Angels at the Gate (9 page)

“You have an eye, boy,” he says, cocking his head at me.

Once my gaze rests on him, it is captured by the strange travel of his left hand across his body. His fingers draw up his chest, through his oily beard and along the side of his face to touch the top of his balding head before starting the cycle again. He seems unaware of the ceaseless tide of his hand, but it is distracting. “You know your weave,” he says. “Finest pieces I have.”

Of course he would have said that about anything a customer chose, but I have no doubt for the one piece, he is correct. The double knot weave and pattern identify it as originating from the north, where young girls weave their family pattern into dowry rugs. The dyes are rich and pleasing. As we are bound for Egypt, this would be a worthy item to obtain.

I shrug, beginning the ever-fascinating game of negotiation. “It may be, but I have not the funds to buy a fine piece. Perhaps you have others more in my range. It is a gift for my mother.”

“Perhaps it is not as expensive as you think,” he says. “And a gift for your mother should be as fine an item as you can manage. How much do you have?”

Only an amateur trader or a herder or farm boy would fall for that, but I put my hand to my pouch as though to pull out my coins to count and then stop, letting my head fall, as if shamed I am not learned enough to tell how much I have and do not want to embarrass myself.

Again I shrug. “Not much, but what is the price for this small rug?”

Thwarted, the merchant names a price, less I am certain, than he would have ordinarily begun with, but something above the range of this ignorant boy who cannot even count his coins.

“I do not know,” I stumble.

“Perhaps you should consider this piece,” he advises, indicating the other cloth. Its price is not worth mentioning—a pile of salt.”

Salt is highly prized in the desert and mountains far from the sea, but here it is as common as dust. His hand continues in its absorbing path of stomach-beard-cheek-head, as though too unhappy to rest anywhere.

“Perhaps I should look at something entirely different,” I say, half turning back into the store and then pausing to look at the piece in my right hand. “But my mother would like these colors.”

“They are very fine,” he agreed. “If I knew how much you had to spend I could advise you better.”

At that moment, I notice through the opening of the house that Nami has her jaws almost level with a large chuck of raw pig meat at an adjoining stall, and I slap my thigh loudly. She turns her head and hesitates before trotting to my side, her flowing ears flat in shame I have caught her in a transgression or thinking of one.

The merchant's hand pauses in its journey, caught in an invisible web at his chest. “This is your dog?” There is a note of disbelief in his voice.

“Yes,” I say, suddenly alarmed, although I cannot name a reason.

“A saluki,” he says, as if to himself. “So the rumors are true.”

My free hand drops to stroke Nami's head. “What rumors?”

Abruptly, the merchant's hand resumes its nervous path and he ignores my question. “I might know of a man who would be interested in such a dog. Perhaps we can come to an agreement about the rug.”

Curious now, I ignore the scent of danger. “Who would be interested? She is terrible at herding donkeys.”

He flinches. “Herding donkeys?”

For the first time, I pay closer attention to his features. He could be of a desert tribe. Some gave up the nomad life for a place in the cities, although their people disdain them.

I run my fingers through the long, silky hair of Nami's ears. “Yes, I am training her.”

He straightens. “This dog was not bred for herding.” An angry tone has crept into his voice. I find this interesting, as professional traders do not allow anger to show in the midst of a negotiation. We are into personal territory here, and I should move us back to a discussion of the rug or leave.

Perversely, I instead sink us deeper into the trench that has opened before us. “Oh,” I say, all innocence. “Tell me what you know of such dogs.”

He scowls, and the hand moves faster in its predetermined path. I should leave, but I want the rug and I have a wedge now. Besides, I would like to know more about Nami or at least her breed. The desert nomads prize their dogs, but they do not share information about their training. My hope is this man, perhaps ostracized by his tribe, might do so.

“You should not have this dog.”

“But she is a good dog. Why not?”

“If you will not sell her, then you had better leave.”

There is no mistaking the danger that weighs in the air like the pressure of a storm. His hand stops again and slips to one of the two daggers prominent in his sash.

“Leave my premises,” he says.

I take a deep breath. “I have decided I do want the small rug.”

“Go.”

“My mother will like the colors.”

“Go now.” Menace rumbles in his voice.

“I think since I have seen it, I will be happy with no other piece,” I say, as if unaware of his anger. I want this rug to show my father I can be trusted to find and negotiate fine goods.

My hand still rests on Nami's head, and I feel, rather than hear, her warning rumble. The man's hand has tightened on one of the hilts. He freezes at her growl.

I name my price for the rug in my hand, a fair one, holding out the copper rings to him.

His face suffused with rage, he snatches them with his free hand.

I take two steps away, still facing him, not wanting a knife in my back. Nami, to my amazement, also backs, keeping a watchful eye on the merchant.

Slowly, his gaze locked on her, he releases his grip on his knife, perhaps finding his temper or perhaps not wishing Nami to attack him if I am harmed.

Only then do I turn, but not without a backward glance over my shoulder, and I realize my fingers, which clench the small rug, are drained of blood.

Everything is in flames—the sky with lightning—the water with luminous particles and even the very masts are pointed with a blue flame.

—Charles Darwin (aboard the
Beagle
)

T
HAT NIGHT, THE SCENT OF
rain rides in with the wind that now blows from the west. It is greatly welcome. Lot, being a wealthy man, has his house in the eastern quarter of the city, right on the sea's edge and within sight of the cliffs. The window is an unusual feature, but it helps draw cooler air into the house and up the roof over the courtyard, which is shaded with fronds laid over thin logs, but not so tightly as to block the flow of air or smoke from the cook fire. Our house sits on a rise, and I can see the shimmering of the Dead Sea.

At the evening meal, I feel Hurriya's sharp eyes on me, and I make sure to keep my gestures bold. It is easy to spot a girl who merely dresses in boy's clothing. A girl's movements should be graceful and her glance, shy. I have studied this for many summers. If I miss a detail in telling Father what I observed during his negotiations, he snorts and tells me I have much to learn. As a child, this motivated me as no beating or harsh words would. I want above all to please him, to have him proud of me … and to stay with him. Always, the fear of being sent away looms over me.

It is rare I miss anything, and it has become a game between us. Afterward, in the privacy of our tent, we query each other. In the past few summers, I have sometimes caught what he has missed and make a point to snort, which makes him laugh.

I slip a piece of meat from my bowl and hide it in my robe. Nami's head remains on my foot, but her dark eyes follow the move.

“What your father keeps?” Raph asks around a mouthful of flatbread.

“What keeps my father?” I correct him and shake my head. “I do not know. He said he would return in a few days, if he can.”

Lot frowns. “Perhaps there is a sickness among the animals.”

I wipe grease from my mouth with the back of my hand, a gesture no properly raised woman would do, and Hurriya's tight sniff rewards me. She is watching me as closely as I watch others.

“I do not think so,” I say, without interrupting my chewing, “or he would have taken me with him.”

“Well, he hardly had a chance to taste our hospitality!” Lot booms, and I flinch before I can stop myself. Does he think we all have bee's wax filling our ears? He slaps a hand on his thigh. “I am known for treating my guests well, am I not, wife?”

“Well known,” Hurriya admits, glancing at the large portions of food set before Raph and Mika. She does not seem impressed to host El's messengers. They do eat a lot. I wipe the last bit of grease up with my bread. By the width of Hurriya's hips, she might give them an honest competition. I, myself, am no idler in the task of eating, but no matter what I eat, it does nothing to alter my shape.

Leaning forward, Lot addresses his guests. “We are most honored to have you in our home.”

Raph wipes his fingers on a moist cloth. “Thank your welcome.”

Lot scratches at his chin, his fingers brushing his bottom lip, a gesture that often means a man wants to speak but is unsure of the reception of his question. “Meaning no disrespect, but I wonder at your origins.”

Mika stiffens so slightly I am sure no one else notices.

“Despite my manner,” Lot continues, “I am an educated man, born and raised in Ur, though not the scholar my uncle, Abram, is. So I must wonder if you could be descendants from the giants of old who escaped the great flood with our ancestor, Noah.”

To my surprise, Mika answers. “Yes.”

Lot takes a deep breath. “Then our peoples are connected.”

“Connected,” Mika echoes. He seems to consider the word and looks at me. I repeat it in his language, and he nods. “Yes, peoples connected.”

“I understand now,” Lot says, “why El chose you as his messengers.” He leans back and slaps his thighs again, this time with both palms. Then he gestures to his oldest daughter. “Pheiné, play for us!”

With one hand, Pheiné sweeps her thick auburn hair over her shoulder and smiles boldly at Raph. “Will you be participating in the Spring Rites tonight?”

My cheeks and throat burn with a hot flame, and my hand goes on its own accord to my short curls and then to brush the knot of bone on my nose. I suppress the urge to throw a lamb bone at her. With great difficulty, I keep my attention on my food, but I watch every nuance of her manner from the corner of my eye.

Raph occupies the other side of my gaze. He smiles back at her. “We are strangers in your city.”

This is not a satisfactory answer to my mind.

Mika frowns, and Lot says at once, “Play for us, Pheiné.”

Pheiné raises an eyebrow, but lowers her head in obedience. “As you wish, Father.” She places a lyre in her lap. It is a beautiful nine-stringed instrument of Egyptian ebony. Fortunately, her voice is ordinary, and Raph seems only politely interested.

I love music, though I cannot play. Father feared to let me sing, lest it reveal my gender. This never stopped me from singing to myself or to Philot or the goats.

When darkness claims the land, I lie on my pallet, listening to the city. Nights in the hills are full of sound—wind whispers in the grass or the scrub trees, night birds call, and wolves howl. Last night I fell asleep in Lot's house to the slosh of sea against the shore and the rustle of a city curling into slumber—muted voices calling, doors shutting, a dog's bark. But tonight is different. Tonight, the city is alive with sharp sounds and smells. Feasting and drinking will go on into the morning for days leading up to the rites. It is interesting to imagine coupling everywhere and anywhere in celebration of life, people echoing the wanton burst of blooms that entices bees, the abandon of grass seeds offering themselves to the wind, and the coming together of Baal and the goddess, Asherah.

Muffled voices in the far room catch my attention. At first, I think it
must be Lot and his wife practicing the rites, but then I realize the sound comes from Pheiné and Thamma's room. An image of naked Pheiné entwined with Raph incites my heart to a swift gallop. My first impulse is to jump up and confront them.

Confront them with what? What claim do I have on Raph? He does not know what I have just decided—I love him; I want to be near him forever. He does not even know I am a woman.

Sensing my distress, Nami, curled beside me, licks my hand. Then two figures pass me in the darkness, and I realize the story in my head is only a story I have imagined, because there is no mistaking those tall shapes. Where are they going?

A stupid question. They are going to join the revelry. But I think again. Raph, perhaps, but Mika's disapproval of the Spring Rites has been obvious, so much so that Lot has declared he and Hurriya will not participate in them. Questions continue to pour into my mind. Where are El's messengers going? Are they on El's business? It is too much to endure, and I climb to my feet and slip on my outer robe. Nami's feathered tail whips my leg; she is eager for an adventure. I signal her for quiet with a claw gesture, a sign I taught her, though she rarely barks.

The slave girl, whose name I have learned is Lila, lies by the fire. She appears to sleep soundly. I strain to see in the room lit only by the moonlight seeping from the open window and through the small gaps in the fronds over the courtyard. The oil braziers no longer burn. When Mika and Raph settled on their pallets earlier in the night, they set between them the fur-covered object they have carried throughout the journey. A pull stronger than a current draws me toward the spot. If necessary, I can move very quietly, a skill I learned in order to slip out of the tent without arousing my father. I squat next to the object, my fingers exploring its dark shape.

I wish the light were better. The fur covering is gone, and I can only see it is a chest. My fingers slide across fine wood polished with oil. I fumble with it, my heart thudding, and open the lid. Only then does it occur to me what lies inside might be cursed … or alive, and I rock back on my heels.