by T. K. Thorne
While she does this, I search the house for food that might be easily carried. Danel is lost in his grief and gives no attention to what I do.
At dawn, Danel scoops Jemia’s small linen-wrapped body into his arms and carries her out, with Raph flanked on his left and Mika on his right and Lila and me following. I carry the alabaster vase with her treasures and the few things I found in my scavenging in a bag over my shoulder. Lila carries two skins of precious water, concealed by a blanket.
Many people have slept in the street from fear of their houses falling on them. Both gates have been left open for the past several days, welcoming those who have come for the rites. We leave through the Gate. Though I feel the stares, no one bothers our small procession.
As we move down into the rocky slope below the city, it is as if we enter Mot’s kingdom. Bluish flame ripples over the tops of the black pits. Likely, the burning pitch spewed by Mot’s Tongue ignited them. When the rocky path turns, the fountain of fire rises before us, a towering wall of heat. Black smoke billows up into the already dark sky. We stop, staring at the sight. Lila hesitates. “Will Mot swallow us?”
“We must see to my grandmother,” Danel says. “The Tongue is farther away than it appears. But you can return to the city if you wish.”
Lila lifts her chin and stays with us.
We pass the charnel houses, taking Jemia instead to the old burial ground where the spirits of her family wait for her. With great care, Danel places her in the large family death urn, removing the linen and arranging her on her side with her legs folded and tucked next to her chest, as the infant sleeps in the womb. We will leave her here for the vulture gods to take her flesh to the sky, and in a year, Danel will return to carry her cleaned bones down the vertical shaft to the circular chamber where she will sleep with her ancestors.
CHAPTER
54
The heavens shrieked,
The earth bellowed,
A storm gathered,
Darkness came forth,
A flash flamed,
A fire shot up,
The clouds thickened,
It rained death.
Then the brightness vanished,
The fire went out,
The blaze that had fallen
Turned to ashes.
—Epic of Gilgamesh
WHEN WE EMERGE FROM THE grave chamber, I grasp both of Danel’s hands and make him look at me. “Brother, you cannot go back to your house.”
For the first time, I have his attention. “Why?”
“Today is the last day of Spring Rites.”
He shrugs, uninterested, even though we stand in sight of Mot’s Tongue licking the sky. I turn him so he faces the spouting flame. It has not ceased gushing fire, although the rain of pitch and ash has stopped.
“Why has this happened?” I ask him, determined to make him think, though I know he must be numb with his loss.
He shakes his head. “I do not know. Nor do I care.”
“I loved Jemia too, Danel. But she wants you to live.”
With a sigh, he lifts his hands and lets them fall. “I am alive.”
“We must convince Lot to leave this place. All of us.”
“What are you talking about, Adira?”
The others stand near, watching and listening, but do not interfere.
I struggle to put my thoughts into words. “I do not think we have seen the worst of this. For the past several moons, the sea has belched foul air.”
“It always does.”
“Not like this—great bubbles, sometimes strings of them. I spend much of my time by the window, watching it.”
Lila nods. “She knows more about the Dead Sea than the pitch fishers.”
“What is this to do with me going home?”
“Something is stirred that has been shaken loose.” I search for words to explain my fear.
“The gods’ anger? You do not believe the rites will appease them?”
I shrug. “Perhaps Mot or Baal is angry at Lot and shook the earth to release the foul air and spit on us, or perhaps El is angry at Sodom and did so, or perhaps it is a matter of the gods we have no hope to understand.”
“Or perhaps it has nothing to do with us,” Mika says, studying the tower of flame and moving in its direction.
“Brother—” Raph warns. “Leave it.”
For a moment, I smile, remembering how Shem and I had to pull Mika away from the mating camels. He is curious about everything. Perhaps that is because the blood of the Watchers pulses in him.
“What does it matter?” Danel is restless now.
I take a deep breath; I know he is full of sorrow now, but he must understand the danger. “Sodom’s anger for Lot has been simmering for a long time. This—” I nod at Mot’s Tongue. “This may push that anger to boil. You are part of our family. That makes you a target. We are safer all together.”
With an indignant frown, Danel says, “Spring Rites are celebrated in all the cities of the Vale since anyone can remember. No one has ever been hurt, save perhaps in a few harmless fights over a woman. The rites are holy.”
“Perhaps so. Perhaps I am wrong, but I do not want you to be alone. Jemia would not want you to be.”
“She speaks truth,” Raph says. “It is plain to see. I know a threat when it lies in the grass.” His gaze flicks to me, and he flinches, perhaps belatedly, remembering a time he did not recognize danger when it lay in the hearts of the guards who escorted us from Babylon.
“All right,” Danel concedes. “Where will I go?”
“To your sister’s house, of course,” Lila allows no space for any other thought.
He snorts. “Am I to sleep beneath the donkey?” He turns to me. “Your house will burst apart.”
“You will fit in our sleeping room.” I do not relish Lot’s reaction to this, but Danel is family, and it is my house.
Lila’s hands are on her hips, ready to scold him should he refuse. His cheeks flush. “Very well.”
I wish we could go the long way back to the city, bypassing the south gate and entering at the eastern gate, which is much nearer our house. But that is not possible, given the terrain from here. We must pass back through the burning pitch pits.
The heat has grown unbearable. Sweats drips from us. Breathing is difficult. Ahead, Danel stops, so I almost plow into his back. “What is it?” I pant.
For answer, he points down to our left. I follow the line of his arm and gasp. Bubbles dance on the surface of one of the pools of pitch. Black liquid, less viscous than the pitch, as if it has mixed with water, oozes from the pit’s bounds. It creeps on oily fingers outward from the center.
“What is happening?” I ask.
Danel shakes his head. “I do not know. I have never seen or heard of such.”
The bubble quickly becomes a gushing fountain of oily water, sweeping toward us.
Lila clutches his arm. “Mot reaches for us! Let us leave this place!”
We do, with all the speed we can muster in the oppressive heat.
WE RETURN TO the city when the sun has almost set to find the Gate empty. Everyone has flocked to the goddess’s temple, which we must pass to reach our house. As we approach, the press of people becomes tighter, making it difficult to stay together, possible only because Mika and Raph have put themselves in front and behind us. Danel and Lila flank me. Mika, by dint of his stature, is able to make a slow path for us.
All of the men wear only a cloth wrap around their loins. The women have adorned their wrists, arms, and throat with gold or silver—or copper, if that is their best. In spite of their terror or perhaps because of it, they are dressed in their finest, their skin smoothed in oil. The women’s dresses are a single cloth, tied at one shoulder, leaving the other bare.
When we finally reach the temple, we can see the standing stone and the wooden asherah pole rise over the crowd, the pole’s upper portion carved in the slender likeness of the goddess and adorned with ribbons.
&nbs
p; At a point almost in front of the temple, we are forced to a halt. Not even a drawn weapon would cut us passage. Wedged tightly, we turn and look where everyone’s attention lies—on the third level of the tiered temple. There, the chief priestess stands. She is dressed in white, her throat, wrists, and arms wrapped in Egyptian gold. Tall and slender, she lifts one arm to the sky and reaches down with the other toward the second tier where her chosen consort struggles with a man hooded and robed in red—Mot, god of the underworld.
We are immobile in the press of bodies as the sun crawls toward the horizon and sacred words are spoken. Mika is entranced, but Raph is restless. He is better at swords and at making women’s hearts flutter than at religion. Many languid eyes have appraised him, especially those nearby. Mika, too, is the object of appraisal. Either these are people from outside the city, or city dwellers have forgotten their animosity toward Mika and Raph in the heat of the rites.
Sweat runs down my chest and sides and pools beneath my breasts. We have escaped a pot to land in a fire. The heat from so many bodies, so close, is palpable. But the people, rapt at the drama before them, seem oblivious to discomfort. At stake is the fertility of their fields, their anxieties heightened by the presence of Mot’s Tongue in the distance. The priestess before them is not a mere woman, but Asherah, the Mother Earth who waits for Baal’s seed to bring life to the fields. Below her, the struggling king is Baal, the matching half to the goddess. Together, they are Life. If Baal does not find his way from Mot’s embrace to Asherah’s, no rain will fall. No grass will flourish to feed the sheep, goats, and cows. No crops or herbs will grow.
Famine.
Half of my heritage is of Abram, but these are also my people through my grandmother, and I am swept up into the single, beating heart that unites the crowd in the mystery enacted before us, the mystery that allows us—mortals of body and blood—a part in the world of the gods.
A man and a woman appear. The man is covered in gold. He is Shapash, the sun god. The woman, who grasps a spear, is Anat, the goddess of war. Together, they fight the hooded Mot on the temple steps, enacting the ancient story.
With a final wrench, Baal breaks free of Mot’s arms and ascends the steps to embrace his waiting Asherah. Her hand lifts with aching slowness to her shoulder and unclasps her robe to welcome him. Everything has slowed, as though the air is honey. Her dress drifts to her feet in folds of white, like the salt foam the sea offers to the land. The crowd inhales with one breath. The goddess stands naked in only her gold adornment and reaches both hands to Baal.
I am aware of my body as I have not been since I was the goddess for Mika. I feel the touch of skin on my skin, but I cannot look away. Mika’s hand has found mine.
Slowly, all about us, the women reach to their shoulders and loosen the knots there. The sound of cloth falling from so many is like clouds touching, something heard with senses other than the ears. The women step into the open arms of the men.
Somehow, a space has opened around us, as bodies that could not move closer together, do. Mika seems to be the only one of us who still has his senses, perhaps because he has been in the goddess’s arms before. He pulls my hand and calls to Raph. I look back at Mika’s brother. The centers of Raph’s eyes are dark. Is he thinking of his own lover? I stand between Danel and Lila, but their longing for each other crackles around me like the blue lightning Mika once held.
“Hurry,” Mika says. “This may be our only chance.”
He is right. We shake off the hands that reach for us, and they are soon clasping others. In the sea of hunger and need, we are not hindered, except to keep our own heads above the water of desire that laps at us on every side.
Behind us we hear the chant from the temple, “Aliyan Baal lives; the prince, lord of the earth, is here!”
CHAPTER
55
That evening the two angels came to the entrance of the city of Sodom. Lot was sitting there, and when he saw them, he stood up to meet them. Then he welcomed them and bowed with his face to the ground. “My lords,” he said, “come to my home to wash your feet, and be my guests for the night. You may then get up early in the morning and be on your way again.”
“Oh no,” they replied. “We’ll just spend the night out here in the city square.”
But Lot insisted, so at last they went home with him. Lot prepared a feast for them, complete with fresh bread made without yeast, and they ate.
—Genesis 19:1-3
WE REACH HOME AT DUSK. Lot is furious. “Where were you?” he shouts. “I forbade you to attend the Spring Rites!” Then he seems to notice Mika and Raph standing behind us in the little gate. He clasps his hands, anger melting into confusion.
“I do not understand. Did you smite the people of Sodom?” he asks Mika.
At that moment, Pheiné and Thamma come from their room. Pheiné’s face is flushed, but Thamma is pale. She has been ill for several days.
“Adira is not an obedient wife,” Pheiné observes without a glance at me. “In addition to bringing you shame with her smashed face and limp.”
Lila gasps.
I, too, am surprised. Not that Pheiné thought such things, but that she is saying them. Her temper, so like her father’s, has galloped free of rein since the last moon. I say nothing. What is there to say? She is right.
Lot shifts his weight. “Daughter, guard your tongue.”
“Why?” Pheiné crosses her arms. “It is the truth. She brings you nothing. No status, no wealth to speak of.”
Mika, my steady, calm-in-the-face-of-anything, steps forward, his voice as taut as stretched rope. “She is the daughter of Zakiti, as good a man as I have ever met, whose daughter does him honor.”
His defense of me and of my father brings tears to my eyes, but he is not finished.
“You cannot see her worth, because your own fears blind you.”
This stops Pheiné. “I am not afraid of anything.”
He says nothing, but his green eyes bore into her. I would not wish to be the one receiving their glare.
Lot steps protectively in front of his daughter, but his words to her are a warning. Perhaps he fears Mika will cast fire at her. “Pheiné, show respect to El’s messenger.”
With a sniff, she steps back. “Yes, Father.”
I want to slap her again.
To his credit, Lot never spoke to me about striking her because of her complaint about Nami. Or perhaps Pheiné never told him. Not to protect me, I am certain, but to save her pride, or perhaps she feared Lot would recognize my position and not interfere. Lila would never tell him.
Danel pulls his gaze from the ground. He has been in his own world of sorrow. I am not certain he even heard our exchange. “My grandmother died yesterday.”
This silences everyone.
Danel looks at Lot. “When the ground shook, she was struck by one of the courtyard roof poles.” He sweeps his arm to include Mika, Raph, Lila, and me. “They came to help, but she died. We carried her to the tomb chamber, so the sky birds could take her, and her bones could lie with our ancestors.” His gaze is distant. “Where I will one day lie.…”
Lila puts an arm on his.
Mika’s mouth twists. I know he is distressed at not saving Jemia.
“Mika,” I say into the silence, “I wish you to mark Lila as a free woman.”
Everyone turns to me with looks of surprise. I lift my chin. “It is best for a healer to do it.”
We add dried dung to the cook fire. I take my seal from my neck and give it to Mika. He removes the worn rawhide strip from the center bore hole and slips the cylinder onto a thin rod, holding it into the fire.
“What is she doing?” Pheiné demands of Lot. Pheiné never calls me by my name.
Lot frowns. “She is freeing her slave. It is her right, although it seems an awkward time for it.”
“Who is to fix our food and clean the house and—” she looks with distaste at Philot—“see to that creature?”
Despite her whin
ing, Lot does not interfere. He cannot. I have the tablet he marked with his own seal.
Mika takes a little bowl from his bag. My gaze follows the familiar pattern of whorls in the wood, remembering our fight for survival in the desert. When I first desperately dug it from his pack, how magnificent that small bowl appeared! I used it to boil onions for a poultice, to carry water, and to cook whatever I found or Nami brought us. It saved our lives, that little bowl.
Lila sets a bit of the water to boil for him in a small copper pot. Lot is mollified with such a use of water by the fact it was Jemia’s portion. The smell of burning pitch drifts into the house. My worries turn to the oily water gushing from the ground. Surely it will run downhill, southward and not threaten the city. But what if it finds other shafts to rise in? I do not miss the irony that we are dying for lack of water, and what might come to us, like the sea beyond my window, is undrinkable. Perhaps Mot’s cruel joke on us.
NIGHT HAS FALLEN, and the torches that light the streets are burning. We eat flatbread and stew. Pheiné stands at the door, her ear pressed against it. “The revelry has spread,” she says.
Raph’s brows rise in question.
Still attentive to him, perhaps hoping she can woo him from his lover, she answers his unspoken question. “On this night, the holy rite yields to revelry. Young men roam, drinking and copulating with any woman who has not the sense to be inside.”
“I remember this from our previous visit,” Raph says.
Mika frowns. This is evidence of his suspicion that the holy has been twisted in this city.
Raph’s words hurl me into the past, to the night when Mika, Raph, and I watched the torches from the cliff overhang. We were too far away to see the details, but the sounds reached us. On that night, my father still lived, my heart ached for Raph’s touch, and Mika held blue fire.
“It will be worse tonight.” Pheiné’s troubled tone pulls me back to the present. Despite her arrogance, she has not been blind. “There are packs of men who will hunt the street. The coupling at the temple is a holy thing, but tonight—”
“Will they come to this house?” Raph asks.
