The Dovekeepers: A Novel

by Alice Hoffman

  WHEN OUR WARRIORS decided they would track a group of exploratores so they might discover how close the legion was to our mountain, Yael gave me a token to present to Amram, a slip of blue fabric, the color of heaven, and of God’s glory, and of His throne.

  Amram laughed and slipped the fabric close to his heart. “We won’t be apart for long,” he said, recognizing the charm. “My sister has seen to that.”

  He told me that the fabric would lead him to me no matter how far he might journey. He cupped his hands around my face and kissed me. In his arms I had a surge of fear, for what was between us was already over, despite the token. I went to the wall to watch him descend with the warriors. I had no idea that my brother planned to set forth with them until I found my mother there, beside herself with worry.

  “He’s nothing but a boy,” she worried. She had looked ill of late, refusing her meals, keeping to herself. Now she was ashen. “Why would they do this? Why would he go?”

  I was too guilt-ridden to answer. The warriors believed that Adir had been the archer at the contest and had therefore taken him on as their brother. That was why he now walked beside them, because of my red arrows. His fate was my burden, for I had caused them to look at him with esteem. My mother thought of Adir as her baby and was still tying amulets into his garments to protect him from evil. He tore such things from his tunic, laughing, saying our mother had no idea what it meant to be a man.

  Adir was in his thirteenth year, but he was not ready. I had killed my first ibex when I was only ten, but I had been prepared for blood. I had ridden with men who were fearless. I had known to burn the acacia branches to honor the spirits of the dead. My brother thought being a man meant blindly following the path of the warriors, despite his lack of skill. He thought of great glory, not of pools of blood; surely he had not imagined the brutality he would witness when his comrades were cut down before him.

  I prayed with my mother at our altar as she burned oil and chanted for Adir’s safe return. I cursed myself as I did so, for I should have been the one to take his place. My mother wrote the names of God on her arms, and then on mine, so that we might be heard in heaven, even though women were not allowed this practice. It was only for the priests to make such entreaties to the Almighty, but my mother was not afraid to break the law. We sacrificed a dove and wrote upon its feathers with its own blood, binding any demon that might follow my brother into the valley. We chanted softly so none would overhear, for we did not dare to reveal what we did in our chamber any more than I dared to reveal the truth of my brother’s leaving.

  I proclaim the majesty of His splendor, to frighten all the spirits of the angels of destruction and those who strike suddenly and lead us astray. Destroy their evil hearts in the age of the rule of wickedness.

  I spoke these words along with my mother, but I did not proclaim that I was the wickedness that had sent my brother into battle, and that I must be the one to make amends.

  ON A CLEAR burning-hot morning, the nesting doves dropped to the ground without warning. We gathered them and held them close, trying to still their trembling bodies until they revived. Several died that day, for no apparent reason. Although we were hungry, we could not make them into a meal for ourselves or our warriors upon their safe return for the doves had died of some ailment.

  Perhaps the hour when the doves fell marked the moment when Channa returned to the priest to choose a day for the slave to die. Certainly we all felt death close by; it passed as a shadow cast by clouds, and we grew cold. My mother took the doves to the altar in her chamber, she covered her head and whispered a prayer to keep away the Angel of Death, but the sacrifice was not enough. That same day a proclamation was posted. On the following afternoon, the guard would go to the tower and the world would be rid of the slave. We were not savages like the Romans, who crucified their enemies to cause the most pain a human could endure, stretching death out lengthwise, as a man might be stretched upon a wooden cross so he would linger in agony. Instead, the slave’s throat would be slit, the kindest death, the one we gave to even the most lowly of beasts, so that his breath would leave him in a single rush.

  When evening fell, Channa was waiting by the wall near Revka’s chamber. She wore a cloak, but Revka’s grandsons spied her instantly, as they were said to perceive demons. Our leader’s wife had no fear, only the heat of her desire, which flamed hotter than the air around us. Arieh would soon be a year old; he was a quiet and dear child, already trying to walk. Channa had dared to come to Yael; she was heedless, as the desperate often are, more than willing to disobey her husband, who had warned her to stay away. But on this occasion Ben Ya’ir was among the warriors following the Romans and therefore could not judge her or punish her for her deeds. She was stronger than she’d once been, made so by my mother’s cures, strong enough to cause damage. She carried a sprig of hyssop, as though taunting the flower that had once caused her so much misery.

  Revka wept at the sight of her. “It’s my doing. I called a demon upon us.”

  “No.” Yael’s face was masked, but she sounded sure of herself. “It’s my punishment.”

  “You’ve done nothing,”

  Revka insisted.

  “One thief knows another,” Yael murmured, resolved.

  She packed up all of Arieh’s belongings, then went to the wall, the baby in her arms.

  “A bargain is a bargain,” Channa said. “I’m not being too demanding, I merely want what I’m owed.”

  They were near the garden where Yael had released the scorpion. It failed to show itself on this night, but it was still there. The children had seen it, and they knew that which you cannot see can be more dangerous than that which is before you. We were fighting a battle just to keep ourselves fed; perhaps the scorpion went hungry as we did. As for Channa, she was a rich man’s wife; despite her husband’s insistence that we were all worthy of God’s gifts, she took more than her share.

  “You’ve done well in your care for him,” she said approvingly to Yael when she noticed the flame-colored spot on the baby’s cheek had all but disappeared. Yael had bathed the child in oils and rubbed a balm into his skin. “I’m sure we can agree as reasonable women.” When Channa stroked his face lovingly, Arieh smiled up at her. “He’s better off with me.”

  YAEL DID NOT lock herself away, as some women might have. She had no time for such indulgences. The slave had been allowed to live. The bargain had been kept; still, anyone who trusts a serpent deserves its bite. The wise see a creature for what it is, not what it says it may be.

  After her chores in the dovecote were completed, Yael went out to collect firewood. She did so often enough that the sentries came to know her. The assassin’s daughter with red hair. She went late in the day, when the sun was dropping down. In the dim light she found twigs that would serve as kindling, deadwood that would keep our fires hot. She didn’t return until twilight washed across the pale sky. Sometimes she sat on the wall in the amber light, a basket of twigs beside her, the woven scarf on her hair slipping down, so that strands of her hair gleamed scarlet. She knew the guards watched, their glances lingering over her flesh. Because of this they allowed her to do as she pleased.

  Each day she went farther down the mountain, finding paths few dared to take, except for the ibex, who had no fear of tumbling down the sheer cliffs. The head scarf she wore was woven in the pattern of the country in the north none among us would ever see, a land where the ice was as deep as a river, where a man could freeze in moments, where every warrior’s arrows were marked with the sign of the stag.

  When Yael asked for my help, I went with her willingly, though by then we had more wood piled at our doors than anyone else on the mountain.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t ask my mother,” I said.

  “Your mother would make them suspicious. The guards will trust you.”

  As we approached the sentries, Yael told me to pull my shawl away from my head so that I might allow the guards to see my long black hair.
We were two young women gathering wood, cheerful, pretty. We waved a greeting. Every day, we made this journey. The guards never bothered to question us but only glanced at us, appraising our bare arms, which we allowed them to view and enjoy.

  Yael said a prayer each time we passed a small cave. She whispered that a lion lived inside, but she swore he would watch over us. Sometimes she left him an offering of a dove, sometimes a few strands of her hair. She seemed convinced he was her guardian. All the same, I was relieved I had brought a blade with me, in case the creature she spoke of decided to turn on us.

  The cool air of evening made it perfectly understandable when we began to bundle up beneath our cloaks. I wore an extra shawl, which made my appearance bulkier. My head scarf was tied tightly, nearly covering my face. One day Yael brought me a gray cloak. It belonged to her father, she said. I thought of her father’s talent and how he had instructed Amram in the secrets of invisibility. I knew it was possible for a man to become a cloud or a mist in the eyes of his enemy; I had seen Amram himself do so when we wished to defy my mother and meet in secret.

  As soon as I slipped on the assassin’s cloak, the guards no longer noticed me. I disappeared before them, nothing worth looking at. They called out a greeting to Yael, whose shining red hair they so admired, but ignored me as I trudged behind, carrying a bundle of dry wood.

  On the day it was to happen, I went to the tower at the hour Yael had chosen. After his meal, the guard posted there often fell asleep on his bench, his stomach swollen from his allotment of lentils and beans. In my pocket I had the key of twisted metal that my mother had fashioned to show how easy it would have been for the slave to escape the dovecote so the officials would not guess Yael had unlocked his chains. I kept the assassin’s cloak over my head. No one questioned me as I went along the corridor, then took the stairs. At the end of the hall, the guard was dozing, as Yael had assured me he would be. I let myself into the slave’s cell, stunned by the filth and stench that greeted me. The air was murky, yet I could see poor Wynn on his pallet of rags. He was so unclean no one would ever guess that the stubble of his shorn hair was pale as ice or that his skin had been the color of milk when he first came to us.

  Despite the darkness, Wynn recognized me, rising to his feet to greet me.

  “The warrior,” he said fondly.

  His voice was thin, melting in his throat. His body was no longer strong, weakened from a lack of air and food.

  “I’m someone else today,” I informed him.

  “Who would that be?” He was thoroughly confused.

  I grinned, then slipped off my cloak and stood before him. “I’m you.”

  NONE of the sentries took note when two women went through the gate, one barely noticeable, cloaked in gray. They were accustomed to us leaving the fortress at this hour, when the dark was drifting across the sky, when the curtain between the day and night splits open to angels and demons alike. They failed to notice that when Yael brought back kindling she returned alone, lingering at the wall to gaze over the mountains, where the hawk soared, circling back as though he might return, before he disappeared into the falling dark.

  In the tower, I waited until I knew Wynn would be free, repeating the psalm of protection. Shivitti Adonai l’negdi tamid. I have placed the Lord constantly before me. I was glad to know it was the season when wild onions grew, when rabbits would be venturing out to eat new grass. Perhaps he would manage to survive in the wilderness so that he might find his way back to the country of the stag.

  No guard came to the door I’d unlocked for his escape. I left unnoticed, wearing the tunic I’d brought along so that I might once again be a boy, easily thought to be among those who helped guard the tower.

  THE WAR came closer in the shimmering month of Tammuz, when we tended the grapevines and the air itself smelled sweet. Great flocks of birds flew overhead, returning from the grasslands of the south, pelicans and storks, swifts and kestrels. There were flocks of people as well, crossing the desert before they could be captured, a tide rushing in advance of the Tenth Legion. Some of the wanderers came to us. When they pleaded for mercy, they were allowed to set their tents in our orchards, and the fruit that fell in all four corners was allowed to them, as commanded by our common law. The stragglers were not the only ones who were famished. Fallen fruit and flatbread were barely enough to feed our hunger. I went beyond the wall and caught songbirds in nets made of string. When I grew tired of hunting like a girl, I took my bow and shot pheasants to place upon our table.

  No one said a word when they saw me walking in the plaza with a bow on my back; perhaps they believed the weapon was my brother’s and that in his absence I was caring for what rightly belonged to him. Most likely they thought I only meant to clean the arrows I carried, for their tips were edged with blood.

  Despite the fact that my mother had mourned my sister and now considered her among the dead, I brought pheasants to the Essenes whenever I could. Nahara was not dead to me. I often spied her among the modest, hardworking women. I thought of how she would follow me through the grass in our other life, how I would send her running home to our tent, swooping behind her like an owl, making her laugh. I thought of the years when we had slept on one pallet, often dreaming the same dream, so that even before our eyes were open we could chatter about our night visions. I had always yearned for her father to be my father so I might be her sister in every way. Now I was afraid she would run if I dared to speak to her and beg her to return.

  After I presented the game birds, I went to sit beside Nahara on a wooden bench outside the goat house. Together we plucked the pheasants. Soon there was a circle of shimmering brown and green feathers at our feet.

  “You can still hunt,” my sister said pointedly. The Essenes did not believe a woman should touch a weapon, or take a life.

  “When no one’s watching.” I grinned, hoping she would join in the joke of who I used to be. Instead she shook her head. My sister, whose dreams I had shared, whose breath was the same as mine, whose true father was a secret to her people, found my actions shameful.

  “The Almighty watches.”

  I felt the stab of her judgment upon me. “I bowed to give my prayers to Him. He watches that as well.”

  “We’re on the threshold of the end, yet you act as though the days will go on forever, one like the other.” It was as though my sister had become my teacher and I had failed to learn my studies. Nahara was convinced we were walking through the End of Days and, like her Essene teachers, believed it was foolish to be consumed with the details of daily life. Those who refused to accept the truth that the world as we knew it would soon be no more would shortly be apprised otherwise.

  The fabric of my sister’s tunic and shawl was threadbare, for there had been no time to mend the weaving and, from what she said, no purpose in doing so. If it was the End of Days, then my sister’s tunic would be her funeral garment. She confided that her people no longer slept. There was too much work to be completed on their scrolls, which revealed God’s truth, and too little time to do so. Perhaps this was the reason she looked pale. She was so slim the bones below her throat seemed to be rising through the flesh. She said that her people often prayed throughout the night, waiting to see if the sun would rise again and if there would indeed be another morning.

  We had blood upon us from readying the pheasants. The birds would be hung on a line so that the rest of their blood would be drained from their bodies before they were salted and cooked. Our people never consumed blood. It was one of God’s strictest laws. Still our hands were stained with the pheasants’ lifeblood. I took my sister’s hand in mine. She had betrayed me to our mother; nevertheless, I could not abandon her.

  “What do these people offer you?”

  “Everything.” Nahara withdrew her hand from mine, shaking her head, disappointed in me. “They offer a world of peace, Aziza.”

  She gazed toward the barracks and the stock of weapons stored there. Children had been set to work f
ashioning stones into round rocks that could be dropped upon our enemy with great force should they be foolhardy enough to attack us. Nahara turned back to me, her eyes damp. She had always been softhearted in times of killing. She would close her eyes when we came upon a rabbit in a snare. Our people did not eat rabbits, they were considered unclean, but Nahara’s father’s people had no such laws. You do it, she would say to me as the poor creature shivered in its trap. I would take the rabbit and sever its throat, quickly, so that she didn’t have to see. I would do whatever she asked.

  “You can’t think that’s the answer,” she said of the mounds of weaponry.

  “What would your people have you do if we are attacked?” I wanted to know.

  “Trust in Abba.” Her hands were folded upon her lap. She looked calm and beautiful, older than her years. I thought she meant the leader of her people, then I realized she meant God. She, like the other Essenes, claimed a personal relationship with the Almighty. She spoke of Him as if she were indeed His child.

  “And if that means we are to die? What then? Lie down and let Rome trample us?”

  Nahara gazed at me with compassion, as though I were the younger sister, too simple to understand. “Then we rise again.”

  “Your father was a man of courage. Peace was something he fought to keep.”