Jewel of Persia

“Rock.”


“Oh, dear Lord, let him be all right.” She peeled his fingers away and probed gently at the back of his head. And frowned. There was no blood, no knot. Nothing to explain

the level of pain he seemed to be in. “I cannot find an injury, Mordecai. Are you sure you struck it? Did you fall?”

“Cliff . . .”

She rocked back on her heels. “Susa has no cliffs.”

He groaned and rolled onto his side. Perhaps pain clouded his memory? Or he could be delirious. She touched her hand to his forehead. It was cool. “My father . . .”

When she rested her fingers on his arm, he jerked it away with a whimper. She let her hand fall against her leg to keep it from shaking. “Does your arm hurt too?”

“Cut.”

“It is not cut.” Why did she even bother with the tight whisper? Her words obviously meant nothing to him. He felt something. She loosened her shoulders. “I will call a

physician.”

“No.” He grabbed her wrist and finally opened his eyes. The irises, usually a hazel as clear as the most precious of gems, were murky and dark. “No. Not . . . my pain.”

“Cousin, that makes no sense.” She lifted his hand off her wrist and held it. “Tell me what to do.”

He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes again. “Pray.”

His answer to everything. Esther shook her head and squeezed his fingers. “How? For what?”

“That this is sufficient.” He winced, writhed. “To save her.”

She bit her lip to keep from asking what “her” she was supposed to pray salvation for—and why she ought to be concerned with whoever it was when her cousin lay writhing

on the floor.

“Esther?” Zechariah’s voice preceded his appearance in the doorway by only a second. He wore a deep frown. “Martha said you may need help . . . what has happened?”

Tears stung her eyes. “I cannot tell. He says he fell down a cliff, which is obviously not possible, and he has no visible wounds. But if I touch him, he screams. He is in

terrible pain, Zechariah, whatever the cause.”

This time when he moaned, Esther thought she made out “Kasia.”

Zechariah gripped her by the elbows and lifted her up. “Go brew him something to help with the pain.”

She could not convince her feet to move when he released her. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and beg him to tell her Mordecai was not mad. She settled for wrapping

her arms around herself and whispering, “Is it possible he misses her so much that . . . ?”

Zechariah touched her cheek and offered a weak smile. “I cannot think so. Go, little one. He needs whatever relief we can find for him.”

She nodded and obeyed, but busying her hands did nothing to still her rampant thoughts. The menial task did not calm the frantic beat of her heart.

She could not lose Mordecai. She could not. He was all the family she had, the only one left in the world who loved her. If he were snatched away by some invisible pain,

something she could not even fight or treat . . .

“Is it ready?”

She jumped, screeched, and nearly dropped the clay pot of brewed herbs. “Zech. I did not hear you.”

He leaned into the door and studied her. “Whatever this is, it struck him at the river, where Kasia would have been. That is all he was saying.”

“Oh. But . . . what is it?” She set the pot down before it could betray her shaking hands.

Zechariah sighed and shook his head. “He said he prayed to take the pain of another near death.”

Her confusion doubled. “Since when does Jehovah allow such a thing?”

“I do not understand it either, Esther.” He glanced over his shoulder, back into the house. “He swore he would be well, that he only needs time—and our prayers.”

She stepped away from the heat of the fire and blew a hair from her face. “Who do we pray for? Him, or this unknown, dying person?”

“Both, I suppose.”

Esther pressed her lips together. “Well. I shall take him his drink and then go pray.” She picked up the pot, even took a step. Then the tears caught up with her. “Tell

me he will not die. That though he somehow feels the pain of this stranger, he will not die her death.”

“Oh, Esther.” He took the pot from her and put it down, then pulled her to his chest. A stray wood shaving pressed into her cheek. She savored the feel—it meant

Zechariah. “I am no priest or prophet, to tell you how Jehovah works. But I know Mordecai. He never would have asked for something that would take him from you.”

She should pull away—instead, she clung tighter. “I know. I just—it is selfish of me, but I cannot . . . I do not want to be left alone again, Zechariah. He is all I have

left.”