Angel-Seeker

by Sharon Shinn

  Hali shivered. “Even if the sun comes out, it will be too cold to walk in the garden today. Didn’t you hear Hepzibah moaning about her dera bushes? Covered in frost this morning. They’ll likely die. My father says the temperature tonight may drop lower than it has all season.”

  Rebekah sighed. “Isn’t it spring yet?” she asked sadly. “Isn’t it time for everything to change?”

  Hali laughed. “This is Breven,” she said. “Nothing ever changes.”

  A bustle at the door made them look up, hopeful for new company: cousins from across town allowed to come visit for the afternoon, or even neighbors from the other side of the street, with news or fresh pastries. But it was only Jerusha and Asa bearing folded sheaves of cloth and discussing an ill-considered dress that Uriah’s wife had worn to some event years ago.

  “She still thinks it’s a shade that flatters her,” Asa said with a snort. “Hair that color, and she chooses to wear red! I can’t do anything with her. Praise the god she never had daughters so she could pass on her poor taste in fashion.”

  “I hope you’ll tell me,” Jerusha said, “if I ever make such a mistake.”

  “You,” Asa said fondly. “You could be a merchant yourself, you’ve such an eye for color and quality.”

  Rebekah glanced over at them and then let her eyes drift upward a moment. (Nothing to be seen in the skylight, not even sky, just a coil of somber clouds.) She had just returned her attention to her work when Jerusha called her over.

  “Rebekah! Come see. Asa has almost finished your wedding dress.”

  Hali jumped up, more excited than Rebekah, and the bride herself came slowly to her feet. “Oh, you must try it on right now,” Hali said. “I want to see it.”

  “I’m sure it’s just fine,” Rebekah said listlessly.

  Jerusha motioned imperiously. “Come here! We have to check the fit, Asa says.”

  The old seamstress was carefully unrolling the cloth in her hand and shaking it out. Yes, this was the soft, sage-colored fabric that Rebekah remembered Jerusha making such a fuss over, and the almost sheer golden sheath that would lie against her skin. She had no desire to try it on, to parade around this room before the other women, pretending she was excited about her upcoming wedding day.

  Sweet Jovah singing, she had no desire to undress before these women, show off the ripening curves of her body. Rebekah’s disinterest was replaced by a rising sense of alarm. She stopped a few yards away from her mother.

  “I can try it on some other day,” she said, trying for her usual surly tone.

  Jerusha would have slapped her if Rebekah had been standing close enough. “Don’t be troublesome! Asa is here now, and she’s a very busy woman, and you’ll try on your wedding dress as she says.”

  Asa cackled with laughter. “Not so eager for the dress, or not so eager for the day?” the old woman wondered.

  “Isaac is a fine boy,” Jerusha said. “She’s lucky to marry him.”

  “I don’t want to try on the dress,” Rebekah said.

  Jerusha strode over to grab her by the arm and drag her the few feet to Asa’s side. “There was never a girl as difficult as you!” she exclaimed. “Off with your jeska, yes, and your hallis, too. No pretense of modesty, now, just do what you’re told.”

  Hali crowded behind her, cooing over the craftsmanship of the design. Rebekah slowly disrobed, taking pains to hold each layer of clothing close to her body as she pulled it off, covering her breasts and her stomach as well as she could. Let them think she was embarrassed by her nakedness as long as they didn’t notice her condition. She turned her back to Hepzibah and her sisters, watching with great interest and amusement from across the room.

  Asa threw the translucent yellow sheath over her head and tugged it into place over her shoulders and hips. “That’s—hmm, tighter than I expected. Have you gained weight, girl?”

  Jerusha laughed. “Who doesn’t, in the winter? I eat and eat, hungry all the time.”

  “Well, I can let out the side seams a little. But the overdress—” And Asa threw this over her head. “The fit must be perfect.”

  It was then that Rebekah remembered how closely tailored the bridal dress was, so much different from the loose-fitting jeskas. She half-turned toward her mother, a look of panic flitting across her face, trying to think of what she might say. Yes, she’d gained weight—eating and eating the whole winter through—hungry all the time—

  Asa had dropped to her knees to close the front buttons of the dress where the design cinched in at the waist. She grunted in surprise as the edges would not come together, tugging as if to loosen an errant fold of cloth.

  Rebekah kept her eyes on her mother, conveying she knew not what message of supplication and alarm. Jerusha, at first distracted by something Hali was saying to her, gradually turned away from the other girl’s chatter, her face showing puzzlement, her eyes fixed on her daughter.

  “What?” Jerusha asked, shaking her head as if to say she could not comprehend.

  Asa tugged some more. “Now this was not a mismeasurement!” the old woman said. “Twice I tied the string around your waist, and your waist was nowhere near this size.”

  Rebekah said nothing, just continued staring at her mother. Jerusha’s eyebrows drew down and concern sharpened her cheekbones.

  “Oh, it’s so pretty,” Hali breathed, moving around to view the gown from the back. Rebekah could feel the girl standing behind her, blocking her exit, choking off her escape. She stared at her mother.

  Asa clambered to her feet. “Then let us check the bustline, see if there’s trouble there.”

  Jerusha’s face blanched. Her eyes darkened with sudden terrible knowledge, and her lips formed an unspoken word.

  There was nothing she could say.

  Asa had pulled her string from her pocket and wrapped it around Rebekah’s breasts. “Look at this!” the seamstress exclaimed. “Two—no, three inches bigger! In a few short months! How do you expect me . . .”

  Her voice trailed off. Now Asa gazed at Rebekah with as much stupefaction as Jerusha, as Hali, as Hepzibah and the old women who had slowly crept forward. Even from across the room, they had been able to sense tragedy unfolding, and now they stood, a semi circle of them, between Rebekah and the door.

  Rebekah continued to gaze at her mother. Jerusha did not say a word.

  “Wicked girl!” Asa shrieked, startling them all. She pointed at Rebekah with the fingers of both hands and backed away as if fearful of contamination. “Wicked, dreadful woman! Impure! Kirosa!”

  Hepzibah and her sisters began to gasp and mutter, and Hali let out a long, shrill wail of confusion. “What is it? Aunt Jerusha, what has happened?” Hali cried.

  Jerusha did not answer, did not move. She kept her eyes on her daughter and began to mouth a silent, desperate prayer.

  “She is pregnant!” Asa said fiercely. “Breasts and belly swollen up so that she won’t fit into her wedding gown. Pregnant! And you, pretending you were virginal, pure enough to be a bride!”

  Without warning, Asa darted forward and hit Rebekah hard across the face. Rebekah jerked away, but not before the blow landed, jarring her head to one side and making her step backward to keep her balance. A chorus of outrage from the old sisters then, and Hepzibah darted between Rebekah and the seamstress.

  “We don’t need you to chide our young women,” Hepzibah said sternly. “We will deal with her ourselves.”

  For a moment, Rebekah saw hope flare in her mother’s eyes, though she still said nothing aloud, either to condemn or succor. She was helpless here, completely without power; she could not save Rebekah if the men turned against her, could not save herself if her own carelessness was blamed for Rebekah’s fall.

  “It is time you left this house and didn’t think of carrying secrets into other houses,” Gabbatha added in her quavery voice.

  “Secrets!” Asa exclaimed. “You think to shield her, this—this—abomination? She must be cast forth into the desert! She
must be stoned from the streets of Breven!”

  “She must be dealt with by the men of her own family,” Hepzibah said firmly.

  A mistake. “Uncle Hector!” Hali screamed, running for the door before any of them could think to grab her. “Uncle Hector!”

  “Ha!” Asa said in satisfaction, and Jerusha seemed to crumple where she stood, but the old aunts moved with sudden swift purpose.

  “You—to my room,” Hepzibah said to her youngest sister. “I have money there under my mat. Meet us in the garden. Gabbatha, watch the door and don’t let this one leave.”

  “I will leave if I want! You can’t hold me here!” Asa cried.

  “You,” Hepzibah said, turning to Rebekah. “Do you have someplace to go? Your lover’s house?”

  Rebekah shook her head, then nodded. “Not his house—somewhere—”

  “Then when you meet my sister in the garden, you take my money, you run there—run!—through the streets. Here, put on your jeska, cover your face with my veil. Let anyone who sees you assume you are a poor woman from the outer tents.”

  “Rebekah . . .” Jerusha whispered. She was on her knees, clawing at the air as if it would give her a handhold, something with which to pull herself to her feet.

  Hepzibah spun around and shoved Jerusha back to the floor. “Say nothing!” she spat out. “Not a word! You share her fate if you try to save her.”

  “Rebekah . . .”

  Hepzibah had ripped the bridal dress from Rebekah’s body and flung the jeska over her head. Now she was yanking it none too gently in place. “Your shoes—good, they are thick and comfortable ones. I have a waterskin over by my basket, you can take that with you—”

  “She is wicked! Kirosa! She deserves to be thrown into the streets!”

  “I will throw you in the streets, you foul-tongued old witch,” Hepzibah said over her shoulder to Asa as she flew across the room. “If you say a word of this to anyone—a word!”

  Rebekah was closest to the door, and so she was the first one to hear the commotion on the stairway, the upraised voices sounding the alarm. She looked at her mother, so small and misshapen in her pose on the floor that she looked like a melted candy representation of a woman. Jerusha caught the sounds next, and her head lifted, like a wild animal casting about for the source of danger.

  “Rebekah,” Jerusha whispered.

  “I love you,” Rebekah said out loud.

  Men burst through the door, so many and so savage that Rebekah could not count or separate them. In the split second before they descended on her, a dark horde of vengeance, she recognized Hector and her uncle Ezra. Then hands grabbed for her and fingers tore at her clothes, her skin. Something was tossed over her head, a blanket, perhaps. She could hear women screaming and men cursing. Blows rained down on her through the blanket, hard punches that connected with her skull, her collarbone, her hip. Instinctively, she tried to curl her body over her stomach, protecting the fragile life within. Cords were whipped around her shoulders and her legs, then drawn tight, and she stumbled forward, unable to break her fall. Then she was wrenched into the air and carried out the door, her head and knees bumping painfully against the frame. Behind her, she could hear someone sobbing. She knew it was her mother.

  The journey seemed to last for days. Rebekah lay on the bare plank bottom of the wagon, her head still covered with the blanket, her body still bound by ropes, jouncing miserably with every inch they traveled. It was, in a way, a relief to be blinded, to not be able to see the faces of the men who had abducted her. She did not want to know who was among them. Hector, yes; Ezra, yes, no surprise there. Ephram, perhaps. Isaac? Simon?

  Jordan?

  They had flung her into the wagon, still shouting, still aiming the occasional blow in her direction, still calling on the vengeance of Jovah to see this wicked, willful girl destroyed. Once they were in the streets of Breven, moving forward, the shouting and cursing continued, and Rebekah knew they made a slow parade through the streets of the city, howling out the news to all who were close enough to hear. “Broken! Kirosa! Broken! Kirosa!” She could hear footsteps running up, fresh voices raised in lament, new horses and carts being appropriated to join the caravan of shame. They would wind through Breven once, rallying such supporters as they could, then exit at the western edge of the city and head straight out toward the desert.

  Where they would leave her.

  Rebekah lay in the bottom of the cart, trying to summon panic, but all she felt was a blank numbness. Her body hurt all over, bruised and bleeding in places from the ferocity of the blows she had already sustained. More of that to come, no doubt, when they left her in the untracked sand. She could only hope they hit her hard enough, often enough, to strike her insensate, to let her fall into a peaceful unconsciousness that would allow her to ease into death.

  But if I die, my baby will die.

  The thought sent the first true spasm of fear through her body, caused her hands to clench at her sides and her eyes to widen, trying to see through the blackness of the cloth. There was no escape from this wagon, no way to prevent the punishment that was to come, but if she could endure it, if she could survive it . . . People had wandered in the desert before and lived. They had stumbled upon waterholes, come with impossible luck upon the caravans of strangers. There was food and water in the desert, if you knew where to look. There was shelter. It was winter now, and that was bad, she could die of exposure—but it was not summer, and that was good. She could last more than a day. If she had any water, even the smallest amount, she could last three days or more. If she was not crippled, if she was not bleeding too badly, she could walk toward safety, assuming she could determine in which direction safety lay. She would not have to lie there, broken and defeated, where they left her in the sand. She and her baby would not have to die.

  Martha is dead. They went back and found her bones.

  Rebekah’s brief rush of courage faltered. If ever anyone had had the will to live, it had been Martha, and she had not survived her own exile. They found her bones. But perhaps Jerusha had just said that to frighten Rebekah, perhaps she had merely been trying to impress on Rebekah how grave her own plight could be. Perhaps it wasn’t true, and Martha was alive somewhere, happy, reunited with her Manadavvi lover.

  If she only had water.

  So the journey went for the next hour, the next two hours, seemingly forever, as Rebekah wavered between resolution and despair. She thought she was calm—she thought she was prepared—but when the wagon stopped and she caught the barking commands of Hector’s voice, she was washed with a sense of utter panic. Here! Now! She was to be left in the desert to die!

  Rough hands wrapped around her arms and hauled her from the wagon, dragging her carelessly over the side so that her legs and shoulders banged against the wheels. Shouts and laughter and curses. She made no attempt to separate the sounds into words, the voices into individuals. She was put on her feet and then pushed forward, stumbling and unable to see where she was going. She fell and was yanked upright, thrust forward again. Three more times, till she was far enough from the wagons to satisfy them.

  “Show us the whore’s face!” someone cried. She thought it might be her uncle Ezra, but it was so hoarse she could not be sure. The cords were stripped from her body, and the blanket was whipped from her head with so much force that she was thrown off balance again, and she tripped to her knees in the soft sand.

  “Whore!” the voice cried again, and a rock hit her on the shoulder with an angry force. “Kirosa! Impure!”

  Other voices took up the chant. “Kirosa! Impure!” More rocks, a hailstorm of them, striking her cheek, her chest, her bent knees. She cowered before them, head bent low, cradling her hands over her stomach, afraid to try to crawl away lest such a show of spirit rouse their anger even more. One stone hit her in the soft place right before her left ear, and she felt the force of it ring through her skull. It pushed her over, it toppled her to the ground, and then they were crowding all aro
und her, screaming at her, showering her with stones. Now that her head was on the sand, her gaze traveled upward, and she was able to see all their faces, contorted with rage and elation and a curious, mad sense of conviction. They were doing this terrible thing, and they believed they were right, they were justified, they were honorable. They were killing her, and they believed they had the sanction of the god.

  Against her will, she trained her gaze on each of the separate faces, recognizing them even as their fury and zeal turned them wholly unfamiliar. Hector—his two brothers—Isaac, yes, but she didn’t see Simon—Ezra—Ephram—

  Jordan.

  Jordan.

  It was as if her body ceased to feel the pounding of the stones, as if her mind for a moment emptied of all other thought. She could see that Jordan had registered her gaze, that he knew she was staring at him. His face was ashen and his eyes were haunted, but his hands were not empty. As she stared at him, her bloodied mouth trying to shape the syllables of his name, he lifted his right hand, which held a good-sized rock of an impossible shade of granite blue. When he threw it, it struck her shoulder and bounced away.

  She could not bear it. She could not look anymore, she could not think, she could not scheme. She closed her eyes and felt the continual strike and hammer of falling stones, but it was as if they no longer connected with her skin or jolted along her bones. Her mind refused to acknowledge her existence, and she whirled away into blackness.

  The world was still black when Rebekah opened her eyes, but it was not an unrelieved starkness. Moonlight. Starlight. The ghostly reflected gold of the sand. These illuminated the outer world far more than any hope or determination could illuminate her interior landscape.

  It was nighttime. The men were gone. She was not dead.

  Her baby was not dead.

  Crying out in pain as she did so, Rebekah pushed herself to a sitting position to try to assess her condition. They had not killed her—but then, they never killed the girls they drove out into the desert, for a quick death would have been too merciful. Exposure, thirst, starvation—these were the proper roads to death for an impure woman. They had not, she thought, even continued to stone her for very long after she had fainted. Every bone, every inch of skin, contained its own separate memory and bruise, but she was, in a way, surprised that she did not feel worse. She felt dreadful, she felt broken, she felt more terrible than she had ever imagined she could feel, but she could move, and she could think, and she could stand, and so she must push herself to her feet and begin to walk.