Quarantine (35 page)

then it would.

Musa picked his way through the debris of the night, below the

caves. The storm had lifted stones to show their hidden faces. It

had made firewood from bushes, and pulled up roots and soil.

Lice and termites tumbled in the daylight where the earth was

scarred, busy with repairs. The birds were feeding everywhere.

Their nests and eggs had been destroyed, but they could fret on

insects until their stomachs burst. What footmarks there had

been on the scrubby slope, to show the comings and the goings

of the quarantiners, had been removed by the wind. A layer of

dust and grit was spread across the ground, like seeds and flour

sprinkled on a loaf This was the way the world had been before

mankind, the childhood of the earth when it was innocent and

undisturbed. This was the way the world would be when all

mankind had gone, when the cleansing wind of prophecy had

swept all sins and virtues from the earth and the wilderness was

strewn with fallen and abandoned faiths.

Musa's footprints were the morning's first. Those were the

ones that normally belonged to the burglar, the adulterer, the

son who'd run away at night, the village sneak, the chicken thief

But Musa did not feel ashamed. He felt about as guilty as a boy

with flour on his hands as the only proof that he had stolen

bread. That is to say, he knew he had done wrong but he was

glad of it. The bread had tasted good. His shame was thin and

white. He'd blow it from his fingers with a single puff.

He'd left the woman with some bruises on her arms, it's true,

20 1

some broken skin, some little aches and pains that would not

show although they might take time to mend. The inside ofher

lip was cut. Her anus had been tom. But he had let her keep

her money-bag. He was no thief She'd been a disappointment

to him, actually. She'd screamed. She had insulted him. She'd

struck his face a dozen times with her soft hands. She'd spat.

She'd even tried to hit him with a stone. Her anger and her

awkwardness had made it difficult for him; he'd had to concentrate on quelling her instead of satisfying himself He'd had to be alert and always remember to keep the tightest grip on her -

her hair, her ears, her arms, her throat, her drawstring - or else

she would escape from him. She could jump up and run, but he

could not.

She'd only quietened when he'd stunned her with his fists.

But he had not enjoyed her stunned and unresponsive. He hadn't

wanted sex alone, with no participant except himself That had

never been the plan. He had ejaculated twice - the first time far

too quickly within moments of his arrival in the cave, and the

second time without much feeling. He would have liked more

time with her to attempt a third and more considered consummation. But, try as he might, he could not ready himself for her.

Unconscious women were not attractive in his view. They could

not display their fear. And so he'd covered up her body with

her shawl - no one could say he was entirely inconsiderate -

and had stepped out into the dawn a slightly disappointed man.

But still he could congratulate himself At least he'd made a

trading profit on the night. There'd be no cost because she'd

not breathe a word to anyone. If he'd had any doubt of that he

would have snapped her neck at once and blamed her death on

the badu, or some brigand in the hills, or on the wind. He knew

the punishments for forcingJewish women to submit to passions

such as his were harsh, especially when gentiles were involved.

If Marta reported Musa to the Jewish courts and was believed,

202

they'd circulate his name to every dusty comer of the land.

They'd track him down if he ever came within a dozen days of

Sawiya, and then they'd carry out the letter of the law. They'd

cover him in tar and bum him, waist-deep in a pile of dung.

They'd thrust a lighted torch into his mouth. They'd bury him

in stones. He'd taken quite a chance to sleep with her. He had

been brave.

But Marta would not take a chance. Musa knew she would

be sensible, not brave. She wouldn't want to speak his name to

anyone. 'What were you doing there in any case, alone?' they'd

say. 'Why did you tell the man, "Come in?" ' No, Marta would

be silent. She'd want to bury the experience at once. When fear

and shame are comrades, tongues lie still. Besides, he'd threatened

her. One word of this outside the cave, he'd said, and I'll call all

my cousins here to visit you. They'll do the same as me. I'll

come back to visit you myself. There's nowhere you can hide.

Yet Musa felt exposed somehow. He was revealed - to Marta

at least - for what he was, cheap goods, bad stock. No merchant

ever stays around to answer for the blemishes and flaws on the

merchandise he's sold. That is the time to pack his bags and go.

So Musa could not wait until the end of quarantine, to endure

her fear and sullen glances for ten more days, although that

prospect was not daunting. He would not wait until the end.

The scrub could not enrich him any more. Already he was

making plans. He'd conquered Marta. Now he set his heart on

Jericho.

He was relieved to reach the pans of soft clay in the valley

below the caves, and tum towards the tent. It was satisfying to

have put a short distance between Marta and himself, and the

walking on the flatter surface would be, he hoped, less cruel on

his ankles. The clay had been renewed and freshened in the night

by the few drops of rain. The wind had ironed it flat, then rippled

it. It was a tidal estuary of mud, bubbling with pockets of trapped

203

air, and it was cold around his toes. Already Musa was tired. He

had no staff. He had no wife to take his arm and help him with

his balance. His knees and hips were aching badly. The wet clay

was harder on him than the slope. But he could hardly sit in it

and rest. He took it slowly though.

Musa found no pleasure in the footprints that he left, or the

suckered protests that his sandals made in the mud as he buried

them and lifted them. His tracks were deep and obvious. He

would have preferred to have left no marks at all, no debts.

Caravanners like to come and go, according to the verse, And

let the dust that they have raised, Fill in the footprints they have

made.

It was not long before Musa spotted movement at the far end

of the pans. The sun was in his eyes but he was sure that there

was someone coming up towards him, a someone who was light

enough to walk across the mud without their sandals sticking.

It might be the badu, or the blond returned from his hopeless

vigil on the promontory. Musa would demand some help with

walking. It might even be his wife, collecting herbs or bringing

up a flask and blankets to her ailing husband at first light as she'd

been told. About time too. Musa stopped, rubbed his side,

practised breathing awkwardly. He had been ill, he must remember that. He was recovered but still weak, he'd say. Another miracle.

But it was Jesus walking in the mud, bare-footed, naked, thin

and brittle as a thorn. So, then, Shim's bogus, midnight mission

had been fruitful after all. His vigil on the promontory at Musa's

behest - 'Say that I'll die unless he comes' - had worked where

all the other days of prayers and exhortations had failed. Musa

chuckled to himself. He was rewarded for his tricks, no matter

what he did. His little Gaily had appeared at last. He'd come up

from his cave to cure Musa for a second time. This second

miracle would be an easy one. He'd only have to exorcize the

204

demons from Musa's hip and knee, and scrape away a little mud.

He'd only have to wipe away a lie.

Musa did not take another step. He waited while the man

approached, as thinly as an egret, his body wasted to the bone,

his too large hands and feet, his swollen joints. Only his genitals

seemed unaffected by the fast. This was nothing. Musa was not

shocked. He'd seen worse sights before than naked mystics. In

his travels, he'd seen recluses who'd made themselves as yellow

and transparent as amber by their deprivations. He'd seen the

hennits ofKhaloun who fed on insects, nothing else. Their skins

were hard and cracked like cockroaches. He'd seen worse ulcers,

looser teeth, more hollow eyes. But he had never seen a man

appear so weightless and invincible as Gaily seemed to be.

Musa did not know what he should do. Salute the man when

he arrived like an old friend? Fall down on his knees, or run,

though both were difficult for someone of his size and in mud

that deep? Pretend to be still ill and in need of healing? Could

he fool Jesus with his tricks? Musa compromised. He took one

step backwards, held his side and winced, and almost crouched,

not quite a deferential bow, not quite a posture of defence, not

quite an ambush. He was stooped too low to see the Gally now.

He waited for the figure to come closer, oddly fearful of it but

triumphant, too. Another victory. Here was the one who'd

tipped the water on to Musa's lips and cheeks. Here was the face

that he'd last seen a whisper from his nose, inside the tent. The

peasant's and the robber's face. The healer's face. From that

distance in the open scrub, it had not seemed so young as it had

been when they first met. The hair was pale. The body was the

colour of the land behind.

What should Musa say to greet his Gaily? It was embarrassing.

He could hardly call out, 'Good morning, cousin. Know my face?'

as if they were chattering acquaintances from some market-place.

Or, 'I'm the one that comes for you each day. At last we meet

20 5

again . . . ' or, 'Speak to me, then. We were good cousins thirty

days ago. This is my land.' Such pleasantries were not appropriate

for one so holy and so thin. But Musa need not have worried

what to say. His Gally would not cross the mud to stroke his