Chapter
One
THOUGH she was tired and unusually disheveled, the tall, rather elegant young woman began her descent down the stone steps to the great main hall below.
Her hair, once neatly coiled and collected at the nape of her neck, had long since broken away and was now spilling over her forehead and untidily cascading down her neck.
Her flaxen-colored tunic and even the wide colorful girdle around her waist were soiled and soaked by the long night of dedicated working and insane rushing.
Shifting her armload of bloodied linens to catch up some straggling ends, she straightened her back and abruptly stopped in mid step. She had been halfway down the steps when, for the first time in two sunsets, she stopped and saw what was really there.
Still standing on the steps and holding her foul-smelling linens, Martha leaned back against the coolness of the stone wall and surveyed the large open hall below her.
All the massive bronze wall lamps, the lamps on stands, and even the tiny, exquisite hanging lamps were lit. Their blazing fires illuminated the room. The whitewashed walls and hanging tapestries were bathed with a delicate rose glow, and the atmosphere was thick with oil scents and hazy smoke.
The great hall was not encumbered by furniture. However, by anyone's standards, the three small couches grouped at one end, the slim-legged Grecian chair at the opposite end, the richly woven carpets, the intricately wrought lamp standards, and several low tables scattered here and there were most impressive to the average citizen of Bethany.
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Tonight, and for the past fortnight, the room was not dominated by its furnishings, but by all the kind, caring, and even curious people who packed into the spacious room and spilled out into the courtyard.
From her place on the stairs, Martha could see the activity which came and went in small explosions of movement. She was fascinated by the fact that while the room was simply teeming with people, they all moved and breathed in a haunting sort of way. They clustered about in small groups, and for the most part, their talk was a low rumbling sound. Yet every once in a while, as it was right at that moment, they fell absolutely silent. They looked upon and waited, as if her appearance on the stairs meant she would make an announcement or give them some new news.
To her it felt a little like she had lost all or part of her hearing, and she thought, It's uncanny. So many people, and all is so quiet.
Since there was no change and their expectant, upturned faces waited for her, Martha shook her head no, and they fell back to their small groups. The low murmuring began once more.
The villagers and even friends from Jerusalem had begun gathering two days ago when this crisis had emerged, and they had seemed to sense that this time it was different — perhaps, the last.
By one wall lamp she could see a cluster of old men. Great patriarchs of the faith, she smiled. And then she thought how dear it was of them to be there. They had been her father's friends, and they stood, together, in what looked like a special tribute to her dead father's memory. Martha's thoughts were interrupted because she found it suddenly difficult to swallow the lump of grief which always seemed to form when she thought of her father. She missed him even yet, but quickly she reminded herself it had been eighteen winters and eighteen summers since he had gone. So she said, "Now is what counts." Her speech didn't do much for her. When she recognized the dark robes and full white beard of Jacob Ben Nathan, that didn't help much either.
Aye, she thought, and a flood of memories engulfed her. How
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he loved my father! She remembered how old Jacob had laughed and argued with her father in a most Jewish way, and the recollection made her relax her shoulders just a bit in spite of the night. But the lump grew larger in her throat.
She knew everyone milling quietly around in the huge hall below her, because her little village of Bethany was large enough to be interesting, far enough away from the bustling city of Jerusalem to be restful, and yet was small enough to cover details such as names, new babies, and deaths. The homes themselves were scattered over the steep hills like small white jewels surrounded by the lush green velvet of cypress, pine, and palm trees.
Of Bethany's forty-nine houses, one dominated the main hill with its own special grandeur. It is funny, Martha mused, no one calls this place the house of Josiah Ben Jochanan. It is always called "Martha's House." She wondered what her father would have thought of that.
Tonight the great house was filled with at least one person from each of the neighboring houses. While most came out of love, Martha suspected a few came (as they always did) just to watch the goings and comings of Bethany's most affluent household.
Standing here and there beside the groups of men were the womenfolk of Bethany, their veils covering their bowed heads. A quick, general glance confirmed what she already suspected, and disappointment edged itself deeper into her frown. Her sister's beautiful face was not among the faces below, and Martha's own face tightened with the frustration.
In the next instant, she forgot about her sister, Mary, because she found Hannah, and the sight of her melted away some of the disappointment. Hannah was the widow who lived one house to the west. Martha, though she had never mentioned it to anyone, admired Hannah's abundant strength and silent courage. She had been able to pick out Hannah because her face was turned upward and wet with tears. The light from the nearest hanging lamp sparkled on her face and highlighted her aged beauty. Her mouth, as Martha knew it would be, was forming silent, prayerful words of supplication.
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"Blessed art thou, dear Hannah," Martha sighed.
They were all there; her friends, neighbors, kinfolk, and servants, and that they were there because of her brother's time of dying made their presence very sweet. She was touched by the whole scene and typically she had no idea how to handle the rush of love rising urgently within her. She was always at a loss when coping with her unseen emotions. She turned her attention once again to the movements of the crow. "Yes, almost everyone seems to be here except for Mary," she sighed.
Weaving in and out of little knots of people, like the trim shuttles on a weaver's loom, were the servant girls. They worked their way through everyone, but even in their urgent rushing they were curiously still. Their bare feet flew noiselessly over the carpets, stone floors, and up and down the steps.
Martha spotted vivacious Deborah taking a small lamp to be refilled with oil, but she could see that the usual sparkle of Deborah's plain face was gone, and it was expressionless and pale. Martha saw Leah, another servant girl, and her face — in direct contrast to Deborah's — was beautiful, but set and solemn as if it had been hewn out of polished marble. The two girls passed each other without a word or a glance.
Martha silently murmured her thanks to them and marveled at their endurance and strength. Whether it was water jars balancing delicately on their heads, or clean linen held aloft in their hands, they seemed to move determinedly and effortlessly through the maze of people, steps, and corridors.
In spite of her weariness and the horror which was spending itself out in the room above her, Martha smiled when she saw Tabitha pass by Deborah and Leah as if they had been standing stone-still.
Tiny, amazing Tabitha, she said to herself. Your name means "gazelle," and whoever named you called you rightly. Tabitha did indeed move with the speed and grace of a young, healthy doe. In fact, she outran, outworked, and outscrubbed just about everyone, Martha recalled. The little mite of a girl passed Martha on the steps with no words but quick understanding glances.
There it was again — the low murmuring or the eerie quietness.
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It was what had stopped her on her way in the first place. It was all so strange. This huge, great hall was filed with people keeping their vigil during the night's deathwatch; yet everything was happening with so little noise. Once in a while she could hear the yipping of a hyena or jackal from the surrounding hills, but apart from that and the occasional moaning from upstairs, the silence fitted down over the great house like a shroud covering a corpse.
Martha trembled with an involuntary shiver, smoothed some damp hair out of her eyes with her forearm, and realizing how time had passed, she sternly took herself to task for being on the stairs so long.
Where is Mary? again she questioned. She should be up there with him. Even if he is sleeping, he needs her presence. Where has she been all night? It was as if she had vanished with the first night's wind.
Martha breathed in a breath of the hot, close air and resolved firmly, as she knew she had to, to continue her tasks of the night, with or without Mary. Briskly she moved down the steps. When she reached the main floor, everyone wordlessly parted like the Red Sea had done for Moses, and she moved straight and tall through the midst of them. She was striding past their concerned, worried faces and would have reached the cooking area without a word to anyone had it not been for the constraining arm of Rabbi Ben Isaiah.
"How does it go up there with our Lazarus?" he whispered, motioning with his head toward the stairs.
She became a little vexed with him for detaining her, because she felt she'd already idled away far too much time. Besides, she had left Lazarus alone because he was resting, so now she was anxious to get back. However, she showed no impatience, because she was obliged to respect him and the sadness clinging to his words was warm and genuine. Martha also knew the rabbi was not there tonight to gossip outside the synagogue or down in the town's small marketplace in the morning. He was there because he loved Lazarus.
In fact, she mumbled to herself with some resignation, doesn't everyone love my brother?
Sickly and pale as he was, even from his childhood, Lazarus
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had somehow managed to put everyone at ease about his obvious illness, and in what seemed like only moments, he forged lifelong friendships with family and friends alike. That she could never understand, but long ago she had accepted Lazarus's ability to make instant friends as one of her brother's gifts. A gift she did not have.
"Now, Rabbi," she faced him directly and shifted her offensively sour clothes to her hip away from his face. "You know our God has blessed Lazarus with many gifts. However, good health has not exactly been one of them. My good brother has been sick for all of his thirty years here in our house, and we have seen him like this before. Please take heart. I'm just sure he will come through even this."
Seeing that her words had not convinced him completely, she spoke up, a trifle sharply, "You seem to be forgetting, dear Rabbi, I am no novice in the techniques of healing." Hostility, like a small creature, ran through her statement, and the rabbi caught it instantly.
He hastily tried to prove his loyalty to her and her father's house by countering, "Oh, my dear child, I am not unaware of your ministering virtues, Martha. Blessed you be. The whole of Bethany knows and gratefully acknowledges your healing hands." Then his voice faltered a bit, but he continued. "It's just that this time... this time the crisis is so prolonged. Lazarus took to his pallet last autumn. I remember it well because it was right after the Feast of Tabernacles, and, dear Martha, he is still there. In fact, his condition has worsened, and well," he finished lamely, "you know it's almost spring, and he's no better."
I don't need a reminder about my brother or the seasons! Her thoughts bristled within her. She managed to quell the rising rebellion inside her and gave the rabbi a tight smile. Respectfully she said, "He will survive. You'll see." She hoped her words had rung of experienced confidence, but the shaking of the old rabbi's head told her she had not been very successful.
Cautiously he leaned closer. "I wish to make a suggestion if I may."
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Martha wondered if, in her whole lifetime, she had ever heard Rabbi Ben Isaiah ask for permission to make a suggestion. She was sure she hadn't.
"But all means, honored teacher," she said. As if I could stop you, she thought. For an instant a small smile played about her mouth.
"Your friend Jesus has healed so many. I was wondering if you had considered asking for his intervention." He finished with his hands piously folded together near the top of his chest.
Martha almost laughed out loud. There stood her dear, old, trusted rabbi suggesting she call Jesus, while he himself had publicly and privately said, "I am one rabbi who will have to have the carpenter's claims proven beyond any doubt before I believe he is who he says he is."
"Why, Rabbi Ben Isaiah, are you changing your mind about the man who walks among us humbly, speaking as no other ruler, leader, or prophet has ever done?" she gently chided.
He tugged at his beard. That Martha is as smart as three quick men all rolled together, his thoughts pronounced. "I only meant he is your friend, and his reputation for healing grows larger each day. I would have thought you would have asked him to heal Lazarus long before this.
Now she was getting annoyed, and with the smallest speck of respect in her tone, she said, "Rabbi, it is precisely because he is our friend that we have never taken advantage of him in Lazarus's behalf. We have enjoyed him in our home, but Lazarus himself has always cautioned us against petitioning him. Now, forgive me, but I have spent far too long away from my duties."
The rabbi, understanding more about people than she did in those moments, pretended not to notice her tone of voice, but it was an awkward time for both of them. Martha knew her tongue was too outspoken, especially for a woman, but she was wearily past the point of carefully choosing her words.
She was grateful for the sputtering of a lamp behind him, and with one quick gesture she signaled passing Deborah to replenish the oil. The girl caught the look and nodded affirmatively.
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As Martha bolted from the great hall, the rabbi tugged on his beard and muttered, "That one never misses a thing."
Martha constantly nettled the rabbi with her efficiency, her planning, and her tongue, which could be sharper than a double-edged sword, but he had to admire her good heart and the way she got things done. My, how proud Josiah would have been of his Martha tonight, he chuckled and amended his thinking to include Lazarus and Mary. All of them are fine children, and they would make any father's heart beat with pride, he mused as he watched her go.
He had often observed and compared Martha's plain features to Mary's beauty, but he had to admit that while Mary was startlingly beautiful with her flame red hair and luminous blue eyes, it was Martha who adjusted to any situation in exactly the proper way. Yes, he repeated to himself to himself, Josiah would be proud.
Breaking away from the rabbi and the others, Martha finally reached the large cooking area. She was almost swallowed into a sea of frenzied activity. The room with its whitewashed walls, its hanging lamps, cupboards, tables, and baskets of lentils and beans was bursting with human bodies. Everyone was working on their appointed tasks: bringing in the filled water pots, taking soiled linen outside to be washed, or merely standing alert for her directions.
Without counting, Martha knew for certain that no servant or slave was in his bed taking his ease. They were all there, present and accounted for. They, too, loved Master Lazarus. Their obvious show of love made her frustration with Mary's absences grow larger.
They must all know he's dying, she thought. Because she knew it too, the hard knot which had laid heavily in her abdomen for weeks slowly but surely burned with a searing, unbearable heat. Martha knew her face must have registered her pain when Naomi, laying her leathery, spotted hand on her arm, asked, "Are you ailing, too?"
"No, I am not ill, and you must not worry, Naomi. In fact, you should be on your pallet, for you will need your rest come the dawn."
The old woman did not leave but sat down on the nearest low
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stool. "I cannot sleep," she said simply. Her tears began to flow down her face. The creases and lines made tiny riverbeds for the tears, and she made no attempt to stop the flow or dry up the source.
"Will Lazarus...?"
Unable to pronounce the word die, she broke off, leaning her head against the wall. The flow of tears turned the unchecked streams into rivers of salty water, and she was powerless to stop it. Grimly she waited for Martha's answer.
Naomi was not only the oldest woman servant of the household, but the dearest and most highly respected as well. It was Martha who oversaw each detail that transpired in the household. She had taken over the responsibility years ago, but Naomi had been there first.
Martha, still holding her linens, squatted down beside the white-haired woman and recalled how dear old Naomi had lovingly taken care of all of them when they were little. She had been, in effect, a second mother even though no blood ties connected them.
Josiah Ben Jochanan and his lovely Galilean wife, Rachel, had rejoiced thirty-two years ago at the birth of their firstborn — a strong, husky, and surprisingly large baby girl. Jointly they agreed to name her Martha. It was an appropriate and even prophetic name for it means "lady" or "mistress of the house."
Two years later the same loving union gave them a son. That he was small and exceedingly frail was of no consequence to them, because he was the product of their love.
Three years passed, and their third child was born. She was a tiny girl, who was as fair in skin coloring, with flaming red hair, as Martha was ivory skinned and dark raven haired. But with her birth came the first real sadness for the family of Josiah Ben Jochanan.
Only moments after Rachel had glimpsed the bright, exquisite face of her newest daughter, she died in Josiah's arms with Naomi clutching the tiny babe.
Later Josiah, remembering a loving conversation whispered weeks before her death, named the infant Mary, as Rachel had wished.
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The day of Mary's birth, Naomi had inherited instant motherhood to two children and one baby. She had done her job with loving devotion, and even after her fingers lost their quickness and were bent and rigid, she continued to live there and to love each of them.
However, Martha had suspected, with no rancor whatsoever, that it had always been Lazarus who had captured most strongly the old woman's heart.
Suddenly, the stench from the linen jolted Martha back into the night, and quickly she dropped the mess into a larger empty basket.
Still down on her knees beside Naomi's stool, Martha crisply said, "Naomi, look at me." Martha had the vexing ability to speak, command, and delegate authority much like a Roman centurion. It was quite noticeable that when she spoke, most people tended to look and listen. So it was at that moment. However, Naomi kept her hands clamped over her mouth as though she was afraid a cry might escape and shatter the deep stillness in the house. Without taking her hands away, she dutifully looked into Martha's deep, brown eyes.
"Are you listening?" Martha's tone was gentle, but intense. She waited for the woman's nod and then continued. "Now," here she evenly measured out her words. "I want you to remember how many times in the past year you have seen this fiery fever and weakness come upon Lazarus and take its toll of him. Remember, too, that between God, you, and me, we have always brought him back. Is this not so?"
Naomi dropped her hands from her face and lifted the corner of her skirt to dry her face. She wiped her cheeks and slowly nodded her head in agreement. For just a second there was a glimmer of relief on her face, but it vanished quickly as she blurted out, "But, Mistress Martha, never have these old eyes beheld his sickness so strong or for so long. This time the fire in his body and the issue of blood that streams from him is more ... more than ever in the past."
Ignoring the truth of Naomi's statement, Martha stubbornly went on. "Believe me, it will be as before. You'll see. We will bring him through. We shall."
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"But it is all so different this time," Naomi wailed. Then, as if she had a sudden inspirational solution, she touched Martha's shoulder and whispered, "Will you send for him?"
Martha pretended ignorance to gain time and asked, "Who?"
Sharply Naomi breathed aloud, "My dear Martha, you know who I mean."
Wearily, Martha uttered, "I'm sorry, Naomi. I don't have time to go into this with you, but, no, I am not going to send word to Jesus." She stood up now, tall and authoritative before the old woman.
Naomi looked up and pleaded, "But he loves you and all of this household. Has he not called this place his 'house of renewal'? If he knew of Lazarus's terrible state, he would willingly come." Then, to reinforce her own thoughts, she added brightly, "And once here, he would make everything alright."
Martha's voice, heavy with extreme fatigue and edged with anger, said a determined, "No."
"But," Naomi implored. online books christian books
"No!" And this time it was thundered rather than spoken. As soon as she had said it, Martha was sorry for her outburst. She bent over, put her hand on Naomi's shoulder, apologized, and said, "It's just that Jesus has troubles of his own. Why should he take on ours, too?" Naomi was barely listening, but Martha continued. "He has told us and all his men that he will be rejected and shunned by the elect of the priesthood, elders, and scribes alike. The last time we saw Peter, he told us Jesus had even predicted his own death. I did not really believe that he would go that far, but then only a few days ago I was told by Uncle Tobias that Jesus narrowly escaped being stoned to death in the city. Can you see, Naomi? I cannot ask him to come when his own circumstances are so dangerously fragile."
Martha was too tired to go into all the frightening rumors she had heard. She wondered if, even for Lazarus, she had the right to ask Jesus to risk his life in coming to Bethany. She would have said more, but she was embarrassed by the awareness that everyone in the cooking area was intently listening. All were soaking up her words like sponges.
The sight of them was like a finger snapping loudly in her
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head, forcing her back into reality, and quickly she jumped up, springing into immediate action like an arrow shot from a strong bow.
"You, Joseph," she directed. "I have run out of clean wet cloths for his fever. See if any are ready yet from the washing trough." Then, turning, she said, "Leah, go with him and bring as many as you can. Tabitha, I have not seen my sister since dark. Please find her and tell her to come upstairs. Be your usual quick self." Her tone softened, and she was about to continue setting everything in a more orderly way when the hushed night air was slashed in two by a long, piercing scream. Everyone became a solid statue, as if they were made of stone, and held their positions.
The scream was still ripping through the night when Martha, gathering her think, long skirts in one hand and pushing everyone out of the way with the other, bounded out past horrified people in the main room. She took the steps two at a time to the chamber upstairs. She could hear the clamoring questions of the people below, and it sounded like a lion roaring in the distance.
Naomi, finding speed from some bygone year of her youth, followed closely behind in a frantic scramble, and both women came to an abrupt halt in the doorway of Lazarus's room.
The young girl just inside the doorway, with the broken water vessel at her feet, was still screaming. In one quick gesture, Martha clamped her hand over the girl's mouth and hissed, "Deborah, stop it! That's enough!" Promptly it silenced her, but the terror was still in the girl's large, wide-open, brown eyes. For a moment Martha matched Deborah's stare with a meaningful glare, and when she had the situation under control, she took her hand away and turned to focus on the horror which had evoked the girl's hysteria.
Blood was everywhere. Martha had never seen so much. Even when she had brought forth the most complicated birthing of babies as a midwife, she had not seen such a flow of blood. Naomi clutched the doorpost and endlessly sobbed, "My God, my God."
Martha picked her way through the broken pottery, her sandals
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slipping in the mixture of spilled water and discharged blood, and slowly, like in a bad dream, she made her way over to his pallet.
The thick hem of her dress soaked up the grim liquid and got heavy with it before she reached him. Her pace towards him seemed to take forever.
Where is all this coming from? she puzzled. How could one emaciated, sick man spill out so much of life and so quickly? Her thoughts raced a hundred times faster than her feet.
She had not been gone that long, she reasoned to herself. It was only a few minutes. She remembered when she had left him, his cheeks had been flushed and reddened and he had been burning to touch, but when she had asked how he felt, he had answered with a slight affirmative nod of his head. He had even managed a flicker of a smile. Thus she had left him unattended, not pleased with progress, but satisfied with circumstances. Now this! She despaired as she looked down on his death white face.
He breathed a few short grasps as she watched, then lay still, only to startle her a second later with more quick intakes of air. With each movement of his chest, she expected the end. But after a few minutes of watching, she recalled some of the dying people she had seen, who breathed in this strange way for days (once even for a week) before dying.
"Naomi!" she called. "This is not the time for sobbing but for scrubbing. Help me clean him up and set this room in order."
Naomi stopped her moaning and stammered, "But, isn't he dead?"
"No." Martha made her way over to the doorway and impatiently said, "He has not reason to be alive, but he is. As long as there is a flicker of life in his body, I shall see to his needs. Now, move!"
For the better part of two hours they all washed, soaked up the mess, and stole anxious glances at the pale shell of a man. Finally everything was as before except, of course, for Lazarus. He was on the knife-edge of his life, and when Martha looked on him, she began to prepare herself for his death morning.
She had dearly paid for her mistake of leaving him unattended;
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so she began to prepare to stay by his side until it was over. However, both Naomi and Leah asked if they could watch him and relieve her for a few hours. Martha, fatigued beyond belief and touched by their caring love, wearily agreed and left the two of them beside his pallet.
Disheartened and tired, she came down the stairs and told the still-waiting friends that Lazarus seemed to be resting and they should go to their homes. She promised to send immediate word should his condition change. Reluctantly, they began to leave, but two old women and one man refused to abandon their deathwatch. She tried reasoning with them but her tongue was thick with fatigue, and she lost her ability to give sense to her words. In the end, she let them stay. Martha tended the lamps, put out the fires in the big ones, and left several small ones burning, and murmured her good night to the solemn figures sitting in the hall. She then checked the cooking area and back entrances to be sure that every one of the household had gone to his pallet.
Exhausted of spirit and wearied beyond physical endurance, she forced herself up the inner staircase once more.
Once she reached the upper floor, she merely put her head inside the doorway and watched his uneven breathing sequence until she was satisfied there had been no change. She looked at the women, nodded, and gestured toward the roof. They understood and settled down to their vigil.
When she left them, she moved to an outside doorway and eventually wound her way up on an outside staircase to the upper roof.
How long have I been down there? she wondered, and then she remembered, only two days and two nights. But somehow this had been so different. The room below her had been stifling hot and rancid with the smell of dying. It is good to be up here, she thought as she reached the top step of the narrow stairway which led to the roof.
But never had she been so drained.
