Read Online The Liars' Gospel by Naomi Alderman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Naomi Alderman
Ads: Link
Iehuda from Qeriot saying, “We are his family now, we who follow
his teachings.” She sees her son’s face, the last time she spoke to him, when she felt afraid and did not know why. She knows
he relinquished his family a long time before his death. If this child’s story were true, it would not be to her that he would
have come. And this is too much to bear. She stands up quickly, her knees cracking and her back aching at the strain, and
without knowing that she is going to do so she raises her right hand and hits Gidon across his left cheek.
The sound is loud. Her hand stings. She stares at him because she is an old woman and he a young man and if he responded in
kind he could easily kill her.
He does not respond with a blow. He does not move or try to flee. He looks at her levelly and turns his face so that the opposite
side is towards her. He waits. It is a kind of invitation.
Her hand falls to her side.
“I would have known from across the world if he were still in it.”
The first year she was a woman, her father had taken her to Jerusalem for Shavuot, the festival at the end of the seven weeks
from Passover. It is a joyous festival, a simple one, a celebration of the harvest that is just beginning. Farmers bring the
first fruits of their fields to the altar, to thank God for blessing their trees and their ripening vines and the swaying
golden seas of their wheat. They stayed with her father’s younger brother, Elihu, who lived so close to the Temple that they
could see its walls from the roof of his house. The early summer light was golden, but the days blew with a sweet breeze so
that the heat did not thicken or the air become still. She sat at the window on the first day, watching the never-ending procession
of oxen-pulled carts filled with ripe pink pomegranates and furry yellow dates heading for the Temple, and her heart was glad.
It was a good time to come to Jerusalem—especially for a girl who had become a woman, her mother said. The people had come
from all corners of the land. A young man might notice her, or she might notice a young man. There were many nervous, eager,
excited girls like her, walking to the Temple with their fathers, and many young men too. In the courtyard, her father gave
her the coins to buy the lamb for the offering. She examined the creatures closely, chose one tied to the back of the stall,
not the largest but with the purest white wool.
There were soldiers outside the Temple, of course, auxiliaries employed by Rome. She heard another man tell her father there
had been a skirmish, swiftly quashed, earlier in the day when three farmers had attacked a soldier. Miryam’s father said nothing,
though in the past she had heard him rail against the Romans, wishing that the people would rise up and drive them from the
land. He put his arm around her shoulders as they entered the Temple and whispered, “If you see something like that while
we are here, Miryam, run. The Romans cannot tell the guilty from the innocent. If there is a squabble, run to your uncle’s
house, you will be safe there.”
They made their offering in peace. Seven baskets of the fruits of the land they brought to the priests: figs and barley, wheat
and pomegranates, olives and dates and grapes dropping heavy on the vine. The pure white lamb was slaughtered, its blood scattered,
its forbidden fats burned on the altar for the Lord. And they heard murmurings again as they left the Temple. The men gave
one another secret signs, making a hand shape like a dagger and whispering low and confusing words.
Miryam’s father kept a tight arm around her and brought his lips close to her ear. “You see nothing,” he said. “You hear nothing.
We feast with your uncle tonight and tomorrow we go home.”
When it happened, it was swift. They were walking past the spice market, homebound, and as they came in sight of the Hippodrome,
with its tall colonnades and
his teachings.” She sees her son’s face, the last time she spoke to him, when she felt afraid and did not know why. She knows
he relinquished his family a long time before his death. If this child’s story were true, it would not be to her that he would
have come. And this is too much to bear. She stands up quickly, her knees cracking and her back aching at the strain, and
without knowing that she is going to do so she raises her right hand and hits Gidon across his left cheek.
The sound is loud. Her hand stings. She stares at him because she is an old woman and he a young man and if he responded in
kind he could easily kill her.
He does not respond with a blow. He does not move or try to flee. He looks at her levelly and turns his face so that the opposite
side is towards her. He waits. It is a kind of invitation.
Her hand falls to her side.
“I would have known from across the world if he were still in it.”
The first year she was a woman, her father had taken her to Jerusalem for Shavuot, the festival at the end of the seven weeks
from Passover. It is a joyous festival, a simple one, a celebration of the harvest that is just beginning. Farmers bring the
first fruits of their fields to the altar, to thank God for blessing their trees and their ripening vines and the swaying
golden seas of their wheat. They stayed with her father’s younger brother, Elihu, who lived so close to the Temple that they
could see its walls from the roof of his house. The early summer light was golden, but the days blew with a sweet breeze so
that the heat did not thicken or the air become still. She sat at the window on the first day, watching the never-ending procession
of oxen-pulled carts filled with ripe pink pomegranates and furry yellow dates heading for the Temple, and her heart was glad.
It was a good time to come to Jerusalem—especially for a girl who had become a woman, her mother said. The people had come
from all corners of the land. A young man might notice her, or she might notice a young man. There were many nervous, eager,
excited girls like her, walking to the Temple with their fathers, and many young men too. In the courtyard, her father gave
her the coins to buy the lamb for the offering. She examined the creatures closely, chose one tied to the back of the stall,
not the largest but with the purest white wool.
There were soldiers outside the Temple, of course, auxiliaries employed by Rome. She heard another man tell her father there
had been a skirmish, swiftly quashed, earlier in the day when three farmers had attacked a soldier. Miryam’s father said nothing,
though in the past she had heard him rail against the Romans, wishing that the people would rise up and drive them from the
land. He put his arm around her shoulders as they entered the Temple and whispered, “If you see something like that while
we are here, Miryam, run. The Romans cannot tell the guilty from the innocent. If there is a squabble, run to your uncle’s
house, you will be safe there.”
They made their offering in peace. Seven baskets of the fruits of the land they brought to the priests: figs and barley, wheat
and pomegranates, olives and dates and grapes dropping heavy on the vine. The pure white lamb was slaughtered, its blood scattered,
its forbidden fats burned on the altar for the Lord. And they heard murmurings again as they left the Temple. The men gave
one another secret signs, making a hand shape like a dagger and whispering low and confusing words.
Miryam’s father kept a tight arm around her and brought his lips close to her ear. “You see nothing,” he said. “You hear nothing.
We feast with your uncle tonight and tomorrow we go home.”
When it happened, it was swift. They were walking past the spice market, homebound, and as they came in sight of the Hippodrome,
with its tall colonnades and
Similar Books
