Angels at the Gate

by T. K. Thorne

  “Is this why you moved sleeping position?”

  “Well, I did not do that. I think Yassib had Mana do it. I gather he wants me further away from him. He has not completely forgiven me.”

  “I notice he avoids you now.”

  I nod.

  “This is not good. Adir, you must be careful.”

  Oh, how many times had my father said those words? “Yes, I promise. I will.”

  Why do I not tell him the truth?

  I am not certain of the answer. I desire to shed the persona of a boy, but now I am trapped. I cannot dress as a woman because of the story I gave Yassib that dangerous men pursue us. So now I am pariah—both the men and the women avoid me as if I am diseased. Everyone but Shem.

  “Are you really a girl?” he asks me, peering at my chest to see if there are breasts hidden behind the folds of cloth.

  “Yes-yes,” I say, and he smiles, recognizing his own favorite phrase coming back to him.

  The smile at once transforms into a frown as another thought occurs to him. “Then I am not supposed to talk to you.”

  I frown too. “I think you have another year or two before that is a problem.”

  He looks affronted and then relieved. “Good, because I like you.”

  “I like you too, Shem.”

  WE BEGIN THE trek northward for the summer. We camp only long enough to graze and rest the herds. The sheep and goats and people need the rest more than the camels. A camel is at home in the desert, storing food in its hump and able to go for days without water.

  Gradually, my status has changed to one of tentative acceptance. Everyone seems to find comfort in forgetting I am there, or I am a woman, or alternately, a boy, depending on where I am and who I am with. I live as both boy and girl with the tribe of Yassib. As Adir, I help watch the camels, sitting with Shem and the other boys, listening to their tales of heroes and how they will grow up richer and more powerful than any before them.

  Shem has his own small bow and practices daily. Yassib has told him he must bring down game before he can fly a hunting bird. He teaches me the hunting signals for Nami, for which I am very grateful, and she is excited that I am now “saying” things she can understand. Shem tries to teach me to use the bow, but I am clumsy with weapons. Perhaps I should have hidden my distaste for Chiram and let him teach me about knives.

  As Adira, I sit with Mana and the other women, and they show me how to weave on the flat looms that sit just above the ground. I have always had an eye for texture and pattern, but never imagined I would have the patience to work the threads. At first, I chafe at it, but I am determined, and when my fingers finally learn their task well enough, I find it soothing.

  Rarely do the women work in silence. Their talk is a constant flow, though I am not included. How can I be? I do not know the dilemma of what to do with a childless bride, whose daughter needs to be wed, or the finer details of how personalities tangle a disagreement.

  On a day I feel I have finally mastered the weaving knot and can keep up with at least the slowest, when Mana’s oldest daughter, Petra, looks my way with a cock of her head. “And how did you marry, Adir? Were you both bride and groom?”

  My fingers freeze over the loom. The other women fall silent. I snatch a breath. This is the first overture … or insult. For the most part, the woman have ignored me. I look directly at Petra. “Indeed, I gave myself a bride price.”

  There is a shared pause, and then the tent rocks with laughter. The sound washes warmth over me. I am a part of something I have never experienced before—the bonding of women. Women, I have learned, speak of their lives, sharing details and feelings that men do not. And now, I am one of them, despite my clothing and the fact I sleep on the man’s side of the tent.

  The women are the physical manifestation of the nomad tribes’ honor. They bear this burden with easy acceptance. For a girl to violate tribal custom, even if forced upon her, would bring dishonor on the clan and tribe, and that would be intolerable.

  At first I believed all the power rested in the hands of the men, but listening carefully, I begin to recognize that many opinions or decisions I hear as Adir in the company of the men originate around the looms and cook fires. The elder women hold the future of the tribe in their hands, for they are the ones who discuss and determine who should marry whom.

  I tell Mika I sit with the women to learn more about the art of weaving to increase my knowledge of cloth and my acumen as a merchant. He shrugs and says I do not have to answer to him as to what interests me. In turn, he spends much of his free time with the shaman who knows a little trade Akkadian, filling in with gestures when the shaman’s knowledge of the language fails him.

  Sometimes I interpret. The shaman never inquires as to our status or mentions the fact I am a woman. And Mika never belittles the shaman’s beliefs or ways, seeking instead the common threads in their practice of medicine and religion. Through our conversations, I have concluded it was not the beliefs of Sodom that bothered Mika, but the fact that the populace emulated the holy rites, and he suspected the intention of all was not to engage in a holy act, but to take advantage of the custom. Or perhaps his time in the desert has altered him and caused him to judge less harshly.

  Here, with the shaman, he finds a culture that, similar to his, looks to the stars for guidance, and the morning star is a goddess to both peoples.

  This seems right to me. El is the god of my people and the creator of all, the highest god, yet every people my father and I encountered have their own gods and spirits. Who am I to say they do not exist, merely because they are not mine?

  DURING THE MATING season of the camels, I am especially glad to have the reprieve of weaving. I am used to the stench of goats at such times, but that fades in comparison to male camels in rut. Mika is particularly offended, having little experience with camels. “What is that terrible smell?” he asks, holding the edge of his headdress over his nose.

  I point to the bulbous, swelling neck glands on the bulls’ necks. “What is wrong?” I tease. “The female camels, the cows, find it irresistible.”

  He scowls at me.

  Another source of the stench comes from the bulls beating their manhoods with their tails and then flicking the scent onto their backs. When they do this, they become aggressive, attacking other bulls for supremacy. Shem and I have to pull Mika back the first time he sees them wrestling, each wrapping his long neck around another’s until one is forced to the ground. It is an amazing sight, and I understand Mika not thinking about the danger. In this, he reminds me of myself, but at least I know better than to approach wrestling bulls!

  WE ARE SOON to reach the refuge of the cooler highlands where we will spend the remainder of the summer. I busy myself on the morning of one of our last traveling days, helping to take down the tents, a woman’s job. Mana appears apprehensive about something. Finally, I ask Shem what he thinks is wrong with his grandmother.

  “She is good with the weather. Perhaps a storm comes.”

  I look up into the turquoise pan of sky. Not even a wisp of cloud is visible.

  He shrugs.

  On travel days, meals are quick affairs of flatbread and the milk-butter curd. By late morning, everything is ready to load onto the camels and to begin the trek to the next waterhole. The beasts are milling just outside the camp, and I go to watch them, Nami at my side. Shem trails a measured distance behind me, so it looks as if he just happens to be going in the same direction as I, and not actually following a girl.

  I sit on a stone a little distance from the herd and watch them, a breeze wafting their scent to me. Nami does not sit, a trait I have observed in the tribe’s salukis. She plops on the ground, her head on her paws. The camels move with graceful deliberation, lifting their noble heads on occasion to check for predators. There are none that would attack a healthy camel, though a lynx or lion might stalk a calf.

  As they mill about, my mind wanders.

  Mika is doing well now. He has healed. I
am no longer bound to stay with him or to stay here where, despite my progress with the women, I am more tolerated by the men than wanted, and I do not know where to search for Raph. It is time to honor my pledge to my father and return to Sarai. She will find a place for me among her household. I can learn to be a woman. Perhaps another will take Raph’s place in my affections. I am young yet. I will wed and bear children. I glance over at Shem who sits several feet away, busy not looking at me.

  Children.

  I have never thought about having children of my own. It is a concept full of mystery. How can men think women weak when they have within them the power to create life?

  I consider what I have learned of the desert people, even in this short time. I wonder if their way of ignoring a girl until she marries and bears children is a way to pressure her into such a fate. Perhaps the customs that seem to estrange women are born of a secret acknowledgement of their power and necessity.

  I cradle my belly with my hand. A baby could grow there. A baby with potential to be … anything. When I die, I will have left the world something precious that will live on, perhaps bearing his or her own child, and they the same, far into the misty future. That seems a gift worthy of giving and would honor my father.

  It is settled then; I will return to Mamre. Now, the only question that remains is how? I must have supplies. I eye the camels. I have the means to buy a camel, no doubt, from what my father has left me, but no access to it. Would Yassib take my word in lieu of payment for a camel, food, and water? And what about protection from raiders? How am I to manage that?

  This is a prudent thought, but one which apparently fled my mind when I left the tents of Lot. I was crazed with despair at my father’s death and the loss of Raph and Nami. I drop a hand to Nami’s silky head. She looks up at me, her tongue lolling from the side of her mouth. “Faithful Nami,” I say softly. “You will not abandon me, will you?”

  She runs her tongue around and lets it fall out the other side of her mouth, panting in the heat. Her tail thumps at my voice, but something catches her interest in the distance. I follow her gaze but see nothing. The camels become agitated. The dominant bull makes his way to stand between the females and whatever attracted Nami’s attention, alerting me that perhaps a predator lurks in the dusk.

  “Something has disturbed the herd,” I say to Shem who is drawing in the dirt with a stick.

  He does not bother to look up. “Yes-yes. Probably they know we are going to move out. They always know.”

  But Nami is on her feet now. The wind is at our back, but she is a sight hunter, so she may see something or hear it. I rise to look where she does. At first, nothing, and then a stir of dust. More camels coming in? I do a quick count of the herd. No, they are all here.

  I watch a moment until I am sure, then I shout. “Riders!”

  The two young boys watching the herd look at me and turn to peer in the direction I point. But the horsemen are on us so quickly the boys’ own calls of alerts are lost in the cries of the raiders. Within moments, they have surrounded half of the camels.

  Nami presses against my side, not certain what to do. I order her back and quickly look for Shem. He is not running back to the settlement as I hoped, but toward the raiders, yelling furiously. I cannot say I have blame for him. Those camels are the difference between life and death to the clan, and Shem’s beloved white camel Niha is among those being stolen.

  I run after him. “Shem!”

  He pays no attention to me, and I see Nami has not either. I am not the only one who lacks the virtue of obedience.

  My longer legs close the distance to Shem, who has somehow managed to grab the leg of a raider. His head is no higher than the man’s foot.

  The black horse spins as the raider lifts his curved sword to strike Shem, and I am suddenly on the opposite side. I do the only thing I can—grabbing the man’s other leg. For a moment, it is a tug between me and Shem. Confused, the horse lowers his head and kicks out with his back legs.

  Nami leaps forward, slashing the animal’s sensitive nose, and it rears, hooves pawing the air, neighing in panic. Shem is knocked aside, and I realize I have won the tug, as the man, unbalanced by the horse’s kick and rear and my weight, totters and falls over on me. I twist as we fall, trying to be free of him, but we hit the ground, locked.

  I struggle wildly, sure a blade of some kind will find my flesh, but Yassib is suddenly there, rolling the raider’s body from me. Blood is everywhere. Is it mine? I stand on shaky legs, staring stupidly until I notice the wound, blood on the raider’s temple, and on a sharp rock nearby.

  Yassib seizes Shem and pushes him into his mother’s arms. Confusion reigns as angry men and boys run toward us with weapons drawn, shouting their anger. A few arrows fly after the raiders, but fall short. The clan has no horses, only the camels, and no way to chase the raiders and reclaim their property.

  Behind me, the horse snorts and I turn, surprised it is still there. The black horse stands on spread legs. Blood flows from his nostrils where Nami’s teeth sank into them. His eyes are wide, ringed with white. For a moment I cannot understand why he has not fled, until I realize his reins are caught beneath the man.

  That is when I see the strip of carpet the raider used as a pad. It lies on the ground between the raider and the frightened animal.

  At that moment, I lose all sense.

  CHAPTER

  25

  The orbit of Venus [the Morning Star] is such that it produces a very strange but interesting effect when viewed from Earth against the backdrop of fixed stars that we know as the Zodiac. The planet appears to move in the form of a five-pointed star with the sun at its centre, taking a 40-year cycle to repeat the process … the five-pointed star was the ancient Egyptian hieroglyph for “knowledge.”

  —Christopher Knight and Robert Lomas, Uriel’s Machine

  WITHOUT COHERENT THOUGHT, I SNATCH the horse’s reins and yank them loose from the beneath the rider. Already terrified, the horse backs, throwing his head up, and rears again. As his front hooves touch the ground, I vault onto his back and dig my heels into his sides.

  If I had not grasped his mane with both hands, I would have tumbled off with his explosive response. Within a breath, I am flying after the raiders, the magnificent beast beneath me leveling into a hard gallop as though a demon chases him. I do not even care if that is so; the fire in my belly that drove me to this horse’s back keeps my attention ahead, where a cloud of brown dust marks the raiders’ path. I guide us in that direction, but Wind—as I have silently named him—needs no encouragement to join his fellows. Their speed is hampered by the gait of the camels, which as individuals can travel quickly, but are less inclined to speed in one direction as a herd. The bulls are sluggish, and the females are not happy leaving their calves behind. Also, the raiders’ herding efforts have disrupted their normal, single-file mode of travel.

  I am soon alongside them. At first, I am not noticed. The dust is heavy from their passage, and I am dressed in a similar manner to the raider I downed. The others assume I am he. I make my way to the front camel, Shem’s prize white camel, Niha. Pressure on the reins and a shifting of my weight slows Wind to match her pace. The bulls protect their family, but it is a female who leads. The others will follow her and will not go faster than she, and she will not go faster than her calf.

  I apply a steady pressure to Wind’s right flank with my leg. He balks, snorting. Horses do not care for the scent of camels, but I am insistent, with little nudges of my heel, and he finally obeys, moving away from the pressure and into Niha’s side.

  “Hiya! Hiya!” I cry, waving my hand in her face, since I do not have a stick. She turns away and I stay at her side. All the riding skill I have is called upon to turn Niha, but she finally acquiesces. Shouts rise up from the other raiders who still think I am one of them and are calling to me, asking me what I am doing.

  Now Niha is moving in a wide arc, the other camels, stringing out behind her, followi
ng.

  “Hiya! Hiya!”

  She acquiesces, trotting with long languid strides in a direction at a sharp angle to her previous course. Now, the other raiders, realizing the deception, are racing toward me, swords drawn. I glance over my shoulder to check their progress. Close. Too close. I am still caught in the sweep of emotions that hurtled me onto this wild course. I will not give up my position.

  “Hiya!” I wave my hand into Niha’s face, threatening her eyes. She jerks her head away, toward the encampment and finally completely turns that way. Some of the raiders are trying to circle the remainder of the herd back, but Niha has decided she has had enough of all this and wants to go home, and that is where she is going. And the other camels are ignoring the shouts and following her.

  I turn too, just as the unmistakable whoosh of a sword blade slices the air, close enough to shave the fine hairs from my ear. Had I not turned at that instant—

  There is no time to dwell on this. Wielding a sword from horseback is almost as difficult as trying to shoot an arrow from there, but I do not wish to put that to the test. I have only my skill at riding and my lighter weight to keep me alive. My heels drum Wind’s side. He tosses his head, flinging a string of bloody mucus from his torn nostril into my face. But he responds to my need, bursting through the ragged line of loping camels. I lean low on his outstretched neck, half closing my eyes against the sting of his mane, squeezing speed from him with the muscles of my calves. I am counting on the raiders’ anger to compel them to follow me.

  But if they catch me, I am dead … or worse.

  It is a race. A glance behind me—too close of a race. My pursuers’ mounts had only to match the slower pace of the camels and are better rested than Wind. The swaths of the raiders’ headdresses cover their mouths, but their dark eyes brim with rage. Fisted hands brandish raised swords that gleam in the sun’s ruthless glare.

  I focus between my horse’s ears, straining to see our goal, but the wind has added to the stirred dust of our passage, blowing in a sudden burst that blurs the figures running toward us. Perhaps the windstorm that concerned Mana has arrived. My hands grip the strands of Wind’s mane. I have no whip, but I free one hand to rest on the side of his foam-streaked neck and lean further forward in a plea for more.