by Chris Aslan
I’m dispatched to talk to Elisheba, even though it’s far too late for a woman to be wandering around outside alone. I have barely explained to her what has happened when she dispatches her husband next door to fetch one of her neighbours. Soon her other neighbours come out to see what’s going on. They’re the only women who won’t shun me. As we talk, it turns out that I really am one of the few people in the village who haven’t heard tales of the doctor. No one can believe that he’s actually coming to our village. I foolishly mention that Malchus has given me money that we are to use to host the doctor, and soon Elisheba is talking about the feast and appointing various neighbours as bakers.
“Come here before sunrise with a sack of flour, a pouch of yeast, some salt. If you can find date syrup or honey in the market, then bring as much as they have, and butter,” she tells me.
I leave, breathless. I want to go somewhere quiet and remember my father, but things are just as bad at home. Aunt Shiphra, Mara, and Marta are making mental lists of all that needs to be done and who should do what.
“We can’t buy sheep from Ishmael,” says Shiphra, looking pointedly at me. “But I can send Mara to that other shepherd boy, the one with the squint. We don’t want to be shamed without enough meat for all the guests. In fact, we’ll probably need two sheep. What do you think, Marta?” She glances up at the tree we’re sitting under. “Such a shame the teacher didn’t come a few weeks ago, during apricot season.”
“We have a sack of dried ones,” says Marta. “And isn’t your neighbour’s peach tree in fruit?”
“Good thinking,” Aunt Shiphra beams.
They continue planning and I get drowsy, nodding off during a passionate exchange regarding pastries. When I wake up they’re talking about Yokkan, who is now of marriageable age, wondering if he’s changed. Marta reminisces about Eleazar, and I notice that all her stories are about before Father got sick. I get up quietly and go to the inner room. I lie down and think about Father. I imagine how it would have been if he’d come striding into our compound this evening, with no limp and no leprosy. I imagine him sweeping us up in his arms and me burying myself in his chest and beard, inhaling the smell of him. Then I cry myself to sleep.
It’s still dark when Marta rouses me. Mara and Shiphra are already up. It seems they stayed the night. Marta starts rattling off a list of what I’m to do, but I stop her. “Let me start by drawing water, and then you can tell me what to do next,” I say. We’re clearly not bothering with breakfast today.
I’m still a little groggy as I stumble down to the well, hoping to savour a solitary moment before the business of today starts. There’s a cluster of women already there, well before dawn, and they mob me.
“Is it true?” they clamour. “When is the doctor coming? Do you know how much he costs? Did he really cure your father’s friend? Does he also cure women?”
I stammer, trying to answer their questions, although I feel I know less than anyone else about this man.
“It’s such a great honour that he should come to our little village,” says one of the elder wives, who until today was ostentatiously shunning me. “Shouldn’t we lay down rush mats and carpets around the prayer house and host him there? He won’t want to visit a leper’s house.”
I shrug. “Apparently he’s very keen to visit our house,” I say, “but don’t feel that you have to.”
She splutters at my rudeness, but quite frankly, I prefer being shunned to being mobbed, and just want to be left alone. By the time I’ve filled my jar, more women have arrived, and I’m surrounded by a clamour of questions, few of which I know the answer to. I grab the jar, spilling it in my haste to get home.
“Mariam, wait.” I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Cyria, Crazy Mariam’s mother, and she’s weeping.
“Walk with me,” I say gently, wanting to get away from the square. Once we’re up the street we pause.
“Is it true?” she whispers. “You mean about the doctor coming?” I say.
She nods.
“Yes, yes, it is.”
“Do you think he would see my daughter? I know she’s not good with crowds. Maybe I could tie her up. I promise we wouldn’t take up much of his time.” I can see the desperation in her eyes.
“Please, come tonight, Auntie; be our guest. You’re always welcome in our house.”
This just makes her weep more. “Thank you,” she whispers, and bends down, and I’m aghast when I realize she means to kiss my feet.
“Stop!” I almost drop my jar as I reach down to help her back up. “What is this?” She’s sobbing uncontrollably now, and I try to hold her and my water jar in an uncomfortable and wet embrace.
She wipes her nose on the hem of her tunic and sniffs. “You must think me a foolish old woman,” she says, smiling.
“Of course not, Auntie Cyria. I think you’re very brave and that Mariam is blessed to have such a loving mother.”
She nods absently. “I must go now,” she says. “I’ll bring curds tonight, and I’ll bring a jar of spiced olive oil. You’ll need a lot of oil to anoint the guests, as well as for the lamps.”
She’s right, and I wonder if Marta has thought of this. I look down at the water jar and wonder how long it will last before I have to fetch more.
Sure enough, as soon as I arrive I’m called to pour water over cut vegetables and there’s not much left to pour into our main storage jar. This time I’m sent with Mara, who also has a jar with her. We face the clamour of women and even men wanting to know what they can bring to the feast, brazenly inviting themselves. Mara almost falls on our way back, as we hurry away from the crowd.
The compound is just as bad. Aunt Shiphra has taken to guarding the compound door, as Marta looks too harried. Elisheba has sent the apprentices to help, along with some other girls from her street, and I notice that several of our neighbours who were supposed to be shunning us have turned up and now willingly take orders from Marta. Mingled with the sounds of sweeping, the clatter of pots, and the issuing of orders, I hear the indignant bleating of two rams, tied to the apricot tree and straining to reach Marta’s herb patch.
“Miri!” I’m summoned, and Marta gives me a handful of coins and reels off a list of what I am to buy, in extravagant quantities. “You’d better take Mara with you in case they shun you,” she says.
I’m grateful for the help, although I’m pretty sure that our shunning days are over. I’m proved right as we enter the first stall to buy honey, date syrup, pomegranate molasses, and flour. I’ve never purchased flour before – we mill our own grain – or such large quantities of these extravagant luxuries. Nor have I ever been treated so well. Mara and I struggle not to smile as old Daoud empties his stores for us, offering to deliver our purchases to the door, and using clean new sacking to wrap each bundle.
“I have some mountain honey which I keep at home,” he says. “Much too precious to have here and only for the best, the very best. Of course, I would never dream of selling it, but I will bring it as a gift to the doctor this evening.”
I thank him and wonder how we’ll accommodate all the villagers who are inviting themselves, never mind the doctor and his friends. I shrug and decide that it’s not my problem and I’ll leave them to Aunt Shiphra.
It’s the same in the other stalls, and in the end we leave the square empty-handed, watching laden donkeys and even a camel being led to our house.
Mara and I are back on water-drawing duty, although we’re allowed to snatch a few pastries dipped in cream, and a bruised peach which has been rejected from the table. It’s the nearest we’ll get to a meal today. Again we face the clamour of questions. The only person who continues to pretend I’m not there is Imma, who passes by me on her way to one of the stalls.
By the time we’re back, the sheep are no longer bleating but hanging by their hind legs from the branches of the apricot tree, blood still dripping from their slit necks into bowls beneath them as two men begin to slice expertly around them, preparing to draw o
ff the outer skin whole. There are more women meekly following Marta and Shiphra’s orders, and they’ve already run out of water. We can barely keep up. The vegetable patch is swimming in discarded water used for washing carrots and other vegetables, and the herb patch can no longer mask the smell from our unclean place, which is getting a lot more usage than it would normally. I suspect our bucket of flat stones used for wiping has been depleted, and so I dispatch one of the neighbour girls down to the brook to collect more and to bring back fresh fig leaves, which we’ll put out when the guests arrive. She bows, takes a friend with her and they’re off. I’ve never issued an order and been obeyed like that before.
Mara and I are wet from spilled water and sweat. We pause under a tree on our way back to the well, knowing there’ll be no rest either at home or at the well itself. One thing I like about being busy is that it doesn’t really give me time to think about Father or about Eleazar. I have to admit that all this excitement is contagious and I’m pretty curious to see this doctor. I wonder how he cures people, and what he charges. I also wonder if he can cure crazy people, or if Cyria’s hopes will be dashed. I’ve never met anyone important before, and imagine him riding into the village on a canopied camel or a pure white horse.
“Come on,” says Mara, and off we go.
Back at the compound, the sheep are being noisily hacked into smaller portions by our heftiest cleaver-wielding neighbour. One of the elders has brought us an enormous water jar from the prayer house. They must have used a camel to bring it over. Even empty it takes several people to manoeuvre it into position. We pour our jars into it and they barely seem to make a difference. Even so, the water is depleted as best plates and bowls are lent and washed. Several neighbour girls boil mint tea and go around offering it to the busy workers. We also pause for a quick bowlful each. It’s a good thing its summer and our vegetable patch is soaking most of the discarded water up – at least for now.
“If you’re tired of carrying I can get one of the women to swap with you,” says Marta, looking up from a large mound of fine mutton chunks which she and some other women are busy skewering. She looks fraught. Mara and I, by silent agreement, shake our heads. Although water-carrying is hard work, at least it’s a lot less stressful than being stuck in a compound crammed with people.
On our next water delivery, Marta is crying. “They’re saying we can’t host here because the upper room isn’t fit for use,” she says.
“Who is saying?”
“Everyone. Why couldn’t Malchus have come a few days earlier? We don’t have enough time to get ready.”
“Look,” I say. “I don’t know much about this doctor, but he could have requested to visit the prayer house or any number of nicer compounds. For whatever reason, he’s chosen to come here; to Eleazar’s house. It’ll be a warm evening. He’ll be fine with the other important guests up on the roof, away from all this.” I point at the cramped space around us, brimming with neighbours.
“How can we expect him to climb a ladder?” she says. “And there’s no shade.”
“I’m sure he’s got legs.” I give her a quick hug. She smells of stress-sweat; we could both use a wash in the brook. “Look, the sun is already losing its heat. I’m sure they’ll prefer the cool of the roof to a stuffy upper room.”
I lose track of how many visits to the well we make. My arms ache and I think I might have a bruise in the crook of my shoulder where I nestle the water jug. By now, the compound is filled with smoke from a long charcoal pit over which the mutton is sizzling. There’s also a steaming cauldron full of sheep bones. Neighbours have lent us their best seating mats, which have been carried up the ladder by one of the stronger youths. Mara and I offer to take some of the dishes of food up to the roof so we can see if the guest area looks good enough. Mother’s carpets have been laid out along with others borrowed from neighbours, topped with seating mats in rows to allow for the largest number of people possible. Cushions are propped against the low wall around the flat roof, with the largest and finest of these along the opposite wall to the ladder, in the place of honour.
I climb up on the wall and stand on tiptoe, screening my eyes against the setting sun. There are too many trees obscuring the view to the main road, so I can’t tell if the doctor is on his way yet.
“Water!” I hear Marta shout from below, and we clamber down, take our jars and head back to the well.
Mara is just helping me lift my jar when we hear the sound of a procession coming up from down near the brook. “He’s here,” she cries, and we race back to the compound, water slopping everywhere. “They’re coming,” Mara announces, and there’s a sudden flurry of activity, like when you poke a twig into an ants’ nest.
Aunt Shiphra has given up policing who comes in and who doesn’t, and instead she and Elisheba prepare the spiced oil to pour over the head of each guest. Marta stops what she’s doing for just long enough to pass me and Mara clean linen cloths and a ewer each. “There’s a dipper behind you to refill the ewers,” she says. “And if there’s not enough water to wash the feet of all the guests, make sure you at least get the most important ones.”
We form a line of welcome with Marta, Auntie Shiphra, and Elisheba first, and then me and Mara, crouched down near one of the vegetable furrows, hoping that the water from the feet-washing drains into the vegetable patch, which is starting to get pretty waterlogged.
The first guest to walk through the compound door is Halfai. I try not to roll my eyes. No one has invited him, he always shuns us, and the last time he was inside our compound was to exile my father. He’s wearing his finest robe, and makes a show of bowing his head for oil and then lifting his feet for Mara to pour water over them and his sandals. He leaves his wet sandals at the foot of the ladder, and they’re soon surrounded by so many that Sholum is dispatched to stack them in piles.
I’m squatting, trying to keep the hem of my tunic from getting too muddy as we attempt to wash the feet of each guest. Although Halfai slipped through, someone has had the good sense to keep the villagers outside and to let the doctor and his entourage through first. It’s hard to see much at foot level, but I keep looking out for Malchus or Eleazar or Yokkan. I spot Malchus first. He tries to stop me from washing his feet, but I won’t have it. Holding the heel of his foot and seeing the unblemished skin makes his cure even more real.
“Which one’s the doctor?” I ask. “And why wasn’t he first to enter?”
“He’s just coming in now.” Malchus points vaguely at the compound door. “He was probably stopped by people outside wanting to receive his blessing or to be cured.”
I look up and my eyes are drawn to a handsome man with piercing green eyes, a sandy beard and light skin, and an aura about him that just makes me want to listen to anything he has to say. He’s wearing a richly embroidered robe and he approaches me, lifting up his heel. I take extra care as I wash his feet. “You are most welcome to our home,” I say. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”
He doesn’t pay me much attention, more amused at having to climb a ladder to get to the banquet. I still can’t see Eleazar or Yokkan, who will probably come in after their elders.
Another foot is presented and I focus on washing. By now my linen cloth is soaked and a little grubby from where it dragged in the mud for a moment. A strand of hair has escaped my headscarf and plastered itself to my forehead. I try to blow it away but it won’t budge.
“Here,” says a voice, and a hand gently brushes it away. I nod in gratitude and then he presents his heel and I hurry, washing one foot and then the other – not that my grubby cloth has done much more than muddy the dust on his feet.
“Master, this is my cousin, Eleazar’s sister,” says another voice above me, and I almost lose my balance when I realize that it’s Yokkan speaking. His beard is full and he’s completely lost all his boyishness. I clamber to my feet and hug him. Then Eleazar is there beside him. I realize that I’m crying as I take in the lean young man he’s become, taller t
han Father but with the same expression. I thought I’d slap him or ignore him, but seeing so much of Father in him, I can’t stop weeping as we embrace.
The other man, whose feet I’ve just hastily washed, smiles, his kind eyes shining with tears. He’s weather-worn, with marked laughter lines and rough, worker’s hands. He clasps Eleazar around the neck with one of them and then kisses him tenderly on the forehead. “This is what courage is,” he says quietly to Eleazar, who reddens. “Thank you for returning.”
“You’re him,” I say with mounting horror, clutching my dirty linen cloth in hand and looking absently at the ladder up which the man I thought was the doctor climbed a while back. “Wait, let me get a fresh cloth. I didn’t do it properly. Please, I need to do your feet again.”
“Thank you – my feet are fine,” the man smiles, and Eleazar leads him to the ladder. I have no time to think because more feet are presented to me and the muddy ground is getting treacherously slippery and harder to squat in.
Thankfully, most of the villagers who follow after the guests take one look at the mud slough and protest that they’ve already washed their feet just before coming. There is barely room to move inside the compound, and the vegetable patch is being trampled. Some of them are up to their ankles in its mud. There’s standing room only, except for the youths who’ve perched themselves up in the branches of the tree and along the compound mud walls.
“Get back,” Marta shouts, as someone is pushed and steps onto one of the bowls of strained yogurt and mint, flipping the contents everywhere. She’s near breaking point. I grab two of the other bowls in similarly precarious situations, and hold them over my head as I push my way through the crowd. I manage to balance one bowl in the crook of my arm, giving me a free hand to climb the ladder. This whole situation is ridiculous; there are well over a hundred people crammed into our compound. What was Malchus thinking?