Highlander - Donna Lettow [32]
The corridor running between the fortress walls was empty as Avram returned to their chamber, but behind the doors that lined it, Avram could hear the wailing and howls of grief as the men told their families what must be. He didn’t know how he was going to break the news to Deborah. How to tell her that everything they’d hoped for, everything they’d dreamed of was gone. That their brief taste of life was over. He knew the look in her eyes would kill him more surely than any blade.
He opened the door to their chamber with trembling hands. Deborah sat on the edge of their sleeping mat, dressed in the embroidered robe she’d made for their wedding, her hair and face obscured by the wedding veil.
“You know,” he said softly. He moved quickly to sit by her side, pushing back the veil to reveal her face.
“Hard to keep a secret in Masada,” she said, her eyes ringed red from crying, her face dark with the shadows of grief. Avram reached out to her and pulled her close to him, embracing her as if he’d never let her go. He wished he had words with which to comfort her, words that would make it all go away, that could restore their happiness. But the only words he had were “I’m sorry” and the only thing he could tell her was how much he loved her. And he did, over and over again.
“Will it hurt?” she asked in a small voice.
Avram pulled back from their embrace so he could look into her chestnut eyes. “I don’t know,” he said honestly.
“Deborah, if I could take this away from you, you know I would.” His anguished words were choked.
“Avram, it’s all right,” she comforted him. “I can be brave, because I know we’ll be together. We’ll live as man and wife for all eternity in the world to come.”
“And here I always thought I was boring you with my studies,” Avram smiled wistfully. It was the foundation of Pharisaic belief, he had once devoted his life to its study, and yet in his dark hour of need it had taken an uneducated woman to remind him that death was not the end, it was only the beginning. “On the day of Resurrection, we will be together again.”
“And for all the days to come,” Deborah added. “I’m not afraid of death, my love. I’ll be with you.”
Off in the distance, the shofar sounded. Avram drew Deborah near to him once again, kissing her lips, stroking her face, pretending he hadn’t heard it, willing it to go away. Then his father appeared in the doorway.
“It’s time, Avram.”
Avram looked up at his father and nodded, the face of agony. “May we do this privately, Aba?”
“In a moment,” Mordecai said, entering the room. He moved to Deborah and slowly, painfully, knelt beside the mat where she sat. He took one of her hands and held it close to his heart. “Thank you for making my Avram happy, daughter,” he said. He kissed her awkwardly on the forehead. “God bless you.”
“Good-bye, Aba,” she managed to say, stunned at his show of affection, and then the tears started and she could speak no more. Avram helped his father back to his feet.
“I’ll be outside,” Mordecai said, gripping his son by the arm, willing them both strength to face what must be done.
As his father left the room, Avram went to the small wooden chest in which they kept their few belongings. He re-moved an iron knife, testing its edge as if he was about to carve a shank of lamb. He moved back toward the bed, where Deborah waited in her wedding finery. She turned her head away, unable to bear the sight of the knife. He sat beside her.
“Kiss me, Deborah. Let’s remember each other as lovers.” They kissed—a deep, longing kiss made more passionate by the taint of death. “I love you, Deborah,” he murmured.
“For all eternity,” she whispered back into the kiss, then a small, surprised sound cut off as the cold on of Avram’s knife sliced into her throat.
He pulled her to him even more tightly. He could feel her blood surge over them both, washing them in her life’s essence as it ebbed away. He could feel her tighten in panic, then slowly relax as life left