Climbing the Date Palm

by Shira Glassman

  Eshvat flashed him a saucy grin. “Hmmm,” she purred. “With what?”

  “You and I have something in common, obviously,” said Isaac, every word a caress.

  Eshvat nodded and said, “Mmm-hmmm,” in an almost-meow.

  “The last time we met, you said there was another one like us -- someone who’d studied the arts with you -- someone you hadn’t seen in a long time.” Isaac was hitting her full blast with charm now. “I was wondering if I could get you to help us find her. I’ve got the evening free if you need time to think.”

  Eshvat folded her arms across her chest, threw her head up, and laughed heartily. “Oh, please. All that?” Now she was shaking her head. “I’m not betraying her privacy.”

  “We really need to speak with her,” said Isaac, liquid and low.

  “Look, first of all, I may not have talked to her in years and years, but I’m always loyal to my lady friends. All those women you passed on the way in -- everyone from countesses to seamstresses and fruit sellers -- they’re my family and I love them all. I’d never sell them out to please a gentleman. And second -- you come back here expecting me to get pulled into your little vortex of handsomeness after telling me quite frankly and definitely that you were otherwise occupied. Yours isn’t the only male body in this town, and I’ve had plenty of entertaining evenings since our little encounter.”

  “Let’s forget that for a second,” said Isaac, relaxing his seductiveness a little. “It’s important. Would I embarrass myself like this if it wasn’t?”

  “Probably not,” said Eshvat, “but then, who knows? I don’t know whether or not you have any kind of honor. You never even told me your name.”

  “If I tell you my name, will you tell me where the Bird-Mistress is?”

  Eshvat’s pupils reformed into the vertical black slits of a cat’s. “I never said she was a bird.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “We can do this all night, and I’m not changing my mind. I can tell you’re tired. Save your energy.” She sat down at the table and returned to cleaning her supplies.

  Shulamit approached the table and fished a handful of coins out of a pouch at her side. “I don’t know if this is enough, but does this change your mind?”

  Eshvat looked down at the coins, then up at Shulamit. “No. That’s just selling her out in a different way.” Then she squinted at Shulamit, standing before her with her two braids fastened behind her head as usual, and looked back down at the coins. She then returned her eyes to the queen with a hard stare. A pointing finger jabbed toward the coins. “That’s... you.”

  Shulamit opened her mouth to speak, but Isaac interrupted. “If it is, surely you know that means there’s more to be offered.”

  “Not just coin, but jewels!” Shulamit interrupted. “Think about it. Anything you wanted to do with the restaurant, any improvements -- artwork, new plates, fixing anything that’s broken -- all those worries, taken away. Let me help you... If only you would help me.” She spoke earnestly, her little chest heaving as she waited for an answer.

  Eshvat continued to shake her head. “This is my restaurant, and if I do anything like that I want to have pride in what I do. I’d rather have my little clay tavern with its charming problems here and there that I’ve improved with my own sweat and labor than some gilded palace someone else bought for me. Whatever I have, I want to be proud of.” Since Shulamit didn’t move to retrieve the coins, Eshvat covered them with her hand and slid them forward on the table. Then she went back to her polishing.

  Shulamit stepped back towards Isaac, and Rivka was at the table in two bounds. “And what happens if we try to force it out of you?” she asked menacingly, towering over the seated woman. She began to draw her sword.

  Eshvat sprang up, her hands on her hips. “I’d like to see you try to get me. Don’t you know cats -- even ordinary ones -- are made of smoke? You can’t hold a cat that doesn’t want to be held. You make one move at me, and I’ll scratch that mask right off your face before I disappear.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” said Rivka. “Only one way to find out.” With one swift flourish, she drew her sword.

  The room became a whirlwind of fur and steel as Rivka hacked and slashed at thin air. Eshvat, in her cat form, leapt from table to table, practically bouncing off the walls, hissing and squalling. Isaac, clearly too worn out to use magic, simply sat down and watched his wife try to swordfight with a cat.

  Eshvat ran between Rivka’s legs to try to trip her, but Rivka was too sturdy on her feet. She still, however, couldn’t subdue the practically flying feline as she tore through the room.

  Finally, Eshvat perched on one of the rafters. “Are we done yet?”

  Rivka stared up at her, then burst into laughter. “Yes, fine. Cat wins, I lose.” She rehomed her sword and sat down in a wide, open-legged stance. “I bet that looked really funny from the outside.”

  “Basically,” Isaac agreed, flashing her the impish look that was much more genuine than all the sexy nonsense he’d been aiming at Eshvat earlier. The contours of Rivka’s cloth mask rose to betray the shape of grinning cheeks beneath. She was still breathing heavily from her exertions.

  “Look, everybody, I’m sure this has been a real party,” said Eshvat, bounding down to the bench at the nearest table and transforming back into her human shape, “but I have to ask you to clear out. I really do have more pressing things to worry about keeping my friends’ secrets from strangers. I’m serious. Please. Go away.”

  “What’s the matter?” asked Shulamit, remembering the concerned faces of Eshvat’s friends.

  Eshvat opened her mouth, then shook her head. “Oh, business owner problems. Nothing for warriors and wizards and queens. Just a simple, everyday, horrible piece of luck.”

  “Sometimes we have everyday problems,” said Shulamit. “I still want to know what it is.”

  “I had a pastry cook here,” said Eshvat. “I’m great with savories, but I can’t bake to save my life. I trusted him, and he--” She shook her head, and a feline growl came from somewhere in her skull. “Tomorrow we were supposed to deliver fifteen hundred pieces of baklava to the amphitheater, as concessions for the Month of the Sun concert -- and he knew about it, and yet he chose today of all days to run off with the milkmaid!”

  “Before baking the baklava?” asked the queen.

  “Exactly. He knew I was counting on him, and he let me down. The guy’s an ass.” Eshvat started to get really and truly agitated, scratching at her head and being rougher with the utensils she was polishing.

  “And if you don’t have it...”

  “I’ll lose my reputation. This was a big order. The word will go out that I can’t be trusted. Think what that does to a business.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I tried to bake it myself, but... I... and my friends, they were all trying to help me, but none of them know how to cook. That’s why they’re my regulars! All we did was make a mess and waste my honey and rosewater.” Eshvat sighed. “See what I mean? Everyday problems. I have until tomorrow morning to figure this out. That’s why I’d really appreciate it if you’d all scram and let me think.”

  Shulamit’s mouth dropped open slightly, and in her astonishment, she said nothing. Neither did her companions.

  Eshvat, likely wondering why her visitors were all silent, looked up again from her polishing. “What?”

  Three of them -- Shulamit, her warrior, and her wizard, were all looking at Aviva, the only one who hadn’t spoken yet. She was standing in the middle of them, an elated smile lighting up her face and her hand in the air.

  “I got this!” said Aviva.

  ***

  Aviva felt flashes of lightning in her body as she waved her hand, every nerve ready for work. She met Eshvat’s eye with confidence as the tavern owner looked her over quizzically.

  “She’s my cook,” Shulamit explained. Eshvat’s eyes bugged out in shock. “That’s why her pants have turmeric all over...”
r />   “Stop fussing about that,” said Rivka. “Nobody notices it but you.”

  “Her Majesty looks at me more than anyone else does,” Aviva reminded her. “Anyway. Mother Cat, I’ll be happy to bake your baklava for you. All of it. Overnight.”

  “You would?”

  “Of course! Well -- if you help us!”

  Eshvat scrunched her face in a sulk for a moment, then relaxed it. “Oh, fine. I don’t see any other way out of this mess. I love my friends, but I can’t see my restaurant go down the sewer. Bake them all by sunrise, and I’ll tell you where she is.”

  “Deal.”

  “How can we trust you?” Rivka asked.

  “I’ll tell you part of it now, but it won’t do you any good until later. She’s far away from the city, on a very large farm that she manages.”

  Aviva was already preparing herself for the all-nighter, piling her hair on top of her head and holding it in place with a pair of sticks. She did a couple of stretches to loosen up her muscles. “Okay, where’s your honey?”

  “Over there.”

  “And what do you have for nuts? Are they already crushed, or do I have to put them to work?” She cocked her head at her three companions.

  “No, he’d already crushed up all the pistachios before Little Miss Milk Jugs showed up this morning.” Eshvat led her into the kitchen. “Oh, over there is the batch I made, the one that... well, you see.”

  “I do see,” said Aviva. “You only used honey. You have to mix your honey with simple syrup, or they’ll never set.”

  Eshvat nodded slowly. “I knew there was something.”

  “What about the butter?”

  Eshvat continued showing her around the kitchen. Aviva could see the other three, their faces a mix of happiness and disbelief at their good luck, sitting around one of the tables out in the restaurant. The place had an open floor-plan, so they would be able to watch Aviva working -- at least, until they fell asleep.

  “Aviva, you need any help in there?” Rivka called.

  “Yes! Rivka, your job is to stay out of the kitchen.” Nightmarish images flew through Aviva’s head of Rivka’s beefy warrior hands breaking sheet after sheet of phyllo dough.

  Rivka chuckled. “I’m guessing Shulamit can’t help because of all that wheat dough flying around.”

  “You’d be right. Isaac, I know you have to sleep, but I’d love it if you could help get me started by singing to me.”

  “I can manage some,” said Isaac, standing up and joining her in the kitchen. Listening to his pleasant bass voice was like a jolt of sugar to fuel her work. Sometimes, if she knew the tune, she sang along in harmony.

  That was how they spent the evening, Shulamit and Rivka sleeping in the restaurant on one of the cushioned benches, Isaac singing to Aviva until he, too, had to sleep (in lizard form on Rivka’s chest), Eshvat curled up in cat form on her own hearth, and Aviva buzzing around the kitchen preparing tray after tray of the sticky triangular treat.

  As usual, she made something wheat-free for Shulamit, after taking care to thoroughly scrub her hands and reach for an undisturbed pouch of nuts. A funny little bar made of almonds, honey, and simple syrup sat on a piece of cloth near where the queen was sleeping, so she’d have something different to eat for breakfast when she woke up.

  Aviva worked late into the night and into the gray of the morning. She brimmed over with purpose, knowing that with this night of hard work she was doing her best to protect her precious beloved from the beds of men. She thanked God for the opportunity, and she felt powerful.

  Finally, Aviva counted all the trays and confirmed she’d reached her goal. Then she fell asleep without even cleaning the extra honey and melted butter from herself and slept so soundly she didn’t rouse until they were already airborne and had been flying for hours. Her eyes snapped open, and she stared straight into an unbearably bright sky. “What happened? Did it work?”

  “We’re on our way,” said Shulamit proudly.

  “Who was she?” Aviva murmured. She blinked several times, hiding her eyes from the sun as they adjusted to the midday light.

  “Her name is Aafsaneh, the Blue Swan,” said Rivka, “and we’re flying to her vineyard.”

  Chapter 19: Her Hair Out of Her Eyes, So She Can See Her Way Clear

  Outside, in the fields and gardens, the men of the two valleys hacked and slashed at each other. Deep within the safe haven of the castle, eight-year-old Rivka scampered about the room, stabbing dramatically at the air with a candle.

  “Stop that,” urged Mitzi, holding out her hands to catch the whirling tornado of wild golden hair and flailing limbs as it careened past her.

  “I have to practice!”

  “Practice for what? You’re just making a mess.” There went Mitzi’s shoes, careening across the floor. She had slipped them off to be more comfortable, and nothing stayed put in little Rivka’s way for long.

  “For when I have to go outside and fight with the others.” Rivka twirled in a circle, the candle high above her head.

  Mitzi blinked, growing dizzy from watching the gyrations. “Don’t be silly, Rivkeleh. Do you see anybody out there as small as you are? They’d trample right over top of you.”

  “I know! I mean later!” Rivka insisted with the exasperation of confident youth. “I’m growing really fast. You said. I’m bigger than Frayda, and she’s a whole year older than me.”

  Across the room, the haughty baroness sat with her three daughters, trying to ignore her sister-in-law and her wild-animal niece. Cousin Frayda’s eyes were fixed on her book, but a grimace had come onto her face. Mitzi suspected it was because she’d heard Rivka mention her name, even though Frayda was trying to look as though she was ignoring both freakish cousin and disgraced aunt.

  “When you grow up -- not soon enough for me, you funny child,” -- Mitzi massaged her own brow -- “you’ll be a lady, and you certainly won’t be swordfighting. Even with candles.”

  “Yes, I will. I’m going to be a lady swordfighter.”

  “That’s like saying you’re going to grow up and sprout wings,” said Mitzi. “There isn’t any such thing.”

  Rivka shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe I can be the first one.”

  “Don’t you want to grow up beautiful and gentle and have men fighting over your hand?” Mitzi smiled fondly at her lost dreams. Tall gardeners might be cute, but they certainly had a way of ruining one’s chances with anyone else later on...

  “Not if I can fight them first!” Rivka’s smile was a little manic and bloodthirsty, but on an eight-year-old it simply looked hyper. “Wheeee!” She jumped off the furniture, waving the candle around.

  “Miriam! Control that garden-patch brat of yours, or I swear--” began the baroness.

  Mitzi leapt up and wrestled the candle away. “Please! You’re going to get me in trouble.”

  ***

  Little Rivka didn’t much care about being in trouble -- it seemed to her like she and her mother were always in trouble anyway, by default. “Augggh,” she sulked, rolling her eyes.

  She wandered around the room, looking for something else to do. Frayda was reading -- not that Frayda was much fun to talk to. The Baroness was rocking her sleeping toddler. Both of their attentions fixed elsewhere, nobody was attending to little Bina, the middle daughter. She was wrapped in a blanket staring with wide, terrified eyes at the windows near the top of the room, even though they were too high up to see anything but sky. That was where the sound of the battle was coming from, though, and it provided faint but insistent background music of unease.

  Men screamed outside, and something broke, and there was a noise of weapons.

  Bina was crying. She was crying too quietly for either her mother or her older sister to have noticed, but Rivka was bored, and Rivka saw. She bounded over to the youngster and put her arm around her shoulders protectively.

  Instinctively, Bina leaned into the comforting embrace. Rivka felt her tears, cold and sticky, against her neck, and
she felt strong and useful.

  “Bina! Come here.”

  With reluctant but automatic obedience, Bina slipped from Rivka’s arms and joined her mother.

  “Leave her alone,” Frayda commanded Rivka, glaring over the top of her book. “We’re not supposed to play with you.”

  “I know, but she was crying.” Rivka stared up at the window, mostly so she could avoid having to look at her aunt and her cousins.

  “Here, Rivkeleh, sit by me. Comfort me. I’m scared by the fighting too.” Mammeh was beckoning to her, so she walked back across the room and sat down by her side.

  “I wasn’t playing. I was trying to help.”

  “I know... I know.” Mitzi put an arm around her. “You’re growing so fast...” Rivka replied by resting her head against her mother. “I wish they wouldn’t punish you for my mistakes. You did the right thing, and I’m proud of you. See? You do know how to act like a lady.”

  “I can be a lady swordfighter and still comfort people when they’re crying,” said Rivka, but she was mumbling and facing away from her mother. She was tired of arguing. Instead, she settled in and stared up at the window, imagining the adventures that were to be had outside, in a world where instead of a candle in her hand she held a great, big, flashing sword.

  ***

  The dragon Isaac flew through the dark, angry sky. On his back, the fully-grown Rivka lifted one hand to brush a lock of thick, rain-soaked hair out of her face and then resumed the tight embrace in which she shielded Queen Shulamit from the storm.

  “It’s coming down even harder,” Shulamit pointed out in her characteristic neurotic whimper. “Are you sure we shouldn’t land?”

  “If we land we can’t get across the river,” Rivka reminded her, “and Eshvat said the nearest bridge was four hours’ walk.”

  “How far until we get to the river?”

  “Isaac? Can you see anything?” Between nightfall and the rainclouds, Rivka’s own eyes weren’t doing her any good.