The Well Read online

  Mara’s angry words drained away. My mother is sick. Not just her body, her very soul is wasting away. She blinked back tears and nodded, not trusting her voice. She went into the shadows of the house and brought her mother a dripping ladle of cool water. “Drink, Mama. It will help.” If only I could give her something that would heal her parched soul.

  • • •

  When evening finally darkened into night, Mara dragged her tired body up the rickety ladder to the rooftop. It was wide and flat, covered with dried reeds. The night was cool and clear, perfect for sleeping outside. She lay down next to Asher.

  “Mara,” Asher said. His face was pinched and worried. “Are you angry at me?”

  She tucked Asher’s thin blanket around his shoulders. “No, of course not, little one. Why do you think so?”

  “Because you aren’t talking. You haven’t smiled all day. And you’re doing this with your face.” He pressed his lips tightly together and lowered his brows.

  The laugh that escaped her lightened her heavy heart. “Oh, Asher. I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I’m just angry. Not at you. Not at anyone.” Except Amram.

  Mara snuggled close to her brother on the hard sleeping pallet. I will take care of us all, no matter what happens.

  Her thoughts turned to the stranger on the road. His pale skin and fine clothes. Her stomach flopped like a fish on dry sand. He didn’t belong in Sychar and probably wouldn’t stay long. She’d just have to avoid him.

  • • •

  Shem’s grandparents stared at him when he reached their home on the far side of the village. As though he was a stranger.

  Shem stood in Abahu’s courtyard with Drusus and the donkey behind him. A stone wall surrounded the house and trees, protecting them from curious neighbors. Low rosemary and lavender bushes scented the morning breeze. Flowering fig trees brought to mind his mother’s garden in Caesarea, but Abahu’s courtyard was much smaller. The walls seemed to close around him.

  “Grandfather.” Shem bowed his head to Abahu. Abahu did not answer.

  “Shem, you are . . . taller than I remembered,” his grandmother finally stuttered. She averted her eyes from his face, smooth and beardless, his short dark hair, his foreign clothes and sandals.

  Shem took a deep breath and met Abahu’s eyes, looking into a face that would be his own when he grew old. But where he was pale, Abahu’s skin was deeply tanned and lined like old leather. His thick hair and beard were streaked with more silver than black. His bare brown arms showed ropey muscle that spoke of a life of hard work.

  Abahu’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth formed a tight line. His sharp gaze took in the blood on Shem’s tunic, but he didn’t say a word.

  “Mother and Father send their greetings.” Shem stepped aside and waved a hand at Drusus and the donkey. “Father sent gifts from Caesarea.”

  Abahu raised one brow as he glanced at the bolts of cloth, jugs of wine, and delicacies sent from the city.

  “Grandfather. I—” Shem swallowed. His mind was dulled from travel and lack of sleep, but clearly this was not going well. “I am glad to be here.”

  Abahu’s face softened. He stepped forward and embraced Shem, greeting him with a kiss on his cheek. “You are welcome here.” He cleared his throat and walked stiffly to the house.

  Shem followed Abahu into the house.

  His grandmother rushed for water to wash his dusty feet. Mechola looked older than he remembered. Her soft, whiskery face was deeply lined, but her eyes were still bright and sharp. She had the gentle smile that he remembered from his childhood—so much like his mother’s. Her rough brown tunic and plain sandals were simple dress, considering the wealth of their house.

  Abahu’s house was roomy and comfortable for a town such as Sychar. The thick walls made of sun-dried bricks kept it cool in the summer and blocked the worst of the winter winds. He showed Shem two sleeping rooms, a workroom with a loom and baskets of wool, and a storage room packed from floor to ceiling with food and oil. A small formal dining area with a low table and couches was probably rarely used, Shem guessed. Abahu’s home, while one of the largest in Sychar, would easily fit into the courtyard of his father’s house in Caesarea.

  Abahu sat beside him in silence as Shem ate the warm bread and dried fish that his grandmother served him. He rose quickly as soon as Shem swallowed the last bite. “You’ll want to see the olives now.”

  Shem ran a hand over his tired eyes. Farmers didn’t sleep during the day, even when they had been traveling all night. “Yes, of course, Grandfather.”

  • • •

  When night finally came, sleep was impossible. Not because the bed was prickly and hard compared to his soft mattress at home—Shem’s body was tired enough to sleep on a bed made of stone. No, his thoughts spun like the wheels of a racing chariot.

  The small room was furnished simply with a bed, some hooks, and one lamp set on an overturned bushel basket. His grandfather had no rolls of parchment, no writing desk. Shem longed for his teachers, his fellow students, the libraries and gymnasium that he had left behind in Caesarea, even his brothers. He tried to picture their faces but saw instead the dark eyes of the soldier in the forum. Shem groaned and rolled over.

  And then again this morning. How long it would take for the boys from the road to tell the entire town about their encounter? What else could he have done—just walk by and let the boys torture a girl? But he was a grown man knocking down a boy. As if he wasn’t enough of an embarrassment to his grandparents already.

  Granted, that boy was almost as tall as he and picking on a girl. Shem hadn’t gotten a good look at her—just an impression of wild dark hair, brown skin, and dirty bare feet. She hadn’t uttered a sound, not even a thank-you.

  Not a good beginning in Sychar. Stay out of trouble, for once, Shem.

  A creak and a groan sounded from the room next to his. The low rumble of his grandfather’s voice carried through the thin wall.

  “Did you know about this outrage?”

  “Of course not!” Mechola whispered. “I’m as surprised as you.”

  Straw rustled as the old couple settled themselves onto their mattresses. The darkness around him amplified their whispers. “You must admit,” Mechola said, “he was polite. This can’t be what he’s used to. I’m sure he has a very fine room in his father’s home.”

  “He can just go back to his fine room.”

  Of course Grandfather is angry. Tomorrow all of Sychar will see his grandson, looking like a pagan, at Sabbath prayers.

  “Surely you won’t send him away because of his hair? His father is more Greek than Samaritan.”

  “He promised to maintain respect for the law given by Moses. ‘Do not cut the hair at the sides of your head or clip off the edges of your beard.’” Abahu sighed. “And what good can a boy like that be to a farmer? I doubt he’s done a hard day’s work in his life.”

  Shem’s neck warmed. His grandfather was right about that.

  At least Drusus wasn’t lying at the foot of his bed, listening. He’d sent the nosy servant home to Caesarea as soon as he’d had some food and rest. He’d warned Drusus to go straight home instead of stopping to gossip in the village.

  “He can learn. It may take some time. But I have heard you say that there is more work than you and Enosh can do, especially at harvest.”

  A deep grumble penetrated the wall. “Enosh.”

  “Enosh is a hard worker, Abahu. It is just his way to be quiet. You know he needs the work. A boy his age is looking to marry in a few years. He’ll need a bride price and a home for his wife. He won’t earn that as a shepherd.”

  Shem had liked the tall, quiet boy who had helped them in the olive groves today. Enosh, related in some way to his grandmother, worked hard and didn’t chatter. Even better, he hadn’t stared at Shem’s hair or scar. He was barely a man but worked as hard as Abahu.

  “You are right, of course, but what I wouldn’t give for a son to inherit my land and trees.”

&
nbsp; Mechola fell silent.

  Pity and shame twisted through Shem’s chest. His mother had spoken of a brother who died in childhood. They’d once had a real son to inherit the land and take care of them as they aged—instead of Shem.

  “Shem is your son now. I can’t help but think . . .”

  “What?”

  The mattress rustled. “He seems to be searching for something.”

  “Searching? For what, woman?”

  “I don’t know. It’s silly, but he seems . . . lost.”

  Abahu grunted. Before long, snores drifted through the thin wall.

  He didn’t deserve his grandmother’s loving words. And what did she mean—searching for something? All I’m searching for is an answer to this problem. He turned over, pulling his blanket tight although the night was warm enough.

  How long can I live this lie?

  Ezra had forbidden him to speak of the Roman. And if he told the truth, Abahu might send him back to Caesarea. He would only endanger his family again if he went back. But could he look into Abahu’s face—or Mechola’s—every day, pretending that he was their new son? Could he live with being a liar, as well as a killer?

  He stared into the darkness. No. He couldn’t do it. Ezra was wrong to make him lie. His grandparents were good people and deserved to know the truth. He must tell them, and soon.

  But what will Abahu do when I tell him the real reason I’m in Sychar?

  Chapter 6

  Asher clung to Mara’s neck, almost cutting off her breath as she trudged up the last stretch of the path on Mount Gerizim. They reached the clearing in front of the synagogue, and she crouched, letting him slide to the ground.

  A few villagers passed by, not looking at her and giving Asher a wide berth as though he were a poisonous snake. She heaved him up in her arms and walked into the building, her head high. They had as much right to be there as any of the villagers.

  The building was built of stone—huge slabs that had been dragged up the hill centuries ago. Sandals were strewn on the floor of the anteroom, but since Mara and Asher were barefoot she stopped only to wash their hands in the ritual water vats, then continued into the sanctuary.

  Everyone in the village came to Sabbath prayer. Everyone except Nava. The men occupied the middle of the large, square room. At least a hundred men and boys stood facing the stone dais set in the center front. Women and children stood along the walls three deep. Mara breathed a prayer of relief that her mother hadn’t come.

  Mara hitched Asher up higher on her hip and slipped behind the nearest woman. She made her way toward the front of the room, the women and children moving aside hastily as soon as they saw Asher.

  The high priest, Yahokeem, stood on the dais. Behind him hung a heavy curtain, pulled back to reveal a metal case decorated with carved pomegranates. In it were housed the scrolls of the law, the most valuable treasures in Sychar. They were written by Aaron’s great-grandson Abisha, not long after the settling of the Promised Land.

  She looked over the crowd. Where was Aunt Ruth? There was Uncle Uziel, standing near the front. Beside him was Abahu, the olive grower, and beside him . . .

  Mara’s back stiffened and she caught her breath. She ducked behind plump Tirzah. The big woman’s expensive scent tickled her nose, and she held her breath to ward off a sneeze. She peeked around Tirzah’s elaborate hair.

  The stranger stood next to Abahu, the olive grower. Their faces—both stern and handsome—were set like stone, ignoring the stares and whispers around them. They stood straight and stiff, taller than most of the other men by a full head. As with all the men, a white tallith lay over the stranger’s clothes, and his head was covered. But his smooth, pale face still looked foreign next to the dark skin and full beards around him. She shrank back until all she could see was Tirzah’s back.

  Adah and Rivkah towered next to Tirzah.

  “It’s Dinah’s son,” Tirzah whispered to Adah.

  Yahokeem raised his arms. The murmurs of the crowd ceased.

  Adah bent her head toward Tirzah. “Which one?” Some of the women looked at her sharply.

  “One of the younger ones, I think. He doesn’t look like Ezra, does he?”

  Rivkah giggled, and Adah poked her with a bony elbow. “What’s he doing here? They haven’t been here for years. Not even for Passover.”

  Tirzah shrugged. “I don’t know. But every girl in town is talking about him.”

  Yahokeem lifted an ancient scroll from the elaborately carved chest behind him. He unrolled it and began to read.

  Rivkah peered back at Mara with a smirk. As she raised her hands to pat her twisted braids, her silver bangles jingled like bells. Jebus had been generous with his betrothal gift.

  And she wants me to know it.

  When the last prayer was sung, Mara scooped Asher from his place on the floor and darted out of the building.

  A call from the anteroom stopped her. “Mara.”

  She turned back. Tirzah stood in the doorway, a jar and a packet in her hands.

  She shoved the bundles into Mara’s free hand. “No matter what your mother does, I won’t let children starve in my village.” Giving Asher a wary glance, she turned on her heel, and went back into the building.

  Tirzah might be the cruelest of the village women, but she never failed to give to Nava’s unfortunate children. Mara forced out a thank-you as Tirzah’s broad back disappeared. Charity given with a measure of disdain still filled Asher’s belly. She juggled the jar and bundle into a more secure position and started back down the path.

  “Mara, slow down!” Asher complained, bumping up and down on Mara’s back as she rushed down the path. She slowed, glancing back at the synagogue. A crowd of villagers poured out of the doors, spreading down the mountain.

  “Sorry, Asher,” she panted. “I’m just hungry.”

  “Me too! I’m hungry too!” Asher clasped her neck, almost choking her. “Go faster, Mara!”

  Mara picked up her pace again, sweat trickling down her neck. She didn’t want to face anyone right now, especially not the stranger. She should at least thank him for saving her. But in Sychar, gossip traveled as swiftly as the desert lark. If any of the women found out that the newest unmarried man in Sychar had helped her, they would hate her more than ever.

  No. She would avoid him and hope that neither he, nor Amram, would tell what happened on the road to the well. Mara breathed a sigh of relief as she reached their little valley and Asher slid from her back.

  • • •

  Sabbath prayers at the synagogue were not as bad as Shem had feared. His grandfather brought Shem to the front of the crowd. Abahu didn’t look ashamed or embarrassed. If anything, his grandfather seemed . . . defiant. He stood near Shem, almost protectively, as the priest read the law and the village men sent him sidelong glances.

  Now they walked home in silence. They skirted the village and passed the well. Only a few women filled their jars in the heat of the mid-morning sun.

  Abahu nodded at them, and they stared at Shem.

  A breeze cooled the air and whispered over the newly greened grass and sprouting crocuses. They reached Abahu’s well-tended courtyard, full of flowers in fragrant bloom. Wide, flat rocks made a comfortable place to eat and rest in the shade of spreading fig trees.

  “Please, Shem, sit here,” Mechola said, hurrying into the house. “I will bring the food and wine.”

  He sat down with Abahu on the sun-warmed stones. It was time to give his grandfather an explanation. About his hair, his clothes, everything. He deserved it; they both did.

  Shem met Abahu’s direct gaze with his own. “Grandfather, I am sorry. I know that my appearance has caused gossip. I have brought shame on you and Grandmother.”

  “Gossip?” Abahu jutted his chin forward. “Do you think I care what the old women say about me while they stand around the well?” He sat up straighter. “And I am not ashamed of my grandson.”

  Shem’s shoulders drooped. I don’t deser
ve this loyalty.

  “No, and I don’t care what the men say in the marketplace.” Abahu’s voice rose. “Do you know what I care about?”

  Shem swallowed hard and nodded.

  “What is my son-in-law teaching my grandsons in Caesarea? Does he still teach you of the God of our fathers? Or has Ezra adopted the gods of the Greeks and Romans and turned his children into pagans?”

  Mechola came out with the food. She put bread, oil, and dried fish in front of Abahu, then brought sweet melons, a bowl of olives, and honey cakes. She rested her hand gently on her husband’s shoulder and frowned as she set the jug of wine before him. A jug of water came next. Mechola withdrew but stood nearby in the shade of the house.

  Abahu poured wine and water into both goblets. He sat back, took a long drink, and raised his silver eyebrows. “Well?”

  Shem took a deep breath. Where should I start? “Grandfather, it is not what you think. This . . .” He gestured to his hair and clothes. “This is my fault. I need to tell you why I am here. Why my parents sent me to you. I am not here to take over the olives. And I am not here to become your heir.” Shem fidgeted with his goblet. “I’m here because I killed a Roman soldier.”

  Mechola drew in a sharp breath.

  Abahu faltered, bit into a round of bread, and chewed, his brows pulled down.

  Shem’s mouth was dry. “I’ve been hiding for about a week, but they are still looking for me. I cut my hair and shaved my beard to disguise myself. They are looking for a Samaritan, or a Jew. My father thinks they will not look for me out in the country. But you still must know that you are hiding a fugitive. You might even be in danger.”

  He waited for the outrage.

  Abahu leaned forward. “Tell us what happened, Shem.”

  He’s not angry. He’s as calm as if we were talking about the price of seed. “I’m sorry. I seem to . . . find trouble wherever I go. I don’t want to put you in danger. Or lie to you. But my father . . .”

  Abahu raised a hand. “Don’t worry about that part yet. Just tell us what happened.”