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Shoshana watched as the procession neared, the gongs beating and chants filling the air with their noisy
clatter. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw the High Priest, Phannias ben Samuel, ride past, his robes swishing around his feet. The bells around the bottom of his robe tinkled—happily, it seemed, but one look at Phannias's face told otherwise. He wasn't happy—and no-one had to ask why. They knew.
The Romans were becoming more and more demanding. Sighing, she turned and hurried through the open marketplace to the vegetable stand, where she purchased some much-needed vegetables for the stew her mother was making.
On her way home, the disturbing scene replayed itself in her mind: the noisy entrance of the High Priest, his noble attire, and the frown that twisted his whole face into a mass of—what was it, wrath? Sorrow? Pain? Anger? She did not know. But Mother would—Mothers know everything. Content in that, her face brightened as she walked toward the lane (hidden from the main thoroughfare by another building) that led to the simple mud-brick house she called home.
Her step quickened as she got closer. Oh, it was good to be home! She slipped around to the back entrance, where it was always coolest during the daytime. Quickly stepping into the only room of the house, she set the market basket down in the shadowy interior. Voices—distressed and sad—lured her to where, in the courtyard, she found her father, mother, and mother's brother, Uncle John in deep conversation. Her mother held a cloth, and dabbed at her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Mother—oh, Mother dear! What happened?” The soft, pleading voice of Shoshana broke through the conversation like an ax through ice. Falling on her knees beside her Mother, Shoshana looked beseechingly into her eyes, awkwardly patting her hand, trying to comfort her. Then, hearing no reply, she turned to her uncle. “Uncle John, what happened?” She glanced back at her mother, reading grief all over her face. How beautiful her mother was! How kind and caring, she thought, she's the one that always understands me, and helps me out of any trouble. Now I need to comfort her.
The deep, reverberant voice of Uncle John burst through her thoughts like a cloud of steam escaping from a kettle. “Papa died.”
Shoshana's heart sank. Not Grandfather—no, how could he, of all people, die? Through a blur of tears that threatened to choke her, she whispered, “What happened? How did he die?” Grandfather had always been—always been there. A rock in the family fortress. Someone who always had been there, and now…he was gone. Gone forever.
“Those ROMANS!” He almost screamed the word. “It was the Romans. Their—their horses had gotten out, and went racing down the road. Papa was—was walking home from market when it happened. That Roman—I'll never forget him—stopped Papa and told him to—to get them back. Single-handed, it was. They—they trampled him. There was no chance. No chance in the world.” The man turned away, shielding his face from the beseeching, pleading eyes turned on him. Sobs shook his whole body.
Tremblingly, Shoshana looked up at her mother. “What will we do now?” Every year, the family made a trip to where her mother's parents lived to help harvest their barley and lentils. They were planning to leave next week, and had been preparing for it for some time now. What would happen now? Would they go at the time planned, or leave a week early?
“We'll have to think. And talk. This is such a blow.” Her mother sadly told her, rising and slowly walking to the water pot. Shoshana followed, and drank the sweet, cool liquid from the dipper her mother handed her. Splashing some over her face to wash the tears off, she hurried to the fire and stirred the simmering pot. Without Grandfather, the family gatherings would not be the same. But they would manage—they would have to manage. Sighing, she helped her mother with the meal. Life throws hard things at you sometimes!
The Romans were becoming more and more demanding. Sighing, she turned and hurried through the open marketplace to the vegetable stand, where she purchased some much-needed vegetables for the stew her mother was making.
On her way home, the disturbing scene replayed itself in her mind: the noisy entrance of the High Priest, his noble attire, and the frown that twisted his whole face into a mass of—what was it, wrath? Sorrow? Pain? Anger? She did not know. But Mother would—Mothers know everything. Content in that, her face brightened as she walked toward the lane (hidden from the main thoroughfare by another building) that led to the simple mud-brick house she called home.
Her step quickened as she got closer. Oh, it was good to be home! She slipped around to the back entrance, where it was always coolest during the daytime. Quickly stepping into the only room of the house, she set the market basket down in the shadowy interior. Voices—distressed and sad—lured her to where, in the courtyard, she found her father, mother, and mother's brother, Uncle John in deep conversation. Her mother held a cloth, and dabbed at her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Mother—oh, Mother dear! What happened?” The soft, pleading voice of Shoshana broke through the conversation like an ax through ice. Falling on her knees beside her Mother, Shoshana looked beseechingly into her eyes, awkwardly patting her hand, trying to comfort her. Then, hearing no reply, she turned to her uncle. “Uncle John, what happened?” She glanced back at her mother, reading grief all over her face. How beautiful her mother was! How kind and caring, she thought, she's the one that always understands me, and helps me out of any trouble. Now I need to comfort her.
The deep, reverberant voice of Uncle John burst through her thoughts like a cloud of steam escaping from a kettle. “Papa died.”
Shoshana's heart sank. Not Grandfather—no, how could he, of all people, die? Through a blur of tears that threatened to choke her, she whispered, “What happened? How did he die?” Grandfather had always been—always been there. A rock in the family fortress. Someone who always had been there, and now…he was gone. Gone forever.
“Those ROMANS!” He almost screamed the word. “It was the Romans. Their—their horses had gotten out, and went racing down the road. Papa was—was walking home from market when it happened. That Roman—I'll never forget him—stopped Papa and told him to—to get them back. Single-handed, it was. They—they trampled him. There was no chance. No chance in the world.” The man turned away, shielding his face from the beseeching, pleading eyes turned on him. Sobs shook his whole body.
Tremblingly, Shoshana looked up at her mother. “What will we do now?” Every year, the family made a trip to where her mother's parents lived to help harvest their barley and lentils. They were planning to leave next week, and had been preparing for it for some time now. What would happen now? Would they go at the time planned, or leave a week early?
“We'll have to think. And talk. This is such a blow.” Her mother sadly told her, rising and slowly walking to the water pot. Shoshana followed, and drank the sweet, cool liquid from the dipper her mother handed her. Splashing some over her face to wash the tears off, she hurried to the fire and stirred the simmering pot. Without Grandfather, the family gatherings would not be the same. But they would manage—they would have to manage. Sighing, she helped her mother with the meal. Life throws hard things at you sometimes!
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The end. (at least, for now! I'll post again when I have written more.)
Have anything you noticed in the story that you think I should change? (like: wrong historical information, wrong explanations [example: I said one place she went in the front entrance, and then later heard people in the courtyard in the front of the house], wrong grammar, etc.) I welcome all the help you can give! :D
Abigail: good start Esther! I can hardely wait for the rest of the story!!!!!!!
ReplyDeleteThanks. It might be a week or, two, though. Planning to write more today. Also working on a recipe video.
ReplyDelete~Esther