by Chris Aslan
There was a stunned silence as both Marta and I looked at each other, hoping we’d misheard. “What are you talking about?” said Marta.
Father sighed. “It’s probably better that he remembers me as I was. No son wants to see their father looking like this.”
“Father,” I said insistently. “What’s this talk of saying goodbye?”
“What’s that?” For a moment, Father seemed to have forgotten where he was.
“There is no hope for us here,” said Malchus. “Perhaps we’ll live another few months or maybe a few years.”
“Marta, there’s a doctor in the north,” said Father. “You must have heard of him. He’s all people seem to talk about at the colony. They say he can cure any disease – even leprosy.”
“We can still walk,” said Malchus. “It’s not too late for us. We want to make the journey north. Perhaps he’ll see us. My relatives are there. They’ll help us.”
“Is this the same doctor old Cyria’s been talking about?” I said. “She wants to take Crazy Mariam up to him. I heard her talking about it.”
“Father, do you have any idea how long the journey will take?” said Marta. “Look how tired you are just walking from the colony to here. How will you possibly manage a long journey?”
“Hope, Marta,” Father said gently. “Hope will strengthen us. Where else can we go? Where else is there hope?” Father’s lip quivered and this sudden news of their departure took on a sense of reality.
“Father, there must be some other way,” I said, my voice catching. “You can’t just leave us.”
“What is this?” Father rasped. “How is this life? We must always be seven paces apart. I am never to return any bowl or plate to you. I am trapped in this…” he batted at his chest with disgust, “…in this rotting flesh. I am a prisoner inside my own body. I am not a man, not a father; just a leper you pay to leave.”
Father had always been so strong and so positive with us. This was the first time he let us see how he was really feeling.
“Wait,” said Marta. “I’ll fetch the donkey and provisions for your journey.”
“No,” said Father. “How will you collect the olive harvest? I will not take anything more from you. I’ve taken your childhood; I won’t take your future.”
“Please don’t go,” I said. I didn’t cry. I just felt a great emptiness stretch before me.
“The only thing that will break my heart more than leaving you is staying and letting you see me slowly decay,” said Father. His voice cracked. “How I long to gather you into my arms right now.”
I couldn’t believe this was happening and that Father would actually leave.
Eventually, Father looked up. “The jar,” he said. “Is it safe?”
Marta looked confused.
“Yes,” I said. “Of course. I’ll go and get it. It’ll buy you a donkey with enough left over for everything you’ll need for the journey.”
“What?” said Marta.
“Marta, Miri will explain to you later,” said Father. “No; this is not for me. It’s my gift to you, my precious daughters. It will give you a future.”
“We have no future without you,” I said. “Can’t we persuade you to stay?”
Father clambered to his feet, his face resolutely set. “Tell El that whatever he may think of me, I am proud of him. I am proud of my son. Almost as proud as I am of both of you. Look after each other. Have hope. Perhaps one day I’ll return.”
Malchus passed Father his staff. “I will still pray to our Lord for you every day,” Father whispered, and with one lingering glance, he turned, leaning on Malchus, and they began to walk along the main road.
It might seem surprising, but neither of us wept. I don’t think we really believed that we were seeing Father for the last time. We held on to each other as their silhouettes shimmered in the heat from the road. A caravan of camels approaching the village from the capital had to bypass them and we heard the high ringing of their bells and cries of “unclean, unclean” above the clanging of camel bells.
We watched until we couldn’t see them any more and the illusion that I had in my head that I could still pick up the hem of my tunic and run after them had faded. Still we stood there, not even shedding a tear. It was as if leprosy had infected us, working into our own hearts and robbing them of all sensation.
Chapter Six
The well is finally considered fit for drinking again. Life in the village resumes its normality. I’m behind with my chores after all the extra time spent fetching water from the sheep spring, so I arrive at the well late one morning. I’ve been feeling nauseous for the past few days, so I squat down for a moment, after filling my water jar.
“The heat getting to you?” a voice asks. I look up and see Cyria, mother of Crazy Mariam. I nod and she comes and sits on her haunches, unbidden, beside me. “My Mariam doesn’t do well in the heat either,” she says, and I wonder silently to myself if Crazy Mariam does well anywhere. “I’ve thought about tying a rope around her neck to stop her wandering off, but I’m worried she might choke. She’s not an animal, either.”
I turn to look at her. “How do you keep loving her?” I ask. It suddenly occurs to me how rude the question might sound, but Cyria doesn’t take offence.
“She’s my daughter,” says Cyria which, I suppose, is answer enough. We squat in silence for a moment and then she asks, “Was there ever any news from the north about your father and that other leper?”
I shake my head.
“Don’t give up hope. I always wanted to take my daughter to see him, but… I hear some of those gossips wondering what your father did to be cursed like that but I always butt in and tell them that he was a righteous man,” she says.
I shade my eyes and turn to look her in the face. “Thank you,” I say. “I haven’t always done the same for you. I’m sorry.”
“I understand. No one wants the attention on them, but that daughter of mine makes sure we’re never forgotten, that’s for sure. They should pay me for all the entertainment we give them.”
I touch her shoulder for a moment and then heave myself up before offering her a hand. She lifts my water jar and places it in the crook of my shoulder. We nod to each other and then I return to the compound.
Shoshanna is slicing cucumber and mixing it with chopped mint and yogurt. She looks up briefly as I enter the compound, and then resumes her work. We’re getting short of flour so I set myself up by the millstone with a bag of grain. I haven’t been grinding for long before Rivka enters, slamming the compound door behind her.
“What’s the matter?” Shoshanna asks.
“I’ve heard what you’ve been saying about me.” Rivka storms over to me. “Princess, am I?”
I look up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. I am in such trouble.
“Don’t lie,” says Rivka. “You’re lucky I’m not interested in him, otherwise I would have told them all about your dirty little secret.”
I look to Shoshanna, who is clearly alarmed, hoping she can rescue the situation. “Mariam, what have you been saying?” she asks, coming over.
“Nothing,” I say. “I made one little joke with some of the ladies at the spring.”
“One little joke?” Shoshanna jabs each word with a sharp finger into my shoulder. “There is no such thing as one little joke. You know that there is nothing more precious than a woman’s reputation, and nothing more fragile. How could you spread lies about my daughter?”
“Mother, I will tell them all, I swear it,” says Rivka. “They should take her outside the village and stone her, the whore.”
“Rivka, please,” says Shoshanna, trying to soothe her daughter. “Let me handle this.” She wheels round on me and my heart thuds, because I know where this is leading. “Why was I cursed with a daughter-in-law like you? Do you think Ishmael will be happy to hear that you’ve been ruining his sister’s reputation?”
What she means is that she will tell Ishmael tonigh
t when he comes home tired and cranky, and then he will beat me everywhere but my face, which must remain unbruised in order for us to be a respectable household.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, already feeling fear, the panic of the thought of the beating making it hard to breathe.
“Sorry?” Shoshanna looks at me in astonishment. “What use is ‘sorry’ when you tarnish my daughter’s reputation? You’re lucky I haven’t thrown you out!”
“Please,” I say. “I haven’t bled yet.”
Shoshanna looks ready to hit me but stills her hand.
“It’s true. Look, I’ll show you.” I scurry into the inner room and bring out the cloth lined with rags that I usually tie between my legs during my monthly bleeding. Rivka and Shoshanna started bleeding two days ago.
Shoshanna looks at it, then bends down and sniffs me and nods. I can see her weighing up the punishment she thinks I deserve against the risk of losing a potential grandson. In the end she slaps me hard, once, across the face. “Rivka,” she calls, and Rivka comes and does the same.
My head spins, and it hurts, but I’ve got off lightly. I resume my grinding and silently curse Elisheba’s neighbours. This will not be easy to fix. How could I have been so stupid? Rivka’s spite means that she might spill my secret even if it damages her family’s reputation. As I continue with my grinding, I silently curse the whole family. They have ruined me.
If I hadn’t married Ishmael, perhaps I would have recovered. After all, although we were sadder after Father left, life also became a little more bearable. Both Marta and I felt a guilty sense of release. We missed him greatly and prayed each night for him to find the northern doctor, but were grateful not to have the monthly reminders of his deterioration. Almost imperceptibly, attitudes towards us changed. People no longer clicked their tongues in sympathy when I passed, or asked after my father. For them, he was dead, which was sad, but people die all the time; the village had moved on.
We tried to move on as well. Marta began a campaign to win Eleazar back to us. She cooked his favourite dishes, and regularly sent me round to Aunt Shiphra’s to fetch him back for supper. Aunt Shiphra’s help was also enlisted, with the result that Yokkan and Eleazar would join us for an evening meal one night and then go to Aunt Shiphra’s the next.
Marta pandered to Eleazar’s every legalism, making sure that our household fully complied with every religious law. She encouraged him to sit at Halfai’s feet rather than helping me with the olive harvest, and even gave Halfai coins that we could scarcely afford to pay for his studies.
Eleazar grew more arrogant by the day. I generally kept quiet for Marta’s sake. I knew that she needed someone to take care of. Still, my resentment for him grew. One night I had a dream that the fevers which had plagued him as a child returned and that he died. I woke up and realized that I felt nothing personally at the prospect of my brother’s death, except sadness for Marta.
Imma was really my only friend and she tried to lift my spirits. I didn’t see much of her, as her parents were strict about letting her out of the house except for chores. She often praised Eleazar and the progress he was making in studying the law. I was careful to nod and smile and to keep my opinions to myself. Imma was also becoming more religious, although she would still blush and giggle when I joked about Ishmael.
“I watch him when Mother’s not looking, and he has this earnest look as he sits at Father’s feet, as if he mustn’t let a single word Father speaks be forgotten,” she said, as we sat under a peach tree near the prayer house.
“I’ve seen the earnest look he gets when he thinks you’re not looking, too,” I said, and she pushed me, laughing.
“Does he really?” she asked, after a moment.
For the most part, though, I learned to relish my own company. During summer I would often go up to the olive grove with the donkey, coming back loaded with sticks and branches so we wouldn’t have to waste money buying firewood for cooking. It wasn’t appropriate for me to be up there alone, and no doubt some of our neighbours tutted, thinking that this was what happened when a daughter was left with no father to guard her honour. Still, there was no other choice, and I kept out of other people’s way.
Summer finished and the olive season began. I would leave the compound at dawn, taking food to eat along the way, and head up to our grove. I was determined to harvest our olives singlehandedly, to prove that a woman could do it. The first time I passed Annas he offered to help me, but I didn’t want his help or his company. If he felt guilty for abandoning my sister, I wasn’t going to help him salve his conscience.
One evening, as I led the donkey back down the path, saddlebags bulging with fresh green olives, Ishmael approached from a different path, throwing rocks at any of his sheep who dawdled to nibble on scrub. We nodded to one another.
“It’s getting hard to find good pasturage for them,” he said, as we trudged down together towards the village. “What’s the grass like up in your grove?”
“It’s all dried out, but there’s enough to keep the donkey busy. Have you tried up along the ravine?”
“Should I?” he asked. There was something a little too direct about the way he was looking at me. “Well,” he said as we neared the village. “You can go first and I’ll follow in a little while, so it doesn’t look like something.”
“So what doesn’t look like something?” I asked, irritated that he was making more of our conversation than just politeness. I could see that my tone upset him, so I added, “Look, Ishmael, I’m a leper’s daughter. I’ve stopped worrying too much about what people think of me.”
The next morning I had already started beating my first tree when the clanking of sheep bells alerted me to Ishmael’s presence.
“Heading up to the ravine?” I asked.
“You’re not going to try to harvest all these trees by yourself?” he said.
“Why not?” I replied. “And anyway, who else is going to help me?”
“What about Eleazar?”
“He’s too busy sitting at the feet of Holy Halfai.”
“I could help you.”
“You’ve got your sheep to think about.”
“We could do a deal: you let my sheep graze in your grove and I’ll help you with your olives.”
I blew a strand of hair out of my eyes and thought for a moment. “You can start with the tall tree over there. I’m guessing you’re a good climber.” I pointed at one of the trees further away. Ishmael ignored the tree I pointed to, shrugged off his robe and quickly clambered up the gnarled trunk next to me in his waist cloth, not tucking it between his legs as modesty would dictate. He began beating the branches vigorously, accompanied by the patter of falling olives.
We beat in silence. I could feel his eyes on me, and if I glanced up, he’d grin and hold my gaze as I quickly looked away. The day grew hotter, the beating and pattering blending with the whirr of cicadas and the clanking of sheep bells as the herd ambled around us. Ishmael finished harvesting his first tree and swung down.
“Do you have a sack for me?” he asked.
I fetched the least stained one to give him. He brushed my hand in a way that didn’t feel entirely accidental as I passed it to him.
We continued harvesting until noon. I noticed with annoyance and gratitude that he’d managed to harvest almost twice as much as me. If I was honest with myself, I was also enjoying his company and his attention, which made a pleasant change from the pity I was accustomed to from others.
I needed to relieve myself, and made sure I walked a good distance away before squatting behind an olive tree. When I came back, Ishmael was stretched out in the shade of one of the trees, resting.
“What?” he said, as I averted my eyes from his splayed legs. “We must have earned a break by now.”
I passed him a leather water-skin and he poured it, gulping and swallowing with his mouth open, the way all the boys in our village learn. “I would have prepared more food if I’d known you’d be helping,” I
said, laying out my cheese, bread, and cucumber on a small cloth.
“I’ve got my own midday meal,” he said, getting up to fetch it. He tossed a bundle of bread and sheep cheese at me, nodding with mock admiration as I caught it. I couldn’t help but smile.
“So, you don’t actually hate me,” he said. “I never said that I did.”
He grinned and came back to the cloth, sitting nearer to me this time. “Good,” he said, leaning close to me.
“Shouldn’t you put on your robe?” I said.
He shrugged. “It’s hot.”
“Well, at least fold your waist cloth properly – you’re gaping.”
“Oh, so you noticed,” he said, making no attempt to fold it. I knew that I should be careful. I could hear the voice of my mother in my head. “Mariam, my girl, what is more important to a woman than even a husband or sons? It is your reputation. Nothing is more precious or more fragile.”
“What are you thinking about?”
I was quiet for a moment. “I’m thinking that after midday meal, you should probably take your sheep elsewhere.”
“After midday meal,” he said. I said nothing and we ate in silence. My hands trembled, which irritated me, particularly because he seemed to notice everything. I felt a lightness in my stomach and couldn’t decide if it was a good feeling or a bad one.
“We’ve got time for a short nap after all that hard work,” he said after midday meal, laying down his robe and then stretching himself out on top of it.
I sighed in exasperation. “Don’t play with me, Ishmael,” I said. “It’s time for you to leave.”
“Here, give me a hand up,” he said. I gave him my hand and he yanked it, toppling me over.
“Let go of me,” I said, flailing around on top of him. He just laughed as if we were playing, but at the same time he pulled at his waist cloth, loosening it.
“Come on, just a quick nap,” he said, and managed to roll me over so that he was now on top of me, holding me between his legs. His waist cloth had come off.
