Daughter of Cana Page 21

  One by one, my brothers began to snore. Anticipation, however, would not let me sleep . . . because I planned to pass through Cana on my way to the Holy City.

  My steps quickened as we neared Cana, and my burst of energy did not go unnoticed by my brothers. “Look at Jude,” James remarked, grinning as he jabbed me with his walking stick. “What could make his face flush at the thought of passing through Cana?”

  “Perhaps it’s the sweet water at the village well,” Simeon jibed. “Or the thought of our friends, the newly married ones—what were their names?”

  “I do not think Etan and Galya could evoke that sparkle in Jude’s eye,” Joses said. “So it must be the young woman.”

  I glared at the lot of them. “Tasmin,” I said. “Her name is Tasmin, and I adjure you to treat her with respect. Better yet, take the donkey to the well and refill the water jars. I’ll join you after I’ve spoken with her.”

  “Is this a quick visit,” James asked, “or should we try to buy food?”

  “Do as you will,” I answered, lengthening my stride. “I will join you later.”

  I found Tasmin’s house easily and called out a greeting at the courtyard gate. Soon Yagil appeared, his face splitting into a wide grin when he saw me.

  “Hello, little man,” I called. “How are you?”

  “Fine.” To my utter astonishment, he spoke as clearly as he had the day he met Yeshua. “Do you want to see Ima?”

  So now he considered Tasmin his mother. Good.

  “Listen to you.” I stepped into the courtyard and knelt to look the lad in the eye. “You are talking so well!”

  He gave me a shy grin, then jerked his thumb toward the house. “Ima is inside with Saba. Would you like to see them?”

  “Please.”

  Yagil scampered into the house, and a moment later Tasmin came through the doorway, dark curls fluttering around her flushed face. “Jude!” She wiped her hands on the cloth draped over her shoulder, then gave me a smile. “I did not expect to see you—anyone—today.”

  “My brothers and I are going to Jerusalem for Sukkot,” I said, the words coming out in a rush. “I thought—I hoped you might want to go with us. Yeshua will remain in Galilee, but his disciples have gone on to Jerusalem. If you want to see Thomas, you might be able to find him—”

  “Of course I will go, as long as I can bring Yagil. Abba cannot manage him alone.” The color in her cheeks rose. “Is it a large traveling party?”

  I nodded. “A family from Nazareth travels with us, and we will undoubtedly join others along the way. You can assure your father of your safety.”

  She pushed a strand of hair off her forehead and bit her lip. “I will have to get Aunt Dinah to look after my father. He is not well.”

  “Has he injured himself again?”

  She looked away. “No, it is the old weakness. If he wants me to stay home, I will. But I think he would want me to visit Thomas. We have not heard from him, and Abba wants to see him.”

  “I will wait for you.” I pointed to the town square. “I will go to my brothers while you prepare. When you are ready, come join us.”

  She gave me a quick nod. “Thank you for thinking of me. If Abba permits, Yagil and I will join you soon.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Tasmin

  I pulled the linen towel from my shoulder and draped it over a chair, then smoothed my tunic and went into my father’s bedchamber.

  Abba was abed, his eyes closed, his hands folded across his chest. The muscles in his face had gone slack—and for a moment I feared he was gone. I gasped, then his eyelids fluttered and opened.

  “Tasmin?”

  “Yes.” I forced a smile and knelt beside his bed. “I have come to ask your permission to go to Jerusalem for the festival. Jude and James have invited me to travel with their family, and I would like to go. Aunt Dinah has agreed to look after you.”

  A wry smile showed in the snowy thicket of his beard. “You want to see Thomas.”

  I nodded. “Jude says he is in Jerusalem with Yeshua’s disciples.”

  “Will you try to find him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then . . . tell him I would like to bless him as Jacob blessed Joseph before he breathed his last.”

  I caught my father’s wavering hand and held it. “I will tell him, Abba. I will bring him home. I swear—”

  Abba lifted his free hand, cutting me off. “Do not swear, Tasmin. It is unseemly for a woman, and foolish when a matter is beyond your control. But HaShem knows my heart, and He knows I would like to see my only son before I die.”

  I tried to smile at him, but the corners of my mouth only wobbled precariously. “Then I will do my best, Abba. Before Adonai, I promise to do my best.”

  The journey to Jerusalem was like a dozen others I had taken with my father and brother, yet I had never traveled with such anticipation in my heart. We set out with little save the donkey, water jars, and baskets of food, and time passed quickly.

  I had never really talked to Jude’s brothers, so I enjoyed getting to know them. James, the second oldest, was a skilled storyteller, a man with heart. He entertained us on the journey with tales about five anonymous brothers and two sisters growing up in Nazareth.

  “Of course, those stories are completely untrue,” Jude assured me as he blushed. “James has a lively imagination.”

  Simeon, the brother closest to Jude in age, seemed a quiet, dreamy fellow with an eye for pretty girls. He spent a lot of time smiling at me, until Jude told him to watch the road lest he stumble into a wagon rut. Then he walked at the head of our group, where he seemed to admire the women in any approaching party. “Our Simeon,” Jude whispered to James, “needs to be married. The sooner, the better.”

  Joses, the youngest of Joseph and Mary’s children, loved to joke. Good-natured and observant, he spent most of his time marveling at the natural beauty along the road and was the first to point out situations the rest of us hadn’t yet noticed—the cloud of dust signifying an approaching Roman wagon, the downed camel with the injured leg, the frantic man whose wife was about to give birth in a makeshift shelter. At Sukkot, like all the pilgrimage festivals, ordinary life took to the road and would not be put off.

  Compared to the last time I traveled to Jerusalem, this journey seemed relatively uneventful. We walked with families whenever possible, and when we stopped to eat or draw water, we often overheard snatches of talk about Yeshua and the miracles he had performed in Galilee.

  Fortunately, none of the men mentioned their missing brother, though Jude did tell me they left him in Nazareth. “For a moment, I thought Yeshua had come home to stay,” Jude confessed, lowering his voice so the others would not overhear. “But he assured us he was only visiting. He knows the Temple authorities want him dead, and yet he persists in continuing his teaching.” He shook his head. “I am sorry, Tasmin, because I know Thomas is caught up in Yeshua’s foolishness. I wish it were not so.”

  “We cannot force other people to do our will,” I replied, glancing back to check on Yagil, who rode on James’s shoulders. “I suppose not even a king has that power.”

  “HaShem has,” Jude remarked, staring at a distant point on the horizon. “But He bends us rather than forcing us to His will. Remember Jonah—he did not want to go to Nineveh. Though HaShem had the power and authority to pick him up and put him in that city, instead He invited a great fish to swallow the prophet. From inside the fish’s belly, Jonah decided he wanted to go.”

  I laughed at Jude’s sour expression. “I hope I am never that stubborn. How much easier it would have been to obey Adonai.”

  “Indeed,” Jude murmured.

  We passed through Aenon and Salim, the cities where John the Immerser had taught his disciples, following the Jordan southward. After several days, we finally reached Jericho, the last major city before Jerusalem. Only a little farther to go, through beautiful territory . . . if you liked palm trees.

  Along th
e banks of the Jordan, palm trees grew wild in thick clusters. They were everywhere, their tall, graceful trunks arching gently toward the sky, their long branches falling from the crown like a starburst. Jude must have realized I had a connection with date palms, for he turned to smile at me. “I am sure you enjoy this landscape—palms as far as the eye can see.”

  I stifled a yawn. “Not particularly.”

  “I thought you would love palm trees. Surely you worked in the grove with your father—”

  “Perhaps that’s why I am weary of them. Why don’t you tell me about your latest carpentry project?”

  Jude would not be distracted. Noticing a towering palm to our right, he gazed up at the crown. “My father used to say that the palms were what HaShem meant when He promised us a land flowing with milk and honey. God was referring to the date palm, because the fruit is as sweet as honey.”

  “Could you stop talking about dates? I do not feel well.”

  He tossed me a look of concern. “Did you eat so many as a child that the thought of them now sickens you?”

  “Something like that.”

  I lowered my head as my stomach clenched. I visited the grove only because I had to look after the trees if Yagil and I wanted to avoid starvation. The grove provided our livelihood, but I didn’t have to like it.

  I swallowed hard and lifted my head, trying desperately to think of something—anything—else.

  “Thomas, that is mine!”

  Thomas grinned at me, then bent his pudgy legs and crouched beside the irrigation channel where I had placed a perfect tamarisk leaf. The cupped leaf, shaped like a little boat, was sitting on a bit of sand, awaiting the moment when Ima would pour water into the channel. Then it would sail away, down the channel toward the date palms, and I would follow it to see where it landed . . .

  But Thomas had spied my leaf, and his greedy little fingers were reaching for it. “Thomas!” I warned. “Don’t take my leaf. Find one of your own.”

  “Why should I? I want this one.”

  “Get your own leaf.”

  “I will tell Abba that you’re not sharing.”

  I glanced up at the mention of our father. I saw him by the well, where he had moved the big flat rock that served as a cover when we weren’t drawing water. Ima stood beside him, holding the bucket and rope, preparing to flood the channels and water our thirsty trees.

  “I wish you’d let me stay and help you,” Abba told Ima. “In your condition—”

  “Go on.” Ima playfully pushed him away. “By the time you have finished paying the taxes, I’ll be done here.”

  “So why don’t you wait? You shouldn’t be hauling water—”

  “I’ve been hauling it for months, so I’ll be fine. Besides”—she lifted the bucket—“it’s not a large bucket. Little by little, I will get the trees watered.”

  Abba reached for her and kissed her, the bump at her midsection like a rounded boulder between them. Abba put his hand on her belly, and Ima laughed. “Please, HaShem,” he said, lifting his gaze to heaven, “no twins this time. One baby will be enough.”

  When Ima smiled, Abba kissed her again, then walked away toward the mule. Ima watched him go and then looked down the canal to the spot where Thomas and I were playing. “Are you two all right?” she asked.

  I looked at Thomas and made a face, my way of warning him that I’d tell Ima if he didn’t leave my boat alone.

  “We’re fine,” he yelled, grinning at me. He flattened himself on the ground, propping his chin on his hands. So he was going to watch with me. Good.

  Pleased with my small victory, I stretched out on the dirt across from him, and together we waited for the water.

  The flood did not disappoint. The water came slowly at first, creeping like a living thing over the sandy ground, but the more bucketfuls Ima emptied, the stronger the current grew. Finally it crested the bit of sand where my leaf rested, and my pretend boat rode the wave for several minutes, moving toward the intersecting channel.

  Thomas and I jumped up and followed the leaf until Ima finished and the water had disappeared. I picked up my leaf and stroked it as though it were alive. “Good little leaf,” I said, holding it close to my chest. “I will keep you and bring you along the next time we come to the grove.”

  “Come, children.” Ima took my hand and Thomas’s, placing herself between us. I was content to walk calmly by her side, while Thomas was determined to misbehave. He kept reaching across Ima, trying to snatch my leaf. But I closed my fingers and strained to keep it from his grasping hand.

  “Behave, children. Thomas, stand still and walk straight ahead. Tasmin, whatever you have there, let it go. We don’t need to bring back—Thomas!”

  I did not turn until I heard Ima scream. Thomas, in all his lunging and twisting, had slipped out of Ima’s grasp and fallen into the well.

  “HaShem, help!” Ima ran to the well and dropped to her hands and knees, peering over the edge. “Thomas! Thanks be to Adonai, stay right where you are! Do not move!”

  Bewildered and stunned, I stood frozen in one spot until Ima screamed my name. “Tasmin! Here.” She fumbled with the rope, now piled in a heap by the edge of the well. “Take this”—she thrust the cut end toward me—“and tie it around that palm tree. Hurry! You must tie it tightly!”

  I gulped, forcing down the sudden lurch of my stomach, and ran for the rope, took it, and sprinted to the tree. At five, I had never learned how to tie a rope, but many times I had watched Abba tie ropes to wagons, trunks, and mules. I wrapped the rope around the tree, then brought the end over and under and over . . .

  When my work looked a bit like Abba’s knot, I stepped away from the tree and nodded at Ima.

  “Did you tie it tightly?”

  I nodded again.

  Mama smiled through her tears. “Good girl. I can’t leave your brother because he’s clinging to a brick and I’m afraid he will fall. So I must trust you to save him.”

  Ima took the bucket end of the rope and lowered it into the well. “Thomas, grab hold,” she ordered, her voice echoing against the stone walls. “Don’t look down, just take the rope.”

  Terror blew down the back of my neck as the sound of Thomas’s agonized wail rose from the depths. “Ima? Is Thomas all right?”

  Ima was barely listening because she had shifted to dangle her legs in the stone shaft. “Stop crying, Thomas, you will be fine. Just hold on to the rope. That’s right. Hush, no crying. I am coming down for you.”

  By sheer force of will I forced my feet to move closer. After shedding her headscarf and sandals, Ima pressed her toes to the uneven bricks of the well. She grabbed the rope, tugged on it, and looked at me. “I’m going down to get your brother,” she said, her eyes flashing with determination. “He’s too afraid to move, but he didn’t fall far. I’ll send him up and come up after him, understand?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Good.” Ima took a deep breath, then gripped the rope and shifted her weight, appearing to balance herself between the rope, the wall at her back, and the stones beneath her bare feet. I saw her swing into the well and slide down, disappearing from my sight, yet her voice continued to call out encouragement, urging Thomas not to cry, not to let go, to remain calm . . .

  I clapped my hands over my ears, unable to listen. I closed my eyes and sang, so loudly I could no longer hear my brother’s cries or my mother’s words . . .

  Then Thomas was on the ground, flat on his belly, the front of his tunic marked with wet slime. He lowered his head and cried in relief.

  I uncovered my ears and told him to be quiet, but he only cried louder. “Thomas,” I yelled, “we have to be quiet for Ima!”

  He stopped, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and turned toward the mouth of the well. Together we crept toward the opening, but we heard nothing.

  I looked around for the rope I had tied to the palm tree. Ima had to be at the other end . . .

  But at some point between my brother’s
escape and the sudden silence, the rope—and our mother—had disappeared.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Tasmin

  The Holy City overflowed with pilgrims, just as we had known it would. Jews from all over the world filled the inns—families from Alexandria, Babylon, Perea, even Rome and Greece. Adding to the happy sense of confusion were the temporary shelters propped along the city walls and leaning against existing buildings and family homes. Everyone who wanted to participate in the festival would sleep in a shelter, no matter how rudimentary.

  I laughed when I overheard a woman from Jerusalem complain about sleeping in her shelter on the street. On our journey, we slept beneath the open sky, so having any roof over my head felt luxurious. Too many mornings I had awakened with a dew-dampened face.

  After spending our first night in Jerusalem in a simple shelter—Yagil and I bedded down with a gaggle of giggly sisters from Tabor—we joined Jude and his brothers and went in search of a place to erect our shelter for the week. James had a friend who lived in Jerusalem, and he generously allowed us a space for our shelter in the narrow alley behind his house. Our shelter had two compartments—one space for Jude and his brothers, and a smaller one for Yagil and me.

  After setting up our shelter, Jude and I took Yagil and walked to the Temple. With Yagil riding his shoulders, Jude snaked his way through the crowds while I took care to remain close behind him. His wide shoulders were easy to follow, and I lost my initial nervousness over the fear of our being separated. My only remaining concern was how to find Thomas in the throng of visitors. Where would Yeshua have sent his followers? And without him, what would they do in Jerusalem?

  We had just passed through the Golden Gate and stepped into the outer court when I heard a familiar voice in the crowd. I whirled around, straining to place the source of the sound, then tugged hard on Jude’s arm. “Over there,” I said, pointing to a group of men beyond a line of Levites. “I think I heard Thomas!”