His father tugged the sleeve of his grandfather.
Is there really a Temple of the Moon, Ya’qub?
There is certainly. Yes yes, I’ve seen it as long as I can remember.
But not today? asked his father.
No not today but I’ll see it again, answered his grandfather.
When? In a week, Ya’qub? Two months from now?
More or less then, o former hakïm. Yes assuredly.
And yesterday?
No.
Six months ago?
Yes and no. But in any case one of those times without any doubt whatsoever.
But what are these yesterdays and next weeks of yours, Ya’qub? These two months from now and six months ago? This strange way you have of discussing time? More or less, you say, running days and dates past and future all together as if they were the same.
His father smiled. His grandfather laughed and clasped the small bewildered boy to his chest.
Do I? Yes I do. It must be simply that the Temple of the Moon is always there for me because I know it in every detail, exactly as I’ve seen it before and will see it again. And as for the sand that may cover it from time to time, well sand is no matter. We live in the desert and sand simply comes and goes.
His father turned to him.
Do you know it in every detail the way your grandfather does?
Yes, whispered the boy.
And you can see it all in your mind’s eye even now?
Yes.
His father nodded solemnly, his grandfather smiled happily.
Then it must be as your grandfather says. Above the sands or beneath them is no matter. For you, as for him, the temple is always there.
The boy thought he understood and went on to another question.
Well if it’s always there now, how long has it always been there? Who built it?
His grandfather pretended to frown. Again he clasped the boy in his arms.
That’s history, he said, and I know nothing of such things, how could I? But fortunately for us your father’s a learned man who has traveled everywhere and gathered all the knowledge in the world, so probably he has already read the inscriptions on the pillars and can answer those questions precisely. Well, o former hakïm? Who built the Temple of the Moon in Marib and how long ago would you say? Precisely one thousand years ago and forever? Two thousand years ago and forever?
This time it was Ya’qub’s turn to tug his father’s sleeve and his father’s turn to smile.
The people were called Sabaeans, he said, and they built it three thousand years ago and forever.
The small boy gasped at the incomprehensible figure.
Father, will you teach me to read the inscriptions on the pillars?
Yes, but first Ya’qub must tell us when they will reappear. He must teach us about the sand.
Will you do that, grandfather?
Yes yes certainly. When next the wind blows we’ll go out together and sniff it and see if the incense is returning once more to the Temple of the Moon in Marib.
The short round man snorted, he laughed. His father, grave and dignified, led the way back to the tent where water was set boiling for coffee. And that night as so often the boy sat up by the fire until what seemed a very late hour, drowsily slipping in and out of sleep, never quite sure whether the wondrous words the two old men ceaselessly passed back and forth in the shadows were from the Zohar this time or the Thousand and One Nights, or perhaps written in the stones of the Temple of the Moon where he played, the mysterious myrrh of his childhood, vanishing pillars and fountains and waterways returning with inscriptions to be read one day as surely as gusts in the turning wind, a heady scent never to be forgotten no matter how deeply the strands of incense were buried beneath the sands that night and three thousand years ago and forever, as his father spoke of time in the Temple of the Moon after his long decades of wandering, or that night and the yesterday and next week of forever, as his grandfather described it on that remote hillside beyond ancient Marib which had always been his home.
His mother’s teachings also flowed when they walked together in the dim cool light of dawn collecting herbs and wild grasses for their salads. Sometimes she made strange sounds out there and gazed at the ground for whole minutes holding her side, her face weary in a way he didn’t understand.
What could she tell him after all, a boy of four? She was going that’s all, every day the weight was heavier. When she stooped for a blade of grass it pushed her down and when she straightened again she had to press her eyes closed to hold back the pain. The blessing of a child had simply taken more than her body had to give. But he was young and one day he asked her about it when she staggered on the hillside.
What is it, Mother?
The memory of that moment would never leave him. The stiff fingers, the strained face, the tired haunted eyes. She sank to her knees and hid her face. She was crying.
Where does it hurt?
She took his hand and placed it on her heart.
Where? I can’t feel anything.
Here is better, she said, putting one of his tiny fingers on a vein in her wrist.
That’s your blood. Is that where the pain is?
No, in my heart where you couldn’t feel it.
But Father will be able to feel it. Father was a great hakïm. He can cure anyone.
No. The reason you couldn’t feel it is because sometimes we have pains that belong to us and no one else.
Now he began to cry and she leaned forward on her knees and kissed his eyes.
Don’t do that. It’s all right.
But it’s not. And Father can make it better, I know he can.
No my son.
But that’s not fair.
Oh yes it is, new life for old is always fair.
Whose life? What do you mean?
Whose life doesn’t matter. What matters is that if a time ever comes when you have a special pain all your own you must carry it yourself, because other people have theirs too.
Everyone doesn’t.
Yes I’m afraid they do.
Grandfather doesn’t. He’s always laughing.
So it seems. But underneath there’s something else.
What?
Your grandmother. She died long ago and he has never stopped missing her.
Well Father certainly doesn’t hurt.
Yes, even him. Now he has a place to rest but for many years that wasn’t so. And once just before he came to our little corner of the world and your grandfather found him alone in the dust and brought him home to us, there was a terrible time when he was lost.
The little boy shook his head stubbornly.
But that’s not true, Father was never lost. He walked from Timbuktu to the Hindu Kush and floated down the Tigris to Baghdad and marched through three dawns and two sunsets out of the Sinai without even noticing he had no food or water. No one has ever done the things he did.
That may be but I didn’t mean he was lost in the desert. He was lost here, in his heart, where my pain is now.
The little boy looked at the ground. He had always accepted everything his mother said but it seemed impossible that his smiling grandfather could really be sad inside. And it was even more impossible to believe his father had ever been lost.
And so, she said, we mustn’t tell your father about my pain because he has his own burdens from the past. He came here to find peace, he brought us happiness and he deserves it in return.
She put her hands on his shoulders.
Now promise me that.
He was crying again. I promise, he said, but I also want to help. Isn’t there something I can do?
Well perhaps one day you can find our home. Your father found a home with us but your grandfather and I don’t really belong here.