The Well Page 13

  “What do you mean?”

  “Blasphemy!”

  Nava clutched Mara’s arm, squeezing hard. Was Jesus saying that he would raise the dead? Give them life again after death? Surely he must mean something else? And what would this mean for them? Nava had brought this man into their town. She would be blamed.

  Jonothon spoke, his face mottled with red. “Are you saying that there is a resurrection of the body after death?”

  Yahokeem stepped forward. “And what of the day of vengeance? If you are the Taheb, when will God deliver his people and punish their enemies?”

  Jesus raised his hands to the people, reaching out to them, and waited for them to quiet. “The reward of the righteous is now at hand. The hour is coming when all who are in the tombs will hear his voice and will come out, those who have done good deeds to the resurrection of life.” His gaze drifted over the crowd, stunned into silence. His eyes stopped at the small knot of men that included Zevulun and Shimon. “But those who have done wicked deeds to the resurrection of condemnation.”

  Jonothon and Yahokeem stared at him with open mouths.

  Mara’s heart pounded in her chest. He seemed to already know who was wicked and who was righteous. Or he was foolishly making enemies of the most powerful men in the village.

  Zevulun’s outraged bellow broke the silence. “Throw this man from our holy place!” He stomped up on the dais and advanced on Jesus until his face was only a hand’s breadth from the Jew’s. “We will not listen to his blasphemy.” Spittle flew from his mouth with every word. “This is not the Taheb! A Jew, a—a carpenter from Nazareth—he will end up like all false prophets, hanging on a Roman cross!”

  Mara and the women around her were pushed back to the wall as the men surged forward. Mara’s heart lurched as Nava stepped toward the angry mob, but she grabbed her mother’s hand just in time to pull her back.

  Thank God Asher is safe at Ruth’s house tonight. Would they beat Jesus and throw him out of the town? Or something worse? The penalty for blasphemy was death. Even a Jew knew that. And then what? Would they take out their rage on Nava? On her children?

  Disappointment crushed the hope that she’d brought into the synagogue. She’d been wrong and so had Nava; this man couldn’t be the Taheb, the Restorer that they’d waited for. But he’d seemed so wise, so sure. He’d done something—something very good—to Nava, but the Taheb wouldn’t let himself be stoned by an angry mob in Sychar.

  We should leave now, before this gets any worse. She pulled at Nava. “Mama, we must go. Now.” But Nava pulled her hand from Mara’s and shook her head, her eyes locked on the Jew in the front of the room.

  Jesus stood tall and calm as his friends fought through the angry mob. Abahu and Enosh reached him first, holding back the men and allowing Jesus to step down from the dais. Shem reached him next, but the Jews were too far away to help. There are too many. They are going to attack him, pull him out of the synagogue.

  Mara closed her eyes. Lord, if he is your Anointed One, save him.

  She waited for the crowd to close in on Jesus. But no, as he stepped forward, the pressing crowd parted around him. He walked calmly through the mob, his hands at his sides while a clear path opened up before him. The angry faces turned confused, and the outraged cries dwindled into silence as he walked past them unharmed, through the open doorway and into the twilight.

  Mara sucked in a breath, her heart filling with wonder. How had he done that? Was it an answer to her prayer? Could he really be the Taheb?

  Mara grabbed Nava’s hand and pulled her toward the door. It was impossible to believe, but it must be true. The Taheb had come, and Nava was the first to be restored.

  • • •

  Shem dropped his hands to his sides. One minute, the crowd was on top of him, and Jesus was in danger of being stoned. The next, they were watching him walk, unharmed, out the door. What kind of magic did this Jew possess?

  The crowd poured out of the synagogue. Shem followed slowly with Abahu. Jesus was walking down the pathway as though he hadn’t just been in danger of stoning. Men and women gathered in knots below the cedar trees. Their voices carried through the shadows.

  “Who is he?”

  “What did he mean?”

  “Blasphemy!”

  Others—Uziel and Enosh, Noach and his other sons—followed closely behind Jesus and his friends. Were they there to protect them, or did they want to hear more of his unfathomable words? Other groups of two or three—men, women, and children—brushed by Shem and hurried after Jesus. More stood around the synagogue, their arms crossed over their chests, their heads bobbing.

  Abahu jerked his head toward the path and started down it. “Let us go home.”

  Where the Jew is waiting with more of his ridiculous claims?

  “This Jesus is unlike any Jew I’ve ever heard of,” Shem said, catching up to his grandfather. A cool breeze ran through the cedars as the sun dipped behind the mountain. “The Samaritans expect a Taheb. They—we,” he amended at Abahu’s sharp frown, “we wait for a Restorer. Jews pray for a Messiah—someone to overthrow the Romans. This man, though,” Shem shook his head, “he does not seem to be what anyone is expecting. If he is a fraud, he is not a clever one, because he is not giving anyone what they want.”

  “What he says, though,” Abahu said slowly, “it strikes me as the truth.”

  The night birds called and the insects chirped as they wended through the empty village streets toward Abahu’s house. Yes, Jesus seemed more than just clever. He didn’t speak in tired phrases they had all heard before. His words were surprising, even shocking, but they rang true.

  Shem just didn’t know what they meant.

  They pushed through the gate to find Abahu’s courtyard teeming with people. Jesus sat under a spreading fig tree in the center of the courtyard. At least a dozen men were at his feet, including Uziel, Noach, and their sons. More leaned against the walls and crouched in groups, watching him. He might be barred from the synagogue, but there were still many who wanted to hear his words.

  A knot of women stood off to one side. His grandmother, Uziel’s wife, an old woman with silver hair, and—his heart dropped at the familiar tattered robe and striped head covering—Mara. Beside her stood Nava, who had brought this man into their town. Now Zevulun had even more reason to hate her.

  Jesus raised his head, his expression untroubled. “Abahu. Will you too send me away?”

  “You are welcome here for as long as you wish to stay,” Abahu said with a nod. Shem couldn’t help the quick scowl that crossed his face. He looked at the ground, feeling like a rude child.

  The crowd quieted as Jesus turned to them. “Moses wrote the law of your fathers on stone tablets. I will write my law not on stone, but in your hearts. I say to you, blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

  Abahu lowered himself to the ground next to Uziel. Noach shifted to make room for Shem. There was no choice; he’d have to stay and listen. As Shem settled next to his grandfather, Jesus went on speaking of the meek, the hungry, the merciful. These were not the words of someone wanting to inspire a rebellion.

  Jesus’ eyes shifted to Nava. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”

  Then Jesus turned to Shem. “Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you,” he continued, “when people insult you, persecute you, and falsely say all kinds of evil against you—because of me.”

  Shem shifted uncomfortably. Why is he saying these things to me?

  Jesus spread his hands to the crowd, as if he were appealing to them all. “Rejoice and be glad, because your reward will be great in heaven.”

  Rejoice in insults? Rewarded in heaven? Shem could stand it no longer. “Teacher, what do you mean by this? That we are to rejoice in persecution? That we are to welcome abuse? What good does that do?”

  Jesus leaned toward Shem, his voice softening. �
�Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat. But if it dies, it produces much fruit.”

  Shem crossed his arms and lifted his chin. “Forgive me. This makes no sense to me. For a man to die at the hands of his enemy is the greatest good he can do in his life? How can we help our people by dying?” Could he have helped his brother by dying? Wouldn’t that just be two dead Samaritans instead of one dead Roman? Should they not fight those who seek to kill them? “For hundreds of years, we have died at the hands of our enemies. That has not brought our people a better life.”

  Murmurs of agreement rose around him, but not from Abahu.

  Jesus ignored the crowd, keeping his dark eyes on Shem. “You have heard it said, ‘you shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your heavenly Father.”

  Shem shook his head. This was no prophet. He seemed so certain, so authentic. But his words were contrary to everything Shem had learned from hard experience. Shem stood up. “I have heard enough. I have no patience for your riddles.”

  He banged through the courtyard door and stomped toward the olive grove. This Jesus was no prophet. He was a fool. And he’s trying to make a fool of me.

  Chapter 15

  Mara sat next her mother, stripping dried beans from their husks and throwing them in the cooking pot. Nava had been up before the sun, cooking barley and milking the goats before Mara had even stirred from her pallet.

  “Jesus left Sychar this morning to go to Nazareth,” Nava said.

  Joy and regret filled Mara’s heart. Joy that Nava had come back to her and Asher. Regret that Jesus would not stay with them forever. In just two days, her life had changed. She had listened to Jesus and watched her mother. He had restored her. Whatever the illness was that had taken her strength and sense, it was gone.

  The memory of her anger at Nava ached like a scar on her heart. How could I have wished her dead?

  This was the mother that Mara remembered from her childhood. The mother she had missed every day since Asher had been born and the mother that Asher had never known.

  I wish that I could catch his words from the air, hold them in my hand, and examine them as often as I want. I have my mother back. He is the Restorer. Perhaps the future might not be one of despair and poverty, but one of hope.

  Soon Nava would send word to Shaul in Sebaste, and he would surely return to them. Asher would have a father and learn a trade. Mara would speak to Uziel. If Shaul returned, their lives would be better. Now that Nava was restored, everything was different. Surely he would see that she didn’t have to accept Jobab’s offer.

  They weren’t hungry anymore. Shem’s gift of wheat, oil, and dried fish would last for several more days. Other villagers—the ones who listened to Jesus’ words of forgiveness—had given them gifts of barley, almonds, and figs. Best of all, Mechola and Abahu treated them as friends, and some of the others looked on them more kindly.

  “Will you go to the well with me?” Nava asked.

  Mara poked her head around the corner of the house. Asher worked in the garden, planting a new crop of beans. She put the tall clay jar on her head, and together they climbed the steep path and followed it around the village.

  As they rounded the corner of the Patriarch’s Highway, raised voices came from the women clustered at the well. Mechola and Leah faced Tirzah and Adah. Other women and girls stood nearby, silent and watchful.

  “I only know,” said Mechola, “that my heart filled with joy at his words.”

  Leah nodded. “He did not ask for us to forsake our beliefs, but to live them more faithfully.”

  Tirzah grimaced. “My husband and sons say he’s a disgrace. You are fools to let yourself be swayed by a Jew.” She spit out the last word. She jerked around and saw Nava and Mara. “And at the word of a woman like that.” She raised a hand at them. “She may have known many men, but we can hardly trust her to know the Taheb when he comes!”

  Mara held her breath. No, Mama, don’t let them get to you.

  Mechola’s mouth turned down, and the creases in her brow deepened. Several women stepped up behind Tirzah; some drew closer around Mechola. Adah looked uncertainly at Mechola, then took half a step toward Tirzah and her allies.

  Nava set down her jug. “You are right, Tirzah,” Nava bowed her head. “I have offended many of you and disgraced my family.”

  Tirzah’s mouth dropped open.

  Nava raised her head. Her eyes shone with unshed tears. “But when I spoke to Jesus at the well, he knew of all my sins. He did not condemn me but called me to repent and start again. He forgave me.”

  Tirzah drew her large body upward with a sharp breath. Her florid cheeks turned a darker shade of red. She seemed even more enraged at Nava’s humility than she had been at her pride. “Forgave you!” she sputtered. “Who is he to forgive? In this town, we punish those who break our laws!”

  She turned her back on Nava with a stamp of her foot. She jerked her head toward Adah—“Zevulun and Shimon will hear about this”—and marched away without a backward glance.

  Mara threw her arms around her mother, pride and love filling her heart. I should be afraid, but I’m not. They were still in danger. Even more danger than before Jesus came. But because of him, her mother was a different woman—a forgiven woman. And that was all that mattered.

  • • •

  Mara hurried into the dim house. She had gone to Ruth’s to take her some more green thread and tell her about what had happened at the well that morning. She’d rushed back, not even staying to eat the midday meal.

  But something was wrong. The fire was out, and the water jar lay on its side in the middle of the room, a wet puddle all that was left of the day’s water. “Mama?” Where is Asher?

  Mara’s eyes adjusted to the gloom to see Nava huddled in the corner, Asher clutched in her arms. Her face was buried in his neck, and she quaked with sobs. Mara rushed to them. “Mama . . . what is it? Is Asher hurt?”

  She untangled Asher from her mother’s arms and ran her hands over his bare legs and arms. “Mama?” Her throat closed and she worked to swallow, her mouth as dry as ashes. Were the days of having her mother restored to her over? Had the illness come back as soon as Jesus was gone? She took Nava’s chin in her hand. One eye was swollen shut and turning an ugly dark red.

  “What happened, Asher?”

  “It was the bad man. Mara, he hurt Mama! I tried to take care of her, Mara . . . I couldn’t . . . I’m sorry.” He burst into tears and threw himself into Mara’s arms.

  Nava wiped away her tears with shaking hands. “I’m all right, Mara. Please, Asher. You were a good boy. You did just as I said.” She sat up straighter, taking a deep breath. “It was Alexandros. He—Mara, I don’t know why I did the things that I did. I can hardly remember. But I did, and it was wrong. And now Alexandros . . .” She put her hands over her face.

  Mara squeezed Asher tight in her arms. “What did he do? Mama, tell me.”

  “He was here. He wanted to . . . stay here tonight. I told him no. I said he couldn’t.” Nava took her hands from her face and straightened. “I told him that I’d changed, that he couldn’t visit here anymore.”

  Mara freed an arm from Asher and put it around Nava. Thank you, Lord. We’ll never have to see him again. A surge of warmth filled her.

  Nava took a shaky breath. “I told him to never come here again. He said I’d be sorry. That the priests would punish me, and he would be there to . . . to laugh as they stoned me.” Tears slid down her face again as she looked from Mara to Asher.

  Mara’s joy melted like water into the dry ground. We are still in danger. Jesus had changed their little family forever, but some in the town of Sychar were very much the same. The ones who mattered—the ones with power—still hated Nava. And Alexandros would know just who those men were.

  She rocked with Nava and Asher in silence, thinking hard. Zevulu
n hated Nava even more than before. She had brought a man into the town, a Jew. He had disagreed with the priests, humiliated Zevulun, and divided the town. He’d find a way to punish her.

  Mara rested her forehead against her mother’s hair. But because of Jesus, they seemed to have more friends now. She could count on Abahu and Mechola—and Ruth and Uziel, as always. Perhaps even others.

  She sat up straight and smoothed her mother’s hair. “Maybe he was just angry. I didn’t pass him, so he didn’t go toward the village. Maybe we will hear nothing more from him,” Mara said hopefully.

  Nava nodded, but she didn’t meet Mara’s eyes.

  She doesn’t believe that any more than I do.

  Nava drew a shaking breath and covered Mara’s hand with her own. “We must trust in the Lord and face whatever comes. If you and Asher can forgive me, I will be content . . . no matter what happens.”

  “Mama . . .” Mara gazed at her mother’s beautiful face, her green eyes still bright with tears. “I have forgiven you. And I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Chapter 16

  Shem labored in the hot morning sun, sweat pouring off his face. He, Abahu, and Enosh had carried at least twenty heavy jars full of water to the wilting seedlings in the north grove, and they had at least another ten to carry. The Jew and his friends had left two days ago, thank the Almighty. I’d rather carry a hundred jars than listen to any more of his wild claims.

  He straightened from his task to see Mechola hurrying up the side of the hill, her face red. What was she doing here? And why did she look so worried?

  Abahu followed his gaze, and his silver brows drew together. Mechola did not smile when she saw them but set her mouth in a grim line and quickened her steps. Enosh flashed Shem a frown and set his jar on the ground.

  Abahu started toward Mechola. Shem followed, and Enosh’s footsteps rustled behind him. Abahu took her by the shoulders, guiding her to sit on a stump. Her breath came hard and fast.