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Chapter Twenty-One
Unlikely Savior
Though troubled by Michael’s effect on our lives, I
still managed to think about my treasure.
What if those sneaks, Jethro, Obadiah, and Boaz, crept into our backyard
and found my pot of gold? How
would I know? How would I ever
know, if I couldn’t sneak down to the wall and see for myself? I remember giving Uriah an irritated
look that moment and thinking, “if it wasn’t for you dogging my trail, I’d go
down there after lunch!” As it
was, however, Uriah would, in fact, follow me around like dog, until we
returned to Samuel’s house.
I tried not to think about Michael and my gold as I
began my work. I decided, just as
resolutely, I would do better that day.
Simon seemed to put a little more effort in his sanding, himself, but
Uriah was still struggling. Jesus
walked out of the shop, where he had been assisting Papa, looked down at James
and Joseph as they continued varnishing stools, and, after nodding with
approval at Simon and my small pile of sanded table legs, stopped in front of
Uriah.
“Let me see it,” he murmured, reaching out to take
the piece of wood. “Not too bad, Uriah, but you’re not sanding with the grain
of the wood.” “Do you remember what I said about going against the grain?”
“Yes.” Uriah nodded. “To go against the grain
scratches and doesn’t sand the wood.”
“You must move with even strokes, like so,” he said, demonstrating
awkwardly. “Up and down the length of the wood, not back and forth.”
As I looked over at him, I almost laughed at his
crude efforts. He could barely
hold the table leg in one hand as the other hand moved the sander up and down
the wood.
“He’ll have to be a rabbi,” I whispered to Simon.
“He won’t be able to do anything else.”
“He has chubby little fingers,” Simon snickered.
“His hands are too fat.”
When I heard Jesus tell him what he thought was
wrong, after hearing word-for-word from Uriah what he had been taught, I
realized that Simon was correct.
According to Jesus, who I strained my ear to hear, Uriah hand was too
small and stubby to hold something so large. It was as if he had read Simon and my mind. I watched him show Uriah a better way
to hold a table leg: between his legs, moving the sander up and down the wood
in slow, even strokes. Once again,
within the same hour, I felt ashamed for misjudging a friend, and yet I
resented it when, after finishing our work, I couldn’t skulk away to my secret
wall. Before Mama had finished
preparing her special lunch, I decided to at least try. All I could think of was my pot of
gold. It had become such an
obsession in my life. As I slipped
out the back door, however, right on my heels, like a curse, was my friend Uriah.
“Go away,” I waved angrily, “I want to be alone.”
“What for?” Uriah asked, puffing and panting, as I
ran from the house into our backyard.
“I want to pray,” I lied, running faster and faster,
as a plan hatched in my mind.
“About what?
For Michael? What are you
up to Jude?” Uriah’s voice faded behind me as I dashed down the Shepherd’s
Trail.”
I would lead him down the trail so far it would take
him a long time to come back.
During the meantime I would double back, run up over the hill, through
the trees to my wall, check it quickly, and then pretend like this was all a
joke. Uriah would be angry, but he
would get over it if he believed I had merely played a trick on him.
My plan almost worked. Poor Uriah was just cresting the hill when I turned around
and ran passed him going the opposite way. He was so winded he couldn’t even scream. For a moment, as I scanned his scarlet
face, I almost stopped to make sure he was all right. My greed got the best of me again, though, as I slowed
down. As he collapsed into a
little ball, I forced my feet back up the trail, running faster and faster,
ready to collapse myself, my conscience obliterated by fatigue and my lust for
gold.
By the time I had reached the tree line and was
heading toward my wall, I saw movement at the corner of my eye. Was it the Evil One? I wondered, as I
looked frantically for my special place.
Ignoring this distraction, I went straight for the wall, reached down
into the dark abyss and felt around for my pot of gold. When my fingers felt the ancient pot
and the coins inside, I yelped with joy.
Just then a shadow fell over me.
It’s Jesus! I thought, a sinking feeling
replacing
my happiness. If not Jesus, it was
Papa or one of my brothers. The
game was over, I told myself, gradually turning my head.
There,
towering over me, was none other than Regulus, himself. In spite of his civility recently, like
most Romans following the unrest in Sepphoris, he didn’t trust Jews. After the report given to him by Falco
and Priam about the incident in our yard, he might be looking for an
opportunity to crack one of our heads.
Here I was sneaking around, looking for my gold. It was worse than anything I could
imagine. I felt both light-headed
and heavy at the same time: I couldn’t gather my wits and yet I couldn’t
move. I just looked up dumbly at
the iron-jawed Roman, certain I had been caught with stolen loot.
“What’re
you up to little Jude?” He frowned severely at me.
Suddenly,
as if God had taken pity on my foolishness, I spied a patch of berries nearby,
grabbed a handful, and stuffed them into my mouth. I had accidentally stuffed some of the leaves as well but I
chewed them fiercely, tears rolling down my eyes.
“Picking
berries, are you?” He reached down to ruffle my hair.
Pulling
my hand away from the pot, I pretended to be grubbing around for more berries,
when suddenly I felt a searing pain in my hand.
Jumping
up and clutching my hand, I watched the scorpion fall to the ground, euphoric
through my pain that I had diverted his attention from the wall. Spitting the mash of berries out of my
mouth, I began wailing loudly as my palm swelled up. With expertise, Regulus whipped out a small knife, a white
piece of cloth, took my hand, made a small incision on the sting, and then
wrapped the cloth around he wound.
Slumping limply onto the prickly bush, I felt the strong, bristly Roman
pick me up in his arms and carry me through the trees.
As
I hovered between wakefulness and unconsciousness, Regulus chatted pleasantly
to me as he carried me up to the house: “You seem addled in the head. Has your brother bewitched you? I heard he cast a demon out of your
friend....”
His
words had a calming effect upon me, which may have been his intention. I remember thanking the optio, sobbing
quietly, terrified as the world faded in and out. I had been bitten by a scorpion like Uriah. God would punish me for my sins. Unlike the righteous Uriah, however, I
would probably die. From this
point on, I barely remember what happened next. I could hear my friend calling faintly to me, “Jude, what
happened? Why is Regulus carrying
you to the house?” About then I
heard Mama scream and Papa cry out “Dear merciful Lord!” and then blackness as
I experienced the dark sleep. This
time there were no dreams, only a moment of darkness that was actually an
indeterminate period of time.
I
awakened, surrounded by worried faces.
As Nehemiah, Uriah, Reuben, and Michael before me, I lie on the kitchen
table. Had they prayed for me as
they had for the others? Among the
onlookers was Regulus, so I knew it couldn’t have been too long. What was one more dead Jew to
him?” Joseph’s diatribes against
the Romans must have had some effect upon me in spite of my desire to be a
soldier, but this impression was false.
Regulus had probably saved my life. Conspicuously missing from the group was Michael, probably
hidden in the back room.
“Jude,
Jude, you foolish boy,” Mama said, wringing her hands, “what were you doing by
the wall?”
“He
was eating berries,” Regulus volunteered jovially. “Before that, he was acting
quite strange. I watched him stuff
berries into his mouth. Some of
them weren’t ripe and he was chewing on the leaves.”
“I
don’t understand,” Mama said, checking my pupils. “Why were you by yourself? I saw Uriah running up the trail. Where you boys playing tag or
hide-and-go-seek?”
“No,” I answered truthfully, “I was exploring. I don’t remember very much.”
“Why
were you so far away?” James looked accusingly at Uriah. “If Regulus hadn’t
arrived, he could’ve died.”
“Jude
played a trick on me,” Uriah replied defensibly. “He ran down the path through
the orchard. I ran after him, but
when we were on the trail, he doubled back. He was acting addled in the head!”
Glancing
at Jesus, Joseph asked a strange thing. “Where do demons go when they leave
their hosts?”
“Jude’s
not possessed.” Jesus shook his head impatiently. “That’s not how it
works. Jude hasn’t led a sinful
life. Evil attracts evil. A demon wouldn’t dare enter our home!”
Both
Jesus and Joseph had carefully omitted Michael’s name. The less Regulus knew about Michael the
better. As my memory oozed back as
honey onto a roll, however, I began laughing to myself at the absurdity of what
Jesus said. Me, not sinful? Hah! If only he knew! At a latter day, Jesus and his disciples would find that
innocent men, women, and children, not just evil souls, could be possessed by
demons. I couldn’t blame Joseph
for thinking I might be possessed too.
“Are
you sure he’s not inhabited by an evil spirit?” He studied my giggling face.
“You
blockhead!” hissed Jesus.
“It’s
the potion,” Mama explained calmly. “I tried something new—Rachel’s root. I think it’s befuddled his mind.”
“Humph!”
Regulus cocked his head, closing one eye. “Are you a witch, like that Jewess
Mariah?”
Mama’s
hand flew up to her mouth.
Everyone, except me, gasped.
(Regulus had winked slyly at me.)
“That’s ridiculous, Regulus!” She looked at him in
disbelief. “The remedy will bring down his fever, nothing else. It’s not a sorcerer’s brew!”
“Really,” he toyed with her. “Rachel’s root sounds
like black magic to me!”
Papa
was speechless: Regulus suspected Mama of being a witch! Mama was now forced to defend herself
from Regulus’ suspicions by explaining the use of Jewish medicinal herbs and
roots. The optio thought about her
explanation a moment, and then gave her a curt nod. Papa very wisely brought him a mug of juice. A collective sigh rose up in the
room. The very thought of Mama
being called a witch had caused hysterical laughter from Simon and Uriah. Though disappointed that his mug was
not filled with wine, Regulus was happy to receive a freshly baked loaf of
bread and pot of honey, which seemed a bargain for what he had done for
me. Mama would explain later that
the reason Uriah had been more sick than me was that the scorpion’s venom had
entered his bloodstream. Because
Regulus had made a quick cut and bled me a moment before tightening the
bandage, most of the venom had drained out of my body. After hearing from Simon and Uriah the
details of this fateful hour, I would always have a warm place in my heart for
the crusty Roman. For a brief
moment, as he stared down at me, we exchanged smiles. Wordlessly, with a gentler nod, he seemed to say
something. I saw his lips move
mutely as he brought his fist up to his chest in a Roman salute. Uriah told me he said ‘vale,’ the Roman
word for goodbye, but I’ll never be sure.
When he swaggered out of the house, Michael emerged as a skulking shadow
from the back room. Simon and
Uriah helped me down from the table.
Mama brought me a mug of juice as I sat amongst family and friends. Jesus said a prayer of thanksgiving for
me. During our excited chatter,
Papa confessed his own private thanksgivings for my quick recovery and the
amiable departure of Regulus from our house. I’m certain he wanted a mug of wine, but he had held up very
well today. I was proud of him for
getting the order done for the rich merchant of Nain. I couldn’t help being thankful I still had my pot of gold.
Belatedly, at a time when I had little appetite,
Mama called us to the table for her specially prepared lunch, minus a loaf of
bread and pot of honey doled out to Regulus. He had deserved much more for saving my life. All was well, as we talked quietly
about our blessings and were stirred by Jesus’ reminder that we would be
returning that evening to Samuel’s house.
For once in my life, I looked forward to lying down on my pallet even if
I had to suffer Uriah’s prattle. I
had treated him deplorably and needed a long rest. Perhaps I would dream of my white horse again and my pot of
gold. Though I can’t explain it
now, Regulus had added inspiration to my dream.
******
That evening, while we waited for Papa to use the
cloaca (perhaps to have a swig of wine) and Mama to go round up the girls,
Simon tactlessly told Michael about Regulus suspicion that Mama was a
witch. I knew better, of course;
the optio had told me this secret with his eyes, but I didn’t correct him. Sitting at the end of the table,
unmoved at first, Michael’s placid mood suddenly changed after he heard Simon’s
news. His eye brows shot up in
surprise. A crooked smile
contorted his stony face. He
snickered under his breath then began giggling so hard he coughed, hiccupped
and turned red in the face.
“Welcome back to earth,” James snarled.
“I’m sorry,” Joseph looked ruefully at Jesus, “Jude
might not be possessed, but he is.”
“For
the last time,” Jesus snapped irritability, “Michael’s evil spirit is gone!”
“We
shall see,” replied Joseph gravely, “but I pity poor Elizabeth for having that
rogue in her house.”
After
sundown, as we sat anxiously at the table, Mama ordered us to gather in the
yard to begin our trek back. When
there was enough darkness, we would return with Michael after the last sentry
rode past. Mama placed her hand on
my brow and smiled with pleasure as I entered in the garden. Worried that Papa might have taken a nip,
she walked beside him, a lamp in one hand, as Simon and Uriah placed themselves
on each side of me to steady my walk.
Jesus, who also carried a light, talked quietly to Michael, looking back
protectively at me as I navigated on my wobbly legs. Far ahead of us, united again, this time in their concern
about Michael’s frame of mind, James and Joseph charged ahead as Tabitha and
the twins scampered up and down the line of hikers without a care.
“Oh,
to be a that young again, eh Joseph?” James called out loud enough for us to
hear.
“Girls
are stupid!” Joseph made a face.
“Everyone
seems to agree,” Papa said indiscreetly. “Michael’s not right in the head.”
“Everyone
except Jesus.” Simon sneered.
I laughed at the ridiculousness of it. Jesus, who should have known better,
still believed in Michael. Mama
scolded Papa gently for airing his views but I was certain she half believe it
herself. What gave her hope was
Jesus’ insistence that Michael was suffering the after effects of his
“cleansing.” The absence of evil
left a void. Such nonsense! I
muttered to my brother and friend.
As we converged upon Samuel’s estate, I welcomed the
cool interior of his spacious house.
I was told that its thick clay walls kept the building cool in the
summer but warm in the winter.
Cleverly designed louvered windows allowed air to circulate continually and,
when shut tightly, prevent the entrance of Galilee’s chilly winds. During the cold months, terracotta
piping beneath the floors, heated by a special furnace, made the great estate
comfortable and even cozy. I was
impressed with its columns, tiled floors, frescos, and potted plants. Each day our family shared Samuel’s
house, I discovered a new nook or cranny to explore. Often, as we scampered about, I pretended I was in a great
palace in a far off land. Simon
and Uriah were two of my officers.
Tabitha and the twins were members of my court. Any moment, as we wandered its halls
and corridors I would run into an oriental king or the emperor, himself. Samuel’s spacious gardens provided a
backdrop for my imagination too. I
was one of the Gallic chiefs Jesus had written about, hunting wild boar or a
Roman general leading my men through the forest—savage Germans all around. This afternoon, still woozy from Mama’s
potion and feeling a burning sensation where Regulus had made his life-saving
cut, I fancied myself, more humbly, as a wounded Roman knight being escorted by
my slaves and comrades into my house.
To reinforce my fantasy was Samuel himself, who singled me out with a
fond pat on the head. The
crotchety old Pharisee was up and about, ordering the servants to tend to our
needs. From the entrance, I could
see the long dining room table we had supped at before. Soon, I thought wearily, it would be
filled with fine food and drink, which my servants would dish up graciously and
my comrade-in-arms would encourage me to eat.
What challenged my fantasy and brought me finally
down to earth was our treatment by the servants, themselves. As it turned out, all of us needed
baths before our evening meal.
Samuel, a strict observer of the law, required cleanliness in his
home. Instead of proceeding to the
dining hall, we were, in fact, rudely diverted this time to the baths.
“They smell like unshorn sheep,” a servant
complained.
“These Galilean rustics are all unwashed!” another
quipped.
Papa took offense at these remarks and threatened to
report it to Mordechai. The
servants, in a groveling manner, apologized for their attempt at levity,
promising to keep such ill-timed humor to themselves, but they snickered when
they herded us like sheep into the steaming rooms.
“You are whitened sepulchers,” Jesus said with
contempt.
As I write down this cryptic reply by a youth who
would one day say the same thing to judgmental Pharisees, I can understand why
we were all puzzled. To James and
Joseph, whose anger was focused upon the servants, the silly rejoinder brought
only frowns. I was more concerned
by whether or not Papa would actually talk to the chamberlain and decided, when
I felt better, to tell Samuel, myself, if Papa failed to do. Mentally flashing back to my fantasy, I
envisioned my men dragging the wrongdoers out of the house and nailing them to
Samuel’s trees. It was a terrible
fantasy, which I later regretted, but I was not in good mood. I was a wounded warrior, who wanted
food and rest, and here I was being prodded by common servants into a large
pool, along with my Papa, brothers, and friends. In two separated rooms, which Joseph described
contemptuously as Roman baths, Mama and the girls and then Papa and the boys
were driven. I could hear Mama
protest on the other side of the wall and then the girls giggle foolishly as
they splashed in the pool. All of
the boys, following Papa and Jesus’ reluctant example, removed their sweaty
garments.
It was a humiliating experience to strip down in
front of my brothers and friends.
Samuel’s
rules had been slack until tonight.
Papa reminded us that strict Pharisees considered it ritually impure to
eat unwashed, and Samuel was aware of the fact that our family had not bathed
in many days. Why he picked that
one evening to crack down I will never understand, but it soured his
relationship with my family.
Though Jesus was quick to forgive, I don’t think James and Joseph ever
forgave him for this affront. Mama
was deeply hurt, and I was certain Papa would always hold a grudge. I for one remember Samuel as a
querulous old man, out-spoken but not unfair, judgmental but not lacking mercy
and, through my initial shock at being ushered as a dumb beast to a watering
hole, I remembered him singling my oldest brother out as touched my God. Somehow, in my dulled state of mind, it
helped make our treatment easier to bare.
Besides, as Papa confessed, it was the only way we were going to get
dinner.
Gathered together in this strange room, wearing only
loin clothes, we shivered in embarrassment as Michael dived like a porpoise
into the pool. In the next room
there was another pool where Mama and the girls now bathed. I couldn’t imagine Mama wearing such
skimpy attire. In fact I shuddered
at the thought. My thoughts for
Tabitha, who I once knew as Jonah, were caused by different emotions. I couldn’t help wonder what she was
wearing. Perhaps it was the potion
that caused my head to fill with these silly thoughts, but for the first time
that I could remember I felt a stirring in my loins. While Papa, my brothers, and I followed Michael’s example,
stepping gingerly down the steps into the warm water, Michael seemed to have
transformed in the last hour from the empty vessel Jesus called him to a
Pandora’s Box of unleashed emotions.
“Are you sure he’s cured?” Papa murmured to Jesus.
“Well, he’s certainly not an empty vessel,” I
chimed.
“He’s not possessed,” Simon sneered. “I think he’s
addled in the head.”
“Simon’s not far from the truth,” Jesus gave the
cavorting Michael a worried look. “The demon has left much wreckage behind.”
“Jesus, one more time,” Joseph’s tone was
respectful, “are you sure the demon has left?”
Jesus nodded wearily at his stubborn brother. I could tell by his expression that
James agreed with Joseph. Instead
of talking about Michael’s mental state, however, James made an important
observation about our treatment this evening.
“This is very strange,” he said, looking around the
group. “Our host is said to be a strict Pharisee and yet he makes us wash in a
Roman bath. Please explain to me
Papa how we’re purifying ourselves in this pool.”
“We are being defiled!” Joseph cried.
“Keep your voice down,” Papa shushed him. “I don’t
trust those servants. Samuel’s
been a hermit for a long time, and his servants aren’t use to visitors in his
house.”
“The fact is,” Jesus addressed Joseph, “we’re not
being defiled. Samuel’s baths
aren’t pagan. Because of our
custom of modesty, these pools may not be conventional, but this doesn’t make
them wrong. Is it not written
‘cleanliness is next to Godliness?’
It’s the actions of the servants that are wrong? We have been too busy to observe this
rule. Our host, as a Pharisee, is
merely obeying the law.”
“Jacob’s beard!” James swore. “Is this the price we
pay for being under his roof?”
“It appears so.” Jesus sighed.
Papa gave us all a worried look. “Mordechai told me,
as we entered, that Samuel’s going to make an announcement that will affect all
of your lives. That concerns me
more than this bath.”
“What could it be?” Joseph’s eyebrows shot up. “You
think he’s going to give us gifts?”
“No, I don’t think that at all.” Papa frowned. “He
might just be laying down the rules.”
“What’s wrong with a few rules?” Jesus smiled at
James.
The voices around my mind sounded louder than normal
because of the drug. I had stopped
thinking about Tabitha and began enjoying the great pool. James, Joseph, and Simon were also
settling into the comforting warmth of the water. James dunked his head into the water, and Joseph and Simon
followed his example, while Michael swam underwater, emerged in a burst of
spray, and then laughed gleefully as he splashed water into my face. Unaffected by this disturbance, I
smiled at Michael as he was scolded by Papa and Jesus. Uriah, with his nose above the surface,
blew a spray of bubbles, moving along like a turtle in the water. I broke into laughter, mustering enough
energy to dunk his head as he approached.
In spite of his scolding for roughhousing, Michael climbed up the steps
and jumped into the pool again. We
all moved to the far end of the pool as he thrashed around. The water was not that deep yet Michael
pretended to be drowning, at one point remaining submerged for alarming period
of time. In spite of the pool’s
shallow depth, however, Jesus swam over to Michael with precise arm strokes and
fluttering legs, pulled him rudely up from the bottom, and reprimanded him
loudly for all to hear.
“You fool!” He cried. “You were given a second
chance! Why are you misbehaving
now?”
“Where’d you learn how to do that?” James called out
to Jesus in surprise.
“I never taught him.” Papa laughed with delight.
“Who swims in the Jordan?
“God taught him,” Uriah piped.
“Yes,” I shouted happily, “one more miracle. I bet Jesus could walk on water!”
“Not yet.” Jesus looked back with a grin. “That’ll
come later.”
I know he was joking that moment. As if on cue, everyone began splashing
wildly in the pool, even Papa, making a mockery of Jesus’ words. Now, as I record the history of my
family and Lord, my own words strike me as prophecy. We cheered Jesus as he wrestled playfully with Michael,
Simon, and James, his cryptic words lost in the moment, and yet stored away in
my mind are those special moments when my oldest brother frolicked like a
porpoise with his family and my friends.
It seemed as if the old, carefree Michael had returned to us as a
normal, mischievous boy.”
As I watched them cavort and the pool water spill
onto the Grecian tile, Papa placed his arm around my shoulder. We stood there silently a moment,
father and youngest son and I felt very blessed. “You all right now, son?” he
asked, giving my head a pat.
“I’m very all right.” I smiled up at him.
“Michael’s all right too. He’s
just happy to be alive, Papa. I’m
glad the old Michael’s back!”
******
After we dried off, put on clean garments provided
by the servants, and were herded, along with Mama and the girls, to the large
hall, we were amazed by the banquet provided by Samuel tonight. Clearly, even to the trusting Uriah,
this was an ominous display. Papa
whispered to Mama that moment, “I wonder what he’s going to say.” “We must trust in the Lord,” Jesus
counseled gently. “Samuel has God’s ear.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, sitting next to
Jesus. “Does God really have ears?”
“Are you serious?” James grinned in amusement.
“It’s the potion.” Mama reached over and patted my
head.
“God hears us, Jude,” Jesus explained, “as a father
hears a son. When we share our
troubles with him or ask him for a blessing, he hears us. Sometimes he may not answer us at once,
but in one way or another he’ll answer our prayers.”
“Here comes the question,” Joseph said mischievously
to James.
“What kind of blessings?” I wrinkled my nose.
“Well,” Jesus said, looking around the table,
“they’re not for horses or buried treasure.”
We all laughed at Jesus’ jest. Tabitha, who sat next to me, seemed to
read my dopey expression. This
time I wasn’t thinking about my white horse. Did Tabitha know the effect she had one me? Once again I felt that uncomfortable
stirring I had experienced in the pool.
While the rest of us were provided modest garments to wear, the servants
had given all the girls colorful dresses.
Tabitha wore a bright yellow shift tied at the waste with a red
sash. She had, when I reflect upon
it, doll-like features. Her brown
hair, large gray eyes, heart shaped face, and small puckered lips were unlike
anyone I’ve ever met.
As we waited for Samuel to arrive at the table, I heard
Papa complaining to the chamberlain about our treatment in the pool. Mordechai promised to pass his
complaint on to Samuel and talk to the servants, himself. “Papa did it!” I wanted to shout. I looked around at the reaction of the
others and saw mostly smiles.
Jesus frowned faintly, concerned perhaps that a conflict was brewing in
Samuel’s house, but Mama’s soft titters seemed to show approval for Papa’s
complaint.
Uriah took this opportunity to inform everyone
within earshot that Samuel didn’t like him. The old man always seemed to frown or shake his head when he
looked at him. I should have
explained to him that Samuel was near-sighted and hard-of-hearing and looked at
everyone that way. Instead, I
smiled indulgently at Uriah and shook my head.
“You look too much like your father,” James
observed. “Samuel has no use for rabbis, especially him.”
“What’s that old passage?” Joseph sneered, “ ‘The
fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.’ ”
“Yes,”
chuckled James, “like father, like son.”
“Uriah’s a fat little plum! A fat little plum!” Simon chimed in a
singsong voice.
“Shush!” Mama waved. “It’s his father he doesn’t
like, not Uriah.”
I wanted to tell Joseph that it was Longinus, the
centurion, who, during Papa’s confrontation with Joachim, said ‘the fruit
doesn’t fall far from the tree.’
It was not a passage from the Torah, but an association Longinus made
between a father and son. Even
with my dulled wits I could see that.
I remember Papa saying that Pharisees don’t like rabbis and rabbis don’t
like Pharisees or priests, but poor Uriah suffered because he had the
misfortune of looking like his father.
Though Jesus would use Longinus’ proverb for his disciples one day, it
was unfair to apply it to my friend.
Joachim had poisoned the well in the town for his son. I had been wrong to tell Uriah he would
be a rabbi in Nazareth. His only
chance was to learn the craft of carpentry and, when he grew up, move far away
from this backwater town.
With these thoughts in mind, I reached over to pat his
hand, whispering, “We’re just kidding.
You’re one of a kind Uriah.
You’re not your father’s son.”
Uriah gave me a studied look but said nothing. He never knew when I would make sport
of him. As I recall that hour and
others like it, I regret not taking his part. He was, I’m ashamed to say, a comical figure, ripe for
taunts and sarcasm—a target for abuse.
Yet, like so many other times before and after, his face broke into a
smile that evening.
“No, Jude,” he murmured quietly, “I was born of my
family’s tree; that’s not my fault.
But the seed from the fruit was planted in another garden. Here I grow into my own tree, to do as
I want.”
No one heard his reply except me. I record his words now, with the
certainty that Uriah had spoken like a philosopher, and yet, at the time, I was
almost speechless.
“Uriah...,” I muttered in amazement, “that came from
you?”
******
By the time Samuel arrived at the table, our
cheerful moods had become subdued by our hunger and Mordechai’s argument with
Papa that the Romans were oppressors in Nazareth. I was surprised that the chamberlain would say such a thing,
especially considering Samuel’s acceptance of the Romans as protectors of our
town. I was proud of Papa for
defending them, but it was obvious by his loud, abusive tone that they were
both in their cups. Without
explanation for his tardiness, Samuel sat down slowly at the head of the
table. He had probably been taking
a leisurely bath or just awakened from a late afternoon nap. Though crotchety and querulous, his
movements were regal and somewhat condescending. To use a Roman expression, Samuel seemed to present himself
as our de facto patriarch by his actions.
“May I have your attention please,” he clinked his
cup with a knife. “Before our blessing and fine meal, I have an announcement to
make about furthering Joseph bar Jacob children’s education. Though learning a fine craft, they
suffer, along with other children in town, from not having a synagogue school. Our unfortunate rabbi is too ill to
fulfill his functions as teacher to Nazareth’s youth.” “Well,” he rose up
again, with Mordechai’s help, “I might have my differences with Israel’s
rabbis, but my good friend, Gamaliel, a student of Hillel, has agreed to share
his enlightened teachings with us.”
“Why is he telling us this?” James grumbled.
“Shut up!” Mama hissed.
“Joseph, my good neighbor,” he said in a patronizing
voice. “You’re a fine carpenter and your oldest son is a great prodigy whose
knowledge confounds my mind, but your remaining sons are growing up almost
illiterate, without the proper teaching in the law—”
“I can read!” James objected.
“So can I!” Joseph cried.
“I’ve taught my sons to read,” Papa said
indignantly. “I introduced them to the Torah before they learned to walk.”
“Perhaps,” he replied, with a palsied nod, “you
introduced them to the Torah. This
is all fine and proper, but do they understand it? Do they know our traditions, history, and the fine points of
the law?”
“They already know much of our traditions and
history,” Papa answered defensibly. “I’ve taught my children at the kitchen
table. Don’t forget who their
oldest brother is. James and
Joseph once told me that they want to study the law, but do all my children
need to know what Shammai or Hillel thought?”
“Ah,
you said it.” Samuel pointed a crooked finger. “Jesus knows it.
My nephew heard him argue with learned men in the temple. Why not have all of your sons
become adept in the law?”
“Adept?
Now there’s fine word.” Papa laughed sarcastically. “I don’t expect all
of my sons to be Pharisees, Samuel.
I want them to learn many things I can’t teach them, not all of which
are in the Torah: different peoples, places, and animals. Jesus has spent many hours showing his
brothers the wonders of God. His
journeys to far off lands have brought back knowledge to his younger brothers
they might never find out on their own.
“I never studied with Shammai or Hillel,” Jesus said
politely.
“What?” Samuel’s almost toothless mouth gaped wide.
“Jesus, no!” Mama whispered, gripping his wrist.
“It’s
true,” he insisted, looking into Mama’s eyes.
“Surely, you studied somewhere.” Samuel spread his
palms, shaking his head as he sank into his chair. “Where else did you obtain
your great wisdom? Did your father
teach you all this?”
“No,” confessed Papa, his anger giving way to alarm,
“I still find his visit to the temple mind-boggling, yet Joseph of Arimathea
was a witness to it. All knowledge
seems to be his.”
“That’s absurd!” Samuel cried out in a wavering
voice. “He learned it somewhere.
The Torah must be read and learned. It doesn’t appear in our mind’s full blown at birth.”
“I’m sorry, Samuel.” Jesus heaved a broken sigh.
“.... I just know.”
One more moment of truth in the miraculous childhood
of my brother crashed upon us.
Though it should have been obvious given the facts, everyone was shocked
by what Jesus just said. The
subject of our education was temporarily forgotten as Mordechai aired his
views.
“In all due respect Joseph,” the chamberlain exclaimed,
“Jesus’ ability to engage the Pharisees and scribes must’ve been learned. Did God put all that knowledge in his
head?”
“Talk to me,” Jesus said, rising to his feet. “My
father’s not on trial here.”
“Why you’re not on trial—either of you.” Samuel raised
a quivering hand. “Jesus, you’re touched by God. Mordechai believes this too. But even the prophets had to read and study to become
proficient in their work.”
“Where’s it written that Isaiah or Jeremiah were
doctors of the law?” Jesus asked calmly. “The prophets got most of their wisdom
from the Lord. Prophecy is, after
all, revelation, which becomes illumination when written down as the Word, but
a prophet doesn’t even have to know how to read.”
“What’s all this gibberish?” Mordechai frowned at
Samuel.
“I don’t know.” Samuel gave him a worried look.
Jesus eyes flashed with anger as the Pharisee and
chamberlain whispered back and forth.
James and Joseph, though resenting their oldest brother’s status,
remained silent. Right now both of
them resented Samuel’s haughtiness much more. The implications of all this caused me to retreat into my
thoughts. I thought about my
treasure, my dream horse, and the mysterious girl by my side, but in the end
all I could think about is what Jesus said: “I just know.” What did he mean? Wouldn’t that make him a god? Mentally I bit my tongue. It was a good thing I didn’t say that
aloud. As I looked around the
table, I realized how upset Samuel had made my family. Scowls were frozen on James’ and Joseph’s
faces. I couldn’t see Michael and
the twins, but Simon and Uriah’s discomfort was plain to see. They were fidgeting badly. Uriah was whimpering at the thought of
food. Except for the whispering at
the end of the table, the only sound to break this silence was Papa’s
voice. He was quite tipsy
now.
“Samuel, why are you two whispering?” he protested
with a slight slur. “That’s rude!
You’re servants treated us badly, herding us like cattle into your
baths. You treat me badly now by
insulting my family and my son.
Why’re you doubting Jesus words?
Why’re you treating us with such disrespect?”
“I didn’t plan on this argument,” Samuel’s voice
cracked, “but what he said was pure heresy. Knowledge does not come ex tempore. I don’t know how he argued with those
Pharisees and scribes, but I can’t believe his pretensions. He’s still a mere youth.”
“There’s nothing mere about our son.” Mama
stood up in Jesus’ defense. “We’ve heard him say things no mortal man could
know. He’s always saying strange,
wonderful things. You’ve heard him
Samuel. Sometimes, when he’s
hiking with his brothers, he points to a plant or animal, talking about it with
such knowledge it’s as if he created it himself.”
Jesus winced.
Mama had only made matters worse.
Samuel popped up like a Persian stick puppet, crying out “Jesus is not
divine!” Mordechai rose up more
slowly, mumbling “Heresy!
Blasphemy!” staggered by her words, but before Samuel or Mordechai had a
chance to admonish my parents or Jesus further, Papa ordered all of us to gather
ourselves up—we were going home.
“What about Michael?” James asked, as we stood up
and filed out of the room.
“Michael will return with us,” Papa said, opening
the great door himself, then motioning impatiently for all of us to begin the
trek home. “Mary, Jesus, children—out.
I’ve had enough of this overbearing, insufferable old man.”
One-by-one we departed, our hunger unsatisfied yet
our principles intact. Michael ran
out first, apparently happy to leave.
The rest of us, however, had mixed feelings about going home. On the one hand, we were upset by our
treatment by the servants and Samuel’s insulting tone. On the other hand, we would miss the
fancy quarters and fine food.
Beside the fact we lived in an overcrowded house, we were again faced
with hiding Michael from the outside world. It was one more dark night for my family, though not the
worst. This time we weren’t
worried about bandits storming into our home or trying to hide a wanted
criminal in our house. Nor could
Papa’s decision to break with Samuel be as bad as the ordeal we faced when we
hid a witch in our house and were forced to rely on the Romans to escort her,
in the dark of night, to the shepherd’s camp. Nevertheless, I would miss the exciting interior of Samuel’s
estate and roaming in his enchanted garden and mysterious woods.
James and Joseph, I noted with respect, exited the
house after Michael with defiant glares.
Samuel had insulted them personally. Yet Tabitha, Uriah, and the twins were sniveling as they
followed them out the door. Mama
and Jesus were next, but not before Mama gave one of the servants a piece of
her mind. The servant laughed
foolishly, yet bowed deferentially to us.
I was one of the last to leave, being prodded out the door by Papa, who
turned to make the sign to ward off the evil eye, with great relish. In spite of its inappropriateness, I
look back on this event with great pride.
Without asking permission, Papa had confiscated a lamp from Samuel’s
house to light our way home. Half
drunk, his wits dulled like mine, Papa had stood up to the haughty
Pharisee. Reinforcing my feeling
of pride on this day is the memory of all us of obediently, without argument,
following Papa’s lamp down the walkway toward the road. Michael was given a napkin from
Samuel’s table to hide his face from passersby and told to be quiet.
It’s all over, I thought calmly, the effects of
Mama’s potion still clinging to my mind.
I found myself taking Tabitha’s little hand, listening passively to my
parents who were discussing Papa’s decision to leave.
“Joseph.” She shook her head. “Once again you drank
too much wine. Was it necessary to
make such a fuss?”
“Yes,” he trumpeted, with a proud frown. “Samuel
called my son a heretic. He was
trying to say Jesus’ God-given knowledge is a lie!”
Everyone had to agree with this, even Uriah, who
acted as if he was half-starved.
Jesus promised to assist Mama in whipping us up a quick meal when we got
home. Michael, who believed he
would be abandoned at Samuel’s house as Reuben had been, was jubilant. In a spirit of rebellion, while Jesus
supervised Michael, our brothers laughed and cavorted like young children. As Tabitha and I walked hand-in-hand,
Martha and Abigail tattled to Mama, but Mama was much too tired to care. In subdued tones, while the twins
skipped and pranced up and down the line, my parents continued their
discussion. Uriah stopped
whimpering, rejuvenated by the thought of food. In a short while, we would be back in our crowded home,
freed from Samuel’s tyranny as James and Joseph now saw it. Fearful of the Roman ordinance against
congregations, we were forced to walk two-by-twos, another bone of contention
for my brothers. It had become a
force of habit for Nazarenes such as ourselves, but Mama had to continually
scold us to keep in formation.
Though they giggled hysterically at our predicament, hunger and anger,
two conflicting emotions, caused James and Joseph to grumble amongst themselves
and Simon to run crazily up and down our ranks. Then, only a few moments from our home, just as a Roman
sentry rode passed, something remarkable happened that would change Papa and
Mama’s minds.
“Joseph!
Oh Joseph!” Mordechai’s voice rang out.
“What does he want?” Papa snarled.
“It’s the chamberlain,” Simon told James.
“Joseph, be nice.” Mama shook his arm. “Let’s hear
what the man has to say.”
“Stingy old man probably wants his lamp back,”
grumbled Papa. “He’s never expanded my shop. He’s all talk—no action. He’s not making Pharisees out of my sons.”
“James and I are gonna be scribes!” Joseph
exclaimed.
“That’s better?” Jesus muttered to himself.
The horseman galloped passed without issue, which
strikes me now as dereliction of duty when I consider how suspicious we all
looked: a procession of Jews, one of whom was suspiciously hooded and another
shouting at the top of his lungs, and this sentry didn’t give us a second
glance. Panting and out of breath,
the chamberlain repeated what sounded like a rehearsed speech: “Samuel sends
his deepest apologies for insulting the family of Jesus.”
“The family of Jesus?” James muttered. “What
happened to the family of Joseph, our father.”
It was the first time I would hear our family
described this way. The next time
I would hear these words they would be spoken reverentially by the Apostles
when discussing Jesus’ life.
Perhaps, because they were so surprised by Mordechai’s appearance, my
parents overlooked this slight. It
seemed evident that Samuel valued Jesus’ good opinion of him even more than
Papa’s. Joseph and James were disgruntled
by this acknowledgment but let it pass.
“.... Very well, Mordechai,” Papa said, after a long
pause, “I’ve always taught my children to forgive foolish souls. You may tell your master that we accept
his apology. We remain concerned
about Samuel’s health.”
Papa’s response was brilliant. In spite of his tipsiness, he had shown
both forgiveness and concern for the Pharisee but also insulted him by saying
he was a foolish soul. When airing
his concern for the old man’s health, however, I think he was implying that
Samuel was addled in the head. I
also liked the way he referred to Samuel as Mordechai’s master, though I knew
the toady chamberlain, who, out of necessity, shared his master’s opinions, was
not to blame for what happened tonight.
Mama saw this plainly when she dismissed his apology outright.
“If Samuel wishes to express his regret,” she spoke
gracefully, “he can say so himself.”
Papa, in spite of being overridden, nodded
with amusement. James and Joseph,
in spite being famished, cheered, while Uriah and Simon groaned. We expected that to be the end of it,
but Mordechai bowed slightly to Mama and spoke to her directly, “that’s why I’m
here mistress. Samuel also wanted
me to say ‘pay no attention to a stubborn old man with addled wits. Please give him another chance and
return to finish our feast.’”
Mama laughed hysterically. Papa’s mouth dropped wide. I wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Never!” Joseph cried, folding his arms.
“No, no, I thought we’re going back home!” Michael
wailed.
Just that moment, the night sentry galloped
passed again. Papa jerked the hood
back down over Michael’s face.
“Not so loud,” I heard him speak firmly. “You’re going to be all
right. Have we not taken good care
of you? These Romans don’t trust
us, Michael. Control
yourself!”
Though
silenced, Michael continued to grumble, whine, and kick the dirt. Casting us a sideways glance this time,
the sentry slowed down, touched his helmet in salute but continued on his
way. He must have been drunk not
to notice Michael’s tantrum. Jesus
took him aside, scolding him more severely than Papa had for making a
scene. Mordechai waited patiently
as my parents whispered amongst themselves. Though Papa had accepted his apology on behalf of Samuel and
Mama had made her point, they were worried about the Pharisee’s designs on
their family. We couldn’t tell who
was trying to convince whom to accept the chamberlain’s offer. Mama shook her head resolutely and
folded her arms and Papa clinched his jaws angrily as if one or them was trying
to change the other’s mind.
Mordechai was becoming frustrated with their stubbornness and we growing
impatient with the delay. We were
all hungry—torn, as Jesus commented, between what was right and what was
needed. This conflict was, of
course, much worse for the self-righteous Joseph and James. It was good that Papa and my brothers
cared about our family’s honor, but our home was crowded and, in spite of
Papa’s growing business, poorer for the numbers. The single most important reason to go back, however, was
Michael’s presence in our house.
His very presence restricted our freedom and made it almost impossible
to allow neighbors or friends to visit our home. My parents had agreed that this problem wouldn’t be solved
until Michael was sheltered in Samuel’s house or foisted upon Aunt Elizabeth—a
solution Mama still found hard to accept.
Despite Michael’s protests, he couldn’t stay in our
house much longer, and yet today we saw changes in him that indicated to us
that the old Michael, we once knew, might be back. Now, as he whined and whimpered inside his hood, I wasn’t
sure. My family’s original plan
had been to travel to Sepphoris after our visit with Samuel. Until Samuel spoiled it, we thought
tonight was going to provide a great send-off for our trip. Secretly, I believe Mama had been
hoping that Michael would wind up staying in Samuel’s house instead of coming
along. When Papa turned and crooked
his finger, we heaved a collective sigh.
Mordechai raised his lamp and turned in the direction of Samuel’s
house. Mama walked over to Jesus
and helped him guide the hooded figure up the road. We were going back!
As we followed after Papa, with Mordechai in the forefront, he counseled
us to be polite and respectful at the table, but I sensed such great hostility
in James, Joseph, and himself, I didn’t see how this was possible.
******
I was feeling much more clear-headed as we reentered
Samuel’s house. Mama’s potion was
wearing off, but in its place were pangs of hunger, which I shared with
everyone in our group. Once again
we had to wait awhile for Samuel to arrive, this time in the anteroom, for
reasons we were never told. When
we were finally seated by the servants, Samuel slowly reappeared, moving with
the speed of a turtle to the head of the table. Mordechai, who followed us into the dining hall, gave his
master a signal with his hand. A
collective groan went up from members of my family as the old man once again
made us wait for our food until he made his speech. Through it all, Mama was most gracious, but the rest of us
greeted Samuel with frowns. Papa
was beside himself with irritation, and yet he bowed to Mama’s wishes and
placed his hand over his cup when the servant attempted to poor him some wine.
“Water only,” he murmured politely.
“Thank you Joseph,” she whispered, as Samuel took
his seat.
“You have my gratitude and deepest apologies,” the
old man began in a quivering voice.
“I have gathered you here tonight to offer you the full hospitality of
my house, but also to give the sons of Joseph an excellent education, without
the necessity for them to leave home to the distant city of Jerusalem away from
their beloved home.”
“What sort of education?” Papa’s eyes widened with
alarm. “Please explain.”
“Don’t worry,” he spread his hands, “I won’t make
Pharisees out of your sons. All I
want for the boys is that they experience the joys and wonders of the Torah and
history of their people.”
“Who will be teaching them?” Papa eyed him
suspiciously.
“Gamaliel, a gifted young rabbi, who will introduce
them to the great philosophies supporting our way of life.” Samuel answered in
one labored breath.
“Is he a Pharisee?” Papa’s eyes narrowed to slits.
Samuel hesitated only a few seconds, long enough for
Papa to give him an ‘I-thought-so’ look.
The answer the old Pharisee gave belied his addled disposition.
“You may not realize it Joseph but one of the main
differences between a Pharisee such as myself and a rabbi such as Joachim is
wealth. I admit that I’m wealthy,
but Gamaliel is relatively poor, and yet he’s the finest teacher I know.” “He
also belongs to the school of Hillel, which interprets the Torah liberally
rather than through the narrow minded views of Shammai.”
Papa’s eyebrows knitted together. “I gather this Hillel was a Pharisee
too.”
“No,” Samuel shook his head vehemently, motioning
for the servants to begin, “he was a great rabbi, like Gamaliel. I’m aware of James and Joseph’s plans
of being scribes and Jude’s hopes that one day he will ride a fine white horse
and see the world. Jesus’ future
is too large for me even to imagine, and I have a feeling that Simon will make
a fine carpenter one day.
“Not a chance,” Simon grumbled.
“What about me?” Uriah thrust out his lower lip.
“Oh, I heard that you want to be a carpenter too,”
Samuel winked.
Uriah nodded vigorously. Michael remained silent, as the Pharisee looked down the
table at him. No one expected much
out of him. How wrong they would
be! Like everyone else that hour,
however, I was so hungry I could care less about this conversation.
“What about the other children in Nazareth?” I heard
Jesus say.
“What about them?” Samuel answered huffily.
“Since the rabbis’ illness,” Jesus clarified, “not
merely my brothers but none of the children in Nazareth are being educated.”
“Are you suggesting that Gamaliel teach all
the children in Nazareth?” Samuel asked in disbelief.
“Yes,” Jesus replied with a nod, “that would only be
fair. You could use the
synagogue. Gamaliel could even
preach there to the townsfolk.”
A sigh rose up in the room as the servants brought
food in during this exchange. In
spite of our great hunger, what Jesus suggested was unacceptable, not only to
Samuel but everyone at the table, especially me.
“You
would have my enemies at this school?” I looked at Jesus in astonishment.
“Jethro,
Obadiah and Boaz aren’t your enemies.” Jesus shook his head.
“Yes
they are,” Simon cried, “and they’re mine too!”
Uriah
nodded in agreement. James and
Joseph seconded Simon’s assertion.
I could hear Papa and Mama protest under their breaths about the
foolishness of Jesus’ plan, and I saw Mordechai take a long gulp of wine. The greatest objection came from
Samuel, the benefactor of the school.
Standing up shakily on his ancient legs, he studied Jesus, reminding me
of a tortoise in the way he moved his head. Convinced of his righteousness, Jesus stared back with
unblinking eyes. Deep down in our
selfish hearts, we knew he was right.
“You have a charitable heart.” Samuel’s voice
cracked and wheezed. “I commend you for this, but your idea isn’t sound. I’m paying Gamaliel to teach members of
your family, not the children of our town. I’m not so sure the elders would even accept Hillel’s
thinking. Many of them are
students of Shammai, a more rigid interpreter of the scriptures and the law.”
“I also agree with your brothers.” He singled each of us out with his watery
eyes. “Jude, Simon, and Uriah have been intimidated by those ruffians Jethro,
Obadiah and Boaz, and I’ve heard about James and Joseph’s hot-headed
friends. We don’t need childish
dissension or anti-Roman sentiment in Gamaliel’s school.”
Reviewing our mutinous faces, Samuel mumbled a quick
blessing and collapsed in his seat.
The lamb and fish, now slightly tough from being too long on the spit,
were compensated by the many delicacies offered at the table, but the bread was
no longer hot and the chilled juice was no longer cold. I made up for the stringy meal by
filling myself with stuffed dates, candied fruits, and pastries. I noticed that all of the other
children also gorged themselves on sweets. Papa, though he held on for almost an hour, was sorely
tempted during a toast made by the Pharisee. After the servant filled his goblet with wine, Mama gave him
that look that said, “All right, Joseph, but that’s it—no more!”
Now
that Samuel had reassured him that he wouldn’t turn his sons into Pharisees,
Papa seemed to accept this restriction, partially for his sons’ benefit but
also, I found out later, because he shared Samuel’s concern that Hillel’s
philosophy would be offensive to some of the elders in town.
After
we finished dinner, Papa, Mama, Samuel, and Mordechai retired to a special
chamber for further discussion.
Because Jesus was recognized by Samuel as a young man now, he was motioned,
rather condescendingly I recall, to tag along. While the girls were led by servants to their room, James
and Joseph to theirs, and Uriah and I were directed to the room we had before,
my parents and oldest brother became privy to the details of the new
school. I’m not sure where Michael
wound up, but I assumed he would be sharing a room with Jesus as he had
before. Just before we entered our
chamber, I saw a furtive shadow in the corridor—probably a servant and wondered
light-headedly where Reuben was cloistered in this big house. Would we ever see him again? Perhaps he had already made his way to
his sister in Joppa to start a new life.
What did it matter as long as he was safely out of Nazareth and our
lives?
I
was feeling much better, but I was too tired to dwell on Samuel’s silly
school. I was going to be a
adventurer or soldier. Perhaps I
might visit Reuben in Joppa during my travels. I might even visit Simon of Cyrene and explore the Old Ones
caves. What did I care for
learning the fine points of the Torah or memorizing a lot of Hebrew law? What I wanted to learn was Latin, the
language of Rome. Though our
guards spoke halting Aramaic, the language of Galilee and Judea, I heard
Regulus once tell Papa that only the sentries of the legions stationed in the
East could speak the local tongues.
Wouldn’t that be something, I thought as I drifted off to sleep, if I
could learn Greek and Egyptian too?
While
I hovered in that twilight state preceding sleep, Uriah chattered about his
concern at being taught by Gamaliel.
Normally, as I lie down on my pallet, my thoughts would carry me to that
special place where my great white horse and faithful men waited to follow me
on a new adventure. There have
been many times when my adventures carried me straight into another nightmare
that I would want Jesus to interpret, but I was attempting, as Jesus once
suggested, to confront my nightmarish specters and dispel them. He had told me not to worry about these
specters and concentrate on dreaming pleasant things when I fell asleep. Lately, I hadn’t been very
successful. Gradually, in spite of
Uriah’s efforts at keeping me awake, I slipped away, his muted voice fading
gradually, replaced by that floating sensation preceding sleep. Please God, I thought light-headedly,
not another nightmare!
“I
heard Papa say that Gamaliel’s a heretic,” my friend jabbered. “He thinks he’s
soft on Hebrew law.”
“That’s nice Uriah,” I murmured, feeling my body
grow weightless. “Now go to sleep.”
“Some of his ideas, Papa thinks, make him sound like
a Gentile.”
“The...Romans...are...Gentiles...”
“The Romans are pagans, Jude, so are the Greeks.”
“Uriah, ...Shut up!” I muttered, pulling a cushion
over my head.
“Blah, blah, blah-blah-blah, blah-blah” Uriah
droned.
“Zzzz...zzzz...zzzz...zzzz,” I snored softly,
entering my dream world at last.
“Onward my men,” I called out to my troops, “let’s get those thieving bandits before they escape!”
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