Angels at the Gate

by T. K. Thorne

  From somewhere, he finds more to give. His stride lengthens, lowering us closer to the ground. The pounding of Wind’s hooves are my blood’s beat, the rushing earth a dry flood, flashing the colors of brush and stone and loess. For a moment, I lose fear and even the wild thing that drove me to jump on his back. For a moment, I am only horse, running.

  I am daughter of the wind.

  Then a stumble pitches me forward, catapulting me up in an arc … and then down. The earth that rushed past me a moment ago now rushes toward me. I tuck my arm and head, as the Hurrian horse trainer taught me, to let the blow strike the back of my shoulder, something I had no time to do when I fell from Dune’s back so long ago—how could it have been so long ago and yet not long ago at all?

  There is that thought and air and then … impact.

  Walls of pain pin me from every direction. I cannot move, cannot breathe. If a sword descends to slice my head from my neck, I can do nothing to stop it. I cannot even turn my head to see it. I can only wait for the pain to stop, for my breath to return, or for this brown dusk to turn to a forever night.

  Finally, I can suck a breath into my lungs.

  A second one.

  Through the pain, I hear the sound of hooves. I am not certain what direction I face. Where is the enemy? I am at his mercy, but there was no mercy in those black eyes. Does he know I killed his kinsman? I want to roll over and face him. I want to meet those eyes and tell him what I did. Tell him it was for my father. I want to see my death come, not lie trussed like a lamb for slaughter, my face in the dirt.

  And then I will go meet my father. I feel his presence near. His hand on my shoulder. Through a blur, I see his face, and now I am glad to see it, rather than my slaughterer. Wait for me, Father.

  My ear is pressed against the ground. The sound of feet, many feet. The clang of blades meeting. Curses. A dog’s low growl. Now, all around me, the sounds of battle. My mind struggles with this, as if it cannot comprehend anything different than what it has imagined will be.

  I blink, and through the thick dust I see a thin stick planted beside my head—two sticks. They resolve into slender black legs, feathered behind with white, and I realize Nami stands over me. The blanket of dust that covers us is a gift of the wind. While I cannot see my enemy, they cannot see me either. The pain eases enough for me to gather my knees and attempt to stand, but hands grasp me and haul me upright.

  CHAPTER

  26

  There were the giants famous from the beginning that were of so great stature, and so expert in war.…

  —The Book of Baruch

  THE WORLD SPINS, AND I am only semi-aware of walking, supported on either side by men whose headdresses protect all but their eyes from the swirling dust. Bodies lie strewn across the ground, and we must navigate around them. Nami presses against my calf, and that alone would have sent me sprawling to kiss the ground if hands were not holding me upright. I try to think through the haze in my mind. Are these raiders or Yassib’s men?

  The wind is strong. My headdress is gone, and bits of grit sting my face, making me wish for the camel’s extra milky lid and long lashes. I blink. Through the dust, figures approach and I recognize the shape of a very tall man among them.

  Yassib’s clan has become a camp again, though only a few tents are back up. We are not moving out today.

  Mana and one of her older daughters rush out to relieve me from the men’s arms. Yassib’s tent is one of those reassembled, and I stumble between the women to my mat, which has been laid out for me. Then I am down. My eyes close, but I drift in and out of sleep.

  When they open again, I see Nami curled with her head across my foot. Alert to my movement, she pricks her ears, thumping her tail twice on the hard ground to tell me she is happy I am back.

  “How you feel, Adir?” The voice is Mika’s. He sits cross-legged just out of my line of vision, and I have to twist my head to see him.

  “Thirsty.”

  He moves closer and helps me sit up to drink. I take the bowl of water from him, grateful that my hands are steady. The tent flap is rolled up, which means the dust storm has passed.

  He has me move arms and legs and starts to feel my ribs, but I push his hands away. “I am fine.”

  He does not insist. “Does it hurt to breathe?”

  “No.” I take another long swallow. “What has happened?”

  “Good question. I heard shouts and noise, but saw men rushing after cloud of dust. I followed, but most of battle finished and camels returned to camp. Then you brought in, and I waiting for you to waken.”

  I tell him about Shem, my wild ride, and the fall.

  His face pales. “Why you do such a foolish thing, Adir?”

  His question hangs in the air. I take another swallow of water and try to explain. “The weaving that ignorant raider used as a pad. It slipped off when he did.”

  “You risked life for of a piece of cloth?”

  I took a breath. “It was the cloth I bought in Sodom.”

  His eyes widen as the meaning of that settles in his mind. “It was among goods stolen by those who took Raph?”

  I nod.

  He is perfectly still, except for the pulse that quickens in his neck.

  “Yes,” I say, my voice hard as stone. “The raiders who took Raph and killed my father.”

  Before another word is spoken between us, Mana appears at the tent’s entrance. “A traveler has come, asking for you by name and description. He seeks a tall fire-haired man and a boy. He has touched our tent pole and asked for hospitality, but Yassib has suspicions he might be one of the men who mean ill toward you.” She looks me full in the eyes. “You saved my grandson and our herd. We will not allow harm to fall upon you.”

  My thoughts are racing. No one is chasing us; that was just the story I told to keep Yassib from cutting my throat in outrage at my trickery. It was a made-up tale, but—I glance at Mika—could there be some truth to it? What do I truly know about the business of Mika and Raph?

  “Someone has come looking for me or us,” I say, translating. “Could it be someone wishing you harm?”

  He is thoughtful. “If they have learned Raph was not useful, they might come for me.”

  I turn back to Mana, “Thank you for your warning. Can you describe the man?”

  “He is thick-bodied, with black hair and a full beard. A lot of hair and thick brows, also black. A gravelly voice.”

  “Chiram!” I stagger to my feet, and Mika moves quickly beside me, a hand under my arm, in case I am dizzy.

  “Chiram?” he says, confused.

  “The cook from my caravan.”

  “Do you trust this man?” Mana asks.

  I hesitate. Since I was a child, I have found Chiram distasteful. He was with the caravan before my birth and has never said a kind word to me. Yet, my father often trusted the caravan to him, and he had been wounded fighting the raiders. I bite my lower lip, and my mind spins, still not recovered fully from my fall. Chiram’s wound was not a serious one. How hard had he fought to protect my father? Was the raid of Lot’s tent a random happening or had they come looking for El’s messengers and perhaps the mysterious box they carried? How had they known Mika and Raph traveled with us? It suddenly seems odd Chiram had gone off to gamble with desert men after the two strangers joined us on our journey to the tents of Abram.

  Troubled, I say, “I am not certain if we can trust this man. Please ask Yassib not to kill him, but not to grant him hospitality either, until we can learn if he is with the men who wish us harm.”

  If Yassib gave Chiram hospitality, he would be obliged to protect him, although Yassib had almost violated that most sacred code and killed me. Perhaps, if the moment had been allowed to play out without my inventiveness, he would have stayed his knife, bound by desert code, but I am glad not to have relied on it.

  Mana nods and disappears in a whirl of black dress.

  Mika, seeing I am steady, drops his hand from my arm. “What she say?�
��

  I tell him.

  He rubs his chin. “It seems you making habit, Adir.”

  “What habit?”

  “Of saving lives. Now Shem and I both owe ours.”

  I do not want his life. I want my father back. I want—my thoughts stop on their way to proclaiming my love for Raph. Do I truly love him? Now, after so much has happened, I am not certain. I am not even certain what love is. It is not a necessary ingredient for marriage, though desert tribes are famous for their poems of love for women … and camels.

  I can imagine Shem telling a love poem about his white camel. Mika cocks his head at me when I break into a laugh. “I confuse words?” he asks.

  As out of place as my laughter is, it is difficult to stop. I wipe a tear from my eye. “No, you spoke well. Let us go see Chiram.”

  CHAPTER

  27

  Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

  —Sun Tzu

  OUTSIDE THE TENTS, THE MEN of Yassib’s clan sit in a circle around the communal fire, though it was extinguished for our move and is only ashes now. The sun has started its descent, extending shadows toward the eastern hills. A few paces away, the man I pulled from the black horse kneels, his hands tied behind him to a stake driven in the ground. I thought I had killed him, but apparently the blow to the head was not fatal. His dark eyes track us as we enter the circle.

  Though I am a woman, Yassib beckons me forward to sit beside him. It is a place of honor. It has not been long ago that his knife thirsted for my blood. So does the world turn head-below-feet.

  Upon seeing me, Chiram climbs to his feet. “Adir! You are here!”

  He starts toward me but, to my surprise, Kerit, Yassib’s son, leaps to stand between us. Chiram stops, his thick brows knotting. He glares at Kerit and then me. “Adir,” he demands, “tell him who I am.”

  Who are you? I want to shout. Did you truly fight to defend my father or did you lead those raiders to his tent? I see the healing wound that runs from his check to his neck—a slash from battle or a carefully opened line made to look so?

  Instead of shouting at him, I respond calmly in the tongue of Yassib’s tribe, “Why are you here?”

  His mouth twists as he realizes events are not proceeding as he imagined they would. “I have been searching for you since you disappeared.”

  “Why?”

  The men sit silently watching.

  “Speak in the language of the desert men,” I say. Chiram knows it as well as I. How else would he have gambled for Nami … or arranged for a raid on Lot’s tents?

  Realizing he is being judged, Chiram turns both palms out in the sign for peace. “I looked for you because that was what your father would have wanted me to do. He made me swear I would watch over you and see you to Abram and Sarai.”

  I have only recently decided that is where I was going. Now, because it comes from Chiram’s mouth, I balk. “I will decide where I am going and when. I am a wo—” I halt the word before it escapes. “I am of age to do so.”

  With the back of his hand, Chiram wipes his mouth. It is a rough hand with splintered nails, fingers stained from the grease of a thousand cook fires and calloused from wielding his beloved knives. “Danel and I set out for you as soon as we realized you were gone. We tracked you until I lost the trail.”

  “Where?” I am curious.

  “At the edge of a wadi. We feared you had drowned, and we returned to Lot’s tents.”

  I close my eyes. Help had been so close.

  “Then how did you find me?” I ask.

  “Word came to the city through a traveler that an unusually tall man with hair the color of the setting sun and a young boy were guests of this tribe. I came in the hopes it was you.”

  He looks around at the solemn, hard faces. “It seems, for a youth, you are highly thought of here. Are you planning to stay with these people?”

  Yassib twists a short camel stick in his hands. “Adir may stay with us as long as he wishes.”

  I am stunned. Such an option has not occurred to me. Yassib and this tribe know I am a woman. This fact, which had been such an offense to them, is now accepted. In gratitude for saving the clan’s camels, he offers the protection of his people for as long as I wish. I have a place, a home should I wish it so. Like my beloved caravan, this home is not bound to one location, but moves with the wind.

  Chiram presses his fat lips together. “You will not honor your father’s wishes?”

  I ignore him and turn to Yassib. “You honor me with a generous gift that is more than I deserve.”

  He gives me a curt nod. Not a word has been spoken of the camels or my actions, but enough has been said. He waves at Chiram to return to his seat. “You may stay here three days.” This is the mandatory hospitality requirement period of desert code.

  Chiram glares at me, but keeps his anger to himself. He is familiar with this culture, and I am sure he is waiting to confront me later.

  “We have a clan matter to determine,” Yassib announces to all, extending his arm to the bound man outside the circle. Two men cut him free from the pole and bring him to stand in the center of the circle where they bind his wrists behind him and then move to rejoin the circle of seated men, leaving him standing, alone.

  Yassib’s eyes are hard. The prisoner’s are equally so. Whatever either feels is hidden beneath that harshness demanded by this land.

  “You have sought to take our camels,” Yassib says. “Is there reason to ransom you?”

  He straightens. “I have value.”

  It is the beginning of a possibly long negotiation for this man’s life. Yassib would seek recompense for the lives that have been lost. But first, his gaze travels over the faces of the men around us. He does not consider the women who have lost sons and husbands. His question is for the men only, though perhaps in the privacy of their tents they have heard their wives’ tears.

  “Do any claim blood price?” Yassib calls out formally.

  It is the right of those who have lost value to claim the man’s death. In doing so, they would gain personal vengeance, but in giving up that right, they allow the tribe to recoup some value by ransom. The addition of even a single camel can mean much if the balance of people to resources is at stake or a water hole has dried or a trade soured. The clan respects the right of a man to extract the death of an enemy, but there is a cost to the clan to do so.

  No one speaks.

  Then, into the silence, I speak.

  By the granting of the right of status, I am part of this tribe. As a woman not married to a clansman, I could not claim this, but by some strange twisting, I have been accepted as a man, an honored man, no less. It is as if by ignoring my gender, the dilemma is put aside. This is a puzzle to ponder later.

  I stand. “This raider stole my goods and camels and my … friend’s brother.” I indicate Mika who sits in the second row of men, loathe to call him my “husband” and break my fragile acceptance as a man of status or betray my story that we are hiding our “true” relationship. “The same men raided the tents of my cousin”—I take a breath—“and killed my father.”

  Yassib considers. The stealing of the camels and the death of his clansmen occurred before his own eyes. But I was claiming some past injury of which he has no knowledge. “How do you know the truth of this?”

  “This man,” I say pointing at the raider, “whom I pulled from his horse, sat upon a piece of cloth I purchased in the city of Sodom, a cloth that was taken from me on the road to the tents of Lot by the same raiders who killed my father.”

  There are murmurs among the men of the circle, and several discussions break out. Yassib is the head of this clan and tribe, but he is not a king or ruler. His wisdom is sought, but every man has the right to his opinion and to voice it. My welcome into the tribe, likewise, would not have been Yassib’s decision alone.

  One man’s voice rises above the talk. “You have proof this man stole the cloth and your camels and took a man for r
ansom. That gives you the right to recompense, but why do you speak for this man Lot? Were you there when his goods were taken and your father slain?”

  The others quiet for my answer.

  I understand the reasonableness of his question. I have a right to a portion of a ransom to help buy back Raph, but blood right—the life of this man—is only reasonable if he were linked to my father’s death, and I have no proof of that.

  A familiar, gravelly voice speaks from the opposite side of the circle, and I realize Chiram is on his feet. Despite his bulk, I did not notice the movement, with the bound raider standing between us. “I have such proof.”

  All gazes turn to Chiram. He points at the man’s back. “I fought with this man in the tents of Lot.” Chiram lifts his hand to the red welt tracing a line down his cheek and neck. “This man slew Zakiti, Adir’s father.”

  Blood gallops through my veins, blurring my vision. Images of my father play before me. Lost. Lost to me forever. That which was most precious in my life, stolen by this man. And worse, he took from my father that which was most precious to him. Zakiti would never feel the thrill of a new land opening before us, the satisfaction of a hard-won bargain, the wind upon his face … or his daughter’s kiss.

  My hand moves of its own accord to the hilt of my knife, my father’s knife. My gaze locks on the prisoner’s, as if some invisible force draws us together. Still, I wait for the clan’s judgment. I have no right to avenge my father’s death without that. No right in their eyes … but in the darkness of night I can claim my right.

  Yassib calls for silence. “We have Adir’s evidence this man rode with raiders who stole camels and goods, and Adir’s opinion that one of them killed his father.” He pointed at Chiram. “We have a guest’s word that this is the man who did that deed.” He turned to the prisoner. “What is your name?