Jeff Keene II
Pericope
Chapter 1
Pericope had reclined in this third story window every evening for the last week basking in the warm rays of the setting sun. Each time, the view teased at her lofty dreams to escape her reality. Much had taken place to lead her to this bedchamber. A bedchamber not her own.
She did not belong here. Not in this stately room. Not in this palatial house. Not even in this part of Jerusalem.
Pericope closed her eyes and breathed in the Holy Temple’s splendor. Brilliant light shining in every direction from its gilded spires emanated a unique glow fueling her hopes. Maybe this very room held the key to its magnificence.
The golden structure gleamed in the setting sun’s rays. It reinforced her understanding of why the Jews sincerely believed their god dwelled within the temple’s walls of stone, directing his glory down upon Jerusalem’s citizens, and even upon this solitary window.
To the east, stretched the Valley of the Cheesemakers. From Manasseh’s window she tracked the residents who worked and traveled along the edges of its sloping sides. Rows of pristine houses and large arched passageways bridged the wealthy Upper City and the Temple Mount.
It’s just a building.
She tore her gaze from that hallowed place. Guilt gnawed within. Am I being foolish? Her self-loathing banished the moment of peace. With her head drooping, she turned her back from the view, and on her dream.
Pericope murmured, “How can I fix this?”
A groggy male voice emanated from a low bed positioned against the wall opposite Pericope’s wistful perch. Manasseh turned over. “What?”
A gentle breeze stirred the cream-white, linen curtains. They brushed against her cheek. The draft carried smells of dinner cooking from the street below. She sniffed the air again like a dog catching a scent. Meat, a rare luxury in her home, was enjoyed frequently here. Her stomach ached in anticipation. Oh, what I would give for a bite of roast lamb.
She was in the Upper City. Zion. White marble villas and palaces of rich and powerful Jewish families and high-ranking Roman officials reflected the pompousness and arrogance of their residents.
She left the window’s view and crossed the room, her steps as soft as a falling feather on the cool marble floor as she answered Manasseh. “I was just talking to myself again.”
“Well, stop. I’m trying to rest. Your visits do tend to tire me out.” He grinned and motioned for her to join him.
She slid onto his bed. Her long hair cascaded behind her shoulder revealing olive skin. “I’m hungry. Can we eat? Maybe Niva can bring us soup or figs and wine from the kitchen?” She used her beautiful smile to persuade him.
“Don’t bat those amber eyes at me. Wait until the sun has fully set. You know what would happen if Niva, or anyone else saw you in here.” He sat up and stared toward the fading exterior light.
Pericope shied away from that view. Would she ever call such scenery her own? Could it someday be her window?
Pericope
by
Jeff Keene II
A Novel
Yamin
Yamin
Chapter 1
Yamin ran uphill on the dusty winding path connecting the lake’s shoreline to his home. His shoulder-length dark-brown hair shot droplets of sweat as it whipped back and forth. He passed several merchants carrying baskets of fresh fish to the city of Hippos at the top of the hill.
His father, Eber, followed far behind and at a much slower pace.
Yamin’s muscles ached from the morbid chore he had been given earlier. His infirmed parents put more responsibility on him than those of other fifteen-year-old boys. He had even learned to bake bread and launder clothes.
The only work he didn’t despise was with the family boat. Before his parents had been stricken, he spent his days on or by the sea, honing his skills for when he could venture out alone.
The disease had spread quickly through the region east of the Sea of Galilee where his family lived for generations. Decapolis, a league of ten free city-states under the umbrella of Roman authority, was often attacked by illnesses spreading from all directions. The King’s Highway stretched from Arabia in the south to Damascus in the north. This major trade route brought more than just goods from faraway places.
It took his uncle first. Since then, Yamin had been expected to take up the slack in daily duties. And the work never ended.
Yamin’s uncle and father co-owned a fishing vessel. Although they worked on the great lake, they also traded in fishing nets and traps, selling their handcrafted wares at the local markets along with fresh and salted fish.
Now that his parents had both taken ill, and his mother become bedridden with the same incurable ailment as his uncle, Yamin’s duties to support the family kept him busy from before sunrise to after sunset.
He entered his family’s one room cottage. The pungent scent of excrement curled his nose.
“Mother.” He breathed rapidly as he approached her bed. Traveling uphill from the shore to the house was a challenge when walking, let alone running.
He sat on the bedside with trepidation and gently squeezed her thin, cold hand. No response. He remembered how these hands often made his favorite meal of lentil soup with chicken. Yamin used his sense of touch to analyze his mother’s skin.
His gift of sensing objects like trees, rocks, and, oftentimes, parts of his father’s boat with his fingertips gave him a better understanding of them. They were not real until he could touch them. It started when he was a small child and caused a stir in the community when onlookers stared at his outwardly odd behavior of touching everything as if listening through his fingers.
Since his mother became ill, the meals he and his father shared were more frugal and consisted of bread, olives, and pickled sardines. The family’s aging boat sat in dry dock once again due to increasingly necessary repairs, so fresh fish remained costly.
He continued to stroke her hand, the loose skin moving over tendons and bones. Yamin gathered as much information from this tactile experience as his mind could handle. He noticed how his mother’s breathing, shallow and raspy, had worsened since yesterday.
If only I could give her some of my breaths.
He studied her. She had suffered a drastic loss of weight these past weeks and appeared to be nothing more than a lumpy fold of linens under the bed coverings. Her seemingly bodiless head stuck out on one end and facial bones, once hidden behind healthy cheeks, now protruded giving her a corpse-like visage.
He tried again to stimulate a response. “Mother. It’s me, Yamin.” His voice cracked and throat tightened as he choked back emotions.
No reply.
“Father was right.” Tears welled. “These are your last breaths. I didn’t want to believe him. That’s why he called me back so early before sunset.”
Today’s only chore had consisted of nothing more than digging a shallow grave for his dying mother. I didn’t think it would be so soon.
Lochesh
Chapter 1
Wild wind accompanied sheets of chilling rain just after sunset. Lochesh tried to fight the childish urge to splash in the puddles forming in the dirt between his family’s thatch-roofed home and the rolling fields of winter wheat and barley. He let one foot touch down with a splosh and cocked his head to find see if his older brother Amal had seen him.
“Lochesh, help me!” Amal called from inside the open-walled stable uphill from the house. “She’s loose again!”
Lochesh loved Amal, his only sibling. At eight-years-old, Lochesh strove to imitate him. Unfortunately, Amal was five years older and already stronger than some of the other adult farmers. In comparison, Lochesh was a twig. His emulation ceased at irrational aspiration. He would never be as stout as his brother.
Thunder boomed through the countryside around them shaking the ground. Terrified braying echoed from the hillside far behind the stables. Had a predator sunk its fangs into their favorite working animal’s hide?
When the boys reached the top of the slope, Hed, the oldest of their family’s four donkeys, stood between two ancient olive trees, both sacred to the boys’ household.
Amal bolted toward her and grabbed hold of the snapped harness around her neck.
Lochesh approached Hed from behind and pushed her rump with all his might. He grunted as he spoke. “Move, you big baby.”
Lightning struck nearby momentarily illuminating the far hillside, and the grotesque face of man hiding behind a rockpile.
Lochesh gasped. His muscles tensed. “Amal! Did . . . did you see that man?”
The resulting boom of thunder sent Hed into a panic. She squealed then thrust her head to one side ripping the short fibrous cord from Amal’s hands.
He winced and inspected the burns on both his palms. “Stop fooling around. Get away from there.”
Lochesh frowned then grunted. He never listens to me.
Hed kicked her back feet striking Lochesh in the left forearm with her muddy hoof.
He too checked his wounds only to find a wide scratch just above the wrist.
Amal grabbed the harness again. “You know better than to get behind her when she’s scared. Come help me up here.”
Lochesh approached from the opposite side and took hold of Hed’s main. “There was a man . . . down the hill. His face was . . .” He screwed up his own face and stuck out his tongue attempting to replicate what he saw.
Hed brayed and shook.
Amal tugged at Hed and she moved forward. “What are you talking about?”
Lochesh scratched Hed’s neck to calm her. “Easy girl. Come on.” He looked at Amal. “Do you think he was trying to steal her? That deformed man?”
“Deformed?” Amal inspected the end of the rope in his hand using the flashes of distant lightning to aid him. “I think maybe you’re right. This looks cut not broken.”
The boys led Hed along the downhill path and back into the stall. She shook vigorously splashing the boys’ faces with saliva and rainwater. They took a moment to rest just under the edge of the thatched roof and watched the rain fall on the fields. The storm front had passed and gentle drops now cascaded from above.
Lochesh brushed his curly black hair from his eyes. “We need to tell father about this.”
Amal swung his head and wiped donkey spit from his face onto the back of his hand. “No. Say nothing. He’ll already blame us for her getting away again.”
“We didn’t do this. We’ll show him the rope and—"
“We’ll show him nothing, Lochesh.”
Lochesh stared off toward the city of Capernaum in the east. Beyond that, the dark water of the Sea of Galilee reflected distant lightning flashes in the passing tempest. “At least Father will be pleased with the rain.”
“It might mean a good wheat harvest this spring.”
Lochesh smiled. He liked bread made from wheat far more than other grains. His family’s fields, along with several other farmers in the hills outside the city, provided food for the markets. He did not realize how important their profession was. He had always wished his father was a fisherman. “Yeah, and more work for us.”
Amal chuckled under his breath and elbowed Lochesh. “Come on, before mother worries too much and sends father after us.”
* * *
Hed watched through clouded eyes as the boys dashed from the stable through the mud to the nearby house. Yellow mucous oozed from her nostril as she shivered from the cold rain soaking the coat of light brown fur and penetrating down to her skin.
She laid down on the floor of her pen with a series of grunts. The evening’s unpleasant incidents had sapped her energy.
The other three donkeys remained standing and snoozed peacefully in their ignorance of the danger Hed had involuntarily brought home from her misadventure. A slumberous danger the boys would discover no time soon.