fear nor shame nor disgust at any stench. Only hunger. Perhaps Asa had screamed when he heard the
corpses hissing at him from above the midden pit, dark silhouettes against the
stars. Screams that were utterly lost amid the death-cries of
the town. Or perhaps he had lain silent and still while they fed on the
dead or dying women, until one of the corpses found him, too.
Bar
Nahemyah and the others had kept silent in their approach; until the call of
the shofar the dead hadn’t looked up as they lifted red flesh and entrails to their
gaping mouths. Watching them, Bar Nahemyah had stood cold, as though he had
swallowed the winter wind and given it a place to lie still and icy inside his
chest. When he had left the synagogue with the shofar, he had not taken time to
wash away the dried blood on his hands and arms from the two Romans he had
killed during the night, nor the filth that had spattered across his coat as he
drove a hammer into the heads of the groaning corpses that sought to surge
through him into the synagogue.
He
was fifteen and only recently a man. He had watched skulls burst apart beneath
his hammer, had seen the meat and bone inside the human body. Had seen the girl
who had given herself to him in an hour of gasping and heat on the night of
their betrothal torn apart before his eyes, screaming for a few brief moments
as the dead ripped out the insides of her belly, hollowing her until she lay
still. He had seen all that. Now Bar Nahemyah was cold, everything in him cold.
The shaking that had taken him after the violence had subsided before the
rising of the sun, leaving behind only this heatless fury. No messenger or
messiah of God had arrived during the night to halt the slaughter, no Makkaba
riding from the cities of the south with vengeful, armed priests on dark horses
behind. No miracle, no deliverance. There had been only the hammer held in his
hand.
He
had cast away the hammer in disgust and wrath once there were only bodies
before the synagogue door, and he had not stopped to retrieve it as he strode
out to check for other dead. Only after he came down to the shore had he
realized his hands were empty; he’d stooped then to take up the stone he held
now.
As
the notes of the shofar faded, he lifted that stone and gazed down at the dead
in the midden. “Heard that, did you?” he called to them.
The
dead hissed and lurched to their feet, their jaws opening to reveal bloodied
teeth.
“Don’t
get too close,” Bar Nahemyah said to the others.
Then
he hurled the stone.
For
the briefest of moments it spun in the air like a ball in one of those games
the pig-eating Greeks favored.
Then
it smacked one of the corpses in the left shoulder. The corpse spun about and
crumpled to its knee. The other two shambled past it. But even as Bar
Nahemyah’s companions threw their own rocks down at the dead, the first corpse
looked over its shoulder at them and growled like a beast as it staggered to
its feet.
Then
the men were hurling stones down at the midden, to the cracking of bones and
the growling of the dead. One of the corpses toppled and lay
still, its head crushed in. The others lurched on up the shallow sides of the
pit, reeking of death and offal and salt water. A stone crushed one’s thigh—a
corpse that, in life, must have been a girl nearly old enough to bear a child,
her hair long and lank about her gray shoulders, one of her breasts chewed half
away. Still she dragged herself across the shore with her hands, hissing and
snarling.
Their
bodies broke beneath the rocks, yet they kept coming.
And coming.
“Fall
back,” Bar Nahemyah snapped. “More stones.”
The
young men retreated at a stumbling run toward the grasses at the tideline, and
along the way they lifted from the sand and shingle what they could: rocks
smoothed and tossed landward by the sea, gnarled driftwood, shells of sea
creatures blind and deep and strange as the world’s beginning, anything that
could be thrown at the dead
corpses hissing at him from above the midden pit, dark silhouettes against the
stars. Screams that were utterly lost amid the death-cries of
the town. Or perhaps he had lain silent and still while they fed on the
dead or dying women, until one of the corpses found him, too.
Bar
Nahemyah and the others had kept silent in their approach; until the call of
the shofar the dead hadn’t looked up as they lifted red flesh and entrails to their
gaping mouths. Watching them, Bar Nahemyah had stood cold, as though he had
swallowed the winter wind and given it a place to lie still and icy inside his
chest. When he had left the synagogue with the shofar, he had not taken time to
wash away the dried blood on his hands and arms from the two Romans he had
killed during the night, nor the filth that had spattered across his coat as he
drove a hammer into the heads of the groaning corpses that sought to surge
through him into the synagogue.
He
was fifteen and only recently a man. He had watched skulls burst apart beneath
his hammer, had seen the meat and bone inside the human body. Had seen the girl
who had given herself to him in an hour of gasping and heat on the night of
their betrothal torn apart before his eyes, screaming for a few brief moments
as the dead ripped out the insides of her belly, hollowing her until she lay
still. He had seen all that. Now Bar Nahemyah was cold, everything in him cold.
The shaking that had taken him after the violence had subsided before the
rising of the sun, leaving behind only this heatless fury. No messenger or
messiah of God had arrived during the night to halt the slaughter, no Makkaba
riding from the cities of the south with vengeful, armed priests on dark horses
behind. No miracle, no deliverance. There had been only the hammer held in his
hand.
He
had cast away the hammer in disgust and wrath once there were only bodies
before the synagogue door, and he had not stopped to retrieve it as he strode
out to check for other dead. Only after he came down to the shore had he
realized his hands were empty; he’d stooped then to take up the stone he held
now.
As
the notes of the shofar faded, he lifted that stone and gazed down at the dead
in the midden. “Heard that, did you?” he called to them.
The
dead hissed and lurched to their feet, their jaws opening to reveal bloodied
teeth.
“Don’t
get too close,” Bar Nahemyah said to the others.
Then
he hurled the stone.
For
the briefest of moments it spun in the air like a ball in one of those games
the pig-eating Greeks favored.
Then
it smacked one of the corpses in the left shoulder. The corpse spun about and
crumpled to its knee. The other two shambled past it. But even as Bar
Nahemyah’s companions threw their own rocks down at the dead, the first corpse
looked over its shoulder at them and growled like a beast as it staggered to
its feet.
Then
the men were hurling stones down at the midden, to the cracking of bones and
the growling of the dead. One of the corpses toppled and lay
still, its head crushed in. The others lurched on up the shallow sides of the
pit, reeking of death and offal and salt water. A stone crushed one’s thigh—a
corpse that, in life, must have been a girl nearly old enough to bear a child,
her hair long and lank about her gray shoulders, one of her breasts chewed half
away. Still she dragged herself across the shore with her hands, hissing and
snarling.
Their
bodies broke beneath the rocks, yet they kept coming.
And coming.
“Fall
back,” Bar Nahemyah snapped. “More stones.”
The
young men retreated at a stumbling run toward the grasses at the tideline, and
along the way they lifted from the sand and shingle what they could: rocks
smoothed and tossed landward by the sea, gnarled driftwood, shells of sea
creatures blind and deep and strange as the world’s beginning, anything that
could be thrown at the dead
Similar Books
