by Shlomo Kalo
“A strange business,” he mused. “This means that all of us… that I?..”
“When the time comes it will be your duty to take wives!” – Denur-Shag nodded his mighty head.
He was silent.
Denur-Shag rose from his seat and said to him:
“Remember what happened today, and when the time is right and you are a close confidant of the King, who unlike other monarchs lives up to his nickname and is indeed wise and valiant, do everything you can to put an end to this horse race and the lethal ditch! Suggest instead a few simple fences, that a horseman can jump without paying with his life if he fails. Remember this!”
Denur-Shag left the cubicle.
Shortly after midnight someone knocked on the door.
He rose from his bed, turned up the flame in his oil-lamp and opened the door.
Before him stood Adoniah, holding a lamp.
“I don’t mean to disturb you,” he began apologetically and added at once – “I thought I should tell you not to reproach yourself over Matthew’s untimely death. You weren’t to blame. It was his obsession that drove him to it. That’s all!”
Adoniah did not enter the cubicle, and showed no sign of wanting to. Nor did he invite him in.
“By the way,” he continued as the flickering flame of his lamp revealed different parts of his face in turn, showing a uniformly unpleasant expression – “the other two fatalities were the slanty-eyes! That’s a loss that shouldn’t be too hard to get over! And one last thing, dear boy,” he added – “After those three deaths on the race track, the King has decided that Tabin the Numidian failed in his duty as a riding instructor, and he’s sent him back to the stable. Sweet dreams!” Adoniah turned and disappeared in the gloom of the corridor.
A clear and bright morning awaited him the following day. This was the day of rest after the race. The slave who was supposed to wake him failed to appear, but he awoke early anyway, rose, went for a dip in the communal bathhouse, and dressed in blue robe and cloak and a pair of comfortable and matching blue shoes. For a belt he wore a sash made of some glossy fabric, the handiwork of a renowned Chaldean seamstress.
He knelt in prayer and remained for some time on his knees, not uttering a word, his consciousness cleansed of thought. A kind of restrained gaiety arose in his heart. Is this the grace, the tangible grace of one who has the privilege of believing and knowing that his faith is the truth? – he wondered, or could this deep, simple satisfaction, untainted by fear, be called happiness? Is it possible to give a name to something that lies beyond the grasp of human language and of human comprehension?
He remained on his knees, his hands clasped, his head uplifted and his eyes fixed, unseeing, on the low ceiling.
His consciousness, unsullied by reflection of any kind, glowed in the infinite and became a part of it, became infinity itself. Time retreated and disappeared. The world of forms and of names grew pale, existed no longer. Nothing was left but He. The living light, love.
He went out into the royal gardens, ever luxuriant, ever a feast of thrilling colours, every tree a delight to see and every flower a thing of rare beauty, the air perfumed, the gardens shedding one shape and donning another and stretching away, so it seemed, to the faraway horizon, to the end of the world.
Adelain
In pleasant corners of the garden pure streams gurgled and birds trilled. In the centres of rounded patios, floored with fine mosaics, reflecting the light of the morning in soft shades, fountains of brass reared their heads and flung their jets of blue water high into the sky. The water descended in broad arcs and was collected in circular basins, lined in coloured marble. Ornamental fish, of all shapes and hues, swam serenely in the waters of these basins. Benches of polished wood, the work of skilled craftsmen, stood in the patio spaces, ranged around the fountains.
He sat on one of these benches, without a thought in his mind, gazing at the white foam of the surging water. Not far from the fountains one of the many doors of the royal palace was visible, guarded by sentries with broad-bladed, drawn swords in their hands. Time passed, and he did not know if it was the breakfast hour, but he did not feel hungry and preferred to go on sitting there on the bench, watching the fountains. And then he caught sight of one of the slaves, running among the trees and across the lawns, evidently looking for somebody – for him perhaps.
He stood up from his seat, to make himself visible, and sure enough the slave saw him there and hurried towards him. After the customary bows and salutations, the slave said:
“Sir has visitors!” – and he went on to explain – “The minister Or-Nego, general of the army and with him – a young lady. They are asking after you, Sir. No one knew where you had gone, so we have all been sent out to look for you. And here you are! They are asking after you, Sir!” the slave repeated, sounding flustered and confused, and he then fell silent and waited. He was a recent recruit to the palace staff, and nervous.
“You’ve given your message, go in peace!” he replied genially, with a smile. The slave was taken aback by the unexpected warmth of this response, and he bowed low, almost to the ground, before turning and retracing his steps to the palace. He knew he was supposed to follow, but instead he returned to his bench.
“Hail and greetings to the victorious rider!” – the voice came from behind him, and it resembled a song in its astonishing clarity and its harmony of sounds. He turned, and his eyes met the deep gaze of Adelain, daughter of Or-Nego. This gaze reflected a sort of admiration, rising above itself and wanting to know nothing other than its object. And in this unfathomable admiration there was something perplexing and intimidating.
“Since the early hours of the morning we have been asking after him and seeking him, my father the minister, and I,” – she spoke without shifting her gaze from his eyes for so much as an instant – “and I asked my father if we could come today and pay a visit… this morning, the morning after the remarkable victory that we witnessed yesterday! Winning in itself is of no great merit, but what a rider! My father, Or-Nego, is a fine horseman, and he taught me to ride too and we sometimes go riding together, and everything I dreamed of achieving and knew I would never achieve, nor would my father nor any of the horsemen of Babylon – I saw yesterday, set out before my eyes!”
“What are you referring to?” he asked, sensing a defensive note in his voice, wariness of something to which he was reluctant to submit.
“To that perfect blending of horse and rider. Every rider worthy of the name is aware of this blending between himself and his mount, but every honest rider will admit that such blending is far from perfect, and perfection belongs to the realm of self-deception, it is the stuff of dreams! And this firm, unshakable conviction was yesterday blown apart before my eyes, and I still cannot believe that I saw it and it was witnessed by others – it was real and not a fantasy!”
“That is something of an exaggeration!” he protested.
She did not acknowledge his protest and perhaps did not even hear the words he said. Her caressing gaze, expressing that breath-taking, intimidating admiration, went on sinking deep into his eyes, and he realised that his eyes too were not shifting from hers. Why? – he asked himself. Because he did not want to show any hesitation or worse than that – any fear? His question was left hanging in the air.
She went on to say, her speech rising like the singing of birds on a fine spring evening, flowing like a clear and fast-moving mountain stream:
“The horse knows the mind of his rider and behaves accordingly. An ugly mind will never succeed in taming a horse! The loyalty of a horse, its undying loyalty, is the reward of a beautiful spirit! But there exists another kind of spirit, which I had never known until yesterday, or dared to believe it could be real, a spirit that soars high above all others – and such a spirit the horse worships, erasing his own temperament entirely and performing, with a depth of satisfaction of which human beings cannot have the faintest conception, everything that this spirit requires of him, or
ders that are given and received – and yet unspoken!”
He admitted to himself that her perceptions of the innermost mind were profound, and she had done well in defining those mental processes which seemed to defy definition, and one so young! Somewhere, in the recesses of his soul, that other face came into view, those eyes that never failed to instil in him a refreshing serenity, a sense of steadfast joy. In its depth, this look resembled that of his interlocutor, but differed from it, as if an unbridgeable gulf separated them – in its sublime intensity.
He smiled, feeling himself immune from any violence that might befall him. And what kind of violence did he fear? – he asked himself. He has faith, and where there is faith, all violence fades away and vanishes as if it never was. Violence is nothing but the invention of people without faith. His broad, affable smile, embarrassed Adelain for some reason, and she fell suddenly silent and looked down.
“As I said, you’re exaggerating!” – his voice remarkably clear, its confidence restored.
“I’m not exaggerating at all, not in the slightest, as he knows perfectly well!” she declared without raising her head, and he admitted inwardly that she was right.
“Should we try a less formal mode of address?” he suggested.
“By all means!” she replied warmly, looking up again, a bright and graceful light in her eyes, as she sought for his eyes, eager to sink into them once again.
“He…” she began.
“Call me Belteshazzar!” he corrected her.
“Yes,” she conceded, “Belteshazzar. I’m sure he is committed to somebody, somewhere in his distant homeland… No, I’m not asking for information!” she declared – “Just trying to get things clear in my own mind. He must understand…”
“You must!” he corrected her again, with some vehemence.
“You must!” she echoed him. “There are relationships, human relationships I mean, relationships between a boy and a girl – of a different kind. And the strange thing is, until I met him, sorry – you – I wasn’t prepared to admit this kind of thing existed! The kind of relationship that imposes no obligation at all, but on the contrary – is a call to freedom. And this special, surprising relationship is the source of unknown, unflagging joy! A person denies himself completely, in a way he never imagined himself capable of denying himself… completely!” – she isolated the last word for the sake of emphasis and continued: “Absolutely and without any reservation, and he gains happiness for which the only fitting word is – infinite, or if you prefer – sublime!”
At the beginning of the last spring, when the atmosphere in Jerusalem was tense and hearts were heavy, and the prophet cried out in a loud voice “Thus says the Lord” – and no one paid him any heed, and instead of awakening hearts, he only aroused the wrath of the mob and inflamed pointless hatred – they sat in her garden, an extensive garden where every tree was in blossom and every flower in bloom, and the air was filled with their intoxicating scents. He spoke as if entrapped by a dream, repeating those lines that seemed to him to belong to another world, on a different, silvery star, where everything was perfect:
“You are as beautiful my dearest as Tirzah, lovely as Jerusalem, terrible as an army with banners. Turn your eyes away from me for they dazzle me. Your hair is like a flock of goats streaming down from Gilead, your teeth like a flock of sheep coming up from the washing, every ewe bearing twins and not one of them barren. Like a slice of pomegranate are your temples behind your locks… Who is this who looks out like the dawn, fair as the moon, bright as the sun, terrible as an army with banners…”
And here she concluded:
“Who is this coming up from the wilderness, leaning upon her beloved… Set me as a seal on your heart, a bracelet on your arm, for love is strong as death…”
“Love of what?” she asked as if talking to herself, without turning to him. And he heard his calm, steady voice replying:
“Of God.”
This was not so long ago, the year that Jerusalem fell, and everything unfolded with such rapidity, and there was no knowing what the outcome would be, and events pursued one another, with new horrors every day. And that astonishing trust, in the grace and the love of God, was planted in him, to be his property from that time forward and for ever, and for this he would bless his Father in Heaven, his God, and praise him always.
He looked at her. The sun shimmered on her abundant hair, falling to her nape, wave upon wave, like the breakers of the sea, enslaved by the light of the moon, kissing the shore and nestling against it. And the song spoke of “a flock of goats, streaming down from Gilead.”
He smiled – it was an innocent smile, friendly, pure.
“Is it possible,” she began to ask, hesitant, wavering and repeating her question – “is it possible,” she said, “to define this perfect union between horse and rider as something resembling – love?” She fixed on him the deep gaze of her eyes, tinged at the edges with melancholy, the melancholy of one who will not spare himself or the honour that is most precious to him, in the pursuit of an objective which in his eyes is exalted above all else and which he knows is incomparable.
“Love is a sacred word,” he declared with some solemnity – “a word that we should refrain from expressing so long as we are engrossed in the profane, for ‘Love’ is the explicit name of God.”
“So the one who loves, loves in divine fashion?” – it was partly a question, partly a statement.
“Loves God in divine fashion,” he asserted.
She lowered her eyes and smiled. In her smile there was a sadness that was immeasurable and unquenchable and she subdued it forcibly, with violence almost, and without the flicker of an eyelid.
“On the matter of commitment,” once again she brought up that strange word, which so surprised her with its very sound – “if it exists…”
“Man is committed to his God,” he interrupted her, “out of desire to be close to Him, to know Him and to learn from Him what love is.”
“Surely it’s obvious what love is!” – she retorted, and it seemed that a cloud was removed from her white brow.
“What is it?” he asked with interest and for the first time noticed she was wearing festive clothing – a blue robe of fine but dense fabric, and around her delicate neck a string of tiny pearls which set off admirably the alabaster of her skin. A broad white belt of finely crafted leather enclosed her waist, with a gold buckle for a clasp, showing the emblem of a lily made up of white pearls. Over her robe she wore an open tunic, embroidered with gold threads, resembling chain-mail. Her feet were shod in white shoes of the same leather of the belt, with gold buckles that were precise, miniature replicas of the belt buckle with its pearl design. Her hair was swept back, tumbling to her shoulders.
She scanned him with an almost baffled look, as if astounded by his question and perhaps, irritated by it and indignant, and she answered him in her musical voice, redolent with youthful hope yet to be dashed.
“Sacrifice!” – and she saw fit to add: “Sacrifice offered willingly and gladly!”
He lowered his head. “Love is strong as death. No, not ‘as death’, but ‘stronger than death’” he declared unequivocally. “Because love is life and the infinite and freedom, because love is God.”
“Is that how you see it?” she asked finally.
“It’s how I see it,” he replied softly.
“And hence, to love means being happy,” she declared with absolute seriousness – “and not being dependent on the object of your love.”
“In other words, not being dependent on the reward of love which is love!” he declared.
“That is well expressed!” she cried with a kind of dignified enthusiasm, a maturity at odds with her age and her appearance.
And in spite of this, he thought, Babylon is different. Jerusalem is something else and the two of them are not to be compared, set against one another. The Holy Spirit rules everywhere, in Babylon as in Jerusalem, and Jerusalem bears its name.
They rode without saddles and without needing bridles. The ponies too were whinnying with unrestrained glee, galloping freely as if this were its own reward, carrying them with the speed of the wind to wherever their fancy took them. They rode on and on, and lost all sense of time. At intervals they paused beside clear mountain streams where they sat side by side in alert and companionable silence, silence not marred by so much as the flicker of an eyebrow.
And at other times they halted beside raspberry bushes or, according to the season – at the feet of broad-leafed nut-trees, where they slaked their hunger, jesting and feeding one another with juicy raspberries and forest fruits and sometimes even strawberries, hiding in the undergrowth, or the milky, satisfying flesh of the walnut, cracked between two stones.
They rode on until noon, and sometimes till sunset and the fall of evening, returning with the rising of the first star in the pale sky, festive and replete with the fragrances of the day that had passed and the sanctity of the evening at hand.
His parents were not anxious for him. Her parents, on the other hand, used to come out from their home and ask passers-by if they had met them or seen them, when and where, even visiting his parents in search of a little reassurance.
“They will be back, God is with them!” his father declared, calm and confident.
