by Chris Aslan
“Yes, yes, of course,” says Ide, crestfallen, and heads further up the street to her own compound.
At least once a day I picture Rivka dying or me killing her. In the fantasy that now flits through my mind, Rivka tosses her head and marches into the inner room and then the entire house collapses on her and, just like that, she’s no more. Of course, I say nothing, even though I was the one who did all the sweeping before dawn. Shoshanna also knows not to antagonize her daughter. Rivka has such a propensity for malice that she would even allow her family to be shamed if it meant wounding someone she hated. And she knows everything and could ruin what little reputation I have left, forever. We both try not to get on the bad side of her. We are held hostage by our secrets.
“Mariam, you must be exhausted,” says Shoshanna, yawning. “Rivka will prepare midday meal.”
I light a lamp and close the door of our windowless inner room, muffling the angry clatter in the kitchen porch outside where, for once, Rivka is actually being made to work. I unfold a sleeping mat from their pile on top of the chest and lie down, curl up and remember my worst funeral.
Mother had laboured with the fever for four days. Marta and Father took turns to sit by her bedside, and they moved her out of the inner room to the covered kitchen porch area. “Please, I want to see the sky,” she had said when she was still lucid on that first day. She went from sweating and arching her back in feverish pain, to shivering and shaking in her drenched bedding. We took it in turns to lie down beside her during the shivers, warming her with our bodies, and then wiping her down with inner-gourds dipped in cool well water during the fevers.
Aunt Shiphra came and went, bringing salves of honey and mashed ginger and cleansing bowls of hyssop water. Our neighbours were also kind to us. The men offered up prayers at the prayer house and the women cooked extra portions and brought them round.
I should have realized when they started lighting lamps at her head and her feet and reciting holy songs that Mother was dying. I was asleep at the end when she stopped breathing. “You were exhausted, and I didn’t want to wake you,” Marta said tenderly, when I awoke the next day to the sound of my aunt’s keening. Marta’s face was as ashen and drawn as the corpse beside us. She held me and stroked my hair as I wept, and then circled her arms around me when I threw myself on Mother’s cold and stiffening body. Father just sat staring at nothing. I could hear Eleazar laughing next door where he’d been taken to keep him distracted. He still didn’t know what had happened.
It was Marta who called on Holy Halfai to come and read over Mother. Aunt Shiphra and the neighbours helped organize food for the mourners and Halfai, whatever I might think of him now, organized everything else. He didn’t ask for any money upfront, realizing Father was incapacitated with grief, and procured enough salt for Mother’s body to be laid upon, as well as the linen shroud, and the oils and spices needed to prepare Mother’s body.
Marta insisted on washing the body herself, even though Shiphra and others offered. I remember it all through a blur of tears, somehow feeling numb and also as if my heart would tear inside me because of the pain, all at the same time. I rocked and wailed with the other women of the village, and tore my favourite robe, tearing out clumps of my hair and slapping myself until my face bruised. The physical pain felt good and when I scratched my arms and blood came out, it felt as if I’d found a way of letting the pain out. In the end some neighbours had to restrain me from going further.
The men knocked on the compound door with a bier, having come for the body. I flung myself over the shrouded corpse, who until yesterday had been my rock. “No, you can’t have her,” I screamed, and the neighbour ladies had to restrain me, never holding it against me that I bit, punched, scratched and swore at them as I writhed to escape.
Marta stood up suddenly as if she, too, would launch herself as the bier was carried out of the compound door, but instead she collapsed in a heap and soon the women were fussing around her, calling on each other to give her space, fanning her and offering sips of water.
It never occurred to me that the kindness of these same women might translate into gossip and speculation over my mother’s character and God’s punishment once they had left our home and were free to talk.
Thankfully, I can hardly remember the next few weeks. I know that Father took us all to see the tombs out on the barren hill; caves in the sand and rock. Marta explained to me and Eleazar that our family tomb had been sealed with mud and rocks but that we would come back next year, unwrap the shroud and place Mother’s bones into an ossuary to rest with our grandparents.
I remember that Father seemed dead inside, even though he still breathed and walked and went about his daily tasks. It was Marta who cared for me and Eleazar. She tried to sing us the lullabies Mother used to sing, or make our favourite dishes, but this just made us cry, so she stopped. I never saw her cry in front of us, although she remained gaunt and I don’t think she slept much.
One night I woke determined to ignore my need to relieve myself, but eventually crept outside. Lamplight spilled from behind the dusty curtain that screened off the unclean place and I could see the bent silhouette of my sister holding her stomach as if it cramped. She sobbed as quietly as she could. I squatted beside the apricot tree, reasoning that she’d rather I pass water there than interrupt her private grief.
Mother’s only brother, an uncle I’d never met, came to mark the fortieth day of mourning, bringing his son Lukas with him. Lukas sat on an extravagant saddle like some sort of prince, with his father walking beside him. It was only once they were inside our compound and Uncle Yosef lifted him down that I realized that Lukas was a cripple. “Careful of my clothes,” said Lukas, as we prepared cushions and a seating mattress for him. “It’s cotton, from India,” he added to me, as I touched the hem of his soft, white robe. I’d never seen cotton before, as we grew our own flax and had our own sheep in our village, and I had no idea of the place he talked of. I helped Marta prepare platters of lamb, cheese and fruit for Holy Halfai and the other village elders who had also joined Father in remembering our mother.
“Father, isn’t it interesting the way they sit on floor mats and eat from a floor cloth rather than recline at a table?” said Lukas, as the village elders bristled silently. Mother’s loom had been cleared away and they were seated under the apricot tree, a state which Lukas also felt the need to comment upon, wondering why we had never completed the upper room. I waited for his father to cuff him for insolence but nothing was said.
After the meal, Uncle Yosef wanted to visit the tomb, leaving Lukas behind to annoy us. Father had explained earlier that Uncle Yosef had left the village to go north, selling dates and olives. This wasn’t that uncommon, but Yosef was somewhat of a family disgrace, having chosen to remain there and marry a Westernized wife.
“Of course, living so close to the Great Lake, we would never eat salt fish like you do. We buy them fresh,” Lukas explained to Marta, as we stepped over and around him, trying to clean up the detritus left from the feast.
“I think I can finish up here by myself,” said Marta irritably, brushing hair from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Mariam, why don’t you take Lukas and show him the village?”
“From what I’ve already seen, that shouldn’t take long,” said Lukas, pleased with himself.
I saddled our donkey and was soon walking Lukas down to the well.
“There’s not much else to see,” I shrugged, after we’d walked around the well and Lukas had made several disparaging comments about the stalls around it and the size of our prayer house.
“But what do people do?” asked Lukas. “I mean, there’s no place for discussing ideas. There isn’t even an arena.”
“What need would a cripple have for an arena?” We turned. It was my cousin, Yokkan, Aunt Shiphra’s son. He was the same age as me and Lukas, but was already wiry and muscular and had cultivated the beginnings of a decent beard and the overbearing nature of a young man.
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“Er, this is my cousin Yokkan, son of my father’s sister,” I said, wishing Yokkan could be nice for once. “Yokkan, meet my cousin Lukas, son of my mother’s brother. It’s his first time in our village.”
I gave Lukas a pleading look to be quiet but the stupid boy ignored it. “I was just asking Cousin Mariam what people actually do here.”
“We work and we pray. We work hard and we pray hard. Do you know anything about work or prayer?”
“Well, I study and I can speak three languages.”
“We study the holy language if there is time between work and prayer.”
“But what about the world beyond this village? In my town Westerners and locals meet for debate and discussion of ideas. I mean, you’re only a day away from the Holy City.”
Yokkan stared at Lukas with contempt. “A donkey that makes pilgrimage to the Holy City is still a donkey. A cripple who talks a lot is still a cripple. Talking is for women and men who don’t work and pray.” He turned without acknowledging me and left.
“Can we go back now?” Lukas asked, and I nodded and then looked away so I wouldn’t see Lukas trying not to cry.
“Father warned me it would be like this. ‘The village mentality’, he called it,” said Lukas, as we plodded homeward. “I’m glad we’re leaving tomorrow. I only came because Father promised that we could visit the Holy City. It’s still full of people like your cousin, but there are Westerners as well.”
Lukas and his father left the next day and never came back. We pride ourselves on our hospitality, but we’re not very good with strangers in our village.
I thought of Lukas two years later when we were given the jar. I was sure that he would know what material it was made from and, more importantly, what it contained and how much it was worth. I pestered Father about the jar whenever we had a brief moment together alone, which wasn’t often.
“I’m not taking it to the capital,” he said. “If it’s so valuable, then I run a high risk of getting robbed. We’ll wait until the olives have fermented and when I take them to the capital I’ll make enquiries.”
I agreed, reluctantly. “And one more thing, Miri,” he added. “Keep checking your skin when you bathe, just to make sure.”
“And you?” I asked.
“Everything is fine,” he smiled, and I could tell that he meant it.
We didn’t talk about the jar again until a few months later as I helped Father with the olive harvest and, surprisingly, so did Marta, who had usually preferred to stay at home. It soon became clear why she was so keen. Annas, son of the widower Yonah, was harvesting his own olives just down from our grove and we started sharing midday meal together. Marta seemed to glow in his presence. Annas was broad with a hearty laugh and an appetite to match, and Marta soon discovered his preference for green olives and sheep cheese, supplying him plentifully with both.
Nor was Marta the only one to be thinking of love. It was just after dawn and I was walking back from the well with my best friend, Imma, when Ishmael came towards us. He was herding his flock but his eyes were not on the sheep. He stared at us brazenly, his gaze fixed as he passed us towards the well, even though he had to turn his head.
“Mind you don’t fall in,” I called to him, and he finally turned away.
“I can’t believe you said that to him,” Imma hissed and we both giggled.
“Did you see the way he was staring at us?” I said. “I thought he was supposed to be devout.”
“Staring at you, you mean,” said Imma. “Oh, those raven eyes and that tall graceful neck!’” she added in a mocking version of a love-struck Ishmael.
“No, he was staring at you. Oh, those dark-honey locks and ripe breasts!” I retorted, playfully tugging her hair.
“Stop it!” she squealed as our laughter attracted disapproving glances from the older women back at the well.
“Come on,” I said, and we adjusted our water jars and walked off.
“Do you really think he was looking at me?” asked Imma quietly. “I was sure he was staring at you.” She turned to me. “He seems so sure of himself and what he wants.”
“And he’s not the only one,” I said, giving her a nudge.
After that day of harvesting, Marta sent Eleazar to the well to fetch water. We could still hear him protesting about women’s work from the street outside as I wondered whether gossip about my contact with Ishmael had reached Marta’s ears already.
“I need to start teaching you more dishes,” said Marta. “I want you to watch carefully how much dried hyssop, sesame seeds and thyme I mix with the olive oil. I’m not going to be around forever, you know.” Once mixed, she smoothed the paste expertly over flat rounds of dough which she tossed carefully onto the baking stone, surrounded by glowing embers, where they puffed up and crisped.
“Are you talking about Annas?” I asked. “Has his mother asked officially yet?”
Marta shook her head and tried to suppress her happiness. “No, nothing official and there’s no rush. Anyway, it’s good for you to learn.”
There was a bit of a rush, though. Marta was eighteen and most of her friends were already married, and soon people would begin to click their tongues in sympathy at her.
Late afternoon the next day, when Annas came up to our grove, ready to walk back down to the village together, I asked him to accompany Marta and Eleazar, explaining that Father and I still had a little work to do.
“Eleazar, you can run on ahead, if you like, but make sure you wait for us before you get to the village,” said Marta, keen to avoid gossip, but excited to have some unchaperoned time with Annas. She cast a grateful look in my direction as they left. Once they were out of earshot, Father looked at me enquiringly.
“We can’t wait for the olives to ferment,” I said. “Don’t you see what’s happening between Annas and Marta? His mother could visit any day with a formal request. That jar could pay for her whole dowry.”
Father thought for a moment. “Will you be alright continuing the harvest without me for a day?”
I beamed. “Why not go at dawn tomorrow?”
“How will I explain to Marta?” he said.
I thought for a moment. He could take one of Mother’s carpets, but the idea of parting with something she had made was unbearable.
“Ishmael has our sheep. Why not take them to the capital and sell them?”
“Usually he does that for me.”
“This time you’ve decided to make a trip. You don’t owe him any explanation.”
He left at dawn the next morning and didn’t return until after we were asleep that night.
At breakfast I gave him a look that said, “Well?” which he returned with a blink and a nod that said, “I’ll tell you later. Wait.”
“Annas,” said Father, as we trudged up towards our groves together. “I have a particularly large tree I wish to harvest tomorrow, and I need someone tall to help me beat the olives out of it. If I loan you Eleazar and Marta for the day, could you come and help me tomorrow?”
“I can help you now,” said Annas, but Father insisted on the trade.
Once we’d left the others and arrived at our grove alone, Father turned to me, laughed, and lifted me up, swinging me round and round.
“It’s good news, then?” I asked, trying to keep my voice down. “Tell me everything.”
“I will, but first there’s something I must do.” We climbed up to the ravine and looked down at the mouldering pile of rags. A bone or two had been pulled out and gnawed by a jackal or fox, but what little flesh had been on the bones had dried and disappeared. Father began a song of thanksgiving, lifting his hands and eyes to the heavens.
“First I sold the sheep,” Father said, once we were seated under an olive tree. “I see now why it’s better to let Ishmael take them. He knows people in the market and he gets a better price than I managed. Still, that doesn’t matter now. Once I had some coins in my purse, I went to the apothecary street. I started at the cheaper stalls,
looking for jars made of alabaster.”
“Alabaster?”
“It turns out that’s what the jar is made from. There’s a whole section of the bazaar selling the jars, full and empty. I found a much smaller, cheaper-looking jar and asked about it. The merchant said it was an alabaster jar of musk. I worked my way up to the more expensive stalls. The merchants could hear from my accent and see from my robe that I wasn’t from the city. They tried to shoo me away, but I persisted, explaining that I had a dowry to buy and shaking my bag of coins as if they were gold.
“Eventually I ended up in the largest of the shops, surrounded by shelves and shelves of stuff. I don’t even know what it was, but medicines and perfume, all in vials of glass or clay and some even in alabaster jars. My head was dizzy from smelling the scented oils and musk which the trader kept presenting me with. I feigned interest in the small bottles of perfume. ‘Which is most costly?’ I asked, and the merchant showed me.”
“What did it smell like?”
“I don’t know how to describe a smell, Miri, but it was amazing. He told me that it was spikenard from the mountains beyond the East – a perilous journey across rivers and deserts which takes over a year to make. I don’t know if that was just his sales pitch or if it was true. I couldn’t have bought even the smallest bottle with the money from our sheep. Then I asked him, ‘Is spikenard what’s in those alabaster jars?’ I pointed at the larger alabaster jars stacked carefully behind other merchandise. ‘No,’ said the merchant. ‘These jars are too large to hold such a quantity of nard. It would be too expensive. You can tell from the markings and patterns. There is only one large jar of pure spikenard in this shop and I’d never risk putting it on display.’ I asked him if I could see it, just so that I could impress my daughter who had never left our village. He looked me over and then unlocked a chest and drew out a jar of pure spikenard. It looked identical to ours!”