The Book of Longings(20)

I glanced past him to the cave. Had God not brought me here?

From behind my shoulder Lavi whispered, “We must leave now.” I’d forgotten his presence.

I collected my thoughts. This man, Jesus, is a stonemason who walks to Sepphoris from Nazareth. He’s devout, coming here to pray before his labors.

I looked skyward for the sun, noting the time, then slipped back into the trees, parting the blue shadows.





xv.


I found Yaltha in her room. She was my ally, my place of mooring, but when I attempted to tell her about Jesus and the longing I’d felt to speak to him, I was seized by an inexplicable diffidence. How could I explain, even to her, the pull I felt toward a complete stranger?

Sensing my reserve, she said, “What is it, child?”

“I found a cave in which to hide my bowl and my writings.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. It’s none too soon. Earlier today I found Shipra rummaging among my things.”

She looked at the cypress chest she’d brought from Alexandria. Soon after arriving she’d opened it for me, just as I’d opened my chest for her. Inside had been the sistrum, a beaded head scarf, a pouch of amulets and charms, and a wondrous pair of Egyptian scissors composed of two long bronze blades connected by a metal strip. Had she placed my treasures in the chest? Had Shipra discovered them? I felt a prick of panic, but she quickly retrieved the bundle of my scrolls from beneath a stack of clothing on a tripod stool—hidden in plain view—then withdrew my incantation bowl from beneath her sleeping mat.

Taking the bowl from her, I peeled away the flax cloth, spying the red thread still coiled at the bottom, and my limbs went loose. It came to me then—I did know what to say to her about Jesus, but I was too frightened to confess it.

The one text Father had forbidden me was the Song of Solomon, a poem of a woman and her lover. Naturally, therefore, I’d sought it out and read it four times. I’d read it with the same heat in my face and rippling in my thighs that I’d felt watching Jesus in the clearing. Fragments of the text lodged in me still and came back to me easily.


Under the apple tree I awakened you . . .

My beloved put his hand to the latch, and my heart was thrilled within me . . .

Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it . . .





* * *



? ? ?

I ISOLATED MYSELF in my room, tucking my scrolls and my bowl beneath my bed. I would have to hold my breath and pray they would be protected until I could return to the cave and bury them. They did at least seem safer here than in Yaltha’s room, where Shipra felt free to pry.

Lavi brought me a bowl of grilled fish, lentils, and bread, but I couldn’t eat. While I’d been out, Mother had hung my betrothal robe on a peg in my room, a white tunic of fine linen with purple bands in the style of Roman women. Judas would’ve been enraged to see me in such traitorous garb. And what of Nathaniel—did my dress mean that he, like Antipas, was a Roman sympathizer? The thought of him precipitated a seizure of despair.

Under the apple tree I awakened you.

Remembering that I’d tucked three sheets of clean papyrus into the goatskin pouch, I pulled the bundle from beneath the bed and removed a vial of ink, a pen, and one of the empty papyri. Having no lock on my door, I sat with my back braced against it to bar anyone entering and spread the sheet before me on the tiles. My writing board was ash now.

I didn’t know what I would write. Words engulfed me. Torrents and floodwaters. I couldn’t contain them, nor could I release them. But it wasn’t words that surged through me, it was longing. It was love of him.

I dipped my pen. When you love, you remember everything. The way his eyes rested on me for the first time. The yarns he held in the market, fluttering now in hidden places in my body. The sound of his voice on my skin. The thought of him like a diving bird in my belly. I loved others—Yaltha, Judas, my parents, God, Lavi, Tabitha—but not in this way, not with ache and sweetness and flame. Not more than I loved words. Jesus had put his hand to the latch and I was flung open.

I set it all down. I filled the papyrus.

When the ink was dry, I rolled it up and slid it into the bundle beneath the bed. The air in the room felt dangerous. My writings could not remain in the house much longer.





xvi.


At midafternoon Mother strode into my room. She glanced toward my bed, where my bowl and writings were concealed, then away. She clicked her teeth at the sight of my betrothal dress in a crumpled pile on the floor. That she didn’t chastise me should have forewarned me something awful was coming.

“Dearest Ana,” she said. Her voice dripped nectar. That, too, was an ominous sign. “Nathaniel’s sister, Zopher, is here to see you.”

“No one told me of a visit.”

“I thought it better to surprise you. You will treat her with deference, won’t you?”

The hairs on my neck debated whether to stand up. “Why would I not?”

“She has come to inspect you for afflictions of the skin and other blemishes. You shouldn’t worry, she’ll be quick about it.”

I didn’t know such an indignity was possible.

“It’s only to satisfy the contract,” Mother went on. “Nathaniel must be given a guarantee by one of his own relatives that your body meets the terms he set forth.”