by Fish, Susan
“He was so big I could hardly recognize him. They all were.”
“But his foot—how was his foot?”
“He was running about with the others.”
Salvi relaxed again.
“You have good sons, Salvi. I can only hope our son will turn out so well.”
“Has the baby been born? Why didn’t—”
“Not yet,” I interrupted. “At least I don’t think so. He wasn’t born when I left on this journey, though maybe by now …” I wanted my brother to speak, to ask more questions, to teach me, but he was silent. I had to ask.
“Do you think I did wrong to come on this trip when the baby was expected?”
Salvi laughed bitterly. “You want me to talk to you about right and wrong?”
Suddenly I was angry. I had wanted to clear up the past with my brother. I had hoped we might forgive and move on and that I might continue my journey unfettered, but now anger bubbled out of a deep well I did not know was in me.
“What do you mean?”
Salvi shrugged as if to say that the conversation was pointless, but I grabbed his arm. “No. Tell me what you mean.”
“I mean Leyla,” he said abruptly.
“And who do you think was wrong there?” I asked sharply. Taz rumbled in his sleep and turned over, reminding us that our discussion needed to be conducted in whispers and hisses. Salvi didn’t speak, so I did. “You think I was, don’t you?”
“And you think I was!” he shot back.
“Yes. I do!”
“And you’re so innocent and important.”
“I never said that.”
“Well, do you blame yourself?”
With this opening to speak my heart truly, my anger settled. “Salvi, my brother. Please believe me when I say that so much of this is in the past for me—”
“It isn’t for me!” he hissed.
“Salvi, if I am truthful, I recognize that I was foolish and—yes—even wrong when I played with Leyla’s heart years ago. I should never have done it.”
“Finally! You admit it! You broke her heart and acted the fool.”
My anger flared again. “And you! You trusted me so little that you convinced Leyla against me and betrothed yourself to her—all without a word to me!”
Salvi sighed heavily. “I know,” he said. “That is what bothers me. Is my Leyla stolen goods? Did I betray my brother?” His eyes glistened with tears in the starlight.
“But you are so happy—with Leyla and your boys.”
“I’ve always wondered—should they be your sons? Should Leyla be living in the city instead of sweating over the looms?”
“Oh, my brother, I have never thought of such a thing. In this sense it is in the past for me: I see Leyla as my sister. I have done so for many years now. She is a good wife for you, Salvi—an excellent wife—but I do not regret the change in my destiny that shifted her from my beloved to my sister.”
“Did you love her then?”
“I think so. I certainly believed I did.”
“And that blue-eyed girl?”
“She was merely using me. To make that ‘great chief’ over there jealous. And her plan worked—she is now married to the mighty Alshazak.”
“I am sorry.” Salvi’s voice was quiet, contrite. “I wronged you.”
“And I wronged Leyla. In all this, only Leyla is without blame.” Salvi nodded as I continued, “But she is your wife, Salvi, and we all rejoice in that. You should rejoice in her too.”
Salvi chuckled. “You sound like a happy man.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, Salvi. I have been looking at my life with a number of regrets on this journey.”
“You regret marrying Reta?”
“Do you think I should?”
“That is not for me to say. Is it what you are saying?”
I thought for a moment before answering. My reply would either affirm my marriage vows, or it would not. The thoughts I had been drifting over along the way, my conversations with Balzar and Daria—all took shape in my mind. “I do not regret marrying Reta. I don’t!” I said with a sense of discovery. Somehow I trusted the long-ago revelation and Daria’s image, as well as the glimpses Reta had given me of herself—and I was suddenly filled with longing for my wife far away. “But, Salvi, I need to tell her so much,” I said. “Is there a way you could deliver a message for me?”
“Of course,” Salvi said.
While the thought was still clear in my heart, I slipped down to where the fire was still glowing and found a tablet so I could write to my wife.
Reta,
I write to you by the light of the fire, under the stars from the oasis on the edge between my land and yours. My heart is restless, though I am well and we make good progress. You are never far from my thoughts. Tonight I am anxious to know—are you well? Is our child well?
But this concern for you is not the source of the storm within. It is my need to beg your forgiveness. I am deeply sorry for how we parted, and even more for how we have lived together. Reta, I have shut you out from the center of my life. After all these years, I see how little I have known you, how little I have shared with you. Again and again I have benefited from your strength, your peace, without seeking behind it, without savoring you.
Do you remember the night we were betrothed? In the midst of all the food, the flowers, the grief, the chaos, the mourners—there you were, an oasis, a place of repose, a pool of stillness and depth where I might be received and welcomed. This was what I knew that night and somehow forgot. At this oasis, tonight, I have met with Salvi on his way home, and we have spoken more truly than we have in years. Somehow the peace between us reminds me of the unspoken offer in your eyes that night. Reta, you have given me all I was willing to accept—you have managed our household so that I am the envy of many. On this trip, I have missed the flavor of your cooking—how my mouth waters for your lamb stew. Yet your offer was not to be my housekeeper as you were my father’s—but my wife.
I hope your offer still extends to me. What I want, Reta, is to go to our roof together on a clear night such as this, with the stars as a beautiful canopy over us, and to allow all to be revealed and received. Can you trust me with this? I do not wish to forget you again.
I am hoping to return in time for our son’s birth, but this journey through the barren wastelands has oriented me to the possibilities in our life together. For this reason, I have no regrets for this journey, and I hope that you will be able to forgive me in time.
Salvi tells me he will deliver this letter as soon as he can. We will be in Jerusalem in a few days, and once we have presented our gifts, I will return to you—but changed from who I was.
The stars are very clear tonight and low. Have I ever told you of my dream of grasping a star? If you were with me tonight, I would seek it with you—to see your eyes shine as they used to when you looked at the stars with me.
I hold you in my heart.
I looked at what I had written and felt only vaguely satisfied. I realized how unaccustomed I was to knowing my heart myself, let alone sharing it. My heart was as stiff as Balzar’s joints after a long day of being cramped in place while riding. Writing this letter felt a bit like Balzar staggering after climbing off his mount. I thought of Reta again and smiled. I trusted she would prefer the awkward stretches of my heart than my silence. Still, a one-sided conversation was unsettling—I sent out my words but would receive no reply. I wondered whether, if Reta had been there, I would have had either the clarity of vision or the courage to say anything of this. It would have to be different now, whatever Reta’s response to my letter. I had begun to peel the pomegranate, and I would continue.
I was wide awake, though my own muscles were stiff with cold as I climbed back onto the caravan. I thought my brother would be asleep, but he, too, was awake and pondering
in the starlight.
“Thank you, Melchi,” he said, “for giving my wife to me.”
I handed him the letter, which he tucked into his robes with a promise of safe and swift delivery. “I have another gift for you, Salvi,” I said. “Or at least I did, though it seems to have disappeared.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A star, Salvi. I found you a new star. Do you remember when you asked me to name a star after you?”
Salvi shook his head.
“It was years ago, after our mother died.”
Salvi shrugged. “And it’s taken you all this time?”
I rolled my eyes. “Stars don’t just show up, Salvi! This one is special.”
“Why?”
“It announces the birth of a new king.”
“But we already have a king.”
“Not us. The Israelites. That’s why I’m out here. We’re on our way to deliver gifts to the new king of Israel.”
“Has someone finally killed the old scorpion? Last I heard he was killing everyone else.”
“Herod. I don’t know if he’s alive or not. Or maybe he’s had a son. We’re headed to Jerusalem.”
“And where is this new star?”
“It was right over there in the west. We’re headed in the direction it used to be in.”
“You’re following an empty place in the sky?” Salvi snorted.
I sighed. “Sometimes it feels like it,” I admitted.
~ 14 ~
Night
I had dozed off when Salvi grabbed my arm. “Someone’s in the camp.”
I was wide awake. “Marauders?”
“They saw the horses and figured you had money.”
Before I could think what should be done, a scuffle broke out in my tent. There were muffled sounds and a yell. Salvi jumped to the ground and ran to the tent. I did not know what to do. I trailed him and was knocked down by a man running out of the tent. When my breath was back, I got up in time to see him ride off. Pursuit was pointless.
Inside the tent, a shocking sight met my eyes. A strange man lay on the floor with my brother and Caspar sitting astride him. Our bags had been torn open and were scattered around the tent. Balzar lay still in the center of it all.
“Are these friends of your family?” Shaz asked, breaking the silence.
My eyes grew wide. “My brother has saved your life, and you question his honor?”
Shaz swallowed hard. I looked at Salvi, who shrugged. “What do you want me to do with this Israelite?”
Caspar spoke. “There’s rope in my pack. We’ll tie him up till morning.”
Balzar had still not moved. While Caspar and Salvi tied the thief up, I crouched next to Balzar. He was shivering, so I wrapped my cloak around him and kissed his cheek. I felt him breathe, rather than speak, words on me: “Seek the star, Melchior.” I looked full into his eyes filled with fading light and nodded. Only then did I notice Balzar’s son standing behind me. I left them together.
Shaz went to make sure our gifts were safe. Caspar, Salvi, and I went outside, stirred the fire’s embers to life again, and sat quietly. We were too shaken to sleep or to speak, though Caspar’s hand on my brother’s shoulder spoke of gratitude and solidarity.
Balzar’s son came out of the tent in the shadows before day broke. His eyes were rimmed red with tears. He shook his head. “He isn’t hurt, but this shock has weakened his heart. I don’t think he can be moved.”
With a heavy heart I looked at Caspar, knowing Shaz would be eager to continue and leave the wilderness. Caspar nodded, but no intervention would be necessary: Balzar died an hour later.
We buried Balzar at the oasis, employing our thief to dig a grave and to cover the body with heavy stones. Salvi and Taz stayed for the burial but had to resume their journey east. My brother and uncle gave me long, warm embraces.
“You are doing what you have always longed to do,” Taz said in my ear. “I am so glad.” Tears slid from my tired, grieving eyes. I did not want to move.
Salvi punched my arm lightly, and I looked up. “I will not forget,” Salvi promised, patting his bag. “Reta will soon have your letter.”
I had forgotten. The remembrance was bittersweet; Reta would miss Balzar too. I quickly added a note to my letter, telling of Balzar’s death and burial and asking Reta to send word to the chief astronomer. Soon, my family was gone.
As we sorted through our scattered belongings, Caspar handed me a small scroll with my name on it. I did not recognize it or the writing, so I quickly tore it open and found the writer’s name. It was Reta. Stunned, I sat down to read.
My dearest Melchior,
I write this as I watch you sleep. Words somehow get stuck in me when I try to talk to you, so I will write what I can instead.
You think I am angry—and I am, but mostly at myself for being so scared and silent. You must feel you are married to a foolish girl who has nothing to say—and yet it is not true!
I feel, Melchior, as though a sheet or a skin stands between us, covering us from each other. For years I worried that this distance was what prevented us from having a child. Now I am less superstitious, but perhaps also freer to remove the cover from my own heart since we will soon be joined by this child.
As this child quickens inside me and I stroke my belly, I am reminded of my own mother’s touch and of our child’s heritage. I am afraid I could die while you are gone or that something might happen to you, and so I must put words to my heart—though I feel as though I am tumbling into a well as I write, wondering how you will receive my words—lest our marriage be swallowed up and rendered invisible forever. At the very least you need to know now why I married you. Of course if I am a foolish girl and you return home safely and I am safely delivered as I pray to be, I can only hope that you will understand and accept.
So why did I marry you? Because I could tell you weren’t simply looking for a cook. Because you were the first person since my mother died who looked at me as a person. Because I knew of your passion for the stars, and I dared to hope that a man with such passion might learn to love with intensity. I think of my parents, and I still dare to hope.
My father was much older than my mother, though they were both members of the same community. Exiles we called ourselves, remnants of our people who had decided to remain in the new country even after the captivity had ended. We often talked of home, and from an early age I knew that home was not where I lived but somewhere I had never been. I am both amused and saddened that you will see my home and I will not. It makes me wish to be with you.
But I was born already on a journey, part of my people’s journey. Always they talked of home, of going home, of things from home, even as they participated in the life of their adopted country. Whether to actually go home was a source of endless pondering. I remember my uncle shaking his head and wondering aloud what would become of the next generation when he saw us playing with the local children and learning their language better than our mother tongue. His business prospered enough to keep him from packing his bags, but he was the most devout Jew I ever knew, and he insisted that his daughter as well as his sons learn to read and write in Hebrew.
I joined their household when I was twelve, after my father died. My uncle was my father’s brother, and he took my mother and me into his household, for which we were grateful. We occupied a strange place in my uncle’s household—neither servant nor family. My mother was still young and lovely, and I could see my aunt looked at her as a potential rival for my uncle’s attentions, though this was foolishness. Something vital went out of my mother after my father’s death. She turned to me for someone she could touch, and she told me story after story as we lay awake at night. I had always known my parents to be kind and respectful to each other, but my mother’s nighttime stories revealed to me a depth of love I had not suspected betwe
en them. She did not tell me stories a child should not hear, but as she stroked my hair at night, I sensed her longing for my father take on all the intensity of our people’s longing for Jerusalem. My father had been the home of my mother’s love, and I was the result. Despite the tears my mother shed onto my hair, my mat, and even my ear, I felt increasing happiness as I grew to appreciate my father more and to know myself as a child of their love. This was the richest gift my parents gave to me.
I was just fourteen when my mother died of fever. I missed her dreadfully, but her stories and her love had woven a blanket around me that held me securely. I had also come to have faith in the Lord God of Israel. Some time after we joined my uncle’s household, my uncle invited me to join Miriam, my cousin, at her Hebrew lessons and her prayers. The stories of the Lord’s care for our people sustained me. What I missed were my mother’s hands stroking my hair, and I used to lie in bed and run my hand over my own head and pretend she was there.
It was when my uncle became sick that everything changed. Fearing he would die, as his brother had done, without seeing his homeland, he became obsessed with returning to Jerusalem. I found myself back in my former position outside the family circle. My uncle was sick and single-minded and open to his wife’s suggestion that I be left behind when they journeyed to Jerusalem. My uncle knew your family, and when he heard of your mother’s death, he sent me to your father.
I have told you only small pieces of this before. Melchi, we have revealed so little of our hearts to each other, and for this, I blame only myself.
My heart swelled with joy at this unexpected blessing in the desert. Such a strange and full night it had been. After days of emptiness in the desert, to be reconciled with a brother and a wife and to lose my dearest friend was much to take in. It would take time, but now we were poised on the edge of Israel.
As we set off on our mounts, the air was cool for once, and I breathed in deeply. The restraints that had held me back no longer gripped my heart, and I felt a pull toward Jerusalem and the new king of Israel, just as Balzar had felt in his dream. I thought of Balzar’s dream. It had forecast his death as he had thought, as well as our journey across the desert. Balzar’s heart had long been weak, and he could have died in his own bed, as he had said. Though my heart keened with loss, I was happy he had died as he had lived, in pursuit of the stars. Looking at the empty place in the sky, I remembered his final words to me.
