Three feet from your person, the man, who crawled like an animal, stands without aid. Caked in the dust from which God made man, he runs to you and claws with overgrown nails like those of a lion at your priestly robes of blue linen topped by an apron of purple and scarlet interwoven with golden threads. He leaves traces of dust on the gold. You recoil. You guide him with words alone, dripping milk and honey, promising him a return to civilization, to a stream to wash himself of the dust, revealing unblemished skin devoid of the red patches that marked him as a leper.
You bark an order at one of your attendants, a young boy barely ten years off his mother’s milk, to bring the necessary tools for a cleansing ritual to the stream bank. He scampers excitedly to place a reed basket with two sparrows trapped inside and an earthenware vessel with cedar wood, cloth dyed scarlet, and hyssop next to the stream.
The sparrows sound an alarm, a repetitive series of chirps like bells from heaven. You open the basket and pull one bird out, leaving its partner inside, continuing to chirp. The male pecks at your hand. You hand it to the attendant and order him to kill it.
He hesitates. You bark the command again. Crying, he snaps the sparrow’s neck, breaking it off to let the blood flow into the earthenware vessel. You dip the cedar wood, cloth dyed scarlet, hyssop, and the living female bird into the blood. Lifting out the objects, careful to avoid your robe, you sprinkle the man seven times, pronouncing him clean. You loose the living, blood-soaked bird and watch as it, crying for its mate, veers back toward you, dripping blood on your golden apron.
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