The Child Madonna - Chapter 29 'Pilgrimage'

Chapter 29 Pilgrimage
Everyone is up and getting in each other’s way. My mother has been packing sufficient food for the journey. Salome and Rebecca have been attempting to help, Benjamin makes no such pretence. I am being attacked by a last minute bout of nerves, or morning sickness - or both - as I realise that this will be the first time in my life that I shall be away from home. It could be a couple of months before I return, and my imagination even now runs riot over what reception I shall receive then. Perhaps this is the last time that I shall play here with Benji. He chases me around the room until he is stopped by mother for fear of him breaking something.

The others are gathering in the yard, Clopas is saying farewell to Miriam and the children. I have my pack, my shawl is round my shoulders. Mother turns me to face her, adjusts the shawl so that it covers my arms as well, kisses me on both cheeks, then embraces me, tears in her eyes.

“Be obedient, my child. Please come home to me with all this behind you. Everyday I will pray for the Lord God’s protection for you. Send me word how you are getting on, and give my love to my cousin Elizabeth and her husband.”

She gives me a final hug, and then draws something out of her garment and slips it into my hand.

“Take this, Mari, let it be a reminder and keepsake of us. But don’t let the others see it. Farewell, my love.”

I grasp the little stone or brooch and slip it quickly into my pack, and give each of the children in turn a kiss and a hug. They are calling for me now, we must be gone, the sun is showing in the east beyond Mount Tabor.

We make our way purposefully out of the village. There are fourteen of us in the party, seven of our family so far, that includes three of Eli’s sons-in-law, as well as Clopas, Joseph, Eli and myself. Rabbi Joel and his wife are coming, my friend Hannah has been left in charge of the younger children for the Passover period. Then there is Matthias the scribe and his three sons, the eldest bringing his young wife, Ramah, who is only a couple of years older than I am. At least there is some company for me on this journey, I had thought I’d be the odd one out and very conspicuous.

When we have cleared the village, I hang back and retrieve mother’s gift so that I can examine it. It is a pretty little amulet on a chain to hang around my neck. On it is carved a tiny bunch of grapes on one side, and the head of a beautiful young woman on the other. I am minded to put it on, except for my mother’s words not to let the others see. I wonder why she said that.

I am so absorbed in studying the amulet that I don’t notice Ramah join me until she speaks.

“What have you got there, Mariam, let me see?”

Instinctively I try to hide the gift, then realising she has already seen it, I show her, saying that my mother gave it to me.

“What a funny present to give you!”

“Why?”

“Don’t you know what it is?”

“She said it was a keepsake to remind me of her.”

“It’s an amulet that the gentiles use to ward off bad luck during pregnancy. Jewish women aren’t meant to need them, but I know many are superstitious and keep the tradition going ‘just in case’. Fancy giving one to an unmarried girl like you!”

“I’m betrothed to Joseph.”

“Yes, I know. I guess I shall need to use the amulet before you do.”

“Why, are you pregnant?”

“No, not yet. At least, I don’t think so. I hope to be soon, though. Jacob wants a son very badly. We’ve been married nearly a year now and he’s quite disappointed that I’m not pregnant yet. I say, can I borrow your amulet to wear?”

I don’t want to let her have it now I know what it is. I read it as a secret message from my mother; does she really want me to keep the child despite all she has said to me? Perhaps I’m assuming too much from it, nevertheless I want it close to me. I don’t want to arouse Ramah’s suspicion, however, so I say to her:

“Yes, if you like. Let us make a deal. You wear it during the day and I’ll have it at night, to remind me of my family at home.”

“Thanks, Mariam. I’ll see if it brings me any luck when Jacob comes to me tonight.”

“Don’t tell anyone what it is, or that it’s mine, will you? My mother said to tell no-one.”

“Ah, so she knew what it was! No, Mari, I shan’t tell anyone. I don’t want even my husband to know that I’m putting faith in a heathen amulet. He’s a very strict Jew and he’d be angry with me.”

Ramah takes the amulet from my hands and drapes it over her head, the long chain allowing the image itself to nestle between her breasts hidden in her shift.

“Thanks, kid.”

“You’ll let me have it back tonight?”

“Alright, when I’ve done with it. I’ll sneak out of my tent when Jacob is asleep and return it to you.”

By this time we have dropped some way behind the others, and Ramah suggests we run to catch up. She sets off at speed and I try to follow, but I am still feeling nausea, and running brings stabs of pain to my back and bottom. I move as smoothly as I can manage and eventually catch the group up, though I must unconsciously have been grimacing.

“My, you’re out of condition,” teases the girl, “I thought you’d outrun me with all the outdoor work you do for your uncle.”

After a further hour or two’s walk, as the sun nears its zenith, we come to the village of Nain and we all spill into Joshua’s little house to refresh ourselves and rest a short while in the shade, before moving on with Joshua and Susannah who now join our party. As we get under way again, Susannah seeks me out and falls into my rhythm. I like Susannah. She is always cheerful and good fun. I like her husband, Joshua, as well; he is the nicest of Eli’s four sons-in-law, not so formal or pompous as the others.

“Well, Mari, how’s you then? I gather you’re off to help Elizabeth during her confinement and act as midwife’s assistant. Get some practise in and I’ll let you help when my time comes!”

“Why, Susannah, are you having a baby too?”

Susannah laughs.

“I ought to be.” She digs me in the ribs with a knowing smile on her face. “But I don’t think I am yet. If I have to wait much longer, I’ll tell Jacob he’ll have to redouble his efforts!”

I look at her a bit shocked.

“Get on with you, I’m only teasing. I’ve a feeling it won’t be long before we have children running around our home. I was sorry you didn’t come and live with us. It could have been fun.”

I made as if to reply, but she held up her hand to stop me.

“Yes, I know, Mari. I don’t blame you for not wanting to marry that Zealot. I only met him once and I found him a bit uncouth, not to mention dangerous to know and house.”

We walk on a bit further in contented silence. Suddenly I notice she is squinting at my arm. I look down and find that my shawl has slipped exposing the burn marks across both forearms. I cover them again quickly. She makes to grab the shawl to prevent me hiding the weals.

“Mari, what on earth have you got there? What have you done?”

Caught in surprise, I blink as I try to think of my excuse. I’m sure she must have noticed my hesitation and reluctance, but she says nothing when I say:

“Oh, it was an accident at the well. I had the ropes wound around my arms and I let the full weight of the laden jar slip back into the water.”

As we make our way towards the Jordan at the end of this first long day, I begin to limp and lag behind. It is Susannah who first notices, and drops back to chivvy me on with her banter and good humour.

“Have a quick rest, Mari, then we’ll catch up with them.”

As I sink gratefully to the grassy bank beside the track, she notices.

“Mari, you’ve been whipped quite badly. Don’t deny it, I can see the marks plainly. When?”

I tell her as much as I dare and implore her to keep my secret. She seems to sense there is more, but the rest are in danger of disappearing over the horizon.

“Come on, girl, we’d better hurry to catch up the others. And come to me for help, I’ll not tell.”

That night, in the women’s tent, Susannah puts her bedding next to mine, as if to screen me from the others. Ramah is outside somewhere in the darkness, with Jacob I guess, and Joel’s wife is already fast asleep. I have been resisting Susannah’s probing curiosity, when Ramah sneaks in, leans across Susannah whom she thinks is asleep also and whispers hoarsely:

“Thanks, Mari, with a bit of luck, perhaps that will do the trick.”

Then unfortunately she drops my amulet in the darkness somewhere between Susannah’s form and my bedroll. She leans over to search the floor, as I do, and Susannah sits up and joins in, merrily chortling:

“What are you two up to? What big secret have we here?”

And, of course, she finds the amulet. I can’t see her face in the darkness, but as she hands it to me, she whispers:

“We must have a further chat tomorrow, Mari. Go to sleep now, you’ll need all your strength, because it’s a hard trek on the rough paths beside the Jordan.”

But for a couple of hours I cannot get to sleep. Susannah is going to quiz me further in the morning, I know she is, and she suspects more than I’m meant to reveal.

When we set off in the early morning, I try at first to miss Susannah by joining the men in the main party. I fall in beside Joseph and say to him:

“I thought you were trying to avoid me.”

“Whatever made you think that, Mariam? I thought you were happy in the company of the women.”

“I was. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to talk to you as well.”

“That’s good. What do you want to talk to me about?”

“Nothing in particular. I just want to chat.”

And so, for a few minutes, we fence with one another, making polite conversation, talking about his work in Sepphoris and Capernaum, and the preparation and making of my wedding dress. I’m in a peculiar frame of mind. I keep flirting with danger as I talk mysteriously, I think, of excitements at home, but he will not take the bait. I daren’t tell him what has happened to me; I have been forbidden. Yet I want him to be curious, to challenge me so that he forces me to tell. It seems so obvious, but he does not seem to notice. I even let my shawl slip a little, so that my bruises are visible. He does not look. Clopas sees though, and coming alongside, he whispers in my ear:

“Mariam, watch your shawl!”

Joseph carries on talking, not even being aware of this rebuke to me.

By the early afternoon we’ve waded through the shallow Jordan about which I’ve heard so much. It is certainly lush and green, but the river is much smaller than I had imagined; I think I’ve dreamed so much about it, read so many references in the scriptures, that the muddy stream is a bit of a disappointment. The shelter given by the trees and bushes along its banks is welcome, though, and the flow does narrow and deepen from time to time to look more like a proper river.

After we have rested and eaten a midday meal in the shade of another grove of trees, we continue on a narrow path with the river on one side, and rocky outcrops on the other. It is difficult to walk more than two abreast here, and I find that Susannah has sought me out. I know what this means. Much as I like her, I fear her incisive humour. I am vulnerable to her approach; how can I keep secrets from such a natural companion who wants to be my friend?

We drop back out of earshot of the rest of the party; Susannah is manoeuvring this. She makes no preliminary probing, but comes straight to the point.

“What’s the matter, Mari, I can see that something’s wrong? Surely you can trust me with your secret, whatever it is?”

I hesitate. I say that I’ve been sworn to silence. She looks at me in pity, then says:

“Well, if that’s the case, girl, I’ll not make you break your vow. But I think you need a friend, I think you want to share whatever burden it is you are carrying alone. I am here; trust me. However shocking your secret is, I’ll not condemn, I’ll be on your side.”

For a long time we continue our walk in silence. I shift my load from time to time to ease my sore shoulder, being rubbed raw by the straps of my bag. She has offered friendship and trust. I need both. But again, dare I take the risk?

We stumble along the path into a rocky sunlit clearing. Back from the river banks, the rolling barren hills come to an abrupt halt in small jagged cliffs, eroded, with landslides of sand and scree.

“Susannah, I’ve got much to tell you, but I must ask you to keep my secret, even from your husband.”

“I give you my word.”

And I unburden myself as we walk all afternoon along the banks of the Jordan. It is a great relief. When I am near the end of my telling, I find I am crying. She puts her arms around my shoulders.

“Mari, your story is extraordinary. So much so that I do not believe you could have made it up. I believe you. If you ever need a friend, come to me.”

“What do you think I should do, Susannah? Should I let them kill my child?”

“Shush, Mari, don’t distress yourself so. Put yourself in God’s hands. He’s looked after you so far, protected you from the worst. He’ll watch over you in the future, just you see!”

I slip my hand into hers and we walk for a while alongside the lush pasture and glass-like river which at this point is flowing very still and deep.

“Thanks, I feel much better now. It’s been awful having no-one believe you.”

“Who knows, Mari? I need to be aware so that I don’t betray you by mistake.”

“I thought you said you’d tell no-one?”

“Don’t worry, it’s just if I know I may glean something from what the others say. Does Joseph know anything?”

“No, nothing at all!”

“Is that really wise, Mari? He seems a good and sensible man to me.”

“I’d like to confess everything to him, but Uncle Eli and mother have forbidden me. Eli says that he will tell Joseph when the time is right, when I’ve got rid of the baby. Then he’ll try to stop him divorcing me if he can.”

“I suppose you’d better play it their way, but it seems a shame to me.”

We walk slowly for a few minutes in silence while we catch up with the meandering column, which by this time has been joined with other groups of pilgrims all heading towards Jerusalem.

“You’d better take your bag back, Mari; otherwise someone will wonder why I’m helping you.” She’d taken my bedroll and food as soon as she knew why my back was so sore. Then, as an afterthought, she adds:

“You didn’t tell me who else knows.”

“Uncle Eli of course, Clopas, Rabbi Joel, mother and Miriam at home and the other rabbis. And I told my sisters.”

“That’s a risk, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think so, Susannah. I just had to tell them. You see, they are the only other ones who believe me!”

“Poor old you! Come on, we’d better look cheerful, or they’ll be suspicious about our conversation.”

The sun is beginning to drop low in the sky now and we are approaching - so I’m told - the town of Bet Shean, where the Jezreel Valley crosses our path. There has been some discussion on whether we should enter the town to seek lodgings for the night, or at least set up our tents under the protection of the townsfolk, but the men now believe that the caravan is sufficiently large to form its own protection. While some are busy erecting the tents, and others discuss the camp site’s defence and look out duties, Joel’s wife, Leah, Ramah, Susannah and myself, with a couple of women from the other parties, are sent to the town’s well to draw water for the night. All the other women are joining their menfolk for the Passover; for Susannah and Ramah, it is their first trip to Jerusalem and they listen with eagerness to the stories and experiences with which the other women regale us.

Then they turn to me; obviously curious as to my justification on the pilgrimage, an unmarried girl without her parents. I explain I am en route to my cousins in Ein-Karem, to be present at the birth of their first-born. They quiz me idly for a moment, but when Susannah throws in the news that the mother-to-be is in her late forties and all had assumed she was past the age of child-bearing, the conversation rekindles and all kinds of speculation are bandied about.

“You’ll have your work cut out, child,” opines one of the women I do not know, “it’s a well known fact that a first born that comes late in life is often handicapped or sick in the head. Such a shame when the little one has been awaited with such longing!”

“It goes rough with the mother too,” adds the other. “Often a difficult confinement, often too much for an older weaker woman.”

“Don’t frighten the girl,” says Leah gently. She does not normally say much to any of us. “Many are successfully carried despite what you say.”

I don’t know what to make of Leah. Does she know my secret? Surely Joel would have told her of my trial and whipping, yet she shows no hint of either pity or hostility. I have known her for many years, after all she is my friend’s mother, yet she is polite, noncommittal, as if she is not interested. Perhaps she has been kept in the dark by her husband. Then, though, I would have expected more friendliness. It is most puzzling.

In the morning Susannah and Ramah want me to go with them to the town; it’s a Roman town, they tell me, with wide streets and columns and big gateways. I’d like to go with them - I’m curious too, I‘ve never been out of Nazareth before except to Nain. But it’s no good. Although I wasn’t too bad yesterday, I feel awful this morning. I pretend I want to wash something down by the river, and go off on my own while the men are packing the tents up. I just about make it and am violently sick at the edge of the water. I am mopping my brow and trying to rid my throat of the last bitter dregs when I look up and see three curious, not to say petrified, children gaping at me. I try to smile at them and open my mouth to say something, but they flee from me, scuttling through the undergrowth. I feel hurt. In all my days I think this is the first time I can honestly say that children have run away from me, except in jest.

By the time I get back, the tents are all rolled up and the men are ready to go. Susannah and Ramah reappear, full of their account of the sights and saying that many more pilgrims seem to be joining us from overnight lodgings in the Jewish quarter of the town. The three of us are scolded by the older women for neglecting our share of the work and we are sent to fetch water quickly for the day’s travels, while the men complain at having to wait.

As we go south, the character of the river seems to be changing. Instead of the narrow river meandering between grassy banks, the water course is becoming wider and untidier, with mounds of sand and shingle separating out strands of trickling water. In some places the thick vegetation conceals the water altogether. The path keeps splitting and reforming, like the river, and several times, as Ramah, Susannah and I are now near the front of our caravan, we make a false trail and have to turn back as our path peters out at the river itself, or into the undergrowth. Back from the valley, catching the morning sun in pink-orange glow, is the escarpment of the Samaritan hills, jagged, but flat topped, with the gash of the Jezreel Valley clearly visible. To the left, we are squinting into the sun streaking shafts of light over the barren canyon edge, high and brooding. I want to pause, let them carry on and stay here beside the glinting water to watch the insects hover, to sing and rejoice in the morning dew. As we trudge our way south and the day wears on, the heat becomes stifling, humid. I long to throw off my shawl, loosen my girdle and lift my skirts, but I dare not. I must suffer in silence, letting the beads of sweat roll down my neck, feeling the clammy moistness of my arms and waist and back. I look at Ramah enviously as she frees her clothing. I must pretend to be at ease, I cannot show my discomfort.

In the afternoon we see the Judean desert to our left; the barren crevices which this morning were swathed in wispy white mist now shimmer in the haze. The vegetation becomes more sparse, and even though it’s spring, greenness gives way to mottled browns and yellows. For our last night in the open, the pilgrims camp on the river just before the ford that is the main route through Jericho to Jerusalem. As the sun sets, the heat loses its strength rapidly, the air becomes cool, then cold as I pull my few clothes tightly around me, glad now of my shawl. Although we are now many, the noises of the camp are hushed and I lie awake listening to the strange sounds of the desert. The insects hum and chirrup, deafeningly, punctuated by weird howls from the distant hills. I thought at first that they were stray dogs yowling in the night, but Clopas tells me there are jackals and hyenas out there somewhere. The men are building a fire that is sending up a cascade of sparks, and even when we close the flaps of our tent, we can still see the flickering shadows.

I am homesick tonight. It is eerie and I suddenly long for Mama, Salome, Becca and Ben. I feel very vulnerable here, as though I am cast off in the middle of a lake with no-one in sight, no breath of wind. I shudder and clasp my amulet that Ramah did not bother to beg from me today. I draw my knees up and tuck my hands into my tunic and gently massage my smooth stomach. Somewhere inside there is my child. He needs me more than I need anyone. I pray, moving my lips, forming words that no-one but God will hear.

“Be with us, Almighty God. We are far from home and feel frightened.” And I remember the words of my text and repeat them comfortingly to myself. “My father and mother may abandon me but the Lord will take care of me.”

The last day of the journey. The wind is blowing lightly into our faces from the west, as, one by one, we ford the river. We have to lift our tunics as the water swirls round our thighs, but I wait until I’m near the back of our procession, and deliberately let my hem drag through the water. It will soon dry. It is a long uphill pull now, the widening track climbing into the ravine with nothing but barren rock on either side. I wouldn’t like to be making this journey alone - the men say there are many bandits here waiting to attack unwary travellers. We pass soldiers marching in the opposite direction; they are said to be patrolling to protect the pilgrims, but it seems a little unnecessary for there are now straggling bands of people in front of and behind us, as far as the naked eye can see.

We are through the city of Jericho before morning is over and I stare in amazement at its wide streets and pavements, all the drains and sewers, and marble and grand stone buildings. Clopas answers my incessant questions.

“Just wait until you see Jerusalem’s palaces and the Temple, Mariam!”

That must indeed be something! Everywhere there are avenues of palm trees growing from the dusty soil. And then, on the edge of the residential area, many stone buildings only half finished which will swell the size of the city enormously.

By early afternoon we have Jerusalem in sight. It is a huge place, with great walls and palaces, and Clopas points out the shining building which he says is the Temple. I was feeling tired, but, like the rest, have quickened my feet as our goal draws near. To our right, as we near the city, two canyons cut into the vast plateau. The city itself climbs up two hillsides and we make our way round to the left, past a hillside whose slopes are filled with acre upon acre of olive groves. We reach the edge of the city wall at last and I stand in awe as I look up to the sentries way above us. I am quite overwhelmed. We trundle in through a huge gateway - Clopas says it’s called the “Sheep Gate” - and the caravan breaks up as pilgrims find their way to their lodgings. I have never seen so many people, there are crowds thronging the street; the noise is indescribable. The dust and heat and clamour - and perhaps the excitement - seem suddenly all too much for me and I feel faint, and have to sit down on some stone steps, while Susannah holds my head between my knees and I draw deep breaths.

Joseph comes over to me, concerned that I look so exhausted. I tell him of my stupor at the crowds, but he says it will get much busier still; there are two days yet to Passover and many more pilgrims still to be absorbed.

“Where will you all stay?” I ask, but of course Joseph has his own small home in Bethlehem only three or four miles away, and I gather that Joshua and Susannah are joining him, while the others are staying with friends and distant cousins in Bethany whom they meet each year at festival time. As I am standing, bewildered, below the Great Courtyard of the new Temple, Uncle Eli, for the first time in four days, comes over to speak to me.

“Mariam, you must come with me to find your kinsman, Zechariah, who is expecting you. He will take you to his house tonight, so we must waste no time, for you have some distance still to travel.”

I had not thought that I would have to make my farewells so quickly. Almost before I realise it, I am bidding a swift goodbye to Ramah and the other women. Susannah gives me a hug, whispering as she does:

“Remember, Mari, do what God tells you, not men. And count me as your friend. If you’re in trouble, get word to me and I’ll come to you. ‘Bye, love. Peace be with you.”

Clopas gives me a long hard stare.

“Farewell, Mariam. I hope next time we meet will be happier than this. Be guided by Eli and Zechariah, they are men of God. If you obey them, all will come right, you’ll see.”

And he gives me an awkward squeeze of the wrist. Then they are gone and I am clambering up a flight of stone steps, trying to keep up with Uncle Eli who is a dark silhouette flapping in the breeze ahead of me. I am now very nervous and afraid; my biggest fear at the moment is that if I falter, I will be lost in this sea of alien humanity.

We reach a vast open courtyard, which manages to absorb a seething crowd yet still seem spacious. Flocks of pigeons wheel around the court, then descend, strutting around the paved surface while sparrows are darting everywhere pecking at debris dropped by the many pilgrims. But my eyes are drawn inexorably to the Temple itself; I have never seen such a magnificent or gigantic building. I want to ply my uncle with all sorts of questions, but I daren’t. He is rushing on ahead of me, impatient and curt. He clearly knows exactly where he is going and I trail after him, a few paces behind, trying to keep up.

We reach the outer columns of the building itself, and Eli turns, telling me to wait - I can go no further without defiling the Temple precincts in my present state. I am worried that he is going to disappear and I shall be entirely alone, engulfed in this multitude. Then, just as he is slipping from my sight, another man dressed in rabbinical white robes steps from the shadows and greets him. I know instinctively that this is Zechariah, although it is many years since I met him at the wedding celebrations of one of Eli’s daughters. I expected, I don’t know why, an old man, bearded and gnarled, but he is in the prime of life - in his early fifties I would guess - and is vigorous in his body movements. He is gesticulating with his hands as he nears us, and I assume they are in conversation.

He points to me.

“Zechariah, this is my niece, Mariam. She is ready to accompany you home and give your wife a hand in preparation for your child. Keep her until after the birth and as long as she is useful. Send me word when she is to be fetched and I will send Clopas or one of my sons-in-law to bring her home.”

Then Eli turns to me.

“Mariam, we have a problem. For some reason your uncle is unable to explain, he seems incapable of speech. I had no idea he was afflicted in this way, nor whether this is a temporary or permanent disability.”

Zechariah smiles at me, holds out a hand and places it in blessing on my head. He seems to be trying to welcome me. I don’t know if I should say anything or not. Before I can make up my mind to greet him, however, my Uncle Eli continues talking to Zechariah as if I wasn’t here; perhaps he intends me to hear all he says.

“Zechariah, I sent you word that you could assist me in a matter of grave embarrassment by housing Mariam for a month or two. I did not trust the confidentiality of the messenger, so I did not disclose the full import of my request to you. I know that Elizabeth is very close in spirit to this girl’s mother, Anna, and would wish to help her in her hour of distress. Mariam is causing us great offence and bringing disgrace on the whole family in Nazareth. May I plead with you to help us find a way through all this mess, as I have requested in this letter.”

Zechariah takes the scroll from him and reads silently, intently, while I wish the earth could swallow me up. I can guess what the letter says. How will Zechariah’s attitude change? Will he refuse to take me into his household? The letter is long. Zechariah peruses it for an age and finally rolls it up and tucks it in his robes. He is expressionless, he gives no clue to what he thinks. Eli hesitates a moment, clearly wondering whether to seek for response, agreement, but is nonplussed by the other’s determined silence. Quick courtesies are exchanged, Zechariah beckons me to his side to indicate I am to stay with him and Eli is gone, without a word to me.

It is strange, walking with a dumb man. I don’t know whether to be silent too, or to chatter away to make up for him. Normally I would only talk in response to conversation initiated by the older man. I don’t know, although I can guess, what the letter says. Is he expecting me to defend myself, explain and justify?

We walk out of the city in silence, as I gaze in stupefaction at the city’s buildings. At this stage there is much to occupy the mind and my eyes dart in all directions, devouring all they see. We cross right through the city, leaving it at a gate to the north west and find a twisting road descending along the tortuous hillsides to a plain, with hazy brown and blue hills on the skyline, vibrating in the late afternoon heat haze. When we are on the open road, Zechariah places his right hand on my shoulder and leaves it there. It is a bond between us replacing speech and at first I am happy that he seeks this physical contact. After a couple of miles of walking though, with my load slung across my right shoulder, I am beginning to feel excessively sore from the constant friction on my bruises, which, though they are healing rapidly now, still ache under pressure.

I break my silence.

“Sir, I am tired and aching. Can I put down my load and rest awhile?”

In response, Zechariah merely points into the distance and keeps walking. I am discouraged at first and am having to make a real effort with every step. But now I know what his gesture meant. Ahead of us, beside the roadway, is a well, a few travellers lounging round its rim. I drop my load to the ground and take my turn in the queue to draw water to give him a drink; then I sit and drink myself, having refilled my waterskin. I begin to try to talk to him.

“How is my Aunt Elizabeth?”

He nods and smiles. Apparently all is well.

“I thank you for receiving me. I will help you in any way I can while I am here.”

Again he nods and accepts my statement. I try again.

“I do not know for certain what my Uncle Eli has said to you about my circumstance, or what request he has made of you. I would wish to tell you of my experience before you act on his letter.”

Zechariah raises both hands and gestures insistently in a way that I take as a rebuke. He does not want me to say anything. He puts his finger to his lips and then to mine, as though he is seeking them closed. Is he refusing my request, or merely telling me to hold my peace at this moment? Whatever his meaning, it has restored my anxiety. I am plunged once more into uncertainty when I thought he was beginning to show friendliness. Now the barrier has been re-erected, and his face is discouraging any further discourse between us.

I make no further attempt at conversation as we trudge across the plain and the road begins slowly to climb again towards the hills which are now clearer in outline. But I am not paying much attention to the scenery. I am preoccupied with my inner turmoil, sick with fear at my possible reception. Will I be in disgrace here too? Will they let me try to explain, or will I have no say? Shall I be forced to undergo the abortion straight away without my consent? How will my aunt react to Eli’s letter, or will Zechariah keep it to himself, conferring only with other rabbis and elders?

As the sun begins to sink beyond the hills to the west, the detail that was becoming apparent is lost once more within the bland opaque shadow. I cannot see my destination.