by Chris Aslan
I stayed squatted, weeping, until Shoshanna came to find me. She lifted up a lamp and saw the blood spattered around the hole in the ground. Gently, she helped me up and helped me to the kitchen area where she warmed water and then washed me, wiping away the blood and other bits.
Ishmael was not so tender. “You tricked me into this marriage with a baby that isn’t even there,” he said as he stalked past at dawn to let the sheep out.
“Please, can I go and visit my sister for a few days?” I asked Shoshanna tearfully. I felt so desperately alone.
“Rivka has been doing your share of the housework for long enough,” was her reply. The only place I could mourn for my baby was in the unclean place, where there were still brown stains around the hole where my blood had dried. Here I would weep silently, clutching the emptiness of my belly.
Any ongoing speculation over our speedy marriage soon died out when no announcement of a pregnancy was forthcoming. Although this improved our moral standing within the community, Ishmael seemed to feel that the loss of the baby was God’s punishment upon us. He avoided me, and even after the bleeding had fully stopped and he could enter me again, he now approached it as a duty rather than something he took pleasure in.
Once, I stood at the compound door and watched him walk out with his flock. Imma was further down the street with her hand steadying the water jug on her shoulder and her back to us. I saw the way Ishmael looked at her, and knew that he had no desire to be my husband. Not long after that the beatings started.
There would always be a reason. Usually it was some slight I had given Rivka or Shoshanna, and the beatings were administered with their tacit approval. Only once, when Ishmael raised his hand to punch me in the face, did Shoshanna intervene. “No, not her face,” she said, staring at her son. “What would people say?”
If I sobbed too loudly or wailed for my mother, as I did after the first time, Shoshanna would help me to my feet, or offer me a rag dipped in water, and say, “Really, Mariam, you must try harder not to provoke him,” because the beatings were always my fault.
So, that’s why it’s so important that I don’t lose this baby now. I can’t afford to lose two. I’m squatting in the vegetable patch, weeding, when I feel a wave of cramps wash over me. I try to still my breathing and calm the fear roiling inside. I breathe slowly and the cramps subside. I keep breathing deeply and steadily, not daring to change position even a bit. Finally, I think everything is alright and that the danger has passed, but then I feel a thick trickle down my inner thigh and I know it’s blood.
“Please, no,” I gasp, as I clamber to my feet, which is a mistake, because this just makes the bleeding worse. I stumble into the unclean place and squat over the hole just in time as, with a strangled cry, I unclench my muscles and everything spills out. I remain squatting there, weeping in pain, and also because my hope for someone who might love me and for the beatings to stop has just disappeared into that hole, leaving just the drip, drip of what’s still left inside. Gradually I still my breathing, and then manage to haul myself upright. There is blood around the pit hole, and I force myself to fetch a bowl of water and wash it away.
Ishmael is out with the flock, and Rivka and Shoshanna have gone to celebrate with one of the girls on our street who is getting ready for her wedding. They locked the compound door before they left to make sure I wouldn’t go wandering. Quickly, my thoughts move from the life of my baby to my own life and how I am to survive this. There is no time for mourning. I realize what I must do. I’m able to clean myself up and strap a cloth stuffed with rags between my legs as the bleeding still hasn’t fully stopped. I shrug out of my tunic and change into a clean one, bundling the bloodstained one up and hiding it in the inner room. I’ll have to wash it later at the brook.
By the time Shoshanna and Rivka return, I’ve hidden all traces of the incident, but I’m exhausted and am lying down.
“You call that weeding?” said Rivka, looking at the first row and a half, which was all I achieved.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I felt sick and I had to lie down.”
“Is everything alright with the baby?” asks Shoshanna. I nod. “Here, we brought you some herb-filled pastries from the celebration,” she adds.
I thank her and nibble at them. I wonder how long I’ll be able to keep up this lie before they realize the truth. I’m really not sure what to do, except that they mustn’t find out, and that gives me a little time to come up with some kind of plan.
The next day I feel a little better and manage to add my tunic to the load of washing I take down to the brook. As I work the crusted stains out of the tunic, I imagine myself letting the baby go on the waters, being taken by God and the currents, and I try to sob as quietly as possible. I’m still bleeding a bit, but it grows less. My appetite returns and I’m feeling much better physically, but at the same time I’m paralysed with fear. What will Ishmael do when he finds out? Rivka is losing patience with me too and, although I’m still weak, I offer to resume my water-carrying duties. All it takes is one word from her and our secret is out and then who knows what will happen? That night, while Ishmael curls himself against me, all I can imagine is his hands around my throat, choking me, as he curses me for being unable to give him a child.
I wake up the next morning and all I can think about is this fear. I’m paralysed by it and can’t think of any way out. I’m finding it harder to breathe and I even think about running away, but what would people say? I couldn’t bring more shame on my sister.
Over breakfast, my distracted thoughts are interrupted by pounding on the compound door. I go to answer it, adjusting my headscarf, as Young Shimon bursts through.
“Quick,” he says to Ishmael. “Halfai needs you. You’re to be one of the witnesses to the confession.”
Without further explanation, Shimon dashes out and Ishmael looks at us, shrugs, and then follows him.
“Mariam, isn’t it time you went to fetch water?” says Shoshanna, and I know she wants me to find out more. “In fact, I’ve been meaning to get the strap on these sandals fixed,” she adds. “I’ll come with you.”
I’ll be surprised if Tauma the cobbler has set up his stall so early. The village square is still largely shadowed, the sun yet to crest the olive hills to the east, but as it turns out, there are more people about than usual at this time of day. We spot several elders hurrying purposefully towards the prayer house, and at the well there doesn’t seem to be much drawing of water.
“Shoshanna, have you heard?” asks a plump woman with wide eyes, eager to share the story with a newcomer. Shoshanna shakes her head and the woman continues. “You know Hillel, the date merchant who lives on the street that leads to the brook? Well, he’s been up north selling dates and olives and sent word that he’d return next week. Well, it turns out he was able to get home sooner and decided to travel through the night to surprise his wife first thing in the morning. And a surprise is what everyone gets!”
“That slut Rohel had taken another man to bed!” interrupts a forceful older lady, ignoring the plump woman’s annoyance. “The adulterer managed to escape – naked as the day he was born, by all accounts – and now she won’t say who he was. Hillel was in such a rage. He dragged her before Halfai and now they’re questioning her.”
I realize whose daughter they’re talking about and feel the blood drain from my face. “Here,” I say to Shoshanna, and thrust the empty water jug into her hands. “I have to go.”
I’ve never been to her house but I know roughly where it is. When I get to her street I’m directed by the sounds of wailing. The compound door is open and I pause for a moment but then just walk in, uninvited.
Elisheba rocks backwards and forwards, held by the same women I joked and laughed with up at the sheep spring. “Please God,” she cries. “What have I done to deserve this?”
“I just heard,” I say, and the women look up and shift a little so that I can join them. “I’m so sorry.” What other words are there?<
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Elisheba rages one moment, saying things like, “I’d kill her myself, that dog, that whore! How could she disgrace us like this?” and then she’s filled with love and hurt, and sobs, “My poor baby, what have you done? What will they do to you?”
“Where is her other daughter?” I whisper to one of the neighbour ladies.
“Sholum is staying with Elisheba’s cousin – the one with the sandal stall. We took Rohel’s daughter there, too. They’re taking it in turns to ride around the compound on the camel. Best that they know as little as possible,” she says.
My heart goes out to these little girls who will both be tainted by Rohel’s decision.
Other women arrive. There are no men and I realize that Elisheba’s father must have been called to the interrogation. I notice that I’m the youngest there, so I boil water and pick some sprigs of mint and chamomile from Elisheba’s herb garden to make tea.
Shoshanna and the plump gossip eventually turn up and they, too, start to weep as they see Elisheba’s distress, forgetting the glee with which they had so recently digested the news. Shoshanna notices me, and looks puzzled, as if unsure whether to be angry with me or not for coming and helping. She shrugs and I’m guessing she’s decided that I’m making her look good.
A self-important youth comes to the compound door and shouts, “They’re coming out of the prayer house now. Halfai will announce the verdict in the square.”
Of course he will. That man never misses the opportunity for a rapt audience. Elisheba struggles to her feet, the other women hauling her up, and they move as a mass towards the compound door. I decide to tidy up a little before joining them, and help myself to some of the leftover tea and some flatbread and curds. They seem to have forgotten that Halfai always likes to preach a sermon before releasing the news that people really want to hear.
Sure enough, by the time I’ve made my way to the square, it’s packed with people and Halfai is ranting. They’ve placed some large planks across the well and Halfai is standing on them, turning the well into an impressive platform. I can’t help hoping the planks break.
“Remember Nadab and Abihu: holy men who burnt incense incorrectly. What happened? The Lord’s fire blazed over them and consumed them. This is how the Lord deals with the sons of Aaron. How much more does his rage blaze now?”
There are shouts of encouragement that come from one quarter of the crowd in particular. I stand on tiptoe and see that it is Hillel, surrounded by his friends. He has ash on his head and his robe is torn. I stop listening and crane my head to see Rohel. I’ve spoken with her sometimes at the well, but she’s older than me and we were never friends. I can’t see her anywhere, but I can hear Elisheba moaning and weeping, even though her back’s to me. Young Shimon and Ishmael stand on either side of Halfai; his henchmen. The elders are all stood around the platform.
Significantly, there is no man bound. This must mean that Rohel still hasn’t given the name of the man she was with. Or youth? It could be anybody. I wonder for a moment if Ishmael left my side during the night and slipped out unnoticed. It really wouldn’t surprise me.
There is a commotion and Rohel is dragged out of the prayer house. Her face is bruised and there is a cut on her forehead. I don’t know if that was Hillel’s doing or part of the interrogation. Elisheba shrieks and surges forward, hands gripping her and holding her back on all sides. Women around her wail and men around Hillel shout, “Whore!”
Rohel keeps her eyes on the ground as she is pushed and shoved forward. A space opens up for her in front of the platform, elders beating the crowd back. She stands there until one of the elders kicks the back of her legs and then she falls into a kneeling position.
“This is your last chance to rid this village of corruption,” says Halfai. “Redeem yourself now, before the village you’ve disgraced.”
Rohel keeps her head bowed and is silent.
“Will you say nothing?” Halfai demands, and for a crowd we’re pretty silent, everyone wanting to hear. The silence hangs in the air for a few moments, and then Halfai announces, “Take her outside the village,” and the crowd erupts into shouts, cheers, and wailing.
Halfai is helped down from the platform by Young Shimon and they are all buoyed along as the whole village surges down the street which leads to the brook. As we pass it, youths and young men stop to collect stones, testing their heft and weight and discussing amongst themselves whether a smooth, heavy stone with more chance of accuracy is better than a jagged one which would inflict more damage. I see Ishmael and Shimon pause to join them.
We pass the date palms where I used to meet my father and move into the wilderness, until Halfai tells the crowd to stop. We are now just outside the official village border. Even though there has never been a stoning in our village during my lifetime, people seem to know instinctively what to do. The women gather around Elisheba, wailing. The men form a rough semi-circle around Rohel. There is some position-changing, with those skilled with a sling, such as Ishmael, given prime spots. Some of the younger boys are pushing and laughing, but all are silenced as Halfai raises a hand. He prays that this cleansing of an evil stain will purify our village. Standing beside Rohel, he looks almost fatherly.
When he has finished, Elisheba cries out in the silence, “Rohel, my darling girl. Don’t look at them; just look at me.” She manages to smile through her tears. “I’m here, my child. Just look at me.”
Rohel’s face crumples as she looks to her mother, and she begins to weep. Halfai walks backwards with his hand still raised. Hillel is pushed to the front of the crowd and given what is considered a good stone for throwing, and placed nearest his disgraced wife. An older, tear-stained man – Rohel’s father – is also pushed forward and handed a stone, which he drops, falling to his knees.
“That’s it; keep looking at me,” says Elisheba to her daughter. She has been allowed to move to the front of the women. Halfai looks at the men and then lowers his hand as if to start a race, and the rocks fly. I see Ishmael judge the weight of his rock – a jagged one – take aim and throw it hard and straight. He smiles slightly as it hits the target and again the fear blooms in my stomach of what he could do to me; what those strong, sure hands could do. I keep my eyes on my husband. I don’t want to watch Rohel die, but I can’t help but hear it.
Her last cry is cut short, as if she’s winded. Some of the rocks clatter against the rocky ground, missing their mark. Others make a deep thump as they connect with the softer parts of her body, or a crack where they hit her skull. I hear her stumble and fall to the ground. I turn to look as Elisheba shrieks and is held back by the women around her. For a moment I can’t see anything because I am blinded by tears. I blink them away and see Halfai bending over Rohel, holding her wrist, checking for a pulse. “No,” he says. “She is still alive. Aim for the head.”
The men collect their stones, some wiping blood off them, or even splinters of bone. They gather closer this time, lifting the rocks above their heads. At Halfai’s command, the rocks rain down. There is a moment of silence where even Elisheba is quiet. Halfai disappears from my view and then I hear him announce, “It is done.”
With a groan, Elisheba rushes forward, flinging men out of her way, and collapses over her daughter, cradling her in her arms, and then beating her own breast and face, and throwing handfuls of dust over her head. Elisheba’s husband stumbles forward, too, but faints before he gets to the body. At first the young men mill aimlessly, unsure what to do now that the killing is done. Then someone suggests a swim to clean off the blood, and that’s where they head.
“But where can we bury her?” I hear a man asking Halfai anxiously, as Halfai strides back towards the village.
“Anywhere outside the village and outside the village tombs,” says Halfai.
“I’m just glad her brother never lived to see her disgrace,” I hear Ishmael saying to Shimon as they walk past me.
“I think your stone might have been the killer shot,” Shimon replie
s. “You’ve always been on target.”
Ishmael claps him on the shoulder, leaving a bloody handprint. “Oh, sorry,” he says, and they laugh.
What kind of son would Ishmael have given me? I’m suddenly relieved that my womb is empty. For a moment, disgust overcomes my fear of him. I don’t know how I can go back to his home tonight. I’m not sure it’s even possible. I look for Marta but can’t see her. Then I spot her and some of the women from our street gathered under one of the date palms in prayer. They’re praying for Elisheba and for her family. I wait until they are finished, wondering why they pray to the God who apparently commanded this stoning in the first place.
Marta sees me and we embrace tearfully, holding each other for a long time. Everyone is feeling quite emotional right now. It feels so good to be held by another, not because they want something from me but just because they love me. “Marta, I’m going to come by tonight,” I say. I’m on the verge of making a decision that I haven’t consciously acknowledged.
Marta beams. “Shoshanna gave you permission?”
“It will probably be after sundown,” I say, avoiding her question. First there’s something I must do. I turn back to the village and make it to Elisheba’s house before her husband is carried back by the men from their street. As I had suspected, sounds of indignant braying come from within their stable. I find a donkey inside and feed him a few handfuls of parched grain, and empty some more into a cloth bag which I add to his saddlebags along with a water-skin half filled with what’s left in the water jar. I pause and drink the last of the cold tea before I go. When it was still warm, Rohel was still alive.
