A Beggar in Capernaum
By Ben Patrick Eden
All rights reserved
Copyright © April 2010, Ben Patrick Eden
Cover Art Copyright © 2010, Susi Steele
Gypsy Shadow Publishing
Manchaca, TX
www.gypsyshadow.com
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this eBook are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this eBook may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Gypsy Shadow Publishing.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
To Lewis “Paddy” Eden,
an incredible preacher and an even better father
The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined.
―Isaiah 9:2, KJV
PROLOGUE
AN OMEN
Josiah stumbled below deck, clutching his stomach. Water cascaded down the steps, making his descent a treacherous one. The bile in him rose, and more than anything he was surprised. Josiah had been a shipman for twenty years and counting. Seasickness had long since left him. But here it was, threatening to send what little food he had consumed back the way it came.
But this wasn’t his fault. In twenty years and counting he had never witnessed a storm like this.
It wasn’t the constant rain, though it was constant, or the darkened skies, though they were blacker than a demoniac’s pupils. It was the overpowering will of the beast. This storm wasn’t on a rampage. It was after their boat in particular—Josiah was certain of it.
The calamity had started not long after leaving shore and continued without cease. As hours ticked away, the storm toyed with them. It roared until every man trembled, and then subsided, making them believe the worst had come and gone. Now too far out to turn back, the storm’s ferocity was unveiled. Blackness reined the sky. Bruise-colored waves slammed the boat’s sides like battering rams. The rain was fiercely cold and turning to hail. The lightning was the general, bellowing its orders with a voice even Satan would find hard to match. The storm was honing in on them, readying its next charge, setting its trap. And Josiah knew the next trap would be fatal for everyone aboard.
The grungy shipman clutched his belly and gulped. Another shipman staggered through the door ahead him. The man was Doran, another long-time member of the crew, swaying like a scarecrow in the wind. Josiah helped the man right himself. Doran lifted his head and spewed all over Josiah’s chest. Josiah tried to scold his crewmate, but the smell was a slap in the face. His stomach flipped, and he was suddenly forced to hunch over as chunks of half-digested fish bubbled up his windpipe. He threw up on the man as the man threw up on him. Neither of them moved to avoid the other. Both were too busy retching. Once their stomachs were empty and the two were reduced to drooling, dripping messes, Josiah peered into his shipmate’s bloodshot eyes.
“Sorry about that, Doran.”
“Yeah. Me, too,” the other one whispered. “It’s just . . . it’s just—”
“I know. This storm will be the death of us.”
Doran nodded, glancing down at the chunky bits of nastiness in Josiah’s beard. Then his eyes widened. “That’s why I came to get you. You’ll never believe it.”
“What?”
Doran bumbled around like a sleepwalker. “Come on. You have to see this.”
He started back into the dimly lit corridor, grabbing at the walls to steady himself. Josiah watched and slowly followed. He still marveled at the sight. Veteran sailors reduced to infants by a single storm. How could such a thing happen? His father, long since dead, always spoke about real men taking power over their lives, no matter what the conditions. Was there no power here? Had all control been stripped away?
As if to answer, another wave exploded against the aft side, sending Josiah to his knees—no, forcing him into submission. That was it, he conceded. He was nothing but a follower now. Josiah pulled himself up, hoping whatever Doran was excited about might inspire hope or, even better, control.
But what he first saw gave him neither. When Josiah entered the crew’s quarters, he couldn’t understand why Doran had pulled him there. The room was full of swaying hammocks and scattered bedding. The others inside were mere reflections of Doran and himself: staggering idiots holding their stomachs. The smell of vomit and urine hit him, almost forcing Josiah back to the deck. Maybe it was Jonah’s curse outside, but that was better than the swelling stench of fear in here.
“Doran,” Josiah mumbled. “I don’t want to be here.”
“Tell me about it,” another shipman grunted in the darkness.
Doran came back to Josiah, this time taking his arm. “You have to. I’ve seen an omen, but I don’t know what kind.”
Doran pulled his arm, and reluctantly Josiah followed. So that was it—superstition. Of course, every shipman was superstitious. And on any boat there was a faction of the crew that was very superstitious. On this vessel, Doran was the leader of that faction. He saw signs in everything. What amused Josiah was how Doran’s signs always meant calamity. A floating plank of wood in the water meant smugglers ahead. An unwelcome spray of water in Doran’s face meant a wicked storm was on the rise. If a bird crapped on his shoulder it meant they were all doomed. Never did a sign mean a day would proceed normally, which was often the case. Josiah had made fun of him once. Doran had been holding his sides one morning due to constipation. After listening to him moan through lunch, Josiah asked if constipation was a sign he was full of it. The rest of the crew laughed. But Doran took him seriously and confided in him ever since.
As he stumbled forward, Josiah realized he wasn’t in the mood for ominous signs. If this storm would end their lives, he didn’t want to spend the remainder of his listening to Doran explain why. He again considered turning around, and then decided against it. Following Doran was useless, but so was every other activity on the boat. Anything taking attention away from death was time well spent.
Their path led them past three rows of hammocks. It was on the fourth Josiah finally saw.
A man in a hammock—sleeping peacefully.
Doran nodded in the man’s direction. “What do you think it means?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Certainly it isn’t natural for a man to sleep during a storm like this.”
“I’d say not,” Josiah said, scrutinizing the man. “But he is. I can hear the bugger snoring.”
“Is it a sign?” Doran’s voice went lower, as if the notion might tear the boat in two.
“A sign of what?” Josiah growled. “It could mean we’re saved, or it could mean we’ll all be sleeping that peacefully soon.”
“Maybe we could wake him—you know, ask him. Maybe he’s a prophet.”
Josiah grunted. “He doesn’t look like a prophet. He doesn’t look like much of anything to tell you the truth.” He scratched his vomit-coated chin. “But you’re right. We should wake him.” He put a hand on Doran’s back and shoved him. “Go ahead.”
“Me?” Doran’s voice rose to a shrill whine. “What if it puts a curse on me? What if waking him makes the boat sink?”
“And what if not waking him makes the boat sink? Did you think about that?”
The look on Doran’s face said he hadn’t. He turned and stared at the sleeper again. Outside the thunder ripped another order, and every man quivered at its intensity. Josiah looked up at the ceiling boards, where water bled through in a steady stream.
“Go on, Doran,” he said, more urgently this time. “Wake the man up. Call him by name and ask him if we’re all dead or not.”
Doran looked from the sleeper to Josiah and then back again. He nodded, wrapping his head around such a solemn thought. He peered back one more time.
“What is the man’s name?”
“Oh, in the name of all that is dry and land-based, wake the man up!”
Doran stepped back firmly. “No. If this man sees a stranger when he wakes up the boat will sink. I feel it in my gut.”
Josiah grabbed Doran by his tunic. “You’re about to feel my fist in your gut if you don’t—”
“Hey,” another shipman said. Josiah turned toward the man, unnerved to find every sallow face in the room turned toward him. They were all dangling from this one strand of hope now, and it in no way felt strong enough to support them. The man sat up in his hammock, scratching his head nervously. “He came aboard with another man, someone who called himself an apostle.”
“An apostle?” Josiah frowned. “An apostle of what?”
The man shrugged. “I think he’s up top, helping anyone who needs him.”
“We need him,” Josiah said. “Go get him before it’s too late.”
“I’ll do it!” Doran jumped away from Josiah’s grip and scrambled toward the door. Josiah watched the man go, wanting to call his shipmate a coward but not finding the will to do so. He couldn’t blame Doran for quaking like a child. He was only a few minutes from doing the same. They all were.
He turned his attention back to the sleeper—a sleeper who didn’t even twitch in his sleep, much less quake with fear. Who was this man, and how could he sleep so peacefully?
“It’s like he’s not afraid to die,” Josiah said to himself.
“Maybe,” said the other shipman, his voice so hollow it sent a shiver down Josiah’s spine. “Or he could just like storms.”
ONE
CONFESSION
Raf sat on the dock, basking in one of his favorite feelings. A stiff and chilly wind came off the Sea of Galilee, buffeting his lower half. His legs hung over the edge, swayed by the breeze. It had rained hard the night before, and even the air smelled damp. Crystal droplets clung to every board and blade of grass. To the right, fishermen dumped the morning’s catch into plaster-sealed pools. They would spend the rest of the day cleaning fish and selling them to passing caravans. To the left, the sun swelled. Warm rays embraced his shoulder and back. Raf closed his eyes, mystified as to how his body could be cold and warm at the same time. He liked it that way. The opposites complemented each other. It felt so good he hardly noticed the tiny spurs of fleas as they leapt across his scalp.
In the distance a boat trawled near, emerging through the mist so slowly it seemed to materialize from thin air. The men onboard were becoming easier to see, more noticeable. Not that they noticed him. They probably saw the dock well enough, its weathered gray planks little more than a bundle of driftwood sewn together. They probably saw the small cluster of Roman soldiers standing farther up the ridge, pretending to scrutinize the morning traffic. But even after they landed they would likely never notice the twenty-four year old man waiting for them. That was okay. Raf was good at being noticed when he needed to be.
A splash made him glance sideways. A log sat half-in and half-out of water, buckling against the shore as the tide strummed against it. Several turtles sat atop the log, probably enjoying the same warm-but-windy feeling he did. The fishermen were using them for target practice. As he watched, one fisherman zinged a stone off a turtle shell. The turtle’s only response was to plop back under the waterline, its moss-colored shell fading quickly into muddy water. The fisherman laughed.
Behind him feet shuffled along the creaky boards. The steps sounded familiar—lost but determined. He suddenly wanted to plop into the water with the turtle. The same feelings came over Raf every time he heard those footsteps. The frustration of a child followed by a nosy parent. The guilt of knowing he should turn and call but not finding the will to do so. And somewhere beneath the first two, warmth. It was nice to be needed, even if the person who needed him was eternally bothersome.
The footsteps paused at a group of fishermen. “Excuse me,” said a low rumbling voice. “I’m looking for a wee man with greasy hair. He usually smells of sweat and donkey dung.”
“Keep going. You’re getting warmer. But watch that first step.” The fisherman laughed.
Raf reluctantly called over his shoulder. “I’m here, Garon.”
The heavyset man grunted. His feet shuffled faster then stopped next to Raf. “You’d think they’d tire of that one,” he mumbled. “Watch that first step—as if my lack of sight means I’m destined to walk off the dock.”
Raf turned to him, noticing how Garon had halted only an inch from the edge. He smiled up at the blind man. “I thought you did fall off the dock once.”
“Once!” Garon shoved a finger toward Raf’s face. “Just the once. And yet they constantly throw it in my face.”
“Next time I’ll tell them to focus less on your blindness and more on your staggering ugliness.”
Garon smiled. “Next time I’ll pretend I don’t hear you breathing and accidentally kick you right into Galilee.”
“You know, you could easily avoid their comments by not coming to the dock to pester me.”
Garon bent his burly legs and plopped onto his bottom. The dock creaked in response. His leathery cheeks crinkled as he frowned, making his crows’ feet prominent. He was forty-two, and his straggly black beard was peppered with white. His quivering walnut eyes seemed to scan the horizon. Raf wondered what it was like to know a lake sprawled outward for miles ahead of you without being able to see it. Maybe that was why Garon fell in the one time: to make sure everyone else wasn’t lying.
“I have sinned,” Garon said. “I feel I must confess.”
Raf rolled his eyes. This comment came from Garon on a daily basis, usually right after morning prayers.
“Do you have to?” Raf asked. “Can you wait until you have a few more sins under your tunic and confess them all at once?”
“I already have. You forget I haven’t seen you in five days. Sins pile up quickly.”
Raf kept his eyes on the boat. It was almost to the dock. “Garon, you’ve never seen me. You’re blind, remember?”
“Another blind joke.” Garon huffed. “Will they never end?”
“Trust me, I wish you weren’t. If you saw me, you would realize I’m no Pharisee or priest or even upstanding member of society. You’d see I’m a cripple who works for food. Then you might stop confessing to me.”
Garon sniffled a laugh. “That’s why I confess to you. You’re crippled. You can’t run away.”
The boat thumped into the dock, its hull scratching the planks like an off-kilter door. Shipmen leaped over and tied it off. Passengers would step out soon.
“All right. Make it quick. Pick the worst sin.”
“I’m not sure I want to confess the worst sin.”
Raf rubbed his temples. “The next worse sin then. Just hurry. I’m working here.”
Garon nodded. “Right. That would be from earlier this morning. I sat on the wall, as I often do. You know the corner next to the bent palm tree.”
Passengers emerged from below deck. Rebellious faces appeared in the sunlight, squinting against the harsh rays like brittle pottery. Raf studied each one. “Yes, yes. I know it,” he said distractedly.
“Of course, you do.” Garon dipped his head. “Anyway, I sat there, giving my usual chant, pleading for God’s mercy and such. Then someone ran by. As the person passed I heard a coin drop.”
“Did you find it?”
Garon grinned. “I may be blind, but I’m not slow. My hand snapped out like a viper. I caught the coin as it was bouncing.”
“And that’s a sin?”
“No, not that part. I thanked the person for his kindness and tucked it away.”
The passengers ambled toward Raf and Garon, heading for town. Raf saw several women, a few sleepy-eyed children, and even fewer men. He bit the inside of his cheek and kept watching.
“So what’s the problem?”
“Well, I got to thinking. What if the man didn’t mean to give me that coin? What if he ran so fast it fell from his purse, and I scooped it up like a thief? What if I cost some weary traveler his lunch?”
As the last of the passengers trickled out a man appeared—a beanstalk of a man, at least six and a half feet tall. He plodded along with shoulders hunched and eyes half-closed, a tree just learned to walk. Raf grinned, realizing he had spotted his own lunch money.
“We’ve been over this before. What do I always say in these situations?”
Garon thought. “You say, ‘People only give to beggars to buy their way into heaven.’ But you usually say it to justify your get-rich-quick schemes.”
“True. But it applies in this case, too. Whether the man meant to give you money or not is unimportant. God knows he gave the money, and so the man has been blessed. It’s a win-win situation.”
Garon sighed. “That’s a relief. I already spent the money on a loaf of bread.”
Raf chuckled as the tall man approached. “Next time buy some wine and then come see me.”
“I can’t see you,” Garon said. “I’m blind, remember?”
“Good day to you, Garon.” The giant stepped off the boat. Dock planks groaned against the man’s powerful stride. He stared ahead without seeming to look at anything. His lower lip vibrated, mumbling silent instructions. Raf pushed off with his hands and scooted toward him.
Garon scooted with him, as if his own legs had gone sour as well. Raf hated it when Garon did that, but never said so. The last thing he needed was more sins confessed to him. If Garon only knew how many splinters Raf had to dislodge from his palms on a nightly basis.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Garon started. “How is this job going?”
“I haven’t had to put up with you in five days, so it’s going well.”
Garon cleared his throat like a Pharisee about to preach, an annoyingly close analogy.
“You do realize this job is a sin. It’s deception of the worst kind.”
Raf scooted faster. “It’s also what I’m trying to do right now, so if you’ll excuse me—”
But Garon kept up with him. “You work for Aviv, the most corrupt man in Capernaum. And what do you do? You trick every foreigner who steps off the boat into working Aviv’s grain fields for next to nothing.”
“Except Samaritans,” Raf corrected. “Aviv’s always had a thing about Samaritans.”
“You’re avoiding the point.” Garon’s voice rose. “This is wicked work. People come to Capernaum looking for a new start, not bondage into slavery.”
Raf stopped and rolled toward Garon. The blind man barely noticed in time to keep from bumping him.
“Garon, I know your day doesn’t feel complete unless you’re able to bestow some guilt, so let me save you some time. I’m a terrible, terrible person. I am the pond scum of society, and I deserve to have my flesh whipped from my body. Woe is me. Oh, woe and more woe. I am the very definition of woeful.” He leaned closer to his burly friend. “See, don’t you feel better about yourself now?”
Garon gave him a humorless grin. “Your sarcasm borders on blasphemy. And you’re still avoiding the point.”
“You’re the one avoiding the point,” Raf snapped back. “You come every day filling my head with your sins. You thought unrighteous thoughts about another person, you only prayed two times instead of four, or maybe you slept an hour too long. It’s always something. Well, I sin every day, too. The difference is I do it for more than a loaf of bread.”
Raf turned and resumed scooting. This time Garon didn’t follow.
TWO
THE MISSION
Baruch stepped off the boat thinking of his mission. It had been foremost on his mind since leaving his mother’s house. Sometimes the mission grew fuzzy, like staring at the world through heavy cloth. That’s why he repeated it, sometimes in his head, sometimes aloud (to the annoyance of his fellow passengers). Everyone knew Baruch often forgot things. The people of his town often called him Baruch the Stupid. And this mission was too important to forget.
He stepped off the boat and repeated it again, just to make sure it was still there.
“Go to Eliezer, who sells the cheapest grain in Galilee, and trade our last family heirloom for all the grain I can carry.”
He felt the heavy heirloom under his robe. Good. That was still there too. The fact that he clutched the heirloom to his side so hard it left an imprint in his thigh meant nothing. Being stupid meant being easily distracted. Sometimes the mere call of a loon or the loud braying of a mule was enough to unhinge his thoughts. His mother worked with him over the years, telling him to hide thoughts in certain places, like an elbow or a rib. Such advice sounded strange at first, but many times it worked. When Baruch forgot something he simply touched the right part, providing he remembered which part to go to. Most times it knocked the thought back into his head. Baruch believed it to be a kind of magic.
“Excuse me, sir,” said a voice. Baruch kept walking, because no one ever called him sir.
“Sir?” the voice repeated. “You there. Stop please.”
Baruch did stop then, because he was often called you there. He turned, but didn’t see where the voice came from.
“Down here,” the voice said. “I’m under you.”
Baruch looked down. He saw the edge of the dock and the greenish water below. He leaned forward, wondering if a fish was talking to him.
“Hello?”
A filthy, pockmarked hand appeared close to his right ankle, waving. Baruch saw the hand connected to a thin, stick-like man. Indeed, the man’s legs reminded Baruch of the twigs he sometimes gathered for firewood. The man was smiling, so apparently this didn’t bother him.
“Hello, sir. My name is Raphael. I am the Official Guide of Capernaum.”
Baruch was confused. He had never seen an official guide wearing such a threadbare tunic. The one this man wore was a faded scarlet. The sackcloth cloak over his left shoulder was tattered and mud-stained. But then Baruch realized he had never seen an official guide of any city, so he had no one to compare to.
“Hello,” he said again. “Why are you sitting like that? I almost stepped on you.”
“It’s all part of the job. You see, I sit here and see if I can find the strongest, hardest-working man that gets off the boat. If I find that man, the grand city of Capernaum has authorized me to give him a prize.”
“That’s great.” Baruch looked up, scanning the dock. “Who did you find today?”
“You.” Baruch stared at the man with the firewood legs and the black-stubble beard. He was perplexed, partly because he never won anything and partly because he was having trouble remembering his mission.
“Wait, I—” Baruch rubbed his right earlobe. The mission was hiding there. “I won something?”
“Yes, you did,” the city guide said. “You won a new job!” The man waved his arm as if he held the job in his hand. One glance told Baruch he did not.
“I won a—”
“I have a few preliminary questions before I can officially declare you the winner.” The city guide dropped his arm and took on a more serious tone. “Do you have any warrants out for your arrest? Have you fled from service in the Roman army? Are you a Samaritan? Are you in bondage to anyone who already lives in Capernaum?”
Baruch rubbed his ear faster. This man babbled like a water mill in a heavy current. And he had to remember so much already. He tried to recall his mission, grunting from the strain. It wasn’t there anymore. He lost it. His mother sent him all the way to Capernaum, and sure enough, Baruch the Stupid mucked it up. She was going to be so mad.
“No, no, no!” he cried, rubbing his right ear so much it glowed red.
Raphael the City Guide looked up. “Oh, good. Those were the important questions. I only have one more . . . How do you like grain?”
Lightning struck. Baruch saw the mission again. It was back in his head, as clear as a soldier’s shield.
“Yes!” he yelled. “Grain! That’s it—grain!”
The city guide smiled. “Wonderful. I’ve never seen anyone so eager to work. You only have to do one thing.”
Baruch smiled down at the scrappy-looking guide. This man had put the mission back in Baruch’s head. He felt he owed this man everything.
“What must I do?”
“Pick me up,” Raphael said. “And I will lead you to the grain.”
THREE
THE GOOD LUCK CHARM
There are two ways to enter Capernaum: by road and by sea. The road is called Via Maris, and it runs all the way from Damascus to the Mediterranean, connecting one town to another. Walking to town on it, Capernaum seems almost shy. Only the city wall is visible. Above the wall, a few branches drape over the dark basalt stones like curtains. Beggars line the wall like mushrooms around a rotting log. From the Via Maris, the town seems to apologize for its sorry state before you even arrive. The average traveler might be inclined to pass Capernaum entirely, thinking the town to be meager and uninhabitable.
What a difference it made entering by sea.
Raf told Garon he did the job out of necessity. That was certainly true. But as he sat on Baruch’s shoulder, seeing the town through this newcomer’s eyes, he realized this felt truer.
From Galilee Capernaum wasn’t meager, and it certainly wasn’t uninhabitable. Capernaum held about five thousand people. On beautiful mornings every one of them was out, walking the sloping streets, winding among the block houses and circular courtyards, moving with purposes that were different and yet the exact same. They were all part of the throbbing pulse of the town.
And what a town it was. Built on lush flowering hillsides, every house looked down on the lake. By seven o’ clock sun bounced off the water, dissolved the mist, and sent sparks of light over each mud-brick wall and plastered grass roof. Widows and old people climbed staircases aside their houses, sitting atop their roofs to bask in the sun. Children chased each other through the round stone courtyards. To Raf, it was all part of the pulse. The brilliant light and the swarming masses blended into a rainbow of activity. Kfar Nahum—Capernaum—was alive. More than that, it was crucial in some indefinable way.
He looked down and saw Baruch smiling, so he smiled too. Baruch never seemed to stop smiling, but that didn’t matter. Raf was here at this moment and this place, and nothing could bring him down from this emotional high.
“Raf, you greasy vermin! You backstabbing goat! I will make it my quest in life to destroy you!”
Except that. Raf glanced over his shoulder and saw a filthy gray hood peeking out of an alleyway. Even though he knew who it was, he had trouble accepting it. That gray hood rarely went past the front gate, and even then it never ventured this far into town.
“Hi, Sagi,” he called. “How’s life treating you?”
A blood-clotted hand appeared from the robe and pulled back the grey hood. The man it revealed had a pockmarked face lined with bruises, sores, and lesions. Ugly didn’t describe Sagi. The word floating to the front of Raf’s mind was rancid. Sagi’s leprous face had always been vile, but in the last year it began resembling a rotting animal carcass. And the only thing uglier than his appearance was his attitude.
“You wretched beast!” Sagi hissed, pointing a gnarled finger at Raf and Baruch. “I know you did it.”
Raf turned his gaze up the road, hoping his tall driver would take the hint. Baruch stood as motionless as a tree. Finally Raf looked back at the leper.
“Okay Sagi, I give up. What did I do now?”
“As if you didn’t know.” Sagi stammered in place, probably wanting to charge out of the alley. Raf took a small pleasure in knowing he couldn’t. Lepers like Sagi were only allowed to beg inside the city if they remained out of the way enough to avoid infecting others. If Sagi came barreling out of the alley the screams would quickly begin and likely not subside until he was tied to the sick cart and taken far from civilization. Such rules put walls around Sagi’s rage. That was good. Raf thought Sagi’s rage could fill all of Rome.
“My finger!” Sagi revealed his right hand, showing a scabbed palm and four trembling fingers. His pinkie was missing. “You took my finger!”
Raf shook his head, wondering what kind of man Sagi would be if he were well. He had only heard stories of the pre-leprosy Sagi. Supposedly he traveled with a pack of nomads throughout Palestine. They discovered the leprosy as they arrived in Capernaum. By the next day Sagi was waking up alone and his nomad friends were already three towns away. Raf thought some of the anger came with that desertion. But the vast majority of it was just Sagi. He had spent years perfecting the art of frustration.
“Sagi, you lost that finger three weeks ago.”
“I know that.” Sagi pulled his hand back into his robe before it attracted the wrong kind of attention. “But I was holding onto it.”
“Great Elijah. Why would you do such a thing?”
Sagi looked at the ground like a scolded child. “It was my good luck charm.”
Raf suppressed a chuckle. It came out anyway. “Oh Sagi.” His chuckle rose to a laugh. “I don’t know where your finger went. Maybe a rat stole it while you were sleeping. More likely, your good luck charm decided it would be luckier if it got away from you.”
Sagi beamed at Raf. The leper’s face went darker than his own lesions. “You took it,” he insisted. “And I’m going to tell the world you steal poor men’s appendages.”
“Control your jealousy,” Raf said. “I can’t help that I have a real job anymore than you can help that you never will.”
“How dare you!” Sagi shook his finger again. “May God curse you.”
Raf tapped Baruch on the shoulder. “Keep walking. We haven’t far to go.” As they started moving Raf glanced back. “Better watch the finger-shaking, Sagi. You can’t afford to lose any more good luck charms.”
FOUR
AVIV
Aviv sat on the floor cross-legged, cursing under his breath as he scooped grain off his floor. He had been lugging a bag of it to his storeroom when a seam split and spilled half the bag. So now he was doing the work of a servant, and it angered him.
Aviv didn’t have house servants. All of his considerable wealth was used to gain more wealth. That’s why he sent vermin like Raf out to the docks. Certainly Raf would make a better house servant. His legs were as useful as potholes. Sending him traveling everyday was like a mean joke. That was all right. Aviv liked mean jokes.
Besides, if Raf had anything it was the gift of persuasion. Aviv noticed it from the moment they met two months ago. Raf never clustered with the other beggars along the front gate. He begged at the marketplace, and even then, it didn’t seem like begging. Raf created the illusion he provided a service. He offered to show the best fruit tables, the best fish sellers, the best moneychangers, the best of everything. That Raf was full of fertilizer was a detail. Anyone with half a brain could find the best prices in the market. Yet for Raf, it worked. He made average people feel more important than they were. When they finished their buying, it only seemed polite to give their guide a couple copper leptons or a small portion of food.
Of course, Aviv didn’t fall for it. He had lived in Capernaum all his life, and knew how to dicker in the marketplace with the best of them. But if Aviv had a gift, it was knowing how to profit off the gifts of others. He immediately put Raf to work as a recruiter. The field workers quickly followed. Raf knew how to bring men in. More than that, he knew how to make men think they were getting great work. They never realized they’d been tricked until well after the contracts had been signed. The beauty of it was he didn’t have to pay the cripple. He only gave Raf a place to sleep inside his storeroom and the leftovers from his own nightly meals.
Aviv stopped scooping. He realized something. For food and shelter, the least Raf could do was serve around the house at night. He tilted the half-full bag of grain so it wouldn’t leak anymore and made a mental note to have Raf pick up the rest when he arrived. Cripples were closer to the ground anyway. Raf would make a good floor cleaner.
The squatty man rose to his feet, and just in time, too. A tax collector was approaching his open door, about to knock. Thank goodness the man didn’t see Aviv on the ground. That would hurt his image.
“Hello, Aviv,” the man said, smiling. “I have good news. The Mattathias farm is about to go under.”
“Is that so?” Aviv showed pleasure but not surprise. He had leaned on the Mattathias clan for some time. Their property ran along his northern field, and he had long wanted that crop for his own.
“Are they looking to sell?”
The tax collector leaned against the doorframe. “Not yet, but they’re close. A little more financial pressure and they’ll have no choice.”
Aviv stepped toward the collector, pulling his purse from his belt. “And what would it cost me to raise the Mattathias’ taxes this month?”
“Ten percent of the selling price.”
“Try two percent.”
“Two percent! Aviv, you are a shark.”
“Sharks have to survive. They don’t apologize for it and neither do I.” Aviv’s father taught him that one, which was more helpful than some of his father’s other teachings. Aviv still shuddered every time he remembered his father’s “Bad Samaritan” story. In the story, an evil Samaritan roamed the streets at night seeking little boys who didn’t go to sleep when they were told. When he found one, he turned the boy into a eunuch. To this day Aviv refused to work with Samaritans because of that outrageous fable. And his eyes were sealed from the moment his head hit the pillow.
“Five percent,” the tax collector said.
“Three percent.”
“Four percent.”
Aviv raised an eyebrow. “Three percent.”
The tax collector frowned. “Maybe sharks have to survive, but that doesn’t mean I have to like them. Three percent then.”
Aviv clapped his shoulder. “Good man. Come see me when they’re ready to deal.”
The tax collector slinked away, his shoulders slumped. A moment later, another shadow graced Aviv’s doorway—a much larger shadow.
* * * *
Baruch lowered Raf to the floor as they entered the house. He didn’t realize he was in the wrong place, just as he didn’t realize he was about to cost Raf his job. He was too busy whispering his mission. He couldn’t believe he had made it all the way to his destination with the mission in tact. His mother thought he was easily distracted. This was true, but Baruch thought it wasn’t quite as true as before.
A short, plump man waited inside the house, eyeing Baruch in awe. Raf scooted toward him on his hands.
“I caught a big one today, Aviv.”
“You certainly did,” Aviv said, still staring. He eventually looked down at Raf, his eyes losing their sense of wonder immediately. “I’m glad you’re here. I have something for you to do.”
Aviv pointed to the bag. Baruch saw the grain and his heart leapt. His mission was almost fulfilled. He reached for his family’s last heirloom—his father’s old army sword.
Baruch pulled it out of his robe and held it up victoriously. He pointed it at Aviv, whose eyes nearly doubled in size.
“I am Baruch the Samaritan!” he exclaimed. “And I have come for your sack!”
The short, plump man screamed.
FIVE
SOME THOUGHTS ARE TOO BIG
Raf sat in the street after the door slammed, staring at the house that used to be his shelter. Baruch stood next to him, not out of pity but because his mind was catching up with what had happened. The door reopened once, but only so a straw mat could be tossed out. Baruch watched Raf slowly pull the mat into his lap. Maybe the mat was Raf’s one valuable possession, like Baruch’s father’s sword.
“I don’t understand,” Baruch finally said. “Why was Eliezer so angry? My mother said he would gladly make the trade.”
“Eliezer?” Raf’s voice was a gravely croak. “You thought he was Eliezer? What are you—a dullard?”
“Yes, I am,” Baruch said calmly. He looked at his guide. “You mean he’s not Eliezer?”
Raf’s hand shot up, his fingers working the air as if trying to choke some invisible creature. His jaw clenched and froze not unlike Baruch’s mother when she had gas. Baruch thought Raf might have gas too. Certainly his face was red enough.
Raf only stared at his towering companion. As he studied the tall man’s bland features some of the fire left his eyes. Many long seconds later Raf dropped his hand. He looked at the ground.
“No, he’s not Eliezer,” he said, the croak gone from his voice. “Eliezer the grain trader is on the upper side of town, close to the synagogue.”
“Oh.” Baruch scanned the street. “Let’s go there then.”
“I can show you part of the way if you’ll give me a ride.”
“Okay.” Baruch dipped down and hoisted Raf onto his shoulder, straw mat and all. “If you could guide me all the way, I would be grateful. My memory is short and I get lost easily.”
“We all get lost easily,” Raf said. “I will take you part of the way. The rest is up to you.”
“But—”
“Just walk, Baruch. Don’t argue. You’re not getting me anywhere near the synagogue.”
Baruch did as he was told. He was stupid, but he was eager to follow instructions, to show he could follow instructions. Still, he wondered why his companion refused to go toward the synagogue. Everyone he knew went to synagogue. Even people he didn’t know went to synagogue. How could one man not go to a place loved by so many?
* * * *
Raf is four and sitting on his father’s shoulder as he walks through the streets. “Sitting on his father’s shoulder” doesn’t quite do it justice. Raf is riding on the shoulder of a giant, looking down on the world like a bird in flight. He’s too young to realize his inability to walk makes him a lesser person. That lesson will be pounded into him later in life. Right now he knows he’s the only boy riding his father’s shoulder, and he feels special.
They travel through the shuk—the market—Raf’s favorite place in the world. Fruit baskets hang from posts. Grapevines twist up and away from their baskets as if trying to reach him. Sellers hold out every valuable thing in the world, hoping to entrance passersby. Raf points back at them and whispers shopping suggestions to his father. His nose is alive with the smells of goat, sheep, fish, barley, and figs. He looks down on the people they pass, noticing every long mane and baldpate. They seem far below his father, who is a tall man, the tallest Raf has ever seen at least. A child never measures well. Everything is either tiny and insignificant or massively larger than life, usually the latter.
And it’s this mindset Raf is in when he glances up and notices the building at the highest point in town. It is a majestic building. A stately building. A building for kings. It not only basks in sunlight, it seems made of it. Raf bends so he can talk into his father’s ear.
“What is that building on the highest hill?” he asks. “Does a king live there?”
His father chuckles. “Yes, son. I suppose one does. Not any king, though. The king of all kings.”
Raf gasps. His father smiles. “You are right to gasp. He is a magnificent king. He lives in that building, but His eyes see everything and everyone. As you look up at Him, He looks back at you.”
Raf is amazed and disturbed. A king that sees everything? Believing isn’t hard for a four-year-old. What is hard is trying to appear normal knowing the king of all kings is looking at you.
His father glances at his son. He doesn’t say anything. He lets Raf work out the big thoughts in his head. In the years to come Raf will understand what his father already knows: some thoughts are too big to work out.
“Father,” Raf says quietly, wondering if the king can hear what he’s saying. “Can we go visit Him sometime? I would love to see what He looks like.”
“Wouldn’t we all,” his father replies. “And one day, Raphael, you will. You are a son of Capernaum, and all the sons of Capernaum get to see the king eventually. But I wouldn’t be in such a hurry.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” his father says. The pause is enough to make Raf think that was the whole answer. But then he says, “Because the king is all-seeing and all-knowing. He knows every good thing you’ve ever done, but he also knows every bad thing. I’m not sure how comfortable I’d feel standing in the court of a king who knows everything I’ve ever done wrong.”
Raf laughs, because now his father is kidding. His father has never done anything wrong. His father is a mighty tekton—one of the best stone and roof workers in Capernaum. Raf kisses his father on the cheek, thanking him for telling such an amazing tale.
And the two continue through the market, Raf’s favorite place in the world.
SIX
OLD METHODS
Baruch lowered his passenger to the ground, next to a palm tree which hunched over midway like a man with an upset stomach. Raf scooted toward the tree, wiping goat droppings out of his way with his hand. He placed his mat in the meager shade and slid onto it. A new wave of depression hit him as his spine eased against the old tree’s jutting bark. Back home again—and wouldn’t it always be his home? Maybe Raf had taken a vacation for a while, but the tree somehow tangled its roots around his useless legs and dragged him back to this sun-beaten corner of Capernaum. It would never release him.
He glanced up at the Samaritan idiot—a second tree, standing motionless and gazing up the street. They were close to the market, and Baruch was obviously disturbed. The marketplace swarmed with people. The dust kicked up by all the sandals put a brown haze over everything. Scattered noises and smells assaulted the senses. Someone with Baruch’s limited abilities could get easily turned around in such a crowd.
“Is that the way to Eliezer’s?” Baruch asked, sounding smaller than ever.
“Yes, it is,” Raf replied.
Baruch glanced back and forth. He rubbed at his left ear. “Why?” he asked.
“That’s just the way. There are other ways, but they take much longer.”
“No, I mean—” Baruch went quiet, trying to remember what he meant. “Why did my mother send me on this mission? She knows I get lost easily.”
Raf grabbed a dead palm leaf to shield his eyes from the sun. “Tell me, Baruch, did your mother embrace you before you left?”
Baruch looked down. “Yes.”
“Was it a bigger embrace than she usually gives you? Did she hold you longer than normal?”
“Yes,” Baruch said carefully. “She even kissed my cheek. She hasn’t done that since I was a child. How did you know?”
“From experience.” Raf leaned on the tree, which made its already crooked frame bend even more. “Baruch, your mother doesn’t expect you to return. She sent you away to make her life easier. That sword you carry was her parting gift.”
Baruch’s gaze became distant. Raf wondered how far a man had to travel to get so much distance in his eyes. Certainly farther than Raf would ever go.
“No,” Baruch said. His chin trembled as he spoke. “No, my mother loves me. She’s always loved me. She wouldn’t send me away.”
“There are many places to buy grain, places closer to your town—places inside your town even. Your mother sent you far enough to keep you confused.”
“No, that’s not true.”
“Face it, my friend. You’re on your own. Love has its limits.”
The tall man’s hand whipped down. Raf felt a clamp around his forearm, and then he was in the air. By the time he caught his breath he was eye to eye with a red-faced giant.
“You lie! My mother loves me too much to lose me! And I can’t lose her! She’s . . . she’s all I have.”
“Whatever you say,” Raf sputtered. “You know, you’re probably right. Eliezer does sell some cheap grain, the cheapest in Capernaum by far. You should go there. You should finish your mission.”
Baruch eyed Raf. The tremble in his chin was there, but as Raf watched, it subsided. Baruch lowered Raf onto the mat again. “My mission,” he said. “I almost forgot it. Thank you for reminding me.”
The tall man turned to the market, staring at the cacophony. He stumbled aside as another man rushed past, herding a rabble of baying donkeys. They were frightened, confused sounds. He glanced back at Raf. “What is the longer way?”
“You know what?” Raf said. “I bet you could make it through the market. There’s only one thing you have to do.” He pointed at the building on the hill. Even through the brown haze it stood out like a beacon. “That’s your destination.”
“Is that the synagogue?”
“It sure is. Keep your eyes on that whenever you feel lost. Soon, you’ll be at its front doors. When you get there, look to your right. You’ll see a courtyard with a well. Go past it and the next house you come to will be Eliezer’s.”
The smile returned to Baruch’s face but then vanished again. “How will I find my way back?”
“Walk towards Galilee. Sooner or later you’ll pass this tree, and I’ll be here to take you the rest of the way—provided you share a little grain with me.”
Baruch’s hand swung down. Raf flinched but then realized the tall man wanted to shake his hand. He let Baruch take his hand. The shake that followed rattled every tooth in his head. “Thank you, kind sir. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
A cackle came from a nearby alley. Raf pulled his hand back and covered his eyes. He didn’t need to see who was cackling.
“Hey,” Baruch said. “There’s the man who said you took his finger.”
“What is it, Sagi?” another voice asked. Raf turned to see Sagi walking with Garon.
Sagi said, “It appears an evil man has finally gotten his comeuppance.” A group of people moved past and Sagi lowered his head. “Unclean!” he called out as he was required to do. “I am unclean!”
The people passing stepped widely around the leper and the blind man. Garon chuckled. “You must be talking about Raf . . . Raf, are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here,” Raf growled. “But only because your guilt trip gave me such a crisis of conscience that I quit my job.”
“Really?” Baruch said, smiling. “That is wonderful news. I thought I did something to get you fired.”
Sagi cackled again. Raf turned to Baruch. “You better start walking before you forget your mission.”
“Oh, right.” Baruch rubbed his ear. “Thank you again.”
“Yes, I know. I’m thanked. Now walk.”
Baruch turned toward the marketplace and moved, as eager as always to follow instructions. His head kept an upward slant as he walked into the brown haze and disappeared into the crowd. A moment later Garon plopped into the dust next to Raf. Sagi used the tree to steady himself. He was laughing too hard to keep balanced.
“It’s all right.” Garon’s searching hand found Raf’s leg and patted it—as if Raf could feel it. “It doesn’t matter why you’re here. I’m glad you’re back.”
Sagi was less tactful. “Why did you get tossed on the street? Did Aviv tire of tripping over you when he walked around the house?” He bayed with hoarse, coughing laughter. Spittle dripped from his chin.
Raf grunted in disgust. “Don’t you have a city wall to stain? Or are you looking for more rats to feed?”
The laughter died. “You’re the only rat around here, you little—” Several farmers passed, and Sagi lowered his head again. “Unclean! I am unclean!”
Garon leaned toward Raf. “Sagi has to beg inside town now. A new person at the gate is putting everyone else in quite a panic.”
“A new person?” Raf said. “Who is he?”
Sagi jumped in. “It’s not a he. It’s a she! And she doesn’t even have leprosy!”
Raf looked at Garon. “Is he telling the truth? A woman?”
Garon nodded. “Sagi’s not the only beggar to give up his post along the wall. Many are coming inside the city. They’d rather risk being run out of town than have to compete with a girl.” He leaned toward Raf. “Think about it. If you had money to throw away, would you throw it at a woman or him?” He hitched a thumb at Sagi.
“I see your point,” Raf said.
“It’s a conspiracy,” Sagi ranted. “The tax collectors are trying to find a way to tax us. They’ve already taxed the town so much Capernaum is bone dry. Now they have to move on to the homeless! So they send a girl to do what they’re too spineless to do themselves.” He chuckled again. “Spineless tax collectors—you could join them, Raf.”
Raf stared as the leper cackled again. Sagi pointed a diseased finger at him. “Spineless! Get it? You’re a paralytic!” He howled laughter.
“Yeah, I get it,” Raf said, frowning. “Now if you’ll excuse us, I have a secret to tell Garon.”
The laughter flicked off in an instant. “A secret? What’s the secret?”
“It’s none of your business is what it is. Now go, before the rats find you.”
Sagi ignored the insult. “You can tell me, too. I can be trustworthy.”
“Sure, and tonight I’ll be jogging along the beach.”
“Really, Raf,” Sagi begged. “Let me in on the secret, and I promise to never bother you with missing fingers again.”
Raf looked at the ground, considering. After a moment he looked up. “Okay, here it is: there is a Pharisee in Capernaum named Laban. He cannot find out I’m back on the street. If he sees me, I’m doomed.”
Sagi leaned forward, intrigued. Raf leaned back, repulsed by the leper’s sour smell. “Why? What did you do?”
With marked gravity he said, “I took his money once.”
Sagi nodded. “I understand. Don’t worry about a thing. I won’t tell a soul.” He stepped away from the tree. “If you don’t mind, I will take my leave. I have to find a new place to beg. This tree is already crowded.”
Garon lifted a hand. “Go in peace, Sagi.”
The leper headed through the busy corridor, shouting “unclean” at anyone who stepped too close. Garon waited until his footsteps faded from his ears, then turned toward Raf. “Am I wrong, or isn’t Laban one of your more reliable customers?”
“That he is,” Raf said, grinning. “Now that Sagi thinks he has a juicy secret the whole town will know I’m back. That leper just saved me a trip.”
Garon chuckled. “You are a feisty one. Now we can lay back and wait for business to come to us.”
Hours passed and business came, though not in the form of Laban. As morning gave way to afternoon shoppers and wayfarers found their way to the market. Raf watched them all, looking for facial expressions not unlike Baruch, the kind both overwhelmed and a little lost. They were the expressions of his special brand of customer, the ones that needed a person they could connect with in an unfamiliar place. Raf could always make himself that person. He knew what they needed to hear, and soon he slipped back into his old methods, as familiar as the straw mat beneath him.
“New to Capernaum? Let a professional guide take you to the best deals in town.”
“What beautiful children you have! The Lord has blessed you bountifully. You remind me of my children. They all died in a dreadful boating accident.”
“You’ve spent time in the army . . . Well, of course I could tell. I always recognize a brother in arms . . . Yes, I fought at Teutoburg Forest. One quick jab in the back with a dagger and my legs went out for good.”
Throughout the afternoon coins dropped at their feet. Sometimes Garon went on a food run, buying either lentil porridge or bread. He refilled his flask in the well at the other end of the market, and Raf shared his earnings (he often made twice what Garon did). When Raf felt a wet spot forming in his crotch he crawled behind the goat pens to relieve himself. When one of them grew tired they leaned against the palm tree and napped. But mainly they begged, and the routine lines kept coming.
“You have a fine herd of sheep there. Too bad Menachem has the market cornered. Everyone buys their sheep from Menachem. The only way you could get a foothold is to pay someone to spread your name throughout the market.”
“What? I’m not paralyzed. I’m just sitting here until I see a stray dog I can take home. My daughter’s birthday is today, and I don’t have the money to buy her a pet.”
“Yes, all three of them died in a terrible boating accident . . . What? I said I had four? I must’ve been thinking of the one that died in the fire. That one never stood a chance.”
As the day wore on Raf’s curiosity mounted. He glanced from time to time at the palm tree. Its shadow made a good sundial. Around three o’ clock, Raf scooted into the street. Garon stiffened. “Hey, where are you going?”
“Let’s go meet our new beggar.”
SEVEN
THE ROYAL GUARD
“Take a right here.”
“I know where to turn,” Garon said over his shoulder. Raf sat on the straw mat behind him, watching Garon pull the twine connected to the mat. The broad man took long strides, pulling the mat almost effortlessly. Every once in a while a ragged breath came from him. But Garon was an ox. He moved like someone half his age.
“You know, the last time I checked, you were blind,” Raf called.
“You doubt I know where I’m going?”
“No, but I doubt you know you’re about to run into a fish cart.”
Garon jagged to the right. The cart still nicked him in the side, but not enough to slow him. Raf kept the chuckle to himself. If Garon was anything, he was overly sensitive about his disability. But such was the story of every beggar in history.
Raf scanned ahead to see if anymore conspiratorial fish carts loomed before them. Just people walking, and Raf knew not to worry about them. Garon heard footsteps like normal people heard thunder. He always moved in time and gave everyone else a wide berth. His friend’s ability amazed him. If anyone had a right to be proud instead of overly sensitive, it was Garon. His blindness never slowed him. For Raf it would be like running on his hands.
“By the way,” Garon said. “I thought of another sin. Actually, it’s more a wish than a sin. But maybe it’s a sin to wish such a thing.”
“If wishes were sins, we’d all be condemned.”
Garon smiled. “Aye, and maybe we are. Did you ever think of that?”
“I don’t have to. I have you.” He smiled as Garon sidestepped a young boy holding an apple. Raf hadn’t even spotted the kid in their way. The boy noticed them at the same time. He took in Raf with strange astonishment.
“So what is this sinful wish?”
Garon deliberated a long moment before he spoke. “I wish I had more money.”
Raf chuckled before he could stop himself. “So does every other person in Capernaum.”
“Not for myself—for my brother. The temple tax is coming soon. For the first time in years, he doesn’t know how he’s going to pay. He’s stretched too tight, and I’m no help. I take up space in his back room. I do enough in my begging to cover the cost of letting me stay. But for once, it would be nice to do better. It would be nice to pay my way and his . . . Is it a sin to want such things?”
Raf bit the inside of his cheek. Oh Garon, he wanted to say. Why do you always think of everyone else? Not only is it okay to want money, but it’s okay to spend it on yourself. Elijah knows you deserve it. You actually deserve a lot more, my friend.
But what he really said was, “It’s no more of a sin than it is for God to ask us to pay His temple tax to begin with.”