The Abyssinian Proof

4

Three young boys lay flat on the ground, heads hung over the edge of the cistern wall, frightened by the unprotected distance to the rocky earth below, but daring each other to creep closer. The wall was built in layers, five courses of brick and five of stone, scored at intervals by lines of large marble slabs, with moss and grasses growing from its crevices. Despite its great age and state of disrepair, the wall appeared massive and more enduring than any of the flimsy wooden cottages in Sunken Village below. At intervals, the cistern bent inward in shallow arches, revealing masonry the width of a man’s reach.

The boys watched people emerge from their cottages and converge like trails of ants on the domed stone structure in the village square.

“Why are they going to the mosque? I didn’t hear the ezan.”

“And look, the women are going too.” The boy raised his arm to point.

His friend pushed him and laughed.

The boy quickly pulled in his arm and grabbed a protruding stone to keep from sliding over the edge. “Stop it,” he whined.

“They’re slaves,” his friend pointed out proudly. “You know what they do in Africa? They cut off their yaraks.”

“They do not. How do you know, anyway?”

“My uncle told me. He was there. He said that’s where they make eunuchs.”

“Where?”

“Addis Ababa.”

“That’s not really a place.”

“Is too.”

“Isn’t.”

They tussled on the lip of the cistern until the third boy, who had been watching the line of people in the square below, turned and slapped them both on the ear.

One day a red line had appeared at her mother’s wrist where she had cut herself on the tine of a monstrance, a top-heavy gold receptacle with a flattened face shaped like the sun. How and when the monstrance had come into the family’s possession was unknown, but it must once have served Roman Catholics to display the wafer they adored as the body of their God. The red line had slowly but inexorably lengthened, reaching up along the inside of her mother’s arm until Balkis imagined it had tied her heart up like butcher’s string and stilled it. After her mother’s death, Balkis kept the gold monstrance, tarnished by her mother’s blood, on a shelf in the receiving hall. It reminded her of many things: to live, never to forgive.

This Friday, she had risen early and passed through the door at the back of her house that led to a small marble hamam bath. A servant fed the wood-fired boiler. Hot water flowed through ceramic channels beneath the floor and spilled from a spigot set over a marble basin. Balkis took her time bathing, allowing the heat to penetrate her muscles and release her from her body. The midwife Gudit, an old, square-shouldered woman with a face and neck like a bull, scrubbed her skin with a textured silk mitt and denuded Balkis’s body of hair with aghda, a mixture of sugar boiled with lemon juice, until the space between her legs was as smooth as an egg. After Gudit left, Balkis reached down and drew her fingers along the two lines of small round scars from the thorns that the midwife had used to pin her wound shut after circumcising her. A small pinhole at the center, where the midwife had left a straw reed inserted until the wound healed, was the only opening that remained.

“Container of the Uncontainable,” Balkis thought sourly. They hadn’t told her beforehand that the priestess became the container, never to be opened again, forever empty. After performing the circumcision, the midwife had told her that she would look beautiful, but Balkis had felt only despair. Now, seventeen years later, her wounds had healed, but the rage she felt was still raw.

After her bath, Balkis lay wrapped in a towel on a bench in the cooling-off room, thinking through her plan. She was short and plump, with a round face, a patrician nose, and lips tightly pressed, a door slammed shut on an elegant ruin. Her golden complexion highlighted her alert brown eyes, framed in starbursts of wrinkles; the face of a once beautiful woman violated by time.

Gudit brought a glass of tea and withdrew.

Balkis ran her fingers over the designs cut into the crystal and thought about the community she led, the Habesh and their Melisite sect. She focused her mind on her two children, Saba and Amida, who would lead the sect when she and her brother, Malik, passed away. It was all well and good that Saba believed in their sacred mission, but the girl would have to stop reading long enough to learn the affairs of the community. Bees only rush to the hive with a queen bee in it.

She wished Malik took more interest in Amida, her beautiful boy who had become such an attractive, talented, but wayward young man. They had to find a way to channel his angry energy into the community. The Habesh needed his leadership so they would become prosperous again and so that the young people would stay in the village. Without a thriving community, the Melisite traditions wouldn’t survive. Four hundred years of Melisite ancestors sat in judgment, should she fail.

The Habesh had long supported themselves by serving as intermediaries, buying stolen and forged items from certain families in Charshamba and passing them on to dealers in the bazaar. It was a risk-free business based on trust, and lucrative enough to have supported her village for generations. She remembered her own mother in the receiving hall of this very house, setting terms with men from the Covered Bazaar. But in the past year, the supply had dried up and the villagers were suffering. Young people were moving away to look for work. Their children would grow up Muslim, never knowing the joy of witnessing God, the blessing of their ancient community. She had to find a way to keep them here and the community alive. They must love her and, through her, their God. This sacred hunger, to which she fed her rage, was what kept her alive.

Balkis returned to the house. In the dressing room, Gudit rubbed her down with warm towels, then laid out the traditional garments worn by the priestess. Shivering with cold, Balkis put on a finely worked, backless linen robe held up by straps of pearls. She lowered her head so Gudit could place a gold chain, from which hung a key, around her neck. Gudit then settled a turban on Balkis’s head and draped a welcome cloak around her shoulders.

Gudit said little these days and her expression, which had never been pleasant, was perpetually sour. When Balkis became priestess, she had initially avoided the midwife, the agent of her circumcision, but quickly realized that Gudit was very knowledgeable. Feuds among villagers, bad harvests, epidemics-these were recurring problems. Gudit remembered how they had been handled in the past. On her advice, Balkis had revived old institutions, such as her grandmother’s informal court of mediation over which the priestess presided as neutral arbiter. She added her own innovations, for instance, rotating crops so the harm of one season wouldn’t pass easily to the next, and adding winter crops. A stand in the market now sold village-produced crafts, providing income even when the gardens failed. When disease gripped the surrounding areas, Balkis took advantage of the natural boundary of the cistern wall to quarantine the village. For all of these schemes, Gudit had been a sounding board, until the young surgeon Constantine Courtidis came to the village and she fell sullenly silent.

Courtidis had begun to visit Sunken Village a year ago, offering to care for the sick at little charge. Although he brought modern European medicines, people continued to ask Gudit for her traditional remedies on the principle that two cures were better than one. But Balkis was certain Gudit felt pushed aside. The problem, she thought irritably, was of the midwife’s own making. She was becoming old and had trained no one to take her place.

Balkis stepped from her dressing room into the opulently furnished receiving hall, which stretched the entire length of the house with rooms radiating out from it. The ceiling rose to the height of two men, lending grandeur. Servants stood at the back near the doors to the kitchen and hamam, waiting for instructions.

She saw Saba perched on the divan at the front of the hall, oblivious to the requirements of running a household, head bowed over a book. Behind her daughter, the sharp tines of the monstrance radiated outward like a cruel sun. When Saba raised her head, the monstrance made a halo around it. Her skin was the color of burnt sugar, her nose long and straight, with high, fluted nostrils like those of an Arabian horse.

Saba put her book aside. “Are you ready, Mama?” she asked. “Uncle Malik isn’t here yet.”

Balkis nodded. Retrieving a long, narrow box from a corner of the room, Saba took from it a scepter. It was a diamond-shaped cross of iron and brass, decorated with small stylized birds, attached to the top of a long iron stave.

Just then, Malik arrived. He stood inside the door to catch his breath before limping into the receiving hall and greeting them warmly. Saba hurried over to kiss her uncle.

“Ah, Priestess, you’re ready. Give an old man a few minutes.” He leaned over so Balkis could brush her cheek against his.

He looked ill, Balkis noted worriedly. They were both getting old. She was almost forty and Malik three years older. She was plagued by a pain incubating deep within her belly and a fatigue that stole upon her like a blanketing mist.

An old servant with a wrinkled face the deep purple-black of aubergines took Malik’s arm and led him toward the dressing room. “Someday one of us will become worn out and have to be replaced,” Malik joked. “Judging from the strength of your grip, it’ll probably be me.”

The old man didn’t respond, though Balkis saw a shy smile cross his face.

After a few minutes, Malik emerged in a linen robe and matching ceremonial cape similar to Balkis’s. The caretaker’s traditional garment covered him from waist to ankle, leaving his chest and back bare. A key, larger than the one around Balkis’s neck, hung from a wide leather belt around his waist. His chest was bony and the olive skin above his belt sagged, but she thought he still looked magnificent.

“Use your fur-lined robe, brother,” Balkis admonished him. “See. I have mine.”

“Next week, sister. I promise.”

Saba ran outside and returned with a freshly plucked peacock feather. She dipped its nib in molten wax from a candle and handed it to Malik.

“Thank you, my dear girl.”

Gudit reappeared, dressed in a red smock.

Their motions were routine, but Balkis saw the unrehearsed portends in the actors’ ready lines, the advanced age of those carrying out the ritual, her brother’s decline and foolish refusal to take care of himself, and Saba’s naïveté. She was a child still, and attached to her uncle, who was filling her head with pious thoughts and ignoring her wits, which also needed to be developed.

They waited for Amida, but when he didn’t arrive, they stepped out into the courtyard. The house of the priestess was an imposing structure set within the embrace of the cistern wall. Flanking the house were two cottages. The larger one backed against the cistern wall and was hidden behind a row of oleanders. Amida had recently had the doorway enlarged to accomodate a grand piano he had purchased. Six brawny men had maneuvered the instrument like a giant scaled insect down the stairs from Charshamba, providing entertainment and gossip for half the district. In the evenings, Balkis could hear the halting canto of him practicing.

A shabbier cottage, inhabited by Gudit, stood just before two columns with elaborate Corinthian capitals that guarded the entrance to the courtyard. Both cottages were made from wood, then plastered and whitewashed like the other village homes. They had been rebuilt many times. The ruins of similar cottages jutted from the weeds.

No one knew the age of the house of the priestess, the only substantial stone building in Sunken Village besides the prayer hall. Its walls, like those of the cistern, were courses of bricks alternating with bands of marble. A marble frieze-a mosaic of warriors engaged in violent encounters with lances and swords, archers on horses, women in elaborately draped robes, and muscular men-wrapped around the house above the windows. Snakes, horses, and other animals, interspersed with acanthus leaves, paraded around a narrower band just below the eaves. Inset directly above the lintel was the carving of a winged lion. The outlines of the figures were blurred after centuries of scouring by the elements, but Balkis never tired of studying them. The house and the ritual reminded her that she was one of a long chain of priestesses, each given a sacred trust.

Malik and Balkis crossed the courtyard, Saba behind them, followed by Gudit and the other servants. Balkis slowed her steps so Malik could keep up. It was midmorning and the sky had darkened. The poplars slashed at the sky in a hard gust of wind, then were still again.

Amida strode across the courtyard and fell in place beside his sister. Balkis felt a surge of pleasure at the sight of her son. As they walked slowly down the lane to the village square, groups of men and women fell in behind them. People bowed as they passed. By the time they had crossed the square to the prayer house, a crowd had formed.

The Melisite prayer house was old, perhaps even older than the home of the priestess. Its walls were built of precisely cut limestone fitted seamlessly together in alternating bands of stone and brick. Its iron-studded wooden portal was shut. Flanking the entry were two shoulder-height granite pillars scored by a series of thick horizontal lines and protruding circles.

The procession stopped before a large, flat stone in a clearing next to the prayer house. Lying on the stone was a young ewe, its fore and hind legs bound, held in place by a middle-aged man in a red smock.

Balkis stood before the sacrifice and, together with Malik, began to pray. The villagers followed, their voices rising and falling.

Hail Mary, Mother of God,

Take us under your wing.

O Virgin of the Closed Door,

Who doth songs of David sing.

Hail Mary, Mother of the Word,

Hear those who bear your message,

Container of the Uncontainable,

Grant us your intercession.

When the prayer was done, Balkis nodded. The man in red pulled back the ewe’s head and stroked its soft throat as tenderly as a lover. When the animal relaxed, he cut its throat, directing the blood into a large bowl on the ground. Balkis used a cup to pour some of the blood into the hollows on top of the pillars by the entrance. Then Malik dipped the peacock feather in the blood and anointed the prayer house door with one long stroke, followed by three short cross-strokes. He took the key from his belt and unlocked the door.

They waited while Gudit lifted the bowl and spilled its contents beneath a towering fig tree, its fruit plump and red veined. Then Balkis led the village into the prayer house. As the villagers entered, they each touched one of the pillars and then their forehead.

The interior of the prayer house was lined with marble, except for a mosaic inside the vault that depicted a gold crescent and disk against an indigo background. Oil lamps hanging from the ceiling cast a spiderweb of light over the congregation. At the front of the nave a wrought-iron divider separated the congregation from the Holy of Holies. Beyond it, an iron gate guarded a room that only the priestess was allowed to enter. Inscribed on the gate was an angel with powerful wings, which were painted gold. Those permitted to approach could see that the angel was crying.

The floor was spread with carpets, like a mosque. The women’s side of the room bloomed with bright colors, while the men’s side reflected the stolid tones of earth and grain and vernal green.

As the procession passed down the middle of the hall, the villagers bowed their heads respectfully. Balkis and Malik passed through the divider and stood before the gate, where they led the congregation in prayer.

Balkis unlocked the gate using the key on her chain and pushed it open. It made no sound on its oiled hinges. The congregation craned to see. Malik took a lit candle from a niche and handed it to Balkis. She walked through the opening and was immediately swallowed up by the darkness. The gate swung shut behind her.

There was a faint scent of incense. Balkis could hear the muffled hum of conversation resume in the hall. She blew out the candle and closed her eyes. The dark power in this room, the Holy of Holies, penetrated her like heat in the hamam, taking control of her body and cleansing it.

She imagined her brother’s majestic, cloaked figure on the other side of the gate, standing guard before the miracle. Malik, caretaker of the Melisites.

“Behold Balkis,” she heard him intone in a loud voice. “Behold the Proof of God, Container of the Uncontainable. Behold the Key to all religions.”

The angel gate opened and Balkis stepped out into the light. She felt tall and commanding. She knew the villagers no longer saw her, but their priestess. Two fillets hung from her embroidered turban, framing the face of a woman comfortable with power. In her hand was the iron scepter. The gate closed behind her.

Balkis stood for a moment, surveying the crowd, noting who had come and who had stayed away. She took her time, bestowing approving glances on those whose goodwill she needed to carry out the project she had in mind, and letting the few young people heedlessly flirting at the back of the room feel the weight of her gaze until they fell silent. Saba and Amida sat side by side at the front of the room before the elders, a place of honor. Saba, as always, was absorbed in the ceremony, perhaps imagining herself in the role of priestess. Amida looked bored and distracted. This saddened Balkis. She wanted her son to believe in the Melisites as she did, to love the sect. To love her.

Balkis put her scepter aside and turned to face the gate, her eyes on the angel’s powerful wings. She wondered, as she always did, why the angel was crying. She thought she knew.

The cloak slipped from her bare shoulders and pooled around her feet. Beside her, Malik too let his cape fall. They raised their arms to the angel gate.

“Behold the Proof of God,” Balkis announced.

“Adonai, help us,” the congregation responded. “Virgin of Chora, Container of the Uncontainable, keep us.”

Balkis felt the fervor of their gaze on her bare tattooed back. Priestess and caretaker, angels before the angel gate.