Take This Cup by Brock Thoene, Bodie

entered here. The old man seemed very near to Paradise. “I’ll go find something for us to eat, then. You rest.”
    The rabbi’s arm raised slightly in agreement and then fell back on the bed. “I’m not going anywhere.”
    I found a plot of wild asparagus and filled my tunic with big, thick stalks. Nearby, a blackberry vine was loaded with ripe berries. A few mushroom caps rounded off the harvest. I discovered a clutch of eight partridge eggs in a thicket. I had seen hungry herders puncture holes in the shells and suck out the raw yolk, but I much preferred eggs as my mother cooked them.
    I took only four of the eggs, leaving the others in the nest. Raw or cooked, such nourishment would help strengthen the rabbi.
    Clouds like great fortresses heaped upon the heights. There would soon be another thunderstorm. Laden with the bounty of the mountain, I hurried back to the shelter.
    Rabbi Kagba was propped up but shivering. I displayed the harvest.
    “A man could live here forever . . . if a man could live forever.” Kagba smiled. “I don’t fancy eating my eggs raw as some do.”
    “You’re shivering. I’ll build a fire and dry out the air and . . . we can cook them.”
    Kagba lay back and stared at the gloomy ceiling as I labored to build a fire on the floor of the cave. As sparks cast by the rabbi’s flint and steel caught amid leaves and pinecones, I breathed the flames to life and fed it with sticks and dry foliage.
    “My father said a man must know how to make a . . .” My words trailed away as I raised my eyes to the ceiling and I gasped. The walls of the cavern, suddenly illuminated, were alive with painted splendor. Shadows danced upon primitive paintings.
    “Well done, Nehemiah.” The rabbi seemed cheered as he stretched his hands to the blaze. He chuckled at the visions all around us.
    “What are these?” I looked into painted stars and spotted the constellations of the Cup and the Virgin.
    Kagba was delighted, but not surprised. “A Jew has been here before us. Look there. The story of Joseph, son of Jacob, in his coat of many colors. Aye. There is the boy, Joseph, in his splendid coat. The coat, a gift of honor from his father. And Joseph dreams . . . the sun and the moon and stars bow down to him. He tells his brothers they will one day bow to him. And there, the coat torn to shreds and Joseph is sold by his jealous brothers . . . Joseph’s hands bound as he is led away to Egypt by slave traders. In prison with the baker and Pharaoh’s cupbearer.”
    Every inch of the interior was painted with the biblical account of Joseph’s life. And there, in the last frames, was Joseph’s silver cup buried in the grain sack of his brother Benjamin to trap him. And, finally, Joseph weeping over his reunion with his brothers.
    “Who did such a thing?” I turned round and round in place, examining the panels in awe.
    “One who knew the story well, I think,” Rabbi Kagba whispered.
    “But why? Why paint the story of Joseph here?”
    The old rabbi considered. “Here in a cave for hundreds of years? Someone lived here, plainly. Someone who had reason—”
    “But who? Why?”
    “Whoever he was, he knew the story of the Prince of Egypt. Perhaps he was on the run. As we are, eh? I would think one who was trying to escape the captivity of Babylon. Everything means . . . something.” Kagba closed his eyes and smiled slightly. For the first time in days, as warmth radiated in the space, some color returned to his gray-green complexion.
    As the old man slept, I searched for stones to use in the cook fire. In the corner of the cavern was piled a heap of rocks. I sorted through them, looking for a flat rock to heat and cook on.
    I examined stones and discarded them. At last I found the perfect rock for cooking. When I tugged at it, several stones tumbled down. The top of a clay amphorae protruded from the opening left there.
    “Rabbi!”
    The old man had dozed off again. His breath was steady and even.
    I