Alabaster

by Chris Aslan

  However, up on the roof there seems to be more order. The sun is now a red semi-orb in the west and there’s a breeze. Halfai, I notice, has seated himself at the right hand of the doctor. I’m glad to see that someone has ushered the doctor to the place of honour. Something tells me that he wouldn’t have sat there otherwise. The ladder wobbles. I look down to see Sholum and Little Marta trying to keep their balance and not lose any of the contents of their bowls. They both look tired and overwhelmed.

  “Go and place them on the floor cloth in front of the doctor, over there,” I say, once they make it to the top. They look at me panic-stricken as they still hate being visible in crowds. Elisheba told me they’ve been that way since the stoning. “It’ll be fine,” I whisper with a smile. “Go on.”

  “Thank you,” says the doctor, as they lay the bowls before him. They look up briefly and bow. “Come, girls, have a rest. Come and sit by me. You look exhausted.” They look to me for advice, and I shrug helplessly. The doctor asks Halfai to make space and he is shunted along so that the girls can squeeze in. Halfai tries to suppress his disapproval, and I can’t help smiling.

  “Rest for a moment,” someone whispers and I see that it’s Malchus. He’s sitting in one of the less honourable positions near the ladder, even though he paid for this whole feast. I clamber along the wall until I’m above him. I’ve always been a good climber.

  “You should be up there, sitting with the doctor,” I say. Malchus just smiles and seems content where he is. “Here,” I pass him the bowls and he places them on the floor cloth laid out before them which, I have to say, looks pretty impressive. Each floor cloth is covered with flaky butter-rich flatbreads, pastries filled with dried fruit, nuts, and date syrup, bowls of curd, cheeses, strained yogurt with herbs, strained yogurt with honey and pomegranate molasses, platters of fresh bitter herbs and vegetables, and mounds of olives and peaches, grapes, and fresh figs. One of the neighbour boys picks his way between the rows, cupping a beeswax taper in his hand and lighting the lamps. Everything dances in the light of more lamps than I’ve ever seen. Most of our neighbours will be going to bed in the dark tonight. I look around and spot Eleazar and Yokkan sitting in the corner near the man I originally thought was the doctor.

  I turn from this magical scene because there’s a commotion below. I look down from my vantage point and see Cyria elbowing her way through the crowd, making for the ladder. I look for Crazy Mariam, but Cyria seems to be alone. She clambers up the ladder, breathing heavily. “Which one is him?” she asks, and people point towards the doctor. She pauses for a moment, and then approaches. It’s not easy, as she has to step over people, and at least one bowl of honey gets knocked over in the process.

  Halfai glowers and seems about to get up and shoo her away, but then the doctor sees her and gets to his feet. “Welcome,” he says, in a way that makes it sound as if she was the honoured guest.

  “Master,” says Cyria. “I’m sorry to interrupt you. I won’t keep you long. I’ve heard about your great deeds and dreamt for so long of taking my daughter to you, but I knew she wouldn’t manage the long journey, and now you’re here.” She pauses for breath and then her face crumples. “My Mariam,” she says in a high-pitched wail, and then swallows and tries to compose herself. “Please, she’s very sick, and I have a cow. She’s a joy to me, good-tempered, and generous with her milk.” There’s a titter from one of the guests. “I will happily give her to you if you could just come and see my daughter. It would only take a few moments.”

  “Come,” says Halfai, taking control. How could he resist? “Let the teacher rest and eat. Don’t bother him any further. Perhaps, if he has time, he can see you tomorrow.”

  “What would you have me do for your daughter?” asks the doctor, as if it wasn’t clear already.

  “I just want you to make her better,” says Cyria, her face knotted with an expression between hope and despair.

  “And do you think I can?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then go to her,” he says. She pauses for a moment, unsure if he’s helped her or dismissed her. “Keep her at home tomorrow,” the doctor adds. “Let her get used to you.”

  Cyria stumbles backwards and then hurries down the ladder. I lean back over the wall and watch as she and some of her neighbours push their way to the door and run down the darkening street. The ladder wobbles as someone else attempts to climb it in a hurry. It’s Shoshanna’s neighbour, Ide. She struggles to haul herself up, her club foot useless when it comes to ladders.

  I’ve never seen Ide as anything more than an unpleasant gossip. Now I watch her as people stare. She’s frightened, but something beyond fear motivates her. Her limp seems more pronounced as she clumsily makes her way forward, stepping on people’s feet and spilling things.

  “I’ve heard that you can make people well – even people who have been deformed since birth. Please, can you help me?” She steps closer and lifts her tunic hem a little, presenting her club foot to the doctor.

  “Do you believe I can?” he asks, and she pauses and then nods. He leans forward and places his hand on her clawed foot and then prays, or at least I think he’s praying, but he speaks to God as Father. She cries out and I wonder if he’s hurt her. There’s a moment of silence as she stares down at her foot and then she yells. It’s a cry of joy, I think, but then she starts weeping and I’m not sure what’s happened exactly, until she starts jumping.

  “It works, it works! My foot works!” she cries, and there are gasps from the guests on the roof.

  “What’s happened?” someone cries from down below.

  “He’s just cured Ide of her club foot. It’s completely restored,” I call back and the whole compound erupts.

  Ide falls at the doctor’s feet weeping and thanking him, and asking how much she should pay. He just laughs. She hurries over to the ladder. “Look!” she shouts, lifting up her foot. “He cured me! He did it!” She starts climbing down the ladder in a way that would have been impossible just moments before, but her feet never reach the ground. Instead the villagers lift her up and carry her along over their heads, everyone reaching out to touch the foot that has been restored. “I’m cured, I’m cured!” I hear Ide shout above the crowd. We’ve never seen anything like this. I turn back in wonder. There’s nothing remarkable about the doctor’s appearance. He doesn’t even have any medicines with him. How does he do it? The guests are laughing in joy and wonder, although many of the followers seem completely unsurprised and are already tucking into the feast.

  Who is this man?

  Everyone seems so happy. Everyone, that is, except Halfai.

  Chapter Ten

  It’s dark now, and time for the lamps to be trimmed and refilled. One of the neighbours passes up a jar of oil and I pick my way amongst the guests, pouring a little into each lamp. Little Marta and Sholum have curled up together beside the doctor, fast asleep. Apart from them, I’m the only girl up here. No one pays me any attention, though, as they’re all listening to the doctor speak, utterly transfixed. I can see now why Malchus refers to him as the teacher. I’ve never heard anyone who can talk like this.

  When he first starts to speak of God, I lose interest and collect empty plates, which we’ll need again for the meat course, still sizzling over the charcoal pit down below. I can’t help listening, though, and by the time I’ve collected a stack, he’s caught my interest and I’m reluctant to climb down the ladder. I manage to get down without dropping anything and pass the plates to one of the neighbours below.

  “Has he cured anyone else?” she asks eagerly.

  “No, he’s just talking.”

  Many of the villagers have left now that the drama is over. I can hear the sounds of celebration drifting over from my old street, and I assume Ide is throwing a party. Most of those remaining here are neighbours and relatives, helping. Some are washing plates and the water is running low.

  “Miri,” Marta calls. “Could you go down to the well?” I find her sprinkling
chopped bitter herbs over the chunks of mutton.

  “That’s all I’ve been doing all day. Can’t you get someone else to do it?”

  “What, and I’ve been sitting around fanning myself and feeding myself grapes?” Marta snaps. “Listen, I haven’t got time for this.”

  “I’ll go soon; just let me listen to the teacher for a little bit. Really, Marta, you should come up.”

  “Oof!” she says, shaking her head in despair, which I decide to interpret as grudging permission.

  “Tell me, what are the main crops in your village? Do you have vineyards?” the teacher is asking the guests as I perch myself up on the flat roof wall.

  “Olives,” I say. I’d almost forgotten he was speaking to everyone, as it feels as if he’s speaking just to me. Halfai, Eleazar and one or two other guests shoot me disapproving looks; a girl should know her place. Malchus looks up at me and smiles mischievously.

  “Excellent,” says the teacher, picking up an olive from the floor cloth and holding it out for us all to see. “A landowner with a huge olive grove must harvest his olives. Early one morning he goes down to the market to find day labourers to hire.” I’ve heard about day labourers, although no one in our village has enough land to need them.

  Malchus beckons me and I lean over towards him. “This story helped me so much. Pay attention,” he whispers.

  “He offers a generous day-pay to anyone willing to come and harvest his olives, and then leads the labourers to his grove and they climb the trees and begin to beat them. They work hard, and he supplies them with sacks for the olives and water for their thirst as the day hots up. Then he returns to the market to buy food for the labourers and he sees more men waiting around, hoping to find work that day. ‘Come,’ he says. ‘You can also work for me for the rest of the day and I promise to pay you what is right.’ They follow him and join the harvest. The grove-owner returns again to the market to collect more day labourers, first during the afternoon and then as the sun begins to go down.”

  I’m not sure how a story about olive harvesting has helped Malchus, but I can’t help being drawn in.

  “At sunset, the last sack is filled and the labourers gather around the grove-owner to collect their wages. He pays those who came last, first. They each receive the generous day-pay; it’s the same amount as promised to those who have been working all day, and they leave amazed at his generosity. The other labourers who’ve worked all morning see this generosity and now they expect to get paid more. However, as each labourer comes forward, all receive the same day-pay. ‘This is unfair,’ they grumble. ‘We’ve worked hard all day, enduring the noonday heat. We should get paid more.’

  “‘But didn’t you yourselves thank me this morning for offering a generous day-pay?’ says the grove-owner. ‘Have I paid you less than I promised? What’s it to you if I choose to be even more generous with these others?’

  “And so the last will be first.”

  The teacher sits back and pops the olive into his mouth.

  “Is that the end?” I whisper to Malchus. I don’t understand the story, or why the teacher is telling it to us.

  “Teacher, what does the story mean?” I ask. There’s a ripple of muttering that a girl would brazenly speak out amongst older men. I studiously avoid eye contact with Halfai or Eleazar, focusing only on the teacher.

  “What do you think it means?” he asks me back. There’s a further flurry of disapproval.

  “I – I don’t know.” I suddenly feel very self-conscious. “But isn’t he being unfair? I’d be upset if I was one of the labourers.”

  “Which labourer?” the teacher asks, with a smile. “What if you’d been waiting all day hoping for work, wondering if you’d be able to afford an evening meal, and then you got paid a generous day-pay for just an hour of labour?”

  I smile shyly. I hadn’t thought of that. He continues to tell us stories about everyday life, but from each of them he pulls out something important. I glance around and notice that Eleazar is missing. Then I hear a hiss from the top of the ladder. It’s Marta with a meat plate. A few rungs down I see Eleazar glowering up at me. I go to take the plate from Marta and start serving, but she doesn’t let go of it.

  “Get down there,” she whispers fiercely. “El says you’ve been bothering the doctor with questions. Leave the learning to the men.”

  “I only asked one question,” I whisper back. “Here, just pass the plates up and I’ll hand them out.”

  “No,” Marta hisses back. “El’s barely been home an evening and already you’ve embarrassed him in front of his master. Just get downstairs and keep out of the way.”

  A few guests give us silencing looks as we both tug at the plate of skewered mutton. Then the teacher clears his throat. He’s looking at us. “And this is?”

  Marta lets go of the plate and I hurry over to lay it at the teacher’s feet. “This is my sister, Marta,” I say. “She’s the one who has prepared the feast for us.”

  “Thank you, Marta. You’ve been an excellent host, and at such short notice. It’s an honour to enjoy your hospitality. Come, please join us. You must be hungry.”

  “But there’s still the meat course,” says Marta, frozen. Everyone is looking at her and she’s obviously close to tears. “I need Mariam to help me. She’s just left me to do everything. I’m sorry she’s been bothering you. Please tell her to come and help me.”

  The teacher gets up, comes over to Marta and puts a hand on her shoulder, at which point she begins to weep. “Marta,” he says with such gentleness it makes her look up at him as if the rest of us no longer exist. “You’ve been so busy downstairs preparing this wonderful feast, but that’s not why I came here. Look, your sister has chosen the better way; let’s not take it away from her. Come. Let’s eat together.”

  He leads her over to the place of honour and she sits reluctantly beside her sleeping apprentices. Then he offers her the meat plate, insisting that she take the first bite. Halfai, glowering, is displaced yet again.

  Although we’ve spent the whole day preparing food for the doctor, I feel as if he’s the one feeding us. Looking at the dark expression on Halfai’s face in the flickering lamplight, beside the serene faces of the sleeping apprentices, I’m starting to understand the story of the olive grove. The last will be first.

  I wake, cold and cramped, and don’t know where I am. I try to move but someone’s head rests heavily on my leg. I look around and my eyes adjust to the darkness, and then I notice a lighter square of stars and the beginning of dawn. I gently ease Marta’s head off my leg and pull myself up. The apprentices are curled together with their heads resting on Marta’s belly like two suckling kittens. There’s straw in my hair, and I’m not sure why, until I realize that we’ve made a nest for ourselves in the stable. Our donkey is lying next to us, his legs daintily folded beneath him. Apart from the smell of straw and donkey, there’s still a smoky tang in the air from the mutton, mingled with less pleasant smells, such as the overflowing unclean place and many unwashed people in close proximity. I stretch my neck and wander outside pulling straw from my hair, wondering what woke me up. I see two figures talking quietly under the apricot tree.

  One of them has their back to me and the other is Malchus. He seems about to leave. I adjust my headscarf and go over to him. “Are you leaving?” I ask, and both men turn round. The other is the teacher.

  “I’m going to the colony. If I leave now, the lepers will have time to walk to the main road before the teacher moves on. He can cure them,” says Malchus.

  I nod. “And why are you leaving?” I ask, turning to the teacher. I always end up sounding far too direct and rude when I speak to him, and I immediately colour. “Sorry. I mean, we would love for you to stay.”

  “And put your poor sister through another day of hosting us all?” he says, with a grin. “There really are a lot of us.”

  “I don’t know how you manage being with people all day every day,” I say. I don’t seem able to sh
ut up.

  He widens his eyes in an expression that says, “I know exactly what you mean.” Then he says, “Actually, perhaps you could help me. I have a request.”

  “Would you like some more mutton?” I ask. I can’t say anything right.

  “No; just some peace and quiet. Tell me, where could I go to just be alone to think and pray?”

  I grin. “In our village? There aren’t many places. How about our land? We own a grove up the hill. It’s wonderfully quiet there, especially at this time of year.”

  “Could you take me?”

  I glance at Malchus. I’m not sure if it’s appropriate for me to be alone with an unmarried man, but Malchus just looks at me as if I’ve been given a great honour. So I step over Auntie Shiphra and several neighbours who are asleep in the kitchen area, and off we go.

  For a while we walk in silence. I love this time of the morning, as the olive trees no longer loom threateningly in the dark, but gradually lighten and will soon offer shade from the rising sun. “I haven’t been to our grove for a while. I’ve been meaning to check on the saplings I helped Father plant. He knew every tree as if it was a friend.”

  “I’ve heard about your father from Malchus,” the teacher says. I notice that it wasn’t from Eleazar. “I wish I could have met him.”

  “I wish you could have, too,” I say, and my eyes suddenly blur with tears. I feel embarrassed, but the teacher doesn’t seem to mind; we just continue walking. “He tried to find you. He wanted you to cure him, too, but he didn’t make it.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he says.

  “So am I.”

  We reach the grove and the teacher looks around. “It’ll be harvest time in a few months,” he says. “Who will help you?”