The Dovekeepers - Alice Hoffman [107]
The moon was in the center of the sky watching over me, lonely, cold. Still I stayed. At last my son-in-law came through the plaza, his ax in hand, his expression brooding. He was still a young man, though his hair was white. His arms were bare beneath his prayer shawl. I saw that he had wrapped several thin lengths of sharp-edged bronze around his muscled forearms; the fierce, bloodied twists were meant to turn every move he made into excruciating self-punishment. Such abuse was not allowed; it was the mourning practice of nomads and barbarians. Still, he had done as he pleased, breaking our laws. There were bands of bloody scars where he had cut directly into his flesh with a knife, a row of injuries set above his dark blue veins. The self-inflicted marks were the blue of the hyssop when it bloomed, my daughter’s favorite flower. Around them arose bruises that were the gorged color of plums, her favorite fruit.
When I called his name, Yoav narrowed his eyes as though I had uttered a curse. But I gestured to him, and he recognized me and approached. He stood beneath the dry leaves of the mulberry tree, half-dressed in his silver armor. I wondered if he slept in it, if he dreamed of battles and blood or of my daughter’s beautiful face.
“It’s the day of sorrow,” I reminded him, thinking we might pray together or light a lamp in memory of Zara.
He snorted. I thought of the blindfolded horses of the king, set upon a path they could not see. Some must have protested; they must have reared up, furious to be sightless in the brutal grasp of the serpent that led up the mountainside.
“Every day is that,” said the Man from the Valley, who was still my son-in-law even though I had no daughter. “What should I pray for?”
He seemed both ashamed and furious; there was scorn in his voice at the mention of prayer. Of course he knew the day. He had counted every moment since he’d found her beneath the heavy rocks I’d placed over her so that she might be protected from any other creatures of prey.
“You have two sons,” I reminded him. “They have your wife’s dark eyes.”
Yoav stunned me with a roar of grief. I drew back, uncertain of who was before me, this Man from the Valley who confided in no one and slept with his back to the wall, ax in hand, ready to fight while he was dreaming. “I told you not to speak of her,” he admonished me.
“Or of the boys?”
He faced me, defiant. “This world is nothing to me. Why would you think I care about such things?”
“I came to you because you carry her with you,” I said, reminding him that I had offered him her last breath. He had taken it and now she belonged to him. In exchange for this great gift, he needed to respect me still, no matter how bitter he had become. He nodded, recognizing the bond between us and the sacrifice I’d made. He restrained his temper and listened to reason. The man who was still my son-in-law came to sit beside me under the black mulberry tree. He had never asked how I’d managed to kill those beasts, how I’d lured them to their deaths with bread. Perhaps he resented me, for I had performed the deed of vengeance he was likely ashamed not to have committed himself. But back then he was a man who knew only prayer, while I had already become a torrent of fury.
“There must be something here for you still,” I insisted, trying to speak to the man he’d been, not this violent warrior intent on torturing himself. “The air you breathe, the water you drink, waking each day to see the sun. There must be something you still want from this world.” There was so little that remained of him, but when I looked down into the dust, his shadow seemed the same.
Yoav laughed and shook his head. “You’re asking what I want?”
For a moment I saw the scholar who had come to the Baker to ask for our daughter’s hand, the young bridegroom so overwhelmed on his marriage