The Blessing Stone (23 page)

Avram was taken to a string of stone structures where female cattle were housed, cows that had not been born in the wild but here in the mountain stables where they were kept for their milk, just as Bodolf’s reindeer had been.

“You have noticed that we worship the bull, Avram,” Hadadezer said, who had been brought to the milking stables on his carrying platform. “The bull is the creator of life. Our women bathe in bull’s blood in order to get pregnant.”

Avram had noticed the steer horns that were present in many homes, and symbols of the bull everywhere. He stared in astonishment at the placid beasts who allowed men to handle them. What magic did these people possess that they could tame animals?

“In the time of our ancestors,” Hadadezer said as he offered Avram a cup of yogurt, “before we built this mountain town, when we still lived in tents and roamed the plain, we worshipped the earth and the sky for we knew nothing of how the bull gives the cow its calf. And then our ancestors were told by the gods to stop roaming and to build this place, and to bring animals in from the plains and keep them here so that the spirit of the Great Bull could make our people fruitful. This is what makes my people so strong, Avram, the spirit of the Great Bull, whereas
your
people are born of the moon, which makes them weak. I mean no insult but speak only the truth. You will see for yourself how life at the Perennial Spring has lost vigor and vitality. I would send a bull with you if I could, but they are impossible to manage.”

Avram noted that Hadadezer spoke of bulls the way Bodolf had spoken of the reindeer, so that he wondered if each race was propagated by a different god. It would explain why people over the world varied in their appearance and characteristics—the People of the Reindeer with their pale hair and skin from drinking reindeer milk; Hadadezer’s people with their reddish complexions from the blood of the bull.
And my people are small and dark, for we are born of the moon and her realm is the night.

As he dwelled among the stone walls and ruddy-skinned people, learning their ways and sleeping with their women, accustoming his stomach to yogurt, cheese, and milk, a strange disease began to creep into Avram’s soul. It was not an illness of the flesh, not heralded by physical signs or symptoms, but rather a disorder of the spirit. It entered Avram’s body by way of dreams that were sinister and turbulent, and memories that came unbidden, dark and disquieting, all centered upon one theme: the night Yubal died. In slumber was Avram forced to relive that night over and over, seeing himself wake up, discovering the two naked figures embraced in the darkness, realizing that Yubal had engineered everything so that he could have Marit for himself. The pain of that discovery came back with fresh force every morning that Avram wakened from dreams that left him drenched in sweat. In all his years of journeying across strange and foreign lands he had given little thought to Yubal’s duplicity, the very thing that had caused Avram to curse Yubal in the first place. But now that he knew it was not his curse that had killed Yubal, now that he was free to remember the other aspects of that fateful night, Avram was plagued with the inescapable and brutal truth that the man he had loved and revered had arranged for Avram to go away with the abalonehunters so he could have Marit to himself.

Finally the heat of summer passed and Hadadezer consulted the local seer who declared it was a propitious time for the caravan to depart.

On the night before departure, Hadadezer confided in Avram that he would rather not have turned the caravan business over to his sister’s sons because they were a shiftless lot who despised hard work and had no business sense. He frankly admitted he thought they were cheating him. Unfortunately, tradition dictated that inheritance must stay within the family. “But that does not mean that I cannot place agents along the route, men whose loyalty I can count on.”

Avram would be Hadadezer’s representative at the Place of the Perennial Spring. The four other agents were the sons of the woman with whom Hadadezer had lived for many years. The eldest bore such a strong resemblance to Hadadezer that Avram was reminded of Yubal and himself, and Bodolf and Eskil. Hadadezer trusted these young men for they loved and honored him and would keep honest accounts of trade in the settlements where they would live: in the country of the
lebonah
trees, on the coast of the Great Sea, at the mouth of the Nile delta, and at the village that was flourishing and rapidly growing on the southern banks of the Nile. Hadadezer offered his guest gifts and Avram chose carefully, thinking of Parthalan, Reina, and Marit. These gifts would be the beginning of his atonement to them. In return, he gave Hadadezer Bodolf’s amber polar bear, which Hadadezer delighted over like a child.

On the morning of departure Avram saw another curiosity: donkeys trained to carry great loads. Although the People of the Reindeer had half-tamed their reindeer for milk and dogs for pulling sleds, they had certainly not attempted to burden the animals. This was astonishing. “There are limits,” Hadadezer warned. “Treat the donkeys well, feed them well and they will carry your burdens for you. Do not try to ride them yourself, for you will meet with a most unpleasant return to the ground.” Avram laughed and thought the old trader must be drunk, for who ever heard of a man
riding
a beast? Hadadezer had the donkeys and men loaded with goods to trade—seeds for cultivation, obsidian for tools and weapons—as well as provisions such as salt fish, beer, and bread. “As an investment,” he said to Avram, puffing from the exertion of having to give so many orders even though he had not left his carrying chair. “Refortify the settlement at the spring, Avram. Make it a prosperous place again, thereby making my caravan profitable again.”

Avram kissed Hadadezer’s plump nieces good-bye and as he led the caravan through the main gate of the walled town and toward the southern mountain pass, he hardened his heart and braced his spirit. He was prepared to beg his brothers’ forgiveness for running away and dishonoring the family; he would throw himself before Parthalan and restore the family’s honor; he would beseech Marit for exoneration and rededicate his heart to her. But he would never beg forgiveness from Yubal’s ghost, for it was Yubal who must ask forgiveness of Avram.

The caravan traveled the same route southward that had carried a bereft youth northward ten years prior, but now Avram saw the countryside with open eyes. On that journey in the past, when he was in the company of the feather-workers and he was a boy without a soul, he had looked at the landscape through soulless eyes and had seen nothing. But now he saw forests of cedar that were fragrant and magnificent, the Cave of Al-Iari and the home of his ancestors, and a river so sweetly familiar that he fell to the earth and wept with remorse-filled joy.

The sky was gray and a light winter rain fell when the caravan arrived at the Place of the Perennial Spring. The welcoming crowd on the hill was smaller than in times past, and Avram wondered if it was because there were no watchtowers, no one to alert the citizens that the caravan was arriving. But as he drew nearer, walking ahead of his pack donkey, he saw that the settlement itself was much smaller than when he had seen it last, and realized in shock that there were no mud-brick structures, not even the house he had grown up in. He recognized the man who came running to greet them as Namir, the goat-trapper, older and grayer, and shuffling with a limp. Behind him trailed people unfamiliar to Avram, so that he wondered if perhaps the entire population had changed in ten years.

Then Namir stopped suddenly, blinked owlishly, and cried, “It is a ghost!” and ran back to the settlement before Avram could assure him he was not Yubal returning from the dead.

Others, the older citizens, likewise stopped and gawked at Avram, their faces white with fear, while the younger ones ogled Dog and the laden donkeys, having never seen such things before.

Avram gave the signal for the caravan to make camp. Weary men unloaded their burdens, grumbling loudly as was their right, cook fires were lit—although more smoke than flame rose from the damp twigs and dung—and tents went up in the light drizzle. Avram thought it was a sad, ragtag affair, not at all like the grand days of Hadadezer. But his spirits were high as he anxiously searched the growing crowd for familiar faces. His brothers, would he even recognize them? His grandmother would not still be alive. But Marit, still a girl in his mind, surely she was here?

Finally a man of short stature but with the strut of a rooster came forward, walking with an impressive wooden staff. It took Avram a moment to recognize Molok, Marit’s
abba
. “Welcome, welcome!” he shouted with enthusiasm, but Avram saw the look of curiosity on the old man’s face as he stared at Avram with the frown of a man trying to identify something. Now they all came to greet the caravan as word spread through the settlement and more people arrived.

Three men came running, digging hoes still in their fists. Avram barely recognized them. In all his years of journeying, his brothers had remained boys in his mind, he had never imagined them growing up. But they were men now, robust and handsome. To Avram’s shock, Caleb fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around Avram’s legs. “Oh blessed day that brings our brother home! We thought you were dead!”

“Rise up, brother,” Avram said, lifting Caleb by the elbows. “It is I who should be at
your
feet.”

They embraced and shed tears on each other’s shoulders, and then the younger brothers welcomed Avram, openly crying with joy.

“Do I know you, man?” Molok said, squinting at Avram with eyes clouded with cataracts. “You look familiar.”

“
Abba
Molok,” he said respectfully, “I am Avram, son of Chanah, of the House of Talitha.”

“Eh? Avram? They said you were dead. But you are too meaty to be a ghost!” Molok raised his arms in a self-important way and declared the rest of the day to be one of celebration, an unnecessary announcement since already vats of beer were being rolled out, freshly slaughtered goats and sheep arrived on men’s backs, flat barley bread materialized along with jars of honey, platters of salt fish and fruit aplenty. The sound of flutes and rattles filled the air before all of the tents had been erected, along with shouts of reunion and recognition and welcoming laughter as people from the caravan mingled with people from the settlement.

It was, after all, like the old days.

By sunset the entire settlement, it seemed, had turned out, sharing food and cook fires, gossip and news. But the two faces Avram watched for had not yet appeared. He was afraid to ask his brothers what became of Marit and Reina the priestess.

Although the settlement was his home, Avram set up a small camp within the caravan, uncertain as yet of his status among his people. Although no longer guilty of Yubal’s murder, there was still the matter of dishonor. But nothing seemed amiss as his brothers happily brought ducks to roast on the fire, baskets of bread, and skins of wine. They were full of news, but were also eager to hear Avram’s news, remarking on his forehead tattoo and wanting to know where he had been all these years.

When Avram saw how his old friends and neighbors merrily launched themselves into the impromptu celebration, their misfortunes momentarily forgotten, their worries about tomorrow flown like a bird, something occurred to him that had not occurred to him in all the years of his absence: that the people in this settlement did not know it was he who had stolen the blue-crystal heart of the Goddess. Further, they did not know he had run away out of cowardice, or that he had purposely dishonored the contract Yubal had arranged with the abalone hunters. The reputation of disgrace and shame among his people had been in Avram’s imagination only, because as Hadadezer had said, they had no idea what happened to him.
They thought I had been killed, or kidnapped, or wandered off out of grief and somehow died. How can I ask them for forgiveness when they do not know what there is to forgive?

And then he saw something else in their hope-filled eyes: that they did not want to know the truth. He realized in a shuddering moment that so great had been their burdens and misfortunes during his absence, that it would be the worst cruelty to introduce dishonor, shame, and guilt into their lives now. So he made up a lively tale involving grief, getting lost, losing his memory, being captured, and fighting his way back—an epic story filled with gods and monsters, lusty women and feats of heroism, all of which everyone found suspect but loved for its entertainment, and as they passed around the wineskins no one blamed Avram for what happened ten years ago. The past was gone. Getting happily drunk was all that was on their minds now.

And then his brothers told him their own sad tale.

There were other bad-luck times while he was away, they told him, not just the raiders, but some bad-luck summers and then locusts one year devouring all the crops so that a lot of families pulled up stakes and resumed the nomadic life. The settlement, once so large and thriving, was reduced to a few hangers-on. “What is the use in planting and cultivating a crop only to have it stolen?”

He asked about the summer grape harvest as it was nearly the time of the winter solstice and they would be going to the sacred cave soon for the tasting of the new vintage. But Caleb sadly shook his head, saying that there had been a pitiful grape crop that summer, just enough to make raisins to trade to passing travelers. “The nomads come, camp here, and help themselves to our grapes. How do we three stop them? We cannot be vigilant night and day.”

“But what of the sons of Serophia?”

“After Yubal died, Marit went back to her family,” Caleb explained bitterly, “and so we no longer had the protection of her brothers. When the raiders came, the sons of Serophia did a good job saving their barley crop while our vineyard was stripped clean. It took us two years to have a good crop again, and then locusts came and ruined us once more. Since then we have barely been able to produce enough wine for ourselves, with a little extra to trade.”