Free Take This Cup by Brock Thoene, Bodie

The sheep were moved a short distance every morning to fresh pasture. Every third day the encampment itself had to be uprooted and relocated. I spent as much time helping my mother pack and unpack as I did tending the sheep.
    The route we traveled from the high mountain pastures back to the Sapna Valley west of Amadiya was not through pleasant scenery. There had been so much snow the previous winter that the rivers still flowed swiftly despite the lateness of the season. The frequent bends, twists, and turns of the main watercourse meant too many difficult crossings with too few men to assist.
    Instead of the usual track, Father directed our herdsmen to follow a smaller tributary. Our descent from the mountains was along a series of small, gorse-choked meadows separated from each other by narrow, precipitous, rocky gorges.
    It was a late afternoon between the High Holy Days and the Feast of Tabernacles. The sheep were two days’ journey farther downstream. Tomorrow it would be time to reposition our camp again. Tonight, my parents and I would have supper with a handful of herders who had returned for a load of supplies to take to their fellows.
    The night was chilly in the high country. I was grateful for the heavy, fleece-lined coat and fleece-lined leather boots my mother had made for me.
    My chores completed for the moment, I sat on a boulder on a ledge facing the upstream bend of the canyon. Beni was beside me. Even before we heard the dog growl, I felt the animal stiffen and watched his ears prick up. The fur on the back of Beni’s neck stood erect. The dog stared intently up the trail along which the flock had been driven three days before.
    Snatching up my shepherd’s staff, I leapt upright. Twisting side canyons led into remote and trackless wilderness, home to Armenian leopards and even wolf packs. I glanced down at my friend to make certain Beni was not going to dash off and get hurt, but the dog was plastered beside me.
    What had the animal sensed?
    Some dust rose over the rock wall separating this pasture from the one upstream. I studied the swirling cloud of grit. It seemed to be moving closer.
    The clatter of horses’ hooves announced the true nature of the disturbance. A band of riders swept into view around the bend.
    As the lead horseman caught sight of our camp, he threw his right hand into the air, signaling a halt.
    “Papa!” I waved and called to my father, standing at the entry to our tent. “Riders! Riders coming!”
    I saw Father turn in the direction I pointed.
    With cupped hands, Father called the four shepherds away from the creek and back to camp. The five men formed a protective barrier in front of the tent. “How many?” Father’s voice boomed up to me.
    I counted, then pantomimed two handfuls and two left over: twelve. The troop of horsemen remained motionless for a time. They clustered around the one who appeared to be their chief. When they moved forward again, it was at a measured, walking pace.
    Rabbi Kagba emerged from his own tent and stood some distance apart from the other men.
    The cavalcade approached the camp and drew rein on a sandy shelf across the creek. The leader halted his men again, then rode forward into the water. “ Shalom to the camp!” he called out.
    My shoulders relaxed. They were Jewish travelers. Father stepped forward. “ Shalom to you. Who are you, with your fine mounts in this lonely place? And what do you want?”
    “My name is Zimri,” the captain of the troop responded. “We are going to the Holy City to serve the one who will liberate us from the Romans.”
    My pulse quickened at the words. A band of Jewish warriors going to serve the Messiah! Zimri’s words could mean nothing else.
    “We planned to reprovision in Amadiya,” Zimri continued, “but we have been riding for three days and are short of food. Can we buy some from you?”
    “No,” my father replied curtly. “We won’t sell to you. But we will welcome you to our cook fire and