by T. K. Thorne
At my instruction, Lila purchased a loom of the type the desert women use. It calms me to weave, though my pace is slow with my damaged fingers. I am making a covering with purple yarns. The dye is made from a coastal shell creature. Our caravan often transported purple cloth at great profit. It is costly, but what else do I have to do with my wealth?
Unfortunately, I can only sit still for a short while. I am not a weaver, nor a wife, but a wild beast, well cared for, but pacing its cage, longing for freedom—or in my situation, limping up and down the courtyard. My longing for Mika is a physical ache. It is not just the night in his arms, but his company I miss—his intense curiosity and sharp mind, his acceptance of me as boy or girl, his gentleness as a healer and his strength. I try to divert my mind from thoughts of him and from my father, but there are times when thinking of them is my only comfort.
I miss the green of the hills and air that is not tainted. Why does Lot insist I stay in this city?
And what happened to Hurriya? This question plagues me. Perhaps, if I were busier, it would not.
ONE NIGHT I awake, sweating, aware I have called out in my sleep. The house is quiet, except for the faint lap of the sea. Lot is in our bed. He makes a noise and rolls over. I wait to make certain he has returned to sleep and then rise and dress, but instead of taking Nami out the door for a night walk, I go to the window. From our house’s position, I can see where the far edge of the city wall meets the sea. A section has fallen in, perhaps eroded from the bottom by the sea’s occasional corrosive caress in high wind. Every day I have spent time at this window, and I have studied that wall.
Although my leg is weak, my arms are strong, and I hoist myself onto the window’s ledge and drop the short distance to the rocky ground. Nami leaps up to the ledge and then down to join me, barely pausing to gauge the jump.
Carefully, we make our way to the edge of the wall. Perhaps, at the time it was built, it did meet the sea. In any case, the narrow spit of land beyond it could not hold more than one person at a time. A person in a boat could access Sodom anyway, so why worry about such a small breach in the wall? The king was concerned with the assault of armies, not a person or two. All cities I ever visited had such weaknesses that no one bothers to address. If I led a military assault against Sodom, I would send one or two people into the city who could open the gates for me. They would not have to find such a spot as this, but merely enter as merchants during the day. Gates and walls exist to keep out predators rather than men.
Once we are beyond the smaller eastern gate, with no more to show for it than a scratch on my shoulder and wet feet, we move toward the cliff, intersecting the path from the gate I followed so long ago. The trail winds up the face of rock, but it is steep. Nami bounds ahead of me, stretching her lithe muscles in delight, but I can only climb a small distance before my leg buckles from the pain in my hip. Only my staff keeps me from a fall.
I sit on the nearest stone and watch the water below stained with the moon’s silver. Beyond the moonlight’s reach shine the stars that witnessed my birth and the birth of my ancestors, back into the pitch dark of time. They are the same stars that watched me sleeping in my father’s tent, that watched Mika and me dying in the wilderness and then ascending to heaven to grasp the future like a dragon’s breath. What do these stars think of all our fumbling and grasping, of our insignificant lives that must be to them less than a crumble of salt in the sea?
Nami returns, her tail waving happily, her tongue lolling. No doubt she found something to chase.
OVER THE FOLLOWING moon-cycles, I am out the window almost nightly, leaving Lot snoring if he has come to our bed. Each night I make it a little higher up the cliff before I have to rest and return. I must reach the overlook. Somehow it will bring me closer to Mika to be in a place where we were once together. I have the irrational thought that if I stand there, he will know it, and wherever he is, we will be together.
Once, Nami started to jump out the window during the day, but I caught her and scolded her. She seems to understand. Though she often stares at it, she has not tried again unless I lead the way.
One evening after a good meal, when Lot has drunk enough wine to be in a good mood, I ask to speak with him in the privacy of our room. I know the daughters will be sure to hang about to hear, and I keep my voice low to frustrate them.
“Have you a complaint?” Lot asks, untying his sandals.
“No, I have a request.”
He squints in suspicion at me. “What is it?”
“I have brought my dowry to this house—”
“I do not need it,” he says quickly. “Do you think I married you for your dowry?”
I would dearly like to know why he married me, but I stay on the path I wish to pursue. “No, you are a wealthy man and well respected.” This is not true. The people here were once grateful to Abram for returning Sodom’s sons and daughters, wealth, and food after the battle with Chedorlaomer. But now, they feel Lot has milked that gratitude to emptiness. His ranting about El is not well received, but taken as an attempt to replace the city god … which does indeed seem to be Lot’s intent. To Sodomites, El is an elderly, bearded god who drank too much and gave up his throne to his younger son, Baal.
Lot’s chest expands at my flattery, and he smiles, pleased. “But,” he allows, “it is not an unpleasant thing to have a wealthy wife from a good family.” This is as close to praise as he has ever given, and I try to look pleased. He never takes me with him outside the house. I understand a wealthy wife from a good family does not balance an ugly, wounded face and limp. This is not a time to vent my anger or sorrow. This is a negotiation, something I have trained for all my life.
“What is your request then, wife? I hope it is not the same one of wanting to leave the city.”
“No, it is not that.”
The muscle in his jaw relaxes slightly.
“It is a small thing,” I say.
“So tell it.”
“Not something that would concern a man of your wealth, although worth a bracelet of silver to me.”
Now his interest is certainly piqued.
“What is it that is worth so much to you, but is such a small thing?”
“Merely a slave.”
He frowns. “I have many slaves, and they are obedient to you as my wife. Why would you want ownership?”
Of course, that is true, but his other slaves work his lands. When do they have an opportunity to be obedient to me? But I do not say such. I have thought long on this answer, and I make my words casual. “I have never owned a slave, and would like a handmaiden for myself. Of course, I could go out and purchase one at the Gate—” I let the words hang. He is happy I expose myself so little in public.
“No, you do not need to do that. Do you want me to buy you one?”
I frown thoughtfully. “It is most difficult to find the right girl for such a position. I cannot imagine your being lucky enough to find one I would like. Then you would have to sell her and try another.”
His fleshy jaw tenses again. He can see how this could require a good deal of his time and effort, and he is not happy about it. “I see.”
With a sigh, I say, “Of course, there is a simple solution.”
“What is that?” He yawns. Good, he will not want a long argument.
“I would really like to resolve this tonight. I have been thinking about it for a while, and I do not think I can sleep if it is not settled.”
Now he is agitated. “What is your solution?”
“Lila would be satisfactory.”
“But she is our cook and keeps the house—”
“She can continue that, of course. In fact, she has been serving me as handmaiden in addition to those things anyway. Was she not so for Hurriya?”
Lot flinches at his first wife’s name. He has always avoided speaking of her, so now he will want to guide me away from the topic. He will be concerned that if he refuses, I may press him on questions of Hurriya. If he stalls
for another day, he risks the possibility of my going out when he is not here and purchasing a slave myself.
“Very well,” he says irritably. “She is yours.”
“Oh, that is excellent.” I hold out the tiny, still-damp clay tablet I had Lila obtain earlier that day. “I knew you would be gracious, so I prepared this. It only lacks your seal.”
His brow raises, and then he laughs. “And I not even a silver bracelet richer! You are your father’s daughter, Adira. I will give you that.”
CHAPTER
44
I am Nature, the universal Mother, mistress of all elements, primordial child of time, sovereign of all things spiritual, queen of the dead, queen also of the immortals, the single manifestation of all gods and goddesses that are. My nod governs the shining heights of Heaven, the wholesome sea breezes, the lamentable silences of the world below. Though I am worshiped in many aspects, known by countless names, and propitiated with all manner of different rites, yet the whole round earth venerates me.
—Apuleius, The Golden Ass
LILA THANKS ME FOR ACQUIRING her, but I notice her eyes are red later that day. I do not ask why she has been crying. Perhaps because Lot told her she was now mine, it reminds her she is a slave to be bought and sold.
I am tired from the previous night’s climbing. Finally, I reached the top of that accursed cliff. My hip aches, and I am not in a good temper.
“Shall I rub it for you?” Lila asks, seeing my hand on my hip.
“You do not have time. We must prepare the evening meal.”
She spreads her hands. “What good does it do you to have me as handmaiden? You would have done better to purchase another slave.”
“I do not want another slave,” I snap. “I want a nap.”
Her hand flies to her lips, and our eyes meet. We hold it inside for only a moment before we both burst into giggles. I love Lila for this. She makes me see my own absurdity.
I TAKE MY nap and am deep asleep when Nami wakes me by jumping on the bed. For a moment, I am disoriented, thinking I am in my father’s tent, sleeping late and must do some chore, only I cannot remember what it is. Father will not be pleased.
Lila’s arm appears, brushing the hangings aside, and then her small face peers in to see if I am still asleep. When she sees my eyes open, she says, “We have a guest, Lady.”
My hand has found Nami’s shoulder. “Who?” I mumble. We have never had a visitor.
“I do not know him.”
I want to roll to my side and return to sleep, despite the troublesome dreams, but the slant of light through the courtyard behind Lila indicates I have slept longer than I intended. With a low groan, I rise. My leg is better for the rest once I work out the stiffness. I sweep back the strands that have loosened from my braid. It has been long enough to wear this way for moons. Sometimes, I put my hand on it and marvel at the soft rope whose length marks my time as a woman.
When I reach the little gate and see the man towering over Lila’s small frame, I am unable to move. Chiram’s ghost-spirit stands in the doorway. For the time between heartbeats, I am swept into the netherworld, for there can be no doubt I see Chiram before me … and then there is doubt. I blink and realize this man is younger than Chiram, his hair thicker, if that is possible. Not so much fat on him. The shadow world where the dead and the gods dwell resolves into this one, and I realize who this must be.
“Danel! Please enter.”
The welcome in my voice salves Lila’s concern at the burly young man, and she steps aside to allow him entry into the little gate.
“Lila, this is Danel, son of Chiram, a longtime friend of my father’s”—I swallow—“and of mine.”
Lila looks startled that I would bother to introduce someone to a slave, but she nods to Danel. “May I bring you drink or food?”
Danel, who is only two summers my elder, starts to shake his head, then apparently remembers his manners and amends, “I would be grateful for a drink of water.”
I smile, thinking Chiram would have only grunted a response.
“Of course.” Lila goes to the clay-fired urn that holds the water she draws daily from the river, scooping a cupful. Like Nami, she has a gazelle’s grace, moving only lightly on the earth, despite her compactness. When she leaves the cup in Danel’s hands, he turns his attention to me, and his expression collapses in sadness. Unlike his father’s, Danel’s emotions have always been etched for any to read. We are almost of equal height, so he looks straight into my eyes. I feel my bad eye wander to the side.
“Tell me what happened to you? And to my father?”
I am not ready for this. “You do not seem surprised I am a woman.”
He snorts. “I was. I am. I had heard that Lot returned with a new wife, but only today heard your name and that you were a child of Zakiti. It was confusing, but I came and here you are.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand, but I want to.”
He hesitates and then, as if he feels the need to explain, says, “When your father was killed, I understood the grief that took you into the wilderness. We searched for you and thought you dead, until the rumors came to us about a tall man with a fire burst of hair and a young boy who were guests of a desert tribe.”
I nod. Word in the desert travels faster than a flash flood.
Danel shifted his thick shoulders as if resettling a burden. “Then Father insisted on trying to find you, and he would not allow me to go with him.”
There was much said in the silence that followed.
I put both hands on his shoulders. “Your father is dead, Danel.”
He takes a deep breath.
“He was as brave as any man I have known,” I say.
At this, he looks startled. “Brave? My father?”
I understand his surprise. It is perhaps an odder concept than the fact that the boy, Adir, with whom he was raised, is now a woman. Not that I can remember any cowardly act of Chiram’s. He just seemed too self-absorbed to be heroic. Perhaps my father could have told us differently had we thought to ask—Chiram fought at his side in the wars—but as children, we only half-believed an adult had a life before we came into being.
Settling Danel in the courtyard, I tell him the story of what happened from the time I left Lot’s tents. I ask Lila to sit with us. She listens to my story with wide eyes, as intent as Danel. When I tell of Chiram’s knives finding the back of my father’s killer, she gasps. I do not mention the rite on Ishtar’s temple. That is a thing between me and Mika and the goddess.
The words about what happened in the cave are difficult to speak, and this is the first time I have given them. Raph did not need them. He could see what happened with his own eyes. Sarai did not ask and though Ishmael did, I said only that a man had kicked me. Danel, however, needs to know that his father never begged for his life, though he was in agony. Danel bows his head, and I know he is fighting tears.
“I never understood what Chiram was to me,” I tell him, taking both of Danel’s hands. “But in that cave I learned more of the true man. Your father always wanted a caravan of his own, but he risked his savings to bet with a nomad for a dog he intended for me, to salve my pain at losing my herder dog. He searched the desert for me out of concern and loyalty to my father. He was a far better man than I, as a child, saw him to be, and I regret I did not know it then.”
Danel takes another deep breath. “You give me a great gift in telling me this. I thank you for that, Adir … Adira.” A smile plays across his generous lips. “I don’t know that I will ever be accustomed to you as a girl … a woman.”
I return his smile. “I am not used to it myself.”
Suddenly, his gaze grows intense, and he tightens the grip on my hands. “Adira, you are in danger here.”
I blink. “I know I am not liked—”
“It is more than that. Lot is despised and feared in this city.”
If he had not kept my hands trapped in his, one would have drifted to my fac
e. “I know they do not like what he says about Baal and El, but that has naught to do with me.”
“I cannot say the people of this city would be kind to someone—” His lips tighten.
“Disfigured?” I finish for him.
He nods. “But I can say that the real reason for their hatred lies in the fact that you are Lot’s wife.”
“But why? I do not speak ill of their god. I am no threat to them.”
“Exactly. It is easier to vent their anger on you.”
“What can I do?” I ask him.
“Just be careful,” he says, shaking his head. “It is worse that we have had no rain all winter, too easy an excuse for Baal’s displeasure at Lot’s ranting. If we do not get rain by spring, be careful.”
CHAPTER
45
The secret of happiness is freedom. The secret of freedom is courage.
—Thucydides
I AM ALONE AT THE LOOM with only Philot and Nami for company when it seems the ground shudders. It is not the first time I have felt it, but Lot assures me it is an occasional happening, not something to concern me, though I recall seeing the fallen stones of buildings when I roamed the city searching for goods for my father.
Perhaps disoriented by the earth’s movement, a small brown bird finds its way through the loose fronds thatching the courtyard roof. It flutters wildly from wall to wall, seeking a way out. Nami jumps to her feet, following it, leaping, and snapping. The chickens squawk and flap in distress. Nami understands the chickens are not prey, but she knows this bird is not a chicken.
When she races by me, I grab her. She trembles with excitement. I know she has longed for a chase. I see it in her eyes when she rests her head in my lap and looks up at me. I spend time throwing a bone for her, and she loves that, but it is not the same as chasing a rabbit or an ibex or even a trapped bird.
