Quarantine (11 page)

passed the night in caves. She'd pointed to the coppery, pockmarked cliffs. 'Not far,' she'd said. Not far, perhaps, for someone built like her. A chicken, all skin and bone and beak. No meat

on her, except for the slight, high swelling of her stomach. But

for Musa, this outing was hard work. He was a duck to Miri's

chicken, flat-footed and ungainly. His thighs were so thick that

they required him to walk in opposing quarters: his right foot

took him to Jerusalem, his left foot set off for Negev. He tacked

his way across the scrub, with tiny steps.

At first Miri was required to walk behind with the water-bag

and a mat, throwing her narrow shade across his back. Musa was

not pleased with her. Everything had been her fault; the fever,

his abandonment, his immobility, his loss of goods. He'd ordered

her to pull the donkey carcass out of sight. It smelled. It bothered

him. Even the vultures had only circled it, and gone away without

tasting its disease. Something, though, less discriminating than a

vulture had chewed its stomach out during the night. The scrub

dogs, probably. Its eyes had gone. And there were flies. But Miri

claimed the body was too heavy for her to move alone. She had

refused to even try - and that was something she had never done

before. For fear of a clout. What was happening to his wife?

He'd caught her weeping in the night. Crying for the donkey?

Surely not. Now she was sulking like a disappointed child,

throwing things about the tent, making too much noise, complaining that her buttocks ached. Not that she had buttocks worthy of the name. Perhaps that was the price of pregnancy -

disobedience, bad temper, aches. Did she expect that he would

tolerate such disrespect for four more months?

'Keep out of sight,' he'd said to her when they began their

walk. But the ground was stony and uncomfortable. He did not

see why he should suffer first, and so he sent his wife ahead to

simplify a path for him. She had to clap her hands to scare off

any snakes. She had to kick away scrub balls and snap off any

thorny branches in his way. She had to find the softest ground,

and pull aside the loose rocks which might block his path. She

hardly made a difference. It would have taken twenty men to

clear a path. For Musa, though, his little chicken wife, clapping

as she led the way for him, would have to do. He had his dreams.

There would be twenty men at his command when he was rich.

He'd be preceded everywhere he went by twenty men. They'd

clear the path of stones. They'd throw down rushes. There'd be

twenty girls as well - and none of them would look like chickens.

At last they reached the valley bed with its soft clay. Musa

didn't have to stamp to make his mark. His feet sank in. His

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ankles twisted when he walked. He summoned his wife to his

side, and leaned on her. His buttocks and calves were aching

now. Compared to Miri's, his were buttocks ten times worthy

of the name. So his pains were ten times worse than hers. His

lungs were bursting. He wasn't built for hiking. He was built

for litters, or for camels. Perhaps he had been hasty when he

killed the donkey. He could, perhaps, have ridden on her back

to meet the Galilean or got Miri to assemble a donkey cart. That

would have been more dignified.

Except there was no Galilean there, as far as he could tell. When

Miri had finally pushed him up the last few steps of the scarp,

through the rash of poppies, to the shaded foot of the cliffs, and he

had settled down with his exhaustion on the mat, there wasn't any

sign oflife at all, except the congregation ofbirds.

'Call out,' he ordered Miri. 'Unless, of course, a call's too

heavy for you.'

She obeyed, and called 'Gather, gather!', her husband's market

cry; and soon the quarantiners came down from their caves, one

by one, and stood a little nervously in line in front ofMusa while

he looked each of them in the face as if they were for sale. He

could tell at once what they were worth. Not much, the badu.

Musa could trade two badus for one goat. Except this one had

silver bracelets. The old Jew was an artisan and dying, by the

looks of him. A man like him would be too proud to travel

without money. The blond was carrying a walking staff, made

out of spiralled tarbony. Quite valuable. Musa knew his type, a

seasoned traveller and, probably, prepared for thieves. He'd have

some hidden coins sewn in his cloak. The woman? Good clothes

- a woven hair veil in fine material, a long sleeveless tunic,

girdled twice as was the fashion, once beneath her bosom, once

around her waist. Good cloth. Good skin. Good teeth. Good

heavy purse, as well, he thought. And easy pickings.

The four cave-dwellers seemed to know they should not

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speak. The badu tugged and twisted his hair in high strands. The

other three stood patiently, glad - so far, at least - of this diversion

in their day. What was it about her husband, Miri wondered,

that made strangers treat him regally, defer to him? His size?

Were they afraid of size? Or was their meekness more deliberate,

not signifying their respect for Musa, but a token of their own

tranquillity?

'Just four of you,' he said at last. The old one nodded in

agreement. 'And where's the other one?' The woman shook her

head, and for an instant caught Miri's eye. Just half a smile. Miri

had seen smiles like that before - from people who were surprised

by Musa's adolescent, reedy voice.

The old Jew spoke for all of them. He thought, perhaps,

there'd been a fifth when they were walking to the hills the day

before. It might have been a boy, a woman or a man. He could

not tell. His eyesight was not good. The figure was too far away.

Quite tall. It might have been a shepherd even. But there were

only four of them who'd come to carry out devotions in these

caves. 'My name is Aphas. From Jerusalem . . .' he began.

'And you?' Musa said, ignoring Aphas from Jerusalem. He

pointed with his chin at Marta. 'Why are you here?'

'To pray and fast. Like them,' she said. 'For quarantine . . .'

'Why fast? What will you gain from it?'

She shook her head. She didn't want to say. She smiled and

shrugged and blushed. Musa watched her breasts and shoulders

lift. She might be Miri's age, perhaps, but she was tall and

generous, he thought. She was the kind of woman Musa would

have twenty of when he was rich. She'd move a donkey without

arguing. She wouldn't make a bother of her pregnancy. He wet

his lips and smiled at her. 'Where is the other one?' he asked.

'The water thief?'

'Not us,' the old man interrupted. 'We have our own.' He

pointed to the pit in the ground behind his back.

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'What's there?' asked Musa, indicating his own grave with,

again, the slightest movement of his chin. Miri stepped back,

out of Musa's sight. She put her hand up to her mouth. Would

anybody say, 'That's where your wife spent yesterday. She dug

that grave for you'? Miri pinched her lips between her fingers.

'Our water cistern,' Aphas said. 'It was already here . . . For

god provides. '

Already there? Musa was inspired. His mind was as quick and

direct as his body was clumsy. He could see a trading opportunity

at once, and a fast solution to the problems of his unsought delay

in the wilderness. Here was an opening for him. God provides,

indeed. He looked from face to face to satisfy himself that none

of them could be the Galilean and that none of them were

worldly or local enough to spot his lie. And then: 'It's there

because I put it there,' he said. 'My land. My water. ' He pointed

to the rows of caves up in the cliff. 'My caves.'

Miri took her hand away from her mouth. She had to smile.

Her husband was the demon of the mat. She listened with her

mouth open while he recounted how he had dug that hole

himself, with some help from his wife. He turned his head as

best he could and closed an eye at her. She should keep quiet.

It was hard work, he said. The ground was full of stones: 'My

wife is pregnant. Look at her. She's not as young as me. She isn't

fit to dig a hole in mud let alone in stones. She isn't big enough

to even lift a stone. She broke her fingernails. Show them your

hands.' Miri did as she was told. 'Hard work,' he said again. He

wasn't at this point quite sure why he and Miri had dug the hole.

He needed time to think, and this he gained by making Miri

show her damaged fingernails to each of them. By the time she'd

come back to his shoulder he had found the next verse to his

song. 'My little donkey died,' he said. She was diseased. It was

a cruel kindness to end her misery. She was an animal he'd

owned since he was a boy. She was his sister. 'That pit . . .' (the

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slightest movement of the chin again) ' . . . was to be her grave. '

H e couldn't let a donkey rot, out i n the open, not a donkey so

much loved, he said. She would attract wolves, or leopards. He

didn't have to tell them how d::mgerous that was. For everyone.

What, then, should he do now? Put the donkey in the grave

and bury her under stones, as he had planned? Or let his hard

work come to nothing for the sake of a drop of water, and some

strangers? He closed his eyes and hummed to himself as if even

Solomon would be taxed by such a choice. Here was a further

opportunity to think of ways of turning these four into profit.

'And then, of course, there is the other matter, too,' he said

at last. The matter of the caves. Accommodation is not free, he

explained. They wouldn't call in at an inn and expect to eat and

sleep for nothing. That was not dignified or rational. This was

not common land, and travellers would have to pay a tribute of

some kind. A token tribute. Nothing large. A gesture only. 'A

sip, a sip, the merest sip,' he said, and liked the sound of it. They

did not have to pay, of course. They could choose to move

elsewhere. And that was free. They might imagine they could

stay and not pay rent. 'You can imagine, too, how sad I'd be if

you decided that,' he said. 'And how my hundred burly cousins

in these hills might feel justified to come with sticks and tum

you out. I only have to belch round here for there to be a storm.

Your choice.' He'd give them till midday to make up their

minds.

While the badu concentrated on his hair, the other two men

debated what they could do about the water and the caves and

Musa's uncouth cousins. It looked as if their quarantine was

doomed. Musa entwined his fingers in his lap and closed his

eyes. He made himself too large and placid to defy. His world

was such a shapely place. He had the sweetest, simplest plan.

He'd stick around until he'd shaken all their pockets out. It

wouldn't take him forty days. He'd have his fingers on the

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spiralled staff, the silver bracelets, the old man's purse, the hidden

coins in the cloak, in less than ten. He'd have his fingers on the

woman's breasts, as well, if only he could bide his time. She was

worth the forty days, and more. He liked her fabrics and her

cloths. Her textiles made his penis twitch. His eyes were not

entirely shut. He looked at Marta through his lashes. He liked

the way she lifted up her tunic hem, and ran the fabric through

her fingers like a set of beads.

Marta knew that Musa was watching her. He was as subtle as

a hungry dog. Her husband, Thaniel, was a jewel compared to

him. She would not want to be married to a man like that; his

little wife was hardly better than a slave. But Marta was jealous