Love and Lamentations

2: The Treading

Ester was exhausted after her first day in the fields but fought to keep her eyes open. She lay next to her little brother Matti, stroking his fuzzy cheeks and caressing his wispy hair.  She liked to run her open palm against the upright tuft of soft hair on the top of his head. He rolled back and leaned against her. She inhaled his smell of sweet, sour cheese and kissed the downy nape of his neck. When she heard the breath from his half-parted lips descend into a heavy, slow rhythm, she sat up and slid off the straw mat, careful not to wake him. She moved carefully since he seemed to hear perfectly at night, sensing every movement around him, even though he was deaf in one ear.

She had seen eight summers the year Matti was born and almost died. Her mother had held him tightly, rocking him against her breast. “Who do you think you are?” she shouted at the demon who had invaded his limp, damp body. “You’re nothing: a nothing-bastard of a fallen angel and a whore. Your horns are stalks of wheat. The other angels will destroy you! Raphael will bind you, Michael will burn you and Gabriel will throw your ashes into the abyss!” 

Then turning to Ester, she whispered, “You have to show them you’re not afraid. I’ve buried three babies, I will not bury this one.” Night after night, her mother burned the ba’aras root, applied herb compresses and chanted King Solomon’s incantations. At last, the exorcism worked: she was able to drag the demon out through the baby’s left ear.

Her mother sewed a tiny pocket in Matti’s swaddling cloth  - and in every shirt he’s worn since - for the tooth of a fox. ‘You have to be vigilant,’ her mother says; otherwise, the demon might return from his wanderings and may even bring other demons with him.

Ester kissed the top of her brother’s head and then tiptoed out of the room. Miriam was waiting outside the door.

“I’m not sure about this, you don’t have permission to come,” Miriam said.

“I know,” Ester whispered. “But no one said it was forbidden.”  She had to go, to see Joseph again.

Uncle Pinchas would take no notice of her; he rarely did. And Ester didn’t care if Aunt Bruria knew.  Meek Aunt Bruria, with her whiney child-like voice which she never raised - except to discipline the slaves - would surely pretend she hadn’t seen. Ester was sure that her aunt, so soft and fleshy and as stout as her daughter Miriam was thin would never have battled Matti’s evil spirit like her own mother had.

“No one forbid it because it’s obvious that a child doesn’t belong there,” Miriam said.

“I’m not a child anymore!  If I’m old enough to pick the grapes then I’m old enough to turn them into wine.”

“Maybe…,” Miriam paused, as if she was considering Ester’s point. “But you’re certainly not allowed to drink it.”  Ester tried to suppress a victory smile. “All right, we’ll go together. But if you get caught, don’t tell anyone you came with me. Promise?”

“Yes, yes,” said Ester, pulling on Miriam’s hand. “Now, hurry!”

Miriam stayed put, studying her cousin, “You’re not afraid of anything, are you?”

How could Miriam - who knew her so well - think she was never afraid? She was afraid of the night animals: she slept with her fingers in her ears so she wouldn’t hear the howls;  she was afraid of falling into the well and always made sure to stand behind the shaduf and never look down. She was afraid of demons, but maybe that didn’t count since everyone knew that the unseen world was teeming with unseen creatures; anyone would be foolish to get in their way. And of course, she was afraid of the Roman soldiers. But she wasn’t afraid tonight.

The girls walked quickly, practically running up the dirt path illuminated by the moon. The air was filled with the crickets’ staccato song and perfumed with lavender and wild grass.