Archangel (31 page)

“Well, and it won’t happen again,” she said candidly. “We found a few boys, and Matthew had just started talking to them, when a couple of Jansai men came running over to get rid of us. They said a few insulting things and then I—I told them who I was, and they looked like they wanted to eat me for breakfast.
So we got out of the camp as fast as we could, and I thought everything was fine. Then—two days ago—I was in the market and somebody threw a blanket over my head—” She gestured comprehensively to convey the horror of that. It was becoming difficult to keep her voice steady. “But before anything could happen, three of my students ran up, throwing rocks and yelling, and the Jansai ran off, leaving me behind. The camp’s broken up and moved on now, so I can’t see that I’m in any danger—”

As she had spoken, he had moved closer. He was now just inches away and his face was a study in alarm. “But Rachel, why didn’t you tell me? Or why didn’t Peter tell me—Matthew, Obadiah—someone?”

She was a little embarrassed. “Because I told the children to tell no one. I told no one. I thought—it seemed to me—you might tell me the school had become dangerous for me, or that Velora was dangerous, and I couldn’t go there anymore, and Gabriel—I
can’t
not go there, it’s too important to me, not just Velora, but the school, the children, everything—”

He reached out a hand, as if he couldn’t help himself, and touched a stray curl of her hair. “I know it’s important to you,” he said in a gentle voice. “I would never tell you to give
it
up. But Rachel—to confront the Jansai like that—even in Velora, where generally anyone is safe—swear to me by the love of Jovah you’ll never do anything like that again.”

“I swear,” she said. “I was afraid, as soon as I saw those two. I hadn’t thought I would be afraid, but suddenly all those memories—So I won’t do it again.”

“And when there are Jansai in Velora, it might be best if you have someone with you all the time—Matthew or Obadiah or me,” he said. She was so surprised that he included himself as a bodyguard that she could only nod dumbly. “Although—it almost doesn’t make sense to me—slaving is illegal in Bethel, and no one contravenes that law,” he added. “So why would they want to take you? To what end?”

“Maybe they weren’t going to take me,” she said. “Maybe they were just angry that I’d come to the camp and they wanted to—make me sorry.”

“So, the blood,” he said abruptly. “What happened? How badly were you hurt?”

“One of them kicked my leg and it started bleeding,” she
said, making the words offhand. “It’s still bruised, but it’s healed over. Nothing to be concerned about.”

“Has someone dressed it for you?”

“No,” she said. She was trying to be conciliatory. “If you’re worried, I can ask Hannah to look at it. I think it’s fine now, though. I really do.”

“As you choose, then.” He hesitated, glanced away and decided to speak. “I’m not—I know you have considered the Eyrie a prison of sorts, and me some kind of jailor, but—you have more freedom than that,” he said, carefully picking his words. “This is supposed to be your home, and your life is what you make of it. I would not want you to think that your rights, your freedoms, your choices, are subject to my approval and that I would—deprive you—or interfere with any of them. Please don’t be afraid to tell me—anything—that happens in the future because you are afraid of what privilege I will take away from you.”

His diffidence made her, for the first time, truly repentant. “Gabriel, I’m sorry,” she said yet again. She smiled tentatively. “The next time someone tries to abduct me, I’ll come running to you—”

“Well, I wish you would,” he said, smiling back. “But it is not just the abductions and assaults you can report to me, but anything that occurs in your day. I would like to hear how you’re getting on. Really, I would.”

“Then join me for dinner tonight,” she said. “And I’ll catch you up on everything that’s been happening.”

S
uch accord could not be expected to last forever, although for two weeks relations were harmonious between the angel and his bride. The break, when it came, was so sudden that Rachel was caught totally unprepared; and consequently it left her even angrier than she might otherwise have been.

Her wound was completely healed by this time, due mostly to Hannah’s ministrations. The older woman had, without comment, examined the cut and bound it up after spreading a white salve over it.

“What is that?” Rachel had asked.

“Ointment made from manna root,” Hannah had replied.

Rachel put her finger in the jar and touched the cream gingerly. “This looks so familiar,” she said. “I think my mother used some once when my father was badly burned. She said she’d been saving it—for years? Could that be right?”

Hannah nodded. “It’s very rare now. Almost all the roots are gone, and I haven’t seen any new crops for, oh, a decade or more.”

“What did you call it?”

“Manna root.”

“Why is it so rare?”

“It comes from a flower that doesn’t grow here anymore. All the seeds are gone, ground up by foolish girls. No more seeds—no
more flowers—no more roots. No more ointment. It’s a pity, because I have never found another salve as useful as this one.”

Sometimes she found it as difficult to get information from Hannah as Gabriel must find it to get information from his wife. “Why do young girls grind up the seeds?” Rachel asked patiently.

Hannah glanced up at her in surprise. “You don’t know about manna? Perhaps the Edori never used it. They say it’s an aphrodisiac—a love potion. Well, the seeds are, if they’re ground up and slipped into food or drink. So the stories say. And only men are affected by the potion, so only women harvest the seeds and make the mixture.”

Hannah glanced at her again, but the look on Rachel’s face was clearly one of fascination, so she went on. “According to legend, Hagar is the one who discovered the potency of the manna, and she struck some deal with Jovah, as she was wont to do. She would go to her mountain retreat and sing to him, and he would send the manna falling down from heaven—clouds of seeds, a rainstorm of them, falling all over Samaria. Some would take root and grow, and other seeds would be harvested by girls looking to find husbands.

“Hagar and Uriel argued once about manna, the stories say. They argued about everything, but this fight went on for days. Uriel felt that the use of manna was unfair to men, that there was no defense against it, and that a woman could use it to ensnare a man who would never consider her without the aid of potions. Hagar said it was a woman’s business to find a man, make him love her, and bear as many children as possible for the glory of the god. Hagar liked the idea that there were wiles against which a man was helpless.”

“Who won the argument?”

Hannah was smiling faintly. “Hagar, of course. He had told her he would not speak to her till she apologized, and so they did not speak. Then one day she went to him, saying she was very sorry, that she was wrong. She took him to her room, and bathed him, and combed his hair, and fed him grapes and wine—but she had laced the wine with manna seed, and so he fell in love with her all over again. They say this was the last fight they had to the end of their days, but I don’t believe it. I think they fought till they died, and loved each other anyway.”

Rachel was considering. “And there have been no manna
blossoms since Hagar’s time? These roots must be extremely old, then.”

“Oh, there were flowers for hundreds of years after that—but fewer and fewer every year, since young girls would harvest them before the seed could fall. I remember manna blooming when I was a little girl, but I haven’t seen any for years.”

“So why don’t the angels pray to Jovah and ask for more?”

“Some have tried. I think Ariel did, one summer, but no manna fell. Perhaps they did not know the right prayers. Perhaps there is no more.”

“Too bad,” Rachel said. “I like the stories.”

At dinner a few nights later, she taxed Gabriel with the tale. “And Hannah said no manna fell for Ariel,” she finished up. “Did you ask Jovah for it? Perhaps he would answer your prayers.”

Gabriel had listened, smiling, but he shook his head. “I think that’s a prayer only a woman can make to Jovah.”

“But why?”

“Well, women are the ones who use the manna seeds, after all.”

“Men benefit from it,” Nathan said with a laugh. “At least some men would consider it a benefit.”

Gabriel grinned. “Men may enjoy the consummation of desire, but women are calculating beyond that physical moment,” he said. “Women seduce with a purpose in mind, more often than not. They’re thinking about marriage and children and the next generation. Men usually don’t think that far ahead.”

“What about angel-seekers?” Hannah wanted to know. “The women who pursue angels in all the towns and villages.”

“They more than anyone have a purpose in mind,” Gabriel said seriously. “They know that to have an angel child will change their lives completely.”

“Well, there are men who are angel-seekers, too—Ariel and Maga could tell you stories,” Nathan said.

“Certainly. And they may be interested in siring angel babies, though I think glamour is more their aim. But that’s a side issue! We’re talking about the manna seed. When Hagar first prayed to Jovah for the manna to fall to earth, Samaria had only been settled a short time. There had been great hardships—famine, plague, flood—and hundreds of people had died in each separate
disaster. She knew that if the settlement was not quickly repopulated, the whole race could die out, mortals and angels alike. And she prayed to Jovah for help, and manna is what he gave her. It was god and angelica working in concert to produce a whole new generation as quickly as possible. Uriel doesn’t seem to have grasped the urgency quite as quickly as his wife. And that’s why I say manna is a woman’s prayer. Because women think most deeply about the next generation—and that is almost all that Jovah thinks about.”

“You strip the romance from everything,” Nathan complained.

“Well, I am not much of a romantic,” Gabriel replied.

Nathan glanced sideways at Rachel, who was thinking over Gabriel’s words with an air of complete absorption. “Give you time,” Nathan said softly. “Give you time.”

That kind of discussion had not been uncommon in the past two weeks—there had been disagreements, of course, but nothing acrimonious—but then, they were both trying hard to get along. Which was why the next serious argument caught them both by surprise.

Gabriel had stopped by Rachel’s room late one afternoon, something he rarely did. She invited him in with an unaccountable sense of shyness, but he was not in the least loverlike. He seemed somewhat abstracted, wrestling with some problem. He had been gone for the past few days, and she was not even sure when he had returned.

“I need your advice,” he said abruptly, after sitting silently for a good three minutes on her newest floor cushion. “More than that. I need your help.”

She sank to the rug before him. “Well, of course. What is it?”

“Lord Jethro of Semorrah. What is he afraid of?”

She raised her eyebrows. “You mean, like spiders and rats?”

“No—much bigger. Is he afraid of losing his only son? Afraid his wife will leave him? Is money all he thinks of? Is he afraid he will lose his fortune and his standing among the other merchants?”

Why did he want to know? Rachel put the question aside and spoke thoughtfully. “Well, all the merchants are afraid of that. They’re very jealous of each other. Lord Jethro used to sit with his son for hours and speculate on how much money some
of the other Semorrah families had, calculating rent sums and tariffs and income from all their little businesses. He’s obsessed by money, but they all are, I think.”

“So—if I could find a believable way to threaten to take his money away, I could get his attention.”

“Well, but you’d also make him hate you.”

“He already hates me.”

“What are you trying to prove to him?”

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. He looked very tired. “I have spent some time in the past couple of months trying to convince the merchants and the Manadavvi and the Jansai that the inequities of our current system must be righted. I have been spectacularly unsuccessful so far. I’d like to find a way to make them take notice—of me, and of the god as well.”

“I know one thing Jethro is really afraid of,” Rachel commented. “And that’s water.”

“Water?”

“He’s terrified of drowning. He owns a pleasure craft, but he never uses it—Daniel does, sometimes, but Jethro never. He hates to take the ferry into Bethel, which is one of the reasons he trades with Jordana so much—because he can use the bridge to get to land. It’s strange that a man who is so afraid of drowning lives in the middle of a river.”

Gabriel frowned at her, brooding. “Well, that’s something to think about. Perhaps I could cause the river to rise. On his way over here—or maybe he would be more impressed if it happened on his way back. Because I think, if I could sway one of them—”

“He’s coming here?” Rachel interrupted. “When? And why?”

“In a couple of weeks. They all are—Jethro, Samuel, Elijah Harth, Abel Vashir, half a dozen of the Jansai leaders. I thought, if I saw them all together, I could get a better sense of who was allied with whom—and maybe make a few of my own points, though I’m beginning to think those points are going to have to be made in a drastic fashion, and not in my own hold—”

“Then maybe you should flood the river before he gets here so he’s a little shaken up. Better yet, flood all of Semorrah. That will get his attention.”

He gave her an absent smile. “I know you don’t like him,” he said, “but maybe you could spend some time convincing him
that I’m capable of doing it. Fill his mind with fears. So that when he goes back on the ferry, even if the river is smooth as glass, he’ll spend his whole time looking over the sides uneasily.”

“I would,” she said, “but I won’t be here.”

He stared at her blankly. “Won’t be here? Surely you can miss a day or two of teaching—”