Quarantine (17 page)

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 of the 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 of a piece of roasted

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 will have gone by now,' he said at

last. He did not recognize the tremor in his voice. 'It was a

shepherd. Just collecting 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

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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. If he allowed this Shim

to succeed in challenging him just once, then he would challenge

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 of tenancy. 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

a gam.

He waved his hands at Miri. 'Up, up,' he said. She held him

by his wrists and pulled. 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

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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 pulled again. Musa was

standing on his feet at last, and he was slow and dangerous.

Shim was by now a hundred paces from the 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 travelled all these days into these numb and

listless hills, 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 all his pleats

and folds of flesh made smooth and monumental by the falling,

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 ankles

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

permission to depart? He'd not apologize. Had he neglected

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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 spiralled 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 of his 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 of reach.

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 of a fall, 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 of anything 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.

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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 pulled 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 all 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?