The Road to Cana Page 6

  I thought James would go mad.

  Jason turned in the door, reemerging from the angry sea of those around him. He looked back as all streamed past him.

  “And will you not come with us, you above all?” he demanded. He flung out his pointing finger.

  “No,” I said. I shook my head and looked away.

  The sound of my answer hadn't carried in the din, but the shape of it did, and he was gone and all the younger men with him.

  The street was so full of torches it might as well have been the night of the Exodus from Egypt. Men were now laughing and hollering as they dodged in and out of their houses to get their heavy woolen robes and wineskins for the trek.

  James caught his young son, Isaac, and when Isaac, a boy of no more than ten, struggled, Avigail suddenly seized him and demanded fiercely, “What, would you leave me here alone? Do you think no one has to take care of this village?”

  She held fast to him in a way that his father could never have done, because Isaac wouldn't fight her. And she rallied to herself the other young boys, all that she could see. “You come here, Yaqim, and you too, Little Levi. And you, Benjamin!” Silent Hannah took up the exhortations.

  Of course other women, young and old, were doing the same, each dragging out of the march any whom they could handle.

  And into the village came more men from the countryside, farmhands, men of the villages near and far that everyone knew, and I saw finally even the soldiers, Herod's soldiers from Sepphoris.

  “Are you with us?” someone shouted.

  I covered my ears.

  I walked on into the house.

  Avigail all but dragged Isaac in with her. James was too angry to look at him. Menachim and Shabi were already on their way out as we entered, and Menachim looked once at James as if he would cry, but then he said, “Father, I have to go!” and off he went as James turned his back, and let his head sink on his chest.

  Little Isaac began to cry. “My brothers, I have to go with them, Avigail.”

  “You will not,” Avigail said. She reached for her ducklings. “I tell you, you will stay here with me.” She held six or seven of them in thrall.

  My mother helped Joseph to be seated near the fire.

  “How can this all begin again?” asked Cleopas. “And where is Silas!” he suddenly demanded. “Where is Little Joseph?” He looked around in panic. “Where are my sons!” he roared.

  “They're gone,” said Avigail. “They came to the assembly ready to go.” She shook her head at the pity of it. She held Isaac by his wrist, though he struggled.

  Avigail's father, Shemayah, came into the room, hulking, breathless, out of sorts—he saw Avigail with her children, and making a disgusted gesture walked out and home before anyone could offer him a cup of wine or water.

  Avigail sat amongst the boys, most of them ten or eleven years old, and one, Yaqim, who was twelve. She held fast to Yaqim's hand just as she held Isaac's hand. Yaqim had no mother, and in all likelihood his father was drunk in the tavern.

  “I need you all here, we need you,” Avigail maintained, “and I won't hear another word on it. None of you go. You stay here tonight under this roof, where Yeshua and James can watch you. And you girls, you come with me, tonight, and you.” She tugged at Silent Hannah.

  Suddenly she paused, and she came to me.

  “Yeshua,” she said. “What do you think will happen?”

  I looked up at her. How tender and curious she seemed, how far from any real dread.

  “Will Jason speak for them?” she asked. “Will he put the case before the Governor for them?”

  “My dearest child,” I said, “there are a thousand Jasons now making their way to Caesarea. There are priests and scribes and scholars on their way.”

  “And brigands,” said Cleopas, disgusted. “Brigands who'll mix with the crowd, who'll bring the whole thing to riot at a moment's notice if they think they'll have the fight they've always wanted, the fight they never wanted to give up, the fight they still maintain in every backcountry cave and tavern.”

  Avigail was suddenly afraid, as were all the women, until James urged Cleopas to please leave off, and Joseph said the same.

  Old Bruria came into the room, the eldest of our household, a woman not related to us by blood but one who'd lived with us from long ago when the land had run with blood after the death of Old Herod.

  “Enough,” said Bruria in a dark, strong voice. “Pray, Avigail, pray as we all pray. The teachers of the Temple are on the road. They were on the road before the signal fires even glittered on the evening mountains.” She stood beside Joseph. She waited.

  She wanted Joseph to lead us in prayer, but he seemed to have forgotten. His brother Alphaeus came into the room, and only then did any of us think that he had not even come to the assembly. He sat down beside his brother.

  “Very well, then,” said Bruria. “O Lord, Maker of the Universe, have mercy on Your people Israel.”

  All night long the village was alive with the sounds of men passing through on their way south.

  Sometimes when I could no longer sleep, I went out in the courtyard and as I stood there, hugging my arms in the dark, I could hear the raucous voices from the tavern.

  At dawn, riders came to the village, reading aloud their brief letters, declaring that this or that town had sent all its occupants south to appeal to the Governor.

  Some of the older men put on their robes and got their walking sticks and set out to join those marching through.

  Even some of the old men, on their donkeys, wrapped in blankets to their noses, made their way.

  James worked without a word, banging the hammer with more strength than needed for the slightest nail.

  Mary, the wife of Little Cleopas, broke into sobs. Not only had he gone on, but so had her father, Levi, and her brothers. And word had come that every man worth his salt was joining the movement to Caesarea.

  “Well, not this man worth his salt,” said James. He threw the lumber into the cart. “There's no point to going to work,” he said. “This can wait. Everything can wait, as we wait on the windows of Heaven.”

  The sky was a pale soiled blue. And the wind was filled with the smells of the unwashed stables and courtyards, of the dying fields, of the urine drawing flies to the stained plaster.

  The next night was quiet. They were all gone. What could the signal fires say except that more and more people were taking to the roads, except that they came from the north and the south and the east and the west? And that the ensigns remained in the Holy City.

  James said to me at dawn:

  “I used to think you would change things.”

  “Remember yourself,” said my mother. She set down the bread and olives for us. She poured the water.

  “I did,” said James, glaring at me. “I used to think you would change it all. I used to believe in what I'd seen with my two eyes—the gifts of the Magi laid down in the straw, the faces of shepherds who'd heard angels fill up the sky. I used to believe that.”

  “James, I beg you,” said my mother.

  “Let him alone,” said Joseph softly. “James has said these words many a time. So we bear with him again.”

  “And you, Father,” James asked. “Have you never thought, what was the meaning of all of it?”

  “The Lord made Time,” said Joseph. “And the Lord will reveal all in Time when He wants to reveal it.”

  “And my sons will die,” said James. His face was twisted with anguish. “My sons will die the way men died before, and for what?”

  Avigail came in with Silent Hannah, and the usual following of little ones.

  “Please no more talk of this,” said my aunt Esther.

  “My father says the world has gone to Caesarea,” said Avigail. “We had a letter from our cousins in Bethany. Your cousins, our cousins, all of them from Bethany. They've gone as well.” She burst into tears.

  All the children crowded around her to comfort her. “They'll all c
ome home,” said Isaac, her little protector. He snuggled up to her immediately. “I promise you, Avigail. I give you my word. They'll be back. My brothers will be back. Stop. You'll make Silent Hannah cry. . . .”

  “And who is left in Nazareth, do you think?” asked James bitterly. He turned to me. “Ah!” he said with mock surprise. “Yeshua, the Sinless.”

  Avigail looked up, startled. Her eyes moved over the faces of everyone there. She looked at me.

  “And James, the Just! Is left here too,” declared my aunt Esther.

  “James, the Merciless!” said Aunt Salome. “Be quiet, or go yourself.”

  “No, no . . . hush now, all of you,” said my mother.

  “Yes, please, I didn't mean to . . . I'm sorry,” said Avigail.

  “You did nothing,” I said.

  And so on the day went.

  And the next day.

  And the day after.

  9

  THE BRIGANDS HIT THE VILLAGE AT DAWN.

  James and I had just come out of the Rabbi's door. We stood at the top of the hill. And we saw them—two ragged men on horseback—racing down the far slope towards the creek.

  The women with their water jars and bundles of laundry screamed and scattered in all directions, children racing with them.

  James and I gave the alarm. The horn was blasting as we ran towards the men.

  Only one drove his mount uphill right towards us, and as people came out of the doors on all sides, he pressed into us and we fell backwards, the hooves stomping past our heads.

  “Avigail,” James cried out. “Avigail” came another shout and then another. As I scrambled to my feet, my hand bleeding, I saw what all saw: the man who stayed behind had snatched her up by the waist. The children hurled their stones at him. Isaac dragged at the man's left shoulder.

  Avigail screamed and kicked. The children grabbed hold of her flailing ankles.

  All the women rushed at the man, hurling their jars at his horse.

  We reached the creek bed as, assailed on all sides, the ruffian let loose of Avigail, pulling her veil and mantle free as she slammed to the rocky ground. Brandishing her robes like a flag the man, ducking low to escape the hail of stones flung at him, rode away as fast as he could.

  Avigail scrambled up, drawing her knees under her and bending forward. She was in her long-sleeved tunic and her hair was streaming over her face and shoulders. Little Isaac threw his arms around her to shield her from all eyes.

  I reached her and went down on my knees in front of her and took her by the shoulders.

  She screamed my name and clung to me. Blood ran from her forehead and her cheek.

  “They're gone,” cried James. All the women surrounded us. My aunt Esther cried she'd gotten the man good with her jar. She'd broken it on his very head. The children were sobbing and running to and fro.

  Cries came from above.

  “The other one's gone. He was the distraction,” declared James. “They wanted a woman, the godless heathens, will you look at this, look what they've done.”

  “It's over,” I whispered to Avigail. “Let me look at you. These are scratches and scrapes.”

  She nodded. She understood me.

  Then I heard a voice over my head.

  “Stand back from my daughter. Get your hands off her.”

  I could scarce believe these words were meant for me.

  My aunt Esther gestured for me to draw back. She took her place by Avigail as Avigail climbed to her feet.

  “She's unharmed,” said Aunt Esther. “We were all here and we gave him rocks and stones and blows for his pains, I can tell you.”

  There was a chorus of agreement.

  Shemayah stared at Avigail as she stood there, shivering, in her long wool tunic, her hair disheveled, the cuts bleeding on her face.

  I took off my mantle and quickly put it over her shoulders. But he thrust me back and off balance as she took it. The women hastily put it over her. Her tunic was modest enough. It was plenty enough. But now she was fully draped as usual in a mantle over her shoulders and down her back. And my aunt Salome drew back Avigail's loose hair.

  Shemayah picked up his daughter. He picked her up in both arms as if she were a child and carried her up the hill.

  The women ran after him, and the children, crowding and hampering his every step.

  James and I waited. Then slowly we climbed the hill.

  When we reached his door, the women stood outside staring at the wood.

  “What is this? Why haven't you gone in?” I demanded.

  “He won't let us go in.”

  My mother came out of our house with Old Bruria. “What's happened?”

  Everyone told a version of it at once.

  Old Bruria pounded on the door. “Shemayah,” she cried. “You open this door now for us. This girl needs us.”

  The door opened, and out came Silent Hannah flung at us as if she were no more than a bundle of clothes.

  The door slammed shut.

  Silent Hannah was terrified.

  I knocked on the door. I put my voice close to the wood, gesturing for James to stay back and not try to stop me.

  “Shemayah,” I called out. “The women are here to tend to Avigail, let them in.”

  “She was not hurt!” declared my aunt Salome. “We all saw it. She fought, and he dropped her! You all saw it.”

  “Yes, we all saw it,” said Aunt Esther. “All of you men go, leave here, you leave this to us.”

  We backed up as they told us to do. More women had come. James' wife, Mara, and Mary of Little Cleopas and Silas' wife and at least a dozen more. The older women pounded all together on the door.

  “Force it!” said Esther, and they flung themselves at the door, kicking and pounding, until it rocked free of its pivots and fell in.

  I moved to where I could see into the dimly lighted room. I caught only a glimpse before it was filled with women. Avigail, white and crying, disheveled as before, like a bundle flung in the corner, the blood still dripping from her head.

  The roaring protests of Shemayah were drowned out by the women. Isaac and Yaqim and Silent Hannah tried to get into the house but they couldn't get in. It was too filled with the women.

  And it was the women who put the door back up on its pivots and closed it against us.

  We went into our own courtyard, and James let go with words.

  “Is he mad?” I demanded.

  “Don't be such a fool,” said my uncle Cleopas. “The bandit ripped off her veil.”

  “What is her veil?” demanded James. Isaac and Yaqim came to us crying. “What in the name of the Lord does it matter that he took her veil?”

  “He's an old and stupid man,” said Cleopas. “I don't defend him. I'm only answering you because it seems someone has to answer you.”

  “We saved her,” Isaac said to his father, wiping at his tears.

  James kissed his son's head and held him close. “You did well, all of you,” he said. “Yaqim, you, and you,” he pointed to the little boys who hovered in the street. “Come inside now.”

  It was a full hour before my mother came in with Aunt Esther and Aunt Salome.

  Aunt Salome was furious.

  “He's sent for the midwife.”

  “How can he do such a thing!” cried James. “The whole village saw this. Nothing happened. The man was forced to let her go.”

  My mother sat crying by the brazier.

  There was shouting from the street, mostly the voices of women. Yaqim and Isaac ran out before anyone could stop them.

  I didn't move.

  Finally Old Bruria came in. “The midwife has come and gone,” she said. “Let it be known to all this house and every house, and every lout and bully and no-count in this village who wants to know it, and fret about it, and gossip about it, the girl is unharmed.”

  “Well, that's hardly a surprise,” said Aunt Esther. “And you left her alone with him?”

  Old Bruria made a gesture as if
to say she could do no more, and she went off to her room.

  Silent Hannah who had seen everything got up quietly and slipped out the door.

  I wanted to follow. I wanted to see whether or not Shemayah would let her in. But I didn't do this. Only my mother followed and came back moments later and nodded and so it was over for now.

  At noon, Shemayah and his field hands rode out into the hills. Inside his house, his two maidservants remained with Avigail and with Silent Hannah, bolting the door behind him as he told them to do.

  We knew he wouldn't find the bandits. We prayed he wouldn't find the bandits. He didn't know what to do against men armed with daggers and swords. And the ragged bunch he'd taken with him were only the older men and the weaker men, the men who hadn't gone off to Caesarea to take a stand.

  Sometime during the early evening, Shemayah returned. We heard the noise of the horses, not a common sound in our street.

  My mother and aunts went to his door and begged to see Avigail. He wouldn't answer.

  All the next day no one came or went from the house of Shemayah. His field hands gathered, then wandered off without directions.

  It was the same the following day.

  Meanwhile, news came in every few hours from Caesarea.

  And on the third day after the attack of the bandits, we had a long letter in Jason's hand, read out in the synagogue, that the crowd was peaceably assembled before the Governor's palace and would not be moved.

  This gave comfort to the Rabbi and comfort to many of the rest of us. Though some simply wondered what the Governor would do if this crowd did not go away.

  Neither Shemayah nor anyone from his house came to the assembly.

  The next day, Shemayah went out to his fields at dawn. No one answered when the women knocked. Then Silent Hannah came out quietly in the afternoon.

  She came into our house and told the women in gestures that Avigail lay on the floor. That Avigail took nothing to eat. That Avigail took nothing to drink. In a little while, she hurried back, fearful that Shemayah might have returned and found her gone, and she disappeared into the house and the bolt was again in place.

  I didn't find these things out until I'd returned from work in Sepphoris. My mother told me what Silent Hannah had let them know.