Angels at the Gate (31 page)

I am bold when I should be discreet. “Who has said you will bear a son?” This seems very unlikely, given her age.

“According to my husband, El has said it.”

I am curious. “You think the word of El is nonsense?”

Sarai meets my gaze without the slightest discomfort. “All the gods are fickle.”

I have heard this said in the lands of Babylonia where the rivers ebb and wane and flood with capriciousness. In Egypt, where the Nile's flood can be marked to the precise day and hour, the gods are viewed as steadfast. This, I see for the first time, is reflected in the characters of Sarai and Hagar. Hagar is always hopeful and sees tomorrow as a better day. Sarai is practical and plans for the disaster sure to come.

Sarai strokes the fine wool cloth in her lap. “But I have a little more faith in the potions El's messenger left me.”

Would Mika be that messenger? If so, she must mean he gave her herbs the last time my father and I had been here. Or perhaps the third wise man had been the one to give them to her. “Is there any sign?” I ask.

A quiet and beautiful smile melts the sternness from her face. “I will swear you to secrecy with my handmaids.”

I nod.

“My moon blood has returned.”

This is not exactly a pregnancy, but it is a miracle no less, though I have heard women sometimes stop their moon blood and then start it again. My own has ceased, not from age, of course, but from the blows my belly received. Quickly, I focus my attention back to Sarai, unwilling to return, even in my mind, to that dark cave.

“That is a hopeful sign,” I say.

With a trace of smugness, she picks up her mending. “We will see. If I give birth, I will have to suckle the child before all the women to prove it is my own.”

This I do not doubt.

“Meanwhile, there is much to do, including finding you a suitable husband.”

I want to laugh … and cry. “That may be a challenge greater than having a child.”

She looks at me critically, seeing all the damage of my flesh and perhaps some that is deeper. “We will see.”

For in his days the angels of the Lord descended upon earth—those who are named the Watchers—that they should instruct the children of men that they should do judgment and uprightness upon earth.

—Book of Jubilees

I
AM RESTLESS IN THE TENTS
with the women, awkward at the tasks assigned to me with my stiff fingers and uncomfortable under the quickly averted gazes. No one speaks of what has happened to me, as if my past is a large hole in the earth everyone avoids.

It is a black fissure for me as well, but when I encounter it, I stop and stare down into its abyss. My father is down there. And Chiram. I never understood how important Chiram was to me. I am still not sure how this is so.

Raph is gone and Mika—I cannot begin to accept that he is no longer part of my life, though it is truth. I see now that what I loved in Raph was what I imagined. But Mika—my love for Mika formed bit by bit, growing from tiny seeds planted in the desert, its roots spreading so unobtrusively that its bloom, at last, was a surprise. Mere distance or time cannot unwind them. His love has changed me as surely as what happened in the cave.

Nami stays by my side, knowing, as she somehow always does, that I need her.

I
SEEK THE
refuge and comfort of the herds, sitting alone until Ishmael finds me. It is the first time we have been alone together since my return.

“What happened to your face?” he asks, staring at my cheek.

Startled that this question comes first, I look at him. “A man kicked me and shattered the bones.”

Ishmael's mouth tightens. “I will kill him.”

“He is already dead.”

“Then I will pray to El that his children and his children's children are tormented by demons.”

Ishmael's frankness and loyalty melt some of the pain in my chest I thought permanently lodged there. “Thank you, Ishmael.”

Taking a seat on the rock beside me, he pulls out a fine bronze knife and reaches down for a stick to sharpen. “Why did you not tell me you were a girl?” he demands, now that we have dispensed with priorities.

“Because it was my father's wish that it be a secret.”

He mulls over this. “If you had told me, I would have kept it secret.”

I smile. Ishmael and I are like siblings, though we did not see one another for long periods. I was older and showed him how to read the silent language of the donkeys, goats, and sheep, and how to train a dog to herd them.

He applies the blade to the stick and begins to strip off the bark. “Now what are you going to do?”

“It is up to Sarai. If she finds a miracle man who will agree to wed a monstrosity who cannot bear him children, then I will be a wife. Otherwise, I do not know.”

When have I decided this?
When did marriage become a haven, the place of refuge and safety my father always considered it? A new thought arises, born of this moment. What would stop me from changing back into a man's dress and starting a business somewhere as a merchant or buying a caravan, as Chiram had envisioned? My heart begins to beat, as if it had been a dead thing startled into life, but with it stirs a demon of fear born in a cave across the desert. My childhood efforts with Ishmael to tweak a demon from its hiding place may have resulted only in squeals of imagined terror, but now one rises before me, clawed paws spread wide, mouth agape.

“I will marry you,” Ishmael announces.

Again, his loyalty is a healing balm. “I am honored, Ishmael, but you
are your father's only heir, and El has promised to make of him a nation of people. You must bear him sons.”

Ishmael's blade takes a savage bite from the wood. “Then I will take another wife for that.”

I start to protest and then close my mouth. What can I say? His own mother is second wife to Abram and has borne him a child when Sarai could not. It is not an uncommon practice here and in Babylonia.

Then a lance of cold spears my spine, despite the sun's warmth. What would happen to Ishmael should Sarai conceive and give Abram an heir? I know the tale of Sarai's wrath when Hagar boasted she was with child and publicly bragged she was now the favored wife. Hagar may have been a slave, but she had been a king's slave and always carried herself with the pride or implied superiority of the Egyptians.

But Hagar had underestimated Sarai's power. Blood bound Abram and Sarai, as well as vows. Sarai was, after all, not only Abram's wife, but also his half-sister. She had been with him all his life, traveled with him from Ur and then to Egypt, where she lied to the king for his life. He owed her much.

After Hagar's insult, Sarai had gone to Abram. He acknowledged her position as mistress of the household, which included life-and-death authority over the slaves, servants, and their children. In a rage, Sarai confronted Hagar and beat her, and pregnant Hagar fled into the wilderness.

Of course, Sarai relented, and Hagar returned unharmed, but strangely convinced that El had saved her and anointed the child she carried to be the father of a people. She spoke of this to the other servants, who joked, behind her hearing, that the sun had addled her. As it was not a public declaration, Sarai was able to ignore it.

This household, I decided, had as much drama as that performed between the gods in the temples of Ur and Babylon.

I put a hand on Ishmael's arm to get his attention. “Ishmael, what would you do with your life if you were not Abram's heir?”

“What?”

“Just a game,” I say. “What would you do if you could choose?”

Ishmael blinks. He has his mother's long, thick eyelashes, black hair, and Abram's dark, luminous eyes. I am certain Hagar would find a willing bride for him.

At my question, those eyes light with the same fire as his father's when
he spoke of El. “If I were not heir, I would leave these donkeys, cattle, and sheep and become a merchant like you, travel the world. I want to see all the lands you have seen—the great temples of Babylon and gold-capped tombs of Egypt. I would travel to the middle of the sea and to the desert's heart.” Excitement lifted his voice. “I would not have to sit and listen to your stories. I would have stories of my own!”

A portion of my worry eases. Ishmael could do these things if Sarai bore an heir. He would be free. He could lift his head to the wind and taste whatever mysteries and surprises it might bring him.

Just then, Nami leaps to her feet and before I can stop her, she is off.

“What is it?” Ishmael cries, jumping up and dropping the stick he had been sharpening. His knife remains in his hand.

“She has seen something. I do not know what.”

Nami stretches out across the grass-tufted plain, her ears swept back like black pennants. I start to call her, but she is so beautiful, so full of grace and so happy to be chasing something, I do not, even though she heads for a herd of cattle.

“A wolf?” Ishmael asks, his hand tightening on the knife.

I shade my eyes. “Could be.” But we both know wolves hunt at night. Though our legs are still, we are running with Nami. She carries our yearning for a future and freedom.

Suddenly, Nami dashes left and then right—into the middle of the cattle, which scatter with deep bellows of protest. Nami is oblivious. Her prey, whatever it may be, is in her sight and even if I tried to call her, she would not heed me. Ishmael and I both watch, entranced by her swift turns, thrilled when she flattens out for a straight run. I think we both can feel the wind in her face.

She has left the area where the cattle pasture. We lose sight of her in the high grass, but track her by the startled movement of bleating sheep. Ishmael climbs a stone.

“Can you see her?” I rise to my toes.

“No … wait, yes. I think she is close to whatever she chases.”

So intent are we, neither of us has heard anyone approach, and we are startled when a long arm reaches out to grab Ishmael's.

“What in the name of the Queen of Heaven?”

It is Eliezer, Abram's steward. Everyone, with the possible exception of Sarai and Abram, fears Eliezer.

Ishmael blanches at the grip on his arm.

“What is happening?” Eliezer demands. His anger reddens the small, sickle-shaped scar on his forehead. Fear spears my heart. The sickle is a sign of the god of death in Babylonia. No wonder Eliezer is shunned. I feel my bones go to water. Eliezer's anger has raised my own god of death—Scar.

Eliezer squeezes Ishmael's arm. “Why are the cattle and sheep running all over the place?”

I cannot speak, but he is not looking at me.

“They are your responsibility, Ishmael!”

“I—” Ishmael begins, but I interrupt him with a hoarse voice and my distorted speech. “It is not his fault; it is my dog that has disrupted the herds.” My body is rigid, waiting for the blow to come.

Eliezer barely glances at me and does not loosen his hold on Ishmael. His fierce scowl under thick black brows suddenly reminds me of Chiram, and some of my panic fades, though my heart still pounds in my chest and my mouth is dry.

“Call your dog!” he demands.

“I cannot,” I say.

He does not spit, as Chiram would, but now fixes me directly in the path of his piercing scorn. “Why not? What kind of worthless dog do you own?”

Flames scorch my cheeks, and my own anger—ignited in defense of Nami—burns away what remains of the fear. “My dog is worth more than all your herds.”

One of those dark brows rise, reminding me now of Tabni. “Is that a truth?” His sarcasm seems muted by surprise that I do not flinch from him. Not many dare Eliezer's wrath.

At that moment, Nami appears with a fat, bloody hare in her mouth. Proudly, she trots to me and drops her prize at my feet.

Eliezer releases his hold on Ishmael. “Well—” He seems lost for the rest of what he planned to say.

“She is a hunter, not a herder.” I rest my hand on Nami's slender head. Reaching down, I grab the hare by its ears and hold it out to him. “Perhaps Hagar would appreciate this for her pot?”

When Eliezer and the hare are at a distance, Ishmael gives me an appreciative look. “I have never heard anyone talk to Eliezer like that.” He grins.

I grin back, not mentioning that my skin is slick with sweat.

Then we are rolling in the grass, laughing so hard tears leak from our eyes. Nami, panting from her exertions, watches us with perplexed concern.

Then one of them [the angels] said, “I will return to you about this time next year, and your wife, Sarah, will have a son!”

Sarah was listening to this conversation from the tent. Abraham and Sarah were both very old by this time, and Sarah was long past the age of having children. So she laughed silently to herself and said, “How could a worn-out woman like me enjoy such pleasure, especially when my master—my husband—is also so old?”