Ruth
Cleaving to the shadows, peering around the precipice adjacent to the cave, Ruth anxiously scanned the wilderness for soldiers. Below her, zig-zagging between jagged boulders and haggard rock-faces, the animal trail was empty. Beyond was a savage wasteland of craggy mountains and inhospitable plateaus.
Her anguish welled stronger. She cropped it. There was no time for regret or pain.
Dust particles, swirling and whipping up the ridge, invaded the cave entrance, clogging her nostrils and peppering her parched skin. Her eyes burned. She momentarily squeezed them shut, attempting to coat them with moisture and flush out the grit. Her legs, tense and quivering, ached. Her stomach twisted and grumbled. The only remaining food was a chunk of bread and a little grain for her donkey. It had been several days since she had a regular meal.
Shaking off weakness, she forced her attention back to the trail. It still appeared empty. Straining for human sounds, memories of soldiers returned, harsh poignant images, striking her with fear. Scenes assailed her, those of drunken men ransacking the city, demolishing the mortar holding it together and violating everyone and everything. Their raucous laughter was seared into her brain. Many had died, executed with heinous brutality. If she could avoid it, she would not join them on the death side of life until her task was accomplished. It was her task. Her task. It was vital she complete it.
Festering pain of the emotional kind erupted. When she was young she had learned better ways, considering them an indelible part of herself. She and Yeshua had all but mastered the negative influences of external events. The fight had been long. Her body was weak, her spirit weary. She felt old. Compared to most, she was. It was a time when life should be ripening, not fading, a time for teaching grandchildren during her wisdom years. Her children were dead. There had been no grandchildren.
Closing her eyes she focused within, attempting to connect with the most stable part of herself. She pictured a flame and expanded the light. Standing alone, taking deep breaths, filtering the air through her head covering, she sought courage and stamina. In the pristine moment, her mind filled with red light. Red was for courage and strength, her mother had taught her.
She again peered around the stone wall, discovering nothing but persistent wind. Temporarily assuaged, she entered the cave's outer chamber where her donkey waited. Relieving her animal friend of the packs, she eased them onto the dirt floor. Retrieving a goatskin bag she poured water into her hand and held it to the animal's lips.
"Here, Philipa," she said, fondly, "it's been an awful trip. I couldn't do this without you. Thank you, my dear, old friend."
Nickering, the jenny sidled against her and drank several handfuls. When she was finished, Ruth allowed herself a taste.
Shivering again at the lingering memories of rape, murder and the riots in Jerusalem when James and many others she knew had died, she removed her head covering and readjusted her robe, retying the girdle about her waist. She lit the torch and carried it in one hand. With the other she toted a camel-skin pouch through the narrow entrance to the inner chamber. Next, she lugged in the jar.
The cave was one of many used by the Essenes. She had frequented this particular sanctuary with Yeshua and her other brothers. Over the years from time to time they had made the trek to this cave to hide her scrolls and painted plates. Sighing, she considered the last scroll she had conveyed all the way from Demetrius' home in Jerusalem. When the riotous crowd came to his street, he had insisted on hiding her in a small chamber. There had been no time to conceal himself. He was killed by the mob.
Forcing her mind to focus on the task, she secured the torch in a crack in the wall. She emptied the pouch next to the entrance of a small hidden cavity. From a satchel hanging about her waist she removed an inkwell. Fishing out the reed pen, she unrolled the scroll on the floor. Toiling in the wavering light, she carefully lettered the narrative until her back ached and her fingers cramped. She finished her story, slid the parchment into the jar, sealed it and chipped away the earth that covered the entrance to the cavity. When the opening was large enough, she slipped the container into the hole and stood the jar upright against the wall with the other twelve. She unsealed the container holding the plates, added the last one and resealed the container. Back in the outer chamber she grabbed the other bag of water. In the inner chamber she gathered chunks of limestone which had crumbled from the walls. Making thick mud of limestone and clay she replugged the hole and erased evidence of her activities.
Returning to the donkey she reloaded the pack. She extinguished the torch and stepped outside to the ledge, allowing her eyes a few moments to adjust. Her breath caught in her throat. In the canyon below a group of soldiers ribboned along the base of the cliff, heading in her direction. Terror slithered up her limbs. Afternoon shadowed the hillside. In a couple hours it would be dusk, a time of illusion when perception failed. That would be her best chance. With heart-thudding fear she studied the men. They must not find the scrolls. She had to get away from this place, but there was no other way out.
She peered again over the edge. The men had passed beyond sight.
"We must go now, Philipa." Looking into the donkey's eyes, she rubbed its nose. She loved the animal. The jenny had been with her so long, much longer than donkeys usually lived. They were part of each other.
She lead Philipa around the precipice. Below she saw the men again. Slowly she and the jenny crept down the trail, over lumps of dirt and stone, dislodging several smaller ones. They tumbled down the hill.
Frozen on the knobby hillside, she listened and checked over the side. The men had stopped.
Terrified to stay, terrified to move, she forced herself to take one cautious step after another, her head bent in behind the donkey. The animal quivered. A pebble trapped between her skin and a sandal strap on her right foot, grated her skin with each step. Wind, gaining a nightly chill, penetrated her robe. Most of her clothes had been lost in the hurry from the city. One pair of sandals, a tunic, a robe, leg wrappings and an undergarment were all she had.
The wind cut closer. Cold sliced her lungs with each breath. A rattling breath was followed by another. Struggling to remain quiet, she imprisoned an exploding cough.
The last of the troop disappeared beyond an outcropping of limestone.
No...no, I will not cough. I must not cough.
Releasing Philipa's reins Ruth crouched low. Rasping coughs erupted shaking her entire body. The urge diminished; she huddled against the animal for a moment. Philipa rubbed her face against Ruth's. Grateful, she held onto the animal's neck and stared into the canyon.
Still no soldiers.
She allowed the donkey to lead her from the mountainside toward the spring. Dusk was upon them by the time they reached it. Guiding Philipa along the ledge next to the water, she released the rope and crouched beneath the escarpment. Tucking her robe out of the way, she pushed up her sleeves and cupped the liquid, eagerly slurping it in. She was coated with dust. Her hair, down to her scalp, was gritty. A few feet away the donkey drank. After refilling the water pouches Ruth straightened herself and urged Philipa between two jutting cliffs.
The dusty dryness repelled her. She longed to be home with Simon, safe in the cottage by the sea. A memory of him--his magnificent face, dark, thick, collar-length hair and modest beard, his chest bared to the sun on days of a benevolent sea--appeared unbeckoned.
No. Not now. She could not think of him now.
Following a ledge into a box canyon, they came to a pocket in the rock, deep enough to conceal them if the soldiers had no knowledge of the place and far enough back to provide shelter from the wind. Pulling the donkey inside Ruth removed the pack. Philipa lowered herself to the stone floor and gazed at Ruth.
"I'm hungry, too." Grabbing a little grain Ruth fed the donkey. She allowed herself a few bites of bread. Darkness obscured the remaining light.
Huddle
d against Philipa's side she tried to relax. Her mind shifted from thought to thought. Her body swam with fatigue. Burying her face into the animal's coat, she wept. Exhausted, in moments she slept.
When daylight came she and the donkey headed back to the path between the cliffs. Ruth ducked beneath low overhanging rocks. Though the road served as a gateway between the inland desert and the Mediterranean, it was little traveled because of its low ceilings.
Wind wailed through the canyon. Voices. She heard voices.
Tense, frightened, she searched for a hiding place. There was none, not a crevice nor a way to scale the cliffs on either side. Overwhelming weariness and futility jellied her legs. She clutched Philipa's neck for support.
In front of them in an open clearing a battalion of soldiers watched her. Before she could move, before she could make a sound, a lone soldier raced forward. Sword in hand he ran it through her chest. She remembered her own sword then, the one she had never used. The last thing she saw was Philipa's hoof connecting with the soldier's face.
Chapter 36