Read Quarantine Online

Authors: Jim Crace

Tags: #Literary, #Fiction, #ST, #CS

Quarantine (41 page)

display for anyone to help themselves. He'd rather have another

fire. But there were huge rocks a little lower down the landfall

where he could hide his merchandise. He didn't have to carry

anything. He only had to let it slip and roll, and then push the

goods into a crevice. When he left, he'd block it off with stones.

He could come back, or send someone, to claim his property at

any time, so long as the scree did not give way and claim his

treasures for itself

The water-bag which Marta had thrown down the scree was

too far out to reach, beyond his climbing skills. He had no water,

then. He'd be a fool to try to carry on in the heat of the afternoon.

The sun would finish him. Certainly he could not attempt to

give chase to the women. Instead, he sat beneath the crevice of

the rock with his possessions at his back, hiding in the shade.

When the sun went down, he wrapped himself in bedding

clothes and sat, cursing his misfortune, not getting any sleep.

He'd never known a longer night.

In the morning, as soon as there was any light, but before the

sun had any strength to it, Musa forced himself to stand and

resume his descent to the valley. He only carried the blond man's

23 9

staff. He hid the perfume bottles, the gold, the coins and the

jewellery in his underclothes. He pushed the ornamented knife

into his sash. He was surprised how even-tempered he was

feeling. He'd been restored by a night of cursing. Now he only

saw one challenge in his life. If he could safely get down to the

bottom of the landfall, then what could stop him getting into

Jericho, and who could stop him there from trading up his bad

luck into good? Who'd dare?

His wife and child were far ahead. He couldn't catch them

now. He wouldn't try. He was divorced from her. He'd look

for someone else to pull him to his feet and wash his back in

Jericho. Some woman with a little flesh. The very thought of it

relieved him of his anger. He made slow progress down the

scree, leaning on his staff for ten steps at a time, and then resting

until he grew too stiff to rest. He stopped before midday and

once again took refuge in the shade. This time he slept, his head

on shale. It left its imprint on his face. There were a few thin

clouds that day to screen the sun, so Musa could continue his

descent in the afternoon without the opposition of the heat. He

finally reached the trading route late in the day, and took his

place amongst the stragglers who would have to fight for places

at the single inn on the approaches to the town.

Musa was alarmingly tired, and even a little lame. He walked

more slowly than the other travellers, all younger, smaller men,

loaded down with bags or dragging their possessions on wooden

sleds. But one or two dropped back to talk to him. One offered

him some water from his bag. Who could he be, this grand,

impressive man, with his covering of dust and scratches, his

wondrous curling staff, his ornamented knife, and nothing on

his back to mark him out as a trader or a proper traveller? He

looked like some king-prophet come down from the hills, like

Moses, with his prescriptions for the world.

They were amazed at all the stories he could tell. He'd come

from forty days of quarantine up in the wilderness. He hadn't

drunk or eaten anything. He'd gone up thin and come back fat,

thanks to god's good offices. He'd shared his cave with angels

and messiahs; he'd met a healer and a man who could make

bread from stones. His staff had come to him one night, a

dangerous snake which wrapped itself around his arm and turned

to wood. They could hold it, for a coin. One touch of his staff

would protect them against all snakes. He had, he said, some

phials of holy medicine. A sniff of each, and all their illnesses

would be cured and all their troubles would be halved. He would

not charge them very much, as they were friends and comrades

on the road. 'Come to me at the inn tonight,' he said. 'And you

will see.'

One of the travellers gave Musa food to eat. Another let him

ride inside his donkey cart. He sat on bales of scrub hay, his fat

legs hanging off the back. What little sun there was came from

the sununit of the precipice. Musa looked up to the scree, shading

his eyes against the light, and checked the spot where he had

left his worldly goods. He was alarmed for an instant. There was

somebody climbing down towards his hiding place, halfhidden

in the shade. A man or woman? Musa was not sure. Whoever

it was did not stop to search amongst the rocks, but hurried

down across a patch of silvery shale. Now Musa had a clearer

view; a thin and halting figure tacking the scree, almost a mirage

- ankleless, no arms - in the lifting light.

Musa shouted to his new companions. 'Look there,' he said.

'That's one I mentioned to you. The healer. Risen from the

grave.' But they were not sure that they could make out anyone.

The shapes they saw could be mistaken for disturbances of wind,

and shadows shaking in the breeze. But Musa was now almost

certain what he was looking at. It was his little Gaily, coming

down from death and god to start his ministry. He recognized

the weight and step of him.

Musa wondered if he ought to ask the cart-owner to leave

him at the roadside to wait for Gaily. But Musa was afraid of

being wrong. What if he waited and the man did not appear?

What if he waited and the man was some thin figure with another

face? What if the man were what they said, a shadow shaking in

the breeze? Musa pushed the very thought away. He would not

wait, he persuaded himself, because it was not sensible to wait.

There were practicalities to bear in mind. The cart was not the

choice of emperors but it was comfortable enough, and preferable

to walking. The Galilean might be a healer and the lord of

miracles, but he was not a cart. No, Musa had to persevere. He'd

go ahead until he reached the inn, and then he could pay for

two places for the night, if there were any places left. One for

himself and one for Gaily. 'Show me how to tum stones into

bread,' he'd say, 'and we'll go into business. I'll make you richer

than Tiberius.' They'd make a deal, and shake some empty cups

on it.

And if he did not come into the inn? Then Musa would not

be disappointed. Life was long. He could expect to meet the

man inJericho, among the palms, beneath the henna blossoms.

Or in Jerusalem. Or Rome. Or in the land behind the middleman,

the hill behind the hills, the village that you reached when all

the villages had ended, where blue was silver and the air was

heavier than smoke.

In the meantime, this would be his merchandise, something

finer and less burdensome than even colour, sound or smell. No

need for camel panniers or porters or cousins. He'd trade the

word. There was a man who had defeated death with just his

fingertips. 'I am the living proof' He'd travel to the markets of

the world. He'd preach the good news. That would be easy.

Musa had the skills. He had been blessed with this one gift. He

could tell tales. 'He came into my tent,' he'd say. 'He touched

me here, and here. "Be well," he told me. And I am well. And

242

I have never been so well. Step forward. Touch me. Feel how

well I am.'

Musa looked towards the distant scree again. He told himself

this was no merchant fantasy. His Gaily was no longer thin and

watery, diluted by the mirage heat, distorted by the ripples in

the air. He made his slow, painstaking way, naked and barefooted, down the scree, his feet blood-red from wounds, and as he came closer to the valley floor his outline hardened and his

body put on flesh.

Musa raised an arm in greeting, but there was no response.

The Gaily's eyesight was still weak, he'd say. The man would

have seer,t the rocks at his feet, perhaps. But not the distant valley

or the hills. And so he could not spot his landlord riding there.

Nor could he contemplate the endless movements on the trading

road, the floods, the rifts, the troops, the ever-caravans, the

evening peace that's brokered not by a god but by the rocks and

clays themselves, shalom, salaam, the one-time, all-time truces of

the land.

Document Outline

Other books

The Summer Hideaway by Susan Wiggs
Rocky (Tales of the Were) by D'Arc, Bianca
Juilliard or Else by Reese, Nichele
Never Wake by Gabrielle Goldsby
Defy by Raine Thomas
Aloha, Candy Hearts by Anthony Bidulka
Death of a Winter Shaker by Deborah Woodworth
Death's Head Legion by Trey Garrison
Ratcatcher by Stevens, Tim


readsbookonline.com Copyright 2016 - 2024