Triptych - The Lamb Birth I follow the crowd pulled by curiosity. The day is cold, even for morning its cold. The Jordan shimmers through the reeds, green silk, licking the foot prints at the waters edge into flatness. He waits for us, glowing, on the far bank, hand in welcome to cross. The new sun dazzles but some bright blinded enter the water. The splashing of feet dulls as they reach midstream their clothes drag them back. Waist deep, women toss their girdle aside, rend their simlah, and bare breasted proceed to receive his welcome. I sit on a dune as others go across. Some with clothes, folded, held above their heads, maternal women sail swaddled infants safe in fig baskets. I do not go. Nor does the carpenter. He takes new bread from his bag, breaks it, gives me one half. I nod. A cheer goes up, over the river, the blessing begins. People dance, sing, hands clap, laughter peals as one by one these simple folk immerse themselves, emerging ecstatic and saved. My tongue fishes an unmilled grain from the crust. Curiosity satisfied, we leave for town. Business The tax collectors beadling stare pins me, his sharp hookd nose, holds me, sniffs for coins leaning across the narrow slatted stall, eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard eager for more; fearing its prey will flit. Three meagre coins lay between us. His hand gathers them up as he slithers from me, beard stinking of onions, and avarice, he moves on. I swat a fly from a fish eye, and engagingly smile at a soldier who pauses to examine the paltry wares left unsold, Their glass glazed expression, milking inward, speak of the rot begun. An evening breeze carries the scent of bread. I keep the best fish, throw the rest to dogs in the innkeepers yard, pull eight farthings from a chink in the wall, settle my pitch; and prepare for home, when I see a crowd gathering around the doctors side door. The carpenter is there, sitting aloof, as the people jostle, and push, to see through the doorway into the courtyard. In his hand, he holds a stave, that he smooths with a piece of glass, turning constantly the wood, back and forward, thumb and fingers; running the glass steadily up and down: the staves heel hollows a bowl in the dust. at his feet From the courtyard drifts a voice; a clear voice, baritone, lemon scented. I have heard it before. The carpenter lays the stave aside, stretches his left leg and rises from the wall. It is then I see the tax collector perched like an eagle, in the lower branches of a cedar spying into the courtyard down below. My mothers neck is speckled with flour when I arrive home. She takes the Barbel, guts it, lops the head, boils it with sweet herbs. Betrayal Dog dong. You, Sardine, two. Talapia, six. Hands off. Six, Six. Creaking wicker baskets spill their guts, glistening bloodied, dark fin, sliding, slipping, gills gasping, mouth agape. Clattering coins smack down, elbows jab, Six, six, not five, six. Dog dong. Rigging rings tap, loose furled sails waft sunlight on traders backs; light to dark, shout and trade, profit then eat. I secure my basket, mindful to pad the twig, which when laden, vexes my kidney. Dog dong, Dog dong, sardine two, pay up now. Damp morning still hangs wet upon the air, horizon haze lengthens earths rim skyward, pulling trees into ghosts. Sun washed houses open shuttered to bleach them fresh of night, sleepy caught, burnt morning bread odour fades in the ferment and grind of womens work. I stop to shift my burden at the spot on the river, where yesterday crowds came. Abandoned shoes, snaking girdles, shawls, lie on the near shore. Whilst on the far bank nothing remains, except a single wreath of thistles, purple splash in the rushes. Cresting the rise, I follow a crow straight to the inauspicious tree on which hangs a slave. The patient bird struts and listens, to the four dark figures, impervious, standing beneath its meal. Drawing closer I hear the tax collector and doctor engaged in heated wrangle for the nails. The carpenter hands the soldier his stave. As the wood splits her groin, she sags, exhales, her white eyes gaze up to heaven, released; unmoved, the taxing Samaritan claws at a deal for the nails tearing again at the womans palms as the soldier turns back to the carpenter, releasing the shaft. Passing, I move my cloak to hide my load from the tax collectors calculating eye.
Posted on: Wed, 26 Mar 2014 12:52:58 +0000
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