The Well Page 11

Mara sat under the pomegranate tree in Ruth’s garden, her heart empty and hollow. She had cried all her tears and had nothing left inside her. Ruth hadn’t asked any questions, just held Mara in her soft arms, murmuring and patting her like a real mother.

  “It’s like she’s trying to make things worse. Like she wants us to be driven out of Sychar. What is the matter with her?” Mara whispered.

  “She is ill, Mara. Her mind is clouded. She wasn’t always this way.”

  Mara nodded. “I know. I remember how she was before. Maybe she’s right. Maybe we would be better off . . .” A lump rose in her throat. The thought burned like a fiery brand. I’m a terrible daughter. It’s not her fault. But it was. It was all her fault.

  She hadn’t told Ruth about Shem or Zevulun. Ruth knew about Alexandros, and that was bad enough. Ruth scooped steaming lentils into a wooden bowl. Mara took the bowl with shaking hands. The knot in her chest loosened as she ate the spicy food and drank cup after cup of cool water. Asher ate his fill, then played happily with Matea and Tovia, Ruth’s youngest son.

  Ruth put her hands on Mara’s shoulders and said gently, “I know it isn’t fair, and she should be taking care of you and Asher. But you are all she has. Leave Asher here now. Go, try to talk to her.”

  “No.” Mara shook her head and slumped against Ruth again. “I just can’t. Let her take care of herself for a while.” She’ll need to get used to it.

  Mara’s head pounded with every new, selfish judgment. Her heart ached. It felt good to let Ruth take care of her, at least until Uziel came home. She closed her eyes and tried not to think of her mother’s gaunt body and dry cracked lips. Instead, the image of Jobab’s wrinkled face came to her. She would do whatever she must to make him happy, give him an heir, and make sure that she didn’t end up like his other wives.

  Chapter 12

  Nava dragged herself one step closer to Jacob’s well. Just around the bend now.

  She was as heavy as clay, as empty as the water jar on her head. She couldn’t do it anymore. Just a few more steps, and it would be over. She would end the darkness that had plagued her for eight years—end it in the deep pit of Jacob’s well.

  She rounded the corner. The well shimmered in the heat like an oasis. It was deserted, of course. Who but a crazy woman would go to the well in the middle of the day? The other women—those who were good wives, good mothers, good daughters—they had gone in the cool of the early morning.

  But not me. I’ve failed at it all. I was a disgraceful daughter, a worthless wife, the worst mother. My children will be better off without me.

  Just a few more steps and she was there. Why had she even brought the water jug? She wouldn’t need it. She set it on the ground next to the dried gourd and rope for drawing water. She perched on the ledge of the rocky opening. The heat pressed down on her, and she pulled off her head covering. It fluttered to the ground like a black shadow. She wouldn’t need it anymore either.

  She leaned far over the black hole. How far down? How deep the water? A dank breeze stirred from the depths. She licked her cracked lips.

  Her body would spoil in the water. Just like Tirzah had said, “Men are so careful about impurity.” Now they would have to be.

  The women who had made her life a misery these past eight years would have to walk miles to fill their jars. The men would argue. Who would climb down and pull her body out? Not Zevulun, he was too fat. Uziel? I’m sorry, Uziel.

  She scooted closer to the inner lip of the ledge. A pebble dropped down into the silent blackness. It would be better this way. They all knew it. Mara would take care of Asher. She already did. Better than I ever have.

  Ruth would take them in. Uziel would have to allow it. And—after a year or so—Mara could marry without her mother’s shame hanging around her neck like a stone collar. She would be all right.

  A raven landed on the other side of the well, close enough that she could see its bright, black eyes. It opened its coal beak and cawed as though it was laughing at her.

  Her sorrow was like a cloak of lead that wrapped around her body, dulling her senses and scattering her thoughts. Why had she let Alexandros into her bed? It had seemed like the only solution. Now, it was just another of her many mistakes, pulling her toward the cool black water.

  The hot wind, the sun, her husbands—they’d taken all of her. She was hollow, like a broken jar. Every bit of her leaked out and wasted on the dry ground. Good for nothing but this last thing, this last final gift to her children. Freedom from a disgraceful mother.

  Just another moment and she’d feel nothing more. No sadness, no regret. The calls of the birds and the chirrs of insects urged her on. She swayed toward the cool darkness.

  “Give me a drink, woman.”

  Nava jerked her head up and lost her balance. She felt herself falling. A hand closed over her shoulder. It was warm and gentle and pulled her away from the darkness.

  She righted herself on the stone ledge. A man stood before her. He wasn’t tall or handsome. His dark hair curled around a rough tunic and a dirty traveling cloak. No money pouch hung from his belt—no knife either.

  Where had he come from?

  Why had he touched her?

  She scanned the road behind him. It was empty. She glanced over her shoulder. No one came from the other direction.

  “Give me a drink.”

  She pulled in her breath. He was Jewish. She could hear it in his words. A Jew! Talking to her and touching her. What should she do? What would Ruth do? Or Tirzah? Run for their husbands. But she had no husband. She shouldn’t even speak to him. But what did it matter now?

  “How can you, a Jew, ask me, a Samaritan woman, for a drink?”

  The man looked from her to the gaping mouth of the well.

  His deep brown eyes seemed to see into her heart. Did he know what she had been ready to do? How could he?

  “If you knew the gift of God and who is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.”

  Nava’s lips burned, and her throat was as dry as sand. Living water? The gift of God? What was he talking about? There was no running water within an hour’s walk. How could he have flowing water?

  She leaned away. He’s either mad or possessed by a demon. I don’t care. He’s just another man to bring misery to me. “Sir, you don’t even have a cup.” She waved her hand over the opening. “The well is deep; where can you get living water?” A flicker of anger stirred in her. If only he would go away and let her finish what she’d started. “Are you greater than our father Jacob, who gave us this well and drank from it with his children and flocks?”

  Her insult didn’t disturb the man’s calm. He glanced at the gourd tied to the rope, then back to her.

  Perhaps if she gave him a drink he would leave her alone. A hush settled over the birds and the insects, like they were waiting to see what she would do. It was just a drink of water. Then why did she feel like it was the biggest decision of her life?

  Nava picked up the gourd. She tossed it into the hole, then pulled it up, dripping and full. She wanted to gulp it down but held it out to the stranger. Would he take it? From a Samaritan woman?

  His hand closed over both the neck of the gourd and Nava’s fingers. “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again; but whoever drinks the water I shall give will have a spring of water within, welling up to eternal life.”

  Please, I want that.

  A cool shiver began at the top of Nava’s head and moved through her like a rippling stream. Her dry throat was quenched, her lips and skin cooled like she had just stepped into the mikvah. The cool wave swelled, lapping at the heaviness of her limbs. And with each surge, it took away her sadness, like the sea eating away at the shore. It washed away her thirst, her weariness, the ache in her head and in her heart. Every pore, every empty, hollow place inside her was filled. It sluiced through her like a spring rain, carrying away the despair like a flood carries away the debri
s of a lifetime.

  She pulled her hand away. The wave of cool water ebbed, but the feeling of lightness, of joy—I remember this feeling—remained. Was it sorcery? But sorcery was from the evil one. This did not feel evil. What had he said? If you knew the gift of God and who was saying to you . . .

  She ran her hand over her hair and tunic. The cracks in her lips were gone; her skin was smooth. Her legs felt strong, like she could run over the mountains. What had this man done to her? What was this living water?

  Even her mind felt clear and sharp, as though she had just woken up from a restful sleep. Her eyes fell on the black opening of the well. She stepped back from it. What had she been doing? Had she really thought that was the answer? She covered her face with her hands. And what had she said this morning to Mara?

  “You’d be better off without me.” Her legs gave way, and she sank to her knees. Oh, Mara. I’m sorry.

  The man was still there, watching her. Who was he? He raised the gourd to his lips and drank the water down.

  Whatever it was that he’d given her in those moments, she wanted more of it. She wanted it every day for her lifetime. She wanted to never again feel the black despair that had almost consumed her. “Sir, give me this water. That I may not be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water.”

  He placed the gourd back beside the well and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Go call your husband, and come back.”

  My husband? Shame swept through her like a brushfire. Would he take back his gift? The living water? Would she be dried out and empty again if he knew about her? Please, no. She lowered her forehead to the ground and spoke into the dust. “I do not have a husband.”

  The man crouched on the ground in front of her. He picked up her hands and pulled her up until she knelt before him, her face close to his. His brown eyes were as deep as the well beside them, but full of light instead of darkness. “You are right, for you have had five husbands, and the one you have now is not your husband.”

  He knew about her husbands—all of them. And about Alexandros. But he didn’t sound angry. He didn’t act shocked. He knew, and still he touched her. Had he been told by someone? But no, he was a Jew. No one in Sychar would talk to him. But how did he know? Could he be a prophet? The Prophet? The one who would tell them everything?

  Could he be the One that we’ve been waiting for? The Promised One?

  She swallowed. His hands were warm and callused, just like any man’s. His cloak smelled of dust and sweat. Was she, Nava, really speaking to the Taheb? The one that her people had awaited for centuries? “Sir, I can see you are a prophet. I know the Taheb is coming, the one called the Anointed; when he comes, he will tell us everything.”

  Something in his face told her to ask, but the words surprised her even as she heard them in her own voice. “Are you the Taheb?”

  He stood, still holding her hands, and pulled her to her feet before him. “I am He, the one who is speaking with you.”

  • • •

  Mara woke to the slap of running feet and a breathless voice calling her name. She was stretched beneath the pomegranate tree, her head resting on a soft pillow. Ruth was at the loom but jumped up as the courtyard door slammed open and Nava rushed through.

  “Mama?” Am I dreaming? This wasn’t the woman she had left wasting away in the dark corner of their home, the woman with gaunt cheeks and dull eyes. The woman who had given up her spirit and was ready to die.

  This woman fairly flew across the courtyard. Her dark hair gleamed in the sun, and her cheeks glowed as pink as a child’s. Her green eyes sparkled like the waters of a mountain stream.

  Nava bent and grabbed both Mara’s hands, a smile lighting her face. Even her hands were smooth and soft again. “Mara, come! You must come!”

  And her voice . . . she practically sang my name.

  Mara let her mother pull her to her feet, surprise flickering through her. She’s strong.

  Nava turned to her sister. “Ruth, you too. I’ve met a man . . .” She stopped and put her hand to her side, breathing hard.

  Ruth’s forehead creased with worry.

  “No, it’s not like that,” Nava said, straightening again. She stepped close and clutched Mara’s arm. “You must believe me, Mara.”

  Mara tried to pull away, but Nava held her tight. Where was the woman who had given up? Who said they’d be better off without her?

  “Mara, after you left, I went to the well. I was alone there when he came. He is a prophet; he told me everything I’ve done. I think he is, well, I think he is the Taheb. You must come and see him, before he goes.”

  Another man? They didn’t need another one of her mother’s men in their lives. Mara pulled her arm away. What new trouble was her mother making? Whatever it was, she wasn’t having anything to do with it.

  “The Taheb?” Ruth reached out to her sister. “Nava, what are you saying? How did you meet him? And why do you think he’s the Taheb?”

  Nava ran her hands down her sister’s arms, then embraced her like she hadn’t seen her for years. “He talked to me at the well. He knew me. I mean, really knew me. Everything I’ve ever done, each of my husbands . . .” She turned to Mara again and grabbed her above the elbows. Without dropping her eyes, she said, “Even about Alexandros.”

  Mara stiffened. How could she mention Alexandros in front of Ruth? Had she no shame? If the stranger knew, would he tell anyone? But her mother didn’t even pause.

  “He is a Jew, a Galilean.” She pulled Mara toward the gate. “You must come; then you’ll see that I’m speaking the truth.”

  Mara wrenched her arms away. She wasn’t going anywhere. Certainly not to the well to meet a Jew who’d spoken to her mother. Jews don’t even speak to Samaritan men—never to women.

  Ruth patted her sister’s arm, her frown deepening. “A Jew?”

  Mara caught Ruth’s gaze and held it. Her aunt was worried too.

  “I will get Uziel; he’ll know what to do. Then we’ll go together.” Ruth hurried out of the courtyard.

  Mara studied her mother’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes. She reminded Mara of the woman from her childhood, the one that she wished for every day. No. Her mother hadn’t changed in an afternoon. This was just more of the same trouble. One man couldn’t change her mother, at least not for the better. Mara turned and walked away.

  Nava’s sandals slapped behind her, and strong arms wrapped around her waist. Mara pried at her mother’s hands, but Nava held tight.

  “Mara,” her mother pleaded, “will you forgive me? I feel like I’ve woken from a dream, a nightmare. I am so sorry. Please, Mara, believe me. I am changed.”

  Just like that, Mama? You’ve changed? Nava would have to show her more than a strange Jew to make her believe that.

  Chapter 13

  Mara rounded the corner to the well. The Taheb? The One whom they had awaited for thousands of years? It couldn’t be. Nava pulled at one arm, dragging her into a run every few steps. Ruth and Uziel hurried behind with worried frowns.

  Five men—were they all Jews?—stood at the well. One stood apart. He was not young but had no gray in his dark, curling hair or his full beard. He looked strong, like a laborer. Taller than Uziel, but not as tall as Shem. He dressed no better than the other men, but they all watched him as Nava approached.

  Nava pulled Mara to the one who stood apart, then fell to her knees, her head bowed, her body still.

  “Is this the man that you say is the Taheb?” Uziel asked Nava.

  She seemed content to kneel at his feet forever. “He told me everything I’ve done. And he told me that I was speaking to the Taheb, the one we’ve been waiting for.”

  Mara took one step closer. Was this just another man who would bring shame upon her mother? His dark, deep-set eyes regarded Nava. He smiled and held out his hands to her.

  What was he doing? Surely he wouldn’t touch a Samaritan woman.

  Nava put her own hands into those of the Jew. He helped he
r to her feet, his smile never faltering. Mara glanced over her shoulder. Her aunt’s face was pinched. Uziel’s brows pulled together. The other men stepped back, and their mouths dropped open. So they are all Jews.

  Abahu, Mechola, and Shem came around the bend behind her aunt and uncle. Shem walked in front, hesitating a step when he saw Mara. His forehead creased, and his mouth turned down. Word of the strangers must have spread quickly.

  The priests and Zevulun came next with a clamoring herd of villagers. Their shouted questions stopped abruptly when they saw the stranger holding Nava’s hands. The villagers crowded on one side of Jacob’s well, the group of Jews on the other. Mara and Nava stood between the two, Nava’s hands still clasped by the stranger.

  Jonothon pushed forward. “What is this?”

  The stranger raised his brows at the young priest. His lips twitched as though he might be holding back a smile, but he did not release Nava’s hands and did not reply. The men around him shifted and looked at each other.

  “You are Jews. Where do you come from?” Jonothon asked, a little more politely.

  A rough, burly man stepped toward the Samaritans, towering over the little priest. “We travel from Jerusalem. We journey home, to Galilee.”

  Yahokeem shuffled to the front of the villagers. He squinted at the strangers and lifted a trembling hand to the mountain behind them. “But where did you come from? Did you come from the mountain, from Gerizim? How can you claim to be the Taheb if you come from Galilee?”

  The man holding Nava’s hands said, “We are weary. Will you let us rest in your town?”

  Jonothon and Yahokeem didn’t answer.

  Abahu stepped forward. “Please, master, come to my home.”

  The man nodded as if he had been expecting Abahu to say exactly that. “Thank you, my friend. I am Jesus, of Nazareth.”

  Abahu turned and started toward his home. The stranger—Jesus—fell into step next to Abahu. His friends trailed behind, shrugging and muttering to each other. The priests and some of the villagers followed, passing Mara with murmurs and questions.