Angels at the Gate (17 page)

Mika has insisted we continue working on his Akkadian, and he has become much more proficient. Only rarely do I have to correct him. He is not a man of many words in any language, but I hold him to his promise of answering my questions. I have asked him about his childhood and about Raph and told him of mine, except the part about my gender. I fear he might not understand that these people—who have saved our lives and treated us with such hospitality—might kill me for being a woman or for lying to them.

“Do not sit there,” I say, guiding him away from a cluster of saltbushes.

He looks around for signs of scorpions or snakes, a good habit he has acquired.

“That is a salt bush,” I say in explanation.

He pinches off the rounded leaf and puts it to his tongue. “So it is salty, why should I not sit near it?”

“If the sand flies bite you, it will leave an ugly round sore.”

“I have seen you sit near such bushes.”

I smile. “And I could show you the sore on my buttocks from it.”

He lifts an eyebrow, but moves to a flat stone a distance away.

“As can every member of this tribe,” I add.

“All on the buttocks?” he asks.

I can tell his healer curiosity is aroused. “Yes.”

“Sand flies only bite there?” The brow is arched higher in disbelief.

“They bite whatever they can reach, but a few days after its birth, every desert baby is wrapped with only its buttocks exposed and laid in the dust beneath a salt bush.”

“So the flies only bite the exposed flesh!”

“Yes. Otherwise, you might bear a scar on your face or other places more … sensitive.”

“I see, and once bitten, you do not get rashes anywhere again?”

I nod.

He rubs his chin through his thick red beard. “There are certain illnesses that once they strike a person, never repeat themselves.”

To change the subject to one more interesting to me, I settle beside
him with Nami between us and ask to hear more about the connection between our tribes.

Mika lies on his back and cushions his head with an arm, his eyes full of the haze of bright stars that needle the fabric of sky. He takes a deep breath and expels it as a teller would before beginning a story. “Long ago, when the Watchers saw a star approached the world, they remembered.”

He pauses, and I think this a strange way to begin a story. “Remembered what?” I ask.

“Ancient time when star falling brought ruin to earth—great fires and floods. My people lived on island, and all knowledge almost destroyed. They worried of it happening again, and so seeded their knowing throughout world.”

Mika rolls over onto one elbow and plucks a small stone, tossing it at one of the rock-paved trenches that collects water from the hillside when it rains and deposits it onto the fields where the tribes graze their animals. The thrown pebble strikes the rocks with a sharp ping and tumbles down the shallow, dry channel.

“How?” I ask, experience having taught me Mika needed prodding. “How did they seed their knowledge?”

“They sought wise men to give it.” He looks up again at the stars. “Enoch was such a man.”

“Enoch? The ancestor of Abram and my people?”

“The same. The father's father of Noah.”

As usual in conversations with Mika, my question has led to an answer that grows more questions. I do not know which to pursue. Finally, I ask, “What do you mean, ‘They saw a star approaching the world?' ”

His forehead wrinkles. “Do you remember I told you of the stone temples built my people by?”

“Stone temples my people built,” I correct. “Yes, I remember.”

“These revealed time with—” he scowls, searching for the word he needs. “Openings framed with stone.”

“Portals?” I suggest.

“Yes. The stars rose through portals, and my people tracked them.”

I do not need Watchers and portals to tell me that the stars wheel across the sky in predictable patterns and that the location of star clusters in the bowl of night indicates the seasons. “Why do you need a temple when you can just look up in the sky?”

He smiles. “Seasons revealed by eye, but with time-keeper temples, Watchers saw future … predict seasons to the day and tell people when to plant and when to harvest. My homeland was rich with much rain, but winters harsh and long. If plant sprouted too soon, frost killed it. Such knowing meant life for them.”

Mika looks up again to the night sky. “Every star has its path.”

This is something my father also said when I whined I did not want to be a girl or ever leave him.

He points toward the north sky. “Look there!”

I follow his finger to catch a streak of light across the firmament. In a moment, it is gone. “Is that what the Watchers saw?”

“Yes, but saw it every night grow closer before it burned day sky.” He points to the spot where the light had disappeared. “That time only a moment. A star fell, but yet”—he waved his arm from horizon to horizon—“all still in place, no star fallen.” The awe of this mystery edged his voice.

“So what did we just see?”

“My people think a flaming rock, eaten by own fire. The sky has wept many flaming stones, and sometimes leaves black, pitted rocks, holy stones, on ground.”

“I have never seen such a stone,” I say, and then amend, “or if I have, I did not know it came from the sky.”

“They fall without warning, but twice in my people's time, stars come in line with us. First time, Watchers tracked seven growing, night by night, until struck.”

Growing night by night
. I say the words over to myself, trying to imagine it and what it could mean. I can feel my brows knit together. “A distant object grows larger as it approaches.”

He reaches out his free hand and taps my head with a knuckle. “Adir, you have makings of Watcher.”

My thoughts are afire. “And black rocks would not be visible in the night sky. They must have been burning.”

“Yes, they burned. Grew large as sun.”

I inhale sharply. “Did the seven strike the world?” A phrase from Enoch's Telling rose in my mind though I did not say it aloud:
“I saw there seven stars like great burning mountains. I saw many stars descend and cast themselves down from heaven.”

“Oh yes,” Mika says quietly. “So long ago, only memory now in the
stories, but terrible memory. Water rose from deep; sea swallowed land and all on it.”

My hand seeks the warmth of Nami's coat for comfort. “Like the great flood in Noah's time?”

“Legend-memory in every tribe my people has met.”

Beneath my hand, the hairs of Nami's back bristle, and a low growl issues from her throat. Mika and I glance at each other, and then we are both on our feet. Mika's knife has found its way into his hand. Nami starts toward a large rock, but I lean down and grab her around the neck.

A trail of cloud veils the half moon. Wind nudges the cloud aside, and moonlight pricks white teeth from the dark. The shadows behind them resolve into a pointed muzzle, a round head with pointed ears and a bristling mane. The creature steps stiff-legged from shelter of boulders, revealing black stripes along its downward sloping torso.

Hyena.

“Stay, Nami,” I caution, my hand in her ruff. I do not want her to tangle with the carrion eater.

Mika's hand tightens on his knife.

“It will not attack unless something is wrong with it,” I say quietly. “They are lone hunters and eat the kill of other animals.”

“In north, hunt in packs,” Mika says, keeping his knife at ready.

Though she is compliant to my restraint, Nami's growl deepens into an unmistakable warning.

With a show of teeth, the hyena backs away into the gloom, eaten by the night.

Wisely, Mika moves so our backs are touching to prevent the hyena from slinking around behind us, but after a while, the ruff of Nami's fur flattens, and I release her. “Do not speak of this,” I advise.

Mika slips his dagger back into the sash at his belt. “Why?”

“A bad sign to the desert people. A demon.”

“You believe so?” Mika asks.

“I do not know,” I say, but I cannot deny the cold that has speared my spine.

And the angel also said [to Hagar], “You are now pregnant and will give birth to a son. You are to name him Ishmael (which means ‘God hears'), for the Lord has heard your cry of distress.

—Book of Genesis 16:11

T
HAT NIGHT, THE MEANING OF
the hyena's presence becomes clear.

As we finish our evening meal of flatbread, red lentil soup, and the staple of every meal—milk-butter served in wooden bowls—Yassib wipes his mouth and announces, “We will move tomorrow. The camels have grazed enough here. We will start the summer-trail.”

Jerah, one of Yassib's sons, looks up. “But the hunting is still good here.”

“We release the birds tonight,” Yassib says.

There is some grumbling at that. Unaffected by it, Yassib picks up his bowl and drains it. “Summer's fire is almost upon us. The birds suffer. Would you have them die in the heat?

A younger man, Kerit, nods in agreement and then turns to Jerah. “Remember brother, it was the dogs who found the gazelle.”

“That is true,” Jerah agrees, reluctantly. “The dogs can still hunt, but my bird is the best I have ever had.”

“Next spring, can I catch a bird?” Shem asks. “I am almost old enough.”

Yassib plucks a dried fig from a dish. “Next spring is next spring.”

When we finish the meal, all of the men and boys of the clan gather on the highest point near the encampment—the hill where Mika and I trek every night. Kerit allows Shem to wear the thick leather bindings on his hand and arm and carry his falcon. Shem radiates pride at being given this task. Jerah bears his own bird, as does Yassib. All three falcons are hooded.

I walk beside Shem, admiring the glossy feathers. Shem's chest expands. “My grandfather's bird is the best hunter.”

“I have never seen a capture,” I say. “How is it done?”

“With a net. My mother and sister wove it. You tie the bait to a stake and wait. When a falcon strikes, you wrap it in the net. You must be careful not to harm the bird because it is frightened and fights.”

“I would be too,” I say.

He nods. “Yes-yes. It takes much skill and patience to train a falcon. My grandfather is the best. He is known throughout the land. I would be good because I am very good with the camels.”

Yassib laughs and puts a hand on Shem's shoulder. “Enough, Shem. Too much chatter.”

When we reach the hill's summit, the men make a circle. Kerit takes the bird from Shem, and he and Jerah stand in the center with Yassib, who raises a hand to the sky. “We thank the sky gods for the loan of their winged hunters, and we now return their gift.” He pulls the hood from the regal bird and holds him aloft. “Go now to your summer place, to the cool of the hills, to the high places.”

Jerah and Kerit repeat the words.

A sudden wind brushes my face, lifting my headdress. I turn into it without taking my gaze from the falcons, which watch with haughty eyes and shift restlessly on their handlers' arms. Kerit's bird lifts his wings and then settles them—a signal he is ready to fly, or that he does not wish to leave his master?

My question is answered as Yassib, Jerah, and Kerit lift their arms in assist. Wings snap the air, and Yassib's bird gives a piercing shriek, a wild cry that declares it has never really been tamed. I hold my breath, feeling for a moment as if it is I who flies into the wind.

We watch them until they are lost in the sky.

L
ATER THAT NIGHT
, we sit around the fire outside Yassib's tent. Even though his tent is the largest, it is too small for all to gather there.
It is also cooler outside in the breeze. The women serve us fermented camel's milk, something for which I am acquiring a taste. The night is peaceful, and I have forgotten the hyena until Yassib's youngest daughter, who is four summers of age, waddles to where I sit next to Mika and points at me, announcing, “He is a girl. I saw him squatting to make water.”

My heart stops.

Everyone looks at me.

“She is a child,” Mana says quickly. “She is confused.”

Yassib silences her with a gesture, his gaze fixed on me, studying my features with the intensity of a leopard measuring its prey. Slowly, his face infuses with blood.

Mana grabs the girl into her arms and backs away. The others watch intently, but do not speak or move. My heart is racing. I sit very still.

In a smooth movement that belies his summers, Yassib stands and draws his dagger, the curved one, its golden bronze blade catching the firelight. It will fit nicely around the arc of my neck.

Mika, whose attention had been on his drink, hastily rises and steps forward at an angle to Yassib. “What is happening?” he says, facing Yassib, but wisely not drawing his own weapon. Instead, his hands are spread before him, palms open, signaling a desire for peace.

“Talk,” I say in Mika's native tongue.

“What do I say?”

“Anything, just talk quickly in your own language.”

“I do not know what is happening,” Mika says. “Please explain to me why you have drawn a knife and are staring at Adir with such anger? Has he displeased you?”

I translate: “Most excellent host, why are you angry? How have we displeased you?”

Yassib shifts his gaze from my face to Mika's. “I opened my tent to you, yet you have deceived me. The boy is a girl, a woman.” The last word is almost spit, as if it is a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Talk more,” I say to Mika, again in his own language. “Say anything; just speak in the northern tongue. Do not try Akkadian. This is delicate.”

Mika widens the space between his hands in a gesture of confusion. “I wish I could understand you, but I do not know your language. I am most grateful to you, but I will not allow you to harm Adir.”