Daughter of Cana Read online

  “Ah, let me get the lamb cleaned and into the oven,” the innkeeper’s wife said, rubbing her hands in anticipation. She looked at me and smiled. “We would be happy if you would join us for the Seder.”

  Neither Jude nor I had an appetite, but it would violate the Law to refuse their hospitality, so we accepted and sat in the courtyard to wait for sunset. The earth itself seemed to share our shock, for the darkness that had descended at the sixth hour continued until the ninth, when the bleating of the lambs finally ceased.

  From inside the house, I heard our hostess preparing the wood for her fire. Soon she would slide the Passover lamb into the stone oven . . . and somewhere, if he had been fortunate enough to die quickly, someone would slide Yeshua’s body into a pauper’s grave.

  “The sun simply stopped shining.” Jude studied the sky, which had returned to its usual color. “How can the sun not shine?”

  “Sometimes we encounter mysteries,” I said, searching the heavens for an answer. “Things only HaShem can explain.”

  “It was almost as if Adonai grieved for my brother,” Jude went on, “as if he was more than a prophet. But if so, how could HaShem allow such a horrible thing to take place? If He protected Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednego from the flames of Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace, shouldn’t He have saved Yeshua from the Romans?”

  The Passover feast was supposed to be a time of great joy, yet our hearts were heavy as we went through the motions of the ritual meal. Afterward I thanked our hostess for her kind hospitality and went back outside, where the walls did not seem as if they were closing in on me.

  Before I left the house, the innkeeper’s wife caught my sleeve. “We heard about what happened outside the city today.” She stole a glimpse at my face. “From your expression, I assume you were there?”

  I nodded.

  She shook her head. “Such a nasty business. I do not go to the executions. Watching the Romans execute our people in such a way—it is too much.” She gave me a fleeting smile. “Try to put it out of your mind. Tomorrow will be a better day.”

  If only that were true.

  Jude and I did not sleep that night but sat in the courtyard, our ears attuned to the sounds of the city and the earth. I was certain that somewhere, someone in Jerusalem had heard nothing about what had happened at Golgotha, but by sunset most people knew the story. Strangers who passed by the inn’s courtyard nodded to us and inevitably said, “Have you heard?” No matter how we responded, they proceeded to share yet another version of the day’s events.

  Nearly all of the stories were beyond belief. One man reported that the centurion overseeing the crucifixion became a believer in Yeshua after watching him die.

  “What was so special about his death?” Jude asked, pain shining in his eyes. “I was there. I saw him hanging on the iron nails. He suffered, he bled, he died.”

  “Few people can stand that kind of agony,” the man countered. “Yet Yeshua refused the wine that would have dulled his pain, then begged HaShem to forgive the executioners for what they were doing. In all the public executions I have witnessed, I have never witnessed such a thing.”

  Jude lifted his head. “You were there until the end?”

  The man nodded.

  “The woman, Yeshua’s mother, do you know where she went?”

  The man placed his hand atop his walking stick. “The accused man placed her in the care of one of his disciples—”

  “And where did he take her?”

  To deflect Jude’s rising emotion, I asked, “Do you know Yeshua’s disciples? Do you know Thomas?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  The man glanced over his shoulder, then shook his head. “Like frightened sheep they all fled when the Temple guards arrested Yeshua in the garden. Simon Peter followed at a distance, going as far as the high priest’s house, but Thomas . . . I haven’t seen him.”

  I thanked the man for his time and watched until he vanished into the darkness.

  Once again we were surrounded by darkness, but this darkness exuded warmth and celebration. Lamplight pushed at the night from torches mounted near every door, and sounds of joyous laughter spilled into the street as families enjoyed their Passover dinners. We heard singing and laughter and happy voices . . . how was it possible?

  Evil had won the day, and those who had opposed Yeshua—whether through jealousy or zeal for the Law above all else—were no doubt celebrating, lifting their glasses, telling themselves and their families that they had eradicated another threat to their positions and their religious rituals.

  Yet Jude and I knew better. I closed my eyes and heard Yeshua’s voice, repeating something he had said on the hillside in Galilee: “But if I drive out demons by the Ruach Elohim, then the kingdom of God has come upon you. How can one enter a strong man’s house and carry off his property, unless he first ties up the strong man? Then he will thoroughly plunder his house. He who is not with me is against me, and he who does not gather with me scatters.”

  Jude and I could not believe Yeshua was the son of God because we knew he was the son of Joseph and Mary. But neither did we agree with those who had persecuted him, those who mocked him and celebrated his death. And Yeshua himself said that if we were not with him, we were against him . . .

  “Jude?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Is it possible Yeshua was the son of God? In some way we do not understand?”

  Jude inhaled sharply, brought his hands together and bent forward, resting his head on his fists. Then he looked at me. “What does it matter now? He is gone. And this time we will never catch up to him.”

  I nodded and leaned my head against the wall. Jude was right; Yeshua’s story was finished. We would mourn him, we would wonder why he said the things he said, and then we would look to the future.

  We would probably remain in Jerusalem for a few more days. Tomorrow, Jude would want to find his mother and I would make inquiries about Thomas. Surely Thomas would come home with me this time—what choice did he have?

  I might finally accomplish what I had set out to do, but I would find little joy in it. I had wanted Thomas to come home because he missed me, not because death had shattered his dreams.

  Tomorrow would be a special Shabbat for the Feast of Unleavened Bread. While we would be limited by what we could do, it was better to remain active than to sit and mourn in silence.

  I looked at Jude’s torchlit profile. If Yeshua had not drawn Thomas away from Cana, Jude and I would not be betrothed. Over the last three years we had endured much together. I had learned what an honorable, righteous, and brave man he was, and apparently he had found something admirable in me.

  Once we went home, he might not be able to look at me without being reminded of this shattering day. In the space of a few hours, he had lost a brother, failed his mother, and broken his promise to his siblings. Everything about this trip had ended in failure, and it might take months for him to recover from his losses.

  I knew about loss, and I knew nothing was ever the same afterward. Jude would eventually marry me, for he was an honorable man . . . but he would be in no hurry.

  I shifted in my chair and closed my eyes to the night, my hopes, and his promise that we would marry soon after Yeshua had ended his ministry.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Tasmin

  Shalom to you.” The innkeeper’s wife smiled and gestured to her table, already spread with food to break our fast. “I hope you rested well.”

  I glanced at the food but still did not have much of an appetite. “Thank you—you are very thoughtful.”

  “Will you be going to the Temple this morning?” she asked, pulling her cloak from a hook on the wall. “I would be happy to walk with you.”

  I closed my eyes and shuddered. Go to the place where the chief priests would be leading prayers and psalms of praise? Where they would smile secret, self-congratulatory smiles and gloat over their destruction of an innocent man?
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br />   “I do not think so,” I said. “I will wait here for my traveling companion.”

  “Shabbat shalom to you, then.” She tossed a smile over her shoulder and went outside, where her husband and children waited.

  I sank onto a bench at the table and propped my chin on my hand. In a gesture born of habit, not hunger, I reached for the matzah and broke off a piece. I had just taken a bite when I heard footsteps behind me.

  “Look who was asking about us.”

  I whirled around. Jude stood behind me, and with him was Thomas—looking tired, exhausted, and thoroughly defeated.

  A cry of joy and relief broke from my lips as I rose and threw my arms around my twin. “I am so happy to see you.”

  “You have no idea”—he lowered his head to murmur in my ear—“how much I have missed you. Especially in these last few days.”

  “How did you find us?”

  He shook his head. “People talk. And I had time on my hands . . . too much time.” He uttered the words in a thick voice, then collapsed onto the bench. I released him and motioned to Jude, who sat across from us and folded his hands on the table.

  “It . . . is over,” Thomas said. “Yeshua is dead. I have spent three years following him, waiting patiently, but now . . . all is lost.”

  “What were you waiting for?” Jude asked.

  “The kingdom of God!” Fresh misery darkened Thomas’s face. “We were waiting for Yeshua to work the ultimate miracle, the one that would liberate us from Roman oppression. We had seen him do mighty miracles by the power of God, yet for the last few weeks, all Yeshua could talk about was leaving us. He said he was going away. I thought he was planning to go to Rome to challenge the emperor. He said he was going to prepare a place for us and then would come back for us. He said we would know the way, but when I asked how we were supposed to know the way when we didn’t even know where he was going, he smiled and said, ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life! No one comes to the Father except through me.’”

  I shook my head. “Yeshua’s words have always confused me.”

  “You are not the only one who feels that way.” Thomas looked at Jude, his expression tight with strain. “He said he would send us a helper who would be with us forever. He said he would not leave us as orphans, but would come to us. But then the betrayer left our table—”

  “Betrayer?” Jude’s voice sharpened. “One of the twelve?”

  Thomas nodded. “Judas Iscariot. He sold Yeshua to the Temple elders for thirty pieces of silver.”

  A swift shadow of anger passed over Jude’s face. “‘So they weighed out my wages,’” he quoted, his voice thin and brittle, “‘thirty pieces of silver. So I took the thirty pieces of silver and threw them into the House of Adonai, to the potter.’”

  I recognized the passage from the writings of Zechariah, a section referring to the sum the prophet was paid for shepherding a flock meant for slaughter. The paltry amount—what the Law required if a man’s ox gored another man’s servant—was the value of a slave.

  My temper flared. By offering thirty pieces of silver, the Temple authorities had shown flagrant contempt for Yeshua, yet Judas had accepted the token payment and betrayed a prophet of God.

  “What happened to Judas Iscariot?” I asked, my voice ragged with fury. “Have you seen him since his betrayal?”

  Thomas’s eyes peered out from deep, shadowed sockets. “He is dead. Apparently he took the money back to those who had paid him, then went and hanged himself.”

  “A fitting end,” Jude said bitterly. “If only he had experienced his remorse sooner.”

  “He led the Temple guards to Gethsemane,” Thomas went on, “where he betrayed Yeshua with a kiss. That was the last time I saw our teacher. So I ask you—how is Yeshua supposed to establish the kingdom of God from the tomb?”

  I glanced at Jude, whose eyes still smoldered.

  “Thomas.” I reached for his hands as compassion replaced my anger. “Do not despair. You know that grief eventually eases.”

  Thomas stared mindlessly across the room, and I could not tell if my words had penetrated the fog of grief in his head.

  Jude clenched and unclenched his hands. “I am glad you found us. I want to know what was done about Yeshua’s body. Most important, Thomas, I need to know about my mother.”

  Thomas blinked in what looked like dazed exasperation. “I—I only know what I have heard.”

  “So tell us, and start with my mother. Where is she?”

  Thomas sniffed and ran his hand under his nose. “She is with John, at his house. Some of the other women are with her.”

  Jude nodded. “Will she come home with me, do you think? My brothers and sisters—”

  Thomas shook his head. “I do not think she will leave Jerusalem anytime soon. Not before three days, at least.”

  “What? Why?”

  Thomas winced. “The Pharisees were always asking for a sign. Yeshua told them, many times, that they would be given nothing but the sign of Jonah the prophet.”

  “What sign is that?” I asked.

  Thomas sighed. “‘For just as Jonah was in the belly of the great fish for three days and three nights, so the Son of Man will be in the heart of the earth for three days and three nights.’”

  Jude frowned. “Why Jonah?”

  “He was a Galilean,” I said, staring blankly at the tabletop. “And a prophet, like Yeshua.”

  Thomas cleared his throat. “As I said, Mary is not likely to leave Jerusalem until three days and three nights have passed.”

  “What happened to Yeshua’s body?” Jude nailed Thomas with a sharp look. “Did the Romans throw him in a ditch?”

  Thomas lifted his hand. “This I can answer with authority, because Peter made inquiries. A member of the Sanhedrin had come to see Yeshua before, a man named Nicodemus. He and Joseph of Arimathea, another member of the Sanhedrin, went to Pilate and asked if they could have the body.”

  “Did no one think that his kin might want to care for him?” Jude asked.

  Thomas frowned. “Did none of his kin approach Pilate? Did any of them argue for his life? Apparently not. Nicodemus and Joseph took the body to a garden tomb not far from Golgotha. They did not have time to prepare it properly, so they wrapped it in linen with spices and sealed the tomb with a stone. The women agreed to finish the burial properly, after the Sabbath.”

  Thomas turned to me. “The chief priests and elders have visited Pilate, as well. They warned that we disciples would try to steal the body and claim he had come back to life, so they asked for a cohort of legionaries to guard the tomb.”

  “Did Pilate agree?” Jude asked.

  Thomas shook his head. “He told them they had their own guards, so to secure it as best they could . . . which they surely did.”

  I looked across the table at Jude. “Do you want to find the place where they buried him? We could search for it today—”

  “For what purpose? The guards will not let us in. And even if we found a way to take the body back to Nazareth . . .” His voice faded away. “Let him rest here in Jerusalem, the city that killed Isaiah and Zechariah ben Jehoiada. He belongs here.” He gazed out the window with chilling intentness for a moment, then turned to Thomas. “So what will you do now? You’ve spent three years following my brother, but at least you escaped with your life. Will you go home or will you remain in Jerusalem?”

  Thomas gave Jude a weary look, then turned to me. “I was glad when I heard you were here.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Miriam saw you on the street. You met her in Galilee.”

  “I remember.”

  “Once it was . . . all over, I set out to find you. And here you are.”

  “Yes.” I grabbed the matzah, broke off a piece, and offered it to him. “Eat, brother. You look as though you are about to fall over. Did you sleep last night?”

  He shook his head.

  “Neither did we, but now we face a new day. While what happened ye
sterday was unjust, we can do nothing to change things. We must move forward now. We must go home.”

  Thomas accepted the matzah and stared at it as if he’d never seen unleavened bread before. “I am the bread of life,” he murmured.

  “What?”

  “Something Yeshua once said: ‘I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.’”

  “Thomas, you are always hungry. So eat. Drink something. Build up your strength. On the first day of the week you can return to Galilee with us. You can go home to Cana and pick up the strings of your life. The house is yours. The grove is yours. I will be with you until Jude and I marry, then you can take a wife and begin a family of your own.”

  He inclined his head in a morose nod, but at least he had agreed. Finally, Thomas was coming home. I had given so much to win my brother back, and soon he would be home again. If only he had come to his senses sooner . . .

  “Yeshua gave me hope for Israel. And now my hope is gone.” Thomas uttered the words in a hoarse whisper, as if they were too tragic to speak in his normal voice.

  I watched in silence as the two men in my life thoughtlessly picked at the food on the table. Yes, I would have my brother again, but at what cost? Something inside him had gone silent, and the light in his eyes had been snuffed out. Time might heal his wounds, but until then he would be but a shell of the brother I loved.

  Though we were only children when we lost our mother, the loss had not destroyed him. So why was he so bereft now? Had he believed that Yeshua could forgive our sin? The horror that had stained our souls for years?

  If so, I could understand his quiet desperation.

  I glanced at Jude, who looked even worse than Thomas. Jude’s countenance had fallen, his eyes gone dark with despair. He was undoubtedly dreading the journey home, because he would have to tell his siblings that he had not found Yeshua and Mary in time. Worst of all, he would have to tell them about watching Yeshua die on a cursed execution stake . . .

  I lowered my head onto my hand and rubbed my forehead. For three years I had prayed and done everything I could to bring Thomas home, and soon we would be again living under the same roof. I had finally succeeded . . . why, then, did I feel so defeated?