Angels at the Gate

by T. K. Thorne

  His god has abandoned him, but I have not.

  CHAPTER

  18

  Who is like you among the gods, O Lord [Yahweh]—?”

  —Book of Exodus 15:11

  The average layman, whether Jew or Gentile, still believes that the official Hebrew religion was a strict monotheism beginning with God’s revelation of Himself to Abraham. Scholars date the origin of Hebrew monotheism a few centuries later, during the days of the great prophets.

  —Raphael Patai, The Hebrew Goddess

  NAMI’S DEEP BARK WAKES ME instantly. She does not bark except to alert. My hand grips the knife that sleeps in my grasp, and I am on my feet before I even remember where I am.

  Moonlight, so clear it casts shadows, illuminates the world in grays and blacks. I see no danger, only Nami sitting close by, her gaze intent on me, her ears pricked toward me.

  “What?” I ask her.

  Only then do I see the bloody heap before her. It is the length of my forearm and dead. That is all I know at first. That is all I need to know.

  “Oh, good girl, Nami,” I breathe. “Good girl!”

  This acknowledgment is what she has waited for and she jumps up, forgetting her dignity, to wash my face with her joy at pleasing me.

  “Great hunter,” I say, stroking her and praising her over and over. She has a wound on her leg, but seems to have licked it clean, and I leave it alone.

  “Let us see what has given you such a fight,” I say, and turn to the hunter’s prize. Nami accompanies me to inspect it, her nose close. I push her back, full of love for her. She could have eaten it herself. She was even hungrier than I, but other than battle bites, she has not touched it. My eyes fill with tears. I have starved her, but she has shared her prize—all of it.

  Are we worthy of such companions?

  The animal has a dark underbelly and a back of silver-white fur. Wicked teeth. “Nami, you could have chosen a less ferocious prey for your first kill! This is a honey badger. No wonder you are wounded.” I stroke her again to make sure she knows how proud I am.

  Nami sits nearby, watching my preparations avidly. I make her wait for the meat to cook, grilling it over the fire, but at a slant, so the juice drips into my bowl. It does not seem wise to give her the message it is fine to eat the meat raw. I want her to bring the spoils of her hunt to me. It might not matter, but our lives balance on this, and I will not chance a mistake.

  The smell of the meat makes me dizzy. Nami’s eyes water from the smoke because she will not move from its path. I hope that is not a bad omen.

  After we have feasted on the cooked badger, I drip the meat’s juice into Mika’s mouth. My strength returns. Nami curls at my side for a well-deserved sleep. Dawn is not far away, and I wait for it, watching with reverence, keenly aware of the closeness at which death hovers over every moment. I feel privileged to be alive, to see the morning star pierce the dark blue-black of the sky.

  Mika’s groan startles me from my trance. This time his eyes open. At first they do not see me, but dart around as if he is a trapped animal. Then they fix on the morning star shining in her glory, and he calms at once.

  “Mika?” I am at his side with a damp cloth and run it over his face, clearing the night’s crust from his eyes and mouth. Slowly, his gaze pulls from the star to me. I answer the unspoken questions in them. “You fell, and a scorpion stung you. You have been unconscious for days.” Still he stares, and I shake my head. “I do not know where Raph is. We have lost his trail.”

  Then his eyes close, and he drifts away. I feel for a pulse at his neck. It is stronger. This is not the last moment of strength before death, as I feared. He is only asleep. My heart hammers with elation. He will live.

  I watch over both of them—Mika and Nami—until the sun, rising behind the acacia tree, tips its low branches with light. Then Mika wakes again, and Nami ambles to him to lick the salt from his face. It is a morning ritual. A smile cracks the dried skin around his swollen mouth. He lifts a hand to Nami’s coat for a moment and then lets it fall, his expression stricken with the realization of the extent of his weakness.

  With some trepidation, I move to his side. “Do you need to make water?”

  He swallows and nods. I help him roll to his side. Long ago, I stripped him of his clothing, just letting him lie naked beneath his robe to ease my job of keeping him clean. The ground slants here, so his urine pools away from him. Usually I drag him to another spot afterward, but this time, I just cover it with dirt. It is only a tiny amount and enough indignity that I must do this.

  There is still a little badger broth. I throw the head and skin to Nami to gnaw and take the bowl to Mika, setting it aside to help him sit, but soon realize I cannot keep him upright. It requires sitting behind him, and it is too awkward. “No!” I say when he reaches for the bowl with a trembling hand. He will spill it before it ever reaches his mouth. “I have an idea.”

  Gently, I lower him back down and move the precious liquid to safety. Then I grasp his upper body to my chest in a well-practiced movement and drag him closer to the tree. After some maneuvering, he can sit, supported by the trunk. Despite his burned skin, he pales and faints.

  I push his head down between his legs so the blood can return to his brain, and I wipe his face and the back of his neck. After a moment, he groans, and I help him back to a sitting position.

  Fearing he will spill the broth, I say, “Just sit for a moment and let your body get used to the position.”

  Again, he nods and leans back against the tree.

  When finally I hold the wooden bowl to his mouth, keeping my own grip on it, he can drink only a portion of its contents. We do not speak, but his eyes track my every move like a nursing infant. I am his connection to life.

  Twice more he awakens, and we repeat this. He is an infant. I must continue to do everything for him.

  He does not know I am a woman, so it is perhaps less humiliating for him. But now I find myself blushing, even though I have handled and wiped clean his manhood without thinking much of it for days. Now it is different. I feel the burn on my cheeks and wonder if he notices. He says nothing. It is as if he has forgotten how to speak. A new fear worms into my chest. What if the poison has attacked his mind and he cannot speak? What if he never recovers and I must care for him forever?

  What if the moon falls from the sky?

  Yes, Father. I hear you. For the first time, the thought of him makes me smile instead of weep.

  CHAPTER

  19

  I have blessed you by Yahweh of Samaria and his Asherah.

  —Hebrew inscription on storage jar in northeastern Sinai, 700–900 BCE

  To Yhwh and his Asherah

  —Tomb inscription in Judea, 700–800 BCE

  MIKA DOES NOT SPEAK FOR a long time. I remind myself he spoke little before the scorpion stung him, but still I am relieved when he does, even though he makes little sense.

  “Must find it,” he mutters, thrashing his arm to the side.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Must dream … Raph.”

  These utterances do not connect. I touch his forehead to see if fever has replaced the chill of his limbs, but it is only warm from the desert heat.

  At last, he sleeps.

  WHEN HE OPENS his eyes, he sees me. I know because he calls my name, “Adir.”

  I tell him again what happened. “Yes,” he says. “I remember told me.”

  “I think you will live.” El had favored him, my father would say, but I would not call allowing a scorpion to bite me a great favor.

  “I will live,” Mika whispers through cracked lips, “because you.” His eyes are upon me in a strange way. It is said saving a person’s life binds you to him. I am not certain I want to have such a connection to this man. Suddenly his presence is akin to standing close to a windstorm that blows you where it will.

  I shrug.

  At that moment, Nami arrives with her prize, a fat mouse, which she drops before me. Mika
’s brows arch in surprise. I praise Nami as if she has delivered an ibex, skinned and ready to cook. Her plume tail switches in pleasure, and she lies before me, paws crossed, focused on her mouse—plainly inviting me to do my part.

  But before I can begin to skin it, I catch a movement at my vision’s edge. “Be still,” I tell Mika. He follows my gaze and stiffens.

  A brown, many-legged creature, larger than my fist, climbs over the bandages of his wound. With a quick flip of my hand, I swat it off, and Nami jumps to investigate. “No, Nami!” Despite my warning, she pokes her nose at the creature.

  Mika looks pale.

  “Just a camel spider,” I assure him.

  With a sharp yelp, Nami trots to my side and sits, pressing against me for comfort. A tiny bit of blood wells on her sensitive nose, and she licks it off.

  “It bites, but it is not poisonous.” I do not laugh at Nami; she is quite pitiful. I understand the pull of curiosity over obedience.

  “In my homeland,” Mika says, “spiders decency to be small.”

  At once, I ask the question politeness has kept from my tongue, “Where is your land?”

  Mika reaches out and strokes Nami’s chest. “Born in mountains north, but ancestry—land of my people, homeland, is far across sea.”

  “Tell me of it.”

  But he falls back, his face pale from the small effort of stroking Nami.

  “Later,” I say. “Rest now.”

  His eyes are already closed.

  WHEN MIKA WAKES again, I smile encouragingly, but a new worry presses my mind. Not really new. It has been there from the beginning; I just have not had time for it.

  I have made a broth from the mouse, the last of our water, and a handful of lentils I picked from another scraggly bush, sharing with Mika and Nami. I know what I must do, but it is too hot, so that task must wait.

  Draining the cup, Mika puts it aside and insists I remove the bandage so he can look at his leg. I do so, careful not to let it touch the ground. We have no water to clean it, and the wadi is dry.

  His mouth grim, Mika examines the leg as if it belongs to another. Finally, he grunts and leans back against the tree. “You good job, Adir. I see was infected. What use?”

  “Onions. At least I think that’s what they were. From your bag.”

  “Good choice. Now, try else.”

  My head drops. “We do not have the water.” I do not want to look at him, afraid he will read in my eyes what this means. His recovery is still fragile. He has not shared much about himself, but a man who will leave an encampment alone in the middle of the night to find his brother and perhaps revenge his host—is a man who will not lie on his back and die slowly.

  “We must travel,” he says. “When cooler.”

  I swallow. “You cannot travel.”

  Mika starts to speak and then turns a critical healer’s eyes on his leg. “No,” he says so quietly I almost do not hear. “Not on leg.” He eyes the tree branches overhead. “Perhaps a stick to hold weight.”

  I bite my lower lip. He has been unaware of his state, unconscious for most of the time we have been here. Even with a crutch, my guess is he could hobble only to the edge of the wadi, at most, without collapsing.

  In the end, he does just that. It takes that to prove to him the impossibility of travel.

  “You alone go,” he says slowly after he has rested for a while. “Do know way to Lot’s tents?”

  “I know the way.”

  “Then must go … tonight.”

  He is right. A person could live without water maybe three days if travel is limited to night’s cool. It is unlikely, but possible I could make it to Lot’s tents. I am not certain how far the river swept us in that direction. But I would never return in time to bring help to Mika.

  “I am not leaving you,” I say, stroking Nami’s head, which rests on my thigh.

  “You must.” Mika’s gaze on me is intent, as if by the power of it, he can force me to his will. I suspect, by the easy assumption in his voice, he is a man accustomed to commanding others. Is that, I wonder, because he is El’s messenger or because of his position in his own land? I know little of this man—or his brother who holds my heart.

  I feel a wistful smile curve my mouth. “I am not good at obedience, but even if I were, I could not go.”

  His glare shifts into puzzlement.

  With a sigh, I look up through the branches of the tree that have shattered the sun’s dazzle into daggers of light. “Perhaps your ways are not ours. Perhaps you do not understand.” I look again at him. “My father gave his life for honor.”

  Mika’s head shakes. “Raiders slew him.”

  “They did. But he died in your tent.”

  Perfectly still now, his eyes fixed on me, Mika waits for my words. When they do not come, he asks softly. “Why, Adir?”

  Long moments pass before I can continue, before the terrible clench in my throat releases enough for air or words to pass. Nami’s gaze lifts to my face, though she keeps her head on my thigh. There are idiots who say a dog does not understand. Nami’s understanding is silent, but deep.

  At last, I can speak, though my voice emerges as a hoarse whisper. “My father went to your tent to defend your belongings, because you were his guest. That is our way.”

  Silence hovers between us while Mika considers this, and then I say, “You are still our guest, wounded and in need of aid. I will not leave you.”

  CHAPTER

  20

  We find our Spirit in the wisdom spoken in the wind.

  —a Pablo elder

  WHEN THE SCORCHING HEAT SUBSIDES, but good light remains, Nami and I set off down the wadi, looking for pockets of shadow in the rocks where water might have pooled. My eye scans the stones and pebbled ground for areas thick with vegetation, particularly cane grass that might signal the presence of sweet water. I avoid the scrubby pines, because they can live in areas where the water dries faster and leave more salt.

  My lips are already cracked and the back of my throat is parched. I used the last of the water to cook the mouse. There was really no choice in the matter. We had to eat, and Mika could not have handled raw meat. Mika drank his portion before I told him our situation, or else he might have protested. He may not know the ways of our people, but he is not a selfish man. In that, El chose well.

  I am glad, because guest or no, I would not wish to die for a selfish man.

  At my side, Nami pants. I watch her because animals often can smell water where it appears there is none. Her nose disturbs a hare, which bursts from beneath a shrub. Nami gives chase. She matches the quick changes of directions with an agility her lanky, puppyish play has never revealed. This is not play; this is life or death. The days of no food have awakened this focus in her muscles and sinews. Her need drives her to anticipate the hare’s movement, and instinct guides the decisive snap of her jaws that breaks its neck.

  But it is her love for me that keeps her from devouring the meal, the warm flesh and scent of blood so tantalizing in her mouth—love that makes her turn and bring her prey to set at my feet.

  And it is thirst that drives me to cut into it and drink the blood. It will not long satisfy my body’s need for water, but the hot liquid wets my throat. I share it with Nami, then bind the hare’s hind legs and attach it to my belt, and we continue the search.

  The sun has almost touched the earth’s lip when I find a place beneath an overhang of rock that shelters a tiny pool of water, not much more than Mika’s bowl will hold. Nami noses among some bushes, no doubt hoping to find another hare. I fall to my knees and with hands that tremble in relief, lay my water skin down in it.

  When my skin is half full, only a small puddle remains. Even my eyes are dry and gritty, and I long to splash my face, but instead, I call Nami over and let her drink what remains. It is not much, and I know she wants more. I take one long swallow from the skin and tie the cords of the bag. It is dusk and will be dark by the time I return to our tree.


  THE FOLLOWING MORNING I find the pile of stones I left to mark the tiny pool. It is dry, but my hope is that water has soaked into the ground. Sometimes there is a rock shelf beneath that pools or channels water. Nami remembers she drank here yesterday and begins to dig, spraying me with grit. I smile and let her. When she tires, I do the same, using my dagger and a stone. This dulls the edges of my weapon, but it cannot be helped.

  Throughout the morning, Nami and I take turns digging. Up to my elbow, the ground is dry, but after that, I am encouraged by a hint of moisture. Now the sun is half the distance to center sky and sucks the sweat off any bit of exposed skin. My robe and head wrap cover most of my body except for my eyes. I absorb a minimum of the sun or wind’s hot breath, but I can feel my thirst as an ache throughout my body, viciously focused in my throat. The skin on the back of my hands is ridged with veins, like an old woman’s.

  Nami has given up on this game and lies in the deeper shadow of the overhang, her forepaws crossed, tongue lolling, watching me. I want to tell her to close her mouth, that she is losing moisture, but I know she cannot sweat, and this is how she cools herself. She would die quickly if she could not release her body’s heat.

  We will all die if I do not find water.

  This knowledge drives me, even through the swelter of the overhead sun. Over and over, I place the end of the dagger into the dirt and drive it down with a stone against the hilt, praying to El the bronze blade does not break, praying water is there. I shake my head to dislodge the flies that crawl into the corners of my eyes, seeking moisture.

  The blade does not break, but there is no water.

  I stop when the dirt in my hole turns dry again. Then I know it is useless to dig deeper. My fingers drop the knife and stone. There is a buzzing sound in the distance and a queer feeling in my belly. I do not have the strength to shake my head, and the flies cluster. Vaguely, I face the thought that I cannot return to Mika. I am sinking somewhere, somewhere deep and cool. I want to be cool. Perhaps there is water in the depths of this dark well.