~~/*\~~ Cory ~~/*\~~
The latest Auction had ended, and Cory oversaw the shipping of the purchases. Marco came by, looking exhausted. “It’s only an hour or two’s work, but it’s high-intensity. There’s so much money moving around, everyone sizing up their bids and watching each other for clues like quick draws in a cowboy movie…”
“And all of them ‘get-away-with-murder’ rich enough to set fire to the place if they don’t get everything they want.” Cory guessed wryly. “Other than the stakes, how did the auction go?”
“That Gottleleiba sold for more than twelve million.” Marco reported. “And the buyer has elected to let it hang in the gallery. For ‘appreciation’, he says.”
“Personally, I think he just doesn’t want it in his house.” Cory drawled. “It’s still ugly.”
“Possibly true.” Marco chuckled. “But hey, if it wasn’t for rich people with poor taste, where would the art world be?”
Cory swallowed the first thing that came to mind. But after a minute, he spoke, as if confessing some great secret. “I tried my hand at it, you know. Being an artist. When I told you I went looking for impressive nature pics, and found the stars? I was looking for inspiration.”
“Oh?” Marco smiled.
“My grandfather was a pilot, in the days when that was like being a celebrity. My father flew for the Air Force, then switched to commercial work when he married. When I was born, he took a job with an aeronautics firm, helping design plane engines. By that point, he was too old to be ‘groundbreaking’. It was understood that I’d become an engineer. Lotta money in that work. My folks put me through an Ivy League education, taking one Engineering class after another…” He let out a breath like he was disgusted with himself. “I sat in on an art class, once. And I was hooked. The way the teacher talked about color, and light, and… She told the class to go out at sunset, and watch the way the sunset lights the things you walk past every day… It’s funny, but I never stopped to look.”
“I remember college.” Marco agreed. “You were lucky if you ever stopped moving for thirty seconds.”
“I liked it.” Cory whispered, as if ashamed of it. “So I went back to the next class. The Teacher noticed and told me to come to this gallery. She gave me a reading list. Biographies of some of the great artists. They all… toiled. They argued with Patrons, some of them spent time in jail for arguing over their rates and deadlines.”
“The ongoing fight between art and commerce.” Marco agreed dryly. “I’ve read some of those books myself.”
“I was hooked.” Cory admitted. “I spent every free second at galleries. And then, in my second year at college… I changed my major. I wanted to be an artist.”
Marco listened, intrigued by the story. He’d never heard Cory open up like this before. “There’s a lot of stories like that in the history of the art world.”
“I know.” Cory said with grim humor. “When I told my family I wanted to be an artist; I told them the story of Claude Monet. His father told him to take up the family trade and be a grocer. Said there was a more stable living in that.” He chuckled. “My family went ballistic. They’d already paid my tuition, and they demanded that I pay them back.” He shrugged. “I agreed to that. It was still a better deal than I would have gotten with Student loans at a bank. I got my degree, settled on my ‘influences’; as an artist, and put brush to canvas.” He shook his head slowly. “Epic Disaster.”
Marco winced for him. “It didn’t sell?”
“Never found a buyer, never found a patron.” Cory sighed. “I worked the lousiest jobs I could find, based around having extra free time to work on it.” He didn’t mention the damage done to his back by the manual labor jobs, still wary of how his current employers might respond. “My degree barely qualified me to work at a Gallery. I’m not a curator, or a manager, or… I’m a substitute Tour Guide. ‘Mostly administration’.” He shook his head. “The worst part wasn’t the failure as an artist. The worst part is that my family has never once let me forget that I wasted their money. Wasted my life.” He looked down. “As if I didn’t feel like I failed enough.”
Marco nodded slowly. “But did you enjoy it? Being an artist? Capturing what you saw? Being creative?”
Cory was caught off guard. “Y’know something? You’re the first person ever to ask me that.”
“I’m sure.” Marco nodded wryly.
“My work is all in storage now.” Cory sighed. The place I live now isn’t really large enough for…” He trailed off, letting a breath out between his teeth. “Every day, I see artworks that sell for millions, and most of it because someone rich is told what’s ‘important’ by an art critic with the same degrees I have. It’s a little galling that nobody even wanted to look at my stuff.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” Marco pushed gently. “Did you enjoy it?”
“I loved it. I loved painting. I loved art. I love this gallery. I love the paintings.” Cory said honestly. “I love every single thing about it…. Except that I hate it all. I wish I had done literally anything else with my life.”
Marco took that in, nodding seriously. “Every day, we roll our eyes at what some of these paintings are worth. But we take it seriously, because there’s so much money wrapped up in them.”
Cory nodded.
“Why does something have to be profitable, before we view it as a worthy use of our time?” Marco asked reasonably. “Van Gogh sold exactly one painting in his lifetime, and died penniless. I’ve heard people criticize modern art by saying a five year old could do it.” He smiled. “But to any parent, a five year old’s finger paints are more valued than a Rembrandt.”
Cory chuckled. “I suppose so.” He didn’t say the next thought. Except for my parents, maybe.
“Why should having a passion only account for something when it makes you money? Why isn’t it enough to love something, just because you enjoy it?” Marco reasoned. “The other day, you said that you couldn’t really believe in a loving God, because we are all so tiny. But our worth to God doesn’t equate to our value. Certainly His love for us doesn’t equate to what we do for Him.”
“Love is always conditional.” Cory said flatly. “Maybe God doesn’t care if we’re small. He made us that way, after all. But didn’t ‘Eden’ end because two humans disappointed God once?”
~~/*\~~ Arit ~~/*\~~
“I-I don’t understand.” Mahala was struggling not to beg. “I thought Job was your friend. I thought… I thought he was worth more than this to you.”
“He is.” Pah-os insisted. “But things have changed, Mahala. You know this better than anyone.”
“I know it has, and I’m trying to improve it. My husband has done more than a few good turns for you over the years, Pah-os. Those horses you’re breeding? Didn’t we cover the cost of your stable? Didn’t we allow your horses to use our grazing lands whenever you needed them?”
“And I’m grateful.” Pah-os insisted, voice lowering. “But everyone is terrified of Job now. Whatever curse has fallen on you, and whatever might have happened to cause it… nobody wants to risk getting involved.”
“You don’t really think Job has done anything to deserve… all of this?” Mahala spat, halfway between sick and scornful.
“It doesn’t matter if I believe it. Certainly most of the town believes it. I go to Job now, and I’ll never have another customer again.”
~~/*\~~
“It doesn’t matter if I believe it.” Koreoh insisted. “Everyone in town does. If I even try to help, let alone convince others to do so, I’m dragging all of them down. You know this, Arit. Servants and slaves are the most easily replaced people in the world.”
“Not to Job. He cared about us more than our own families did.” Arit hissed. “What is going on? Where are all the people that honored the man? Where are all the people who promised to be there for us after we were there for them? Where is everyone?”
Arit made every effort to call in favors also, but he had the same trouble that Mahala did. The sheer number of friends that had been honoring the man only a week before were suddenly denying having any dealings with him or his family at all.
While Mahala made her appeals to their friends in the city, Arit had tried to convince the other slaves and servants to step up and help a man in dire need. Many household servants traded favors with other household domestics, to help keep their own lords happy. Such was the way of things when you lived your whole life in service to another. But most of the ‘markers’ held by Job’s servants were suddenly worthless now.
Koreoh was the only one who was willing to say it to him plainly. “Bak-la was known to most of the market, since he was generous in his trading. Everyone wanted to trade with him… But he is dead. His entire family was in Job’s employ, and they’re all dead, and everyone else who might ask for help on Job’s behalf is too. All of them are tied to this horror tale now.” Koreoh lowered his voice. “I had to lie about my name to get work with Salim.”
“You’re working for an Acolyte of Baal?” Arit hissed.
“And I was lucky to get that much; after being attached to Job for so long.” Koreoh murmured, lowering his voice further. “I know you are still loyal to Job. I still love the man too. He was an excellent master. Certainly better than the one I have now.”
As if that comment summoned him, Salim appeared, sunlight glinting off his amulets to Baal. “Koreoh, have you finished at the market?”
“I have, sir.” Koreoh straightened up and turned to face his new master. He noticed Salim looking over Koreoh and made introductions. “Sir, this is-”
“I am Arit, servant to Job.” Arit jumped in with the truth before his old friend could try and lie for him. Even if it was well-intentioned, Arit wasn’t about to let anyone change his story without permission.
Salim’s face changed when he heard the name. “Yes-s.” He drawled slowly in response. “Word of that unfortunate man has reached the City. Truly a shocking turn of events.”
“We mourn his losses deeply, sir. His family were wonderful people, and kind masters.” Arit said honestly. “I was tasked with coming to the City and rallying people to help rebuild some of what was destroyed. Job is honored in the City. Many people owe him a debt.”
(Author’s Note: A slight embellishment here. The Scriptures do not describe any point where Job asked for help rebuilding his lands and property. But Job 29 describes a time before his trials began where Job was well respected in the city, when everyone honored him greatly. I decided to build that into the story, because nowhere in the scriptures does it say that anyone came to help him financially until after the test was over.)
“And what has the response of the city been?” Salim asked, intrigued to know the answer.
Arit deflated a little. “I am saddened to say that many in the city believe Job is cursed; and they dare not involve themselves, no matter how many good turns he did them in the past.”
“Indeed?” The Acolyte seemed oddly pleased with that, before turning to his servant. “Koreoh, gather enough food to show hospitality for Job, and whatever servants and family he has left. We are to offer comfort to an honorable man who has fallen on hard times.”
Koreoh was surprised, but pleased. “At once, my lord.”
~~/*\~~
Job was astonished too. “Salim? The Acolyte we turned away last week?”
“He’s coming to dinner, and he’s bringing enough to feed the whole household as a gift, my lord. He says he wishes to help, and offers the provisions as a show of good faith, regardless of your answer.”
Job had aged spectacularly in the last week. In mourning, he had cut his hair to the point of being shaved, torn his garments apart, and rubbed ashes and dirt into his skin. But the real signs of his pain were the way his eyes were red, and sunken into huge dark circles; to say nothing of his posture, now broken and bowed.
When he heard there was company coming soon, he drew himself upright for the first time since his children had died. “Mahala!” He called into the house. “We’ll be receiving guests this evening.”
Mahala came into the room, looking haggard herself. “We are?” She looked around their home helplessly. “We have nothing to serve!”
~~/*\~~
Salim was as good as his word, bringing enough food for the household; which was admittedly much smaller than it had been a week before. The staff that had survived the attacks had mostly fled. Job let them go, with his blessing, not really in the right frame of mind to focus on finances or leadership of his estate at the moment.
Even so, Job made an effort. He had little food to offer, but was gracious, and welcoming; praying to Jehovah over the provided meal. “Jehovah, sovereign one; who rules all and sees all that happens in Heavens and Earth…” He prayed. “I thank you for the kindness of our guests, and the endurance you offer in difficult times. In all things, we seek Your wisdom, and Your mercy. May Your name be blessed and praised to times indefinite. Amen.”
“Amen.” Arit and Koreoh said automatically. Mahala and Salim had remained silent, respectful, but not participating.
As they sat, and Arit served the meal, Salim spoke grandly. “Honored Sir, your faith is truly something to marvel at. May you be comforted by your beliefs in all times of trial.”
“Thank you.” Job commented. “And may I also thank you for your generosity?”
“Your own family will surely do the same.” Salim inquired. “It’s not my business, of course, but I’m given to understand that the descendants of Abraham are usually blessed with large families.” He winced. “Forgive the careless comment, given your circumstances, but I will admit that I’ve not heard of any siblings of yours in town…”
“My siblings are spread out, across the land; all the way to the Orient.” Job reported.
(Author’s Note: Job’s siblings are mentioned in Job 42:11, towards the end of the story. Where they were during the time of trial is an open question. This reason is my own invention; but a plain reading of the Bible suggests that the trials Job went through might only have lasted a week or two. More on this later.)
“Well, I hope they arrive swiftly, to help in this trying time.” Salim said. “Perhaps they can help you solve the riddle, and make amends.”
“The riddle?” Mahala repeated, though Job said nothing, his face changing as he realized where their guest was leading. “What riddle is that?”
“The honored Job spoke the truth when he said that the worship in Canaan could be confusing, and contradictory to many. A priest of Baal spends much of his time helping the faithful to navigate these complex demands of multiple gods. In accepting only Jehovah as real, you have only one patron God to serve.” Salim remarked, ever so reasonable. “So why would Jehovah allow this? In town, they talk about how you have always assured people of Jehovah’s Justice. His Mercy. They believe that a fair God must surely be punishing some act you’ve surely committed. I remember our discussion about how you set aside your best livestock for sacrifice to Jehovah, even in the names of your sons and daughters; in case they ever sinned without meaning to, or without your knowledge.”
Mahala let out a soft sob, just at the mention of her children. Job had turned to stone during this speech. “Nothing. There is nothing.”
Salim’s tone was so gentle it seemed to make perfect sense. “Everyone in town is trying to determine what you must have done to inspire the wrath of Jah so. I take you at your word that there is nothing of the sort happening here. In which case, Jehovah is not punishing you… Merely stepping aside and letting other gods do so.”
“No.” Job said simply.
“Then why?”
“If I had an answer to that question, I would have told the world.” Job said archly. “To say nothing of making amends.”
“I can help.” Salim said easily. “Say the word, and I can have a hundred people here to help restore your farms, your servants, your livestock…”
Mahala lurched in her seat, eyes swinging towards Job automatically. Job regarded the Acolyte with steady eyes. “That would be quite generous of you. Why do I feel sure I know what you would ask in return?”
Salim reached into his robe and drew out a small golden statue of Baal, setting it on the table. Job’s eyes flashed, but he said nothing.
Salim made his pitch. “Say the word, and I can have your home filled with willing servants. They’d bring contributions of fine linens, gold, silver, and livestock. The Temples need someone in this area to spread the word, and make invitations to the people, in service to the great god Baal.”
“You want me to become a Priest of Baal?” Job was appalled. “To open my home to acolytes, and tell the people in town to worship him?”
“I want you to tell the people in town that when Jehovah destroyed your life for no reason, Baal and his followers were there to rebuild; and restore you to your wealthy, honored, respected place in Uz.” Salim summed up. “It will even be the truth. Say the word. I can have them here by morning.” He looked to Mahala who was staring sickly at the idol. “After all, where has your integrity to Jehovah gotten you?”
Job rose swiftly from the table, and his voice rolled with power. “As metals are forged in flame, a man’s integrity is tested by trial. A dedication to God is sacred as any vow before men. Should I suddenly cast out a friend who is in need? Should I slay a horse that trips on a stone it did not see? No, sir. My faith is not for sale; and I will praise Jehovah for as long as I have breath to speak His name.”
(Author’s Note: Something important to point out here: Job didn’t know why any of this was happening to him. Nobody human did; and so they all reacted to these events on their own. It was important to point out that Job didn’t blame Jehovah for his misfortune, though almost everyone he interacted with during this time did.
Why God allows suffering is one of the central teachings of the Bible, and I had Marco and Cory have that conversation, in the modern, Christian Era. Job lived in a very different time. The Hebrew scriptures did have God taking actions, or holding back protection to punish wrongdoing among His people, but these events are specifically stated, either by prophet or by Scripture, to be punitive action. A follower of Jehovah wouldn’t necessarily have reason to assume judgment on their own. Job wasn’t being punished. At this point in the story, he had to hold on to that certainty himself.
Also, the character of Salim and his dealings with Job are entirely my own creation. Job 1:22 says that Job did not sin, or accuse Jah of anything; but who he was saying it to, is not mentioned specifically.)
~~/*\~~
“My beloved ones, the Resister accuses humanity of weakness and cowardice, because he assumes humans will always act the way he does. But the least of the humans, the most imperfect of all the Serpent’s victims, is still more loved, open to more forgiveness, and more welcome in God's Paradise than the original Apostate Demon. Satan fell into the trap he set for Adam and Eve, convinced that defying the Law of God was the way to get what he wanted. And he doomed himself in the process. And yet Job has endured.”
“Really? Because it seems to me that every human who has ever heard of Job knows what serving Jah brings.”
“Where have you come from this time?”
“Where I always am, walking about the Earth, taking part in the follies and interests of humanity. I nurture their nature, you see, rather than condemn them for it. I always have. I only ever wanted humans to have what they wanted for themselves, rather than what You demand they be.”
“And Job? Is he feeling ‘nurtured’ by your special attention? There is nobody like him in all the Earth, knowing that he is at his best when he lives by My standards. He wanted only to live a life fearing God and shunning what is bad. He is still holding firmly to his integrity, even though you try to incite me against him, to destroy him for no reason.”
“And because of that, he knows that possessions are fleeting, and easily restored. Grief fades, poverty is easily corrected. Suffering is always immediate. You know this. Can you not hear the multitudes that would give their own mothers to ease their own suffering? Everyone who knows their time is near is willing to give anything for the chance to live just a little bit longer.”
“As always, your accusations of the righteous ones are all confessions of your own nature.”
“Skin for skin. A man will give everything that he has for his life. But, for a change, stretch out your hand and strike his bone and flesh, and he will surely curse you to your very face.”
“I will not inflict pain and punishment on an innocent man. For all that you have inflicted already, he is still a man upright, and full of Integrity. Look! He is in your hand! Only do not take his life!”
~~/*\~~
Out of guilt over the way he’d spoken of his brother to Vede, Arit had promised to return and help Mahala where he could. It was his pledge to Job, and the only oath he had ever sworn before Jehovah; who was a God that he had only half-believed in, before everything had turned so disastrous.
In his deepest, darkest, most private moments, Arit felt the same way the wise men in town had felt. That somehow, Jehovah was either punishing, or stepping back to let it happen. Either way, there was no reason that Arit could see to become a believer himself.
Job wouldn’t approve of that thinking. Even in his grief, his former master had praised Jehovah for his mercy and wisdom. Arit could see nothing good in what had happened to Job. if that was how Jehovah responded to years of faithful service, Arit wanted no part of Him.
Salim had approached him privately, offering to instate him as an Acolyte to Baal, but Arit had refused that instantly. There was no way he would worship a god that sought to hurt Job, or take advantage of his suffering in any way.
Arit still loved Job. The statesman had lost everything, including his staff; and hunger had finally forced Arit to step away from his lord. Doing what he could to support Mahala was his final act of loyalty; and no small amount of guilt.
The problem was that so much of the pottery was funded by various shrines. Salim had made a generous order, and icons of Baal covered almost a third of the stall table. Other gods from Babylon and Egypt were there, too. He could feel Job’s disapproval from clear across the city.
It doesn’t matter. Arit told himself. There’s nobody watching out for us. No gods, no angels, no nothing. They’re just statues.
But he still couldn’t do it.
And after almost a week of working for him, Vede had noticed. “If you’re not comfortable selling idols, I need to find someone who is.” He warned Arit. “Those icons are more than half my business. I respect your beliefs, but I can’t have your conscience taking food from my own children.”
“I-I understand, sir.” Arit felt a spike of fear. He’d never feared for his prospects with Job. I’m out in the cold now.
Vede gave him a hard look, as if weighing his worth, and turned back to the stall and his wares. “You’ve seen better, I’m sure.”
Another test? Arit picked up one of the perfume jars, currently empty. “The clay is good…” He tapped the crockery with his fingernails. “Delicate, strong, shaped well…” He looked it over. “The only thing missing is some… flair.”
“I have my daughter learning to paint proper patterns for this kind of vessel.” Vede said lightly. “She has a delicate touch, but she mentioned the same thing. Nobody can really teach this, except for someone who’s done this kind of pottery art already. Or at least, someone to copy from.”
Arit looked over the marketplace. “There are other potters. One or two with interesting designs painted on-”
“Are you serious?” Vede scorned. “You think another seller of fine vessels like this won’t notice when we suddenly put out similar works? We need something that won’t be noticed by gossip. This kind of crockery is what you use with honored guests. That makes them profitable, but makes them the subject of conversation. Getting my products into the right homes is either going to help my sales… or bring scorn. Which would you prefer?”
Arit took a deep breath, feeling the ground shift under his feet again. He was paid by the profits of the stall. After only a few days of working for the potter, he knew how tight those margins could be. “What if…” He heard himself say slowly. “What if I could get you some shards? Something that had the artistic designs on it, but would never be used again? Something valuable, but never seen again by anyone?”
Vede scoffed. “Where do you plan to find that?”
(Author’s Note: There’s very little about the methods of painting pottery in Bible Times. Obviously, nothing was produced mechanically. Everything would have to be hand-made. I have no idea if people got protective over creative output in those times. The purpose of this sequence is to give Arit a story arc; and show that Job wasn’t the only one to fall on hard times due to the accusations brought by Satan. There were at least a few survivors of the destruction described in Job Chapter One; if only the messengers. What did they have left when Job fell on hard times?)
~~/*\~~
He’d left the Potter’s shed as soon as the sun went down. He brought food, and decided to wait until the night was darkest, but he couldn’t eat. He stared at his destination as his eyes adjusted to the dark, the sky above lit up by the same moon and stars. It was strange. He used to enjoy coming out to watch the night sky, but now the stars felt colder and more lonely. There was a darkness hanging over the whole area.
Maybe I’m just imagining it. Arit thought. He had been watching for hours, and discerned no trace. Normally there would be a few squatters, or other scavengers. But not here.
I condemned the Bedouin man for doing this. I’m going to be struck by lightning right now, I know it. Arit thought to himself as he crept into the wrecked home of Job’s eldest son. The storm had left nothing alive, and nothing of value, and the broken lanterns had burned what was left.
But the pottery wouldn’t exactly burn. It was made hard by fire.
It was like walking through a nightmare, because it was so familiar. I carried trays of food through these halls. He thought as he picked his way through the burned, collapsed hallway. I helped chop fruits and vegetables in this kitchen. He thought as he reached the main room. It was completely scorched, ruined beyond recognition. He couldn’t hope to find anything intact there.
The family was having a feast. There would have been food and wine. Arit thought to himself. “Jehovah God, hear my words.” He whispered as he tiptoed his way around the house, his hands smeared with cold ash as he pushed the ruined debris out of his way. “There is surely a terrible punishment on grave-robbers. I swear to you, what I do now is out of survival only. I would gladly live without money if I could avoid starvation. I loved these people as utterly as if they were my own-”
Crunch. He looked down to see he’d just trod on the charred bones of a human arm. They’d gone looking for bodies to bury, but not all of them had been whole… Ohgod, I knew you. He thought, dry heaving. I can’t even recognize you, but you can only be a friend; killed in the raid. Which one were you? Bak-la? Ruta-tet? I’m sorry…
Tears filled his eyes, with grief at the loss of his friends, and the life he’d loved. He wiped his eyes automatically and felt the ashes cover his skin; making the darkness even harder to navigate.
He sat in a scorched doorway between the burned kitchen and the collapsed hallway for several minutes, trying to get himself under control. Above, the moon passed overhead enough that the ghostly light shone down on him through the holes in the roof.
I have to get out of here. Arit thought weakly. But I have to get… something. If I don’t, I’ll have to come back, or face Vede and risk poverty again.
I wish I had died with the others.
The thought struck him, as though someone else had said it. He shook it off at first. It was a natural enough reaction to loss, but… He shook his head hard and made himself get up. He had to get his life back on some kind of even keel, and that meant he had to find something unique and beautiful that he could offer to his current master.
The dining hall was the center of the building. All of Job’s children had celebrated life and family, rotating the celebrations between their homes. Thinking back, it felt like a dream. Every day seemed like a celebration in comparison to what he lived now.
The bodies of Job’s family had been removed for the funerals. There was nobody in the dining hall, but the chairs and floor were still stained with dried blood and gore. Arit picked his way to the table. The food was still there, sitting rotten in bowls and platters. Holding his breath, he grasped the pottery. There was nothing intact, but one or two of the bowls were broken into large pieces, showing the artistic detail work. The fine, thin nature of the pottery had made it expensive; but exceedingly fragile. The painting on the glaze had made it beautiful. It was nothing but shards now.
But even the shards had value. Vede would be able to mimic the pattern. Job had been given this finery as a gift, when trading with another nation. Nobody local would have anything like it. Something unique, and a show of wealth. It would be something he could offer to improve Vede’s products. There were several tiny shards, but he needed something large enough to reconstruct a pattern. He found only two pieces large enough to grip, and strong enough not to fall apart.
Gathering the pieces, Arit shuddered as the pottery clinked and clacked together in his satchel. He’d almost been holding his breath, afraid to be caught; worried about the near sacrilege of picking through the ruins of his honored masters.
Creeping out of the ruin, he finally let himself breathe the clean night air.
Jehovah God, I don’t know if You’re listening. To be honest, after what has happened to Job, I’m not entirely sure that You’re there. If You are, then clearly You don’t oppose what has happened to him. If Vede finds out where I got these shards, then he’d refuse them. Not because I’m essentially looting the dead, but because it’s from Job’s family. There wasn’t anyone else picking through the rubble for valuables. The stigma around him now is growing so strong it’s like the graves of his children are cursed with bad luck. I don’t even know what to pray for, but… Please. Please, please…
~~/*\~~
As he made his way to the road, heading for town, he felt his stomach rumble, and pulled out one of the rolls he had brought along.
And instead of eating, he turned and followed the road in the other direction. Maybe it was guilt, maybe it was duty. But after picking through the ruins of Job’s family for something he could sell, he would give his old Master a meal. Certainly nobody else in town was willing to come near him, let alone show charity.
~~/*\~~
The house was dark. Of course it is. Arit told himself. It’s the middle of the night.
Even so, there was a gloom about the place that went beyond the night. Arit had been there many times. There were always the gentle sounds of animals keeping warm, or the glow of torches lit by the night watchmen, caring for the property while their lord slept.
Now the place was devoid of life and movement. The wagons and carts that parked around the main house were gone, leaving only dust and mud. Arit wondered if it was his imagination, but the house seemed abandoned by all.
Is Job even still here? Arit wondered. I shouldn’t be here. If he’s here, it’s the middle of the night, and-
A small hiss made him jump like a startled rabbit. Around the side of the house there was the sound of pained breathing. A wounded animal’s hiss of suffering.
In the dark, with nobody knowing he was there, and nobody giving him an invitation, Arit was paralyzed by something like superstition. He wasn’t meant to be there. Whatever was making those sounds would surely be dangerous, or evil.
And yet, despite all his fears, Arit found himself circling the house, following the hissing, pained breaths. The moon came out from behind a cloud, and lit up the side of the house. Arit gasped when the source of the sound was exposed. “My god!”
Job peered into the dark, sitting painfully on the ground against the wall. “Who’s there?” He groaned into the dark. “Keep your distance, please. For your sake.”
“My lord?” Arit said automatically, though his voice was hushed. He stepped out of the shadows, but did not dare approach Job. “Wh-What happened?”
“I don’t know.” Job was sitting, stripped down to the smallest of loincloths, and his skin was covered in red, angry boils. Head to toe, he was almost unrecognizable under the inflamed growths. He was disgusting to look upon, and Arit could barely look at his face. What skin wasn’t… infested, was red with claw marks. Job had been scratching at them long enough to draw blood. “I just… I don’t understand.” The older man’s voice was broken, almost shattered.
“Do… do the healers…”
“No.” Job shook his head. “The few that would come wouldn’t come close enough. None of them recognize the symptoms. They have decided I am cursed, given everything else that has happened. The Healers can’t cure that.”
Arit couldn’t even look at him directly, feeling bile rise at the sores. Even the soles of his feet were infected. “W…Wh-Why?”
“I don’t know.” Job rasped, at the end of his strength. “I do not understand… I just… I just don’t understand, Arit.” Job broke down sobbing, yet again. “At some point, you think you’re not capable of any more grief or pain… When this started I prayed for God to help me. Then I prayed for God to help my family get here. Now I pray that I can Just. Stop. Itching. For just one minute, for just one moment. I can’t even reach the sores on my back, but they drive me insane…”
He was so… pitiful that Arit took a step forward to try and comfort him, but Job threw a hand up to keep him back. “Stay away. Whatever this is, I don’t want to risk you catching it. Or anyone else. You think I sleep out in the dust because I want to? My wife is talking about burning our bed and blankets, just in case.”
Arit reached into his bag, and pulled out the few rolls he had brought, in case the road had been more treacherous than expected in the dark. He tossed the food to Job from a safe distance. “I’ll bring more if I can.” He promised; as his fingers brushed something else in the sack. It was one of the pottery shards, long and curved, with intricate patterns painted, and the blunt end wide enough to grip easily…
He only had two large bits of pottery salvaged. His own future rested on being able to bring one back to his current employer, as a possible way to earn his keep. If anyone found out he was even talking to the Cursed Man, he’d be finished in the city, cast out by everyone in fear.
But he couldn’t do it. Job had been too kind to him, too generous. And he was in such need now.
He pulled the long shard out of his sack and tossed it to Job. “Here.”
Job gave him a broken smile and picked it up, reaching the shard to scratch at his back. The look on his face was agony, and gratitude in equal measure.
I have to get out of here. The thought came to him, and suddenly he was backing away, making his goodbyes. Job didn’t say anything to stop him, too grateful that he could scrape at his sores.
Jehovah God… what has he done? Arit thought in horror as he nearly ran away in the dark. Nobody could suffer this much so quickly through simple bad fortune. Job taught me that the servants of Jah have a supernatural enemy, who’s power over the world is great and terrible. He also vows that You are stronger, and that You are close to Your servants. The only way this could be happening to him is if You are causing it, or allowing it. Job swears he is innocent of sin. So You must be standing by while it happens.
Why would You do that?
~~/*\~~
The prayers continued all the way back to town, and finally faded from his thoughts as he returned to Vede’s workshop. His bedroll was in a warm spot between the kiln and the workbench. He finally had the chance to check his bounty properly in the light of a few lanterns.
Jehovah God… He prayed as he stretched out for sleep. Sorry to keep bothering you, but… if this works, and Vede is pleased with my contribution to his products, I vow to use what resources I have left to keep Job and Mahala fed. That is how I justify the… the grave-robbing, while condemning it in others. I will not let Job starve. If… if that matters to You at all. Please, father God, please, please…
He closed his eyes for sleep, still pleading in prayer, one hand clutching the last shard of pottery he had scavenged. It was all but worthless now, and he was betting his life on it; because someone had painted pretty flowers on it once. He spent the rest of the evening vowing to God that if this scrap could keep him fed, he would feed two other people who had no other hope.
It seemed like such a tiny, nothing thread to cling to. Arit fell asleep, still pleading, the shard in his hand.
~~/*\~~ Cory ~~/*\~~
“Who arranges pottery shards like this?” Cory wondered.
“Museums.” Marco said without hesitation. “The fragments have been photographed and scanned from every possible angle, and in all honesty; it’s not like there’s a secret load of information to be found. It’s an old wine jug. It’s made from clay, and painted with boiled sap and berry juice to look prettier.”
“Hard to tell what it was painted with now.” Cory retorted, looking closer through the glass case. The exhibit wasn’t open to the public yet, but as one of the staff, he could step past the rope line to peer in closer. There was one pot, with a chipped lid, and another shard, painted the same way, set resting against the pot. The arrangement was made to make it look interesting, rather than having each piece mounted individually, held in their position by plastic frames, carefully designed to keep them immobile.
Marco checked their notes. “Officially, it’s on loan from the Archaeology department from Cambridge University. They can’t be bothered, because it’s a minor piece, so they farmed it out to someone that was insured for ‘priceless relics’.”
Cory nodded. “I wonder if my coffee cup would be ‘priceless’ if someone digs it up a thousand years from now?”
Marco laughed. “You’re right. Whoever owned this, whoever made it… They never would have considered it that important. It’s clay. It’s dirt and water, mixed together and made into something useful by the hands of a potter.” He checked the notes included. “It’s not even that high quality. The famous works of crockery that last forever? This isn’t anything like them. Even so, just by the virtue of existing for so long, it’s made priceless.”
Cory looked at him sideways. “You must be one heck of an Auctioneer.”
Marco laughed. “We were studying Psalms 103 at our meeting last night. ‘For God well knows how we are formed, remembering that we are dust’.”
Cory settled back a bit. Since learning Marco was religious, the man had been willing to talk about it in casual conversation. Not in any way that put pressure on Cory, but enough to share his thoughts on some topics.
“We’re made of dust, same as this clay pot. Isaiah 64 calls God ‘Our Potter’.” He gestured at the ancient relic. “And this is why, essentially. It’s just dirt and water, but you can turn it into something that lasts, something that adds beauty, something that serves an important function. We’re all creations that way. God knows what He’s getting when He makes us.”
~/*\~~/*\~~/*\~
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