Read Online No Lasting Burial by Stant Litore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stant Litore
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and walked back to the town, each of the young men
spoke quietly to himself.
My
father died in a storm at sea, one man whispered.
My
brother perished in his boat , another said.
My
wife was drowned.
My
sisters were taken by the waves.
My
friend, my beautiful friend, perished in a fishing accident.
It
was easier that way.
All those whispers of fear and
forgetting.
Even a century later, travelers along that shore would claim that they could
hear those whispers on the wind among the tombs.
But
on the shore, Shimon still stood on the sand. He stood there throughout the
day, unmoving, thinking neither of food nor rest. Just
watching the sea. When the tide came up to his feet, he looked at the
water’s edge lapping his sandals and realized his throat was scorched with
thirst. Crouching, he cupped his hands in the water and lifted some to his
mouth, but he kept his eyes on the sea, like Gideon’s men drinking while
watching the far ridge for the coming of the dead in the old story.
Afterward
he walked above the tideline where the boats were moored. After the violence of
the previous night, many of these boats no longer had owners, and their nets
lay in them unused and unnoticed like dry leaves. Shimon stood among the
derelicts and watched the sun set on the water, a fire as though God had seen
that the land was defiled and had decided to burn it away and start anew.
Then
the sun was gone and it was dark and there were stars, and no moon rose. Yet,
by starlight, Shimon could see one boat coming back, a dark, low shape on the
water. No splash of the oars. Just drifting in on the tide.
Yet Shimon knew whose boat it was. The youths’ boats had all returned in the
late morning after giving their cargo to the sea, and no fishers had set out
with their nets this night. As the boat neared, Shimon could see that a single
figure sat on the bench, its hands in its lap. A dark
silhouette.
“Abba!”
he called softly. “Father!”
The
figure rose unsteadily to its feet, making the boat rock on the tide. Shimon
heard its low moan of longing and hunger, loud over the water.
After
a moment he covered his ears, his cheeks moist with tears or mist from the sea,
but he could still hear it, he could still see that boat sliding in.
AN
EVENING VISITOR
Rahel’s
husband had been dead four nights when there came a knock at her door.
A
knock at the door, a strong fist, but the knocking was too urgent, as though
the man demanding entrance was uneasy, uncertain of himself. Rahel lifted her
face from where she knelt in the atrium with her husband’s tallit across
her knees and the baby sleeping in his basket beside her, and for a moment she
considered not answering.
Again the knocking, insistent.
She
pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, breathed deeply a moment, then
folded the prayer shawl carefully and rose to her feet, the tallit still
in her hand. She moved toward the door.
There
were too few of them left to ignore each other.
That, and she
couldn’t quite escape the candle-flicker of hope in her heart. She had seen her
husband’s corpse, had confronted him on the sands. It couldn’t be him at the
door.
And yet.
She
found that she was running. She leapt from the atrium into the antechamber at
the old door, and quickly tugged at the bolt. Unlatching the door and letting
it creak open, she found herself confronting the priest. Zebadyah’s face was
strained and pale—he hadn’t slept in several nights, perhaps—but his eyes were
hard with purpose
“ Shalom ,”
he said.
“ Shalom ,”
Rahel whispered.
They
stared at each other, one of those silences that are both uncomfortable to keep
and uncomfortable to break. Shalom had always been their traditional
greeting in Kfar Nahum, a wish for peace and a plea for peace. Not a Roman
peace, not pax or order, the absence of conflict. No,
Hebrew peace, wholeness, a community living and thriving together.
How
empty that wish now seemed.
“Do
you want to come in, Bar
spoke quietly to himself.
My
father died in a storm at sea, one man whispered.
My
brother perished in his boat , another said.
My
wife was drowned.
My
sisters were taken by the waves.
My
friend, my beautiful friend, perished in a fishing accident.
It
was easier that way.
All those whispers of fear and
forgetting.
Even a century later, travelers along that shore would claim that they could
hear those whispers on the wind among the tombs.
But
on the shore, Shimon still stood on the sand. He stood there throughout the
day, unmoving, thinking neither of food nor rest. Just
watching the sea. When the tide came up to his feet, he looked at the
water’s edge lapping his sandals and realized his throat was scorched with
thirst. Crouching, he cupped his hands in the water and lifted some to his
mouth, but he kept his eyes on the sea, like Gideon’s men drinking while
watching the far ridge for the coming of the dead in the old story.
Afterward
he walked above the tideline where the boats were moored. After the violence of
the previous night, many of these boats no longer had owners, and their nets
lay in them unused and unnoticed like dry leaves. Shimon stood among the
derelicts and watched the sun set on the water, a fire as though God had seen
that the land was defiled and had decided to burn it away and start anew.
Then
the sun was gone and it was dark and there were stars, and no moon rose. Yet,
by starlight, Shimon could see one boat coming back, a dark, low shape on the
water. No splash of the oars. Just drifting in on the tide.
Yet Shimon knew whose boat it was. The youths’ boats had all returned in the
late morning after giving their cargo to the sea, and no fishers had set out
with their nets this night. As the boat neared, Shimon could see that a single
figure sat on the bench, its hands in its lap. A dark
silhouette.
“Abba!”
he called softly. “Father!”
The
figure rose unsteadily to its feet, making the boat rock on the tide. Shimon
heard its low moan of longing and hunger, loud over the water.
After
a moment he covered his ears, his cheeks moist with tears or mist from the sea,
but he could still hear it, he could still see that boat sliding in.
AN
EVENING VISITOR
Rahel’s
husband had been dead four nights when there came a knock at her door.
A
knock at the door, a strong fist, but the knocking was too urgent, as though
the man demanding entrance was uneasy, uncertain of himself. Rahel lifted her
face from where she knelt in the atrium with her husband’s tallit across
her knees and the baby sleeping in his basket beside her, and for a moment she
considered not answering.
Again the knocking, insistent.
She
pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, breathed deeply a moment, then
folded the prayer shawl carefully and rose to her feet, the tallit still
in her hand. She moved toward the door.
There
were too few of them left to ignore each other.
That, and she
couldn’t quite escape the candle-flicker of hope in her heart. She had seen her
husband’s corpse, had confronted him on the sands. It couldn’t be him at the
door.
And yet.
She
found that she was running. She leapt from the atrium into the antechamber at
the old door, and quickly tugged at the bolt. Unlatching the door and letting
it creak open, she found herself confronting the priest. Zebadyah’s face was
strained and pale—he hadn’t slept in several nights, perhaps—but his eyes were
hard with purpose
“ Shalom ,”
he said.
“ Shalom ,”
Rahel whispered.
They
stared at each other, one of those silences that are both uncomfortable to keep
and uncomfortable to break. Shalom had always been their traditional
greeting in Kfar Nahum, a wish for peace and a plea for peace. Not a Roman
peace, not pax or order, the absence of conflict. No,
Hebrew peace, wholeness, a community living and thriving together.
How
empty that wish now seemed.
“Do
you want to come in, Bar
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