by Marc Graham
“Very well,” he said, rising. “I’ll take you to the Sanctuary. The priest of Havah will see to your safety.”
“No,” Makeda said. She stood and squared her shoulders, and Yetzer failed to keep his eyes from her moon-limned figure. “My people are encamped below the city. I will go to them.”
“As you say.”
Without another word, he started back down the track toward the Spring Gate and the Kederon Valley. The Queen of Saba easily matched his stride and kept up a steady banter as they walked. Yetzer replied with his most polite grunts, unwilling to be ensnared in her conversation.
Fires burned in the Sabaean camp as they drew near. The sentries eyed Yetzer warily but warmly greeted their queen.
“I’ve not eaten yet,” Makeda told Yetzer. “Will you join me for a meal?”
“No,” Yetzer said, loudly enough to cover the rumbling of his stomach. “I have much to prepare for the morrow.”
The queen showed him a smile despite the disappointment in her eyes.
“Well, then, thank you for your help. I fear what might have happened if you hadn’t intervened.”
Yetzer dipped his head and turned to go, not trusting himself any longer to look into those soft, golden eyes.
“And, please,” Makeda called after him, “if there is anything more I can offer your men and their families, do let me know.”
The builder paused and chanced a look back. Torchlight showed the woman’s face, clear and free of guile. This Queen of Saba was either sincere or a better liar than her sister. Too many thoughts and questions and worries tumbled about Yetzer’s heart for him to make order of them. He gave a curt nod, then hastened back up the hill.
A plate of cold lamb and leeks waited upon his table. Yetzer picked at the food but found no pleasure in his mother’s best dish or in the cup of wine he drained to wash it down. He lay upon his cot, striving in vain to rid his thoughts of worn ropes and shattered legs and dark-skinned goddesses.
Sleep never visited him. When his brass water clock showed only two hours before dawn, Yetzer abandoned the effort. He rose, splashed some water on his face, then pulled on his tunic and kilt.
He moved through a world as silent as the Pit. Even the crickets slumbered, and the birds had yet to awaken. Stars flooded the sky and spilled enough light on the earth to guide Yetzer to Morhavah.
Once upon the sacred hill, Yetzer mounted the scaffolding that surrounded the aborning temple. To the highest point he climbed, to the top of the wall between the portico and the Holy Place. Here he could just see over the top of the eastern hill with its olive groves that nestled in shade throughout the mornings.
A hazy dawn glowed far beyond that hill, and it seemed to Yetzer he could see to the very edge of the world, where Shapash daily burst from the endless sea upon her chariot of flame to race across the sky. The glory of the heavens spread above him, the glories of earth about him. He stood upon the very pinnacle of man’s creation in a place made holy by the gods.
And it was all meaningless.
Yes, men might look upon his work in wonder. Word of his skill might spread. Kings might ask him to build great temples in their lands, where he might feed and shelter other crews and other families.
But to what end?
There was nothing new under the sun. Kings and queens would still rule by the sword, by cunning and guile. Priests would still extort their tithes by false promises of the gods’ blessings and threats of the Pit. Armies would wage war to feed a prince’s pride. Thousands upon thousands would hunger and thirst, would sweat and bleed and die to bring a soft chair and a full table to the few.
And what was Yetzer’s part? He stacked stones and filled his men’s heads with dreams of honor and righteousness. Their work would be complete in less than a year’s time. Gold would fill Bilkis’s coffers, while his men went back to field or forest or mine. Their lives would be unchanged, save for the occasional missing limb.
And Yetzer would go to find other work, having accomplished nothing.
“It’s not nothing.”
Yetzer flinched at the unexpected sound of the youthful voice. He spread his feet to keep balanced as the temple’s porch yawned hungrily at him from thirty-five cubits below. He turned to see Natan standing beside him and wondered how much he’d said aloud.
“Sorry,” the young priest said, “but it isn’t nothing.”
“What isn’t?” Yetzer said as he settled onto the stone wall, his legs dangling over the side.
“What you’ve done here,” Natan said, and sat beside him. “What you’re doing here. You can’t change kings and queens, and priests will be what they will be. Some are wise and good, like Abdi-Havah was, and some are … not.”
The young man glanced south, toward the palace, but elaborated no further. A wise priest, indeed.
“The gods are just,” Natan continued. “They expect us to serve well in those areas we can. What is beyond our ability to change is also beyond our responsibility.”
“I can’t change a kingdom,” Yetzer said, his voice tight. “I can’t change its rulers, so what good does a temple do?” It seemed odd to seek advice from a boy not half his age but talking to himself had brought Yetzer no clarity.
“You’ve changed the lives of every man on your crews. And the lives of their families, too.”
“And when the work is finished, their lives will be just as they were before,” Yetzer countered.
“Their lots in life may be the same,” Natan allowed, “but no one who has been a part of this wonder will go away unchanged. You’ve created a brotherhood, a family based on a shared dream, not simply blood or tribe. You’ve shown them a world where skill and effort count for more than wealth or a sword.”
Yetzer gave a short, humorless laugh as the young priest echoed his own lofty words. “And what merit have such noble ideals in a world ruled by gold and violence?”
“Perhaps little,” Natan allowed as he plucked at the new fuzz on his chin. “Perhaps much. Good wine does not come from a seed just planted. Years pass before fruit is borne, decades before it gladdens a king’s heart. Your men will tell their sons of the time when merit meant more than heritage. Women will teach their daughters that they have value beyond hearth or bedchamber.”
Yetzer grinned at that. Natan’s words brightened his spirit even as the sun brightened the horizon. The hillside began to awaken as men arrived to change out the ropes on their wheels, or to drive their cattle teams to the quarry.
“This is your namesake,” Natan said, gesturing toward the workers. “These men are your true temple. They come here not for fear of being beaten or turned out of their homes. They come to take part in a new creation. It will take generations—maybe ten, maybe a hundred—but the seeds you’ve planted among this people, and the seeds they engender will one day bear fruit, and the gods will surely smile and call it good.”
62
Makeda
I slapped at a fly on my donkey’s neck. My hand came away gory and left a trickle of blood behind, but the animal seemed not to notice. I’d wanted to bring Dhahbas on this journey, but Eliam convinced me a donkey was far better suited to the terrain than a camel, so I sat atop the little grey creature in the small caravan that wended its way down from Urusalim.
The donkey stumbled over a cobble and I clutched its mane to keep from sliding off the blanket across the animal’s back. Eliam had spoken true about the terrain. Rocks littered the steep, winding road that led from the city to a deep river valley called Yarden.
Word of the return of Abram, Eliam’s son, had reached the merchant two days earlier. The younger man, I learned, was years late in his arrival, but had apparently brought a great treasure in copper and tin. Yetzer needed these for the furnishings of the temple, so he’d chosen a pair of artisans for the trip to Tzeretan and the bronze foundry there.
I was eager to see the metal works, and though Bilkis had tried to talk me out of traveling to the bleak wilderness, I’d won her le
ave. Yetzer had been reluctant to allow me to join them, but Eliam and Dvora and Rahab prevailed in changing his heart.
We camped that night on a narrow plain beside the road. A pair of my men stood watch with four guards hired by Eliam. Fazia and I, along with Yetzer and his artisans, joined Eliam and his family about the fire. Even though the builder spoke little, he listened intently as I told stories of my gods and lands and people.
At the second night’s encampment, Yetzer engaged in the conversation. What roles did each god play? How did the people feed themselves if it never rained? How did I manage land and water rights? We talked well into the night, and on the third day of the journey, he approached me as we paused to water the donkeys.
“Would you care to walk with me, Lady?”
My cheeks grew warm. I smiled and nodded. The rest of the party and the unburdened donkeys went ahead while my guards walked a few paces behind us.
“I owe you an apology,” Yetzer said when enough distance separated us from the others that we could speak privately.
“Oh?” I replied, unsure what wrong he’d done.
“I fear I’ve ill-judged you.” He turned his face so I could see only his unblinking embroidered eye. “You showed kindness to my man and his family. I was happy to give you thanks when I thought you a servant, then mistrusted you when I learned you are a queen.”
“Is it such a bad thing to be a queen?” I asked, a teasing note in my voice.
Yetzer turned to look at me and offered a wry smile. “In my experience, royal women show generosity only when it benefits them.”
“And have you known many royal women?”
“Enough.” Yetzer looked away and cleared his throat. “But now I know that not all are shaped from the same quarry. I instruct my men to judge others by their actions and their merits, not by title or blood. I should have given you that same courtesy.”
I smiled and drew a deep breath of sun-blasted air. An unseen burden fell away as though I’d cast off a water-logged cloak. “Thank you. In my experience, men find it difficult to admit a wrong.”
“And have you been misjudged by many fools?” It was Yetzer’s turn to tease, but the question stung.
“Enough. But when you’re bastard-born to a slave, it is to be expected.” I fixed my eyes upon the ground.
“A slave?”
He took a step closer to my side and we walked on while I told him of my mother, how she’d been stolen from her homeland across the Western Sea and sold to the Mukarrib of Saba. I told of the flood that had swept Bilkis away, how my mother became Mukarrib, and how I took up that mantle upon her death.
“Such a land,” Yetzer said in a hushed tone, “where a woman can rise from slave to Wife of the God.”
Talk of Saba and my people stirred a longing in my heart. The barrenness and heat of the land about us brought some comfort, but I remained homesick.
“And what of you?” I asked Yetzer in turn. “How did you become a temple-builder?”
My heart ached as he spoke of his father’s death, of his own failure, and enslavement.
“How did you learn the secret word?” I asked after Yetzer described his return to freedom.
He shrugged. “I watched. I listened. The truth of the mysteries is written upon the world around us, available to all who have eyes to see and ears to hear.”
“Then why guard those secrets so zealously?” I asked. “If the knowledge is free to all, why not simply proclaim it?”
“The knowledge is free,” Yetzer said, “but its proper use requires training and discipline. A child can learn to make fire, but if he is not first taught to handle it safely he puts himself and his house in danger.”
“And his kingdom?” I ventured to add.
Yetzer looked at me, his eye narrowed.
“Bilkis told me you refused to tell Yahtadua the builders’ secrets,” I said.
“And she asked you to change my heart?”
I lowered my eyes and nodded.
“She’ll be angry when you tell her you’ve failed,” Yetzer said, humor in his voice.
“She’s been angry with me before.”
Yetzer laughed at that, a deep rumble that made my heart sing. We walked on, heedless of the growing heat as we descended deeper into the valley. Steep, rocky steps lay in the path where the road turned back on itself. Yetzer offered his hand to steady me, and my blood raced, my breathing quick and shallow, as the warmth of his touch suffused me.
We caught up with the others as evening approached. The simple meal of bread and hummus and olives seemed a feast as Yetzer sat beside me. Stories and laughter filled the rapidly cooling night air, and I felt no longer a stranger but a part of this extended family.
With the new day’s light, we set out once more. By midmorning, plumes of smoke rose above the horizon. Before long, we came to a ford in the River Yarden, a wondrous stream that ran with water all throughout the year.
“My son,” Eliam cried as a middle-aged man waded through the water to meet us. The merchant clasped his son in a tight embrace, and after Rahab had her turn to weep and fuss over her brother, Eliam introduced Abram to me. We all crossed the river to the town Tzeretan. While Eliam and family became reacquainted, Fazia and my men set up our camp, and Yetzer showed me around.
Enough wood to fill a forest lay chopped and stacked into neat piles around several forges that bellowed black smoke into the air. Soot and ash seemed as thick upon the ground and buildings as sand after a windstorm. I minded none of it. Yetzer led me into a storehouse where a dozen figures of various shapes sat beneath oiled linen sheets. He began pulling down the sailcloth covers, and I gaped at each statue he revealed.
“They’re beautiful,” I whispered.
I drew near to one of the marvels, a lion ready to pounce. The polished wood gleamed in the scant light that filtered through gaps in wall and roof. The light shifted as I moved around the statue, and it seemed the creature’s muscles rippled beneath its oiled flesh.
“Do you recognize them?” Yetzer asked as he moved beside me.
I looked at the other carvings. A bull and a ram stood on either side of the lion. These in turn were flanked by a scorpion and a spiny lobster. A pair of fishes, a goat and several human figures rounded out the assembly.
Memories of old Shayma’s stories flooded over me. The great twins who tore apart Mother Earth and Father Sky in the days of creation. The Bull of Heaven that pulled the plow to carve out the wadis. The Maiden who lent her fertility to fields and vineyards. These and their companions marked the seasons as they made their yearly night-walk across the sky.
My voice was full of wonder. “The Star Dwellers.”
Yetzer smiled at my recognition. He explained how he intended for the statues to stand before his temple in the place of their stars, to mark upon the earth the course of the heavens and the turning of the seasons.
“My lady?”
I turned at the sound of Fazia’s familiar voice. The interruption annoyed me, and my face must have betrayed the emotion. The younger woman took a step back and lowered her head.
“My apologies, Lady. I only wished to let you know your tent and dinner are ready.”
“Of course,” I said, “thank you.” I turned to Yetzer and gave a rueful grin. “And thank you.” I gestured toward the statues. “For this.”
Yetzer smiled, took my hand, and pressed his forehead to the back of it.
“Rest well, my lady.”
I followed my handmaid back to the camp. I hardly tasted my dinner, hardly heard the songs and stories my people told around the fire. When I went to my cot, even as I closed my eyes, I saw only the images of the Star Dwellers. And my builder.
63
Makeda
The morning sun burned clear and bright, and drove away the smoke from all the furnaces, save one. Fire raged within that foundry, pouring its heat into a great cauldron.
I stood with Eliam and his family, awaiting commencement of the great work. Around
them stood the Star Dwellers, each one resplendent in freshly cast bronze.
In the center of the circle, beside the furnace, rose a stout wooden frame. Nearly twice the height of a man, and twice again that length on each side, the mold stood ready to receive its charge of molten metal.
Yetzer stood upon the frame, wrapped in boots and gloves and apron of heavy leather. Sunlight caught the strands of red in his hair and short beard. He seemed the very craftsman of the gods.
“In the beginning,” he said, his voice a whisper yet as clear as if he stood at my side, “the gods placed the great lights in the heavens to separate night from day, to stand as guideposts for the seasons, and to shape the natures of men and of the ages. As we drift in the great Celestial Sea, so shall we bring that sea to earth. Though clouds may come, let this Molten Sea stand to mark the seasons.”
A breath of wind caressed my cheek. I smoothed back a strand of hair, and my fingers brushed the comb at the back of my head. With a delicate flutter of wings, the silver dragonfly left its perch. It flitted twice around me, then flew up to where Yetzer stood.
I blinked and found myself beside him. The builder held me in his green-eyed gaze and smiled. Warmth flooded over me like the waters of Wadi Dhanah crashing down from the mountains. At a nod from Yetzer, I picked up the end of a rope, its other end attached to the furnace’s gate. Yetzer did the same on his side, and we pulled the ropes to raise the gate.
Molten bronze spilled down a sluice in the casting’s sand to a shaped funnel, the liquid fire outshining even the sun. The assembled people clapped their hands, while the statues in their circle bowed in admiration. Another movement caught my attention, but when I looked I saw nothing more than a fleeting shadow. I turned back to Yetzer, tall and strong, the craftsman’s pride bright upon his countenance.
Pride turned to something else as the earth began to shiver. Yetzer looked toward the mold and I followed his gaze. Bronze still flowed from the furnace, but now climbed the sides of the sand-crafted funnel, rather than entering the cast.
