Джеймс Миченер - The Source

How varied were the men who climbed half naked up the gangways leading from the dock! He could recognize the Egyptians, the Africans, the Canaanites and the Phoenicians, but there were half a dozen other types, stalwart men with enormous shoulders whom he had not seen before. They must have come from Cyprus and the distant islands, and they spoke languages which he did not understand. In those years Aecho was an international seaport, and it took a rural Hebrew from Makor to appreciate the wonder of the place.

He left the docks and wandered along the main thoroughfares, looking into shops whose richness was strange to him: one jeweler who dispatched camels to various parts of the east had turquoise from Arabia, alabaster from Crete, amethyst and carnelian from Greek traders and chalcedony from Punt. He had faience and enamel from Egypt and from the workshops of Aecho one of the loveliest things Hoopoe had ever seen: a short length of glass rope braided from eighteen strands of different-colored glass. Across the face it had been cut on a diagonal, which was then polished, so that from any angle the intricate interweavings were resplendent. “I would like that for my wife,” he said hesitantly to the shopkeeper, not knowing whether he would be understood or not, but the jeweler could speak in half a dozen languages—poorly but enough for trade—and the bargaining began. Hoopoe feared that the cost might be prohibitive, for the glass rope was more appealing to him than turquoise, and he was surprised at how little it cost. “We make it here,” the jeweler said, and he showed Hoopoe his courtyard where slaves were blowing the colored glass, spinning it out like cobwebs.

Finally he came to the ironmonger’s, where he entered with reverence, for it had been with iron that the Phoenicians and their southern neighbors had conquered the land of Israel. King David, in his years as mercenary for the Philistines, had learned the use of iron and in the end had accumulated enough of the metal to turn it against them and win back much of the land; but dark iron, in many ways more mysterious than gold, remained a monopoly of cities like Aecho and it still accounted for Phoenician superiority along the seacoast.

The ironmonger stared at Hoopoe with suspicion, for the Hebrew was obviously a wanderer and it was forbidden to sell iron carelessly, but Hoopoe was able to present a signed clay tablet granting him permission to purchase iron tools “providing none be weapons such as soldiers use.” The Phoenician shopkeeper could not read, but he understood the restrictions and indicated the portion of the shop from which the stranger was free to choose. With his arms akimbo he stood protecting the other area where spearheads, sword blades and pikes were stacked along with other weapons whose use Hoopoe could not fathom. The Phoenicians wanted their visitors to see this arsenal, so that when they returned to the hinterland they would repeat its awesome character; and Hoopoe, properly impressed, muttered a small prayer to Baal: “Help us finish the water system before these men of iron decide to attack again.”

From among the permitted items Hoopoe identified the chisels, hammers and wedges he needed for finishing the tunnel, but when the time came for him to place them in a pile, an amusing impasse took place which the Phoenician had anticipated by inviting several of his neighboring shopkeepers in to watch. Iron was so precious that as soon as any was cast and sharpened, it was covered with animal fat to prevent rusting, and now Hoopoe grasped the first of his implements. The fat stuck to his fingers and he drew his hand away, staring at the greasy substance.

“That’s right,” the ironmonger said. “It’s pork.”

Even in those days the Hebrews were forbidden to eat pork, which they had learned from sorrowful experience could cause death if improperly cooked, and to them the entire body of the hog was repugnant. Phoenicians, of course, and the other seacoast peoples who knew how to prepare the meat, liked the tasty food and enjoyed laying little traps to embarrass the Hebrews—which the ironmonger was now doing.

“It’s pork fat,” he repeated, and Hoopoe backed away, but when he saw the precious tools he could not refrain from grasping them and placing them in his pile. His hands became covered with pork fat, which at the end he smeared back onto the implements lest they suffer. At the end the Phoenicians laughed and helped the little engineer, providing him with a cloth for cleaning his hands.

“Pork fat never hurt a man who likes iron,” the storekeeper said. “I’ll watch the tools till you bring your donkeys around.”

Hoopoe left the ironmonger’s to inspect the interior of the city and was met by a guard from his caravan, who advised him where they would be sleeping, for he was not concerned about hurrying home; a sensible man could have left Makor that morning, been in Aecho before noon, completed his business and been home again by nightfall, but the opportunity to visit a Phoenician city came so seldom to any Hebrew that Hoopoe intended to stretch it out as long as possible. Beside the waterfront he found an inn, where he sat at ease eating strange fish and looking with increasing thirst at an Egyptian merchant who was attended by two attractive girls who served him jugs of beer. Some of the brown liquid spilled along the corners of the man’s mouth and as it wasted itself on the pavement Hoopoe became increasingly fascinated by the bubbles it formed. They seemed like the essence of liquid, water intensified and wine improved upon.

Remembering the warning that Hebrews must not drink beer in Aecho, he turned away from the Egyptian and attended to his fried fish, but it had been so richly salted that his thirst increased. Bad luck brought an Aramaean to the eating place, and he ordered beer, which he drank in four huge draughts, throwing the last inch of liquid onto the pavement in front of Hoopoe.

“They don’t strain the husks out,” the Aramaean said, ordering a second jug.

“No, they don’t,” Hoopoe echoed, professionally. He picked up one of the barley husks and tasted it.

“You like to have a beer?” the Aramaean asked.

“I think I would,” Hoopoe said, and the Phoenician beer man brought him a large jug of the cool beverage.

“Tastes good with fish?” the Aramaean asked. When Hoopoe nodded without taking the jug from his lips, the man said, “You know, in these places they put extra salt on the fish to make you want their beer.”

At midnight Hoopoe was still at the inn, drinking beer and singing Egyptian songs with some sailors. He was loud but not boisterous, and the Phoenician guards did not molest him, even though they knew that he was not supposed to be there at that hour. It would have been difficult for them to explain why they did not arrest him, but primarily it was because he was a happy-looking man, visibly free of mean intentions. They supposed he had been working hard on some farm and was enjoying himself. At the one-o’clock watch he was singing noisily but stopped to explain to bystanders, “I do love a song. Listen to how that Cypriot sings. I tell you, a man who can sing like that is very close to Yahweh.” No sooner had he mentioned his god’s name among the unbelieving Phoenicians than he clamped his hand over his mouth in apology, but when he did so he began to giggle. “You mustn’t mind me,” he told the guards. “At home they call me Hoopoe.” And he left the table and walked unsteadily up and down, bobbing his head this way and that as his fat bottom weaved in the moonlight. “I’m a hoopoe bird,” he said.

“Would you like to visit the girls?” the Cypriot singer asked.

“Me? I’m married,” and he began to describe his wife while the innkeeper and the guards listened. “She is about this tall and more gentle than a breeze blowing in from the sea. All things that are beautiful she cherishes, so today I bought her this.” With fumbling fingers he unwrapped the length of braided glass and in the flickering light the eighteen multicolored strands were as beautiful as the woman for whom they were intended.