An Echo in the Darkness(104)
After days of wandering, he entered a small village named Nain in the hills of the district of Galilee. He stopped at the marketplace and purchased bread and wine. As had happened before, he was assumed to be a Jew until he spoke and his accent was recognized. However, this time the merchant was blunt rather than apprehensive, straightforward rather than withdrawn.
“Why are you dressed as a Jew?” he said, openly surprised and curious.
Marcus told him of being robbed on the road to Jericho and of being rescued by Ezra Barjachin. “These were a gift from him. I wear them proudly.”
The merchant nodded, seemingly satisfied with his answers but still curious. “What are you doing here in the hill country of Galilee?”
“I’m looking for the home of a girl named Hadassah.”
“Hadassah?”
“Have you heard the name before?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Hadassah is a common enough name among Jewish girls.”
Marcus was not satisfied with his answer. He described her in as much detail as he could.
The merchant shrugged. “Dark hair, dark brown eyes, slight build. Your description would fit any one of a hundred girls. Was there something remarkable about her?”
“She was remarkable.” An old woman was standing in the shade of the stall. Marcus could tell she was eavesdropping on his conversation with the merchant. Something about her expression made him direct his next question to her. “Do you know of a girl named Hadassah?”
“It is as Nahshon says,” the old woman said. “There are many Hadassahs.”
Dejected, Marcus started to turn away when the old woman spoke again. “Was her father a potter?”
He frowned, trying to remember, then glanced back at her. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“There was a potter who lived here. His name was Hananiah. He married when he was advanced in years. His wife’s name was Rebekkah. She bore him three children—a son and two daughters. One of the girls was named Hadassah. The other was Leah. The son was called Mark. They went to Jerusalem and never returned.”
The merchant looked impatient with her. “The Hadassah of whom you speak may not be the same one.”
“Hadassah claimed her father was raised from the dead by Jesus of Nazareth,” Marcus said.
The merchant glanced at him sharply. “Why did you not say this in the beginning?”
“Then you know of her.”
“The Hadassah you seek is the same one,” the old woman said. “The house where her family lived has been closed up since they went to Jerusalem for Passover. We heard they all died there.”
“Hadassah lived.”
The old woman shook her head in amazement. “An act of God,” she said reverently.
“She was a timid child,” the merchant said. “One would think it would be the strong who survived. Not the weak.”
Leaning heavily on her cane, the old woman studied Marcus intently. “Where is Hadassah now?”
Marcus looked away. “Where did she live?” His question met with a long silence. He looked at the old woman again. “I must know,” he said heavily.
The woman studied him, and her lined face softened. “Hananiah’s house is down that street, on the east side, fourth from the end.”
Marcus turned away.
“Roman,” she said gently, “you will find no one there.”
He found the house with ease and was amazed at how small it was. The door had been left unlocked. It creaked as he pushed it open. As he entered the dim interior, cobwebs caught at him. He brushed them aside. The place had the dry smell of disuse and abandonment.
He glanced around at the small main room. There were no steps to the roof in this house, only a door at the back that opened into a bedchamber. A bare platform bed was built into the clay wall.
Marcus crossed the room and lifted the small bar on the window doors and pushed them open. Sunlight streamed in and, along with it, a blast of warm air that set particles of dust dancing in the stream of light. Stepping back, Marcus turned and saw the sun shone in upon a potter’s wheel. He went to it and turned it. The wheel moved stiffly, protesting years of disuse.
Leaving it, Marcus ran his hand over the dusty, roughhewn table. He sat on one of the five stools and looked slowly around the room. There was a yoke and two water buckets near the front door. Other than that, there were a few clay jugs and bowls. Little else. Certainly nothing of value.
Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply, his hands flat on the rough surface of the table. Hadassah had grown up in this house. She had slept in this room, eaten at this table. His fingers spread on the gritty surface, thinking her hands had touched it. He wanted to capture her essence, to be close to her.