Take This Cup (5 page)

“The stars led us to Jerusalem, where Herod was ruling, but he claimed to have no knowledge of a newborn king of the Jews. He said he wanted us to continue our research so that he might worship this child too.

“We were led on to Bethlehem, of which the prophet Micah wrote, and there we found him: a small child, born to parents from Nazareth, but living for a time in Bethlehem. We worshipped him there—Old Balthasar, the others, and myself. We gave him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.”

“But you still haven’t told us why no one else knows of him,” Father insisted.

Kagba looked grim. Turning toward my mother, he said, “Sarah, child, I wonder if you would see if there are some pomegranates? I’d love to have one.”

When Mother rose obligingly, passing Nehemiah to Hepzibah, and was out of earshot, the rabbi explained. “One of our number was warned in a dream that Herod meant to harm the child. So we did not return to Jerusalem, but fled the country a different way. It was right after that when Herod . . .”

Father’s eyes saddened as he recognized the tale. “Murdered the boy babies of Bethlehem. I remember hearing of it!”

“But Jesus and his parents, warned by us, escaped into Egypt. Thereafter I lost track of them. But I know,” Kagba said forcefully, “that he lives and must be revealed. It is my goal to seek him out and to see him again before I die.”

“When? Now?”

Kagba shrugged. “It may not be for years. But I will know when it’s time, just as I knew those two decades and more ago. Then I will find him again. And the Lord revealed to me this: your newborn son will play a special role.”

Chapter 4

T
he Perseid meteor shower came around the fourth summer after my birth, marking again my birthday. I had, by then, shortened my name to Nehi, and would answer to nothing else.

My father often remarked that I was a strong child—strong of will and body. I towered over other children my own age by a head, and my shoulders were broader as well.

“Built like his mother,” my father remarked to Rabbi Kagba as my mother hefted a large water jar and limped toward the tent. “A crooked foot doesn’t even slow her down. And the boy’ll be strong as an ox. Smart too, eh?”

Rabbi Kagba agreed. “It’s Sarah’s doing. She is a good woman. A good mother to all your sons. For a four-year-old to know his letters by sight and sound.” He shook his head in awe. “The lad recites the
Shema
and
Kiddush
letter perfect. The lad will be reading
Torah
by this time next year.”

All the families in the camp enjoyed my birthday feast. My father chose a woolly, black-and-tan sheepdog puppy named Beni as his gift to me. The puppy was the most aggressive in the litter, and his needle-sharp teeth grasped the hem of the new coat Mother had woven for me. Beni and I enacted a brawl, which ended with me giving him a swift kick. The pup accepted my dominance, but the new coat was already torn.

That night the puppy and I slept together on my mat. My mother repaired the tear and questioned Father about the dog. “Nehi is so young, Lamsa. How will he know what to do? How to take care of the creature?”

“You don’t understand how it is out here. Every boy needs a dog. They’ll grow up together, those two. Their hearts will be knit. Within a few months, you’ll see. Beni will be Nehi’s protector. Stand between him and an angry ewe, for instance. Or some wild animal. Beni is bred to give his life for his master, even if his master is only a boy. Later he’ll serve Nehi as he learns his duties with the lambs.”

My mother bit off the thread and examined the mended hole. “Almost good as new. I had intended it to be like Joseph’s coat, you know? Something unique for our son. Special.”

My father stooped and kissed her forehead. “Ah, Sarah, what’s a little tear in the hands of a weaver? His coat . . . mended now. Not perfect. But it’s right for the coat of a herdsman’s son to show a little wear.”

Within days Beni and I were inseparable.

With the passing months, the young dog assumed the role of protector, just as my father had predicted. Beni remained at my heels as I played with other children. Even though Beni was only a growing adolescent, he placed himself fiercely between me and all other canines. Stiff-legged, snarling, and barking, Beni let the pack know that I was his human lamb to care for, and no stranger could come near without permission.

My father had chosen the right companion for me.

My mother was comforted by the relationship between the dog and me. I could not sleep unless Beni was curled up next to
me. This miracle of shepherds and their herd dogs was unlike anything Mama had ever witnessed in Jerusalem. In the city, cats kept as mousers were the only household pets.

By the next spring Beni was no longer a puppy but a lanky young dog. He flashed a white set of adult teeth and was the envy of the pack of herd dogs.

One day clouds had gathered on the high mountain peaks, a portent of an afternoon storm. A massive thundercloud towered above the crags, fiercely bright in its highest reaches while oppressively dark beneath.

A herd of roe deer, with newborn, spotted fawns, grazed near the sheep. I came to my mother and asked, “Mama, I want to take Papa his meal.”

She scanned the distance between the tent and the spot where Father sat with his staff in hand, about 150 yards.

She packed the lunch basket, then stroked the dog’s head. “Stay on the path,” she instructed me. “Don’t wander.” Then, “You watch over Nehemiah, Beni.” The dog wagged his tail, and we two set out.

I held my father’s meal with one hand and clasped Beni’s tail with the other. We walked the long way round, skirting a pasture dotted with new lambs and their mothers.

Then I noticed the fawns and let go of Beni’s tail. I pointed. “Look, Beni! New baby deer! Look at the two tiny ones. Pretty little things.”

The dog paused. His eyes traced my gesture across the meadow. Two dozen buff-hued does, and half again as many fawns, grazed at the rim of the forest between me and my father. The route was much shorter to cut through the herd of deer rather than go around. The dog struck out on his own, turning to look as if expecting me to follow him. I hesitated
a long moment but remained on the path as my mother had commanded.

I called to my dog, “Come on! Beni, come back!”

Tail still wagging, Beni trotted toward the newborn fawns. After all, his young master had pointed to the fragile creatures. A signal to a stock dog was a command to be obeyed. Did I mean for Beni to herd them, to bring them back?

Dozens of black-tipped ears pricked toward the dog. A score of sable-ringed muzzles lifted to sniff the air.

Suddenly alarmed, one doe wheeled around. Her body became an animated wall, protecting her startled fawn.

The first threat to Beni came from a large, round-rumped doe, the mother of twins. She lowered her head and pawed the ground, warning the canine to come no closer. Oblivious and unafraid, the dog trotted on toward the herd. The doe squealed, preparing to charge. Beni had trespassed into the fawns’ nursery.

Beni tucked his tail and, confused by the doe’s aggressive behavior, hesitated. A brace of angry mothers encircled him. Sensing danger, the dog bristled and barked. He bared his teeth.

Two does charged, lashing out at Beni with sharp, accurately aimed hooves. Beni yelped and fell. He tried to rise but was knocked back. First one doe struck with powerful front hooves; then a second doe pounced, bringing the full weight of her body onto him. A third pounced again. The young dog was unable to escape repeated blows as he was butted and kicked from all sides.

I froze and shouted, “Papa!” My terrified cries drew Mother from the tent.

My father bellowed and swung his shepherd’s staff around his head as he sprinted toward the melee of attacking deer. They
scattered. With their little ones, the deer sprang into the forest, disappearing into the shadows of the deep woods.

Bloody and near death, Beni lay panting in the grass. Weeping, I stumbled to the battered body of my friend, then dropped to my knees and began to wail.

My father stooped and with a glance took in the broken body of the dog. “Nehi! Go get a blanket from your mother. Quickly. Go . . .”

Sobbing, I scrambled back up the path toward the tent. My mother met me and scooped me into her arms. “Oh, my boy! My boy!”

“Mama! They hurt Beni,” I cried. “The mother deer! Papa says bring a blanket quick!”

Mother returned to the tent and snatched a blanket off a sleeping mat. Neighbors and camp children paused in their chores to shield their eyes against the sun and take in the tragedy.

“What is it?”

“Sarah? What’s happened?”

“Nehi’s dog got too close to the fawns.”

“Stupid dog.”

“Young dog. Curious. He’s never seen new fawns before.”

“Went out to have a sniff and . . .”

“Good thing the boy was not with him.”

Rabbi Kagba approached her. “Sarah. The does were protecting their young. It could have been Nehemiah hurt. Aye. Instead, it’s the dog. Be grateful.”

Sarah nodded grimly and placed me in Kagba’s arms. The old man soothed, “There, there, Nehi. It’s finished now. We will pray. Come, Nehemiah. We will pray.”

“Mama, ask the Lord! Get out the oil of God. Pray, Mama!”
I covered my face and wept bitterly. “Lord, Abba! Save my little friend. Save my Beni!”

As Mother jogged unevenly toward the scene, she guessed the matter was probably already settled. How could anything survive such an assault? She hurried down the path to where a circle of rough shepherds gathered around and offered unhelpful advice.

“Master Lamsa, sir, might as well slit his throat and end it.” An elder drew his knife and offered it to my father.

He reached for it but, at the sight of Mother, held back. “A moment, Raphael. Let me check the damage to the little fellow.”

“He’s broken to pieces.”

“Was he protecting the lad?”

“No. Just trotted off on his own, like.”

“Still a pup. Curious. They don’t know better at this age.”

“Should have stayed with his child instead of going off to have a look at the fawns.”

Father worked to staunch the bleeding of the dying dog.

Beni’s fur was matted and covered in blood. He lay trembling in the trampled grass.

The men parted to let Mother into the circle.

“Beni. Oh! Poor little fellow.” The dog blinked when my mother knelt beside him and stroked his head. His eyes were glazed and his breath shallow.

“Oh, Lamsa,” Mother whispered. “He’s suffering. Oh, what? What to do! Poor boy! Nehi is with the rabbi.”

An older shepherd clucked his tongue. “Begging your pardon, sir, I never seen one this bad live. Better to end it.”

“No!” my mother protested, and the men fell silent.

“Sarah, look at this.” My father swept his hand over the
creature. “Broken ribs, I am certain. Don’t know how many. Or if his lungs are punctured. Broken left foreleg.”

“Please, Lamsa! Our boy loves him so.”

The ring of onlookers did not speak. No one dared to remark on the foolishness of the master’s wife.

Father was quiet for a long time. He pressed his lips together and shook his head slowly from side to side. “Sarah . . .”

“Please! We must try!” Mother begged.

My father drew a deep breath. He relented. “All right. But he’ll most likely not survive the night. Here . . . the blanket. Let’s carry him back to the tent.”

The sunset brought on
Shabbat
, but my mother had not prepared dinner. Nor did she light the
Shabbat
candles or recite the blessings. Though the day of rest began at nightfall, Mother and Father had forgotten
Shabbat
.

Exhaustion, brought on by grief, overcame me. I burrowed into Mother’s shoulder and dozed, though I was not sound asleep as they thought.

Father cleaned Beni’s wounds with wine and oil. The dog was conscious and seemed to be aware but did not stir as my father moved matted fur and assessed the damage.

A smoking oil lamp, casting orange light, revealed the extent of the injuries. There were eight cuts from the sharp hooves of the deer. Starting at Beni’s head, gashes covered the length of his body—right leg and shoulder, rib cage and hips.