Quarantine (24 page)

pray, but her devotions did not take up much time. She was an

indecisive worshipper of god. Her liturgies were brief and shy.

Once she felt safe and strong enough to leave the perching valley

of the caves, she took to hurrying each morning down the valley

to the tent, where she could bargain with Musa for some bread

or dates or curd. She hired a reed bed-mat from him, which she

could soften with a cushion of sand. She'd get half her money

back if she returned the mat at the end of quarantine unmarked,

he said. Sometimes she bought a little stiffened goat's milk in a

pouch, as well, and some of Miri's sweet cake. To eat in secret

after dusk, not to share.

'I feel responsible for you,' Musa said, when she stood at his

bed end one morning to offer her respects and money. 'A landlord

and his tenants are like cousins. Brothers, sisters, even. And now

you worry me. Look at yourself. You're losing weight,' he said.

'And that won't do. We have to keep you plump and strong.

Don't be like her. My wife's a stick.' He turned his head towards

the curtain and the rattle of the loom, and called out to his wife,

'Feed her, Miri. She is my guest. She is my sister for today.'

'I mustn't eat,' Marta said. 'Not now.'

'Who'll know?' he asked. He wasn't pleased. He wished that

he could pull her to the ground and make her eat. He'd stuff

her mouth with bread, not clay, and pick the crumbs off with

his tongue. He turned away from her, and fell back on his

cushions. An insult to a visitor. 'You do not have to be our sister

for the day if you don't want. The choice is yours. Be thin. '

The thought of Marta - thin or plump - made his mouth go

dry. The fleshy twist ofleavened dough, tucked in his lap, began

to uncurl, bake and form a crust. Patience, patience - she'd be

his within the forty days. She was alone. Who, or what, could

stop him going to her cave one night? His plans for Marta kept

him busy for a while. But otherwise, he only thought of being

in the market-place, the centre of the crowds again. He wished

that he could simply clap his hands and be elsewhere. He'd leave

tomorrow if it were possible, except he could not make his

escape out of the scrub until those three fools at the caves would

put his bags and tent on to their backs and take him to the river

valley. He was the warder of other people's quarantines. He was

the prisoner, as well.

He entertained himself with thoughts ofleaving Miri behind

in Jericho or, better still, exchanging her for Marta. What would

he do when he got north, apart from looking for his uncles and

his cousins? He'd have no trouble getting restitution for the

merchandise they'd taken- they'd think he was a ghost- although

it might be many seasons before he traced his old companions.

How would he live, what would he buy and sell until that day?

He asked the question to himself a thousand times, and every

time, it seemed the Gaily's face imposed itself on Musa's mind.

'Be well,' he'd said, and driven out the fever.

Yes, patience was the watchword now. Everything would

turn out well if Musa could only wait until he found the healer

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for a second time, and enticed him to his tent again. In his dreams

and in his drink, he'd lured the Galilean from his cave and asked,

in lieu of rent, to be taught the trick of healing. He learned to

fill his saddle-bags with prayers and spells, to dig up roots, pick

leaves. Then he travelled to the pleats and pockets of the world

and sold long life, and health. He was mistaken for a holy man,

and people emptied out their purses in his lap. He drove out

fevers for a price, turned water into wine. He made barren

women pregnant with his Galilean tricks, and caused the lame

to dance for him. At last he was respected for himself.

He could not stop himself inventing new, unholy miracles.

He knew - let's say - the art of seeing through the women's

clothes, so he could watch them naked as they lined up at his

stall. He practised this new skill on Marta. He'd find some task

for her close to his bed, so that he might see her bend or lift her

arms and watch her fabrics shift across her skin, so that he might

enjoy the smell ofher. He made her wait at his bed's end, while

he made plans.

But for the most part of the day, Marta and Miri had their

privacy in the screened end of the tent and with the goats. They

hardly spoke at first. What should they say? You only had to

read the parchment of their skins to know these women had

little in common apart from their age, perhaps. Marta's face was

hardly marked, except for a few lines around the mouth, and

two almond-shaped wedding scars on her cheeks. But Miri's

face was an empty water-bag - squint lines round the eyes from

travelling too long and often in the sun; dry skin across the

forehead and the nose; chewed lips; and battle scars.

On the first occasion that Marta had gone beyond the curtain,

Miri 's face was bruised. Her smile was puckered by the swelling

at her mouth; one eyebrow was bluey-grey and swollen. Hers

was a beggarwoman's face. The elders of Sawiya would drive

her sort out of town, with Thaniel leading them. There was,

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nevertheless, somethingjaunty and unquenchable about the little

woman that Marta found irresistible. She had to reach across and

touch the bruise, a healing gesture ofher own. The two embraced,

and held each other's hands like sisters. It did not matter that

they did not talk at first, for women always find some soundless

intimacy with which to occupy themselves.

Marta simply followed Miri. Sat when she sat. Watched when

any work was done. Smiled when stared at. Passed the hanks of

wool. She held the nannies by their ear tufts during milking.

She helped to shake and separate the curds. She took her tum

with blowing into the goatskin from time to time to clarify the

yoghurt into butter, and collected herbs from the scrub. She

learned to slap the unleavened dough against hot fire-stones to

make platter bread, cooked in moments. She learned to check

and block the pegs on Miri's loom, and to tie the smallest knots

in the broken yarn. She was like a child in some aunt's yard,

clumsy, willing, slow, engrossed, her tongue between her teeth,

eager to be praised, and quite content to be ignored. But soon

the intimacy of weaving, of sitting side by side on the woven

fabric as the mat progressed and lengthened, to help maintain

the loom in tension, turned the women into twins. A muttered

conversation started. Their shoulders and their fingers touched.

Their knees collided on the wool. They talked about their lives,

about their marriages, and Marta wept - sad for herself and sad

for Miri - on the day that Miri asked how many children she

had got at home. Not one.

They shared a bowl of water when they washed. Behind the

curtain, Marta let all her clothes drop to her waist and took her

underlinen off, while Miri brought a dampened cloth for her to

wipe herself, and a head of lavender to make the water sweet.

Then Miri matched her nakedness, though less majestically, and

washed. She let Marta put her fingers on her stomach and feel

for heels and heartbeats. Once they heard the curtain drop. It

was still swaying when they'd pulled their clothes back on. They

knew that Musa had been watching them. But still they laughed.

These were the fullest forty days they'd ever lived.

Late in the afternoon, the men arrived and readied Musa for his

daily walk. They left Miri preparing bread behind the tent, and

went off through the falling scrub to look for signs of Gaily. A

path was worn where there had never been a path, between the

caves, the tent, the precipice. Musa with the curling staff. Aphas

with a bending stick he'd made from sap bush. Shim, safely at a

distance, lost- or hiding-in his meditations. The badu, following

and leading, low-shouldered, like a herding dog. And Marta last.

Again there was no sign of anyone in the cave. No healer

waved at them. No Galilean shouted out for food. There were

just shades and shapes. The rocks were shivering.

Aphas could hardly breathe, he was so disappointed. His lungs

felt squeezed. 'I'm not a very devout man,' he said, when it was

almost time to leave. 'Ifl' d prayed more, and bathed and followed

rules, observed the sabbath better, I might've not got ill. Who

knows? I might've not got this.' He touched his bulging liver,

and gasped several times. The constant pain was wearying. It

took him to the edge of tears. 'But this is what I feel when I am

here. This air is . . . sweet . . . There is someone.'

Aphas could not stop himself from weeping now. His illness

and his imagined eloquence were more than he could bear. His

voice was smothered by his sobbing. He was recalling Musa's

words, how Shim's very stupid boy had pressed his holy fingers

on Musa's face, and said, I will not let you take this man from

us. How he had plucked the fever out; how he might pluck the