No need for colours or display. There was no vanity in
caves.
The caves near Musa's grave, for all their remoteness, were
known to be hospitable, much prized by those who sought the
comfort of dry, soft floors while they were suffering, much prized
by desert leopards, too. Inside were the black remains of fires
and, on the walls, the charcoal marks where visitors had counted
off their quarantines in blocks of ten.
There were other caves in Miri's wilderness as well, less prized,
in the sheer and crumbling precipice below the tent, which only
goats and lunatics could reach and in which only goats and
lunatics - and bats - would choose to pass a night - though at
this time of year it might seem that lunatics were just as numerous
I I
as goats. This was the season of the lunatics: the first new moon
of spring was summoning those men - for lunatics are mostly
men. They have the time and opportunity - to exorcize that
part of them which sent them mad. Mad with grief, that is. Or
shame. Or love. Or illnesses and visions. Mad enough to think
that everything they did, no matter how vain or trivial, was of
interest to their god. Mad enough to think that forty days of
discomfort could put their world in order.
Not all the cavers were insane. That spring there had been
fever in Jerusalem and many deaths. Musa wasn't the only one
to leave his mouth unguarded. Most of the travellers heading
eastwards for the solace of the hills were the newly bereaved
who wished to contemplate the memory of a mother or a son
in privacy, and for whom the forty days were not remedies but
requiems. There was a group of nine or ten of these - all Jews
- who, for a modest rent paid to the shepherd, had taken up
their grieving residence in natural caves above a stream on the
trading route just south of Almog, where their deprivations
would be slight. There were produce markets at the waterhead,
an undemanding walk away, where they could eat once the
daylight fast had ended and take their ritual baths, and the caves
were relatively warm. Bereavement's punishment enough, they
thought. Why starve? Why freeze at night? Why hide away?
How would that help the dead, or bring them back?
There was another group of twenty-four - all men, and
zealots, pursuing the instructions of Isaiah, 'Prepare straight to
the wilderness a highway for our god' - who were keeping to
the Dead Sea valley, looking for the Essene settlements. They'd
spend their forty days in artificial, dug-out caves, waiting for the
world to end (Please God the world won't end in forty days and
one . . .
) and sharing their possessions and their prayers, with only
the palm trees their companions.
But those who made it to the perching valley where Miri -
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half open-eyed - was sleeping, and where Musa and the fever
devil were bargaining the final hours ofhis life, sought something
more remote and testing than requiems and communal prayers.
There were five of them - not in a group, but strung out along
the road where earlier that morning the caravan of uncles had
passed by. Three men, a woman and, too far behind for anyone
to guess its gender, a fifth. And this fifth one was bare-footed,
and without a staff No water-skin, or bag of clothes. No food.
A slow, painstaking figure, made thin and watery by the rising,
mirage heat, as if someone had thrown a stone into the pool of
air through which it walked and ripples had diluted it.
The first four - their problems? Madness, madness, cancer,
infertility - had started their journeys that morning from the
same settlement in the valley. Though they had observed the
proprieties of pilgrimage by keeping some distance apart, they
had at least endeavoured to keep each other within sight and
hearing. There were robbers in the hills, army deserters, lepers,
devils, animals, avalanches of dry scree, and a threatening conspiracy of rocks, wind and heat which made the landscape treacherous and unpredictable.