Jeshua: A Novel

By John Cech

I am Jeshua, son of Maryam, son of Joseph, and a son of God.
My journey began in the dry lands by the Western Sea
And it led me to hidden places in the mountains of the East.
Every life is a book, and if we do not write it down,
Surely it will blow away, like dust in the wind, and
The memory of all the acts that mark our lives and paths in the world will disappear.
If you find this, my book, and if you read its words,
May they be a map that leads you to that hidden land,
To that fragrant valley where there is peace and love,
To that place of refuge from the chaos of our world.
And should you follow even a small part of it,
My journey will not have been in vain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Aug 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781480861282

John Cech

John Cech is an award-winning author of numerous works of fiction, drama, poetry, and criticism. He is a Professor of English at the University of Florida.

Book preview

PROLOGOS

Lailah, the angel of night, guards the Tree of Souls in Paradise. Before we are born, she takes down the soul that is to be ours and places it within us. Then she kindles light in the vast reaches of darkness and shows us the secrets of the heavens, their eternal ebb and flow; the radiant stars, their numbers without end, star upon star whirling in the outermost vaults of the heavens; the paths of comets drawing their bright tails as they cross the sky; the milky clouds of celestial ethers drifting through the firmament.

When we come at last into this world with all its woes, we weep, for we have lost our heavenly home and are without consolation. We would tell of all the wonders we have witnessed, but before we can reveal these mysteries, Lailah touches us with her fingertip, just above the upper lip, like a potter presses clay. Thus she leaves a mark upon us, an imprint that seals the vow to shroud our visions of the place from which we come and to which we shall one day return. We keep this pledge to her by forgetting what we have witnessed for all the days we walk the earth. But as you can see, I bear no mark from Lailah’s touch upon my upper lip, no promise to this angel, and so I am not bound to silence and can speak of these hidden things to all the world. This has been both my benison and my burden.

I still see the tree, with its golden threads woven through the bark, and the souls in infinite number trembling upon its branches like shimmering leaves in a summer breeze. I remember all. I am Jeshua, and this is my beginning.

PART I

DAMASCUS

We search for that which is not lost.

1

I N THE MOONLESS NIGHT, IN THE THIRD WATCH, I SLIPPED FROM MY BED, MY FEET swaddled in cloth to preserve the stillness of the house. Like a leaf that falls lightly to the ground, I crept down the stone steps from our sleeping chambers, then past my father’s workshop, past the animals breathing deeply in their stable, and out the back gate of our courtyard.

Nazareth is a small village, and those who live within can hear and see most things. I uttered no sound to stir a restless dreamer, made no step with a heavy foot to jar awake a sleeping dog, and allowed no creak of leather from the sandals that I carried in my hand and did not wear upon my feet. If anyone had been awake and gazed out into the night, he might have seen a shadow, blinked, looked again, found it gone, and perhaps wondered if a cloud had passed before the moon and cast a phantom against his neighbor’s wall or upon his slumbering mind.

I was well beyond the village when I met them—as my father, Abba Joseph, had said I would. The men wore simple, dusty robes that had known some days of travel. When I came closer, I could see the face of one of these strangers. He put a finger to his lips to warn me to hold my words. I was twelve, nearly thirteen, and though I always spoke my mind and readily remarked on matters large and small, I knew now to remain silent.

As a shepherd guides a lamb into the fold, these men swept me up the steep path along the hills that overlooked Nazareth. I stopped and glanced back over my shoulder at the valley and the village below and saw Abba Joseph’s face in the silver moonlight. He raised his hand to me in farewell. He had not risen to see me off, for fear of waking the others, for fear that my mother would weep again, for fear that our neighbors might be roused and ask about the voices raised so early in our house.

I held my hand aloft to him in desolate reply while the moon hurried behind thick clouds. After some moments, the men nudged me forward again into the darkness of the night. My heart was heavy with the weight of leaving behind the ones I loved, and I struggled to match my steps with those of my new companions. I murmured the Prayer of the Traveler to myself but found small comfort in its words. The night began to lift as we quickly strode across the plain, moving together toward the east—the direction of beginnings—though I could not guess what the new day would bring.

I saw now that they were seven in number; I was the eighth. They had brought leather packs slung sidelong over their shoulders with food for our journey, and they carried weapons—short swords and daggers—which they concealed under their cloaks. Only their thick staffs were visible to the observant eye.

On we hurried in the growing dawn; the moon under Venus and Jupiter, a pendant in the firmament, lit our way. The night was cold, but my feet were warm now, wrapped in the soft jackal skins that my companions had brought for me to tie over my foot cloths and sandals. They had also given me a plain, worn robe, the same color as their own and just as large.

My guardians spoke with only a glance of the eye, a nod of the head, or a quick movement of the hand. And though we often had to make our way up rock-strewn paths, they never seemed to reach for breath. Nothing they wore marked their ranks or occupations. At a glance, one could have mistaken them for a company of stonemasons, scribes, or pilgrims. Yet any who saw us might have wondered at the sight of a boy in an ill-fitting robe, shivering and wiping the sleep from his eyes, surrounded by seven tall men.

We slipped past solitary huts and clusters of hushed houses as the black night slowly turned to deep blue and then filled with the familiar smells of early morning fires, the aroma of baking bread drifting on the air, and the first notes of the tsippor’s song in the quiet before the day. Soon, the only sounds in the world seemed to be those of our feet sweeping the earth and of the birds above calling to each other, singing their paean to the Creator.

One of my guardians carried a knapsack of food and gave us flatbread with roasted lamb and mint to eat as we walked. We shared a skin of spiced wine to ease our thirst and warm our insides. At the back of our group, two men kept a close watch, making sure we were not followed. Another pulled a branch of salix over our footprints to smooth the path behind us and so mask our progress across the land.

We passed the round slopes of Tabor, where the beacon fires are lit for the holy days, as clouds of mist broke with the dawn. Morning found us walking watchfully through a rocky valley that led down to the Jordan. We took the lesser paths so we might travel unobserved to the river well below the Bridge of Philoteria, which spanned the flow as it left the sea and was a busy point for crossings.

As we walked on in silence, I thought again of the short prayer of protection each mother in my village taught her children: Rescue us from the hand of every foe, ambush, bandit, and wild animal along the way. Ours was a land of robbers, and a mother would warn her children not to stray from the path or wander any distance from the sound of her voice: Be careful, or Fedah will get you! Fedah. Attacker of travelers, scourge of the Romans, the publicans who collected the taxes from the villages, and of errant children. Fedah, who dwelt with his band in the caves on the side of Tabor Mount and roamed the Galilee. The Roman patrols, each including a half tent of four soldiers, marched on the road between Tsippori and Jerusalem, the one paved with fine black stones. And so Fedah chose the lonely byways for his attacks.

My companions knew the reputation of our land, and the men at the back of our party looked over their shoulders ever more frequently as we went on. At midday, our rear guard saw billowing dust several leagues behind us and whistled softly to the others. Quickly, we left the track we were upon and hid ourselves a good distance from the path among the large stones and thick bushes that formed terraces along the valley’s side. We sprawled flat on our faces and waited while the dust cloud reached us and then moved on as three men on horses slowly searched the valley floor.

The riders wore cloaks made of cloth dyed a gray as dark as a storm cloud, and their belts were festooned with daggers: small ones for throwing and larger, heavier knives and short swords for close violence. One of these men had shaved his head, blackened his eyes with kohl, and sharpened his teeth to points. The other two wore their hair in tufts and had smudged their faces, leaving their unblinking eyes untouched. They paused to stare at the trail ahead of them.

We watched, barely breathing, as they passed us, following the path, and then turning north toward the sea. The hard-packed ground left no mark betraying our presence. We were like spirits who had glided over the land without setting foot on the ground.

As soon as my companions thought it safe, we rose to our feet, doubled our pace nearly to a run, and hurried toward the Jordan. The river at this season was filling with the spring rains and the melted snow from the hills of Ulatha and Ituraea above the Galilee. We crossed in small boats made from goatskins. My companions had hidden these vessels among the bushes and reeds that grew along the riverbank. Tipped over, the boats appeared to be large rocks. So good was this disguise that I had to look closely to make sure that we would be paddling boats, and not stones, across the water. The Jordan would cover all signs of our movement from those who tracked us.

Once beyond the racing currents, my companions sent our little arks, weighted with stones, down the river and watched them bob out of sight. Two of the men replenished our water skins, and our party pressed on and did not slow all through the rest of that long day.

I was intent on keeping up and did not count our paces, but we covered many parasangs. My company still watched both from ahead and from behind, while I was free to catch glimpses of the distant waters glimmering through the olive groves and vineyards. All growing things would soon become twined and run together down the rolling hills to the banks of the sea.

Long after the sun had set, we reached the Golan and its tumbled land, furrowed like a worried brow. Here, we finally stopped in the shelter of a small wadi and rested for the evening, out of sight of villages, shepherds, and sheep and, we hoped, far away from our gray-cloaked hunters. Four of our number hid the entrance to our little valley with tree branches they had cut and set in the ground to form a dense wall of bushes. We did not light a fire that night.

Only now was I able to study the men’s faces, half in shadows cast by the stars and faint moonlight. Again, we ate in silence—dried figs and almonds, bread and chunks of lamb with leaves of sage sprinkled over them. Food to calm an aching stomach—like mine. I knew that taste well.

In Nazareth, they call this maramiyah, I said, glad to have a chance to speak, holding up a leaf of the sage. In a moment, I would begin to tell about its many properties, including how it got its name. The men looked at me, and the person I knew now to be their leader, the one who had commanded my silence above Nazareth, merely shook his head slowly from side to side and with his gaze once again compelled my quiet attention. And so I slowly chewed my bread and meat in silence.

Our leader had a rugged, square face that was fringed with short-cropped, silvery hair. On his hands, he bore designs in black ink, some symbols unknown to me, and some I had seen before in Aegyptos. At his neck, to hold his cloak tightly closed, he wore a broach hammered artfully from bronze, with pins of polished brass that gleamed like gold. His was not a cruel or unfeeling gaze but merely one of calm caution and watchfulness. His broad forehead was crisscrossed with lines like those cut into the side of a dry riverbank, and his black eyes were intense and unfathomable.

I am Murem, he said in a whisper with a slight smile.

The man to Murem’s left had hair that fell to his shoulders and outlined his sharp and inquisitive face. His striking blue eyes moved quickly from one of our group to another, to the road behind us and the hills ahead.

This is Allas. Murem gestured to the long-haired man, who smiled and nodded at me.

His brother, on Murem’s right, had a countenance darkened by sun and wind.

Tallan, he introduced himself, looking steadily at me. He also smiled, a mouth of perfect teeth. He wore a close-fitting purple skullcap that I had not noticed earlier. It was embroidered in gold with a constellation of stars—Sirius, the glowing leader, I thought, though in the dim light I could not be sure.

The four remaining members of our party appeared as though they might have been veterans of Caesar’s legions, with their scared faces, square hands, and alert carriage.

Each declared his name as he dipped his head to me.

Kalem.

Keeset.

Nofit.

Dun.

These four could all have been brothers born of the same mother at the same time, so closely did they resemble each other. Beneath the dust, even their cloaks seemed cut from a single bolt of dark blue cloth. They were armed with sword and dagger, and their forearms were covered with thick leather sleeves to parry blows. To fasten their cloaks, each wore a round medallion with a comet emblazoned on it.

I was going to say, I began a second time, only to be met with the raised right hand of Murem, a sign that this would again be a quiet, wordless meal. The palm of his hand, which he now revealed, was marked in black ink with a large star, its powerful rays spreading toward me.

These, my seven companions, the ones from the East had returned for me, the ones who follow the stars and read what is written upon the heavens.

2

W HILE MY COMPANIONS BREATHED SOFTLY AS THOUGH THEY WERE A SINGLE sleeper, I lay awake, disquieted, and thought of my family. After our evening meal on the night my journey began, Abba Joseph asked me to walk with him upon the high ground beyond our house, to tell me that I would be leaving that night and would meet my companions at the spot where he and I now stood.

My father had said, I did not want to burden you with worry, Jeshua. It is best sometimes to simply leap without contemplation. I know that you will thrive among the Magi.

I nodded, accepting what I knew to be true. Yet each mention of the Magi this past year never failed to lead to strained words between my parents. During their last discord, Abba Joseph’s voice was touched with particular urgency.

I met with them again in Tsippori, out of sight of the other tektons, he informed my mother. We spoke of how it is no longer safe for Jeshua to remain here.

Jeshua must remain here, Amma Maryam had insisted. One day he will lead the tribes and be our Moses. He will be our David!

He will be no one’s Moses and no one’s David if he perishes, my father replied quietly.

I listened to their words as I rested from my day’s work on the bench outside the front door, hidden from their view.

What makes you say so terrible a thing? my mother exclaimed. Our people will protect him.

Against cohorts of Romans?

My mother folded and refolded the piece of linen that she held in her lap. Even now, I can see her hands smoothing the cloth; it was her habit to do this when she worried.

And who will protect him from the tribes that do not wish him well? my father persisted.

No tribe would harm him.

And who will protect him from the priests?

Why would he need protection from the priests? My mother grew more agitated with each exchange.

You have seen how they watch him, how they listen to him. Remember last Pesach in Jerusalem when the priests offered to take Jeshua into the Temple to shelter and raise him there? They said they would pay well for our consent and that Jeshua would live among them in all their comforts—these priests who bathe in golden baths, wrap themselves in silks, and dine on the first tithings of the land!

Amma Maryam was silent as my father continued.

People know Jeshua has rare gifts. They have seen him lay hands on the injured and heal their wounds. He knows the entire Torah, word for word. He spoke to the High Priest himself of stars that none had seen, of the music of the heavens that none had heard. He knows the tongues of the Greeks and Romans and the mythos of the world from the first acts of the Creator—may His name be blessed—until this moment. What boy knows such things? And he does not conceal this knowledge; he rides it like a proud stallion through their pasture! Do you think they have not taken notice?

This may be, but it does not mean they would harm him, my mother insisted.

Perhaps not. But they will try to make him in their image and keep him close, for they know he would be trouble to them if he stayed among the people. The Sicarii, those assassins, would also be a danger to Jeshua. They would call him a traitor.

Jeshua a traitor? my mother cried in disbelief.

They will say he has betrayed his own people for the priests and the Romans.

What foolishness!

If only it were foolishness, Maryam. We must consider that Jeshua will soon be thirteen years old. You know how bitterly the tribes will compete for him.

My mother fell silent and did not respond to my father’s catalog of worries.

It is so, Abba Joseph continued calmly. They have all spoken to me about the splendid matches that could be made with this house or that house, with this Esther or that Sarah. Jeshua is at the age when such arrangements are made.

After a long pause, my father gently asked, Remember how once we left our land for Jeshua? Now, Maryam, he must leave for his own sake.

My mother remained silent. Abba Joseph sighed.

We knew this day would come, did we not? he reminded her gently.

Yes, we knew, she replied. Yet now that the day is come, a chill has settled upon my heart.

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A protecting veil covered my face when I was born.

It is a sign of greatness, the midwife had said as she removed and offered the caul to my mother. What name will you give the child?

Jeshua, my mother replied. His name came to me in a dream.

Some days later, three Magi travelers from the East found their way to us, carried along by their golden arrows, garbed in their celestial robes. The three were Gondaphares, the tall one; Larvandad, the one with a face creased by wind and rain; and Hormisdas, the one with broad cheeks and dark eyes.

We have been watching the heavens for signs of his return for a thousand years, they told my mother and Abba Joseph. Then, last year, his arrival was written in the heavens; a bright new star appeared in the west, a star that had not been seen before.

Who is it you have been awaiting? Joseph asked.

The spirit of our Prophet reborn, Gondaphares replied, living among us once again after a hundred generations.

To find me, the Magi had consulted across long distances through dreams and inquiries they sent to all their houses of learning in many lands, over mountains and across deserts. At last, the Magi’s quest led them to Jerusalem, where they stopped and made inquiry of the astronomers in the court of King Herod. The Magi were men of rank and deep respect in their own lands and were honored far to the north in Commangene and in the cities of Parthia. Their art in reading the signs of the heavens and explaining how those auguries pertained to the affairs of men was well known. Herod’s learned ones insisted that the three be presented to the king. The Magi could not refuse the invitation.

Herod knew of the omen that foretold his replacement by a descendant of the House of David, and this prophecy was a black cloud that hung above him. He did not show this discontent to his guests, however. With them, he was light and charming, feigning sincerity as he questioned them about their journey.

Tell me, he asked them, how is it that you have come to grace our poor lands with your presence?

We are come to find a child, Gondaphares, the tallest of the Magi, answered.

And what child can that be?

A child of great gifts, Gondaphares replied.

What gifts can these be? Herod asked with curiosity.

Only time will tell us this, Larvandad answered.

And how do you know about this child’s arrival?

His birth is marked by three stars, Gondaphares added. A new star has appeared that rises with two others to form a triad in the early morning sky, a corona. We have spoken with your counselors, and they have also observed this marvel.

Do you know who this child might be? Herod continued.

Oh, no, Majesty. These matters are a mystery to us, Gondaphares responded.

The Magi did not speak to Herod about what the infant’s gifts might be. They did not tell the king that they thought the child would be found in Bet Lehem where they would journey the next day. Nor did they mention what others had seen in the morning sky around Jerusalem and reported to them—the strange brightness of Capella and the twins of Gemini.

As the Magi spoke, Herod smiled and seemed to approve their purpose. It will be good if this land finds a king born on its own soil. I suppose I will have to move aside for him.

The king laughed at his own remark. Yet the Magi saw hardness in his eyes, and they noticed his serpent’s tongue, how it flicked at the corner of his mouth.

Herod quickly hid his fangs. He even offered help—some of his guard, perhaps, to ward off any bandits that they might encounter in the countryside. He wished no harm to befall his guests, he said. But the three respectfully declined his protection. Herod promised them his hospitality upon their return. He was eager to hear their news, to learn if the miracle child had indeed been born within his kingdom, and who that fortunate infant might be.

I shall honor the babe, Herod told the Magi as they departed. He will want for nothing. I shall educate him here in the palace or at Masada close by where many children, including my own, are instructed in the Torah and in the Roman ways. He will be our Chosen One. After all, one cannot defy the stars!

As the Magi withdrew, they thanked the king politely and moved toward the large door that opened to the colonnade and to the fresh air that awaited them.

You must return swiftly to tell of your discoveries, Herod said to his departing guests. I would be saddened not to know where the stars had led you.

The Magi bowed silently, a gesture they hoped would help to speed them from the stifling chamber and to free them from the talons of Herod and the maggots that had long ago taken his soul and were now beginning to devour his body. This corruption was clearly visible despite the paint he wore upon his face to cover the hideous rivulets they had left, like worms gnawing their way through wood.

The starry sigils brought the Magi to David’s city, where my parents were also summoned—for a counting of the people and the collection of taxes—and where I was born. After several inquiries, the Magi found us in that quiet place on the edge of the city, a simple shelter belonging to a kinsman of my father, hollowed out from a hillside, where my parents had found refuge. It was as the Magi had dreamt it.

My mother’s eyes would widen when she told me later how the Magi spread a cloth of intricate design and upon it presented me with three small chests, beautifully wrought from fragrant camphor wood, each containing a precious substance. They explained the significance of these elements as they opened the lids of the chests to reveal their contents: the gold of the king, the frankincense of the priest, and the myrrh of the healer.

You must guard the child with your life and leave Judea, Gondaphares told my father. If your Herod hears of him, he will do him harm.

Where is it we should take him? Joseph asked as he raised his arms to show that he and Maryam had only their few belongings and a tired ass to carry them.

To Aegyptos, Gondaphares replied at once. I will see you safely to a place below Ashkelon, where a friend of the Magi has a boat that will carry you to Alexander’s city, the glory on the Great Sea. My brother, Magi Basanater, will welcome you and help you there. Until then, the gold in this purse should sustain you, and if your needs are greater, my brother will provide for them.

Joseph stood mute and could not speak a word of gratitude for the gifts or for the deliverance now come to them.

Gondaphares saw the confusion in Joseph’s eyes and merely added, You must remain in Aegyptos until it is safe to return.

How shall we know when that time has come? Joseph asked.

You will know, Gondaphares replied. But we must leave now, for Herod has spies everywhere. May the God of Goodness and Light protect and speed us on our way.

3

I AWAKENED WHILE IT WAS STILL DARK AND RUBBED MY STIFF LIMBS TO WARM THEM. My companions had risen as well, and we broke our fast with the last of our bread, washed down with water and wine. We gathered our belongings, buried our excreta, then hid the branches that had been our concealment. After this, we again set off along our road, ever vigilant as we went.

The Magi Murem quietly said to me as we began our day’s walk, I know you have many questions.

I nodded, still drawing myself from the depths of sleep.

In three days, he whispered, we will be in Damascus, and once there, we shall speak. We cannot risk being overheard by those gray vultures, for they may be hovering nearby. For now, we must move quickly and silently.

As a single blue cloud of cloaks, we skimmed along the path through the morning, like the shadow of a bird flying over the ground. As we walked, we drained the wine and water skins and ate the small yellow apples, the fruit of Parthia, where it is said Eden once was, far to the north, and from whose fragrant lands flowed the four rivers: Pishon, the river of gold; Gihon, the river that gushes forth; Tigris, the swift; and Euphrates, the river that watered the gardens of Babylon. But Amma Yevah and Abba Adam must have eaten from a different tree. The only knowledge we attained from our yellow fruit was how good it was to fill our empty stomachs. It was a cool day, the first in the month of Tebeth, and while the gathering clouds threatened rain, they held their drops and spared us a soaking.

We turned north, then east again along a barely visible path. My comrades remained alert as the shadows deepened across the land. The day had worn itself out—and us along with it—and still we did not stop.

Until a knife sent Dun, who was leading the way, facedown into the dust, its blade buried up to its cross guard in his back. Dun had passed from this life before his body fell to the ground.

The rest of our company instantly formed a circle around me, walling me inside, while they waited for the next attack. It came as quickly and brutally as the first. Another one of our protectors, Keeset, fell with a lance quivering in his chest. A foul gray wind swept down upon us then, with curved swords cutting the air all around our circle. My guardians met our assailants, who were now more than twice the number of our company. The Magi fought off the onslaught with skillful parries of their staffs, knocking aside blades and spear points, and drawing cries of pain from our attackers. Four of these demons fell to the ground, clutching their wounds and shattered bones, and a fifth knelt and screamed as he tried to staunch the blood that streamed from his eye.

My companions spun and slashed, leaped aside, then lunged, keeping time in a deathly dance. One of the gray vultures, his forehead scarred to mark his fierceness, charged at Murem, throwing several daggers with amazing speed. Murem knocked away these small steels, but this put him off balance. He was not ready for the attacker’s blade, which nicked his arm and drew blood as it passed by him, then went on to slice deeply into the bone of my shoulder like a sudden, fierce shaft of fire. Our wounds only served to give Murem added strength. He swung his staff in a wide, quick arc that landed upon the gray one’s temple and crushed that side of his face.

Around us, the others of our company were not so fortunate. Kalem and Nofit were struck by arrows from an archer hidden among the rocks. Allas and Tallan battled three of the demons with their staffs. Again and again, these demons aimed their attack at the two Magi. Yet they held their ground until they could stand no more.

The gray ones had grown in number and had found us though we had travelled in silence and with caution. They had found us, and I feared that we would be lost forever.

Transfixed, I watched Murem stand perfectly still, the arrows flying about him, and inscribe a circle with his staff above his head, an orbit that grew as the arcs quickly increased. As he did this, he chanted words I could not comprehend, and the sand began to lift from the ground, more and more of it until a large cloud of swirling earth finally engulfed the narrow wadi where we had been attacked with an impenetrable shroud of dust. I could see neither my companions nor our enemies, but I could hear the gasps of our wounded and the moans of the gray