TEXT-ALIGN: justify">An old man strode south along the road, his long legs carrying him in a swift, easy lope. Much taller than most men, he covered in one pace nearly double the distance any other traveler did – especially when he hurried, as he was doing now. In his hand he held a remarkable staff, unusually long and curiously topped with radiating barbs or spikes.
Otherwise he gave no indication whether he was either wealthy or poor. His leather water bottle was so ordinary, his plain back pack so common, he could have been either a tradesman or disguised royalty. However, the dignity of his face, the sheen of his snow-white hair and beard, the straightness of his spare frame and above all the sharpness of his unclouded eyes all marked him as exceptional. In fact, the people of his town called him “Coheni”, a respectful and affectionate term meaning “my priest”.
The sun stood short of its zenith, but already he’d come far, leaving the home of his friend Nemuel in Hebron long before daybreak. Even in darkness he knew the way. He’d walked this familiar road, going north or south, on dozens of journeys. He’d be home in Beersheba by early afternoon.
As he relived the past days in his memory, wave after wave of emotion crossed his expressive features. Joy, hope, terror, surprise, confusion, determination – all appeared in turn on his face. Like an arrow eager for its mark, he pressed on toward home, toward a destiny revealed to him by the Lord God.
* * *
At the old man’s home, his wife Elizabeth awaited his return anxiously. A bewildering variety of issues had crowded the two weeks of his absence. To relieve her concerns, she attacked the weeds
in her garden with fierce energy.
As she bent to her hoeing, Elizabeth’s iron-gray hair tangled in the rare incense bushes bordering her garden. She blinked in surprise, realizing she’d unconsciously weeded a whole row of onions. Wilting sprouts lay on the ground, cut off while she was lost in her reverie.
So many thoughts jostled in her mind. The sun’s angle told her the day was still young. I can’t reasonably expect my husband home for hours, she mused, but from here in the garden I might catch a glimpse of him passing the ridge crest across the valley. “I’ll have Zachariah’s dinner ready when he comes,” she said aloud to no one but herself.
Happy thoughts wrestled with darker ones, the darker threatening to dominate. Worries about her health formed one set of forebodings. Just after her husband had left for his fortnight’s duty in the temple, Elizabeth experienced a frightening hemorrhage. The usual way of women ceased for me years ago, so that can’t be the cause. What could it be? she wondered. From time to time gossips relished tales of such episodes happening to older women. With dread she recalled that decline, pain and death invariably followed such an onset of bleeding.
So, are my years nearing their end? she pondered. I don’t feel old enough to die yet – and I don’t feel ill. In fact, I think I’m healthier and stronger than I’ve been for ages. My appetite surely has been good. How does that fit with this unnatural flow?
Another worry was Barzillai’s report. Just six days ago this business partner of Zachariah had arrived on one of his regular trade visits. He had sold in the Beersheba marketplace, requested new supplies of spices from the other Beersheba partner Abner, restocked his wares and picked up a scroll for delivery to Alexandria in Egypt. As usual, he bubbled over with laughter and news, but reported
a disturbing rumor, too.
“Something happened to Uncle Zachariah while I was in the Holy City,” Barzillai announced, a frown pulling his eyebrows together. “Gossip was going around. People said that after offering the evening prayers in the Temple, Uncle emerged from behind the curtains of the Holy Place trembling and unable to speak.” Everyone in Beersheba’s marketplace hung on the trader’s words. “They say he was dazed and gestured vague