“Excellent!” the rabbi praised. “Only wait until after sundown, when it should be completely safe.”
When I returned from my expedition, I emptied a half pound of nuts from a makeshift pouch formed in my robe. I had also gathered a double handful of red berries such as the birds fought over. “What about these?” I asked.
The rabbi praised me again. “Here we have shelter and provision both. These are yew berries. The leaves and the seeds are poison.” He paused to pat the tree trunk like greeting an old friend. “But the fruit is sweet and can be eaten. Well done, Nehemiah. It seems the Almighty has provided both food and drink for us! As it is written, ‘Stay awake and you will have food to spare,’5 and again, ‘Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters.’6 Eat and drink and rest again, boy. Tomorrow we must journey.”
Chapter 10
The second morning after we took refuge beneath the yew tree, dawn’s curtain lifted on a day that was overcast and chilly. The threat of rain was not great, and the air was sparkling clear. A covey of quail chirping and pecking in the brush could be heard from across the canyon. A hawk screaming above the highest peak to the east made himself known, though a mile and more away. If a group of men, especially a troop of horsemen, was anywhere near, the rabbi and I would hear them at a great distance.
“Now we’ll go back to Papa’s camp,” I said.
“I’ve been giving that much thought,” the rabbi replied. He pointed to the saddle between two peaks to the southeast. “There is a village just over that pass. If we make for that location, there should be no risk at all of encountering Zimri and his men. There are easier routes, so no one will think to look for us there.”
Sticking out my lower lip, I also narrowed his eyes. “But my papa and mama will be worried about me,” I said stubbornly.
“True enough,” Kagba agreed, “but once at the village we can send word to them. Remember, your father instructed me to keep you safe, and I must do what I think he would want.”
I nodded slowly. I did not like the plan but I accepted it. Picking at the tattoo of scabs on my face, I asked, “How long will it take us?”
“No more than two more days if we leave soon. We’ll have to shelter on the mountain tonight but tomorrow we should easily reach our goal. Gather more nuts and berries, and we’ll eat them on the way.”
Descending the first fifty yards into the ravine from the ridgeline was scary. The hillside was steep, and Kagba would not let us use the trail, in order to avoid leaving tracks. We deliberately crossed rocky ground, sliding at times and catching hold of scrub brush to slow ourselves. I gritted my teeth as each precarious handhold dug into the lacerated flesh of my palms.
The creek at the bottom of the gorge was full of the runoff of the storm. We quenched our thirst, then crossed the stream by jumping from boulder to boulder.
It was the hike up the other face that gave us the most difficulty. Even though I located a game trail for us to follow, the slope was precipitously steep. Despite rest and nourishment, Rabbi Kagba was barely capable of the ascent. After the first hundred yards he could manage no more than ten paces at a time without stopping to rest and breathe.
I seized the dried, gnarled branch of a juniper, already bent at one end to form a handle. This I gave to Kagba to use as a walking stick.
“Thank you, my boy,” Kagba wheezed. “And give me a handful of those juniper berries. I will inhale their scent. It helps clear the lungs.”
Despite the use of the cane and the aid of the juniper aroma, Kagba grew slower and slower until he was barely creeping. It was clear we would not reach the summit of the pass before nightfall, despite our best efforts.
Even worse, we remained exposed to the view of anyone using the switchbacks on the other hillside. Once more I missed having Beni’s alert watchfulness of sight, sound, and smell. How I longed for him to be able to give me warning.
It was on another of our frequent halts that I heard it: the unmistakable sounds of a horse snorting and harness jingling. I eyed the top of the ridge we had left and the hillside on which we now stood. It was not good. We would be fully in view from the trail. There was not even brush enough to crouch behind.
“Rabbi!” I said urgently. “Riders! Riders coming. We have to hide!”
“Eh? What?” The scholar returned between gasps for air.
I doubted if Kagba even heard the warning over the sounds of his own labored breathing. Without trying to explain, I grasped the rabbi’s hand and tugged him up the slope.
From my sudden burst of speed the rabbi caught the urgency and did what he could to move faster.
A series of rocky ledges terraced the hill like giant steps. They provided no cover, but at their top was a larger clump of junipers. If we could reach that foliage, we might be safe.
After I leapt easily atop a stone block, I then had to haul up my friend. Kagba dropped the cane, which clattered down the slope. No time to retrieve it!
Shooting a glance over my shoulder, I caught the glint of sunlight reflecting off something on the trail across the canyon. We had only moments before we were spotted!
The next rank of boulders was even taller than before. I would have trouble climbing it and much more difficulty hoisting my friend. What to do?
A rocky outcropping resembling squared stones protruded from the rest, making an overhang above the shelf of slate. Could we possibly squeeze into the narrow space, like rabbits hiding from a fox?
Then I spotted it. Right in front of the overhang there was a gap in the ledge, a crevasse that plunged into the mountain. I peered over the edge. It was a drop about the height of a man, but was wide enough to admit us . . . and there was no choice.
“Rabbi, follow me!” Lying flat on my stomach, I pivoted so my legs hung over the lip of the chasm, then pushed myself into the void.
I landed, sprawling, but picked myself up immediately. “Hurry!” I urged. “I’ll help you.”
Guiding Rabbi Kagba’s toes onto tiny ledges in the rock, I eased the scholar downward until both of us were concealed behind the rock wall. We stood panting with fright and exertion. His words fractured by coughing, Kagba said, “Thank . . . you.”
In the expanse of stone at the back of our landing was another small opening. It could not be seen or even suspected from the outside. Only by falling into the crevice, or climbing down inside it as we had, could the entry be discovered.
Once through the arch the cave increased in height until there was room for Kagba to stand upright. The passage stretched upward into darkness, reaching toward the heart of the mountain.
Even when the danger of discovery had passed, it was clear we would not be going farther that night. I foraged for evergreen branches, using pine needles and a thin layer of dried leaves to make a bed for the old man to lie upon.
The rabbi gratefully spread his cloak and stretched out. He was waxy and ashen in the dim light. His cracked lips were parted as he slept, and his breathing labored.
I sat in the shadows in the mouth of the cave and scanned the terrain beyond. No sign of our pursuers. Had Zimri and his men given up their quest for a slave to sell? Had they set out for Jerusalem and the rebellion?
A heaviness settled over me, like nothing I had ever felt. I was homesick. Scared. Filled with dread at the nearness of our enemies. Had my mother and father been killed? What had become of the shepherds we had left behind? What good were shepherd staffs against sword blades?
The old man stirred. His voice trembled as he spoke. “I . . . I must have dozed off. A pleasant dream. You and I set out for Jerusalem to see the great King.” He paused.
“It will be dark soon,” I said. “Are you cold, Rabbi? Shall I build a fire tonight?”
The rabbi continued as if I had not spoken. “And when we entered the great Temple, there were your mother and your father. And yes, even your dog.”
“My mother and father?”
“Yes,” the rabbi wheezed.
“Alive?”
br /> “Oh yes. There among thousands who came to greet Jesus. Son of Joseph. Son of Jacob. And you . . . in my dream you were carrying something . . . a gift for the King.”
“Shall I search for something for us to eat?”
“Asparagus. I saw some growing beside the path. Ah, this land was truly Eden.”
I nodded, but remembered that if this had been Eden, death had still entered here. The old man seemed very near to Paradise. “I’ll go find something for us to eat, then. You rest.”
The rabbi’s arm raised slightly in agreement and then fell back on the bed. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I found a plot of wild asparagus and filled my tunic with big, thick stalks. Nearby, a blackberry vine was loaded with ripe berries. A few mushroom caps rounded off the harvest. I discovered a clutch of eight partridge eggs in a thicket. I had seen hungry herders puncture holes in the shells and suck out the raw yolk, but I much preferred eggs as my mother cooked them.
I took only four of the eggs, leaving the others in the nest. Raw or cooked, such nourishment would help strengthen the rabbi.
Clouds like great fortresses heaped upon the heights. There would soon be another thunderstorm. Laden with the bounty of the mountain, I hurried back to the shelter.
Rabbi Kagba was propped up but shivering. I displayed the harvest.
“A man could live here forever . . . if a man could live forever.” Kagba smiled. “I don’t fancy eating my eggs raw as some do.”
“You’re shivering. I’ll build a fire and dry out the air and . . . we can cook them.”
Kagba lay back and stared at the gloomy ceiling as I labored to build a fire on the floor of the cave. As sparks cast by the rabbi’s flint and steel caught amid leaves and pinecones, I breathed the flames to life and fed it with sticks and dry foliage.
“My father said a man must know how to make a . . .” My words trailed away as I raised my eyes to the ceiling and I gasped. The walls of the cavern, suddenly illuminated, were alive with painted splendor. Shadows danced upon primitive paintings.
“Well done, Nehemiah.” The rabbi seemed cheered as he stretched his hands to the blaze. He chuckled at the visions all around us.
“What are these?” I looked into painted stars and spotted the constellations of the Cup and the Virgin.
Kagba was delighted, but not surprised. “A Jew has been here before us. Look there. The story of Joseph, son of Jacob, in his coat of many colors. Aye. There is the boy, Joseph, in his splendid coat. The coat, a gift of honor from his father. And Joseph dreams . . . the sun and the moon and stars bow down to him. He tells his brothers they will one day bow to him. And there, the coat torn to shreds and Joseph is sold by his jealous brothers . . . Joseph’s hands bound as he is led away to Egypt by slave traders. In prison with the baker and Pharaoh’s cupbearer.”
Every inch of the interior was painted with the biblical account of Joseph’s life. And there, in the last frames, was Joseph’s silver cup buried in the grain sack of his brother Benjamin to trap him. And, finally, Joseph weeping over his reunion with his brothers.
“Who did such a thing?” I turned round and round in place, examining the panels in awe.
“One who knew the story well, I think,” Rabbi Kagba whispered.
“But why? Why paint the story of Joseph here?”
The old rabbi considered. “Here in a cave for hundreds of years? Someone lived here, plainly. Someone who had reason—”
“But who? Why?”
“Whoever he was, he knew the story of the Prince of Egypt. Perhaps he was on the run. As we are, eh? I would think one who was trying to escape the captivity of Babylon. Everything means . . . something.” Kagba closed his eyes and smiled slightly. For the first time in days, as warmth radiated in the space, some color returned to his gray-green complexion.
As the old man slept, I searched for stones to use in the cook fire. In the corner of the cavern was piled a heap of rocks. I sorted through them, looking for a flat rock to heat and cook on.
I examined stones and discarded them. At last I found the perfect rock for cooking. When I tugged at it, several stones tumbled down. The top of a clay amphorae protruded from the opening left there.
“Rabbi!”
The old man had dozed off again. His breath was steady and even.
I tore at the heap, revealing four sealed storage jugs. Each was about two spans high.
Should I open them? What if something terrible was in them? I had heard of shepherds stumbling across burial caves and making grizzly discoveries.
Human bones?
Pagan gods?
Some terrible curse written on a parchment?
I decided to wait until the rabbi awakened.
Heating the flat stone red-hot in the coals, I then cracked the eggs and fried them. I waved eggs and berries and warm asparagus on a broad leaf beneath the nose of my teacher.
“Rabbi? Wake up. I have dinner for you.”
His eyelids fluttered open. “Well.” The rabbi inhaled deeply and struggled to sit. “Well, now. My boy. Look at this. A feast.”
“It will make you strong.”
He accepted the leaf plate. “How did you manage this, Nehemiah? Fried eggs.” He prayed the blessing without waiting for an answer.
“Amen.” I jerked my thumb toward the rubble heap and the four containers. “I found the stone over there . . . see? On top of the clay jars.”
The rabbi plopped a whole egg into his mouth and turned his head to follow my gesture. “What!” he exclaimed around his food. “What are those, boy?”
“Under a heap of stones. I was looking for a cooking stone. I didn’t mean to uncover them, but you see, there they are.”
The rabbi swallowed and waved a stalk of asparagus in the air. “What have you found?”
Weighed with remorse, I sat back on my heels. “I’ll put everything back, sir. I was only looking for a flat rock, you see, and . . . I can put it all back as it was. I . . . was afraid.”
Kagba’s eyes gleamed. “No. A Jew like ourselves lived here for a very long time. He would not live in a place of desecration. Eat. Such good food. You are a fine cook. Finish your meal, and we will see what treasure our friend left for us.”
Chapter 11
A flash of lightning illuminated the world outside the cave in monochrome shades. Thunder followed, opening the heavens with a torrent of rain. Water sluiced off the rocky ledges and streamed down the embankment, but the cavern remained dry. The previous occupant had chosen his home well.
The fire burned low. The rabbi reached out from his bed and touched each clay jar as if they were old friends. “Something very good, I think. I heard of a man . . . ah, well. No use speculating until we know, eh? We need more light, I think.”
I heaped dry wood onto the embers and stood back as the flames caught hold and blazed up. The branches crackled. The old man’s skin took on the color of parchment. He made an attempt to stand but winced and gave it up. “You’ll have to be the one, Nehemiah.”
I licked my lips and picked at the red wax that sealed lid to base. The wax was brittle and broke in pieces with the digging of my fingers. Within minutes the first lid was free.
I hovered over it, with my hands encircling the neck of the jar. Waiting for the rabbi’s instruction, I glanced up to see an almost childlike eagerness on the face of the sage.
“All right, then,” the old man whispered hoarsely. “Open it.”
I nodded once and pried it open. It made a popping noise as air trapped for centuries rushed out. The sweet aroma of lavender scented the space, overpowering the wood smoke. I sat back. The rabbi must be first to see.
The old man leaned forward. “Tilt the opening toward the light, boy. I cannot make it out.”
I obeyed. A soft sigh of pleasure escaped the rabbi’s lips. He smiled as he reached in and took hold of the contents, pulling out a scroll wound in supple sheepskin and tied with strips of leather.
On the exterior of the scrol
l were Hebrew letters spelling out the name of the author.
The rabbi extended it, face up, toward me. “You must read it.”
I squinted in the light. The ink was distinct, undimmed by centuries. “ ‘Within is the SCROLL OF BARUCH BEN NERIAH, SCRIBE OF THE PROPHET JEREMIAH. Written in his own hand. Various writings of Jeremiah about the exile.’ ”
“So.” Rabbi Kagba cradled it like an infant. “As I rest and recover here, the good Lord has given us something to read and study. You know of the scribe Baruch. Companion to the prophet.”
I exhaled with relief that my teacher had been correct. The jars were not full of evil, frightening things, as I had feared. “He helped Jeremiah hide the Temple treasures. I am happy there were not bones inside.”
“Only the flesh and bones of history.” Rabbi Kagba mopped his brow. “What was, what is, and what will be.” The rabbi swept a hand over the Joseph murals. “There is a legend concerning a treasure that Baruch carried away. Hidden until the day when the Messiah will come to Jerusalem.” He frowned. “Well then. Open the others. Hurry!”
The second container held the complete scroll of the prophet Jeremiah and the book of Nehemiah, as well as a number of short documents containing an inventory of Temple treasures.
The old man scanned them quickly, running his finger down the list. “Ahhhh. Here it is! As I thought it might be.”
He laid the list aside. The third jar held a tightly rolled copy of the five books of Moses—all protected in the exact same manner as the first scroll.
The last jar remained to be opened. I plucked at the red wax seal and pried the lid off, welcoming the whoosh of ancient air. I peered in. This time there was no scroll, but a fleece-wrapped package.
“Rabbi Kagba. It’s not like the others,” I said, some nervousness returning.
“Fetch it out, boy. My hand is too large.”
Reaching in elbow-deep, I grasped the prize and brought it into the light. Beneath thick wrapping, with smooth leather on the outside and fleece on the inside, I felt something the size and shape of a cup. Three strands of knotted leather bound the hide to it. On the exterior of the skin the label read, BEHOLD THE SILVER CUP OF JOSEPH, SON OF JACOB, PRINCE OF EGYPT.