The Book of Longings(14)

“But why? What do they do there?”

“They contemplate God with a fervor you can scarcely imagine. They pray and fast and sing and dance. I found it to be too much fervor for me. They do practical work, too, like growing food, hauling water, sewing garments and such, but their real work is to study and write.”

Study and write. The thought filled me with wonder and stirring. How could there be such a place? “And are there women among them?”

“I was there, wasn’t I? As many women dwell there as men and they bear the same zeal and purpose. They’re even led by a woman, Skepsis, and there’s a great reverence for God’s female spirit. We prayed to her by her Greek name, Sophia.”

Sophia. The name shimmered in my head. Why had I never prayed to her?

Yaltha grew quiet, so quiet I feared she’d lost the desire to go on. Turning, I saw our shadows against the wall, the bent stick of Yaltha’s spine, the waves and tangles of my hair spewing like a fountain. I could barely sit still. I wanted her to tell me everything about the women who lived in stone houses on the side of a hill, about the things they studied and wrote.

As I gazed at her now, she seemed different to me. She’d lived among them.

Finally she spoke. “I spent eight years with the Therapeutae, and tried to embrace their life—they were caring; they didn’t judge me. They saved me, but in the end I was not suited to their life.”

“And you wrote and studied?”

“My job was to tend the herbs and vegetables, but yes, I spent many hours in the library. Mind you, it’s nothing like the great library in Alexandria—it’s a donkey shed by comparison—but there are treasures in it.”

“Like what?”

I was bouncing a little on the bed. She patted my leg. “All right, all right. There’s a copy of Plato’s Symposium there. In it he wrote that his old mentor Socrates was taught philosophy by a woman. Her name was Diotima.”

Seeing my eyes grow wide, she said, “And, there’s a badly stained copy of Epitaphios written by a female named Aspasia. She was the teacher of Pericles.”

“I’ve heard of neither of them,” I said, pierced to think of my ignorance and awed that such women existed.

“Oh, but the real treasure is a copy of a hymn, the ‘Exaltation of Inanna.’ It came to us from Sumeria.”

This I’d heard of—not the hymn, but Inanna the Goddess, queen of heaven, and Yahweh’s adversary. Some Jewish women secretly made sacrificial cakes for her. “Did you read the ‘Exaltation’?” I asked.

“‘Lady of all the divine powers, resplendent light, righteous woman clothed in radiance, mistress of heaven . . . ’”

“You can recite it?”

“Only a small part. It, too, was written by a woman, a priestess. I know because two millennia ago she signed her name to it—Enheduanna. We women revered her for her boldness.”

Why had I never signed my name to what I wrote? “I don’t know why you would leave such a place as that,” I said. “If I should be so fortunate as to be banished to the Therapeutae, you couldn’t pry me from it.”

“It has its goodness, but also its hardships. One’s life is not entirely one’s own, but is ruled by the community. Obedience is required. And there’s a great deal of fasting.”

“Did you run away? How did you come to be here?”

“Now, where would I have run to? I’m here with you because Skepsis did not cease in pleading my case to Haran. He’s a cruel man and a belligerent ass, but eventually he petitioned the council to let me leave the Therapeutae on the condition I also left Alexandria. They sent me here to your father, who is the youngest of us and had no choice but to obey his brother.”

“Does Father know of these things?”

“Yes, as does your mother, whose first thought upon rising each morning is that I am a thorn in her right side.”

“And I am the thorn in her left,” I said with some pride.

We were startled by a noise, a scrape of furniture beyond the door, and we drew up in silence and waited, rewarded at last by Shipra settling back into her voluminous snores.

“Listen to me,” Yaltha said, and I knew she was about to divulge the true reason she’d dosed Shipra’s drink and come to me in the middle of the night. I wanted to tell her about my vision, how it’d visited my dream—Ana, who shines—and hear her affirm the meaning I’d given to it, but that would have to wait.

“I’ve been meddling,” Yaltha said. “I took it as my task to listen at your parents’ door. Tomorrow morning they will come to your room and remove the scrolls and inks from your chest. Whatever it contains will be taken and—”

“Burned,” I said.

“Yes.”

I wasn’t surprised, but I felt the crush of it. I forced myself to look over at the chest of cedar in the corner. Inside were my narratives of the matriarchs, of the women and girls of Alexandria, of Aseneth—this my small collection of lost stories. It also contained my commentaries on the Scriptures, treatises of philosophy, psalms, Greek lessons. The inks I’d mixed. My carefully honed pens. My palette and writing board. They would make ash of all of it.

“If we are to thwart this, we must make haste,” said Yaltha. “You must remove the most cherished items from the chest and I will hide them in my room until we can find a better place for safekeeping.”