Take This Cup (17 page)
When I returned to the corral area of the caravansary, I found it more than half empty. Calling to the aged porter, I asked, “Where is Jehu?”
Brandishing a wooden pitchfork in a wrinkled, age-spotted hand, the servant replied, “Gone! Gone to Jerusalem.”
“So soon?”
“I tried to tell him it was bad fortune to flaunt the Almighty so, but he went anyway.” The old man made it sound like a personal affront as well as an impiety.
“Did they have other provisions to get?” I inquired. “Somewhere else to stop nearby?”
The porter was already shaking his shaggy locks before the question was completed, “Over the hills and gone,” he said, indicating the road. The highway was devoid of travelers as far to the west as I could see.
“Could I catch them? How far to the next stopping place?”
“Boy!” the servant said sternly. “They will make twenty miles before they stop again. Farther and faster than you could manage on foot. Twenty miles,” he repeated, then added, “if they make it that far.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bandits,” the porter said gruffly. “Left on a Sabbath and made too much show of wealth. Bragging about his load of silk and how much it was worth. Word of it got all around Zakho.”
“Do you really think they’re in danger?”
Grudgingly the porter admitted, “Jehu took some thought about it. Signed on three more men to go along as guards.” Dropping a leather water bottle at the end of a braided horsehair rope into the well, he added, “Though what good one of them may do, I’m sure I don’t know. Had his arm in a sling. What good’ll that do in a fight? But they insisted: ‘Sign us all or none,’ their leader said.”
After offering to tote the skin to water a pen of donkeys, I asked, “How long will I have to wait? I want to get on the road soon.”
“Who can say?” the porter said, laying his arm across my shoulders. “Tomorrow or next week? Who can say?”
It was not the answer I hoped to hear.
I was back in the Zakho synagogue for the evening
Havdalah
service. By this rite Sabbath ended and the new week inaugurated. I tasted the wine and savored the aroma as the box of spices was passed around. The sharp sweetness of cinnamon, cloves, and myrtle pepper mingled with the penetrating tang of laurel and the exotic allure of orange peel.
Making sure I used all five of my senses, just as my mother taught me, I admired the entwined flames of the braided candle. Extending my hands, I sensed its warmth while I listened to the blessing:
“Blessed art thou, God, our Lord, King of the Universe,
who distinguishes
holiness from the everyday,
light from dark,
Israel from the nations,
the seventh day from the six work days.
Blessed art thou, God,
who distinguishes holiness from the everyday.”
When the candle was extinguished in the last of the wine, the end of the
Havdalah
service brought Sabbath to a close. Some of the men dipped a fingertip in the wine and touched their eyelids with it for good luck. Neither Rabbi Kagba nor my father had ever followed that custom, so neither did I.
Outside the synagogue a pair of torches lighted the entry. There was no illumination between the religious building and the caravansary, but the latter was only a few paces away.
I had only stepped into the darkness when I heard shouts of alarm and hoofbeats approaching at high speed. From the direction of the bridge came a horseman at full gallop.
The mounted man was upon me almost before I had time to react. I looked up and saw a black-cloaked figure on a black steed bearing down on me. Flinging myself out of the way, I had only a second to spare as the rider thundered past.
Flashing hooves dug sharply into the soil exactly where I had been standing.
But the nearness of sudden death was not what made me quake with alarm.
In the momentary glimpse of the mounted man’s face provided by the torches, I recognized Zimri! Had the bandit chief also noticed me?
The assassin hurtled through Zakho without pausing and dashed away into the countryside beyond. There was no sign I had been spotted, no signal that the rebel was returning.
Yet still I could not stop myself from also bolting into flight. Ignoring calls from Asa, asking what was wrong, I sprinted across the stable yard. Up the stairs I charged, taking the steps two at a time.
There was no authority in Zakho to whom I could report, no one I trusted with my complete story, nothing to be done.
All of my anxiety centered on the cup! Unreasonably, I was suddenly fearful for its safety.
Inside my room I tore the covers off the bed and gasped with alarm. It wasn’t there! The Cup of Joseph was not at the head of the bed. I rummaged through the fleece and coverlet, hoping I had tossed the sacred object aside without meaning to do so.
Down on my knees I went, handling and squeezing each bit of fabric. It was then that I saw it: a dark bundle, partly unrolled, lying between the wall and the bed frame at the head of the bed.
I snatched it up, feeling the comforting solid form within the folds. Even then I was not fully reassured until I unwrapped it completely and cradled the black, nondescript chalice in my arms.
The parcel had merely tumbled off the pallet, probably when I slammed the door on my way to the synagogue. I vowed to never leave it behind again.
The vision of Zimri galloping past slammed again into my thoughts. The bandit was still out there, somewhere. He had not
been after me this time, but if we met again I would certainly be in danger.
I could not stay in Zakho any longer. The need to connect with a safe caravan and leave this part of the world behind was stronger than ever. I prayed earnestly for the remainder of my stay in Zakho to be brief. I wanted to travel with the right companions in a caravan to Jerusalem, but mostly I felt an urgent need to get the journey underway.
I bolted the door securely. Reknotting the fabric, I patted the sacking around the cup into a more comfortable shape. Using it for a pillow, I fell asleep.
I
t wasn’t even dawn when the bawling of camels and the shouting of drovers woke me. A new caravan had arrived at the caravansary.
Standing on the balcony, I studied the new arrivals. I counted forty beasts of burden, a good number for safe traveling. I saw family groups come in together and be assigned quarters beneath my room.
The man who strode about giving orders to everyone must be the master. He was of medium height and build, with sturdy shoulders and muscular forearms. The fringes of his prayer shawl proclaimed him to be an observant Jew. In fact, all the men in this caravan appeared to be respectable Jews.
Emerging from the inn, Asa greeted the newly arrived chief by shouting across the yard: “Hosea! Welcome! We looked for you these three days past.”
“Had a new baby born on the crossing between here and Ecbatana,” the leader called back. Hooking a thumb over his shoulder, he gestured toward a baby camel lurching unsteadily beside her mother. “Had to stay over a day, and that put us too late to get here before Sabbath. But here we are. Food ready?”
“Fresh bread, butter, and dates. Come inside and eat.”
“I will, soon as I see all the families properly disposed and the animals fed.”
“Sir,” I called down to Asa, “might I join you for breakfast? I’d like to speak with the caravan master.”
“Hosea?” Asa returned. Then, guessing at my purpose, he added, “You could not do better than him, lad. Come down and welcome.”
Hosea was even more muscular up close than he had seemed from a distance. The caravan captain had a puckered scar on his brawny right forearm. He was gruff but not unkind when he spoke to me. “What’s this about joining the caravan?” he asked. “Where are your parents, boy? Is it true they sent you to make arrangements?” Hosea lowered his chin and looked down a long, crooked nose. “The truth, now, mind.”
“Yes, sir,” I agreed. “I am supposed to go to my grandfather’s shop in Jerusalem, in the Street of the Weavers. My brothers are already there. My parents will be joining me later.” It wasn’t really a lie so much as a hopeful utterance, I told myself.
Asa, seated beside me on a wooden bench next to a smoldering fire, turned, and looked at me. “Why the story, then? About you being sent here to set things up?”
“My good friend, Rabbi Kagba, said I should tell people that my parents were coming soon. He said then no one would take advantage of me. He said when I found observant Jews I could trust them and then I could explain.”
I still did not make reference to the cup, nor to the special mission that had been assigned to me. I had told enough of the tale to get me to Jerusalem. The rest was no one’s business.
“When I heard that you keep Sabbath,” I added to Hosea, “I was sure God had sent the right caravan for me.”
Hosea laughed, exchanging a glance with the innkeeper. “So I’m an answer to prayer, am I? There’s few would make that claim about me.”
“I can pay.” I explained the bargain the rabbi had insisted was fair. “You will be paid the rest when we reach the Holy City.”
Hosea waved away the reference to pay. “I believe you, lad. That’s not the issue. I cannot take you, alone as you are. Someone must be willing to be responsible for you. See that you’re fed. Doctored, if needed. Assign you your duties. On my caravans everyone works if they want to eat.”
“I’m a good worker,” I maintained stoutly, looking to Asa to back me up.
The caravansary owner nodded.
“All right, let me locate the family I think will serve your need. If they agree, then I’ll take you on. Mind, now,” he said sternly. The bench legs squealed on the wooden floor as he stood and pushed away from the table. “It’s no easy task you’ve set for yourself. We walk from sunup to sunset, six days a week, and then tend the animals before we rest ourselves. And there’s no turning back. This time of year it’ll take six Sabbaths with the blessing of the Name . . . eight if we’re unlucky. You still want to sign on?”
I nodded vigorously.
Hosea expressed his approval. “You will be able to help this family, I think. They are making this journey because of some healer they heard of. Jesus, I think his name is. One son is going blind, and the other son’s wife is barren.” The caravan master shook his head. “It’s a long journey. I hope they find what they’re looking for.”
Hosea returned with an older man and his wife and two children younger than me. “This is Raheb and his good wife, Reena. They are traveling west with their sons and daughters-in-law, and these, their two grandchildren.”
“Pleased to meet you, Nehemiah,” said Raheb, a pleasant-seeming man, nearing sixty, broad of build and face. “Here are Beryl”—he tapped a small girl of about four on the shoulder—“and Michael.” He lightly thumped the head of a boy a year or two younger than me. “These two require a lot of looking after,” Raheb said. “And they’re a bit small for their chores. But you look strong. Shepherd, I hear? Would you help them in exchange for your meals?”
“Gladly, sir,” I agreed.
“Then it’s settled,” Hosea offered. “We leave day after tomorrow at daybreak. You can start helping by watering the camels today.”