by Chris Aslan
Marta gave a small cry and turned, forgetting that our father was still naked, and then quickly turned back again, struggling to breathe. We clung to one another, still facing the tree.
“You may robe yourselves,” said Halfai, with a note of sympathy in his voice. “I will return in seven days.”
We heard him leave and the door shut. “Fetch soap and fragrant spices. I must cleanse myself,” I heard him say to his wife out on the street, and we heard their words of sympathy and pity grow distant as they walked away. Eleazar bolted the door. We turned around, and rushed to Father.
“No!” he cried, backing away. “You mustn’t touch me. You can never touch me again.”
Marta fell to the ground, dragging me with her, as Father backed away towards the ladder leading up to the upper room and the roof. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered hoarsely.
“I don’t understand what just happened. Does this mean I have to stay here for a whole week?” asked Eleazar. For a moment I just stared at him, incredulous. Then I hit him as hard as I could across his face.
“Miri, please,” Father sobbed, as Eleazar threw himself at me while Marta restrained him.
“I hate you!” Eleazar spat at me. “Why was I cursed with sisters?”
I wanted to hit Eleazar again and again and not stop. I saw Father step forward to separate us, and then step back when he remembered that he couldn’t touch us.
“I’m sorry,” I said, looking at Father and not Eleazar.
“This cannot be happening,” said Marta, dazed, looking over at the carpet she had been working on a day ago when our world was still intact.
“Why can’t it be you?” Eleazar hissed quietly at me.
“Please,” said Father. “We cannot fight. Let’s pray that this mark is just something temporary. God has shown mercy towards whole cities who turned to him. Marta, I will pray in the upper room. It’s best I keep away from you all. Could you bring some bedding up?”
“But you can’t sleep there. It’s not finished,” said Marta, ever practical.
“No, but it will have to do. It’s only for a week,” said Father.
“What if it isn’t?” Marta asked. “If the spot is still there next week…”
“Not now,” said Father, nodding towards Eleazar. “Miri, if you bring the bedding out and leave it here, I can carry it up the ladder.”
“Wait,” said Marta. “I’ll sweep the room first and check for scorpions. We can also put a carpet down, and try to make it a bit more like home.”
Father nodded. “I will be on the roof, praying,” he said.
I was going to get the bedding but Marta put a light hand on my arm. “Please, let me,” she said, because this was how Marta could show our father how much she loved him.
This meant that I was left in the compound with Eleazar. “You can’t make me stay here,” he spat.
“Do you think I want to be stuck here with you for a week?” I asked. “By all means, climb the tree and go swimming. How long will it be before Halfai sends his men after you? What do you think they’ll do when they find you, eh?”
“I wish you had leprosy and had to be banished,” Eleazar whispered.
I resisted the urge to punch him hard in the face. “What do I care about your wishes?” I said evenly. “Now go and study your letters.”
Over the next seven days we each faced our quarantine more or less in isolation. Marta, who was happy to spend all day in the compound anyway, busied herself preparing Father’s favourite dishes and working on her latest carpet whenever she had a spare moment. Father stayed praying in the upper room, coming down only to relieve himself. Eleazar, much to our surprise, sat in front of his wax tablet, his face furrowed in concentration, and learned more that week than in the past several months combined.
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked Marta, who just shook her head.
I went into the inner room and lay there in the dark, crying. By the time I awoke it was late afternoon. I was woken by the sound of breaking pottery. Wandering outside, I saw Marta smashing the shards from one of her favourite cooking pots with a rock from her herb border.
“What are you doing? That pot was Mother’s,” I said.
Marta was crying. “It’s my fault,” she said.
“What’s your fault?” I asked. “Did you drop it?”
“No, it happened a week ago,” said Marta. “It was raining and I’d left the pot outside to collect water. Then the next morning I saw that a gecko had drowned in it. I knew what I should do but I just fished the gecko out and poured the water away and scrubbed the pot clean.”
She looked at my bafflement, and sighed in exasperation. “Miri, don’t you know the law at all? The pot had been rendered unclean. I should have smashed it immediately but it was Mother’s and one of my favourites…” Her voice trailed off. “Now God is punishing us,” she whispered.
“You think leprosy is a fair punishment for a pot? What would God’s punishment be for my cooking?” I asked, almost managing to make her smile. “This is no one’s fault.”
I heard what sounded like a stifled sob and looked up at the window frame in the upper room, but there was no one there.
That evening, while Marta had taken food up to Father, the first of our visitors came knocking. I went to the compound door and explained to whoever was there that we were quarantined and not allowed to let anyone in or out.
“I know,” a voice hissed back. “The whole village knows.”
“Aunt Shiphra!” I leaned against the door and we talked through the crack.
“How is your father?” she asked.
“I don’t know. He just wants to be by himself and pray. I’ve been too busy keeping Eleazar out of trouble.”
Shiphra gave a knowing laugh. “Yokkan seems to be missing his young shadow, with no one to impress. I’ve made a bowl of balm for your father. He needs to apply it morning and evening, after prayers. Here, I’ll pass it over.”
I looked up and the balm appeared over the mud-brick wall. “Thank you, Aunt Shiphra. Father will really appreciate this.”
“And…” There was a short pause but long enough for me to notice. “There’s no need to return the bowl.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind of you,” I said, with a lump in my throat. “Give our greetings to Yokkan and Mara.”
The next visitor was Imma. “I’ve been trying to find excuses to leave the house all day, but Mother’s kept me busy. She knew I’d come straight here. I’ve brought water for you. I’ll fill up the jar.”
I hadn’t realized that Marta had already placed a jar outside the compound as instructed. “What have your parents been saying?”
“Father is praying for your father now during the evening prayers. Mother wept when she told me the news and I’ve decided to start fasting from tomorrow. So have some of the other girls. Miri, don’t lose heart. I know your father will get better.”
I tried to speak but words wouldn’t come.
“Miri, are you still there?”
“Yes,” I sobbed. “Thank you, Imma. I don’t know why I didn’t even think of it. I’m going to fast too. Imma, what happens to Father if –”
“Don’t think like that,” said Imma. “God willing, everything will be alright. Everyone in the village loves your father. I’m sure God will heal him.”
“Thank you, thank you so much, Imma.” I wiped my nose on my sleeve.
“I saw Ishmael on my way here.”
“Were his eyes on his sheep or on you?”
Imma laughed and then she told me the latest village gossip, determined to cheer me up. For the first time that day, even though I was talking to a door, I felt normal.
A little later there was another knock and a voice from outside. This time it was Annas for Marta.
“Come, Eleazar,” I said. “We’ll finish supper and leave Marta to talk in peace.”
Eleazar’s anger had fizzled on and off for most of the day but was now replaced with such a deep
despondency that even I felt a bit sorry for him. If this had been a rest day he would at least have been able to go outside again now that it was past sundown.
“Is Father going to die?” he asked, as we sat down in the covered kitchen area.
“We’re all going to die at some point,” I said, not really sure how to answer him.
“But what if Father really is a leper?”
“He won’t be. When I was chatting to Imma, she told me that everyone on our street is praying and fasting for him.”
“But what if that doesn’t work? What will happen to him?”
“It will work. If you want, you can fast as well.”
“Are we all going to fast?”
“Except Father; he needs to stay strong.”
Once Eleazar was in bed, and with Marta squatting by the door whispering to Annas, I went up to Father to collect his plate and cup and to give him the balm made by his sister.
“They’re all praying for you and fasting; the whole village. The spot will go away, I know it.”
Father sighed and rubbed his back against the unplastered mud-brick walls as if he could scrape away the spot. “Father, I’ve been thinking,” I said. “And I have an idea.” He looked up and I squatted down beside the ladder. “We could sell the jar. I could pass it on to Aunt Shiphra and then Cousin Yokkan could take it to the city. He could find a doctor there or a healer; someone who will come and make you better.”
Father smiled sadly as I petered out. “Remember who gave me the jar, Miri? If a doctor could have cured him, don’t you think he would have sold it? No, the jar is not for me. I’ve saved it for my children; for your dowries. Listen, if I’m not around –” I moved towards him instinctively but he shook his head. “Miri, I don’t want you wasting the jar on some so-called doctor. There is no cure for leprosy. If that is what I have, then it’s more important than ever that you keep the jar safe.”
“Should I tell Marta?”
“Let’s wait and see what this week brings,” said Father.
“Father, what if –”
“Do you know why so few lepers come through our village?” Father interrupted. I didn’t see why this was relevant. “You know it is our religious duty to give them food and alms, but the youths of the village, playing in the brook near the main road to the capital, they’ve always kept one eye on that road for undesirables. When I was not much older than Eleazar, three women came, in rags and with their bells, calling ‘unclean, unclean’ and begging. We threw stones at them. They cursed us but we didn’t stop until we had driven them back towards the capital. That’s what I did.”
“But Father, you were just young and stupid like Eleazar.”
Father almost smiled. “It’s what I did, Miri. I cannot describe the shame I feel.”
“Are you saying that you think God is punishing you? Because remember how you helped the man on our land –”
“No, I’m not saying that. If God wished punishment, he would have given the whole group of us leprosy.” Father sighed. “What I’m trying to say is that if I saw those women now, I would give them the jar.” He looked up. “That jar is your futures, Miri. You must take good care of it.”
I nodded, picked up Father’s plate and cup and carried them down the ladder.
“Don’t forget to wash your hands afterwards,” Father called out.
That night I waited until Marta and Eleazar were asleep, and then opened Mother’s chest as quietly as I could. I removed the jar, wrapped it in a torn piece of burlap sacking, and in the light of the moon, dug a hole for it under the fig sapling Marta had recently planted, and buried it there.
Chapter Four
On the third day of every week, our village hosts a market. Makeshift stalls are set up around the well, joining the permanent ones, and the village teems with people. Although the capital can be reached in a day, people from smaller villages and settlements nearby prefer our market, as prices are cheaper. A few wholesale traders from the city come to buy olives, figs, and dates.
A month ago a new seller arrived. It was one of the first warm days of the year and she wore a tunic that barely covered her shoulders, with no robe. Although she wore a headscarf, it barely covered the braids brazenly visible beneath it. She set up a stall full of bright bolts of finely woven cloth, so different from our own homespun. The young men of the village developed a sudden interest in fabric, buzzing around her stall like flies on meat. As for the women, the wealthier clucked over each bolt of cloth, marvelling at the vibrant colours, while the poorer women tutted and shook their heads, bemoaning the corrupting influence of the West.
Despite these mutterings, the seller did brisk trade and returned the next week, even after Halfai denounced her during his holy day sermon. Now, respectable women lured to her fabric could only glance furtively from a distance before dispatching one of the loitering children to make the final purchase. Then, last week, Halfai, Ishmael and some of the other more religious men waited for her at the main road. As her heavily laden donkey came into view, they threw stones at her until she returned to the city. “Learn your lesson!” they shouted after her, Ishmael told me.
Today is market day and although I’m not particularly late fetching water from the well, the market is already in full swing; everyone wants to finish their trading before it gets too hot. I wait my turn and have just finished filling my water jar when I hear a flurry of exclamations and turn around. Around ten horses are trotting up towards us. Riding them are Western soldiers. They glance down at us in disdain. I notice that riding with her arms clasped shamelessly around one of the soldiers, is the seller. She hasn’t brought any cloth with her.
The horses trot around the well until they’ve encircled it. “We now collect tax,” says a soldier, speaking our language badly.
There are indignant comments from some of the stallholders, and cries of, “Our tax has already been paid” and “Someone fetch Halfai”. I don’t know what to do, as I’m hemmed in. Those on the periphery of the square melt into the shadows, wary yet curious. The soldier who rode in first stands watching as the other soldiers dismount and begin to collect all the takings from each stall. They don’t count; coins just get thrown into cloth bags which are soon heavy. No one says anything or puts up resistance. We’re not stupid. The only one to stay mounted is the female trader, who surveys the scene.
“He’s not here,” she says to herself. Then she says loudly, “Learn your lesson. Tell that to your holy man.”
The soldiers begin to mount and I think it’s all over, but then the one who speaks a little of our language points at me. “You,” he says. “Drink.”
I look down at my water jar, flustered. It’s too heavy for me to pour slowly without water going everywhere, and if this idol worshipper drinks from it, then the jar will be unclean and I’ll have to smash it. The soldier gives a nasty smile and points at the wooden bucket. I send it down and draw water for him. He comes over and drinks deeply from it.
“Again, for my friends,” he says. The bucket is still almost full. He knocks the bucket into the well and I hear it ricocheting against the sides before it splashes down. He makes me draw a fresh bucket for each soldier. The rest of the village watches, aghast. For the first time in my life I’m grateful to Rivka, as she’s given me plenty of practice in masking my emotions. The soldier clearly understands enough of our culture to know that each soldier is ritually polluting our only source of drinking water. We are learning our lesson.
When the last of them has finished, I put the bucket down. I’m sweating and it has the sour smell that comes from fear. I straighten my back and I think they’re about to go, but then the same soldier looks at his friends and smirks. Then, in front of me, in front of us all, he urinates into the well. He’s uncircumcised. He finishes and then looks up at me innocently, holding out his hands and gesturing for me to pour water on them. I pour the last of the water out. He flicks the water off, derisively, and then mounts his horse and, kicking up dust, they
gallop out of the village.
“It’s not your fault,” says a woman behind me, putting a hand on my shoulder. I nod. I’m shaking.
“Where is Halfai?” someone shouts.
One of the village ladies selling dried figs is wailing. Judging by her empty baskets, she sold a lot today and now her earnings are gone. There are several women waiting with water jars who look at each other, shrug helplessly, and wander back to their compounds. I look down at my full jar and consider myself rather fortunate. When I get back, I tell Shoshanna what happened, and then she goes next door to fetch our neighbour, Ide, and I have to tell the story all over again. Even Rivka listens intently.
“This is Ishmael’s fault,” Rivka says at the end. “If he and Holy Halfai hadn’t tried to stone a woman just for dressing well, we wouldn’t be left drinking piss-water.”
Shoshanna glowers. “Must you be so vulgar?” she asks, although she can’t disagree. We begin a discussion about alternative sources of drinking water which is interrupted by a pounding at the compound door.
“Halfai wants everyone out by the well, even the women,” a stout neighbour pants, before hurrying on to knock on the next door. Ide, overwhelmed by the sheer joy of this drama, is torn between going home to change her headscarf and the fear that she might miss something if she doesn’t head to the well right now.
We trot down breathlessly together, Ide limping but just managing to keep up. I remember the last time the whole village turned out, but I manage to shake the thought from my head and look around. Ishmael and Young Shimon – not to be confused with Shimon my father – are dragging a chest from the sandal and saddle stall. Halfai directs them to place it beside the well and then he climbs on top, ensuring that despite his short stature everyone can see him.
“We are surrounded by enemies,” he begins, without any formal introduction. “By Westerners and those seduced by them; occupiers of our land, enforcers of ungodly laws, corrupters of our youth; by whores who think they can come to our market under the pretence of selling something other than themselves.”
