Take This Cup (23 page)
I had traveled one thousand miles! It could not be that I had come so far for nothing!
I counted doors from the head of the street again. “One, two, three!” Tears brimmed over. I wiped them away with the back of my hand.
Plucking at the sleeve of a heavily cloaked woman, I cried, “I am looking for the shop of Boaz the Weaver! Do you know—”
“Burned down.” She jerked her thumb toward the shell. “ ’Twas the finest weaver on the street. Some say ’twas no accident.”
“But . . . are they all dead?”
She mumbled on. “Murder, if it was set deliberate. One perished in the disaster.”
“One dead! Who?”
Her tone was matter-of-fact. Old news. Grief over and done with. “It was a visiting grandson what died. Roof fell in on him.”
One of my brothers, dead! I stared in horror at the fallen beams and scorched stone. “Which? What was his name?”
“Lord above, I couldn’t say. Big family it was. So many of them.”
“Where are the others?”
The woman stared at me with sudden interest. “And who are you?”
“When did it happen?” I had imagined the reunion with such joy.
“Autumn. Around Tabernacles. But . . . who are you that it matters?”
Tears streaked my cheeks. No holding them back. “I’m Nehemiah. Youngest son of Lamsa and of Sarah, who used to weave here in her father’s shop. I’m grandson of Boaz the Weaver whose shop this was. My three brothers were here . . . It was . . . You speak of my brother and the fire! Dead in the fire! But which brother? Do you know the name?” Images of my older brothers at our parting so long ago flooded my memory. Who could imagine that we would never see one another again?
She considered me in stunned silence. “You! Here? Son of Sarah! And herself married a herdsman from Babylon. Herself gone so long and so far away. Don’t know which grandson it was that died. There are more than a few grandsons. You know that well enough. It’s a big clan. Where is your mother, boy?”
I could not take my eyes from the rubble. “I . . . I don’t know,” I whispered. “My grandfather Boaz. My grandmother . . . Mama lived here. I know the stories. Fourth door from the top of the Street of Weavers. I came to find them. My family. My brothers. Please! Can you help me?”
“They’ve gone away, I heard, to live near your mother’s sister.”
“But where?”
She clucked her tongue. “You poor child. Where’s your mother? Your father? I imagine they aren’t far from you, eh? Well, it’ll be hard news for them.”
“My mother has many sisters. Where are my grandparents? My grandfather? Boaz the Weaver? Please tell me if you know.”
“Sorry. Can’t say. Don’t know. Not sure. Gone to the seashore, I heard. Lost everything. Some reason for the bad fortune, no doubt. Punishment doesn’t come without a reason. So. You never know.”
Anger against her welled up in me. How could she say such a thing? Accuse so unjustly? What had my father and mother
done wrong to deserve an attack by bandits? What had I done wrong to lose my family and my pleasant life? “You are wrong! And it’s wrong to say such a thing!”
She raised her head indignantly and sniffed the wind. “I see you are an insolent, prideful boy. Pride. Reason enough for the House of Boaz to burn down over his head. Tell your mother and father when they come. Go to the elders at the Temple. Your grandfather’s prayer shawls . . . famous, as you know. Your family was very proud of that, I am sure.” She sniffed. “Someone among the priests will no doubt have the details of where they’ve gone. Where to find them.” She brushed her hands on her skirt, indicating our conversation was over. “You should learn to respect your elders, or worse than this will come upon you. Even so . . . I am sorry for your bad fortune, boy.” She scurried off, leaving me alone in the middle of the darkening street.
T
he gloom of twilight settled over the Street of the Weavers. I sank onto a cold, blackly charred beam in the ruins of my grandfather’s shop and wept. Months of longing and hope for reunion with my family were turned to ashes beneath my feet. I felt the presence of death in this place where my brother died. Which brother? Who among the three was no longer living? In my imagination I lived the deaths of each. I tried to picture my world without them.
I touched Joseph’s cup, wrapped in the bag beneath my cloak. Oh, the suffering of all who had drunk from this cup! I closed my eyes a long moment. When I opened them again, I saw the city in a new way. The world around me had a sharpness of detail I had never seen before. Death had brought a new clarity to life. Beyond the shattered walls of my grandfather’s shop, crowds thinned and businesses were shuttered.
As it darkened, Hanukkah candles appeared in the windows of homes and businesses. The warm glow and companionship of the orphan Sparrows’ fire beckoned me. Several boys lit their torches and hailed travelers, leading them away from the Street of the Weavers. I climbed out of the destruction of my life and made my way down the steps to the watch fire.
Four Sparrows remained, warming hands and backsides
when I approached the blaze. Their torches were yet unlit, propped against a wall. Potential customers seemed fewer than ever. I hesitated just beyond the ring of light. Surly young faces lifted. Eyes narrowed with suspicion. They stared at me, hating me for the warmth of my fleece coat and mountain boots.
The leader, a gaunt boy of about eleven, considered me. “You want a torch, or what?”
A red-haired boy about my age rubbed his hands together. “He don’t want a torch. He’s been up the street there, visiting ghosts.”
Two dark-haired boys, whom I guessed to be brothers, exchanged a glance. “Ghosts?”
Their red-haired companion nodded. “He’s been up in the ruins of the weaver Boaz. Ain’t you, kid?”
I nodded.
The leader tilted his head and took a step toward me. “You’re not from around here. Not with such a coat and warm boots. Where are you from?”
I answered, “From the land where Eden used to be. Paradise . . . north of Babylon. The great mountains beyond the two rivers.”
“I am Timothy,” said the leader. “That is Red. On account of his hair. And these brothers are Obed and Jesse. Their father was a religious sort before the Romans killed him.”
“I am called Nehi. Nehemiah. But Nehi to all who know me.”
“Why are you here?” the brothers asked in unison.
“My family.” The words caught in my throat.
Red asked, “What was you doing in the ruins of the weaver’s shop?”
I could barely speak. “My mother grew up there. It belonged to my grandfather and his father on back for generations.”
Timothy raised his chin. “So, are you related to Boaz?”
Red echoed the question. “Your mother? She the daughter of old Boaz and his wife?”
I nodded. “Boaz. My grandfather. I came all this way to find them.”
Red snorted. “Well, you come here for nothing. They’ve been gone awhile. I seen the fire. Never seen anything burn so hot or fast. There was a young man died in it too. Burned up. Horrible thing. Screaming for help. No help for it. A grandson. What relation of yours?”
“Please. Do you know the name of the boy who was killed?”
The four Sparrows exchanged looks, but none had an answer. “Sorry.”
“I had three brothers,” I replied hoarsely. “Now I have two. But I don’t know which one died.”
This revelation brought silence to us all. I held my palm over the fire, then drew it back quickly. Too close to the heat. I imagined . . .
The leader cleared his throat. “Your grandparents were good to us boys, always. She, the lady, brought us fresh bread sometimes. Not crumbs or scraps, but real hot, steamy, fresh bread.”
“She was good to us,” the brothers agreed.
Red added, “I suppose we should return the favor. What are your plans, Nehi?”
“I don’t have any plans now.” I glanced toward the ruins. “There is what is left of my plans.”
The leader puckered his brow. “Nice coat and boots. You’ll be warm enough.”
“I am grateful to the Eternal. Grateful for . . .” Though I was grateful for my warm clothes, the grief I felt made gratitude for anything else difficult.
Red asked, “Where will you sleep tonight?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know.”
Timothy instructed, “Stay with us, then. We are going to the Temple Courts tonight. They’ll be lighting the giant Menorah and giving out bread to everyone after the service.”
“We share what we get, see?” Red said. “If I get a crust, but you get a whole loaf, we share equal. Get it?”
One of the brothers spoke. “And you can sleep with us Sparrows in the quarry afterward. It’s the least we can do, seeing how your grandmother fed us. We have charcoal fires there to warm us, and we divide the bread among ourselves.”
Red put his arm around my shoulder. “Come on, then. You’ve come to the right place.”
I could not speak to thank them. The lump in my throat made it hard to swallow. I had gone from being alone and friendless to being taken in and cared for by the orphan boys whom my grandmother had cared for.
It was because of free bread that I missed meeting Jesus of Nazareth that very night. The brothers, unlit torches in hand, wanted to immediately find fares to guide.
Red and Timothy argued against it: “If you come too late, the loaves will be all gone. Every beggar in Jerusalem will be on the steps below the Royal Porch.”
As the brothers scampered away in the gathering gloom, Jesse retorted over his shoulder, “We heard there’s a band of pilgrims coming in from Bethany tonight. We’ll earn enough pennies to buy our own bread!”
When I questioned Red about it, he replied there was no reason not to have both bread and pennies, so he and Tim and
I set out. At the far south end of the Temple Mount, a group of Pharisees distributed barley loaves. It was a
mitzvah
to provide for the needy, and the Pharisees made a great show of it. An assembly of the ultra-pious fraternity, in sumptuous robes and broad phylacteries, gathered on the steps between two passage-ways. They looked on from some distance away as their servants tended wicker baskets of round, hard bread. When each container was emptied, a trumpet blew to signal that another full vessel had been uncovered.
As we waited in a line of beggars, Tim remarked in a low voice, “The bread doesn’t taste worse because they blow their trumpets over it.”
“The Pharisees always salt their gifts that way,” Red added with a grin.
I was warm enough in my cloak and boots, but my friends stomped their feet and clapped their hands as we waited in the cold. The file of waiting supplicants snaked back and forth across the steps. It moved forward very slowly.
As we neared the front of the line, someone hurriedly approached the largest Pharisee. The man’s sandals clattered on the steps in his haste. “He’s there now,” I heard the man say. “Solomon’s Colonnade.”
Three of the Pharisees gathered in conference. It was then I overheard them mention the name Jesus.
“Jesus of Nazareth?” I repeated.
“Has to be,” Tim said. “Look at how agitated the fat Pharisee is.”
“Jesus is here? Now?”
“Other side of the mount,” my friend said. “You want to see him?”
I nodded eagerly.
“Come on, then.” Darting around the three people ahead of us in the queue, Red snatched up two loaves of bread and shouted a thank-you while Tim secured one more.
“This way,” Red urged. “In here.”
There were two tunnels in the south face of the Temple Mount, called the Huldah Gate in honor of the prophetess. These passages led beneath the Royal Porch. Sloping steeply upward, they opened onto the Temple plaza at the south end of the Court of the Gentiles.
We emerged from corridors choked with the smoke and soot of flickering torches to be blasted by cold air. Snow had begun to sweep across the expansive courtyard. The plaza was brightly lit by four towering menorahs. Shining in the lamplight, swirling showers of snow formed lazy spirals. Leaning back, I looked up. The descending pillars of icy crystals reached into the sky like ghostly fluted columns.
“But where is he?” I said with frustration.
“This way,” Tim urged, and we sprinted on. We hugged our loaves of bread as we ran. I kept one hand on Joseph’s cup.
From a distance I heard the Levite choirs singing hymns of praise and thanksgiving. I saw a crowd of people jammed between the shuttered booths of the moneychangers and the columned portico lining the eastern rim of the court.
“There.” Red pointed. “He’ll be in the middle of that mob.”
“Wait,” Tim warned, laying his hand on my arm to stop my headlong charge. “Temple guards.”
A dozen green-uniformed and helmeted sentries marched with purpose toward the assembly. Reaching the back of the throng, they roughly thrust the onlookers aside.
“What? What’s happening?” I demanded, tugging against Tim’s restraint.
“You know the high priest doesn’t like this Jesus,” Tim said.
“Looks like they’re going to arrest him for sure,” Red added.
“Arrest the Messiah? Why?”
Yanking me around in front of him, Tim demanded, “What do you know about it? You said you just got here.”