only that Israel's agonies would somehow soon be over, her enemies overthrown; he would establish a kingdom
to rival David's, and all the earth would recognize them at last as the one true People of God.
The Galileans realized, humbly, that they were
considered notoriously lax in obeying the Law, especially about fasting and washing--actually regarded as little better than heathens by most of
Judea. Yet in this one matter they could not bear to
be found wanting. When he came, surely they,
even they would be worthy. They wanted to be there to greet him.

Toward evening of the fourth day, the caravan approached its destination. The final march had been long and hard, climbing up, forever up
through the bleak Judean wilderness. The air, so
high above sea level after that of Jericho, was hard
to breathe. The women often had to pause to rest,
while the men and boys, walking together now and
already far ahead, pressed on in their eagerness.
They had almost reached The Red Ascent, where
each year at Yom Kippur the scapegoat Azazel was
led into the wilderness and pushed over a cliff.
Through the haze, thrillingly in the distance, the
first glimpse of the city could be seen. And as they
began to climb the last steep winding limestone
ridge that overlooked Jerusalem, their excitement
could no longer be contained. At sight of it a
mighty shout went up.
"Let us go, let us go too!" Mary's younger sons
begged.
"All right, go then." Gladly Mary released them,
though Hannah clutched her arm and predicted
they would surely be trampled.
They scurried through the crowd to find Joseph,
who smiled and reached out to draw them in. He
lifted them up onto the donkeys, where they could
see. Jesus stood holding the reins, his dark curls
blowing, his face set in the direction they all were
gazing. The whole procession had halted, breathless
and awed. For a little below and beyond them,
above the broad green gorge of the Kidon, rose the
magnificent City of David. Above its surrounding
brown walls it soared, a tawny confusion of rooftops,
citadels, palaces and towers, glittering in the
rosy fires of the falling sun. While high on the hill
Moriah, at its very center, lifted like a blazing
golden heart, was the dazzling beauty of the
Temple.
"Well, son?" Smiling faintly, Joseph put an arm
around the shoulders of his eldest.
"Yes!" Jesus exclaimed softly, heart pounding.
He stood for a moment, marveling. Then, wordlessly,
Jesus handed over the reins and ran back to
share this moment with Mary.

Elizabeth stood on the rooftop of her house
overlooking the village of Ein Karem, shielding her
eyes from the slanting sun: a tall, older, but still
beautiful woman, very intense but warm, joyous,
loving. Everything about her had a rich creamy
quality--her skin, her voice, her rounded body.
There were dimples at the corners of her full sweet
lips, which curved upward, giving the impression
that something within her was constantly smiling.
Her dark eyes had a gentle radiance. Her black
hair, once winged with silver, was now striped with
creamy white.
All day long--like some anxious child, she
scolded herself--she had interrupted her own eager
preparations to come out here and lean on the
parapet, searching the distant roads that led into
Jerusalem. The roads were always choked with
pilgrims at Passover, but she couldn't remember
ever seeing such approaching hordes as now. She
fancied she could hear them even from here, singing
their songs of ascents, and she found herself
singing with them: "We will go into the Lord's
house! Within thy gates, Jerusalem, our feet stand
at last!"
The servants smiled to hear her; they had missed
that lovely voice ever since her husband's death.
But today as she worked beside them, seeing that
all was in readiness--the lamps, the wine, the food,
the flowers--their mistress kept bursting into song.
Then she would rush to the rooftop and stand gazing
toward the surrounding hills.
More and more, Elizabeth had come to live for
the Passover, when she would see Mary and Joseph
again. They always stayed with her, although
Joachim, for some proud stubborn reason, refused.
Their annual reunion had become for Elizabeth the
dearest, most significant event of the year. But a
great hunger for all her family had been growing in
Elizabeth, especially since the loss of Zechariah.
She hadn't realized how much she would miss him.
John had proved little company; their son was a
very independent boy. But now her people were
coming, just how many she didn't know, though
word had been sent by a runner that Hannah might
be among them. Her sister who hadn't even seen
John!
And Mary and Joseph were bringing Jesus. Jesus,
that child of destiny who had brought Mary, his
girl mother, so deeply into her life. Elizabeth felt
almost faint with anticipation as her eyes combed
the hills.
But now that the sun was sinking, the streams of
pilgrims had thinned. It would soon be dark. She
must hasten inside to see that all the lamps were
lighted. Thus, despite her long vigil, Elizabeth
missed the sight of them toiling at last up the
cobbled hillside to her home. A maid came running.
"There is a body of people approaching!
Even now they are climbing the steps."
Elizabeth herself flung wide the heavy, brass-trimmed
oak door. And there they were, dirty,
disheveled, footsore, weary but elated, still in the
thrall of having at last reached the Holy City. A
crowd she did not altogether recognize--all these
children, and to her joy, even more guests than
Elizabeth expected. Salome and Ephraim insisted
they would lodge elsewhere, but no, no, Elizabeth
cried, "There is room, there is room and the food
and basins are waiting. Come, come, fill this big
empty house for me!"
Laughing and crying, embracing, they swarmed
in. Happy, excited, yet most of them suddenly
shocked and humbled before the luxury of a high
priest's house.
Hannah looked pertly, painfully about. She had
quite forgotten how her sister lived. These
tapestries and alabaster urns. The ornate lamps like
jewels on their tall stands or hanging from the
ceiling. The soft rugs, the mosaic and marble
floors.... And Elizabeth! No, no, this couldn't be
her sister, she protested, even as, weeping, they
fervently hugged. Not this gracious, still stunning
woman with only a few flattering stripes in her
hair. Why, she is older than I am! She was at least
forty when her only son was born. How is it that,
though she is fuller to my arms than when last we
held each other (when was that? Hannah groped--too
many Passovers ago to remember, although
Elizabeth had implored her to come), how could
Elizabeth's face remain so rich and smooth?
Hannah drew back, stricken, feeling by comparison
wizened and old. It's being poor country
people, she decided bleakly, having so many children,
blessing though they are.
Well, at least Mary and Joseph seemed at home
here. And she realized, bewildered, that this was,
for them--certainly for Mary--a homecoming her
mother could never share. Never has Mary looked so
radiant on any return to the home we made for her.
Nor held me the way she and my sister are holding
each other now. . . . No matter, it was too late to
suffer again the old pain, the dark fret, some
blindness within herself, some barrier that kept
them apart. For now she was too tired, miserable,
excited--let it go.
"John, John, where are you?" Elizabeth was
calling out. "Come, make our kinsmen welcome!"
To his mother's proud relief, he came striding
across the polished floors, arms outstretched. John
was tall for his age and ruggedly built. Not comely.
John's features were big and rather rough, his
mouth full-lipped; he had a shock of wild wheat-colored
hair and strange light eyes. Yet there was a
charming vigor about him, a sense of vitality and
warmth that attracted people intensely.
All the family felt it, were almost overpowered by
it. A stab of actual pain smote Hannah, along with
a blind confusion of loving pride. Her nephew's
bright poise. The bracelets on his wrists, the gold
ring on his finger. And his robe: not only of purest
white wool but embroidered. Oh, why, why hadn't
she herself made a more suitable garment for Jesus?
Then, seeing how the cousins were joyfully
embracing, chattering like old friends, Hannah was
ashamed. Almost fiercely she ran to hug Elizabeth
once more. "What a handsome boy! What a handsome
nephew! Isn't he, Joachim?" she cried. "See
how tall John is--almost as tall as Amos."
To her distress, Amos was taking no part in the
conversations. Amos, who had seemed so merry on
the trip, now held back, shy and self-conscious.
"The donkeys must be unloaded," he reminded his
father in a low voice. "I will go attend to them."
Elizabeth protested that she would send the
servants, but there was a general exodus of men
and boys. John had thrown an arm around Jesus'
shoulders; he must come onto the roof to see the
Temple with the evening star first shining and the
lights of the city beginning to sparkle. The others
brought up the baggage--there was a nervous if
happy commotion as their goatskin bags and
bundles were dumped on the marble floors or
carried by the servants to their rooms. How poor
and shabby it all suddenly looked. Hannah winced
to think of her modest gifts to Elizabeth: honeycakes
like those their mother used to make when
they were little girls in Bethlehem, some special
cheeses.
Maids and menservants escorted the rest to their
rooms; one long chamber had been prepared for the
children. But Elizabeth herself preceded Hannah
and Joachim down a long white corridor. She was smiling 
as she drew back the velvet drapery. "The
room I shared so long with Zechariah. . . . You
must sleep here," she insisted as they hesitated. She
now occupied a simple room. "I have kept it so against the 
day when at last you would come to see me."
Meekly, feeling awkward yet pleased, they
entered. A glowing brass brazier made shadows on
the white walls, where leafy designs of grapes, pomegranates 
and other fruits were painted in vivid
colors. Scented lamps blossomed from chains like
dangling flowers.
"Nazareth is so far," Hannah retorted, groaning.
"Nobody knows how far until they walk the
distance we have come these past few days."
"Oh, my goodness, I wasn't scolding," Elizabeth
laughed. "Forgive me. I know I couldn't do it.
Each year I marvel that so many people come so far
to worship. Even the men, let alone women and
children."
"It's the Law," Joachim reminded gruffly.
"For men, yes, but not for us, and you men are
strong. I don't see how women do it, especially at our age." 
She hugged her sister. "Oh, your poor feet!" she cried to both of them.
A maid was already at the door with basin and
towels. To their astonishment, Elizabeth took the
things from her and knelt beside them. "Take off
your sandals," she ordered.
"No, no, we can't let you!" Hannah protested
frantically. Though deeply touched, she was
embarrassed. That Elizabeth should even see their
dirty country feet--so thick and calloused and
homely with broken nails. She looked helplessly at
Joachim, chagrined to see that he was smiling. In
his remote dignified way, Joachim bowed slightly
and sat down on the couch. With a sigh he shook
out a pebble.
"I will be honored," he told her.

Outside, leaning on the parapet, John was pointing
north and east to the Temple. "See, its white
marble walls seem to have a special glow at this
hour. And when the breeze is right--" the boy
cocked his big sandy head and sniffed wryly--"there
is a special aroma."
Jesus agreed. Ever since their awed approach to
the fabulous city he'd been aware of this strange
smell. "Incense?" he asked.
John laughed shortly and folded his arms. "No,
it's the fires being stoked for tomorrow's
burnings," John informed him. "And the smell of
the victims' stables: oxen, bullocks, goats, sheep.
The smell of their offal, and the smell of their
fear."
Jesus was puzzled. "But I thought only lambs
were used for the Paschal sacrifice."
"Yes, lambs for the Passover feast. But sin
offerings too, later in the week." John was grinning
faintly. "And bribes to heaven in the hope of
favors. And the greater the sin or the greater the
favor, sometimes the bigger the beast."
As Jesus winced, John grabbed his shoulders,
face joyfully intense. "I'm so glad you've
finally come, my cousin. I have dreamed of
you for years--and now here you are and we must
talk. We need to talk to each other: of things, many
things, that would only upset my mother, and
perhaps yours too, to hear."
They were interrupted by a summons to supper.
"Only enough to ease your hunger after such a
long journey," Elizabeth told them, "for tomorrow
night we will eat richly. Dear Joachim, you must
lead the prayers. Come, we will all sit down
together." Tall and gracious, flushed with
pleasure, she indicated the silken cushions arranged
before the linen cloth. "It was never the custom of
this family to separate men from women at meals."
Then, lest Hannah think she was belittling the
custom still common in the country, she added
quickly, laughing, "There were never enough
men!"
Rejoicing, Joachim lifted his arms. And as they
began to break the bread, to dip it in the savory
stew, to share and praise Hannah's gifts of cakes
and cheeses, their nervousness vanished, love
bound them. It was so good to partake of such food
at last after makeshift meals on the road. The wine
was sweet and hot, warmed at a rosy brazier whose
lights danced on the high ceilings; a servant kept
pouring it into silver mugs. Their tongues
loosened, they regaled Elizabeth and John with
stories of their trip.
Even Amos joined in. He was a good storyteller
when the mood was upon him. His shy face shone.
"You would have been proud of my father, leading
the singing as we marched through Beth-Shan."
"Singing?" Elizabeth exclaimed.
"Yes, singing, though some wouldn't call it
that." He grinned at Joachim, who was chuckling.
"'Damn the idols!' my father said. Their temples
were lining both sides of the highway as we
approached. Women were warning their children
not to look. That's when he shouted, 'Damn the
idols! Jews shouldn't go slinking through this
heathen city. We will lift up our heads and sing.'
And so we marched to the Jewish quarter, beating
our staves on the pavement and singing as loud as
we could: 'The Lord makes us strong, sing praises!
Sing to Israel's God!'"
"Sing praises, sing praises!" the children began
to chant, delighted, and suddenly Salome, her husband,
and the others joined in.
"How I wish I could have been with you!" John
was leaning forward, excited. "What did the
authorities do?"
Joachim snatched the story from his son. "They
came running out of their houses and shops to
watch. Most of them smiled, some of them
laughed. They considered us just a ragtailed band
of Galileans, I suppose, willing to risk arrest for the
One we worship. No threat to them... Not yet,
not yet," he added, with a small tight smile. "Let
them wait. They don't realize--when the Messiah
comes--"
A hush fell over the table. "When the Messiah
comes," Elizabeth said quietly. Her long fingers were 
twisting the stem of her goblet. As yet she had not 
allowed herself to look, really look, at
Mary's son. Now she lifted her eyes and caught her
breath at his beauty as he sat there, smiling so innocently 
and proudly, first at his grandfather
then at John, who shot suddenly to his feet. Eyes
shining, John began to recite the ancient prayer,
asking--yes, demanding--that the Christ, so long
promised, appear: "Let your name, 0 God, be
praised and glorified in this world which You have
created according to your good pleasure; vouchsafe
to establish your reign; let redemption flourish, and
the Messiah quickly come."
"Let the Messiah quickly come!" Echoes went
up from the table, although Mary and Joseph sat silent. 
And the children clapped their hands and
shouted, "Amen, amen!"

The meal was over; the dishes were being cleared
away. John and Jesus again started for the roof;
then, seeing Amos' hurt look, they urged him to
join them. He sauntered after them, feeling too old
for their idle chatter but hating to be left. Mary
began quietly gathering up her children to be put
to bed. Elizabeth walked with her to their chamber.
Holding a lamp, she stood looking in. It felt strange, 
seeing Mary with her own family. How small she seemed, 
to be in such control. The boys
were sulking: Why couldn't they too go out on the
roof? Tomorrow night, she assured them, after the
feast. But Jesus--! "Jesus is older." Yes, Leah
could sleep with her favorite blanket, it was
somewhere among the bags, Mary would find it.
At last they were quiet. Mary blew out the
lamps, except for a small saucer burning in a niche,
and crept out. She was suddenly so weary she could
hardly stand. Elizabeth reached out one arm to
hold her. "Oh, my dear, my poor little girl!"
"Elizabeth, Elizabeth."
They clung to each other fiercely for a second,
the way they often did. But this time Mary's shoulders
were shaking. The face she lifted in the
lamplight was pale and, for an instant, young no
longer. "Forgive me, it's just that now that we have
actually brought him here--!"
"Hush, hush," Elizabeth whispered. "We will talk soon. Not tonight, you are so tired, but soon, when we can find a time of privacy."

Hannah couldn't sleep. The bed was too soft, it
would smother her; the coverlet was too slick. And
she would surely fall--whoever heard of a bed with
legs, gilt ones at that? How could Joachim sprawl
there, so promptly snoring? Fearfully, Hannah
tested the distance to the floor, and carefully
backed down onto it, pulling a woolen spread after
her.
Joachim roused up, blinking, not sure where they
were. Then he saw his wife, trying to settle herself.
"Hannah, what are you doing?"
"There is a rug here; it will make a fine mat for
sleeping."
Dismayed, but too exhausted to discuss it,
Joachim burrowed deeper into the clouds that
seemed such heaven to his aching bones. But his
wife's voice came plaintively through the darkness.
"Joachim?"
"Yes, Hannah, what is it?"
"That gold ring John was wearing--surely you
noticed? And his robe, that beautiful robe! Oh, why
didn't Mary--or I, for that matter--see that Jesus
arrived in a better robe?"
Joachim groaned. "Hannah, please. Life should
not be a contest: who is fairer, who is better
dressed. We are here for a sacred reason, to thank
our God for our deliverance!"
Yet her distress was real, Joachim realized. He
reached over, groped for her bony hand, and
pressed it.
"You must not grieve over such trifles, Hannah.
Try to remember, God has a tremendous mission
for our Mary's son. What does it matter now about
a ring?" He laughed impatiently. "A mere garment,
a robe? When one day he will be a king!"
They lay for a moment in silence.
"Pray that we live to see it," Joachim said
finally, sighing. "But even if we don't, rejoice,
since that is your nature, that then he will have a
dozen rings and bracelets, and robes that will put
his cousin's, or even Solomon's, to shame."

John dashed off before daybreak, for he assisted the
priests on festival days. Last night he had urged the
men too to leave early, if they hoped to avoid
the long lines before the booths of the money changers.
They laid their coins on the table as he spoke,
anxious lest they had not brought enough. The rate
of exchange had gone up, he warned; the thieves
were charging worshipers more than ever to trade
their Roman coins for the clean Hebrew shekels
needed to purchase animals for the sacrifice. "Even
the price of beasts is higher. I'm afraid there'll be
stiff bidding for the best." It was all fearful,
deplorable, yet somehow exciting.
Mary awoke that morning, startled to see that
Joseph's place beside her was empty. She realized
the household was already stirring--she must run
to see about her children's clothes. To her surprise,
her younger sons were already dressed in the
brightly colored garments she had woven and
mended with such care; they stood awaiting her
inspection. Hannah, scolding and fussing about
keeping close to their father and staying clean, was
triumphantly tying a final sash. "They've all
washed and said their prayers," she announced
briskly. "We decided to let you rest."
Mary turned to Joseph in astonishment. "But I
thought they were coming later with me."
"They've already waited long enough to see the
Temple," Joseph said. He felt guilty at having held
them back from their brother so often on the trip.
He must compensate; the last thing he wanted was
enmity among his sons. "Passover," he claimed
heartily, "is a time for men of all ages to do these
things together."
Mary straightened her sons' little velvet prayer
caps: ruby, turquoise, green. They were like small
bouncing flowers. And now Jesus, all in white like
Joseph, was putting on his own scarlet cap. He
looked eager if a little nervous. He kissed his
mother and held tight to her for a moment. Then
they were gone: Joachim, Ephraim, the lot of them,
marching down the hill through the sunrise, while
their women watched from the roof.

Of a sudden a sense of freedom swept the house,
the release of women alone together. Elizabeth told
the servants they would not be needed; she herself
brought bread and figs and thick mugs of warmed
goat's milk to the small table around which they
huddled, in a sunny chamber she used for sorting
flowers. It smelled of pots and stone vessels, and
the spicy fragrance of the multicolored lilies which
everywhere bedecked the house.
Now, at last, delicious woman talk: News of the
family, for which Elizabeth hungered. The aunts
and uncles and cousins--why didn't more of them
look her up when they came to Jerusalem? Elizabeth
asked. Had they thought her too fine, as the
wife of a priest? It would mean even more to her
now that she was a widow... Illnesses, marriages,
babies. Cousin Deborah had the biggest house in
Nazareth, they told her, and four children, but
unfortunately all girls.
"As you know, I have only one child," Salome
acknowledged forlornly, "and that too a daughter."
"In time, in time," Hannah said. "If you can
ever get away from your in-laws. Smithies," she
informed Elizabeth, on a note of contempt. "What
can you expect of smithies?"
"Nice pots to cook with," piped up Ann, who
was enjoying this as much as the women.
But no, now, the morning was going too fast.
Time they too dressed and started for the Temple;
the feast officially began right after noon. Where
was Mary? She must have slipped back to her
couch. Together, Hannah and Elizabeth went to
call her. But for a moment they could only stand
gazing at the slight figure lying with one arm
shielding her face. Suddenly their eyes met, and
wordlessly they gripped each other's hand. Then
gently, very gently, Hannah shook her daughter.

Chapter 5
THE WALK TO the city had never seemed so far to
Mary. Only four miles--nothing compared with
the long marches of the past few days, or that last
hard hot climb through the barren wilderness--but
today it seemed endless. Her feet, she found, had
swollen; it was all she could do to squeeze them
into her sandals. Her head felt light. She kept
trying not to limp, not to let the others know.
Jerusalem too: the mad confusion of walls, rooftops,
courtyards, markets; the incredible stench; the
racket--donkeys, camels, carts, vendors. "Water,
fresh water!" the sellers screamed as the merciless
sun beat down. Buffeted and jostled, the women
paused to drink. All about them were mobs of
shoving, shouting people pressing toward the
Temple, but laughing and calling out to each other
too, for however sacred the festival, it was also a
time of high spirits. They could hear trumpets,
wild and golden in the distance. There was a
frantic bleating as flocks were driven by. So many
pilgrims had come this year the Temple stables
could not contain all the sheep; boys with sticks
were darting about, herding them from nearby
pens.
"Are we late?" Hannah asked anxiously, as the
trumpets drilled the air again. "Will they let us
in?"
"The ceremonies go on all day," Elizabeth said,
"but it would be well to hurry." She strode a little
ahead, beckoning, smiling, knowing her way--through
the immense stone wall, along deep
covered passages, to the massive, richly ornamented
Beautiful Gate.
After the heat and din of the streets the Temple
seemed a refuge, despite its own seas of people and
noise. Hannah gasped at its splendor; she had
almost forgotten--it had been so long ago--this
assault of cedar, marble, and gold. The soaring
blue and white columns garlanded with vines and
grapes. The porticoes and pillars and arcades. And
the white marble steps and tiers that led up and up
to the very house of God, all gold, purest gold,
almost blinding in the sun, its glittering topmost
spikes piercing the deep blue heart of heaven.
In the Women's Court now: shrill babble of
voices and the press and smell of women's bodies,
mingling with the heavy odor of incense and smoke
drifting down from the highest tier where white-clad
priests were swarming. At the front, two boys
stood guarding a marble bench: friends of John's,
wearing the short white tunics of Temple aides.
Waving, one of them ran to escort them through.
Feeling privileged and relieved, the women sat
down.
Here they could look up fifteen curved steps
into the Court of Men. Impossible to pick out their
own among that crowd of males whose backs were
turned, anxiously though they tried. Never mind,
for up more steps, on the final court, the solemn
procession of priests was forming, the high priest at
its head. An awed hush fell as he moved forward in
his magnificent blue robes: a towering man made
even taller by his turban, which was encircled with
a golden crown. The lesser priests, in spotless
white linen and turbans followed, then the Levites,
playing lyres: 0, give thanks to the Lord; for he is
good, for his mercy endures forever!
Hannah was so excited she wanted to weep; it
had been years since she'd witnessed such a spectacle.
Even as she prostrated herself and joined the
prayers, she was trying to remember how it was, so
she could describe all this for poor blind Esau. Yes,
and Judith and Matthew--how she missed them,
especially Matthew! Oh, how thankful she was that
Salome had come along. And Joseph had been right
in bringing all his children.
The high priest was approaching the balustrade,
the twelve gems on his breastplate flashing. They
represented the twelve tribes of Israel--so precious
they were kept in the custody of the Romans,
Elizabeth said, released only for this occasion.
(Such arrogance, how dared they?) It was also said
the jewels would never burn their brightest until
the Ark was returned. Yet it was hard to see how
they could blaze more brilliantly than now.
The priest's robe was decorated with scarlet and
blue pomegranates, his thick waist girded with a
sash of blue silk and spun gold. They could hear
the tinkling of little bells as he spread his arms for
the blessing; the sleeves of his garments looked like
wings. He had been very close to Zechariah. Seeing
Elizabeth, the elegant figure bowed in recognition;
his holy eyes smiled a gentle welcome to her guests.
Hannah's heart nearly burst with pride. Then it
occurred to her to search the hosts of other priests
for a possible glimpse of Abner, a Nazareth youth
of priestly descent who had once been in love with
Mary; after her betrothal he'd come to the Temple
to study. But no, never mind, for there was a
stirring, a sense of anticipation in the Men's Court
just above. Aides were lining up the fathers and
their sons to ascend. How young and fair the boys
were, nervously inching forward, but none so fair
as Jesus. Hannah strained for a sight of her darling
far down the line. Would he spare a glance for
them as they walked past? No, for when at last he
and Joseph appeared, to climb the steps where the
high priest waited, there was no time.
Impossible to hear what Joseph was saying, but
they knew: "I am Joseph of Nazareth, and this is
Jesus, my firstborn son." The priest leaned
forward, murmuring something and smiling before
he placed his hands on the boy's curly head. It
seemed to Hannah his prayer for Jesus was longer
than for the others.
Her daughter's son! Did the priest realize? she
wondered wildly. Priests, high priests, had special
powers; they were closer to God. Perhaps even now
he sensed who this was. An awful impulse came
over Hannah; she wanted to leap to her feet and
shout. Shaken, she glanced at Mary, who was 
staring straight ahead, hands locked in her lap. It 
was Elizabeth who turned proud wet eyes to meet 
Hannah's hungry gaze....
Overhead, a hundred silver trumpets flashed as 
they were tilted toward the sun; their golden 
throats wrenched the skies again.
Dry-lipped, heart pounding, Jesus stood waiting. 
The sheep tied to cedar posts were being released. 
There was a renewed bleating and blatting. Their 
little hooves rumbled as one by one they were led 
or shoved up the ramp, to be given over to each 
boy who had just been blessed. It had been deemed 
that on this day he would walk beside his father to 
deliver up the sacrifice.
The unblemished yearling lamb Joseph had purchased this 
morning was put into his arms. The 
boy could feel its warm body lunging and kicking 
against him, its heart beating wildly for life. It 
knew--it knew!--and was bawling piteously. 
"Hold him tighter, son," Joseph said as they strode 
forward, "lest he escape." Jesus struggled with his 
burden, terrified. Its wool was soft, its black nose 
brushed damp and chill against his face.
"Forgive me, Father, don't think me unmanly, 
but I cannot, I cannot--!"
Wordlessly, Joseph grabbed the frantic lamb and 
handed it to a short bald priest in a bloodstained 
smock, who carried it up to the marble table. The 
small head was tipped back, a knife flashed, the first 
blood spurted and was caught in a copper
chalice, to be dashed upon the altar. Fresh-faced 
young Levites leaped to drain the remaining blood
into a gutter beside the platform, where it would
run, scarlet and foaming, on into the Kidron River.
All was accomplished swiftly, the skinning and the
gutting and the slashing of the little still-jerking
limbs. The Levites snatched the entrails and ran to
wash them in the hall of the spring. Running back,
they were presented to the barefoot priest, who
added them to the flesh and fat he was arranging
on a golden platter. Dashed with the salt of the
covenant, sprinkled with incense, the offering was
then lifted to heaven and carried to the horned altar
where the sacred fires burned.
It was soon over. In a few minutes another young
priest made his way through the hubbub and down
the steps to them, carrying a large package wrapped
in palm leaves. He was tall and gaunt in a gown
that was likewise bloodstained. He had deep, kind,
friendly, yet somehow lonely eyes. Joseph cried out
softly at sight of him. "Abner!"
"Joseph!" The priest was grinning faintly. "And
this is your son." He turned to the boy. "Jesus, son
of Mary, I watched for your coming. Like your
father, you look strong. Here, you can carry the
Paschal lamb for your family's feast."
Jesus took the package. The lamb, so recently warm and 
fighting for life, had not seemed heavy;
but now that it was only raw dead flesh, he could
scarcely hold it; descending the steps he stumbled
with its weight.

At Elizabeth's, the ovens were already hot for the
roasting of the lambs, one to each family. Carefully,
so as not to break their bones, the small pink
bodies were inserted, and soon the delicate savor of
their cooking flesh filled the house.
John had not yet returned from his duties at the
Temple. Jesus sat alone in the high-ceilinged room
they shared, his head in his hands. His face felt
damp, his brow was flushed. He started guiltily as
Joseph came seeking him. "Forgive me, Father, but
the smell of the meat sickens me. I'm afraid I
cannot eat this Passover lamb."
"Come now, you must try. You know it is a
sacred commandment."
The boy looked up, stricken. "But I held him,
Father. I felt his heart beating against my heart, yet
I let them take him from me!"
Lightly Joseph shook his shoulder. "You must
put aside such thoughts. It will spoil the festivities
for the rest of us. Come, don't worry your
mother or distress your aunt." His own voice was
more jovial than he felt. He had been afraid of this;
in fact, had dreaded it ever since Jesus first
started to school. Now, too late, Joseph realized
how grievously he had failed in not bringing the
boy to the Temple long before, and accustomed
him gradually to the rite. At first it was partly
for the child's own safety, Joseph reasoned. He had
not dared dismiss the possibility, however remote,
that there might still be danger from Herod's
henchmen; or, more likely, the threat of another
uprising, with the horrible consequences he himself 
remembered so well. So be it, he had done the
best he could... .
Jesus was struggling with himself. What was the matter 
with him? He had witnessed the necessary killing of animals 
on the farm. And each year at
Passover, while his parents were away, he shared
the Paschal lamb without hesitation. One of his
uncles who couldn't go would have killed it, and
one of his grandmothers roasted it on a pomegranate
branch, over an open fire. He remembered
the fat hissing onto the smoking coals. A pitcher of
the lamb's blood stood nearby. Then, when the
meat was crisp and brown, someone--Uncle Cleo
or Esau--once Joachim, when he was too ill to
make the long march--would dip a hyssop branch
into the pitcher and bring it forth dripping with
bright red blood, which he solemnly dabbed on the
doorposts as the people of Moses had done.
But this mass butchery! He was unprepared for
the terrified bleating of innocent creatures being
shoved, dragged, even kicked to their doom. What
had they done, what was their crime? Did the sins
of man really ride in their blood? Were they
carrying man's guilt and error and vileness to be
burned in the fires? Then why did people continue to sin? 
Why did they leave these very altars to
cheat and fight and fornicate? He had seen them in
Nazareth; even here in this beautiful city he had
already been sickened to see them, cursing,
drunken, mounting women in the gutters like dogs.
What did the Father want with their cruel
sacrifice? There was a mystery here that he must
solve...
To Joseph's relief, John burst in upon them.
Rough, boisterous, looking tired, but to their
surprise he was beaming. "I'm hungry!" he cried.
He lunged playfully at his cousin and pulled him to
his feet. "Come on, we will worship God with
wine and song and outeat all the others."

The unleavened bread had cooled, the sauce and
the wine were ready, yes, and the crisp brown
lamb. And Jesus rallied, joining hands with the rest
of them gathered around the table. He swallowed
the salted water in remembrance of the tears their
forefathers had shed; he ate the bitter herbs and
devoured the lamb that was slain for them. But the
wine was sweet on his tongue, as glass after glass of
it was passed from hand to hand. By the third, the
goblet of benediction, as they were singing the
hallel, such a thrill of wonder and promise rose in
him he could scarcely contain it. "Not to us, Lord,
not to us the glory; let your name alone be
honored!"
A shock of love and joy possessed him, an agony 
of loving. He saw Joachim's grizzled, life-toughened,
kind old face, and the tart-sweet
burning eyes of his grandmother. His sister Ann, so
innocent and small... his restless, wriggling
brothers . . . And Amos and Salome and Ephraim
. . . Elizabeth and John. . . . Marvelous, unreal,
their faces loomed and receded; he longed to reach
out and touch them, confirm them with his
fingers. And his parents--he caught his breath at
their beauty, as if seeing them for the first time.
They were bathed in radiance: Joseph, like some
graceful young god of the pagans; and Mary--her
dark hair in its coronet of braids became a nimbus,
and small golden butterflies sprang out of the
fluttering candlelight to dance across her cheeks.
But it wasn't only these, his people, but the
servants and the priests and all the people in the
Temple as well. And the beggars and the Romans
on the streets. They were being born to him,
somewhere in his being, yet he had known them all
since the beginning of time. Every breath and bone
of them, every experience of birth and death, every
sin and hope and dream and fear. All this ran
singing and sobbing through his own blood in this
instant of awareness. And as the fourth and final
glass was raised in joy, his young eyes filled with
tears.
"Blessed is he who comes in the name of the
Lord!"

Exhausted by all the excitement and emotion,
Hannah slept. The men were again at the Temple.
And Salome had taken Mary's children into
Jerusalem; they'd been teasing for days to see the
shops. Ephraim and their grandfather had given
them each a handful of jingling coins to spend.
"Sister, you rest too," Salome urged as Ann and
the boys rushed down the steps. "You look pale.
Remember, we still have a long journey back."
Now, except for the muted voices and footsteps
of servants, the cooing of pigeons on a ledge, an
occasional rattle of vessels, all was quiet. Eyes
shining with anticipation, Elizabeth turned to
Mary. "Come, at last we can talk!"
"Yes, oh, yes!" It was the hour they both lived 
for all year--their talks, their precious talks. Mary 
felt almost faint with her sense of release.
And following her aunt onto the balcony, she 
remembered their first reunion five or six years
before, her first trip to the Passover with Joseph
when the children were small. How, while others
were at the festival, they had escaped even as now,
desperate to share what was on their hearts. "Oh,
Elizabeth, I have wanted to tell you this so long,"
she cried then. "That time we first brought Jesus
to the Temple--the time of my purification, when
he must be dedicated--"
"I will never forget the time. I was aware of it
even then, almost to the very hour."
"There was no way to see you," Mary rushed
on. "That was my dearest wish, to see you again.
To see your precious baby, and to have you see
mine. But we dared not; we had to hurry, we were
in great danger."
"Of course I know that, darling." Elizabeth
leaned closer to clasp her hand. "Zechariah and I
heard about the slaughter in Bethlehem. All Judea
knew of it. That beast, that monster!" Her eyes
blazed; her full sweet face, usually wearing its little
half smile, was grim. "We were nearly crazed with
fear for you. We hired people to search for you. To
think that here we were, our own child safe, while
you, who had become like a daughter to us--" She
brushed away tears. "Oh, thank God, thank God
you were spared!"
"And there is something else," Mary said, her
own eyes wet. "I have never spoken of it to anyone
save Joseph--not even my mother. There was a
man in the Temple that day, a very old man named
Simeon. He was waiting for death, he told us, but
he knew he could not die until he had beheld the
Messiah." Mary was trembling; it was a minute
before she could go on. "The Holy Spirit had
revealed this to him, he said, and led him into the
Temple to find us. Then he took our baby in his
arms and blessed him. And he predicted--he predicted--I 
shall never forget his words--'Behold,
this child is set for the rising again of many in
Israel.' But then he turned to me and told me, 'Yet
there will be pain for you, his mother, and a sword
shall pierce your heart!' "
Elizabeth had held her that day and rocked her.
Spoken words of comfort. "Old men say strange
things, Mary. Zechariah prophesied too. When at
last his tongue was loosed, he too spoke in the Holy
Spirit. How I wish you could have heard him," she
said, "for it was a beautiful hymn of thanksgiving.
It was quite long; I remember only parts of it. But
I know it promised that we would be saved from
our enemies, that we might serve God without
fear!" Elizabeth was smiling, her voice cheerful, in
part to comfort and convince herself.
"And our sons?" Mary asked. Sitting upright,
she wiped her tear-streaked face. "Did he speak of
them too?"
"Yes, of course. In fact, the last of his beautiful
litany was addressed directly to John. It was the
day of John's circumcision. I'll never forget how 
his father took the baby from me and gazed into his 
little face. 'And you, child, will be called the prophet 
of the Highest,' he said, 'and go before the Lord to 
prepare his ways.' He said that John would teach
the people they must repent if they expected
salvation, and that a tender and merciful God was 
sending a great light for those who walk in 
darkness."
Elizabeth paused, regarding Mary. "You alone know who 
that is, Mary. You and Joseph."
They had spoken of this endlessly, each time 
they saw each other, wondering, marveling. Yet 
those were the years when their sons were still 
precious and small, playing with other children;
going to school. The future seemed mysterious and 
far away, surely as filled with promise as with 
threat. Just being together made it so, here where 
they had often sat working on mosaics, while their
babes were safe in their wombs. The same little 
table was still there, the same little reed basket with 
its bright familiar tiles.
But now, suddenly, inexplicably--overnight, it 
seemed--their sons were twelve and thirteen years
old! On the brink of manhood, Mary realized. The 
trip to Jerusalem this time--her mother, even 
Joseph, thought Mary's exhaustion was due to
having the children along. How could she explain 
to them the inner thing that had fastened itself 
upon her about midway, heavy, dark, anxious, so 
that every step was leaden? And the nearer they 
drew to their destination, the greater her dread. A
kind of panic beset her, shameful, absurd. She had
wanted to snatch Jesus and flee with him into the
hills. And when at last the caravan ascended the
final ridge and paused in awed excitement to gaze
across the broad gorge of the Kidron to where the
fabled city rose, Mary covered her eyes. She turned and 
sat beside the road, busying herself with a sandal. A 
strap was broken; she must fix it
somehow before she could go on.
She blurted this out to Elizabeth now. "Am I
strong enough to face... whatever it is God wills
for him? To stand by Jesus and help him? I am so
torn sometimes; God has also sent me other
children. I mustn't fail them either." She was
struggling to make it clear. "You have told me
often what Zechariah prophesied about our sons.
But what of us, their mothers? Did your husband
and my uncle prophesy of us as well?"
Elizabeth sat considering, her fingers playing
with the tiles. "No," she said, regretful and yet
resigned. "Nothing." She rose then, arms folded,
and walked to the parapet. She was wearing a
dress of some soft light stuff, silver-threaded like
her hair. The sky was hot and very blue. Plumes of smoke 
still rose from the Temple--a glimpse of
gold in the distance--and drifted lazily toward
Herod's palace, ironically darkening as they
approached it, sometimes obscuring the palace face.
Pigeons still crooned and strutted on the ledge
below. Absently, Elizabeth reached for a crust someone 
had left and began tossing crumbs to
them. They swarmed up around her, luminous,
begging. A small breeze had risen, stirring her hair,
sharpening the faint ever-present odor. Suddenly, 
dusting her hands and fending off the pigeons, 
Elizabeth came swiftly, gracefully, back to the
table. "Mary, listen to me," she said, sitting down.
"Every word that your uncle uttered is true; the
Holy Spirit does not lie. John is destined to be the 
forerunner of Jesus. The messenger warning people 
to listen. But what the Spirit did not tell us is that 
our sons will be rebels! Breakers of images. I can 
see it already in John. John is--difficult. Even you 
may have noticed. I am frightened by him sometimes--his 
ideas. I don't know how to handle him."
Elizabeth paused. Her rich throaty voice was
troubled.
"Mary, I'm not surprised at your apprehension.
To be chosen of God as you and I were chosen,
and as our sons are chosen, does not mean life will
be easy for us. Any of us. Quite the contrary.
Anyone who goes against tradition is persecuted,
suffers terribly. There is jealousy, terrible jealousy
between the Sadducees and Pharisees, even among
the priests. The fight for honor and position is
appalling. And the women don't escape. How well
I know that, as the wife of a high priest! For you
there will be jealousy even in Nazareth, I'm afraid.
Even among his brothers and sisters, his own
family."
"Oh, no!" Mary cried. "Not my children."
"You must be prepared for it, Mary. And you
must be prepared for danger. Actual danger.
Anyone who threatens authority--" Elizabeth's voice 
was not quite steady. She rose again and
began searching about for something else to feed the birds. "I thought surely there was more bread lying about. No matter." She drew a deep breath,
stood bracing herself against the stones. With an
effort she went on. "We both have seen the crosses, Mary. And I--pray God you never will--but I have seen beheadings." She shuddered. "That old man who spoke to you in the Temple--Simeon was right. A sword will indeed pierce your heart."
Unconsciously she touched her own breast. "Already I feel the sword in mine."
Elizabeth turned then, and seeing Mary's white,
strained face, rushed to kneel beside her. "Forgive
me, I'm just a foolish old woman saying wild and
foolish things!"
"No, what you say is true. I'm a grown woman, I must know."
"Yes. You're no longer the little girl who first came to me--or 
so you seemed then." Wistful but smiling, she lifted Mary's chin--her niece, her dearest friend, the daughter she had never had.
"We're both grown women now, Mary, and we are
strong. God would not choose weak women to bear and stand 
behind strong sons."
She gave Mary a fond little shake. Suddenly
laughing as well as crying, they sprang up. For the
pigeons had come pecking about their feet. And
Hannah stood in the doorway, yawning and grimacing
as she shielded her eyes to look for them.
"Come, sister, join us," Elizabeth called out in her
usual rich sweet voice. "But first ask a maid to
bring us some bread for our friends."

Jesus lay on his couch, appalled at what John was
saying. Yet why am I so shocked? he wondered. It
was as if he had heard these same words long ago,
experienced the selfsame scene. This moon shining
beyond tall arched windows where long white
draperies were stirring . . . the damp nighttime
fragrance of the garden, subtly flavored even now
with the acrid scent of burning. Even the thump of
his cousin's dropped belt and sandals, the sight of
John's already hairy young body as he pulled his
shirt over his shaggy head. Every brisk, merry,
half-mocking gesture, every toss of that wild yellow
mane. . . Where have I known and loved and
been rudely shaken by this boy before? But no,
reasonably, had they not been together hours on
end this week? And in this very room?
"I reject the Temple," John said, blowing out
the lamp. "I reject the priests, the entire priesthood."
"But your father, Zechariah, was a priest!"
"Yes, a high priest. Obviously much favored by
the Lord." John laughed shortly, flinging himself
down. "You know, of course, the circumstances of
my birth? My mother shared them with me shortly
before my father died."
"I know only you were considered a great blessing,
since your parents were along in years."
"I was considered a miracle!" John laughed.
"Quite literally, my father was speechless. He was
a good man, my father, a true servant of God,
incorruptible. Yet even my father was blind to the
injustices, the corruption. He accepted without
question the moneymaking in the Temple, the
tithes and taxes and offerings. To glorify God? Ha!
Tell me, does the One who owns the universe need
money? No, only the scribes and Pharisees who run
the Temple. And the priests. Ah, the priests!
Luxury for the priests. Luxury"--he snorted--"while
other people starve."
John sat upright, made a sweeping gesture of
contempt for the room: its golden candlesticks,
gleaming in the moonlight, its graceful Greek
chests and chairs and tables.
"I reject this luxury for myself. True, my mother
is accustomed to it, and she has earned it. She has
given her whole life to the Temple, training the
virgins, most of them from very poor homes. She
has taught them, helped them to make good marriages.
She has worked hard; she deserves it." John
lay back down. "It would be unthinkable to disturb
her. Mind you don't ever tell her what I've said."
There was silence for a long moment, though
John threshed about. Finally he spoke again.
"Jesus?"
"Yes, cousin John."
"I mentioned my own birth--there were all sorts
of prophecies and predictions, though I wonder
sometimes if I can ever live up to them. But
you--do you know the circumstances of yours?"
"My mother has told me very little. Except that I
was born in Bethlehem. My parents had to flee
into Egypt; it seems there was a slaughter of
newborn babies."
"But why did Herod command that slaughter?"
"The man was mad."
Both boys were sitting up now, staring at each
other from their separate beds. John gasped. "You
mean to say--good heavens, you are telling me you
don't know?"
"Know what?" Jesus demanded. His head was
reeling. It was as it had been during those first
days at school; he felt lost and drowning in
something too vivid to articulate.... A stable, he
could see and smell it--the hay and the beasts and
a small red fire. And a great light, a star blazing
. . . and music, thrilling music from somewhere,
beyond and yet blending with the song of
suffering which came from a girl who struggled
moaning on the hay. . . . And yes, he knew, had
known forever and yet did not know, quite know,
who or what had brought this travail upon her.
Only that he loved her, he loved her, and so did
the man who knelt beside her, though both of them
wept and yet rejoiced at what she must achieve.
Blood then, hot blood spurting. And a baby
crying. His own voice crying.... The boy threw a
hand across his cold wet brow.
"But you must know!" John said. He came,
almost angrily, to perch beside his cousin on the
couch. He sat there, staring into the tormented
face. "You were born with the knowledge. You are
the one who must save us."
"I am but twelve years old!"
"We will soon be men. We are men already in
the sight of God. And we both have a thing to do.
But I am nothing compared to you," John said
bluntly. "I will simply go ahead to prepare the
way. When the time comes I will tell the people
who you are."
John sprang up abruptly and plunged to the
window. All his bright bravado had vanished. His
shoulders were hunched together, bowed, as if
under some intolerable burden; he seemed very
young and defenseless as he stood there, gazing out
into the night.
Jesus waited, shaken. It was hard to breathe, such
fear, such sudden terrible fear for his cousin
clutched his heart.
John finally turned to face him, but it was a
moment before he could bring himself to say the
words: "You are the Messiah."


Chapter 6

BERATING HIS OWN curiosity, Nicodemus, the
Pharisee banker, found himself pushing through
the Temple gates--a tall, bald, patrician-looking
man with a kindly erudite face. He would not tarry
long, he told himself, for the caravan from Egypt,
due days ago, had been delayed by the pilgrim-choked
roads; it had arrived only last night, and the
traders would be storming his place of business. He
would merely stay long enough to see if the boy his
friend had described was still there. Not only
listening, Joseph of Arimathea had said, but
astounding the older men with his questions. He
called himself Jesus--from Nazareth, of all places--and 
was barely twelve, yet challenging some of
the best minds in Jerusalem.
Nicodemus grinned... or so they thought.
The mobs that had jammed the courts during the
festival had thinned; only a few faithful were here
bowing and murmuring, or prostrating themselves
on the marble floors. Only a few sheep still kicked
and mourned in their stalls; the sellers sat listless,
yawning. The wonderful place stank of offal and
burnt flesh, but high on the horned altar a single
fire smoldered, while a brisk young priest, looking
bored and almost impatient, offered up a dove for
some poor couple holding a babe below. Yet Nicodemus
could hear voices and sense unusual activity
in the Men's Court beyond.
With a ridiculous sense of anticipation, Nicodemus
hurried up the steps and through the final
gate. Evidently word had spread. He had seldom
seen so many rabbis and scribes and doctors of the
Law--many of them members of the Sanhedrin
like himself--or such a crowd of Pharisees and
their rival Sadducees, standing amused or amazed
or looking indignant, some of them, as they listened
to the bright voice that was ringing out even now.
Nicodemus pressed to the front where he could
see and hear this strange boy, who was perched a
few steps above the men. Joseph of Arimathea was
right; there was something unusual about him,
beyond the fact that he was tall for his age and
beautiful, very beautiful, with his mop of shining
black curls and those eyes - never had he seen such
huge, sweet, beseeching, yet fervent eyes. There
was a boldness about him, along with a trembling
near humility. Evidently his period of submissive
listening and questioning was over. He was speaking
with a kind of shy passion, an outrage softened
by courtesy.
He also seemed very young and vulnerable in his
poor robe--and this touched Nicodemus. The robe
was clean but faded and a trifle too big for him.
With a nod, a pudgy warning finger, Joseph
made room for Nicodemus on a bench directly in
front. Joseph was a tough, keen, heavyset old
scribe, wise, alert, much respected. Today he was
hunched slightly forward, eyes narrow in their
fleshy pouches, listening intently. He seemed to be
both confronting yet subtly encouraging the
speaker.
"Why do men slay and sacrifice the ox?" the boy
was asking. "The faithful, gentle ox! I have driven,
yes, and ridden my grandfather's ox. Would it
please God that I bring it here to be burned?"
He wiped away angry tears. "Farmers need their
oxen! Israel needs its asses and its oxen to cultivate
the land that God has given us. Why--tell me why
each year thousands of beasts are brought here to
be butchered and burned? Yes, and sold here for
handsome profits? To line the coffers of the
Temple, while the land lies fallow and people
starve?"
There was a noisy reaction; Joseph of Arimathea
lifted a hand to still the crowd. "Now, now, hear
him out."
"Forgive me," Jesus pleaded. "I mean no
disrespect. I am eager to learn--as you know, I
have sat listening and asking other questions for
hours. But now I must speak out. How is it that
the priests, with their generous portions, can eat
meat daily, while the farmers who raise the animals
are lucky to have meat on their tables once a week?
And the tithes and offerings," he rushed on, over
angry protests--especially from the Sadducees, for
many of them were priests themselves, or descendants
of priests. "My grandfather is a farmer, my
father a carpenter--they can barely pay the taxes
demanded by Rome. Yet our own religion gives us
no relief; instead, it only compounds the misery
with even worse taxes. Plus the tithes, the merciless
tithes."
The scribe spoke up then, his phlegmy voice
patient but stern. "You challenge sacred scriptures,
son. The tithe goes back to Moses. Our God
himself commanded that the firstfruits be offered
up, rejoicing."
"Yes, but the Father said also, 'You are to feast
on all the good things I have given you, you and your
household, and with you the Levite and the stranger.'
Those firstfruits were not simply to be devoured
by the priests! They were returned to the people
who produced them. But now--how can there be
rejoicing when the authorities have so cruelly
twisted and multiplied those tithes? Turned them
into forced tributes?" he demanded. "Fees to be
collected on every little thing - from the eggs in the
nest to the smallest plant, even a piece of dill!
Surely this was never our Father's intention."
The scribe's big hands were poised lightly on his
parted knees. Now the hands flew upward. Shaking
his head, yet repressing a smile, Joseph of
Arimathea turned to gauge his friend's reaction. He
could see that Nicodemus was shocked but
intrigued. Although speaking Hebrew, the boy was
obviously Galilean. His accent, the sprinkling of
Aramaic phrases. Just a poor lad from the north
country, home of the hated am-ha-aretz, low-class
people who did not observe the Law. A place
where the Syrians and other pagans mingled with
the Jews, corrupting their thinking, mangling their
speech. Yet how charmingly intense he was to be
so young; and how courageous, considering--
A voice from the back echoed some of what Nicodemus
was thinking--abrupt but good-natured,
only mildly mocking. "But aren't you a Galilean?
Don't the people up where you come from sacrifice
pigs to idols?"
"They are not my people," the boy declared,
eyes flashing. "My people have nothing to do with
them. But if we did, I would condemn them for
such practices. The One who made us gave life to all 
his creatures; he would not have us destroy that
life without good reason, even the lowly pig."
Without good reason. Nicodemus felt a start of
excitement. There was something hauntingly familiar
now about the boy. He had a sense of urgency,
of something important impending.
Joseph was pressing his fingertips together,
beating them thoughtfully against his own porcine
lips. Blinking, he leaned forward to resume the
argument. "Like the tithes, our Hebrew rites of
sacrifice are also very old. They too have come
down to us from Moses. Even David sacrificed ten
thousand oxen at a time. And Solomon far more."
"Yes. 'Solomon offered a sacrifice of peace offerings,
which he offered unto the Lord,'" the boy quoted
quickly. "According to the book of Kings: two and
twenty thousand oxen and an hundred and twenty
thousand sheep. But that does not make it right!" he
cried. "David himself deplored the custom, and the
prophet Isaiah detested it, telling us that the man
who really pleases God is the humble man with the
contrite heart. Was Jacob saved by his sacrifices, or
by his prayers and penitence? The prophet Hosea
too, did he not proclaim in the spirit, 'For I desired
mercy, and not sacrifice, and the knowledge of God
more than burnt offerings'?" Jesus caught his
breath. "Wise as our ancestors were, they had little
choice, for the time was not yet come when there
would be no further need for animal sacrifice."
"What then?" demanded the scribe. "Will we no longer worship God?"
The boy was silent for a moment, his eyes
pondering. "The Father will have shown us
another way," he said then. "When the Messiah
comes he will take the sins of men upon his own
shoulders; he will bear our iniquities, he will
suffer for our transgressions." Sweat had broken
out on the young face; he wiped it away on his
sleeve, obviously shaken by his own words.
"Tell me--" Nicodemus could no longer refrain
from asking--"how do you know these things?"
The boy turned his gaze upon him, full and
sweet. "I have a good rabbi," he said modestly. "I
have studied the Scriptures, and my father and my
grandfather have taught me." He paused, still
regarding Nicodemus, whose heart was pounding
absurdly. "Yet there is more. The Lord himself
reveals the truth to those who ask for it."
"Where were you born, son?"
"In Bethlehem. The birthplace of my father. It
was the year of the census, when Cyrenius was
governor of Syria. My father had to return to Judea
to register; my mother went with him."
There was a mass gasp of surprise and disbelief.
"But that was the year when all the babes born
in Bethlehem were slain!" Joseph scolded slyly.
"Didn't your parents hear the edict from Herod?
They were supposed to give you up to be butchered--
like the animals whose slaying you so
eloquently protest. You did escape the slaughter?"
"I'm here!" Jesus laughed with such innocent
wonder the crowd joined him. "I'm told they fled
into Egypt. I'm afraid I can't swear to any of this,
gentlemen, because I honestly don't remember. I
was still in swaddling clothes."
Again they laughed. But Nicodemus had a sudden
belated flash of recognition. "Haven't I seen
you in the Temple before?" he asked. "With a
husky light-haired boy who comes here often? A
boy named John?"
"He is my cousin, the only son of the priest
Zechariah."
"Zechariah, the high priest who died last year?"
Nicodemus exclaimed. It was hard to believe.
"Then you too are of priestly descent?"
"I am related to the priestly line only by
marriage. Zechariah was the husband of my
grandmother's sister, Elizabeth."
Even so. Anyone even remotely associated with a
high priest--especially Zechariah! Nicodemus himself
had been in the Temple on the day the revered
old man had emerged from the inner sanctum
white and shaken, unable to continue the services.
He had thought nothing of it until the stories
began to circulate. Something about an angel's
appearance, shocking the aged priest dumb.
Something about his at last begetting a child.
Legends, probably; people were so eager to believe
such things.
But the favorite story had come from guests at
the christening, where Zechariah was said to have
prophesied about his son--John, his father called
him, breaking with tradition--that John was destined
to be a great spiritual leader, he proclaimed.
. . . Nicodemus shook his head. How wrong
fathers could be, even a high priest; for the boy was
rumored to be something of a trial to his mother, in
some ways already a renegade.
John, that must be it! Nicodemus snapped his
fingers. That explained a lot. For an instant he was
both amused and disappointed. "And this cousin,"
he prodded, "you get some of your--forgive me--wild
ideas from him?"
"I admire my cousin," Jesus said steadily. "He
has opened my eyes to a number of things. But I
speak out of my own convictions. And the questions
I ask of you, gentlemen, are surely put upon
my heart by the One who sent me."
There was a moment of puzzled silence. Nicodemus
and his friend exchanged glances. "Your
father?" Joseph of Arimathea asked.
"Our Father, yours and mine. The Father of us
all."
"Be careful not to blaspheme, son!" the scribe
warned. He turned, in some concern, to assure the
others. "He means no harm. He's young, he will
learn." Cupping his hand, he spoke privately with
Nicodemus. "He has a fine head. A pity he can't
just stay on here and study with a rabbi like Hillel
or Shammai, have access to our libraries--"
"Perhaps if we spoke to his parents," Nicodemus
said on impulse. Again that sense of urgency, that
he must never lose touch with this boy. His own
son, the only son God had allowed him, had died
of a fever before he was two years old. Since
then--nothing, not even a daughter. Other blessings,
yes; prosperity, position, but to have no son!
There was an actual aching in the banker's loins.
Had the child lived he would be about this boy's
age. The man's lean face tightened. He bit his lip,
for it was trembling; he had never wanted anything
so much. "I will find them!" he declared fervently.
"I will adopt him if they'll let me. I will give him
every advantage--"
It was then they heard the commotion in the
Women's Court below. Someone was calling out.
"Jesus!" A cry both desperate and thankful,
echoing from the marble walls. "Jesus!" Startled,
everyone turned and looked down to discover its
source: a tiny woman in a blue wrap. She was
beautiful, they saw, even disheveled, her dark hair
tumbled down, her eyes distraught. Unable to
approach them further, she stood there with her
arms outstretched. She was sobbing in relief.
Jesus had leaped to his feet. He looked dazed for
a moment. Then a smile of great joy lighted his
face. Eagerly he waved to her. "It's my mother!"
he told the men, eyes shining. "I must go now."
He gave them a courteous little bow. "Thank you
for being so patient with me." He darted through
the crowd and down the curved white steps.
Nicodemus made an anxious move to follow, but
was restrained by the quick grip of his friend.
"No," Joseph of Arimathea ordered brusquely.
"Never!"
The two stood watching as the boy held his mother 
against him, gently, with great concern, patting and 
consoling her as if he were the parent
and she the child. Then they went off together
through the Beautiful Gate.
"I found him, I found him!"
Joseph heard Mary even above the commotion
and din on the street. Giving a choked little cry, he
came running, dodging camels and donkeys, beggars,
peddlers, rattling carts. He too looked stricken
and unkempt, his gray eyes circled from loss of
sleep.
Wordlessly, fighting back tears, Joseph embraced
them both. Then anxiously he drew back to examine
the boy. "Are you all right? Where have you been?"
"In the Temple," Jesus said innocently, but he was 
pale and stricken, astonished at their alarm. Never 
had he felt such confusion or such pain.
"Please forgive me," he pleaded. "Something drew
me into the Temple. And I became so absorbed in
the discussions, I didn't know at first the caravan
had left."
His father drew a long shuddering breath. "We
had traveled a day's journey before we missed you.
We thought you were up front again with your
friends. But when Amos came back that first night
to say you weren't there--!"
"We've searched for you for days," Mary broke
in. "We've been nearly crazy with fear." She felt
suddenly limp, as if she would collapse from the
strain. Then she turned on him; she couldn't help
it. "Why have you done this to us? Why have you
treated us like this?"
Jesus was gazing at them bewildered. "I didn't
mean to hurt you. I thought surely you'd know
where to look for me. So I didn't leave the Temple,
not even to go back to Aunt Elizabeth's." He stood
for a moment, bewildered. They must understand.
He loved them both so much. He felt, quite literally,
that he would cut out his heart for either of
them. Yet there was a thing he must do, a thing
that had held him, blind to all else these past three
days.
"Forgive me," he begged again. "But why did
you look for me anywhere but in my Father's
house? Didn't you realize I must be about my
Father's business?"


BOOK TWO
Young Manhood

Chapter 7

JESUS STRODE AHEAD of the sheep, leading them
through meadows still wet and sparkling with
morning, uttering the familiar gurgling cries of the
shepherd: "Hoo-hoo . . . hoo-hoo!" It was good to
have them following him again, knowing him, his
favorites responding to their names--Lisby, Coco,
Imar. With his crook he pulled Imar over to walk
beside him. Even Bezer, the king ram of the flock,
a quarrelsome beast with immense curling horns,
marched docilely at his heels, as if glad to have him
back. Although Amos had warned that the old devil
had been attacking the young rams.
"He even went after me last week," Amos fretted
anxiously. "I had to beat him off. Be sure you have
a stout staff."
Birdsong and tinkling bells, the bleating, the
pattering of little hooves, and Jubal bounding
joyfully at the edges of the flock, nipping and
yipping to establish his authority over any would-be
strays. Jesus, nearly eighteen now, was glad
when he got these calls from Amos for help with
the sheep. A welcome change from the racket of
saws and hammers and the ever-present haze of
dust in the carpenter shop. Only the other day this
urgent summons from Amos had come.
Joachim was ailing again, Amos said--grieving
more than ever over Matthew, it seemed, and he,
Amos, just could not manage everything. The
crops had to be harvested, and Judith and Esau
could not handle the sheep, however they tried.
That wretched ram--it wasn't safe for them. And
most of the ewes were in lamb; they would have to
be watched, some of them might drop. And they
really should be led to farther pastures, kept
out--if Joseph could spare Jesus--until the new
moon.
And they must be well fed, Jesus was thinking,
planning his route as Amos talked. He had inspected
them all yesterday and found some of them
too thin. He would lead them to distant pastures by
way of a grove of pomegranates where they could
feast their fill. There were wild grapes there too,
although now toward summer's end the pigeons
would probably have robbed the rich purple
clusters. Such gluttons! But weren't all wild
creatures mainly walking or flying stomachs to be
filled? He grinned in affectionate amusement. The
birds and animals were so totally brazen and
unembarrassed by their incessant need, feeling no
guilt whatever when they fought each other for a
morsel or devoured each other to survive. Strange
that the Father had made them so--innocent, incapable
of blame. While man...
There were lush and verdant growths too in the
hills beyond. Enough to last for weeks. He patted
Imar, who seemed a bit too scrawny, trotting by his
side. He would tend his sheep like a mother. Like
David, son of Jesse, as the ancient writings said, he
would "set tender grass before the lambs for food,
to the old sheep give soft herbs and tender grass
easy for them to chew; while to the middle sheep
whose teeth were strong he could give the tougher,
older grass, feeding each according to its wants and
strengths."
He had thought of David often, striding over the
hills these past few years, calling or piping to his
sheep. And on those nights when Jesus kept the
flocks, he felt a special kinship with David lying
under the stars on the hills of Judea--near Bethlehem,
he marveled, where both of them were
born. David, composing his psalms even as a
youth. Jesus' heart stirred. He felt a sense of
familiarity and communion, as if he himself had
known or even been that boy. With a thrill he
remembered what had also been written: "And the
Lord said, 'David, who is able to care for the wants of
the flocks entrusted to him, will be able to rule
properly over my flock, the people of Israel.'"
These thoughts he had had for years, but only
when with the sheep, never with his brothers in the
commotion of the carpenter shop. So he welcomed
these urgent calls for help from Amos whenever his
father could spare him.
Joseph was usually glad to release him. Jesus was
no longer needed so much. The younger boys were
being apprenticed, and there really wasn't enough
work for them all. Jesus had been a big help in
teaching them, but this was not always appreciated,
especially by Josey. His own eldest son had resisted
almost from the day Jesus had tried to show him
how to hold a hammer. "I know, I know, I can do
it!" Angrily Josey had run to his father. He wanted
instruction only from Joseph, to be close to him the
way Jesus had been those first years, before Josey
was old enough. . . . Or so Joseph surmised. Impossible,
of course. That relationship was different.
It had a special quality of its own. Like Mary,
Joseph kept reassuring himself, he did not love his
other children less; they were his own flesh and
blood, how could he? Yet he could only share
himself as best he could, divide himself up among
them. This was not easy, here in such small
crowded quarters.
James gave him no trouble. James was a more
placid, generous, happy child, and he adored Jesus,
tagged him about, was eager to learn from him,
beamed in his praise. Simon and Jude, though
more congenial than Josey, also kept striving for
their parents' attention, and joined Josey in
targeting Jesus for their frays in the shop. Taunts,
complaints, sawdust fights--sometimes merry but
often furious. Jesus held his own as they grew up,
ducking, laughing, throwing back, chasing them
and stuffing their shirts with shavings as they had
stuffed his, or sometimes merely submitting to
their attacks. It hurt Joseph, this seeming hostility,
but Jesus had begged him not to intervene.
"Please don't punish them, Father. I can take
care of myself. They mean no harm, and it would
only make things worse."
They did not understand their brother's strange
ways. For one, his passion for scrolls. He had
acquired quite a number from his grandfather, the
rabbi, and others, which he studied during free
moments at the shop, or sometimes carried with
him into the hills. He devoured them voraciously,
not only the Psalms and the Law and the prophets,
but other writings too, ancient learned commentaries
like the Midrash, which searched the
Scriptures to reveal their true meaning. Yet he read
with the thrill of recognition, as if all these truths
and tales he knew already; they sang in his blood,
were one with his breath, a part of him before
time's beginning. Yet he wrested new meanings
from them, exciting discoveries of his own. There
was good news here that he must share: that we do
not please the Father by slavishly obeying the letter
of the Law but rather by obeying the spirit behind
it. And in obeying God's second greatest commandment,
that we truly love each other--as much as or
even more than ourselves!
At night the lamps often burned late while he
pored over his books, which he discussed endlessly
with Joseph. Mary would often listen, sometimes
vouchsafing a comment as she folded garments or
prepared dough for the morning bread. Her sons
knew Jesus had taught her to read--very strange in
a mother. They weren't sure whether to be proud
of this or embarrassed. But they sensed that it had
given her a deeper bond with Jesus, which puzzled
and troubled them.
And the way he always lingered in the Temple
on their trips, sitting at the feet of the learned men
there. That first experience seemed to have
unleashed some new fever within him. Each year as
the family set out for the Passover, to sit with them
seemed to be his main objective, more than the
ceremonies and prayers, or certainly the still
painful sacrifices. He didn't debate with his elders
as before, he confided to Joseph, for now he
recognized the virtues of silence. To listen, to
learn, to absorb knowledge, that was imperative for
him.
This too dismayed his brothers, when there was
the whole exciting, colorful city to be explored:
bazaars and carnivals and markets, the processions
and games and dancing in the streets. Fortunately,
Jesus never again lingered long enough to miss the
caravan. That experience had been a shock for
them all, although briefly it had brought the family
closer. In their own way the other children loved
Jesus fiercely too. They had gone white with fear
when he couldn't be found; they could not imagine
life without him.
Or again, Jesus would put away his books and be
off with the young people of the village, leaving
his brothers behind. Places they could not follow.
He was very popular, handsome and lithe and
merry, and how he could sing! His beautiful voice
brightened many a sheep shearing, grape treading,
or wedding feast. Not a hint of the sober scholar.
Few people even knew of his studies--only that
he was different. Eccentric. For, incredibly, he also
spent as much time with people who were old or ill
or very poor. The hurting, the downtrodden, even
the despised. His pockets were always empty; every
cent he had, which was little enough, he shared
with them. Their worries became his worries, their
wounds were in his eyes.
Joseph was uneasy about him. Most of Jesus'
friends were getting married, while Jesus was not
even betrothed. It was plain the girls were mad
about this immensely likable but strange young
man. Yet, musing, Joseph smiled at his own
discomfort, remembering how he himself had
worried his parents in the same way years before.
The girls, the eager girls and their fathers hinting,
sometimes pocketing pride and custom to come
directly to his father, Jacob, who was flattered no
end at their offers. Yet he, Joseph, had moved
coolly among them, stubbornly waiting for Mary.
Who or what, he wondered, was Jesus waiting
for?
Joseph did not bother Mary with his concern. It
was not his nature to share any problem he was not
yet ready to resolve.

For Joseph it was almost a relief when Amos would
call on Jesus for help in the fields or with the
sheep. Joachim, however, fumed. It was another
blow to his already injured pride. Oh, shameful,
shameful that he could no longer rise with the
dawn and till the land, but only hobble about, beset
by such excruciating pains in limb and back. But
even worse was this humiliation--that Amos, who
had been so eager, yes, determined to take over,
was now browbeating him. Trying to keep him
inside with Hannah on the days when he did feel
up to at least helping to winnow the grain. "Stop
babying me, dammit!"
"Very well, Father," Amos would say, wounded. 
"Since you insist."
Yet when Joachim was there among the men, it
was too hot, he soon discovered; the sweat ran
down his face, the dust began to clog his lungs, he
choked, felt faint, and they must set him on one of
the beasts like a woman and support him as it was
led back to the house.
There were other things: Amos' going into the
village and hiring workers without Joachim's
approval; or setting fire to the stubble before his
father thought it dry enough. One day, hearing a
sudden explosion as it caught, Joachim stalked to
the door to see the bright flames already dancing
across the field. "He hasn't left enough to dry out
for the ovens!" he stormed. "And I've told him and
told him to dig around the roots of those trees
before laying dung for the soil."
There was bickering, lashing out. Amos was
often sullen, sulking for days because he wasn't
appreciated. His wife, a sly little thing who seemed
to thrive on trouble, delighted in relaying his
complaints to Hannah. As if I can't see for myself,
Hannah thought testily. This feud between father
and son--she was weary of the whole business. It
only fueled her smoldering resentment toward her
husband. She had begun to blame him for Matthew's
running away; Joachim had been too hard
on him. And now this!
In her anguish over Matthew, Hannah had fastened
on her youngest son to fervently defend.
Though she herself was exasperated with his moods
of martyrdom, the things Amos did to antagonize
his father, she felt compelled to boast about him
lavishly. "See how much hay he has put up today,"
she would point out to Joachim. "And the sheep
have never been so fat. We will make enough to
pay our taxes from the tails alone."
"The sheep have never looked worse and you
know it," Joachim snapped. "If Amos is doing so
well, why does he go running to Joseph? It's an
imposition on Joseph and an insult to me. Matthew
would never have done it," he said grimly. "Matthew
would have been too proud."
"Matthew isn't here!" Hannah reminded him
bitterly.
And they stared at each other at such times, sick
with the memory: Their return from Jerusalem
when Jesus was twelve. To everyone's dismay,
Jesus could not be found. While his frantic parents
went back to look for him, they had come on with
the caravan, to comfort and care for the other
children. They had arrived home, already worried
and exhausted, only to be met by a trembling,
white-faced Esau and his sobbing sister, Judith.
And they knew at once that something had happened
to Matthew.
His sheep had been discovered wandering. A
neighbor had rounded them up and brought them
home. Other neighbors had been searching for their
brother in vain. His friend Rosh also had disappeared....
Nearly seven years ago. All those days and nights
of waiting, wondering, Where, oh, where?...The
sleepless hours of staring at the ceiling or leaping
up at a crackling branch or possible footstep and
racing prayerfully to the door. The nightmares: of
seeing their son lying bloody beside a road, beaten,
in prison, starving, suffering. Or dead--long dead--and 
nowhere to mark his grave... .
At such moments the pain that contorted her
husband's face was too much for Hannah. Inconsistently,
she couldn't stand it. "Don't look like
that!" she pleaded, and dug her nails into his hand.
Then, fiercely, "It's not your fault. Matthew
deserted us as he deserted his sheep!"

On and on Jesus led the sheep. Beside the still
waters, where their gentle natures would not fear to
drink. Through the green pastures, scarcer now
that summer was waning. Then up and up, where
they would be free of the tormenting gnats and
flies that swarmed up from the grasses. Here in the
lowlands he had to stop almost every day to anoint
their heads with the oil he had brought in his
leather knapsack. It also held a knife to free them
from thickets or to ward off attacks from wild
beasts.
Jesus crouched this day beside a sparkling
stream. Cupping his hands, he drank to test the
waters. Good, it was cool and sweet. The flock
were thirsty, but he could not allow them to drink
at the stagnant pool a few miles back. In their own
wisdom they had shied from it anyway, for it had a
smell of phosphorus. Blatting plaintively, yet
docile, they had followed him here and now were
nosing around, hunting for water nooks where the
stream was still. "Sheep will not drink from swiftrunning
water," his grandfather had taught him years ago.
Hastily, he began gathering stones to construct
little nooks to hold the water. Joachim and
Matthew had taught him that as well. "Hoohooooo!"
he called, and soon there was the pleasant
almost dainty sound of the sheep's lapping.
There was shade here too, where the sheep could
lie down and rest. But the nose flies that had
driven some of them nearly mad with their biting
and stinging were already attacking. Jesus sat down
and took out his horn of oil, a pungent-smelling
concoction of olive oil, sulphur and spices. It was
almost gone. He must use it sparingly, for it must
last the rest of the week. In the morning he would
lead the flock up into the mountains. It was harder
to graze them among the rocks: a few would always
stray, and there was greater danger from lions. But
the air would be cool, and they would be delivered
from these pests. They crowded up, sensing relief,
and he must shove some of them away and order
Jubal to separate them, that he might take the
warm woolly heads one by one onto his lap and
firmly massage in the oil.
He enjoyed the feel of their bones under his
fingers, their black silky faces, the warm black
leaf-shaped ears against his palms. They gentled
under his touch, and he knew it was not the oil so
much as the massaging and stroking. They were
comforted, they nuzzled him, making soft little love
sounds in their throats. Presently most of them
were drowsing.
Jesus wiped his sticky hands on his tunic, filthy
now, after weeks with the sheep, and torn from
brambles. Though he washed himself as best he
could, according to the laws of Moses, he knew
that he stank, for he was sweaty, and his nose was
no stranger to the smell of the other shepherds he
sometimes encountered. There was a rude sheepfold
along the path he intended to follow
tomorrow, a place where nomads often gathered to
share a common fire and a jug of wine and to spin
tales half the night. It offered protection from
marauding beasts--they kept watch for each other--but 
best of all was their company after so many
nights alone under the stars.
Nights when Jesus would lie thinking about the
patriarchs: Abraham, Isaac, Jacob. All the famous
men of the Bible with their sheep and cattle and
goats and wives, moving, ever moving. A time
when to be a shepherd was a proud and noble
profession. Less so now, for the size of the herds
had dwindled. But to be responsible for sheep was
still a thing to respect, even for women. Though of
all the shepherdesses, the Torah named only Rachel:
"And while he was still speaking to them,
Rachel came with her father's sheep." Beautiful
Rachel, for whom Jacob gallantly lifted the heavy
stone from the well, that her sheep might drink:
showing off his brawn, for he had fallen in love
with her at sight. In fact, Jacob kissed Rachel and
wept. And he worked for her father, Laban, seven
years that he might have her, but he was cheated
into marrying the older sister, Leah, first.
Jesus bridled at this outrage. . . . But Jacob also
finally wed Rachel, his own true love, and it was
with both wives and two maidservants that he fled
Laban's household. And by these wives and their
maids, Zilpah and Bilhah, he became the father of
one daughter and twelve sons: thus the twelve
tribes of Israel. It was sacred history, it was true;
yet the thought repelled him.
How could a man who truly loved a woman lie
with another at the same time? In the same tent!
Horror, half enticing, possessed him, almost as on
the night Matthew's friend had pressed into his
hand the naked figure of Astarte. . . . No, no.
Jesus' fists beat the earth. For the scene had
become a nightmare, a vision of his father Joseph
actually leading a second wife or concubine into
their house.
Restless, Jesus threw off his cloak, got up, and
stirred the fire. Then, leaning on his crook, he
stood gazing at the sky. Above Mount Hermon's
white crest, the stars were brilliant, a tangle of
diamonds that trailed off like jeweled ribbons
among the blue foothills. The stars seemed close
enough to touch. He reached out a hand as if to
try, to feel their chill beauty, bring a few down to
carry in his belt as he used to carry his childish
treasures back to Mary.
Thinking of the patriarchs this night disturbed
him. "It is not good for man to be alone," God had
said when he created the first woman for Adam.
How warm and sweet she must have felt to his
arms. Longing quickened, rose up within him, as it
did so often now at marriage celebrations. And at
christenings--he sometimes held the baby, tiny and
kicking, like the newborn sheep. . . . Two of the
ewes had dropped and lay even now beside their
lambs. How does a ewe know her own lamb among
the sameness of the flock? Yet she does; should one
of them stray she finds it and noses it back to
nurse. And should one fall ill, she seeks out the
shepherd, bunting his knees.
Yesterday, before its mother could stop it, a lamb
had swallowed some of the stagnant water. He had
had to purge it, and when it was finished heaving
it was so weak it staggered; he had lifted it up and
carried it on his shoulders while the grateful
mother followed.
Love flooded him. A vast tenderness that made
him want to save them all, carry them safely across
the meadows and over the rocks and through the
streams, every baby, every calf and kid and lamb.
He was different. He had always known that he
was different.... But there comes a time when it
is not another man's lamb or another man's child
you hunger to hold.
Desperately Jesus searched the stars. "Father,
Father, what is it you want of me?" he cried out in
a loud voice, for there was no human being to hear.
There was no answer. No sound but the fire,
which suddenly began to crackle, and the distant
melancholy baying of a jackal--though Jubal,
startled, raised his head and came bounding to his
side. Jesus threw more branches on the coals; the
yellow flames leaped high. He stood warming
himself to still his trembling. Then, wrapping his
cloak more closely about him, he flung himself
again onto the hard ground.
As he lay there he could hear the earth's heart
beating, feel every point of light that glittered
overhead, feel the secret life force pulsing in the
meadows, the wind, the stream, the precious sheep
he was tending. . . . Why was he here? Why was
any man or woman or child or creature here at all,
to live and suffer and die? . . . A number of the
sheep had risen, as they often did on a clear bright
night, and were cropping the cool dew-wet grasses.
Poor things, seizing this opportunity to stuff
themselves after some of the miseries of the day. So
beautiful and somehow pathetic, bending their
heads so trustingly in the starlight, knowing he
would look out for them. They were his children.
The world and its people, were they not his sheep
and his children? He was responsible for them, he
was one with the Father who had created them. He
must somehow help them, he must comfort and
carry them all.
And he heard again the words that John had said
that night, turning from the window in Ein
Karem--words that had haunted him for years:
You are the Messiah.
Jesus shuddered. It is not good for man to be
alone, he thought. I have been out here too long
alone. Early in the morning he would set off for
the sheepfold on the side of the mountain; with
luck he would find someone else there.

It took more time than he had hoped to reach the
fold. Cooler, and free of the punishing flies,
the sheep were playful and inclined to wander after
the sparser grass. Several times he had to scale
ledges to rescue a stray and bring it back to the
path. All day his eagerness mounted, and his anxiety,
lest the place be deserted. The sheepcote was
very old and had long been abandoned except for
temporary shelter; its walls were crumbling. But
there was a well there and a solitary tree. Jesus'
heart sank as he approached, for he spied no herds.
Then to his great relief he smelled smoke, heard
voices, and as he drew nearer he saw two mules
and a donkey tied to the tree.
Their owners were squatting before it, playing
dice. Another man riding a donkey appeared over
the ridge from an opposite path. "Abdul!" Jesus
yelled, recognizing him at once as a small farmer
who lived near. Joyfully the two waved and
shouted to each other, while the other men leaped
to their feet, bowing and uttering cries of welcome,
offering him the hospitality of sharing the meal
they were cooking. The fire was already smoldering
in a pit. With a great clanking and
splashing, they began drawing up buckets of water
for his flock.
"And you had best drive them into the shelter
for the night," advised Abdul, a slight gap-toothed
man who kept hugging him with lively affection
and concern. "There is a killer lion stalking these
parts--in the company of a bear, unlikely as that
seems." One or both of the beasts had snatched
lambs or young kids from their flocks, the other
men put in. They had formed a posse and come
here this night to track the devils down. They were
excited; they could hardly wait for darkness. But
come, the meat was almost ready; they would help
him bed the animals, then they would eat. He must
be as hungry as they were.
Jesus washed his hands and drew a little apart,
gazing toward the east to pray. Then he squatted
with the others beside the fire. The small brown
things they were roasting smelled delicious, crisp
and succulent, their fat sizzling as it dripped onto
the coals. His mouth watered, he was very hungry,
and it would be rude to refuse. But for a moment
he was torn. These were coneys, rock rabbits, furry
little creatures he had sometimes caught and petted
and played with as a boy. Though it was not that;
didn't he eat equally gentle creatures: fish, pigeons,
lamb? Coneys, however, were forbidden; ruminant,
yes, but without cloven hooves, and so considered
unclean.
Unclean? Ridiculous. Jesus laughed. The greater
sin, if sin it was, would be to offend his hosts.
Surely it was not what went into the belly, or even
the dirt from unwashed hands, that made a man
clean or unclean, but how he treated his fellows.
These men whose food he now was so gratefully
devouring--their hair was shaggy, their teeth were
stained, like him they stank. Yet they were kind
and generous. They had drawn water for his flock,
helped round them up, and seen that there was
plenty of hay on which the sheep could lie down.
And now they were eagerly sharing their meat and
drink. Thanking God for their company, Jesus ate
their coneys, drank their wine, and joined in their
songs until darkness, which fell quickly.
The first stars appeared, and a tiny new moon,
arched like a smile. The men got up and began
gathering their weapons from a pile they had
heaped: stout rods and clubs, stones for their slings,
knives and daggers that flashed like their eyes as
they stuffed them in their belts. Jesus felt their
mounting excitement, the heady dread and thrill of
danger, the lure of the chase, their fierce sense of
power and pride. They had families to feed; a man
must protect his family. His own heart was pounding.
Though he had often driven off wolves and
jackals, he had not yet been challenged to savage
attack. But he did not want to fail them.
"I will go with you."
"No, no," Abdul protested fervently, "you must
stay with the sheep." He threw a fresh bundle of
thorns and brambles on the fire, which burst into
brighter flames. His small dark face was beaming.
He hugged Jesus once more. "Sleep well, son.
Your sheep will be quite safe. We have tracked
the bear's footprints to a nearby cave. Before
morning, if all goes well, we will be back with a
prize or two to show you."
After some noisy argument and discussion among
them, they took two of the donkeys and disappeared
into the shadows. Jesus banked the fire. It
was unbelievably cold here high in the mountains;
frost was already gilding the ground. Yet warmed
by the food, the fire, and the wine, he fell asleep
almost at once. His dreams were of David: at first
of David and Michal, the king's daughter; then
they drifted to Saul's skepticism about David's
ability to slay the giant Goliath, and David's bold
claim: "Your servant used to look after the sheep
for his father and whenever a lion or a bear came
out and took a sheep from the flock, I used to
follow him up and strike him down and rescue it
from his mouth; and if he turned on me I seized
him by the hair at his jaw and struck him down
and killed him. Your servant has slain both the lion
and the bear...."

Hours later, he was awakened by Jubal's frantic
barking and the smell and glow of approaching
torches. He could hear voices and the rattle of
hooves on stones. The men were returning, leading
the donkeys. A huge tawny body was draped across
the back of one. The other supported the halfprone
figure of Abdul. His dirty turban was gone,
his head drooped, and from it flapped a bloody
thing that could only be his scalp. His dusky face
was pale in the moonlight, like some dusky lily, as
they lifted him down. His striped robe was
drenched.
Jesus helped carry Abdul into the fold, which
was warm from the huddled bodies of the sheep.
They cleared a place for him on the straw and built
up the fire beside the door. On it they warmed a
bucket of water with which to bathe his wounds.
Jesus could not bear to look toward the body of the
lion, which they had dragged onto some brush
nearby.
But it was not the lion that had hurt Abdul, the
men told him. They had already killed the lion--a
female--surprising her in the very act of devouring
another lamb. The lamb was still in her jaws when
she turned, snarling, just as they attacked. No, it
was the bear, a huge black bear that had come
sniffing up to the mouth of the cave, drawn there
no doubt by the smell of food. The beast had
reared up and felled Abdul with one blow as they
came out, then set about mauling him.
"We stoned that bear and beat him, we slashed
him and tried to pull him off with our bare hands
but he wouldn't stop. Not until we torched him.
He ran away then, yelping, with his tail on fire."
The tall burly one named Kulaf gave an angry
laugh. "He was smoking, scorching, oh, but we
burned him good; he was a torch on legs! He's
probably out there dead by now, we didn't even
want to bring him back."
The rest of the night they ministered to their
brother, suffering Jesus to help a little with his
salves and prayers to his God, since he was Abdul's
friend. But they were unable to stanch the blood
spilling from Abdul's clawed face and belly. Even
the sheep were becoming stained with it; Abdul
saw this in moments when he was lucid and begged
them to move him outside. He died at daybreak,
just as they were putting him down beside the fire.
The gray sky was turning pink, the sun was
rising in a hollow between the surrounding blue
cliffs. Silent, the men drew more water to help
Jesus. Then they broke camp. They must get
Abdul's body home as soon as possible. They
seemed to have forgotten the lioness, although
Kulaf went over and kicked it. He gazed indifferently
at the buzzards already circling overhead.
"They will make short work of this one," he
remarked, with a shrug.
Jesus too was anxious to leave. But first he
went into the fold and gathered up the bloody
straw to be burned. He then went back and
crouched beside the golden length of the lioness.
Her amber eyes stared at him, her mouth was
open, and for the first time he saw that something
was jutting from the clenched teeth. A small
foot--two small feet! Prying the jaws apart, he
reached in and drew forth the hindquarters of a
new lamb. And the words of the prophet Amos,
who had also been a shepherd, spoke to him: "Like
a shepherd rescuing a couple of legs or a bit of an
ear from the lion's mouth . . ." Jesus stared at what
he held, knowing from its tightly curled fur that
the lamb had been barely two days old.
"Why, why, why?" Jesus pressed the back of his
hand against his lips. But he reached out to touch
the beast. She smelled raw and acidic, but her sides
were smooth and silken to his gentle stroking. Her
ribs jutted. Except for her swollen belly, he saw
that she was very thin. His hands went to the bulge
she carried; he felt the hard tiny shape of the two
cubs there. And he wept again. . . She was so
hungry. She was only trying to feed them!
Then, as he rose to leave, he noticed a faint
rippling and jerking of her flesh. Shocked, he
dropped to his knees to make sure. It was true;
under his fingers the thrusting movement came
again. At least one of them still lived! He could
save it; if he got out his knife he could take it from
her. But his soul was in conflict. Why should he?
It would only die anyway if he left it behind. And
he could not take it with him. No ewe would ever
feed a lion cub; true, he could offer it milk from
his fingers, but even if it survived and grew, it
would live only to devour his sheep.
And he was so weary, so anxious to start the long
trip home. He wanted to get back to Nazareth
before the Sabbath.
Biting back tears, Jesus sprang up and called
brokenly to Jubal. The dog stood panting beside
the old ram, Bezer, who was tossing his horns,
impatient to lead the flock back down the
mountainside. They set off, bells clanking in the
crisp morning air. The sky was cloudless, very
blue, alive now with black circling vultures.
Looking back, he saw that they were beginning to
drop, uttering their raucous cries. And suddenly he
could not bear it. Sensible or not, he cried out to
Jubal and Bezer to halt the flock; they had reached
a ledge where they could graze. Then he turned
and ran back up to the camp.
The birds were already swarming around the
carcass. Jesus had to hurl stones, beat them off
with his crook. Then, breathless, he knelt and
pulled his knife from his girdle. It was swift and
sharp. He had taken dead lambs from moaning
ewes. The lion's blood was still warm; so was the amniotic fluid that cradled the babies. Gently he
brought them forth, warm and damp, the larger one struggling, and placed them on the grass. The
cubs were not yet mature, yet completely formed,
even to their tiny tails. It was already too late, he
saw, for the smaller one; it lay quite still. The other
nosed around blindly, its little paws groping,
making faint mewing sounds.
Sobbing, Jesus held it against his cheek. It was
very weak. Yet he longed to save it, to give it
enough love to make it live and grow and become
his child, like one of the sheep. Enough to protect
it from its own nature, to change it, so that it
would actually lie down with the lambs and usher
in that blessed time when all creatures would love
each other. And as he wept and crooned to it, the slits of eyes opened. They gazed at him for a long moment, as if in communion with his thoughts.
Then, with a slight shudder, they closed for good.
He dug a hole in the rocky soil and placed the
two cubs in it. On top he piled enough rocks to
keep the vultures away.
That was the day Jesus turned the sheep toward
home.

His brothers saw him coming, preceded by Jubal,
barking joyfully to herald his return. They were
just closing the shop. "Jesus!" the cry went up.
"Jesus is back!" They rushed out to embrace him,
join in a general playful scuffling. Feuds were
forgotten, they really loved him, he was their hero
despite the quarrels, he brought a sense of
adventure with him. Josey's arm was across his
shoulders, walking up the steps to their house.
Josey's big face was ebullient. He no longer felt
threatened; he had been in charge these past few
weeks, and almost inseparable from Joseph, who
praised him highly.
The others trailed behind or swarmed about,
eager to tell Jesus everything that had happened
during his absence: One day when their father had
taken them along to fell some trees, the woods
caught fire and they had helped him put it out....
A man carrying a heavy beam along the streets had
struck Uncle Cleo in the eye... .
"Hush, he's too tired to listen now," Josey
scolded, grinning. It both shocked and amused him
to see his handsome brother like this, hair and
beard shaggy, his robe in rags. "You look like a
beggar."
Jesus grinned back. "And probably smell like one
too. I'm filthy, I must bathe."
Merrily, holding their noses, they agreed. "And
there's blood on you," Josey pointed out. "What
happened, did you tangle with a lion?"
"Yes, but I don't want to talk about it."

Mary gasped at sight of him, but ran into his
open arms. "I knew you were coming!" she cried.
"I told your sisters to make extra bread, for you
would be hungry. And to bring extra water. There
is a warm jug waiting for you. I felt sure you would
be with us this night."
"And I'd hoped to surprise you! You sound just
like Grandmother Hannah."
"I mean to. The heart always knows when a
loved one is coming, she believes, and she is right."
Mary too noticed the bloodstains but did not
mention them, for she also noticed, as his brothers
had not, the spots of pink where Jesus had tried to
wash them away in some stream. She touched his
hair and beard, stiff in places where blood had
dried, sensing that he did not realize it was there.
There were fresh towels and garments ready, she
told him, and soap--little Leah had made up a
batch with the help of her grandmother Timna
only yesterday.
Ann, looking radiant, brought him the basin and
pitcher of steaming water. She was tall now, slim
and dainty like her mother, with a breathless
prettiness that was actually enhanced by Hannah's
quick, deep-set eyes. She adored Jesus, as she did
the man she was betrothed to, another joiner
named Naboth, whose father's shop was not far
from their own. "Our wedding date has been set
for spring!" she couldn't wait to announce. "You
will have competition, my brother."
"For business or for your affections?"
"For customers, of course. He's almost as good a
carpenter as you or our father." Briskly, Ann
poured the water for him, and smiled at him as she
shook out the sun-sweet towels.
Shyly their little sister presented the soap. "Smell
it," she urged, beaming. "We perfumed it just for
you."
Jesus sniffed its spicy fragrance, praised it
lavishly, and kissed them both. A few minutes later
they thrust modestly from under the drapery a tray
containing scissors and blades and a jug of oil.
Jesus bathed and dressed, feeling cherished. How
good it was to shed the grimy garments--he kicked
them aside--to scrub his big tough hairy body with
the soap his little sister had made; it was very mild
and soft and sweet and somehow innocent, like the
child. To wash and comb and attempt to trim his
beard and hair, hunching down, for the mirror of
polished brass had been hung too low for him.
Nobody seemed to realize he had grown taller than
his father; if he didn't stop he would soon brush
the ceiling. To massage into his big curly head the
precious oil. It too was fragrant, smelling of
jasmine. Ann had given it to him for his birthday.
A man surrounded by loving women. This house--how 
hard they surely had worked all day, making
it pure and orderly for the Sabbath. Swept and
scrubbed and shining, not a cushion out of place.
Fresh mats, fresh flowers; he had been intensely
aware of it all, walking in. And the warm thrilling
smell of food: of bread baked, at least a dozen
round flat loaves, the largest glossy and braided,
for tonight's supper. Of tomorrow's meals all
cooked and set aside, neatly in a cupboard, to be
eaten cold. But tonight, ah, tonight's almost ready,
the most sumptuous meal of the week. . . . Fish
prepared as only his mother could, with herbs and
onions. His mouth watered. A stew of vegetables
from the garden and the flesh of a tough old
rooster from his grandfather's farm, though she
would have made it tender over the fire. And hardboiled
eggs and shiny olives, and a platter of
fruit--perhaps a pear, how he longed for a cool
juicy pear--but above all for the cakes of figs and
nuts and honey Mary always made for the Sabbath.
He could hear the vessels rattling above the
gentle voices of the women--they were laughing
about something--then Ann's light dancing footsteps
running to the door, her joyful greeting to
their father: "Jesus is home!"
Home. To be home with your own. Jesus stood
quite still. Surely this was heaven, the kingdom of
heaven right here on earth--a man with his kingdom
of home. To reign there with the beloved, to
eat and sleep and love there surrounded by your
children.

The sunset had been brief and bright. Dusk was
creeping on, softly, softly, as if holding its
breath for the first three stars of Sabbath to come
peeping through. Any moment now he would hear
the shofar blowing from the roof of the synagogue.
Ah, there it was, the mournful yet exciting blatting.
Two quick blasts, calling the farmers from their
fields. Jesus could see the first star from the
window. Two more blasts, warning the merchants
to leave their shops--although by now most of the
men would be home, making themselves clean,
donning their best garments. And the third, and
somehow the dearest, those final notes telling the
women to light their Sabbath lamps.
Jesus saw Mary walking to the window, carrying
her "lamp of joy." Leah, moving cautiously,
followed with the burning brand. With a little
smile of approval, Mary took the flame from her
and touched it to the wick. The lamp sputtered,
burst into light; he saw his mother's delicate face in
silhouette, and the looming shadows of his brothers
on the whitewashed walls. Taking his little sister
by the hand, Jesus led her out onto the steps to see
the other lamps of Nazareth suddenly blooming up
and down the streets, climbing the hills, scattering
on up into the mountains, like a vast garden of fire
flowers.
Or they were like children lifting their tiny
shining faces to the stars, and the stars smiled
down upon them, very much as Mary had smiled
upon Leah with her little torch. God and his
children, for whom he created the world anew each
week. Children of the heavens and children of the
earth, merging, twinkling, calling out to each
other--another beautiful symbol of a covenant
made even before the beginning.
Their grandmother Timna had set her own light
in the window and toiled up the hill to join them,
as she always did for Sabbath meals. Her once
magnificent body was heavier now, she had to lean
on a stick, but her white hair was still a crown and
her voice and bearing gracious. Joseph's mother
brought a special blessing.
The prayers, the wine, the songs. All of them
gathered together, bathed and feeling new in their
best clothes. What a joyful thing. Filling themselves
with this bountiful feast before the cold, self-denying
fare of tomorrow. The talk, the laughter,
the lamps with their dancing shadows.... Though
Jesus had missed it before on his sojourns, never
had it seemed so precious as this time. He had
observed the Sabbath alone as best he could,
drawing water whenever possible ahead of time for
the sheep, not moving them on the day of rest,
sitting beside them studying the Scriptures. Yet
God had made no such covenant with his creatures.
They got sick and must be tended, fell into
caverns, bore their young. Well, now once again he
had brought them safely back to Joachim and
Amos, in time for the fall shearing. Let others
worry about them. The sheepshearing was always
time for dancing and celebration. Perhaps it would
cheer his grandfather and his uncle up.

Cleo came in just as the women were clearing
away the meal--the only work they might do until
after sunset tomorrow. The family had all been
hoping Salome and her husband would also drop
in, the way they used to. But Aunt Salome and
Uncle Ephraim were having some trouble, Ann
whispered to Jesus. Nobody knew just what.
Salome wouldn't say, she was so proud and
loyal--hadn't said a word even to her own sister or
her mother--but there was something new and
strained, almost frightened about her; her eyes were
sometimes red from crying.
Cleo was wearing a patch over one eye. On Cleo
it looked jaunty, for he had had it cut from a
golden cloth and adorned with a jewel. "If a man
must be hit by a beam on the street, he may as well
call attention to his wounds!"
"Uncle Cleo, you are terrible!" To everyone's
surprise, Ann burst into tears. She ran to him and
began to beat at him, the way she and the other
children had done when he teased them about
Jubal. "You are only doing this to shame me."
"Oh, no, my pet, no, no," Cleophas cried,
astonished. "You think this is because it was your
betrothed who hit me?" He caressed her and
looked pleadingly toward her father. "Surely you
don't think I would do such a thing? It was a
windy day, and the dust was blowing in Naboth's
eyes; he didn't see me."
Joseph went to them in his composed, almost
casual way and patted both of them. "She's in
love," he smiled. "Women in love are sensitive.
Hush now," he soothed his daughter. "You should
know Uncle Cleophas better than that. He'll do
anything to get attention. We all know he's mad--ever
since he fell off his first horse and was kicked
in the head, long before he was felled by a mere
beam!"
Laughter, the healing gift of laughter. The whole
family laughed, including Ann. But even as Jesus
joined in, a torment of love filled him: love that
went beyond the sheep and the lambs and the lion,
slain with her still-living cubs in her belly. His own
wife to gaze at across the Sabbath table, his own
daughter to comfort as Joseph was teasing and yet
comforting Ann. To have them about him, wife
and children and friends... .

To be human, to be as other men.


Chapter 8

JOSEPH LAY AWAKE worrying about his son.

Mary's son. God's son. No matter, were not all
men sons of God, including himself? Young or old,
male or female, children of the Nameless One. If
only there were some word, some dream, some
sign.... But of one thing Joseph was certain: He
was responsible for the earthly welfare of this child,
who was no longer child but man.
Joseph pulled back the covers, and careful not to
wake Mary, moved from her side. He put on a
robe, for the night was cold.
Mary missed him at once, however. They were
so close, she felt his absence. Most of the night
they lay entwined, or when one would turn away
for comfort, the other would reach out and they
would clasp hands. She sat up, for a moment
bewildered. Something had been troubling him for
a long time. She sensed what it was and dreaded
asking, but it must be discussed--for the sake of all
of them.
Wrapping a shawl about her shoulders, she
slipped out of the house and down the moonwashed
stones of the path that led to the garden.
Summer was almost over, the orchard was heavy
with fruit; fat olives ticked softly among the leaves
as they fell to the ground. The air bore the tang of
distant bonfires and the winy scent of the grapes.
Joseph was silhouetted against the crumbling wall,
one foot planted on a bench that was there, his chin
in his hands. He turned at sound of her footsteps.
"Forgive me," he said. "I couldn't sleep."
"What's bothering you, Joseph?" She gazed at
him, distressed. "Don't keep this from me any
longer. It's Jesus, isn't it?"
He didn't answer for a minute, only strode up
and down the path. Mary watched him anxiously
from the bench. Yet she admired him as he paced
thus in the chill of the night, graceful and somehow
composed even now in his concern. "Yes," he
acknowledged at last, coming to stand before her.
"What's to become of him? Tending his grandfather's
sheep, working for me in the shop--a fine
young man, an excellent carpenter, better than I
am--but is that all? What of his future, his
purpose; how is it to be achieved?"
Mary drew a deep breath. "We must be patient.
We must have faith."
"If only we had some direction!" Joseph
exclaimed. "Why doesn't the Lord speak to us? He
spoke to the patriarchs--Abraham, Isaac, Jacob--he
guided them. He spoke to the prophets, he
spoke to Moses. He told them what to do; they
knew what was expected of them." Joseph's arms
were folded, his gray eyes searching her face. "And
he once spoke to us, Mary. He chose us--you, at
least, you are the very mother of his son." Joseph's
voice was grave. "And even me, humble as I am--his
angels spoke to me in dreams. But what of
now?"
"Perhaps the Lord no longer has need of us.
Perhaps he is speaking to our son."
"How do we know that? Jesus has given us no
indication." Joseph hesitated, then plunged on. "I
feel sometimes--don't you ever feel sometimes that
what happened, so long ago now, twenty years and
more--that it was all only a dream?"
"Never. It is as real to me today as it was then. It
will come to pass."
"But when? When?" Joseph asked. "Meanwhile,
I have a responsibility as his father. He is a man;
he should live as a man."
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean. It's time Jesus was
betrothed."
"No!" she cried. "Not Jesus."
"Yes, Jesus. The eldest. People are wondering. I
have heard your mother and mine discussing it,
and other people too. His brothers will soon be
ready. Josey is ready now; he spoke to me about it
yesterday. There is a girl he fancies, perhaps you
already know? Eve, you must have seen her in the
synagogue--a very tall girl, daughter of the
shoemaker Levi. Josey has asked me to go to her
father, as I will, if you agree."
"Josey?" she protested. "Why, he's barely
sixteen."
"Your brother Amos was married at seventeen.
Most men are."
"You weren't."
He sat down beside her. "I had a very special
reason for waiting, Mary." He sat silent a moment,
holding her hand. "And my parents were very
troubled; they felt disgraced."
"At what happened to us?"
"Oh, no, no, no, not that. Only that I was twenty
and still unwed. It was a reflection on my father.
You know the duties of a Jewish father to his son:
to teach him the Torah, teach him a trade, and
find him a wife."
"Jesus doesn't want it," Mary said calmly. "He
is different. He fancies no one."
"What he wishes or fancies doesn't matter. The
Law is very explicit. This must be done within ten
years after his puberty. Jesus is how old now?
Twenty, past twenty. That gives me very little time
for anything so serious."
"No, no," Mary kept saying, "it is not right for
him. He has a destiny that goes beyond the Law."
Suddenly she thought of John. "John is older, six
months older, and not yet married or even preparing
to be."
Joseph looked at her, dismayed. He gave a short
laugh. "John? That wild thing? Why, Elizabeth
doesn't even know where he is any more. Surely
you don't want our son to be like John?"
"It isn't what I want," Mary said. "Or what we
want. It's what the One who sent him to us wills
for him."
"If only we had some guidance," Joseph said
again. "Some proof, some sign--even if we were
tested in some way. Not you, you have already
done your part. But me--I am a man, a stepfather
responsible for a very special son. It is my duty to
think of his future. Will it be as a common laborer
here in Nazareth? A man alone, without a wife?
How long, how long?"
"Don't forget he is also a scholar," Mary said.
"Yes, and that scholarship should not be wasted.
He could be a teacher, a rabbi, but only if he is
married."
"Jesus is destined to be much more than a
rabbi."
"It is specifically stated in the Mishnah that any
rabbi or teacher must be married," Joseph went on.
"It is the Law."
"There are men who choose to be celibate by
vocation: the monks, and it is said the Essenes--"
Joseph jerked upright. "Do you want him to be a
monk? Surely you don't think God would perform
such a miracle as we have both experienced, send
his own son to earth to withdraw from life?"
He took Mary in his arms, there on the bench
beside the wall, and held her close to warm her, for
she was trembling. He tipped back her head and
stroked her hair and kissed her. In the moonlight
she saw the deep love in his eyes as he told her,
"Mary, listen, the laws I've been quoting from the
Mishnah are based on the most sacred law of all.
The first law given to man by our own Creator--to
be fruitful and multiply. Would you have any child
of yours miss that, my darling? Would you have
Jesus miss what we have had?"
"No," she whispered honestly, clinging to him.
But she was torn. "That is the most precious thing
in life. To love as we have loved, to create children
together. But Joseph, we both know Jesus is not the
same as our own sons. His life can't be confined; it
will go far beyond a wife and family. He was meant
for a greater love."
Joseph sat silent for a time. Mary's herb garden
was here beside the wall; he could smell the thyme,
the mint, the marjoram, a pleasant half-acrid savor
along with the fragrance of the ripened grapes.
"There is no greater love," he said bluntly. He
bent and plucked a sprig of mint and crushed it
thoughtfully between his fingers. "There is so
much I don't understand. After all we went
through in the beginning, after all these years, I
still don't understand. But this I do know: Love
was God's most precious gift to man. A mate to
fulfill his most basic needs--a man isn't complete
without it."
Their talk drifted off, resolving nothing. Yet they
sat a while longer, feeling closer to each other
because of it. The wind had shifted, stirring the
trees; a few leaves blew across their feet. "Come,
my darling," Joseph said at length. "You have lost
enough rest because of me. I must put you back to
bed."
Smiling at each other, they arose and crept back
through the silent house. But when they had kissed
and lay drowsing, hand in hand, Mary spoke again.
"Joseph, don't ever leave me," she cried softly into
the darkness. "I need you, Joseph, I will need you
even more as the years go on. Even when I sometimes
oppose you about Jesus, please don't leave
me."
"What are you saying?" Joseph turned to her,
aghast. "You know I would never leave you!"
"Yes, yes, surely. Yet sometimes I lie awake
worrying about Salome. This thing that is happening
to my own sister: It has something to do
with Ephraim. I am going to my mother's tomorrow
to learn more about it and see what can be
done."
"What is it you're afraid of?"
"That he may be putting her away. There are
rumors."
"No. Impossible. I can't believe it." He gathered
her in his arms. "I will speak to Ephraim; there
must be some mistake."
"Oh, Joseph, I depend on you so. I keep
wondering--what if this were happening to me?
How could I face even a day of life without you?
And I keep thinking of Jesus, how desperately he's
going to need us, both of us, when his time comes.
And the other children, all of them. What if they
were deprived of you, how would we manage?"
"Pray heaven you never will have to," he said,
drawing her to him. "So long as there is breath in
my body you never will."

"Tell us," Hannah was pleading with her daughter
before Mary arrived the next afternoon. "Mary
will be here soon. Please tell us now, before she
comes."
"Mother, Father, forgive me, I can't, I can't. It is 
too painful for me and it will be for you. You have
already been hurt so much."
"Hurt?" Hannah groaned. "What do you think
we have been feeling for you all these months?
Don't we see the change in you? We are your parents. 
Joachim, speak to her," she ordered. "You are still her 
father; she can't refuse to tell you."
"My little girl," he said gruffly, and limped over
to where Salome sat rocking back and forth on a
little stool. He had made it for her himself, he
recalled miserably, when she was but a tot. Now, tall and mature as she was, rounded by womanhood and the mothering of her daughter, it tore him to
see her crouched there, head low, hugging her knees. "Please don't grieve, let us know," he said helplessly. "Otherwise we suffer more. We want to
do what we can for you."
"I don't want Mary to know. Married to Joseph,
who loves her so much. Mother to all those
children. Five sons!" Salome began to sob. "While I--"
"Your daughter Naomi is beautiful," Hannah claimed fiercely. 
"And Mary--why, of all people, you know your sister would be 
the first to defend you."
"I need no defense!"
"I mean, to stand by you, help you, Mary is
grieving for you too. Her heart breaks for you. Please, please," Hannah begged. "Have I not been through enough? Your brother Matthew gone all these years--though he will return!" she declared, her little eyes snapping, bright as coals. "One day,
just you wait, he will come back. I see him often in
dreams, making his way home to us."
"Never mind about Matthew." Joachim grunted.
"Tell us, Salome," he urged kindly. "What is this
trouble between you?"

Before she could answer, Mary appeared, and to
her parents' relief, Salome plunged into her arms.
Gently now, as quietly as possible, they sat down
while she stated it flatly, wiping her eyes. Ephraim
had tired of her--that joking, seemingly amiable
man. "Oh, it was probably my fault, I couldn't
seem to please his mother--any of them." He
resented her coming home to be with Hannah so
much, berated her, would not speak to her
sometimes for days. And now--Salome was hanging
her head in the old way, her voice so low they
could scarcely hear--there was another. A woman
named Abigail.
Joachim paled; his heart nearly pounded out of
his chest. For once, years before, shortly before he
met Hannah, he had been mad with desire for a
woman with such a name. Had even seen her a few
times on the streets of Nazareth since: fat and dull,
to his surprise, making him grateful for the spare
little tiger to whom he was safely wed.

"He wants to bring her home as a second wife."
Joachim was jolted; he gripped the arms of his
chair. "Never," he growled. "Never! An outrage. A
second wife, no, no, that was never God's will. For
the patriarchs, yes, there were reasons, they had to
be sure God's people would survive. But not today,
not any more. The few that still practice this
despicable custom--" He spat. His face was grim.
"Let him go, let it be. My daughter must never
submit to such an arrangement."
Salome began to weep again, so wildly it surprised
them; she had been able to keep her dignity
so long. "But I love Ephraim! I want him--almost
enough to share him. Isn't half a loaf better than
none?" she pleaded.
"No," Mary said kindly. "Father is right.
Marriage is a sacrament, a covenant between two
people and God. It can never be divided."
Salome shuddered, fighting for control. This was
costing her dearly. "To be repudiated . . . it
is so shameful, for you as well as me! It is why I
didn't want you to know; I kept hoping you might
be spared. Though Ephraim says this is not
repudiation, since he wants to keep me as well."
Joachim's eyes narrowed; he was leaning forward,
listening carefully, trying to restrain his anger.
"Daughter, tell me why. This desire for another
woman surely goes beyond the things you've
spoken of."
She nodded, though it was a long time before she
could bring herself to answer. Finally she lifted her
shamed and stricken eyes. "They say the girl is
beautiful. Quite young, but already full-breasted.
He thinks--" she whispered, "my husband thinks
she will bear him children, bear him sons."
"Bitch, bitch!" Hannah's mouth curled with
contempt. "Like a bitch dog."
Joachim silenced her with a wave. He sat
scowling, considering, struggling to harness his
fury. His astute mind saw at once a motive he
didn't want to share with Salome, lest she
misunderstand his own. No letter of repudiation
would mean that Joachim would not have to pay
back the money he had received at the time of their
betrothal, but that Ephraim would not have to pay
the usual kethubah, or indemnity for putting
away a wife.
"You cannot stay with him," he declared sternly.
"You and Naomi must come home. The law at
least gives you the right to keep your child."
"But this house is crowded already." Salome
looked plaintively at her mother. "And I will have
no money."
"We will make room," they both assured her,
they would manage.
Suddenly it seemed a blessing. A kind of
righteous excitement bound them, love enhanced
by indignation. Hannah could hardly wait to tell
the others; she scurried into the yard to see if she
could find someone--Judith, Esau, Amos, or his
wife--a mother hen rounding up her chickens. And
to have one of them back for good, safely by her
side to console and defend. To have this new
responsibility and source of stimulation to keep her
from brooding over Matthew.
Yet suddenly now, through the challenge, the
drama, the fierce call to action on behalf of Salome,
came flashes of dismal reality. To have a daughter
of hers rejected! She thought of that terrible time
when half the town had whispered about Mary.
And now this. People would gossip. It was not easy
for a woman put aside by her husband. Though the
tractates said she was free to live as she chose, even
to remarry, who would have her?
Salome had to return to her husband that night.
Joachim was determined to go along to confront
him, but Salome wouldn't have it. He was in no
condition to make such a long walk. Esau was out
of the question, and Amos was still in the fields.
"Come home with me," Mary insisted. "We will
get Joseph."
It was hours before Joseph returned from taking
Salome home. Mary had fed her family without
him. Jesus, by the light of a single lamp, was bent
over his books. He was reading the psalms, he
would never forget, the words were burned into his
brain: Take pity on me, God, take pity on me, in you
my soul takes shelter. I take shelter in the shadow of
your wings....

"That scoundrel!" His father was fuming.
"Ephraim was in high good spirits, would you
believe it? He is like a youth with his first love. He
actually spoke to me at length, privately, about how
fair she is." Joseph flung himself into a chair,
exhausted. "He is determined; I could not talk him
out of it. But at least one thing was already settled.
He will not humiliate Salome, or cheat your father,
by bringing the woman into the same house."
Joseph laughed dryly. "Ephraim's mother and
sisters won't have it--after all, they consider it
their house."
Jesus had been listening, appalled. "And what
will happen to Salome?"
"He will give her a bill of divorcement."
"On what charges?"
"He hasn't decided. He will have to consult the
doctors of the Law. Perhaps taint of defilement,"
he said as Mary gasped. "Which could mean anything:
not being lovable any more, a shrew, not
cooking what he likes, or even the truth--that he
thinks he's found a better-looking wife." Joseph
kept shaking his head. "At least a few rabbis
consider that sufficient reason."
"But that's unfair," Jesus said hotly.
"My son, there are many unfair things in life."
"Will there be a trial?" Mary asked. "Will she
have no chance to protest?"
"No, and a good thing too," Joseph decided. "It
would be unspeakable for a decent, modest woman
like Salome to have to face public charges before a
body of men."

A week later, Salome received the letter. A young
man who seemed embarrassed by his mission
handed it to her father, then, kicking his donkey,
rode quickly off. Bitterly Joachim broke the seal
and unrolled the scroll. He could not bear to look
at his daughter, huddled in the doorway. "Shall I
read it to you?" he asked. Salome shook her head.
But she reached out and snatched it from him. She
could not believe this, she refused to. She had some
blind conviction that if no one ever told her what
the message said, the words would vanish; that if
she but kept it close enough, warmed it with her
blood, the whole thing would go away....

Salome went into hiding. She would go nowhere.
She lay dry-eyed on her couch, or got up
sometimes and disappeared, walking alone for
hours in the hills. She would speak to no one
except to Hannah and sometimes to her daughter, a
pale frightened girl still unmarried at eighteen.
Even Mary could not reach her sister, although she
went to her parents' house almost every day,
knowing her presence was a comfort to all of
them. Together the women would do the work--Mary,
Judith, who lived just down the road, and
Amos' wife, Rebecca--laughing and chattering as
if nothing were wrong, trying to make things
brighter, especially for Hannah. Or they would
lower their voices and sit discussing it, this
grievous problem.
Something must be done. Salome was wasting
away, literally dying of grief, and dragging Hannah
and Joachim toward the grave with her. This
terrible concern, together with their never-ending
worry about Matthew, could soon be more than
they could bear....

One fall day when Jesus was mending a fence
with Amos, he saw his aunt in the distance,
climbing a hill just beyond the olive grove. Alone,
so alone--like a homeless animal, leaning into the
wind with her shawl blowing. Jesus straightened,
put down his heavy stone. "I must go to her," he
said.
Amos shrugged and said it would do no good.
They all had tried to talk some sense into her;
she wouldn't listen.
Yet Jesus ran after her, caught up with her, and
took her hand. She returned his pressure slightly.
She did not draw away. They walked in silence
through the sere dry grasses until they reached the
crest of the hill. It overlooked a gulch where a
stream was winding. The wind was blowing harder
here; overhead dark clouds were sailing. Soon the
rains would be falling. His heart was filled with
compassion. He felt that if she did not revive
before the autumn rains began she would be swept
away in the torrent like a tossing stick--he could
see her bones--or that she might dissolve, be
obliterated in the storms of her anguish.
"Aunt Salome, please don't grieve," he said at
last. "Human love isn't everything. Think of the
One in heaven who loves you. Human love is nothing
compared with the love of God. "
She turned on him suddenly. "How do you
know?" she demanded scornfully. "Have you ever
loved a woman--other than your mother? Look at
you: past twenty, way past twenty, and not yet
even betrothed. What do you know about love that
you should try to comfort me?"
He was staggered; he could only gaze at her
helplessly. "I'm sorry," he said. "Yes, the love
between a man and a woman is important. That
much I have learned from my parents. All my life I
have been blessed to live in a home where there is
so much love. But I am a man now, as you say,
I've seen other couples, and I know that the kind of
love my mother and father have for each other is
very rare in Israel."
"My own parents," she went on. "Your grandparents.
They cleave to each other, no matter how
they quarrel. Only death could ever separate them.
While I--!" she gasped. "My husband has cut me
away from him as surely as if he had meant to kill
me. He has killed a part of me, chopped away
this unwanted flesh and thrown it away to die...
with this, with this!" To his amazement, she
clawed into her bosom and pulled out a tightly
rolled parchment.
Her bill of divorcement, Jesus realized.
"Read it to me," she demanded. "Let me hear
the words for myself. Perhaps I was wrong not to
hear them. Perhaps this isn't even true; perhaps
there has been a mistake."
Jesus unrolled the thing and saw them, the ugly
words and accusations. He sickened. "No. No,
Aunt Salome, no. This is a vile document. An
abomination in the sight of God. It is a blessing
you cannot read it, and you must not keep it
further to torment you. Let me destroy it."
"No, no, it's mine," she cried. "I want it, let me
have it!"
"Then you can only want your own misery and
what you consider your disgrace."
Before she could stop him, he strode to a boulder
on the ridge of the hill and began tearing the letter
to shreds. Even as he did so, a few drops of rain
began to fall, spattering the strips of parchment he
was flinging into the wind. They writhed and
circled like serpents on their way down into the
gully and the little stream.
When he returned, Salome was sobbing violently,
face in her hands. He held her against his strong
young body, turning to shelter her from the wind.
Her shawl had gone awry; he put it straight.
"Good, good," he soothed, "it is good for you to
weep, good for you to talk." He stroked her gently,
and she quieted under his touch. Her convulsions
stopped. She caught his hand and pressed it
feverishly against her wet cheek. "Thank you,
Jesus, you have helped me."
"God has helped you," he said. "Not even a
sparrow falls that he doesn't know--and care. He
felt your pain; he didn't want you to go on
suffering as you have. You will be well now.
Sometime, when all this is long past, you will find
love again."
"No, never," Salome said vehemently as they
began to walk down the hill. "Love hurts too much
when it's gone. Even if another man would have
me, I could not risk the pain of losing love again."
"There are worse pains," Jesus said. "The whole
world is filled with terrible sin and suffering, Aunt
Salome."
"What has that to do with me?" she retorted.
"All I know is what I am feeling. True, there are
probably worse things, as I will discover as life goes
on, and I will have to face them. But no suffering
will ever surpass this one."
"Then you are sorry you married Ephraim?"
They had reached the olive grove and halted
there to take shelter; the rain was pattering down
on the silvery leaves. "No!" Salome's voice was
shocked. "How can you say such a thing? My
husband's love was a treasure, it enriched my life
for years, it gave me a daughter who will enrich my
life for years more. How could I regret having had
the treasure? No, no, only its loss."
Salome was gazing at her nephew as if seeing
him after a long absence. "You are very wise for
your age, Jesus. You study, you are preparing
yourself to help people, even more than you are
helping now. I have sensed that for a long time.
But no matter how much you study, you will never
know what human happiness or pain is until you
have known that kind of love."


Chapter 9

Amos STRODE THROUGH the sunrise, rejoicing. Never
had he felt so loved, so secure. A son, another son,
he thought--a third and perfect son! Only an hour
ago Hannah, determined to act as midwife despite
her age, had wrenched it from his wife Rebecca.
And his father, usually that dear stubborn adversary,
had not only paced the fields with him but
had entered the chamber and with trembling arms
held the boy close, to be consecrated upon his knee.
Never had Amos seen a more beautiful dawn.
What a fine day it would be for the threshing! The
pink light claimed the sky even to the west, and the
mountains held up their massive shoulders like
kings emerging from misty baths to draw on their
mauve and purple robes. Softly, softly yet excitingly
the sweet light fell, touching and turning to
magic the blue fields of flax, and nearer, the
golden wheat. A rippling treasury to be harvested
and sold for profit. Enough to sustain the whole
family for another year. What a wealth of grain--and
sons!
Rebecca slept now in the little house he had built
with the help of Joseph and his own sons, just
down the hill. Overhead the very heavens exulted,
as if Yahweh himself were spreading his brilliant
banners to proclaim, "Well done!" And now the
sun appeared, as rosy and round as the little boy's
face. Like himself, his father's third son and heir.
At last they realize, Amos thought, with a twinge
of pain. There was no longer any denying all he
had accomplished since the disappearance of
Matthew. The years of seemingly thankless work,
fighting locusts and weeds and dust, and rains that
would tear the rich earth away. He paused and
gazed with satisfaction at the stone terraces that
striped the green of the hilly land. Joachim had let
the terraces fall into disrepair; Amos had not only
mended them but added new ones. And the crop
that would be reaped today! Joachim had admitted
that never had he seen a more promising stand of
wheat, and never had the family needed it more.
The more people, the more mouths to feed--and
this included Salome and Naomi. That rascal
Ephraim wasn't contributing a shekel to their
support, and Joachim was too proud and embittered
to demand the money--never mind that their
presence meant a bigger burden on Amos. Not that
he minded, he loved his sister and his niece, bent
over backwards to be generous, make them feel
wanted, although Rebecca fretted sometimes that it
meant taking food out of his family's mouth. Also
that Naomi dawdled, didn't carry her share of the
water. Women! Being in charge meant he had to be
a peacemaker too.
Amos paused at the shed, where a pile of sickles
lay bright and gleaming in the rising sun. It had
taken courage to carry them to Ephraim's shop to
be sharpened; he hadn't told his father, who'd have
been furious. But no other smithy could give cutting
tools such an edge. A lucky stroke! Because
when Amos reached into his girdle to pay,
Ephraim, shamefaced for once, but laughing, had
waved the money aside. "I guess I owe your family
that much."
It pleased Amos to remember with what contempt
he had stood regarding the man. "You do
indeed," he said coldly. "Although this was not my
motive in coming, on behalf of my sister and your
daughter, I accept."
Testing a blade against his fingers, Amos
thought of Matthew, who never could have
achieved what he had. Matthew was a lot like his
father, although Joachim could never see it.
Careless. Yes, careless, that stern, dignified,
hard-working man. People didn't realize, even
Amos hadn't realized, not until he was given some
authority, how careless Joachim was about some
things. Why, this family might have prospered
years ago if his father had worked the land as Amos
did. Goaded the ox harder to break up the clods,
plowed it over and over to prepare the soil. Amos
would never forget their arguments about this,
Joachim claiming it wasn't necessary, just get on
with the sowing.
And the sowing! When Amos and Matthew were
children it was fine to trudge along behind their
father, a hero to them then, broadcasting seeds
willy-nilly, then stooping to cover them with their
hands. No wonder so many fell among the rocks
and thistles, or were blown away to be eaten by the
birds. Not until he was older was he able to prevail upon his father to use beasts to tread the seeds in. "Their hooves will not only press them into the earth, their droppings will provide nourishment for
the soil."
Joachim had snorted. "You are informing me of a
method of farming that has been in use since Isaiah!"
"It is still the best method, Father," Amos had
said respectfully, controlling himself. Since Joachim
refused to use the ox, he had taken his own money
to rent a yoke of cattle, and the following year the
crops of barley and wheat and flax were so much
thicker even Joachim was impressed. Since then he
had not resisted. And now look! There would be
enough not only to pay the laborers and the taxes
but also to lay by for other needs, and of course to
share with the poor.
Amos felt the thrill of the harvest season:
the joy of the new wheat to be baked into bread,
of the storehouse replenished. And this year both
a new son and a new threshing floor. To think
his father hadn't recognized it himself years
ago--the perfect place, a rock shelf at least fifty
feet in diameter, halfway up the second hill. Open
to the mountain winds that would help blow the
chaff away, yet sheltered on one side. No longer
would they have to haul the sheaves of grain to
town on carts and laden donkeys; what's more,
others would soon be paying them fees to use the
floor. Another source of profit.
The sun was now warm on his back; it was
drinking up the dew, gilding the waiting grain. He
could hear dogs barking, and the sound of voices
and tools. Good, the reapers were at the gate.
Hired hands were seldom as anxious as the owner
to get started. Amos wanted the wheat cut and
ready for threshing by noon. Joseph had promised
to send whatever sons he could spare to help with
the winnowing. Beaming, Amos strode across the
yard, calling out the traditional greeting "The Lord
be with you!"
"And the Lord bless you," the men answered.
And this too was a part of the happy morning, that
these rough men, some of them am-ha-aretz who
paid little attention to religion, were so respectful,
responding to a salutation that was often neglected.
Unconsciously Amos glanced toward the house, as
if to receive his father's approval.
"Follow me," he ordered. Leading the procession,
he began to assign them their tasks. As they
worked he moved about the fields, giving
directions. He didn't want the stalks too short:
"Just a little below the ears." He grabbed a handful
with his left hand and demonstrated with a brisk
stroke of the sickle. The binders, following behind,
were not only to bind the sheaves, they were to
pick out the weeds or tares and tie them in separate
bundles. He himself squatted here and there to
make sure this was done.
Most of the men were older than he was, and a
number had worked for Joachim. A few of them
exchanged glances, bemused, long-suffering, yet
they had a grudging admiration for this energetic,
anxious, and yet courteous young man. They
wanted to please him. Some had brought their
children along to help. It was a good cool bright
day, with a pleasant breeze blowing and the wheat
smelling toasty in the sun. There was the crisp
clean slash of the sickles, the rustling of the stalks,
the braying of donkeys, the rattle of carts soon to
be hauled up to the new floor....
Joachim had toiled up to inspect the place. He
wanted to be there waiting with the ox and the
husking sledge when the first sheaves were
delivered. Like Amos, he was very tired from the
long night's vigil, but proud: his new grandson
sleeping, his bins soon filled to overflowing.
Below, he could see a little parade of women
moving from the house--Judith, Naomi, Salome,
Ann. The sickles were silent, the men resting in
the shade. The women were carrying jugs of wine
and fresh water, baskets of food. Word had just
gone around: the reason Amos' wife was not among
them was that she was suckling a newborn child.
"To your wife and son!" the men called out, lifting
their cups to Amos.
Joachim could not hear them but he smiled,
waiting there with the ox. He sensed Amos' half
humble yet pleased strutting about. Also that he
was probably nervous about getting the threshing
over before nightfall, which Joachim could understand--all this wheat! 
There was always the danger of fire or thieves. To his relief, he saw Jesus
loping toward the group, followed by Josey and
James at a more leisurely pace. Good, with family
to help, things moved faster.
Well, Amos deserved credit. If only Matthew...! Joachim's 
fists clenched; he had to bite his trembling lip. Good riddance, 
he had tried to think when they had discovered another appalling
truth: Matthew had not only run away, he had
stolen his own inheritance to take with him. But
Hannah had been so frantic they had continued to
search. Every rumor sparked new efforts. Matthew
had been seen in Sidon, Tiberias, even in Egypt.
Nothing definite, although for years they had hired
lookouts from caravans passing through Nazareth.
Prayed and hoped. Too late now, too late....
Joachim blinked hard and wiped his eyes. True, he
had been spared far more than most; the Lord did
not deem it good for a man not to have his portion
of sorrow and pain. But oh, to have his family
reunited just once more before he died!
Joachim braced himself, steadied the ox. For
now, creaking and swaying, the carts and wagons
were coming slowly up the hill to dump their
golden cargo. The ox, unmuzzled so that he could
share in the feast, began to drag the sledge, ridden
nimbly by his grandson James, who enjoyed the job
of keeping it firm. Soon the whole floor was
covered by a dry dusty confusion of husks and
straw and grain, a deep rustling mass of gold to be
tossed into the air by the three winnowing forks.
Joachim watched the men with pleasure, their
strong dark bodies leaping and hurling, like pagans
performing a dance to their gods of plenty. And
Jesus the tallest, strongest, most lithe among them.
His teeth flashed white in his sun-browned face; he
was shouting and singing as he flung the stalks
high. His eyes were sparkling as he spied his
grandfather, and the smile Jesus sent him seemed
bright with some strange secret.

Doubtfully, trying to suppress his own excitement,
Jesus had taken Amos aside to speak with
him before they left the field.
"I have something important to tell you. Good
news--at least I hope it's good news."
Amos frowned; for some reason he felt alarmed.
They walked over to a fig tree and sat down in its
shade.
"We think Matthew has been found, and is
coming home."
"When?" Amos gasped. "How do you know?"
"Soon. He may be on his way even now."
Amos sat stunned, torn between joy and dismay.
Something about Egypt, a man of his brother's
description there--in Giza, the same small town
where Mary and Joseph had once lived. Something
about Joseph's friends there sending word.
"Several weeks ago," Jesus was saying. "They
were pretty sure they'd seen Matthew, although
he'd fallen on hard times. We didn't want to say
anything too soon; your parents would only worry
or get their hopes up; it might not even be true.
But we've been questioning people on every caravan
from Egypt since. And yesterday we learned
that a man of that age and name had started with
them, but dropped off about a day's journey back.
He said he was very tired and wanted to rest before
setting out again. For Nazareth."
"Matthew!" Amos whispered. "I can't believe it.
Not after all these years."
"Don't tell anyone just yet," Jesus warned.
"Your mother and father have suffered enough. It
would be too cruel for them to be disappointed."
"That's right," Amos said tightly. He was gazing
into the distance. "Matthew will never know how
much pain he has caused them." Dazed, he got to
his feet, trying to sort out his emotions. He wished
he could be grateful, enthusiastic, and a part of him
was indeed thrilled at the possibility of seeing his
long-lost brother again. Yet another part was
shocked, even stricken. Matthew, the plump,
amiable one, always favored by their mother. Amos
felt bewildered, suddenly and foolishly threatened,
his own influence crumbling, even now.
"It would seem their prayers have been answered,"
he muttered. "But if he does come home
I hope they remember he's already had his
inheritance. And probably squandered it!" Half
ashamed yet defensive, Amos turned on Jesus. "I
know this doesn't sound very generous of me,
Jesus, but you're not married; you don't know how
it is. I have a wife and children to support."
He stalked off then to help load the carts....
The breeze was blowing the chaff into Joachim's
beard and hair. He sneezed, his eyes watered; the
lack of sleep was catching up with him; he was
suddenly too tired to stay. But he bent to scoop up some 
of the clean smooth kernels and sift them through his fingers. With a kind of stodgy
playfulness, he threw several handfuls at his grandsons, then took up his stick and started off down the hill. He had promised Hannah he would not stay long.
Joachim had almost reached the house when he had to pause to rest. He stood a moment half dizzied by the sunshine. It made the yard ripple in
places, creating illusions the way it did on the
desert. Standing thus, getting his breath and his balance, he was sure he saw a figure approaching along the narrow path that led up from the shed. A gaunt, weary-looking man carrying a bag over his shoulder. One of the poor come early, Joachim thought, to glean the corners of the field. "That
way, that way!" he hollered, waving his arms and
pointing the opposite direction.
But the poor beggar came on, and as Joachim stood watching, shielding his eyes, he gasped; his shoulders began to shake. He saw the face now,
and it was like seeing a ghost. His heart nearly stopped. "Matthew!" he croaked. Then somehow he was hobbling swiftly toward him. They were clutching each other, laughing and crying and kissing, then drawing apart to embrace again.
"Father, Father, forgive me," Matthew was pleading through his tears. "I want to come back, if you'll have me. I have hurt you, I have shamed
you, I am unworthy, but I'm tired and ill. I will sleep in the barn with the beasts if you'll only have me; I will serve you--" He sagged; he could
scarcely stand.
"Hannah!" Joachim bellowed. It was all he could
think to do. "Hannah, Hannah, our boy is home!"
His wife stood frozen in the door, eyes huge. "I
knew it, I knew it!" she claimed, one hand to her
throat. Then she too came running.
Together they got him inside and knelt to bathe
his feet. They were nearly beside themselves with
joy; it was hard to think. Fresh clothes--he must
get out of those dirty rags. While Hannah drew
more water, Joachim pawed through the chest and
brought forth his finest Sabbath robe.
Hannah's heart shriveled to see her son's body--this
once pudgy boy like a skeleton now, his poor
flesh covered with bruises and ugly sores. What
had happened to him? Oh, he was so hurt, feverish,
exhausted.
They put him to bed and he slept deeply while
they took counsel. A kind of madness possessed
them. They must get word to Mary and Joseph,
and Joseph's mother. And all the cousins, the
neighbors, his friends. They must celebrate! Food?
There was already extra food for the reapers; they
could borrow or buy more. It was too late to kill
the fatted calf--or was it? The butcher didn't live
far. They would summon the butcher to slaughter
it; if the fire was started at once it would be ready
within a few hours.

It was almost dark when Matthew awoke. He could
hear voices, many voices, chattering, laughing,
singing. And music--the melody of timbrels and
lutes. There was the tantalizing aroma of meat
roasting. Could he be dreaming? He sat up,
stupefied. A shadowy figure turned from the
window, a tall young man he didn't recognize.
"Who is it?" he cried sharply. "Where am I?"
"It's Jesus, your nephew, remember? I've grown
up since you left." Jesus stood over him, smiling,
and bent to kiss him. "Hello, Matthew, welcome
home!"
"But what's going on? What are they doing?"
"They're having a party for you. They've invited
in all our relatives, and the neighbors, and your old
friends. They are having a feast in your honor."
Matthew shrank back, aghast. "No, no, this is
impossible. We must stop them. I don't deserve
this. I betrayed them." Matthew groaned. "I stole
my father's money!" He lifted his tormented face.
"Jesus, they don't realize--I have lived with pigs!
No, please don't let them. I want to run away and
hide. I want to die."
"You were dead," Jesus said gently, marveling.
"But, now you are living. That's all they can realize
right now. That's all that matters. Let them. Don't
spoil this for them, Matthew. Come, put on your
garments, go out to join them."
Groggily, still cringing, Matthew reached for the
clothes. It was impossible. The sandals, gemmed
with small inexpensive jewels, must be Esau's. His
father's gold ring. And the robe--dear heaven, after
all these years, Joachim's cherished, well-preserved,
multicolored Sabbath robe! He could not believe it.
He plunged his face into his hands and wept.
"Come on now, come, come," Jesus encouraged
him, and the eyes of the two met. Those incredibly
beautiful eyes, Matthew remembered; even when
Jesus was a little boy, tagging him about with the
sheep, he had been haunted by the special shining
beauty of those eyes.
"It's going to be a great feast," Jesus was
saying. "Grandfather went to great effort to
have a calf he was saving killed in your honor this
afternoon. And no small job it was right now,
during the harvest season."
"That's right, the harvest--"
"They're all waiting for you," Jesus said.
"Mary and my father and brothers, my sisters,
Grandmother Timna, Uncle Cleo, even some of
the reapers. Esau, Judith and her husband."
"And Amos? I want to see Amos."
"Amos hasn't come in yet. He's probably still up
on the hill, cleaning the new threshing floor. Or
maybe storing grain. I'd better go look for him."

But when Jesus ran hopefully up the road, he
found the harvest floor deserted, its rock foundations
swept clean. The place, humming with activity
only a few hours ago, was silent except for
the rustle of a few stray husks. Surrounding it, like
pyramids glistening under the first stars, were the
neat stacks of fragrant hay. Praising God, he stood
drinking in the scene for a moment as he caught his
breath. A day's work well done, a precious life
returned! Yet what had happened to Amos?
In the distance he could see the lights of his
uncle's cottage. Feeling apprehensive, Jesus raced
back down the hill in their direction. To his
distress, he saw that Amos was pacing the yard.
"Amos, hurry," he called out. "Please come on, we
don't want to eat without you."
Amos halted, his face cold. "Never mind, go
back to the celebration," he said bitterly. "It
doesn't matter, they've all forgotten me."
"No, no, they are calling for you. Your brother is
very anxious to see you. Your mother and father
want you."
"Nobody even bothered to tell me!" Amos
accused. "I heard the commotion while I was
picking up tools in the field. I heard the voices
and music. I had to ask one of the workers what
was going on." Amos brushed away angry tears.
"No, no, it doesn't matter--never mind that my
wife has just given them another grandson. Never
mind that we have just harvested the biggest crop
this farm has ever had. On a new threshing floor!"
he blazed, and shook aside the sympathetic hand
Jesus put on his shoulder. "No, no, go on back and
join the party."
"Amos, don't," Jesus pleaded. "Your parents
have already suffered so much because of your
brother. If you love them, surely you won't want to
hurt them more by refusing to welcome him
home."
"If my father wants me, let him come for me
himself!"
Joachim had opened the gate and was limping
toward them, looking concerned. He had heard.
"Son, I have come indeed," he said humbly.
"Please don't stay apart from us on such a joyous
occasion. I entreat you, please come with us."
Amos turned on him, eyes glaring. Poison,
bottled for years, spewed from him. "Listen,
Father, I've broken my back for you. Never once
have I disobeyed you, though I've often had to go
against your stubborn will in order to improve this
place. And I have improved it, you've had to admit
it yourself. But praise me?" he demanded. "Not
that I remember. Reward me, given me a party?
Killed so much as a goose for me so that I could
make merry with my friends?"
Joachim stood stiff and dignified before the
tirade, but his face was ashen, his thick lips
trembling like a child's--a berated and stricken old
man.
"But when this son of yours who has treated you
abominably shows up, this son who's spent your
money on harlots and God knows what--not even
been in touch with you for years--what do you do?
You treat him like a king, you summon the whole
town to celebrate, you kill the fatted calf!" It was
too much; Amos covered his face with his hands
and wept.
Joachim watched helpless for a minute, too
shocked to speak. Finally he reached out his hand.
"Forgive me, Amos," he said. "If I have failed to
show appreciation, I am truly sorry. It is not my
nature to praise. But you are always with me, and
that is a comforting thing. And you know, surely
you know, that all that I have is yours." He waited
for some response. "But your brother is home--your
own brother whom we thought dead. He was
lost and now he's found! It is fitting that we rejoice
and make merry. For Matthew was dead and now
he lives!"
Amos fought to get hold of himself. He nodded,
wiping his tears on his sleeve. "I'm sorry," he said
thickly. "Of course I'll come to welcome my
brother. But don't wait for me, go back to your
guests and begin. I must wash and put on proper
clothes." He plunged off into the house, ashamed.
He loathed himself, yet the sense of injustice would
not go away.

Joy now, relief from worry, thanksgiving. The
whole family together again. For the first time in
years, Hannah and Joachim held hands, laughed
together, were kinder, more patient with each
other, at peace.
Matthew mended rapidly, and put on weight.
They refused to listen to his protestations of
remorse or his tales. If he must get them out of his
heart, let him talk to Amos. And he did, pouring
out his shame and sometimes his adventures as they
worked together, desperate to make amends. This
pleased Amos, whose heart was aglow with forgiveness
and the thrill of teaching his own elder brother
the new ways of farming the land. They had never
been so close.
The parents rejoiced to see them setting off on
their tasks together, or to hear them laughing and
talking on the roof, sometimes far into the night.
Yet one thing troubled Joachim. He spoke of it to
Hannah one day, to her surprise. "I want to give
Amos a party. I've been thinking of it a long time.
A big dance, a feast with music and dancing. He
deserves it. I must make it up to him." And he
thought he knew the perfect place for it: the
threshing floor.
Joachim toiled up one hot muggy day to inspect
it, though Hannah had warned him about the heat.
Missing him, in late afternoon, she sent Amos and
Matthew out to look for him. They found him,
broom in hand, sprawled on the hard rock floor
where the chaff had begun drifting again. They
knew, even before they ran to him, that their father
was dead.


Chapter 10

THE RETURN of Matthew and the death of Joachim
brought a new atmosphere into the family, a new
awareness of their own mortality and need for each
other. At first Hannah wandered around bereft;
then she set about weaving herself more deeply into
the lives of her children. Leaving the care of her
own house to Salome or a daughter-in-law, Hannah
spent weeks at a time with Mary and Joseph. She
identified them most closely with Joachim; being
near them brought back a period she loved to dwell
on. Ironically, the very pain and problems of their
courtship had become dear to her, with its drama,
its need for her and her husband to protect their
own: And how magnificent Joachim had been!
Hannah did not spare herself in the recollection,
but took comfort in exalting her husband. No, no,
she had been the foolish one.
Sometimes, when there was no one else to listen,
she would put on her shawl and go down to share
as much of this as she dared with Joseph's mother,
who kept to her bed a good deal these days in the
room behind the shop. "I was so wrong about
Joseph," Hannah never tired of confessing. "The
Lord himself couldn't have chosen a better father
for Mary's son. All their children," she hastened to
add. "Always so kind and patient, but firm too,
just like Joachim was, teaching them their little
prayers--'Cause us to turn, O our Father, to your
law. . . . Forgive us, our Father, for we have
sinned'--I can hear him yet and their little voices;
I hear them through Joseph's children." Hannah
often moved herself to tears. "And how good
Joseph is to Mary. Oh, Timna, they are so happy,
it is the joy of my life to see them, so affectionate,
just the way Joachim and I were!"
Timna, waiting courteously but a bit wearily for
her turn, would try. "Joseph is very much like his
father. Jacob and I were very much in love; not a
day passed that we didn't--"
But she seldom got to finish a sentence. Hannah
was only catching her breath. Although Timna was
actually a year younger, Hannah considered her an
old woman to be dominated, a perpetual audience
for her own now seemingly eventful life story.
Mary and Joseph also had the largest family,
whose betrothals, marriages, and birthings kept
Hannah busy. Ann, Josey, and Simon were all
married now, and had added two great-grandchildren
to her score. It might have been three, but
Ann's first baby had been stillborn. Hannah would
always blame herself; Ann had gone into labor one
day while Mary was away and Hannah still visiting
with Timna. Hannah should have known better
than to leave the poor girl, who must have been
crying out for an hour. Hannah was getting a little
deaf, and what with all the noise of hammers and
saws in the shop she hadn't heard her.
Mary's other children were still at home;
James and Jude, like their eldest brother, Jesus,
seemed in no hurry to marry, a fact that Hannah
knew troubled Joseph, much as he valued their
help. They were becoming fine artisans, especially
James. His fingers were like Joseph's, skilled at
fashioning cabinets and tables. The others were
better at building the hard, firm scaffoldings and
outside staircases for houses. They were all jaunty
but much respected youths, proudly wearing
behind their ears the wooden chip that marked
their trade.
Jesus remained the only misfit: now working
cheerfully beside them, now out in the hills with
the sheep, sometimes simply vanishing for days--off
to the sea of Galilee, or climbing some
mountain, or just walking to distant villages, they
scarcely knew where.
"Where have you been, what are you doing?"
Hannah probed, knowing it was none of her business,
but concerned. "We miss you. We--you'll
never know how dreadful it was for us, worrying
about Matthew when he was gone."
"You mustn't worry, Grandmother, I'm sure my
parents understand. Mostly I'm just studying. And
thinking, and praying. Or making friends with the
fishermen along the lakeshore. They're wonderful
men; they've taught me to swim. What a great
thing, swimming--no boat, no oars, no sails, just
the sheer force of your own arms propelling you
through the cold water! It's like flying; I sometimes
feel I could rise right up and fly."
"Don't you ever try it!"
"And I love being out with the sheep. I feel very
close to God and to Grandfather, when I'm out
there under the stars with his sheep." As Hannah's
face broke he leaned down to kiss her cheek, wrinkled
and soft as butter to his lips. "To me they will
always be Grandfather's sheep."
"You are a fine shepherd," she told him. "You
will be a fine shepherd of men."
"If that is God's will for me," Jesus said. Their
eyes met, and for a moment they gazed at each
other in silence, expressing things that could not be
said. He smiled then and pressed her hand. "I
must know soon. Pray for me, Grandmother."
His brothers were less easily put off. They often
discussed it scornfully among themselves. What
was the matter with Jesus? Still wasting his time, a
man his age. No steady job or prospects of any, it
seemed. Wandering around like some beggar or
tramp. Consorting with fishermen, a rough lot--and
probably worse. A wonder their father didn't
kick him out; instead, both parents seemed to prize
him, put some special stock in him. Look how they
acted when he did come home--almost as crazy as
their grandparents had when Matthew finally
showed up. Bathe, rest, eat the best food! Sing,
dance, rejoice, come with us to the synagogue. For
he always managed to arrive in time for Sabbath
supper, and to charm everybody at the services. His
eyes shone, his beautiful voice rang out in the
songs, and when he was called upon to read, people
leaned forward in expectation, for he seemed to
bring a special power and magic to the words.
Jesus was different, he had always been different.
He was a contradiction. People knew that and
still loved him. Strange. It was no use even trying
to understand him. His brothers were torn between
envy, resentment, embarrassment, and a curious
pride.

The night before it happened, Jesus could hear his
mother and father laughing and talking softly
together on the roof. They seemed very merry and
free on this lovely spring night. They had just
taken Hannah home, walked with her to the farm
and persuaded her to rest there with the others for
a while. Hannah had gone willingly, at first a little
hurt, yet scolding herself that she hadn't realized
sooner that they needed to be alone. Life was short,
she thought bleakly, chattering all the way to keep
them from suspecting the pain heavy on her heart.
If only she had taken more time to be alone with
Joachim....
Mary and Joseph had hurried to the roof at once.
Jesus smiled to hear them as he prepared to leave.
Simon and Jude had already run off to mingle with
the excitement of the camel caravan that had arrived
this afternoon. The first since the long winter
rains. It was on its way to Egypt from east of the
River Jordan. A long procession of the tall tawny
beasts, bells jangling, their burdens swaying, riders
waving from their brightly colored saddles, and
among them an unusual number of jovial people 
swarming the village with fish or trinkets to sell
and items to be mended. Jesus could see their
campfires on the newly green hills and hear their
music as he pulled on a clean tunic and tied his
sash to join them.
"Come with us," he called up to his parents.
"No, thanks." Joseph came to the roof's edge to
peer down. "The boys and I are leaving early in
the morning to cut some timber. If you see them,
remind them not to be late."
"I won't be late either. I'm taking the sheep out
to pasture."
He stood a moment, reluctant to leave. The night
was cool and sweet, with a smell of rock roses and
wild geraniums mingling with a whiff of the fires.
Sounds of singing came from the village. There
was a clatter of hooves on the street below as
Cleophas rode toward them, a somehow lonely figure
on his horse. Like a youth, he too was out
seeking some excitement from the caravan. Pulling
up, he waved. "Come along," he invited hopefully.
Mary and Joseph stood beside each other now,
waving cordially but shaking their heads. "Wait,
Uncle Cleo," Jesus shouted, "I'll go with you!" He
ran down the steps and sprang on the horse behind
him.
As they rode off, Jesus turned to look up just as
his parents were embracing. A star went streaking
across the sky; it seemed to land between them, on
his mother's breast.

The whole family was up early the next morning. 
Joseph had hired a mule and wagon for this
excursion into the forests along the slopes of
Mount Tabor, some miles away. Jude and Simon
were going with him; his older sons, who lived
nearer the site, would meet them there. In a couple
of days they could cut enough trees to supply the
shop with all the lumber they would need until
winter: oaks and sycamores mostly; the wagon
would bring back the trunks. Now, at daybreak,
Jesus was helping load it with their tools--axes,
hatchets, saws--and with the food and blankets
Mary had prepared, for they would spend the
night.
Jesus wished suddenly he hadn't promised Amos
to take the sheep. He wanted to troop off with his
father and brothers on this mission, with the wagon
rattling merrily along the waking streets and Jude
proudly driving the mule. To go with them up into
the dark scented forest where it was always cool
and the trees murmured together, a thrilling and
faintly ominous sound. To feel the ax biting into a
trunk when his strong arms swung it, and to hear
the squealing protests a great tree made before it
crashed.

He also felt uneasily that he was needed.
"Father, listen," he offered impulsively. "I'm
bringing the sheep back Friday night. If you could
wait until next week--"
"No, this is the best time for cutting, before the
trees are too heavy with leaves."
Mary came running down the steps, a slight figure
in the soft gray light, bringing them a jug of
warmed milk which she urged them to drink before
setting off. "Be careful, all of you," she told them.
"You too, Jesus."
He drank it miserably, his regret and disappointment
growing. Even now, if there was time,
he would race up to the farm and ask Amos to get
someone else to graze the sheep. But he knew his
father was anxious to get started. Scolding himself,
filled with a curious anxiety, he could only stand
with Mary waving goodbye. Then, incredibly,
when they were out of sight, he had a childish
longing simply to stay with her. Again he
considered getting someone else to tend the flock,
or leaving them where they were for a few days.
Amos' sons were old enough now, at least to graze
them near the farm. Still, most of the boys were in
school....

Jesus felt better once the flock was at his heels.
Penned up for months during the rains, the sheep
were like children on a holiday, blatting and
bunting, bells tinkling, a few wanting to scamper
and scatter. It was all his latest dog, Benjamin,
could do to keep them together. Jubal had died
quietly in his arms several years before. Jesus had
wakened to feel the beloved body stiff and cold
against him. "No, oh, no, don't leave me!" Jesus
had implored. "Wake up, I command you, come
back to me--live!" For one long desperate
moment he had believed: the eyes would surely
open, the warm tongue lick his hand again. Then,
berating himself for his delusion, Jesus wept.

Benjy appeared at the door a few days later, as if
sensing that he too would find haven here: a yellow
cur, starved and cruelly beaten. One eye was
swollen nearly shut, he still bore whip marks on his
nearly bald hide, and, like Jubal, one leg dragged.
At first he snatched his food and ran, whimpering
and cringing when they tried to approach, but soon
he too lay docile before the family's ministrations
and leaped for joy at their love. Ben too was
jubilant at once more bounding over the hills.
Spring had come early this year. Even in January,
when the high mountain ranges were still
white with snow, spring began to creep over the
valleys and up the slopes on little green feet, as if
eager to mate with winter. And the heart of winter
was melted; dry creek beds became foaming torrents-
Jesus had to take the sheep farther than ever
to find still water--but their banks exploded with
grass and flowers. Lilies of the field in colors of
pink and white and gold: anemones and cyclamen,
rock roses, asphodel, blue lupis, wild gladiolus,
scarlet and yellow tulips, daisies and chrysanthemums,
snapdragons of a dozen hues. The
fingers of God had embroidered the earth like a
tapestry and scented it with his headiest perfumes.

Jesus took out his pipe and played as he walked
through these fields of beauty. His heart ached
with a kind of tender wonder as he remembered his
parents, so close last night, now parted for even a
day....
Jesus was not sure how much he slept that night.
He could hear the sheep stirring, and the sounds of
the fire, and the nighthawks making their curious
cry. And it seemed to him he heard the voice of his
father speaking to him gently and firmly about
taking a wife. The love of his parents for each other
was a part of his semiconscious state. He saw the
star that seemed to fall on his mother's breast, and
it became a baby, for he could see his father
bending over her tenderly, the way he always did
whenever a child was born. To love like that, to
find a woman whom he could love like that, his
own wife who would bear him children to nurse at
her breast! . . . Restless and stirred, yet lying
remotely apart, Jesus dreamed.
He was no longer himself but Jacob rising up
from his pillow of stones to climb a ladder of stars.
And the top of it reached to heaven, and behold
angels were ascending and descending. And the
Lord stood above it, speaking the words he had
spoken to Jacob: "I am the God of Abraham your
father, and the God of Isaac: and I will give you
the land on which you lie, I will give it to you and
your seed."
"But Father, I have no seed!" Jesus cried out, in
a voice so loud he half awoke and lay, heart
pounding. Then he found himself somewhere else,
wrestling with an angel; like Jacob it seemed to him
they wrestled all night long, trying desperately for
some foolish reason to learn each other's names.
The angel kept laughing at him, but just before he
awoke, the angel promised to tell him.
What was it, what was it? Jesus sat up in a cold
sweat. Then to his relief it came to him:
Temptation. He had been wrestling with temptation.... 
He lay a few moments longer, thinking.
What was temptation? Had he not been tempted
many times? The girls at the grape treadings,
young and lovely, sometimes unsteady from the
very smell of the wine. The girls who came into
the shop on pretext of some tool to be mended for
their fathers--their flirting eyes and sometimes
casually touching hands. The matrons who walked
the streets of Nazareth, hips swinging seductively,
no matter how many little ones might be clinging
to their skirts.... Was the yearning in his loins
evil, or merely nature's response to the vital
instinct God himself had planted in males that the
race might survive?
Jesus threshed about, both yearning and rejecting.
He would not, he could not. He was different;
he had always been different. Something restrained
him.
Squatting before the fire the next morning, he
had a strong impulse to turn back. Perhaps if he
hurried he could even yet dispose of the sheep and
spend at least one day in the forest with his
father--or with Mary, if she preferred. They had
had so little time together these past years with
Hannah so much about. Even the long evenings
they had once shared, discussing the things he was
reading, had somehow been lost in the commotion
of the family. But no, he had promised. Jesus
stamped out the fire, loaded his knapsack, and took
up his rod. Ben had already rounded up the flock,
but he continued to run about barking, his signal
that something was wrong.
Groaning, Jesus began to count. Sure enough,
one of them was missing, probably the restless ewe
Amos was keeping for a neighbor. Always running
off and giving him trouble, yet it must be found.
The search took an hour; the ewe had wandered
down a steep ravine and was perched on a rocky
ledge high above a rushing torrent. It was afraid to
go farther or try to come back. Grabbing at roots,
rocks, and branches, Jesus scrambled after it,
risking his own life, for the ledge was narrow, the
sheep heavy, and a misstep would have plunged
them both into the raging stream. Ben's incessant
barking only aggravated the rescue; Jesus kept
ordering the dog to stop as he struggled with the
frightened sheep. It was heavy; he must maneuver
it around and push and shove it up the steep bank
that was also slippery in places. At last he boosted
it over the rim, and grabbing a branch, hauled
himself up.
"Hush!" he scolded the dog. "You know better
than to bark when I'm going after a sheep." Then
he saw the horse pounding toward them. "Cleophas!"
he cried out in amazement, "Uncle Cleo,
what's wrong?"
"Thank heaven we found you! We've ridden half
the night." Cleo's handsome, dark, heavy-lidded
face was serious. "It's your father, Jesus. He's had
an accident. Never mind the sheep. One of Amos'
boys came with me; he's waiting with them now;
he'll drive them home."
Dazed, Jesus climbed onto the horse behind his
father's friend. It seemed to him strange that only
two nights before, they had ridden thus toward the
music and merriment of the caravan.

It had been past dark when the wagon returned,
carrying Joseph home. The streets of Nazareth
were almost deserted, silent except for the creaking
of wheels and the clopping of hooves on stones.
Mary, trying nervously to embroider by lamplight,
heard the sounds approaching and put down her
needle. She knew it had not been their intention to
return with a load of logs so soon. Of course it
might be some other wagon passing late. Denying
it, desperately denying the apprehension that had
haunted her all day, she ran to the door and looked
down.
It was a clear night, with a new moon sharp as a
sickle in the sky. It shone down on the steps
leading from her house to the shop. The steps were
strewn with petals, blown today from the trees. A
lamp burned in Timna's quarters. She saw her
mother-in-law emerge, white-haired in the moonlight,
and stand for an instant frozen, like herself,
staring down.
The mule-drawn wagon had stopped. Her sons,
who had been walking beside it, looked up to
where the women stood. Mary tried to go to them
but her feet were wooden, as in a dream. She had
to clutch the rough stone wall for support. In its
crannies she saw cyclamens and anemones still
blooming, where they had found shelter from the
icy rains. James came running up the steps to meet
her halfway. "Father's been hurt," he said. "A
falling oak. He'll need a doctor. We're sending
Jude."
"And Jesus!" Mary cried. "Oh, dear heaven,
please send someone to find Jesus!"

Somehow she was beside the wagon as they lifted
Joseph from the straw. There were bits of twigs
and leaves in his hair. The street was coming alive
with lamps and running feet. Carefully, very
carefully, grunting with his weight, they carried
Joseph to his bed. His face was covered with blood,
but his eyes opened slightly as they put him down;
he mumbled something and strove to touch Mary.
"Don't move, Father," Simon choked. "The doctor
is coming."
A frantic Ann and her husband arrived; they
lived above their own shop just a few doors away.
Ann set about helping her sister heat water to wash
their father, while their grandmother mixed oil and
wine for his wounds. There was only one doctor in
the village, and he was often not to be found; it
might be hours. They must make Joseph as comfortable
as they could. But when Mary pulled aside
Joseph's garments, she waved the women aside.
She could not bear for even his own mother to see
how brutally his body was crushed and torn.

The doctor came within the hour: a big, earnest,
very devout man wearing a tasseled prayer shawl;
phylacteries were bound to his forehead and one
arm with wide leather straps. He never visited a
patient without them, nor would he even examine
the patient until he first gathered the family
together for prayer. Then, carefully removing and
folding the shawl, he knelt by the pallet where
Joseph sprawled.

Even the doctor was shocked. He rummaged
among his bag of potions and salves, wondering
what to do and how to tell her. Finally he beckoned
Mary aside and said kindly, "He will be in great
pain when he wakens, for his ribs are broken. Give
him this, along with more wine to quiet him. But it
isn't the chest that concerns me, it is his legs." One
was badly broken, he told her, but he thought it
could be fixed. The other one was crushed beyond
repair. The doctor stood rubbing his big troubled
life-scarred face. Finally, drawing a deep breath, he
told her: The leg would have to come off.
Mary was staring at him blankly. "What?"
"Mary, you're a brave woman," the doctor said.
"Your husband's leg is too badly injured even to
try to mend. Barring a miracle, it will have to be
removed." She still stood white and silent, as if she
hadn't heard. "Barring a miracle," he repeated.
"Unless it is better by morning, I must cut off
your husband's left leg."
She still didn't seem to understand. "That won't
be necessary," she said simply. "We are sending
for Jesus." The doctor looked mystified. "My
eldest son. You must have heard him read sometimes
at the synagogue."
"Oh, yes, a fine young man, very handsome,
though not yet married."
"He has more important things to do," Mary
defended quickly. She put out a hand to reassure
him. "Don't worry, Doctor, Jesus will be here
soon. He will surely be here by morning. He will
be able to heal my husband."
The man looked puzzled. "Is he studying
medicine? If so, perhaps I can help him."
"No, he is studying the word of God."

It was a chilly morning. Though a fire burned in
the brazier, Mary was huddled in a blanket as she
sat beside Joseph. She could not get warm, and she
had not slept all night. But she would allow no one
else to come near him. At last her head dropped;
she dozed, still holding tight to her husband's
hand.
Jesus found her thus when he tiptoed in. He
stood a moment staring at the torn, bruised
face on the pillow. Suddenly, sensing his presence,
Mary started. "Praise God you are here at
last!" she cried softly. She hugged his waist
fiercely, then very cautiously got up, wiping away
tears of relief. "I sent the doctor away," she
whispered, sounding confident. "I knew he would
not be needed."
"Not needed?" Jesus gasped.
Mary's head was thrown back. She was almost
smiling. "I knew you would come in time to save
him."
Jesus stared at her, incredulous. "Mother,
Mother, what are you saying?"
"Why, that you will heal your father," Mary
stated simply. "We can't let him be butchered as
the doctor wanted; we can't let him die. You must
heal him."
"Mother, only the Father in heaven can heal
him."
"But you--!"
"I can only pray for his healing. And that I have
done; from the moment Cleo first brought me the
news, every breath has been a prayer for his healing."
"But you are God's special child," she cried.
"He sent you to earth to save his people. Surely he
will grant you the power to save your own father!"
As he only stood there appalled and stricken, she
clutched his arms so hard he winced.
"Heal him," she ordered. "I command you, heal
your father, Jesus. I know you can--you must!"
"You don't understand.... I am not yet ready!"
She wouldn't listen. She began to shake him angrily,
like a child. "Ready? What has being ready
to do with it? He's ill!" Mary bent to fling
back the sheet. "See how his limb has swollen--it's
black, and his brow is like fire. His eyes are glazed;
he doesn't even know us. He will die if you don't
put out your hand and heal him!" Desperately, she
began to sob; never had she prayed for anything so
hard or believed in anything so much. "You have
the power--God must have given you this power.
Heal him," she demanded again. "Heal Joseph
your father."
"Mother . . . Mother, don't." He couldn't bear
it. He turned away, covering his face.
Mary was rocking back and forth, pleading now
through the sounds of her grief. "Jesus, Jesus,
please. If you really love your father--"
"Love has nothing to do with it," Jesus said. It
was a moment before he could go on. . . . Or
everything to do with it? If he loved enough, if he
loved with the power of the One in heaven. . . .
"You know how much I love him!" Jesus knelt by
the pallet and took Joseph's hot puffed hand. "And
he knows how much I love him, don't you, Father?
I told you last night in a dream; you came to me
and I told you. And I have told you with every
breath since the news was brought to me this
morning. Our Father in heaven knows too, for with
every breath I was also praying. But I can't--" he
said brokenly. "Not until God wills it. Not yet.
Not yet. Not until my time has come."

Mary had walked to the window. She stood there
a moment staring blindly out. "He may be dead."
"Yes."
They were both calm now, gazing at each other
through tear-wet eyes. "Mother, you're very tired,"
Jesus said helplessly. "Go to sleep now, let me tend
to him."
"No!" she cried sharply.
"Let me help you. Give me at least the comfort
of staying with him, caring for him while you
rest."
"No!" There was no sound but Joseph's labored
breathing. "If he sleeps I will be beside him, if he
stirs I will know and care for him, and if he dies it
will be in my arms." Then she took pity on her
son and made a little movement with her hand.
"Forgive me, but I want to be alone with him."
Joseph died that night.
In the shop where he had taught them, Jesus and
his brothers hammered and sawed until dawn,
building him a bier of finest cedarwood. Toward
noon they hoisted their precious burden to their
shoulders, and taking turns with Cleophas and
other men who loved him, carried him, praying
aloud, up to the cave in the rocky cleft where the
body of Joachim lay. His mother Timna was too
crippled to lead the procession with the other
women--Mary and Hannah and their daughters,
for as everyone knew, it was the woman Eve who
had brought death into the world, and thus women
should lead death's victims to the grave.

Jesus, wearing Joseph's prayer shawl, lifted his
arms and uttered a prayer of his own composing
before the stone was rolled to seal the tomb: "O
Lord of all mercy and help and healing, you who
created our mother Mary to be the wife of this
good man, send your army of angels to comfort her
now and to comfort us, their children; above all,
comfort the soul of our father Joseph as he leaves
us to be with you, let your angels march with him
as they lead him to a life of everlasting joy until we
join him."

Mary and Hannah supported each other, creeping
back down the long hill to the farm. The men
would follow when they were finished. Mary was
shivering; the tomb had been damp and chill. Her
face, like her mother's, was set. She could cry no
more. Let people think what they would. Let other
women wail and moan and beat their breasts. They
had not slept in his arms or kissed his mouth or 
borne his children. The grief that consumed her 
was too deep for sound; one who will mourn forever 
cannot expend her strength in screaming.
The hired mourners were waiting; at sight of the
widows they set up their howling afresh. "I wish
they would stop," Mary said. "I wish they needn't
follow us home."
Hannah nodded. She seemed dazed. "It will be
over in a week. Everything ends. Except memories,"
she added.
On the final day of mourning they took off their
rough black sackcloth and scrubbed the ashes from
their faces. Hannah's cheeks were streaked with
blood. She had been caught up in the organized
frenzy of grief, after all. She had rent her flesh and,
her garments and screamed. Now, exhausted, faint
with fasting, she was a little ashamed as she
remembered Mary's composure all week--bravely
trying to comfort her weeping children, and just
seeing to all those guests! Such a turnout for
Joseph. Never before seen in Nazareth, it pleased
her to think. Except, of course, for Joachim . . .
Joachim. Fresh pain struck her, pain so genuine she
doubled over with it, there on the bench where she
was putting on her clothes. Fiercely, Hannah sat
hugging herself, as if to crush it from her breast.
"Mother, don't. Please don't." Mary came to
stand beside her, to stroke the pitifully balding
head.
"But where are they?" Hannah moaned, lifting
her tiny tormented face. "Joseph and your father?"
"I don't know," Mary said. "But Jesus does."
"Will we ever see them again?"
"Yes. It's what Jesus promised when we stood at
the cave. That is part of the good news he was sent
to bring us." Mary drew her mother to her feet.
"Come, we must eat something. We are both
weak."
"How does he know?" Hannah pleaded. She was
clutching Mary's hand. "How does he know?"
"We must not forget who he is," said Mary. "He
is God's son."
"Then why--?" Hannah hesitated, filled with
dread. Yet she must speak of it, express it
somehow, the question that had taunted her all
week. And it came to Hannah that perhaps her
screaming, all her screaming, had been only for its
answer. "Mary, I can't help wondering," she
groped. "I have heard of--healings. The holy
men, the prophets, sometimes even the rabbis--it
may not be true, of course, but I . . . it has been
said such men sometimes do miraculous things."
Miserably then she blurted it out: "Surely Jesus is
greater than any of them. Why didn't he heal
them?"
Mary closed her eyes, fearing that for the
first time she might break. "Nobody loved
his father more," she said quietly after a moment.
"Or his grandfather either. Oh, Mother,
don't you think he would have saved them if he
could? But he couldn't, he couldn't, not yet,"
she moaned softly. "We must be patient, Mother,
we must wait. His miracles will come when the
One who sent him is ready."
"I may not live to see them," Hannah whispered
"Yes, you will! And they will be miracles such as 
the world has never seen."


Chapter 11

MARY NEVER SLEPT that she did not reach for him,
never woke that she did not feel the emptiness
beside her, never prepared a meal that she did not
listen for his step. These feelings she kept to
herself. She did not want to burden her children.
She was grateful for their ability to go on with their
lives. Jesus, more than the others, was suffering.
And so she was glad when he prepared to leave
once again with the sheep. She knew that this was
vital to him, now as never before, and so she did
not restrain him, although she could scarcely bear
to see him go. He was so much like Joseph--far
more, it seemed to her, than any of her sons.
The day of his departure she arose while it was
yet dark and kindled the fire that he might have
hot bread. She set out a bowl of fresh figs and a
mug of hot milk. She filled his knapsack with extra
loaves and ran her fingers along the seams of his
cloak; she had mended them only yesterday, but
was it warm enough for cold nights in the hills?
"I wish you were going with me," Jesus said
from the table.
"So do I." She was hugging the cloak against
her. "I used to enjoy the times when my father let
me tend the sheep. Never overnight, of course, or
far from home. There was little danger, although I
did have to throw my rod once at a snake."
"You, throwing a rod?" Jesus smiled. "It's hard
to believe."
"I was quite strong. He had made me a little rod
to carry--much like that first one your father made
for you--and taught me to throw."
"Did you hit the snake?"
"No, but I scared it away!" They both laughed,
but their eyes were suddenly wet. Mary pressed a
fist against her trembling lips. "Oh, Jesus, I miss
them both so much!"
Jesus came to her and held her. "I can't leave
you, Mother, not yet. I will get someone else."
"No, you need to go. I can see it in your eyes.
You eat almost nothing, I hear you pacing sometimes,
late at night. Jesus, you must not blame
yourself." She drew back to search his face. "It is
not your fault that you were not with your father
that day. Or that you were not--" Mary hesitated,
groping for words-- "prepared to do--what I was
foolish enough to beg you to."
"You mustn't blame yourself either, Mother.
That wasn't foolish, it was your love pleading for
him."
"Yes," she agreed, blinking fiercely. "I could do
nothing else." She busied herself with the knapsack.
Did he have everything? His flute, his
knife--wait, she had forgotten his raisins, and what
about the book he had been reading? She scurried
off to find it. Jesus waited, touched by her
mothering but anxious to get started. Cocks were
crowing, the sky was turning gray. He hoped to
reach the first pasture while the dew was still wet
on the grass; the sheep enjoyed it and it meant less
watering. Yet it tore him to leave.
Mary followed him to the door. "Be careful. I
won't hold you back, but I worry about you too,
out there alone."
"Please don't," he said cheerfully. "I have many
friends among the shepherds, as you know. I'm
always welcome at their camps, the way those
Bedouins once welcomed you."
"No wonder you feel at home with them, for you
were with us." Mary smiled as she remembered,
but her voice was urgent. "Yes, yes, take shelter
with others whenever you can. Forgive me," she
said quietly after a minute, "but I don't think I
could go on living if anything should happen to
you."

The sheep were now his succor and salvation. God
surely had been leading him all these years, the
chief shepherd training the lesser to lead the sheep.
But now, this summer after Joseph's death, it was
the sheep who seemed to be leading Jesus beside
the still waters to restore his soul. And never before
had his rod and his staff so comforted him. For as
he watched over his flocks by day and night, it was
as if his father and grandfather were beside him.
This tough club of a rod for his protection. This
sturdy staff. They had provided both, from the
very beginning.
Mary's reminiscence about her own first proud
little rod brought it all back. Again he walked
excitedly into the brush beside Joachim to choose
and dig a young sapling. Smelled again the damp
earth and felt the roots with their clods of dirt
clinging to his fingers. Heard the whack of his
grandfather's hatchet cutting the root down to size.
They carried it to the carpenter shop where Joseph
carved and whittled it to exactly fit his hand. The
thrill of that first small rod in his palm, and the
clumsy zeal with which he hurled it when they
took him onto a hillside to teach him.
Cleophas had gone along, for he was skilled in
throwing, had even won contests with the Greeks.
Cleo demonstrated first, then Joseph; it became a
competition between them to see who could throw
it farther. Jesus wanted to try his rod but was afraid
to say so until Joachim stepped in. "Here, now, let
the lad; I will show him." And clutching Jesus'
wrist, he had pulled back and released the weapon
with such force that lo, it flew so far and hard it
broke a pitcher that was tipped against a tree.
"There, that's how you throw a rod!" Joachim
had grinned in triumph over the younger men....

One day, in a leafy glade beside a waterfall where
the sheep were grazing, Jesus saw the girl.
He had been drowsing after his long struggle
with a castdown sheep. He had missed the creature
this morning when he first rose and checked the
flock. Oh, no, not again! he thought. Affa, his
fattest and strongest ewe with the heaviest wool,
and heavier than ever in lamb. She was notorious
for wandering toward greener pastures. Then when
she had eaten her fill she would lie down, roll onto
her side, and be unable to get up.
The sun was high before he finally found her under a 
distant tree, feet still frantically flailing
the air. She must have been struggling for
hours; buzzards were already circling. Jesus ran to
her, knowing there was no time to lose; gases were
being built up in her rumen. Tenderly he rolled
the big sheep on her side to relieve the pressure,
and began massaging her belly. Poor foolish thing,
when would she ever learn? He was close to tears.
Fear that he might yet lose her gripped him, a
sense of impotency and helplessness, for she
seemed unable to budge, to lift herself.
At last he got the sheep up and held her erect,
rubbing her legs to get the warm blood flowing.
The afternoon wore on before the creature was
finally able to walk, unsteadily with his support;
twice it stumbled and would have fallen. But little
by little its strength returned; by the time they
reached the waterfall it trotted off and was soon
chewing in peaceful rhythms with the others.
Exhausted, Jesus flung himself onto the grass. A
sudden appalling discouragement assailed him.
Words from the psalms began to chant in his head: 
Why are you cast down, O my soul? And why are you
disquieted within me? . . He heard again the
desperate pleading of his mother: "Heal him, heal
him, if you love your father--!" And his own
feeble, terrible, "I can't."
How was it that he could save a mere overfat,
overpadded, four-legged beast, while his father, his
own father, lay stiff and lifeless in the cave? And
Joachim, the dear grandfather from whom he had
learned so much?
All the knowledge, the awareness, as if the whole
world flowed in his blood and marched through his
consciousness, the certainty, the sense of destiny,
the moments of such rapport with all creation that
he seemed himself one with the very Creator--all
this had fled. Jesus felt as lost and bewildered and
helpless as that flailing ewe with the buzzards
circling overhead. What was he doing here, chasing
after and propping up sheep? He was nearly thirty
years old and he had accomplished nothing, as his
brothers accused.
Who was he, to dare to think . . . to dream?
What John had said to him in Jerusalem seemed
preposterous now: mere boys, both of them, with
lively imaginations and delusions of grandeur. And
his mother and even her own mother, Hannah--the
things they never discussed yet seemed to
believe, almost to take for granted. Didn't many a
Jewish woman fancy her son or grandson the
Deliverer? And himself--he writhed--the sense of
authority and conviction when only twelve in the
Temple. And since, his private journeys of the soul
ever since.
How many men fancied themselves Abraham or 
Moses or Elijah returned, how many climbed their
own secret stairway of stars to wrestle with angels
or even the Nameless One himself? All Israel knew 
of them, those false or tragically misled prophets
and messiahs whose fate was doomed, even as
John's, now preaching in the desert, would surely
be. Help me, help me, deliver me from this madness,
he prayed, or I too will be hanged upon the tree.
He was tired and dirty and hungry, and once
again he beat the earth with his fists. "Tell me,
Yahweh, tell me," he cried out as he had so often,
"what is it you would have of me?"
Again there was no answer, only the muted
pounding of the waterfall at the cliff's edge, like
the feet of dancers on a threshing floor. In the
grasses insects hummed and clicked. He could hear
the sheep bells ringing softly as the flock moved
about, their jaws making a silken music as they
pulled and chewed the foliage....
Jesus slept.

Some time later he was awakened by a lamb nibbling
and nuzzling at his feet: a strange lamb, he
saw at once, with markings he did not recognize,
like little copper coins upon its brow, and a
bleating that was unusually sweet. He sat upright,
astonished. Several unfamiliar sheep were grazing
calmly among his own, while a number of goats,
perhaps nine or ten, were greedily chewing the
overhanging mulberry leaves or gamboling about.
Some shaggy, some smooth, some black as Satan,
others pied or tawny or purest white. Their horns
glistened in the falling sun; they tossed their
heads, emitting their wild goat cries, and he
wondered for a moment if he had been transported
to some pagan frolic of horned gods.
Puzzled and rubbing his eyes, Jesus got to his
feet. It was then he saw the girl. She was bathing
in the pool at the base of the waterfall, one of the
falls he had enjoyed as a boy. The melting snows
and the rains had been generous this year, spilling
such torrents of water that it had formed this broad
glistening pool. The girl was darting in and out of
the spray, gamboling like one of her young kids, for
surely the creatures were hers. Her charges must
have wandered, come clambering up over the rocks
to mingle like friends with his sheep.
Jesus stood transfixed. She had thrown off
her outer garment. Only a little white shift covered
her nakedness, but it was wet and clung to her
body, and he saw that she was fair, very fair. Her
limbs were small but lovely, and when she bent to
free a pebble from her toes, he glimpsed the little
brown apples of her breasts. And his heart beat
faster, all the songs of Solomon seemed to burst in
his throat. He wanted to fling himself into the
tumbling water and clasp her there where it
plunged, so joyously sparkling, and swim with her
there in love.
Unaware of him, she gathered up her rough blue
outer garment and began to dry her long, light
brown hair. She wrapped the robe about herself
then, took up her staff, and started to climb,
nimble as the goats as she hopped from rock to
rock. Her hair, still wet, was shining. She was
humming softly to herself--until she saw him. Her
song halted abruptly. She was startled. She gazed at
him an instant, then turned, flustered, and began
to run about barefoot, trying to round up her sheep
and goats.
Without a word he sprang to the task of helping
separate their flocks. Once they bumped into each
other, with a little shock; their eyes met. An old
ram of his was bunting one of her half-grown
sheep. Yelling and brandishing his rod, he got it
away. The dog dashed around, barking, helping.
Soon the sheep were in line, but the goats were
obstinate, mischievous, scampering away and then
running back as if enjoying the game.
Finally, when the girl's animals were herded
around her, she lifted her eyes an instant to thank
him. He had never seen eyes that color, blue as the
sky, with flecks of gold, and fringed with such long
black lashes. Her skin was golden brown like the
hair about her shoulders, but her cheeks were
flushed. He realized that she was actually very shy,
dismayed that he had seen her in the water. For she
lowered her gaze at once, and crouching to pick up
the lamb that had wakened him, she hurried off.
"Wait!" He ran anxiously after her. "You don't
come here often?"
"Only today," she acknowledged in a low voice.
"It is so hot, I followed the stream."
"Where do you live?"
The girl only shook her head and backed away.
"I'll still be here tomorrow," he called desperately.
"Please come back! Please come this way
again."
He scarcely slept all night, and when he did the
girl filled his dreams. He was running frantically in
search of her. She was in some danger, she was 
dancing in the waters, she was falling, drowning in 
the pool, and though he dived and dived he could 
not find her.... Then she was in his arms, limp
and wet and sweetly cool; he must save her, he was
kissing her lips to revive her, but then she slipped
away....
He awoke shaking and covered with sweat. He
got up and walked about, trying to retrieve
and yet recover from the dream. He went to the
waterfall, wondering if the whole experience had
been only a dream. It was still pounding and
foaming under the stars. It was real. The girl was
real. She must come back, he must see her again.
Dear Father in heaven, send her back to me!
All morning he waited expectantly: watched and
waited, several times walking in the direction where
she had vanished among the trees, trying to will
her into reality before him. His flock must be
moved tomorrow. He would never see her again
unless she came today.
In late afternoon, when he had almost given up
hope, Ben began barking excitedly. Jesus sprang to
his feet. Like a mirage in the distance he saw her
approaching, followed by a much smaller flock
than the day before. Her pet lamb trotted beside
her, the one with the golden coins on its brow.
Almost beside himself, Jesus ran to greet her.
"Peace be with you!" he cried. "I was afraid I had
lost you, and I didn't know where to look. This is
the last day I will be here. My sheep have almost
finished the grass."
"Oh, dear, then we shouldn't have come," she
apologized softly. "I can't have mine robbing
yours."
"No, no, there is still plenty for all. Especially
since today you have brought so few. Where are the
others? Where are the goats?"
"All but two have gone to be slaughtered. It is
why I am so late. They did not want to go. We had
to chase them; they tried to escape." Quickly she
turned her head, and he heard the little choke in
her throat. "I am comforted by the good romp they
had here yesterday."
"I'm glad too," Jesus said. "I too grieve for your
goats." He squeezed her hand. "But where are the
rest of your sheep?"
"I was only tending them for a neighbor. These
belong to my uncles."
"Come, then, sit with me while they graze. Let
our flocks mingle, let them be our family, let us
pretend they are our children."
He was so glad to see her he didn't know quite
what he was saying. He regretted the words, for she
sprang back, as easily startled as one of the sheep.
"Forgive me, you have nothing to fear. Come, I
have something to show you." He led her to the
place of last night's campfire, where he had spread
his cloak. There was the acrid smell of the ashes
and the pungent fragrance of earth and grasses as
they sat down. They were both nervous, aware of
the subtle excitement between them, that she had
actually returned to him this day with her little
flock.
Jesus dug into his knapsack for the beautiful 
stone. He had found it earlier and planned to carry 
it home for Mary, thinking perhaps Cleophas could 
have it set into a ring. But now the girl must have
it, for it was the same incredible blue as her eyes.
The girl caught her breath and cupped it in her
hand, then held it up to catch the light. "Where
did you find it?"
"At the foot of the waterfall." He stopped short,
for the girl blushed, even as she continued to stare
in wonder at the stone. "I want you to have it."
"But it's so beautiful! No one has ever given me
such a gift before. "
He was touched. It was only a little stone. "The
water has already polished it, but I can polish its
brightness even more in my father's carpenter
shop."
"No, no, I like it as it is." She was clutching it
protectively to her breast. "You mustn't take it
from me."
He was astounded. "Do you honestly think I
would not give it back to you? And more beautiful
than before?"
"I don't know," she whispered, and looked up at
him fully with those strange blue eyes.
He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Then
keep it," he said. "Let it be as you wish."
Her pet lamb kneeled down beside them. Jesus
stroked its head with the little bronze coins. "What
is its name?"
"Gilda."
"And yours?"
"Tamara," she said, sitting very still under his
frankly questing gaze.
For now the full impact of her beauty smote him.
The light brown hair, dry now, like a shining cloud
about her shoulders. The small fine-boned face,
burned almost as bronze as the coins on her lamb's
brow. She had a high innocent forehead and eager,
fearful, yet at times almost impish eyes. The
eyes, though intensely blue, were the shape of
almonds, the brows above them very black. Her
nose was straight and small, her mouth sweet.
When she smiled, as she was smiling now, her
whole face radiated.
"Why are you staring at me so?"
"Because I must feast on the sight of you. All the
songs of Solomon are singing in my heart."
"Then sing me one."
"'How beautiful you are, my love,'" he
chanted, half playfully. "'How beautiful you are!
Your eyes, behind your veil, are doves; your hair is
like a flock of goats frisking--'"
He broke off for she was laughing. Her own
teeth flashed as she took up the song: "'Your teeth
are like a flock of shorn ewes as they come up from
the washing--' And we did come up from the
washing, my sheep and my goats and I--up from
the waterfall!"
"Praise heaven you did," he said, and joyfully
persisted: " 'Your lips are a scarlet thread and your
words enchanting. Your cheeks, behind your veil,
are halves of pomegranate--' "
" 'Your neck is the tower of David built as a
fortress,' " she retorted, " 'hung round with a
thousand bucklers--' "
It was no use, it was too absurd, they could not
go on; still laughing, they wiped their eyes. Again
they sat gazing at each other, both of them openly
and honestly now. The sheep bells tinkled, the
grasses hummed, white clouds drifted overhead.
Jesus leaned forward, spoke finally, though he
hardly dared to ask. "Are you betrothed?"
She shook her head.
"But anyone so beautiful! Surely the fathers of all
the young men must have beaten a path to your
father's door."
Tamara's eyes narrowed. Thoughtfully she
pulled a sprig of mint from the ground and bit it,
staring into the distance. "I have no father," she
told him. "I live with my uncles. They are in no
hurry to find me a husband, since I am so useful to
them, keeping their house and minding their
stock."
"Doesn't this make you unhappy?"
"I am in no hurry to have a husband either. Our
village is small, there are not many men. And I
have seen no one among them whom I would
have."
"But now?" Jesus was trembling. She was so
little and beautiful and somehow--bereft. She was
in many ways like his mother: her daintiness, her
sweetness and humor; except for her bursts of
shyness, she reminded him of Mary. He lifted her
chin. "Have you not yet seen a man you might
learn to love?"
"I don't know who you are," she protested.
"You may have a wife and children!"
He threw back his curly head. How good it was
to laugh again. He had never been so happy. "I am
Jesus of Nazareth, without wife or children, much
to my family's embarrassment, for I am old enough
and past. But, like you, I have never seen the one I
longed for. Until this day I had never seen a
woman I felt I could love. Not until this day,
Tamara--or yes, even the day before."
She gave a little cry and scrambled hastily to her
feet. The color flooded her cheeks again, those
golden cheeks; her face was like a sunset, he
thought, amazed. "You saw me!" she wailed. "You
saw me in the water. Oh, I am so ashamed."
"You were lovely in the water. Don't ever be
ashamed with me, Tamara. I love you, do you hear
me? I want you to learn to love me if you can."
He tried to clasp her wrists, but she wriggled
away. "I must go now," she cried. "It's late, I
shouldn't have come. You must think me wanton
to come tramping across the fields after you like
this!"
"No, no," he reminded her. "I begged you to
come, and I beg you now, come back!" She wasn't
listening, only running about to round up her
flock. With his dog he set about helping her.
"Come walk with me these next few days," he
pleaded when the creatures were separated. "Bring
your sheep, and we will find new pastures
together. I must move my own tomorrow, but I
will wait for you until noon. If you come later you
will find us just over the second hill." He pointed. 
"Don't worry, we will not go far. Where is your 
village?"
"Near Cana."
"Then we will circle the pastures near it. Each 
day you can leave in time to reach your home 
before sunset. I don't want to get too far from 
Nazareth, either," he told her. "My father died a 
few weeks ago, I don't want to stay away from my 
mother too long. . . . Will you come to be with 
me?" he urged, as she hesitated.
"I will try," she promised, and pressed his hand. 
"I will come as often as I can."

All the next morning Jesus paced and prayed and 
scanned the valleys in vain. Finally, when it was
long past noon, he knew he could hold the sheep
no longer. Deeply disappointed, he set off to trudge
the next weary miles alone. And when he reached
the place he had chosen, the nose flies came
swarming up out of the brush so vicious in their
attack that some of the sheep went crazy. He spent
half the night trying to calm them. He would have
moved on had he dared, but he was tortured by the
fear that Tamara might still come and not be able
to find him.
When morning dawned, however, he knew he had no choice 
but to leave. Discouraged, he was stamping out his 
fire when Ben began his excited
barking. Jesus' heart leaped, nearly exploded with
joy, for here she came running, the beloved, along
the dusty path. A white scarf bound her hair and
she wore a tunic of blue and white stripes vivid as
sky and clouds. The lamb Gilda trotted along
beside her, and behind her the two remaining
goats. Her cheeks were flushed; she was panting
and again very bashful, apologizing. She couldn't
come the day before because her uncles had other
work for her to do. "And I dared not tell them why
I wanted so much to leave!"
She looked about at the still restless flock. "Oh,
your poor sheep. I could not sleep for thinking of
them. This pasture--I should have remembered
the brush and thorns. It is not a good place." She
had brought a little flagon of her own remedy. She
would help him ease them. But first she would
lead them to a better place.
Surefooted, she hastened ahead of him along the
path by which she had come, through a grove of
silvery olive trees, past tumbled walls and gardens,
up across weedy, rock-strewn fields. She was in a
bright mood and as nimble as the goats, capricious,
enchanting. Jesus was frustrated, for he must walk
more leisurely with the sheep. Yet it delighted him
to see her as she had been when he first saw her
frolicking in the water. Her scarf had blown free in
the brisk breeze here on the foothills north of
Mount Tabor; her tawny hair tossed about her
shoulders, and again she was singing. "Wait for
me!" he called, brandishing his pipe. "I will play
for you."
She paused, brushing back her tumbled hair.
Eyes bright, smiling, she came to take his free hand
now and walk demurely beside him into the flowering 
pasture. Behind them soared the mountain,
below stretched the green valleys, and in the
distance, sparkling as if paved with crushed blue
sapphires, they could see the Sea of Galilee.
Knee-deep they stood among the blossoms, where
so many butterflies were dipping it seemed the
flowers were tossing their own petals into the air.
Orange and white and gold, the butterflies danced
to the incessant music of the bees. The sky was
very blue, and so were most of the flowers here at
summer's beginning: wild flax, grape hyacinths,
blue and purple thistles--a fragrant sea of blue on
which were spilled patches of yellow from the
buttercups and golden broom, and starry drifts of
daisies, and scarlet poppies scattered like drops of
blood.
Jesus was surprised, quite lost--he thought he
knew most of the grazing grounds between Nazareth
and the lakeshore. "We're not far from Cana,"
she assured him, "and not really a long journey
home. I will help you with the sheep, but then I
must leave. I must be there when my uncles get
home."
Here too a cold stream flowed. Cupping their
hands, they knelt and drank beside the thirsty
sheep. Then, as the flock began to eat, they washed
and opened their knapsacks to share their bread and
cheese and fruit. When they had finished she
brought out her ointment for the sheep, a concoction
of her own smelling of sulphur and sage.
"It will keep the pests away," she said proudly, "to
torment them no more."
She insisted on doing the job herself. Sensing
relief, the sheep were already crowding around.
Jesus must be content to hold each head on her lap
while she worked the stuff firmly into the woolly
scalp, around the eyes, up into the nostrils. Her
fingers seemed too small and dainty for the task,
yet they were strong. As she worked she kept up a
little crooning singsong of love and promise and
comfort. From time to time she lifted her eyes to
smile at him. She was like a mother with her
children.
It took longer than they had planned. When they
finished, the sun was so much farther over the
mountains that Tamara sprang up, looking worried.
"I must hurry. I must get home before my uncles!"
Jesus held her sticky hands. "But you will come
back tomorrow?"
"If I can."
"You must come. I couldn't bear it without you.
Tamara, tell me where you live. I must know
where to find you if you shouldn't come again. Let
me come to your house."
"No!"
"Why not?"
"My uncles wouldn't like it."
"You speak always of your uncles. Have you
neither mother nor father?"
She shook her head. "My mother died when I
was born."
"And your father?"
"As I told you before, I have no father!" she
said, and ran.
The next two days were hell, for she did not
appear. The flowers had lost their sweetness; he
could scarcely bear to look in the direction of the
sparkling lake. He wandered around desolate until
it was too late to hope for her any more. Then on
the third morning, just as he was breaking camp,
she came to him over the hills, tiny and fair, clad
all in white, so innocent and eager in the rising sun
she seemed like an angel flying. He cried out as at
a vision, he raced to her and embraced her, if only
to make sure she was real. He was close to tears.
"I had almost given up. I didn't think I would
ever see you again!"
"I could stay away no longer," she told him. "I
was so afraid you might leave."
"I am leaving," he said, "as you see, the sheep
have ravished the fields. We must move on today,
perhaps nearer the shore."
"I will go with you," she said softly. "I will lead
you."
"Don't run from me," he pleaded as they set out.
"Don't flee from me. There is so little time. In
another day I must turn back, to spend the Sabbath
with my mother."
"I will not run ahead of you today," she
promised. "We will walk together talking and
singing. You don't mind if I sing?" she laughed,
lifting her face.
"Sing to your heart's desire, and I will play my
pipe that your songs may be lifted to the heavens."
They were both a little mad, intoxicated by the
sunrise, the thrumming bees and the flowers. They
moved on together ahead of their charges (she had
brought only Gilda and the two white goats), in a
trance. And he held her against him at times as
they moved, and laced her small brown fingers into
his own that seemed to him so much bigger and
stronger this day. Male and female created he them, 
he thought, rejoicing, and could have wept.
And as they walked, or watered the flock, or
rested on a grassy hillside, gazing into the
mountains, she told him about herself, all the
things she could not utter before.
"You asked me about my mother," Tamara said,
quiet but determined. "I never knew her. Nor the
man who is said to be my father. Now a prosperous
man of Cana, I believe. He ravished her as she was
leaving the well. She was younger than I am now."
Tamara hesitated. "I am seventeen. As you know,
that is quite old to be unmarried."
"Thank God you are not married."
"Her older brothers, my uncles, have never
spoken my mother's name in my presence," she
continued. "But it was also Tamara. All this I have
learned from a distant cousin. The man begot twins
by her, though one of them did not live. There was
a terrible scandal, but he was already married. He
was reprimanded severely by the elders, I understand,
but that is all. While my mother, my poor
little mother--!" Tamara's eyes were closed, she
clenched her fists, fighting back tears.
"Oh, my darling, my precious darling--" 
"Both my grandparents were dead. There was no
one but my uncles to care for their little sister
during this terrible time. And for me. For she died
with the other twin."
Jesus tried to draw her to him, but Tamara
twisted away.
"So you see why it is--perhaps you can see why
it is. . . . You are a good man, faithful to God and
the Law. I saw that in you from the beginning: the
books you carry. And there is a special shining in
your eyes; there is about you a light of purity and
goodness I have never seen in anyone before. That
is why I must tell you, for you will ask." She was
anxiously searching his face. "No, I do not go to
the synagogue in Cana, for fear I might see him
there. Even though I don't know who he is, I have
a horror of encountering the man who might be my
father.
"And my uncles . . . You must forgive them.
They are rough men who do not wash as often as
they should, and they too never go to the synagogue.
But they are circumcised, we pray at meals,
they are believers. It is just that they are bitter, and
very protective of me. That is why, dear Jesus, you
must understand. That is why I cannot risk coming
to you often, and why I must hurry home lest they
learn of you, for they will fear for my virtue, fear
that something like that might happen to me."
"But I love you!" Jesus heard himself cry out.
And the wonder of it smote him. All his life he had
known that he was different; now suddenly a great
radiance burst within him, he felt freed of some
heavy burden. He was no longer different! He too
was man and the son of man, knowing at last the
greatest joy man could experience. The words were
so beautiful he must say them again. "What you
have told me doesn't matter. I love you! And how
my father would love you, for you are so much like
my mother. If only he were living. He would be so
happy; he would go to your uncles with me to ask
for your hand."
Again he tried to take her in his arms, but again
she escaped. "Don't draw away from me, Tamara,"
he pleaded, dismayed. "I would never harm you. I
want to marry you. I will go to your uncles and ask
for you, myself."
"No!"
"But why?" He was gazing at her, astounded.
"Is it that you don't love me? That you would not
have me for your husband?"
"_Love you?" A cry of anguish came from her.
She had plunged her face into her hands. "That
little blue stone you gave me--I kiss it over and
over, I carry it day and night against my heart."
"Then you do love me. You can't deny it. I will
have the stone made into your betrothal ring."
"No... no!" She had begun to sob, hopelessly.
"You are right. I love you and want you as I never
dreamed I could love a man." One hand groped
out blindly to clutch his. "But don't you see what I
am?" she demanded. "What we are?" Tamara
caught her breath, and lifted her wet, shamed eyes.
"There is--a name for such people as us. . . . A
detestable name."
Am-ha-aretz. The realization struck Jesus with a
little shock. The girl he loved must be one of the
hated am-ha-aretz. People he had heard denounced
since childhood by rabbis and doctors of the Law.
Ignorant, dirty people, or so they were regarded;
Jews unwilling to defend their faith, and so
considered heretics and traitors, little better than
the pagans.
"Don't say it, don't say it," Tamara warned
fiercely. "It is an ugly name!"
Jesus gripped her hand tighter and pressed it
against his breast. "Oh, my darling, do you think a
name matters to me? It is only a word." He tipped
back her chin and gazed into her stricken eyes.
"And its meaning has been hatefully distorted. Do
you know what am-ha-aretz really means? . . . No,
no, don't shudder, let me tell you: People of the
earth--that's the true meaning of the word--people
of the land. And it applies to me too. It applies to
my family. My uncles are farmers, so was my 
grandfather--people of the land."
"You're only trying to comfort me. You know
that today it also means other things.... Dreadful
things!"
"All right," he acknowledged, his heart aching
for her, "but that's wrong. Very wrong. It's wicked
and self-righteous to put such a label on anyone.
People don't understand, they have no right to
judge. Only the Father, who knows the secrets of
all our hearts, can judge us rightly."
He held her close and stroked her hair--like silk
to his fingers. He felt her warm little body against
him--wiry, tough and strong from climbing the
hills with her charges, yet her golden skin was soft
as velvet to his touch. He drank in the dear sweet
special scent of her--dainty, womanly, faintly
spicy, fresh with wind and sun. He cupped her
chin and gazed, newly marveling, at her face--so
childlike in its innocent intensity, its beauty
confirmed and enhanced by his love.
"Oh, Tamara, how beautiful you are! God sees
how pure and beautiful you are, and that you and
your uncles have been cruelly hurt."
They sat for a time in silence, her hand still
upon his breast. Jesus' eyes were thoughtful,
compassionate but troubled. He did not want to
speak of this, but he knew he must. "My darling, I
have something to ask of you. I know it will be
hard, but I ask it only because I love you and want
your happiness so much." Tamara tensed. She was
regarding him, apprehensive. "You must forgive
your father," he said. "I am asking you to pray for
the man who hurt you so much."
She gasped. "I couldn't, not ever! That's
impossible."
"And pray for your uncles, that they can forgive
him too, and go back to the synagogue."
"No!" She thrust him away, appalled.
"Please," he urged. "If you love me, do this for
my sake--and your own. And for their sake too, it
will help them. Try to persuade them to be faithful
to their religion."
"You don't know what you're asking! You don't
know my uncles. They are very proud and stubborn
men. They would never forgive, and they
would never set foot in the synagogue again."
"Prayer can work miracles, Tamara. Try; at least
tell me you will try. This is very important, my
dearest, for whatever our differences, we are all
Jews together in this land of Israel where we must
live among the pagans. God has made a covenant
with us, he wants us to worship him as one. He
will bless us if we do."
"My uncles would be furious at the suggestion.
They have been wronged and they don't want to
forget it, or for me to forget it either--not ever.
They would feel--robbed. Cheated of their outrage
if we changed the way we live!"
"Darling--oh, my poor darling. But you are too
fine and sweet to share those feelings and live that
way. It is futile, destructive. Please, at least try. I
love you so much, it would comfort me. Pray for
this, my beloved. Forgiveness is the only way to
banish such pain from your hearts."
He pulled her back to him and stroked her tear-streaked
face. "And when we are married, we will
go together to my synagogue in Nazareth, where
you will sit in the balcony beside my mother,
Mary. She too will love you," he assured her
eagerly, "and you will love her. She will be the
mother you never had." He produced a handkerchief
from his girdle and wiped her eyes. "Come,
smile at me again. We have been too serious for
people in love on such a beautiful day.... You do
love me, don't you?"
Tamara nodded, shaken. "More than life itself."
"Then give me the little blue stone you say you
carry always next to your heart. It is unworthy of
you, but all I can afford--these aren't even my
sheep. But I will polish it with my own hands as I
have promised, and have it made into a ring for
you. It will be your betrothal ring."
The girl caught her breath, tempted--wildly
tempted, but confused. She had never dared dream
that love could come to her like this, love beyond
all reasoning. She was frightened, her very ecstasy
filled her with alarm. It was happening so fast; yet
now that it had happened, dared she cast aside such
happiness? Trembling, she reached into her breast
for the stone. "Forgive me," she said nervously,
"but my uncles--if I tell them about you, they will
ask--what is your work, if these are not your
sheep?"
"I'm a carpenter, and a good one too, for I was
trained in my father's shop. I can work there again
with my brothers. I will work my fingers to the
bone for you, I will give you everything."
"And we would live in Nazareth?" she whispered.
"Yes. Yes, as long as God wills it."
He spoke the words fervently, joyously. A torrent
of love songs were clamoring in his throat to be
sung. He wanted to laugh and shout and sing, to
hold her very close and kiss her. But something
stopped him.... Puzzled, Jesus got to his feet, his
eyes scanning the sky.... The day was bright and
clear and cloudless. He saw only a crane, a brisk
wheeling flight of swallows, yet it seemed to him
that somewhere overhead an invisible cloud was
gathering, hovering; soon it would be descending to
surround him, envelop him.
Tamara felt a chill. She sat startled, bewildered at
the look on his face. He seemed suddenly far from
her, lost to her in some strange and threatening
way.
"What is it? What are you thinking?"
Jesus gazed at her, wanting to share this with
her, yet perturbed. He shook his head as if to clear
it. "I too have something to tell you," he said
carefully after a moment. "Something that is very
hard to explain. I am--different in some ways from
other men, Tamara. I have known it since childhood. 
Sometimes it is more certain than others, but
it is always there: the knowledge, the certain
knowledge that God has--a special mission for me. 
A very important destiny. I was sent to earth to
serve him." He crouched beside her and gripped
her hand. "Where all this will lead me I don't
know yet. I only know that I love you, I need you.
I want you beside me wherever I go, in whatever it
is I must do."
"I love you too," she whispered, "of course I will
go with you." But her face had paled. "It is getting
late," she said anxiously, "I must start home."
"Tell me where that is, for I must leave early to
lead the flock back to Nazareth tomorrow. And I
may not bring them out again. Tell me how to find
you," he insisted. "I have to know, so that I can
get an older relative to come with me to ask for
you."
"Wait, wait, I must think." Tamara was struggling 
to tie a scarf on her wind-tossed hair. Her
hands were shaking so she could hardly form the
knots. "I must think what to say to my uncles so
they won't believe ill of you."
But at last, when they had hastily rounded up
her goats and Gilda, she told him: Hiram was the
name of her eldest uncle; their house was poor and
small, near a grove of pines in the first village just
north of Cana. Almost anyone there could direct
him. "My uncles are known for their tempers."
She laughed uneasily. "I must warn you--don't be
surprised if people even try tso discourage you."
"Oh, my darling, nothing could keep me from
you. Expect me within the week!"


Chapter 12

JESUS HAD MEANT to tell Mary at once. He could
hardly wait to share his feast of memories. All the
way back to Nazareth he had dwelt on the beloved,
re-creating her over and over for himself as he
fancied how he would describe Tamara to his
mother. Her hair, how it seemed to float around
her like a bright cloud, when she ran mischievously
ahead of him: "Though she is really very shy," he
would say. Her pet lamb: "It resembles her!" The
realization came upon him suddenly and he
laughed as he strode along. "For she too has tiny
copper speckles on her nose. And she is so little,
like you--my hands could span her waist."
This exultation, this wonder, how could he
contain it? And who could better understand than
Mary, who had herself known such perfect love?

Yet when he saw his mother's lamp in the window
that Sabbath evening and ran eagerly up the
steps, he heard the babble of voices and knew with
only a twinge of disappointment that his news must
wait. Most of the family were swarming about, so
many they had spilled into the garden. They
greeted him joyfully, telling him how wonderful he
looked. "Never has the outdoors agreed with you
more. You should ask Amos to sell you those
sheep!"
"You don't even smell as bad as usual." Josey
grinned, sniffing. Jesus laughed; he had had
more reason to wash. His eyes were shining with
his secret. Let it wait, it was too precious to share
with anyone just yet. Let him hold it in his heart a
while longer, let him have Tamara all to himself.
Bathing, he smiled to hear the familiar chatter
beyond the doors. He had been afraid Mary might
be lonely; it was good to find her surrounded by
this lively circle of love. How the family comforted
and sustained each other. One day Tamara would
be among them, his little bride. How they would
adore her--and she them.
He could not stop thinking of her even when he
sat among them at table, praying, singing, and
drinking the Sabbath wine. She was with him, a
radiant music in his blood. He felt a hushed
exaltation; everything looked new and exciting. He
seemed to see them all through Tamara's shy-eager
eyes: his rollicking uncles and brothers and in-laws;
their wives and his sisters so fair. "Little Leah"
was almost as tall and pretty as Ann now, with her
pert nose and whimsical eyes; she too would soon
be betrothed:
Even his grandmothers: Hannah comically scolding
him for getting in her way as she tried to
clear away the food; he took the platter from her
and kissed her soundly; Timna nodding in the
candlelight, holding her stick. She was still
somehow stately, her hair a white halo. He knelt
beside her and gently kissed her cheek as well,
grieving for Tamara, who had never had even
grandmothers to love. No mother and no grandmothers--it 
seemed unbelievably pathetic. But now
he would give her his! He could think of no finer
gift.
Jesus looked around for Mary, wanting to convey
this message if only with his smile, but she had
disappeared again. She had been so busy with
supper; beyond her first fervent greeting, she had
had scarcely a moment for him. Well, there would
be plenty of time later, after the others went home.
How they would talk, how she would rejoice with
him. Yet he longed to be near her right now, in his
happiness.
He found Mary in the garden with the grandchildren,
who were having one final shrieking race
before they must leave. Mary was gathering them
up, stooping to hug them or take them in her arms.
How beautiful it was, the children so vigorous in
their rosy innocence and determination, so robust
and yet so delicately made. And their mothers,
laughing and scolding, yet content, telling Mary
good night. Pray heaven it was not too late for
children of his own; in Jesus' mind he could see
Mary with her arms around Tamara as they were
around Simon's wife now, holding their son even as
she was holding Josey's little boy, who was clinging
to her fiercely, crying about something there under
the trees.
Mary became aware of Jesus as he halted beneath
the willow to watch. She looked at him over the
child's shoulder, a look that was long and searching.
"Go now," she said, putting the child down.
"Go to your mother."
Cleo was just arriving, with his lute. And Amos
and Matthew, who had been detained; they too had
brought instruments. It would be a merry evening
for those who could stay. And this was good, Jesus
realized, after his first minute or two of frustration.
He sprawled on the grass, hands behind his head,
listening blissfully to their music. Postponement of
his revelation to Mary had actually heightened its
sweetness. He would live with this wonder yet a
little while, turning it over and over in his mind,
even its troubling aspects. He would wait until the
Sabbath was ended; only then were they likely to
be alone.
Then he would tell her.

The Sabbath seemed interminable, beautiful as it
had begun.
As he woke, he felt an aura of goodness about its
very restrictions: that he might not spread up the
bedding on which he had dreamed of Tamara, or
tie but one knot in the sash of his robe; that these
hands that had caressed her must carry nothing all
day, not so much as a book, a stick, or an egg.
Though Jesus was hungry, it pleased him that he
and his family could not eat anything until after
services at the synagogue.
There was an almost sensual purity about all this,
an emptying of self to make room for the soul. The
Sabbath, a token between Yahweh and his people.
A day on which to rest and contemplate God's
wonders... and the beloved.
Jesus walked in awe and reverence through the 
lovely morning, a trifle lightheaded from love and 
lack of food. The synagogue was a rose-stone 
building set on the highest hill, facing toward 
Jerusalem. To it all the people were flowing, clad 
in their colorful robes: blue and white, lavender,
gold, and rose; they were like the field of flowers
into which he and Tamara had gone running ahead
of their flocks. The women's perfumes brought
back the stirring fragrance of the blossoms.
Inside, though he was not called forth this day to
read the Scriptures, he could hear his own voice
joyful in the singing. How glorious the Sabbath
music; mankind's first song, it was said, was that of
Adam on the seventh day, thanking God for his
forgiveness. Even the Red Sea had parted on the
Sabbath to let the people of Israel pass. And each
week did not Yahweh himself celebrate his own
creation by resting?
If only Tamara could know and share this joy of
discipline and submission. Again it struck him how
much she had been deprived. Anxiety mingled with
his tenderness. Even now she might be performing
some forbidden task. Now and then Jesus glanced
up at the women's gallery, trying to visualize
Tamara there with his mother and sisters and
aunts. Usually Mary, gazing down, was quick to
return his smile. But today her face was vacant
and still; she didn't seem to see him. Was she
thinking of Joseph? he wondered. Or just overtired
from last night's feast?
As the day wore on, Jesus' mood plunged. That
sense of wonder and excitement, as of some
delicious tryst with life, was gone. He became
restless after the midday meal. He missed the
sheep; he would have liked to walk to the farm to
check on them, especially one lamb that had shown
signs of scab; it had been rubbing heads with one
of Tamara's charges that he feared might be infected.
Yet such a long walk was forbidden, nor
could he lift a hand to help the creature unless its
life was in danger. Rigid followers of the Law
argued that even this was a violation, and some,
even saving the life of a man. Over the years the
rabbis in their zeal had worked out a code
prohibiting thirty kinds of activities to steal the
happiness from the day.
No games could be played, nor instruments put
to the mouth or strummed. He yearned to write to
the beloved; it would comfort him to put his
thoughts down--one day he would read them to
her, one day he would teach her to read, as he had
taught his mother. But as Jesus went to the
cupboard to find his tablet and stylus, Mary came
swiftly into the room and frowned. She had always
insisted that her children keep a strict Sabbath;
strangely far more so than Joseph, who would light
a fire, if the house was cold, or occasionally even
pick a flower or a piece of fruit. Jesus had often
wondered that his mother, who was so merry and
casual about many things, should be so stern when
it came to the excessive rules that could turn this
day of rest and celebration into such a prison.
He thought of going back to the synagogue,
where the rabbis and a few doctors of the Law
might be found to discuss theological questions,
but this too seemed dreary. Finally he lay down on
the couch and covered his eyes. The day must
simply be endured until the hour when he could
pour out his heart to Mary.
Toward late afternoon Leah called him for the
evening meal. The sky was still light, birds
chirping. His heart began to pound; the Sabbath
would soon be over. Tonight the table was smaller,
with only Grandmother Timna and Ann and her
husband as guests. He prayed the guests would
leave early and his sister and brothers go early to
bed. Jesus smiled hopefully at his mother, trying to
tell her how much he wanted to be alone with her.
A curious apprehension was beginning to temper
his soaring spirits. To his relief Mary smiled back
at him just as the shofar blew, signaling that this
day, begun with such delight yet somehow so
dismal, was ended. They said the final prayer,
finished the final washing of their hands, and it
was just as Jesus had wished: Ann and Naboth
must go; they would guide their grandmother down
the steps.
"Then I will go with you a little way," Jesus
found himself saying. Cheerfully they walked
together under the stars, down to the carpenter
shop and through the passage that led to Timna's
quarters. Ann lighted the lamps for her, and Jesus
sat awhile with her after the two had gone, listening 
to her tales of the grandfather he had never
known. "How you must have loved each other," he
said.
"Yes, oh, yes. We were like your mother and
father." She lifted her gracious, wrinkled, kind old
face. "Some day, Jesus, I hope you will find that
kind of love."
His eyes brightened. He had been holding her
hand; now he pressed it to his lips. "Dear
Grandmother Timna," he confided, "I have!"
Jesus told her nothing more; he did not want to
diminish the importance of first sharing this
news with Mary. But to his surprise, he found the
house dark when he returned, the roof and garden
deserted. He stood for a moment puzzled and
troubled, yet somehow relieved. His first bright
anticipation was gone; for some reason the ardent
word pictures he had so eagerly rehearsed had fled.
Tomorrow would probably be better anyway, after
Mary had rested. His mother must indeed be very
tired to have already slipped off to bed.

It was midmorning the next day when Jesus got
back from the farm, where he had gone to see
about the sheep. He had risen early and left before
anyone else was awake. He could hear the grating
sound of the mill just outside the garden door
where Mary was grinding barley. There was a haze
of chaff in the air, when he strode out to find her,
and a toasty smell from the grain in her large
earthen bowl.
"Here, let me carry it inside for you," he said.
"Let me watch while you work." Fondly he
plucked a stray tuft from her hair and bent to kiss
her. "I have something important to tell you."
Mary rose, brushing the dust from her hands. "I
know." She managed to smile, despite her obvious
concern. "I saw it in your face the minute you
walked in on Sabbath eve. You have been bursting
with it ever since."
"Then why have you fled from me?" he scolded
as she followed him into the house. "Why have you
given me scarcely a moment to be alone with you?"
Mary drew a deep breath. "I--had to have time
to think," she told him after a minute. "I have
been trying to prepare myself for--this thing that
you have to tell me."
"Then you have already guessed!"
Mary looked up from the small bowl of water
where she was crumbling a handful of fermented
dough, saved for the bread's rising. "A mother can
always sense when a child of hers is in love," she
said. "Especially a son." To keep busy, she
thought. It helped to keep busy. "I have been
afraid of this for a long time, Jesus."
"Afraid?" he gasped, and studied her, bewildered.
"But it would have pleased Father so much that I 
find a wife!" He pulled a stool up to
the table. "If only it could have happened while he
was alive." He sat watching, dismayed, as she only
went on mixing the meal. "You loved my father so
much. I should think for his sake you would be
glad."
Mary bit her lip. "No," she said in a low
pained voice when she had finished her stirring.
"Not even for Joseph's sake can I be glad."
Jesus was stunned. Then he wondered why he
had not realized this sooner--and prepared for it.
Their closeness. Mothers often clung to their
firstborn sons. And between him and Mary the
closeness was even more than that. It went back, no
doubt, to that time of exile and danger when the
three of them were alone together--and even after
their return to Nazareth, before the others were
born. It was no secret in the family, however Mary
tried to hide it, that he was special to her in a way
no other child could be.
And now that Joseph was gone...
"This will not come between us, Mother," he
assured her anxiously. "You must live with us. Or,
if you wish, we will live with you." He reached out
to squeeze her wrist. "How you will love her, and
she will love you! You are alike in many ways.
Never until I saw her did I think the earth contained
anyone as beautiful as you. It is why I have
waited so long. My love for Tamara is a tribute to
you!"
Mary had gotten out her wooden trough and was
vigorously kneading the dough. She looked
up, astonished and distressed. "Oh, my darling,"
she protested, "surely you don't think
that I'm worried about myself? Oh, no, no, no,
surely you realize that has nothing to do with
it!"
"Why, then, why?"
Again Mary drew a long difficult breath. "It
is simply that this girl can never bring you
happiness."
"But she already has," Jesus cried. "Never have
I known such happiness!" He made an expansive,
beseeching gesture as he rushed on, trying to say all
the things he had planned, to convey to her
somehow the enchantment and joy that had swept
into his life. But it was futile; his most eloquent
attempts did not sound right. And his mother did
not respond, only continued bending to her task.
Still he must complete the picture, all of it, even
that which he dreaded most. "There is one
problem," he admitted finally, getting up to stride
about. "Tamara has not had the opportunities we
have. She--has not been trained to practice her
religion the way you and my father trained us."
Mary glanced up quickly. "Surely she is Hebrew? She 
is not a pagan?"
"No, of course not. But life has dealt harshly
with her. She has no parents. She lives with very
humble people."
Mary went on with her kneading. "Amhaaretz?" She 
uttered the word calmly, without derision.
"I'm afraid so, Mother. But she is truly devout.
She knows many of the songs and Scriptures. And
we can teach her more. She is so good, so willing--"
Jesus halted at the expression on his
mother's face. Not shocked, as he had expected, but
akin to the expression she had always worn whenever
he brought her some poor injured creature to
be tended. A look of absolute loving compassion.
Her hands had gone quite still.
"Don't you see, it doesn't matter who she is,"
Mary said gently, "an am-ha-aretz or the daughter
of a priest. Since you love her I too would love her.
I would take her into my heart and love her as my
own daughter, just as I have loved the women
chosen by your brothers. But you must not have her,
Jesus." With the back of one sticky hand, Mary
brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. "You
must not do this to her, my son. . . or to
yourself."
"Why?" he pleaded. "In the name of heaven, tell
me why."
"Wait, I must set the bread to rise. Stir the coals
for me."
The fire had almost gone out, he must blow on
it. He added a few dried olive roots. Mary
smoothed the mound of dough in its heavy crock
and covered it with a napkin. Holding it against
her apron, she carried it to the little bench beside
the oven. Then she washed her hands once more
and rejoined him at the table.
They sat for a time in silence, sipping the mugs
of milk she had brought. Carts rattled by on the
street below; from the carpenter shop came the
familiar droning of saws. Through the open doorway
a butterfly drifted to land on the sill, waving
its delicate black and gold fans.
"Mother, why?" Jesus demanded. "Why should
I not know the joys of love like other men?"
"Because of who you are." Mary was scanning
his anguished face. "Surely you know," she echoed
the words of John. She sounded incredulous. "You
must have always known. I felt there was no need
to tell you, since God himself would have put it in
your heart. And the words you said when we found
you in the Temple--"
Jesus gave a short sardonic laugh. "Many men
have believed themselves to be the Messiah,
Mother. Yes, and boys, mere boys." He sat for a
moment, groping. "True, I felt sure of it then. You
know Cousin John, how persuasive he is--John
had just declared it in no uncertain terms. But I
was only twelve years old," he reminded her, "and
more easily impressed. It was my first trip to the
Holy City."
Jesus stopped abruptly. The words did not ring
true.
"I was dazzled," he reasoned. "Horrified by all
the butchery of the sacrifices--and the greed, the
waste--but dazzled. And enjoying the attention the
scribes and Pharisees were giving me.... No, no,
it was more than that." Jesus was perspiring; he
drew a hand across his wet flushed brow. "It had
to be more than that. There were other things.
Sensations I have had since childhood. For a long
time I thought everyone had them." He was frowning.
"What kind of experiences?"
"Experiences of the mind and soul. That I had
lived it all before. Everything that ever happened."
Mary was bent forward, studying him anxiously.
"And Bethlehem? Did you have such feelings about Bethlehem?"
"Yes. But you have often told me I was born
there, in a cave. I can see it all vividly, the beasts
and the fire and the star that shone so brilliantly.
And the shepherds who came that night, and later
the men on camels--the sages."
"I have never told you these things."
"Then someone--perhaps someone else. It
doesn't matter, they are a part of my memory, but
only that. Many people have such feelings: the
prophets, the magicians, those very sages. They
mean nothing. And the feelings I had in Jerusalem--that 
I had been there many times before, lived
there--I seemed to recognize every street and alley,
every court and passage of the Temple. And the
things John prophesied for me--" Jesus wiped his
brow again. "All this was when I was still a boy.
Before I became a man and realized my limitations.
I am almost thirty years old," he blurted suddenly,
"and I have accomplished nothing! I have no
special gifts, I have no power to heal, as you
believed. I could not even help my own father
when he lay dying."
"You will have that power," Mary said quietly.
"And soon. When you yourself are ready, as you
said even then."
"But I am _human, Mother. I am torn, I am
tempted!" Jesus plunged his face into his hands. "I
love Tamara. I want to lie with her and love her
and give her a son."
No, oh, _no! Mary's heart moaned softly, even as
it broke for him. Her composure was shattered. She
felt limp, almost ill. In her distraction she noticed
details of the room: the fire that was beginning to
smoke--it should be stirred; the bread--one of the
loaves was lopsided; the butterfly hovering over
some honey she had spilled on the table--she must
wipe it up. . . . Yet she seemed unable to move,
such desolation threatened to overwhelm her.
Had it, then, been all in vain? Or only some
cruel joke, some mental aberration on her part?
The voice she had heard so clearly, the unutterable
presence summoning her, assuring her . . . She
thought of all the scandal, the suffering, the
waiting--but shining through it all, every moment
of sacrifice, was the promise, and the honor: that
whatever its terrible cost, out of all Israel he, her
son, was to be the One!
Then she was ashamed. Father, forgive me for
thinking of myself. I don't matter. Only help me to
make him understand. All that really matters is
that I make him understand.

"I cannot believe this is the will of the God who
sent you," she said. "You are to have a different
destiny from other men."
"Our rabbis marry," Jesus argued, just as Joseph
had. "Our priests marry. In fact, they must. There
is nothing in the covenant God made with Israel
that says those who lead us spiritually should be
deprived of a woman's love."
"Yes, but you were not born to be merely a
leader. You cannot live comfortably as a priest or
even a rabbi. Like John, you will have to go forth
to proclaim the news. John is preaching it by the
Jordan even now, that the Messiah is coming, the
kingdom of heaven is at hand."
"John is eccentric. He may very well be mad."
"John is a miracle child and so are you. God
does not perform miracles only to produce madmen.
It is you John is talking about!"
"How do you know this?" Jesus demanded
grimly. His eyes were burning. "Tell me why you
are so sure."
Mary returned his gaze, heart racing. Except for
Joseph and Elizabeth, she had never spoken of this
to anyone, not once in all the years since it began.
She wondered if she had the strength or the words
to try now.
"Because I bore you out of wedlock," she told
him, unflinching, "though I was a virgin
betrothed." Mary paused, then plunged on. "A
voice spoke to me--it was in that shed at your
grandfather's where the ass and the ox are kept. An
angel, a presence--something--appeared to me
there and a voice out of heaven spoke to me, telling
me that I, a virgin, was to bear a son. The very
son of God! . . I was terrified," she said. "I
couldn't understand. How could this be? I kept
asking, for I had known no man. Not even
Joseph."
Jesus was staring at her, astounded.
"How could I explain this to my parents? How
could I make them realize Joseph and I had not
sinned?" Mary caught her breath, shaken by the
memory. The butterfly had landed on her wrist; its
wings were folded. She moved a finger carefully to
touch their golden arch. "As you began to grow
beneath my heart, how could I explain my state to
Joseph, my betrothed, who loved me so much?"
Mary lifted her eyes to Jesus. "At first even he
could not believe my story. Joseph, who raised you
as his own son."
For a moment Jesus was too stunned to speak.
"What are you saying?" he protested then.
"That Joseph was not really my father?" It
was as if he had been stabbed. It was as if he
must suffer his father's death all over again. Yet
another part of him stood watching with acceptance
and understanding. "Oh, Mother, why have you
withheld this knowledge from me so long?"
"I thought you knew," she said simply. "I
thought you must somehow have known. Out of
your own deep wisdom. Because of some of the
things you have since told me--even today."

Yes, yes, he must have known. A part of him
must always have known. Had he not sensed and
enacted his own destiny from the beginning of
time? Had he not declared this himself with
innocent certainty that day on the Temple steps?
Where had that blinding clarity gone? Why these
contradictions? Why should this hurt so much?
Unashamed, Jesus put his head down and wept.
"Please forgive me." Mary came swiftly around
the table to comfort him. "Please don't grieve for
your father," she pleaded. "He was your father,
Jesus, chosen by God himself to love and care for
us both. He stood by me through all the gossip and
pain, he brought you into the world with his own
hands. He protected us on the flight into Egypt
and worked for us there--worked so hard for us
every day he lived. And he loved you, how he
loved you! In some ways he loved you more than
the children of his own flesh."
"It is not only my father I grieve for," Jesus said,
"but for you too." He reached back across his
shoulder to grip her hand. "Both of you--all you
must have gone through for my sake."
"We had no choice but to serve God," Mary
said. "But the Lord gave us strength, as he will
give you strength."
Absently, Mary began wiping up the honey.
Gathering courage. The butterfly had vanished.
When she finally spoke, her voice was gentle but
determined. "You must not marry, Jesus. You were
created for a greater love. To serve that love you
must go forth alone. You are not as other men."
"Oh, but I am! The One who sent me did not
make me a graven image, Mother, would that he
had!" Jesus sprang up and strode to the door. He
stood looking out upon the garden: Its worn paths.
His parents' favorite bench beside the old stone
wall. Its patches of vegetables drinking up the sun;
its bushes and trees and flowers. "God gave me a
body the same as my brothers," he said desperately.
"The same as the husband who loved you so
much. If I have been given senses like other
men--if I can taste that honey or see the beauty of
that sky--!" He made a broad gesture and wheeled.
"If I can smell the roses out there, or your fresh
warm bread rising by the oven--if I can love you,
Mother, and weep for my father, why is it strange
that I should see the beauty in a woman and want a
mate like other men?" His throat was taut; his
fists were clenched at his side. "I am not made of
wood or stone, I am flesh and blood, I hurt, I long,
I yearn!"
Mary couldn't bear it. She ran to him and held
him against her breast, tall as he was. "Oh, my
darling, I cannot help you. If only I could! I can
only try to spare you--yes, and Tamara too."
"We love each other," he said. "I need her and
she needs me. Like you, she is innocent, but she
too has suffered terribly, Mother, she too has been
the victim of pain and shame."
"Then you must not bring more upon her. If you
love her you will spare her. It would not be fair to
her, Jesus, not fair to any woman to have a
husband who could not stay with her, provide a
home for her and her children."
Mary's eyes were tragic, fixed upon his face. She
spoke in the stern and awful voice of prophecy
while tears rolled down her cheeks. "You will be
homeless, Jesus. You will have no wife to comfort
you, no children, no sons. You will be a wanderer,
sometimes hungry, thirsty, and in need. There will
be times when you will have no place to lay your
head. You will have followers, yes, but in the end
you will be rejected and denied."
"Tamara loves me," Jesus cried brokenly. "She
would never reject me."
"Don't put her through it, Jesus. Spare her.
Don't let the sword plunge through her heart, as I
know it will plunge through mine."


Chapter 13

JESUS WAS GONE when Mary awoke the next
morning.
She was not surprised and she tried not to worry,
even when James, who volunteered to go to the
farm, brought back word from Amos that he was
not with the sheep. But when he did not return
that night or the following day, she was beset with
concern. She knew that her words had created great
turmoil within him and she remembered them in
fear and anguish, wishing they had been better
said. Yet she had no choice but to speak them,
since she had put them off so long. And that too
filled her with remorse; if only she had told him
sooner, warned him of his fate... God, forgive me
if I have failed you in this thing. Forgive us, help
us--oh, dear Lord, take care of him.
She prayed too for the girl, Tamara, who would
be cruelly hurt. She will hate me, she will never
understand. Surely Jesus would not have gone off
to her without a word. That prospect was too
painful to contemplate. No, no, she must not
punish herself like this; was it not all in God's
hands? She must go on about her work, cooking,
washing, mending, trying as best she could to hide
her trepidation from the others.

Toward evening of the third day, just as the
family was finishing supper, Jesus came wearily up
the steps. James spied him first and ran out to
confront him. James was still the peacemaker, very
sensitive, with a slight, intense, hopeful, affectionate
young face. "Oh, my brother, it is so good
to see you," he exclaimed as they kissed. "But
where have you been? We have all been concerned
for your safety."
Jude, the short, brisk, often fractious youngest
son, was just behind. "You could have left some
message! Our mother has been worried sick."
Jesus regarded them with haggard eyes. He had
not eaten or slept. "I thought I had," he said. "On
a piece of pottery--at the moment it was all I could
find. She must have failed to see it."
It was discovered that their sister, not recognizing
what it was, had thrown it out. To compensate,
Leah gratefully carried the basin and towels for his
washing. Mary stirred the coals to reheat his food.
"You must eat."
"Please, only some bread and a little soup. I can't
stay long." Mary was staring at him, stricken.
"Forgive me, Mother, but I have been up in the
hills. Praying," he told her. "Praying and thinking.
Now I must go to her. I must see her again."
"Tonight?" Mary gasped.
"Yes. This cannot wait."
"And what will you tell her?"
"I don't know yet," he said.
Jesus emerged, bathed and shaved, his black curls
oiled and shining. He was wearing his best robe.
He ate quickly, to the consternation of his brothers,
especially Josey and Simon, who had just dropped
in, hearing he was home. Josey's strong square
aggressive face was furious. "You can't leave
again," he demanded through set teeth. He jerked
his head in the direction of Mary, dishing up the
food. "It's not fair to our mother, going off the way
you do so soon after our father's death."
Though less adamant, Simon too was angry.
"He's right. Sometimes it seems like you don't care
about any of us!"
"As the eldest you should show more responsibility."
Josey stormed on, though still trying to
keep his voice low. "What kind of example are you
setting for the rest of us?"
Despite their caution, Mary had overheard.
Carrying more soup, she came to join them.
"Leave him alone," she ordered sharply. "He must
do what he must do."
She tried to replenish the bowl, but Jesus pushed
it aside and rose. Mary followed him to the door, as
usual, carrying his cloak. "Wear this, for the night
will be cold. And a lantern," she said anxiously,
"you will need a lantern."
He pulled the cloak gratefully around his
shoulders but refused the lantern. "The stars are
bright and the moon will be out."
"Please ride the donkey, it's a long walk to
Cana," she pleaded.
"No, no, it's not far," he said as he kissed her.
He held her hard for a moment, as if to draw from
her strength. "Pray for me, Mother."

James broke away from a heated debate with his
brothers. He had not joined in their berating, and
it hurt him to see Jesus setting off so late
alone. It must be urgent. For some reason, though
Ben was barking frantically, Jesus wasn't even
taking his dog. "Wait!" James called, and ran
anxiously after him down the steps. "Let me go
with you."
Jesus was shaking his head.
"Whatever is troubling you," he offered hopefully,
"maybe I could help."
"No, James, this is something I must do by
myself."

"But if it is a girl whose hand you seek--" The
idea struck James with a pleasant shock. He was
right! He could sense it instantly from Jesus'
reaction. "Oh, I am so happy for you!" he cried,
eyes twinkling. "And even though I'm younger--perhaps,
since our father is dead, I could speak for
you, I could help persuade her father."
Jesus laughed softly and pressed his arm. "It
would not help, not in this case, but I will never
forget that you offered."
"Then take Benjy. Listen to him; he wants to go
along."
"Ben's tired, he's already walked miles today.
And I'm afraid it would not look good to appear on
such a mission accompanied by a dog."
"Then it is a girl!" James exclaimed triumphantly.
"Yes," Jesus said. "It concerns a girl."

It took longer than Jesus had thought. Though he
strode swiftly along the starlit road, the streets of
Cana were deserted when he arrived, only a few
scattered lights burning. Her village was a couple
of miles to the north, Tamara had said, a mere
settlement along the road to the lake. He trudged
on, wishing he had brought Benjamin, after all.
The road was dark and silent, except for the chorus
of insects, clacking and singing. A half-moon had
risen and lay beaming on its back, yet the
mountains and thick groves blocked most of its
light.
He was suddenly exhausted; he felt weak and
foolish and uncertain. Yet he must find her.... At
last he came to a cluster of houses perched on a
bald hillside. All the houses were dark, although
here the moon shone with stark brilliance. Her
house would be set apart some distance, she had
told him, in a grove of pines. But he was not sure
which direction. Whom could he ask? To his relief,
he heard the muted clopping of a donkey's hooves
approaching and hailed its fat rider.
"I am looking for the house of a man named
Hiram. He lives with several brothers, I believe."
"And a beautiful niece?" The fat man grinned,
showing broken teeth.
Jesus nodded.
The man twisted about on his beast and pointed.
"You still have a way to go. Turn toward the lake
at the second bend in the road." He was still
wearing his dubious grin. He leaned forward, spoke
in confidential tones. "If you're sure you want to
go there?"
"Very sure," Jesus said.
"Well then, good luck. But you'd best carry a
stout stick!" Kicking the donkey, the man trotted
off.
Jesus pressed on, determined, and finally knew
that he was near. For from among the ticking,
gently swaying pines that sheltered the small poor
house, drifted a fragrance so poignant and familiar
he was shaken. Cassia. The pungent, faintly spicy
scent that sometimes clung to Tamara herself; she
had mentioned that a few of the valuable aromatic
trees also grew there. To his surprise, several lamps
still glowed in the windows. Jesus stood for a
moment, trying to quiet his pounding heart. Then
he strode forward, breathing hard, and knocked on
the door.
He had an impression of footsteps within, but no
one answered. Jesus waited and knocked again,
began to pound. At last the thick drapery was
jerked back. A heavy, hairy Goliath of a man
peered out, a man so huge he had to crouch. Pale
eyes glared suspiciously from under shaggy brows.
"Who are you," he growled, "and what do you
want?"
Jesus regarded him steadily. "I am Jesus, a
carpenter and shepherd from Nazareth," he said.
"I have come to see you about your niece."
"She is not here," the man claimed. "She has
run away."
For an instant Jesus was alarmed, though he
knew better. "That is not true. Please let me come
in. I must speak to her. And speak to you about
her."
"She is ill!" the man bellowed. "She has
swallowed something. I don't know what, but she
is dying. Get out of my sight!"
Again he felt the piercing chill of fear. Yet he
knew the man was lying. "I don't believe you,"
Jesus said grimly. "Let me in. Let me see her."
"You have already seen her and touched her as
the devil once touched her mother. It is you who
have made her ill!"
Jesus braced himself, controlling his outrage, he
spoke in a voice of authority. "I command you, in
the name of the God who created her, bring your
niece Tamara to me."
She appeared then behind the enormous man,
even smaller than Jesus remembered, in the soft
white garment she was wearing, enshrined by the
cloud of her hair. "I am here," she said quietly and
simply in her low musical voice. "I am not dying,
or even ill. Let me pass, my uncle, for this is the
friend I have spoken of. I would walk and speak
with him a while."
"Your friend?" the man scoffed, and launched
into a thunderous tirade. "The man you've been
meeting in the hills like a common slut! Beating on
the door in the middle of the night--"
"Stop," Jesus ordered quietly through the storm
of insults. "Don't ever utter such words again."
"He doesn't mean them," Tamara said. "It is
only his way." To Jesus' surprise, she stood on
tiptoe and kissed her uncle, who seemed to melt
under her touch. He was panting, perspiring; now
he calmed and wiped his brow. He was like some
huge animal whose roar has suddenly failed him.
"Be careful," he pleaded, patting Tamara's arm.
"Don't be long." He lifted big mournful eyes to
Jesus; the whites were very prominent in his jowled
face. "Forgive me--she is very precious to us."
"And to me," Jesus said. "Give us only a little
while. I assure you she will come to no harm."
The drapery fell, shutting out the light. They
groped for each other's hand. Silent, they walked
together a little way down the rustling path to a
place where a cassia tree had fallen. They could
smell the faintly cinnamon tang of its bark when
they sat upon it. Beyond, through the tangle of
leaves, they could glimpse the lake sparkling. The
moon was higher now, the leaves glistened. There
was the steady orchestra of insects and the insistent,
throaty calls of mating frogs.
Jesus trembled; it seemed to him incredible that
she should actually be here beside him, she who
had possessed his dreams for days. It seemed to
him an eternity since he had beheld her. He lifted
her face in awe and gazed into it a long time. She
sat motionless under his touch, eyes closed, as if
unable to move. Then she bent to brush her lips
across his hand.
"I knew you would come!" she said, with a
childlike exultation. "Each night, I bathed and
dressed and waited. And no matter how late, I kept
the lamps burning. I had to tell them, of course. I
had to prepare them. I knew they would take it
hard, especially Hiram, I feared he would rage and
shout as he did when you came to the door. But I
knew you would understand. Thank you for taking
it so well." She drew back suddenly, and now it
was she who was studying him. "You've changed,"
she cried softly, puzzled. "You are--different.
There is something new about you."
"I love you," he told her with emotion. "I will
love you forever. That has not changed." He
reached unsteadily into his girdle and brought forth
her gift. The poor little stone sparkled like sapphire
in the moonlight; he had polished it well and taken
it to Cleo to be fashioned. "See, I have kept my
promise, I have brought you your ring."
She caught her breath, a little sound of wonder.
"My betrothal ring!" Then her face fell. "Oh, but
Jesus, I cannot accept it--not yet. Not until you
have spoken to my uncles and the arrangements
have been made."
"The arrangements? Tamara, my dearest--wait--"
She wasn't listening. He could only sit stricken,
as she raced on. "They will not demand much
money, for I have nothing to bring. That is not
what I worry about--it is the rabbi, the synagogue.
I doubt if they would be willing to announce our
betrothal in the synagogue."
She halted at Jesus' expression. He looked grave;
there were tears in his eyes. "My darling, oh, my
darling, you must take the ring now," he urged. "If
you cannot wear it on your finger, at least wear it
against your heart. For this is only a ring of
love"--he bit his lip fiercely; he had to say
it-- "not a betrothal ring."
"But you said--you declared--you told me--!" Her
face had gone pale, bewildered; she was
breathing hard. "What are you trying to tell me
now?"
"That I cannot marry you, Tamara. Though I
love you as I love the God who made us both and
gave us this precious time together--I cannot ask
you to share what I am destined to endure. I cannot
put you through that agony."
"I will live with you anywhere," she said
plaintively. "I won't mind being poor, if only we
can be together."
"Oh, my love, my one and only love, that is why
we can't marry. Because I must go where no
woman could follow. Certainly not a wife and
children. I will be scorned and spat upon," he
warned her. "I will have enemies, I will be
shamed. You have been hurt enough. I cannot put
you through further hurt and shame."
"Are you crazy?" she gasped. "Are you ill? What
are you talking about? Where have you been that
you should talk like this? What have you been
doing?"
"I have fasted," he said. "I have been in the
mountains fasting and praying. Begging for guidance."
"And what has that God of yours told you?" she
taunted in her heartbreak. "That you must not
sully yourself with a mere am-ha-aretz? A girl who
does not march dutifully into the synagogue every
week like your mother and sisters, to sit alone in
the gallery because nobody will come near her? No,
no, I break the Sabbath laws, I feed my uncles
meat that has not been properly bled, I don't know
all the prayers to worship this God of yours as I
should--I am unclean!"
"My darling, he is your God too, who loves you;
you must not blaspheme."
She raced on. "A bastard child born out of
wedlock, is that it?"
"Tamara, Tamara, please, my little one, listen to
me." He held her and caressed her and quieted her
against his breast. Then once again he lifted her
chin. "Look into my eyes," he pleaded, "and tell
me what you see."
"I see Jesus of Nazareth," she sobbed. "I see the
one I love."
"You see Jesus of Nazareth, another bastard," he
said, "or so the world would call it. You see a man
born out of wedlock, though my mother, like
yours, was pure."
"Then why?" Tamara begged. "We need each
other more than ever. We belong together, we can
comfort each other, help each other."
"No. No." Gently he disengaged his arms and
rose to stand with his back to her, gazing toward
the sea. "I can't, I can't," he said in quiet
desperation. "For I am not destined to live as other
men. I have known this--it seems I must have
always known this, from the time I was a child."
"Then why have you let me love you?"
"Because I have feelings like other men! Because
when I saw you every desire in me was awakened. I
wanted you. Heaven help me, I wanted you as I
never thought I would want a woman." He shuddered.
"Then I was made to realize--only these
past three days have I realized for sure--it cannot
be. Yahweh himself has finally revealed himself to
me, that I am the one who must give up his own
desires for the world. He himself has sent me for
this purpose. It is why I was born to my mother, a
virgin, as the prophets predicted."
She was staring at him appalled. Yet awed. Her
whole body went limp. "The Messiah?" Her lips
formed the words almost without sound. "The
Messiah!" She clapped one hand over her mouth,
sat gazing at him for a time, shocked and
bewildered. "Yes, yes, yes, you are a great and holy
man," she marveled at last. "I should have
realized. I saw it in your eyes from the beginning.
There is a spirit of mystery and goodness in your
eyes. It is like--almost as it might be to look into
the eyes of God!... But, Jesus, if this is true, then
it is a great honor," she cried. "I am not worthy to
be your wife--no, no, not if this be true. But oh,
what an honor: the Savior of Israel!"
"It will be no honor in the end," he told her. "I
will be hunted down like a criminal. I will be
betrayed, I will be denied, I will die a horrible
death." Trembling, he turned back to her.
"I would never be ashamed of you," she cried, "I
would never deny you."
But as he reached out for her, she drew quickly
away. She was still gazing at him, transfixed. "No,
no, I am not worthy, I am afraid of you, you are
not the man I thought you were! You are sent from
God, you are special, you will reign over all the
world, no matter what you say; you will touch
people and they will be healed, you will have
special powers--"
"Right now I am only a man," he broke in.
"Give me just one moment as a man. Kiss me,
Tamara. Let me taste at least one moment as a
man."
"I love you," she kept sobbing over and over as
they kissed. "I love you, I love you!" And suddenly
she could not stand it. She was no longer in awe of
him or afraid of him, she was possessed only by the
terrible fear of losing him. She was wrong about
him, he was no god, he was flesh and blood alive
with longing, like herself.
"Don't leave me," she heard herself begging, in
panic. "Please don't leave me, Jesus, give this up!"
She was almost hysterical; she began beating at his
breast. "I can't go on without you. I will die
without you! Please ask God to spare you, to let
you live as my husband. Give this up, whatever it
is," she wailed. "Please don't put me away!"
"Put you away?" he cried in agony. "You
will be a part of me forever." But she had broken
from him. He stood helpless, impotent before her
violent sobbing. He could not remember ever
seeing anyone cry so wildly as this, not even his
mother at the death of Joseph. He could not
remember ever hurting anyone like this. And now,
with ironic insistence, it began again, the phrase
that had come to him on the mountain and given
him no peace since: Heal the hurting. Heal the
hurting. You must go forth to help the people who are
hurting.
And his own pain seemed intolerable, the price
he must pay to do that work of love too monstrous:
that he must first strike this savage blow to hurt
his own beloved.
Yet he had no choice. Despite all his protests to
Mary, had he ever had a choice? Had not the decision
been made for him long ago?
He pulled Tamara to her feet. "Come, your
uncles will be angry. We must face them. I must
tell them--"
"Tell them what?" She pleaded, trying to stop
the tears that still streamed down her face. "What
will we tell them?"
It was a time before Jesus could bring himself to
answer. The wind rippled the trees--and her hair.
He could hear the pine needles dropping, smell the
moist fragrance of the earth, and the heady scent of
the cassia bark. "That you must marry," he said
firmly at last, gripping her arms. "They must find
a good husband for you. A man who will love you
and care for you the way you deserve.... Don't let
them keep you from this, my darling. It is your
right as a woman. Marry, have children, raise them
to love God, train them to keep the commandments.
This is best even for your uncles; your life
can be an example for them."
Tamara nodded bleakly. Arms about each other,
they stumbled back up the path toward the house.
Only one lamp burned in the window now. They
stood a moment in its shadow, wordless, drained.
The heavy curtain stirred. A voice growled from
the doorway, "Tamara, it is late. You have lingered
too long."
Tamara caught her throat, choking back any
betraying sounds of grief. "In a minute, Uncle
Hiram," she called out bravely. She turned blindly
back to Jesus. "He's right, it's late--much too late.
We must part here."
Jesus dropped his hands, stepped back, fighting
tears of his own. "Goodbye, my beloved."
"Jesus!" She held out her arms again and they
clung to each other fiercely one last moment.
Jesus lingered, torn, after she had fled inside.
What if she needed him? He would go to her yet,
speak to her uncles even yet, if she needed him.
But only a few sounds came from the house--of
voices murmuring, footsteps, a door closed. Then
all was silent. And presently the final light in the
window went out.

It was quite dark as he started his long walk back
to Nazareth.


Chapter 14

IT WAS A bright cool day of spring. John strode into
the river rejoicing, shouting as he went, "Repent,
repent!"
A raucous flock of crows, disturbed by the noise,
thrummed swiftly up from the trees, cawing rudely
back. "Repent, repent!" they retorted--or so it
seemed. John threw back his shaggy head and
laughed. Beautiful things, the crows, their black
throats shimmering green and purple in the sun.
His first audience of the day, for it was still early;
the banks of the Jordan would be crowded by noon.
Right now he was testing the water, seeing how
deep and strong the current was here near Bethany
after the winter rains. Once last year when he was
preaching farther up, a repentant sinner had been
swept out of his arms and almost drowned. John,
an excellent swimmer, had had to dive for the man
and haul him, still panicky and kicking, onto shore.
A narrow escape, yet it did not stop the people; it
only seemed to heighten their fervor for the
vigorous baptist, who could insult them so brashly,
and yet was determined to save them.
The trees were mirrored on the water, striping it
with their trunks, kissing their own lacy reflections,
so green and lovely with little new leaves. The
rushes swayed. The water, cold and sparkling, felt
marvelous to John's tough hard limbs. He would
have hurled himself into it, if he had time, and
enjoyed it. He always missed it during the winter
months he spent with the Essenes, those stern but
wonderful monks who lived at Qumran, a place
south of here on the banks of the Dead Sea.
At first they had been skeptical of him, that the
son of a high priest--however sunburned and
shaggy after a summer in the wilderness--should
come pounding at their door. For theirs was a
priestly sect that had years ago rebelled at the
excesses of their own priesthood in the Temple,
and fled back to the desert. They set themselves
apart, took no interest in politics, did not mingle
with men, lived solely for the coming of the
Messiah. Yet John had overcome them with his
wild young enthusiasm and dedication. Literally he
had hurled himself at their feet, begging them to
take him in. He would wash and cook and clean for
them, if only they would let him share their simple
life and learn.
He swore total obedience, gave the Community,
as they called it, everything he owned: his bracelets
and gold rings, the fine linens he had worn to
please his mother whenever he returned to Jerusalem.
What a joy it was to be unburdened. No
more Temple ceremonies, no more polite charming
of his mother's friends. Just to pray and fast and
study and serve them, these Sons of Light.
They were his kind of people; they ate no meat
and would have nothing to do with blood sacrifice;
their offerings were fruit, or the freshly ground
flour of the golden wheat. When he had finished
his period of probation they gave him work in the
monastery library, carefully copying the sacred
books and manuals. . . . Outside the rain beat
down, streaking the walls from a leaky roof; the
winds howled, tormenting the Dead Sea and dashing
sand against the sills. John's back ached from
bending over the scrolls, yet he loved it--the sound
of his pen scratching away through the storm, and
his rising excitement as he approached the places
that must be left blank for the Holy Name. Later
another scribe, made pure by ritual ablutions,
would be found worthy to inscribe it.
John had never been so happy. A kind of rhythmic
bliss supplanted his usual restlessness. His
natural ebullience and loquacity were tamed. Here
he walked and spoke softly, pacing his cell with his
hands behind him in the manner of the monks. He
had trimmed his beard and his wild yellow mane.
After the sweat and grime of living alone in the
wilderness, there was something sublime about
being so clean; several times a day he bathed as
they did, every inch of his tough hairy flesh, even
between his toes.
Yet after three years thus, when the rains stopped
and spring burst across the hills in all its sweetness,
when birds sang and flowers exploded even on the
desert, something burst in John as well. He awoke
one night in a cold sweat. He was like a caged
animal. He knew his time had come to depart.
The next morning he rushed to tell the abbot, a
man with a long skeletal face and that sweet, blank,
yet loving look common to those who have lived
apart from the world for a long time. The abbot
was very disappointed but not surprised. He had
sensed John's intense and special qualities from the
moment he first arrived, known that one day all
John's vigor and passion must again be released.
"What is it that would drive you from us, my
son?" he asked.
"The words of Isaiah," John told him, striding
excitedly around the narrow room in the old way.
"The same words that are heard so often within
these walls: 'The voice of one crying in the
wilderness, Prepare the way of the Lord, make his
paths straight.' I am that voice, Father. I can keep
silent no longer. I have to go out now and proclaim
the coming of the Lord!"
The abbot stared at him, heart suddenly pounding.
He rose abruptly and came to place his bony
hands on John's shoulders, fixing him with his pale
blue eyes. Was it for this then that John had been
sent to their door? The son of a priest. "Are
you--?" he whispered, his dry lips scarcely able to
form the words. "John, tell me, can it be you? Are
you the One we have all expected so long?"
"No!" John gasped, shocked. "How can you
suggest such a thing?"
"But you are of the line of Aaron. We know our
priest is coming--the Messiah, the final and
perfect priest."
"Yes, yes, the Messiah is coming. But he will be
so much better than I am--" for once John groped
for words--"I am not fit to take off his shoes. But
he will be no priest."
"No priest? Then who? Why are you so sure?"
John drew a deep breath, thrust out his chin.
"Because he is my cousin," he announced with
proud conviction. "Jesus, of Nazareth!"
"Nazareth?" The old man looked startled, almost
amused. "Why, nobody of any importance ever
came from Nazareth."
"My cousin was born in Bethlehem, as the
prophets predicted. I haven't seen him for several
years, yet his message has been burning in my
heart--ever since we first met when both of us
were boys. Jesus will soon be thirty, the age when
at last a man's word means something in Israel. He
will soon be ready to reveal himself. I must go out
and warn the multitudes; I must prepare the way."
The abbot had released him reluctantly, for John
had been like a bright breeze blowing through the
monastery. And though it was against their rules
and they thought John mistaken, they had not only
welcomed him back to Qumran each winter, but
sometimes on summer nights when, hoarse and
exhausted from his preaching, he came limping in.
And now, this spring, how good it was to hear
his own voice shouting once again, and to see the
crowds beginning to gather. Word of his preaching
had spread. His outrageous insults, his zeal and fire
and incredible charm. This was his third summer
to storm up and down the riverbanks while the
people stood astounded but enthralled. At first only
a trickle of farmers, shepherds, laborers from
neighboring villages. But the ranks quickly swelled
to include bankers, merchants, Sadducees and
Pharisees, tax collectors, soldiers. From all over the
land they were flocking now, attracted by this wild-eyed
man dressed like Elijah, in a garment of
camel's hair, with a leather girdle about his waist.
Listen to him, come see and hear him for yourself--only 
a true prophet would dare speak to us like
this!
He exulted at his audience, for he was a born
actor, like the Greeks most alive when commanding
a stage. But not for himself all this attention, no,
no, only his passion to warn them of the wrath and
the blessing to come. "You scorpions, you brood of
vipers! Why are you such hypocrites, you Pharisees?
Why do you cheat the widows and steal bread
from the mouths of their children? And you scum,
you tax collectors--!" Though some stalked away
in anger, even many of those he condemned so
savagely stood shaken and humbled before his
scathing attacks.
And when he had scolded and exhorted them for
hours, when at last, wearied yet exalted by his own
words, he only wanted to hurl himself into the
water and swim away, they poured down the banks
just as they were, fully dressed, arms outstretched
to where he stood, clad only in his loincloth now,
his legs tough and hairy, with the Jordan kissing
his knees. And he held them with all his fierce
young strength, loving them with passion and
speaking to them tenderly as he plunged them into
the water to be cleansed and forgiven.

Thus had it gone for the past two days. But now,
today, John sensed something fresh and new among
the people beginning to assemble upon the grassy
banks. There was laughter among them, an eagerness
he had not sensed before. A number came up
to embrace him, followers, disciples, people he had
already baptized. There was adoration in their eyes.
"Tell us who you really are," they began to
plead. "Come now, admit it, don't be so modest.
Surely you are the promised Son of David. You are
the Christ!"
"No, no, no," John declared impatiently, half
laughing. "How many times do I have to tell you?
I am not the son of David you mean. Though he is
coming soon to lead you, yes, and to judge you."
He shooed them back to their places and began
again his energetic march along the water's edge,
kicking up little explosions of sand and water as he
went. "You idiots, how many times must I repeat?
The one who is coming is so much better than I
am I'm not fit to touch his shoes!"
"Then who are you?" a voice demanded, a burly
man perched on a rock. "If you are not the Christ,
who are you? Elijah, a prophet?"
"That's right," another voice joined in, a man
named Zerah, a tax collector, baptized only yesterday.
He sounded dismayed. "Why then do you
baptize us?"
"To make you fit to receive him!" John yelled.
"To tell you what you must do to be saved. For his
winnowing fork will be in his hand to clean the
threshing floor; he will gather the wheat into the
granary, but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable
fire. You, Zerah, take no more than is due you
according to the Law. You soldiers out there, rob
no one by violence or false accusations, stop
intimidating people and complaining about your
wages, be thankful with your lot.
"And all of you--I speak to all of you now--if
you have two coats, take off one and give it to
somebody who has none. And if you have food,
share it with those who are hungry. Treat other
people the way you want them to treat you. Those
are some of the things that the king who is coming
will ask of you." John bent over, scooped up some
water, and flung it into the air. "I baptize you with
water," he cried, "but the mightier one who is
coming will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and
with fire!"
John stopped short, the words suddenly frozen
in his throat. His heart had begun to pound.
Now it was he who stood transfixed, eyes riveted
on the white figure that had appeared among
the trees and was making its way through the
thickets that led down to the river. That beard,
that black curly hair! And the shock of seeing
Jesus thus approaching after so long was too
much; John put a hand over his eyes as if to shield
them from a great light, his knees sagged, he felt
faint.
Two young followers rushed up, concerned.
"Master, are you all right?"
John nodded and uncovered his eyes. "He has
come!" he told them hoarsely, pointing. "See?
Over there."
Again John crouched and scooped up handfuls of
water, which he hurled joyfully over his face. "I
am only the voice crying in the wilderness," he
shouted once more, exultant. "Make straight the
way of the Lord! As I have said, I can only baptize
you like this, with water, but behold the Lamb of
God. For he is standing among you even now, the
one I have been talking about. Even he, the one
whose sandal thongs I am not worthy to untie!"
With that he strode toward Jesus, holding out his
arms. "Cousin, oh, my cousin," he wept as they
embraced. "Why have you come? Why are you
here?"
"To be baptized of you," Jesus said simply.
"Baptized of me?" John gasped. He drew back,
appalled. "No, no, no, I am not fit to touch you.
You are the pure and holy one, it is you who
should baptize me."
"It must be done." Jesus' face was grave. "I
must go down into the water and share the fate of
other men."
"But you have no sins to be forgiven!"
"How do you know the secret torments of my
heart?" Jesus asked quietly. "How do you know
my doubts and my desires? All this must be washed
away, John. It will give me strength for what lies
ahead, it will give me courage. It must be done,"
he said. "It is fitting that I fulfill all righteousness."
And, as John continued to hesitate, "Let it
be now."
So while the crowd watched, astonished, John
took his hand and led Jesus into the river; and
when they had prayed, John pressed him deep into
the cold sparkling water, and pulled him up,
gasping like all the others, his white garment
clinging to his back, his black curls drenched and
dripping. And when together they came up out of
the water, the two young disciples of John raced up
with towels to help dry him, as they always dried
the rest. And from the crowd another young man
named Andrew came running, bearing a cloak, for
he had taken John's words to heart. "Here, take it,
keep it," he urged, his voice choked with emotion.
"I don't need it."
And even as the cloak was wrapped about Jesus,
the sun broke through a cloud, intensifying his
radiance. And a white dove fluttered down to
light on his shoulder, while a voice spoke clearly
to the little group of men gathered there, though
they turned their heads and looked about in
bewilderment, trying to see from where it came:
"This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well
pleased!"

The dove flew ahead of him into the barren
mountains, into the rocky wilderness, leading,
leading, and he must follow, wet and cold and
barefoot though he was.
John had begged him not to go. "I'll dismiss the
crowds, they can come back tomorrow. Come to
the monastery with me; we can make it by nightfall
if we set out now. Please," he urged, "I want the
abbot to meet you, I have told him about you, I
want him to see you for himself."
But Jesus was watching the dove that kept circling
above him, crooning softly yet on a note of
urgency. "Forgive me, John, but it is very
important that I go away. I must go into the
mountains and be alone for a time."
Jesus turned to him then, and with a shock John
saw the deep pain in his eyes. "What is it?" John
pleaded. "You must have been hurt, terribly hurt,"
he whispered. "Come with me, we will rest and eat
and talk." John clutched his arm. "Jesus, my
cousin, I love you so much, let me help you."
"There is only One who can help me," Jesus
said. "I need to fast and pray until I am released."

On the dove flew, up and up, higher over the
gorges and canyons and rocks that crouched and
reared in grotesque shapes as far as the eye could
see. The landscape shimmered in the heat, its tan
flanks rising and falling as if all these bizarre
creatures were gasping for breath. Eons ago, raked
and clawed by some master hand, this earth too
had squirmed, erupted, given birth to these
monsters that reared up from some nether world.
Castled cities . . . faces leering . . . tawny hips
heaving . . . giants suckling at fat bursting breasts
of sand. . . . This mad and ugly beauty! Adonai,
Adonai, why are you bringing me here?
His feet were bruised and bleeding, he hungered
and thirsted, longed to lie down and rest, and yet
on he went, on and on, blindly following the bird
whose little white tail flirted and twinkled before
him. Was it not enough that he had overcome,
walked away from the woman forever, and set out
to find the prophet many people believed to be
Elijah, who was shouting the way of salvation along
the banks of the Jordan? Although Jesus had known
from the beginning that it was John.
Was it not enough that John had received him,
weeping, and buried him too in the cold bittersweet
waters, to wash away his fears and doubts and
surely, pray heaven, all desire for the one he could
not, must not, have? Help me, Father, I have
submitted; now raise me up equal to fulfilling John's
faith in me--and my mother's--and your own!
He began to shiver, for after one glorious
conflagration of scarlet and gold, the sun sank,
night was upon him. He came to himself, out of his
blind daze, and found he had climbed halfway up a
steep mountain. He could no longer see the dove,
and he felt suddenly abandoned and desperately
alone. He called out to it, making little bird
sounds, pleading, hoping to lure it back, but there
was no answer, no returning whir of wings. And he
realized that this was as it should be. Lord, lead it
safely back to its nest to be cuddled against its
mate. Suddenly such loneliness beset him as he had
never dreamed. Not like this, oh, never had it been
like this, not in all those years he had wandered by
himself or lain alone under the stars, watching the
sheep.
Not until Tamara....
But he must not think of her. He had come here
to pray and dedicate his life afresh--but now, right
now, he could go no farther, he must lie down and
rest. He found a place where a few bushes had
burst out of the barren rock. He stretched out,
pulling the young man's cloak over him, blessing
the youth, for it was soon very cold. The stars were
beginning to claim the sky, at first a jeweled
scattering, then constellations drenching it with
brilliance, while among them bloomed the planets--always
huge here in the desert--burning like
enormous flowers of fire on the canyon's rim.
The wild things had begun their rhythmic
screeching, baying, and howling; two bats sliced
overhead, chasing each other with a gritting sound
of teeth and black leathery wings. The long
glistening body of a snake slithered across his
ankles, then another glided after, following it into
the rocks. Shuddering, Jesus rolled over, one fist
beating the sand, for he sensed their writhing
embrace. Help me, oh, Father, forgive and help me--even
the snakes--!
He reached up to pull a branch down across his
face, breathing in the familiar, almost intolerable
fragrance of its cold damp leaves. Willing her into
existence here, now, as she had been on that last
night among the cassias; feeling she must somehow
emerge out of the shadows and speak to him, hold
him as she had then. Wanting her, driven a little
bit mad by the dream of her, the children he might
have had from her; the comfort of her food waiting
for him in the evening and her love day after day
when he was jubilant with his strength, the thrill of
his achievements, or distraught and weary with the
poor results of his striving. Above all, the comfort,
the dear warmth of her lying close against him in
the night. Even the bittersweet waters of his
baptism could not wash these things away.
Yet as he lay suffering, he thanked God that he
had tasted love, if only briefly: sweetly, terribly,
as men have tasted love from the beginning of time.
For he knew now how desperately men are tempted--need 
to be tempted, yes, and to yield and be fulfilled,
that the race of men and women might go on.
And he knew too, with a tearing and rending of
his whole being, that he had no choice but to turn
his back upon her and walk away from her, the
beloved who had plunged crying into her uncles'
house. Not coldly or uncaring, for his heart was
torn asunder, but driven by something beyond his
comprehension, a force, a power, a compassion for
even more than the wailing woman: for the whole
world, who seemed to be crying at his feet. The
crippled, given pain and humiliation instead of
wholeness and pride. The men, given defeat and
despair and poverty instead of success. And the
children, above all the children, given snakes
instead of bread.
That little boy in a house not far from Bethany
where he had stopped for a drink of water on this
very trip. A humble hut made of tan, bread-colored,
loaf-shaped stones that blended deceptively
with the snakes that crept inside sometimes, coiling
there for warmth. And the child toddled about,
whimpering that he was hungry; and the father,
reaching for a loaf, had accidentally picked up the
reptile instead. The child had screamed; Jesus
would hear it forever, that piercing wail, frightening
the creature as much as the boy. And the
father's anguished, "I wanted to find you a loaf,
my son, and I have handed you a snake!"
These scenes riddled his heart that first night in
the wilderness after his baptism. He lay in anguish
for them, all the confused bungling fathers and the
pathetic children hungry for a mouthful of bread.
And for all the people so hungry for love. He must
help them, he must heal them. He must make them
understand that God, the true and loving Father,
wants only to feed their every need.
Father, forgive me when I too am hungry. Forgive
me if there are times when I too scream.

Forty days he fasted and wandered and prayed and
became one with the will of God. No longer lonely,
for everything around him became his companions
and his friends. Lizards and bats and vultures, the
lions that prowled by night, the cougars, the
jackals, the hyenas. One by one they crept near to
lie down and watch over him, or they appeared, to
hover above his head--butterflies, birds, and stars;
even the small white dove came circling, followed
by her mate and several little ones. Jesus smiled to
see them, reached out to touch and caress them
before they drifted gently away or simply vanished
in a puff of wind.
His lips were parched and cracked, his nose
burned scarlet, his empty stomach began to swell.
His feet were tough as leather boots, though
gouged by thorns. At times he walked without
touching the earth, felt himself borne upward on a
cloud. The face of Yahweh smiled upon him and
murmured over and over, "This is my beloved
Son."

Then late one afternoon when he sat weak but
blissful, though dreading the night, he was startled
to see far below him a spiral of dust rising, and to
hear the faint but distinct sound of hoofbeats.
Breathless and disbelieving, Jesus realized that a
horse and rider were approaching, ascending the
steep face of the mountain.
His heart raced. Who but Cleophas could possibly
have dared to follow him here?
Jesus sprang up. "Cleo!" he called out in great
excitement as horse and rider drew nearer.
"Who?" The rider laughed. With a great rearing
and neighing and rattle of stones, the huge jet-black
stallion was pulled to a stop.
"I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else!"
Jesus said, rubbing his eyes. For this was a much
younger and even more handsome man, tall, whip-slim,
and very graceful, leaping down from his
jeweled saddle. He wore a tight-fitting suit of
creamy white silk, embroidered with scarlet and
gold. There was a musical chink of golden bracelets
from his ankles and his wrists. His blue eyes
sparkled, his white teeth flashed, his cheeks were
pink as a girl's. A mop of wavy golden hair swept
back from his brow to fall glistening about his
shoulders. Never had Jesus seen anyone so dazzling.
Certainly never a man.
"Forgive me," Jesus gasped, "but what are you
doing here?"
"I followed you," the stranger beamed. He was
very charming, his voice rich and sweet. He
extended a slender hand that blazed with rings.
"My name is Lumini. I was in the crowd; I saw
you baptized in the Jordan. I don't mind telling
you it was the most beautiful, inspiring sight I've
ever seen. I didn't want to intrude on your privacy
for a time, but I knew I had to find you. And
so--here I am!"
"Welcome," Jesus said, almost overcome with
surprise and sudden joy. "Though I fear I have
nothing to offer you." He looked about, concerned.
"There is no food here."
"Don't worry about it. I know, I have brought
my own. I have more than enough for us both."
He gestured to the bulging saddlebags that were
likewise elaborately adorned. "Wine, bread, all that
we need. You must join me for supper."
Jesus swallowed, but shook his head. "That's
very nice of you, but I'm afraid I can't. I am not
yet ready to break my fast."
"I certainly understand. How admirable. Well, if
you'll forgive me, I'm very hungry. Would you
mind if I brought out my own humble repast and
ate?"
"No, no, not at all," Jesus said, though he
trembled as he watched his new friend unpack and
spread out his feast on a white linen cloth. Bread
that looked crusty and newly baked, glossy boiled
eggs, crisp brown fish, succulent breasts of
chicken, delicate pink slices of lamb, silver dishes
of vegetables and sauces, ripe fruit, figs, nuts,
sweet cakes, a cruet of red wine. All of it smelling
so delicious Jesus' mouth watered, his stomach
clenched.
"As you see, I had really hoped you would be my
guest." Lumini smiled regretfully, shaking out his
napkin. "Are you sure you won't change your
mind?"
Again Jesus shook his head.
"Well, then, I'll proceed. Fortunately--" he
chuckled boyishly-- "I have a big appetite!"
Perched on a silken cushion, the beautiful youth
ate joyfully, although somewhat apologetically,
glancing sweetly at Jesus from time to time. "I
hope this isn't bothering you," he said, lifting his
glass in salute. He gazed at Jesus with anxious
affection. "If it is, I will put it away. I can't
tell you how much I admire you. I wouldn't want
to hurt you or tempt you in any way."
"No, no," said Jesus. "Go ahead."
"When I finish, I will leave if you wish."
"Don't go, you must stay, now that you've come
so far!"
"Well, yes, it is a long way back down the
mountain, and it will soon be dark." Lumini kicked
aside his cushion and sprang up to look across the
hills, already in purple shadow.
"It would be foolish, it would be dangerous!"
Jesus agreed. "It's much too far to travel after
dark." He was trembling, no longer from hunger,
but from the awful dread of loneliness that had
returned. "You must stay with me."
Lumini tossed back his shining hair. "That's just
what I hoped you'd say!" he admitted in mischievous
triumph. Gathering up the white linen cloth
with all its food and silver dishes, he strode gaily to
the ravine and pitched the whole thing over the
side. Then, obviously delighted that Jesus was
shocked, he ran gaily to the saddlebags and
returned with two pallets over his arm. "I came
prepared for that too. See, I even brought beds for
both of us." He surveyed the rocky ground.
"Where do you sleep?"
"Wherever I am," Jesus said. His heart was
hammering. He felt curiously uneasy and yet
elated. Surely God had sent him this dazzling
companion to reward him.
"Amazing!" Lumini looked incredulous but
amused. "Well, Jesus, dear friend--if I may call
you that?--I'll be happy wherever you are. How
about over there? That looks like a good enough
place, over by those cassia shrubs."
"Not there," Jesus protested. "Any place but
there."
"I'm so sorry," Lumini said softly. "The fragrance?
The smell of cassia brings back memories?
Love memories?"
"It's something I can't talk about."
"I understand. I know from experience. Certain
odors do rouse the emotions. I wish you'd tell
me--" He pressed Jesus' arm. "You'd find it helps
to share this pain with someone."
"It is something I can never share with anyone,"
Jesus said grimly. "Not as long as I live."
"Whatever you wish. Look, there is a nice cleft
between those overhanging rocks; it's like a cave.
Let's go over there."
Jesus followed him, he didn't realize how weak
he was; he let Lumini spread out the pallets, a few
feet apart, and lay down gratefully. The soft
padding was like heaven to his limbs after these
weeks on the hard ground. He drowsed almost at
once, though the man lay talking half the night, it
seemed, about places he had visited: the palaces,
the dancing girls, the bazaars... .
Beyond the opening the stars danced in the sky,
the beasts began their plaintive howling and
calling. Several crept to the doorway as if to find
him, then slunk swiftly away. Jesus was only
vaguely aware of where he was, he only knew he
was no longer alone. And later, gradually later, he
became aware of a hand holding his. Lumini lay
fast asleep. He looked like an angel lying there with
the moonlight shining on his face.
When Jesus awoke the next morning he could
smell the tang of a crackling fire. His new friend
was crouched over its bright blaze, stirring a little
pot of gruel. He looked up, beaming. "Sleep well?
What a glorious morning! Would you care to share
this barley? I've seasoned it with cinnamon and
honey, and I have peeled a pomegranate for you.
"Oh, dear, again forgive me," Lumini apologized.
"I quite forgot your fasting. I wouldn't want
to tempt you, I really admire your willpower. But
then I've heard that you are a very special person. I
wanted to see you for myself, it's why I came."
He chattered merrily on, so innocent and 
refreshing in the sunrise. What an engaging 
personality he was, and devout as well as
considerate. Lumini had been up for hours, he 
said, and had already washed and prayed. "Go 
ahead with your worship, it's so important, nothing
in life is more important, don't let me interfere."
It troubled Jesus somewhat that again he blithely
threw away the remainder of his meal. Yet there
was something dashing and grand about even that--to 
see him standing so boldly on the canyon's
rim, with his bright hair blowing, as he watched
the small fortune disappear.
"Don't worry." He grinned at Jesus' expression.
"The birds won't let it go to waste."
"But the cloth, the dishes!"
"There's plenty more where I come from. It's
worse to waste time, life! This glorious scenery.
Come on, let's explore it together."
Jesus was enchanted to have such company.
Never had he found anyone so joyfully aware of his
surroundings, even here. He was proud to lead him
about the mountainside, pausing to point, to
marvel at the magnificent grotesquery. They
laughed, too, for Lumini bubbled over with quips
and songs and stories. A spell of sheer foolishness
came upon them; they felt young and free, like
boys again, dangling their feet from jutting
boulders, balancing themselves precariously on the
edges of cliffs where a misstep would pitch them to
certain death in the wadi below.
Lumini spread his arms like wings, prancing
about with a capricious grin. Dimples flashed in
his delightful face. "Fly, fly, let us fly!"
he cried.
Jesus laughed painfully. "Stop, you'll fall,
this is ridiculous!"
"No, it isn't, I'll try it if you will. Don't be
afraid, nothing can happen; I hear you're such a
favorite in heaven God would send his own angels
to bear you up on their hands!"
A strange euphoria had come upon Jesus. His
eyes were fixed in fascination on the threat below,
his heart was beating fast. Had he not already
winged lightly over the rocks these past days,
sipped the wind for wine, and drunk the chill
elusive milk of the stars? He felt suddenly
powerful, immortal, and almost overwhelmed by
the urge to prove it. Why not indeed spread out his
arms and step forth into the clear blue space above
the canyon? Already he seemed to hear a legion of
angels gathering, ready to descend, to support him.
He caught himself in time, gave a choked little
cry. "It is written, 'You shall not make trial of the
Lord, your God!'" he shouted. "Be careful,
come back lest you fall yourself." Jesus retreated to
a safer place, mopping his brow. "Who ever told
you such a thing?"
Laughing, Lumini followed him farther back
from the ledge and flung himself down. "It is
John's claim," he said. "John the baptizer is
telling people incredible things about you. I have
heard him. And they believe him; the people
themselves are repeating them, beginning to
proclaim your wonders."
Jesus regarded him steadily. "Are you a disciple
of John's?"
"The man intrigues me. I began to follow him
only when I got word of these sayings about you."
"What sayings? What wonders?"
"That you have magical powers." Still twinkling,
Lumini's faintly green eyes locked with his own.
"I'm not sure if I believe them, although I'd like
to. It's why I came. To become your friend. And
we are friends now, aren't we? Surely you will give
me a demonstration." He inched closer, smiling,
eyes still sparkling; his voice was eager. "Show me,
right now. I have eaten or thrown away all my
bread, I'm hungry, and I know you must be starving.
These rocks--" Lumini stroked one with
long slender fingers--"see, they look like loaves.
Prove that I haven't come in vain--turn them into
bread!"
Suddenly Jesus recovered; he threw back his head
and laughed. "Man does not live by bread alone,
but by love. The love of God and the love of
woman and man. Listen," he said, "I have already
been tempted beyond your poor powers to tempt
me. Do you think I would turn my back on the
One who sent me here for food?"
"All right then, love. More love than you ever
dreamed. Since you put it so bluntly, yes, I've been
testing you, because I really adore you, Jesus. And
if you're all they claim, it's you I want to follow."
Lumini moved even closer, his shining eyes intense. 
"I don't mind telling you I'm a rich and
powerful man. We could do great things together,
you and I. Come with me right now! Just as you
are. Get on my horse and ride with me to Jerusalem.
Never mind how you look," he said, as
Jesus shrank back. "We can stop at one of my inns.
I'll have my servants bathe you in a golden tub and
dress you."
Lumini paused, surveying Jesus critically from
head to foot: gaunt, unshaven, and in tatters. With
merry, half-mocking affection he yanked at the
ragged tunic. "Don't be embarrassed--though
frankly I can't understand why anyone as beautiful
as you are could let himself get into such a state
even to please his God! But never mind, it's time
we cleaned you up. I've got an elegant wardrobe
that will fit you. Then I'll take you to the
Sanhedrin, the high priest, the king himself. Even
Herod listens to me; he'll adore you too. He won't
try to kill you, or chase you out of Israel, the way
his father did."
Jesus gasped. "How do you know about that?"
"It's common knowledge; all the Herods have
wanted to destroy any threat to their throne. As, I
warn you, if we're not careful, this one will want to
kill John too because of you! That's why we've got
to win him over. I tell you he'll be crazy about you,
he'll shower you with riches. You can give your
poor mother anything she wants."
Jesus felt weak and shaken; his head was
spinning. He thought of Mary, who had done
without so much--if only he could make it up to
her, shower her with gifts at last. And John! Dared 
he endanger John?
"Why do you promise such things? Why should
I trust you?"
"Because I have already proved my love for
you: by coming to this godforsaken place to keep
you company when you were lonely, by offering to
share my banquet when you were weak and
hungry. By offering right now to share all that
I have with you: power, riches and power. And
passion! Never mind Jerusalem, look out there--see,
beyond this desert lie all the kingdoms of the
world. I have been there in the palaces, I know the
crowned heads. Sultans, princes, kings, they have
given me gifts." He made a flourishing gesture
with his jeweled hands. "They have shared their
daughters with me, yes, and their sons; they have
brought their concubines to my bed, and the loveliest
of their wives."

There was a charged silence between them. Both
of them were breathing hard. "Such things mean
nothing to me," said Jesus then. "For I have
known love."
The man before him flinched. "Love!"
Lumini sneered, no longer the delightful young
companion with the merry voice and laughter,
the dancing eyes. His face was suddenly beginning
to change: the eyes were narrowing, thin
and cold as a serpent's; the mouth went down
in a cunning half smile. He was gripping Jesus'
hand so fiercely the rings bit into his flesh.
"Why do you promise me all this?" Jesus
demanded again.
"Because it is mine to give. I will bestow it all on
you myself--power, authority, riches, passion--and
punish severely any who do not do your bidding."
"And what do you ask in return?"
"Loyalty, that's all. That's not much, is it? The
whole world can be yours, I tell you, if you'll just
prove you love me in return. That you're willing to
serve me."
"Serve you?"
"Fall down and worship me," the man said
softly. He was grinning boldly now, unmasked, the
last vestige of his beauty gone, his whole
countenance revolting and cruel. For several
minutes a strange odor, barely detectable, had been
coming from him; now suddenly it was strong and
ugly, so foul it was almost overpowering.

And Jesus recognized him at last and rose up in
rage. "Get you hence, Satan!" he ordered in a loud
voice. "For it is written, 'You shall worship the
Lord your God, and him only shall you serve!' "
For the first time all morning, Jesus became
aware of the horse. It reared up, pawing and
screaming, and, with a great thunder of hooves that
echoed throughout the canyon, came charging
toward the hideous figure before him. With it came
a cloud of thick black smoke, which enveloped
them both. It hung there for a moment, hot and
choking . . . then they were gone. Though the
terrible stench lingered.
In another moment a cool wind rose and blew it
away. The air was clean and clear once more.
Jesus stood trembling, sweat running down his
face. But the spell was broken, he had come to, he
was awake and aware now, fully himself once more.
He no longer felt even weak or dizzy, but strong
with a strength he had never known. And he
realized his time of temptation was over. He was
ready now to begin his ministry, to call all men to
the Father by his own example, all he himself had
experienced, and overcome. It was for this he had
been preparing, all the days of his growing up and
maturing. He must lead them, he must help and
heal them, not only their sick and broken bodies
but their tormented souls. He must show them that
the kingdom of heaven exists right here on earth, if
we simply love the Father enough to love each
other, and to live by the Father's rules.
Above all, he must save them from the tempter.
Through love he must save them. And he must
start soon!
Throwing Andrew's cloak over his arm, Jesus
started back down the mountain. As he walked he
began to sing, for the power of the Spirit filled
him, he heard the voice of the Father commending
him, and he knew the angels were watching
over him.
He knew that his first disciple would be waiting
there with John.