I kept to the shadows so that Amram would not see me, for I had noticed him among his brethren. When I looked at him, I saw not his handsome features but the face of the murdered child from the village, no older in years than the girl who had brought me his message. There was no one with whom I could share the joy of the new month. I yearned for my sister and the way in which we had danced together in the country of her father, though his people did not count their days as we did. Our mother had taught us that when the moon was white, reappearing after its absence, it was showing us that what had been hidden could easily become whole again.
That night in my sleep perhaps I did become fevered, made ill by my sister’s absence. I yearned for her, the girl I had brought into this world. I dreamed that there were seven wolves on the mountain, and that each had brought forth a dove in its mouth, and that every one of the doves had seven wings and could fly farther than any others. Seven is the most powerful number of all. The first words of the Torah are seven in number, and the Sabbath is the seventh day, the most holy of all. Now my dream had come to me in sevens. This seemed to me a blessing and a calling, one I couldn’t ignore.
I went to the wall to watch for my sister.
I stood there much of the day, convinced my dream had been a pathway, a sign that God knew my sister still belonged to me and that we could never truly be parted. At twilight, the hour between worlds when one’s eyes can play tricks and it is easy to see what you wish to view rather than what is before you, I thought I spied Nahara. She was following the thin black goats as they searched in vain for tufts of grass on the sheer, rocky cliff. Below us, in their camp, the Romans would soon enough notice her as well if she went along the mountain while there was still light. Since the soldiers had made camp, the Essenes had not left their cave in daylight. But their provisions would last for only so long if no one came to their assistance. If they had no spring and no well, they would soon die of thirst.
Half of the doves had been taken from us, though my mother begged they be allowed to live. Instead, they had been used for meat. We had but a few baskets of their leavings to feed the earth, and the earth repaid us in kind for our lack of gratitude. In the orchards the leaves that unfurled were spotted; fruit came to us already withered. During our harvest, I gathered what I could for my sister. I could not look across the valley and watch her starve while we could still manage to feed ourselves, however meagerly. I packed dried beans and millet, a small jar of oil we had been allotted. I was willing to be a thief, as I had been willing to be a liar, and a pretender, and a murderer. But there was one offense I could not bring myself to commit. I, who had killed men and had tasted blood, could not bring myself to murder the doves we had tended. I went to Yael, to plead for her help, which she gave me without question.
Together we went to the dovecote. The pale moon watched over us and allowed us to slip through the plaza as nothing more than shadows. We went inside, then crouched upon the straw. I watched as Yael called the doves to her. She raised her hand up, and they were summoned. As each one came to her, Yael sat with it quietly, then broke its neck. She wept as she did so, such was her sacrifice on my behalf. Then she lay their limp bodies on her lap, stroking their feathers before she gave them to me.
She walked me back to my chambers, helping me carry the provisions I meant to bring to my sister. As I had helped her in her times of need, so she was now beside me. I would never have imagined that she who had once been my rival had become a sister to me. If anything, I had imagined she might become my sister through the laws of marriage. Amram and I had always planned to include her in the ceremony, but that time was over. The day after the little messenger girl told him I was ill, Amram came to our chambers and knocked upon the door. My mother was surprised that, as soon as I spied who the caller was, I slunk into the garden. I overheard him ask about my fever and heard her answer that it was my brother who had been ill, not I. Perhaps Amram had complained to his sister, for as we neared the barracks Yael murmured, “My brother says that he rarely sees you. He still wears the blue token.”
“That’s done in your honor.” I kept my eyes lowered. “Not mine.”
“Every man changes in war.”
From her tone I understood that she knew some part of her brother had been lost.
I DRESSED in my brother’s tunic and took a heavy pack upon my back, meant for my sister. Adir was still on his pallet because of his difficulty in walking. When he saw me dressed as him, he was amazed. He vowed he himself would think that I was Adir had he not known better. He hadn’t fully understood that he had managed to be a warrior though he still lay in a darkened corner of our chamber.
“They all believe I am you,” I admitted.
My brother accepted that I had taken his place and that I had honored his name. This was why the warriors left gifts of oil and myrrh at the door and why people came to offer their congratulations on the bravery of his deeds.
My brother lifted himself up on one elbow to study me. The dog stood beside me, a pack tied to his back, for he was mine when he should have been my brother’s.
“Have I done well as a warrior?” Adir wanted to know.
I nodded, embarrassed to have taken so much from him. But he seemed relieved.
“Have I slain many of the enemy?”
“Only when you needed to.”
Every time the warriors went out on raids, my brother, you were among them. We attacked at night, splitting into four sections, coming to our enemies in the dark from the four corners of the world. We went to let the Romans know that they had not destroyed us and that we had not disappeared despite their presence in our valley. We went to take what we needed to survive and because our people could not be contained nor denied their right to Zion.
During the nights when you, my dear brother, rested on your pallet, I had gone into the thornbushes and held the man who was unafraid of metal, who yearned for it, as I did, as I had done all my life. Though we were but halves of people, though we had lost ourselves, together we were one, and whole. This is why I was so impatient whenever I needed to remain on the mountain. He was the only one who knew me. He told me that, if I had been a woman, he could not have had me, for he had vowed never to be with a woman other than his wife. But I was something else, a warrior, as he was. We did not have to speak, as those who fight side by side need no words, but instead we knew each other in silence. In that way it was possible for each of us to foretell what the one beside us wanted, whether it was brutal or tender, whether it lasted all night or for but a brief burst of stolen time.
On the day when we repent for our sins, I had left this man to the heartache of his past. On the eve of Yom Kippur, he disappeared into the wilderness. I did not ask to share his sorrows, for that would not have been possible. I waited in the blue night, alone, as any comrade would. When he came back to me, there were strands of thorns fitted across his chest. I offered him water and a share of my supper, and I asked not a single question and made no demands. We had enough adversaries, we did not need to defy each other.
I was grateful, my brother, that you could not see what the world was beyond these gates, as I was grateful that I could close my eyes inside the bower of the thornbushes, that I could moan and thrash as I never did in battle, for in battle, my brother, your reputation was one of silence. You never cried out as you did at night, with only the dog to overhear you as you clung to the warrior beside you. You were young, the slightest among them, but you were a fine archer, perhaps the best of all, known by the red feathers on your arrows that quickened every shot, the weapons becoming birds seeking out our enemies and bringing them to their death. No wild goat could run from you, no rabbit was quick enough.
You often stood at the rear of a skirmish because your vision was so clear you could observe attackers from a distance and fell them before they came upon our men. Because of your skill, several warriors who might have been murdered lived. Amram was once stunned by the rock cast at him by a slingshot, and you
, my brother, leapt out to slay his attacker from the hillock you stood upon, your armor burning hot in the sun, leaving red marks along your tender skin.
Afterward Amram came to give you thanks. He called you his little brother and offered you his loyalty. You merely lowered your eyes, as though too impressed by the honor he gave to you to speak, when the truth was you did not want him to see the color of your eyes, or guess at what was beneath the metal and silver scales you wore. All the same, you accepted the gift of his amulet, a silver disk of Solomon fighting a demon on the Temple floor, so as not to offend him. “I owe you protection,” he said on that day when you, younger and slighter, had saved him from the Angel of Death that had hovered so near. “My life is yours.”
You wore his amulet, so as not to offend him on the battlefield, but you hid it beneath a scarf at all other times. You hadn’t the heart to tell him his life was not what you wanted. All you wanted was your own life, the nights in the thornbushes, the days with the warriors.
My brother, your dog was always at your side, as quiet as you were, with a silence he might well have learned from the leopard. When a battle was begun, he broke his silence and roared beside you, for he had no fear of blood or of metal or of death. He was your companion, and slept with you, whether you were alone or with the man who knew who you were, understanding why you set yourself apart under the stars. Though you were dutiful enough when you were needed, willing to carry the other warriors’ double-edged swords, their slingshots, their spears, you did not mingle among them.
When you slipped out of your tunic, you disappeared beneath the moon. You vanished into the air and rested there, between the worlds.
That was when I came to take your place.
I STOLE out the South Water Gate with the dog so that I might go to my sister. I had wrapped myself in shawls, for the chill would soon be upon us in the nights. I had brought my sister to life once and would do so again. No guard would stop me, for I was Adir the brave, named for the kings of his father’s people, and those posted at the gate merely nodded a greeting to a fellow warrior. My bow was strapped to my back. The dark had begun to stretch across the horizon. Fading light had turned the cliffs red in the distance. Larks and brilliant blue songbirds were crossing the sky, catching the gnats that swarmed in the evening. I made certain to tread carefully, for a single rock might cause the Romans to notice me. I needed to make the perilous climb to the cave of the Essenes.
I was so focused on the Roman camp, I never thought I might be followed. I wasn’t prepared when I was grabbed and pulled from the path. I wished I had the knife my father had given to me. In such close battle, my bow was pointless. I turned to fight, but the man who held me was unafraid, as angels and demons are said to be. I battled with him until he overcame me. Perhaps this was not a man at all but one of the seven wolves in my dreams. If so, my dream had prophesied my defeat. I wept at my own weakness. I, who had always been so fierce, gave myself up to him, expecting to be consumed by either light or flames.
I knew him when Eran lay down as though at his master’s feet. I saw my follower for who he was, the man who owned nothing but the ax he carried. He said he would accompany me, and if he fell from the cliff we climbed, then it was meant to be, for he yearned for death and had no choice but to court it. If Mal’ach ha-Mavet came to him, then what now came to pass was only what he had wished for all along.
I did not wish to put him at risk for the sake of my sister, but in battle you cannot tell another when it is his time to enter the World-to-Come, nor is it possible to keep any man in this world when he wishes to leave it behind. I couldn’t argue with the Man from the Valley, that was something a woman might do, and he had vowed to never be with a woman other than his wife. I was his comrade, and as such I must respect his desire. I could not cling to him, for that would show me to be a woman as well. I wore Adir’s tunic and carried his bow, therefore I must step aside.
We tied the dog to a thornbush, then went on, the sound of our breathing echoing. The new moon shone with a thin, fine light, but soon clouds moved across so we could slink through the dark. I didn’t need to see the Man from the Valley to know he was there, for we were connected by something stronger than sight, and like the king’s horses we did not stumble on the sheer cliff. I had half-imagined I might capture my sister, tie her with ropes, and carry her back to the fortress. But had I done so, she would have cried out, as she had called for her father when we left the Iron Mountain. Her shouts would have brought the Romans upon us, and I did not wish to be the cause of my sister’s death.
I knew I must let her cause that herself.
Once, as I stared into the dark, my foot slipped and my companion grabbed me and held me close until I could regain my balance. Rocks rattled down into the valley, but in the dark we might well have been two ibex intent on scaling this cliff. As we went on we could distinguish three caves, one for the goats, one used as a storeroom, with another, larger cave in which the Essenes camped. We had no fear they might attack to protect themselves, for they had no weapons, and no desire for defense other than God’s mercy. The stench of the cave greeted us first, and I was astonished that it was worse than any barnyard. When I peered through the dark, I could hardly bear to witness the way in which they lived. The fires inside the cave had blackened their skins, and their linen garments were dusted with ash. Two men came to meet us, frowning, clearly resenting our intrusion into the midst. They were unclean, rail-thin, with the ravished gaze of hunger in their eyes. I recognized Malachi, though he did not know me and seeing my tunic took me for a boy.
“We’ve brought you provisions,” the Man from the Valley said. We set down our packs, the meager fruit, the doves, the flatbread, the grain, the skins of water.
“From the hands of murderers?” the older Essene man said as he considered the provisions we’d courted great danger to bring to them.
“From the hands of your brothers,” the Man from the Valley remarked. He was civil, but his tone carried a note of reproach.
I took a few steps forward while the men continued to speak. Through the murk I made out Abba’s form; the Essenes’ beloved teacher was prone on a ledge, so weak it seemed he’d already passed into the otherworld, though he still drew breath. I saw the women gathered together, gazing at us distrustfully, but I could not tell my sister from the others, nor did she recognize me. I took the scarf from my head and let my hair fall down my back so that she might see me for who I was, the sister she belonged to. Malachi immediately came to me once he knew me, so quick I might have been a black viper, the sort that winds itself around its prey in an inescapable grasp.
“Go now,” he said to me, though I had risked my life and the life of my companion to bring them provisions and water. “She cannot see you or think of that other life.”
I caught sight of her then, a woman in rags, my beautiful sister, surrounded by the other women, ewes in a pen, no more kin to me than the sheep behind our fences made from the scaly boughs of the thornbushes. All at once I understood Malachi’s fear. He had known what I planned to do before I did. For I now called out to Nahara, my voice so plaintive and wretched I barely recognized it as my own.
“Come with me,” I pleaded, intent on calling her to me. “You don’t belong to them. Leave with me and I’ll protect you as I did before you ever came to this place or knew this people.”
There was no response, other than the sound of my own cries, for my words fell like stones, they had wrenched tears from me. The Man from the Valley came up beside me. I expected him to admonish me for my actions, for I was nothing but a woman. Instead he leaned in closely and without judgment. “Let me try to speak to her,” he urged.
I waited at the mouth of the cave. I noticed there was a shallow pool of still water. Surely the Essenes drank from this pool, though it was not fit for human thirst. In the muddy earth there grew a small acacia tree. Little more than a twig, it was abloom. A thousand bees came to its branches. I closed my eyes and listened t
o the hum. For a moment I was in the other world, in the grip of my other life, riding over the grasslands. I dreamed that I made a fire and burned a hundred branches and that the sparks flew into the sky and stayed in the heavens to become stars.
I rose when the Man from the Valley approached. I was parched from our journey, but upon seeing him I felt as though something had been quenched. I stood by his side as he told me the Essenes had agreed to accept the provisions. He had been brought before Abba so that a prayer could be offered on his behalf. The ancient teacher could barely speak, for he was so weak that the thread that tied him to this world was wearing thin. My sister had managed to stand nearby. After Abba finished chanting, she had whispered to the Man from the Valley so that he alone would hear. He was to tell me that she remembered me, the fastest rider, her father’s favorite son, the sister she had belonged to once, in another time and world.
WE WALKED in silence, as we always did. Our burden was lighter, for we no longer carried fruit and water and millet, as I no longer carried my sister’s fate in my hands. I had left her there. Whether or not we were to meet again in this lifetime was not for me to decide. She had renounced the girl I had brought to life, and because of this we were no longer bound to each other. Yet I would think of her not as a woman huddled in a cave, eyes downcast, waiting for the End of Days, but as the only birth I had ever witnessed, God’s great glory and miracle.
ERAN was waiting for us. We stopped before we climbed up toward the gate. As comrades, we agreed to do so without a word being said. We knew Rome was approaching, and we understood what this would mean. We took this one night for ourselves, in case there should be no other. We went to the cave where Yael had once told me a lion lived. There was no such lion inside. We made a fire deep inside the mouth of the cave. We knew that others had done so before us, for there were piles of ashes and soot. Perhaps whoever had been here before us had longed for freedom from the mountaintop, as we did. Perhaps they had wished for other worlds and times.
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