by Mary Burns
“Tell me, please,” I said, pointing to it. “What is that?”
Ziphora smiled. “Isn’t it wonderful? It’s called a peacock. There are several here about the grounds.” She turned to go, and said that she would let Alaya know when it was time to call me to join her master for the evening meal. I nodded almost absently, so intent was my gaze on the visionary creature.
“Shall you wear the red silk dress tonight, my dear?” said Alaya, breaking in upon my dreaminess. I caught a glimpse of eager solicitude in her eye, and shook my head.
“The dark blue one,” I said, “with the shawl that has the golden fringe. That will do, Alaya, for tonight.”
“Yes, my dear,” she said, sounding a little disappointed.
“But I will wear the gold and amethyst necklace and ear rings,” I called to her, relenting, and laughed as the smile returned to her face.
* * *
“And so, my dear cousin—if I may call you that?” Ishmael and I were seated across from each other at a beautiful table of inlaid wood. He had just poured more wine into my glass, a vessel so thin and transparent it looked made of clear silk. Ishmael was not much older than I at that time—in his early thirties, perhaps, but his formal air and courtliness made him seem older; indeed, he seemed to be from another time, long before the present. He was well read in philosophy and poetry, and his explanations of the ideas and ways of peoples largely unknown to me were fascinating and intriguing.
The servant placed a bowl of figs and pomegranates before us, and retreated to stand silently at the door of the room. We had already partaken of a perfectly seasoned lamb dish with currants, and bread so fresh and warm I could hardly keep from eating the whole basket. A servant had brought scented water and towels to cleanse our hands, a most refreshing custom, I thought.
I inclined my head in assent, and he continued.
“How do you fare in your collection of the great stories of your people? And have you come here to hear the other side of the story?”
Ishmael smiled at the look on my face; I wasn’t able to hide my surprise, and just stared at him until I could collect my wits to reply.
“You have the advantage of me, cousin,” I finally said, smiling faintly in return. “You seem to know all about me already.”
His smile broadened, but his look was friendly. “When the daughter of a king travels throughout the land, it is far from secret, even to those of us here in the south.” When he smiled, his teeth showed white and even in his brown face, and his expressive eyes sparkled.
“What else do you know about me?” I said, feeling a little careless from the wine, which I was not used to in such quantity as I was enjoying this night.
Ishmael drank his wine slowly, and picked up a fig. A glance sent the remaining servant away, and we were left alone in the dining chamber, which was open on one side to the summer night.
“I know you are David’s prophet, and more, you have the Sight,” he said quietly, and took a bite from the fig. I kept silent, waiting. This, though not common, could be knowledge he had gleaned from connections in Jerusalem.
“I know that you had the blessing of a man who loved you, and the great misfortune of losing him,” he did not look at me as he said this, “and your child.”
Tears stung my eyes and my breath caught in my throat.
“And I know that you have learned the art of writing.”
“How do you know these things?” I gasped the question.
He leaned over and took my hand, looking at me now. “Forgive me, I do not mean to cause you pain, or frighten you, but you see, I don’t know how much time we may have, and I want you to know—” He broke off when I pulled my hand away abruptly.
“What are you talking about? What do you mean, ‘how much time we may have’?” My head was spinning now, and it wasn’t just the effect of the wine.
Ishmael rose from his seat and walked to the side of the room which was open to the outdoors. “I beg your forgiveness,” he said, turning back to me. “I’ve done this all wrong.”
“Then explain yourself,” I said. I pushed the wine glass away and waited. I began to sense the dry, light feeling in my bones and my blood that presaged a time of vision—and I was anxious, unprepared for that experience in the presence of this mysterious stranger.
“I, too, have the Sight,” Ishmael said simply. He walked slowly to the table, and sat down again, clasping his hands in front of him. “I have seen you many, many times throughout your life, and I have waited for this day for as long as I can remember.”
I watched his face, drinking in the mystery of his words, my eyes narrowing.
“Yes, it is true,” he answered my unspoken question. “I will prove it to you.” He rose quickly and strode to a cabinet at the end of the room. It was outfitted with dozens of cubbyholes, each of which was filled with scrolls. He chose two or three from different places, and brought them back to the table. He unrolled the first one, darker than the others with age and use, and he began to read.
“Today I saw her running through the hills by the caves, a wild girl, free and in love with her freedom! And then later, in her hiding place, listening to her father’s council, the great David and his brothers, as rough looking a group of men as I’ve ever seen, with long beards and uncouth clothing. How can she stand such a life without the most basic comforts?”
Ishmael glanced at me, apologetic. “You must forgive the opinions of a boy of fifteen,” he said. “And then, I never really expected to read this aloud to anyone, least of all you.”
I was too stunned to speak.
He picked up another scroll. “There she is with the slave again, learning how to write! If only she lived here, in our land, she could have real teachers, and learn the subtleties and beauty of writing, not those pathetic scratches and marks on clay tablets. I would teach her myself. And she grows more beautiful every day.” His eyes on my face spoke as clearly as words could do that he found me beautiful still. I felt a blush rising to my cheeks.
He reached for another scroll, but by then I had found my voice.
“Enough!” I said. I had to look anywhere else but into his eyes, or I felt I would lose my mind, my self, my knowledge of who I was. I rested my head in my hands. I took several deep breaths, trying to think. I am the daughter of the King, I am His prophet, I am Janaia of Judah, descendant of Rebecca … and all your life has been leading to this moment. The words filled my ears, whispered by a voice that was not my own.
The growing silence was broken by the shrill cry of a peacock in the garden. I raised my head, and looked at Ishmael. I was calmer now, strengthened by my heritage, and the voice.
“Who are you?” I said.
“I am Ishmael,” he said. “In my blood is the blood of Abram, as it is in yours, although you call him Abraham. Our people were once one people, one household at least, under Abram.” He paused, rose from the table and walked slowly toward the garden.
“When I was born, there was a prophecy, in the way that prophecies manifest, as you know,” he said, glancing at me with a sudden flash of dark humor. “Just specific enough to sound true, and vague enough to be open to a hundred interpretations!”
I nodded slightly, and waited for him to go on. He assumed a singer’s mannered stance and chanted. “This child shall be father to the one from two, who shall dwell in a house made of reeds that will never be destroyed.”
He relaxed his pose, and smiled, a little self-consciously. “Rather grand, don’t you think?” Then more seriously, “I decided long ago that the house of reeds referred to these”—he pointed to the scrolls—“and have made it my life’s work to learn everything I can about what has been written, and strive to contribute to that store of knowledge and wisdom myself.”
He walked back to the table and sat down, facing me and leaning forward. “I never married, I couldn’t, not once I had seen you,” he said. “Over and over, in water and flame and sky, always you.” The deep black of his eyes drew me i
n; the current of blood in my veins warmed and raced through my body, creating a whirlpool of sensation between my thighs and in my breasts. I had never felt this way before, and the thought made me cringe, as if in disloyalty to Nathan. But it was true, and I couldn’t keep myself from being drawn to Ishmael.
“I knew we had to be connected by the prophesy at my birth,” he went on. “And then I saw you eager to learn writing, and come alive to your own gifts of Sight and prophecy! How many times I despaired, though, when you walked away from that path—I thought I had lost you.”
His presence was overwhelming, pressing on me, making it difficult to think, to breathe. I held up my hands to make him stop, but gently.
“I need some time,” I said at last. “I—I do not doubt what you are saying, but —.” I couldn’t find words to express my wonder and astonishment, so I just looked at him.
“One more thing, I pray you,” he said, very quietly, and he waited until I nodded.
“Do you remember the vision your mother had at your birth, the one she told you about that day you sat with her in the weaving room?”
I knew instantly what this meant, my mother’s words clear in my head: Behold the temple of the God of Abraham, of Isaac and of Jacob. The children of Abraham, more than the stars of the sky or the sands of the sea, were two and are now one.
“They were two and are now one,” Ishmael said out loud, as if he were hearing my mother’s voice as I was, and spoke along with her.
“Are we not meant to be the two who will become one?” he said, and a thrill flashed through my whole being. I fought with every ounce of consciousness to master myself.
“Perhaps,” I said. “Perhaps Fate and God have brought us together for some great and mysterious purpose.” I put my hands firmly on the table and rose from my chair. “I need some time,” I repeated. “I must understand better what all this means.”
Ishmael rose also, and bowed his head in acquiescence. Taking my arm, he led me to the door of the room, where he summoned a servant to escort me to my chambers. He spoke once more before I left.
“I have so much to show you, and to learn from you,” he said, his eyes shining. “We must build this house of reeds, together— it is our destiny.”
* * *
Alaya was waiting for me in the hallway, and followed me into the room, her eyes huge with curiosity. But I was in no mood to humor her now, and dismissed her as soon as I had rid myself of my golden finery and heavy gown.
I needed to think, and that called for the kind of solitude that comes with sitting in a garden on a warm night, with nothing but stars overhead. I walked out to the private space attached to my room, barefoot in my soft, night tunic. The tiles were still warm from the summer sun, and as I glanced up at the sky, thousands of stars were brilliant above me. There was a long, low couch in the garden, covered in pillows of the smoothest cotton, so I laid down on my back, looking up at the stars.
How to make sense of everything that had transpired tonight? That Ishmael had the Sight could not be doubted, and why should I doubt it? And all those scrolls! My whole life, apparently, had been open to his seeing. I began to wonder what, if anything, he didn’t know about me! My heart quickened as I felt again the thrill of his eyes on me, and as I closed my eyes, I imagined his touch on my skin, his lips on mine.
I made myself open my eyes again, and searched the starlit skies for answers.
A falling star shot across the bowl of night, then another close behind it. A fortunate sign, foretelling long life and love. I searched my heart so I could know the depth of my feelings for my lost Nathan—the love, the happiness we once knew. Would it be wrong for me to find love with another?
But even as I pondered this, I knew I did not, would not love Ishmael. My fate might very well be tied to him, in some darkness of mystery yet to be discovered, and I knew in my very bones and blood that I was drawn to him in a way new to me, a deep and exciting way. But it would not be the way of married love, and raising children, and growing old together.
As I gazed up at the stars, I knew this for certain: Ishmael and I were linked, and I must walk to the very end of the destiny that he and I shared.
Chapter 29
“God said to Moses, ‘I am who I am. This is what you are
to say to the Israelites: I AM has sent me to you. God also
said to Moses, ‘Say to the Israelites, The LORD, the God
of your fathers—the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac
and the God of Jacob—has sent me to you. This is my
name forever, the name by which I am to be remembered
from generation to generation.” Exodus 3:13-15
“You said you had much to teach me, Ishmael,” I said when we met late the next morning. I had spent a restless night, despite the lovely, soft bed and the sweet scents from the garden that filled the room, and was wary once again. We were sitting outside on the terrace that led to a walkway of stone curving around palm trees and fruit trees, large trumpet-shaped flowers of crimson and orange, and splashing fountains where the peacocks tipped their elegant heads to drink.
“Yes,” he said, “and I, to learn from you as well.”
I dismissed his remark with a shake of my head—what had I to teach him?
“I have many questions,” I said.
“Then I shall do my best to answer all of them.” He sat back in his chair, looking out into the garden. I think he felt I would be more comfortable if he weren’t looking me in the eye, and he was right.
“First, all the visions you had of me, all my life, how did they come to you?”
He glanced at me, a puzzled look.
“What I mean is, did you call them up, at your will, or did they just … appear?” I had never forgotten Didymos’ words to me about my needing to use my power and not just let it use me.
He smiled, and nodded. “At first, they came involuntarily,” he said, “but I had teachers, one teacher in particular, a priest named Manossos, who helped me understand and control the power I was given. As much, that is,” he added, “as such power can ever be controlled.”
“Can you teach me this?” I said urgently.
“Yes.”
A long moment passed.
“Have you seen other visions?” I said. “Other than me, I mean?”
He smiled broadly, and nodded. “Nothing as interesting as you,” he said, glancing my way. I turned my head to hide my own smile.
But I had more serious questions.
“Are you not shocked that I know how to read and write,” I said, “however crudely?” I added, remembering the passage he’d read to me last night.
“In our land, throughout Egypt, it is more than acceptable for high-born women to be educated in all the arts, and reading and writing are the first components of learning,” he said. “The only thing that shocks me is the prejudice and intolerance in other lands that keeps education out of deserving hands.”
I felt ashamed for my people’s backward ways, and quickly spoke again.
“One more question, cousin,” I said, “and I thank you for your patience. It seems that the Sight we both have allows us to see things as they happen, or a little ahead, perhaps. Can you see what is to come, far into time, and if so, does it come about in the way you saw it?” I hadn’t realized how important this question was to me, but I found myself almost holding my breath, my heart beating fast.
Ishmael turned fully to look at me, and again I felt the devastation of his eyes throughout all my senses.
“No,” he said, “and I thank God for it.” A long pause ensued as we looked deeply into each other’s eyes. “I believe that would be a burden unbearable by the human spirit, don’t you?”
I nodded slowly in agreement, taking in the implications of this. But his words made me think of yet another question.
“And who is God for you?” I said.
He rose gracefully without answering, and held out a hand to me. I placed my hand in his, and we w
alked down the steps to the cool shade of the garden. Every inch of my body tingled with desire at the touch of his hand, and from his breathing, I knew he felt it, too.
Ishmael pointed to the water burbling in the fountain. “There is God,” he said. “And there,” touching a crimson flower open to the sun. He waved his hand across the breadth of the sky. “He lives above us, and below us, and in us,” he said. He turned to me, a look of profound peace and love on his face, a love for all the world—that is what I saw. “You,” he said, kissing me lightly on the forehead, “and me. We are God.”
This was a very difficult idea for me—how could I align this with my father’s worship of HaShem, who spoke to him and guided him, who had, indeed, protected and punished our people for generations? I was troubled and dismayed; I felt the foundations of my beliefs tremble.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “How can this be? HaShem, our God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—He is not as you say!” I grew more agitated as I spoke my thoughts aloud. “He created the world, He is not the world itself! He is not…me.” I withdrew my hand from Ishmael’s, and we stood face to face. “I have felt His power, and seen the manifestation of His Will,” I said, “in the oracle, and in the salvation he has rendered many times to our people, my people! Are you saying that He does not exist?”
“Janaia, dear cousin,” Ishmael said, his fine eyes full of concern. “What I believe does not have to influence your own beliefs. For all that any of us know, we may both be wrong, or both right!”
This puzzled me even more, and tears of frustration came to my eyes.
“Think of it this way,” he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. “God is all-powerful, and all-knowing, and all-seeing—you believe this, don’t you?”
