“Did some delegate come?”
“The message was sent by fire signals. This year they’re late; they usually come a couple of weeks before Shavuot, but due to the drought, everything has been burning up and the animals are scraggly. They waited in the hope that it would rain.”
“When do they normally collect it otherwise?”
“Like I said, a couple of weeks before Shavuot, but the villages out here usually only get a message and then take it into the City themselves. They only come to take it from a lot farther away. They don’t collect it from the Transjordan; it is brought voluntarily. There is another gathering in a fortnight or so, before Sukkot…”
The excited assistant ran out of the barn, clean feast-day sandals on his feet.
Uri washed quickly in the yard. It hadn’t rained for weeks, and the water was at hand in a pitcher, brought by women from a remote well. He said his prayers, bolted down a slice of dry bread, and hurried after the others.
People were standing in a long chain at the outskirts of the village, so Uri joined them. Girls were carrying pitchers around and splashing water onto people’s hands, which they then rubbed together. Uri received a drop and he scrubbed too. He had never seen the people of the village washing their hands before eating or prayers, that being customary only in the Diaspora. The girls had their hair pinned up, and their freshly laundered dresses clung damply to their bodies, rousing Uri’s desires. The menfolk were carrying sacks, barrels, and clay pots, with Master Jehuda scurrying excitedly among them. It must be something major brewing if he had gotten up at dawn. Master Jehuda was fussing about the cleanness of earthenware bowls, wiping the dew off them with a white linen cloth.
When he spotted Uri, he explained: “Moisture attracts flies! The uncleanness of mosquitoes will pass, but not that left by flies!” He scurried on, now crying out that lentils would be brought.
Was it lentils they would be eating today? Was that the festive fodder? Lentils had never once been served since Uri had been in the village. It was explained to him that the lentils were used to gauge the purity of grain; dirt smaller than a lentil was acceptable, but anything bigger would make a whole sack of flour unclean, and priests could not eat it. He was reassured that the presence of a lentil was purely symbolic, as there was no chance of a piece of a lentil-sized flyspeck remaining in grain; they took great care of that.
The empty bowls were set down on a blanket on the ground to Uri’s left. The sacks and barrels stood to his right. Animals were also driven onto the field, the calves and lambs still stumbling.
No one ate a thing, taking great care that their hands not be dirtied. They stood in the sun in festival mood. A table was set out on the field covered with white tablecloths upon which stood wine and water and a mixing bowl. Master Jehuda smoothed down some invisible creases in the tablecloth. He inspected the wines. He inspected the bowls that had been wiped clean and wiped them a bit more, and he also wiped their outsides, as it was said that flyspecks were common on the outsides.
The gizbarim, it turned out, was what the collectors were called; they were the ones who went out into the countryside to collect the First Fruits and the First Ripe Fruits. The Temple had three such treasurers, and these officials took orders from the katholikin, or deputy receivers, who, Levites of the high priesthood were also occupied with collecting. On ceremonial occasions, once the population had handed in their ritual offerings in Jerusalem at Sheep Gate by the North Wall, next to the big pool, it was the katholikin who examined everything to check that it was clean and intact so that Levites would have no qualms about consuming it. The priests would get a tenth of this tithe. In principle, a Levite would get ten times more than a priest, but priests had come to Jerusalem from all over Palestine and now there were more of them there than in the olden days.
A priest was coming to us today from Jerusalem! He would give us a blessing too!
There was great joy even as the sun blazed over the thousands of people lying about or standing in line with garments covering their heads. Master Jehuda walked around inspecting everyone with a severe expression on his face, as if he were able to look through them. He suddenly stopped in front of one of the boys.
“When was your uncle buried?” he asked.
“Last week,” said the lad.
“Were you present?”
“Of course.”
“Who else was there?”
“Well, the whole family…”
Master Jehuda gathered the family together, a dozen or so people, youngsters, old people, women, and children, eventually found themselves standing at the front of the line.
Jehuda stood in such a way that his shadow did not overlap any of their shadows. He gazed at them for a long time before instructing them to leave.
The head of the family, a sturdy red-haired man, protested: a week had gone by since the burial, they had every right to be there. Jehuda did not budge an inch: it was not certain that they had become clean since then — maybe yes, maybe no. The situation was disputable, so they couldn’t stay.
Uri saw, because the dispute took place just four paces away, that it took great effort for the burly red-haired man to maintain his self-control before he nodded and set off, the other members of his family glumly in tow. They would not partake of the priest’s blessings, the unfortunate people, because the master had decided so.
Jehuda looked at Uri.
“It is just possible that they threw a shadow on the dead man!” he said with a care-laden, conscientious look. “If it did, then they became unclean and a priest should not even see them because the uncleanness of a corpse crosses onto anyone throwing a shadow on it. It may be that they didn’t throw a shadow on the deceased, but that’s not certain. We can’t take that risk.”
Master Jehuda moved on, deliberating very hard about what still had to be done so that everything would go perfectly smoothly.
From the distance there was a cry of “Demah! Demah!”
Uri asked what that was.
It was agricultural produce that may or may not have been truly tithed. For safety’s sake it would later be tithed anyway, but it could not be used as an offering of either First Fruits or the First Ripe Fruits; it would have to be taken back.
The carts arrived at about midday. The collection in the previous villages must have dragged on. Indeed, people commented disparagingly, they slept all the time.
Eight big ox-drawn carts arrived, one after the other. On the first the priest, a man with a rectangular cropped beard and garbed in a white linen robe, snoozed on the box seat, and a man with a cloak sat beside him. It went along the line of people that he was the Levite deputy receiver, come from Jerusalem, the katholikos. On the last cart lurched eight armed men, one a civilian in black. The other carts were already laden with sacks and cloth-covered pots, with some calves tethered to the back of one of them. On that cart there were also chickens shut up in large cages dopily dozing.
That’s odd, thought Uri. Gizbar sounded as if it might be a word of Persian origin, and katholikos was Greek, of course. Why was there no Hebrew or Aramaic word for a collector?
The carts drew up. Master Jehuda went over to the priest. The priest clambered down from the cart, whereupon Jehuda prostrated himself on the ground. The rest of the crowd kneeled. Holding both arms out before him, the priest said a prayer and pronounced the priestly benediction. Uri, likewise kneeling, looked around. The others, transfigured, were ecstatically on their knees, many weeping for joy. They were blessed for their diligence by the priest through whom they won the blessing of the Lord himself. They had labored hard and long so that the Lord would obtain his victuals; they had earned the benediction. The Levites and the priests would later consume the First Fruits and the First Ripe Fruits on behalf of the Eternal One’s consecrated bellies. The chosen among the chosen people.