He Who Lifts the Skies

by Kacy Barnett-Gramckow

  “And what of this one?” Ramah demanded, waving one raw-boned hand toward Keren in a gesture of dismissal. “Should I allow my Yithran to marry such an oddity?”

  Keren stared into the fire. Everyone was watching her, including the enemy of her father, that Nimr-Rada, who sat in the place of honor before the hearth. I am an “oddity,” a freak. O Most High, will this Ramah turn Yithran against me?

  “It seems I have kept you from your family too long, Ramah,” the great Nimr-Rada interrupted, his voice deep, resonant.

  Despite herself, Keren looked up at him, enthralled by his aura of power.

  Impatient, Nimr-Rada leaned forward on his seat of furs and tapped the haft of his intricately carved wood-and-leather flail against the woven floor mats. “Because your family’s affairs concern you so much, Ramah, you will stay here for the next five years and tend them. As for your second son marrying this one …” Nimr-Rada stared at Keren now, an unending, unknowable look. “Does it matter what he has decided? They are not yet betrothed. You can tell your son that this marriage will not take place, if you do not approve.”

  There was not a sound in the lodge. Everyone stared at Ramah, who looked shaken. “My lord and king, what is my family to me if I am denied your presence for five years? Forgive me.”

  “Do you believe I am offended?” Nimr-Rada asked, one corner of his full mouth curling, not quite mocking. “No, this matter is not my concern. It is, however, your concern, Ramah. You made it so by protesting your sons’ decisions. Stay with your family. In five years you will have matters arranged to your satisfaction. Then you may present yourself in my courts, with your mind at ease.”

  It’s more than that, Keren thought, undeceived. The mighty Nimr-Rada does not respect Ramah and wants to be rid of him. Clenching her jaw, she thought, If my father says I should marry Yithran, then I will. But Yithran and I would have to live with the Ancient Ones in the highlands, because Ramah is now my enemy.

  Already Ramah was scowling at Keren, obviously blaming her for his exile. Sharah and Bezeq watched Ramah, displeased. Nihyah in particular was fuming at her husband.

  Keren was grateful that Nihyah was eager to defend her, but she didn’t want to have any part in a quarrel. I’m leaving this lodge tonight, Keren decided. I’ll stay with Khuldah and help her until Yithran returns.

  Keren fingered the slender red-gold bracelet on her wrist, remembering Yithran and trying to console herself. Instead, she felt only despair. And fear. Nimr-Rada was watching her relentlessly, making her want to fidget. Keren didn’t look at him again. Sharah, however, glanced from Keren to Nimr-Rada and back to Keren, silently reproaching Keren for ignoring the “Great King.”

  Why should I acknowledge him? Keren thought, defiant. He’s rude to stare!

  Obviously discomfited by the prolonged silence, the women of the tribe of Bezeq took refuge in a ritual of courtesy. Hurriedly, they offered the evening meal: roasted venison, seasoned greens, tender root vegetables, salt-smoked fish, broad wheat cakes, preserved honeycombs, lentils, curdled goat milk, dried cherries, and toasted nut meats. The women also passed around watered wine in drinking vessels of clay, horn, and wood. Tensions eased, and everyone began to talk, even to laugh, as they ate.

  The food tasted dust dry and bitter as metal to Keren, but she ate anyway to prove that she wasn’t humiliated. She was just reaching for a piece of salty smoked fish when she heard rustling behind her.

  A man’s voice, hushed but amused, said, “The joyous child has become a woman of silence. I miss your laughter, Karan-Keren, but even so, I’m pleased.”

  Surprised, Keren looked over her shoulder. Lawkham. The irrepressible young horseman smiled at her. She lowered her head, hoping to discourage him by not responding.

  Undaunted, Lawkham spoke in a teasing, lulling whisper. “I thought I would never see you again, little sister of Neshar. But here you are. And that foolish Ramah is your would-be father-in-law. Are you sure you want to marry his son? I would hesitate, Keren-Pale-Eyes. Particularly now, when our Great King seems interested in you. He has not yet taken a wife, though many have been offered to him—beautiful, intelligent, truly desirable women. And yet”—Lawkham’s voice became even softer, edged with irony—“the Keren-child I remember had a sense of honor. You’d never accept our Great King as a husband when you’ve almost promised yourself to another, would you?”

  “No.” Keren shivered at the very thought of marrying Nimr-Rada.

  “Of course not,” Lawkham murmured, seeming pleased to be correct. “But your pale and beautiful sister would answer differently, given the same choice.”

  Keren glanced at Sharah and realized Lawkham was right. Sharah would choose the mighty Nimr-Rada instantly. As if sensing that she was the subject of their conversation, Sharah excused herself from her husband and circled the hearth to visit Keren. Tossing her pale, braid-bound head proudly, Sharah stared at Lawkham.

  “You’re that rascal-horseman we met at the marriage of my brother Eliyshama. How did you manage to become a guardsman to the Great King?”

  Unaffected by Sharah’s hauteur, Lawkham answered easily. “I am the son of the son of a brother of the Great King. I am also one of the Great King’s best marksmen, as is my adopted brother, Zehker. We’ve earned our places of honor.” Straightening, Lawkham said, “Speaking of Zehker, he apparently has a word or two for me—a rare thing. Forgive me; I must depart.”

  They watched Lawkham pick his way through the crowded lodge toward the somber, watchful Zehker, who had positioned himself just inside the door. Zehker spoke briefly to Lawkham, tipping his head stiffly toward Keren and Sharah.

  “That Zehker is a stupid piece of wood,” Sharah muttered to Keren. “Even now, he can’t be bothered to be polite. He always did despise you, Keren, remember?”

  Remembering that Zehker never displayed emotion beyond his natural grimness, Keren said, “You exaggerate.”

  “I think not,” Sharah said, pleased. “Look, I’m sure he’s told that Lawkham not to go near you again. You’re a creature to be shunned.”

  “Thank you, my sister.” To her deep humiliation, Keren could not prevent tremors of pain from breaking into her voice. “Now that I’ve been shamed before the entire tribe, I’m going to stay with Khuldah. I leave you to deal with your husband and his family. By the way, it must be time for you to feed Gibbawr. I think I hear him crying.”

  Garbed in a leather tunic and leggings, Keren edged along a branch of the willow tree, satisfied with her morning’s harvest. The fresh willow-branch cuttings would make a fine sleeping basket for Khuldah’s little Meleah. I’ll make it big enough to last through the autumn, and I’ll pad it well, Keren decided. Though I’d better hurry, or Meleah will outgrow it before I’m finished, the hungry little bird.

  Moving easily, Keren dropped her bale of cuttings to the ground, then jumped down after them. The instant she straightened, she saw sunlight gleam against a flint arrowhead poised in the bushes less than a stone’s throw away. One of the mighty Nimr-Rada’s huntsmen had apparently turned an arrow toward her.

  She froze, uncertain whether she should move or call out a warning. But then the flint arrow was lowered. A laugh echoed from the bushes, and Lawkham emerged from his hiding place, followed by the wary Zehker. “Keren Pale Eyes!” Lawkham called to her happily. “Make a less animal-like noise next time. Though I wouldn’t mind catching one such as you.”

  Before Lawkham could say anything further, Zehker gave him a silencing, warning shove. Lawkham grinned, shoved Zehker in response, and turned away from Keren, apparently bent on continuing their hunt. As they departed, Zehker glanced back over his shoulder at her.

  Keren tried to see hatred in his glance or loathing or even mere indifference. But Zehker revealed nothing beyond a quiet sense of watching. You are a confusing man, she told him in her thoughts. I don’t believe you hate me, as Sharah claims. And yet you behave so oddly. I don’t understand you at all. Yithran’s boldness, as discomfiting as i
t could be, was preferable to that Zehker’s unmoving, horseman-hunter’s face.

  “Keren-child!” A woman’s voice called to her, high and shrill. Keren turned to see Merowm’s mother, the pretty, fragile-seeming Kebuwddah, scurrying to meet her. “What did he say to you?” Kebuwddah demanded. “Did he insult you? If he did, I’ll …”

  Laughing, Keren shook her head and patted Kebuwddah’s slender arm, knowing that Lawkham and Zehker might still be within earshot. “No, I’ma-Kebuwddah. He simply warned me that I should sound less like an animal and more like a human if there are hunters about—which there apparently are.”

  Obviously reassured, Kebuwddah sighed as if disgusted. “Even so, this whole situation is disgraceful; you’ve done nothing to deserve such wretched treatment from that Ramah. Which reminds me: I came looking for you because Sharah is waiting for you in the lodge of my son.”

  Keren frowned. She hadn’t seen Sharah for the past three days. “Why would Sharah visit me and risk angering Ramah?”

  “I don’t know, Keren-child.” Kebuwddah waved her small hands as if the whole matter were too much to consider. “But I do know that Sharah came visiting without her son. Which is another thing I don’t understand. Most new mothers are proud of their infants and refuse to be separated from them. It makes me wonder if she even loves her son.”

  “Let me gather my things,” Keren murmured, wanting to avoid any discussion of Sharah’s shortcomings as a mother. “Is Khuldah still sleeping?”

  “Can anyone sleep if Sharah is upset? No, when I left, Khuldah was feeding Meleah and listening to Sharah. Perhaps you should listen to her too, Keren-child. If I were your mother, I would say that you should take her advice.”

  But Sharah’s advice has never been in my own best interests, Keren thought, darkly amused. She retrieved her bundle of willow cuttings, her stone knife, and her red-edged gray-blue shawl from the base of the willow tree. Frustrated at the prospect of facing Sharah, Keren thought, I’ll return to the Ancient Ones.

  She hurried after Kebuwddah, who walked with amazing speed for one who seemed so fragile. Ignoring the curious glances of the Great King’s loitering guardsmen, Keren followed Kebuwddah through the tribal village and into the Lodge of Merowm. Sharah was seated near Khuldah, but she sprang to her feet the instant she saw her sister.

  Sharah’s mouth was a colorless line, and veins showed blue in her forehead and throat. “Where have you been?” She snatched Keren’s arm, digging her fingers in hard, making Keren drop her bundle of willow cuttings.

  Determined to be polite for Khuldah’s sake, Keren smiled at Sharah and—with her free arm—indicated the mats near the hearth. “Please, my sister, sit down and rest with me while we talk. Have you had something to eat?”

  “Khuldah gave me a grain cake,” Sharah said dismissively. “Anyway, it’s taken you so long to return that I don’t have much time. I wanted to warn you that Ramah won’t accept you as Yithran’s wife.”

  “And what if Yithran manages to persuade his father to accept me? You know he won’t give up easily.”

  “Yithran will listen to his father,” Sharah insisted. “Especially now. Listen to me: the Great King has asked about you. Stupid as you are, he’s interested in you. Ramah knows this and will reject your marriage to Yithran for that reason. Now, this is our chance to have all that we deserve! I say you must marry the Great King.”

  Incredulous, Keren rocked back on her heels. “You’re insane. Marry that Nimr-Rada? The same Nimr-Rada who has caused our father and mother such pain?” She shook her head. “No, Sharah. I’d never marry him, even if I were free of Yithran.”

  “Forget Yithran! He’s lost to you. Your best choice now—the most incredible choice—is to marry the Great King.”

  Leaning forward, putting her face directly in front of Sharah’s, Keren deliberately emphasized each barely controlled word. “I don’t want to marry that Great-and-Mighty-He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies-King! Our father would never accept him, Sharah. Never.”

  “It doesn’t matter if our father won’t accept him!” Sharah retorted. Her eyes glittered like a wild creature’s. “Our father has no authority over him. Think of it, Keren—you’d have power over all other women—and over all men but one.”

  “I don’t want such power, Sharah, and I won’t discuss this matter any further, except to say this: For any man to have such authority—to have all the mighty names held by Nimr-Rada—it should frighten you, Sharah. It frightens me. Nimr-Rada’s power and his names are like a challenge against the Most High.”

  “Despite that, he lives,” Sharah pointed out, smugly. “And his power grows. Perhaps you should consider that the Most High has chosen to bless the Great King. Perhaps you should—”

  “I’ve given you my answer,” Keren said, digging her fingers clawlike into the woven mats between them. “I will never marry that Nimr-Rada.”

  “You are quite certain?” Sharah asked, suddenly cool, dispassionate.

  “Quite certain.”

  “As you say, my sister.”

  Sharah stood, turned on her leather-clad heel, and stomped out of the lodge without taking proper leave of Khuldah and her mother-in-law, Kebuwddah.

  Keren lowered her head into her hands and shuddered, heartsick, almost crying. “She won’t give up! O Most High, how do I manage such a sister?”

  “You’re quite sure this is what you want to do, Keren-child?” Kebuwddah asked, her shrill voice actually timid. “If Yithran is lost to you …”

  “Don’t say it, please!” Keren cried. “I won’t marry that Nimr-Rada. He’s torn my family apart with his ambition.” Softening her tone, she said, “I’m sorry, Kebuwddah. I shouldn’t have raised my voice to you.”

  “I understand, Keren-child,” Kebuwddah assured her. “I only pray you’ve made the right choice.”

  Khuldah shifted the tiny, sleeping Meleah in her arms, chuckling softly. “Well, I’ll say that I’ve never seen you so angry as you were with Sharah. I was so amazed I couldn’t speak! And now I can say that I have a kinswoman who refused the Great Nimr-Rada. I’m honored.”

  Torn between frustration and mirth, Keren chose to laugh.

  “We have to talk, Keren,” Sharah insisted, stubbornly planting her feet just outside the doorway of the Lodge of Merowm. “You can’t ignore me forever.”

  Keren shut her eyes, wearied. Sharah was a pain that would not go away. “Come inside then, and eat with us. Merowm should be here soon for his midday meal. Where is Bezeq?”

  “Finishing his meal. Then he said he would take a nap with Gibbawr. It’s good to be rid of all those horsemen and to have the lodge to ourselves again—except for that Ramah and his Nihyah.” Glancing inside the lodge at the staring Khuldah and Kebuwddah, Sharah muttered, “Actually, I’d rather stay outside. Come walk with me. No one can listen to us that way, and I need some time away from the others. I’m sick of all the quarrelling.”

  “Then you don’t plan to quarrel with me?” Keren couldn’t believe it was the truth.

  “As I said, I’m sick of quarrelling. Will you walk with me or not?” Sharah sounded almost dejected.

  Thinking of what it must be like to live in the same lodge as Ramah, day after day, Keren felt pity for her sister. Ramah’s displays of temper had increased with the departure of Nimr-Rada two days before. Keren had actually heard him screaming at Nihyah this morning.

  “I’ll get my shawl,” she agreed, her reluctance fading. She retrieved her shawl from beside the basket she had been working for Meleah. “I’m going for a walk with Sharah,” she told Khuldah.

  “We’ll save some food for you,” Khuldah promised, as Kebuwddah nodded from her sleeping pallet. She was rocking Meleah, hoping to get her to sleep before the mealtime so they could eat in peace.

  “Why did you bring your shawl?” Sharah asked as they walked through the village toward the warm, green meadows. “It’s a beautiful day. You won’t need it.”

  Keren shrugged, glancing down at her treas
ured gray-blue, red-edged woolen shawl, the work of her mother’s hands. “I suppose it’s a habit to take it with me. Anyway, I can use it to gather shoots or herbs.”

  Sharah sniffed contemptuously. “I let Nihyah do the gathering.”

  “You let Nihyah do everything. I’m amazed that she and Bezeq let you get away with your laziness.”

  “I gave Bezeq his son. That’s enough for him, and for Nihyah. But Ramah is becoming too arrogant. I can’t endure him much longer, Keren. The thought of dealing with him for five years is too much. Nothing is as I expected it would be here. Nothing! I hate it, I hate it!”

  Alarmed, Keren stared at her sister. Sharah’s face had a bright, fevered flush. There were even tears in her eyes—and Sharah never cried. Feeling wretched, Keren said, “I’m sorry you’re so unhappy. Perhaps Ramah will take Nihyah and go visiting elsewhere for a while. Then you and Bezeq and Gibbawr could have some peace.”

  “Even that wouldn’t help.” Sharah swiped her tears angrily. “I want to leave these hills. I’m sick of them. I want to go visiting and see our brothers and escape this place. If you had married the Great King, you could have taken me with you for a while. But it’s too late for that now.”

  Keren sighed, exasperated. “Will you never forgive me for refusing that Nimr-Rada?”

  “I should have known you’d refuse, you coward. Let’s talk about something else, or I’ll become furious with you again.” Sniffling delicately, Sharah asked, “Did Merowm really say that his Meleah should marry my Gibbawr?”

  “I never heard him say so,” Keren answered truthfully. “But who can say what will happen? And Meleah is a pretty baby.”

  “Unlike her mother,” Sharah said, with a dry, humorless laugh.

  “You exaggerate, as always,” Keren murmured. “Khuldah is attractive in her own way.”

  They were beyond the limits of the village now, moving through densely shaded woods, then into an open field. Her face bathed by sunlight, Keren shut her eyes and listened to the multitudes of birds singing, quarrelling, and fluttering about in the trees. A beautiful day. She glanced over the field, spying a sprouting mound of earth. “Tubers!”