Quarantine

12

‘That’s it. The donkey’s gone,’ Shim said, when he and the badu came back to the tent and joined the others amongst the wools in the shade of its awnings. Then, ‘There’s someone there. A boy, I think.’ He wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He ran his tongue around his lips. He puffed his cheeks and blew out air. He wanted everyone to see how tired and thirsty he’d become. When Musa offered him the water-bag, as hospitality dictated that he should, he could firmly shake his head, the handsome man of principle and fortitude. He’d hold his hands up, palms out, as if the very sight of water in a bag offended him. He’d spit, to show he would not even swaliow phlegm to ease his thirst. Here was an opportunity to gain respect and admiration — some recompense for the rent and water tax which the landowner had exacted from him. He was beyond temptation, they would see. He would not break his fast until the sun was down. He would not cheat, as evidently they had done. He saw the range of food and drink at Musa’s feet, the empty flask in Aphas’s lap, and held his feliow cavers in contempt.

Shim did not have the chance to spit. Musa snapped his fingers for the women to be quiet. He waved the blond forward impatiently. He wanted to hear exactly what he had to report — not because he cared that Shim was tired and dry and beyond temptation, or that the donkey was gone, or that the badu, swaying like a hermit in a trance, had twisted his hanks of hair so tightly that there was blood — and flies — on his scalp.

‘What boy? What sort ofboy?’ he said. ‘What do you mean, There’s someone there? Say where.’

‘Below the top,’ said Shim. He vaguely gestured at his toes. ‘A good climb down. .’

‘What did he say? Was he the fifth that you saw walking? Was he a Jew? The one I saw was just a villager. Is that the one? He had an accent from the Galilee,’ said Musa.

Shim shrugged. What did it matter who it was? ‘Such heavy work,’ he said. ‘Animals weigh twice as much when they’re dead. I’m parched. .’ He remembered the badu. ‘Him too.’ ‘A skinny man. Was he a skinny man?’

Another shrug from Shim. ‘Not. .’ He paused. He didn’t like to say ‘Not fat’ to Musa. ‘Not fat like you.’ ‘Not strong,’ he said instead. ‘We didn’t speak to him. We only dropped the donkey off That’s what we promised you. It fell. .’ Again, a gesture with his hand. ‘It missed him by a whisper. But it was thirsty work.’

‘Describe him, then. What kind of person, do you think?’ Shim spread his hands and laughed. How should he know? His landlord was a tiresome man, obviously obsessed with taking rents and picking profits offevery creature on his land. He’d not co-operate with such a cormorant. ‘Someone who hasn’t any wealth, I’d say. Don’t waste your time on him. .’ He held his hands up, palms out. He shook his head. ‘You’ll not get rich.’ At least Musa was silent for the moment. His mouth had fallen open and his eyes were wide. Here was Shim’s opportunity to have his say. He stepped three paces further into the tent and stood where he could speak softly and with dignity, and stiH be heard by everyone. ‘And do not think to offer me your water- bag,’ he said. ‘The spirit of my quarantine is that I must refuse aH food and drink while there is any light. Others might be less exacting with themselves. An older man, perhaps, might be forgiven for his lapses. And women by nature cannot be as spiritual as men. They are false treasures, as the scriptures say. And who can blame them for their modesty? But for me denial and enlightenment are twins. We only meet the god within our true selves through suffering. \V e seek the wilderness because in this solitude we can hear ourselves more clearly. .’

Perhaps this was the moment he should spit, and then deliver them a homily on the higher disciplines of fasting. He rolled the phlegm inside his mouth, looking for an uncovered patch of ground, but once again he did not have the chance to spit. Musa, with surprising speed, had fallen forward and was holding the handsome man of principle and fortitude by the ankle, pressing with his nails into the hollows ofthe heel. ‘How does that hurt? Is god here yet?’ With his other hand, he pulled the little toe out of Shim’s sandal, bent it back from the other four, and tugged, like someone snapping the bone out ofa piece ofroasted chicken.

‘Don’t speak,’ he said, though Shim hadn’t got the breath to do anything but whine. ‘Be quiet. Do what I say. Go back and bring him here, the fifth.’

‘He. . might not. .’

‘Go back and bring him here.’ He gave the little toe a final, warning tug and let go of Shim’s foot. ‘Did that feel good? Is that the suffering you’re looking for?’

Shim stepped back out of reach. The pain persisted. His toe was red and oddly angled.

‘Hurry,’ Musa said.

Shim’s ankle would not take his weight. He made the most of standing on one leg. ‘He wiil have gone by now,’ he said at last. He did not recognize the tremor in his voice. ‘It was a shepherd. Just coilecting eggs. Or looking for a stray.’

‘Go back and see.’

Shim could have said, Go back yourself and see. But he didn’t want to risk more pain, another dislocated toe. He must stay calm and dignified. ‘Pain and enlightenment are twins,’ he said instead. And then, ‘Send her, your wife. Send him.’ The badu was still squatting outside the tent. ‘Send someone who can walk.’ He turned his back on his landlord. He was a holy man. He’d return to his own cave at once — if he could bear the pressure on his ankle and his toes — to continue with the solemn business of his quarantine.

Musa wished he had the pestle close at hand. He’d show what damage he could do to this man’s hands and knees. He’d never pray again. Musa did not like to be defied. Men were just like donkeys, and their memories were long. Ifhe allowed this Shim to succeed in challenging himjust once, then he would chalenge Musa at every turn. If the caravan had not gone off, and there were cousins close by, then it would be a simple matter. Musa would only have to clap his hands and there would be five men to teach the blond the rules oftenancy. But there weren’t cousins. His only ally was his wife, and she could hardly break the blond man’s fingers with a rock, as he deserved. Revenge would have to wait. Musa would pretend to compromise. He’d seem to be a diplomat — if that was what it took to see the Galilean once again.

He waved his hands at Miri. ‘Up, up,’ he said. She held him by his wrists and puHed. The dates were heavy on his breath. His breath was heavy on her face.

When he was sitting down or standing up, Musa was an imposing man — but anything in between and, like a camel, he was vulnerable and comic. Miri had only got him halfway to his feet; his legs were doubled up, his knees were spread, his buttocks were just clear of his bed-mat. She’d had to hold him like that many times before, when he was drunk or, merely lazy, he demanded help with defecating beyond the tent. If she let go on those occasions, her husband would collapse on to his own waste. A mesmerizing thought. She always wanted to let go. She never did. She didn’t now, though it was tempting. She had so many grudges to express. She held him steady while he threw his head and shoulders forward so that his weight shifted from his buttocks to his knees, and then she pulied again. Musa was standing on his feet at last, and he was slow and dangerous.

Shim was by now a hundred paces fromthe tent, and hurrying — only limping when he remembered to. His toe and ankle had survived. He had alarmed himself, and yet he was elated too. So this was why he’d travelied all these days into these numb and listless hilis, he thought. Musa was sent to test his fortitude. Musa would be his quarantine. He’d kept his dignity so far, he thought, and he’d been admired for it, by the old man and the Jewish woman at least. But he would need to be alert and cautious from now on. Musa would be an unremitting enemy. He was the sort who’d come up to the caves at night and smoke his tenants out, or take away their water rights, or worse. There would be no escaping him. So when he heard the fat man’s oily voice calling to him across the scrub, he stopped and turned. He felt a little nauseous, to tell the truth, when he saw Musa standing up so solidly, with one arm hidden behind his back and al his pleats and folds of flesh made smooth and monumental by the faling, heavy cloth of his tunic. What magic was afoot? He’d not be the least surprised to see the fat man running in the scrub towards him, leaping boulders like a little deer, or somersaulting at him, as fast and weightless as a tumble bush. He’d grasp his a^nkles once again and pull his toes off, one by one.

Shim’s hands were shaking. So were his toes. He could not move. He stood amongst the goats and cupped his ears to hear what Musa was saying.

‘What have you forgotten now?’ the big man called. There was, at least, no anger in his voice.

Shim had no idea what best to say. Had he forgotten to ask pe^rmission to depart? He’d not apologize. Had he neglected some propriety? The question puzzled him. He could not speak. He was a fish caught on a line. He took a step or two back towards the tent. Then ten, then twenty more. He was prepared to talk at least.

‘You have left this,’ Musa said, when Shim was halfWay back. ‘Look here. Come on.’ He showed his hidden hand. It held Shim’s spirailed walking stick, his talisman, his peace of mind, his one companion on the road. It was his sign of holiness. He had forgotten it.

Shim would not be safe or comfortable without his staff It was not Greek or logical, but he loved the twisting wood, each curl a cycle ofhis life. It was as much a part of him as curls cut from his hair. It could be used, like stolen hair or fingernails, to torment him with pains and nightmares if it fell — as now — into ill-meaning hands. He had to get it back. Should he retrace his steps more slowly, to show his unconcern? Or should he hurry with a careless stride to demonstrate his fearlessness? He hurried, almost ran back to the tent. He saw that Musa held his walking stick in his two fists, ready to hand it over or to strike. An image of the donkey came to mind. He understood her bruises now, the blood, the broken bones. The donkey was his little toe.

‘Go back and get the little Gaily. For me,’ Musa said, as soon as Shim had returned and stood inside the tent,just out ofreach. Musa’s tone was meek and pacifying. He was the merchant forced to drop his price. ‘Or at least let me keep this walking stick for just a while and lead me to the place where you could see him … You are not frightened of the precipice? You are not frightened ofa fail, I hope.’ Musa reached forward and softly, oddly, touched the end of the staff on Shim’s leg. Shim neither shook his head nor spoke.

‘Miri,’ continued Musa, ‘bring honey water for my cousin. And some dates. Put cushions down.’ Miri frowned and shook her head at Shim. He’d be a fool if he came close. She could not tell if Musa meant to murder him or simply make him look a fool.

‘It is my quarantine,’ said Shim, staying put. Miri nodded at him, smiled. ‘I will not eat while there is light. I will not drink. I do not allow myself to recline on cushions. There is no compromise, no matter that the task of seeing to your donkey was exhausting.’ Here was his opportunity. He spat into the sand at last. ‘I cannot even swallow phlegm for fear that it might slake my thirst.’

‘Are you allowed to swallow words?’ asked Musa. ‘Then, perhaps, it would be well if you consume what you have said today, and start afresh. Begin again. Do what I ask. Accompany me. Show where he is. If it’s the man I think, then he’s as close as you will ever get to angels. You’re wrong, you see. He wasn’t only someone looking for his sheep or hunting eggs. Some nobody. He is a healer and his flock are men. His eggs are. .’ No, he couldn’t think ofanything for eggs. ‘There’s holiness in him. If it’s the man. He is the one who saved my life.’

Musa liked that final touch, ‘. . who saved my life.’ A useful lure, which he had used before. ‘This gemstone is blemished. That is true,’ he’d told a customer earlier that spring, and made the sale. ‘But it has healing properties as well. This is the stone that saved my life.’

Musa didn’t need to talk to Shim now, or even look at him. He could forget him. This was another market trick. Address your comments to the crowd. Ignore the buyer. Let him battle with himself. And there was a small crowd of eager listeners. His wife, of course, whose listening was dutiful; the woman Marta; the old man. Everybody lived in fear of death, and everybody was beset by age or sickness. So everybody liked to hear of healers. The badu — though he did not stop his rocking or let go of his tortured hair — turned his attentions towards Musa.

Even if he didn’t understand a single word, he recognized the storyteller’s tone.

Musa sat on his rugs again, with Miri’s help. He puUed his hands across his face, and let them drop into his lap. Where should he start? This one was hard. He only had to tell the truth. Just tell the truth and see the man again. He was hungry for the chance to see the man again. He’d even pay to see the man again. Musa did not recognize himself. Was he in love with that frail voice, those hands? Had he gone mad? Or had he simply drunk more than he’d realized?

‘Two days ago,’ he said, ‘I had the fever. I was as good as dead. Hot, cold and wet. My tongue was black. Ask her. She sang for me al night. Her voice is like a goat’s. A voice like hers could drive the devil off, and clear the sky ofbirds. But even so she couldn’t lure the fever out. Miri, tell them it’s true.’ He waited while his wife obliged with a nod. ‘What could she do? Except pray? Already she was grieving for her husband. There wouldn’t be a man to take good care of her. I was a piece of meat, and soon to be as numb and silent as a stone. I don’t remember anything, except death’s door.’

Where there were market-places, there were preachers. So Musa knew the words and mannerisms he should use to lend a touch of holiness to what he said: ‘She went to look for herbs to make a poultice for my head. And when she went a stranger came into my tent. He was my light and my salvation. He came from nowhere. And he was here, right by my bed, then not quite here, then gone, then come again. The air was flesh. But still I saw his face. I heard his voice. From the Galilee. He said his name. I can’t remember it. He put his holy water on my head. He pressed his holy fingers on my face. He held a conversation with the fever in my chest. He said, This man is loved by god. This man is loved by everybody’s god. This man is merchandise that can’t be touched. I will not let you take this man from us. He put his fingers on my chest. The hot and cold went out of me. He plucked the devil out as easily as you or I might take the stone out of an olive. He pinched death between his fingertips. He flicked it on to the ground, like that … as if it were an olive stone. .’

Musa coughed to gain a little time. He could not think how olive stones and death were quite the same. He tried again, ‘. . I knew that I would live to be white-haired because … You must not take my word for this. Ask her. Come back in twenty years. This very place. And you will see me with white hairs. So now you understand?’ He looked at Shim finaUy. ‘That man you saw, that boy, he made me live again. . The little Gaily drove death away.’ Again he pointed at his wife. ‘Ask her. She left a dying man and then she came back to a miracle … You see?’ He slapped his chest. He pulled the flesh out on his cheek to show how soft and large he was. ‘I am restored.’

It was exactly as Musa wished. He had his way; he had his company; he had the blond man’s staff

‘Let’s see this holy man of yours,’ Shim said, glad for once that he was no longer the centre of attention. ‘Come, come.’ He cailed his fellow quarantiners to his side. The more they were, the safer he would be. They did not need persuading. Marta could not miss the possibility of further miracles. Aphas found the energy to stand and join the pilgrim group. A healer was his only hope. The badu followed them like a dog, always glad of expeditions. Would someone draw the demons out of him? They set off for the precipice in the middle of the day, when only mad men left their tents, to find the Galilean man, if it was him. He was the purpose of their quarantine, perhaps. He was the answer to their prayers. Like Musa, they would be restored.

Miri and the goats were left behind. They had no need for miracles. Miri was unwidowed by a miracle already. She had no wish to meet the healer face to face. She’d want to slap his cheek. She’d want, at least, to have the devil’s eggy breath returned to her husband’s mouth. She’d want to have the days rolled back like parchment on a scroll to times when Musa lay across his bed with a blackened tongue, blurting fanfares of distress. But Miri did not believe in Musa’s healer, anyway. He was as real to her as cattle with two tails.

She watched the five pilgrims disappear towards the crumbling decline of the scrub, their pace set by her husband’s flat, unsteady step. She could have wept. She could have taken Musa’s knife and scarred herself, as widows do. Instead she turned again towards the warring hanks of wool and the small world of her loom.