The Book of Longings(109)

I remember the rest of that night only vaguely. I know we sang without ceasing, first the men, then the women, blending finally into a single choir. The sistrums shook and the goatskin drums beat. We danced, pretending to cross the Red Sea, wheeling and counterwheeling, exhausted and delirious, until dawn came and we turned east and faced the light.





xxiv.


One afternoon, near the end of winter, Skepsis arrived unexpectedly in my holy room with swatches of leather, papyri, a measuring rod, needles, thread, wax, and a huge pair of scissors. “We’re going to turn your scrolls into codices,” she said. “A bound book is the best way to ensure your writing endures.”

She didn’t wait for my consent, which I would have given a hundred times over, but she set about spreading her bookmaking wares across the table. The scissors were identical to the ones I’d used to cut Jesus’s hair the day I’d told him I was with child.

“With which scrolls do you wish to begin?” she asked.

I heard her, but I could not stop looking at the long bronze scissor blades. The remembrance of them caused a toppling sensation in my chest.

“Ana?” she said.

Shaking my head to clear the memory, I retrieved the scrolls that contained my stories of the matriarchs and placed them on the table. “I wish to begin at the beginning.”

“Watch carefully and learn. I’ll show you how to make the first book, but the rest you must do yourself.” She measured and marked the scrolls and the leather cover. When she cut them, I closed my eyes, remembering the sound of the shears, the feel of his hair in my fingers.

“See, I did not injure a single one of your words,” she said when she was done, seeming to mistake my preoccupation as concern over her cutting skills. I did not correct her. Holding up a blank page of papyrus, she added, “I’ve cut an extra page so you may write a title on it.” Then she began to sew the pages together inside the leather covers.

“Now,” she said. “What is it that troubles you, Ana? Is it Haran?”

I hesitated. I had poured out my fears and longings to Yaltha and Diodora, but not to Skepsis. I said, “When spring comes, it will be two years since I’ve seen my husband.”

She smiled slightly. “I see.”

“My brother promised to send a letter when it was safe for me to return to Galilee. There’s a servant in Haran’s house who will bring it to me, but Haran will prevent my leaving.”

It seemed impossible that the Jewish militia was still posted on the road after all these months; their encampment had become a permanent outpost.

Skepsis pushed and pulled the needle, using a little iron hammer to force it through the leather. She said, “The salt boy tells me the soldiers have built a small stone hut in which to sleep, as well as a pen for a goat, and they’ve hired a local woman to cook their meals. It’s a testament to Haran’s patience and need for revenge.”

I had heard these things from Yaltha. Hearing them again left me even more disconsolate.

“I don’t know why the letter hasn’t come,” I said. “But I don’t feel I can tarry here much longer.”

“Do you see how I’m making a backstitch to make a double knot?” she asked, all of her attention refocused on the book. I said nothing more.

When the codex was completed, she placed it in my arms. “If your letter comes, I’ll do what I can to help you leave,” she said. “But it will sadden me to see you go. If your place is in Galilee, Ana, so be it. I only wish you to know that this place will be here if you desire to return.”

She left. I looked down at the codex, this thing of wonder.





xxv.


Then came a day balmy with spring. I had just finished turning the last of my scrolls into books, a task I’d worked on for weeks with an exigency I couldn’t explain. Now, alone in the house, I surveyed the stack of codices with relief, then amazement. Perhaps my words would endure now.

Yaltha had left the house to visit the library, and Diodora was off caring for Theano, who lay at death’s threshold. Skepsis had already ordered his coffin to be constructed—a simple box of acacia wood. Earlier, while watering the animals, I’d heard the insistent hammering in the woodworking shop.

Eager to show Diodora and Yaltha my collection of codices, I hurried to complete one last task before they returned. I filled the palette with ink and inscribed a title onto the empty page in each book, blowing the ink gently to dry it.

    The Matriarchs

The Tales of Terror

Phasaelis and Herod Antipas

My Life in Nazareth

Lamentations for Susanna

Jesus, Beloved

Yaltha of Alexandria

Chaya: Lost Daughter

The Ways of the Therapeutae

Thunder: Perfect Mind



Remembering Enheduanna, who signed her name to her writing, I reopened the books and signed mine: Ana. Not Ana, daughter of Matthias, or Ana, wife of Jesus. Just Ana.

There was only one codex I didn’t sign. When I lifted my pen to Thunder: Perfect Mind, my hand would not move. The words in the book had come from me, but also from beyond me. I closed the leather cover.

Awe took hold of me as I arranged the books inside the wall niche, then placed my incantation bowl on top. As I stepped back and took them in, Yaltha entered the room.