But the chosen one or two, the very few, were rewarded for their quarantines with sacred revelations. The scrub allowed them up its steep and narrow tracks, and through the softened silhouettes ofhills, to their attending gods. And there it stretched its grey horizons to reveal what far-off armies were approaching with their spangling phalanxes of spears, what distant kings and preachers came with gifts and prophecies, how slow and never-ceasing was the world. And there it gave its voyagers their glimpse of paradise.
Jesus had achieved these sacred fields and seen horizons on horizons without end. He was still there.
And Musa, too. Yes, even Musa — especially, Musa — had had his glimpse of paradise and felt the fingers of his preacher king. He would not go back with nothing to declare. The scrub would not return him empty-handed to his market-places. What greater generosity than that?
28
Miri was not interested in visions or prophecies, or in a god. She’d never called on him for help, not even in the fist of the storm when her mother’s loom was breaking into pieces. But she was praying now for Marta. She ran from cave to cave, and then from bush to bush, in a panic, yelling for the woman, anticipating all the joys of finding her, yet fearful that Marta was already dead. She’d seen the death or something just as bad in Musa’s eyes.
It was a barking fox that finaily led her to Marta’s hiding place. Something tasty must have tempted it to show itselfin daylight. Some easy carrion. Miri feared the worst. But it was only following the spots of watery blood which Marta had spat out as she ran for safety in the rocks when she’d seen Musa and the line of mourners climbing to the caves.
Miri pulled her, trembling and limping, into the sunlight. Her clothes were torn. Her wrists were bruised. Her lower lip was split and swollen on one side, still bleeding. She had to brush away the flies. That was an injury that Miri recognized. She’d had a mouth like that herself. She still had the scar. Musa liked to grip her lips between his teeth.
‘What happened to you?’
Marta hadn’t got the courage to speak.
‘It’s Musa, isn’t it?’
She shook her head.
‘Who then? There’s no one else … I know it’s him. It’s him!’
Miri punched her hands together. ‘That man’s made fools of everyone. Again! He wasn’t even ill. All lies. He’ll bring the heavens down on all of us. .’
‘No … I feU.’
‘Musa must have pushed you then. Look what he’s done.’
‘It was the wind. .’
‘The wind? How could the wind do that to you?’
‘Threw stones and bits of stick at me. I fell. .’
‘It’s him.’
‘No. Don’t make me say.’
‘Listen, Marta. Give me your hand. Just say you didn’t fall. Be brave. TeH me. I know my husband, what he can do. He leaves his thumbprint everywhere.’
‘He doesn’t know I’m here? Don’t let him come.’
‘It’s over now. He’s finished with you now. Just tell me what the demon’s done.’
‘Can’t teH. There’s nothing left to tell. .’ She was sobbing, pushing Miri away yet still holding tightly to her wrists. Her face was dry. No tears. ‘Don’t make me say.’
Miri put a finger on the uninjured side of Marta’s mouth. Miri’s cheeks were wet with tears. ‘Don’t say. I know what he can do. You haven’t got to say. Don’t say.’
‘What can I do?’
‘You can’t stay here. You have to come back to the caves. .’
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I can t.
‘You must. You’re safer there. There’s five of us, and only him. I’ll take good care of you. He’ll stay away, I know. What can he do to you with us around? He’s frightened of you now. ’
‘I’m scared … to go.’
‘Come on. I need your help. The Gaily’s dead. You saw the body they were carrying?’
Now Marta could not stop the tears. ‘The Gaily’s dead?’
‘We’ve got to bury him. Come on. Be brave.’
Marta did as she was told. She followed Miri. Held on to her arm. Entwined her fingers into hers until they reached the caves. She’d find an opportunity to teH her sister what the wind had reaily done.
Musa did not even look at them. He sat in conversation with the men, facing across the valley, with no expression on his face, his fat neck creased, a stack of twenty grimaces. He called to Miri only once, without turning to face her. ‘We’re waiting.’ ‘What for?’
‘For you to get the Gaily. ready for the burial.’
Preparing bodies was women’s work, in his opinion. The men could sit and pray, while Miri and Marta — glad to be busy and out of sight — gathered the leaves and bark of trees to make their shrouding ointments. They picked morning star and hyssop, dill pods, and the yeilow spices from solanum stems to perfume the body. Then they pulled back the smouldering fire and thorns, lit cups of candle-fat, and took refuge inside the smoky cave with Jesus.
They stood hand in hand in the ducking candlelight and the plumes ofclearingsmoke looking at the wrapped body, uncertain where to start. Only his hands and feet were visible, and so they cleaned them first with water taken from his grave. His skin was cold and dry. Despite the broken nails, the blisters and the sores, his hands and feet were still beautiful, as polished and unyielding as sculpted wood. The fast had thinned and lengthened his toes and fingers, so that the bones and joints were round and ripe like nuts in pods. The women unwrapped him from his curtain, removed the poppy petals from his eyes, and stood back to let the candles light his face. Marta gasped. She touched the Gally’s cheeks and lips, and shook her head. She was almost smiling, for the first time that day.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Miri. ‘Are you all right? Sit down. I’ll do it by myself’
‘No, let me help. I want to help.’ Marta touched his cheeks again. ‘I’m not afraid of him. He’s only skin and bone.’
The women covered Jesus’s face with a cloth, to protect his mouth against the devil and to protect themselves from the dangers oflooking a dead man in the eye for too long. That was the superstition, ‘Dead eyes looking, Bad luck cooking.’ But neither of them felt ill at ease withJesus. Nor did they feel much reverence for him. His body was too damaged and degraded. Only his feet and hands had caused any wonder. The rest had been more cruelly treated by the fast and was not beautiful. But touching him was not distasteful. It felt more like a blessing than a chore. They’d have good luck, not bad. Miri and Marta did not talk while they were preparingJesus. Their task was far too sole^rn and distressing. He was so young and disfigured. But they were glad they could at least share and halve the task with each other. They washed his body, wiped away the dried blood, the film of dust and ash, and cleaned his eyes and mouth and loins. They shut his eyes and pulled his lips over his teeth as best they could. His gums were so badly swollen that his mouth would not close. His grin was wide and mirthless. They anointed him with the herbs and ointments they’d coUected, and burnt the seeds for incense in the candle cups. Finally they bandaged his feet and hands, and wrapped him in the curtain once again. They’d done as much as any woman could. Now it was men’s work to carry him down to the cistern, and bury him. No woman should come near the grave. Miri and Marta stayed inside the cave, watching candle flames while Jesus was interred.