He Who Lifts the Skies

by Kacy Barnett-Gramckow

  Keren turned to search for her father, but Sharah grabbed her wrist. “We’ll hide in the tents!”

  “As if that’ll do any good, fool!” Khuldah cried. “They have horses; we don’t. If they’ve come to demand tributes and aren’t satisfied, they’ll burn the tents with you inside. All you can do is wait with the others and try to stay out of their path.”

  Another hand touched Keren’s arm now, making her jump and gasp, frightened. I’ma-Annah said, “Come with me, all of you. Quietly.”

  Three

  AS KHULDAH SCURRIED off to stand with her mother and sisters, I’ma-Annah guided Keren and Sharah through the encampment to stand with Shem, Meshek, Eliyshama, and the wide-eyed Tsereth. Metiyl, flanked by Yeiysh and Khawrawsh, stomped up to Shem and Meshek.

  “Why are they so far from their own territories?” Metiyl demanded, furious, his broad nostrils flaring. “We come this way to escape them, and they follow us here. There are only a few of them. We should fight!”

  I’ma-Annah spoke, quietly distressed. “Son of my son, why should we destroy our time of joy with rage and violence?”

  Metiyl snorted. “We aren’t the violent ones, Ma’adannah; they are. And I say we shouldn’t allow them to just come in here as they please. We must resist them!”

  “I wish to hear what these followers of Nimr-Rada have to say,” Shem announced firmly, quelling the angry Metiyl. But Shem exchanged a cautioning look with I’ma-Annah, who pulled Keren closer, reaching for Sharah as well.

  The horsemen were riding into the encampment now. Gaping, Keren clung to I’ma-Annah’s waist. To see men actually riding horses was almost an unimaginable thing. But they were real, and they were approaching. Five horsemen, their dusky coloring deepened by the sun, all similarly clad in leather tunics, broad leather bands on their forearms, and leather leggings, with short cloaks of rough-edged fleece. Each man wore his dark hair tightly bound into a severe plait at the nape of the neck. Keren stared at their backs, wondering about the odd narrow pouches of leather slung from their shoulders. Sticks of wood—straight, bare, polished, and notched and feathered at the ends—were sticking out of the pouches.

  “See their weapons,” Metiyl growled to Shem, his rage still visible. “They’ve blades on the tips of those feathered sticks, and they propel them from a distance using those tight-strung wands of wood. Cowardly weapons!”

  Shem stared at the horsemen, his expressive eyes widening in astonishment. And I’ma-Annah stiffened, clearly surprised. Trembling, Keren glanced over at her father. Meshek looked like a figure of clay, unmoving, glaring at the horsemen. From her left, Keren heard Eliyshama mutter to Tsereth, “My brothers, three of them at least, have come to our wedding.”

  Three of my brothers, Keren thought, dizzied by the realization. Which three? Names ran through her mind. Names that had always been whispered by Chaciydah in tones of mourning: Miyka, Ra-Anan, Mattan, Kana, Bachan.… There was another, but she couldn’t remember his name now. Who are you? She stared at the horsemen, trying to choose her brothers from among them.

  The lead horseman swung one long leg over the neck of his black-and-tawny horse and dropped lightly to the ground, a swift, showy movement. The other four horsemen followed his example silently. Now, the lead horseman approached Shem and Meshek, stopping a short distance before them, folding his brown hands respectfully and lowering his head in a reverent nod. “Father of my Fathers, I hoped you would be here. Your son Aram, the father of my own father, sends you his greetings.” Glancing at Meshek, the young horseman said, “He also sends you greetings, Father.”

  Meshek answered with a tight, hard-eyed nod, and one curt word. “Neshar.”

  Neshar, Keren thought, gazing at the lead horseman, remembering his name, and seeing his resemblance to Eliyshama. You’re my brother Neshar. As she was thinking this, Keren felt I’ma-Annah take a quick breath.

  “My Aram is well?”

  Neshar seemed grateful to I’ma-Annah for her question. “Your Aram thrives, Ma’adannah. Truly, he heard of my brother’s wedding and sent us to convey his love to you.” Almost too quickly, Neshar added, “He regrets that he can’t come here himself.”

  “My youngest son is too busy,” I’ma-Annah said, her tone a stiff mingling of disapproval and disappointment.

  Shem spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Do you intend to stay here for the night?”

  “Are we welcomed, O Father of my Fathers?” Neshar’s question was clearly directed at everyone in the encampment. “If not, then we’ll continue our journey.”

  “To where?” Metiyl challenged him harshly. “These lands haven’t been claimed by your Nimr-Rada.”

  Neshar remained calm. “My brothers and I promised to take our friends into the mountains to hunt for a few days. Then we’ll go down to the steppes to rest until spring.”

  “So you say.” Metiyl turned away, showing his scorn and disbelief. A hum of discontented voices arose throughout the encampment. Keren shivered, feeling the animosity of the others toward the horsemen. Moving forward, Shem lifted his hands. Everyone hushed, restrained by their love and respect for their First Father.

  “Listen to me,” Shem called out. “You are all the children of my children. And the sons and daughters of my brothers, whom I love. We have come here—in peace—to share our joy at the marriage of Eliyshama and Tsereth.” He swept one arm toward the horsemen in an embracing, almost pleading gesture. “These are also the children of my children, and the sons of my brothers. I wish to speak to them and hear what they have to say.” His eloquent face hardening, Shem said, “As I live, they will move among you in peace. You will not provoke them, and they will not provoke you! Do not bring the judgment of the Most High down upon yourselves with your anger; you cannot stand against Him.”

  Hearing his undeniable authority, Keren’s anxiety diminished. Glancing around, she saw that the others would receive their visitors in reluctant peace. Even Metiyl lowered his wild-curled head.

  Neshar motioned to his fellow horsemen. Immediately, they removed their fleece cloaks and draped them over the black-and-tawny backs of their horses. By unspoken agreement, two of the young men gathered the dangling leather straps fastened about the horses’ heads and guided the animals to an open field just outside the encampment. Neshar and the two remaining horsemen looked expectantly at Eliyshama and Tsereth, who were obligated to welcome them formally.

  Clearing his throat, Eliyshama said, “Beloved, you may remember my own brothers Neshar, Mattan, and Bachan.”

  “Welcome.” Tsereth said nothing more.

  Breaking the awkward silence, I’ma-Annah said, “Come, let’s sit and finish our meal. Sons of my son, we will bring you water and food.”

  They returned to their feast, rearranging the grass mats to accommodate the newcomers. Shem sat on the mat with Keren’s three horsemen-brothers, watching them. As her horsemen-brothers rinsed their hands and faces in water grudgingly provided by Tsereth’s sisters, Keren noticed the others in the encampment watching them as well. Feeling anxious again, she knelt between I’ma-Annah and Sharah, keeping her eyes lowered to hide her distress. I’ma-Annah nudged Sharah and Keren, gently urging them to pass food to their brothers.

  Neshar stared at Sharah. “Child-of-No-Color, you lived. We were sure you would die.”

  Frowning, Sharah pushed a wheat cake at Neshar. “Well, the way our I’ma has been mourning for you, my brothers, you all should have died.”

  Keren marveled at Sharah’s audacity, but no one scolded her; Meshek was actually nodding in agreement.

  “Our I’ma isn’t here?” Mattan looked around, seeming genuinely concerned.

  Seated across from him, Meshek straightened. “Your mother is ill. She stayed in the mountains with the Ancient Ones.” Eyeing his sons severely, Meshek said, “Her ill health was caused by her mourning for you since you abandoned us.”

  Neshar, Mattan, and Bachan ducked their heads and picked at their food, accepting their father’s r
eprimand. When Meshek said nothing more, I’ma-Annah took Keren’s hand. “Now, you three, you haven’t met your second sister. This is Karan.”

  But our mother calls me Keren, Keren thought to her brothers.

  Startled, Bachan gulped and swatted Neshar’s chest with the back of his callused brown hand. “Look at her eyes! They’re the color of pale metal! Who will believe us when we speak of her?”

  Pausing between bites of bread, Neshar stared at Keren, then at Sharah. “We shouldn’t speak of either of them.”

  “He’s right,” Mattan agreed, watching Sharah. “No one will believe us. They’ll say we’ve gone mad.” He grimaced, his slim brown face amazingly like Chaciydah’s. Keren was fascinated by the resemblance. Neshar looked very much like Meshek and Eliyshama, while Bachan had hints of both his parents: Chaciydah’s dark brown curls, her big brown eyes, and Meshek’s long limbs.

  “Will you continue to serve that Nimr-Rada?” Meshek demanded suddenly.

  Neshar cleared his throat uneasily. “The Great King will send others to search for us if we don’t return at the appointed time. And if we don’t return, he will require compensation from our families.”

  Enraged, Meshek snarled, “Compensation from me for my sons, who should have never gone with him at all? I owe Nimr-Rada nothing for taking my wayward, thankless sons! You’ve brought me nothing but grief!”

  “Father.” Neshar passed a hand over his face, as if wearied. Then, looking straight into Meshek’s eyes, he pleaded, “We regret your suffering, believe us. Listen, I beg you. We were glad to hear of Eliyshama and Tsereth’s wedding. We’ve looked forward to seeing all of you, including our I’ma. But you know that if we hadn’t agreed to go with the Great King, he would have considered us—and you—his enemies.”

  “But you went with him gladly,” Meshek said, thrusting his outspread fingers toward his sons to emphasize his point. “All six of you! You were so eager for adventure and gain! Now, you three, tell me, where are your other brothers? Where’s Miyka? And Ra-Anan? And Kana? Are they too ashamed to present themselves here today?”

  Neshar answered, subdued, “The Great King wouldn’t excuse them from their duties. They also feared you’d be angry.”

  “But you three don’t care that I’m angry?” Meshek cried. Keren saw veins pulsing in her father’s forehead. His rage was so horrible that she longed to run away.

  Mattan leaned forward, his face—so like Chaciydah’s—intense. “Father, whether you believe us or not, we care. Otherwise we wouldn’t have been willing to endure the hatred of everyone in this encampment.”

  “They have reason to hate you!”

  Defensive, Bachan said, “We’ve taken no tributes or compensation from our own tribes, Father. No one in this encampment has a claim against us.”

  “But you have taken compensation from other tribes,” Shem interposed calmly, raising his dark eyebrows. “And they—all of them—are kindred tribes. They are your own cousins, the children of my brothers.”

  Unable to argue with him, Neshar, Mattan, and Bachan lowered their eyes. Meshek stood and marched off, as if he couldn’t endure the company of his horsemen-sons. Exchanging a look with I’ma-Annah, Shem said, “We’ll discuss these matters tomorrow. Eat. I’ll reason with your father later, for your mother’s sake.”

  As Keren’s brothers finished their food, one of their companions returned from the edge of the encampment. He moved quietly, his expression wary, reserved. His dark brown eyes flicked here and there, missing nothing, not even Keren’s eyes. He didn’t blink or jump, but he studied her and Sharah solemnly, then turned to Neshar, who introduced him to Shem. “Father of my Fathers, this is Zehker, one of our friends.”

  “Zehker.” Shem smiled. “Which tribe are you from?”

  Zehker lowered his head. “My father … is of the sons of Yepheth.”

  His answer was as wary as his demeanor. He didn’t say his father’s name, as most men do, Keren thought, baffled, watching Zehker as he bowed and retreated slightly. And he looks like some wild creature, ready to run away.

  “That’s the most I’ve heard Zehker say in three days,” Neshar told Shem, amused.

  “He is like my brother Yepheth,” Shem said, looking as mystified as Keren felt.

  “When Yepheth decides to speak, you can be sure he means every word that falls from his lips,” I’ma-Annah added, smiling, obviously remembering her brother-in-law fondly. “Does anyone have news of him, and his beloved Ghinnah?”

  “They’re visiting the tribes of their children in the mountains to the distant west,” Bachan informed I’ma-Annah. “We’ve heard rumors that they will eventually come down to the plains to live, but then, we hear many rumors.”

  As they talked, Meshek returned. With an apologetic glance toward Shem and I’ma-Annah, he sat down again. Keren held her breath; her brothers fell silent.

  Meshek spoke tersely. “We won’t discuss that Nimr-Rada. And I won’t disown you if you’ll come with us to greet your mother.” Glaring at his sons, his eyes reddening, Meshek said, “You can’t begin to comprehend the sorrow you’ve inflicted upon us. Even so, if you come with us for a few days …”

  “We’ll come,” Neshar agreed hastily, without consulting the others. “I give you my word.” Mattan and Bachan nodded, relaxing suddenly. I’ma-Annah sighed. Everyone looked relieved.

  Watching them, Keren felt like singing for joy. Her lost brothers—three of them at least—were returning to the mountains to visit their mother. Perhaps they’ll live with us, Keren thought, gleefully hugging herself, trying to imagine the look on Chaciydah’s face when they returned.

  Unexpectedly, Tsereth spoke with perfect teasing lightness. “Well, I thought I’d dance on my wedding day, but everyone looks as if it’s the end of a terrible hunting trip. I should feel insulted.”

  “I’ll dance with you!” Keren burst out, unthinking. Instantly, everyone looked at her. Embarrassed, she covered her mouth. Everyone laughed except the silent Zehker. He looked away.

  Finished with his evening meal, Zehker watched Neshar, Mattan, Bachan, and the others as they danced to the rhythms of the flutes, chimes, and drums. Their earlier animosity seemed to evaporate as they moved through an intricate stepping dance around the fire. They’ve forgotten I exist, Zehker decided, satisfied. He preferred to remain unnoticed and unheard, hidden by the shadows. Even with the assurances of Shem, their First Father, Zehker didn’t feel safe in the encampment. He felt like prey.

  I’ll insist that we keep watch tonight, he thought. Even if I’m the only one alert enough to keep it.

  Cautiously, Zehker reached for some soft wheat cakes, dried fruits, and a generous helping of roasted meat. He wasn’t taking food for himself, but for his friend, Lawkham, who had stayed at the edge of the encampment to tend the horses. By now, Lawkham was probably digging through their supplies, searching for some hidden packet of dried meat and parched grain cakes, certain he’d been forgotten.

  Heaping Lawkham’s food in a red-and-black glazed clay bowl, Zehker glanced at the dancers, watching the two young sisters of Neshar, Mattan, and Bachan. The older child was extraordinary, with her no-color skin and hair. She danced with all the poise and grace of an adult. But the younger girl surpassed her remarkable no-color sister by the pure joy revealed in her every step, her smile, and her shockingly pale eyes. She was full of life. Even from his place in the shadows, Zehker heard her laughing.

  She’s a truly happy child, Zehker thought, watching the girl until the other dancers obscured her. Was I as happy when I was young? I don’t remember. But it doesn’t matter.

  Brooding, Zehker strode to the western edge of the encampment, where Lawkham had started a small, neatly banked fire.

  “There you are!” Lawkham exclaimed, his eyes and teeth gleaming in the firelight. Holding up a barklike chunk of dried meat, he said, “I was bracing myself to eat one of these rocks, but forget that now. What did you find?”

  Taking refuge in his usual s
ilence, Zehker thrust the bowl at Lawkham and sat beside the fire. Lawkham grinned and plopped down next to him, shoving the despised chunk of dried meat into a leather pouch. Tearing into a soft wheat cake, then a slice of roast, Lawkham talked between bites.

  “Now, if you were a more sociable person, Zehker, you would tell me that the others are all dancing and singing and enjoying themselves. The bride is lovely, of course, but her family is less than pleased to see us. In fact, you’re sure that they’d like to beat us bloody and roast our horses for the next feast tomorrow. Am I right?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Lawkham chuckled. “Did Neshar or Mattan or Bachan—any of them—think to tell their relatives that we brought gifts to celebrate the wedding?”

  “No.”

  “Of course not,” Lawkham agreed placidly. “Why should the four of you remember your manners if I’m not there to prompt you? Did you say anything at all?”

  “Eight words.”

  Lawkham blinked, looking startled. “Eight? Who managed to pour oil down your throat? Some pretty girl?”

  “No.”

  “I forgot,” Lawkham sighed. “How foolish of me. You consider it too dangerous to flirt. I pity your future wife, whoever she is. She’s simply going to have to read your mind.” Picking at the dried berries, he asked, “How long are we going to stay?”

  “We’re going to visit their mother,” said Zehker, allowing Lawkham to draw his own conclusions.

  “Ah.” Lawkham rocked backward slightly, chewing the berries. “So much for hunting. We’ll be chopping wood instead. At least that’s what I’d expect to do if I were visiting my mother in the mountains. Hearing all this from you now, Zehker, am I to believe that our three comrades weren’t disowned completely?”

  “Not completely.”

  “Hmph. It might have been easier if they’d been disowned.” Lawkham gnawed at the roasted meat. “Their family will grieve over their separation in the spring.”

  “Perhaps,” Zehker agreed. But at least they have a family to return to.