The Well Page 7

  Mara shivered, thinking of Zevulun. Whenever the big man passed her in the marketplace, he scowled.

  Ruth reached the end of the green thread and held out her hand.

  Mara passed her the next skein, her eyes locked on the thin green stripe that was appearing on the creamy white wool.

  “Nava begged Father to change his mind. She rubbed his feet, made him honey cakes, but he did not waver. He wanted her to marry the richest and most powerful man in the village. For once, Father was immune to her charms or her tantrums. She was bound to obey.”

  No. Please, Lord. It can’t be. Mara’s stomach twisted, and she pulled Matea closer.

  Ruth ran her fingers over the vertical warp threads like she was strumming the strings of a harp. “The betrothal took place after the olive harvest. Before our family and most of the village, Zevulun declared, ‘She is my wife and I her husband, from today and forever.’ And they were betrothed, bound to each other in the marriage contract.”

  Her mother had lied to her.

  All these years. Nava had been betrothed to Zevulun before she married Moshe. Betrothal meant a sacred contract, broken only by a formal decree of divorce. This was a very different story from the one her mother told. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  Ruth took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mara. We thought that your mother . . . that Nava should tell you, if anyone.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “She is not well. I’m sorry I let you find out this way, from Adah.” She went back to the green thread and her shuttle.

  “What happened?” Mara asked. I don’t want to know.

  “They were to be married in the spring. Zevulun refused to wait a full year.” Ruth’s voice dropped. “The winds of Gadim were bad that winter. It was so cold. Father became very sick. First a cough. Then a burning fever took his life. Nava and I mourned together with Mama. Then we moved to our uncle Lemech’s house.

  “But she was still so selfish, so caught up in her own misery. To lose her beloved father and also be forced to marry a man like Zevulun was too much for her to accept.”

  Mara shook her head. She couldn’t listen to any more. Matea slumped in her lap, asleep. She gathered her little cousin in her arms and stood, then carried her to a shady corner and laid her on the soft grass. She wanted to scream. To run away. To shake her mother. She slumped on the bench under the eucalyptus and put her face in her hands.

  Ruth moved to sit beside her. “I’m sorry, my girl.”

  “Tell me the rest,” Mara said.

  Ruth wrapped her arms around Mara’s rounded shoulders. “We mourned. And then, when spring came, Nava dressed in her finest clothes. I remember, I asked her where she was going alone. She shushed me and made me promise not to tell Mama.

  “She told me later what happened. She went to the marketplace and spoke to Moshe. Then she went to Zevulun’s house, where she found her betrothed. He was shocked, she said. She demanded, ‘Write me a bill of divorce, Zevulun, so that I can marry the potter’s son. My father is dead; I will not honor his agreement with you.’”

  Mara caught her breath and jerked her head up. No wonder the women hated Nava. Especially Tirzah. Her own husband rejected so shamefully. Nava was a constant reminder that Tirzah hadn’t been his first choice of bride. Yet Tirzah still gave them more food than most of the other families. Mara vowed to think more kindly of the woman. At least to try.

  And Nava, her own mother, breaking her betrothal vow. Mara had never heard of a woman—anyone—doing something so disgraceful. “What did Zevulun say?” she breathed.

  “I can only imagine how furious he was. He is a prideful man. Nava told me that he called her a disgrace to her family, which was true. ‘Get out of my house and my sight, shameful woman! May your potter’s son be cursed with you.’ Then he went to the priest to write out a letter of divorce and sent it to Uncle Lemech.”

  She remembered her mother’s uncle only dimly—a loud, disapproving voice and a deeply furrowed brow. He must have been furious. The family shamed, disgraced, because of Nava. “What happened then?” Mara whispered. “What did Lemech do?”

  “The news spread all over the village before the bill of divorce was even delivered. You know how the priests talk. Moshe and Nava . . . they were betrothed at once and married quietly just three months later. She went to live with his family. Of course, Zevulun wanted the bride price returned. Our uncle was humiliated.”

  Ruth rubbed Mara’s cold hands between her own. “Mama was shamed in the village and wouldn’t even speak to Nava. I was forbidden to visit. I was about to be betrothed myself—”

  “To Uziel? But I thought that was later? After I was born?”

  Ruth shook her head. “No. Not to Uziel. To someone else. But that . . . didn’t happen.”

  Didn’t happen? Because of her sister’s shame. “Oh, Ruth.” Mara brought her aunt’s hands to her face.

  “Don’t cry for me, Mara. It was meant to be. Uziel is a good husband.” She ran her hands over Mara’s hair and sighed. “Nava was young and selfish and very, very happy. Sadly, it did not last long. She was eight months with child—with you—when Moshe went to Galilee for paints. He was attacked by bandits. His body was brought back to Nava. She gave birth during her grieving and named you Mara, for her bitter grief. Moshe had left Nava with little more than the clothes she wore.”

  Mara clutched her aunt’s hands. “And then you married Uziel and took us in.”

  Ruth nodded. “After Mama died.”

  Ruth was too kind to say it, but Nava’s shame probably killed the grandmother Mara didn’t even remember.

  Mara buried her face in her aunt’s soft shoulder. I can’t tell her about Alexandros. No one could ever find out, especially not Ruth and Uziel. The shame of the pagan’s visits, heaped upon the disgrace of Nava’s past, would be too much for the people of Sychar to forgive.

  Chapter 8

  The afternoon sun beat down on the little house, and no breeze cooled Mara’s sweat-soaked back or stirred her damp hair. Asher lay in the shade of the cedar trees. Mara measured lentils and water into the blackened cooking pot, then stirred in spicy cumin and sharp coriander.

  They had been eating well. After telling Mara about her mother and Zevulun, Ruth had loaded her basket with barley, oil, and lentils. It had been enough for the last few weeks and, with luck, would stretch until Passover.

  She set the pot on the fire. “Let’s walk one more time, Asher. Then you can rest.”

  Asher rolled over. “I’m tired, Mara.”

  “I know, my sweet. But you are getting too big for me to carry. One more time around the garden. Then, when Mama gets home from the market, she’ll be so proud of you.”

  Today Nava had worked cheerfully alongside Mara, making the mood in the little house light. But how long would her mother’s happy mood last? Until the next snub in the marketplace or whispered remark in the synagogue? At least Alexandros hadn’t come back. It had been weeks since his last visit. Maybe he’d moved on to another woman. Or been eaten by wild dogs.

  Asher still hadn’t moved.

  Mara walked to the cedars and stood over her brother. “I found some honey on our doorstep this morning, Asher.”

  “Honey?” He rolled to his knees. “Can I have some?”

  “One more time around the garden.” She held out her hands. He let her pull him up, then leaned on her as they circled the garden. He ground his teeth together as he limped along, putting as much weight as he could on the tender side of his crippled foot.

  “Good. Now rest, and I’ll bring you the honey.” She found the jar that she’d hidden under a pile of shorn wool and brought it to him. “Don’t eat it all.”

  Mara returned to the garden to pull some green onions. Asher had watered faithfully, and they were already eating some of the early vegetables. She’d sent Nava to the market with thread to trade for some fish. They would have a feast tonight.

  She went back to weaving on the rickety loom while
the lentils cooked. If Asher could walk, even a little, things would be different. If Asher could work in the village when he grew older, they would have food and clothing without having to depend on the townspeople. Nava would surely get well if she had hope for a better life for them all.

  And if Nava got better, she could send word to Shaul. Mara moved the shuttle through the warp. Nava must ask him—no, beg him—to come back to them. He would. She was sure of it. He had loved Nava. The rumors would fade, and they would be a family again. It could happen. Perhaps the worst time had passed.

  A shadow passed over the loom. Mara looked up with a smile, expecting her mother, but her heart dropped like a stone. Alexandros stood in the doorway. Had he passed through the village on his way to their home? Had anyone seen him? Surely Nava would not let him stay here again.

  “Hello, Mara. You are even more beautiful than the last time I saw you.” He stepped inside without an invitation. His eyes took in the empty room. He came closer. “Where is your mother, girl?”

  Mara stood quickly, pulling her mantle over her hair and most of her face. He stepped close enough for her to smell the cloying sweetness that always surrounded him. His scent—and the way he eyed her—made her step back.

  She took a deep breath and tried to make her voice strong and confident. It came out more of a croak. “She—she went to the market but should be home soon.” She slipped along the wall, as far from him as she could get, and darted out the door.

  Alexandros’s speckled donkey was tied to a bush in front of the house. The animal’s back sagged under a load of packets and baskets. She scanned the hill, but the path from Sychar was deserted. Alexandros followed her and leaned his bulky shoulder on the door frame, watching her every move.

  “You didn’t see her on your way through town?” Mara asked.

  “I came from Sebaste today. Your home is first on my agenda,” he said, licking his lips.

  Mara felt only a moment’s relief. At least no one had seen him yet.

  Alexandros stepped closer to her. He smiled. “Maybe it is time we got to know each other better, Mara.”

  A cold wave of fear rose in her. She glanced desperately at Asher, asleep under the tree. Alexandros’s eyes followed hers, and his mouth curved in distaste.

  “Alexandros!” Her mother’s voice rang out from the top of the hill.

  Mara sagged with relief.

  Nava hurried down the path, breathless and flushed, a smile on her face. “Alexandros, you honor us with a visit again. I heard yesterday that the merchants were expecting you.”

  Mara stared at her mother. She didn’t sound like she was about to ask him to leave.

  The big man took Nava’s hands and stared at her like a hungry dog stares at meat on his master’s plate. “I couldn’t pass by without a visit to the most beautiful woman in Samaria.”

  Nava hurried to the fire. “Come, Mara, why have you not brought bread for our guest and a bowl of water for washing?”

  Alexandros raised his brows at Mara, a laugh lurking around his mouth.

  “Mama? I thought . . .”

  “Mara, do as I say,” Nava said sharply.

  As Mara brought the washbowl, she tried to catch her mother’s eye.

  Nava had uncovered her hair. She smiled sweetly and laid her hand on Alexandros’s arm. What was she doing?

  Nava barely noticed Mara as she served Alexandros the lentils, onions, and bread. She did not speak to Asher or help him with his meal. Alexandros pretended that Asher was not even there, but his eyes rested on Mara when he barked at her to fetch a wineskin from his donkey’s pack.

  Mara untied the wineskin from the donkey’s back. She clenched her teeth and brought it to Alexandros. Did Nava really think that he would marry her and bring them all to live with him in Sebaste? Living in the same house as Alexandros—seeing him every day—she couldn’t do that to us. He would not be good to Asher. And I cannot think of the way he looks at me.

  “Sit with me and eat, Nava,” Alexandros ordered, motioning for her to join him.

  Mara’s mouth dropped open as her mother sat down opposite the man and took bread from his hand.

  Nava laughed as he whispered closer to her ear. Mara longed to hear her mother laugh. But not like this. Not with him.

  Alexandros poured himself more wine and some for Nava as he told stories of his dealings with cheating Assyrians, evil Egyptians, and the Jews of Jerusalem. Nava listened with rapt attention, sitting closer to him as the evening darkened into night, their faces lit by the flickering light of the cooking fire.

  Asher crawled into Mara’s lap and rubbed his face. Nava glanced at them. “The weather is fine tonight. Mara, you and Asher sleep on the rooftop.”

  “But, Mama . . .”

  “Do as I say!” Nava’s jaw was tight.

  What is Mama thinking? With a sick taste filling her mouth, Mara gathered their sleeping mats, leaving only her mother’s mat in the dark house. She threw both heavy mats over her shoulder and climbed the rickety ladder to the flat roof, her heart pounding and her cheeks wet with angry tears.

  When she’d helped Asher up the ladder, she sang to him and stroked his hair until he fell asleep. Life was hard enough for us before. If anyone finds out about Alexandros, it will be unbearable. Lord, help us, I beg you. Clear her mind. Restore her senses. Let her see what she is doing to us!

  Asher slept. The fire below flickered over the faces of Alexandros and her mother. Their low murmurs made her skin feel as though a thousand bugs crawled over it. She couldn’t stand being near them, watching her mother destroy any chance they had of happiness. Amram was right. Her mother was a whore. Mara climbed quietly down the ladder and slipped into the dark night. She ran up the hill to the deserted olive grove. At least there she could be alone.

  • • •

  The dark grove surrounded Shem, as peaceful as an empty synagogue. He stepped quietly through the trees, running his hands over an ancient branch. He’d learned a great deal about olives in the weeks since he came to Sychar.

  The tree arching over his head had seen more than three hundred years. Ten generations had harvested its oil for their bread and lamps, their medicines and ceremonies. It had been just a seed buried in the ground when Alexander, the great general of Greece, conquered this land and the rest of the world.

  Shem sat on a stump that could have been a seedling when Aristotle taught in the temples of Athens. Both trees were already old by the time Pompey captured the Promised Land for the emperor of Rome. The wind lifted his hair and rustled through the dry leaves scattered among the tree roots.

  After a few weeks in Sychar, Shem had ceased jumping at every noise, afraid that Roman soldiers had somehow found him. His father was probably right. He would be safe here.

  He wondered if he would be in Sychar in the months after the hot summer, when the olives fell from the trees and bright, golden oil flowed through the ancient press. The thought did not make him cringe as it had just weeks ago. His mother had been right; this was a good place.

  His body had adjusted surprisingly well to the work of a farmer. His arms and shoulders had ached at the end of the first days of hard work, but not anymore. His daily labors sent him early to bed with weary muscles and a feeling of contentment unlike any he’d known in Caesarea.

  His grandparents lived simply, with none of the wealthy pretensions of his father’s house. Unlike Ezra, Abahu never raised his voice or subjected his household to foul moods or tirades. His grandfather was easy to talk to and well-learned for someone who had lived his whole life in Sychar. Mechola was kind and clearly happy to have him in her house.

  He still missed his teachers and the comforts of Caesarea—still hoped to return—but Shem could imagine living here, in Sychar. He pictured himself growing old with these trees, raising a family, providing oil for the village. Surely it was more worthy a life than doing his father’s bidding, brokering with traders and greedy merchants in Caesarea? Or, as his tutors claimed, a li
fe lived in the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake. But was it enough? Was that God’s plan, as his mother had claimed?

  He could even imagine marrying a village girl and raising a family in this peaceful village. It wouldn’t be hard to find a wife here. Of course he saw the girls that twittered like sparrows wherever he went. He could hardly miss them. He guessed that they were much the same as the canaries that vied for his attention in Caesarea. The girls of Sychar draped themselves in homespun wool and brass bracelets instead of brightly dyed linen and gold, but women were much the same wherever you went.

  One would make as good a wife as any other.

  • • •

  Mara’s pulse jangled in her ears like a tambourine. She slumped next to a twisted trunk and took deep breaths. Branches wove between the ancient trunks like intertwined fingers. Dead leaves drifted over twisted roots that coiled among the trees.

  She watched the moon travel over the sky. Patches of moonlight leaked through the trees and scattered silver shadows on the uneven ground. She tried to pray, but no words came—just anger at her mother and dread of what she would face next.

  The moonlight blurred as her eyes filled with tears. Her life would be so different if Shaul had stayed. She would probably be betrothed by now, like Rivkah. Maybe even with children and a house of her own. He would have chosen a good man for her, someone trustworthy and kind.

  She would have honored his choice, she told herself fiercely. She didn’t need a handsome husband or flattering words. She would have worked hard to make her husband happy. But she would have no husband, no home, no children. She and Asher would be at the mercy of the village, which saw nothing more than her shameful mother and a crippled boy. Or worse, they would be dragged off to Sebaste with Alexandros if Nava had her way.