The Dovekeepers: A Novel

by Alice Hoffman

  It usually took months to gain a hawk’s trust. The slave was astounded by how easily Yael had called this one to her. He said she must possess magic. He sank to his knees and bowed his head, only half in jest, declaring she had bewitched him as well. Yael laughed at his remarks—I remembered because I had not heard her do so before. It was a lovely, surprising sound. She said that women with red hair had the ability to tame wild creatures. Since the slave had come from a country where many of the women looked so, he should have known this to be true. He got to his feet, though he had to shift his tall body just to be near her.

  It was then I overheard him say, “You’re not like them, Yael. You’re not like anyone.”

  I wasn’t certain if he meant his words to be a compliment or an insult, but then he took her hand and kissed it, at her wrist, the place where what someone needs and what she desires cross each other to become one.

  YAEL WAS NOT my daughter, but she lived in my home, and that prompted me to be concerned. I knew that a woman at the end of her term might look for solace in curious places. Being with child could cause confusion, and kindness in a cruel world might coax Yael into forgetting that the Man from the North was not one of us. On the blanket where she lay at night, she tossed and turned, uncomfortable in the heat. In the mornings she brooded, her eyes filled with sleep. I wondered if she dreamed of her baby to come, as I had long ago, if she had already seen her child’s face and had perhaps chosen a name, though it was best not to do so. Naming the unborn alerted demons a child was about to come into the world. Hand over a child’s name and that newborn might be more easily called into the darkness. I had done so, tempting fate. Perhaps the night demons had followed my daughter ever since I called her Morning.

  WE DIDN’T complain about our work at this brutal time of the year, for the dovecote was cool, its plaster walls giving some relief. We were sheltered from the season’s unforgiving fever. Below us the valley sizzled in a pink haze. The world beyond our gates glared with light, and we wore our head scarves pulled down to shade our eyes. There was not a single green shoot to be seen; even the fierce leaves of the thornbushes had shriveled as if made of parchment. We could hear the jackals crying at night, and we shivered at the sound. Huge flocks of birds flew above us, abandoning our barren land, searching for water and sustenance in far-off places, flying to the mountains in the north or east to Moab where the fields were said always to be green.

  Each day the Man from the North set out a line of grain on the window ledge for the hawk. When he spoke in his language of unearthly grunts, the creature seemed to understand, a glint in his yellow eyes. The bird had a red head, and because of this the slave called him Odeum, ruby, which was also his name for Yael. Yael grinned when he did so, knowing he was provoking her. She teased right back and said only a fool would keep a hawk so near to a dovecote. Eventually we would arrive to find that the hawk had slaughtered all of our charges. She had fed the bird of prey a few grains out of pity, but the slave had gone much too far, making a pet of a wild thing. Could he not understand his mistake? Here was a creature no one could ever trust.

  “You’re wrong about him,” I heard the Man from the North say. “He’s at your beck and call.”

  “A hawk is always a hawk,” I informed them both, unable to hold my tongue any longer.

  After I made my remark they were quick to fall silent and return to the tasks at hand. How could they argue with me? They knew my statement to be true. You cannot change a hawk’s nature any more than you can teach a dove to kill. And yet later in the day, when I saw the slave and Yael bringing baskets of dung into the fields to feed the ravished, heat-struck earth, the hawk glided above them as though he were a dog, tame and subservient. I thought perhaps I had been wrong, too quick to judge the essence of a being by its appearance, still not fully understanding that, in the world God has given us, all things must change.

  FOR NOW the one constant was that the days fell heavily, all with the same hypnotic, unrelenting heat. Heat waves rose up in shimmering curtains of light. There were lines of exhausted, baffled women at the storehouses, each waiting for her family’s share of water and food. I felt immobilized inside the month of Av the way I had once lingered inside my dreams as I slowly awoke to the yeasty odor of baking in my old life, on those precious mornings when the countryside was green and the scent of the cypress drifted in the air. I had been caught up in time then, as I was once again, but one tableau was a treasure chest, the other a cage.

  We had so little here on the mountain, but at least we were safe. In the world outside ours, the violence against our people had only grown worse. There were rumors that the dead were heaped upon the main roads throughout Judea, that the Jordan River was so rife with bodies you could walk across on dead men’s backs as if they were stepping-stones. News came to us that another Essene settlement had been decimated. I’d heard of their people, those who called themselves the Children of Light and who had occupied the settlement known as Sechacha. One day a small, impoverished troupe appeared in our valley. We saw dust rising as they approached. Their white linen garments glinted brightly as they crossed over the rocks. Our warriors went down the serpent’s path to meet these visitors and bring them to us. It was well known that the Essenes abhorred warfare, and we were a fortress. Still, like the rest of us, when they had no options and no place else to go, they came to this mountain.

  There were seven men and three women, along with four children. The men carried their belongings in packs tied onto their backs with thick ropes of woven flax. The women followed behind, simply dressed, barefoot, unadorned. It was the women who toted the goatskin containers of water and cheese and led a flock of scrawny goats tied together with leather strands forming a ribqâh, so that from a distance the animals appeared to be one creature with five heads. There were also two black donkeys laden with tall ceramic vases; inside were the rolled parchment scrolls of the Essenes’ teachings. The men were learned, holy in their aspect, especially one elderly man, who was perhaps the most ancient I had ever seen. They had been traveling ever since the Romans destroyed their settlement, living in caves, leaving behind their writings whenever possible to ensure their beliefs would not be lost should they be the next to be slaughtered.

  When the visitors entered through the Snake Gate, a crowd had already gathered. The survivors appeared dazed, alarmed by the fortified conditions of Masada. They gazed with grim faces at the parapets our warriors had readied, the piles of armor, the spears with sharpened bronze tips kept beside the synagogue so that wise men could bless them. The Essenes had stumbled into a province made for war and war alone, where weapons were stocked in the manner that other villages might store oil and wine, where every stone had been rounded with a chisel, ready to be used as a weapon should the battle come to us.

  We gazed at each other in the presence of these gentle people, made aware that blood and vengeance coursed through us as if we were barbarians. It was war that roused us from our dreams in the morning and sang us to an unquiet sleep at night. Some among us cast our eyes downward, stunned by what we’d become. Others glared at a group they considered fools, unwilling to fight for Zion.

  The oldest of the Essene men, whose people called him Abba as a term of respect, was carried by his followers. He was weak in his body but strong in spirit. His people lifted him high upon their shoulders so he could call out to us.

  “We all belong to our Lord. All that is now and ever shall be originates with God. Before things come to be, He has ordered their design. His glorious plan fulfills our destiny, a destiny it is impossible to change. We have come because we were meant to be here though we are as different from you as night from day.”

  I didn’t know if our people would accept Abba’s proclamation, or if shame and fury would make that impossible. There was a tension, shown in a great and echoing silence; then Yael ran up to one of the women in the group and embraced her. Their joy at seeing each other broke through the silence. We learned this was her f
riend Tamar, who had once had four sons and now had only one—the others, along with her husband, had been slain in the raid upon her settlement by the legion. Now all this Essene woman had left was a boy of ten, one named Yehuda, whom she clung to as if he alone held her to this earth she walked upon.

  Ben Ya’ir himself allowed the Essenes to stay. He came to speak with their leader, this learned man who was both father and priest, who wore pure white linen and was barefoot, whose face was unlined even though he was so very old. They sat together beneath an olive tree, speaking for hours. They then sat with Menachem ben Arrat, our great priest. At the end of that time the word went out—no one was to trouble the group of outsiders, no matter how different they might appear. Their customs were their own, allowed within our walls while they stayed among us.

  All fourteen of the Essenes wished to live together in one abode, as was their practice, for what belonged to one belonged to all. They were granted a small stone barn on the far side of the orchard that had in the past been used to shelter goats ready to bring forth new kids. They would eat their meals together, sharing what little they had beneath the same tree where their leader and ours had spoken and come to terms. They bathed with cold water before each meal and offered their prayers fervently before any food passed their lips. Three times a day—at dawn, and noon, and again after the first three stars appeared—we could see the men at their prayers, facing toward Jerusalem. The six men who were faithful students of Abba set up long tables fashioned from planks of hardwood in order to roll out their scrolls, the documents stored in the ceramic vases that had been carried through the wilderness on the backs of their lumbering donkeys. They made their marks with an ink drawn from walnut oil and the gum of the turpentine tree.

  Yael and I brought them olives and cheese and an allotment of wheat. Nahara came with us, bringing flasks of water and oil that her mother sent. A young Essene man, often at Abba’s side and clearly his favorite, came to help Nahara carry the water. In order for him to do so, Nahara needed to place the flasks upon the ground, for the young man could not risk taking them from her hand; all she had touched might be considered tamé.

  He murmured a prayer as he carried away the flasks, for among his people he had the power of blessing even though he was no more than seventeen.

  The Essene women were grateful when presented with our gifts, yet the reflection of the slain shone in their eyes. Nahara stood aside with the young Essene man; she was too young and pure to hear of brutalities served upon the Essenes. But Yael and I sat with the women as they told us in matter-of-fact voices how their children had been murdered. They didn’t cry out or swoon with grief, for they believed their children would rise again at the End of Days. At that time mothers would once again embrace their sons and daughters, and husbands and wives would again be one.

  Tamar was quieter than the other women, her face pinched with sorrow, achingly pallid. When we went to leave, she placed a hand on Yael’s arm, drawing her near. “I won’t lose this one,” I heard her say. Her boy, Yehuda, was sprawled in the grass, looking upward as the first stars began to appear in the darkening sky. The Essene men had gathered in the field, and we could hear them chanting in deep, luminous tones. It was so hot that every movement of the air was like a plume of flame, every star a lantern in the night. “Promise you’ll help me, as I once helped you,” Tamar whispered. Everything about the Essene woman seemed bruised; even her tone was an incantation which sprang from her affliction. She nodded at Yael’s swollen middle. The baby would come any day now. “I knew when you wanted a fever charm it was a man you wanted to save. I could see it written upon you.”

  Yael glanced at me. I quickly looked away so it wouldn’t seem that I’d overheard their conversation. When I saw Yael embrace her friend, I knew her promise had been given. As we walked back I didn’t ask why she would grant the fervent wish of this woman who belonged to a group so different from us, who clearly looked down on our ways. I didn’t question which man’s life she had tried to protect, or why she had been willing to cross the desert on his behalf no matter the sacrifice. I merely added these bits of information to my list, ready to offer them up should Yael and I ever disagree and I needed to prove that she was, indeed, human.

  WHEN THE MONTH of Av was upon us in all its force, and the moon was as red as the sun, Abba sent the young Essene man to the dovecotes to work among us to thank us for the rations we brought to them. Because his people were so strict, and men were not allowed to touch women outside their own families, this young man, named Malachi ben Aaron, often worked in the small dovecote alone. Yet soon enough he was befriended by Nahara, and before long these two were engaged in long conversations. Malachi ben Aaron was only a few years older than Nahara herself. He was strongest among his kinsmen, and extremely well spoken. Because of this he was granted great respect, and he seemed to regard himself as a man of honor. We who worked beside Nahara still thought of her as a child; perhaps it was merely that we wished to see her as such. We were surprised to see that two who had so little in common often sat together on the wall during the noon break. Malachi spoke and Nahara listened, rapt, as if every tale he told was an illumination. Some of his words wafted toward us. He spoke of the End of Days and how his people were preparing, confessing their sins, following the path of light, offering their life on earth to Adonai. They would not fight the Romans because this world we walked through was not the end for them; they would arise after death and shine in God’s favor.

  Since my arrival at the mountain, I had known Nahara to be a serious girl, older than her years in ways of learning and responsibility. Her mother had taught her to read Aramaic and Hebrew. As he instructed her, Malachi was surely impressed with her—for good reason; not only was she bright but she was lovely and pure. Before long they both began arriving earlier at the small dovecote so their discussions could begin as soon as Malachi had finished his morning prayers. They whispered in the breaking light, and those whispers became a bridge between them.

  Like others of his household, Malachi wore only white, his hair braided. He eschewed sandals and went barefoot in the dust, for his people believed they must walk into heaven barefoot and wait there in the mist for the world to be resurrected after the End of Days. Malachi was quiet, a hard worker, a scholar who was not afraid to get his hands dirty. He had been sent to the dovecote because Abba believed that hard work and praise to God went hand in hand. Though Malachi was young, he wrote upon the parchment scrolls with his elders, and it was said that his letters were so beautifully wrought that the angels came to observe them as they formed; he was so righteous, the walnut oil ink he used turned to blood and appeared red upon the page. It had already been decided that Malachi would take Abba’s place when the time came, and the two often sat with their heads together, deep in conversation and prayer.

  Despite Malachi’s virtues, after only a short time Shirah began to seem displeased with our new helper. Though he was often sent to the far dovecote, where there was room only for one, Shirah had discovered that Nahara could be found working beside him in that small space. We could not help but wonder if their shoulders brushed or their hands touched. When he prayed at noontime, making a holy place beside the twisted olive tree, kissing the strands of his prayer shawl and then offering his kiss to God, did he pray to clear his head of earthly thoughts and desires? Shirah watched him closely, eyes narrowed, a dark cast over her face.

  One noontime while Nahara went home to fetch our meal of lentils and olives, Shirah sent Malachi away. The rest of us stepped back to watch; in many ways these were Shirah’s dovecotes; she had been here the longest, and we deferred to her in everything.

  “You can leave right now,” she told the Essene. “There’s no reason for you to stay through this day.”

  Three perfect doves had been chosen to be brought to the synagogue for the priest’s dinner, and I was plucking out their feathers. I bowed my head, but I listened to the conversation.

  “Is my effort not g
ood enough?” Malachi asked, bewildered. Among his people he was not challenged, and now a woman was dismissing him. He raised his eyes to hers, a flicker of mistrust in his stare.

  “There’s nothing wrong with your work,” I heard Shirah respond. “You’re just not needed here.”

  Shirah must have taken note of my expression, for I was confused as well. Malachi had lightened our workload, and I saw no need to have humiliated him by sending him away. The Essenes had sent us their best man, but not in Shirah’s opinion. When we were alone, she confided, “If she was your daughter, you would do the same.” She feared the attraction between the Essene and Nahara, and I understood why she would not want him for her daughter. Malachi was too pious to see anything but God and himself, that much was true; the woman he chose would not walk beside him but would follow behind, head bowed.

  When Nahara returned with our meal, she was astonished to find Malachi gone, her face flushing as she gazed around for signs of him. She glared at her mother with bitterness, and I heard her say to Aziza, “She sent him away to spite me.”

  “I’m sure she has her reasons,” Aziza responded, which was true enough.

  “She’s cruel,” Nahara remarked, her voice sharp. “That’s the reason. She is devoted to what she wants. You of all people should know that. You’re wise to keep your secrets.”

  Aziza lowered her eyes. “She’s our mother.”

  Nahara was grim. “One who doesn’t care about our happiness, as you well know.”

  I thought Nahara was mistaken about her mother’s intent. Malachi was not suitable for her; he was known to pray until the first brightening of the star-strewn night. Aziza seemed to agree.

  “Look at the way they live,” she told her sister when Nahara complained to her. It made sense that a mother would did not want the fate of an Essene woman for her child, one of service and poverty and sacrifice.