bushes
outside the cave. Her name was Marta. She'd been married for
nine years to Thaniel, the landowner of Sawiya by Jerusalem.
His second wife. She was - a phrase she'd heard too often in the
song -
The Mother of a threadbare womb,
Her warp hung weftless on the loom.
Though she was over thirty years of age, she had no children
yet, despite her husband's nightly efforts, and her experiments
with all the recommended charms and herbs to aid fertility. She'd
sacrificed a dozen pigeons with the local priest. She'd rubbed
42
honey on a marrow, sent money to Jerusalem, worn copper
body charms, endured - she could not see how this would help
- her husband's semen in her mouth. She'd worn balsam leaves
underneath her clothes for weeks on end until she rustled like
parchment. She'd eaten only green fruit (and paid the price) .
She'd starved herself. She'd gorged. Now she was plump and
getting plumper, not to satisfy her husband, but because a flat
stomach was intolerable. A larger one and bigger breasts might
bring good luck, she thought. Provide the dovecote, and the
doves will come.
None ofit had worked, of course. Her warp remained without
its weft. A hundred times and more, she'd done her best to fend
off with prayers and lies the monthly rebuff of her periods. Now
she only had till harvest to conceive. Then, her husband said,
he would divorce her. The law allowed him to. The law
demanded that he should, in fact. After ten years of barrenness
a man could take another wife. 'You don't cast seed on sour
land,' he said. He had a right to heirs. It was a woman's religious
duty to provide and bring up children. He'd had to divorce his
first wife, because she'd failed to conceive. Marta had failed as
well. So Thaniel would have to turn her out and look elsewhere.
Of course it was regrettable and harsh, he said, but he could
hardly blame himself. Not twice. He'd marry 'Lisha's daughter.
She was young. Her father owned some land adjacent to his
own. The prospect was a cheerful one. And sensible.
'I'll have a son within ten months, ' he told his wife. 'And,
Marta, wipe your face and show some dignity. What use are
tears? You'd better pray for miracles . . . Come on. You will
have had ten years to prove yourself, and that is fair . . . '
'I'll pray,' she said.
'Pray all you want. '
Marta took him at his word. She would do everything she
could. So, despite the priest's objections that her plans were
43
wilful and unbecoming, she had walked into the wilderness to
fast by day and pray for miracles by night.
Now she was sitting upright inside the cave, her back pressed
against the least damp wall, and watching the entrance for dawn's
first smudge of grey. She was more tired than scared - and though
she, like her neighbours, turned the clatter of each tumbling
stone, displaced by nothing more ominous than dew, into a devil
or a snake, she could not stop her chin from dropping on her
chest from time to time. Her sleeping dreams were less alarming
than her waking ones, and so it felt to her that she did not fall
asleep but rather fell awake into the nightmare of the cave, alone.
She woke inside a womb, a grave, a catacomb. But she was calm.
These forty days could not be worse than the alternative - a life
without a child, a husband or a home.
She despised the man, of course, and had taken hardly any
pleasure in the marriage for at least eight of their nine or so years
together. In that she was the same as many of the women in
Sawiya. Marriage was a bumpy ride for them, though 'Better
ride than walk,' they said, 'even if the ride is on a donkey.'
Their husbands were an irritation, of course. But husbands were
amusing, too. At least, they were amusing when they were out
of sight. Their vanities and tempers could be joked about among
women friends at the ovens or the well. Grumbling and laughing
at their curdy husbands made the bread rise and the yoghurt set.
But Marta could not
outside the cave. Her name was Marta. She'd been married for
nine years to Thaniel, the landowner of Sawiya by Jerusalem.
His second wife. She was - a phrase she'd heard too often in the
song -
The Mother of a threadbare womb,
Her warp hung weftless on the loom.
Though she was over thirty years of age, she had no children
yet, despite her husband's nightly efforts, and her experiments
with all the recommended charms and herbs to aid fertility. She'd
sacrificed a dozen pigeons with the local priest. She'd rubbed
42
honey on a marrow, sent money to Jerusalem, worn copper
body charms, endured - she could not see how this would help
- her husband's semen in her mouth. She'd worn balsam leaves
underneath her clothes for weeks on end until she rustled like
parchment. She'd eaten only green fruit (and paid the price) .
She'd starved herself. She'd gorged. Now she was plump and
getting plumper, not to satisfy her husband, but because a flat
stomach was intolerable. A larger one and bigger breasts might
bring good luck, she thought. Provide the dovecote, and the
doves will come.
None ofit had worked, of course. Her warp remained without
its weft. A hundred times and more, she'd done her best to fend
off with prayers and lies the monthly rebuff of her periods. Now
she only had till harvest to conceive. Then, her husband said,
he would divorce her. The law allowed him to. The law
demanded that he should, in fact. After ten years of barrenness
a man could take another wife. 'You don't cast seed on sour
land,' he said. He had a right to heirs. It was a woman's religious
duty to provide and bring up children. He'd had to divorce his
first wife, because she'd failed to conceive. Marta had failed as
well. So Thaniel would have to turn her out and look elsewhere.
Of course it was regrettable and harsh, he said, but he could
hardly blame himself. Not twice. He'd marry 'Lisha's daughter.
She was young. Her father owned some land adjacent to his
own. The prospect was a cheerful one. And sensible.
'I'll have a son within ten months, ' he told his wife. 'And,
Marta, wipe your face and show some dignity. What use are
tears? You'd better pray for miracles . . . Come on. You will
have had ten years to prove yourself, and that is fair . . . '
'I'll pray,' she said.
'Pray all you want. '
Marta took him at his word. She would do everything she
could. So, despite the priest's objections that her plans were
43
wilful and unbecoming, she had walked into the wilderness to
fast by day and pray for miracles by night.
Now she was sitting upright inside the cave, her back pressed
against the least damp wall, and watching the entrance for dawn's
first smudge of grey. She was more tired than scared - and though
she, like her neighbours, turned the clatter of each tumbling
stone, displaced by nothing more ominous than dew, into a devil
or a snake, she could not stop her chin from dropping on her
chest from time to time. Her sleeping dreams were less alarming
than her waking ones, and so it felt to her that she did not fall
asleep but rather fell awake into the nightmare of the cave, alone.
She woke inside a womb, a grave, a catacomb. But she was calm.
These forty days could not be worse than the alternative - a life
without a child, a husband or a home.
She despised the man, of course, and had taken hardly any
pleasure in the marriage for at least eight of their nine or so years
together. In that she was the same as many of the women in
Sawiya. Marriage was a bumpy ride for them, though 'Better
ride than walk,' they said, 'even if the ride is on a donkey.'
Their husbands were an irritation, of course. But husbands were
amusing, too. At least, they were amusing when they were out
of sight. Their vanities and tempers could be joked about among
women friends at the ovens or the well. Grumbling and laughing
at their curdy husbands made the bread rise and the yoghurt set.
But Marta could not
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