Mountain of Full Moons

by Irene Kessler

  That stops me. “I am sorry. Please, Ima, not the stick.” The bruises from the last time she thrust the stick into my sides have not healed, but there is no more pain. No matter what I do, she gets angry. The punishments began as a child. Was I so horrible even then?

  “The truth is that you do not work and run to your music.”

  “My head is filled with worries about the future, but I do not forget work.” The planting comes to an end and there is no more conversation.

  “Ima, may I go to the olive grove? I will return soon.” I still ask though she always agrees. “My head is full of many uncertainties to sort out.”

  She brushes me off with her hand, like a piece of dirt on her garment. “Be back in time to help with the meal, or else,” she calls after me. Or else, means the stick. “And no harp.”

  The scent of olives draws me. When the tribe settled here, the trees were saplings. They are now full grown and hold our tribe’s history. As a youngster, Abba fixed me on his shoulders and gave me a small staff. I hit the branches like the men and made the ripe fruit drop to the ground. That made me proud for many suns after.

  I thought of one way to make everyone happy. Become what they wish me to be, force myself to denounce my detestable behavior. Work and give up music. I repeat that in my head. The words that cannot pass my lips burn my tongue and bind me like a lamb ready for slaughter. I lie on the ground sobbing and wanting to die. I might as well. Without music, my life is over. My chest is so weighty it makes the whole of me hurt. My legs turn to slush as if I climbed mountains or walked until another full moon passed. It seems that my arms are pulled in opposite directions, and in the end, nothing will be left of me.

  A new song is the one thing that can make me feel better. The ballads remain in my head. They are my secret. My tears have calmed and I wonder if my father will be successful with the judging.

  A deer passes in the distance. She is sad, her head and shoulders hanging near the ground. The animal is powerful and fast. The tribe is convinced that deer are alert and cautious. That they depend on intuition to solve their challenges. Can I be mighty like the deer?

  Three suns later with all my tasks finished, I hurry to Nathan in the fields. When we were young, the villagers spoke about me in his presence. First they eyed me. Then they said, ‘she is a follower of the Tempters, is evil, and will do harm to the poor and those desperate to survive.’ I had no scar to mark me, but I was a curiosity for the villagers to stare and poke at, for the children to tease. I could not escape the whispers, the laughter, the fingers pointing. It made me hurt inside. Even Nathan could not help.

  “Be well, my brother. It comforts me to see you with the animals.”

  “I do enjoy the care of them.” The goat offers milk, and Nathan is on his knees with the jug. His eyes are on me while his hands continue their labor. “How are you?”

  “Nothing is easy, and it is all confusing.”

  “The wait must be difficult but the council will make their decision.”

  I kick at the grass. “I know that.” Nathan puts the jugs aside and takes the shears from his belt. He makes sure to leave a thin layer of wool to ensure the animal escapes being burned by the hot sun, yet still stays cool. We are blessed with a flock that produces the most wanted of all—pure, white fleece. Abba has been working from dawn to dark gathering what he can for a merchant. Even if he was here he could not help.

  “Elisha, you must not go away. How will you manage?” Nathan sets the shears into his belt. He slaps the goat’s backside and sends her on the way.

  “Nothing can be done about it.”

  “You do not want to leave. We can take care of you.”

  “You said that before. Do not tease. Not now.”

  Nathan’s jaw tightens. “If you can live by yourself, I will set up a tent outside the village and bring you food. You will not mix with the villagers.”

  “Please, Nathan, stop. I will be all alone and a bandit might find me, or villagers might come upon you going back and forth and wonder why. Someone could chance upon the shelter. I love you for the offer, but it will cause more complications.”

  “You act like a child, and this decision is not acceptable.”

  “Nathan, think. No matter how faultless I am, no one will forget my cloud or talking to women. There is no other way.” I grab some leaves to wipe my nose.

  “But you can be safe here.” His voice catches in his throat and belies his words.

  “Nathan, please listen. It is not because of my waking too late or too early, my harp, or my songs. You understand how they are and they will not change. I must find a way to create and sing my songs or I will die inside. If I am banished, death may come anyway.”

  “If you are determined to obey, please take this blade.”

  Nathan set the blade into a precious bone handle, and I run my hand along its smoothness. My loving brother made it for me. He turns around in a circle and lowers his voice. “The council men spoke of an area down river with different people. But you should understand that these men, wise as they are, were not aware of whether those others are like us, or how they might be unique. They had no idea of where they live.”

  “You are not supposed to share this with a woman. Thank you.” I take a few steps toward the field. “The truth is, no one can help.”

  “Maybe there is a chance they are like you and you will be welcomed.”

  “Thank you for trying to make it better, but I have no idea how to find them.” I stare into nothingness.

  “Be aware. You are loved.” He turns and sets off toward the hut to sharpen his tools.

  I turn to leave, and Abba calls. “Elisha? Elisha? Where are you?” The urgency in his voice makes a cold sweat drench me head to foot. Nathan’s face turns white.

  “I am scared for you, my sister.”

  His face makes clear how much trouble I am in. “You are not more afraid than I am.” My father’s call fills the air and echoes in my head. I hurry toward the sound. My body is burning and threatens to burst into fire. My legs are stiff and I force myself to lift them up and put them down. My chest pounds. Why did he choose an unfamiliar area away from the community, one the tribe ignores? It is bare of greenery and flowers.

  The dash to get to Abba leaves me breathless. I stand before him. Abba tugs at his beard while I quiet my gasps.

  “My daughter, I chose to speak with you away from others’ ears.”

  It is the council. The decision. “Yes, Abba.” My mouth is dry. I swallow many times, but the dryness refuses to go away.

  “I am not well acquainted with songs, so perhaps I have been unfair. Sing one of them for me.” He sits on a nearby rock.

  “You never listen to my songs and do not want me to waste time composing.”

  “You always question. I want to hear one. Now. Sing.”

  I clear my throat and choose one of the first I wrote about the sun and the stars. My tune finished, I watch his face for an opinion.

  “Your song is nice, the words somewhat appealing. What you can do with all that is another question. You are not married. Perhaps you are talented and can find a way to make a life with music.”

  “Thank you, but what do you mean make a life?”

  “We have no way around the council’s declaration.” The words are pronounced without a gleam of expression. “Let us return to the hut. Your mother is waiting.”

  I nod. I will not cry. If I argue, the family will be exiled. My fate is settled.

  I trudge through the high grass toward the hut. Like an elbow in my side, a feeling bothers me. It counsels that it could be better to leave. Nathan insists I stay. If I could marry and have a family, but that will never happen. Hope and fear compete for my heart.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I am banished. My fate is settled. The decision was up to the council and what I want does not matter. All I can do is hope. During the next two sun cycles Ima weaves soft cloth for my new tunics. One of sheep’s wool and one of g
oat hair. Two are necessary in case my blood flows and stains what I am wearing. She also makes a rough cloth for a new sack to carry food and clothes. Her back hurts from bending over the loom on the ground. She works hard, and little sleep makes the persistent cough start again.

  “Ima?”

  “Yes, child. Do you not notice I am busy?”

  “But I brought something to help you. Aviyah, the root gatherer, gave me mustard seeds. She said to soft en them in water, then put them in a cloth and place the mixture on your chest. She promised the cough will go away.”

  “You choose to indulge in many fantasies.”

  “But, Ima, why will you not try? The herbs helped Abba.”

  “Foolish nonsense. Fine for cooking, not for health.” I try to make it better but even that does not please her. “Your father is saving extra goat milk to barter a small skin to hold water.”

  “Thank you.” I go back to my work. Will she be happy or sorry when I leave?

  While my mother is away helping Abba, I bake fig and date cakes and flatbreads for my journey. I am afraid she will be angry I used her flour. Perhaps she will not miss the wheat I grind. Not that it matters. I will be long gone. I feel bad. It will not be long before Ima must do all the work. The baking finished, I roll the cakes and breads into old flax cloths and bury them near the olive trees. The olives are not ready for picking. We had no rain to water them.

  I go back to the hut, and Ima is not there. Perhaps she is helping a sick friend. Carrying my harp, I head for the olive grove. Do they not want me to be hopeful and happy? Only music does that. The harp is on my chest. My arms are around the case. I try to imagine my life. Will anyone help me, love me, want me? I hum all my songs in a soft voice, so no one hears them. They do not help.

  I return to the hut and Ima is standing in front of the door. I stand still, harp in hand and wait.

  “I am so tired of you not listening. I hope you will obey wherever you go and not shame us.”

  The sky is dark. The half-moon arrived. Too soon. Before anyone was awake, I dug up my provisions, shook off as much dirt as possible, and stored them in the olive tree praying the birds would not find them. I stand near my mother in my sleep space. Her tired eyes avoid mine. My stomach is churning. I hum one of my songs to feel better.

  “Must you hum? Wake up. No one will listen to your songs. They are not pleasant enough for anyone to hear.”

  “Yes, Ima.” The cruelty of her words surprises me. Long ago she listened to one song and said nice things.

  While my mother prepares the jug of water for the men, I sneak my food and Nathan’s blade into the sack. They are secure on the bottom. I try to be careful with my new tunics and under shifts, but my hands shake and I drop them. Why are her words so mean?

  “Ima, do you not understand how worried I am? You hardly speak, and your words are harsh.” I pace back and forth rubbing my arms. “This is hard.” Both arms fly out with fingers splayed clasping my fears and wave in the air. “Do you think I want to go?”

  “It is possible you do. Pure stubbornness makes you disobedient.”

  “That is not true.” Her tone holds as much resentment as mine.

  She pulls my failure out of the sack, makes a face, refolds, and takes care situating them. The shawl on top is a reminder for me to wear it. It is sheer great fortune that the food and blade escaped her fingers. She bends toward me with distress in her eyes. “The sun is at the horizon. There is danger, for soon the light will be gone.”

  “They are cruel to make me leave my family.”

  Her face softens. “We may never be together again. Many families lose their daughters if they marry outside the village. This is different. There is much in the wilderness to trouble you. At least you ate a decent meal. I have many concerns for your journey. Especially not having enough food or water.”

  “I have the same worry.”

  “You are not strong like your brother.”

  “There is no choice.”

  Her nostrils flare. The small packages of bread and cheese she prepared go on top of my other things. This woman of few words appears harsh and indifferent. Yet I am sure she loves me. I must have faith in that.

  “I am sorry to cause such heartache. I did not intend to.”

  My mother twines her fingers into her tunic and twists the cloth. She turns away. “Not your intention? We told you how to stop. This is as it should be.”

  “Will the others not come to say goodbye?”

  “Things need tending to before dark. Much is left to be done.” Her eyes are everywhere but on me.

  Perspiration drips down my neck. Why did Abba not come? What is not on Ima’s lips is that I will not be here to help, and they will have more to do. She thinks I am not aware of that.

  “Elisha. You stand here, eyes down, shoulders slumped. Your hair is unwashed, uncombed, and your eyes wide, your face filled with fear.” I fix my lips against my teeth. “You are a fighter. I birthed you and my tube, the one that sustains life in the womb, wrapped itself around your neck. You screamed when the women had a difficult time prying the tube away. They cut and tied it. We could have lost you.” She turns away, her back toward me. “The women blessed and accepted you into our tribe. They bathed the blood from your tiny form, anointed you with oils, and wrapped you with swaddling cloth to let you know you were safe. You were in my arms and as I held you close you screamed. I could not stop your shrieks and that made me ashamed. I thought I was a bad mother.” She turns back. “Young and unmarried, you go to a new life, which will change you.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “This is a difficult burden, my daughter, and I wish you well. You fought to be here. That is who you are.”

  She picks up the water jug she prepared and goes to set it down at the door. It is for the men to wash before the meal. I sneak my harp into the sack and recall that as a child I imagined the harp called me to create my songs. Ima returns. I put my arm over the sack to hide its contents.

  “Do not forget to have a long drink of water before you leave,” are her final words.

  I could have died when I was born. Did she mean what she said, that I am a fighter? She never told me that before. Determination is in her stance as she heads for the fields to call the men for the evening meal. I do not take my eyes from her every step. Please, my mother, please turn back and look at me. I cannot control the quivering of my lips.

  The miniature statue of the idol, Eshmun, goes on top of my shawl. It is not mine but they will not miss him. The villagers claim that deities oversee the sun and moon going up and down. They are afraid of them.

  The sack is on my shoulder. I hoist the small water skin over it. The precious liquid will last but one and a half sun cycles. The cook fire is the first thing to walk past. Many hours were spent here, learning to prepare the food and make the cakes. My clumsy hands could not put the bread dough into the tabun without tearing them apart. My loaves were so stiff they could not be bent to make a ladle, so gravies and juices were left in the basin. But it was easy for me to fill the tabun with dung and heat it well.

  Nathan did not come to see me off. I am sure he could not leave his work, or it was because men do not cry. I search the fields from one side to the other. Abba is not in sight.

  I freeze when arms suddenly will not let me move. “I could not let you leave without a farewell,” he whispers. His hold is so tight it hurts.

  “Nathan, why did you not come sooner?”

  “I had to help Abba with the fleece the merchant ordered.”

  I nod. “I had to do all my chores so I am leaving when it will soon be dark. I wrote a song for you, but I should go before I make more trouble. The words are my thanks for your kindness, your understanding, and your love.”

  “Go, Elisha, and make music many people will hear. You will sing for me another time.”

  “I wish for that to happen, but no one can predict the future. It does not appear happy.”

 
Nathan lingers. “I should go.” One more long, strong hug and I watch him head for the fields. I turn down the path that leads the other way. Both sides are filled with villagers. One side yells, “How dare you take your time.” “Get out of here.” “You had better move fast.” “Never come back.” “You are not wanted.” “We do not want a Tempter.” The chief is standing at the end of the line, and I take a step back. My family knew the villagers were here, but shame made them stay away.

  I ignore the throng and hold my head high. I continue down the path and on the other side are the friends I played with. They scream at me and turn away once I pass. The women shriek words I cannot make out. Qayin stands with victory on his face. His wife steps back so he cannot see and throws me a kiss. I smile. Let him think it is for him. The men yell, “Do not come back.” “You are evil, a monster.” “You should die.” “No one here wants you.” “Good riddance.” Gerah has tears in his eyes.

  I reach the chief and my legs wobble, but I refuse to hurry. I steady my steps as I pass him.

  “Galina.” I turn. “Goodbye,” the chief calls, “I hope your journey will be easy, and know that I do wish you well.”

  I run down the remainder of the path. His remark, so sincere, reached my heart. I grit my teeth and hold back tears.

  The crowd’s rants continue while I walk to the olive trees. I stop for a moment to thank them for their divine smell and the happy hours spent with them. “Farewell my safe place, I may never sit under your branches again.” Weeping makes it difficult to see the way. A long time ago, the chief appointed Abba to find new fields to plant. He took me with him, and we went this way. I remember him saying the Jordan River was straight ahead.

  All I have ever known and loved is gone. I continue in the direction Abba showed me. He said our village was not far from the Jordan, a walk of a few sun cycles. Whenever my father and I walked about, I tried to make my strides lengthy like his. I yearned to be like him. At eight seasons of growth, I understood what being a man meant. He made the decisions. The ground I walk on moves under my feet. It slips back to the past and disappears.