Crown in the Stars

by Kacy Barnett-Gramckow

  “How can this be the same Kuwsh-child I cared for as my own?” I’ma-Annah wondered aloud, sounding inconsolable. “And Shem played with Kuwsh and protected him as he did our own sons. I don’t understand why he turned against us.”

  “Kuwsh wants his children to rule your children,” Keren explained, yanking at her hair now—though she decided it was hopeless. “He wants to control us all.”

  “But does everyone else want him to control them? I think not.” Annah slipped the comb through her dark wet hair so easily that Keren would have envied her if she weren’t so dispirited. Annah paused now, seeming to remember something bitter. “I think Kuwsh’s rebellion is because of his father Khawm’s rebellion. Years ago, Khawm insulted and offended our Noakh horribly. Oh, but that was a terrible time. He—”

  “You two hurry!” Erek’s voice cried from outside, interrupting them. “Before we come in and drag you out!”

  His threat angered Keren. And if she was angered, then Zekaryah must be furious. They hurried outside and began to dismantle the tent. As she worked, Keren heard the guardsmen talking.

  “We can’t let her be seen by anyone,” Abdiy grumbled.

  Becay sounded irritated. “We’ll just throw something over her head.”

  They’re talking about me, Keren realized, as she helped I’ma-Annah roll the deerskin covering away from the wooden tent ribs.

  I’ma-Annah patted Keren’s hand, giving her a questioning look while tipping her head toward the guardsmen. “They want to hide you from others, Keren-child?”

  “It seems so,” Keren agreed, upset. “I’m sure my presence will create chaos in the Great City if I’m seen.”

  Shaking her head, I’ma-Annah boldly approached the guardsmen, who all straightened as she spoke. “My sons, I have something she can use to remain hidden; you can’t just throw a piece of leather or wool over—”

  Becay swiftly nodded and raised a hand toward her—a silencing motion of agreement. The others retreated, unwilling to argue.

  Annah smiled at them kindly, went to one of the packhorses, and unfastened a leather bundle. Returning to Keren, she said, “I knew you would be determined to find Shoshannah, so I thought it would be wise to bring this. I know you’ll take care of it. I’ve mended it over the years.”

  Opening the bundle, Annah produced a light, fragile length of netting, scattered with tiny, intricate, naturally decorative knots. Keren didn’t dare touch it.

  “Your veil… the one you wore as a girl in the times before these…”

  “I know you’ll take care of it,” I’ma-Annah repeated. “Let’s finish packing our gear, then you can put it on.”

  “But I can’t.” Keren stared at the veil, scared, humbled. She could just imagine herself shredding the precious, delicate threads that were such a part of her heritage.

  “Obey her, child,” Shem commanded, very much the First Father.

  Unnerved, Keren bowed her head in mute agreement. Then she glanced at her husband. Zekaryah returned her look, troubled.

  “How did you survive beneath this veil for so many years?” Keren asked, peering through the fragile mesh toward I’ma-Annah, who was guiding her by the elbow. “I feel as if I’m walking through an endless mist.”

  “You’ll become used to it,” I’ma-Annah promised, “if you have to wear it for very long.” She almost halted, staring ahead. “Keren-child, is that their tower?”

  Focusing through the veil, Keren saw what she had prayed never to see again: a mountain created by man, that formidable brick heap they called a tower. “Yes. Though it’s much higher now.”

  “O Living Word,” Shem prayed aloud behind them, almost groaning, “be merciful. How it must offend You.”

  Zekaryah made a quiet sound of agreement. Keren longed to look back at him, to take refuge in his arms. To hide from the sight of the Great City. Most High, please, I don’t want to go there again!

  But Shoshannah was there. Keren willed herself to continue.

  The path toward the Great City was widening now, and more travelers merged with them, carrying heavy packs of gear, or guiding horses, donkeys, and oxen. All of these travelers were laughing, chattering, and joking loudly, delighted to see the Great City.

  Keren felt others staring at her curiously as they walked. Now she was glad for I’ma-Annah’s veil; she didn’t want to be recognized by any of these people. Neither did Shem or Annah; despite the summer warmth, they had both pulled light hoods over their heads, hiding their faces.

  “Stay close!” Abdiy prodded Shem and Zekaryah sharply with a bow stave as they turned into the crowded city streets. Keren was almost limping. When had they paved the streets? Her feet already ached with so much walking, and now the brick pavings worsened her misery. And being jostled by the arrogant citizens didn’t help.

  “Every faithless person on the face of the earth must be here,” I’ma-Annah muttered to Keren, stepping around a small dung pile.

  “It’s so much more crowded than I remember,” Keren whispered, overwhelmed.

  “What’s wrong with her?” An impudent young man called out to Erek, while pointing to the veiled Keren.

  “It’s not your business!” Erek retorted snidely. “Run back to your I’ma, boy, before we bind you too.”

  Keren felt as if she would stifle beneath the veil, amid the bustle and the warmth of the late-afternoon sun. Even the southern end of the city, which she remembered as being comparatively quiet, was teeming with noise and confusion. She was recognizing some of the houses, including the pale, wall-enclosed one she had used for more than six years. Its trees were amazingly tall now, their branches drooping over the high walls, lush and overgrown. This had been a place of despair for her, yet it was also here that she and Zekaryah had first acknowledged and nurtured their love.

  Unable to help herself, she peeked over her shoulder, through the mists of the veil, at Zekaryah. He glanced from their former residence to her, his quiet expression mingling love and regret. I’m sure he also believes we will die here… soon. Keren had to force herself to keep moving and not to give in to her despair.

  “There is Ra-Anan’s home,” she told I’ma-Annah later, as they passed the sprawling, wall-enclosed residence.

  “It’s too much of a home.” Annah studied the residence from beneath her head covering, then looked away. Her tender voice infinitely saddened, she said, “How terrible that he has become so important and proud.”

  “I wonder where they’ve hidden Shoshannah.”

  “I have been praying for her. And for us.”

  I pray He listens. Keren had to fight her sense of betrayal against the Most High; it was affecting her badly, worse than the despair. Now they were walking toward the Great-King Nimr-Rada’s massive wall-and guard-protected home.

  Sharah. You sent these men for us, Keren realized. The thought brought up a nausea unrelated to her pregnancy. She didn’t want to face her sister again. But would she rather face the vindictive Kuwsh? Or Ra-Anan, whose ambition was never restrained by compassion?

  “Becay!” A thickset, rough-skinned guard, wearing an unshorn fleece-hide cloak, called out cheerfully. “You’ve finally returned. You were expected days ago! I’m glad I’m not you.”

  “Close your mouth and open the gate,” Becay snarled, narrowing his dark eyes at the guard.

  The coarse guardsman opened the wooden gate and bowed as they all passed through. Noticing Zekaryah’s and Shem’s bound wrists, he smirked. “An honor, my lords! A delight. Welcome.”

  Keren gritted her teeth at his sarcasm, and Annah exhaled, obviously indignant. “I hope his mother wasn’t one of my own daughters!”

  They were led inside Nimr-Rada’s former home—which was certainly Sharah’s now. All of Nimr-Rada’s gruesome hunting trophies were gone, replaced by lavish linen draperies, sprawling black-outlined murals, thick furs, mats, piles of baskets, ornate red-painted vases, huge arrangements of garish iridescent plumed feathers, and low, wide wooden chairs strewn wi
th heaps of fleeces. Keren stared through the veil, amazed at the transformation from a deathly stark room to a lush, overwhelmingly feminine retreat. It was too showy to be restful.

  “Sit!” Abdiy commanded harshly, earning a frown from Becay. The two guardsmen were wearing on each other by now, enmeshed in a power struggle.

  Soon a delicate metallic musical noise made them all look at the far side of the room, toward sheer linen draperies shielding a passageway. Sharah—overpainted, overdressed, overindulged, and wearing countless gold and jeweled bracelets—flung the draperies aside and swept into the room. The instant she saw Shem, I’ma-Annah, and Zekaryah, she laughed triumphantly.

  “Oh, but welcome,” she cooed, sounding like a falsely sweet variation of her guard at the gates. “Though you’re so late, I should punish your guardsmen.” Glancing at the five wary guards who had followed Keren and the others inside, she waved Erek off. “Go tell my son that he won’t be eating dinner here tonight after all. Go!”

  Erek bowed and departed, looking relieved.

  Sharah smiled again, clasping her pale hands together beneath her chin—an exaggerated, condescending gesture. “Now, what will we do with you all? Keren, my own dear shadow sister, is that you?”

  Reaching toward Keren, Sharah snatched the veil away, eyeing it. “A lovely old thing—what a pretty gift; thank you, my sister.” She draped the veil over her shoulders like a shawl, then settled decorously into one of the fleece-draped chairs, saying to Keren, “You look horrible.”

  “I’ve been ill,” Keren said quietly, watching Sharah pick at the fragile meshwork. “That is I’ma-Annah’s veil; you must give it to her now. And where is my daughter?”

  “You always were ready to quarrel.” Sharah sniffed. “And never mind your daughter—she’s nothing. Look: I

  can do whatever I want now, including ripping this sad old fishnet to bits. Not to mention that I’ll decide your fate, so don’t provoke me.”

  “What is there for you to decide?” Shem asked, his dark eyes very wide, intense, his voice dangerous. “Keren is your own sister.”

  “Are you saying I should forgive her for being a traitor to my people?” Sharah tossed her head. “That’s not your problem. This is my kingdom. Anyway, didn’t the Most High spare that Kayin in the Garden of Adan for killing his brother Hevel?”

  If she weren’t feeling so ill, Keren would have laughed at her sister’s warped version of the earth’s first murder.

  Shem said, “At least you remembered their names. Return the veil to my wife, please. And answer us: where is Shoshannah?”

  Her pale eyes glistening wrathfully, Sharah wadded up the veil and flung it hard at I’ma-Annah without looking at her. She focused on Shem instead. “That troublesome girl is not your concern. I’m remembering now why I’ve always disliked you—you’re so haughty and sure of yourself. I won’t put up with you!”

  As Keren watched, infuriated by Sharah’s rudeness, I’ma-Annah folded her veil neatly, then asked, “What will you do, Sharah-child?”

  “Whatever I please, Ma’adannah. And don’t call me ‘child.’ You don’t rule here.”

  “It seems you’ve said that quite often,” Shem observed. “But repeating something over and over doesn’t make it true, child.”

  “Oh, but it is true, as you’ll learn.” Sharah settled herself into her padded chair again, hostile. “You can’t endure it when someone has more authority than you!”

  “You’re being unjust,” Keren said quietly. “All these things you’ve accused our First Father of… they aren’t true.” They apply to you, not him.

  “Always the loyal follower, aren’t you?” Sharah mocked Keren viciously. “But really, you’re the worst liar of all—deceiving our elders with your ‘sweetness,’ trying to steal my place here, plotting to kill our Great King, and seducing this fool to help you!” She nodded toward Zekaryah, who smoldered at her, outraged.

  “You’ve imagined all those things,” Keren argued, not raising her voice. “And you don’t need to insult my husband and I’ma-Annah and—”

  A young man swept into the room now, handsome, as tall as Zekaryah, with smooth brown skin, an inviting smile, and such long-lashed, fascinating eyes that Keren was shocked beyond speech. His eyes were very much like those of a guardsman from years ago, Qaydawr. Bowing to the indignant Sharah, he kissed her cheek. “Mother, I’ve come to see if you’re well—you called off our evening meal so suddenly that I was worried. But I see you have company, so I’ll…”

  He halted, seeming astonished, staring at Keren. She returned his stare in disbelief. His voice was the same, low and deliberately appealing. There’s no mistake; he is Qaydawr’s son.

  “I am pleased to meet your son,” Keren told her sister carefully.

  Sharah glared at Keren and dismissed her son with a furious wave of her hand. “I will speak to you tomorrow morning, Adoniyram!”

  “As you command. I look forward to seeing you.” Adoniyram bowed politely, but he threw a searching look toward Keren just before he departed.

  She watched him leave, then turned to Sharah again, wondering about Qaydawr. Where is he? She dared not ask. But she would ask about Shoshannah again.

  Speaking coldly to the guards, Sharah pointed to Father Shem. “Put him out in the streets after dark, with his wife. Tomorrow their enemies will hunt them down and kill them like animals.” Jerking her chin at Keren, she continued, “Put her—and her stupid husband—into one of my storage rooms and bar the door; then guard it. If they escape, I give you my word you’ll be punished.”

  Frantic, Keren hugged Annah, whispering, “Find Ya-bal the potter, and his Meherah. I love you both! Tell our children I love them too. And my parents…”

  By now, Erek had returned and was dragging Keren to her feet, while Abdiy took hold of Zekaryah. Keren’s throat burned with the effort to control her tears. In despair, she prayed, wishing she’d been able to learn something hopeful about Shoshannah.

  She knows who my father is, Adoniyram thought, going into his quiet sleeping room and dropping onto his wide, linen-curtained bed. There was no doubt in his mind that she was Shoshannah’s mother, tired and thin but still lovely, with those amazingly pale eyes and the forthright nature he knew so well. And there was no doubt that she had recognized his face. He had noticed her surprise.

  I have to speak to her. But how? My mother will certainly keep her hidden … but where?

  Twenty-Five

  “OUT!” SHARAH’S hefty, fleece-cloaked gateman thrust Shem and Annah into the dark street.

  Unbound now, Shem looked back at the man, appalled by his behavior.

  The gateman glared at him, pitiless. “Don’t stand there staring at me! Whoever you are, you’re not wanted here. Move on.” The obnoxious guard shut the gate, settling the bar from inside with a resounding clunk.

  “Beloved,” Annah pleaded, her hand light upon Shem’s arm, “let’s leave this place for now.”

  They walked toward the dark market street. Shem looked around, detesting this Great City. He could hear voices, laughter, the muffled rasping of a grindstone, and two men arguing from one of the houses nearby. Most of the people of the earth seemed to be here. But he and his dear wife, who shared a small, vital part in the lives of these rebels, were alone in the murky streets with no food, shelter, or anything to barter for their safety. No doubt Sharah was thrilled by their plight, considering it revenge. The notion set Shem’s teeth on edge.

  Breaking into his thoughts, Annah murmured, “Our Keren said that the potter Yabal and his Meherah might help us.”

  Shem recalled the names from Keren and Zekaryah’s stories: Yabal and Meherah, who had lost their firstborn son, Lawkham, to Nimr-Rada’s violence. “Working with clay, they must live near the river.” Choosing a house at random, he thumped on the door to track down the potter Yabal.

  “Beloved, untie these,” Zekaryah whispered as soon as he and Keren were alone in the dark, windowless storeroom. But even as he sp
oke, he felt Keren’s soft fingertips moving along the cords at his wrists, picking at the leather knots that had frustrated him during these past few weeks.

  Zekaryah waited in tense silence, exhaling his relief as the last knot finally opened. As Keren rubbed his hands and arms, Zekaryah turned and embraced his wife. He had been so afraid for her—was still afraid for her. Feeling her thinness beneath her garments, he muttered angrily, “You’ve lost too much weight.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does.” He knelt now, peering at the slash of light streaming in beneath the doorway. Four big leather-booted heels were there. Two guards. And he’d been bound for so many days that his arms felt weak. He couldn’t attack the guards outright. He had to think. What was in this storeroom? As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he moved around noiselessly, inspecting the contents of the room. Jars. Baskets. Leather bags of grain. Relieved, he took Keren’s hand, gently pulling her toward the bags of grain, making her sit on them. If need be, they could even recline upon these for the night. “Rest.”

  Reaching down into one of the jars, he moistened his fingertips, then sniffed and tasted the liquid warily. Water. Cool, scentless, tasteless. Reasonably fresh and clean. He sighed his gratitude. “Here,” he beckoned. “Drink as much as you can.”

  They could chew on some of the grain too. He had to rest and gather his strength; he had to save his wife, their unborn child, and Shoshannah. If anyone has hurt Shoshannah, I will be merciless. Was he right to be so angry? Enough to almost kill? Yes.

  Zekaryah made plans. As soon as that door opened, he would act.

  Furious, Sharah poured some wine from a gold flask. Her hands were shaking, and she sloshed some of the dark red liquid onto her bedchamber floor, spattering her newest pair of sandals. Adoniyram had upset her badly.

  “Why do you never listen to me?” she muttered.

  She hadn’t wanted Adoniyram to see Keren and the others. If he dared to feel sympathy for the worthless Keren and tried to argue in her defense, Sharah was going to have him beaten. Son or not, he must learn his place, and he had to stop treating her enemies like friends. He knows Keren is here …