The Dovekeepers - Alice Hoffman [223]
I told the boys to go forward and handed the babies over to Yehuda before running back to Revka.
“Go on,” she shouted, waving her arms the way she might have if I were one of the doves who refused to leave the nest.
She hadn’t thought much of me when I had first come to the dovecote, and she’d been right to be suspicious of me. I hadn’t been anyone worthwhile. A thief who hadn’t known what love meant, a fool with no understanding of what a lion could do if you lay down beside him.
I’d been a girl from the desert willing to do anything to survive.
I ran up behind Uri as he held Revka in his grasp. I rushed at him so that I might come at him with more strength, but also so I would not have to see his face. I had the knife that had belonged to Ben Simon, the one he had used on behalf of Zion, given to me to protect myself when he knew that he would die, and that we had sinned, and that I must go on without him.
I used the dagger before I could consider the weight of my deed, before I could feel the heat of Uri’s blood. When I had trapped the doves in the desert, their deaths had seemed like drifts of white smoke, swift and silent. This was an inferno, an explosion of blood and heat. Uri released Revka and turned to me, stunned, his gaze fixed upon me, as if I were the murderess and he the bird in the net. He moved to grab me and take me down with him, but before he could grasp me, he was struck from behind and he stumbled, lurching forward. He seemed a pale sheaf taken from the furrows of the earth, cut down in harvesting. He fell to the ground like the almond trees in the orchard.
The Man from the Valley had come upon us. He was nearly unrecognizable, his countenance resembling a beast as much as a man. That was why the Almighty had given us prayer, to distinguish men from animals, to leave the beasts inside of us locked away, as demons are locked in lead jars. This warrior wore nothing but his metal bands of agony and a tunic that was sodden with blood.
But no matter his appearance, the Man from the Valley was indeed human, though he himself might deny it. When Uri reached for me again, grasping at my leg, the Man from the Valley shouted at me to dodge backward. He made a quick sweep to complete Uri’s death, so swift it seemed his ax was made of light. Perhaps Gabriel, who was the lord of fire and of vengeance, did indeed walk beside him.
After the Man from the Valley had slain the younger warrior, he knelt to sing our song for the dead, which many said was the only prayer he would offer up to God. He chanted, in a trance. When he rose, I saw that he had been marked with the letters of the Almighty’s name across his chest and arms, for he was the last of the ten, the one who must slay all of the death-givers and then bring upon his own death.
Once he had been a learned man and a scholar, he had been a man of faith. He had partaken of a lottery to see who would be the last man, and God had chosen him for this terrible last task. Of all the death-givers, he was the most fierce, for his rising indignation over the condition of his kind had left him without fear. He was inured to violence; whether it was inflicted upon himself or upon another made no difference to him now.
At that moment I was unsure whether he would be our murderer or our salvation. The children had stopped in their path, watching with horror. The boys knew their father and called out to him, but he did not answer. Instead he gazed at me, unguarded, and in that moment I saw the man he had been, the one he would be again when he walked into the World-to-Come and bowed before the Creator of all things.
“I leave my children to you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Wherever they go my wife abides.”
Even now he could not forsake her, or lose her to the beasts who took her down. If he’d been another man, he might have come with us to hide from this mayhem, for I murmured that we were making our escape.