Why?
Hearing footfall, she turned to see Rachel leading Ulrika's donkey up the ravine, her travel packs and medicine box still attached. "He didn't wander far," Rachel said with a smile. "How is your ankle?"
It was feeling better, although Ulrika couldn't put any weight on it. Nonetheless, she was anxious to resume her journey to Babylon, and was determined to find a way, a passing caravan, a traveling family who would take her.
As Rachel tethered the beast and untied Ulrika's packs to take them into the tent, Ulrika wanted to ask her why she and Almah didn't live at the oasis. Why did they stay in this barren place where not even a thorn grew?
Rachel emerged from the tent and as she bent over the cooking pot that was suspended over a fire, to stir a simmering lentil soup, she glanced at Ulrika. "Please," she said, pointing to the stool beside the tent door. "Take the weight off your ankle."
Ulrika gratefully took a seat and turned her face to the refreshing morning breeze. From the vantage point of this small encampment, she could see all the way to the crusty white shore of the salty sea, could see the desolate wasteland that stretched from the acrid water to the base of these cliffs. And then she realized in shock that she could see the very spot where she had fallen and had experienced a vision that even now, in the comforting light of a bright sun, continued to trouble her.
Ulrika scanned the small camp, the tiny tents, deserted, the larger tent that was Almah's, and the largest, Rachel's, which looked upon a little compound of campfire, stools, a pen for chickens, two goats. Wet clothing, washed at the oasis and brought back by an uncomplaining Almah, was spread out on boulders to dry.
When Rachel saw how Ulrika looked around in curiosity, she said, "I am a widow, and my beloved husband died before he could bless me with children. So I am alone. Others lived here with me for a while, but they left, one by one, until there is only Almah."
Ulrika thought of the Vestal Virgins—a sect of nuns in Rome who took vows of chastity and who lived a cloistered life devoted to prayer. But Rachel was Jewish—Ulrika had recognized the menorah inside the tent—and she had never heard of Jewish nuns.
"What is in Babylon?" Rachel asked with a smile. "You are in such a hurry to go there."
"There is a caravan about to depart for lands in the Far East. A ... friend is the caravaneer, a Spaniard named Sebastianus Gallus. We parted in Antioch when I had to come to Jerusalem where I thought I would find my mother. But I promised to join him in Babylon if I could."
"There is something special in Babylon?"
Ulrika paused to give Rachel a thoughtful look. The handsome Jewish woman possessed a unique voice. Deep for a woman, but smooth and soothing. It made Ulrika think of warm honey. A voice that one could not ignore. Ulrika wondered how much to tell Rachel, wondered if her hostess would think her mad—visions that were a gift from the gods, and a necessary quest to find a place called Shalamandar, the place of her conception. "I am searching for something," she said. "I was told it is in the back of the east wind, in mountains that have no name. Sebastianus is helping me to search for it."
Rachel stirred the soup, adding a pinch of salt. "Sebastianus is a good friend?"
"I have known him but a year, yet it seems I have known him forever." The words tumbled from her lips—meeting Sebastianus at the caravan staging area, the journey to Germania in Sebastianus's company, Sebastianus rescuing her from attackers in the forest, a night spent in hiding with Sebastianus, the journey back, getting to know more about him, an ocean voyage, a rainy night at an inn in Antioch. Ulrika blushed, suddenly realizing how she must sound. Every sentence began, "Sebastianus ..."
Bringing two bowls of soup, Rachel sat next to Ulrika, giving her one, and said, "When I first fell in love with my Jacob, I could speak of nothing but him. Sometimes, I just spoke his name because it felt good in my mouth and I loved to hear it spoken. You speak the name of Sebastianus the same way."
A small table stood between the two stools, and upon it lay a plate of flat, round bread, a small bowl of salt, two cups of water. They ate in silence, scooping the thick lentils onto the bread, two women deep in thought, each curious about the other, both pondering the uniqueness of this moment as women from very different worlds shared a humble meal.
When they were done, Ulrika started to rise, but Rachel bent her head and said, "Hav lan u-nevarekh ..."
Ulrika listened politely as Rachel recited a prayer. When she was finished, Rachel said, "We always give blessing to God after we eat."
Ulrika recalled that, the night before, when Rachel extinguished the last lamp before they went to sleep, she had recited a prayer in Hebrew. She had recited another that morning, upon rising.
Rachel said, "Prayer is ever-present in our lives. Prayer is witness to our covenant with God. It confirms and renews our faith on a daily basis."
As she took the empty dishes, Rachel said, "I will take you to the oasis so you can bathe. I go there myself once a month for the mikvah—a ritual cleansing bath following the menstrual cycle—in a secluded pool set aside for women. It is very private."
A day passed, and another, and Ulrika fell in with the rhythm of Rachel's and Almah's strange life. As her ankle healed, she went with them to the oasis to trade chicken eggs and goat's cheese for water and dates and fish. One day they brought back live locusts, which Rachel placed in a basket to be set it out in the sun until they died, and then she sat and painstakingly plucked off the locusts' wings, legs, and heads, placing them in her clay oven to dry-roast them for a special treat. Rachel cooked chicken eggs served with a sauce made of pine nuts and vinegar. Almonds and pistachios baked in honey were dessert. The three women drank watered date wine in the evenings, in moderation, as the sun went down and the valley of salt grew still and quiet.
Ulrika became interested in her hostess. There were no idols of gods in Rachel's tent, no relics of ancestors, no altars for sacrifice. She was not familiar with the religion of the Jews, except to understand that their god was invisible, and therefore they did not carve his likeness. Every dawn and every evening, Rachel went outside and prayed to her god, whom she called "Father." And Rachel's faith seemed to have many food rules, called kosher, so that Ulrika marveled that Rachel could remember them all.
They spent evenings talking over the campfire beneath the spring stars, and while Ulrika repaired her sandals and Almah worked at the loom, Rachel chopped vegetables and told stories about the heroes of the past.
"Jewish history is filled with many stories of brave heroes," Rachel said in her thick, honey-warm voice. "There was David who slew a giant, a peasant named Saul who became a king, Gideon who conquered the Midianites with a handful of men, Moses who brought the Israelites out of Egypt, and Joseph who saved an entire nation from famine. We look upon these forefathers as heroes, but they were in fact weak men. David, when he slew Goliath, had been a mere boy. Saul came from the smallest and least important clan. Gideon was from the weakest clan, and he himself was the weakest in that clan. Moses was slow of speech and tongue and begged God to send someone else to bring the Israelites out of Egypt. And Joseph was a slave. None of these heroes came from impressive backgrounds, or were men of any particular distinction. The rabbis tell us that God purposely chose these men because He showed Himself strong through their weakness."