The Dovekeepers - Alice Hoffman [109]
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I WENT on across the Western Plaza in search of Shirah, relieved to think I might find her alone. When I came to her door, however, there was no answer. I peered inside to see that the chamber was dim. A scrim of smoke lingered, for incense had been burned before the altar. On the table there was a jar of eye paint made of crushed lapis stone, a palette for mixing paints and rouge that was made of a flat, opalescent white shell, brought from the Red Sea. A small ceramic vial of oil scented with lilies was opened, as though someone had left with great urgency. Lilies were associated with the Shechinah, what some called the Dwelling. It was the feminine aspect of God, that which was hidden and touched only by the truest of believers in a veil of knowledge and ecstasy. It was God’s compassion, and those who died in the Shechinah’s embrace were said to be favored by the angels.
I myself had heard only whispers of such things; still, I recognized the odor of the divine, extremely female in its essence, a mixture of purity and defilement, sweet and sour drawn in one breath. I slipped out of Shirah’s chamber, for the scent led me on, through the plaza. I crossed toward the western wall. I peered over to the palace beneath me. At this hour, under the darkening sky, the ruined Northern Palace yoked to the cliffs was surrounded by a haze of lilac light. The fragrance of perfume was faint, yet it was stronger than the bitter odor of the barren valley below us.
The shops were closed, the tannery and winery shuttered, the bakery dark. Several strong men worked in the bakery, feeding the huge ovens first with cut wood, and, now that we were running out of logs, planks torn from the floors of the inner chambers of the palace were used to feed the flames. I had avoided these ovens ever since I’d walked past one morning to see the men at work, bare-chested, covered by their white aprons, sweltering in the heat the ovens cast. I was fainthearted at the sight of the bakers. For a moment I imagined I saw my husband among them.
Before I swooned, I realized it was someone else entirely, someone who didn’t resemble my husband at all. The man working at the bakery waved at me when he noticed me staring. I hurried away. Ever since that time, I had cooked my own flatbread, flavored with the last of my husband’s coriander. I did not wish to come to this place and stand in line with the other women, waiting for the fresh loaves, or be reminded of the scent of my own household in the Valley of the Cypresses.
Now, in the dark, I saw a shadow cross the bakery floor. A rat.
I went on to search for Shirah, coming to the entranceway that led into the earth. I continued, though I was made dizzy by the way the path careened down hundreds of tilted steps, many crumbling in decay. Members of the king’s court had glided down these stairs, and not long after, Roman soldiers had patrolled here before our warriors overtook them to claim this fortress as their own. I went so deeply into the earth I seemed to be entering another world entirely, one that was dark and damp despite the arid landscape up above.
Although we’d had no rain for several months and the world around us was parched and aching, I heard water. At first the promise of water was like a dream, as it had been when we’d come to the oasis. I felt stunned by the lilting sound of its echo, by the very idea, as though I’d long forgotten what water was like, how it could be so cold and sweet, with white petals floating on the surface, how it could easily drown someone, taking the unsuspecting bather into the circle of its pale, unrelenting arms.
I continued on, drawn to the unexpected