Free Quarantine by Jim Crace Page A

She did not scream. The lizards
    scuttled behind stones, and shut their eyes at her. The insects
    exercised their wings. Snails shrank into their shells, and mimed
    the secret life of stones. It seemed to Marta that she'd dipped
    her fingers into and drunk some holy essence. It was the fourth
    day of creation when god directed that the waters teem with
    countless living creatures and that the birds fly high above the
    earth, across the vault ofheaven. She did not feel elated by god's
    work, but - like any other lukewarm Jew - she was repulsed.
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    She'd have to overcome her fear of insects and suppress the edicts
    ofLeviticus ('These creatures shall be vermin unto you, and you
    will make yourself unclean with them') before she'd find the
    heart to drink again.

    Musa was tired and disappointed. When Miri had told him about
    the four cave-dwellers, he had presumed that one of them would
    be the Galilean man. Why else would he have followed Miri
    away from the comforts of the tent to walk uphill into the heat
    and scrub? There were better things to do. He could be resting,
    eating, taking stock? He had the bruises ofhis fever to shake off.
    And he had plans to make. How to turn his bad luck into coins.
    How to catch up with the caravan with only one pack-animal
    - and that one pregnant- to carry the tent and all their possessions.
    How to get to Jericho where he could buy a camel, trade some
    of his goods, and lay claim once more to the title of merchant.
    But first there was unfinished business with the water thief. He
    wanted to see the man again. What for? He couldn't say. But,
    if Miri's querulous reports could be trusted, the Galilean had
    passed the night in caves. She'd pointed to the coppery, pockmarked cliffs. 'Not far,' she'd said. Not far, perhaps, for someone built like her. A chicken, all skin and bone and beak. No meat
    on her, except for the slight, high swelling of her stomach. But
    for Musa, this outing was hard work. He was a duck to Miri's
    chicken, flat-footed and ungainly. His thighs were so thick that
    they required him to walk in opposing quarters: his right foot
    took him to Jerusalem, his left foot set off for Negev. He tacked
    his way across the scrub, with tiny steps.
    At first Miri was required to walk behind with the water-bag
    and a mat, throwing her narrow shade across his back. Musa was
    not pleased with her. Everything had been her fault; the fever,
    his abandonment, his immobility, his loss of goods. He'd ordered
    her to pull the donkey carcass out of sight. It smelled. It bothered
    him. Even the vultures had only circled it, and gone away without
    tasting its disease. Something, though, less discriminating than a
    vulture had chewed its stomach out during the night. The scrub
    dogs, probably. Its eyes had gone. And there were flies. But Miri
    claimed the body was too heavy for her to move alone. She had
    refused to even try - and that was something she had never done
    before. For fear of a clout. What was happening to his wife?
    He'd caught her weeping in the night. Crying for the donkey?
    Surely not. Now she was sulking like a disappointed child,
    throwing things about the tent, making too much noise, complaining that her buttocks ached. Not that she had buttocks worthy of the name. Perhaps that was the price of pregnancy -
    disobedience, bad temper, aches. Did she expect that he would
    tolerate such disrespect for four more months?
    'Keep out of sight,' he'd said to her when they began their
    walk. But the ground was stony and uncomfortable. He did not
    see why he should suffer first, and so he sent his wife ahead to
    simplify a path for him. She had to clap her hands to scare off
    any snakes. She had to kick away scrub balls and snap off any
    thorny branches in his way. She had to find the softest ground,
    and pull aside the loose rocks which might block his path. She
    hardly made a difference. It would have taken twenty men to
    clear a path. For Musa, though, his little chicken wife,