Crown in the Stars

by Kacy Barnett-Gramckow

  One day, Shoshannah, I’ll go looking for you, he thought, determined. I’ll find you, and that brother, Gibbawr, you insisted was mine. And I’ll see the Ancient Ones with my own eyes …

  Musing, he drew Atarah into his arms and kissed her, gratified by her softness and her obvious adoration of him. She would never be as amusing as Shoshannah had been, but for now, she was a comfort, and that was enough.

  For now.

  Twenty-Nine

  STEPPING OUT of his new reed hut, binding his straight black hair into a severe horseman’s plait, Ra-Anan studied the sun-gilded morning contentedly. Five years of slow, difficult travel had brought him and his tribe to this eastern coastline—a deep, curving bay teeming with fish, crabs, and shellfish, pleasingly enhanced by a fertile marsh to the north populated by flocks of raucous—and edible—birds. Best of all, his quarrelsome tribe had finally agreed this past month that they would stay here permanently.

  Nekhosheth and Perek were already awake and busy, hollowing out a fallen tree, carefully burning and chipping its interior to create a boat.

  Ra-Anan approved. “Do you think you’ll finish it today?”

  “Maybe,” Perek grunted, as Nekhosheth nodded.

  The low nickering of a horse stopped them cold. As one, the men turned and saw a tribe of horsemen approaching from the south—followed by their families, who were also on horses. They had apparently been drawn to Ra-Anan’s settlement by the plumes of smoke rising from their work and from the morning fires. Jolted, Ra-Anan stared at the horsemen, recognizing some of them as former merchants from the Great City. They must have taken half the horses in the city—some of those are mine!

  Worse, these horse thieves had weapons aimed at Ra-Anan, Perek, and Nekhosheth. Apparently recognizing one of the men, Nekhosheth called out, “Peh-ayr! You’ve become a horseman?”

  Peh-ayr, a dark, sparse-bearded, sneering man, called to Nekhosheth in ringing, rhythmic accents, nodding at Ra-Anan and Perek as if to ask, “Why are you with them?”

  Another horseman, bony and surly, unmistakably motioned for Ra-Anan and all the others—who had emerged from their reed huts—to leave.

  Seeing this, Ra-Anan’s former priest Awkawn cried, “They’re chasing us from our own homes that we’ve built? No!”

  The surly horseman responded by shooting an arrow at Awkawn’s feet. Awkawn retreated as his wife and everyone in the tribe yelled in protest. Ra-Anan called to his wife and the other women, “Zeva’ah, gather everything you can! All the gear you can carry! Quickly before they decide they should have that too!”

  Peh-ayr followed Ra-Anan’s every move with a readied arrow. Seeing this, Nekhosheth muttered, “He still hates you—always has.”

  Ra-Anan felt all the hair on his head prickle with apprehension. “We’ll go,” he told Perek, who looked ready to fight. “We’ll start again. We don’t have much to lose yet, except our lives—and the children’s.”

  Apparently remembering his young son, whose birth had settled him—and Ormah—tremendously, Perek nodded. But he scowled at the former merchant-thieves.

  “Boats,” Nekhosheth said abruptly, as soon as they were safely away from the invading tribe.

  Peering ahead at the northern coastline, Ra-Anan said, “What about boats?”

  “Easier than walking. We can swim if there’s an accident—but we’ll be careful.”

  Nekhosheth was obviously thinking of the tribe’s children. The invaders had taken his children’s horses, which meant that the littlest ones would have to be carried. The journey—wherever it took them—would be dismally slowed.

  Ra-Anan agreed reluctantly. “Boats it will be then.”

  That night, as Ra-Anan sat down at the evening fire, Zeva’ah rolled her dark-shadowed eyes at him—the expression of a woman who has had enough. He expected her to berate him for not defending their settlement. Beneath his breath, he snapped, “Say it!”

  “I think I’m with child.” She lowered her face into her hands, rocking, weeping.

  After all these years? Shocked, he pulled her into his arms as she cried for this new infant, and for everything she had lost: their home, luxuries, their sons, and their Demamah. Ra-Anan soothed her, aware of the others staring curiously. “Things will be better in a few years, you’ll see. As our tribe grows, we will have a city again.” Frowning, he asked, “Can you swim?”

  Weeks piled upon months, then became years, which Ra-Anan had always tracked by systematic knots in cordage: small knots for days, large knots for weeks, thread-marked knots for months, each cord ending with a year. The cords fringed to six… eight… nine years after the scattering of the tribes. Nine years of travel.

  Using laboriously crafted wooden boats, carefully balanced with adjoining planks, Ra-Anan’s growing tribe cautiously worked their way up the northern coast. Eventually the land curved east, then south. Vistas of lush, misty grasslands filled with wildlife tempted them to linger, while pouring, chilling rains compelled them to flee, turning south with the coastline. Often they took refuge in caves to escape the weather. And they fought over where to settle. They had not yet found a place as wonderful as the deep, sparkling bay so rudely stolen from them by the merchant-thieves—a crime they all mourned.

  Ra-Anan began to doubt that his young daughter, Tereyn, an unexpectedly happy child, and her constantly hungry infant brother, Nebat, would ever know a true home.

  “That looks like a fine cave!” Tabbakhaw announced, to Ra-Anan’s irritation, pointing toward a dark-hollowed outcropping of limestone along the shore.

  Waving an oar from their boat adjoining Ra-Anan’s, Erek called to Tabbakhaw, “As you say.” Being their son-in-law, he was now almost subservient to Tabbakhaw and her husband, Chuwriy.

  Behind Erek, his wife, the pregnant Salkah, sniffed loudly. “Let’s hope it’s a fine cave; the last one was so damp I felt as if I were living in a puddle.”

  “I didn’t pick that one,” Tabbakhaw reminded her in a huff.

  “You agreed to it, though,” Awkawn’s wife, the lanky Romaw, called to her from another boat. “I said we should move on, but no one ever listens to me. I think this one’s probably worse than the other.”

  “Let’s try it,” Awkawn said, always ready to argue with his wife.

  In her place behind Ra-Anan, Zeva’ah shifted the nursing Nebat. “I am tired.”

  Ra-Anan had intended to push them farther down the coast today, but the women seemed determined to camp early. He subdued his frustration while his tribe carefully maneuvered their boats into the tides that would carry them to shore.

  As the women bickered and unloaded the boats, the men took their weapons and climbed up the sandy beach to explore the cave. Putrid, musty, dripping darkness greeted them, with a seething, rustling sound unlike anything Ra-Anan had ever heard.

  Erek sounded as if he were gagging on the stench. “Something’s in here.”

  “Out,” Ra-Anan muttered, backing away from the sound, a spear ready in his hand. The seething sound formed into a mass that arose, unfurling like a dark, lifted, shaken cloth. Ra-Anan’s fear expanded with the form.

  “Out!”

  To his horror, the creature followed them. In the light of day, it was not as tall as a man but a hitherto unimagined nightmare—lightly fuzzed, deep shadowed colors, a narrow sharp-toothed snout on a long, thin, bony head with piercing eyes and leathery claw-fingered wings that opened to an astonishing width before it charged them menacingly on clawed feet. Like a carrion eater from one of I’ma-Annah’s old stories …

  They retreated, facing it, fending it off with their weapons while the women and children screamed from behind them on the beach. Piling everything and everyone back into the boats, Ra-Anan and his tribe fled. The creature glided into the sky, circling above, diving at them until they were well away from its portion of the coast.

  In the eighteenth year after the division of the tribes, Adoniyram felt confident enough to leave his beloved Great City in the care of his guards
man Ghid’ohn and his priest, Ebed. He intended to search for his brother, Gibbawr. In addition, he had heard muddled rumors of a celebration to honor the Ancient Ones this year; he was determined to visit them, hoping to somehow communicate with them.

  For the first time in their married lives, however, Atarah tried to argue. She was bearing their tenth child and feared he wouldn’t return to see this little one.

  “I have to find my family,” he told her firmly, not mentioning Gibbawr. “Even now, it may be too late—the tribes are all so scattered and confused.” And I want to find Shoshannah. I want to meet the Ancient Ones in the mountains—to decide for myself if they will outlive me. You in the heavens, whoever You are… let me find them.

  Accompanied by his guardsmen Ye’uwsh and Dibriy, Adoniyram rode north for weeks—using some of the few horses that had not been stolen from his Great City.

  Searching for telltale smoke from hearths, he led his companions into the foothills and the mountains to find the Tribe of Bezeq. He repeated the names over and over to various tribal leaders. Bezeq. Gibbawr. Most shook their heads at his words, but some nodded. And, thankfully, Adoniyram told himself, a nod was still yes in any language. He was heading in the right direction.

  “Is this the place?” Dibriy demanded, tired, glaring around as they rode into a comfortable, well-established village of rustic stone-and-timber lodges.

  “Smile, Dibriy,” Adoniyram encouraged him. “If they think you’re angry, we’ll be chased off like scoundrels. Yes, I think this is the place.”

  Women and children bounded from various homes, chattering, whistling, hurrying. Adoniyram dismounted, smiling, and led his weary horse to the largest lodge. A big, sinewy, bold-looking man emerged from this lodge, lifting his chin at Adoniyram, Ye’uwsh, and Dibriy in wary welcome.

  Carefully Adoniyram repeated the names. “Bezeq? Gibbawr?”

  Relaxing, the bold-faced man tapped himself, drawing out the name sharply. “Bezeq.” Turning, he called out an order, of which Adoniyram understood one distinct, lingering word: Gibbawr. Seeming satisfied with verbal responses from others in his village, the big man motioned Adoniyram inside the lodge.

  “Stay with the horses,” Adoniyram muttered to Ye’uwsh and Dibriy. He didn’t want them hearing what he would say.

  A dignified, sharp-faced woman served drinks, berries, grain cakes, and honey, which Adoniyram accepted gratefully. The sharp-faced woman then knelt beside a sour, rugged man, who was most likely her husband—and the tribe’s patriarch.

  Others were filing into the lodge now, studying Adoniyram eagerly, the girls whispering behind their hands, giggling. A sturdy, friendly seeming matron appeared, followed by a tall, handsome leather-clad man and a younger matron, who was quite pretty and heavily pregnant. She reminded Adoniyram painfully of Atarah; he missed her more acutely than he’d realized. Three gangly adolescent boys and a small girl moved after the young matron in a line, like half-grown brown ducklings.

  As if trained, the three boys sat near Bezeq and the dour man. The little girl, however, climbed into the sharp-faced woman’s lap and relaxed, playing with some cordage and beads. The tall, leather-clad man sat with Bezeq, while nodding to Adoniyram sociably.

  Adoniyram returned the man’s nod, wondering if he was imagining a resemblance, hints of his own features reflected in this young man’s face. “Gibbawr?”

  Exchanging glances with Bezeq, the leather-clad man nodded in polite agreement. “Gibbawr.”

  “I am Adoniyram.” He had to say this twice before Gibbawr attempted it. “Adyon-ee-raaawm.”

  Good enough. Adoniyram nodded, wary now. “Sharah’s son.” Receiving blank stares, he repeated her name again. “Sharah.”

  The sturdy, friendly looking matron gasped in apparent realization. “Shaw-raw!” Turning, she chattered at the entire tribe, then swept a questioning look from Adoniyram to Gibbawr. Instantly, Bezeq smoldered, the dour, rugged man sneered, and everyone in the tribe seemed to stiffen and stare, indignant.

  No doubt they are remembering my mother, Adoniyram thought, grimly amused. To put their minds at ease, he repeated her name, then briefly, mournfully hung his head. If necessary, he would tell of her death with dust, ashes, and a grief he didn’t feel.

  Bezeq leaned forward now, still smoldering. His powerful face hard, he grabbed a chunk of clay from beside the cold hearth, crumbled it, and let it fall to the floor near his mat. “Shaw-raw?”

  When Adoniyram nodded, Bezeq spat vigorously, insultingly, onto the crumbled clay beside him. Unoffended, Adoniyram removed a dark leather bag from his belt and offered it to the perplexed Gibbawr. To you, my own brother, mere gold from the brother you should never have had.

  He longed to tell them everything. He desperately wished he could gain their acceptance and trust. Their steadfast kinship. But their mangled words stopped them. And Gibbawr’s expression was suddenly too polite. While Bezeq was and would always be—Adoniyram thought—too full of hatred for Sharah to welcome her ill-gotten son.

  Bezeq’s mother, Nihyah, sighed regretfully, snuggling her cherished great-granddaughter in her lap. “I wish we could actually speak to our guest.”

  “So my own mother is dead?” Gibbawr asked, staring down at the gold rings and red-stoned gold cuffs in his hands.

  “It would seem so,” his adoptive mother, Khuldah, sighed. “Though this Adyoneerawm doesn’t seem much grieved; she must have died years ago.”

  “Someone must have killed her,” Bezeq said, openly pleased.

  His father, Ramah, snorted, “Good riddance. Her and her sister, that Keren.”

  Nihyah stiffened, dignified and cool. “Keren was never the terrible woman you thought her to be. It was that Nimr-Rada king who was the evil one…”

  “Do not start that argument again!” Ramah warned his wife, his dark eyes ferocious in his bearded, raw-boned face. “Let’s feed this young man and his companions and encourage them to leave in the morning.”

  Gibbawr’s wife, Meleah, straightened now, pressing her hands to her heavily pregnant sides—for the unborn child was kicking visibly. “Gibbawr, beloved,” she said, her brown, rounded face warm and worried, “I do think you should at least share one meal with your brother. He has brought you gifts. You may never see him again. Let there be no regrets.”

  “We should part in peace,” Gibbawr agreed, clearly unwilling to offend his father.

  Bezeq remained silent. Ramah nudged him. “Now that she’s dead, you should marry again. A true wife this time. Perhaps a girl from your brother Yithran’s tribe.”

  “Perhaps.” Grudgingly, Bezeq turned to his son, Gibbawr. “Your Meleah is right. Go share some food with your brother before he leaves. If he had Sharah as his mother, he deserves some compassion.”

  Clubs in hand, Mithqah, Demamah, and Shoshannah knelt in the sunshine before the lodge of the Ancient Ones, pummeling a long, leather-wrapped mat of damp wool, felting it to be used for winter boots and caps.

  As they pounded in rhythm, they laughed at the antics of their younger children. Demamah’s toddler daughter, Ghiylath—a busy, prattling mite with Demamah’s brown eyes and Tiyrac’s thick, dark, red-tinged hair—was trying to escape to play in the stream, which she loved. The other children encircled her to keep her penned. Ghiylath howled. Shoshannah’s only daughter, Meherah—twelve, stick thin and earnest, with her mother’s tousled brown curls—finally grabbed the unhappy toddler and swung her in circles until Ghiylath was too dizzy to stand.

  “Why did Tiyrac and I get such a little wild woman?” Demamah complained fondly. “She should be one of yours, Shoshannah, really.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Shoshannah said, watching dear, naughty Ghiylath wobble to her feet. Timing her rhythm with the others, Shoshannah called to the frustrated Meherah, “Make her dance! Wear her out. Ghiylath-child, dance!”

  Catching on, Ghiylath’s eyes brightened as she began to stamp her feet and flap her hands in delightful disorder.

  Mithqah laughed, c
alling to the other children, “Dance! Hands high to Him! Step, step, step! We’ll practice for the celebration.”

  Celebration. Shoshannah sobered as she pounded on the felt. They were here to prepare for their First Father Shem’s third kentum—his three hundredth year. Language barriers notwithstanding, all the neighboring tribes, and many from beyond—including Shem’s brothers—would be arriving within days, bearing gifts and full of joy, which Shem seemed reluctant to acknowledge.

  It’s because he knows he will outlive most of us here.

  “Shoshannah!”

  Eliy’ezer—Shoshannah’s lanky pale-eyed youngest brother, born the winter after the confusion in the Great City—came charging up the slope toward the lodge. Shoshannah stood, alarmed by Eliy’ezer’s breathless shock; he was usually rock calm.

  “Kaleb said to warn you! Adoniyram of the Great City is coming with two guardsmen. Our Noakh and Shem and Father and the uncles are going out to meet them.”

  “What?” Shoshannah abandoned her work and herded the little ones together. Her second thought—after gathering the children—was to fetch her bow. But Meherah was almost underfoot, agitated by Eliy’ezer’s panic. And Eliy’ezer had gone inside to warn I’ma-Naomi and I’ma-Annah and all the aunts. They would insist upon welcoming Adoniyram, though cautiously. Shoshannah willed her fears down hard, telling herself that Adoniyram and his men were too heavily outnumbered to create trouble.

  I’ma-Naomi and I’ma-Annah were already hurrying to create a resting place for the travelers just outside the lodge. Shoshannah soothed her daughter and coaxed her to help with the food. “We’re fussing over nothing, Meherah-child, I’m sure.”