The Dovekeepers
Page 122
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WHEN OUR WARRIORS decided they would track a group of exploratores so they might discover how close the legion was to our mountain, Yael gave me a token to present to Amram, a slip of blue fabric, the color of heaven, and of God’s glory, and of His throne.
Amram laughed and slipped the fabric close to his heart. “We won’t be apart for long,” he said, recognizing the charm. “My sister has seen to that.”
He told me that the fabric would lead him to me no matter how far he might journey. He cupped his hands around my face and kissed me. In his arms I had a surge of fear, for what was between us was already over, despite the token. I went to the wall to watch him descend with the warriors. I had no idea that my brother planned to set forth with them until I found my mother there, beside herself with worry.
“He’s nothing but a boy,” she worried. She had looked ill of late, refusing her meals, keeping to herself. Now she was ashen. “Why would they do this? Why would he go?”
I was too guilt-ridden to answer. The warriors believed that Adir had been the archer at the contest and had therefore taken him on as their brother. That was why he now walked beside them, because of my red arrows. His fate was my burden, for I had caused them to look at him with esteem. My mother thought of Adir as her baby and was still tying amulets into his garments to protect him from evil. He tore such things from his tunic, laughing, saying our mother had no idea what it meant to be a man.
Adir was in his thirteenth year, but he was not ready. I had killed my first ibex when I was only ten, but I had been prepared for blood. I had ridden with men who were fearless. I had known to burn the acacia branches to honor the spirits of the dead. My brother thought being a man meant blindly following the path of the warriors, despite his lack of skill. He thought of great glory, not of pools of blood; surely he had not imagined the brutality he would witness when his comrades were cut down before him.
I prayed with my mother at our altar as she burned oil and chanted for Adir’s safe return. I cursed myself as I did so, for I should have been the one to take his place. My mother wrote the names of God on her arms, and then on mine, so that we might be heard in heaven, even though women were not allowed this practice. It was only for the priests to make such entreaties to the Almighty, but my mother was not afraid to break the law. We sacrificed a dove and wrote upon its feathers with its own blood, binding any demon that might follow my brother into the valley. We chanted softly so none would overhear, for we did not dare to reveal what we did in our chamber any more than I dared to reveal the truth of my brother’s leaving.
I proclaim the majesty of His splendor, to frighten all the spirits of the angels of destruction and those who strike suddenly and lead us astray. Destroy their evil hearts in the age of the rule of wickedness.
I spoke these words along with my mother, but I did not proclaim that I was the wickedness that had sent my brother into battle, and that I must be the one to make amends.
ON A CLEAR burning-hot morning, the nesting doves dropped to the ground without warning. We gathered them and held them close, trying to still their trembling bodies until they revived. Several died that day, for no apparent reason. Although we were hungry, we could not make them into a meal for ourselves or our warriors upon their safe return for the doves had died of some ailment.
Perhaps the hour when the doves fell marked the moment when Channa returned to the priest to choose a day for the slave to die. Certainly we all felt death close by; it passed as a shadow cast by clouds, and we grew cold. My mother took the doves to the altar in her chamber, she covered her head and whispered a prayer to keep away the Angel of Death, but the sacrifice was not enough. That same day a proclamation was posted. On the following afternoon, the guard would go to the tower and the world would be rid of the slave. We were not savages like the Romans, who crucified their enemies to cause the most pain a human could endure, stretching death out lengthwise, as a man might be stretched upon a wooden cross so he would linger in agony. Instead, the slave’s throat would be slit, the kindest death, the one we gave to even the most lowly of beasts, so that his breath would leave him in a single rush.
When evening fell, Channa was waiting by the wall near Revka’s chamber. She wore a cloak, but Revka’s grandsons spied her instantly, as they were said to perceive demons. Our leader’s wife had no fear, only the heat of her desire, which flamed hotter than the air around us. Arieh would soon be a year old; he was a quiet and dear child, already trying to walk. Channa had dared to come to Yael; she was heedless, as the desperate often are, more than willing to disobey her husband, who had warned her to stay away. But on this occasion Ben Ya’ir was among the warriors following the Romans and therefore could not judge her or punish her for her deeds. She was stronger than she’d once been, made so by my mother’s cures, strong enough to cause damage. She carried a sprig of hyssop, as though taunting the flower that had once caused her so much misery.
Amram laughed and slipped the fabric close to his heart. “We won’t be apart for long,” he said, recognizing the charm. “My sister has seen to that.”
He told me that the fabric would lead him to me no matter how far he might journey. He cupped his hands around my face and kissed me. In his arms I had a surge of fear, for what was between us was already over, despite the token. I went to the wall to watch him descend with the warriors. I had no idea that my brother planned to set forth with them until I found my mother there, beside herself with worry.
“He’s nothing but a boy,” she worried. She had looked ill of late, refusing her meals, keeping to herself. Now she was ashen. “Why would they do this? Why would he go?”
I was too guilt-ridden to answer. The warriors believed that Adir had been the archer at the contest and had therefore taken him on as their brother. That was why he now walked beside them, because of my red arrows. His fate was my burden, for I had caused them to look at him with esteem. My mother thought of Adir as her baby and was still tying amulets into his garments to protect him from evil. He tore such things from his tunic, laughing, saying our mother had no idea what it meant to be a man.
Adir was in his thirteenth year, but he was not ready. I had killed my first ibex when I was only ten, but I had been prepared for blood. I had ridden with men who were fearless. I had known to burn the acacia branches to honor the spirits of the dead. My brother thought being a man meant blindly following the path of the warriors, despite his lack of skill. He thought of great glory, not of pools of blood; surely he had not imagined the brutality he would witness when his comrades were cut down before him.
I prayed with my mother at our altar as she burned oil and chanted for Adir’s safe return. I cursed myself as I did so, for I should have been the one to take his place. My mother wrote the names of God on her arms, and then on mine, so that we might be heard in heaven, even though women were not allowed this practice. It was only for the priests to make such entreaties to the Almighty, but my mother was not afraid to break the law. We sacrificed a dove and wrote upon its feathers with its own blood, binding any demon that might follow my brother into the valley. We chanted softly so none would overhear, for we did not dare to reveal what we did in our chamber any more than I dared to reveal the truth of my brother’s leaving.
I proclaim the majesty of His splendor, to frighten all the spirits of the angels of destruction and those who strike suddenly and lead us astray. Destroy their evil hearts in the age of the rule of wickedness.
I spoke these words along with my mother, but I did not proclaim that I was the wickedness that had sent my brother into battle, and that I must be the one to make amends.
ON A CLEAR burning-hot morning, the nesting doves dropped to the ground without warning. We gathered them and held them close, trying to still their trembling bodies until they revived. Several died that day, for no apparent reason. Although we were hungry, we could not make them into a meal for ourselves or our warriors upon their safe return for the doves had died of some ailment.
Perhaps the hour when the doves fell marked the moment when Channa returned to the priest to choose a day for the slave to die. Certainly we all felt death close by; it passed as a shadow cast by clouds, and we grew cold. My mother took the doves to the altar in her chamber, she covered her head and whispered a prayer to keep away the Angel of Death, but the sacrifice was not enough. That same day a proclamation was posted. On the following afternoon, the guard would go to the tower and the world would be rid of the slave. We were not savages like the Romans, who crucified their enemies to cause the most pain a human could endure, stretching death out lengthwise, as a man might be stretched upon a wooden cross so he would linger in agony. Instead, the slave’s throat would be slit, the kindest death, the one we gave to even the most lowly of beasts, so that his breath would leave him in a single rush.
When evening fell, Channa was waiting by the wall near Revka’s chamber. She wore a cloak, but Revka’s grandsons spied her instantly, as they were said to perceive demons. Our leader’s wife had no fear, only the heat of her desire, which flamed hotter than the air around us. Arieh would soon be a year old; he was a quiet and dear child, already trying to walk. Channa had dared to come to Yael; she was heedless, as the desperate often are, more than willing to disobey her husband, who had warned her to stay away. But on this occasion Ben Ya’ir was among the warriors following the Romans and therefore could not judge her or punish her for her deeds. She was stronger than she’d once been, made so by my mother’s cures, strong enough to cause damage. She carried a sprig of hyssop, as though taunting the flower that had once caused her so much misery.
