Princess of Galilee

I had been to Massada in the springtime, but this was the first time I had visited the stronghold in the fall. The air was dry and sweltering, so I looked forward to its deep wells. The great retreat had been carved out of solid rock under my grandfather’s orders to be both an escape from Jerusalem in the desert, and a fortress against the Persians and the Nabateans, but I had not realized until this ride through the heat what a monumental task it must have been.

The dusk was falling as we rode up the last mile to the guard’s house. The dance instructor had kept silent the entire journey, though my mother tried to entice her to speak. I could get no word from her as we were taken to apartments. With a sign she indicated she would wake me at first light, and she turned to her own quarters.

At dawn, I awoke to the sound of a small bell. At the door was the old woman, with her garments tied back so that she could move freely. Without preface she spoke, “You prepare for the Feast of Lights. It will take you many days to prepare, for each dance must be done in sequence. Nothing must be left to chance.”

“We weave the dance of seven veils to the words Chanukah Asher,” she spoke, “a night for every letter of the words, for Antipas is Tetrarch, and must preside over this Feast of Dedication.”

“You will spend seven nights and days learning each veil, and seven more days at the end to bring it to completion, eight weeks in all, and then the Feast will be nigh upon us.”

“Come with me to the garden,” spoke the old woman, leading the way to the tiny expanse at the edge of the cliffs, “What do you see, Salome?”

“I see small birds, tumbling from the heights.”

“Those are sparrows. Were it not for us they would starve in this wasteland.” Even as she spoke a brown bird hopped from a bush and fluttered, barely flying.

“It is but a baby,” I exclaimed. “Let me help it back.”

“No, no! It is not tame, and if you take it from its mother, she will never reclaim it,” spoke the old woman, silencing me with a gesture. She held out her cane and the young bird hopped on it. She then put it back in its nest above the porch, saying “Do not touch it with your hand, mother birds do not forget.”

“The first lamp will be for Chai ‘life’, the palest of pinks, this is your first veil, to capture his imagination,” spoke the old crone. “You wish to appear innocent as you begin your dance. “Imitate the movement of a bird just learning to fly.”

I tried to lower myself slowly, following her guiding. I got down to a squat but when I tried to rise, she held my shoulder. “Slowly, slowly, you are just learning to use your legs.” I tried, but I spasmed, and fell.

“Think of the bird, a trembling thought at the merest touch of trouble. Remember, you are showing both trust and fright, something Antipas cannot see in himself right now. Your dance is to teach as well as terrify. It is something to learn, and each step builds on the one before.”

I squirmed under her touch, the pain of my thighs was unbearable, but she was stern and I tried again, to slowly get up, and try to be graceful. Oh, such agony.

“Again, Salome,” her voice was like iron and felt together. How did she do it?

And so it began. Day after day, I struggled those long weeks, not knowing how I was to learn. Patience was not a virtue I had ever cultivated, but this dance was not about to be taught to me overnight.

Seven days, and again we found ourselves on the battlements, this time toward dusk. “The second lamp, for the letter Nun, will be for “Noah,” happiness, purples of sunset, mauves of a whisper of shadows.”

“The birds are not now so tame, look down from the battlements, Salome.”

I looked below to where the scraps of a meal had been thrown. Ravens were beginning to wheel down, arguing with each other over a scrap of meat.

“It is a parable, Salome. The royal purple is not easy to wear, and you will always be pawed over, and fawned over.”

The dance this time was a stalking dance, first a feint, then a quick touch to the center of attention, then walking away as if having stolen a prize, a look back. Over and over again.

It was dizzying at first, like being suspended over a gibbet. I felt as if I was losing my bearings altogether.

“You are Noah’s raven,” spoke the old woman as she beat the tambor for a rhythm. “You bring sunset and good news, and even food to the wilderness, but you are not tame. You must not forget this. He may think you a tamed purple finch, but remember your raven heart.”

I thought of how Antipas had had me bring him sweetmeats at midnight, and trembled. Purple finch indeed!

The lessons continued, and the weeks passed. I was used to rising with the dawn by now, and yet this morning the old woman was delayed. “Come with me to the well,” the old woman spoke. “It is high noon, and a clear day. Come, look deep into the well.”

“There is a star there!” I cried.

“Yes, it is the Day Star. When the light is just right and the well cuts out the reflection of the sun, you can see the Day Star in any well. This is not magic, just knowledge of the sky, and that is what this next dance is about.

“The third veil is Kappa, Kadosh, holiness, a blue veil to set you apart, my Young One. Though this dance may seem strange to you in this context, it is a lesson to Herod.”

“How do I capture knowledge in a dance, Old One?”

“By singing, as you dance, a wordless song of beauty, recalling the heavens and the earth, and the waters under the earth. This is your song of rain, and the veil of tears which your mother cries and Antipas does not hear.”

“Remember, Salome, you are set apart, something Antipas has heard many times, and does not believe. You are yet a virgin, and that is what he most desires, and fears. And remember, you will be learning this dance for seven nights, so every lesson is important, nothing must be left to chance.”

I sighed, and began the slow learning process of a song without words, a song which called rain to my eyes, and sorrow to my breast. This song would set me apart from the world, and from all my memories.

Ah, beloved husband, it has been years since that time, and I sit and think of Galilee’s deep waters again. The tears I have now bring up even that dance to my mind, one is forgiven, but one can never forget something forged so deep.

I woke in the darkness to the insistent shaking of my teacher. “Come at once,” she whispered.

“Here in the darkness you learn the heartbeat of Creation, the night which turns to dawning. Your veil here will be the green of dawn, which you can only know if you have waited the night for it.”

“Listen for the crickets, and the night creatures,” she murmured. “I have woken you so you may hear their rustle at the last watch, the two hours before dawn.”

I sat in silence, as even my breathing had become hushed. She had led me with only a single tallow candle to our watching post, looking east, across the desert to her homeland. An owl arose with something in its talons, visible against that faint light which I had learned this night rises just before dawn, a faint crescent arch that followed the circle of stars the Babylonians watched to predict the future. I thought of myself as that poor mouse, caught away in something far beyond me.

“Hush my Young One, you must be brave, a living mouse can survive when a lion would be killed for its growling in the night.”