Angels at the Gate

by T. K. Thorne

  With care, I make my way around the stones and rough ground. There is more growth here, as plants cluster where there is water … or hope of water. A misstep could mean a broken leg, and in this land, that means death. There are a thousand ways to die in the desert.

  Perhaps I am here because I want to find one. Do I know the true reasons for any of my choices? Father often told me I asked more questions than there were answers. Perhaps that is why he guided me to ask the right ones.

  I see now what so excites Nami, and my heart flutters. A man’s legs protrude from behind a boulder. Without a sound, I draw my father’s knife. Distant thunder rumbles, chasing a cold line down my spine. I know better than to be in a dry gulch. Spring rains can come suddenly, and the weather is always unpredictable, other than being hot. But Nami will not budge until I see what she has found.

  My knife held before me, I step around the boulder far enough away from the body to avoid a surprise lunge. When I have a fuller view of it, I lower the blade. There is no mistaking that long figure or the red hair. Mika’s face is raw from the sun, his lips crusted. I drop to my knees beside him and press a hand on his forehead. It burns with more heat than the sun’s kiss.

  A distant boom of thunder at my back. An ominous rumbling. Nami whines.

  “Mika,” I call to him. “Can you wake?”

  Nothing.

  I shake him. “Wake, Mika. We must get out of the wadi!”

  A quiet moan. His eyelids flutter. I am not sure he sees me. I slide my knife back into my sash and give him water from my skin, only a small amount, not wishing him to choke. There are no supplies around him, only his medicine bag attached to his belt. I search him for injuries and find matted blood on his head and a swollen area on his ankle that might be a scorpion sting. My heart stutters.

  El’s angel is dying. Why has our god abandoned him? Has he been disobedient? Is that why Raph was taken? Father is right. I ask too many questions. This is not a time for questions. I must get Mika out of the sun. What the gods do is their business.

  But Nami whines-sings her anxiety again, and the rumbling becomes a growing roar. I look over my shoulder. Bearing upon us is the reason one does not go into a dry wadi during the spring rains.

  CHAPTER

  17

  I have placed my rainbow in the clouds. It is the sign of my covenant with you and with all the earth.

  —Book of Genesis 9:13

  I HAVE ONLY ENOUGH TIME TO grab Mika under his arms and shout, “Run, Nami!” before the churning wall of water is upon us. With all my strength, I hug Mika’s upper body to my chest and snatch a breath as the wave hits. It lifts us, tumbling our bodies as though we are bits of scrap cloth. I clutch Mika to me.

  Underwater, something crashes into my thigh, sending a jolt of pain all the way up my chest. Mika’s long legs catch, dragging us deeper. I twist and kick. Another sweep of water does the rest, wrenching us free and up into the air. I gasp for breath. The leading edge of the wash is past now, and I roll onto my back and kick hard for the wadi’s edge. The current is far too strong to go a direct path, but I angle toward the shore. A flash of black races alongside us. I hope it is Nami, but I cannot spare my balance or attention to look.

  Thank El, Mika is still and does not fight me. With each breath, our heads go under, and I kick and fight back to the surface and another increment toward the bank. Exhaustion wraps me.

  “Let me go,” Mika moans in my ear.

  Every part of me calls out to obey him. He is right. He is dying. Without him as a burden, I can reach the edge … and I might live.

  We go under again and for a sweet moment, I stop struggling and just let the water carry us.

  No!

  The voice is my father’s, so loud and clear in my head, I do not doubt his presence. For once, I obey without question. A jolt of strength surges through me, the last I have. I fight for the surface and reach for a stone outcropping, but a surge of water pushes us past it—I am sorry, father.…

  Then, to my surprise, the water spits us up onto a patch of ground.

  For long moments, I cannot move. Mika and I lie on our sides, my face buried in the wet hair at the back of his head, my arms locked around his chest. The rhythmic expansions of his chest confirm he still clings to life. My own ragged breaths finally slow to match his.

  A soaked Nami stretches out beside us. My heart lifts to see her ribs also rise and fall. The rain has reached us. It patters us with drops that pool and run down into the raging current. I turn my head to the churning water where El has stitched a rainbow into the foam.

  I AWAKE COMPLETELY dry in the hot afternoon sun. Mika is still in my arms. I extract myself with difficulty and stand to see if I can determine where we are. Though the sun is almost overhead, I know we are now on the far side of the wadi, which has slowed to a sullen stream, innocent of the terror it wielded only a few hours past, but it could easily flood again without warning. I cannot risk crossing it again, especially with Mika.

  Above us, canyon walls the color of wool gleam with moisture. Already the desert has responded to the rain. The usually dull scrub and brown clumps of grass and brush are vibrant, and flowers have opened again, greedily suckling every bit of moisture. They spend the wealth given to them in the moment, though tomorrow all will parch again.

  Kneeling beside the stream, I refill my water skin and Mika’s. I still have my father’s knife and my belt bag. My next priority is to get him out of the sun. I bathe his face, trying to wake him. He is far too heavy for me to carry, and Philot, with all my supplies, is lost.

  “Mika,” I say, leaning closely. “Can you hear me? Can you wake up and walk? It is not far.”

  He stirs only a bit. We are surrounded by steep walls. I must move us to higher ground. We cannot climb the steep cliff but, a stone’s throw toward the bluff, there is a flat rise and a lone acacia tree. It is tiny compared to the oaks of Mamre; I could not stand beneath its branches, but it offers a little shelter from the sun. Mika is very heavy. I work him into a sitting position and once again wrap my arms under his, my chest to his back, locking my fingers and pulling him along. Nami circles around us, clearly wanting to help.

  When I stand, I almost tip over from his weight, but somehow manage by stages to drag him the length of his body. That is all I can do without resting.

  After a moment, I grasp him again in the same manner and pull. Then rest. There are rocks in the path I must move if I can, or go around. Then pull and rest. He has lost his headdress, so I cut a section from his robe and wet it, wring it over his mouth and then tie it loosely over his face and head.

  Pull.

  Water.

  Rest.

  Move stones.

  Pull.

  Finally, we are at least far enough to be safe from another flood, although the presence of the tree just beyond us means sometimes water reaches this level. I collapse beside him, trusting Nami to warn me if danger comes. I am too exhausted to think about fire or food or even water.

  THE HEAT OF midmorning wakes me. Mika is not responsive, though his eyes move behind their lids. He seems worse. His pulse is racing, his muscles twitching. I find dried blood matting his hair. He must have fallen and struck his head. Perhaps that is why he doesn’t waken, but I am certain the greater danger is from the scorpion. Whether he lives or dies is dependent on what kind stung him … and the will of the gods, most particularly El’s.

  Nami pants, and I share water equally with her and Mika before rising on wobbly legs to assess our location. Not far away in the harsh landscape is the lone acacia tree, its branches shaped like an inverted bowl. I sigh, but there is no other choice than to haul him again. Mika cannot survive in the sun. He is still unconscious.

  When we finally reach the scant shade of the acacia tree, I drip more water into Mika’s mouth, rest, and then gather fallen branches from the tree to start a fire. At least I can clean his wounds.

  When my arms are full of sticks, I return to Mika and fall to
my knees beside him, realizing I have no bowl. How can I heat water?

  Disgusted at myself, I sit and brood. Then my eye catches sight of Mika’s medicine bag. The knots are tight from their soaking, but I work them free with my teeth. Inside are several tiny but very sharp knives rolled in thick leather, packets of herbs, kept dry by the oiled camel hide, a small bowl made of an unfamiliar hardwood, and a stone mortar, as well as flint and a striking stone. I have one in my bag too, and a little food, but not much. Most of my supplies were on Philot who, at best, headed back to Lot’s tents. I hope he does not fall to Dune’s fate, and makes it to our people before a predator finds him.

  Every child knows how to light and tend a fire with a flint stone, but my hands shake, and it takes me several tries before my little pile of tinder ignites. When the fire is stable, I look for the right size stones. Nami puts her nose on every one, trying to figure out why I am interested in them. Finally, in exasperation, I wave her away. “Go hunt something!” I shout.

  To my surprise, her mouth gapes in a dog-grin, and she is off into the wadi, now mostly dry. Other than our little acacia tree, the ground here and the cliffs behind us are dry and barren. The danger of another flood has not passed, but we have no choice. Only in the wadi does anything grow.

  My heart sinks watching her. Surely, she will come back. She has always returned, even when taken against her will. Of course, she will come back. What is wrong with me? I walked out into the desert alone, but now I am afraid of being alone.

  I glance at Mika. He is still unconscious, but restless, his limbs jerking periodically, and he has soiled himself. Not good. I put aside my fears and concentrate on what little I know to do. The stones go into the fire. While they are heating, I cut strips from my robe and clean Mika’s wounds. He does not seem aware of what I am doing, and that is probably good. Though I thought he was unconscious when we were in the water, he spoke to me. Perhaps the poison has frozen his limbs. I have heard of such.

  When the stones are hot, I pick them up with a forked branch and drop them one by one into the small bowl of water until it steams. I lay out all Mika’s herbs. “Which ones?” I ask him, on the chance he might hear, but he does not answer. I choose the pouch that smells like onions. Onions are good for snakebite. That is something I learned once in Egypt, but I do not know if it will help a scorpion sting. Chiram came as close to a medicine man as our caravan had. I was interested in his herb lore, but I usually kept my distance from him. Why my father trusted him, I will never understand. Anyone can look at him and tell there is something mean in those small eyes enfolded in skin. He is always in a bad temper. When I was small, he frightened me.

  I soak the onions in the boiling water and let it cool just enough not to burn skin or tongue, and then use a strip of cloth from my own robe to soak in the tincture and wrap Mika’s wound. With a smaller piece, I drip the broth into his mouth. He swallows reflexively when it hits his tongue. Has he slipped away because of the sting or the injury to his head or a combination? I wish now I had asked to learn about healing, even from Chiram. Mika is dying. It does not take much skill to see this. Perhaps he will be gone by the morning. I will wake up, and his face will be set in stony stillness like my father’s … and I will be alone.

  “Do not die,” I whisper, leaning close to his ear. “Fight, Mika. Fight. Your brother needs you.”

  Surely, he had been searching for Raph, desperate to find him before the spring winds and floods obliterated the tracks. Why else would he have come this way alone? I came alone because I knew Chiram would insist I go to Abram and Sarai immediately, and I could not.

  Mika does not move, and I do not know if he heard me. It is for priests to petition the gods, not youths like me. Abram has the ear of El, but Abram is far away. I have no lamb to sacrifice, no animal except Nami. If El himself demanded it, I would not harm Nami.

  But what if she does not return?

  What if the moon falls down? That was my father’s question when I voiced some worry that had no solution.

  “Father,” I would whine, “What if a wolf kills my goat-kid?” or some other such concern.

  “What if the moon falls down?” he would reply, and I would always smile at this absurdity.

  But now, it does not make me smile, only ache.

  NAMI RETURNS BEFORE sunset with nothing to show for her adventure. Either she caught something and ate it herself, or she didn’t catch anything. Or perhaps I just imagined she responded to my command. Still, we have leaped from a bed of snakes into a nest of scorpions. We may not drown, but we will starve if we do not find food.

  I do not give Nami any of the last bits of salted meat in my bag. I have now only one dried date left. She sits before me, her bright eyes following my every move. Always, I have shared with her, and it is difficult to withhold the food, even though what I have put in my belly does not begin to ease its gnawing. When it is obvious there is nothing for her, she gives a soft whine and approaches to lick my fingers.

  At my insistence, Nami lies close to Mika, on the side away from our small fire, I curl on his other side, pressing my body along his, hoping we can keep him warm. Mika trembles and moans. I hold him tight when his body jerks. Only twice do I doze, with the same dream of the Dead Sea belching pitch that ignites into blue fire.

  The following morning, when dawn paints the sky pale orange, I reach with trepidation for Mika’s face, fearing what I will find. But his breath moistens my fingers.

  He has lived through another night.

  AGAIN, I FEED nothing to Nami and send her out at dusk, the best time to hunt, when creatures stir from sleep or come out to feed in the evening cool. My day is spent dripping broth into Mika’s mouth, cleaning him, and changing his poultice, much as the day before, except there is no more dried wood on the ground, and not another tree in sight.

  After filling our water bags, I venture across the wadi to the far side to search for what I need. I have no choice. Most of the morning is gone before I find what I seek—droppings from ibex and wild camels. Camel dung burns very slowly and repels flies. I gather all I can, including camel thorn to start the fire, using my robe as a basket.

  Other than that foray, I leave Mika’s side only briefly to get water where it has pooled in the wadi’s deepest spots or to hunt on my own, returning with my robe full of little snails that cling to some of the low brush and the little fishes that emerge from the sand when there is water. I thought I spotted a bush farther away that might have lentils. I throw the snails into the wooden pot with more dried onions.

  Nami returns panting, but with nothing. She watches me crack and eat the snails, though it hurts me to disappoint her. She is barely more than a pup herself. I am certain the litter she lost was her first. Her training to hunt would have begun by putting her in the company of other seasoned dogs. She may never have made a kill on her own. But it is clear she recognized the words, “Go hunt!” and possibly the gesture with it.

  I take her long, elegant head between my hands and look directly at her. She is still for this, listening, her bright eyes fixed on mine.

  “I need you Nami. You are a desert dog, bred to hunt. Find something or we will die here together, the three of us.”

  Her dark eyes are intent, as if she is trying to read my soul. I have no problem reading hers. She wants to understand, to please me. My belly moans loudly. The snails were not enough. My head feels like a cloud, and I release Nami and lie down beside Mika.

  He is hot again.

  I try to think. I must do something. I could return to Lot’s tents, bring back help, but I am days away. Mika would be dead before I returned. “But,” I murmur, “we will all be dead if I do not.”

  A strangling sound comes from Mika’s throat. Has he heard me?

  Nami licks his outstretched hand, either in sympathy or for the salt.

  THE ONE THING we have is water, but less and less of it every day. There may be more flooding, or no more rain until winter. The heat has descended.
Everything goes still at midday, and I drag Mika around to keep him in the scant shade of the tree. The flies are a bother when we move out of the smoke from the burning dung or the handfuls of weed. Both stink, but I am used to the smell.

  WE HAVE DEPLETED the dried onions, and I fear to eat the other herbs, as I do not know their use. Mika’s leg is still swollen and red. He sweats constantly, and tears leak from his eyes. He needs more water than I can spare.

  I AM WEAK from hunger. In the evening, I hunt into the now-dry wadi as far away as I dare, keeping Mika within sight in case a predator comes. Once, I was most fortunate, stumbling upon a porcupine that was agitating a horned viper into attacking it. The snake struck over and over at the raised quills until, exhausted and wounded, it lay inert. I snatched it up, though the porcupine escaped, but now—a feast! Nami whines when I give her nothing. I can see each one of her ribs. “Go hunt,” I snarl.

  I AM SO tired. I just want to lie beside Mika and drift away, but he moans, his muscles seizing up in a cramp, and I drip water into his mouth … the last of it.

  Then I do lie down. I should go and try to find more water while it is cooler, but I am so tired. My bones ache. Is this how it feels to slowly starve? Oddly, I do not feel panic at the thought. It is almost as if I am watching myself from somewhere outside my body. A fleeting shadow pulls my gaze upward to the unmistakable wingspread of a vulture.

  Mika stirs. His lips are cracked and raw, as is the skin of his face and hands. His people were not meant to live in the desert. Where then? Where did this chosen one of my god come from? And where is Raph, my beloved?

  My beloved. The words now seem strange, as though their power has lifted like steam into the sun’s heart. Even the loss of my father has buried itself beneath my attention. I have not thought of love the past days, only how to survive and how to keep Mika alive. I consider the long length of man beside me.