Take This Cup

  I gasped as I recognized Zimri’s gruff chiding.

  My fingers gripped the strap of the pack containing the cup. I pulled the bag against my chest and discovered it was limp, without shape, empty. I moaned softly, “Gone!”

  The bandits’ conversation fell silent.

  Zimri demanded, “What was that?”

  “I don’t know . . . sounded like . . . like . . .”

  “Sounded human. Like a groan.” The bandit chief pulled up his mount. “You sure we got them all? None escaped?”

  “Sure. You seen as good as we did.”

  Where had the cup gone? I slid my hand into the pouch and searched. My mind reeled in disbelief as I buried my face into the sack in horror.

  The precious cargo must have fallen to the ground during last night’s journey!

  I fought the urge to stand and run back along the trail we had traveled. The warm golden eye of Adam’s hart observed me with a kind of comprehension.

  Below the resting herd Zimri shouted, “Hey! Who’s up there?”

  As if by command, a covey of more than a hundred quail erupted from the dense undergrowth above the trail. They flew across the path of the bandits, drawing their attention away from the herd, away from me and the white hart.

  I resisted the need to cry out in anguish, but silently screamed, “Oh God! The Cup of Joseph is gone!”

  Zimri commanded, “All right, then. Let’s get along. The pilgrims will be like those quail, flocking on the pilgrim road. All headed to Jerusalem. Easy prey.”

  The riders moved on.

  Magpies chattered in the trees. Tears escaped my eyes and coursed down my cheeks. I turned the bag inside out. “It’s gone. Gone.” I moaned again.

  One by one the herd rose and shook sand from their coats. The hart studied me with what seemed to be curiosity. The animal did not rise, as if awaiting some signal from me.

  “You see?” I held the bag beneath the hart’s nose. “See here? I lost it! Somewhere along the road last night, it fell out. I don’t even know how we came to be here. I don’t know where we are. Don’t know where to look.” Once more I buried my face in the empty sack. “I don’t even know . . . when it could have happened!”

  Gripping the fleece container, I jumped to my feet. My guardian remained curled on the soft earth, his legs tucked beneath him.

  “What am I supposed to do now? It was given to me to carry! I was the cupbearer to the King. Now look—one night out and . . . just look!” I tore at the bushes around me and turned useless circles. “Gone. What am I supposed to do? Cupbearer to the King. I could not even care for it for a single night! Gone. How can I ever find it?”

  The hart gave a deep groan, then slowly unfolded himself and rose to his full height. He nudged me with his muzzle, nearly knocking me to the ground with his suppressed power.

  “What?” I sniffed. “What?”

  The hart faced the forest and the wild half trail over which we had journeyed last night. He ambled toward it, gazed back at me, then strode very deliberately toward the broken brush.

  I shook my head, hands hanging limply at my sides. “Crazy. What are you doing? What? It’s . . . gone! That’s all.”

  Still the hart walked on calmly. Where the brush parted, the beast turned and lowered his head. He looked a question at me.

  Slinging the empty bag around my neck, I said, “All right. Hopeless. But show me the way back. Show me if you can, so I can look for the rest of my life.”

  The search was tedious on foot, exhausting and dispiriting. My legs ached. My sandal rubbed a blister on my heel. Sweat dripping from my forehead hurt my eyes.

  “It’s the hart’s fault, God. It is his fault the Cup of Joseph is lost!” I muttered blame in the desperate breath of a half prayer as I retraced the route from the long night ride.

  Hours passed. The hart, his legs strung taut like the strings of hunters’ bows, could have leapt over me and vanished in a breath. Instead, he trailed patiently behind as if waiting for something.

  Waiting for what? I wondered. Why does he stay with me? I am cupbearer to the King, and I have lost the cup!

  I scoured the bushes and the ground for the treasure but was uncertain this was the path we had taken. Here and there a broken twig or branch gave sign that something big . . . and ancient and wise . . . had passed this way.

  Black and ugly under ages of tarnish, the divinely appointed cup could be buried in the sand. It could look like a stone. It could hang like a fallen pinecone caught in a gorse bush. Safety, yes, for who would notice such a thing? But its disguise could also make it impossible for me to spot and recover.

  What if it was buried in sand?

  What if the black shape was concealed in a shadow?

  The trail wound up and up. The hart’s brow was almost against my back, urging me onward.

  At last we came to the bank of a river that ran deep and swift from the recent rains. Impossible to cross, nor did I remember crossing it in the night. Where were we? Where was the cup, hidden for long ages only to be lost by a foolish boy?

  I sank down on a stump, buried my face in my hands, and groaned. Then I shouted at the hart, “Did you carry me across this water last night? I don’t remember! I don’t remember crossing! What if I lost it there? What if the water’s swallowed it? Oh, I am lost! Lost! How will I ever show my face at home? How can I say to my brothers I have lost this thing I was meant to carry to the King?”

  The beast stepped forward, wading up to his knees in the torrent. Pausing, he glanced over his shoulder at me. Sunlight glinted in his golden eyes.

  “Then take me back if you can.” I leapt to my feet. “Carry me if you will!” Plunging into the icy water, I plastered my face against the side of the hart. The animal dipped low and positioned his antlers like a ladder for me to grasp and climb.

  Scrambling up onto the hart’s neck, I slid over the withers and onto his back. And the search continued.

  We moved at a slow but steady pace, retracing the path from the night before. I clung to the base of the antlers and leaned over the hart’s right shoulder. I squinted, searching the ground.

  For seven hours we followed a thin, shallow tributary of the river. Gaudy butterflies with wings as broad as my hand fluttered beside me. Lizards scrambled up boulders. Squirrels bustled out of the great hart’s way. Startled flocks of partridge and quail rose in clouds.

  The cup was nowhere to be seen.

  In the late afternoon I noticed something large and ominous skulking just out of sight. I caught sight of coarse gray hide that appeared for an instant, then vanished in the brush.

  I was suddenly aware of movement behind us: a wolf. Perhaps there was more than one stalking the lone buck, waiting for nightfall. The hart must have known we were being pursued, but he moved on steadily without sign of alarm.

  How many miles had we retraced because of my carelessness? The sun began to sink low on the western horizon.

  Little gray owls with white-ringed eyes perched on the branch of an ancient oak tree. A thick patch of wild wheat grew on a gentle slope near the brook.

  At last the buck paused. He knelt low, and I slid onto the ground.

  “Are you tired, old man?” I asked. “I haven’t seen you take even a single sip of water. Nor graze neither. I bet you’re hungry and thirsty. If you say so, we’ll stop here.”

  Was the wolf watching us? I peered over my shoulder as I stooped by the water to drink from the pristine stream. I cupped my hand to scoop up the cool liquid. Raising my palm to my lips, I let out a cry. There, before my eyes in a patch of wheat, was Joseph’s cup. It stood upright beside a flat stone as if it had been carefully placed there for a thirsty traveler to use in drawing water.

  I laughed and snatched it up, then held it aloft for the hart to see. “Look. Look what I found! Look where it was, all along!” The hart calmly grazed as I filled the cup and drained it, then filled it again and poured the water over my hands and head.

  The hart was l
ikewise thirsty from our journey. He bowed his head and drank deeply.

  I sighed, kissed the cup, and said aloud the Scripture the rabbi had taught me when I first met the hart so many years before: “ ‘As the hart pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, my God.’ ”1

  I held the treasure to my cheek and closed my eyes, as though embracing a brother. “Of course you would be found on a journey amongst the grain. I should have known.”

  Sitting back on my heels, I slipped the cup into its sack and then slung the strap over my neck.

  I was in the shadow of the hart. For the first time I noticed jagged scars on the animal’s legs and shoulders. Evidence of fierce battles both ancient and recent etched the hide like tributaries flowing to a river. A pattern of teeth marks crisscrossed the hart’s throat and shoulder.

  “Wolf!” I said aloud.

  Heads of dry grain hissed in the wind. The hair on the back of my neck prickled with fear of an unseen threat. But what?

  Perhaps sensing danger at the same instant, the hart’s head jerked up. His nostrils flared, searching the air, and golden eyes fixed on a distant point. Ears twitching, he turned this way and that to locate a sound.

  “What?” I whispered.

  A low growl answered.

  A massive wolf crouched a few yards away. Yellow eyes gleamed, and saliva dripped from its jowls.

  On the opposite side of the stream a second snarl replied.

  The hart seemed to grow even larger as his muscles hardened in anticipation of combat. He snorted and tossed his head. Instantly, he placed himself as a wall of protection between me and the ravenous wolf pack.

  Clasping the cup, I dashed to the oak tree. The little owls screeched and fluttered away. Tearing at the bark, I clambered up the trunk and into the limbs. At the same instant two wolves leapt, snarling and barking, onto the back of the hart.

  Suddenly four more dashed from the cover, tearing at his flanks and legs. Drops of blood splattered his white coat.

  “Run!” I shouted to the hart, but the great buck did not run. He held his ground. Bucking fiercely, he tossed the attackers off. They crashed into rocks and tree trunks. Stunned and confused, they scrambled to their feet and circled unsteadily.

  Then the buck turned on them. He attacked, striking with sharp hooves and powerful legs. Bellowing with rage, he swung his antlers right and left. Impaling the leader, he lifted and tossed its body hard against a boulder. The wolf whined, raised its head once, then collapsed. It did not get up.

  Now the pack wove their approach warily. The hart backed his rump against the tree. Using the tree as protection for his hindquarters, he lowered his head and positioned his antlers at a deadly angle. He was directly beneath me.

  A brash young wolf darted in, attempting to sink its fangs into the hart’s leg. One hard kick to the head sent the creature sprawling into a heap. It did not rise.

  Now the enemy band pulled back and skulked at the edge of the clearing. The hart did not move away. For just an instant he lifted his head as if to signal me that this was our chance to escape.

  I climbed down until I was in range of the hart’s broad back. Holding to a branch, I lowered myself until my toe touched the hart’s shoulder. The buck snorted impatiently.

  Three of the wolf pack crouched in order to attack.

  What if I missed the mark? What if I fell to the ground and was pounced on?

  My fingers were slipping. It was now or never.

  The bark cut into my palm, reopening the recent wounds.

  “Oh, Lord!” I cried. Releasing my grip, I fell heavily, slipping to the right of the hart’s broad back. Lunging, I grasped the antlers and pulled myself onto the deer, finding my balance.

  In a flash the hart leapt into the air. Soaring over wolves and fallen timbers, he tore through the woods. I shouted with exhilaration as we outran the baying pack. The hart jumped the brook easily and bolted up a steep embankment, leaving the pursuers in the dust.

  We ran for miles, the hart never tiring. The howling of the pack fell away. After a time we were alone in the wood. The wind rushed in my ears and the voice whispered, “Take this cup! Nehemiah! Cupbearer to the King . . .”

  The enemy was defeated, far behind us, yet still the hart and I galloped on.

  The hart’s pace slowed to a measured, steady tread, but the travel continued a very long time. Finally the great buck entered a narrow passage between an overhanging pair of thorn bushes.

  We emerged from the tunnel in a meadow enclosed on all sides by a thicket of acacias so closely planted their branches were interwoven to form a spiked fence.

  The hart’s herd already rested in the clearing. An outer ring of bucks, hail and strong, protected an inner ring of older animals. In the very center of the two circles were the does and fawns.

  The buck carried me into the heart of the herd and stopped. Gratefully, I slid from the beast’s back to the soft grass. As the buck moved away to graze on tender shoots, I recognized I also was extremely hungry.

  The herd watched me for a moment, then accepted my presence.

  Turning out the contents of my pack produced plenty to eat. I brushed the remaining dirt from a wild carrot and took a bite. Selecting from the other items collected, I cracked, shelled, and enjoyed a handful of nuts, then tried an onion.

  An inquisitive fawn approached. Stretching a velvety nose close to my hand, the young deer sniffed the onion, then sneezed and backed up a pace. I coaxed it to return by offering a chunk of carrot, which the fawn accepted, while I ate two apricots and enough berries to stain my hands dark red.

  When the feast concluded, I was thirsty. Once again, the hart showed the way. At the far end of the enclosure, beneath the boughs of fragrant myrtle trees, a spring of clear water bubbled up to fill a rock-lined pool. The antlered head bent as the hart drank, then the buck sidestepped out of the way, allowing me to approach with Joseph’s cup.

  The sweetness of myrtle blossoms surrounded me as I dipped the cup into the pool. “The scent of Eden,” Rabbi Kagba called the oil of myrtle. “It’s why myrtle is one of the things we wave to celebrate Tabernacles. It takes us back to a time of innocence, a time Messiah will first embody and then restore.”

  It had to be Tabernacles by now. The attack on Father’s camp had been between the Day of Atonement and the start of this, the next feast. We shepherds spent much of our lives dwelling in tents like the children of Israel in the wilderness. But here I was, on the Feast of Tabernacles, sheltered in a booth made by the hand of the Almighty from the very outgrowth of Eden. It was on such a night that all devout Jews invited the exalted wanderers—the patriarchs and the prophets who had gone before—to join us for the feast.

  I filled the cup to the brim, swallowed a mouthful of cool water, then drained it. Back on the dense matting of springy grass, I was satisfied. Now exhausted, I curled up with the cup under my arm and fell asleep . . .

  Almost immediately I heard someone call my name.

  “Nehemiah?”

  The sound alerted me but caused me no anxiety. “Who’s there?”

  “My name is Zaphenath Paneah,” a pleasant, youthful voice announced.

  “I don’t know anyone by that name,” I returned. “Not a Hebrew name. Sounds Syrian?”

  “Farther south.”

  “Egyptian?”

  “Bravo,” the voice applauded. “You guessed it.”

  “Where are you? I can’t see you. Is this a dream?”

  “Perhaps. I am a Dreamer of Dreams myself.”

  “That’s what Rabbi Kagba called Joseph the Patriarch.”

  “A brilliant man, your rabbi. A scholar and a good teacher. The two are not always the same. So, I am Zaphenath Paneah, which means Revealer of Secrets . . . but I was born Joseph, son of Jacob, the son of Isaac, the son of Abraham. Abraham,” he repeated. “My great-grandfather.”

  “I dreamed about you before, only I couldn’t talk with you. So this is a dream!”

  “Aga
in, perhaps. Or perhaps I was sent to you, cupbearer to the King, to reveal secrets to you and to answer your questions. You do have questions, don’t you?”

  “About the cup? Of course! Many! And why can’t I see you?”

  A slender, dark-haired, clean-shaven male form wavered slightly, then snapped into focus. “Better?” Joseph asked. “Now, a few questions for you. First, do you know why I hid my cup in Benjamin’s grain sack?”

  “The rabbi says it was a test. You wanted to see if your other brothers would leave Benjamin to save themselves, or if they were truly sorry for having sold you into slavery. Had their hearts been changed?”

  “And they passed the test,” Joseph agreed. “Why is my cup now in your possession?”

  “Rabbi Kagba says I am to take it to the Messiah. He believes a man named Jesus of Nazareth is the Anointed One, and he wants me to deliver your cup to him.”

  “Why?”

  I was puzzled by the query. “Because he told me to.”

  “You misunderstand me,” Joseph the Dreamer corrected. “Why should Messiah receive it?”

  I thought for a moment. “I don’t know. To honor him?”

  “Truly, but there is more. Do you remember how I was freed from prison in Egypt?”

  “When Pharaoh’s cupbearer remembered how you could explain dreams and brought you to Pharaoh.”

  “And the cup came to me in gratitude from both Pharaoh and the cupbearer. But it is more than that. It is the symbol of my redemption. It represents the faithfulness of the Almighty in redeeming my life from the pit . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “From slavery . . . from false accusations . . . from imprisonment . . .”

  “All those,” I acknowledged. “Yes, yes, and yes.”

  “And since Pharaoh made me the authority in Egypt, second only to himself, the cup came to represent how I was honored. Now pay attention.”

  “I’m ready for you to go on.” Somewhere nearby a deer snorted and moved in the darkness. How much of this was only a dream?

  Joseph resumed his tale. “When famine came to all the land, I was able to save my family because I was then in a position to help them, you see? I was able to redeem them from death, just as I had been redeemed from death myself.”