Free Rebekah's Treasure by Sylvia Bambola Page A

Hasmoneans always purified a pagan settlement before moving into it. Pray well, Zechariah, and beseech God to cleanse this wretched place.”
    I back away. So . . . in addition to worrying about my family and the Romans, I must also worry about these followers of Isis.

    “Fire! Fire!” someone shouts.
    Zechariah’s prayer of blessing over my house still hangs in the air, and my guests have yet to sip their first cup of wine in celebration. But all is forgotten as we rush to the blazing grain fields. It appears the fire started in the barley fields where the crop has already been harvested, but is quickly spreading to the wheat—the wheat which will ripen in less than two weeks. Some of the men who have run ahead have already stripped off their robes and are using them to beat the flames. I pull off my head covering as I run to join them. The wind is not in our favor. It blusters and snorts around our heads. Already a quarter of the field is destroyed.
    Zechariah is beside me, his giant arms slamming his robe, over and over, against the wall of fire. He stands his ground, refusing to give way, all the while saying the name “Argos” under his breath, as if a curse.
    For over an hour we beat the flames with our clothes, men, women, children—all who have arms and legs and breath to do so. Some of the older women bring jugs of water from the spring to pour over the smoldering rags in our hands. Cinders and smoke fill the air. Our eyessting and tear. Our nose and mouth are clogged with soot. We cough, we gag, but we stand and fight. And when it’s done, more than half our crop is destroyed, and Simon the bottlemaker’s arms have been so badly burned we fear he’ll lose one or both of them.

    Aaron is gone. He left early this morning. I think of him now as I cover my head with my new square of brown homespun purchased from the widow Leah. Then I fasten the cloth with a plaited cord. From time to time, Leah sells a possession or two in order to live, and someone in the community always buys and always pays more than it’s worth. It’s a way of helping her out. Torah commands us to care for widows and orphans. There’s no shame for either to take alms, but Leah is proud. So this is the system the community has come up with. I’ve already decided to buy Leah another head covering when I can think of an appropriate excuse for giving her a gift.
    “Esther!” I shout as I descend the ladder from the second floor to the broadroom below. We must not be late.” I glance into each of the other three rooms on the first floor, but I don’t see my daughter. “Esther!”
    “You needn’t shout, Mama,” Esther says, coming in from outside. Her hair is not plaited, but hangs in knotty cascades around her shoulders.
    “Quickly, daughter. Prepare yourself. They’re gathering even now as we speak.”
    “I’m not going, Mama. I don’t feel well.”
    I look at Esther’s thin, pale face; into her dead eyes. Then I feel her forehead for fever. She’s as cool as the spring water in the wadi. “Then you’ll not be gathering with the believers?”
    Esther shakes her head.
    “It will do you good to get out. And they’ll pray for you. You need their prayers, Esther.”
    My daughter stands her ground. “Surely they can pray for me even if I’m not there.”
    “Yes . . . I . . . suppose.” My heart is uneasy. I don’t like leaving her. She isolates herself more and more; fellowshipping with no one, and going out only to do her chores. She has even forsaken the normal polite greetings to those she passes. “Well . . . rest then,” I say, knowing Esther is ill, but not in body. And it’s not rest she needs, but a renewed mind.

    It’s cramped, and the odor of dung from the nearby sheep wafts overhead. In my hand I clutch my stone cup, the cup which Zechariah has asked me to bring. I was surprised by his request. The cup has always been important to me, but for the first time I’m beginning to understand it might be