Angels at the Gate

by T. K. Thorne

  “Adira,” he says, and I catch my breath. My true name! This is indeed serious.

  “Father, I am sorry,” I whisper.

  He frowns. “For what?”

  Confused, I meet his eyes and then look away. Why does he make me say it? Is he angry at something else I have done? My mind races through the past few days, and I can bring nothing else to mind, at least nothing he could possibly know of. He can’t know about the aloe juice I added to Chiram’s wine. Chiram thinks I do not listen when he talks about his herbs, but I do. I bite my lip to keep from grinning at the thought of him, straining to keep his thick bowed legs together, running at regular intervals to the camp’s edge for two days. It served him well for speaking of cooking puppies. I decide I will start confession at the lesser infraction. “I am sorry for my disobedience in taking the pup.”

  “Ah yes, that,” Father says, as though distracted from another chain of thought. “You must return the dog to Chiram.”

  “But Father,” I say, though I do not still have the pup in my possession, “he is going to cook him!”

  He snorts. “Adir, the bitch is his and thus her litter is his. To steal from another in the caravan is a stoning offense.”

  “But—”

  His right hand slices the air, which means he will hear no more on the matter. No amount of begging on my part will change his mind once he has made that gesture. I have seen him use it many times in negotiations when he has made his last offer.

  “We are a tribe of laws,” he says, oblivious to the terrible cramping of my chest.

  I stare into the fire and try not to see those tiny, warm balls of fur nuzzling into their mother’s belly.

  “There is else I wish to speak of,” he says.

  “What?” I ask, trying to dam the tears that have welled in my eyes.

  He shifts and holds his closed fist toward me, palm up. Despite myself, I am curious. “What is it?”

  He opens his fingers. On his palm lies a small cylinder seal made of a black silvery gemstone. I pluck it from his hand, admiring the small carving of a woman in long, tiered robes.

  “Lama,” he says. “A goddess of protection and intercession. I gave it to your mother long ago in Ur. Now it is yours, your personal seal.”

  A slender piece of rawhide threads through the hollow center. I hold it in my hand for a moment, trying to feel some connection to my mother, and then tie it around my neck.

  “When your mother died, I did not want to give you up. You were my only connection to her. But you have not stayed a child, and I fear I have kept you for myself too long.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I am saying it is time you claimed your birthright as a woman.”

  “But you always said you did not want the caravan to know I was a girl. I have never told anyone. Why would they suspect now?”

  He gives me a sharp glance. “They will suspect soon. How are you to hide your woman’s bleeding?”

  I flinch. I have tried to keep that from him, apparently without success. “It only just began last moon.”

  He sighs. “I should have left you with Sarai long ago. She asked for you, but I could not bear to give you up. Each time I thought, one more journey, so I can become used to the idea.”

  Give me to Sarai? “Why can I not stay with the caravan? There are women here.”

  “There is not a man here worthy of you, and you need a chance to have your own family.”

  I rise to my feet, breathing hard, betrayed. We travel to Abram and Sarai so he can dispose of me. “I have a family. You are my family. The caravan is my family!”

  Once again, the hand slices the air, but I am not silent, not obedient. “No, I will not go. No matter where you send me, I will not stay. I will follow you.”

  He does not answer. I expect his rage, but the look on his face is not anger, only a great sadness, and that fills me with more despair than I can hold.

  I turn and flee into the night, grateful for the bite of cold air. The need to run, to feel the wind’s push on my face, pulses through my flesh. Since I was young, I have been drawn to rocky inclines and hills. No feeling can match standing in a high place and receiving the wind’s embrace. My father truly named me daughter of the wind.

  Oblivious to stones and without my guidance, my feet take me across the camp. No one pays attention or tries to stop me. Boys often run about, dodging fires and chasing each other. I chase no one, but my future pursues me.

  When I approach the herds, I slow to a walk. To run here would start a stampede, and that is not my purpose. Only now do I even know my purpose. I have fled without thought, but now I take a camel-hair bridle from the cart and slip through the donkeys, moving slowly out of habit, though the ache to run still pounds in me.

  Above, clouds veil the half moon, but I know each creature by the shape and the lighter markings that distinguish them. A soft neigh ahead changes my course, and my hands find the familiar silky skin of the gelding I have named Dune. His breath is sweet on my face, and he lowers his head for the bridle. He is not young, but he still loves to run.

  Glad for my height, I swing onto his back and guide him away from the herd. The desire for speed is still strong, but I am no fool to run a horse in rocky terrain at night. A fall and a broken leg would mean Dune in Chiram’s pot. Instead, I drop the reins and lay my head on his mane, wrapping my arms around his neck and letting him take me up and down the hills where he will.

  Before my tears finish soaking his mane, Dune snorts, lifts his head, and halts. Sitting upright, I search for campfires, but none are in sight. I check the sky, knowing I headed west originally, but clouds now blanket the stars, and I have no idea how much of the night has passed while I wrapped myself in misery.

  A shadow moves in a nearby clump of brush, and Dune’s muscles tense beneath me. Before I can react, he rears and jumps sideways. I am slipping off. I make a desperate grab for mane, but most of my weight is off to his side. With a frightened snort, Dune leaps again, and I hit the ground.

  I cannot draw breath or move for long moments. Dune is not in my line of vision, but I imagine by the sound of pounding hooves, he has fled back to the caravan. He is gone, and I am alone. There is not enough light to follow his tracks. If I stumble around in the dark, I risk becoming more lost. It is best to wait here until morning breaks and Zakiti realizes what has happened and comes for me.

  It is the best plan I can think of … until I hear something move in the brush and catch the faint, greenish gleam of watching eyes.

  CHAPTER

  3

  At that time a severe famine struck the land of Canaan, forcing Abram to go down to Egypt, where he lived as a foreigner. As he was approaching the border of Egypt, Abram said to his wife, Sarai, “Look, you are a very beautiful woman. When the Egyptians see you, they will say, ‘This is his wife. Let’s kill him; then we can have her!’ So please tell them you are my sister. Then they will spare my life and treat me well because of their interest in you.”

  —Book of Genesis 12:10-13

  I WIPE THE DIRT FROM MY mouth, my gaze locked on the last place I saw the gleam of the wolf’s eyes. Every breath jabs sharply into my side. I have fled from a future I do not want and found a present with fangs.

  What a fool I am.

  With one hand pressed tightly to my side, I roll to my knees and try to stand. Pain stabs me so fiercely, my vision blurs and nausea churns my belly. I let out a cry. Perhaps it will frighten the wolves, or perhaps someone is coming to look for me and will hear.

  But that is not possible. Dune has not had time to return to the camp. What are the chances someone will notice he is bridled? That I have disappeared? I should have ridden Philot. My faithful donkey would not have left me. I should have paid attention to where I was going. I should have—

  A cloud moves from the moon’s face and I see my death less than a stone’s throw away. I scrabble about with my hand looking for a stick, a stone, anything for a weapon. Even uninjure
d, I could not outrun a wolf.

  There is nothing within my reach.

  Warily, the wolf approaches. It is lean and muscular, with short fur a mottled gray. The copper undertones are barely visible in the moonlight. I put a hand on the cool, smooth surface of the seal that hangs around my neck, hoping Lama will protect me, or at least intercede with El on my behalf. But one does well not to rely completely on the gods, as I have heard Chiram say, and I yell at the advancing wolf, the loudest shriek I can manage, which sends another bolt of pain into my side.

  He hesitates, head cocked sideways in a canine question. The wolf appears to be a lone male. A human is not his normal prey, but a wounded human is another matter. He is thin without the advantage of hunting with a pack, and hungry. In the cock of his head, I read he is weighing the risk of waiting until I weaken further against the possibility of another predator finding me and robbing him of his meal. Competitors abound in these hills—lions, leopards, a pack of wolves.

  I am indeed a fool. My father is better rid of me.

  The wolf lifts his head, sniffing, and then moves forward, his lips pulled back, exposing sharp teeth. His instincts are wolf, not hyena. He will make his own kill.

  My breaths are ragged from fear and shallow to keep the pain from stabbing my chest. He hears that and probably my galloping heart. I try to slow my breathing, hoping to appear less vulnerable.

  He circles.

  On my hands and knees, I scramble to remain facing him, knowing his preferred attack is from the rear, onto the back of my neck to break my spine between his powerful jaws. To keep from crying out in pain, I bite my tongue—and realize another mistake with the coppery taste in my mouth.

  Now, the smell of blood stains the air.

  Without taking his cool eyes from his prey, the wolf sniffs again and growls, a low, rumbling sound that freezes my heart.

  I scrape my fingers against the hard ground, gathering dirt to throw in his eyes, a meager defense.

  Moonlight gleams off his teeth. They transfix me. So white, so pure. As he charges forward, I throw my pitiful handful of dirt and raise my hands to shield my face. So quick is his spring, he appears only a blur of motion. But as fast as he is, a slender black shape meets his leap like a thrown lance.

  Ferocious snarls, flashes of teeth—

  They fight over me, until both abruptly stop, regarding each other with lips peeled back and low, ominous growls. I peer closely at the intruding wolf. Nami! My throat clamps with gratitude and with fear for her.

  Locked in a standoff, both canines vie for dominance with their posture. Nami’s swollen tits hang low. She has left her pups to follow me. I do the only thing I can to help her. Grimacing, I growl low in my throat. We are pack, my bared teeth warn. I may be wounded, but we are pack.

  The wolf’s eyes flick to me and then back to Nami, who stands tall because of her long, slender legs.

  Perhaps it is the threat of both of us, or perhaps he defers to Nami as a female he does not wish to fight. I do not know, but slowly he turns his head aside. Nami holds her position, not yielding, the short fur on her shoulders stiff with warning.

  With a slow, deliberate movement, so as not to provoke her, the wolf turns his back and stalks away.

  Nami waits until she is certain he is gone and then limps to my side, licking my face and taking my chin delicately in her mouth for a moment, something I have seen her do with her pups. She has turned in an instant from fierce predator to adoring dog. I hold onto her and for the second time that night, I cry into an animal’s side.

  “Nami, thank you.”

  She gives me another worried lick.

  “I promise I will save your puppies. All of them, I swear on El, my god.”

  Unimpressed with my oath, Nami stretches beside me and tends to her bloody paw.

  Exhausted, I ease down and rest my head on my arm, draping the other on her back. She lies by my side, but when she finishes cleaning her wound, she keeps her head raised, alert for the wolf’s return or any other danger that might appear.

  We are pack.

  CHAPTER

  4

  And … when Abram arrived in Egypt, everyone noticed Sarai’s beauty. When the palace officials saw her, they sang her praises to Pharaoh, their king, and Sarai was taken into his palace.

  —Book of Genesis 12:14-15

  MY FATHER AND CHIRAM FIND me just after the sun rises above the hills to copper the sky. I am most grateful to Lama and El for letting me see it. My father kneels beside me. “Are you hurt?”

  “A little.” I put my hand to my side.

  With care, he gathers me into his arms to hold, enveloping me in the familiar, salty smell of safety.

  From over his shoulder Chiram growls, “Idiot boy!”

  Father’s grip on me tightens, and I catch my breath with the pain, but bury my head against him and say only, “I am sorry, Father.”

  He sighs.

  I have said those words often. I always mean them, but somehow, despite my best intentions, I find them on my tongue with greater frequency than any other child I know. And I am soon to be beyond childhood. That thought is a reminder of what drove me from our tent the previous night. I do not want to be a woman and leave my father and the caravan. The way he holds me tells me he feels the same.

  “One more trip,” he whispers in my ear.

  I clasp onto that promise. One more. I will not be abandoned!

  When my father releases me and tries to help me up, I cannot stop the cry that wrenches from my lips.

  He again kneels beside me. “What happened?”

  “Dune scented a wolf and threw me,” I admit. “My chest hurts. Did he return to the camp?”

  He shakes his head and my heart sinks. This can only mean my horse fell to predators or perhaps, I comfort myself, he wandered to another camp.

  Though I am fifteen summers, my father scoops me into his arms and carries me, a watchful Nami at our heels. The sharp stabs in my side are preferable to Chiram’s grumbles. “The sheep dropped her kid while you were off wandering around.”

  “Enough, Chiram,” my father finally says. “Adir is punished enough. Let it lie.”

  With a last grunt, Chiram acquiesces.

  AT THE CAMP, father lays me gently on his own pallet and gives me water. My mouth is parched and cracking. Chiram is wrong; I am beyond idiot. I did not even take water with me. I am no longer in the desperate grip of the despair that drove me out of our tent only last night. The moonlit gleam of a wolf’s teeth has altered my view of things. I still do not want change, but I have another, more pressing, desire.

  “Chiram will tend you,” Father says.

  I groan. “No, please. I will be fine.” I do not want Chiram’s greasy hands on me.

  “He has the most knowledge of medicines.”

  “Only because he butchers animals,” I retort. “Please, not Chiram.”

  At that moment a shadow appears at the tent entrance. “May we enter?”

  I recognize the accent, but not the voice.

  My father pulls aside the hanging to reveal Raph and Mika, two of the messengers of El. “Be welcome in my tent,” Father says, stepping aside and gesturing for them to enter. They have to bend to avoid brushing their heads against the tent opening.

  Raph glances at me and then addresses my father. “We heard your son was injured.”

  I close my eyes, unwilling to face the humiliation of hearing my father tell what I had done.

  “He fell from the horse,” he says simply, and my heart swells anew with love for him.

  Raph gestures to Mika, who is even taller. If Mika had worn the peaked hat the third giant wore, he would not be able to stand upright inside the tent. “Mika is learned in medicine and healing. He is willing to examine Adir with your permission.”

  Mika glances at me as if I am a sheep or goat. I imagine Raph has talked him into coming.

  Father looks relieved and then concerned. I know what he is thinking. He does not want
to give permission for a man to touch me. I certainly do not want to be touched, especially by this cryptic stranger who may be our god’s messenger and looks at me with such cold assessment that I want to stomp his foot.

  But the alternative is Chiram.

  “It is all right, Father.” I lift my outer robe, revealing only my ribs, which already have begun to turn a pale blue.

  Mika takes only one step to reach my side. He kneels without the warrior grace I observed in Raph. Despite his cold manner, Mika’s hands are gentle, though it takes my breath when he prods.

  “A rib—” he searches for a word and confers with Raph in a tongue I have never heard.

  “Bruise,” Raph offers.

  Mika nods. “Bruise. Perhaps hair-crack, but no broken.” He hands my father a small package wrapped in cloth. “Boil this and give to him.” He pauses and confers with Raph, now in the language of the northlands, which I understand. “How do you say twice daily for the next hand of days?”

  Raph shrugs.

  Mika turns back to us, holding up his forefinger. “Morning.” Another finger joins the first. “Night.” Then he splays all of his fingers. “Days. Understand?”

  Father nods, but my eyes narrow at this brusque order given without the least pretense of politeness. Perhaps a god’s messenger does not need to be polite, but I do not like this man.

  He has me sit upright and wraps a wide strip of cloth tightly around my lower ribs. He does it expertly enough, and the pain eases.

  Mika rises. “Check in morning.” I am not certain if he means we are to check it or he will.

  “Thank you,” Father says. “May I pay for your—?”

  Mika’s back stiffens. “No.” He turns and strides from the tent.