Part 19 (2/2)

Viriato wrote to tell me that Ethan had a daughter. Rachel. Typical of a man, he included none of the information I longed to know. Did she have Ethans eyes? Did she smile often? Did she get along with her cousin? Did she sleep well at night?

How Ethan would treasure this little one. He was just the man to father daughters. Tender, accepting, protective, and yet willing to allow the kind of freedom that most of Jerusalem would frown upon. Though she was not my child, I felt an odd tenderness for her. I would never set eyes upon Rachel. But I loved her, because she belonged to Ethan. I added her to my prayers. Every day I blessed her as if she had come from my own womb.

This remedy is more complex than the rest. Sira adjusted his spotless tunic.

I rolled my eyes. How much shall it cost me?

He threw up his hands. How can you be so prosaic? What is money when your health is at stake?

My health would like to maintain a roof over my head and food in my belly. How much? He named a price that made me sit down. Sira, can you not devise a cheaper cure?

To tell the truth, mistress, this is my final effort. I have saved it for last because it is the hardest. It is what you need; I am convinced of it.

What could I do? If I did not comply, I would have to acknowledge defeat. Then for the rest of my life I would wonder if I had missed my one opportunity for healing.

Lead on, physician. I pray the Lord may bless your efforts.

I had to hand it to Sira. He worked hard on that cure. He had hired a servant to dig seven trenches in a piece of land that he had hired from a farmer. Each trench was deep enough to hide a grown man from view when he stood in it. At the bottom of the pits he had carefully arranged piles of dried wood mixed with fresh branches, still bearing green leaves. From vines not yet four years old, he said. They have never been pruned.

I could see why this particular remedy had cost so much. He lit the vines on fire until smoke began to rise from each pile. Giving me a cup of new wine, he took me by the hand to the first pit and lowered me carefully into it. I coughed from the acrid smoke as I sipped from my cup. He pulled me out, saying, Arise from thy flux before leading me to the next trench and lowering me down again. Seven times he did this. My eyes burned, my skin grew hot, and my clothes stank from the smoke rising from the young vines. The wine and the fumes were making me dizzy and a little nauseous.

But I stopped bleeding.

One, two, three, four, five, six days pa.s.sed. I began to dream of all the things I would do when I was declared clean. Free to walk outside without worry that those around me would look upon me with distaste. Free to visit with Joanna. To embrace her and talk to her all day if I wished. Free to start working again! Free to have a full life. Oh, how happy I was. How filled with hope.

The seventh day dawned. My final day before I could go to the priest and be declared free of my disease. One hour before sunset, one single hour before freedom could come to me, I began to bleed again. This time the bleeding was so heavy, I could not rise out of bed for a week. Feeble and unsteady, I lay on my mattress, unable to believe that I had come this far without being released from my suffering.

A dark cloud of despair descended upon me on that seventh day. It choked life and hope out of me. That night, I slipped a knife into my bed and hid it under the covers. When Keziah had fallen asleep, I took it out and stared at it for a long while, wondering if I would have the courage to cut my wrists and end the misery of my life the way Romans did. They found a strange kind of honor in suicide. We Jews believed life belonged to G.o.d and the taking of it was a grave sin.

Fear of having to face his displeasure unto eternity made me sheathe the knife that night. But for ten days, I kept it with me in bed. I took it out after the lamps banked low and Keziahs soft snores filled the chamber. Each night, I had a decision to make. Live or die. I stared at the glittering silver metal of that knife, knowing my destiny rested on its sharpened edge. Each night, death wrestled with life. In the end, life won. I could not bear the thought of Joannas grief, or G.o.ds punishment. But that dark blanket of despair did not quite leave me, lingering through my every waking moment and sometimes even haunting my dreams.

Thank G.o.d, the heaviness of my hemorrhage subsided after several weeks, though the bleeding continued. Some days, it would come to a complete stop, only to resume after a few hours. Everyone in our neighborhood now knew that I was unclean.

Once, when Keziah had fallen sick with a fever and cough, I had to fetch water from the well myself. Though I went at the noon hour in order to avoid the crowd, I found myself waiting while a Jewish woman filled her jar. Catching sight of me, she frowned. What are you doing here?

I need water.

Thats disgusting! You cant touch the well.

I did not intend to. I brought my own”

I care not what you brought. Leave here, or I shall cry out and bring the whole neighborhood down on your head. A good beating will teach you to spread the pollution of your body amongst decent people.

I took a deep breath to control the anger that longed to leap off my tongue and decided to leave. I had no defense to offer that would change the womans mind. It was useless to remain and argue.

As I turned on my heel, I saw a woman with dark hair, dressed in a simple brown tunic and mantle. Give me that, she said, grabbing my jar from my hand. From her accent I guessed her to be of Syrophoenician origin.

Many foreigners lived in Tiberias at that time. Because of the Pharisees declaration that the city was ritually impure due to the presence of an old graveyard beneath its foundations, most truly pious Jews refused to live here. In the absence of sufficient inhabitants, Herod had invited the Gentiles to take occupation. With such Greek attractions as a stadium and hot natural springs, foreigners were more readily drawn to this city than other parts of my country.

We Jews lived alongside them in peace, though we managed to keep to ourselves and they kept their own counsel. We had few social interactions outside the bounds of necessity.

I stood, mouth agape, not understanding the womans intention.

She marched to the well and drew out a heavy bucket of water, filling my jar with it carefully, all the while glaring at my Jewish tormentor. Returning, she handed the filled jar to me. My Jewish neighbor spat on the ground to show her indignation and huffed off.

My words of thanks floated in the wind as I turned to express my grat.i.tude to the Syrophoenician woman and saw that she had already moved on. She did not even linger to see how grateful I felt.

It came to me that my Jewish neighbor, by keeping the Law, had added condemnation to my already wounded heart. This woman who was a Gentile, living outside the strictures of our Law and the salvation of the Lord, had gone out of her way to help me. She had extended compa.s.sion and mercy to a complete stranger.

I thought of the goodness of the Law, for it was from the Lord and given to make us righteous. What had we done with its G.o.d-given grace to turn it instead into a weapon against the sick and the helpless? How had we twisted the glory of G.o.ds precepts to such a degree that foreigners and unbelievers had grown more compa.s.sionate than the people of G.o.d?

I had not set eyes on Joanna for over a year. Even Keziah was not allowed to visit her, lest she carry upon her some part of my sickness. Joanna wrote me every day”short notes, long letters, tearstained missives, and happy, news-filled ones.

Chuza had been given the post of Herods steward. This was a complex and unique role, different from an ordinary household manager. It placed Chuza in charge of Herods entire staff of servants. Even the bodyguards had to report to him in matters of expense and their daily concerns. His varied responsibilities kept him busy in the palace, but having grown up under his fathers tutelage, he knew the intricacies of his work and dealt well with the acerbic tetrarch and his many demands.

Though I read each one of Joannas letters repeatedly, I could not answer any of them lest the parchment on which I wrote make her unclean. From me, she received only silence and prayers.

I spent many of my hours spinning wool and weaving on my simple loom, which I had brought from Jerusalem. I even began to develop homemade dyes, experimenting with cheap plants available in the market. The cloths I created surprised me with their simple beauty. I was able to sell some to the Gentiles living near me. They were more impressed by the quality of my products than the uncleanness of my womb. I could not make a proper living with one loom and a weak pair of hands. But the extra income from those fabrics helped pay our daily expenses. And it kept me sane to remain busy and useful in a minor way.

In the fourth year of my sickness, Joanna wrote to say that she was with child again. Fear and rejoicing wove in equal measure through the words of that letter. She had learned too well how her hopes might be dashed and could not trust this promised happiness. This time, at least, I knew that I had done everything in my power to protect her from my disease. Keziah and I prayed every night for Chuza, for my sister, and for the babe growing in her womb.

Four months into her pregnancy, Joanna lost the baby.

She ran to my home a week later, looking terrifyingly thin and sad. It had been such a long time since I had set eyes on her. To see her so diminished and ill-looking ripped something inside me.

I shoved the door wide open and ran to her and pulled her into my arms. What was the point of turning her away now? Her babe had been lost in spite of every precaution I had taken.

After years of deprivation, I finally held her in my arms, weeping over her agony, barely able to believe that I could touch her. I caressed her hair, wiped her tears, kissed her cheeks, held tight to her fragile hands. I dont think I let go of her for the whole span of that afternoon. I dont believe she let go of me either. We clung to each other like two little orphan children instead of grown women who had seen too much of the world.

Chuza joined us that evening. He did not come to fetch his wife back home, but to find solace. Holding Joanna in his arms, he cried too, wrenching male tears that would shatter a heart of ice. Their pain was like a tangible thing, a sharp-taloned beast that ate away at their lives. I could do nothing to a.s.suage it.

The next day I went to a scribe and dictated a letter. This way, the missive would not be tainted by my ritual uncleanliness. Chuza and Joannas plight gave me the boldness to attempt this insane idea when I would never have tried it on my own behalf. I wrote to Gamaliel, highly respected member of the Sanhedrin, beloved teacher of the Law, and asked for his help. A woman with an issue of blood, cursed by G.o.d, unwanted by our society, reached out to one so high and asked for pity, for hope, for intercession. I suspected he might ignore me. I could not blame him if he did.

A month later, his answer arrived. Come, it said simply, And bring your sister and her husband with you.

It took Chuza a few months to disengage himself from his responsibilities as steward in Herods palace. We journeyed south in an Egyptian caravan. Foreigners paid no mind to the religious delicacies that my illness offended. I was back inside Jerusalems walls after five years of absence. I had left in defeat. I returned crushed.

Healing is in the hands of G.o.d, Gamaliel said, when he came to visit us at the inn Chuza had secured. He can give it through miracles if he so pleases, or he can use physicians as his instruments of grace. Either way, the power belongs to the Lord.

What does it mean when he withholds healing, Master Gamaliel? I asked.

Who can understand the mind of G.o.d? I know some Pharisees act as though they do. They say sickness is an indication of G.o.ds displeasure. A sign pointing to the stricken mans sin. A portent of faithlessness and unrepentance. He shrugged. It is not so much that these are not valid possibilities. But I think we underestimate G.o.d if we believe we can comprehend in full measure his every action. Although sometimes sin can cause sickness in the body, it is not always the case. Nor is lack of faith the only reason the sick are not healed.

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