I don’t have time for a man, I snapped. I’m too busy worrying about you.
Grandfather sat on the bed and rolled his cane between his hands.
I slammed the door to the bathroom and took a lukewarm shower. I tried to make it hot, I wanted to scald myself, but it only reached tepid. When I came out, grandfather was already in his bed, faking sleep. He usually snored. I pinned my hair up and crawled into my bed, turned off the light. We lay without moving.
It isn’t a good thing, Grandfather started. I jerked but didn’t say anything. I heard him shift his weight around in the bed, his bones creak, and the muffled sound of pain. I closed my eyes when I heard him cough.
It is not good to be Hessa, he said, finally. She’s such a serious girl. She never laughs in that story, you know? All she does is sacrifice herself for drops of water.
I felt a sickly emotion twist behind my eyes, so I rolled my face onto my pillow. She had to. Else she would have dehydrated and died. They all would have.
I suppose you’re right, he said.
I clutched my hands under my head and asked, Where did you hear the story?
I heard him turn. I don’t know, he said. Sometimes you hear things and you don’t remember where they came from. But you, even when you were young, you always reminded me of that girl.
I didn’t know what to say. It seemed anticlimactic and awful and typical all at once. After a while I heard him begin to snore.
In the morning I stayed in bed and thought about going home early. By the time I got up and went downstairs, Grandfather and Amir had already started eating breakfast. I ordered coffee with milk and went to fill a plate with oatmeal and fruit from the buffet line. Amir came up next to me and loaded his plate with fish and eggs.
We will go to Qumran today, he said, helping me pick out the cantaloupe from the medley. But your grandfather might not find it very comfortable. The Dead Sea is the lowest point on Earth. The pressure there, he made a low whistle. It’s pretty bad.
I snuck a glance at my grandfather. He was making exaggerated gestures with his hands to young, giggly waitress, his cane behind his back, out of sight.
He’ll be fine, I said.
The drive to Qumran was quiet and smooth and not very long. Israel is surprisingly small for all you hear about it; it’s only about the size of Rhode Island. The air conditioning was blasting on high and sweat poured down my back. I felt lightheaded from the pressure, and Grandfather rested his head on the window. I shook his arm and pointed out the land as it matched the story. The camel-skinned mountains, the shepherds lazily walking their sheep or goats across the sand.
They are Bedouin shepherds, Amir explained. Did you know, they have a thousand words for death, and only one for birth.
Grandfather pressed his face to the car window. He asked, Why is that?
To the people in these parts, birth is simple, uncomplicated. It is the same word for joy. But death comes swift, like the storm, and requires more language to explain than we can make up.
I knew he was talking to me. Is that true, I asked. I fished out my suntan lotion and applied it to my arms in what I hoped was a neutral gesture. A thousand words?
Amir grinned at me. You can ask them.
Some of the encampments we passed were made of mismatched sheet metal with doorways of thin blankets. I saw groups of children, barefoot, dirty, kicking a ball or chasing one another down the sand hills. There was a woman sitting on an overturned bucket, stitching a young girl’s faded yellow dress.
Amir stopped the car on the side of the road where a band of shepherds were sitting under a grove of thin trees, eating lunch, surrounded by a herd of goats. They all wore long, white robes that covered their entire bodies. I wondered how they didn’t keel over from heatstroke. I was drenched in sweat. My ears were clogged from the pressure, and I worked my jaw trying to loosen it while Amir talked with the shepherds. I handed grandfather a water bottle, which he dumped over his head. I wanted to do the same, but I was wearing a white tank.
One of the shepherds invited us to share the meal, and we all sat down. I took as little as possible, but Grandfather and Amir made up for it by taking far too much.
They’re poor, I whispered in Grandfather’s ear.
They also understand English, Amir said out of the side of his mouth.
The shepherds smirked at me. I lowered my head and ate a piece of carrot as slowly as I could.
We were asked to tell the story of Hessa. Amir said if anyone knew it would be the Bedouins, who still kept their histories and lessons alive by whispering stories in their children’s ears. I was too embarrassed to talk, so Grandfather told it to them.
Again he left out the part where I was Hessa, but this time I did not mind. I didn’t want any attention. When Grandfather finished, the shepherds looked at one another and started to speak rapidly in their language. Then one addressed Amir for a long time.
They have heard a similar version, Amir said. But it differs. The girl turned into an ibex, but instead of going off, she came back to the village. Her father did not recognize her and, mad with hunger, he tore her apart and ate her. Amir grimaced. Then the rain came.
I gaped in horror. I expected Grandfather to be equally indignant, but he was nodding his head and looking at me. Amir interjected with more Arabic, and the shepherds started to talk amongst themselves in low murmurs. One of them, who I would guess was the oldest from his leathery, wrinkled face, pointed to a low mountain in the East.
They are saying we should look over there. The Ibex run the hills and mountains.
We thanked them for their help and for the lunch. I wanted to give them money, but Amir said they were too proud to accept charity. I ignored him and tried to give it to them anyway. One of them took the wad of bills and handed me a baby goat. They laughed when I tried to give it back, and the little thing squirmed so much I dumped it in the backseat of the car.
Grandfather sat with it in the back, petting it and cupping bottled water for it to drink.
For pity’s sake, I said. Don’t get attached. We can’t bring it back with us.
It was a quick drive to the mountain. When we reached the base, Grandfather used his belt to make a short leash. Unfortunate, as I was hoping the damned goat would run away. Amir went up ahead of us to make sure we could climb with relative ease. Grandfather leaned on his cane and me, and I dragged the goat behind us. It was an easy climb. There were plenty of places for us to steady ourselves, and the incline wasn’t bad. I wondered if this entire land was made for people to walk on and look at and take a picture and then forget about it. Maybe that’s why the people kept on doing all sorts of mad things around here, not just for politics or religion or cultural divides, but a mass subconscious desire not to be lost in some cheap airport souvenir book.
Partway up were several caves. They weren’t very large, but the three of us and the goat could fit comfortably in them. From the entrance I could see the banks of the Dead Sea, clear and stagnant.
This is cool, I said. I smiled and walked around, putting my hands on the wall and enjoying the feeling of stone and history. Just think about all the stuff that happened here, I said, rather unaware if anything of note had ever happened in this part of the country. Let’s keep going. Hessa’s parents probably would have lived at the top.
Amir avoided my eyes when I looked for support.
I’m tired, Grandfather said. He held his hospital cane in one hand and made a half-hearted motion at the goat with the other. So is little Hessa here. Let’s rest a while.
I faltered. You named the goat?
Grandfather slid down a wall and sat, hunched into himself. It’s just a story. He said “story” like it was a throwaway. It’s just rain. It’s just a wound.
I felt ill.
It’s your story, I said slowly. When neither of them looked at me, I grunted, I cam
e all this way for you.
I looked down at him and saw a tired old man clutching a dusty metal cane. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. I wanted to hug him and hit him.
Amir pulled out a cigarette and lit it up. When Grandfather coughed, I smacked it out of his mouth.
The hell do you think you’re doing! I shouted. You’re going to make him sick!
Both of them stared at me. My hands trembled with a desire to hurt. I wanted to cry, but I’d be damned if I’d let them see me do it. With as much dignity as I could muster, I raised my head and marched out of the cave. I had no idea where I was going, and I could hear both of their voices behind me, but I kept towards the high path.
I didn’t get far, the pressure and heat winded me, and beyond that I had never been much for exercise. I leaned against the rough path and looked out into the distance at the desert. I could see a man with a flock of sheep walking along the banks of the sea. What a strange life these people must live, to wake up to a body of water where they could not drink or drown. Did they feel blessed or cheated by such a strange, natural miracle?
I saw Amir coming up towards me. I wouldn’t look at him. He made like he wanted to say something, but then shrugged and stood next to me. For a while we were silent, but then he started to hum a tune I didn’t recognize.
What do you want? I finally said.
You know, the people here have a saying—
I don’t want to hear it, Amir.
He put his hands up in a gesture of peace. They say it brings madness to deny the inevitable. Your grandfather. He is dying.
I pulled at the skin near my wrist with my nails. He is not dying, I said. And what do you know? You’re a tour guide.
Amir shook his head.
I raised my hand, fully prepared to hit him and knock those words out of his mouth and head. I could tell he knew I would hit him, and he had enough time to react, but he did not. That, too, made me angry. I slapped his face. Then I slapped him again. And again. It felt good to hurt him. I wanted to continue, to slap all thoughts of grandfather and me out of his head, but he grabbed my hands and held them. Then he stared at my mouth, and I knew with excruciating predictability that he wanted to kiss me. I imagined taking my clothes off for him, watching him take his clothes off for me, the combination of our nudity. I put my arms around his neck and mashed my lips on his. He stumbled back and grabbed my hips to hold me steady. He tasted nice, like soap and salt.
A stunted bleat near my legs pulled me away from the embrace. The damn goat, with grandfather’s belt trailing after it like an extended tail. I pushed Amir away and started to run back down, my head feeling like it might rupture. I heard Amir yell something about catching the goat, but I was running and tripping down the mountain with a sure-footedness born of panic.
Grandfather was where I had left him, leaning against the wall. With effort, he raised his head and smiled at me. She got away from me, he said.
I crumbled down next to him and rested my head on his shoulder. I’m sorry, I said. I wanted you to be happy.
You don’t know what you want, he said.
On impulse I grabbed his hand and held it up to my face. I traced the grooves of his hand, the raised veins, the thin white scar at the base of his thumb, just as I had done when I was a child. And, like when I was a child, he took my hand in his and asked if I wanted to hear a story. When I said yes, he sighed out all the breath in him.
He began: Once, there was a young girl who lived in a nearby place, who loved her family, and went into the desert to find water, or food, or a god on four legs. By the time he reached Hessa’s disfigurement his voice had grown dry and weak, so I took over the narrative. When I said the rain had come, we both looked outside at the clear sky.
I squeezed my eyes shut and whispered, You’re not going to leave me, are you, Grandpa?
He brought my hand to his lips and kissed me. No, he said. Not until you’re no longer a silly little girl in a story.
I kissed Amir, I said, wanting him to be happy with me. I said, Hessa wouldn’t have done that.
He squeezed my hand. No, she wouldn’t have.
The sun was beginning to move towards the west, though it would be several hours before night. I wondered where Amir was. When I began to disentangle our hands, I saw a large shadow stretched across our legs. I thought it was Amir come back with the goat. But this was not Amir. I thought my eyes were tricking me. Perhaps hallucinating from the heat. I gently prodded my grandfather. Grandpa, look. Look.
It was different than the strong males in the herd we had seen at the zoo. Different, and familiar, like I had wished it into tangibility. It seemed so tall, its legs so long that if it walked as a man it would be a giant. Its horns were thicker than my arm, curled, adorned with the touch and shimmer of sunlight.
Tentative, I approached the beast on my hands and knees, whispering cooing nonsense so it wouldn’t bolt. It moved its heavy head and the glare of the sun hit me full on. The shadow of its horns vivisected me down the middle. I trembled before it. Dumbfounded, I watched it come closer to us, its legs impossibly long and sure, its calves like fists, its haunches covered in dirty, matted fur. I searched its eyes for a sign of what it wanted, but they were gray and dull, lifeless. The beast was blind. Even so, it knew its path, and its steps were sure. It moved towards grandfather with a precise grace, like the sword of Damocles cut from its hair-string. Fear and instinct drove me in front of him, and I threw my arms out like a willing Isaac. Get out of here, I said. The strange beast raised its head and bellowed. It bared rotting, black teeth so close to my face I could smell its sour breath. Maggots squirmed between its molars. It lowered its mighty head to mine and I had to close my eyes.
And then my grandfather said, Oh, isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it wonderful? and I wondered if we saw the same thing.
When its horns touched me, I felt and saw the image of the young ibex—Hessa, of course—with her supple and weak legs. And her eyes, not the matte black of an animal, but my own blue intellect in an animal face. On my head were not horns, but a heavy crown of silver starlight.
This was me, and this was not me. I felt bile rising up to the back of my throat when I imagined myself as an animal, even one so blessed as that. In all my life I had never felt particularly close to my human skin, but now I wanted it, wanted to glue and brand it to myself. I thrashed out at this satyr face that was mine and not, wanting only to see it destroyed, burned at a spit, dissected of fur and hoof until my real self was pulled out from underneath.
I cried out, No. No. No. And then the image was gone, and there was nothing before me. I felt my eyes and the top of my head, ran my human fingers across my stomach to see if there was any indication of change, in case the process of transformation was painless, or numbing. But I was whole, as whole as I ever was.
I turned to my grandfather with joy. I’d saved us both, and nothing was lost.
Grandfather looked at me with his quiet smile, and then he was my grandfather no more. He leaned over and fell onto his hands like a child playing animal. His skin, already thinned with age, whitened and shone like loose leaf paper at the edges: his knee, his elbows, his cheekbones. Then he split apart. Underneath was no blood or bone, but tufts of black hair, like on the heads of newborn birds.
His head tore in two. Clean down the middle. There was no mess, like he had taken off the costume of this life as man. And under that human mask there was—could there be anything else?—a small ibex with black eyes and black fur, two bumps of silver at the top of its head, pinpoints of beauty.
He shook off the old body easily; it was like it had never been his at all. His new fur glistened with a birthing dew, clean and sweet. He approached me and lowered his head. I was too afraid to touch him, so he butted against my hand. How different this newness felt, slick and sharp, soft and dull, like he was made of contradiction. I grabbed at his feet and held him
to the ground, but there was little to hold onto, and he slid from my grasp.
The golden ibex bellowed again, but softer this time, almost gentle. They spoke in their language, the little one bleating high pitched, all joy. They turned from me and, because I dared not follow, I called out for them to stop. They paid me no heed, too entranced in their own song and dance. Then they faded, one second raising their hoofs and bellowing from their throats, and then gone, like they had never been there at all.
I met Amir at the entrance to the cave. Is your grandfather all right? he asked. He was carrying the damn goat in his arms, cuddled to his chest.
Is it going to rain tonight? I said. Or, tomorrow?
Amir tried to look behind me into the cave, but I grabbed his arm. He said the rain would not come for another month, at least. It’s the dry season. But I strained my eyes beyond him at the looming sky. I wondered how I ever thought such an expansive thing was clear. There was light and shadows, so many colors, tumbling together in a dance until the inevitable happened, and it fell all around us.
Beasts
When I was only up to her knee, my Gran-ma-ma would bend down and whisper her stories into the curls of my hair. Each one was similar to the one she told before: always a young girl went into the forest before her first bleeding, always she ran with her clothes falling off of her, torn apart by the force of her legs slapping the earth, and always at the end she was gobbled up by a beast with teeth as thick as my arm. When she spoke of her beloved rough beast, the paper-thin skin on her fingers and hands stretched and fluttered. Her wrinkled cheeks flushed, and her eyes turned bright.
But why must it always be a man-beast? my mother said, lighting her pipe which at one time been my grandfather’s. Mother, in a fit of young temper, had taken the pipe, lit, from Grandfather’s frosty lips and plopped it in her own. Within the year she had appropriated all his pipes in a similar manner. She even plucked his last, the thin black one he quietly smoked in the corner, from his crooked hands when he died. But the first one was always her favorite, because it was his largest and could hold the most tobacco.
Magic for Unlucky Girls Page 11