The Dovekeepers
Page 168
I called her Yonah, for she had come into the world because of a message brought by a dove.
My wife, my beloved, my daughter, my world.
ALL THROUGH the night our people reinforced the second wall, our only defense against the abyss. They lashed together the boughs of the almond trees that had been hewn so hastily, chinking the open spaces with mud so that the new wall would be pliant, moving with the thrusts of the battering ram. The Feast of Unleavened Bread would be celebrated the following day. On all other such festivals, our people would have gathered together to give thanks for our freedom from Egypt. Now we did not have time for anything except the prayers we carried inside us.
But the wall that could not be broken could be burned. The scent of almonds rose in a bitter cloud. The Romans lit our wall on fire, and there was a ring of flame around us.
In my doorway, I gazed upon my daughter in my arms as I heard the men chanting, for the chants had lifted above the sound of warfare. I heard women crying. As I gazed upon our sorrow, I turned to take note of a shadow in my garden, a raven crouched down among the rows of vegetables I had grown, all burned to ash now, the mint and rue, the coriander and the hyssop mere twigs. I went into the garden that was no more.
Channa had come to see the child. She was gaunt, as we all were, but her face lit up when she spied the infant in my arms. She vowed that she had told no one about the birth, not even our leader, so as not to distract him. She whispered that the doves I had released had returned to tell her of the birth, the ones in the cage behind her house who had visited me in the land of Moab.
I signaled to her, and she came as a dog might, trotting over, head down. She was captivated instantly, her face eager as I lifted up the child for her to see. I watched as my enemy stood there weeping, not with sorrow but with joy.
She had sent me into the wilderness, but I did not remember how my bare feet had burned on the stones. She had disparaged me and ruined me, but I did not recall the words that had been used against me or remember the years I had spent in Moab. The garden was burning, the air sparked with specks of flame as they say it will be in the World-to-Come when we walk beside the angels and have no fear of their illumination or of their might.
I let her hold our daughter. We rejoiced together over the beauty of our husband’s child, for she was like a pool of water, still and beautiful. We were submerged, our thirst quenched, though there were fires and bursts of flame everywhere, on leaves and rooftops, falling upon us like rain. We sat there, our heads close, as others hid in their chambers or worked furiously to put out the flames. We were no longer thirsty, and no longer had any need of fury or revenge, for we were enemies no more.
HOURS LATER, the entire wall caught fire. It encircled us as a snake would, meant to devour us. We believed our time had come, but then God sent us the wind from the north, and the blaze blew back to the Romans. It burned their soldiers alive and caught their battering rams aflame. Our people came to watch and sank to their knees in gratitude.
But what we are given is taken as well, so that we know God’s glory comes to us from His will alone. The rescue was temporary. The wind changed direction again; it came from the south and was our enemy once more. Our people ran, in fear for their lives. They soaked themselves with what little water they could find in an attempt to withstand the blaze of heat. Everyone could hear the Romans’ cheering and their bloodthirsty cries. They posted a thousand guards in the valley, so that none of our people might slip over Herod’s wall and escape.
We gathered in my chambers, covered with soot. Yael’s boy, with his dark and beautiful eyes, was quiet; he seemed to sense the terror that had come upon us and dared not cry. We poured water over our heads from a pitcher, in the hope no sparks would light upon us. I nursed my child and thought of how Nahara and Adir’s father had not seen his children for ten days after they were born, the practice of his people. Only now did I realize this law was not merely to prevent the father from seeing the child in a bruised condition, the price of the journey of being born. Rather it was to ensure that a father waited until it was more certain that his child would live. To be attached to what is bound to die made no sense to the fierce people from Moab, for they rode with death and pitched their tents with death. They knew that flesh was not lasting in this world.
I would follow their law now and keep my daughter from her father’s eyes so that he would not have to love something he was bound to lose. As I held her inside my cloak, two hearts beat against my chest. But no creature can contain more than one heart. I knew that one of us would live and one would die. I wept to think I would not hear my child call me mother.
My wife, my beloved, my daughter, my world.
ALL THROUGH the night our people reinforced the second wall, our only defense against the abyss. They lashed together the boughs of the almond trees that had been hewn so hastily, chinking the open spaces with mud so that the new wall would be pliant, moving with the thrusts of the battering ram. The Feast of Unleavened Bread would be celebrated the following day. On all other such festivals, our people would have gathered together to give thanks for our freedom from Egypt. Now we did not have time for anything except the prayers we carried inside us.
But the wall that could not be broken could be burned. The scent of almonds rose in a bitter cloud. The Romans lit our wall on fire, and there was a ring of flame around us.
In my doorway, I gazed upon my daughter in my arms as I heard the men chanting, for the chants had lifted above the sound of warfare. I heard women crying. As I gazed upon our sorrow, I turned to take note of a shadow in my garden, a raven crouched down among the rows of vegetables I had grown, all burned to ash now, the mint and rue, the coriander and the hyssop mere twigs. I went into the garden that was no more.
Channa had come to see the child. She was gaunt, as we all were, but her face lit up when she spied the infant in my arms. She vowed that she had told no one about the birth, not even our leader, so as not to distract him. She whispered that the doves I had released had returned to tell her of the birth, the ones in the cage behind her house who had visited me in the land of Moab.
I signaled to her, and she came as a dog might, trotting over, head down. She was captivated instantly, her face eager as I lifted up the child for her to see. I watched as my enemy stood there weeping, not with sorrow but with joy.
She had sent me into the wilderness, but I did not remember how my bare feet had burned on the stones. She had disparaged me and ruined me, but I did not recall the words that had been used against me or remember the years I had spent in Moab. The garden was burning, the air sparked with specks of flame as they say it will be in the World-to-Come when we walk beside the angels and have no fear of their illumination or of their might.
I let her hold our daughter. We rejoiced together over the beauty of our husband’s child, for she was like a pool of water, still and beautiful. We were submerged, our thirst quenched, though there were fires and bursts of flame everywhere, on leaves and rooftops, falling upon us like rain. We sat there, our heads close, as others hid in their chambers or worked furiously to put out the flames. We were no longer thirsty, and no longer had any need of fury or revenge, for we were enemies no more.
HOURS LATER, the entire wall caught fire. It encircled us as a snake would, meant to devour us. We believed our time had come, but then God sent us the wind from the north, and the blaze blew back to the Romans. It burned their soldiers alive and caught their battering rams aflame. Our people came to watch and sank to their knees in gratitude.
But what we are given is taken as well, so that we know God’s glory comes to us from His will alone. The rescue was temporary. The wind changed direction again; it came from the south and was our enemy once more. Our people ran, in fear for their lives. They soaked themselves with what little water they could find in an attempt to withstand the blaze of heat. Everyone could hear the Romans’ cheering and their bloodthirsty cries. They posted a thousand guards in the valley, so that none of our people might slip over Herod’s wall and escape.
We gathered in my chambers, covered with soot. Yael’s boy, with his dark and beautiful eyes, was quiet; he seemed to sense the terror that had come upon us and dared not cry. We poured water over our heads from a pitcher, in the hope no sparks would light upon us. I nursed my child and thought of how Nahara and Adir’s father had not seen his children for ten days after they were born, the practice of his people. Only now did I realize this law was not merely to prevent the father from seeing the child in a bruised condition, the price of the journey of being born. Rather it was to ensure that a father waited until it was more certain that his child would live. To be attached to what is bound to die made no sense to the fierce people from Moab, for they rode with death and pitched their tents with death. They knew that flesh was not lasting in this world.
I would follow their law now and keep my daughter from her father’s eyes so that he would not have to love something he was bound to lose. As I held her inside my cloak, two hearts beat against my chest. But no creature can contain more than one heart. I knew that one of us would live and one would die. I wept to think I would not hear my child call me mother.
