find the comedy in Thaniel. He'd made
her and his first wife barren, she was sure, with his dry heart and
sparking tongue. They were like millstones without oil. But -
Marta was an optimist - she still believed that everything would
be a joy if she could have his child. She pressed her eyes shut
with her forefinger and her thumb, her little finger resting on
the corner of her lips, and she prayed that she could leave her
infertility behind in this dark, barren place, where it belonged.
She prayed for forty days and nights of ripening, that she'd be
44
fruitful, that she'd multiply. Then she prayed that dawn would
break the habits of eternity: Let it arrive early for once, and drive
the night away.
Pray as she might, however, she could not entirely shut the
noises out. She was certain when she stopped and listened hard
that there was something, or someone, in the bushes just below
her cave. She heard the small sounds that someone makes when
he - of course, it had to be a he - is standing still and breathing
through his nose. The snuffles, rustling of clothes, the lubrications
of the tongue and mouth of someone waiting for her in the dark.
One ofher three new neighbours, perhaps? She had not thought
of them as dangerous, though no man was trustworthy when a
woman was alone, no matter who he was. She stopped her
praying, and tried to breathe as gently as she could. There was
more rustling, and then the someone seemed to shake a piece
of cloth. It sounded like her husband flapping out the dust when
he was taking off his clothes. The old man, then? The blond?
The badu with the hennaed hair? Which one was naked at her
cave?
Marta's measured breathing and her stillness made her drowsy.
She tried to stay awake by concentrating on the sounds outside
but, finally, she could not stop herself Her chin went down on
to her chest. She fell asleep.
Thank heavens for the charity of dreams. When Marta woke
and heard again the scurrying below her cave, the naked man
had been dismissed from her mind's eye. She listened to the
noises more critically. They were too light and birdlike to be
threatening. A man would make more weighty sounds. He
wouldn't have the patience to stay so quiet and still. A woman
then? A bird? Gazelles? The answer was obvious: it had to
be the little straw-boned woman with the untied hair who'd
evidently dug and taken up residence in a grave-like pit amongst
45
the poppies; the peeping, rodent face, half-buried in the ground,
and looking out across the scrub with moist and fearful eyes.
Marta could have clapped her hands with pleasure and relie£
She had forgotten that there was a fourth companion for the
night. Might she still be hiding in her grave?
Now Marta had a reason to go outside. There was a friend at
hand, a mad one possibly, but one that was too small to do her
any harm. Women should seek each other out. She made her
way towards the entrance, steadying herself with both hands
against the cave wall, and stepped into the damp earth and the
bushes at the foot of the cliff. She was surprised how sombre it
was, and how blustery the wind had become. Surprised because
she'd always thought that country skies at night would be much
brighter than the smothered skies of villages. But the night was
beautiful, nevertheless, more beautiful than any night that she had
known at Sawiya, possibly because Sawiya was in the basement of
the hills. This scrubland was the roo£ From where she stood,
the moon was level with her eyes. It was the thinnest melon
slice, hardbacked, translucent, colourless. Its rind was resting on
the black horizon, hardly bright enough to tinge the sky. But to
her left, beyond the valley and its sea, the peaks and shoulders
of Moab were boasting rosy epaulettes of light. The morning
was approaching.
Marta walked towards the grave. She could hear the new
friend scrabbling inside. There were flapping gasps of breath,
like landed fish in
her and his first wife barren, she was sure, with his dry heart and
sparking tongue. They were like millstones without oil. But -
Marta was an optimist - she still believed that everything would
be a joy if she could have his child. She pressed her eyes shut
with her forefinger and her thumb, her little finger resting on
the corner of her lips, and she prayed that she could leave her
infertility behind in this dark, barren place, where it belonged.
She prayed for forty days and nights of ripening, that she'd be
44
fruitful, that she'd multiply. Then she prayed that dawn would
break the habits of eternity: Let it arrive early for once, and drive
the night away.
Pray as she might, however, she could not entirely shut the
noises out. She was certain when she stopped and listened hard
that there was something, or someone, in the bushes just below
her cave. She heard the small sounds that someone makes when
he - of course, it had to be a he - is standing still and breathing
through his nose. The snuffles, rustling of clothes, the lubrications
of the tongue and mouth of someone waiting for her in the dark.
One ofher three new neighbours, perhaps? She had not thought
of them as dangerous, though no man was trustworthy when a
woman was alone, no matter who he was. She stopped her
praying, and tried to breathe as gently as she could. There was
more rustling, and then the someone seemed to shake a piece
of cloth. It sounded like her husband flapping out the dust when
he was taking off his clothes. The old man, then? The blond?
The badu with the hennaed hair? Which one was naked at her
cave?
Marta's measured breathing and her stillness made her drowsy.
She tried to stay awake by concentrating on the sounds outside
but, finally, she could not stop herself Her chin went down on
to her chest. She fell asleep.
Thank heavens for the charity of dreams. When Marta woke
and heard again the scurrying below her cave, the naked man
had been dismissed from her mind's eye. She listened to the
noises more critically. They were too light and birdlike to be
threatening. A man would make more weighty sounds. He
wouldn't have the patience to stay so quiet and still. A woman
then? A bird? Gazelles? The answer was obvious: it had to
be the little straw-boned woman with the untied hair who'd
evidently dug and taken up residence in a grave-like pit amongst
45
the poppies; the peeping, rodent face, half-buried in the ground,
and looking out across the scrub with moist and fearful eyes.
Marta could have clapped her hands with pleasure and relie£
She had forgotten that there was a fourth companion for the
night. Might she still be hiding in her grave?
Now Marta had a reason to go outside. There was a friend at
hand, a mad one possibly, but one that was too small to do her
any harm. Women should seek each other out. She made her
way towards the entrance, steadying herself with both hands
against the cave wall, and stepped into the damp earth and the
bushes at the foot of the cliff. She was surprised how sombre it
was, and how blustery the wind had become. Surprised because
she'd always thought that country skies at night would be much
brighter than the smothered skies of villages. But the night was
beautiful, nevertheless, more beautiful than any night that she had
known at Sawiya, possibly because Sawiya was in the basement of
the hills. This scrubland was the roo£ From where she stood,
the moon was level with her eyes. It was the thinnest melon
slice, hardbacked, translucent, colourless. Its rind was resting on
the black horizon, hardly bright enough to tinge the sky. But to
her left, beyond the valley and its sea, the peaks and shoulders
of Moab were boasting rosy epaulettes of light. The morning
was approaching.
Marta walked towards the grave. She could hear the new
friend scrabbling inside. There were flapping gasps of breath,
like landed fish in
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