Daughter of Cana Read online

  “Shalom!”

  A voice hailed us from outside the house. As one we turned toward the source of the sound. I stood in the doorway and held the lamp aloft, illuminating the courtyard gate. I stared, tongue-tied, when I recognized the man standing in the shadowy street.

  “Who is it?” Abba demanded from his chair. “Who comes so late?”

  “Someone—” somehow I found my voice—“someone from Nazareth.”

  I stepped forward and opened the gate, then led Jude into the house. He hesitated at the threshold before bowing respectfully toward Abba and Aunt Dinah.

  “Forgive my visit at this hour,” he said, gesturing toward the gathering darkness outside. “But I am traveling to Capernaum and did not want to travel farther in the dark. I wondered if the donkey and I could pass the night in the safety of your courtyard.”

  “Of course,” I said, speaking before Abba. “But you don’t have to sleep outside, you can—”

  “Tasmin.”

  Abba’s voice held a rebuke, so I backed away from the door. “If Abba agrees, you may stay with us.”

  With an effort, my father pushed himself out of his chair and lumbered toward our guest. “I remember you,” he said, looking Jude up and down. “You are one of Mary’s sons.”

  Aunt Dinah’s smile bathed our visitor in warmth. “Of course he should stay here. We can’t have him traveling after dark.”

  “I wanted to leave sooner,” Jude explained, spreading his hands, “but since I couldn’t leave Nazareth until after sunset—”

  “Come in, come in.” Abba caught the door and opened it wider. “Tasmin will see to your donkey. Jude can have Thomas’s bed. Can we get you water? Bread?”

  I left them exchanging pleasantries while I brought the donkey through the gate, removed his halter, and led him to the watering trough. As I pulled the pack saddle from his back, I couldn’t help but smile. Jude and I had formulated the same plan, but he had ended up here instead of Jotopata—and, all praise to HaShem, now I would have an escort.

  When I returned, Jude was sitting on the couch with Dinah, a cup of water in his hand.

  “Tell us about your plans,” Abba was saying. “Why did you have to leave in such a hurry?”

  Jude smiled at my father. “I had been home only a short time when one of the wealthiest men in Nazareth offered us a commission to build his wife a bed, a special gift for their anniversary. I’m going to find my brothers and give them the news.”

  “So you’re going straight to Capernaum,” I said, glancing at my father.

  “I am.”

  I squeezed my father’s arm. “You said Adonai would have made me a man if he wanted me to go to Capernaum. Suppose He sent me a man instead?”

  Abba looked from me to Jude, then back. “How do you know this man wants company?”

  I released my father and turned to our guest. “I need to speak to my brother—I want him to come home. He has no business wandering around Galilee while Abba and I need him here. I cannot travel alone, but if Abba approves, I could go with you.”

  Jude’s eyes widened slightly and then he glanced at Abba, whose face had gone red. “An unmarried man and woman traveling together . . .”

  “Not proper,” Aunt Dinah said. “Not seemly.”

  “It is but a day’s journey,” I said, speaking so quickly my words ran together. “We should reach Capernaum by nightfall. Then I can go my way and Jude can go his. I’ll find Thomas, and he will escort me home. I will be safe, Abba, and Thomas and I should be home in two days. Please . . . give me your blessing to go.”

  What could the man say? He wanted Thomas home as much as I did.

  He looked at Jude. “Promise me you will join other travelers as soon as you can.”

  Jude nodded. “We will.”

  Abba glanced at Aunt Dinah, who shrugged and lifted her hands. He then placed his hand on my forehead. “Be careful, daughter. Do not leave before sunrise, and return quickly.”

  “I will, Abba. I promise.”

  “You are no longer a child, so I will trust you both in this venture.” He released a heavy sigh. “May Adonai keep watch between you and me when we are out of each other’s sight.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jude

  I tugged on the donkey’s halter and wondered, not for the first time, if some part of me wanted to travel to Capernaum with this woman from Cana. I found her ready and eager to leave at sunrise, even before I could thank her father for the overnight accommodation.

  I had planned to stop by her home. I turned down an offer of hospitality from Etan and Galya, quietly hoping Tasmin’s father would agree to shelter me for the night. I did want to see the woman again.

  But I was fairly certain I had not intended to escort her to Capernaum.

  She did not say much as we set out, and I was grateful for a chance to sort through my thoughts without a lot of useless chatter. I glanced over at her—she was younger than me, probably by three or four years, yet far past the age when most young women were betrothed. Twenty-two? Twenty-three? She was nearly as tall as her brother, easily able to look me in the eye, and the set of her chin suggested a stubborn streak. She wore her dark hair pulled back in a simple braid, and her tunic was light and unadorned. Excitement flushed her face, so I guessed she had not done much traveling outside the usual pilgrimages to Jerusalem, which meant she had likely never traveled without her family.

  Tasmin’s aunt had generously filled the donkey’s pack saddle with water jars, bread, cheese, and dried fruit. I had brought several blankets in case my brothers and I had to sleep outdoors on the return journey. If Tasmin and I were not delayed, we ought to reach Capernaum by sunset, so she should not have to worry about spending the night in the open.

  I slowed when we approached a fork in the road. The left branch proceeded due north through the wilderness with only a few villages along the way. The more traveled branch led northeastward and would take us by Tiberias, home of Herod Antipas and his palace. The second route offered more pleasant views, cooler weather, and the prospect of additional company on the journey, though I did not care about company.

  Perhaps Tasmin did. And she had promised her father that we would travel with others . . . When I hesitated in a moment of indecision, she glanced up at me.

  “Why are we stopping?” she asked.

  “I’m thinking about the best route to take.”

  “What is the difference?”

  I pointed to the left fork. “If we go that way, we will make better time.”

  She lifted a brow. “Thomas says the northern route runs through a dull desert. The heat will sap our strength and slow our steps. The eastern road might be longer, but we will walk faster and enjoy the journey more.”

  “Are you not enjoying it thus far?” I meant the comment as a joke, but when she did not smile, I abandoned my pitiful attempt at humor. “I have no interest in mingling with Gentiles. My father avoided anything related to the first Herod, so I see no reason why we should travel past the city built by Antipas.”

  Her eyes widened. “I thought you were related to John the Immerser.”

  I frowned. “What has that to do with—?”

  “Have you not heard? The Immerser has been arrested by Antipas’s soldiers. And where do you think they took him?”

  My throat went dry. My mother had always been close to Elizabeth, John’s mother, and she would want to know if something had happened to her kinsman.

  “My mother would want me to see about John,” I admitted. “So we will take the eastern route. But we should not enter Tiberias unless necessary. We ought to be able to learn the latest news by standing outside the gate.”

  Tasmin nodded. “Agreed.”

  We turned toward the east, and I found myself feeling grateful for her insight. I had forgotten how the land softened and greened as we proceeded eastward. Verdant trees rustled on the gentle hills, and the atmosphere cooled and sweetened. Even the donkey seemed in better spirits; his s
prightly step lightened my mood to the point where I thought I might make an attempt at conversation.

  “You are not as talkative as most women,” I finally ventured. “You make a man wonder what is in your head.”

  She laughed. “I am used to talking to my brother, and with Thomas I don’t have to say much. He can read my face like a scroll.”

  “You are close, then?”

  “We are twins.” She said it as if that fact should explain everything.

  I waited, expecting her to continue, but she remained silent.

  “We have no twins in our family,” I said, shrugging. “And though I have siblings, I cannot imagine having someone in the same space as me. We are so accustomed to knowing our place as firstborn, second-born—”

  “You?”

  “Fourth-born. Not young enough to be the baby of the family, or old enough to be the most respected.”

  She nodded. “And the firstborn?”

  “Yeshua.”

  “Second?”

  “James.”

  “Third?”

  “Damaris.”

  “Your sister,” Tasmin went on, “when did she marry?”

  I closed my eyes to recollect. “I was fourteen, so she would have been fifteen.”

  “I can’t imagine having a family that large. Seems like it has always been me, Thomas, and Abba. And Aunt Dinah, when she is able to join us.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Died.”

  She spoke without grief or inflection, and I marveled at her detachment. “I’m sorry,” I said. “When?”

  She blew out a deep breath. “Thomas and I were five. After that, we grew even closer. We’ve never needed anyone else.”

  I lifted a brow, not knowing how to respond to her answer. I thought she would give me details—where, when, and how her mother had died, but Tasmin practiced economy of speech when it suited her.

  “What should we do now?”

  I looked up and saw her pointing to another intersection. I recognized it as the place where our road met the well-traveled highway that led south to Samaria. We would continue north, yet the incoming highway was not so crowded that others would slow our pace.

  We had to reach Capernaum by nightfall. This woman’s father expected her home in two days, and I did not want to be responsible if she did not make it back in time.

  “You say you and Thomas have never needed anyone else,” I said, guiding the donkey around a large rock in the road. “Would he agree with you?”

  She cast me a sharp glance, then returned her gaze to the road. “I used to think so. Now? I don’t know, and that is why I am going to Capernaum.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Tasmin

  When we spotted the thick walls of Tiberias, we stopped, tied the donkey to a tamarisk tree, and climbed a hill for a better view. The city was everything I expected from a ruler infatuated with Rome—surrounded by tall, thick walls and heavily guarded. Gleaming marble buildings. Red-and-gold flags mounted above each gate.

  “We’re not going inside, right?” I said.

  “Why would we?”

  “I don’t know. I only wanted to be sure.”

  While the donkey browsed the grass beneath the tree, Jude took a bag from the pack saddle and offered me bread and cheese.

  I had just taken a bite of bread when I saw him dip a cup into one of the water jars. He offered the cup to me, but I only grinned. “What, no wine?”

  He flushed when he realized I was jesting. “No wine,” he said, stressing the words. “And, by the way, Etan drained his water jars after the wedding feast. I suppose he didn’t want his next guests washing their feet in good wine.”

  “That would have been extravagant.” I broke off a bite of cheese and popped it into my mouth, glad to know this man could joke about a sensitive subject. So maybe he wouldn’t mind if I asked a personal question.

  “So,” I said, “you and your brothers have carpentry work to complete. Is that the only reason you’re going to Capernaum?”

  Jude glanced at me and brushed bread crumbs from his beard. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Perhaps. But I can admit to another reason.”

  “Such as?”

  I leaned back against the tree. “I want Thomas to come home and stop dodging his responsibilities, yes. But I also worry that he is following someone who might get him in serious trouble. I can admit that possibility—can you?”

  A flicker of surprise widened Jude’s eyes, followed by a flash of fear that tightened the corners of his mouth. “You are not shy, are you?”

  “I’ve never had a reason to be.”

  “Most women . . . are more subtle.”

  “No one ever taught me that womanly art. And Thomas would agree with you—he is always saying I should not be so forthright.”

  Jude chuckled. “I don’t mind. In some ways, you are a relief.” He took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort. “I have not wanted to admit it, but I daresay you are right. If I can persuade Yeshua to come home, a tremendous burden will be lifted from my shoulders. From all of us.”

  “Even your mother?”

  “Especially my mother.” He blew out a breath. “I fear, however, that Ima is lost to us. She has supported Yeshua in everything he has ever done, so I find myself trying to save her as well as my brother. But Ima comes first. She is innocent of his madness.”

  I blinked, surprised by the unexpected tremor in his voice.

  “You think he might be truly mad?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.” He looked at me, and in that moment I saw lines of heartsickness and weariness around his mouth and eyes. “We have been watching Yeshua for months, noting changes, trying not to make too much of them. But now that he has begun to collect followers, we don’t know what he is doing. Or planning. And the possibilities are enough to keep me awake at night.”

  Desperate to offer some kind of comfort, I snatched at the first words that came to mind. “I was beginning to think he wanted to be a wine merchant.”

  Jude stared at me, bewilderment on his face, then tipped back his head and laughed. The release must have been good for him, because he smiled when he looked at me again. “I am probably worried about matters that will never amount to anything,” he said, looking to the road ahead. “And we should not forget why we are walking by Tiberias—we need to learn what happened to John.”

  “All right.” I pointed to a man and woman who had just come through the city gates. “Should we ask them if they know anything?”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “We ask someone else.”

  “That will take time.” Jude glanced at the sun. “The day is half spent and we still have a considerable distance to cover.”

  “He is your kinsman, so you choose. We don’t have to find out what happened to John. You could share the rumors with your mother.”

  “And your father wants you home in two days. I would hate to disappoint him.”

  I lifted my chin. “My father knows I am stubborn and will not quit until I have accomplished the thing I set out to do.”

  Jude turned to study the gates of Tiberias. “My family will want to know the full story. Yeshua thinks a great deal of John. He will want the truth.”

  “Then we’ll stay,” I said, “for as long as it takes to learn everything. And if it takes longer than two days to find out what we need to know, we will be late.”

  Jude looked at me and nodded. “So be it.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Jude

  John’s story had been part of my life for as long as I could remember. My mother loved to talk about his parents, Elizabeth and Zechariah, and how she had visited Elizabeth when they were both with child. Mother had been present for John’s birth, then had returned to my father in Nazareth.

  Five years later I was born. By then Yeshua was four, James two, and Damaris one. I learned to walk among cedar shavings and sawdust. I fell asleep to the sound of poun
ding nails and whining wood. When he was not working, Abba taught us Torah, while Ima made our home as pleasant as she could. She had a fondness for bright colors, and once when I asked why she wore bright oranges and blues when no one else did, she replied that Egypt had influenced her tastes and she never wanted to forget the time she lived there. James and Damaris had been born in Egypt, she reminded me, but then she and Abba had come home to Nazareth, where they would remain unless Adonai willed otherwise.

  As I grew with my brothers and sisters, I heard stories about John, who grew up in the hill country of Judah. Ima said he was being raised as a Nazarite, never drinking any intoxicating beverage and maintaining ritual purity because he had been filled with the Ruach ha-Kodesh since his birth. “Many of Bnei-Yisrael will turn to Adonai because of John,” Ima always said. “And he will go before Him in the spirit and power of Elijah, turning the hearts of fathers to the children and the disobedient ones to the wisdom of the righteous, preparing the people for Adonai.”

  “He will go before who?” I once asked, but Ima only smiled in response. “You will see,” she said, smoothing my hair. “You will see.”

  John remained more of a locust-eating legend than cousin until a few months before the wedding in Cana. Yeshua wanted to visit John in the desert because we’d heard he was calling people to be baptized for the repentance of sins. I knew John’s message was timely—everyone knew that many of the priests and leaders of Israel had black hearts and unclean hands. Since returning from the exile in Babylon, our people had lived through generations of infighting among prideful men who wrestled for power, first in the Temple and then on the throne. Those struggles had not ceased with the arrival of the Romans. Israel no longer had a king—Ima said we would not have another until the promised king arrived—but our religious leaders seemed to care more about currying favor with Roman leaders than with HaShem.

  Our religion had become a series of laws that grew ever more complicated. Like everyone else, I read the Scriptures—the teachings, the prophets, and the writings—and determined never to do what our forefathers had done and forget the Law. They forgot and fell into sin; so we read and learned and memorized and put laws around the Law so we would never offend in one jot or tittle. But somehow, like many others, I sensed that in all our efforts to learn and work and obey, we had forgotten something elemental. Something important.