Angels at the Gate

by T. K. Thorne

  “Down,” I tell her, my hands wrapped around her neck. She ignores the command, struggling against my hold. I do not blame her; it is her nature just as it is the bird’s instinct to escape. In its panic, the bird does not realize it could go back up the way it got in. It is difficult to watch the little creature flying again and again into the walls, but if I release Nami, she will kill it. Besides what could I do—limp from wall to wall snatching at it?

  At last, it flutters to the ground, exhausted.

  Once still, it is not as tantalizing to Nami, and I am able to capture her attention and give her the signal to lie down and stay. She licks my hand in apology for struggling against me. When I am certain she will obey, I rise with the help of Ishmael’s staff and go to the corner where the bird sits on the floor, seemingly stunned, though its eyes are open.

  Slowly, I reach down and close my hand over it. To hold a bird requires that the grip not be too tight, or it will crush. Yet too loose, and the bird will escape. It struggles once, testing its prison. I am firm, and it quiets, though I can feel the racing flutter of its heart through my fingertips. I remember how Kerit had hooded his falcon to keep it calm, and I tuck the bird, still in my hand, into the dark beneath my robe. Nami looks at me expectantly, wondering, I imagine, if I am going to share my catch.

  I hobble to the back window, which is uncovered and open to allow the breeze a path. A lattice normally covers it, but Hurriya had it made so it could be removed and I normally keep it so during the day, even in the winter. I would rather put on a shawl than close it. The chickens sometimes fly up to the sill, but never seem tempted to go beyond.

  Beyond the wall’s edge, the Dead Sea shimmers. I have learned to see beauty here. Sunset imbues the cliff walls with warm gold. With the morning sun, the salt crystals in the water shoot tiny beams of light to dance just above the surface. So intense is the dazzle, I often wonder if the stars are raining into the sea.

  The breeze shifts and I cough, my nose spoiled by the incense I keep burning inside, in part to keep away the flies, but also to cover the smell. Lot says there was not always such a stench. In the days when his wife’s mother was a child, she said only on occasion did the smell drift to them.

  I remember the first time my father pointed out a yellow seam in the cliffs and had me press my nose to it. It stank of rotten eggs, the same smell that the Dead Sea belches. What has changed, I wonder, to make the sea’s belly so discontent?

  Lot says if I would stop burning incense day and night, I would become used to the stench. I cannot imagine becoming used to it. It seems more than a smell; the air is often heavy, almost furred. Besides, I buy the incense with my own silver. With the dowry my father left me, I could buy incense enough for my lifetime.

  The throb of the bird’s heart has eased, and the creature is quiet in the dark of my robe. Perhaps the warmth and sound of my own heartbeat calms it, reminding it of a safe nest with huddled siblings.

  I draw the bird out and open my hand. Splaying tiny talons, it fumbles for a perch. When I spread my fingers, the talons wrap my forefinger like a baby’s instinctive clutch.

  So, here we are … woman and bird and sea. The wind shifts again, and a clean breeze lifts my hair, and I remember long ago I was daughter of the wind. “Fly,” I whisper.

  For a moment, our eyes meet, and we are not predator and prey, but sisters. Then a flurry of wings—and she is gone.

  THE NEXT MORNING I determine I will not stay a prisoner in this house, despite Danel’s warning. I snatch up the basket and announce to Lila that I am going to market. She looks surprised, but says nothing.

  Nami is at my side in an instant, quivering with eagerness to stretch her long legs. The street stirs in dawn’s light. Nami does her business, and I kick dust over the puddle. Then she is off to investigate everything within sight of me.

  I check the sky, hopeful for a sign of rain, but the clouds are white as the salt mountains that lie to the west of the Vale. Not a drop has fallen since we arrived, though we are in winter’s heart, and it is the season for rain.

  A woman sits on a bench outside her house, a nursing baby at her breast. The sight stabs my heart, but I smile at her. She covers the baby with the edge of a blanket, as though to shield it from the sight of me. For a moment, I wonder what would happen if Nami and I just kept walking to the Gate and beyond, into the desert. Perhaps little Shem’s tribe would find us again. I was happy there. I sigh and remind myself that Mika had been with me then and my chances of finding Shem’s tribe or even surviving would be very slim, especially in such a drought.

  As the morning passes and the market at the Gate grows thicker with people, I signal Nami to my side. She is a large dog and her protective presence discourages some of the hostility I feel around me.

  The vendors, at least, keep their thoughts about me or my husband to themselves, lest I buy from another, but they are free in sharing their concerns about the lack of rainfall. There is plenty of meat. Herders, worried about brown pastures, are killing off their stock. Lot regularly brings in meat. It is grain that is difficult to find.

  Though the weather is the talk of every tongue, it is not foremost on my mind. More than a desire to leave the house has driven me onto Sodom’s cruel streets. At the Gate, as I shop for food, I shop also for news from the east. “What have you heard about Babylonia?” I ask. “Is there war?”

  “There is always war somewhere,” one tells me. Another has more specific information, heard from a passing caravan. “Babylonia is threatened from the east, and trouble brews in the south.”

  I thank him, but this is no more than I already know. I gnaw on my worry for Mika like a dog with an old, bare bone, unable to give it up. Does he ever think of me? I shudder. If so, let him remember me as I was. What would I do if he stepped through the Gate now? Would I run to him … or from him? I could not bear his spurning me.

  A familiar sound spins me around. I have worked my way among the vendors to a place near the temple. From the steps, a man’s voice raises. I know the voice; it belongs to my husband. A crowd has gathered to hear him.

  “Baal is a false god!” he cries. “We have no rain because El is angry at Sodom.”

  “We have no rain,” a voice from the crowd shouts, “because Mot has swallowed Baal, and Mot is angry at your words!”

  Another man raises his fist. “Leave this city, Lot. Take your family and go!”

  “Have you so soon forgotten Abram?” a third man accuses the shouter. “Abram saved Sodom. Is this how we treat his nephew?”

  “Abram’s god is not ours!” The last speaker turns his head and sees me. “Here is the wife of Lot. Look on her face. Is that a vestige the gods are pleased with? She is an abomination!”

  “Go home, Adira,” Lot says.

  In this, I have no problem finding obedience. But I have not limped past more than a few houses when my head explodes with a pain that brings me to my knees. For a moment, I know nothing but the pain and panic. My breath is shallow and quick, and I cannot move. Then Nami whines and licks my forehead. I put my hand to my head; it is wet with more than Nami’s concern. At my feet is a bloodied stone.

  “YOU’RE HURT!” LILA says when I stumble in the door. “What happened?”

  She makes me sit on the bench inside the little gate while she tends my wound.

  “Someone threw a stone.”

  “Who?” She is indignant.

  “I don’t know.”

  My father taught me to find the right question. What did the people of Sodom want? I touch the hollow left by the healing of my crushed cheekbone. These people want to live without strangers among them, particularly strangers who reminded them they are not as secure as they imagine themselves to be, but are vulnerable to the world’s cruelties. I stir their fears. I can think of nothing to do or say to assure them my fate and the fate of their own previous generations does not await them.

  It doesn’t matter who threw the stone,” I say.

  “What
do you mean it doesn’t matter?” Lila demands.

  I look down at the blood on my hands. “I mean that it could have been anyone.”

  WHEN LOT FINALLY returns, I confront him. “What are you doing?”

  He rounds on me. “Do not question me, wife. I do El’s bidding.”

  “So El speaks to you now? And you do not even have to climb a holy place like Abram?” I cannot stop the sarcasm in my voice. My head throbs.

  “He sent his messenger to tell me of his displeasure with Sodom’s ways.”

  I gasp. “Mika? You are speaking of Mika?”

  “Mika-el, El’s angel. I saw him hold blue fire on the hillside. He spoke against the evil of this city.”

  “He was just surprised—”

  Lot’s eyes are wide, his face flushed, as he had been on the steps of the goddess’s temple.

  I swallow what I was going to say. He would not believe me that Mika did not know what the blue fire meant either and that herders had seen such before during storms on the horns of sheep. I can see the fire in Lot’s eyes. There is no reasoning with him. Such explanations will only turn him against me.

  “We should leave,” I say. “What brews in this city is evil. You are right about that.”

  “El has chosen me to be his voice. We will not leave.”

  CHAPTER

  46

  Your city has become a strange city; how can you now exist?

  —Lamentations of Ur

  LILA AND I WALK THROUGH the city with Danel, who keeps watch for anyone who might think to throw a taunt or a stone. A dry wind deposits dust on clothes and skin, and I hold my headscarf over my nose for more reason than to hide my face. Without the season’s rain, the river has shrunk into trickles. I recall digging my fingers raw into a dry wadi in the desert, searching for water. Will it be that way here? With every day that the sky withholds rain, anger toward Lot intensifies. He has hired an armed guard to escort him to the market and even to his fields.

  The hatred cast toward me as we walk the street is palpable, but Danel is an imposing man. Still, we do not linger. We have been invited to the home of Danel’s grandmother Jemia for the evening meal. Lot, Pheiné, and Thamma, not surprisingly, pled other plans.

  My discomfort is not just from the hard stares as we pass. I feel as if I have forgotten some part of my body, like my hand or foot, because Nami does not pace at my side. For the first time since Raph found me barely alive in the cave, I am without her. Danel has asked this for the sake of his grandmother, who is old and cannot tolerate animals near her. She does not breathe well, and they make her difficulty worse.

  I explained it all to Nami, reinforcing my command not to jump out the window, and then closed the slatted covering. But I expect her to find a way through it and follow me. She found me once in this city, picking out my scent, and once in the desert. Every few steps, I turn, looking for her behind us.

  The sun is a round red stone balancing on the western cliffs, spreading a bloody stain across the sky. The air, sucked of moisture, stinks more than usual. Earlier that day, I watched huge bubbles form in the sea and burst with an accompanying stink. Pheiné and Thamma were home, but unimpressed with the sea’s activity. Pheiné played her harp, which I had to admit was not unpleasant. I recalled how she had sent smoldering glances in Raph’s direction. How jealous that had made me!

  Finally, we have heard news from Babylonia. War. Lila made certain to ask details, and I was greatly relieved to learn it had been from the east, as Mika predicted. Each morning, I put aside a small piece of my food and leave it on the sill for the birds to take to El with a plea to protect Raph and Mika. I pray Raph made it home safely with his precious stone. And I pray Babylonia’s king takes good care of his sage. Would Samsu-iluna demand more visions of Mika? What would Mika do with only a false stone on which to lay his head?

  We pass the layered lime-washed bricks of the goddess’s temple. My step slows. I could go inside and ask for sanctuary. It would not matter that I am ugly or that I am the wife of Lot. I could live there for the rest of my days in peace and dignity. The power of that pull toward the temple surprises me.

  Perhaps sensing my turmoil, Lila’s grip on my arm tightens. As my slave and handmaiden, she would have to come with me. My gaze finds Danel’s profile. He walks close beside Lila, between her and the donkeys and street merchants. He steals glances at her when he thinks she does not know. I have studied men’s expressions and behavior all my life, and I know as surely as I know anything, I cannot take Lila to the goddess’s temple.

  We pass through the Gate, the city’s heart. Merchants are closing for the day in anticipation of the evening shutting of the gates, packing away their dates and figs, baskets of seeds or beans. Some spread their blankets to sleep near their wares. We pass one such man, who sees us and indicates a hanging section of lamb, its sides scored from the knife’s slices and unseen bites of flies. “Not too late,” he says, with a grin that displays the gaps between his crooked yellow teeth. Lila shakes her head, and we move on. No beggars line the walls, as there would be in Babylon or any other city. Sodom does not welcome them; a person seen offering a pittance to one would be fined and the beggar expelled.

  From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a young boy running down an alley. Only his back is visible. The way he runs is familiar, though I cannot place it. Dogs bark and chase after him for a short way, and then he disappears around a corner.

  The bray of a donkey distracts me. There is a pained quality in it. I stop.

  “What is it?” Lila asks.

  “Wait a moment,” I say, watching the scene unfold before us. A man, his back to us, is whipping his donkey for failing to move forward with the wagon he has just loaded with heavy clay pots of pitch. “Move on, you sorry beast of Mot!”

  I approach him. “What has this creature done that warrants your beating it?”

  He rounds on me. “Who are you—?” The sight of my face stops him, and recognition, or perhaps disgust, widens his eyes. He is a swarthy man with black hair that crawls up his chest to meet his thick, unkempt beard. The unwashed stench of his body overpowers even the efforts of the sea and the debris of the city. From his stance and tone, he is not a man accustomed to challenge.

  I do not step back from him. “I am Adira, daughter of Zakiti and wife of—”

  He does not allow me to finish, but spits at my feet, “—wife of that son-of-the-underworld, Lot. I know who you are.”

  “Well,” he demands after a pause, “what do you want?”

  I point to the blood oozing from the donkey’s hide. “Beating your donkey does not work. You must lure it with a treat or startle it forward, but yours is not being stubborn. She has hurt her back foot, either strained it or picked up a stone.” I point. “See how she stands with her weight off it.”

  He grunts and cocks his head, exposing what I could not see at first, a wide scar that runs from the outer corner of his eye to his ear. Despite my mind’s assertion that Scar, my Babylonian tormentor, is dead, my body goes as rigid as one of the goddess’s poles. I am chilled and sweating at the same time. I have lost my voice, my ability to move.

  We remain that way for long heartbeats, the man too stubborn to check my assertion, and I locked in a past terror, waiting helplessly for a rain of blows, until I feel Lila’s hand on my arm. She turns me, and she and Danel help me walk away. I am surprised my shaking legs remember how. After we turn down another street, she produces my staff, which I apparently dropped, though I have no memory of it.

  She has me sit on a low wall, once part of a house that has long since come down, possibly from the earth tremors.

  Why has no one repaired it? I think inanely, seeking a distraction from the reality that I am no longer the person I thought I was—no longer the girl who would jump on a horse and ride after her father’s murderer—only a woman scarred inside as well as out.

  I do not want to weep, not here with eyes on us. I feel the stares, though Danel h
as positioned himself so his thick body screens me somewhat.

  “Let’s go on,” I whisper hoarsely.

  WE ARE WITHIN sight of Danel’s house when, as if to prove Lila’s words true, the ground trembles, followed by a loud boom and the sharp smell of brimstone. When we recover our balance, we stare one another other. A long moment of stillness hovers over the street before people explode into discussion: “What was the noise? Why are the gods angry?”

  Danel opens the door and waves us inside. “Grandmother, are you all right?”

  There is a groan from the courtyard, and we rush there to find her on the ground. Danel kneels beside her. “Are you hurt?”

  “Maybe a bruise on my hip,” she says. “It should feel welcome there with all the others.”

  Another woman hurries in with a basket of flatbread balanced on her head. She sets it down and rushes to Jemia’s side. “Do not move,” she commands, her thick hands pressing and prodding. We step back, allowing space for the woman, whose arm bears the scarred slash of a slave brand. She is as large and brusque as Jemia is small and fragile. I marvel at Jemia, lying curled on her side on the reed-strewn floor. How can this woman have produced Chiram? She is even smaller than Lila.

  When Jemia’s slave is satisfied nothing is broken, she scoops the tiny woman into her arms and starts to take her to a back room. Jemia makes a fist and beats it against her shoulder. “No, no! Put me down, Flava.”

  “You should rest.”

  The fist does not pause in its assault. “Are you blind, woman? I have guests. Release me.”

  With reluctance, Flava sets her gently on her feet. “Remember how long you spent abed the last time you fell?”

  Jemia ignores her, straightening to her full height, which amounts to level with Flava’s bosom. Despite Flava’s hovering, Jemia’s dignity belies her stature. “I cannot go to bed every time the ground shakes.” Then she turns to us. “Be welcome in my house.”

  Since we are not travelers, she does not insist on washing our feet, and we simply return to the little gate and remove our sandals.