Premonition Page 2

  By the age of thirteen, when he took his bar mitzvah, Ari had already read Darwin. Einstein. Russell. The universe was not 5,700 years old; it was fourteen billion. Man had not been molded from the dust of the earth; he was the random endpoint of a long sequence of chemical reactions. And if there was a God, he was not a personal God; he was a First Cause, a Ground of Being, infinitely remote. Or so Ari had believed until he came here.

  Ari heard Baruch pulling on his own clothes under his covers. “Brother Ari, it is time.”

  Ari slipped out of bed and plunged his feet into his sandals, throwing his thick goat-hair cloak around him to ward off the chill. Baruch followed him out of the room. They tiptoed down the stairs to the doorway. Ari wrapped a long, very broad cloth belt around his waist several times. Baruch did the same with an old and worn belt—he had given the bandits his usual belt last night. With many dinars.

  Anxiety weighted Ari’s spirits. Baruch, a scribe, had recently been paid for copying a Torah scroll. That was all the income they would receive until Baruch completed his next scroll.

  Baruch snugged his cloak around his shoulders. “Courage, Brother Ari. HaShem has shown us mercy.”

  Ari felt relief. That was Baruch’s way of saying that the bandits had not gotten all of their money. On the way out, both men kissed their fingers and touched the mezuzah on the doorpost. In the street, Baruch latched the door with a heavy iron key, put it in his belt, and they set out for the synagogue.

  And therein lay the central paradox of Ari’s life.

  Not in a thousand years would Ari have imagined that he would ever be going to daily prayers, like the foolish Haredim, who had made his teenage years a torture. He was a man of logic. Reason. Physics. But that was before he came through the wormhole. Before he met Rivka. Before HaShem gave him one small shard of belief to clutch.

  They walked in silence through the streets of white stone. The walls boxed them in tightly, so close that Ari could stretch out his arms and touch both sides at once. He loved this city. It was primitive. Alien. Superstitious.

  Home.

  This city of God was in his bones, in his blood. He had known it from the day he came through the wormhole, that this was home, that he had been made for this city, and it for him. The language had been a problem at first, but first-century Aramaic was not so very different from twentieth-century Hebrew, and that was soon solved.

  Jerusalem was a city of infinite wonder, and Ari loved it, despite its strangeness. But he must somehow learn to put together the shards of his life, and this seemed impossible. Yes, he believed in HaShem, a personal God, who had intervened in his life one fine day in a way that could not be explained. And yet neither could one explain ten thousand years of archaeological ruins, or four billion years of fossils, or fourteen billion of light pouring in from the universe, except to conclude that the Torah was not the history book that the Haredim said it was.

  How to believe in the HaShem of Torah, if one did not believe that the Torah was given by HaShem? HaShem had made a puzzle for him, and Ari’s life would be incomplete until he solved it. But he would not give up his reason, and neither would he release his tiny shard of faith.

  Fifty paces from their synagogue, Baruch suddenly stopped and held up his hand. “Brother Ari, you will not speak of the matter of the bandits to anyone, please.”

  Ari narrowed his eyes. “As you say.” He rubbed his hands together against the morning chill, remembering that Baruch would not be paid again for several weeks. “How many dinars do we have left?”

  Baruch gave him a strange look. “None.”

  Ari stared at him, feeling a huge emptiness open in his stomach. “But ... how will we live?”

  Baruch smiled. “HaShem will watch over us. You will say nothing.”

  Which was typical foolishness. Baruch made a career of walking a fine line between faith and craziness, and some days Ari wished to strangle him.

  “Brother Ari, I see what you think in your heart, but you are wrong. The evil men took only our money, but we have still our honor. Honor is all.”

  More craziness. This whole city believed such foolishness about honor.

  Baruch put a strong hand on Ari’s shoulder. “Think, my friend, if they had stolen Sister Rivka instead.”

  A cold knot formed in Ari’s belly. If anything had happened to Rivka ...

  “You see?” Baruch smiled. “You have still your honor and it is worth more than many dinars. So be glad, and wait to see what HaShem will do for us. Only say nothing!” He turned and continued walking.

  Ari hurried after him. They reached the synagogue and went in. They were almost late. Half a hundred men waited there already for the early morning prayers to begin. This was a heavy irony to Ari. He prayed every day with men who followed a man they called Rabban Yeshua. In plain language, Jesus—a name Ari had been taught all his life to despise. Because of Gentile followers of this Jesus, millions of his people had been murdered. Flogged, burned, decapitated. Forced to convert, then tortured to test that their conversion was true. Their women were violated, their homes burned, their children stolen.

  In the name of Jesus. That was a name Ari would never love.

  But of course, that was yet future, and these men of The Way of Yeshua would never know of it. Would never believe if Ari told them. He had not even told Baruch. Some horrors were best left unsaid. No, these men could not imagine the evil to be committed in the name of Jesus. They followed Yeshua, the Righteous One—the tsaddik—of Yisrael. He had done no evil. Instead evil had been done to him, by the hand of Roman soldiers, at the command of a chief priest named Hanan. And his followers continued until now, praying to HaShem in the name of Yeshua, whom they believed to be Mashiach. Ari respected Yeshua as a good man, a wise man. Not Mashiach, but a tsaddik.

  Though Ari did not believe in Yeshua, he prayed with these men. Why should he not? His best friend Baruch prayed here. The men of this synagogue accepted him, though they knew he came from a far country, knew that he was not fully a man of Jerusalem, not a follower of The Way of Yeshua. If they would have him, why should he not have them? A man needed a community, even if he could live only at its edges.

  His life was shards anyway, and one paradox more or less would make no difference.

  Silence fell over the congregation of men. Ari raised his tallit—his prayer shawl—over his head and let its softness enfold him. Such customs were foolishness, of course, but they were a harmless foolishness. And the ritual had a way of centering his mind on the prayers to come next.

  Ari closed his eyes and waited. Thick silence fell, heavy with the presence of HaShem. Brother Shmuel the prophet began chanting, his deep and powerful voice a river that would carry them to the throne of the Blessed One. The others quickly joined in. Ari did also.

  “Baruch, Attah Adonai, Eloheinu, v’Elohei avoteinu ...” Blessed are you, Lord our God and God of our fathers ...

  Ari had suffered through this very prayer many times as a boy. Now, as a man, he loved it, though it made no sense that a man of reason should love a foolish ritual. Perhaps it was simply in his blood to love it.

  It was the best part of any day, and Ari could easily see why his fathers for a hundred generations had endured torture and death for the sake of such prayers.

  Ari

  * * *

  A pink dawn was breaking over the city of God when the prayers ended. Ari felt wonderful. Then he remembered the matter of the dinars, and coldness settled over his heart. They had food for today’s Shabbat meals, but that was all. After today, they would go hungry—and Hana was six months pregnant. How could Baruch be so calm in the face of that?

  Ari folded his tallit and was putting it into the folds of his belt when he heard a deep, pleasant voice.

  “Brother Baruch, please, you will pray for me.”

  Ari turned to see Shmuel the prophet standing before Baruch. Shmuel stood only a few centimeters shorter than Ari. In this city of poorly nourished men, that made him pra
ctically a giant. A young man in his early twenties, Shmuel was a Nazir, which meant he never drank alcohol and he had not cut his hair for a very long time. Thick black dreadlocks hung to his waist. Rivka considered him weird, hyper-religious, but the men of the synagogue held him in high honor and called him a prophet. Ari did not know what to think of Shmuel, but he did not believe he was a prophet. Shmuel held out his left hand to Baruch. The smallest finger was bent inward at a right angle at the second joint.

  Ari sighed. Yet again. Shmuel had been born with his finger defective, and Baruch had prayed for him twice a week since Ari came to the city. To no effect. Another prayer would be meshugah.

  Baruch beamed at Shmuel. “Of course, Brother Shmuel. Brother Ari, you will lay hands on him with me, please.”

  Ari did his best to smile pleasantly. It was foolishness, but he would do it. He placed both hands on Brother Shmuel’s shoulders. Baruch took Shmuel’s hand in both of his. Other men gathered around, laying hands on Shmuel, waiting for Baruch.

  Ari had seen this so often, he could have done it himself. First Baruch asked the Spirit to rest on them. Then he waited for some minutes. Ari felt nothing, other than a sense of quiet. Baruch wore a look of deep concentration, as though listening to a voice many miles away. The other men prayed this or that. They meant well, but Ari had never seen any of their prayers have any effect.

  Whereas Baruch ...

  Baruch could really heal, sometimes. Often, Ari knew, there might be a psychological explanation. The placebo effect. And yet, occasionally, something real happened. Something beyond reason. Last summer, Baruch had saved Ari’s life when he should have died of a hornet sting. Since then, Ari had been stung twice, with no reaction. Baruch had healed him permanently of a fatal allergy. That was why Ari believed in HaShem, why he consented to all this craziness. It was logic to believe, even if he did not understand.

  Baruch finally stirred from his reverie. He touched Shmuel’s finger and commanded it to be straight, in the name of Yeshua.

  Nothing happened.

  Ari was not surprised. He had seen Baruch pray for Shmuel many times. Nothing ever happened to Shmuel.

  Baruch continued praying for some time. A feeling of warmth filled Ari. This too was common. He did not understand it, but he thought there was some natural explanation.

  Finally, the prayer ended. Ari took his hands off Shmuel.

  Baruch kissed Shmuel on both cheeks. “Go in peace, my friend, and trust in HaShem.” He turned to Ari. “The Spirit was strong today. Did you feel it?”

  “No.” Ari had never felt the Spirit. But Baruch did, and perhaps that was why Baruch could heal and Ari could not.

  “Perhaps tomorrow, Brother Shmuel.” Baruch took Ari’s arm and guided him toward the door.

  When they were out in the street, Ari asked, “Why do you continue to pray for Brother Shmuel? You know nothing will happen.”

  Baruch gave him an enigmatic smile. “Rabban Yeshua commanded us to pray. Therefore, I pray. There is a secret room in Brother Shmuel’s heart, and this I cannot enter. Not yet.”

  “A room?” Ari studied Baruch. “What is in this room?”

  “On the day Brother Shmuel chooses to unlock it, then I will know, and then his finger will be a simple matter.” Baruch drew in a deep breath and gazed up at the clean, cloudless Shabbat sky. “Now you will explain to me about the electron again. You are much disturbed by this electron, and I do not understand why it should be a hard matter.”

  Ari could not help smiling. It was their private tradition that they walked in silence to the morning prayers, but they returned home afterward discussing physics. Baruch loved to hear of the majesty of HaShem’s creation, and he never took offense when Ari told him something that contradicted the Torah. He seemed to think that contradictions were merely HaShem’s invitation to a deeper understanding.

  “The problem is this,” Ari began, and they stepped into a universe of ideas far from the city of God.

  Rivka

  * * *

  Rivka peered through the window slits into the early-morning light. The men would be home soon and then ... she wasn’t sure what would happen next. Hana had just told her upstairs that Baruch had given the dagger-men all the money in the house—every single dinar. Rivka shivered in the December cold and snuggled her cloak around her shoulders.

  Hana came downstairs, yawning fiercely, and looking like a million dinars. As usual.

  Rivka still felt like a king-sized fool for being taken by the dagger-men. “Hana, what are we going to do?”

  Hana shrugged, her eyes distant. “All is in the hands of HaShem.” She studied Rivka’s face. “You are well, Sister Rivka?”

  “I ... didn’t sleep well last night. Are you well?”

  Hana slumped onto a wooden stool at the one-legged stone table. “The shade of the wicked man troubled my dreams again.”

  Rivka sighed. There wasn’t any such thing as a shade, but she couldn’t tell Hana that. Hana was always talking about spirits. It was a little weird, but Rivka was used to it. “Have you asked Baruch to pray about these ... nightmares?”

  “They are not nightmares.” Hana put on her obstinate look. “It was the shade of the wicked man.”

  Rivka didn’t want to argue. The wicked man. Damien West. Ari’s former colleague. A large, grinning blond man with a cherubic face, the man responsible for bringing her here. A man who would have killed the apostle Paul, along with Rivka, Ari, Hana, Baruch. Yes, he had been a wicked man, but ... now he was a very dead man. And dead people didn’t go around clanking chains. Or whatever.

  Rivka put her arm around Hana. “Ask Baruch to pray for you and this ... shade thing will go away.”

  “Yes, of course,” Hana said in a wooden tone.

  Voices. Rivka turned to look at the door. It swung open.

  “... so they discovered that an electron can be both here and not here at the same time,” Ari said. “It is a strange idea, yes?”

  “Not so strange,” Baruch said. “Brother Ari, this electron of yours is much like the Spirit. The Spirit is here, and yet not here, do you agree? And this is a mystery, but it is not a mystery. I do not see why you consider this electron so strange.”

  Hana harrumphed loudly. “I think certain men are both here and not here, would you agree, Sister Rivka?”

  Ari and Baruch looked up, startled. As usual, they must have walked home on autopilot, their bodies navigating the cramped streets of Jerusalem while their minds wandered in a strange universe of ideas. Ari had nobody in all the city to talk physics with, except Baruch. But Baruch was enough.

  Rivka felt grateful once again that Ari had such a friend. “And how were the morning prayers?”

  “Most wonderful,” Baruch said. “The Spirit came while we prayed the Amidah, and I knew that all will be well.”

  Which was just a little naive, but Rivka didn’t want to say so. “What did the men say when you told them about the dagger-men?”

  “We will not tell them of this matter,” Baruch said.

  Rivka wanted to ask why not, but Ari gave a little shake of his head.

  Baruch sat at the table. “We have food for Shabbat and we will take delight in Shabbat. Come! Let us give thanks and eat!”

  Rivka opened the small pantry and brought out their morning meal. Barley bread. Goat’s cheese. Pickled cucumbers. Soured milk—like yogurt, only not quite. Water, mixed half and half with beer. Everybody here drank their water mixed with either wine or beer. The alcohol killed whatever bacteria infested the water. It was a good system, really, though it probably would have shocked the daylights out of Rivka’s best friend back home in Berkeley, a Baptist.

  They all washed hands and sat down on stools around the tiny table. Baruch raised his eyes to heaven and gave thanks to HaShem. “Blessed are you, Lord, God of our fathers, King of the Universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.” It was identical to the prayer Rivka had learned in her Messianic Jewish synagogue in San Diego, two thousand
years in the future. Despite the culture shock coming here, some things hadn’t changed a bit.

  While they ate, they talked of the future. Hana’s baby. Baruch’s Torah scrolls. Ari’s prospects for finding work. Rivka barely listened. Was she the only one of them worried about what they were going to eat tomorrow? It was fine to talk about how HaShem would take care of them, but realistically, what were they going to do?

  But Baruch was not going to let dirty reality mess up his Shabbat. Neither would Hana. And Ari, as usual, just went along. He was easy to get along with, but ... infuriatingly passive. This whole situation was just frustrating, and the sooner Ari found work so they could move into their own house, the better.

  After some time, Rivka realized that the others were looking at her. Waiting. Of course. The blessing after meals. She had spaced out again. “I’m sorry.”

  Baruch raised his eyes to heaven and prayed the blessing again.

  After the meal, Hana and Rivka put the food away. Baruch and Ari went outside to look at the weather. Ari poked his head inside. “It will be a fine Shabbat.”

  Rivka and Hana kissed fingers to the mezuzah on the way out and they locked the house. Baruch took Ari’s arm and started toward the synagogue. “Now, Brother Ari, you still have not explained to me why this electron bothers you so much ...”

  The two women fell in step a few paces behind the men. Something inside Rivka squeezed into a hard, tight knot. Always behind the men. In Jerusalem, in this century, in this culture, a woman never walked beside her husband. You walked behind him. You covered every strand of your hair. If you were upper class, or a virgin, or very pious, you wore a veil over your face. Rivka felt thankful she was none of those, so she escaped the veil, but there was no way in the world to get out of covering her hair.

  And a man did not talk to his wife—not in public, only in private. Nor would he talk to any other woman ever, not in public and not in private, unless he must. This world of Jerusalem was two separate worlds. There was a man’s world—the house of prayer, the marketplace of ideas, the fellowship of Torah. And there was a woman’s world—the house of chatter, the marketplace of fruits and vegetables, the fellowship of women and children. Parallel universes.