The Dovekeepers - Alice Hoffman [151]
I edged behind the fountain. There, below a trellis of cucumber vines with their deep green leaves, sat a wooden cage. Inside, two doves huddled close, cooing.
I felt the spark beneath my eye, as if the message I’d once found on the ground burned me still. My heart felt heavy, so much so that I doubted I would be able to run away, though I wished I could now do so. I wondered if this cage of doves contained the messengers to the Iron Mountain, and if this was why my mother had refused to come to this house and risk Channa’s wrath.
Ben Ya’ir returned to the door, the baby in his arms. I could hear weeping echoing in the chamber behind him. I had made my way back through the garden, the scent of mint clinging to my garments, the sound of the doves a song I carried with me, one that had accompanied me from the far side of the Salt Sea, where the caged doves had eaten grain from my hand as they waited for my mother to set them free.
“Is this what you came for?” he asked, as he offered me the child.
When he spoke I understood why men would follow him even though they might die and never return, and why they would believe in him. Although I wanted to tell him I had stumbled upon the doves, I found I couldn’t say another word in his presence. He gave the baby up into my arms. I should have thanked him, but I could not speak. He waited for me to do so for so long that the silence itself spoke of what was between us.
Before he turned back to his chamber, Eleazar ben Ya’ir put his hand to my forehead, gently, as he might welcome a daughter. In that moment I knew he was the man for whom my mother had made such sacrifices, the reason she had been cast out of Jerusalem, why she had waited on the Iron Mountain day after day, until the dove returned with the message to come to him at last.
WHEN I WENT to our chamber that night, I did not ask my mother to speak my father’s name aloud. I saw her comb her long dark hair with a wooden comb made of acacia wood from the forests of Moab. I saw the tattoos on her flesh. She was the same, the woman who’d never wished to tell me who I was, who would not offer Yael help if it meant she would be forced to come before the enemy who had used me as evidence so that we might be set into the wilderness.
I gazed at my face as it was reflected in a bowl of water and saw my father’s eyes staring back at me. Now, when people said his name, they were saying mine as well. I walked alone at night, dressed in Adir’s tunic and mantle, seeking out those who spoke of my father, wanting to hear of his deeds in battle and his kindness to those in need. He insisted that all men were equal, whether they were servants or priests, and made certain all adhered to the law that stated we were not to collect the fruit from the four corners of our orchard, as God had commanded, to ensure that even the poorest among us could find mercy in their time of hunger.
I had the desire to speak to him, something I had been unable to do while I was in his presence. When I heard there was to be an archers’ contest among the warriors, I went, like the boy I’d once been, a scarf across my face, the bow I’d used to test my arrows set upon my back. Perhaps I would see my father and he would know me for who I was, as I now knew him. I waited through the day, watching the men, their strong arms and backs wrenching as they drew their bows. They cried out in brotherhood and rivalry, blaming the wind when they missed their mark, praising the best among them when their aim was true.
When it came time for Amram to take his turn, I saw the obvious admiration his brothers-in-arms felt in his skill. I, too, wanted to praise him, but there was something more. I felt the