Quarantine (13 page)

badu was not powerful at all, but sinewy. They disposed of

Musa'sjenny with speed and energy. He watched them drag the

donkey by her legs, leaving a trail of blood and flies across the

scrub to the smooth and stoneless slope which led to the rim of

the precipice. He could not see the donkey now,just the shrinking

heads and shoulders of the two men.

Musa - already resurrected by his drink - half expected that

a fifth figure, the water thief, would appear out of the wilderness

to lend a hand. The air was heavy with the presence of the man.

Would he shake water on the donkey's face, caress her eyelids

with his thumb, and bid the donkey to 'Be well again'? Or would

he join the hennaed hair and the blond as they pulled up the

back legs of the animal and tipped her body off the precipice to

float for half a moment in mid-air and then to drop into the

grieving shadows of the cliff? Shim shouted with excitement on

the steep decline, 'Let fly, let fly', as if the donkey were a dove.

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A lesser person, Jesus thought as he departed from the dying

body in the tent on that first afternoon, would lose his nerve

and head back for the way-marked caves, up in the hills. That

was the easy path. He had seen the footprints of the little group

of travellers who had preceded him, deviating from the camel

trail. He could have followed them and passed his quarantine in

company, tucked into the folds of clay, amongst the poppies,

and exposed to nothing worse than forty days of boredom and

discomfort. But Jesus had a harsher challenge for himself Quite

what it was he didn't know. He only understood that he should

choose a way that was more punishing. The worse it was, the

better it would be. That, surely, was the purpose of the wilderness.

He knew the scriptures and the stories of the prophets. Triumph

over hardship was their proof of holiness.

He had decided to climb down to the key-hole cave that he

had spotted earlier that morning, when his mood was still reckless

and ambitious. He was elated by the distance he had put between

himself and his parents. Anything seemed possible. He had not

yet begun the hard, dispiriting ascent up the landfall into the

hills. Perhaps if he had been more tired when he had seen the

hanging cave he would have set his heart on somewhere more

attainable. But, invigorated by a shepherd's breakfast - goat's

cheese and bread - and a good night's sleep in sweet straw, it

was not difficult for Jesus to believe that god had drawn his eyes

to that cave in the precipice, and for a purpose. God was testing

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him. God was waiting for him at the cave. If only he could face

the climb down - and Jesus, even as a boy, had never cared for

clambering on cliffs, or trees, or rooftops - he could spend his

quarantine with god for company. He could tuck himself into

the folds of god.

Here was a man who'd been a simple-hearted child, much

loved and loving, nervous and obedient; quick to listen, happy

to believe whatever he was told; observant in his prayers and

rituals. Unremarkable, in fact. Except in this: by the time he was

thirteen or so, he was the only one among his friends who

behaved as if the customs and routines of their religion were

anything more than tiresome duties. He was the only adolescent

in the neighbourhood who demanded more from god than

festivals and regimens and rules. He loved his prayers, like a

child. They were a comfort to him. More comforting than food

or sleep, it seemed. And just as well, because he didn't sleep

enough for someone of his age, his mother thought. He didn't

eat enough. He dozed and grazed on his devotions, like a priest.

Except, unlike most priests, his devotions did not make him

mild and fat. He was as skittish, pale and narrow-shouldered as

a goose. The neighbours called him Gaily, a common nickname

for a Galilean boy whose accent was strong, but ideal for Jesus.

He was like a gaily fly. He could not rest.

In his mid-teens, Jesus grew much taller suddenly; long and

timid and even more preoccupied with prayers. 'His head's in

heaven, with the angels and the doves,' was the local joke. 'Any

day now, and his feet'll leave the ground. ' It was a judgement

that satisfied Jesus. He was indeed in heaven, for he had discovered

ways of praying that were more than simply comforting. They

were chaotic and exalting. When Jesus prayed, there came a

point where the words were speaking him; and he became their

object, not their source. Sometimes these prayers spoke him in

Greek or Aramaic. He would listen to himself and try to memorize

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the wisdoms that he heard. Was this how Moses kept in touch

with god? But there were occasions, more mystifying, feverish,

and blissful, when the language was unknown, a tripping, spittlebasted tongue, plosive and percussive and high-pitched. Then, if he was left undisturbed for long enough with these wild rhapsodies,

he might feel his spirit soften and solidify at once. He was an egg

immersed in boiling water, a fusing and dividing trinity of yolk

and white and shell. In that respect, he was transformed by god

like other boys his age were changed by girls.

His mother and his father would not leave him undisturbed

for long enough to be transformed as often as he liked. They

shook him by the shoulders when they found him sodden with

his prayers, or sent one of his brothers to distract him. Devotion,

yes; by all means let him be a righteous Jew, they said. They

would encourage it. But unremitting piety like his was suitable

for old men, not for boys. Why was he not more like their other

sons, dragged unwillingly from their cots each morning by their

exasperated parents? Jesus was unnatural; an adolescent dragged

unwillingly from prayer. His mother feared she'd never find a

wife for him, he'd never put on any flesh, not while he prayed

so often and with such riotous solenmity.

Finally, his father took advice from the priest, a subtle and

subversive man, who understood the fervours and elations of

the young and liked to keep the company ofless pious adolescents

than Jesus. He took the mumbled prayers to be, like sniggering

and whistling, an irritating habit for a boy. He recommended

that Jesus's devotions should be more actively discouraged. 'He

has to learn that there are important duties other than prayer,'

he said. ' Give him more things to do about the house. Get him

to help you with the carpentry. Make him so tired he only wants

to sleep. Throw water on him if he starts to pray in gibberish.

Don't be ashamed to use a stick. He'll grow out of this the

moment that he starts a beard. It's just his age.'

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The priest was right. By the time Jesus's chin and upper lip

were wispy with hair, the prayers seemed to have abandoned

him. His private languages disappeared, like adolescent boils. He

resembled the neighbours' sons at last, except he was more

nervous and more serious, a touch bereft perhaps. At least he

wasn't rising off the ground and nudging angels with his head.

He even ate and slept.

Yet, despite appearances, Jesus had not lost any of his passion

for god. He did not need to move his lips to pray. He'd reached

the stage where every breath was prayer, where all the steps and

sounds he made were verses for god, where everything was

touched with holiness: a heel ofbread, the soundless comers of

the house when he woke up, the cobwebbed shadows on the

day-white walls, the motes of sawdust hanging in the window

light, the patterns on his fingertips. God in everything and

everything in god. Even with his father in the workshop, cutting

wood and making frames, he found there was a rhythm to the

bow-drill and the draw-knife and the plane which took the place

of prayer. Every movement was a repetition; every repetition

was a word. The timber and the tools took on new meanings.

The knots in wood were sins. Twisted wood was devil's work

and should be thrown out or burned.

Once or twice, immersed in reveries of light and work and

wood, he had neared and glimpsed the large and inexplicable

itself. To be alive amongst the sawdust and the stars was beyond

understanding; to be this person, in this place, and now. Even

to contemplate that puzzle was to stray too far from safer paths,

to sweat and shiver in that hollow room which has no doors or

walls, where Never End and Never Start hold their invisible

debate. There'd be no echo there to comfort him, or anyone.

No dark or light. Not even any time. And only god - if only

god would show himself - to make much sense of it. Faith or

dismay, that was the choice. Choose Never End or Never Start.

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Choose god or pandemonium. When Jesus chose and put his

faith in god, he blinked away the hollow room. He brought the

wood, the tools, the workshop into focus once more. His spirit

softened and solidified again, as it had done when he was in his

teens, except more bleakly. It formed a question to be put to

god. A question taken from the hollow room. A question that

a child would ask. This was his question for the wilderness. The

question of a simple-hearted, fragile man - guileless in his love

of god, spontaneous and vulnerable in his beliefs. You see these

motes, this dust, this bread, these soundless comers hung with

webs, these fingertips, engraved with tiny lines? What for, and

why?

No wonder Jesus was a clumsy carpenter. He would have

built a leaking ark. He concentrated on the large and inexplicable, and neglected what was on his bench. He cut or hit his fingers far too many times. God's patterns on his fingertips

were scarred. But he was happy to have wounds. The wounds

were prayers, and answers to his prayers. His prayers drew

blood.

The wilderness was large and inexplicable as well. Only an

innocent would try to tackle it with nothing on his feet, and

leave his water-skin and overcloak behind. But Jesus had to put

his trust in god's provision for the forty days, and could hardly

pack a bag with clothes and food as a reserve against shortfalls.

He did his best to persuade himself that god was at his shoulder

at that very moment, supplying all the courage that it took to

get up from the woven comforts of the dying merchant's tent

and set off in the falling light towards the cliff-top. But he had

found it difficult to pray, away from home. It was hard to

concentrate on god when his feet were so sore. He found it

easier to summon up his parents and his brothers, and his Galilean

neighbours, and their priest. They were transported to the scrub

to witness him. At first, they would be laughing at his foolishness.

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Their god-struck, visionary boy, too shy to look them in the

eye, who'd hid himself in gabbling scriptures, had gone off in a

temper to the hills. Their Gaily was absurd. Look at his bleeding

feet. Look at his flaking lips. Observe that holy, love-lorn look

across his face. See how he hardly manages that little climb

up to the ridge. They would expect him to be weak, to tum

back at the challenge of the landfall, to take the easy path up

to the poppy caves, to fall asleep inside the merchant's tent.

But when they saw him persevere they would wonder at his

fortitude and say, 'We never knew him after all.' He could not

quite admit it to himself but Jesus took more courage from the

thought of surprising his parents than he took from satisfying