Quarantine (29 page)

were hurting, and there was an amber discharge from her nipples

to mark the coming of her milk. She had nosebleeds, and sudden

cramps in her legs and feet which even crampbark could not

relieve.

Yet still she'd concentrated on her loom, and the retreating

trellis of colours. She'd sat on the woven fabric, helping to

maintain the loom in tension, and she'd found comfort in the

intimacy of weaving, her pregnant body on the birth-mat wool.

She'd lost herself in it. She'd shut out Musa and the discomforts

of her life. She felt somehow that finishing the mat would free

her of the man. Perhaps she'd fly away on it, her baby sitting

neady in her lap.

Miri was content, when they had clambered up the slope

below the caves, to sit and rest for a while before she filled the

water-bags. It was mid-afternoon, but there'd been very litde

sun to keep her and her husband in the tent. It was not hot

enough to sleep. The salt sea valley was still sharp with light, but

in the hills solid clouds were stacked like unworked slate, as

sturdy as the land itsel£

Despite the heavy coolness of the afternoon, Musa was too

short ofbreath to go back to the tent straight away, although he

had appropriated Shim's walking staff to help him get about and

he had Miri to carry all the water for him. Besides, he had an

unperfected plan which required that he should stay exacdy

where he was as long as possible, at least until he saw a way of

1 66

gerting what he wanted and deserved. It was a question, not of

wickedness but pride, he told himself He had to tum a profit

at the end of this forced stay in the scrub. He couldn't go down

to Jericho with no successes to boast about. No merchant would.

A merchant always wants a victory. Musa had had no luck down

on the precipice. Perhaps he'd have a little luck up here. Bad

luck for someone else.

He felt that he'd been split in two by his short stay in the

scrub. Those twins again. It was the weeping, lesser twin who

went in search ofluck down at the promontory. The twin who

prayed. The twin who hoped to feel the healer's touch again. It

was the trading potentate, the fist, the appetite, who came up to

the caves. Each step that Musa took towards the cistern, put

Jesus at a greater, safer distance. The landlord left his superstitions

in the tent. He took his irreligion to the perching valley in the

hills. He was ambitious. He would make his mark. He would

surprise them all.

So, he sat down in the shade of rocks, next to the lower cave

where Marta slept, and demanded hospitality. He did not care

that his tenants were fasting, concentrating on their prayers,

and - by this thirtieth day of quarantine - short-tempered and

depressed. He had Miri clap her hands and call out, 'Gather,

gather,' as she'd done on that earlier occasion when Musa had

first come up to the caves.

The badu did not answer Musa's call and show himself, but

Aphas and Marta were more obedient; Aphas because he always

hoped that Musa would seduce the healer to come up to their

caves, and Marta because the sound ofMiri's voice was irresistible.

Finally, even Shim responded and came down to his landlord as

slowly as he could to find a spot, a little distance from the rest,

and safely out of Musa's reach, where he could show how calm

he was, and unperturbed.

'What do you have? I'm tired,' said Musa. They brought their

I 67

landlord dry dates to eat - the same dates that he'd sold to them

a day or two before - and the stripped-meat remains of a slipper

deer which the badu had brought back the previous evening.

Musa was not satisfied with that. He had a nose for something

sweeter than a deer. 'What else?' He noticed Aphas would not

look him in the eye.

'What have you got you shouldn't have?' he asked the old

man. Just a hunch. But, if the hunch paid off, he knew it would

seem frightening and magical that he could read their minds.

Aphas blushed. He stammered even. 'We've got a little honey,

if you want.' And so, reluctantly, they offered him some of the

dripping honeycomb which they were keeping for themselves,

wrapped in some damp cloth. It gave them what little energy

they had and should have lasted till the end of quarantine.

Musa ate his honeyed meat and dates. He held his hand out

while Marta poured a little water from a bag on to his greasy,

sticky fingers.

'Where did you find the meat and honeycomb?' he asked.

He was feeling dangerous and mischievous, and excited, too -

because the nearness of the woman's lap, the slightly rancid taste

of meat, had given him the idea which would perfect his plan.

He belched. He rubbed his stomach. Just practising.

'The little badu got them,' Aphas said. 'Somewhere around.'

He waved a hand about.

'Somewhere around? Not on my land, I hope. I told you

once. This isn't common land. Anything you see is mine. What

should I do? Put wooden gates on those . . .' he pointed at their

rows of caves, ' . . . if l can't trust my guests. Give me the comb,

what's left of it. Miri, bring it here! I am not pleased. You're

dining on my honey, now. And stealing meat.'

'It was the badu,' Aphas said again. 'Not one of us.'

'Might have found it anywhere,' suggested Marta, speaking

to herself a shade too loudly. She half-suspected from what she'd

1 68

heard from Miri that Musa's claims to any of this land were

bogus.

'What, is the woman speaking now? Let's hear. What have

you said?'

'They might be bees from anywhere . . . '

'What anywhere?' asked Musa. He turned to Marta, cocked

his head, narrowed his eyes. What kind of woman argued with

a man? This kind; square-faced and large; broad-backed. 'Beyond

my land there is my cousin's land. And then my uncles' land is

after that, and then my land begins again. That's further than a

bee can fly. That's further than any one of you can run before

you're caught. Let's not fall out.' He spoke the last line with his

sweetest voice. He turned to Aphas again. He had to hide his

smiles. 'Where did your neighbour find the nest? Near here?'

'We didn't see. We saw, but . . .'

'What did you see?' He had the afternoon to waste. He'd

bully them.

'We saw him, well, he got a length of stick . . . '

'You say he went to fish for bees?'

' . . . and he took a bit of bone he found and hollowed out the

stick . . .'

Musa allowed the man to chatter, only interrupting now and

then, a herdboy idly tweaking an old goat's rope. This billy posed

no threat to him. Musa could afford to let him talk. The talking

was an opportunity for Musa to perfect his plans, to come up

with some way of sending these men on errands in the night

while he could stay behind to occupy their caves. So it was only

with half an ear that Musa listened to Aphas while he described

with the wonder of a townsman how the badu had plugged one

end of the hollowed stick with a piece of rotting apricot . . .

'What apricot? Where have you stolen apricots?'

'We bought the fruit from you. '

'Well, then. They were good apricots, and cheap. Too good

1 69

to put in sticks. Go on, then. Speak. I didn't say that you should

stop.'

The badu, Aphas continued, had pushed the plugged end of

his hollowed stick into the ground outside his cave and then

backed into the shadows, on his haunches, to wait for bees. It

wasn't long before a bee had landed on the stem, and crawled

into the hollowed stick in search of fruit. It flew away. It came

back with companions from its nest, and soon there were a

hundred bees transporting dabs of apricot.

'The badu put his thumb down on the open end. Like that,'

said Aphas. He slapped his own thumb on a rock, though not

as dramatically as he had hoped. 'He'd trapped ten bees inside

the stick. What did he do?'

'He got ten stings?'

' . . . he let one out to fly away. He followed it, down there.

Until he couldn't see it any more, or hear its buzz. What did he

do? The same again. He let another one get out, and followed

that. We saw them go. That's all we saw. They went behind the

rocks into the thorns. It's clever though. A third bee, and a

fourth, and then a fifth, and getting closer all the time. He'd got

ten bees to run behind, you see? When they go free they always

fly back to the queen inside her honeycomb.'

'My honeycomb,' said Musa.

'It's just a trick for getting to the nest,' concluded Aphas. 'He

only had to make some smoke to keep the bees away and help

himself He came back with the honey. He doesn't speak. He

didn't say whose land it was.'

'My land. My bees.'

Shim laughed. He was not dozing after all. 'Now there's a

parable for all of us to contemplate,' he said, encouraged by

Musa's evident good humour.

Musa had been vexed enough by Aphas and his lengthy lecture

on the badu ways of finding honey, yet had resisted the temptation

1 70

to silence the man. But no intervention from the blond was

tolerable.

'What parable?' he asked.

'A parable of spiritual e!ldeavour. A quest, like ours, for

enlightenment . . . ' said Shim.

'Enlightenment, enlightenment, not honey? Which would

you rather have with dates?' Musa turned his head away. Shim's

interruption should have ended there. But he was already in full

flight.

'The bees, let's say, are prayers, or even days of fasting in the

wilderness. You let one go, you follow it, it's gone. But still

there is no prospect of enlightenment or sign of god. You are

still lost. You have to persevere. It takes you forty bees, let's say,

before . . . '

' . . . before, let's say, your landlord's sick and tired oflistening,

and bored, and turns you out into the desert without a water-bag. '

'I heard a story once, about a water-seller who . . .' said Aphas.

'Be quiet. ' Musa lifted up a warning finger. 'Now I will

talk. ' He was the story-teller, no one else. Enough of parables

and chatter. He wanted their attention back on him, and quickly.

He did not want to lose control, not for a moment longer. He'd

have to charm his victims first - despite his impulse to do

otherwise - and then he'd put them in their places for the night.

He knew exactly what to do.

'Why should I want a water-bag?' persisted Shim, as quietly

as he dared. 'There is no need for anyone to be thirsty in the

scrub, unless they choose. You've said as much yourself I think

those were your words . . .' He hadn't been as amusing or as

brave during the quarantine before. But no one laughed.

'Go, then,' said Musa, scarcely audible. 'Leave my cistern.

Walk out there and take your chances like a fox. Pray for water

to appear. Rely on god. Let's see how well you live.' Musa made

as if to rise. 'Up, up,' he called to Miri, and began to shift his

I 7 I

weight into his shoulders. He gripped the curly staff. This was

not charming in the least. 'Let's see how well you do out there,

tonight,' he said again.

'I do not think, I do . . . not think . . I know . . . ' Shim

.

laughed thinly. He'd gone too far. Some deference to Musa was

required. 'I only ask. What can you tell us, then? What should

a thirsty man . . . what should he do?' He sat as tamely as he

could, hands limply in his lap, the model pupil with his sage.

'Those were my words. No need for any thirst, as I have said

and I will say a hundred times again,' Musa began, after he had