The Well Page 12

  “Jews entering a Samaritan town?”

  “Who do they think they are?”

  Nava pulled Mara behind the crowd. She caught up with Mechola as they neared the village. “May I help you serve your guests, Mechola?” she asked breathlessly.

  Mechola stopped abruptly and turned to Nava. Nava stood her ground, but Mara shrank back. Mechola wouldn’t want Nava in her home. Most of the village women wouldn’t even speak to her. What had gotten into her mother?

  The old woman reached out and touched Nava’s chin with her wrinkled hand. “Yes, thank you, Nava. I will need help with all these hungry men to feed.” She turned to Mara. “I could use your help, too, my dear.”

  Mara swallowed and nodded. She followed Mechola past the men settling into Abahu’s enclosed courtyard. At least ten fig and pomegranate trees blossomed overhead and still left room for a dozen men to sit. And the house was bigger than the synagogue! With so many windows, there must be four or five rooms inside. Only three people lived here?

  “If you could pour the water for washing?” Mechola asked Nava, pointing toward a tall water jar and a stack of clay bowls.

  Nava nodded and hurried to pour water as the travelers untied their sandals.

  “Mara,” Mechola said, as if Mara were a familiar visitor, “get some olives from the storage room. Just back there.” She motioned with her head toward the rear of the house.

  Mara walked hesitantly toward the back of the big house. The arrival of the strangers had pushed Shem from her mind, but now she worried about seeing him. Why he had warned her about Zevulun? And had he told his grandparents?

  She peeked into a room, and her mouth fell open. The tiny room harbored more food than her family saw in a year. Stacks of dried fruit, baskets of grain, and crocks of honey covered the shelves. Baskets of beans, pistachios, and almonds filled an entire wall. Cakes of dried grapes, dates, and figs were stacked in towers, while urns of oil and wine lined the floor.

  Mara shut her mouth and lifted the lid off a large cask. She found a cup, dipped it into the briny liquid, and heaped olives into a large wooden bowl. She hurried back to the courtyard in time to see the man named Jesus accept a cup of water from Mechola.

  Jews and Samaritans alike fell silent as he drank deeply and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Good water comes out of Jacob’s well,” he said to Abahu.

  An astonished murmur raced through the courtyard. A Jew, drinking from a Samaritan vessel!

  The big rough man burst out, “Master! How can we take food and drink from Samaritans without defilement?”

  Jesus laughed and threw his arm around the big man. “Nothing that goes in a man can defile him, Peter. Only what comes out can defile.”

  Whispers of outrage swirled around the courtyard as Jesus passed the cup to Peter. The big man’s face pinched, and his brows pulled down, but he drank. The other Jews hesitated just a moment before following his lead.

  • • •

  When the shadows grew long, Jesus and his followers walked up the Holy Mountain to the synagogue. Nava and Mara followed along the path worn smooth by centuries of pious feet. The stone slabs of the synagogue still radiated the warmth of the sun, but the interior was cool and shadowed.

  After washing their hands in the anteroom, Nava dragged Mara into the dim interior, already crowded with villagers. Women stepped back, giving them a wide berth. Mara pulled on her mother’s hand, bewildered by Nava’s bright eyes and flushed cheeks. What had gotten into her? First approaching Mechola, now pushing to the front of the synagogue. Would this Jew be another reason for the villagers to despise her mother?

  The air hummed with excited talk about the stranger.

  “Is he really the Taheb?”

  “The Promised One?”

  “What does Nava know? Why should we believe her?”

  In the front of the room, Zevulun, Amram, and Shimon stood with Jonothon, their arms crossed and their faces fixed in stern masks. Noach and Enosh stood on one side of the Galileans, Uziel and Abahu on the other. Shem slouched behind, his brow wrinkled in a skeptical frown.

  Where had he been while Jesus and his friends had eaten and rested at Abahu’s house? Wasn’t he curious about the Jews?

  Yahokeem hobbled up on the raised dais. He pulled back the curtain and opened the case that housed the scrolls. He chose a crumbling scroll, then raised watery eyes to the crowd. “Let us hear from the one who claims to be the Taheb.”

  Jesus stepped up next to him and took the scroll from his wrinkled hand. A grumble of anger churned through the crowd. A Jew reading from—even touching—the ancient Samaritan scrolls?

  Nava’s hand was tight around Mara’s, her body straining toward this strange man who commanded every eye in the room. The silence stretched, but Jesus seemed completely at ease in silence.

  “I am the light of the world.” He didn’t shout, but his voice filled every corner of the room. “Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness but will have the light of life. I came into this world as light, so that everyone who believes in me might not remain in darkness.”

  Murmurs filled the room as Jesus stood tall and straight, his dark eyes resting on each person in turn.

  Jonothon stumbled up on the dais, his face flushed and his mouth pulled into a hard line. “What do you mean? Who are you?” He waved his arms at the crowd, and the murmurs dwindled. “If you really are the Taheb, as you told this woman—” He jerked his head toward Nava. “If you are the one who will bring about the age of favor for Abraham’s children, then where is the true Ark? Are we right to worship on this mountain, as Joshua commanded, or are the Jews right to worship at the temple in Jerusalem?”

  Jesus responded, “Do the prophets not say, ‘The heavens are my throne, the earth my footstool’?” He glanced around the room. “The hour is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem. You people worship what you do not understand; we worship what we understand, because salvation is from the Jews.”

  Angry cries broke out, louder than before.

  “Who does he think he is?”

  “Look at him; he looks like a beggar.”

  “Are we going to listen to a Jew?”

  Mara glanced at Shem. His gaze was turned toward Jesus’ friends as they shuffled closer to their leader. Were they preparing to protect their teacher or hoping that he would protect them? Shem backed away from the Jews.

  The crowd quieted as Yahokeem held up a wrinkled hand. “Tell us clearly.” He stepped closer to the Jew. “Are you truly the Taheb, the one called the Anointed, who will tell us everything?”

  Whispers and murmurs ceased, and the shuffling crowd stilled. Could it be? Had her mother met the Restorer at Jacob’s well?

  Jesus lifted his chin, and he seemed to grow taller. Mara caught her breath. He looked—just for a moment—like a king.

  He said into the silence, “I am.”

  And at that moment, Mara could almost believe that it was true.

  Chapter 14

  Shem opened his eyes and rolled over, his straw mattress rustling. It was still dark. Maybe he could escape to the olive grove before Jesus and his friends stirred.

  The Jews had talked long into the night with Abahu, Uziel, and Noach. Shem had listened, silent and uncomfortable, through the evening meal but afterward had fled to the olive grove. When he snuck back to his room very late, they were still gathered around the fire in the courtyard. He had slept restlessly, trying to shut his ears to their talk and laughter.

  In Caesarea, he had enjoyed debates with his teachers, be they Samaritan, Jew, or Greek. So why did he feel this overwhelming need to avoid the Jewish teacher and his friends? Of all the men in this backward village, he was by far the most learned. But he didn’t like the way the Galilean looked at him—like he already knew all about Shem. When those dark eyes rested on him, Shem heard the young soldier’s dying breath and saw the life go out of his eyes.

  Shem jerked his tunic over
his head. There was nothing new in the Jew’s teaching. Just more of the same tired claims that priests and prophets had spouted for hundreds of years. The man calls himself the Taheb, the Restorer. But he’ll have to do better than that.

  Shem left his room and found his grandmother again at the fire in the courtyard, surrounded by the warm smell of baking bread. The travelers had already descended from their sleeping place on the wide, flat roof. They were crouched under the trees, eating and laughing, but Jesus was not among them. Shem greeted them with a nod and sat down a few steps away.

  These men—two sets of brothers—were obviously not scholars. He could tell by their accents that they were from Galilee. But they were gracious guests, despite their country ways. They seemed to have overcome their aversion to Samaritan food and vessels, for they ate a great deal and with gusto. Every Jew knew the saying: “The water of Samaria is more unclean than the blood of swine.” They were either very sure of their prophet or couldn’t resist Mechola’s cooking.

  “Where is your teacher?” Shem asked, accepting bread and watered wine from his grandmother.

  “Went to the mountain,” the one named Peter answered around a bite of bread. “He prays alone.” He finished chewing and turned to the one named James. “I agree with John,” Peter said. “If he says he is the Taheb, then he is also the Messiah.”

  Peter grabbed a handful of almonds from the one sitting next to him, Andrew. They were so alike with their long noses and wide eyes. Brothers more at home hauling nets and cleaning fish than sitting at the feet of a teacher, Shem guessed.

  “But they are different,” James said. He accepted another round of bread from Mechola. “The Messiah will overthrow the Romans. He will be a king, like David. The Taheb,” he nodded to Shem, “the Taheb is a prophet.”

  Shem didn’t respond. I’m not getting into this argument. But James was right. The Taheb that the Samaritans waited for was to be a prophet, the second Moses, the Restorer of peace and an age of favor for those who kept the Lord’s commandments. The Messiah that the Jews awaited was a warrior king. One man couldn’t be both.

  James’s brother, John, frowned. John was younger than the rest, much younger, probably close to Shem’s age. “And what about the water? Again, yesterday, there was water. He is telling us something.”

  James shrugged. “How do you come up with that?”

  “The first time was at the Jordan,” John said. “I heard the voice of God when he came out of the water. ‘This is my son,’ He said.”

  Shem tensed and leaned forward. John had heard the voice of God?

  “Many say it was only thunder,” James said around a bite of bread.

  “On a clear day? I was there!” John slapped his hand on his knee. “I tell you, God spoke. And it was when Jesus emerged from the water.”

  God spoke? And what was Jesus doing in the Jordan?

  James held up his half-eaten bread like a shield. “We’re not doubting you, it’s just—”

  “And then there was Cana.” John raised his brows at Peter and Andrew.

  They both looked away.

  Shem had to know. “What happened in Cana?”

  “Again with water. At a wedding we went to in Cana. The wine ran short, but Jesus told the servers to fill the washing jars with water. And when they drew it out, it was wine. And good wine—the best I’ve ever tasted.”

  James pushed him in the shoulder. “I think you had already drunk your share.”

  John pounded his brother’s shoulder with his fist. “You were there. You saw it.”

  Turned water into wine? No. That sounded like a story made up by some drunk friends of the groom.

  Peter shook his head and frowned like a father at bickering children. “John’s right, though. There is something about water that he is trying to tell us. Yesterday he met the woman at Jacob’s well. She said he asked her for water and promised her living water.”

  James wiped his hands on his robe. “You are making too much of it. Coincidence. Nothing more.”

  Andrew spoke for the first time. “Peter is right. And so is John. If the Rabbi says that he has living water, we should listen.”

  Three of them agree. That probably didn’t happen often. “Tell me,” Shem said, “do you understand all that he says? Do you truly believe that he is the Messiah, the one who will deliver the Jews? Or the Taheb, as the Samaritans say? Or both?”

  The men seemed to be waiting for Peter to answer, but the big fisherman stuffed his mouth full of bread and shrugged while he chewed.

  John spoke instead. “We don’t know. Each day he reveals just a little more to us. But we know this—he has the words of everlasting life.”

  “Everlasting life?” Shem asked. Surely not that. Not here, in Sychar. “Does he believe in the resurrection of the dead?”

  “Yes. He says that he is the resurrection and the life. But . . .” John contemplated his hands. “We don’t know what he means.”

  These men were more foolish than Shem had ever imagined. Talk of eternal life could only bring trouble. Rome had no patience for Jewish prophets. More than one had been put to death for stirring up trouble in the province. But they were Galileans, and everyone knew that Galileans had more muscle than sense.

  Peter finally spoke up. “A prophet or a king—I don’t know. But he is the one promised by the Lord. That I believe. We have left everything—our homes and families, our boats, all we have. We will follow him wherever he leads.”

  “Even if he leads you into trouble? To death?” Shem asked.

  They nodded in unison, their eyes shining with fierce purpose. Shem took a bite of his bread, but it tasted like straw in his dry mouth. He felt like he had as a child when his older brothers trooped off to their tutors, leaving him behind. But why be angry with these rough fishermen? He certainly didn’t want to be one of them.

  Besides, he was far more educated than any of them. Educated enough to know that this Galilean, however wise, was not the Taheb. These men had given up everything to follow a false prophet. And perhaps to their death. Then why did he feel like he was the fool being left behind?

  • • •

  Shem lengthened his stride to keep up with Abahu. “There is much to be done in the olives, Grandfather.” And he would rather be doing it than attending evening prayer in the synagogue.

  “It will be there tomorrow. Let us see what Jesus says today.”

  He says that he is the resurrection and the life. Jesus had best not speak of that here in Sychar. On this point the Samaritans agreed completely with the strict Sadducees of the temple. Eternal sleep was their hope; anything else, blasphemy.

  Shem just wanted Jesus and his friends to leave. If this man stayed much longer in Sychar, he would draw the notice of the authorities. Romans didn’t like Jewish prophets. Roman soldiers in Sychar could only mean trouble for him—and his grandparents. And he’d had enough trouble to last a lifetime. Just when he’d finally found some peace, this man—this false prophet—had stirred in him a storm of unrest.

  Abahu stopped abruptly at the top of the path. Outside the synagogue, an argument brewed.

  Zevulun bellowed at a crowd of men, his rolls of jowl and neck as red as a pomegranate. “Was it not just a few years ago that our families lost their husbands and sons? Cut down by the Romans on the Holy Mountain? And a man who claimed to be the Taheb was the cause!”

  Many nodded their agreement. Shimon pushed his way to the front and faced the crowd. “All of Samaria believed that false prophet. He said that he knew where the Ark had been buried by Moses. But instead of proving that Mount Gerizim is the Holy Mountain, they were surrounded by Pilate’s soldiers and killed. Many of our sons—my own brother—died! Are you willing to bring the wrath of Rome onto our heads again?”

  Zevulun’s voice lifted to a roar. “We should run this man and his disciples out of our land. Let him go back to the Jews and bring the Roman swords down on them!”

  Abahu tensed beside Shem and stepped fo
rward. Shem put a restraining arm on his grandfather. This wasn’t Abahu’s battle, even if the Jew was staying at his home. It would be better for everyone if Jesus and his friends just left.

  But Uziel squirmed through the crowd to stand next to Zevulun and Shimon. He raised his arms, and the crowd quieted. “Zevulun, you are wise,” he said calmly. “We must be careful of false prophets. But I have listened carefully to this Jesus. He doesn’t ask us to fight the Romans; he doesn’t speak of revolt at all. He seems to speak more to us of prayer and healing our covenant with the Lord.”

  Others murmured their agreement with Uziel, among them Abahu. Shame warmed Shem’s cheeks. Uziel was right. This prophet didn’t seem to have any motive of self-interest. He did not ask for money, power, or recognition. He didn’t ask for them to rise up against the Romans. But he did proclaim himself the Taheb, the Promised One. He was a contradiction. Why was he staying in Sychar? What could this Galilean possibly hope to gain?

  Shem pulled Abahu toward the door of the synagogue. He would listen to the Jew, but he would not believe his outrageous claims. The sooner the Galileans left Sychar, the better.

  • • •

  Mara squirmed through the crowd with Nava, as impatient as her mother was to see the Jewish teacher. She had thought of nothing else since the night before. And today! Nava was like a different person. She had awakened early, rushing through the chores so fast that there had been little left for Mara to do. Song and laughter had filled the house. Mara wondered if she were living in a wonderful dream.

  Had this man really changed her mother? She needed to find out more. Perhaps he really was the one they had been waiting for, the Taheb.

  Mara’s pulse quickened as Jesus’ words rang out in the crowded synagogue. “He is not the God of the dead, but of the living. No one can come to me unless the Father who sent me draws him, and I will raise him on the last day.”

  A hiss of astonishment rippled through the people. The women pressed close around Mara and her mother. They ducked their heads together and whispered. The men in the center of the room shifted closer to the front, where Jesus stood alone on the raised platform. Angry words flew like arrows.