Quarantine (41 page)
display for anyone to help themselves. He'd rather have another
fire. But there were huge rocks a little lower down the landfall
where he could hide his merchandise. He didn't have to carry
anything. He only had to let it slip and roll, and then push the
goods into a crevice. When he left, he'd block it off with stones.
He could come back, or send someone, to claim his property at
any time, so long as the scree did not give way and claim his
treasures for itself
The water-bag which Marta had thrown down the scree was
too far out to reach, beyond his climbing skills. He had no water,
then. He'd be a fool to try to carry on in the heat of the afternoon.
The sun would finish him. Certainly he could not attempt to
give chase to the women. Instead, he sat beneath the crevice of
the rock with his possessions at his back, hiding in the shade.
When the sun went down, he wrapped himself in bedding
clothes and sat, cursing his misfortune, not getting any sleep.
He'd never known a longer night.
In the morning, as soon as there was any light, but before the
sun had any strength to it, Musa forced himself to stand and
resume his descent to the valley. He only carried the blond man's
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staff. He hid the perfume bottles, the gold, the coins and the
jewellery in his underclothes. He pushed the ornamented knife
into his sash. He was surprised how even-tempered he was
feeling. He'd been restored by a night of cursing. Now he only
saw one challenge in his life. If he could safely get down to the
bottom of the landfall, then what could stop him getting into
Jericho, and who could stop him there from trading up his bad
luck into good? Who'd dare?
His wife and child were far ahead. He couldn't catch them
now. He wouldn't try. He was divorced from her. He'd look
for someone else to pull him to his feet and wash his back in
Jericho. Some woman with a little flesh. The very thought of it
relieved him of his anger. He made slow progress down the
scree, leaning on his staff for ten steps at a time, and then resting
until he grew too stiff to rest. He stopped before midday and
once again took refuge in the shade. This time he slept, his head
on shale. It left its imprint on his face. There were a few thin
clouds that day to screen the sun, so Musa could continue his
descent in the afternoon without the opposition of the heat. He
finally reached the trading route late in the day, and took his
place amongst the stragglers who would have to fight for places
at the single inn on the approaches to the town.
Musa was alarmingly tired, and even a little lame. He walked
more slowly than the other travellers, all younger, smaller men,
loaded down with bags or dragging their possessions on wooden
sleds. But one or two dropped back to talk to him. One offered
him some water from his bag. Who could he be, this grand,
impressive man, with his covering of dust and scratches, his
wondrous curling staff, his ornamented knife, and nothing on
his back to mark him out as a trader or a proper traveller? He
looked like some king-prophet come down from the hills, like
Moses, with his prescriptions for the world.
They were amazed at all the stories he could tell. He'd come
from forty days of quarantine up in the wilderness. He hadn't
drunk or eaten anything. He'd gone up thin and come back fat,
thanks to god's good offices. He'd shared his cave with angels
and messiahs; he'd met a healer and a man who could make
bread from stones. His staff had come to him one night, a
dangerous snake which wrapped itself around his arm and turned
to wood. They could hold it, for a coin. One touch of his staff
would protect them against all snakes. He had, he said, some
phials of holy medicine. A sniff of each, and all their illnesses
would be cured and all their troubles would be halved. He would
not charge them very much, as they were friends and comrades
on the road. 'Come to me at the inn tonight,' he said. 'And you
will see.'
One of the travellers gave Musa food to eat. Another let him
ride inside his donkey cart. He sat on bales of scrub hay, his fat
legs hanging off the back. What little sun there was came from
the sununit of the precipice. Musa looked up to the scree, shading
his eyes against the light, and checked the spot where he had
left his worldly goods. He was alarmed for an instant. There was
somebody climbing down towards his hiding place, halfhidden
in the shade. A man or woman? Musa was not sure. Whoever
it was did not stop to search amongst the rocks, but hurried
down across a patch of silvery shale. Now Musa had a clearer
view; a thin and halting figure tacking the scree, almost a mirage
- ankleless, no arms - in the lifting light.
Musa shouted to his new companions. 'Look there,' he said.
'That's one I mentioned to you. The healer. Risen from the
grave.' But they were not sure that they could make out anyone.
The shapes they saw could be mistaken for disturbances of wind,
and shadows shaking in the breeze. But Musa was now almost
certain what he was looking at. It was his little Gaily, coming
down from death and god to start his ministry. He recognized
the weight and step of him.
Musa wondered if he ought to ask the cart-owner to leave
him at the roadside to wait for Gaily. But Musa was afraid of
being wrong. What if he waited and the man did not appear?
What if he waited and the man was some thin figure with another
face? What if the man were what they said, a shadow shaking in
the breeze? Musa pushed the very thought away. He would not
wait, he persuaded himself, because it was not sensible to wait.
There were practicalities to bear in mind. The cart was not the
choice of emperors but it was comfortable enough, and preferable
to walking. The Galilean might be a healer and the lord of
miracles, but he was not a cart. No, Musa had to persevere. He'd
go ahead until he reached the inn, and then he could pay for
two places for the night, if there were any places left. One for
himself and one for Gaily. 'Show me how to tum stones into
bread,' he'd say, 'and we'll go into business. I'll make you richer
than Tiberius.' They'd make a deal, and shake some empty cups
on it.
And if he did not come into the inn? Then Musa would not
be disappointed. Life was long. He could expect to meet the
man inJericho, among the palms, beneath the henna blossoms.
Or in Jerusalem. Or Rome. Or in the land behind the middleman,
the hill behind the hills, the village that you reached when all
the villages had ended, where blue was silver and the air was
heavier than smoke.
In the meantime, this would be his merchandise, something
finer and less burdensome than even colour, sound or smell. No
need for camel panniers or porters or cousins. He'd trade the
word. There was a man who had defeated death with just his
fingertips. 'I am the living proof' He'd travel to the markets of
the world. He'd preach the good news. That would be easy.
Musa had the skills. He had been blessed with this one gift. He
could tell tales. 'He came into my tent,' he'd say. 'He touched
me here, and here. "Be well," he told me. And I am well. And
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I have never been so well. Step forward. Touch me. Feel how
well I am.'
Musa looked towards the distant scree again. He told himself
this was no merchant fantasy. His Gaily was no longer thin and
watery, diluted by the mirage heat, distorted by the ripples in
the air. He made his slow, painstaking way, naked and barefooted, down the scree, his feet blood-red from wounds, and as he came closer to the valley floor his outline hardened and his
body put on flesh.
Musa raised an arm in greeting, but there was no response.
The Gaily's eyesight was still weak, he'd say. The man would
have seer,t the rocks at his feet, perhaps. But not the distant valley
or the hills. And so he could not spot his landlord riding there.
Nor could he contemplate the endless movements on the trading
road, the floods, the rifts, the troops, the ever-caravans, the
evening peace that's brokered not by a god but by the rocks and
clays themselves, shalom, salaam, the one-time, all-time truces of
the land.
