The Dovekeepers - Alice Hoffman [40]
“And what of you?” I asked. “Have you received a message?”
My brother seemed vulnerable at that moment, more a boy than a cold-eyed warrior. He had always told me his secrets, but that time had passed and now he seemed relieved when he was called away to the garrison before he could answer. His friend Uri’s mother came to bring me to my living space. “Don’t expect much,” she warned.
Because I expected nothing, I was pleased by what I received. Our room beside Herod’s wall was far better than any shelter we’d known since we had run from the city. There was a roof of fabric and three walls of wood. A small round oven was built into the stone wall, and there was a tiny chamber in which I could sleep. If I stood on my toes I could see through a spacing in the wall and gaze out at the cliffs. My father was waiting for me when I arrived. He had already blessed this place.
“I told you to trust in God,” he said. “You should not have been so weak.”
I swallowed my words. I did not say You were the one who wept in the desert, not I. You feared wild beasts and starvation while I went to catch birds and dared to face leopards.
I set up our house with what the council had decreed each family should be granted—straw pallets to sleep upon, two oil lamps, woven blankets, stone cups and bowls. Uri’s mother brought us our ration of dates and lentils and fruit, along with a ceramic pot and a jar of oil for cooking and to use to light the Sabbath lamp. She warned me that life here was hard. I nodded, pretending to listen, but I almost laughed. She was clean, her hair plaited, and I was a barbarian who had faced down a leopard. I thanked her for her many kindnesses.
AFTER MY first evening at the fortress, I often found my way back to the orchard where the almonds were in bloom. It was the month of Adar, the beginning of spring. I needed a quiet place which would offer me an escape from my father’s displeasure. He glared at me, unhappy to share his residence with me, begrudging me the corner where I was to live, cursing my existence. I never dared to speak back. I knew three new moons had passed since I had last had my monthly bleeding. In the orchards, Egyptian honeybees were swarming and the air was mild and pink. We had come from a wasteland to a garden, from valleys of death to fields of plenty. I was so accustomed to blistering white light that it pained me to see the many shades of green and gold and pink. I had to squint and hold one hand over my eyes. I had grown used to the silence of the wilderness. Here there were nearly a thousand people, a jumble of humanity, for a city had burst forth in the clouds with no need of the rest of the world. The council printed their own coins in metal shops. Grapes were gathered for wine, hives were kept for the honeybees. There were looms set up in the plaza for the women, and in the evenings their voices burst forth as they carded wool. Pens for animals were made of fences woven from thorn trees. Dusty sheep called to each other; black goats and their kids had space to run. There was the scent of bread baking, meals cooking, the fresh green fragrance of herbs, of coriander and dill and dusky gray sage.
It was too much for me to take in after our time in the desert, a torrent of noise and scent engulfing me like a tide. I yearned for what I’d once had. A bird among the rocks. The dusty prints of a leopard. I myself barely spoke, and if I raised my eyes to someone, it was for but an instant. Some women glanced at me as I walked by, curious. A few waved, but I pulled my scarf closer. Some young girls darted past on their way to the baths. I felt regret rise inside me when I spied them. I wished I could throw off my scarf and run