He lifted his dark eyebrows hopefully, eloquently: Will you keep it?
In response, Annah kissed the cool oval of shell lightly before pulling its cord over her dark head. He grinned, watching as she pulled her long hair out of the loop of the cord, then settled the luminous carving in place. On him, it had hung near his heart. On Annah, it rested near her stomach. She closed her hands about it protectively. Then, for the first time in years, she smiled at another person—at him.
Instantly, she was frightened by her happiness and reached for her veil to hide herself. But before she covered her face, Annah looked at him one last time, expressing her silent gratitude. His eyes were shining tenderly. Flustered, Annah scooped up the leather pouch and fled. An instant later, she returned to collect her half-rinsed pile of flowers. Through the mists of the veil, she saw that he was still watching her, and grinning. Mortified, she fled for the shelter of the trees.
In the lodge of Noakh, the young man seated himself before the evening fire, only to find that his father, his mother, and two brothers were staring at him; his father thoughtfully, his mother anxiously, his brothers frankly amused. His mother, Naomi, spoke first. Her voice was as gentle as her sweetly curved face and faintly graying hair.
“Shem, your brother tells me you’ve given some token to a young woman from the settlement beyond the river. Is this true?”
Khawm, his younger brother—the informant—was laughing, his leather-clad shoulders shaking, his dark brown eyes sparkling mischievously. Shem cast him a warning look, then cleared his throat. “It’s true, I’ma. I gave her my sea carving.”
“For a reason?” his father, Noakh, questioned softly, smoothing his graying beard.
Biding for time, Shem asked both his parents, “Did Khawm tell you what happened yesterday?”
Noakh merely smiled.
Naomi plaited her fingers together in her lap, speaking carefully. “Your brother told me that the young woman seemed ready to throw herself into the river, and that the two of you managed to dissuade her. This I understand. It was good that she didn’t take her life. But was it wise of you to offer her the sea carving? She might believe something you did not intend.”
“This woman and I …” Shem hesitated, then began again. “We understood one another perfectly, I’ma. And I wanted her to have the carving. She needs some token of kindness—she is in such pain. If you could only see her.”
“Then, my son,” his father agreed placidly, “if your gift was given in kindness, I am sure something good must come of it.”
“But, my dear one,” Naomi objected, her voice strictly controlled, “if the young woman is deluded enough to try to take her own life … Forgive me, I must ask: What good can come from insanity?”
“Beloved,” Noakh said, his warm brown eyes sparkling, his mouth twitching with a suppressed smile, “remember that your husband is considered a madman. And his family must be mad to stay with him—deluded as he is. Surely this young woman will fit perfectly into our family.”
Naomi actually allowed her mouth to fall open. Shem watched, fascinated, as she squeaked, “Who said anything about this young woman joining our family?”
Noakh turned to Shem, serious now. “Tell your mother everything, my son. For if you are my son—and I know you are—there is more to tell.”
Shem was silent, trying to gather his fragmented thoughts. His mother was staring at him, her eyebrows raised in such a commanding way that he knew there was no escape. He blurted out the truth. “I knew, I’ma, that if she went into the river, I would lose the one the Most High had intended for me. She would not be replaced.”
“But a woman about to kill herself!” Naomi protested, still shocked. “Does the Most High truly say such a one should marry my son? You knew this when you saw her?”
Shem lifted his hands helplessly, unable to fully explain. “She was like someone in mourning. Then, it was as if a voice behind me was whispering, ‘Stop her.’ Just after that, she began to move toward the water, so—”
“So he threw rocks at her,” Khawm said, his expression mock-serious.
“Shhh!” Naomi frowned at her youngest son. Turning to Shem once more, she said, “So the Most High has said you should marry this woman. Did He say when?”
Unable to control himself any longer, Khawm cackled with glee, his eyes and teeth shining in the firelight, his long, narrow hands slapping the matting of the floor where he sat.
Seated quietly beside him, Yepheth, the oldest, nudged Khawm fiercely in the ribs. When that failed to hush him, Yepheth slapped his hand over Khawm’s mouth.
Khawm wriggled free, still laughing. “Shem!” he cried, “did the Most High tell you where to find a wife for Yepheth? The Most High will have to promise her a thousand blessings to compensate for his ugly face.”
Irritated at last, Noakh said, “Khawm, enough! Listen to me. Shem has done the will of the Most High. It’s time for him to marry. It’s time for all three of my sons to marry.”
This announcement sobered Khawm immediately. He stared at his father. Noakh spoke sternly. “Even you, my undisciplined one. Unless you’d prefer an older wife to scold you when you behave as a child—I warn you—you must obey me and control your unruly tongue. Otherwise, your mother will choose a second mother to care for you.”
“If I must, I will,” Naomi agreed.
As his parents focused their attention on Khawm, Shem relaxed. For once, Khawm’s irrepressible nature had solved a problem for him instead of creating one. He would not spend a second sleepless night wondering how he could explain to his parents that he must marry a young woman unapproved by his own mother. A young woman who had been contemplating death.
She’s not mad, he thought defensively, staring into the fire. She is grieving. What sorrow has she endured that would force her toward thoughts of death?
He remembered her as he had seen her yesterday at the river, crying, then rinsing her face and gazing into the river. She had been so deep in thought that she had never noticed his presence. What has hurt her so much that she wanted to die?
Shem bit his lip, asking himself the same question. What would hurt me enough to make me want to die? I think it would be to live until I was as old as the father of my grandfather; I could not bear to see my own children returned to the dust as he has done.
Thinking of his great-grandfather, Shem excused himself quietly from the company of his parents and brothers. Taking a small, flickering clay oil lamp from the top of a wooden chest, he crept behind the woven reed partition at the back of the lodge. There, sleeping on a soft pallet, lay the feeble, diminished form of his great-grandfather, Methuwshelakh.
Most ancient of men, Shem thought fondly, watching the frail old man’s eyelids flickering in his sleep. I’m glad you have lived long enough for me to hear the stories of old from your own lips, as you heard them from the lips of Adam, the Father of All.
Gently, Shem knelt and slid his fingers around the old man’s thin, dry hand. Methuwshelakh stirred faintly. He spoke, his voice insubstantial as a breath sighed into a reed pipe. “What … what is it?”
“Father of my Fathers,” Shem said respectfully. “Forgive me for waking you. I wanted to ask if you needed anything.”
“Stay,” Methuwshelakh rasped. He curled his ancient fingers around Shem’s warm, young hand. “Nothing is needed … but you stay with me. There’s no fear….”
As he spoke, the old man slipped back into the twilight of sleep. Shem relaxed beside him, still holding his hand. Often in his sleep, the old man whispered names of loved ones long departed, sometimes grieving, sometimes joyful, occasionally in fear. And often, he would awake confused or in tears. At these times, he needed the presence of others to comfort him.
I’ll sleep here tonight, Shem decided. As he held his great-grandfather’s hand, his thoughts drifted back to the young woman at the river. He had not exaggerated to his parents; he had recognized her as his beloved. It was as if the Most High had led him down to
the river to meet her. She was perfect. Her delicacy, the dignity she revealed in the midst of her pain—even her peculiar custom of wearing a veil—all drew him toward her. And when he saw her eyes, so beautiful and so expressive, he was captivated.
Be safe, he thought, willing her to sense his concern. And come to the river tomorrow, so I can see you again.
Three
ANNAH STIRRED in her sleep, then sank into the darkness of dreams. Her father’s face, thin, kind, with a still-youthful beard of black, emerged from the mists. And Yerakh was there. They were in the workroom again, the three of them. Her father’s voice was raised, yet reasoning. “There’s enough for all, Yerakh. The flocks, the lands, and the gold will provide respectable marriage portions for your sisters and sustenance for you and your brothers. I’ve planned—”
“What you’ve planned is not my concern!” Yerakh cried, so enraged that Annah trembled to see him. Yerakh’s dark face glistened with the sweat of work and hot fury. The muscles in his throat corded as he screamed. “Why should I even hear this? My brothers don’t work the gold, and they will never work the gold. It’s my work—my work!—that purchased this land!”
“Not only your work,” their father reminded him, “but mine as well. And your brothers may not work the gold, but they do other work of equal value.”
“My work has the most value!” Yerakh screamed. “Anyone can plant seeds and herd flocks, but not everyone can master the gold! And it is my hands that work the gold! These hands!” Yerakh lifted his hands, striking his father’s face and knocking him to the earthen floor. “You’ll not take what is mine! You’ll not rob me with your foolishness!”
Stunned, their father sucked in a rasping breath, protesting, though Yerakh had him pinned to the floor. “It’s not foolishness for a man to provide for his sons and daughters when they leave his household! And it’s not foolishness for you, Yerakh, to share with your brothers. Now get up. You forget your duty to your father.”
“Here’s my duty!” Yerakh snarled, closing his hands about their father’s throat and crushing the very breath from him.
Annah watched her father struggle to live. His face darkened. His tongue was forced out of his mouth. His eyes bulged and rolled back in his head. She ran to help him. At twelve she was too young and weak to be a threat, but she beat Yerakh’s back and tore at his hair. When Yerakh finally noticed her, he threw her away like a stick of wood. By the time she recovered from the fall and scrambled to her feet, it was too late to save her father. He lay still on the earthen floor, his neck cruelly snapped, his eyes and mouth gaping, bloodied and ghastly.
As young as she was, Annah knew the look of death. A wail rose in her throat, high and piercing. Yerakh slapped his hands over her face and throat, squeezing hard, threatening, “Not another sound. Not a word from you, or I’ll kill you, too! Do you hear me? Not another word!”
Suffocating, Annah struggled against Yerakh’s grasp until the light in the workroom faded to merciful blackness. When she awoke, she was alone with her father’s body. In silence, she cried and clung to him. She kissed his cold hands and begged him—without words—to live. Finally, admitting to herself that there was no hope, she reached into his work pouch and retrieved something he had promised her for her marriage day; his small amulet of gold. If Yerakh should find the amulet, he would take it for himself. This precious bit of gold would never belong to Yerakh, who had murdered his own father. Who might also murder her.
Awakened by her terror, Annah lay sweating on her small grass-stuffed pallet in the quiet, dim lodge. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought she would die. Perfectly still and silent, Annah cried for her father in the darkness. I wish you were alive. I wish I had not seen you die. Most of all, I wish Yerakh were dead for killing you!
At last, taking a deep breath, Annah tried to relax. She remembered different things to comfort herself. The pink of the sky, the coolness of water, the fresh green of new leaves, her hands working on the veil, the smile of the young man at the river.
Saddened, she thought to the young man, If only my brothers and sisters and I could work together and live together—as you and your brother do—in peace. I wish I knew your family. Do you think of me when you are not at the river?
Her hands moved beneath her veil, down the front of her tunic to feel the wonderful shell carving hidden beneath the soft leather. Half-dreaming, she remembered the polished feel of the shell, its perfectly curled and pierced edges, and the luminous pinks and blues it reflected. In one short day, this bit of carving had become more precious to her than her veil. Somehow, she had to repay the young man for his kindness.
Stealthily, Annah reached for her woven-grass bag and explored its interior, seeking a closed grass pouch fastened near the bottom of the bag. This had been the best place to hide her father’s cherished gold amulet. After his death, she had woven the tiny pouch to camouflage the amulet, then bound it neatly inside her bag with long, supple, sturdy blades of grass. She inspected the pouch often, but she never removed the amulet for fear that Yerakh would discover it and take it from her. He had never spoken of it after the murder; Annah hoped he didn’t know it existed.
Does it still look the same? She fingered the contours of the amulet, recalling its pattern of a branch of tapering leaves in a disc of gold, half the size of her palm. Father, would you approve if I gave the amulet to the young man at the river?
Annah tried to remember her father’s voice. She could see him in the workroom, busy with gold. He gathered the gold himself, with Yerakh’s help, from the river encircling the land of Khawvilah. When he was working with the gleaming metal and stones, her father was always happy, humming as he worked. But as busy as he was, he always sensed her presence and turned.
She could almost hear him saying to her kindly, “My Annah-of-the-thousand-questions, why aren’t you with your mother and sisters? Have you come to watch me work?”
As her father answered her childish questions, his nimble hands would deftly wind a long, thin strand of gold around a solid, narrow, grooved cylinder of iron, until the cylinder looked like an object of pure gold. Then he would take a long, sharp, wedged blade of iron, fit it along the groove in the cylinder, and rap the wedged blade firmly with a mallet. When he lifted the mallet and blade away from the cylinder, he would reveal a row of gold links.
Each time her father did this, he would challenge Annah to find a short link or odd end. She had always laughed and looked, knowing that each link would be shining and faultless. Her joy would last until Yerakh entered the workroom with rapidly cooling gold that had been fired to molten perfection in the small clay oven outside.
“I saw my face in this gold, I’ve made it so pure,” Yerakh would say smugly. Then, with a sidelong look at Annah, he would say, “Why is she here?”
Now, in the darkness of the night, Annah thought to Yerakh, You have always robbed me of my speech. Even before you murdered our father, you did all you could to silence me. Perhaps, one day, you will even kill me. But I’ll be sure Father’s amulet belongs to a man who is worthy of such a treasure.
Touching the contours of the amulet once more, Annah hugged her grass bag tightly in the darkness. Parah, asleep on a nearby pallet, shifted and muttered incoherently. Haburah and Ayalah slept just beyond Parah, exhausted because they had quarreled late into the night. Annah could hear them breathing.
I wonder if your dreams are better than mine, my sisters. Do you ever fear to sleep because death itself might gaze upon you when you close your eyes? I think not. You have no fear of death, because you have forgotten the face of your father. But if I live for one thousand kentums, I will never forget.
Annah lay awake until dawn.
At the river the next morning, Annah picked the amulet out of its dark hiding place. It was smaller than she remembered, but beautiful; a shining, flattened circle of gold embossed with a delicate golden branch of tapering leaves. Carefully she tied the amulet into the leather pouch the young man had us
ed to protect the shell carving. When she was finished, the small leather bundle fit comfortably in her fist. This is right, she told herself. This amulet belongs to him for saving my life. But I have to be sure I can throw it all the way across the river.
She practiced throwing stones over the water at the opposite bank. To her immense frustration, every stone she threw fell short. If she lost the amulet to the river, she would mourn for it until she died. Keep practicing, she admonished herself. If you don’t throw accurately, and soon, you might as well give the amulet to Yerakh. She moved upstream, looking for stones—until she sensed a presence and stopped.
He was on the opposite bank, his eyes shining dark and splendid, one black brow raised, questioning her: What are you doing?
Lifting her hands in a gesture of despair, Annah shook her head. Attempting to explain, she retrieved the small leather pouch with the amulet and extended it to him, then set it down, reached for another stone, and threw it—her best throw yet. Once again it fell short, perhaps two-thirds of the way across the river.
Perplexed, he raised his hands in the familiar gesture: Wait.
As Annah stared, he pointed to the small pouch containing the amulet, then lifted his eyebrows questioningly: What’s in there?
He thinks I’m returning the shell carving, Annah realized. Anxious, she shook her head again, pulling the leather cord up from beneath her tunic to show him that she still wore the shell carving. His relief was visible. Annah sighed, grateful for his reaction. He did indeed want her to have the beautiful ornament. All the more reason for him to have the amulet. To inform him of the importance of her offering, Annah picked up the leather-clad amulet, cradling it protectively, willing him to understand: This cannot be lost to the river.
He smiled, his wonderful, breathtaking smile, and waded as far as he dared into the flowing water, almost to his chest. There, he flung his arms open wide, gesturing: Throw it; I’ll catch it!
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