The Rabbi’s Daughter. Alan Sorem

not today. Today there has been too much excitement. I must rest.”

      Mark frowned. “But we have barely begun.”

      “I need to think the old matters through. To be able to speak of them in an orderly way for the account that you propose to write.”

      “Of course,” Mark nodded. “We did not wish to burden you so. But the truth of these matters is important.”

      “I agree.”

      The two men rose. “We will begin in late morning tomorrow if that is all right.”

      “Yes.” Mary did not return Mark’s smile. She was remembering those days so long ago. “Tomorrow.”

      Three

      Mary usually slept soundly but that night she drifted in and out of a light slumber, stirred by the conversation of the day.

      The visit of the two men brought back a vivid memory of the last day in Jerusalem and the sights and sounds and smells that were etched in her remembering. The hill. The three crosses. The foul odor of blood, human excrement, and piss. The food vendors and the wine sellers, hawking their wares amidst the crowd. And that one man, that odious man who stank from his sweat on the warm day. He approached the disciple John and her, smirking as he shook three wineskins turned shekel collectors. The coins jingled loudly. He pushed her aside and spoke to John.

      “And how about you, my good man. Only a shekel to choose the time of death of the one in the middle, poor bastard. Three choices. Only a shekel!” He shook the wineskins vigorously.

      “Get away before I knee you in your privates!” John retorted.

      The man backed away. “Oh, there’s plenty who’ll pay. And one will be a rich man! Pity you won’t.” He laughed as he turned to continue working the crowd.

      John put his arm around her and held her close as she shuddered. She was at an angle to the men mounted on horses, surveying the crowd. One, younger than the rest, met her glance with an unsmiling appraisal. He wore the garments of the Chief Priest’s household. She averted her eyes, but when she glanced his way again, he was still watching her.

      She awoke and turned on her side.

      “A dream. Only a dream,” she murmured to herself. “Long ago. Over and done.”

      She dozed. Her restless limbs quieted. She fell into a deeper sleep and dreamed again.

      She was standing at the side of the large dry-stone pen constructed by Lazarus and his nephew Amos many years ago. The low circular pen was on a level place carved out of the hillside below the farmhouse in which Lazarus, Amos and Rebecca had lived. There was a lovely view down the pathway that led to the city, the metropolis of Ephesus, almost as populous as Rome.

      The pen was home in the summer to two workhorses of Amos that pulled to the cottage the trees hewn in the forest. There they were cut and trimmed for sale as lumber.

      No workhorses were present, only a white stallion at the far side of the pen. He was turned away from her. She could hear the sighing of the wind in the treetops.

      As she walked closer to the pen, she felt a warm breeze caress her face.

      The horse flicked the summer flies away with his tail, oblivious to her presence until she called to him. Then his head turned toward her. They regarded one another, horse and human, both with an even unblinking gaze. Neither moved.

      At last the large head turned away. She was tempted to walk around the pen to come closer to the stallion, but a sudden feeling of peace filled her and she remained still.

      She slept soundly through the remainder of the night.

      When she awoke, dawn was breaking. The details of the dream remained clear.

      Amos came to the cottage later. He brought fresh fruit and cheese that Rebecca had churned from their cow’s milk and let ripen in the spring.

      Mary asked him if he had a new horse to help with his farm work. A white stallion.

      He smiled. “Not enough Roman coins in hand for another horse. Why do you ask?”

      “A dream I had in the night. A white stallion was in your pen.”