Mountain of Full Moons

by Irene Kessler

  Wrapped in flax and on the floor next to my sleep mat the instrument is safe. My parents were sure I would tire of music. They were wrong. I would never give up my favorite thing. What I do not understand was why they allow me to keep the harp if they do not let me play it. It does not make sense.

  Ima may be close by, and I do not dare play. Instead, I whisper, “Sandalphon, please come now. Ima is outside at the cookpot and will soon call for me.” He is my friend, my cloud, my teacher, the voice who helps me, the one who changed my name to Elisha. He said the name would give me courage, but never told me why courage was needed.

  He always arrives the same way, as a cloud with rippling movements. The cloud drifts down with grace. A rainbow swirls around him. His colors are mostly those of the time of year, but I always look for the one that stands out. It delights me and I laugh. The cloud’s music rings out, his harmonies are like the golden sun. They fill me with cleanliness and warmth. I am the only one who hears his song of joy. An orb larger than the moon and with a color I do not recognize is his companion.

  As a child I jumped behind a tree and peered from side to side to find who made him talk. No one was there. He spoke again and I knew he was a friend and now I reveal all my secrets to him. Most of the time I call on him when the pinks, yellows, and oranges of the sunrise dance at the horizon. The sun is disappearing, making me sad.

  My cloud sets down on the ground and the orb backs away. “Peace be with you,” he says.

  “Thank you for coming. Fear has me in its prison. Is there some magic to help me?”

  “No magic. Humans are able to learn and grow and that can bring joy. What would you like me to do?”

  “The Council of Elders will pass judgment.” I hesitate. “You guide me. But why did you never tell me not to talk to the women? Now I am in trouble.”

  “The meeting was also about other things, your name and speaking to me.”

  “I was trying to help the women.”

  “You are angry. Do you wish me to leave?”

  “No. I love you and need your help. What will the council decide?”

  “We spoke of this. If I knew, I could not tell you.”

  “My friend and teacher, will you be by my side?”

  “I am always at your side and always will be. But remember, you have free will, and I cannot interfere in your decisions.” With those words, he joins the clouds in the sky. Knowing he is near makes me less afraid. I rush home and clean up the remains of the family’s evening meal.

  I wake before light. When I return from relieving myself, my mother is bent low over the broom. Even when the sun is high, the hut is dark inside—as dark as the sorrow which torments me. She is jabbing at the floor with the bundle of shredded branches and leaves the same way she stabs at me with her stick.

  Ima straightens her back. “Why do you wander when you know it makes me angry? You were late to the evening meal and you disappear when you are supposed to work.”

  “You do not want me to sweep. You said what I do is sloppy and does not remove the dirt. Teach me how to do better.”

  “Do not show me your anger, or I will show you mine. I cannot take care of all the work myself.”

  “Yes, Ima.” I wish I understood why Ima is so mean.

  The darkness of the hut hides the wrinkles on her face. “Abba told me what happened at the meeting. You refuse to accept the edict stating women are not permitted. At almost thirteen seasons of growth, you still have a fantasy you are powerful enough to change things. You are not the leader of this village.”

  “Do you not understand the men say things about women but they cannot defend themselves?”

  “Be careful of your mouth.”

  Her voice chafes on my skin. “Yes, Ima.” I do not understand my mother. She wants me to improve and do better but when I ask a question, she does not answer. It is as if I am not there.

  My mother’s attention is on the hut’s floor, my father’s proudest achievement, except for the son he sired. Abba pounded the muddy sand for seven suns until it was smooth. I was born soon after.

  “You disobeyed. Who knows what will happen now? Stand still.”

  “I need to walk; the air soothes me. Fear of cutting out my tongue or facing banishment alone in the wilderness is terrifying.”

  “Tame your curls before anyone sees you. Gossiping with the women brings problems. And then there is your specter. You talk to the air, scare the villagers, and dangerous temptations control you.” I am her embarrassment. “You are impossible and do not listen. We explain how to fix your troubles. Stop the chattering. You are stupid. God made us mere insects to be stepped on. You are no better than the rest of us. Go ahead. Leave. You always do. You are stubborn to the end.” Scorn passes over her face. Her eyes are on fire. “You will finish all the wheat in the jug and portion out the flour for baking.”

  I am her regret and her failure. “But Ima, it will take until the sun disappears.”

  “It is your work. No more chatter. Go.”

  “All I want is to stay with my family and get married like other girls.”

  “And how will it happen? You give yourself a man’s name. What man wants a woman who declares men do not treat them well? What do you expect? Take your shawl. Abba will be cross. You should know that by now.”

  Calling me Elisha was the one thing she and Abba ever agreed to. I fought them for a mountain of full moons until they were worn out. But she is always enraged. “The shawl is in my hands, Ima.” She saw me pick it up but cannot help making threats. Walking has to wait. I must do the grinding.

  The wheat is spread on a large flat stone. A great many strokes of rubbing the grinding stone against the grain are necessary to become flour. That is why it makes my hands sore and hurt when I strum the harp. Ima refused to show me how to grind better but wants perfection. Abba will be angry if I do not finish all she asks.

  The sun is returning to the horizon and the evening meal is ready. The three of us wait in awkward silence for Abba’s return. This tiny place houses my parents, my brother, and me. This place where I grew up. This place the Council may well declare I leave.

  Ima turns toward me. “Why were you not here to help make dinner?”

  “You gave me more wheat than usual and I ground it all as you asked.” Ima’s face clouds over. “May I bring you something?”

  She glares at me. “Were you at your music?”

  “No, Ima, I worked.” Her eyebrows are raised. She doubts me. “Go and look. The jugs are all filled.”

  “Are you going to eat?”

  “I am not hungry.” Despair comes too often and robs me of any appetite. I sneaked a few fig cakes and a bit of flatbread she will not miss.

  Abba joins us, the sun’s descent drawing shadows on his face. I run to him. “Abba, I brought some herbs, mint and aloe, to help your digestion.”

  “Thank you, Elisha. I will try, but they will not help.”

  We sit on the mats. There is no conversation. I watch my mother’s face, but she shows no trace of upset. Ima’s signal of distress is wrapping her fingers into her tunic. Then the threads she carefully tied into a fringe wiggle like worms climbing up and down her cover. Maybe the difficulty is between her and Abba. No, they are furious with me.

  The meal is not quite done. Ima turns to me. “You did not eat so what do you wait for? A celebration? Clean up and put it all away.” Nathan turns and the slight shake of his head tells me not to argue. I scour the remains and settle everything back in place. When I was a child I cried because my stick doll was nowhere to be found. My mother explained that putting things where they belong meant we could find them with ease.

  Their bellies full, my family enjoys a respite after working hard. It includes a goblet of libation. With the water muddy and impure again, grape wine follows the meals. I stay on my mat, near, but not close. They ignore me and chew on gossip.

  What if I am banished? I depend on my family. Yet why should I stay? People here just tole
rate me. Except my brother. At sleep time, it will be peaceful, and then I can think. Daybreak will bring clarity. I wait for the stars to appear, the proper moment to excuse myself. “Good night and sleep well.”

  Lying on my back, my arms are over my head. Is what Ima said about insects and God true? Some villagers have idols, others are like my parents and pray to the One God. The villagers are sure God punishes them if they are bad. If God is in charge, then he should consent to the good. I am not a good person and without doubt not an obedient one. How will any god accept me? I turn on my side and hope for sleep.

  “Please, Eshmun, the idol who heals. Help me. Then I will have the energy to do the work Ima wants.” I do not know about this God thing. I pray because it makes me feel better.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I must have fallen asleep some time during the blackness. The sky is still dark and the stars still shine as I wake with the same thoughts in my head. I leave the hut on tiptoes and make my way toward the fields. The dimness makes it safe to run to the olive trees with my harp in hand. Our olive grove offers a scent which lightens my heart. This is my private place, where I make up songs and meet Sandalphon. My mother calls him my specter. He may be a cloud, but he is real. She refuses to accept that.

  The despair that comes over me is one which nothing but music can soothe. Melodies fill me and I need nothing else. They lift me to play in the clouds, to touch the sky, to fill with joy, and reach the stars.

  Will I wake Qayin if I play? I am far enough away. I gaze at the harp. The first time I saw it, the shape struck me as strange. My fingers caressed the wood around its four sides. The top was small, the two sides, front and back long to house the strings. Without music, the deep sadness consumes all my energy. Holding the harp to my heart always brings the words I need.

  New verses come to me and whispering them brings a comfortable rhythm. Soon a tune comes, and I hum under my breath so no one will catch me. Abba’s ears are always listening, but I must be sure my new tune will not be forgotten.

  The sun is at the horizon. The village is awake. I took too much time and rush back to store the harp before they find me gone. Ima is standing at the entrance to the hut. She holds her chest and coughs. “Get to the garden.”

  “But, Ima.”

  “Not one word or excuse.” She scowls at me. I lay the harp on the ground and follow her.

  The stick comes out and her fury is worse than ever. The men in the fields ignore my screams. When she stops I cannot stand straight, but my harp needs to be rescued. I pick it up and hobble inside. I save it from Ima’s anger.

  Ima goes to work in her garden, leaving me to limp through my duties. I shove some food into my mouth while scrubbing the hut. They never understand that with little sleep getting up is difficult. And work even harder. All through the night fear of the future made me shiver and moan. I woke up many times. My father yells my name, interrupting my cleaning. It will take more than fingers and toes to count how many times he called me the past three full moons. I pull my shawl over my head and run to the community planting area.

  “Elisha.” His voice is usually harsh, but now it is kind. “What did I hear while it was still dark?”

  “What do you mean, Abba?”

  “No games please. Did you enjoy yourself?” His voice changes. “The humming?”

  “I am sorry. I was excited to find words for a song and did not want to forget the tune. You do not like my composing, but I did not think you would mind. Do not be angry.”

  He pulls on his beard. “You are well aware I mind, and this must stop. We try to accept you are different but living with you is most trying. You do not consider how we suffer each time they shun us.” He moves closer. “This is what happens. Silence. Do you have any idea what your actions cause?”

  “I do understand. That is not fair. I try.”

  “The villagers used to have a word with us, now they do not. They do not help with animals or harvests. We are outcasts because of you. To my shame, they do not want our help. You must recognize that you are part of a family. You refuse to listen, and we suffer.”

  I am an outcast, but he does not accept that. “But Abba . . . ” He moves away.

  Will he take away my harp? I wanted to sing for a birth celebration because they were serving roasted meat, a delicacy I have never had. Abba said, “Music wastes time and keeps you from meaningful work. Be aware of grave consequences. I will take the harp if you sing, and I will know if you disobey.” I never had to hear those words again.

  Humming my tunes makes me happy. If Abba hears music, he sends me to help with the cooking. “Women work. That is what they do,” he said. I cooked a lot.

  Abba stares at me. “You are of marriageable age. You learned as all youth do that harmony in the huts means marrying young. Not one man, young or old, shows any interest. You bring disgrace and shame upon us.”

  “Those men decided I am evil.” I face him. “You do not listen. How could I care for those who judge me wicked?” I turn away and my eyes squeeze tight to hold back tears. “Why would I change to please them? Is it not enough I am embarrassed in front of every last one? That is not fair. I care. More than you think.”

  “Now you may get us all banished, cast out of the tribe.” He searches my face. “Not another word.” His cheeks are red. How do I please him? “You avoid doing your share of work in the house and the fields. You will work, or else I will take your harp.” Abba’s jowls jiggle. He turns and walks toward the hut.

  Is threatening to take my harp a way to make me work? Abba thinks composing is idleness. I work in the fields and the hut and do all they ask. He does not understand about tiredness from not sleeping.

  But I did this to them. What kind of person am I, not understanding, not realizing their hurts? My heart is in music. I cannot give it up but perhaps I can find a path to fix the problem. If I try to work more, the council may relent and my parents will be happy.

  My brother works hard watching the flocks. He has no time to find enjoyment. It is acceptable that he does not marry. Abba has no contract for a wife for Nathan. Yet customs dictate I should already be in my husband’s house. Why is it that way for women?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Abba is tramping about the hut and wakes me with a jolt. He never gets up before me. My sleep was interrupted with bad dreams of living in a forest and fighting with animals. This sunrise marks the passage of five suns since the council meeting and everything goes on as usual. The longer they deliberate, the more frightened I become. More suns will pass before they decide.

  After we eat, Ima goes to the garden, Nathan vanishes into the fields, Abba disappears, and my task is to tend the cook fire, clean that area and the hut. When all is in order, I resolve to make a fresh beginning. Sandalphon will continue to be my guide, but I will no longer speak to the women about their problems. I can do it this time. I must.

  Abba returns as I set out to prepare the middle of the day repast. I tell him of my new resolution. He stares at me. “I understand you believe what you say, but this is not the first time you promised to change. Finish your preparation. I will return shortly. Before I go, let me admit the herbs did help.” My smile cannot be hidden, but he is right. Many promises were made, and I broke them all. Why am I not more like Nathan? He does no wrong.

  The Council does not move with haste. In the past, I found it hard to endure. Now I am determined to be patient. Abba returns and the basin waits on his mat. He takes a few bites and calls me to his side.

  “Elisha, I met with the Council, and they will attempt to take your promise into consideration.”

  “Thank you, Abba, thank you.” My father gave me hope—if just for the moment.

  The sun shows its full light. Ima comes inside for a respite and a goblet of libation. I am finishing sweeping the front of the hut. “You are needed in the garden. Go. Now.” She turns and goes back to the vegetable plot.

  I put the broom where it belongs. “I am on my way, Ima.” M
y steps are quick. She is digging up the sandy dirt. “May I get something for you?”

  “You moved so fast. Are you sick?” I am puzzled by her answer. “In the past you never stirred the first time I called. We need to plant the seeds Abba bartered before the wet season arrives.”

  Nothing pleases her, not even obeying. “Ima? If I dig up the soil, will you set in the plants? If I do it they are crooked.”

  “Yes, Elisha.” She is annoyed and her expression is severe. “Something else you want?”

  “Can I ask some questions?”

  “Our attention should be on the seeds.”

  “What do you suppose the council will do?”

  “In my experience the person gets what they deserve.”

  I will not let her make me cry. “Why am I always afraid?”

  “You are so foolish. You are not fearful.”

  “I feared my childhood friends.” I continue to dig. “After they saw me talk to Sandalphon they frightened me and called me names. They teased and refused to play with me. Then they trapped me in a circle. I could not find a way out. I cannot remember what they did to me.”

  Ima turns away. “You are different. But teasing? That is your fear? Such a delicate flower. If you stopped doing things that frighten people, you would not be afraid of them turning on you.”

  “Why do you make it about my difficulties? Is it not enough the whole village is aware? I ask you about being afraid and lonely and find no answer. My troubles have nothing to do with this.”

  “I am certain they do.”

  “May I be excused?” I start back to the hut.

  “Get yourself back here or you will be the sorriest young woman in the Land of Canaan. Do you want the stick again?”