by T. K. Thorne
My last thought is the realization my face has fallen into the hole I dug.
CHAPTER
21
Now Sarai, Abram’s wife, had not been able to bear children for him. But she had an Egyptian servant named Hagar. So Sarai said to Abram, “The Lord has prevented me from having children. Go and sleep with my servant. Perhaps I can have children through her.” And Abram agreed with Sarai’s proposal. So Sarai, Abram’s wife, took Hagar the Egyptian servant and gave her to Abram as a wife. (This happened ten years after Abram had settled in the land of Canaan.) So Abram had sexual relations with Hagar, and she became pregnant. But when Hagar knew she was pregnant, she began to treat her mistress, Sarai, with contempt.
—Book of Genesis 16:1-4
A DOG BARKS IN THE DISTANCE. This is annoying, and I ignore it. Then there are more sounds—voices—and strong hands lift me. My eyes blink to a flash of men in dark, flowing robes, the underbelly of a camel, and a long, braided tassel that swings beneath it. The smell of blood. A wet tongue on my face and in my ear. Wet. That captures my attention. I force my eyes open to see Nami standing over me and, beyond her, desert men clustered around me.
“Look,” one says, “the boy is awake.”
“Water?” I croak, and a skin is placed in my hands. The warm liquid is the sweetest I have ever tasted. They let me lie still while life returns to my body, awakening like the desert opening to rain.
“Many thanks,” I gasp. “I ask your hospitality and help for myself and my friend.”
The young man nearest me frowns. “Your friend?”
I point. “Under the acacia tree that grows close to the wadi’s edge.”
“I know the place,” the man says, nodding.
WHEN I NEXT awake, my memory is like a stream that runs beneath rocks, appearing for a ways and then disappearing underground. A fragment of riding on a camel, someone’s arms around me to keep me from falling. Mika under the tree. More riding. Snatches of words floating around me. A tent. A woman kneeling next to me. Mika’s weak voice.
I wake to a familiar view—wisps of coarse goat hairs protruding from the weave of a tent roof. Black goat-hair walls surround me on two sides. Down the middle of the tent, dividing the space in two, is the long woven wall that separates the men’s area from the women’s. I know my secret is still mine because I am privy to the beautiful finished patterns. The back of the weaving always faces the women’s partition. Strangely, this does not relieve me. I am unsettled, but I cannot name my feelings.
The deep, throaty bellow of a camel and the smell of cooking goat stir me, and I roll onto my knees. Only then do I notice Mika, asleep on another of several palm-braided mats. I smell him too … and myself. With great relief I see a large bowl and clean clothing set out for us.
I see no one nearby, so I quickly wash my body and the binding I keep around my breasts and put on the clothes without an attempt to dry myself. The desert air will do that soon enough. What a joy to be clean!
I stand, my ears buzz, and I must catch myself on a tent pole, but after a moment, my head clears, and I walk out. The area near the tent is empty, though I can see women inside other tents. A small boy, perhaps six summers of age, catches sight of me and approaches.
“Greetings,” he says with a lopsided smile, in the language of the south desert. “I am Shem. I offer you the hospitality of my tribe.”
“I am most grateful,” I reply. And I am, but a fear gnaws my belly with the pangs of hunger. “Do you know what happened to my dog? She is black with gold brows—”
“Yes-yes,” he says quickly. “She is well. My father took her hunting. He has a fine falcon. You will see.”
I smile, relief pouring through me.
“Do you want milk?” Shem asks.
“That sounds very good.”
“Our camels give beautiful milk, and they are the most beautiful camels in all the world. You will see.” A gap-toothed smile flashes across his face.
I laugh, charmed by his enthusiasm and loyalty toward his family’s camels. It is, I realize, the first time I have laughed since the day the raiders came. I also realize it has been days since I thought of Raph, and guilt plucks at me. What has happened to him? Is he even alive?
Following Shem around the scattered array of tents, I see he has not spoken in bravado. The white camel is not particularly happy at the process of being milked or at being separated from the herd, which is not in sight. Shem rests a large bowl on one raised knee and uses both hands to milk, hopping on one leg without spilling a drop when she moves. A small replica of the mother camel hugs her opposite side, all wobbly legs.
When he finishes, Shem approaches with the bowl. “This milk will give you and your companion health,” he pronounces with surety.
“I have seen many camels,” I say, taking the clay bowl with both hands, but this one is the most beautiful I have ever seen.”
Shem beams, bouncing from foot to foot on thin legs. “Yes-yes. Her name is Niha. I can recite her lineage for generations. Now drink!”
I do, gulping down the sweet, sharp liquid, still warm from the camel’s body. I am grateful for every drop. There is more there than my belly can handle, and with care, I carry the remainder back to Mika.
I find him awake and sitting up. He looks terrible, and I wonder if I am as burned and swollen as he. I glance down to inspect my hands, which appear normal. Perhaps the deeper color of my skin protects me. I have seen people in Egypt whose skin is as dark as kohl. They readily endure the sun and heat, walking about in midday when everyone else retreats to whatever shade they can find. Even Shem wears kohl about his eyes to guard against the harsh glare of sun. I pity Mika for his light skin that even his wiry red beard cannot protect. He does not belong in this Land of the Sun. Not for the first time, I wonder why El brought him here.
Mika has recovered enough to hold the bowl and drink without assistance.
Shem squats beside us, eyes bright. “You will be well now.”
Wiping the back of his hand across his milk-stained lips, Mika turns to Shem and then to me to interpret. When I do, he smiles and nods, returning the bowl to the boy with a look of thanks that needs no translation from me.
Shem takes it in his earth-brown hands and leaps to his feet. “I go now to return Niha to the herd.”
In a moment, he is gone, and Mika and I are alone in the tent. Though I have tended him as a mother to an infant for many days, I do not know what to say. Finally, into the awkward silence, he speaks. “Adir, my life I owe you.”
I lift my hand in a gesture of dismissal, but he shakes his head. “No, more is here than my life. You have right this to understand.”
“What is your meaning?” I ask, confused.
He does not reply at once. After a moment, he says. “I owe you answers, but I still not speak well this language. Perhaps easier if you ask.”
I could remind him that I speak his language fairly well, but I consider his offer. There are many questions frothing in my mind. What is the right question? What do I want to know most?
With a deep breath, I say, “What did the raiders seek and why did they take Raph captive?”
Mika considers me. “You go swiftly to heart, Adir.”
I wait for his answer.
When it comes, it is not what I expected, although I cannot say what I expected. “In my land, I am—” Mika stops and begins again. “Raiders wanted what inside the box we carried. It great value to my people, yet no value without understanding how to use.”
“And Raph understands how to use this thing of great value?”
“No, he not. But raiders think so.” Mika’s swollen hands knot. “They should taken me. I am eldest. They should taken me!”
The agony creasing his face stirs my own guilt. I feel the same about not being at my father’s side when he was threatened. He died defending our family’s honor. He would have said nothing was more important, but I would rather have him alive than hold an empty cup of honor.
“You tried,” I say, remembering how Mika had stepped forward when Raph was taken and cried, “Take me with him!”
Why didn’t they take Mika with Raph? Apparently, the raiders thought they had the right person. “So Raph cannot use this thing of value and … power—” I pause to see if he will object to my use of the word. He does not, and I continue, “If you had gone with the raiders, they would have been able to use this object?”
Again, he stares at me. Then, as if his internal anguish was a fire that has burnt low, he says in a voice so quiet, I am not certain I hear it, “I do not know.”
This is not helpful, and I am still full of questions. “Who are you, Mika?”
The intensity of his expression melts into a wry smile. “Again question straight as spear.” His eyes lift to mine—such a sharp green in daylight; they are darker in the shadows of the tent.
“I from the north mountains, but my people from very far land, land with mist and rain, hills like green carpets, not gray-green of this land, but green, like—” He struggles to find an adequate word.
“Like your eyes?” I ask.
He smiles. “So I told. Hills that roll like waves into distance and forests thick.”
I close my eyes, trying to imagine such a place.
“My people very ancient, Adir.”
I keep my eyelids shut, floating into this land of green and mists.
“Our oldest name is ‘Watchers.’ We watch sky from beginning of time. My ancestors built temples of stone that”—he searches for a word—“measured heavens and brought goddess into them.”
“Stones that brought the goddess into them?” I do not understand what he means, but in my mind’s eye, I see a structure of stone, vague, but massive, surrounded by an aura of mystery as thick as the fog that obscures it.
My eyes open and, for a moment, I am startled to be here. “You are weary,” I say, noting the dark craters around his eyes. “Lie down again and sleep. You can tell me more later.”
He does not lie down, but leans against the pole and closes his eyes. I watch him for a long time, wondering about his people and the land I glimpsed in my mind’s imaginings. Do any of those stone temples still exist? Are they like those in Ur and Babylon or different? I feel a pull, a longing to see them, to see the land of emerald and mist.
CHAPTER
22
Then Sarai said to Abram, “This is all your fault! I put my servant into your arms, but now that she’s pregnant she treats me with contempt. The Lord will show who’s wrong—you or me!” Abram replied, “Look, she is your servant, so deal with her as you see fit.” Then Sarai treated Hagar so harshly that she finally ran away.
—Book of Genesis 16:5-6
BY DUSK, THE CAMP REPOPULATES with the camels returning from grazing and men from their hunt. Nami runs happy circles about me. I kneel to embrace her, and she promptly begins washing the ear closest to her mouth. “Nami, it is clean!” I protest. “Cleaner than in many days.”
At the sound of a gruff snort, I look up at the man standing before me. I did not hear his approach. He wears the loose black trousers, robe, and headdress of the desert people. A leather sash studded with silver holds several knives, both straight and curved. His bearing marks him as the head of a family or possibly a clan.
“So,” he says, “you are recovered.”
“Yes, sir.”
He nods at Nami. “Your dog is a good hunter. Did you train her?”
“She trained herself,” I say and then amend. “Someone began her training before she became mine.”
His piercing eyes narrow. They are a light, almost translucent brown. “And how did she become yours?”
My breath catches. The carpet merchant in Sodom had been insulted I owned such an animal as Nami, who clearly was a desert-bred dog. Possible explanations fly through my mind as the man waits, but I decide upon truth. “My father’s caravan assistant won her in a gamble, and I bought her from him.”
The thick brows above his falcon eyes rise. “You bought her?”
I feel my mouth slide into a stubborn line. “With a she-goat.”
He rubs a hand over his own mouth. “I see.” He considers Nami, who now licks my other ear. “Well she is a fine dog, and there is no doubt she thinks you belong to her.”
My mouth relaxes into a smile.
“That is the important thing,” he says. “But I have been rude. You and your tall companion are my guests. You must come to my tent and eat with my family. The dogs have brought down a gazelle. We will feast.”
Pride swells my heart that Nami has done well, and my mouth waters at the thought of the gazelle. It seems a long time since Shem and the camel milk.
The man dips his head. “I am Yassib, the grandfather of this family.” A woman steps to his side. She is also clothed in black and wears a headband with bits of gold nuggets dangling from it. Gold and silver bracelets begin at her wrists and extend up both her arms. She wears more wealth than do many kings, I would wager. I have no doubt Yassib is a clan chief, perhaps even a tribal one. His arm extends to her. “This is my wife, Mana, who has born me many sons.”
The woman smiles down at me. “Be welcome in our tents—?” Her voice trails, and I realize they do not know our names.
“I am Adir, son of Zakiti,” I say out of habit, but in that moment I realize when I awoke in the tent of Yassib, it was as Adira, daughter of Zakiti. The time in the desert, grieving for my lost father and lost life, has changed everything. Like the butterfly, I am ready to shed my cocoon, but I do not know how to take back the words, to transform who I am in these people’s eyes. I know their ways are strict in regard to men and women, and I have slept alone with Mika and possibly with others on the men’s side of the tent. The desert people cherish their women, but kill them if their honor is questioned.
Better now to keep my secret.
When he leads us back, I learn I have indeed slept in Yassib’s tent. The other woven mats belong to him, another son, and his grandson, Shem. I speak with the men and drink tea while the women roast the gazelle, trying not to show what torture the wafting smells evoke in my belly. One good thing about staying a boy—I can eat as much as I wish without criticism.
As Mana and her daughters serve us, I am thankful not to have been a girl raised in a desert tribe. Never do they meet my gaze, their heads downcast, although the youngest steals a frank stare when she thinks no one is looking. A girl child is almost an embarrassment, and some are even put to death as a burden on the family if times grow hard. Until a woman gives birth to a son, she is not truly recognized as a wife, although she has the power to divorce a man by simply turning the entrance of her tent. Yassib introduced Mana as the mother of his sons. The two daughters before me do not even exist in his eyes, or so their customs say. I wonder if he might truly love them, but by custom cannot acknowledge them.
It is not so in my tribe or in the cities. Sarai manages the household, and Abram listens to her counsel. My father never would have withheld his love or approval from me because I was a girl, though he chose to hide my gender to keep me safe and at his side. In the cities where the goddess is worshiped, in Egypt, and in the northern lands of the Hatti, women own land and businesses, and their wealth is passed to their children. Why do the ways of people differ so much?
For so long, I have not thought much about such things, but now anger rises in me. Why should a girl child be so unwelcome? Life in the desert is difficult, but without women, men would not be able to hunt. Women birth and care for children, prepare the food, and make the garments, the tents, the saddles, and the bags necessary for such a harsh life. Why are their contributions less worthy?
A cold worm of unease works its way into my chest to nestle with the anger. What will happen if my guise is uncovered among these people?
Finally, we feast on the gazelle cooked with dates soaked in camel’s milk. I think I can eat forever, but my belly is not used to so much food, and it rounds in protest. Mika i
s not much better, but I watch every bite that goes into his mouth until finally he turns to me in humorous protest.
“Adir, you not mother!”
I start at his words, and then my cheeks flush.
Yassib gives me a questioning look, and I translate. Everyone laughs. They think I am embarrassed because I am a young boy being called a woman and a mother. I relax and laugh with them.
“The desert,” Yassib says, tearing meat from a leg bone with his teeth, “is a cruel mother.”
It is a well-known saying, and the truth of it is now in my bones.
AS THE DAYS pass, Mika gains strength and begins to walk in the evening when it is cooler. At first, he can accomplish merely the distance from one tent to the other, but gradually his strength returns, though he still favors his leg. I always walk with him, worried about his being alone, stumbling onto another scorpion or a snake or pushing himself too hard and growing faint. Also, he needs me to translate for him.
“Why not they speak Akkadian?” he asked on one of our first walks beyond the tents, clearly annoyed after all his studying, he cannot speak to Yassib’s people or understand their words. “Is not that language of trade?”
“For many, yes, but Yassib’s people do not bother with the cities. They trade with other desert tribes for food the camels and goats cannot provide.”
“And how other tribes have those things?”
I smiled a bit at his ignorance of desert ways. “Not all of the tribes are nomads. Some choose to settle near low fields where rain water pools.”
“They grow here crops?” he sweeps his arm across the landscape, his brow raised in disbelief.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Lentils, wheat, barley, even dates. Yassib’s people must wander to secure grazing for their animals, but they find plenty of trade for what they make from camel hair and leather.”
“Well, not be here long enough for learn another language.”
I know he wants to pursue Raph’s trail. But he is still very weak, and where would we go?
