The Brother's Keeper Page 2

  “I want no more of this,” Balthazar said hoarsely and turned away.

  Melkor was tapping a fine, sage-colored powder into a cup. He swirled the cup and watched the powder dissipate. He looked about for a twig and stirred the mixture thoroughly. Balthazar watched, keeping his disdain hidden.

  “Coralwort?” he asked, almost pleasantly.

  “Mancow,” Melkor replied, in a tone that said it shouldn’t be anything but. “Mancow, with bitters. A pinch of fiddleleaf.”

  Balthazar nodded. Fiddleleaf. The idiot.

  Melkor rose, but Balthazar placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do not trouble yourself further. I will give it to him.” He held out his hand.

  Melkor looked at the hand, a trace of suspicion crossing his face, but he gave him the cup. He shook his cloak free of dust and said, “We ride shortly. Make haste.”

  Balthazar gave a tight smile, which vanished when Melkor turned away.

  Alazar was wiping Baran’s face with a damp cloth when Balthazar knelt beside him. He glanced at the cup in Balthazar’s hand.

  “I will tend him now. Melkor says we ride. Perhaps you should make ready.”

  Alazar nodded. He clapped his hand on Balthazar’s shoulder, then used it as leverage to rise. Balthazar watched him head for his mount. He glanced quickly at every member of the party, making sure each was occupied, then dumped the contents of the cup behind a rock.

  “Mancow, with bitters,” he mocked under his breath. “A pinch of fiddleleaf.” Well and good—if one wanted to hasten the delivery of a woman’s first child. Not many days ago Melkor had given a paste of crushed limestone and olive oil to one of the drivers for a rash on his shins. Better to mix it with the flour for bread. The man claimed it worked, but he feared Melkor. Probably feared he would get a nasty tonic if it did not work.

  Balthazar settled himself on the ground next to Baran. The young man was muttering, weakly moving his head back and forth. Balthazar placed his hand on Baran’s shoulder to let the man know he was not alone. From habit he began the death prayer, consecrating Baran’s soul to the next life. From habit only. His belief in Ahura Mazdah had dwindled long before this journey. He decided to direct the death prayer to the one who fired the star in the sky. Reuel believed in this god. Balthazar believed in Reuel.

  A shadow fell across Baran. Melkor stood beside him and, after listening to Balthazar’s soft murmur, took up the chant with him. It contented Balthazar deeply to know their prayers ascended to different gods. They intoned through the first set, the second, and the fourth, seamlessly omitting the third. The third set in the dirge was for kinsmen only. Balthazar would offer the third later, when the entourage had left, in the stead of the relatives this man would never see again.

  The fourth set ended, and Melkor reached for the box on Baran’s chest.

  “Leave it,” Balthazar growled between clenched and aching teeth.

  “We may encounter someone who knows of him,” Melkor protested, though he drew his hands back. “We cannot leave this to thieves.”

  “He is not dead yet. It is sacred to him.”

  “Not de—? How much of the cup did he drink?”

  Slowly, Balthazar rose. He deliberately took two fistfuls of Melkor’s tunic and yanked him down, eye level to himself. “What else did you put in that cup?”

  “Bristlebane.”

  Balthazar released him with a shove. Melkor staggered back, gained his balance, and smoothed his garments indignantly. Gasparian came to stand warily apart from them, looking from one to the other. Alazar appeared at his side.

  “Brothers . . . ,” Alazar began uncertainly.

  “Bristlebane,” Balthazar mused, nodding. It would have killed Baran in moments. Then Melkor would have taken the box from a dead man, not a dying one.

  He nodded again and shifted his jaw, then looked away to the sky. He stared at it a moment before he realized his eyes sought the place where he had last seen the star. It was habit, for all of them. When stopping for meals in the broad of day, when gazing at strange rock formations and new landscapes, it was not long before a look flickered to the sky, to the place of the star.

  One evening he had lost himself in the daze of the glittering nighttime sky, muttering an absent prayer of thanks to Tishtrya for the glory of the night; then he looked for the star and did not immediately see it. Disoriented, alarmed, then panicked, he leapt up and whirled about, searching, frantic, until he saw it again and allowed its soft glow to soothe him.

  It was the first star to illumine the seeping twilight, the last to fade at dawn. He would try to guess where it would appear and learned the guess grew more accurate if he tried to sense the location first. Once on a visit to the brush, he made sure no one was looking, then closed his eyes and turned in a circle until insensible of direction. Eyes tightly shut, he drew a slow breath, held it, quieted his heart, smoothed his mind, and spread his arms wide . . . then slowly raised an arm and pointed. He opened his eyes, gazed straight down the length of his arm and pointing finger, and there, balanced on his fingernail, was the cool white glow of Reuel’s star of portent.

  Follow the star. The injunction had become a part of him. It pulsed along with the beat of his heart, as if he had been born with its mystic force. He sought the star for solace, as his tiny nephew sought his thumb. He sought the star for reason, for times like this when the only thing on earth that made sense was not on earth at all.

  He found the place where it would soon appear and knew he gazed at it dead-on.

  “Brothers?” Alazar said again.

  “I am staying with Baran,” Balthazar said softly. “And then I am going home.” He and the unseen star regarded each other while the others regarded themselves.

  Melkor stalked past him without a word. Gasparian looked as if he would speak but held his counsel and turned away. Only Alazar tried to dissuade him, and that not for long. Balthazar shut out his words, and Alazar finally gave up.

  He settled down next to Baran and watched the party prepare for departure. Though his eyes were mostly shut, Baran seemed to watch too. The drivemasters did not appear to notice the tension in the camp as they readied themselves to depart, though one of them looped an extra waterskin to the cantle of his mount. Melkor threw Balthazar an occasional disgusted look, probably for the loss of the silver box. Alazar was clearly distressed, and Gasparian he could not figure out.

  Balthazar slowly reclined against a rock, hands clasped behind his head. “The sad fellow there, that is Alazar,” he told Baran cheerfully. “He is decent enough; I think you would like him. I will miss beating him at knucklebones. I will not miss his snoring. The one over there in the orange-and-purple-striped robe, the one who fancies your box, that would be Melkor. First-rate priest, Melkor is, straight as an arrow. Strange, though—I do not think Reuel would like him.” When he came to Gasparian, his cheerful tone softened. “The one slipping the extra loaves of bread into my day pack would be Gaspar.”

  The silent party mounted and left, with only Gasparian looking long over his shoulder in good-bye. Balthazar watched them until they disappeared, swallowed up by the road that reached for Judea.

  By habit he looked for the place of the star. Soon it would appear. It would be his only comfort in the lonely, anxious journey back to his village. Oddly, though his direction would be opposite, he knew Reuel’s star would shepherd him home.

  “I enjoy a good riddle, Baran. Gaspar and I have discussed long into the night one peculiar and engaging puzzle: How is it, during the times of cruel doubt in the madness of this venture, we seek the star for solace, when the star is the very reason for the journey?” Balthazar chuckled softly; then his smile slipped away as he gazed down the empty road. I will miss you, Gaspar.

  Baran moaned, and Balthazar moved to tend him. Alazar had draped a length of cloth over the wound, as much to hide its distressing visage as to reduce the repulsive smell. Balthazar peeked under the cloth and tried to think of a few more gods to curse. If they had found
Baran a few days earlier, if Balthazar had his medicaments . . .

  Baran was trying to speak. Balthazar leaned close, patting his shoulder. “I am here, my friend. Baran. I am here.”

  “Gift . . .” The word came in a long whisper from the dried-up mouth.

  “Gift?” Balthazar asked.

  “Gift.”

  A motion caught Balthazar’s eye, and he looked down to see Baran erratically patting the box on his chest.

  Balthazar sighed. “I think Melkor would have liked your gift, Baran. Me, I am not worthy to accept the gift of a—” He caught himself in time. He had nearly said dying. He swallowed and tried again. “Of a, a man of such obvious, ah, dignity as yourself.”

  But Baran was shaking his head no.

  Balthazar said gently, “Then I am afraid I do not understand. The box is not a gift for me, but it is a gift?”

  Baran moved his head fractionally in a yes.

  “It is a gift for someone special?”

  Fractionally, yes.

  “For your wife, perhaps? For your betrothed?”

  Fractionally, no. The dying man moaned again, distress now visible in his pallor.

  Balthazar wet his lips. Baran would soon sleep with his fathers. He leaned closer and tried again. “Baran, do you wish for me to deliver the box to someone in your stead?”

  Tears began to seep from the nearly closed eyes.

  “Ah. We understand one another. Consider me hired, and you are in luck, my friend—my services are free to all who wear indigo. It’s my favorite color.” He patted Baran’s arm and added gently, “Rest a minute, Baran; then you can tell me who it is for.” He sat back from him, momentarily relieved.

  But Baran was not for resting. His hands twitched restlessly. His breath came harder. It seemed as though he were summoning strength. He raised a thin, shaking arm and pointed.

  Immediately Balthazar was at his side, looking with him down the length of his arm. “That hillside over there? A village is beyond it?”

  Baran weakly shook his head. The arm trembled and stayed where it was.

  Balthazar swallowed. Ahriman take him, he did not understand. “Uh, the hillside . . . the box goes to someone past the hill. A name, Baran. I need a name.”

  But Baran’s arm still pointed, trembling harder.

  “Save your strength,” Balthazar pleaded. “I need a name.”

  Still Baran pointed. Balthazar felt the bloom of despair at the root of his stomach.

  “Please, Baran, please save your strength! You need it to tell me the name.”

  Waxen pallor gave way to scarlet in Baran’s strained face. His eyes were tightly closed, teeth bared in furious effort. A low growl began in his throat. His arm shook violently, and Balthazar’s despair agitated to a groan.

  “I do not understand! Ahriman take me, I do not—”

  From habit, for comfort, he sought the place of the star . . .

  . . . and saw . . .

  . . . Baran’s outstretched arm.

  He dropped cheek to cheek with Baran and stretched forth his own arm. He squeezed his eyes shut, held his breath, quieted his heart, and opened his eyes.

  In the newly twilight horizon, balanced on the tip of his fingernail and Baran’s, was the soft cool glow of . . .

  “The star,” Balthazar breathed.

  Baran’s face cleared. His arm dropped.

  And now Balthazar began to tremble.

  The old man replaced the fitting in the waterskin and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He studied the sky and chose a star low on the horizon to be his old companion Gasparian.

  “You were not surprised to see me, old friend, when I caught up with you the next day.”

  Reuel’s star was now gone, but the comforting madness that had accompanied the star had never left him. That same comforting madness had him here again to trek the journey of old. There was no star to follow this time—only the memory of a silver box inlaid with lapis lazuli . . . and a name.

  “The name guides me as the star did, Gaspar.”

  He pointed west to show Gasparian. It was as if the name hung in the sky, above the place of his destination.

  “I am not sure what I am to do with the box once I find it again,” he admitted to Gasparian’s star. “Surely the frankincense is gone by now.”

  He rummaged in his pack for bread, tore off a piece, and began to eat.

  “You know,” he said with his mouth full, eyebrows quirked, “it was a fine-quality frankincense. Melkor would not have known that. But I knew. You see, Gaspar, old friend, in my village some came to offer frankincense to Ahura Mazdah’s flame. The greater the adoration—” he shrugged—“or the richer the adorer, the greater quality the frankincense. Baran’s frankincense was fine indeed, first harvest. He paid a small fortune to fill that box.” He smiled, pausing mid-chew. “Maybe it took a first-rate herbalist and a second-rate priest to know.” He glanced about the sky and chose another star to be Baran.

  “I wish I knew if you had made the box yourself. Such exquisite beauty. Such workmanship. The young woman, she was amazed. A gracious thing she was; you would have liked her, Baran. And the child . . . I think he liked your gift too.”

  He finished his meal and brushed away the crumbs, then stood and shrugged on his shoulder bag and took up the waterskin. He bent to pick up his walking stick and leaned upon it to gaze at Gasparian’s star.

  “The other riddle we puzzled over as well, did we not, Gaspar: how the star for which men left another to die . . . is the star the same man died for.”

  His eyes flickered to Baran’s star, and slowly Balthazar smiled.

  “A great company I am in on this grand and splendid evening,” he declared as he started down the knoll. “A great company indeed.”

  His journey lay west and north, to Galilee this time, to find the silver box inlaid with lapis lazuli and the one the comforting madness called . . . James.

  Not even his brothers believed in him.

  THE GOSPEL OF JOHN 7:5, ESV

  1

  HE DID NOT KNOW what to call them. They were not Essenes, nor were they Zealots. Some were not even Jewish. He watched the latest two retreat down the slope that led to his home. The tall one, the ruder of the two, looked over his shoulder to stare boldly at James. The fact that these pilgrims never got what they came for pleased him greatly. To be sure, the shorter one carried away a pocketful of sawdust, scooped from the floor when he thought James was not looking; no matter. The fool had more sawdust in his head than in his pocket.

  They were heading for the village. And how would these visitors find Nazareth? Would they be disappointed to see that it was no different than their own hometown? They would see the same filthy beggars and the same people who did not notice them. The same smelly streets, the same noisy marketplace. They would hear women arguing prices with the merchants. They would see the usual mix of people in typical Galilean villages: Jews, Gentiles, a few strutting Romans, traveling foreigners. They would see people who lived the hard facts of life, people who sweated and smelled like them.

  Would they be as disappointed with Nazareth as they always were with James and his family?

  James leaned against the workroom doorway and watched until the two disappeared down the hill. When the first of these strangers had come to visit, James and his brothers had treated them politely. Answered questions, showed them around. Pointed out the corner workbench; they always liked to see that. In the beginning the attention was entertaining. It amused them; truth to tell, it even flattered. Nearly three years later, James was no longer amused.

  Many carried away tokens of their visit: a curled shaving from the workroom floor, a pebble from the path, a handful of stone chips from a roof roller James was chiseling. Once he caught Jorah giving tours of the home for two copper prutas per person. Though Mother put an end to that, James thought it time for recompense. At least someone had the sense to make these strangers pay for their intrusions.

  What did t
hey expect the home to be like? James saw it all the time, the looks that said their Teacher’s home fell short of their expectations.

  Those who made it past the workroom, and precious few did, came to the smallyard, an area where the sleeping rooms, the main courtyard, and the workroom converged. In the smallyard was the cistern. If there the stranger turned right, he would walk a few steps through a cool stone passage that opened left into the foreroom where the brothers slept, then the aftroom where Mother and Jorah slept. If instead the stranger went past the smallyard, he would find himself in the courtyard. There he would see Mother’s oven in one corner, those corner walls blackened from smoke. He would see pots to dye wool, pans for cooking, a grindstone for wheat and barley, a small loom for cloth. He would see a shelter of coarse cloth covering half the courtyard, under which Mother and Jorah made food, cleaned and carded wool, and mended baskets, tunics, and sandals.

  The strangers would see a home much like their own, if they were neither poor nor rich. They would see nothing remarkable. Nothing to account for an unordinary man in an ordinary world.

  But they needed a name. James had a few he called them privately, names of which Mother would not approve. He rubbed his lower lip, looking at the place where the last two had disappeared. The tall one had looked long at James and the home . . . perhaps to put them in his memory to tell his grandchildren.

  What would James tell his own?

  He shoved off from the doorway to turn into the workroom and noticed the gouge in a ridge of sawdust on the floor. He bent and picked up a handful himself, rubbing the coarse wooden filings between his fingers. What did they do with it? Sprinkle it on sick relatives? He shook it away and went to his bench.

  Jesus-ites. Nazarites would work, except it was taken. Nazarenes would fit, but were not all the occupants of Nazareth called Nazarenes? He could just imagine how the villagers would take it, mistaken for followers of Joseph’s son.