The Dovekeepers
Page 75
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
There were seven men and three women, along with four children. The men carried their belongings in packs tied onto their backs with thick ropes of woven flax. The women followed behind, simply dressed, barefoot, unadorned. It was the women who toted the goatskin containers of water and cheese and led a flock of scrawny goats tied together with leather strands forming a ribqâh, so that from a distance the animals appeared to be one creature with five heads. There were also two black donkeys laden with tall ceramic vases; inside were the rolled parchment scrolls of the Essenes’ teachings. The men were learned, holy in their aspect, especially one elderly man, who was perhaps the most ancient I had ever seen. They had been traveling ever since the Romans destroyed their settlement, living in caves, leaving behind their writings whenever possible to ensure their beliefs would not be lost should they be the next to be slaughtered.
When the visitors entered through the Snake Gate, a crowd had already gathered. The survivors appeared dazed, alarmed by the fortified conditions of Masada. They gazed with grim faces at the parapets our warriors had readied, the piles of armor, the spears with sharpened bronze tips kept beside the synagogue so that wise men could bless them. The Essenes had stumbled into a province made for war and war alone, where weapons were stocked in the manner that other villages might store oil and wine, where every stone had been rounded with a chisel, ready to be used as a weapon should the battle come to us.
We gazed at each other in the presence of these gentle people, made aware that blood and vengeance coursed through us as if we were barbarians. It was war that roused us from our dreams in the morning and sang us to an unquiet sleep at night. Some among us cast our eyes downward, stunned by what we’d become. Others glared at a group they considered fools, unwilling to fight for Zion.
The oldest of the Essene men, whose people called him Abba as a term of respect, was carried by his followers. He was weak in his body but strong in spirit. His people lifted him high upon their shoulders so he could call out to us.
“We all belong to our Lord. All that is now and ever shall be originates with God. Before things come to be, He has ordered their design. His glorious plan fulfills our destiny, a destiny it is impossible to change. We have come because we were meant to be here though we are as different from you as night from day.”
I didn’t know if our people would accept Abba’s proclamation, or if shame and fury would make that impossible. There was a tension, shown in a great and echoing silence; then Yael ran up to one of the women in the group and embraced her. Their joy at seeing each other broke through the silence. We learned this was her friend Tamar, who had once had four sons and now had only one—the others, along with her husband, had been slain in the raid upon her settlement by the legion. Now all this Essene woman had left was a boy of ten, one named Yehuda, whom she clung to as if he alone held her to this earth she walked upon.
Ben Ya’ir himself allowed the Essenes to stay. He came to speak with their leader, this learned man who was both father and priest, who wore pure white linen and was barefoot, whose face was unlined even though he was so very old. They sat together beneath an olive tree, speaking for hours. They then sat with Menachem ben Arrat, our great priest. At the end of that time the word went out—no one was to trouble the group of outsiders, no matter how different they might appear. Their customs were their own, allowed within our walls while they stayed among us.
All fourteen of the Essenes wished to live together in one abode, as was their practice, for what belonged to one belonged to all. They were granted a small stone barn on the far side of the orchard that had in the past been used to shelter goats ready to bring forth new kids. They would eat their meals together, sharing what little they had beneath the same tree where their leader and ours had spoken and come to terms. They bathed with cold water before each meal and offered their prayers fervently before any food passed their lips. Three times a day—at dawn, and noon, and again after the first three stars appeared—we could see the men at their prayers, facing toward Jerusalem. The six men who were faithful students of Abba set up long tables fashioned from planks of hardwood in order to roll out their scrolls, the documents stored in the ceramic vases that had been carried through the wilderness on the backs of their lumbering donkeys. They made their marks with an ink drawn from walnut oil and the gum of the turpentine tree.
Yael and I brought them olives and cheese and an allotment of wheat. Nahara came with us, bringing flasks of water and oil that her mother sent. A young Essene man, often at Abba’s side and clearly his favorite, came to help Nahara carry the water. In order for him to do so, Nahara needed to place the flasks upon the ground, for the young man could not risk taking them from her hand; all she had touched might be considered tamé.
When the visitors entered through the Snake Gate, a crowd had already gathered. The survivors appeared dazed, alarmed by the fortified conditions of Masada. They gazed with grim faces at the parapets our warriors had readied, the piles of armor, the spears with sharpened bronze tips kept beside the synagogue so that wise men could bless them. The Essenes had stumbled into a province made for war and war alone, where weapons were stocked in the manner that other villages might store oil and wine, where every stone had been rounded with a chisel, ready to be used as a weapon should the battle come to us.
We gazed at each other in the presence of these gentle people, made aware that blood and vengeance coursed through us as if we were barbarians. It was war that roused us from our dreams in the morning and sang us to an unquiet sleep at night. Some among us cast our eyes downward, stunned by what we’d become. Others glared at a group they considered fools, unwilling to fight for Zion.
The oldest of the Essene men, whose people called him Abba as a term of respect, was carried by his followers. He was weak in his body but strong in spirit. His people lifted him high upon their shoulders so he could call out to us.
“We all belong to our Lord. All that is now and ever shall be originates with God. Before things come to be, He has ordered their design. His glorious plan fulfills our destiny, a destiny it is impossible to change. We have come because we were meant to be here though we are as different from you as night from day.”
I didn’t know if our people would accept Abba’s proclamation, or if shame and fury would make that impossible. There was a tension, shown in a great and echoing silence; then Yael ran up to one of the women in the group and embraced her. Their joy at seeing each other broke through the silence. We learned this was her friend Tamar, who had once had four sons and now had only one—the others, along with her husband, had been slain in the raid upon her settlement by the legion. Now all this Essene woman had left was a boy of ten, one named Yehuda, whom she clung to as if he alone held her to this earth she walked upon.
Ben Ya’ir himself allowed the Essenes to stay. He came to speak with their leader, this learned man who was both father and priest, who wore pure white linen and was barefoot, whose face was unlined even though he was so very old. They sat together beneath an olive tree, speaking for hours. They then sat with Menachem ben Arrat, our great priest. At the end of that time the word went out—no one was to trouble the group of outsiders, no matter how different they might appear. Their customs were their own, allowed within our walls while they stayed among us.
All fourteen of the Essenes wished to live together in one abode, as was their practice, for what belonged to one belonged to all. They were granted a small stone barn on the far side of the orchard that had in the past been used to shelter goats ready to bring forth new kids. They would eat their meals together, sharing what little they had beneath the same tree where their leader and ours had spoken and come to terms. They bathed with cold water before each meal and offered their prayers fervently before any food passed their lips. Three times a day—at dawn, and noon, and again after the first three stars appeared—we could see the men at their prayers, facing toward Jerusalem. The six men who were faithful students of Abba set up long tables fashioned from planks of hardwood in order to roll out their scrolls, the documents stored in the ceramic vases that had been carried through the wilderness on the backs of their lumbering donkeys. They made their marks with an ink drawn from walnut oil and the gum of the turpentine tree.
Yael and I brought them olives and cheese and an allotment of wheat. Nahara came with us, bringing flasks of water and oil that her mother sent. A young Essene man, often at Abba’s side and clearly his favorite, came to help Nahara carry the water. In order for him to do so, Nahara needed to place the flasks upon the ground, for the young man could not risk taking them from her hand; all she had touched might be considered tamé.
