The Dovekeepers - Alice Hoffman [140]
I couldn’t help wonder what else my mother had seen on the day I was born, if there had been an omen that had caused her to cast me aside, preferring a stranger to her own daughter.
THROUGHOUT the beautiful and mild month of Adar, Yael came to our chamber in the old palace kitchen in the evenings. She learned the spells my mother had been taught in Alexandria, along with Greek and Hebrew letters. They sat at the table, heads together, voices low so as not to wake Arieh, now nearly eight months old, who napped on the pallet where my sister had once spent her nights. I wasn’t offended when they didn’t think to include me. I had no interest in such matters. Keshaphim was nothing more than women’s work in my eyes, with its recipes and its herbal remedies, no different than cleaning up after the doves, or spinning wool, or keeping the pots simmering on the stove. I had used it to protect Amram once, when he led his first raid from this mountain. But afterward I had felt unclean and had gone to the mikvah to purify myself.
And yet, as I watched them at their studies, I thought how much easier it would be if only I could do as my mother asked, if I could be the one to sit beside her, if it had not already been written that I was bound to disobey.
WHEN NAHARA left us, I was convinced she would return. I was the rebel and she the good daughter, my dear and trusted sister. In time I was certain that the Essenes’ strict ways would grate upon her. Then she would remember she belonged to me.
But the season changed, the wheat grew tall, and still there was no word. There was Yael, in Nahara’s place at the table. There was Arieh, cooing, playing with his toes or with his rattle on her bed. My sister dropped her eyes when we passed each other, as though we had not crossed the Salt Sea together and slept in each other’s arms. She seemed not to hear when I called to her in the plaza. I thought she would come to me in her own time, but I was wrong. I should have realized that a ewe does not run through the open gate when her entire world consists of the pen in which she lives. Once such a creature has memorized the fence of thorns, she will not cross that marker, not even after it’s torn down, for it still rules the boundaries of her vision and her life.
When I spied Nahara in the field, tending to the black goats, urging them on with a bent stick, following the men of the tribe, her eyes trained on Malachi, I wondered if my mother had been mistaken in her prophecy when she said that love would bring about my undoing.
Perhaps she had seen my sister’s fate instead.
ON THE DAY of the Feast of Unleavened Bread, when we celebrate our people’s release from slavery, the kadim arose out of Edom. No good could come of this, for once the wind began, it was said to last for weeks. There was no way to escape its brutal heat or hide from its fury. For weeks the birds would not rise into the sky, their wings beaten back by the force of the gusts and by the will of our God, reminding us that we must bow before Him and offer thanks for our life on earth. Confusion would reign when men tried to speak to one another, and women’s intentions would be misunderstood.
In the dovecote, the birds were agitated and refused to lay. My mother drew the sign of the four winds on the earthen floor, then burned incense, a small pile of myrrh that caused the doves to quiet, though they still trembled. Yael took the birds onto her lap, and they were comforted, but the moment she went out the door, they began to worry and call.
When the Feast of Unleavened Bread was over and the bakers were once again at work at the ovens, using what little grain they had for their loaves, the wind was still with us, just as fierce. Petals rained down from the almond trees in a blinding hail. Lines formed at the storehouses, where our neighbors waited for their share of food. People had to shout in order to be