Quarantine (5 page)

of god. The Galilee was full of god at that time of the year -

new crops, flowers on the apricot, the lambs, the warmer nights

. . . It was not hard to worship god in the Galilee. But here the

spring had hardly made its mark. Jesus was an optimist. Look at

the uncompleted land, he told himself, dry-tongued, enfeebled

by the labours of the walk: the valleys waiting for their rivers,

the browns and yellows waiting for their greens. Creation was

unfinished here. This was where the world was not complete.

What better place to find his god at work?

Unlike the four who had preceded him that afternoon and

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set up home amongst the poppies, Jesus did not follow any of

the carvings in the rocks which indicated where hermits would

easily find caves. He did not mean to leave his imprint softly in

the clay. He was looking for much harder ground. He preferred

the pious habitats of lunatics and bats where he could live for

forty days, hanging by his toes if need be, and not have any

excuse for shifting his eyes from heaven for an instant. He'd seen

that there were caves set in the crumbling precipice which fell

away abruptly below the camel trail, beyond the ambition even of

goats. He'd choose one which was hard to reach and inhospitable,

exposed to the sun and wind and cold. He set his sights on the

remotest and the highest of the caves, a key-shaped hole. It had

no more than a sloping rock as its yard, hardly bigger than a

prayer-mat, the perfect perch for eagles. And for angels. But

Jesus hesitated at the point where he should start to climb down.

He surely had the right to drink before he embarked on his trials.

It was not dusk. There was, as yet, no thin and bending moon

to mark the onset of his fast. God would not come before day

one. So he could drink. It was not a sin to drink. It would not

be a sign of weakness, either, if he prepared for quarantine with,

say, a simple meal, a wash, a rest.

He'd seen the batwing outline ofMiri's goatskin tent, pitched

on the flatland of the valley head. He walked towards it. There

was no one to be seen in the open. But there were goats. If there

were goats then there was water too. And milk and meat.

A tethered donkey announced his arrival while he was still

fifty paces away. Jesus stood, as was the custom, a little distance

from the open awning of the tent and waited for the greetings

from within, and the invitation to come forward. He could not

pay for food and drink. What little money that he had he'd left

behind that morning in the keeping of the shepherd. But there

are traditions, even in the wilderness. A traveller can wet his face

and lips for free.

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He coughed. He clapped his hands. He called out greetings

of his own. But no one came. That was strange - the tent was

unattended, and yet the awnings were still raised. Jesus took a

step or two towards the tent, so that he could see inside more

clearly. There were the usual signs of domesticity; the rugs and

mats, the pots, some bread and dates discarded from a meal and

being finished off by ants, the sacks of grain, the remnants of a

fire, the skins of water hanging in the shade, the bundled blankets

on a bed, the row of shoes. But no one there, as far as he could

tell. Jesus looked around for signs of someone approaching, but

there were none. He called again, without reply. His patience

was not endless. He was keen, he told himself, to reach the cave

before darkness and to begin his fast. He was afraid as well. Mraid

that he might lose his nerve the moment that he reached the

precipice, and go back home at once.

This was not theft. He took a few more steps towards the

awning and lifted the nearest and the smallest of the water-skins

off its wooden peg. He stooped and picked up the wasted heels

of bread, the dates. He rubbed the ants off on his arm. Not

killing them. Not trying to, at least. They dropped into the dust

and went about their business, unperturbed. He picked some

pieces of straw and the small stones from between his toes and

off his heels. He squeezed out what thorns he could find. His

feet were bruised and sore. His head had not improved. His

body ached. Perhaps it would not matter if he went inside, out

of the sun, if he sat cross-legged within the tent, those blankets

as a seat, and took his final supper in some comfort. Again -

with water, bread and dates held in his hands - he took some

further steps. He left the sun. His eyes were baffled by the

darkness. While he waited to become accustomed to the gloom

he heard a whistling throat, as if the bunched-up blankets at his

ankles were calling out for drink.

'Who's there?' he said.

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Again a whistling throat.

'Who's sleeping there?'

Fevers will allow a period of short lucidity before their victims

die. Musa became conscious for long enough to hear that one

word sleeping, and then to register the pains throughout his body.

His head was spongy like a mushroom. He could feel each vein

and pipe, each gut and artery, each bone and nerve, highlighted

by his agony. He was a parched and desert landscape, illuminated

by lightning. And in that moment when he heard the word he

saw the face as well. A Jewish face, young and long and womanly.

A Galilean face. A peasant face. A robber's face, for sure, because

the man had helped himself to water and was standing with their

water-skin held in his hand. Musa would have struck the man

if he'd been well enough. It would have been his duty to make

it clear that theft, especially of water, deserved some bruises and

a bloody nose. It would have been his pleasure, too. But he

couldn't even clench his fist. He tried to call out Miri's name.

He hadn't got the breath to make a sound.

'Allow me water, to soak these little crusts and wet my lips,'

the Galilean said in that compromise of tongues where Aramaic

flirts with Greek. He sensed the silent answer he received was

No. He knelt into the darkness of the tent, located Musa from

the cursing sounds he made, and sat down at his side. 'Do not

deny me water, cousin,' he said. 'Let me take a mouth of it, and

you'll then have forty days of peace from me. I promise it. The

merest drop.'

He put his fingertips on Musa's forehead. He stroked his

eyelids with his thumb. 'Are you unwell? I am not well mysel£ '

He laid his hand on Musa's chest and pressed so that the devil's

air expressed itself and filled the tent with the odour of his fever

and expelled the one word Musa had already formed, 'Mi Ri.'

The cloth that Miri had put across his mouth to keep the fever

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in almost lifted with the power of her name. His tongue was

black. Again the Galilean put all his weight - which wasn't much

- on Musa's chest and pressed. The sulphur of the hills. The

embers of the chesty fire. Even Jesus could smell it. No further

calls for Miri, though.

'A sip, a sip. And then I'm gone,' Jesus said. 'The merest drop.'

He poured a little water on his hands and smeared the dust of

his journey across his face. He was immensely cold, but glad to

have this respite from the sun. He wet his hair and massaged the

water into his scalp so that his headache was somewhat dampened.

He resurrected the softness in the bread and dates with water.

He ate, hardly touching his lips with those long, craftsman's

fingers. He drank some more. Then - an afterthought - he

tipped a little water on Musa's cheeks and lips. He felt inspirited,

newly released from pain, and powerful. He wet the cloth and

put it back in place on Musa's mouth. He shook the water from

his hands over Musa's face, a blessing. 'So, here, be well again,'

he said, a common greeting for the sick.

What should he do? It didn't matter much. There were no

witnesses or anyone to reckon with. There was as yet no thin

and bending moon to mark the first night ofhis rendezvous with

god. So he was unobserved. There is no choice, he told himself

He had to leave this sick man on his own to die. Otherwise he'd

never reach the cave; he'd miss the start of quarantine.

He would have run away, except his feet would not allow

him to. He hobbled out, an old young man, letting go the

water-skin and pulling down the open awnings as he passed. He

was embarrassed by his selfishness, perhaps? But Musa did not

witness it. He did not witness anything. His eyes were closed.

He was asleep at last, and dreaming plumply like a child.

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Musa woke again. The cloth, stiff and twisted like a loose root,

was heavy on his mouth. He spat it off He spread his arms to

free himself of all the wrappings. He tried to sit up, never quick

or easy for a man his size. First he'd have to tum his weight on

to an elbow, push with the other hand, get on his knees . . .

Camels were more gainly and less cumbersome. Musa did not

like to be observed rising with so little grandeur from his bed,

though normally Miri would be there to pull him by the wrists

and elbows to his feet, to wipe him down, to hold his clothes.

But now he could not even shift his weight. His head was loath

to leave the tent mat. He couldn't quite remember where he

was. Nor could he recognize the sickly smells of herbs, honey

and incense. Emba.lm.ing smells. He felt cold, no doubt of that.

Baffled, too. Why was he bruised and powerless? Why was he

still in blankets? Why was he feeling so melodic and so calm?

More to the point - he tried to lift his head and look around -

where was his wife? He clapped his hands. He wanted water

straight away. 'Miri. Miri.' No reply. 'Miri? Are you corning

now?' The words were dry and splintery when normally his

voice was reedy, adolescent almost. His saliva was caustic and

his lips were cracked. His throat was wilderness.

He clapped his hands again and listened for some sign that

she, or anybody else who had some water, was nearby. It didn't

matter who, so long as it was free and fast. But there wasn't any

stgn. He should have heard the voices of his cousins and his

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uncles, and the blaring of the camels, the usual waking noises of

the merchant camp. He could only hear goats, and the wheezings

of the tent skins. Finally he found strength enough, though it

was painful, to roll across the mat and peer out below the tent's

heavy skirts. He recognized what he saw. Some of it, at least.

This was the unembracing spot where, caught out by the dusk,

they'd had to pitch their tents the night before. A scrubland in

the wilderness too far from Jericho. There was the broken soil

where Habak's tent had been. And Raham's tent. And Aliel's.

Those fools. There was the blackened circle of their fire. The

camel dung. The tom and broken bushes where the goats had

fed.

There was - thank heavens - liquid within reach. Someone

deserved a slap around the ears for carelessness. They'd dropped

a water-bag by the awning of the tent. Musa dragged it across,

pulled out the stopper, and wastefully - he hadn't got the strength

to be more frugal - tipped water on his hair and down his face.

Then he drank. He had to spit the water out at first. His mouth

made it sour. But then the water went to work, reanimating

him. He could almost trace the flow and billow of its irrigation;

the freshet coursing through his mouth and throat into his

stomach. At last the water percolated to his head. His breathing

and his vision cleared. He was restored: a man of twenty-six or

so, wedded to a life of bargaining, whose preferred self-image