Angels at the Gate (15 page)

“In my homeland,” Mika says, “spiders decency to be small.”

At once, I ask the question politeness has kept from my tongue, “Where is your land?”

Mika reaches out and strokes Nami's chest. “Born in mountains north, but ancestry—land of my people, homeland, is far across sea.”

“Tell me of it.”

But he falls back, his face pale from the small effort of stroking Nami.

“Later,” I say. “Rest now.”

His eyes are already closed.

W
HEN
M
IKA WAKES
again, I smile encouragingly, but a new worry presses my mind. Not really new. It has been there from the beginning; I just have not had time for it.

I have made a broth from the mouse, the last of our water, and a handful of lentils I picked from another scraggly bush, sharing with Mika and Nami. I know what I must do, but it is too hot, so that task must wait.

Draining the cup, Mika puts it aside and insists I remove the bandage so he can look at his leg. I do so, careful not to let it touch the ground. We have no water to clean it, and the wadi is dry.

His mouth grim, Mika examines the leg as if it belongs to another. Finally, he grunts and leans back against the tree. “You good job, Adir. I see was infected. What use?”

“Onions. At least I think that's what they were. From your bag.”

“Good choice. Now, try else.”

My head drops. “We do not have the water.” I do not want to look at him, afraid he will read in my eyes what this means. His recovery is still fragile. He has not shared much about himself, but a man who will leave an encampment alone in the middle of the night to find his brother and perhaps revenge his host—is a man who will not lie on his back and die slowly.

“We must travel,” he says. “When cooler.”

I swallow. “You cannot travel.”

Mika starts to speak and then turns a critical healer's eyes on his leg. “No,” he says so quietly I almost do not hear. “Not on leg.” He eyes the tree branches overhead. “Perhaps a stick to hold weight.”

I bite my lower lip. He has been unaware of his state, unconscious for most of the time we have been here. Even with a crutch, my guess is he could hobble only to the edge of the wadi, at most, without collapsing.

In the end, he does just that. It takes that to prove to him the impossibility of travel.

“You alone go,” he says slowly after he has rested for a while. “Do know way to Lot's tents?”

“I know the way.”

“Then must go … tonight.”

He is right. A person could live without water maybe three days if travel is limited to night's cool. It is unlikely, but possible I could make it to Lot's tents. I am not certain how far the river swept us in that direction. But I would never return in time to bring help to Mika.

“I am not leaving you,” I say, stroking Nami's head, which rests on my thigh.

“You must.” Mika's gaze on me is intent, as if by the power of it, he
can force me to his will. I suspect, by the easy assumption in his voice, he is a man accustomed to commanding others. Is that, I wonder, because he is El's messenger or because of his position in his own land? I know little of this man—or his brother who holds my heart.

I feel a wistful smile curve my mouth. “I am not good at obedience, but even if I were, I could not go.”

His glare shifts into puzzlement.

With a sigh, I look up through the branches of the tree that have shattered the sun's dazzle into daggers of light. “Perhaps your ways are not ours. Perhaps you do not understand.” I look again at him. “My father gave his life for honor.”

Mika's head shakes. “Raiders slew him.”

“They did. But he died in your tent.”

Perfectly still now, his eyes fixed on me, Mika waits for my words. When they do not come, he asks softly. “Why, Adir?”

Long moments pass before I can continue, before the terrible clench in my throat releases enough for air or words to pass. Nami's gaze lifts to my face, though she keeps her head on my thigh. There are idiots who say a dog does not understand. Nami's understanding is silent, but deep.

At last, I can speak, though my voice emerges as a hoarse whisper. “My father went to your tent to defend your belongings, because you were his guest. That is our way.”

Silence hovers between us while Mika considers this, and then I say, “You are still our guest, wounded and in need of aid. I will not leave you.”

We find our Spirit in the wisdom spoken in the wind.

—a Pablo elder

W
HEN THE SCORCHING HEAT SUBSIDES
, but good light remains, Nami and I set off down the wadi, looking for pockets of shadow in the rocks where water might have pooled. My eye scans the stones and pebbled ground for areas thick with vegetation, particularly cane grass that might signal the presence of sweet water. I avoid the scrubby pines, because they can live in areas where the water dries faster and leave more salt.

My lips are already cracked and the back of my throat is parched. I used the last of the water to cook the mouse. There was really no choice in the matter. We had to eat, and Mika could not have handled raw meat. Mika drank his portion before I told him our situation, or else he might have protested. He may not know the ways of our people, but he is not a selfish man. In that, El chose well.

I am glad, because guest or no, I would not wish to die for a selfish man.

At my side, Nami pants. I watch her because animals often can smell water where it appears there is none. Her nose disturbs a hare, which bursts from beneath a shrub. Nami gives chase. She matches the quick changes of directions with an agility her lanky, puppyish play has never revealed. This is not play; this is life or death. The days of no food have
awakened this focus in her muscles and sinews. Her need drives her to anticipate the hare's movement, and instinct guides the decisive snap of her jaws that breaks its neck.

But it is her love for me that keeps her from devouring the meal, the warm flesh and scent of blood so tantalizing in her mouth—love that makes her turn and bring her prey to set at my feet.

And it is thirst that drives me to cut into it and drink the blood. It will not long satisfy my body's need for water, but the hot liquid wets my throat. I share it with Nami, then bind the hare's hind legs and attach it to my belt, and we continue the search.

The sun has almost touched the earth's lip when I find a place beneath an overhang of rock that shelters a tiny pool of water, not much more than Mika's bowl will hold. Nami noses among some bushes, no doubt hoping to find another hare. I fall to my knees and with hands that tremble in relief, lay my water skin down in it.

When my skin is half full, only a small puddle remains. Even my eyes are dry and gritty, and I long to splash my face, but instead, I call Nami over and let her drink what remains. It is not much, and I know she wants more. I take one long swallow from the skin and tie the cords of the bag. It is dusk and will be dark by the time I return to our tree.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
I find the pile of stones I left to mark the tiny pool. It is dry, but my hope is that water has soaked into the ground. Sometimes there is a rock shelf beneath that pools or channels water. Nami remembers she drank here yesterday and begins to dig, spraying me with grit. I smile and let her. When she tires, I do the same, using my dagger and a stone. This dulls the edges of my weapon, but it cannot be helped.

Throughout the morning, Nami and I take turns digging. Up to my elbow, the ground is dry, but after that, I am encouraged by a hint of moisture. Now the sun is half the distance to center sky and sucks the sweat off any bit of exposed skin. My robe and head wrap cover most of my body except for my eyes. I absorb a minimum of the sun or wind's hot breath, but I can feel my thirst as an ache throughout my body, viciously focused in my throat. The skin on the back of my hands is ridged with veins, like an old woman's.

Nami has given up on this game and lies in the deeper shadow of the overhang, her forepaws crossed, tongue lolling, watching me. I want to tell her to close her mouth, that she is losing moisture, but I know she cannot sweat, and this is how she cools herself. She would die quickly if she could not release her body's heat.

We will all die if I do not find water.

This knowledge drives me, even through the swelter of the overhead sun. Over and over, I place the end of the dagger into the dirt and drive it down with a stone against the hilt, praying to El the bronze blade does not break, praying water is there. I shake my head to dislodge the flies that crawl into the corners of my eyes, seeking moisture.

The blade does not break, but there is no water.

I stop when the dirt in my hole turns dry again. Then I know it is useless to dig deeper. My fingers drop the knife and stone. There is a buzzing sound in the distance and a queer feeling in my belly. I do not have the strength to shake my head, and the flies cluster. Vaguely, I face the thought that I cannot return to Mika. I am sinking somewhere, somewhere deep and cool. I want to be cool. Perhaps there is water in the depths of this dark well.

My last thought is the realization my face has fallen into the hole I dug.

Now Sarai, Abram's wife, had not been able to bear children for him. But she had an Egyptian servant named Hagar. So Sarai said to Abram, “The Lord has prevented me from having children. Go and sleep with my servant. Perhaps I can have children through her.” And Abram agreed with Sarai's proposal. So Sarai, Abram's wife, took Hagar the Egyptian servant and gave her to Abram as a wife. (This happened ten years after Abram had settled in the land of Canaan.) So Abram had sexual relations with Hagar, and she became pregnant. But when Hagar knew she was pregnant, she began to treat her mistress, Sarai, with contempt.

—Book of Genesis 16:1-4

A
DOG BARKS IN THE DISTANCE
. This is annoying, and I ignore it. Then there are more sounds—voices—and strong hands lift me. My eyes blink to a flash of men in dark, flowing robes, the underbelly of a camel, and a long, braided tassel that swings beneath it. The smell of blood. A wet tongue on my face and in my ear.
Wet
. That captures my attention. I force my eyes open to see Nami standing over me and, beyond her, desert men clustered around me.

“Look,” one says, “the boy is awake.”

“Water?” I croak, and a skin is placed in my hands. The warm liquid is the sweetest I have ever tasted. They let me lie still while life returns to my body, awakening like the desert opening to rain.

“Many thanks,” I gasp. “I ask your hospitality and help for myself and my friend.”

The young man nearest me frowns. “Your friend?”

I point. “Under the acacia tree that grows close to the wadi's edge.”

“I know the place,” the man says, nodding.

W
HEN
I
NEXT
awake, my memory is like a stream that runs beneath rocks, appearing for a ways and then disappearing underground. A fragment of riding on a camel, someone's arms around me to keep me from falling. Mika under the tree. More riding. Snatches of words floating around me. A tent. A woman kneeling next to me. Mika's weak voice.

I wake to a familiar view—wisps of coarse goat hairs protruding from the weave of a tent roof. Black goat-hair walls surround me on two sides. Down the middle of the tent, dividing the space in two, is the long woven wall that separates the men's area from the women's. I know my secret is still mine because I am privy to the beautiful finished patterns. The back of the weaving always faces the women's partition. Strangely, this does not relieve me. I am unsettled, but I cannot name my feelings.

The deep, throaty bellow of a camel and the smell of cooking goat stir me, and I roll onto my knees. Only then do I notice Mika, asleep on another of several palm-braided mats. I smell him too … and myself. With great relief I see a large bowl and clean clothing set out for us.

I see no one nearby, so I quickly wash my body and the binding I keep around my breasts and put on the clothes without an attempt to dry myself. The desert air will do that soon enough. What a joy to be clean!

I stand, my ears buzz, and I must catch myself on a tent pole, but after a moment, my head clears, and I walk out. The area near the tent is empty, though I can see women inside other tents. A small boy, perhaps six summers of age, catches sight of me and approaches.

“Greetings,” he says with a lopsided smile, in the language of the south desert. “I am Shem. I offer you the hospitality of my tribe.”

“I am most grateful,” I reply. And I am, but a fear gnaws my belly with the pangs of hunger. “Do you know what happened to my dog? She is black with gold brows—”

“Yes-yes,” he says quickly. “She is well. My father took her hunting. He has a fine falcon. You will see.”

I smile, relief pouring through me.

“Do you want milk?” Shem asks.

“That sounds very good.”

“Our camels give beautiful milk, and they are the most beautiful camels in all the world. You will see.” A gap-toothed smile flashes across his face.

I laugh, charmed by his enthusiasm and loyalty toward his family's camels. It is, I realize, the first time I have laughed since the day the raiders came. I also realize it has been days since I thought of Raph, and guilt plucks at me. What has happened to him? Is he even alive?

Following Shem around the scattered array of tents, I see he has not spoken in bravado. The white camel is not particularly happy at the process of being milked or at being separated from the herd, which is not in sight. Shem rests a large bowl on one raised knee and uses both hands to milk, hopping on one leg without spilling a drop when she moves. A small replica of the mother camel hugs her opposite side, all wobbly legs.