by Chris Aslan
By the time I’ve returned to the stoning spot, the only people left are four of Elisheba’s closest neighbours and relatives. Elisheba has curled herself around Rohel’s body and croons gently to her, stroking her blood-matted hair.
The neighbours look up, questioningly. “Isn’t that Elisheba’s donkey?” one of them says.
I nod, pulling out another handful of grain to feed it. “They won’t let her be buried with our dead, but I remember my father once told me about the place where lepers are buried. We can be there and back before sundown.”
“Buried with lepers?” the neighbour spits in disdain.
I shrug and don’t take offence. It slowly dawns on the women that there really aren’t any other options if we want to avoid an unmarked grave by a roadside. “Wait for us,” say two of the women, who hurry back to the village and return a little while later with a linen shroud and a collection of bulging cloth pouches.
“Come.” They gently lift Elisheba. “We must honour her with a decent burial.”
One of the women covers Rohel’s face with a headscarf; I help another woman with Rohel’s legs while others lift the arms. The body is cooling but still pliable.
“I’ve never been there, but Father used to come from over there.” I point towards a low outcrop of rocks. I’m given the donkey’s tether, and lead the group while others support Elisheba, who finds walking a struggle. We get to the outcrop and there’s a path we discover there, which we follow.
By noon we see our first leper. She looks startled and a little wary of us. “You must have lost your way,” she says. “This is leper territory.”
We ask for directions and eventually we find the caves where the lepers are buried. There are no family caves, like in our village. The leper has walked with us, always staying well in front, and leads us to a cave that has not been used for some time, where there’ll be less risk to us of contagion.
I stay with the donkey, the leper and the corpse while the other women enter the cave and lay down salt and the shroud. Then we carry Rohel in. I’m thirsty – I’m sure we all are in this heat – but all the water in the water-skin is used to wash the corpse. I go back outside for this; I’ve seen enough bruised flesh of my own.
I find a spot of shade beside one of the larger rocks and crouch in it, the leper having wandered off after I’d given her a few carrots I found in the saddlebags. My head begins to pound because I need water, but I take a strange pleasure in the pain, seeing it as part of my service and solidarity to Elisheba. It suddenly occurs to me that this is probably the furthest I’ve ever been from our village.
I must have dozed because I wake with a start as the women emerge from the cave. The shade has grown as the sun descends, and we help Elisheba onto the donkey. The saddlebags are stained with dried blood but we are all beyond caring, and trudge wearily back to the village. The sun has almost set by the time we draw near, and the whole village shimmers in a mirage of heat from the wilderness beneath our feet. I try to steer us at an angle so that we’ll hit the main road. It’s not the quickest way and one woman frowns until she realizes that I wish to bypass the stoning place.
“Your mother-in-law will be wondering where you are,” says one of Elisheba’s neighbours as we leave the main road and trudge into the village. “You’ve been a great blessing to her. She’ll remember this,” she adds, and I realize I’m being dismissed.
I pause for a moment, torn between the well and the brook. First I choose the well, asking one of the younger girls to pour water for me, and splashing it into my hands and then gulping it down, greedily. One of the women from our street gives me a look that says, “Does your mother-in-law know you’re wandering around outside without a water jug?” I ignore it, and head back to the brook, finding the women’s bathing spot behind the reeds empty. I strip off and sink into the water, washing my hair even though I have no soap.
The air is still warm when I emerge, and I shake out the dust in my tunic before putting it on. I feel strangely calm and at peace. I still haven’t formally acknowledged my decision to myself.
Back at my childhood home, I don’t knock on the compound door, but take a running jump at the apricot branch and haul myself over.
“Miri, you gave me a fright,” says Marta as I land in our compound garden. “Here, the yogurt and mint is ready and there’s lentil stew in the pot. You can help me with the flatbreads.”
We work together in a companionable silence that I have missed so much it almost makes me cry. When the flatbreads are steaming, we sit down to eat. Marta is so good at giving me space to speak when I’m ready. I see that she’s tidied up the compound for my arrival and even washed her hair.
“I have news,” I say, after wolfing down the meal.
“I know,” Marta beams. “I saw Shoshanna this morning and she told me that you’re with child.” She squeezes my hand. “I’m so glad things seem to be improving.”
I shake my head. “I lost it,” I say quietly. “I just keep losing them.”
I don’t have time to say anything more, because Marta clutches me in a fierce embrace. I feel myself slacken as I lean into my older sister and realize just how wrung out I feel. We sit huddled together for a while before Marta studies me, reading my face, and brushes a strand of my hair away. “How did Ishmael take it?” she asks.
“I was terrified of telling him,” I explain. “He started beating me after I lost the last one.”
“That dog!” says Marta, looking murderous. “Miri, why didn’t you say something? I’ll tell Shoshanna that if this happens again I will go directly to Halfai, and this is no idle threat.”
“No,” I say gently, trying to soothe her. “There’s no need.”
Marta looks as if she wants to protest, but one of the things I’ve always loved about my sister is the way she can hold her tongue. She waits and I explain.
“Every day I knew I was with child, I was so worried I’d lose it. My whole body was clenched, and even at night I worried that if I relaxed, the baby might somehow come out.” I pause, trying to find the right words. “I lost it anyway, but I’m still clenched. I think I’ve felt clenched ever since he raped me. I’m constantly terrified that Rivka will say something or that Ishmael will find an excuse to beat me. I don’t think I can live like this any more. Marta, I’m not going back there. Ever.”
Marta is stunned and I give her a moment to digest this news.
“But Miri, what will people say?” she asks. “Think of the gossip and the shame on our household. Let me speak to Shoshanna.”
“No,” I say, more loudly than I meant. “You don’t know how alone I’ve felt. I won’t go back. Please, Marta, if you love me…” I falter and begin to weep.
“Oh Miri,” says Marta, taking me in her arms. “This will always be your home, too. I have also felt so alone.”
I can’t speak. We both just cry, clutching each other tightly, and remain that way for quite a while.
Chapter Eight
“Tell her to come out here and speak to my face,” Ishmael snarls outside our compound door.
“Please, Ishmael, her decision has been made. I’ll ask my aunt to speak to your mother tomorrow,” Marta calls back.
“She’s not leaving; she carries my child.” He has an edge to his voice and I wonder if he’ll try climbing over the wall.
“No, she doesn’t, Ishmael. She lost it.”
We hear him swearing and then he kicks the door hard.
“I never pleased you,” I call out softly, not wanting to antagonize him further. “Now you can have Imma.”
He swears at me. “You’ll pay for this,” he adds, and we hear him leave.
Marta gives me a look.
“I know,” I say. “It’s going to be a challenge.”
“This is just the start. You might be shunned by the whole village.”
Marta lets out a long breath and then looks up at the night sky. “Come on,” she says.
It’s a warm evening and we dr
ag a seating mat up the ladder to the flat roof and lie on our backs watching the stars.
“You know you’re never going to get back any of your dowry,” she says after a while.
“Well, they actually paid for most of it. Anyway, I still have this.” I wince as I remove the gold ring in my nose – the symbol of a married woman. “I’ll sell it tomorrow. I won’t be needing it any more.” I stretch back and look at the stars, and for a moment I feel queasy and upside down, as if I’ll fall upwards and into the never-ending basin above me. “And they can keep their ‘new’ tunics,” I say, and sense Marta smiling in the dark. “This has been such a costly mistake,” I sigh. “And I know it’s cost you, too.”
“Shh,” says Marta.
“If I’d known El would just abandon you like that –”
“Shh,” she says again. I’m quiet and we watch the stars. Every now and then one of them falls in a glittering trail.
“You know, this morning it would never have occurred to me to leave him. It was when I saw him with the stone in his hand and the way he looked at Rohel. That was when, in my heart, I knew what to do. I couldn’t stay and let him hurt me again.”
We’re silent for a while.
“Marta, I can’t help thinking about the other man, whoever he was. Right now he’s eating his supper or he’s talking to his wife or to his mother. They’re probably discussing the stoning. Tomorrow he’ll wake up with the rest of his life ahead of him.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Whoever was in Rohel’s bed this morning. She didn’t name him. He probably made sure he was in the front row of the stone-throwers to avoid suspicion. Now he’s having his supper and Rohel’s body lies in a lepers’ grave.”
“It’s terrible, but she knew the law as well as we do,” Marta says gently.
“Yes, but the law is meant for justice. How was this justice?”
Marta says nothing. After a while I say, “Marta, when I saw Elisheba today, it reminded me of how we were when Father was driven out. She was so – so broken.” I turn to Marta in the dark. “Could you pray for Elisheba?”
“Of course,” she says softly, and we sit up and raise our hands. “But you know her better. Why don’t you pray?”
“No,” I say. I don’t try to explain, but I don’t think I’ll be praying again.
The next day I lift my mother’s water jug onto my shoulder, enjoying its familiar heft. I hadn’t realized I missed it. At the well the stoning is still the main topic of gossip, but Shoshanna has already begun her work. Several ladies spot me and then ostentatiously turn their backs. I’ve experienced plenty of pity before, but this disdain is new. Part of me wants to tell them what really happened, but I know they won’t listen. I fill my jar, ignoring their whispers. I avoid eye contact, but I won’t bow my head or scurry away.
At home, Aunt Shiphra and Heras, Halfai’s wife, sit uncomfortably together while Marta busies herself preparing mint tea and doing anything else that will keep her from having to sit down with them.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” Heras states the obvious. I greet them, put the jar in its place, and come and join them on the mats.
“I see you’ve removed your nose-ring.” Heras sniffs with disapproval.
“I plan to sell it,” I say, holding her gaze.
“Sell it?” Aunt Shiphra interrupts. “What do girls know of gold? You’ll do no such thing. Here, give it to me. I’ll make sure you get a good price for it.” I shoot her a grateful look as Heras purses her lips.
“I don’t want my dowry back,” I say. “They can keep the sheep. I just want to be left alone.”
“‘Alone’ is the correct word. No honest man will ever take a used woman like you as his wife. What possible future could you have without Ishmael? He’s a good man. I’ve spoken to Shoshanna. Of course everyone is shaken up after yesterday, but if she sees you’re fully repentant –”
“Auntie,” I interrupt, “I’m not. He beat me. Look for yourself.” I make to remove my tunic. “Some of the bruises still haven’t faded.”
Heras shakes her head in impatience. “Yes, yes. Shoshanna mentioned Ishmael occasionally losing his temper, but you must serve him well and not antagonize him.”
“I won’t go back.”
“You must. It’s your duty.”
“I won’t.”
“No wonder he beats you,” she mutters. “How do you propose to live? I can tell you now that if there’s any whoring in this village – well, you saw what happened yesterday.”
“It’s not your concern. I’ll live here with my sister. Is there a law against that?”
“Arrangements like this lead our men astray. Why can’t you see sense and return to your husband? It’s where you belong.”
“Was there anything else?” I ask, and refuse to lower my gaze.
“Pah!” says Heras, and clambers to her feet. “I’m glad your father never lived to see you bring such disgrace to this household.” She turns before walking out. “You will be shunned.”
And that is what happens. Now everyone treats me like Imma does. They stare through me as if I’m an apparition, the stallholders refuse to serve me, and I must depend on market day and traders from outside the village in order to make my purchases. Marta is still reluctant to leave the compound, so I learn to plan better, buying all we need on market day, or giving coins to Cousin Mara to make purchases for me.
This shunning should bother me, but I prefer it to the constant fear I lived under with Ishmael. It was like holding my breath all the time and now I’ve let it out and can take fresh air into my lungs. I get lewd calls from some of the young men, but ignore them.
However, there is still the question of how we are to survive. Aunt Shiphra sits me and Marta down, wanting to know how we intend to keep a roof over our heads. Usually we’d have brined olives in storage to sell over the course of the year, but I brined none before my hasty marriage, and the fresh olives Marta was forced to sell at harvest-time, during the glut, didn’t leave her with much. Our situation really isn’t good.
“I’m helping Marta with the carpet business,” I say.
“That’s a grand term for one loom. Marta was barely able to feed herself when she was alone. What will you do with two mouths to feed?”
Marta glances at me and I know she’s wondering if we should mention the jar. I give an almost imperceptible shake of my head. “We still have the olive groves,” I say.
“Oh, so you plan to go up there and get raped again?” Shiphra snorts. She has a point. So far I’ve experienced only lecherous comments from men of the village. Who knows what might happen up in the groves?
“There’s no man in the household to speak for you,” Aunt Shiphra continues. “Halfai is furious. Marta, who’ll buy your carpets now that Mariam’s shunned? Yoezer won’t risk upsetting Halfai, even if he is your relative.”
“God will provide,” I say, hoping this pious answer will silence her, but wondering the same thing myself.
“Just like he miraculously cured my brother?” Shiphra arches her eyebrows. “You need to do better than that.”
“You’re right,” I say. “We do.”
I start by forcing myself to sit at the loom, trying not to be dreadful. Balls of spun yarn hang from branches of the tree above us. The apricots are almost ripe. I look forward to harvesting them because it will be time well spent that doesn’t involve weaving, and at least that’s one thing we can eat. Marta can picture the carpet design in her head, but I can’t, and she still has to remove one or two knots where I’ve used the wrong colour in the wrong place. I manage without too many mistakes for an hour or two, and then I straighten my neck and click my back, which are both sore from crouching over the loom.
“You’re losing your concentration,” she says, and we stop.
“Marta, we both know I’m a hopeless weaver, but I still think I can help.”
Marta cocks her head but I won’t say more. Instead we make herb-filled
pastries and I take a plateful to Elisheba’s. I’ve waited a little while, expecting that neighbours and relatives will have fussed over her during this first week of bereavement. She is subdued but grateful for a visit. Apparently I’m the only one who isn’t a relative or neighbour who’s come by, and she suspects that she, too, is being shunned. She hasn’t left her compound since Rohel was stoned. Nor has her daughter, Sholum, or Rohel’s daughter, Marta.
“Hillel threw her out,” Elisheba whispers to me loudly, pointing at the girl. “He said, ‘How do I even know she’s mine?’ So now I have both of them refusing to leave the compound and getting under my feet.”
“At least they have each other,” I say. They seem around the same age; they must be nine or ten years old.
“Better shunned than stoned,” Elisheba tells me, after she’s heard my news. “Rohel was not happy with Hillel. I told her that happiness in marriage isn’t important. He put a roof over her head and gave her a daughter. She ran home once, wanting to leave him, but I made her go back.” She sighs and wipes tears from her eyes. The two girls watch us solemnly.
I have an idea.
The next day I go down to the well with my jar. As usual, women turn their backs on me. Most of them take real delight in the shunning. I think it makes them feel better about themselves. Once my jar is filled, I head to the leatherwork stall, where saddles are stacked and sandals are piled into different sizes.
“Good morning, Uncle Tauma,” I say.
He looks around quickly to see who’s watching, but then returns my greeting. As I’d hoped, he’s chosen not to shun me.
“I heard what you did for my cousin,” he says, referring to Elisheba. “Thank you for helping her in her time of need.”
“I hear that she’s shunned, too.”
