NATHAN’S PINK beaming face glistened in the midday heat as he greeted the eager group gathered in Rafael’s courtyard. He was a gifted teacher, and the humour he interjected into his messages always uplifted even as his words enlightened. It had become customary for the followers of the Way to share a meal together on the Sabbath after the synagogue meeting, each one bringing something to add to the table. In this way, family members who did not align themselves with the Messiah’s teachings could enjoy the communion and satisfy their curiosity without fear of confrontation. Nathan always welcomed their questions, even when they were antagonistic. The pleasant equilibrium of his nature made it impossible to provoke him, however hard they tried at times.
“How can you speak with authority about someone you have only heard about?” challenged an old man, his whiskers bristling like an agitated boar. He wore the formal headdress of an upper-ranking Pharisee.
“Have you personally met Moses?” Nathan replied daringly, tempering his argument with a smile.
“We have his writings,” growled the man, “and you dare to add to them!”
“We have eyewitnesses who testify that what the Prophets foretold is now fulfilled. But here, taste some of this excellent cheese made from our own village goats’ milk and let us enjoy our discussion over there in the shade of the apple tree.” Nathan’s eyes crinkled in his ruddy face. He clearly relished this opportunity, and the old man followed him with a swish of robes and a well-filled bowl.
Rafael preferred to keep away from such arguments. He could not match Nathan’s extensive knowledge of the scriptures – few of even the most seasoned synagogue rulers could. But Rafael could preach from the heart and inspire his listeners with his messages by the evidence of his own love for the Lord. The women particularly were drawn to him, like sheep to the guardianship of a good shepherd. Milcah and Beth sat with Shana, listening to his lyrical interpretation of a psalm, but Beth’s attention kept straying towards the apple tree.
Shana watched her sister out of the corner of her eye. A gentle breeze lifted the silky, apricot-coloured hair away from her face, revealing the delicate translucent skin of her cheeks. She was taller than Shana, long-limbed and slender. Milcah often referred to Shana’s beauty as wild and striking, while Beth’s was understated and refined, like an undecorated vase that holds a single bloom. How different the sisters were: Shana was like a flame of fire, Beth a pool of water; Shana’s emotions flickered and ignited, blazed up and died out just as quickly, Beth’s bubbled up slowly from a deep inner spring, or remained like an underground stream. Beth had a stillness of presence, an inner silence that often left Shana wondering what her sister was thinking or feeling. She contained her sentiments deep within her in an unfathomable well and regarded life with calm serenity. At times she irritated Shana with her vague dreaminess as if she were not quite in touch with reality.
Had she always been like this? Shana recalled Beth’s bubbling expressiveness as a child and wondered whether the unfairness of life had stolen her animation and replaced it with this sober sagacity. Yet she did not seem unhappy – quite the opposite, especially when Nathan was around. Beth and Nathan got on very well and it was obvious that he adored her; everyone wondered why he was taking so long to make her his wife. All her friends were married and the years of her youth were diminishing; it was surely time for her dreams of becoming a wife and mother to come true.
After the meal, some of the group drifted off home to take a nap, while others dozed in the shade, listening to the lazy drone of bees and flagging conversation. When it grew cooler, a few of them took a stroll, climbing up out of the village into the hills, where the vistas extended beyond the mountain peaks to the desert beyond. This was what Beth had looked forward to all week. She tripped along beside Nathan, wholly attentive to him, her laughter a musical accompaniment to his frequent jesting. Behind them, Shana’s friend Kyla, whose husband had chosen to stay at home, struggled to keep up, hampered by two adventurous children and another on its way. Shana and Rafael took up the rear.
“Whenever is Nathan going to request a betrothal?” whispered Shana to Rafael.
“Nathan’s never in a hurry about anything,” said Rafael. “He’s thoroughly enjoying Beth’s friendship, but his life is so centred on our Lord, he scarcely has time to think about anything else.”
“It’s not fair on Beth. Won’t you talk to him? She is already past age, and Mama can’t wait forever either.”
“Shhh, I will, I will. They’re coming back now.”
The friends stopped to view the village slumbering below in the late afternoon sun. The heat of a long summer had leached the colour from the surrounding hills which stretched outwards in endless undulations like the wrinkled skin of a dehydrated prehistoric mammal. Soon a single downpour would transform the landscape into a sea of brilliant green, and the sheep would once again gorge on the sweet new grass.
They sighed collectively and began their descent as the Sabbath drew to a close. Peace, deep and satisfying, united them in the Father’s invisible embrace.
The following week, Shana sat in the armchair hugging her stomach. It was early in the afternoon; Rafael had gone to Hebron and would only be back that evening. All day long she had held her secret close to her heart, savouring the thought of giving Rafael the news when he came home. She had been sitting here in a cloud of dazed happiness since she had returned from the physician, relishing the awareness of new life developing inside her, a tiny being they would share, which combined Rafael’s flesh and blood with her own. In her mind’s eye, she could see a little boy with eyes like Rafael’s and a mouth shaped like hers.
It was almost dark when at last Shana heard the click of the courtyard gate. She had prepared a meal and gone back to the armchair to wait, impatient now, unable to get down to anything until she could release the news bursting inside her.
“Are you alright? What’s the matter?” asked Rafael, quickly crossing the room.
When she told him, he could not speak. He wept silently, rivers of tears streaming down his enraptured face. This made Shana laugh until they were both laughing and crying, and all the while Shana felt her treasure glowing inside her.
It was a new experience – this strange extension of her heart, which attached to and encompassed the life developing in her womb. Her joy was magnified because it was shared so gladly; Beth’s excitement overflowed the banks of her usual reserve, while Milcah’s happiness shone more steadily, measuring the months of waiting.
“If only your father could have shared the joy of his first grandchild,” said Milcah, and Shana remained silent, guiltily relieved that she would be spared the ordeal. She knew he would have imposed on her his inappropriate advice on the child’s upbringing. She could just hear him saying, “Never let the boy speak at table. He must learn to respect his elders,” and she would be torn between standing up to him and provoking his displeasure, or trying to impose a separate set of standards on the child for family occasions. And if he would smack the child . . . she raged inwardly at the thought.
“Will you mind very much if it's not a boy?” Shana asked Rafael one night as he lay beside her with his hand resting on her swelling stomach.
“I will be happy to have ten little ones just like you,” he replied, kissing her forehead, and she sighed deeply as something in her relaxed. She had not realised how much this fear had oppressed her, knowing how important it had been to her father for his firstborn to be a son, and how he had rejected her for being a girl. However, deep down she felt that it was a boy.
The months drifted by in a slow tide that swelled irrevocably with her body. Enfolded in the season of waiting, Shana was content. What a contrast to the shame and uncertainty when she had carried Haziel’s child, not knowing how she would be able to take care of her baby as an unmarried mother.
In the last stage of her pregnancy, time stood still. Shana performed her tasks slowly with complete absorption, wrapped in a sweet specialness as though she had been promoted to a higher rank of womanhood. She became very sensual as she moved serenely to and fro across the courtyard, enjoying the caress of sun-warmed air on her cheeks and the strange pummelling sensation inside her belly. Winter had passed and the fragrance of flowers filled the air. Her days were filled with languid contentment. She no longer went to the market or to fetch water from the well; Rafael insisted on taking over these chores, afraid to allow her to lift anything.
“I’m not paralysed,” she snapped when he leapt forward to snatch a basket of linen from her.
“I don’t want you carrying such a weight,” he said, pulling out a stool and making her sit down.
“It’s not an illness, Raf,” she said in exasperation. “Do let me be! Whatever will you be like once the baby is born?”
“Worse than a mother hen!” he laughed.
“Be gone!” she said, throwing a wet cloth at him.
During the final weeks, he barely allowed her to move.
“What is it with you?” she said. “Don’t you know women manage to have babies successfully every day?” But she knew it was because his mother had died giving birth to his stillborn brother.
On the night of her labour Rafael had the whole community united in prayer, and when at last she laid a damp little son in his arms, he wept openly until she had to retrieve the babe from beneath his shower of tears.
“Thank you,” he whispered, wiping his eyes on her shawl. “Thank you, thank you.”
Watching Rafael with his new-born son was a tender experience. The little infant was coddled more by his father than by his mother, and Shana was often glad when Rafael had to go to work in his shop so she could have the baby to herself. They had chosen the name Adam, which was Rafael’s father’s name, bestowing a great honour on the old man, who responded by giving himself heart and soul to his only grandson. When it was time for the baby’s afternoon sleep, his grandfather would claim him and settle him carefully on his lap outside beneath the reed awning. Shana would watch with amusement as his long white beard nodded lower and lower until it tickled the baby awake, who would clutch the whiskers in his fists and awaken the old man, and then the process would begin again.
Beth and Milcah were equally enamoured with the little boy, and the three women revolved around him like doting doves.
“I can’t wait for you to be a mother too,” Shana kept saying to her sister, and Beth would smile coyly, hugging her dreams to herself.