Wings of the Wind

by Connilyn Cossette

  Moriyah had become so adept at holding her body like a boy that I had every confidence she would pass as one if we were accosted. She told me that she meditated on her brother’s facial expressions and the confidence of his stride each night. The more she spoke of Shimon, the less razor-edged the reminders of my part in his death were. I almost felt as though I knew him personally, with all her stories of him and Tobiah and their friendly competitions.

  At the last village we’d come across this morning, I’d gathered the courage to approach an old couple on the outskirts. Under the guise of begging for work in exchange for food for myself and my “brother Mikal,” I asked, in the lowest tone my voice would allow, if they had heard about the enemies crouched on the edge of the land. As we helped the old man haul water back from the village cistern, I’d been regaled with tales of the Hebrews’ destruction of King Sihon and his forces and then another huge battle for the northern lands of Bashan, where, incredibly, the Hebrews had won against King Og, a giant rumored to have a taste for human flesh.

  Please, Yahweh, let Tobiah have married Keziah, so he will have another year without war. The thought had cycled in my mind ever since, etching deep grooves of pain that were filled only by a small amount of hope. I would forever think of Tobiah as my husband, but I would rather he be in Keziah’s arms than in the arms of Prince Death.

  The old man and his wife were petrified of the Hebrews and asked, again and again, if I thought they should flee north. Grateful for their unexpected hospitality, I assured them that they should indeed leave the area. Their four sons had left them to their own devices years ago, caring nothing for their elderly parents when fortunes could be made elsewhere—another stark example of the superior laws of the Hebrews, who were commanded to honor their elders and care for them until their journey in this world ended.

  After refusing the couple’s kind offer of a place to stay the night, we took our leave with the knowledge that the Hebrews were encamped across the river near Shittim, on the plains of Moab opposite Jericho, and within easy walking distance.

  Avoiding the trade road that led south toward Jericho, we edged our way along the western hills, scuttling into the brush or behind boulders whenever we heard anything that resembled a person or a wagon nearby.

  When the plains of Jericho opened up in front of us, we finally stepped into the open, drawn out by the massive date-palm orchards that crisscrossed the valley. It would be easy to hide among the thick groves as we made our way toward the river.

  Jericho stood atop a hill, flouting its high position and enormous walls in the center of the plain. A thick outer wall and tall gates stood guard around the mass of flat-topped buildings. An inner wall protected the middle of the city, and from our position I could see nothing more than the tops of two tall buildings; one, from its size, I assumed was a palace, and the other, from the tall wooden Asherah pole, a temple. A cold shiver worked its way through my body, for I was well aware of what transpired in temples such as that one. Even at the smaller temple in Arad, the temple priestesses loudly advertised their skills dressed only in sheer linen.

  I had always been disgusted by such things, appalled that women would so fully degrade themselves, but even more now that I had lived among the Hebrews where acts like those were punishable by death. And yet my own mother had left me to return to that sort of life.

  After we had slipped into the afternoon shade of the orchard, Moriyah and I sat with our backs against the broad trunk of a palm, munching on dates we’d cut from a bough heavy with fruit. My feet ached after walking for days, much more than when I had walked with the Hebrews. Now my sandals chafed my toes and heels, rubbing the skin raw, reminding me of my foolish push toward the battle with vengeance in my heart—never suspecting a Hebrew warrior would be at the end of my heedless path. No matter how much I wished that my arrow had not found Shimon’s side, I could not force myself to regret landing in that valley with a Hebrew one in my shoulder.

  “Do you think we might see the Cloud from here?” Moriyah craned her neck to peer through the fronds toward the eastern ridge that lined the horizon with hazy blue, the place where the kind couple had told us the Hebrews were encamped. “Perhaps when we come closer to the river?”

  “Getting back to the other side of that river will be a challenge.” I shivered at the thought of our first crossing. “I hope the current is not as strong as it was through those rapids.”

  “Yahweh helped us cross the first time. He will do it again.”

  Moriyah’s confidence bolstered my own. “How are you so brave? You have lived among the Hebrews your whole life. You had your brother and Tobiah to protect you, and Yahweh watching over you at all times.”

  She looked down at her grimy fingernails with the first hint of embarrassment I’d ever seen on her face. “I pretend that I am you.”

  Taken aback, I laughed. “That is ridiculous.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s true. The first time I saw you, you walked right up to Tzipi with the fiercest expression I’d ever seen on a woman’s face. I was terrified of you and thought you might cut Tzipi down right then and there. But I kept watching and saw that, beneath that warrior-shell, your heart is kind. The way you spoke with Liyam that day, before Tzipi swooped in like a screeching hyena, convinced me.”

  I smirked at the memory. Tzipi truly had acted as though I was planning to roast her little boy over the cookfire and gnaw on his bones.

  Something yanked my hair and jerked my head painfully to the side. As my mind caught up with the realization that I had been grabbed by someone who had crept up behind us, I caught sight of Moriyah’s silver eyes, wide and terror-stricken. She sprang up and skittered backward, far out of reach of our only weapon, my flint knife still on the ground next to the large cluster of dates I’d sliced from the tree. The hand that gripped my hair shook me, sending ripping pain through my scalp. A voice ordered me to my feet with a curse against “filthy thieves.”

  Although I tried to comply, he kicked me in the hip and I collapsed on the ground. With another kick to my ribs that made me fear for my baby, the man yanked me again by the hair and dragged me to a half-standing position. I could not see his face, only his large, dirt-encrusted toes on the ground beneath me.

  “This is not your property,” he said as he jammed the point of a dagger into my cheek. “I’ll string you boys up by your necks.”

  Moriyah stood helpless beside me, her eyes darting between me and the man who held me captive. He seemed large, but not a giant like Kothar.

  “Mor—Mikal! Run, go!” I managed to grind out between my teeth.

  She took two steps backward but shook her head. I restrained a snarl. Infuriating girl. Why would she not protect herself?

  “Smart boy,” said my captor. “You run off and I’ll gut this one like a lizard.”

  “We only had a few dates,” I said, digging into my chest for a low vocal tone. “Let us go. We won’t come back.”

  “No. My master says to bring him every thief. And that’s what you are, and that’s what I’ll do.” Not the owner of the palms then, but a guard. “You there,” he said to Moriyah, whose wild expression matched the turbulence in my gut. “You try and run and you’ll pay for your meal by finding out if this boy’s ugly red hair matches his blood.” He laughed at his own morbid humor. “And you—” He came around in front of me, without letting go of my hair. The man’s grimy hair hung to his chin, and his eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets. He smiled, revealing teeth more brown than white. His breath and body reeked. “If you fight me at all, your little friend will suffer even worse. Understand?”

  Nausea sprang to my throat. I fully understood his meaning. This valley may be full of beauty, with fields that boasted fruits of every color, but I had heard tales of Jericho from my brothers, dark tales that pitted my stomach as they flooded my mind.

  Foolish. I had been so foolish to come near this evil place.

  32

  Jericho’s walls loomed
above us. The guard had tied our hands together with a rope he wore about his waist and now led us into the city tethered like animals. No one gave us more than a cursory glance; judging by some of the other human cargo being carted into the city, two dirty boys at the end of a short rope was a common sight.

  I kept my elbows tight against my body; the wrapping around my breasts was loosening and I feared my secret would spring free at any moment, but even as I did, I kept watch for some way to escape the lumbering guard ahead of us. There were so many people jammed together here; perhaps if Moriyah and I pulled on the rope as one, it would slip from his hands. My hopeful idea melted into reality as I saw that our smelly friend had the rope looped twice around his own wrist.

  As soon as we passed through the wide outer gates, the stink of the place assaulted my senses. Donkeys and horses and sheep and cattle were being driven straight through the city, droppings everywhere. Urine-soaked mud clung to my sandals and squashed between my toes. Against the sweeping vista of the gorgeous land outside the walls, Jericho was a festering refuse pile.

  Stumbling along behind the guard over uneven cobbles and ascending steps that led higher into the city, Moriyah and I dodged a pack of dogs that nipped at our legs before speeding off into the chaos to chase a fugitive chicken that had escaped its cage.

  Homes huddled together without a breath between them, and human waste and discarded animal carcasses tinged the air with decay. I longed for the neat rows of Hebrew tents and the orderly care taken to ensure that refuse was buried outside of camp.

  A second set of gates with impossibly thick bronze doors led to the inner ring of the city, guarded by a contingent of soldiers who scanned the streaming masses with wary eyes. The reminder that the Hebrews planned to soon take over this land, and therefore this city, made me wonder how long they would be forced to lay siege. With nearly unscalable double layers of walls and gates that would shut tight against their entry, there would be little chance of direct invasion. They would have to encircle the city and wait, cutting off the food and water supply. If, that was, the army of Jericho did not march against them first.

  And yet, the old couple had assured us that the Hebrews had won against that giant king in the north. Was Tobiah a casualty in that battle? Was my baby’s father with Shimon in the underworld? Again, I took up the plea that had become a constant rhythm in my head. Please, Yahweh, let Tobiah have married Keziah.

  The guard led us into the heart of the market. Tradesmen called out their wares, jostling each other to be the first to reach our ears. Frankincense, cinnamon, and handspun linen were offered in insistent tones, all of the finest ingredients and much better than the man down the road, as if two captives had anything to offer for such things. One wagon boasted a white mountain of salt, gathered from the Salt Sea to the south of Jericho.

  As we passed one stall, a small boy with a bony spine rippling through his thin tunic slipped past us to reach out and snatch a cluster of grapes in a grimy fist. The merchant saw the tiny thief and smacked his hand with the flat of his sword. The boy howled and ran off, clutching his hand to his chest instead of a meal.

  The contrast between this bustling city with wood carvings or bronze idols gracing every other market stall, and the Hebrew camp where such things were forbidden, was stark. Many of the women we passed kept their eyes on the ground, as if well aware that any eye contact was an invitation. Others, however, brazenly displayed their wares, lounging in doorways or windows, vacant-eyed and loudly advertising their services alongside the fruit sellers and goat traders.

  More than anything, I wished to have my hands free, if only to cover Moriyah’s innocent eyes and ears. “Why didn’t you run when I told you to?” I said, hoping the guard would not hear me over the clamor of voices.

  “And leave you alone? No. We are going home. Together.” The stubborn girl set her jaw.

  Home. Did I have such a thing anymore? Dagan had stolen my beautiful valley, and I was no longer welcome among the Hebrews. Would there ever be a place I could truly call home again? I doubted it. Home was a broad-shouldered warrior with cinnamon-brown eyes that exuded warmth and humor, who had loved me although I had been his enemy. I yearned for his arms around me and his lips on mine. But as much as I wished to be home again with Tobiah, even if by some miracle I returned to the Hebrew camp, the desire and the acceptance I had seen in his eyes would be gone forever, replaced by accusation for my unforgivable sin.

  The guard stopped and jerked the rope, hauling us toward a stall that stood at the end of the market. The tables were laden with huge clusters of dates, their sweet smell somehow cutting through the grimy air of the market.

  “Found these two boys eating your fruit, Master Urdu.” The guard yanked the rope again, aggravating the burn on my wrists. “Brought them right to you, I did.”

  A short, balding man with a rotund belly came out from under the shade of the canopy. “Ah, Pavel. You did well.” Squinting, he bunched his face into a frown. “I don’t tolerate thieves in my orchards.”

  Pavel beamed. “I told them I’d gut them like lizards, Master, just like you said.”

  “There will be an extra pot of beer for you tonight.” Urdu took the rope from Pavel and then patted the larger man on the shoulder, as if speaking to a child. “Head on back to the orchard now.” Pavel clomped away with a ridiculous grin on his face.

  “Now.” Urdu scratched his fleshy chin. “What should I do with you two worthless clods of dung?”

  Swallowing the fiery retort that sprang to my lips, I kept my expression blank.

  “Haven’t you seen what we do to thieves around here?” Urdu poked a fat finger into my collarbone and then pointed over his shoulder.

  My eyes followed the gesture. A pole stood at the center of a small open area. Four bodies hung from it, arms stretched high above them and feet dangling two handspans above the ground. Two men still squirmed at the end of their tethers. Carrion birds circled around the pole, dashing in to poke at what was left of their mutilated faces. The other two bodies were bloated and limp and looked as though they’d been hanging there for days.

  “Not a pretty way to die, is it?” Urdu smiled, as if delighted at the prospect of adding to the body count.

  Fear bubbled to the surface, busting out of my mouth. “We only ate a few dates. We will work off the debt, if you wish. My friend and I are hard workers.”

  He leaned forward with a curious look on his face. A look that reminded me that I had not lowered the tone of my voice when I spoke. His eyes searched my face, then traveled down to my chest. His brows flicked upward, then he grabbed my tunic and yanked me forward. The swift movement caught me off guard, and since Moriyah was pulled with me, I lifted an elbow to steady her. The binding on my breasts released, sliding to my waist, just as the man peered down my neckline.

  Lustful glee replaced suspicion on his face. “Just as I thought. A woman.”

  Icy panic spread through my body. I should have just let him hang me on the pole. I glanced around, desperate for a way to escape. A small crowd had gathered around us and my gaze snagged on a flash of color. A woman with a dark purple turban stood nearby, a market basket in the crook of her elbow. She stared at me boldly, her face portraying some sort of confusion before her jaw sagged slightly. Before I could consider the bewildered expression on her face, Urdu turned to Moriyah.

  “And what about you?” he said with a flick of his tongue across his lips. “Somehow I get the feeling you aren’t a boy either.”

  “Don’t touch him,” I said, letting my rage surface.

  The man ignored me and reached for Moriyah. Swinging our bound hands toward him, I kicked him in the shin, but not before he grabbed the neck of Moriyah’s tunic and ripped it down to her navel, exposing her gender to everyone in the market. Mortification burned red in her face as she cried out.

  “What is going on here?” came a voice from nearby. An older woman, with hair dyed an unnatural shade of black, strode toward us. A younge
r woman followed, her head shaved on both sides, revealing curling tattoos above both of her ears. Both women wore sheer garments, layered with tiny pleats and clutched at the waist with thick beaded belts. Their eyes were slathered with kohl that stretched all the way to their ears, and large amulets of Ashtoreth hung from carnelian-beaded chains about their necks. Temple priestesses. Two blank-faced, burly guards stood behind them, gleaming kopesh swords in their belts.

  “Mistress Mishabel.” Without letting go of Moriyah’s destroyed tunic, Pavel’s master bowed his head toward one of the women. “These thieves were discovered in my orchard, and I have just found out that they are women posing as boys.”

  The priestess turned toward me, peering at my face and then skimming a critical gaze down to my feet and back up to my hair. With a slight narrowing of her blackened eyes, she addressed me. “Where do you come from?”

  I saw no reason to lie. “The southern highlands. Near the Salt Sea.”

  “And you?” She turned to Moriyah.

  “She is my sister,” I said, knowing Moriyah’s accent would give her away.

  Mishabel ignored my obvious lie. “And you, my dear, where are you from?” Her tone was grating in its condescension.

  Apparently realizing the woman would not relent, Moriyah replied in a soft tone. “I am Hebrew.”

  Mishabel’s eyes flared wide and she glanced about, as if discerning whether anyone else had overheard Moriyah’s answer. She turned back to Urdu. “I’ll take them off your hands. What do you want for them?” Her tone was flippant as she gestured toward me with the back of her hand, revealing a fading tattoo, a sun-disk embraced by a crescent moon, the united symbols of Ba’al and Ashtoreth.

  A swirling pit of disgust swelled in my gut. No. Anything but that. Ceding to instinct, I stepped backward, but Urdu yanked on my tether again, forcing me to stand still as I waited for them to dicker over us like two loaves of bread. After sucking his teeth in contemplation, Urdu laid out an exorbitant price for us—one I was sure the old priestess would refuse.