24

JORAH WISHED HE COULD have been buried on the ridge, in the shade of Father’s olive tree.

Abi had helped prepare his body, wrapping the napkin about his beautiful face and freshly washed hair, wrapping the linen bands about his arms and legs. Jorah should have wrapped the bands about the tefillin, burying them with him, but she could not bear it. She needed something to take away with her, something that had meant as much to him as the tefillin.

He had not taken them off since Simon had given them to him days, eons ago. Impressions from the straps left ridges in his skin. She had traced her fingers through the ridges on his arm, to the ridges on his hand, to the square left by the leather packet. Impossible words, he had called them.

It wasn’t until she heard a quick intake of breath from Abi that she looked to see Nathanael’s legs. Scars, like a ladder, from midthigh to his hip. It was only a glance. Abi moved quickly to band the scars with the linen.

Nathanael’s funeral bier was carried aloft by the four brothers and not followed by a gaggle of mourners. Simon would not allow it. A few women had assumed their services would be needed when they learned of the death of the young man at the doctor’s house, but Simon drove them away. We will mourn, he had told them. We are the ones who knew him. Jorah followed the bier, Keturah by her side. Abi and her husband came last. Eight people made up the funeral procession for Nathanael ben Rivkah of Caesarea Maritima.

In the common graveyard outside of Bethany, they lowered Nathanael’s white-shrouded body into the trench dug into the earth.

She loved him the day he made James laugh.

The faces of the brothers were as stone, as hard as the ones they piled upon the mound. Simon intoned prayers.

She loved him the day he dunked James in the dye pot.

Jorah placed a posy of wildflowers on the rabble of stones. The posy came apart when she did, so she tucked the flowers back together, setting a stone on the stems, and stood back, hands clasped.

She loved him the day an olive tree amazed him.

The flowers fluttered in the warm breeze, and Abi put an arm about her to lead her away. Joab lived, who could have prevented it. Jesus died, who could have prevented it. Life was nothing less than profane.

The next morning, they left for Galilee.

Joses would return later to Nazareth with Abigail and their children, along with Tobias and Sarah, Therin and Keturah. He would find Mother, whom they had not yet seen, in Jerusalem and bring her back to Nazareth.

How James had wanted to go to her . . . but he felt much the same as Joses, bereft and betrayed, and that at the very end. “Woman, behold your son. Son, behold your mother.” Did Jesus not trust his own family to care for her? Or was it that —and James felt the shards of guilt —Jesus did not see any of the brothers from his tormented heights, and so did his best for her? Yes, he loved his mother at the end. If his own foolishness had put him on that cross, if his own foolishness had broken his mother’s heart, at least he tried to make sure, with what breath remained, that she was cared for. It was a small and bitter comfort.

James, Simon, Judas, and Jorah all wanted to leave as soon as possible.

Gathered at Bethany’s foregate to say good-bye were Joses and Abigail, Devorah and Matthias, and Keturah. Simon fussed with the donkey harness while James made room in the cart for the provisions Devorah and the doctor’s wife brought. Devorah had given them a sack of unleavened bread, the woman named Abi a sack of unleavened cakes. James had already rolled up the bedrolls, which had been spread in the cart. He had thrown away his own . . . it was stained with Nathanael’s blood. When he had pushed the other bedrolls into a corner, he found something strange. Tucked in the corner was a little pile of coins, the coins that had been in the money box.

James stashed the sacks of food, tucking and securing them more than he needed to. It was hard to say good-bye to Joses. He hardly remembered speaking to Devorah since being in Bethany, but there his sister stood, her face so beautiful in her sorrow. He glanced at Keturah, who stood apart in her lavender tunic, her face pale and still.

Matthias stood with his arm about Devorah. The fact that he maintained that calm of his was reason enough for them to leave. Truly, there was no reason to stay. It would be pure relief to be away from the prying eyes, from the whispers. From the constant stream who offered meaningless words, from those who continually demonstrated great flourishes of wailing and grief for Jesus of Nazareth, people James did not know, people he did not care about.

Keturah came to stand beside him. “Simon says you are going through Samaria.”

James pretended to check the cinches on the canvas. He nodded as he fussed with a knot.

She stood in silence, then said softly, “Be careful, James. Godspeed.” She turned to leave. James raised his head.

“Keturah.”

She stopped and looked over her shoulder.

“It seems we have an opening in the shop. We could use a —” But his breath caught. The wave of sorrow could have dropped him where he stood.

She smiled sadly. The breeze caught her head covering, and she pulled it down to look at him. “I happen to know someone who may be available. She is particularly good with detail work.”

“Perhaps she learned from the best.” Wave after wave.

“That she did, James.” Her lips pressed together for a moment, and those beautiful eyes glittered with tears. So many things to make a woman beautiful . . . why did grief have to be one? Her gaze flickered to the road ahead of them. “Keep an eye on those hillsides.” She turned and walked away.

Joses came beside him, gazing down the road. “I will see you in a few days. Godspeed.”

James nodded. Now was not the time to tell him that nobody thought for an instant he was in any way responsible for Jesus’ death. The events were like a great Roman machine, an inexorable march toward an inevitable conclusion. All prophets seemed to come to this. Even the ones with good news.

“Find Mother,” James murmured. “Take care of her.”

“I will.”

Simon clicked his tongue, the cart lurched forward, and the brothers and the sister began the journey back to Nazareth. The small group at Bethany’s gate watched them leave. Two couples with arms about each other and a girl who stood apart from the rest, in a lavender tunic that fluttered in the breeze. They stayed until the traveling party could no longer be seen on the road; then they turned, one by one, into the city.