The Dovekeepers
Page 72
Usually I was the first to arrive to care for the doves, but on this day we had tarried while I introduced Yael to my grandchildren. Shirah and her daughters were already at work; they stared when we entered together, as puzzled by our new alliance as they were by the mark on Yael’s face. I had done nothing but complain about Yael since her arrival, true enough. But a woman can change her mind.
“I needed help with my grandsons,” I said, indicating that our being together was a simple matter, despite the bruise which clearly signified more had transpired. “I’m too old to play games.”
That was that, no need for further explanation. A good thing, since none would be forthcoming. Women were hurt every day and kept the cause to themselves. Yael threw me a grateful look and quickly set to work. I took note of the slave’s expression when he spied the injury upon her face. Had he owned his freedom, I imagined he might have been seized with the need to go in search of whoever had harmed her. I signaled for him to pay attention to his duties. He did so, but all the rest of the day he was attentive to Yael’s every move. It was odd to see him behaving as though his loyalty tied him to a woman who carried another man’s child.
“Leave her be,” I told him when no one would overhear. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. “She has troubles enough, she doesn’t need yours.”
“What makes you think I have troubles?” he asked in the hesitant way he spoke our language.
I paused and took him in as he worked with the rake he had invented to gather dung, a warrior the doves no longer feared. I had thought of him as an oddity because of his fair coloring and his great height, which forced him to crouch down in the dovecote. Now I saw that he was indeed handsome, broad-shouldered, with appealing features and huge, rough hands that were surprisingly tender when he cared for the doves.
“You’re not a man?” I said, implying that every man in this world had troubles of his own.
“I was,” he said. “Once.”
I wasn’t so old that I didn’t understand his meaning. Despite the bonds of slavery, he would become so again.
EACH DAY we could hear our warriors preparing for raids. Our storerooms were low on supplies, our stomachs empty. Summer was always a time when our lives were lean, but this year was worse than others. At the evening meal I ate half of what was on my plate—a few chickpeas, some pressed dates—to ensure that the boys and Yael could have more. We had each been given one of the ostraca, a bit of stone with our name or initial carved upon it, and that mark would grant us only so much food and water and firewood each week. It was a troubling time for everyone. The heat of the summer was fully upon us, the billowing air so dry that we wore scarves over our mouths to cool our breath. The water in the cisterns had already reached a low mark, and we were just entering the month of fire.
Yael and I did not speak of our arrangement, but she continued to stay in our small chamber. My grandsons were shy with her at first, but one day she called them to her. Although the boys were hesitant, they gathered near when Yael pointed out a scorpion in a shadowy corner. When she was a little girl, she told them, she would watch such creatures in the hall where she slept but was always careful not to touch them. She warned Levi and Noah, they, too, must never disturb a scorpion, staying a respectful distance away, appreciating not only the deadly sting of such a creature but its cunning silence.
My dark-eyed grandsons watched, mesmerized, visibly delighted as Yael caught the fearsome intruder in a jar. She nimbly pinched him up between her fingers. I wondered what else she had done that had called for such bravery, or if, like mine, her courage sprang from sorrow. The less you had to lose, the easier it was to pick up the knife, the sword, the scorpion. When she carried the deadly creature out to the terraced gardens nearby, the boys followed at her heels, thrilled by her daring. Seeing them so lighthearted and filled with interest made my throat tighten, and I felt I might lose my voice as well. Marked by grins and deep concentration, the boys appeared no different than any other children; no one would have taken them for two boys who had lost the power of speech in the web of a demon. They were fascinated, crouching on their knees in a patch of Syrian radishes to watch openmouthed as Yael allowed the scorpion to go free in a shady nook among a cluster of onions.
“The world is many things to many creatures,” she told the children as we all surveyed the walled garden, what was surely a forest for a small creature that had been torn from its home. The scorpion had scuttled out of sight. “We are considered giants by some and ants to be stepped upon by others.”
“I needed help with my grandsons,” I said, indicating that our being together was a simple matter, despite the bruise which clearly signified more had transpired. “I’m too old to play games.”
That was that, no need for further explanation. A good thing, since none would be forthcoming. Women were hurt every day and kept the cause to themselves. Yael threw me a grateful look and quickly set to work. I took note of the slave’s expression when he spied the injury upon her face. Had he owned his freedom, I imagined he might have been seized with the need to go in search of whoever had harmed her. I signaled for him to pay attention to his duties. He did so, but all the rest of the day he was attentive to Yael’s every move. It was odd to see him behaving as though his loyalty tied him to a woman who carried another man’s child.
“Leave her be,” I told him when no one would overhear. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. “She has troubles enough, she doesn’t need yours.”
“What makes you think I have troubles?” he asked in the hesitant way he spoke our language.
I paused and took him in as he worked with the rake he had invented to gather dung, a warrior the doves no longer feared. I had thought of him as an oddity because of his fair coloring and his great height, which forced him to crouch down in the dovecote. Now I saw that he was indeed handsome, broad-shouldered, with appealing features and huge, rough hands that were surprisingly tender when he cared for the doves.
“You’re not a man?” I said, implying that every man in this world had troubles of his own.
“I was,” he said. “Once.”
I wasn’t so old that I didn’t understand his meaning. Despite the bonds of slavery, he would become so again.
EACH DAY we could hear our warriors preparing for raids. Our storerooms were low on supplies, our stomachs empty. Summer was always a time when our lives were lean, but this year was worse than others. At the evening meal I ate half of what was on my plate—a few chickpeas, some pressed dates—to ensure that the boys and Yael could have more. We had each been given one of the ostraca, a bit of stone with our name or initial carved upon it, and that mark would grant us only so much food and water and firewood each week. It was a troubling time for everyone. The heat of the summer was fully upon us, the billowing air so dry that we wore scarves over our mouths to cool our breath. The water in the cisterns had already reached a low mark, and we were just entering the month of fire.
Yael and I did not speak of our arrangement, but she continued to stay in our small chamber. My grandsons were shy with her at first, but one day she called them to her. Although the boys were hesitant, they gathered near when Yael pointed out a scorpion in a shadowy corner. When she was a little girl, she told them, she would watch such creatures in the hall where she slept but was always careful not to touch them. She warned Levi and Noah, they, too, must never disturb a scorpion, staying a respectful distance away, appreciating not only the deadly sting of such a creature but its cunning silence.
My dark-eyed grandsons watched, mesmerized, visibly delighted as Yael caught the fearsome intruder in a jar. She nimbly pinched him up between her fingers. I wondered what else she had done that had called for such bravery, or if, like mine, her courage sprang from sorrow. The less you had to lose, the easier it was to pick up the knife, the sword, the scorpion. When she carried the deadly creature out to the terraced gardens nearby, the boys followed at her heels, thrilled by her daring. Seeing them so lighthearted and filled with interest made my throat tighten, and I felt I might lose my voice as well. Marked by grins and deep concentration, the boys appeared no different than any other children; no one would have taken them for two boys who had lost the power of speech in the web of a demon. They were fascinated, crouching on their knees in a patch of Syrian radishes to watch openmouthed as Yael allowed the scorpion to go free in a shady nook among a cluster of onions.
“The world is many things to many creatures,” she told the children as we all surveyed the walled garden, what was surely a forest for a small creature that had been torn from its home. The scorpion had scuttled out of sight. “We are considered giants by some and ants to be stepped upon by others.”
