The Dovekeepers (31 page)

All fourteen of the Essenes wished to live together in one abode, as was their practice, for what belonged to one belonged to all. They were granted a small stone barn on the far side of the orchard that had in the past been used to shelter goats ready to bring forth new kids. They would eat their meals together, sharing what little they had beneath the same tree where their leader and ours had spoken and come to terms. They bathed with cold water before each meal and offered their prayers fervently before any food passed their lips. Three times a day—at dawn, and noon, and again after the first three stars appeared—we could see the men at their prayers, facing toward Jerusalem. The six men who were faithful students of Abba set up long tables fashioned from planks of hardwood in order to roll out their scrolls, the documents stored in the ceramic vases that had been carried through the wilderness on the backs of their lumbering donkeys. They made their marks with an ink drawn from walnut oil and the gum of the turpentine tree.

Yael and I brought them olives and cheese and an allotment of wheat. Nahara came with us, bringing flasks of water and oil that her mother sent. A young Essene man, often at Abba’s side and clearly his favorite, came to help Nahara carry the water. In order for him to do so, Nahara needed to place the flasks upon the ground, for the young man could not risk taking them from her hand; all she had touched might be considered
tamé
.

He murmured a prayer as he carried away the flasks, for among his people he had the power of blessing even though he was no more than seventeen.

The Essene women were grateful when presented with our gifts, yet the reflection of the slain shone in their eyes. Nahara
stood aside with the young Essene man; she was too young and pure to hear of brutalities served upon the Essenes. But Yael and I sat with the women as they told us in matter-of-fact voices how their children had been murdered. They didn’t cry out or swoon with grief, for they believed their children would rise again at the End of Days. At that time mothers would once again embrace their sons and daughters, and husbands and wives would again be one.

Tamar was quieter than the other women, her face pinched with sorrow, achingly pallid. When we went to leave, she placed a hand on Yael’s arm, drawing her near. “I won’t lose this one,” I heard her say. Her boy, Yehuda, was sprawled in the grass, looking upward as the first stars began to appear in the darkening sky. The Essene men had gathered in the field, and we could hear them chanting in deep, luminous tones. It was so hot that every movement of the air was like a plume of flame, every star a lantern in the night. “Promise you’ll help me, as I once helped you,” Tamar whispered. Everything about the Essene woman seemed bruised; even her tone was an incantation which sprang from her affliction. She nodded at Yael’s swollen middle. The baby would come any day now. “I knew when you wanted a fever charm it was a man you wanted to save. I could see it written upon you.”

Yael glanced at me. I quickly looked away so it wouldn’t seem that I’d overheard their conversation. When I saw Yael embrace her friend, I knew her promise had been given. As we walked back I didn’t ask why she would grant the fervent wish of this woman who belonged to a group so different from us, who clearly looked down on our ways. I didn’t question which man’s life she had tried to protect, or why she had been willing to cross the desert on his behalf no matter the sacrifice. I merely added these bits of information to my list, ready to offer them up should Yael and I ever disagree and I needed to prove that she was, indeed, human.

WHEN THE MONTH
of
Av
was upon us in all its force, and the moon was as red as the sun, Abba sent the young Essene man to the dovecotes to work among us to thank us for the rations we brought to them. Because his people were so strict, and men were not allowed to touch women outside their own families, this young man, named Malachi ben Aaron, often worked in the small dovecote alone. Yet soon enough he was befriended by Nahara, and before long these two were engaged in long conversations. Malachi ben Aaron was only a few years older than Nahara herself. He was strongest among his kinsmen, and extremely well spoken. Because of this he was granted great respect, and he seemed to regard himself as a man of honor. We who worked beside Nahara still thought of her as a child; perhaps it was merely that we wished to see her as such. We were surprised to see that two who had so little in common often sat together on the wall during the noon break. Malachi spoke and Nahara listened, rapt, as if every tale he told was an illumination. Some of his words wafted toward us. He spoke of the End of Days and how his people were preparing, confessing their sins, following the path of light, offering their life on earth to
Adonai.
They would not fight the Romans because this world we walked through was not the end for them; they would arise after death and shine in God’s favor.

Since my arrival at the mountain, I had known Nahara to be a serious girl, older than her years in ways of learning and responsibility. Her mother had taught her to read Aramaic and Hebrew. As he instructed her, Malachi was surely impressed with her—for good reason; not only was she bright but she was lovely and pure. Before long they both began arriving earlier at the small dovecote so their discussions could begin as soon as Malachi had finished his
morning prayers. They whispered in the breaking light, and those whispers became a bridge between them.

Like others of his household, Malachi wore only white, his hair braided. He eschewed sandals and went barefoot in the dust, for his people believed they must walk into heaven barefoot and wait there in the mist for the world to be resurrected after the End of Days. Malachi was quiet, a hard worker, a scholar who was not afraid to get his hands dirty. He had been sent to the dovecote because Abba believed that hard work and praise to God went hand in hand. Though Malachi was young, he wrote upon the parchment scrolls with his elders, and it was said that his letters were so beautifully wrought that the angels came to observe them as they formed; he was so righteous, the walnut oil ink he used turned to blood and appeared red upon the page. It had already been decided that Malachi would take Abba’s place when the time came, and the two often sat with their heads together, deep in conversation and prayer.

Despite Malachi’s virtues, after only a short time Shirah began to seem displeased with our new helper. Though he was often sent to the far dovecote, where there was room only for one, Shirah had discovered that Nahara could be found working beside him in that small space. We could not help but wonder if their shoulders brushed or their hands touched. When he prayed at noontime, making a holy place beside the twisted olive tree, kissing the strands of his prayer shawl and then offering his kiss to God, did he pray to clear his head of earthly thoughts and desires? Shirah watched him closely, eyes narrowed, a dark cast over her face.

One noontime while Nahara went home to fetch our meal of lentils and olives, Shirah sent Malachi away. The rest of us stepped back to watch; in many ways these were Shirah’s dovecotes; she had been here the longest, and we deferred to her in everything.

“You can leave right now,” she told the Essene. “There’s no reason for you to stay through this day.”

Three perfect doves had been chosen to be brought to the synagogue
for the priest’s dinner, and I was plucking out their feathers. I bowed my head, but I listened to the conversation.

“Is my effort not good enough?” Malachi asked, bewildered. Among his people he was not challenged, and now a woman was dismissing him. He raised his eyes to hers, a flicker of mistrust in his stare.

“There’s nothing wrong with your work,” I heard Shirah respond. “You’re just not needed here.”

Shirah must have taken note of my expression, for I was confused as well. Malachi had lightened our workload, and I saw no need to have humiliated him by sending him away. The Essenes had sent us their best man, but not in Shirah’s opinion. When we were alone, she confided, “If she was your daughter, you would do the same.” She feared the attraction between the Essene and Nahara, and I understood why she would not want him for her daughter. Malachi was too pious to see anything but God and himself, that much was true; the woman he chose would not walk beside him but would follow behind, head bowed.

When Nahara returned with our meal, she was astonished to find Malachi gone, her face flushing as she gazed around for signs of him. She glared at her mother with bitterness, and I heard her say to Aziza, “She sent him away to spite me.”

“I’m sure she has her reasons,” Aziza responded, which was true enough.

“She’s cruel,” Nahara remarked, her voice sharp. “That’s the reason. She is devoted to what she wants. You of all people should know that. You’re wise to keep your secrets.”

Aziza lowered her eyes. “She’s our mother.”

Nahara was grim. “One who doesn’t care about our happiness, as you well know.”

I thought Nahara was mistaken about her mother’s intent. Malachi was not suitable for her; he was known to pray until the first brightening of the star-strewn night. Aziza seemed to agree.

“Look at the way they live,” she told her sister when Nahara complained to her. It made sense that a mother would did not want the fate of an Essene woman for her child, one of service and poverty and sacrifice.

But although Malachi had been sent from the dovecote, his presence lingered. There were times when those around you can see your fate but you yourself are blind, stumbling toward a coil of mistakes. This was such a time for Shirah’s young daughter. We could all see her future if she chose one path rather than another, but she could not see it herself. She sulked out, slipping past the heavy wooden door though her work was not completed. Shirah went after her, but it was too late. In an instant Nahara was nowhere to be seen. It was as though she’d been snatched from the earth and all that remained was her shadow. Perhaps she had already followed Malachi to the stone goat barn of the Essenes, removing her sandals to walk barefoot among the women. She had been an obedient girl, but now her duty seemed to lie beyond her mother’s domain. I stood in the doorway beside Shirah. At this moment she hardly seemed a fierce practitioner of
keshaphim,
only a mother who could easily be broken by a child’s heedless actions.

“She’ll be back,” I offered hopefully.

Shirah stared into the empty plaza. She shook her head. She’d seen love a thousand times before. She had fashioned charms to induce it and amulets to sever its ties; she had recited spells to bind lovers together and others to break them apart. She was sufficiently practiced in love’s ways to recognize its web, even in the dim light of the dovecote.

“Unfortunately, you’re wrong,” she said to me, her soft voice breaking with regret. “She’s already gone. And if he knew who she truly was he would never want her.”

I could feel a sudden chill in the blistering air. I thought this was what we had wanted, for there had been daily gatherings so that we might all pray for rain. Now a light rain had begun, unexpected
fortune at this arid time of year. But the rain was strange, falling in bleak bands of white from the slate-colored sky. I licked my lips and realized it was laden with salt. It was a rain from the Salt Sea, a strange occurrence that sometimes took place when the wind arose and carried a cloud of dust. The furious, hot blasts had also picked up water and salt, and dumped those elements upon us. It was a bad omen, for what appeared to be rain was only seawater. A salt rain could poison orchards and contaminate cisterns. Men with wounds would weep in pain tonight; women would be unable to light fires and cook their families’ evening meals. The goatherds would find the fresh milk we called
halab
turned to salty curds in the milking pails.

It would have been better to have no rain at all than to have this.

Shirah had begun to recite a spell as we ducked back inside to elude the downpour. She stunned us all when she grabbed one of the doves. She took up the knife we used for our meals. As though possessed, she made a gash across the dove’s throat, then turned the bird so that its blood dripped onto the stone floor. The murder of a dove was a crime punishable by law. Certainly none were to be taken for the darker uses of
keshaphim.

Aziza turned away when she understood what her mother intended, to come between Nahara and the Essene she had chosen. The Man from the North averted his eyes as well, so that he would not witness a deed that seemed far too intimate for him to behold. As for Yael, she alone stood rapt, drawn to the feathers falling, the blood on the floor. I noticed she was quick to murmur the words of the chant along with Shirah, as though she hoped her voice might give strength to the spell.