Angels at the Gate (41 page)

“So—?”

He takes a breath. “So, Adira, I wish to ask you to do something for me.”

I wait to see what it might be.

With a sideways look, he says, “You did remind me I saved your life.”

“Be serious, Raph. What is it?” I shake my head at him.

“It concerns Pheiné and Thamma.”

This is not what I expected. Could he possibly wish to marry one of them? Why else would he ask me? “What about them?” I say cautiously.

“I would like you to dissuade them from thinking I am available as a husband.”

“Oh. But are you not?”

He hesitates.

“Raph,” I ask bluntly, “are you married or betrothed? Why have you hidden this?”

“I have hidden nothing, and I am neither, but I do have someone who waits for me.”

I take a moment to absorb this. “Well, why not just tell them yourself?”

“My lover is not a woman.”

More than one moment passes while I ponder this. I do not know what to say. Raph is beautiful, clever, gracious, and as fierce a warrior as any man I have ever seen. In many lands, it is not uncommon for a man to love another man. It is generally ignored, as long as he takes a wife and fulfills his duty to her. El has commanded us to be fruitful and multiply. Raph was surprised when he learned I was not a boy, but he accepted me either way. Who am I to judge him? But I am curious. “Do you not wish to have children?”

A glaze films his eyes. “Yes, I do.” We are almost at the market, and he slows his gait even more. “But that is not the issue. I have no interest in Pheiné or Thamma, but I do not wish to hurt them.”

“You think it would hurt them to tell them your lover is a man?”

“I have rarely told it, but when I have, women seem to take it as a challenge, and things become worse.”

“I see.”

He clears his throat. “I hoped you would tell them I am betrothed or married. It would embarrass them if I told it, as if I knew they were seeking my interest in that way.”

His earnestness makes me wish to laugh, but I do not.

“Will you do this, Adira? I cannot even concentrate on Enoch when they hover over me and peck at each other like the chickens over a pile of grain.”

Laughter explodes from me. “Oh, that is the perfect description!”

Raph does not laugh with me, and his expression is so miserable I have mercy. “Of course I will tell them, but you could have just told me you were betrothed or married. Why did you not?”

“I could not lie to you, Adira. Not about something like this.”

I stop in the street and embrace him. I have found the unexpected in this wretched place—two brothers.

Canaanite sanctuaries included the altar, a standing stone (messoth) and a wooden pole, called an asherah, which was named after Asherah, the mother of the gods of dawn (Schachar) and dusk (Salim).

—Christopher Knight and Robert Lomas,
Uriel's Machine

T
WO MOONS HAVE PASSED SINCE
Raph and Mika arrived. Five since Nami disappeared. She is still on my heart. Sometimes I see a shadow of movement from the corner of my eye, and I whirl, expecting to see her leap through the window. But it is always but a shadow.

As spring approaches, the heat intensifies. We must now go to the well at the Gate for water, because it has become impossible to get any from the riverbed. I carry the empty bucket so Mika and Raph can be free to deal with any trouble. We would bring two, but the king has made an edict that each family may draw only one bucket a week. Hardly enough for drinking, and we now carry a stench as strong as the belching sea.

The sea has shrunk from the shore, leaving flat pans of encrusted salt, and it erupts more violently every day, a giant pot of bitter, roiling water, so that even the boatmen cannot safely harvest the pitch. They must wait until the clumps of black tar drift onto land. Disaster boils beneath the earth, I am certain of it, but all my efforts to sway Lot into leaving have failed.

This city is also a pot near the boiling. The Spring Rites approach, the time when Baal is to escape the annual clutch of Mot. If that does not bring rain, I do not know if Lot can hire enough men to protect us.

We join the long line at the well.

“It has never been this hot before Spring Rites,” a man ahead of us says.

“Mot fights to keep Baal in his grasp,” another replies.

The sun thrusts fiery lances onto every head, glares off the white stones to spear into our eyes. Hot wind spits dust in our faces, and we can only breathe behind the drape of our head coverings. Kohl darkens every eye. My body longs for moisture, sucked dry of it. The only benefit I can name is that people are too lost in their own misery, concentrating on enduring, to give much mind to Lot's wife.

But Raph and Mika have not escaped notice. “Look there!” one of the men in the water line behind us cries. “The strangers come to claim a share of our water!”

My right hand tightens on my staff.

“What do El's angels need of water?” another asks. “Isn't their righteousness enough drink?”

The crowd laughs, but it is a nervous laugh, bordering on madness. This is Lot's fault, his prediction that Raph and Mika's return will signal El's wrath on Sodom. None, however, have dared to throw a stone, even from the anonymity of a crowd—yet.

Sudden cries at the well catch our attention. It is several moments before the word passes back to us. “The allotment is now only a half-bucket for each family!”

The crowd stirs. “What about that woman who took a whole bucket?” Several are pointing to a pregnant woman who is just passing us, walking carefully so as not to spill a drop. A man with a stout staff leaps out of the line and reaches for her bucket.

Mika steps between him and the pregnant woman. Enraged, the man swings his staff at Mika, who ducks before it can strike him. Before I can blink, Raph is between Mika and his attacker, knives appearing in both his hands.

Blood will spill here! Before I can think, I swing what is at hand, instinctively not trusting my leg to support a blow with my staff. Even empty, the
whack
of the copper bucket is enough to bring the man to the ground.

Chaos swirls around us, and men begin fighting one another, accusing their neighbor of taking more than their share of water. Mika snatches an arm about my waist, leaving Raph to guard our escape. We hasten, as quickly as my bad hip allows, along one the streets that spoke off the Gate and end at the Dead Sea.

“Can we get back to the house this way?” Mika asks.

“Yes, but what about our water?” I lick my cracked lips with a swollen tongue.

“We'll return for our portion when this dies down.” Mika exchanges a look with Raph.

I read that look. A half bucket is not enough for all of us. Despair wrenches at my chest.
Will they leave Sodom? Am I to lose Mika again?

“I don't need much to drink,” I hear myself say.

“Home first,” Mika orders, his brow furrowed.

I
HAVE TOLD
Pheiné and Thamma their attentions only make Raph more keenly miss his beloved betrothed. After angry outbursts when he and Mika were out, they resumed their habit of spending time away from the house—a blessed relief. Pheiné has regained her custom of loudly expressing dissatisfaction concerning me or Lila, and Thamma has withdrawn into her own world. I imagine this has little to do with Raph, and more to do with what Lila has confided to me, a secret I have not decided how to resolve, one that makes me ill with loathing for my righteous husband.

Raph and Mika claimed a half-bucket ration of water for themselves as well as the family at the well. Both were armed, so no one challenged them, though I am certain this fed the flames of resentment. We are back to one bucket of water for our household.

Today is the last day of the Spring Rites. Tonight at dusk, the goddess will call Baal from the arms of Mot. If he does not answer her and release rain, I fear for the safety of my house. Lot and his daughters are out, leaving me with Raph and Mika, who are reciting Enoch. If El's angels were not our guests, I wonder whether my husband would have left me alone this day.

I am at my weaving when the earth suddenly heaves and twists as though a giant serpent writhed just below the surface. It lifts me and then
tilts me sideways, spilling me against the wall with the sound of distant thunder. Confused, I stare at the crack in the plaster that has erupted and raced up the wall like a flooding wadi.

Raph is the first on his feet and then helps me up. By the time I am standing, Mika is also there, his hands hard on my waist, and I forget the rupture in the wall and the protruding lump of earth in our once flat courtyard. The mind is a strange thing, and mine focuses on the heat of Mika's grasp. I can feel it through the cloth, searing into my skin.

“Adira, are you all right?”

I am mute for a moment and then nod, and he steps away, an expression in his eyes that is almost anger. Anger that he cannot have me as his own? That is what I see there, but I have lost certainty in my ability to read the silent language of people, especially Mika's.

Lot staggers in, smelling of beer. I wonder if he left our room during the night, as he often does when he has drunk overly much, though since Mika and Raph have been here, he has always returned to our bed. I do not go out the window anymore. I am afraid Mika waits for me on the cliff.

I look down at the ruin of my weaving frame.

Raph thinks the clearest. “We should go outside.”

I am not sure why it would be safer there, my instinct being to stay inside. But I follow his gaze up to the opening above the courtyard where heavy branches cross the courtyard roof, providing support for lighter branches and palm fronds. The support logs have rolled together, leaving a gap.

With Mika and Raph on either side, I am hastened from the house. “My staff,” I cry, when we are through the door. Mika ducks back inside to retrieve it. Once it is in my hands, I grasp it tightly, as though it is the means to steady my mind.

Though it is morning, the sky is dark with smoke, and ash falls like black mist, lit with tiny burning bits. The stench of rotten eggs is strong. One of the burning particles falls at my feet. Mika kicks dust over it to extinguish it and then examines it. “Pitch.”

People are shouting and pointing to the south. We move our position to see what they see. In that direction, a tower of red flame spears the sky, visible over the city wall.

“What is that?” Raph asks.

I cough in the black, curling smoke that has blown over the city. “The Tongue of Mot. It must be!”

“Mot,” Mika says, as if to himself. “The underworld god.”

The burning bits of falling pitch stop, but the smoke thickens. People swarm the streets. Many have come to the city from the fields and pastures to celebrate the Spring Rites. I hear snatches of their fears.

“What is happening?”

“The gods are angry!”

“We are doomed!”

Several stare at us. Their ill will strikes like a blow. “Perhaps we should go back inside the house—”

Before I can finish, I see Lila pushing her way through the crowd. When she reaches us, she grasps my shoulders. “Please come!”

“Where? What is it?”

“Hurry,” she pants, trying to get her breath. “It is Jemia; she is hurt.”

I turn to Mika. “Please go with her to my grandmother. You can reach her more quickly than if you wait for me.”

“Only if you let Raph stay at your side,” he says, scanning the hostile crowd.

“Yes, I promise. Just go.” My gaze darts to his bag to make certain it is at his hip, though it is always there or right beside him. “We will follow.”

He is off then, his head and shoulders visible above the throng of milling people, like the decorated asherah poles. Worry for Jemia and the difficulty of staying behind Raph as he shoulders his way through the streets keeps my mind from dwelling on the crowd. Will they blame Lot and me for angering Mot? But for now, they are too frightened to have a solidified intent. I grasp Raph's sash so we will not separate. We move as quickly as my hip will allow.

When we reach Jemia's house, we find the door open and enter. No one is in the little gate, so we go directly to the courtyard. Ash floats down from between newly formed gaps overhead, and I see at a glance that what so concerned Raph in our house has happened here—a log has broken from the courtyard roof and fallen. One end remains wedged among its fellows, but Jemia is trapped beneath the other. Danel attends her, while Mika kneels before the fire, busy with his potions.

I rush to her side, and my heart spasms. I see that no herbs or incantations will save her. The broken, splintered log is embedded in her chest. How her heart is beating around it is a wonder. I take her cold hand and look up at Danel. Tears streak his soot-covered face. He is not much older than I, but now he appears as ancient as Jemia.

To my surprise, Jemia squeezes my hand. “You are here,” she whispers.

“Yes, I am here, and Danel is here.”

“My grandchildren.”

“Yes.”

Danel has her other hand. It is all we can do.

Raph positions himself at the door, both his daggers drawn. His understanding of the language might not be as subtle as his brother's, but his warrior instincts recognize a threat.

He is not the only one. Jemia's watery gaze finds my face. “Be careful, granddaughter.”

“The earth has stopped shaking,” I say, misunderstanding her warning.

“It is not the earth you should beware,” she rasps, her gaze flicking toward the street. “Fear drives them. Fear that the underworld god is fighting to keep Baal and spring will not come.”

“Do not try to speak,” I beg her.

I feel Mika's presence then beside me. “Hold her head.”

Danel and I use our free hands to tilt Jemia's head forward, and she drinks from the cup Mika holds. I do not have to ask. I know it is only something to ease her pain.