The Dovekeepers - Alice Hoffman [105]
Aziza handed the bow to the Man from the North, even though it was a crime to place a weapon in the hands of a slave. He took up the bow, grateful for the trust. Each of Aziza’s arrows made its mark when the slave turned to his target—a knob on the stump of the ancient olive behind the dovecote. He stood in the threshold so no one else would take notice. When we called out praises, he bowed. He noticed the intent expression on Aziza’s face, her gaze fixed on the bow in his hands.
“Let me teach you,” he suggested. “Then you can see for yourself the worth of what you’ve crafted. These arrowheads are among the finest I’ve ever used.”
Aziza backed away, shaking her head, her eyes masked. Still, there was something resembling desire etched across her face.
Women were not to touch weapons, such was our law, but we had already broken the law by handing the bow over to a slave. We who had already sinned did not question or condemn. We stared back at those who whispered about Yael and her baby until they were the ones forced to lower their eyes.
“Try what you’ve made,” I urged, if only for our amusement.
“Fine.” Aziza nodded. “But only to please you.”
The slave showed her what she must do, and she listened carefully. She held the bow with ease, a broad smile bursting upon her face. Her very first arrow hit the mark. I could see the surprise on the slave’s face.
“You have a warrior inside you!” he remarked.
“Pure luck.” Aziza dropped the bow and went to gather the fallen arrows, admiring her handiwork, making certain each feather was in place. “The phoenix always prevails,” she said. “Whoever Amram strikes will fall before him.”
Shirah had remained inside the dovecote. Now she came to the doorway. Her expression was trancelike, difficult to read. She had changed since Nahara’s departure, becoming more wary and withdrawn. Some people whispered she had the ability to see through our world into the next. If this was indeed true, then for Shirah the future was not a distant place. We, who had no idea what was to be, sat in the courtyard enjoying ourselves, applauding as Aziza hit the target again and again, her agility and grace a revelation to us all.
As for Shirah, she only watched, the way one might keep a wary eye on a swarm of bees already in flight, when it was too late to wave them away or return them to the hive. When the damage had already been done.
BEFORE LONG the new year was upon us, a time for celebration. But we entered into the holiday of Rosh Hashanah frugally and without joy. Our tables were set with simple things, gourds and leeks, a few thin partridges, lentil salads, yogurt cheese. Yael brought some of this meager feast to her friend Tamar. The Essene woman was grateful, and in return her son, Yehuda, a dreamy boy who was often climbing trees in the orchard when he should have been at his studies, surprised my grandsons with the gift of a carved spinning top. The children were delighted with their present; they were happy enough with so little. They didn’t notice how Yehuda stared at them, curious once he’d discovered they didn’t possess the power of speech. Noah and Levi seemed to accept their plight, however. They made the best of things, ignoring the stares that greeted them in the plaza from the curious who tried to guess what had caused them to become mute. The boys enjoyed the new baby in the house, spending hours entertaining Arieh with his rattle, or with gourds made into flutes, and now with the clever little top Yehuda had fashioned.
Arieh seemed drawn to my grandsons’ sweet silence, his eyes following them around our chamber. We catered to our little lion, who threw back his head to laugh when my grandsons made shadows dance on the wall. Already when they played a hiding game with him, ducking behind a length of fabric, he called out for them with a shout, chortling and cooing until my grandsons silently reappeared, so still they might have indeed been shadows rather than flesh-and-blood