The Dovekeepers
Page 97
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Channa had kept her part of the bargain, she was honest enough in that. I hoped the slave’s well-being was worth the price that was being paid, for every time in this month of the scorpion when Yael went to see the slave I brought the baby to Ben Ya’ir’s house and let Channa hold him in her arms. I was wary and careful. I never once let him out of my sight. Each time I reminded Ben Ya’ir’s wife that this child had a mother.
I told myself she was listening to me, but in truth, she hadn’t heard a word.
OUR WORLD was punished by thirst. At this time of year, in the month of Kislev, we expected a greening of the land, fields that were seeded and watered, melons and gourds already growing on the vines, figs pollinated by Egyptian wasps. This season was different. There would be no cumin or coriander or leeks or anise. The fruit trees were bare and black.
Though the days were bleak and we wore our cloaks, there was no sign of the much needed rain. It was time to scatter seeds for the spring, then plow the fields to bury them, the donkeys pulling metal blades across the earth. The men ordinarily cut down the barley, which would then be tied into sheaves and spread in the field so that the livestock could walk over the stalks to thresh them. But without rain, what good would this do? To winnow the barley, the wind was needed to blow the chaff off the grain, and the air now was lifeless and dull. Seed must be set down during times of rain so it would be trapped in the earth rather than dry up and shrivel before it could take root.
The men from the synagogue called for public atonement and fasting in the hope that their sacrifice might cause the rain to fall. We were summoned to the plaza to pray for forgiveness. The women stayed in the back, so we could care for the children and the animals if need be. The men gathered together, forsaking their duties and chores, a sea of prayer beneath the unrelenting sky. The high priest, Menachem ben Arrat, usually cloistered inside the synagogue, where he studied and gave advice, now came to stand upon the wall and lead the men in prayer. But as learned as he was, he could not make it rain, not even when he buried twelve lead jars with ceramic stoppers beneath the synagogue walls to keep demons from escaping into our midst.
It was decided that our people would fast until God sent relief to us. The drought became a hammer, and our people’s thirst was a nail beneath that hammer. Some of the older men were so weakened by hunger by the second day of the fast that they fell to their knees, but they continued to pray even then, their shawls around their shoulders, chanting to a heaven that would not answer their prayers but gave them only dust in return.
The fast was called off after three days. Nothing had changed. We had no choice but to wait for God to see our plight. The leaves of the grapevines curled up. The olives grew white then dropped from the trees, clattering onto the stones. People began to whisper about the water the Essenes used for their rituals. Guards were posted near the goat house to see what rites performed there might call for water. So as not to bring attention to themselves, our guests asked for no more. Instead they took to reusing their water until the drops they laid upon their heads to purify themselves were as black as the feathers of ravens.
When Yael thought no one noticed, she pilfered some of the water we were to use for the doves. Some she gave to the slave, the rest I helped her carry to the stone house to place in her friend Tamar’s hands. We brought some withered fruit and olives as well. Nahara approached us shyly. Shirah’s younger daughter appeared to have become a grown woman, serious, dressed in white, her hands hardened by work. She asked after her sister but said nothing of her mother. I noticed that she glanced at the gold amulet Yael wore at her throat, then just as quickly looked away.
In return for the gifts of sustenance we had brought, Tamar gave us a length of the pure white linen their women had woven. We covered our table at the Sabbath with the fabric when we lit our lamp and said the Sabbath prayers. Once we had arranged the linen on our table, we could almost believe our poor chamber was a home like any other.
ONE EVENING as I made my way to the looms, I saw Ben Ya’ir walking in the orchard through a white mirage of billowing dust. He had returned from his journeys into the desert, his warriors bringing back nothing but wild birds they had trapped with nets, as young girls might have. Our provisions were lower than they’d ever been, our people distraught. I could see the weight our leader carried on his shoulders from his posture, the fate of us all resting upon his words and deeds.
Where another might have seen only darkness, I noticed the shadow of Ben Ya’ir’s wife, watching. I had begun to know her from my visits with Arieh, when we sat together exclaiming over his charms. She made the baby laugh with a show of silly faces while she bounced him on her knee. I had come to understand that Channa had a wall around her meant to keep others out. Yet every now and then, I saw the curl of a smile upon her lips. When she spoke Eleazar ben Ya’ir’s name, her face transformed, and I could imagine her as the girl she had been. Her love for her husband was evident, though she seemed as far away from him as the rest of us.
I told myself she was listening to me, but in truth, she hadn’t heard a word.
OUR WORLD was punished by thirst. At this time of year, in the month of Kislev, we expected a greening of the land, fields that were seeded and watered, melons and gourds already growing on the vines, figs pollinated by Egyptian wasps. This season was different. There would be no cumin or coriander or leeks or anise. The fruit trees were bare and black.
Though the days were bleak and we wore our cloaks, there was no sign of the much needed rain. It was time to scatter seeds for the spring, then plow the fields to bury them, the donkeys pulling metal blades across the earth. The men ordinarily cut down the barley, which would then be tied into sheaves and spread in the field so that the livestock could walk over the stalks to thresh them. But without rain, what good would this do? To winnow the barley, the wind was needed to blow the chaff off the grain, and the air now was lifeless and dull. Seed must be set down during times of rain so it would be trapped in the earth rather than dry up and shrivel before it could take root.
The men from the synagogue called for public atonement and fasting in the hope that their sacrifice might cause the rain to fall. We were summoned to the plaza to pray for forgiveness. The women stayed in the back, so we could care for the children and the animals if need be. The men gathered together, forsaking their duties and chores, a sea of prayer beneath the unrelenting sky. The high priest, Menachem ben Arrat, usually cloistered inside the synagogue, where he studied and gave advice, now came to stand upon the wall and lead the men in prayer. But as learned as he was, he could not make it rain, not even when he buried twelve lead jars with ceramic stoppers beneath the synagogue walls to keep demons from escaping into our midst.
It was decided that our people would fast until God sent relief to us. The drought became a hammer, and our people’s thirst was a nail beneath that hammer. Some of the older men were so weakened by hunger by the second day of the fast that they fell to their knees, but they continued to pray even then, their shawls around their shoulders, chanting to a heaven that would not answer their prayers but gave them only dust in return.
The fast was called off after three days. Nothing had changed. We had no choice but to wait for God to see our plight. The leaves of the grapevines curled up. The olives grew white then dropped from the trees, clattering onto the stones. People began to whisper about the water the Essenes used for their rituals. Guards were posted near the goat house to see what rites performed there might call for water. So as not to bring attention to themselves, our guests asked for no more. Instead they took to reusing their water until the drops they laid upon their heads to purify themselves were as black as the feathers of ravens.
When Yael thought no one noticed, she pilfered some of the water we were to use for the doves. Some she gave to the slave, the rest I helped her carry to the stone house to place in her friend Tamar’s hands. We brought some withered fruit and olives as well. Nahara approached us shyly. Shirah’s younger daughter appeared to have become a grown woman, serious, dressed in white, her hands hardened by work. She asked after her sister but said nothing of her mother. I noticed that she glanced at the gold amulet Yael wore at her throat, then just as quickly looked away.
In return for the gifts of sustenance we had brought, Tamar gave us a length of the pure white linen their women had woven. We covered our table at the Sabbath with the fabric when we lit our lamp and said the Sabbath prayers. Once we had arranged the linen on our table, we could almost believe our poor chamber was a home like any other.
ONE EVENING as I made my way to the looms, I saw Ben Ya’ir walking in the orchard through a white mirage of billowing dust. He had returned from his journeys into the desert, his warriors bringing back nothing but wild birds they had trapped with nets, as young girls might have. Our provisions were lower than they’d ever been, our people distraught. I could see the weight our leader carried on his shoulders from his posture, the fate of us all resting upon his words and deeds.
Where another might have seen only darkness, I noticed the shadow of Ben Ya’ir’s wife, watching. I had begun to know her from my visits with Arieh, when we sat together exclaiming over his charms. She made the baby laugh with a show of silly faces while she bounced him on her knee. I had come to understand that Channa had a wall around her meant to keep others out. Yet every now and then, I saw the curl of a smile upon her lips. When she spoke Eleazar ben Ya’ir’s name, her face transformed, and I could imagine her as the girl she had been. Her love for her husband was evident, though she seemed as far away from him as the rest of us.
