Текст книги "Quarantine"

Автор книги: Jim Crace

Соавторы: Jim Crace
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

31

Musa did not waste his energy. He could not vent his anger on the scree. He rested for a while to catch his breath, then gathered his possessions in a pile, the goods abandoned by the men, the goods abandoned by the woman and his wife, the wools, the bedding, all the fabrics of their life. He could not leave them on 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 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 chaHenge 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 puH him to his feet and wash his back in Jericho. Some woman with a little flesh. The very thought ofit 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 traveHer? He looked like some king-prophet come down from the hils, 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 itselfaround his arm and turned to wood. They could hold it, for a coin. One touch of his staff would protect them against al snakes. He had, he said, some phials of holy medicine. A sniff of each, and aU their illnesses would be cured and al 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 ofthe 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 a^s – 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 ofwind, and shadows shaking in the breeze. But Musa was now almost certain what he was looking at. It was his little Galy, 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 inJerusalem. Or Rome. Or in the land behind the middleman, the hill behind the hills, the village that you reached when ail 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

I have never been so weil 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 vailey 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 stiU weak, he’d say. The man would have seen the rocks at his feet, perhaps. But not the distant valley or the hils. 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.