The Dovekeepers - Alice Hoffman [219]
In the evening when the sky is struck with gauzy vermilion light, in the hour when the space between worlds opens before the inky blue night sifts down to earth, women come to the back gate to ask for the Witch of Moab. They wear their finest clothes, leather sandals that hush their steps, gold signet rings and bracelets adorning their slim fingers and wrists, black kohl rimming their eyes. They offer me gold and silver coins, strands of pearls. In return they ask that I throw the bones of birds to divine their futures. They ask for marjoram and rue, for amulets and potions, for good health, for children to be born and enemies to vanish. Always, they ask for love. I open the book where these recipes are written, the ink still fresh even though the parchment has turned brown, as if I held a sheaf of leaves in my hands.
The women who arrive call me clever, cunning, beautiful, wise. They tell me their secrets and speak of violations and of dreams. They confide what they would never admit to another even though I am a stranger. I do the best I can on their behalf. I have learned divination from a wise woman, but I learned how to listen from a ghost.
I often take the winding cobbled road to the harbor to watch the great lantern that is lit there in the evenings in the lighthouse on the island of Pharos, one of the seven wonders of the world. I look for the ships that come from Greece, blowing across the sea, their huge white sails filling with wind from the four corners of the earth. Water surrounds us. When the Nile overflows, the fields turn green and there are great celebrations, lanterns strung from trees, drumming all night long, dancers in veils and long skirts. The river runs every shade of blue that has ever been known to humankind: ink and turquoise and lapis, indigo, teal, cerulean, and ultramarine. Yet what I long for most is the desert. Ivory, alabaster, the rocks that caused my feet to bleed, the knife to mark off days, the man I loved. In the evenings the scent of that arid land comes across from Judea and reminds me of who I used to be. My hair is perfumed and braided, but at night I remove the pins and let it fall loose down my back.
When I sit in the darkness, the birds come to me. They still know me for who I am.
I am the girl in the desert, even though I am so far away.
I am the woman who was saved by doves, for when I saw them rise up in a cloud above Masada at the hour when darkness reigned, I knew that we must escape.
We were in the kitchen of the palace, waiting for Mal’ach ha-Mavet to walk through the door in the form of one of the ten death-givers who would come to us to slit our throats. Revka and the children were huddled together, listless, as dumbfounded as the sheep who edge toward the butcher when called and herded by bells. I paced the black and white mosaic floor, then went to the door, eagerly scanning the crowd. I was hopeful that Shirah would soon appear, returning to us with Aziza and Adir safely retrieved from the mayhem. But the more I watched the more I trembled, for bodies were piled up in the plaza and the blood was like a river, a tide that fed the olive trees and the date palms and the garden that had turned to ash. There was incessant wailing, but soon the echoing cries gave way to an uncanny silence. Shirah had once told me that silence was the only thing we had to fear. It was our true enemy, signifying that, like the footprints that were swept away in a storm, we had disappeared from God’s sight.
Yonah cried suddenly, breaking the silence with the sweet voice of one who demands to be fed. I still nursed Arieh, and when the newborn cried, I felt my milk come in. In that instant I knew that, despite the death that