Daughter of Cana Read online

  I shook my head. “A more likely story is that the sky thundered and Andrew only thought he heard those words.”

  Jude smiled, satisfaction shining in his eyes. “That is what I told him. Yet he insists others heard words, not thunder.”

  We walked in silence for a moment, and I wondered if Damaris was listening or too sick to care about our conversation. She walked behind us, her head down, but she had not fallen behind.

  I had to know more. “And after that?” I asked Jude. “Why are Andrew and all those other men with your brother now?”

  He shrugged. “Andrew says John’s disciples were sitting around the fire that night and John said, ‘I have seen the Ruach coming down like a dove out of heaven, and it remained on Him. I did not know Him; but the One who sent me to immerse in water said to me, “The One on whom you see the Ruach coming down and remaining, this is the One who immerses in the Ruach ha-Kodesh.” And I have seen and testified that this is Ben-Elohim, the son of God.’”

  I stared, tongue-tied, but then a retching noise cut into my thoughts. I turned in time to see Damaris lean over and vomit on the side of the road.

  In an instant, Jude was by his sister’s side, holding her shoulders as she retched again, then spat the remnants of bitter taste from her lips. “Sorry,” she said, taking the linen square Jude produced from his tunic. She wiped her mouth and patted perspiration from her brow. “I should not have eaten this morning.” She managed to laugh. “At least I got sick here and not before all those guests.”

  As Jude cared for his sister, I tried to make sense of what I’d just learned. Andrew’s belief that Yeshua was our messiah and future king seemed farfetched but not outside the realm of possibility. And yet to believe he was the son of God? Impossible. Inconceivable.

  Every morning and evening, as part of our prayers, we recited the Shema: “Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.”

  Israel had only one God, and HaShem had no sons.

  My heart twisted in pity for Jude and Damaris—for all of Mary’s children. I couldn’t imagine being caught up in such blasphemy.

  “I am sorry,” I said, catching Jude’s eye. “I cannot imagine what you must be feeling.”

  “It’s nothing,” Damaris said, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “The sickness will pass in a few weeks.”

  I wasn’t talking about nausea, and Jude caught my meaning. He nodded slightly and shifted his gaze to the road ahead. “When John the Immerser returned to the river the next day, Andrew kept watching the road. When he saw Yeshua walk by, he called out, ‘There he is, God’s Passover lamb.’ That’s when Andrew left John. He’s been with Yeshua ever since—he and his brother, Simon Peter.”

  I shook my head. “How could they leave their families, their work . . . ?”

  “They are fishermen, so they can work anywhere they find water. But yes, they left everything. Peter has a house and family in Capernaum, though he does visit them as often as he can.”

  I waited until Damaris was ready to walk again, then resumed my place by Jude’s side. “A few fisherman from Capernaum—not exactly the companions you would expect to be keeping company with Israel’s future king.”

  Jude chuffed as we walked. “My brother’s followers are from all over Galilee. There’s Philip from Bethsaida, and Nathanael, who wholeheartedly believed the moment Yeshua said he had seen him standing under a fig tree.”

  “But anyone could see a man standing—”

  “Nathanael had been standing under a fig tree in his walled garden, trying to determine what was wrong with the leaves, two days before Yeshua came to Bethsaida. When Nathanael realized Yeshua saw what no one could have seen, he declared him to be the Son of God and King of Israel.”

  While I had no explanation for that, I did not need to supply one. When I looked up again, we were passing the watchtower that stood outside Nazareth.

  Fortunately, the butcher in Nazareth was healthy and more than delighted to provide meat for a wedding feast in Cana. He had no goat available, but he had a lamb.

  I reluctantly accepted his offer. The lamb would work well in a stew, and it was meat—a luxury rarely enjoyed by the average family but expected at a feast.

  “I have heard about that wedding,” the butcher said, tying a bleating lamb to a post. “A few families from Nazareth have gone for the feast.”

  “Yes,” I said, turning to avoid the sight of bloodshed. Though people slaughtered animals every day, I had never been able to stomach the sight of blood. When I prepared chicken for our Shabbat dinner, I made Thomas kill the bird because I simply could not bring myself to cut its throat.

  “The carpenter’s family is in Cana,” I said in an effort to avoid talking about the lamb. “Mary, her children and grandchildren—”

  “Nice family.” I saw the butcher’s knife wink at the corner of my eye and turned again, but could not escape a swishing sound and the wet splat of blood spilling on the ground.

  My knees nearly buckled. Desperate to talk about something else, I said, “The eldest son, Yeshua—”

  “I know him well,” the butcher said. “Talented craftsman. Everyone thought he would take over his father’s work, but he left a few months ago and the work fell to his brothers.” He looked up at Jude. “I would imagine you fellows are not very happy about that.”

  Jude showed his teeth in an expression that fell far short of a smile. “We are not. But we hope he will return when he grows tired of . . . whatever he’s doing.”

  “For a son, what is more important than the work his father left for him to do?” the butcher asked. “Four months ago, my wife ordered this worktable from your family. It finally arrived, though I know you younger brothers had to finish it. And if you’ll forgive me for saying so, the craftsmanship is not what I expected from the sons of Joseph the carpenter.”

  I shuddered at the heavy sound of the lamb being dropped onto the table. “Do you want me to clean and skin it?” the butcher asked. “Or would you prefer to do those things after you arrive in Cana?”

  I frowned, not understanding why he would ask.

  “Leave it as it is,” Jude answered. “I do not want to carry a dripping carcass all the way back to the wedding.”

  I closed my eyes, amazed at my stupidity. Of course. I had given no thought as to how we would transport the animal, but since Jude would be carrying it . . .

  Once we returned to the wedding, I would ask Thomas to do the messy work.

  “Thank you,” I told Jude. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  I glanced at Damaris, who stood at the gate, facing the street. “Are you all right?” I asked.

  She nodded. “I can make it home,” she whispered. “And then I want to nap. My husband and children will be home tonight, and after that I will not be able to rest.”

  I paid the butcher and smiled my thanks as Jude draped the carcass over his shoulders. Then we walked Damaris to the house where she lived with her husband, their children, and his parents. The building was large and grand, with an addition that had obviously been built to house the son’s family.

  “You should come in,” she said, opening the gate that led to the smaller house. “I will give you lemon water and let you rest before you walk back.”

  I bit my lip, mentally calculating how long it would take to return and prepare the stew. Fortunately, a stew would cook more quickly than a roast, and we had plenty of vegetables to fill the stewpot.

  Damaris went first and threw open the shutters that opened to the central courtyard, allowing a wave of sunlight to flood the front room. Jude strolled inside with the comfortable air of a frequent guest, then pulled a piece of burlap from a basket and spread it on a table. He lowered the lamb onto the rough cloth and wrapped it to keep the flies away.

  Then he dropped into a chair and propped his elbows on pillows, gesturing for me to do the same. “I like visiting Damaris,” he said, grinning at his sister. “I enjoy seeing how wealthy people live.”

  Damaris
felt well enough to toss a pillow at his head, and then she went over to the cooking area and brought out a pitcher of water flavored with lemon. “My father-in-law is wealthy,” she said, filling a cup for me. “He owns a vineyard and exports a great deal of wine. He is always traveling to exotic ports and buying things we are not likely to see in Nazareth.”

  I gestured to a colorful pillow that shimmered in the sunlight. “Like that?”

  She looked up and smiled. “Oh, yes. That fabric is really too fragile for daily use, so I don’t know why he bought it. I forget where he found it—probably Rome, since everything seems to come from that city. But my children have already stained that pillow and rendered it—well, if not useless, at least unfit for my father-in-law’s house. That’s why it now lives with us.”

  She poured water for her brother and placed a cup in his hand, then sank onto a sofa and fanned her face with a palm frond. “My father-in-law is always telling us about the things he has seen in Rome. Exotic animals, amazing aqueducts, and beautiful statues.”

  “Not likely to see those here,” Jude added. “Only the Herods would be brazen enough to erect a graven image in Judea.”

  Damaris turned to her brother. “Have you nothing to fetch from home? Wait—didn’t Mother ask for her blue cloak? You could go get it, and by the time you return I am sure Tasmin will be ready to return to Cana.”

  “A good suggestion.” Jude stood, kissed the top of his sister’s head, and strode cheerfully away.

  “He was never one for listening to women,” Damaris said, her eyes softening as she watched him walk toward the door. “But if I had to choose, I’d say he was my favorite brother. Pheodora would say the same.”

  “Your other sister—she lives here in Nazareth, too?”

  Damaris shook her head. “She is married to Chiram, from Bethlehem, and she has four girls. Chiram desperately wants a son, but Pheodora told me—” she lowered her voice to a confidential whisper—“she would be happy if Adonai stopped sending babies. Her little girls are a handful.”

  I looked around at the fine furnishings—Damaris had certainly married well. “Did Pheodora also marry a merchant’s son?”

  Damaris made a face. “No. She married into livestock.”

  “What?” I laughed. “I don’t understand.”

  “She married a shepherd.” Damaris spoke the word as if it had a bad taste. “He watches flocks outside the city, and he is away from home most of the time. I hate to say it, but every time I’ve seen him, he—” she lowered her voice—“he smells like animals.” Her dark eyes darted to me. “So . . . you are not married?”

  I sighed and braced myself for the usual questions. “I am not.”

  “Don’t you want to be married?”

  I lifted one shoulder in a polite shrug. “I have not thought much about it. For as long as I can remember, our family has been Abba, Thomas, and me. Thomas and I have always done everything together.”

  “But he is your brother.” She shuddered in mock horror. “As a grown woman, I could never live with one of my brothers.”

  “He is my twin. Abba says we are like two sides of a coin—completely opposite but bonded together.”

  “But, Tasmin, you are missing so much.” She eyed me with something very fragile in her expression, then looked away toward the open windows. “What was it Agur wrote? ‘Three things are too amazing for me, four I do not understand: the way of an eagle in the sky, the way of a serpent upon a rock, the way of a ship in the heart of the sea, and the way of a man with a maiden.’” A blush ran over her cheeks. “You will not know what married love is until you experience it.”

  I took a deep breath and flexed my fingers until the urge to cover my ears had passed. “I am content with my brother,” I said easily. “We are happy with our family as it is.”

  Damaris lowered her hand to her belly. “Still, surely you want children. HaShem created women to have children and commanded us to fill the earth—”

  “Your brothers are not married.”

  She lifted a finger, acknowledging my point. “I believe they will be, eventually. At least I hope so. Because I adore children and want to have lots of nieces and nephews.”

  “Well . . .” I searched for words, not wanting to sound as if I disapproved of her choice. “I have never really thought much about children. Thomas and I have no other siblings, and we were never around them growing up.”

  “But you had a mother, and every child loves her mother.”

  “Thomas and I lost our mother when we were young. Abba asked Aunt Dinah to help care for us, but she had a family of her own. We learned to be content with having only a father.”

  A tremor of compassion knit Damaris’s brows. “I am sorry. Forgive me for rattling on about things I know nothing about.”

  “Do not worry.” I hoped she would not ask anything else, because I did not want to horrify her with the truth.

  I took advantage of her momentary silence to drink the water in my cup, then stood. “Thank you for your company and your hospitality,” I said. “I know you need rest, so I’ll be going.”

  “But Jude is coming here to get you—”

  “I’ll wait for him outside.”

  “But—” She pointed to the wrapped lamb on the table. “Your meat.”

  I grimaced. “Thank you. I nearly forgot about it.”

  She might have protested further, but I walked over, slipped my arms beneath the lamb, now neatly wrapped, and carried it to the door. Thankfully, the animal was not heavy and I would not have to go far.

  Struggling with the dead animal in my arms, I got through the doorway and went outside to wait . . . where my secret would be safer.

  I waited several minutes outside the house, then decided to see if I could find Jude’s home myself. Nazareth was not a large town, and the first woman I saw on the street knew immediately which family I sought. She waved me toward a narrow, curving lane that lay like a pointing finger around the rocky knoll that supported the city. I started walking, ignoring the newer homes and barely glancing at the ornate ones, knowing Mary and her family could never afford a showplace.

  Finally I slowed my steps in front of a row of houses situated cheek by jowl together, each nearly indistinguishable from its neighbor. I squinted as I scanned the row of sand-colored structures. Surely Joseph the carpenter had lived in one of these.

  The two-story homes along this road were made of mud brick and not at all ostentatious. Each had a small walled staircase that opened onto the street and led up to the second floor. Unfortunately, none of the staircases had been marked with the name of the family.

  I stepped back and squinted to block the glare of the sun.

  “Have you tired of my sister’s company so soon?”

  I blinked, searching for the source of the sound, and spotted Jude at the top of the fourth staircase. I was about to stammer an explanation when I saw his warm and friendly smile—he was teasing.

  “I wanted to let her rest.” I moved slowly toward him, not wanting to place him in the awkward position of inviting me in. If no one else was at home, he might not want to entertain a strange woman before the neighbors’ prying eyes.

  “And why are you carrying the lamb? I was on my way to fetch it.”

  “I . . . I didn’t want to trouble your sister, since she was not feeling well. And”—I crinkled my nose as a pair of flies buzzed around my face—“it is not heavy.”

  “Not at first. Set it down and rest a moment. I will get water for you to wash up.”

  I did as he said, setting the lamb on a stone bench, then looked askance at my arms, covered in sweat and bits of fiber. At least I saw no blood.

  While I waited, I studied the carpenter’s home. The house Joseph had built for Mary was not particularly large, despite the number of children who had been born under its roof. Though I could not see inside the windows, I imagined it was like others I had visited: the first floor featuring an open courtyard with a fire pit at the center,
single rooms for animals and their feed along two sides, storage jars for washing and cooking along the back. The family lived upstairs—one room for the women, one for the men, and a communal space for guests to mingle with the family. Another mud-brick staircase would lead up to the flat roof, where the night breezes could cool a thirsty forehead and ease an overheated body to sleep.

  A cozy house, but not exactly the sort of dwelling I would expect for a man who would be king of the Jews.

  A moment later, Jude returned with a pitcher, which he poured over my arms, washing the filth away. After giving me a linen cloth to dry myself, he set the pitcher on a step and picked up a folded square. “My mother’s cloak,” he said, handing it to me. “And I will carry the lamb.”

  “If there is nothing else,” I said, managing a smile, “let us be on our way.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jude

  Tasmin did not talk much on the way back to Cana. I set a faster pace than before because we did not have to be mindful of Damaris’s condition, and I knew Tasmin had to prepare dinner for the feast. The woman might be opinionated and overly squeamish about slaughtering animals, but she did work hard.

  A woman who worked hard, Abba always said, was worth her weight in gold. A woman who worked hard and knew when to keep quiet was worth a king’s fortune.

  The date farmer’s daughter was a pleasure to behold, as well. Taller than most women, with a slender waist and sturdy hips, she had been blessed with a pleasing appearance and seemed oddly unaware of it. She did not wear her hair elaborately curled like most of the women at the wedding, but had woven it into two braids that beat softly against her back with every step. Soft, damp curls hid behind her ears and at her hairline, especially when her forehead gleamed with pearls of perspiration as it did now. And her ear, decorated only with a small gold circle, looked like one of the elaborately swirled honey cakes that had melted in my mouth when I bit into it . . .