Jesus Is the Bridge Ministries

I have only vague memories of the land of my childhood. My mind carries images of softly rounded hills, lush meadows of fragrant green, and flowing water that gurgles and sparkles in the sun. The man who must have been my father I remembered as no more than a weather-worn face split by a perpetual smile, and a booming laugh that shook his whole body. He was a kind man, I know, but my knowledge of him ended too soon. My mother told me I was only four when she and I left our village.

Those dark times of murder and burning I remember not at all, recollections mercifully hidden away behind a door whose very location is unknown to me. I have no desire to open it. What I do recall is clinging tightly to my mother’s neck in a place filled with noises and smells whose memory brings a shudder to me even now. The slave auction itself I don’t recall, but I do know that my mother and I ended up in a great large house together. A wealthy woman, a great lady in the city, took pity on us, and purchased us both together.

Her name was Lydia, and she was the wife of the royal librarian. To my mother she was always stern, but never cruel. To me, she was a friend and playmate, and my delight was to crawl up into the wide reaches of her lap, and curl up to sleep like a small puppy. As I grew too old and dignified to cuddle, I would take her by the hand and insist she take me for a walk in the lush gardens of the estate. She would protest that she had no time for such nonsense, but she always gave in. My mother didn’t seem to mind this competition for her affections, though sometimes I caught her gazing wistfully after us as she went about the tasks of cleaning and straightening that made up her day.

Lydia died when I was nine years old. I cried for weeks afterward, and refused to be consoled. Her husband, Bantal, did his gruff best to comfort me, but I found no comfort in his clumsy pats and awkward words. My mother also tried to ease the pain by diverting my attention to learning the intricacies of household management; she had no more success than Bantal.

A few months later a new mistress moved into our once-happy home. Maritsa was not a bad woman, really; she just wasn’t Lydia. In my grief and anger, I became increasingly rebellious, refusing instruction from my mother or orders from my mistress. My attitude of stubborn resentment brought tears to my poor mother, and angry rebukes from Maritsa. For three years, things went from bad to worse in the great house, until they finally came to a head one cloud-darkened summer day.

Maritsa was preparing to entertain guests, important ones from the royal court. The festivities were to be held outside, despite the threat of rain. A great tent had been set up to protect the guests from the unwelcome interference of the elements. My mother, who was head of the female staff of the household by this time, was supervising the setup of tables and the preparation of food. In keeping with the customs of Tirzah, our home city, the dominant motif of the décor was the Great Bear. That was the title carried by the kings of the city from ages long past, and the Bear was the symbol both of the throne and the faith that supported it. I thought it was great nonsense to worship an animal as god and creator, no matter how huge and powerful it was.

From some inner spring of mischief, an idea took slow form in my mind, gaining clarity as I walked idly among the tables. As usual, my mother’s pleas to help I ignored, with no more comment than a grunt and toss of my long hair, which had not seen scissors but a few times in my short life. What caught my attention were the snarling centerpieces of bear heads that adorned every table. From there, my eyes were drawn to the much larger head that spouted water from its grinning mouth, toward the front of the tent-covered patio, just beyond the head table and facing an open area. It would look so mush more realistic if the mouth was spewing blood, instead of water. After all, it was beast of prey, not an over-sized pet.

Living on the estate for the almost eight years had given me an understanding of how things worked there, especially things around the house. Lydia had once explained to me how the water that went into the fountain was drained into a system of pipes, and recycled so that it eventually rejoined the flow. Though the water was periodically replenished and refreshed, the same water was basically used over and over. It so happened I knew where the cleanout valve was located, out of sight of prying eyes.

Well, that was an interesting thought – but what could I use for blood? It didn’t take long to figure out that problem; I knew where the dyes for cloth were stored, and one of them was a bright red that held up quite well in water. All that was left was to figure out the details of how to steal a small pot of dye without being seen, and get it to the intake valve at the appropriate time for maximum effect.

The clothier’s quarters were on the second floor of the house, well out of the flow of traffic. I knew that the clothier herself was busily involved with the rest of the staff in setting up for the party; I saw her with my own eyes. Few rooms in the mansion had locks; it was a simple matter to slip into the house, and go up to the second floor using one of the back stairways reserved for servants. My heart was pounding by the time I began my search through the dye pots, but more in anticipation than fear. I selected a small pot to carry away my trove, and in a few minutes I was on my way back to the garden. I thought I heard a noise down the hallway on leaving the room, but my anxious eyes saw nothing in the dim light of the corridor.

Downstairs, I went out a side door which took me down a hidden path of the garden, away from the prying eyes around the pavilion. I hid the pot in the bushes near the valve, went back into the house, and strolled back to the tent with its frantic hum of preparations. My mother, looking more harried than usual, grabbed my arm as I passed by her.

“Lysia! Do something, please. This is your home, too, but it may not be for long if you persist with your laziness. Were it not for Bantal, we would both be sold to another owner. At least, make yourself presentable, so you can help seat the guests. Someone else will show you where to take them. You look like a street urchin right now; go get dressed.”

The last thing I wanted was to be kept away from the feast, which would not suit my plans. I could always slip away after the guests were seated; the most opportune time for my exhibition would be during the endless round of speeches and toasts after the meal anyway. I determined to be all sweetness and light, if only for this one time.

“Yes, mother dearest,” I replied meekly, almost too meekly judging by the sharp look my mother gave me. When she next spoke to me, she used her native tongue, which she had continued to use in our private lives.

“I know you well, daughter. When you’re nice, it’s because you’re planning some new deviltry. You had best be careful; this is a very important occasion for Bantal, and if you do anything to interfere, the memory of Lydia won’t protect you anymore.”

“I’ll behave, Mother,” I said sweetly, while turning my plan over once more in my mind. “I’m going to get dressed now. When should I be ready?”

“You know our parties always begin at 6:00. You be back here when the hourglass marks 5:00.”

“Yes, Mother,” I replied as I turned away, barely hiding the smile that crossed my face as I walked back toward the house. The first patter of raindrops sounded in the awning of the covered walkway as I started inside. That was a complication I hadn’t considered; how was I to keep dry while I did the deed, so I could come back to see the effect on the revelers? Not a problem, I decided; I had a cloak just for that purpose.

The guests began arriving on cue, and I was there to smile and curtsy in my role of guide and usher. I caught my mother’s approving glance, and brief smile, and it hurt my conscience a little to think of what I was proposing to do. There would be no smile when it was all over; I had no doubt that the finger of suspicion would point immediately to me in the aftermath. I just didn’t care what the consequences would be, and I repressed the unwelcome feelings of remorse.

Once the meal began, only the servants who attended the table were still needed. I left the patio, and shared some of the far simpler fare prepared for the servants in the kitchen, almost as an afterthought. The gossip and small talk that make up the conversation of household slaves soon bored me, and I left to pass time until the moment of action came. The meal itself lasted about two hours, as usual, with the din of voices all but drowned out from time to time by heavy downpours of rain. Toward the end of the meal, as after-dinner activities got under way, the clouds actually parted, for the first time that day, and a bright evening sun broke through.

I knew I would still need the cloak; the garden path was narrow, and I would be brushing against bushes as well as being pelted by water dripping from above. I congratulated myself on being clever enough to think of all of the details. The time for action had come at last; I could hardly restrain my glee as I knelt by the cleanout valve, and removed the cover for the clay pipes that carried water back to the fountain. I emptied the small pot into the hole, and replaced the cover. As I got up and prepared to leave, empty pipe in hand, I heard the blare of trumpets. My heart fell to my stomach, which promptly made contact with the ground.

This could mean only one thing; the Great Bear himself had made a surprise appearance at the banquet, as he sometimes did. He might well be one of the first to see the red flood gushing from his likeness in the fountain. This was not good, not good at all.

I ran back to the house as fast as my trembling legs would carry me, throwing my wet cloak down in a heap by the door. The main exit to the garden was humming with noise, as the royal retinue continued to file through. I dared not try to draw near; to even look unbidden on the Great Bear was to invite death. I managed to slip unnoticed into the throng of prostrate servants near the hallway leading outside.

In a few minutes, the tramping of feet ceased, and a second call from the trumpets sounded. This was a kind of “all clear” signal, giving permission for the worshippers to look with reverence on the masked figure of the Bear. At this point, even the slaves of the household were expected to attend the king’s presence; not to do so would be just as great an insult as not lying prostrate as he passed by.

The slaves, along with the lesser servants of the Bear, gathered respectfully at the rear and around the sides of the pavilion. The king himself rode in a great curtained chair, borne by six of the biggest men I had ever seen. The curtains were opened whenever he entered the building of his destination, to reveal the magnificence of his glory when he chose to show it.

Every banquet arrangement had to include an open space at the front, beyond the head table, the area beyond the fountain in this case, in the event the Great Bear decided to grace it with his presence, along with a clear path through the tables. No one sat with back turned to the Bear, so as he passed to the front with his entourage, bodies shifted hastily about on the reclining couches favored by the wealthy. There was an almost audible gasp from the crowd when they caught a glimpse of the bright red drops spraying the head in the fountain, and the swirling red pool they could see beyond the head of the likeness of the Bear. No, this was definitely not a good thing.

Chapter 2

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