by T. K. Thorne
They move off, ears flicking in consternation, but following the donkeys that Chiram’s son leads. I will stay in this position between them and their home until we are well out of sight of Abram’s tents. I must stay alert and anticipate the first testing move from one of the donkeys. They do not have the strong herd instinct of sheep, being more independent. But if one gets away with turning, another will do the same, even if they do not go the same way, and chaos will erupt. The staff extends my range a bit, and if I keep my mind from wandering, I can manage. Philot does not need me to lead him, so accustomed is he to our traveling.
Nami is no help. She only looks at me when I signal her to move the donkeys. I wish our old herd dog had not died. He was a wonder, and I still look for him whenever we break camp or need to move the herds. From habit, I also look for Dune, but he is gone, a victim to my foolishness. At the cost of my horse and my ribs, I have bought another summer with my father and the caravan. Then Father will surely insist I stay with Sarai … but I cannot worry about that. Who knows what will happen in such a space of time?
CHAPTER
9
This was the same place where Abram had built the altar, and there he worshiped the Lord again.
—Book of Genesis 13:4
THAT NIGHT WHEN I AM with my students, my father sweeps into the tent without requesting entry. I have a cup of tea to my mouth and choke on the strong liquid.
Mika, who is the one I would expect to react to this rudeness, looks up calmly.
It is Raph who jumps to his feet, his hand flying to his left hip, the movement of a swordsman, but he carries no weapon. He has also stepped protectively in front of me, which I notice, even though I am coughing.
“Why is my da—” My father catches himself, and his cheek spasms with the effort of control. “Why is my son in your tent?”
Raph quickly drops his hand and takes a breath before answering. “He teach words, so we speak more skill. Is this a difficult?”
“Difficulty,” I correct.
Raph amends, “A difficulty?”
I admire how he smoothly slips from battle-ready to negotiator, though he remains in front of me.
Father’s mouth opens and then closes. “Yes, it is. He is too young, too—”
He struggles to give a coherent reason. “We leave tomorrow. He must rest.” With a glare at me, he says, “Adir, go to our tent.”
“But father, I—”
His hand slashes the air in the gesture that cuts further discussion.
“It is late,” Raph says to me. “You filled my head to sloshing.”
I cannot help a smile at his analogy, though my stomach is starting to clinch with the expectation of my father’s anger and an end to my plans.
IN OUR TENT, my father turns his fury on me. “What are you doing?” he hisses to keep from shouting.
“What Raph said I was doing, teaching them our language. Why are you so angry, Father?”
His fists knuckle in frustration. “Why?” He turns and paces into the depth of our tent where my pallet lies in the shadows. Whirling back, he approaches me, keeping his voice under control with an effort. “That is exactly the problem. You have no conception of danger!”
Danger? I am lost to his meaning. “I thought they were El’s messengers and friends of Abram. Why would they mean me harm?
My father blinks. “They are men, Adira. Men.”
Finally, I understand. This is related to my father’s worry about raising a daughter alone. If my mother had lived, he would probably not be so anxious about the subject. I suddenly wonder why he never married again. Most men would have. Why have I never questioned this before?
“Why didn’t you marry another woman, Father?”
My father appears to swallow the barrage of words he is about to spew, though his mouth remains open. “What?”
Feeling bolder, now we have left the tents of Abram behind, I say, “All this deception about my gender would have been unnecessary had you married and let me grow up as other girls.”
His face slackens, all the anger drained away. “Have you been unhappy? I thought you wished to be with me, or was it more you did not wish to stay with Sarai?”
I want to laugh, but I see the pain in him and do not. “I have been most happy, Father. I would not trade my life for any other.”
He brightens, until I add, “I just do not want to be a woman.”
“That is not a choice you have.”
This time I stop the fear that uncoils like a serpent in my belly, remembering the last time I thought to run from my fate. A wolf almost ate me, and Nami lost her pups.
Eventually, I must deal with the fact I am a woman, but it is not important at this moment. “Neither of the strangers knows I am a girl,” I say quietly in the most reasonable voice I can muster. “I am just a boy to them.”
Father sighs. “Perhaps, but I forbid you to go alone into their tent. One day you will want a husband, and your reputation will matter. I want no one spreading falsities about you.”
I grind my teeth. This is exactly why I do not want to be a woman, at least not one of our tribe. Men never worry about such things. They do exactly as they please, but let a woman step her toe beyond the boundary men mark, and she is ruined, not worthy of being a wife. Concubine, perhaps. For a moment, I consider that possibility. Is it any better a choice than being a wife? Or perhaps one of the priestesses in the five cities of the Vale or Babylonia? The followers of the goddess in the cities are free to lie with any man, and it is a holy act. The priestesses hold property and make important contributions and decisions. No king would quickly act against their advice. Nomad and city dweller alike respect the power of the goddess. Her figurine has a special place in every woman’s tent. Even Sarai asks for the goddess’s blessing on her empty womb. El may not dwell in any form, but the goddess likes her slender carvings, her trees, and her high places.
I sigh. Father would not approve of my being a priestess; besides, I wish to remain with the caravan.
“Adira,” my father’s voice, still low, so we will not be heard beyond the tent walls, calls me back from my mind’s wanderings.
“Yes, Father,” I say, trying to sound obedient and calm him.
“I forbid you to go alone into the tent of the strangers.”
I can only stare at him.
“Into any man’s tent,” he adds, his dark eyes boring into mine with all the force of his authority as my father.
“But this is important,” I say. “You do not understand.”
“Nothing is as important as your honor.” He grasps me by the shoulders. “This is for your own happiness. It may not seem like it now, but I do this for your happiness.”
I realize it will change nothing to explain about Nami. It will seem a minor issue next to my honor and future happiness.
I do the only thing I can—bow my head in acquiescence.
CHAPTER
10
The Lord said to Abram, “Look as far as you can see in every direction—north and south, east and west. I am giving all this land, as far as you can see, to you and your descendants as a permanent possession. And I will give you so many descendants that, like the dust of the earth, they cannot be counted! Go and walk through the land in every direction, for I am giving it to you.”
So Abram moved his camp to Hebron and settled near the oak grove belonging to Mamre. There he built another altar to the lord.
—Book of Genesis 13:14-18
But the land could not support both Abram and Lot with all their flocks and herds living so close together. So disputes broke out between the herdsmen of Abram and Lot… Finally Abram said to Lot, “Let’s not allow this conflict to come between us or our herdsmen. After all, we are [brethren]!
—Book of Genesis 13:6-8
WE TRAVEL SOUTHEAST FROM ABRAM’S tents through the hills. Lot rides beside my father, talking most of the way. He is a great talker, mostly a great complainer. I stay as far from them as I can. I w
ish I could simply travel with Raph and Mika and instruct them as we go. In that way, I could fulfill my bargain and obey my father, but that would mean failing my duties. We are short two men, so I must stay with the animals.
At least I have Nami’s presence again, although she periodically runs to the donkey that carried her pups to sniff in worry and hope. I distract her by trying to teach her to keep the stubborn donkeys in a pack. My hand signals confuse her. I am certain she has been trained as a hunter, but I do not know what signals she understands. She knows I want something, but is not particularly interested in herding donkeys. I think she would, however, be happy to chase them, as she is off after any sight of a rustle in a clump of grass.
Danel comes to walk beside me. For the first time, I wonder how he sees me—as the favorite of my father, the caravan master, while he is merely the son of the cook? I cannot help being that, but perhaps it is a source of discontent for him. I have never tried to be nice, as I despise his father, Chiram … but Danel did fight for me, earning a few bruises too.
“Thank you for coming to my aid,” I say stiffly.
“I didn’t ask for your thanks.”
“No,” I reply. “But I give it.”
He grunts, sounding exactly like his father.
“Why did you come to walk with me, then?” I demand.
He shrugs. “I don’t know.” He looks at the sky and the hills. “Well … I came to thank you for asking Eliezer not to report our fighting.”
I laugh. “That was more for me than you.”
He grins, and I am surprised at the happiness that gives me. I do not have friends among the boys of the caravan, perhaps because I need to keep my distance to protect my gender or perhaps because they all resent me as Zakiti’s son, much as the boys of Abram’s camp resent Ishmael.
“I have a grandmother in Sodom,” Danel says.
“Is she nice?”
“She is tiny and frail, but full of spirit.”
I envy the love in his voice.
Danel helps with the donkeys until Chiram calls him away on some errand.
Despite the distraction of Danel’s presence, my belly has stayed in a tight coil at my predicament over Nami. I should obey my father, but he has also taught me to honor my oaths, and I have made one to Nami. She followed me, sacrificing her own pups, and she saved my life. I do not know what to do. I cannot let her future pups be destined for Chiram’s pot.
That night after the evening meal, I claim weariness and pain in my ribs. Neither is a lie. I crawl into my pallet and wait. Father is late coming to the tent and I chafe, but keep my back to the fire. When he calls my name softly, I do not answer.
I wait until his breathing steadies, and then I ease from my bedding, leaving the large lump of stone around which I had curled my body. Satisfied it will be taken for my form in the shadows, I slip out of the tent.
I love the morning, but I also love the night—the stars caught in the gauzy veil spun across the ebon sky.
A hyena coughs and is answered by the stuttering bleat of a doe goat. Not far away, a campfire burns, silhouetting the shape of men that stand between it and me. The wind shifts, and I smell something familiar and not pleasant.
Lot.
“Adir,” he bellows, and I move quickly away from our tent, lest he wake my father. “Where are you off to, boy?”
I shrug.
He squints at me. “Not going to ride out into the night again, I hope?”
“No.”
“El does not tolerate such foolishness. He demands obedience to him through a child’s obedience to his father. Obedience is honor.”
These words feel like an arrow through my throat. Does he know I am disobeying my father as I stand here before him? Does El speak through him? I am not certain whether El is angry, but Abram says he is a jealous god, and I do not wish his anger with me to fall on my father’s back.
“I hear you, Lot, my cousin,” I mumble, looking humbly at the ground.
Chiram approaches. He gives barely a glance, acknowledging my existence without commenting on my worth or lack thereof, and puts a hand on Lot’s shoulder. “You said to call you when we were ready.”
I smell fermented camel’s milk on Chiram’s breath and know he has not waited for Lot.
When their attention is off me, I slip into the shadows and make my way to Raph and Mika’s tent. A stab of pain stops me at the opening, and I press my hand against the bandage. They have lowered their tent sides, though it is a hot night.
“It is Adir,” I say when the pain has subsided. “May I enter?”
“Wait,” I hear, then some shuffling noises. When they bid me to enter, I do not look directly at the bear fur covering the object, but I notice it is not in the same position as the previous nights.
“Adir,” Raph says, “it is late. We thought you not appearing.” He is on his feet, but Mika remains seated, a distant look on his face.
“My apologies for the time,” I say. “My duties kept me. I hope it is not too late for you?”
“Late,” Mika says.
My heart freezes.
Raph rolls his eyes. “No, it not too late. We need words. Come, sit, Adir. I think today I need know many. I told all to my grumpy brother; he remembers better. Truth, Mika?”
Mika scowls at him, which makes Raph grin. “So settled. Sit, Adir.”
And so far into the night, we talk and practice. I stay intent and focused despite the weariness tugging at my bones and the pain in my chest. Finally, Mika holds up a hand. “You are pale.”
I take a careful breath. “I am fine.” I want my goat.
Mika rises and steps before me.
“No,” I say, suddenly panicked. “I am fine. I need only to rest.”
But he ignores my words and kneels beside me. “Lift robe.”
My heart pounds. If my father wakes and finds a stone in my place and me here and Mika’s hands on me—I cannot even complete the thought. Yet Mika is not to be dissuaded. I know this somehow. Unless I jump up and run, which I do not think I can even do, I am trapped.
Reluctantly, I lift my robe the minimum amount, glad I still wear a young boy’s pants beneath it and thus can expose only the bandage. In a move camouflaged to look as if I am merely keeping my free arm out of the way, I press my little breasts flatter than the narrow band I tie around my chest. Surely, they are too small for him to notice, but I want to cover the band as well. Mika’s fingers press against the flesh below it.
I think my heart will burst through the cloth. Dispassionately, he checks the other side. “Too cold,” he snaps and stretches his open palm toward Raph.
With no further instruction, Raph hands him a worn leather bag. From it, Mika selects a slender knife, which he applies to the bandage. There is instant relief when he removes the pressure. Quickly, I lower my tunic. “The bandage felt much better at first.” My voice makes it a question.
“Sometimes swelling,” Mika replies. “Should checked.”
I am not certain if he is blaming me or himself for this.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING I bring my goat to Chiram. His thick brows lift in surprise, and he examines it suspiciously. I am not worried. I picked her out myself, and she is perfect. I step between him and the goat. “For Nami.”
A frown arcs his mouth. He has thick lips like Lot, mostly covered by the black hairs beneath his nose. “She is worth silver, that dog.” With the nail of his last finger, he picks something from between his yellow-stained front teeth. “I won her in a game of senet.”
“You told me that before, but we have a bargain.” I cut the air with the blade of my hand in my father’s gesture.
With a snort that passes for a laugh, Chiram concedes. “All right, the bitch is yours then. Good riddance, I say. She has not brought any silver to me. Just another mouth to feed.”
The thought of touching Chiram makes my skin twitchy, but I press my palm into his to seal our trade.
My heart is lighter than it has been for d
ays when I go to tell Nami. She is less dejected, picking up my mood, though her almond eyes are still sad. If I had my own tent, I could bring her inside. This is the first time it occurs to me to wonder what I will tell my father.
CHAPTER
11
Lot took a long look at the fertile plains of the Jordan Valley in the direction of Zoar. The whole area was well watered everywhere, like the garden of the Lord or the beautiful land of Egypt. (This was before the Lord destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah.) Lot chose for himself the whole Jordan Valley to the east of them. He went there with his flocks and servants and parted company with his uncle Abram. So Abram settled in the land of Canaan, and Lot moved his tents to a place near Sodom and settled among the cities of the plain.
—Book of Genesis 13:10-12
As it happened, the valley of the Dead Sea was filled with tar pits. And as the army of the kings of Sodom and Gomorrah fled, some fell into the tar pits, while the rest escaped into the mountains.
—Book of Genesis 14:10
AT LENGTH, WE REACH THE cliff’s edge bordering the great rift. In the fog-shrouded distance, facing us, stands a sister cliff. The two mountain ridges run straight as lances, north and south. Between them, far below us, lies the Dead Sea, sparkling like lapis lazuli in the sun. We will descend here, but first we stop at the temple to pay our respect to the gods and toll to the priests, so we may enter the oasis of En Gedi.
Afterward, we make our way carefully down the steep slope, our presence scattering a family of ibex. One male stops to regard us, the scraggly beard under his chin quivering as he continues to chew. Danel loosens a quickly strung arrow that ensures dinner and the prize of the horns.
A small settlement exists at the cliff’s foot to support and protect the priests. The men here make a balsam from the resin of a thorny plant that grows at the cliff’s base. Its making is a highly-guarded secret men have died to protect, and the scent is meant only for use in the temple, but an exception is made for one trusted trader—my father. We stop long enough to share a meal and procure a tiny bronze vial of it.
