The Dovekeepers

by Alice Hoffman

  We kept to ourselves that day, mourning the slave’s absence, on edge and waiting for worse news to come. I, for one, had not expected to miss him as strongly as I did. He was such a big man and had taken up so much space that the dovecote seemed quite empty without him. The birds were unsettled; there were few eggs to be found, and the ones we discovered in the straw had dark spots speckling the blue-gray shells, a bad omen. We ate our noon meal together in the garden behind the dovecote in silence, taking small bites of cold barley cakes with olive oil as we waited for what was to come next. It seemed a stone had been dropped into water, and every circle that fanned out moved the tide of our destiny along the course of some inevitable destination. Today was not like the day that had come before; by tomorrow we would be carried even further from the everyday world we’d grown accustomed to.

  When the guards came to question us, as we knew they would, we said we were stunned by the slave’s disappearance. We had no idea that he had puzzled out the trick of unlocking his chains or that he’d learned to work the bolt on the door. Shirah found a thin twist of steel which she quickly bent to resemble a key. She handed it to the guards, suggesting perhaps this was the way the slave had escaped. Her glance went to Yael, whom she strove to protect against inquiry. Again, Yael’s face was blank.

  We went on, saying more, clucking like chickens, insisting that we’d thought men from the north were steady and dumb, unable to plan an escape. “But see how clever he was,” Shirah said to the guards, shaking her head, “to make a key out of nothing.”

  “He’ll starve to death soon enough,” one of the guards told us, perhaps believing that was news we wished to hear.

  Shirah asked if one among us could speak with their prisoner, saying he had devised a rake that was helpful and we wanted to learn his methods so that we might make use of the tool ourselves. Yael glanced at her with gratitude, aware this dispensation was the single way food and water could be brought to the tower. There was only one person who might allow such a meeting, our leader, Ben Ya’ir.

  “Tell him our wish,” Shirah said without hesitancy. “He will be generous to us.”

  But Ben Ya’ir had gone into the wilderness with his warriors, leaving no second in command other than the elders, and they would surely not listen to Shirah’s pleas or even allow her to come within their doors.

  We were told there was but one person who might convince the authorities that the Man from the North deserved a visitor—Ben Ya’ir’s wife, Channa, the dark woman who lived in the lower section of the Western Palace, a villa in which the frescoes had been created by master painters from Rome. She held some of her husband’s authority when it came to domestic matters, hearing complaints about living space or work allotments among the women. She was revered even though she set herself apart from all others. For days at a time she refused to open her door; her ration of food was brought to her, then left outside her gate, her water set beside her garden in buckets and goatskin flasks. She ventured out at night and was sometimes seen in the Western Plaza, flowing scarves wrapped around her that resembled a shroud, her sharp face set in mourning, although she had lost no one. She was a mystery and a shadow, but shadows were what I understood most of all.

  When we stated our plea, the guard asked who among us would visit Ben Ya’ir’s wife. I could feel the others’ hesitation, and even Shirah turned away, wary of such an encounter. I found myself offering to go. I was the eldest, and because of this it was my duty. But there was more. I was the diviner of shadows who had learned not to show what was inside. I could pretend to be a baker’s widow, a simple woman, and held a talent of disguise that would help with this task. The other women looked upon me, grateful for my offer, each with her own reasons for not wanting to go to the palace.

  As I was to leave, on impulse, I decided to bring Arieh with me. I had a premonition. I thought I heard a voice say his name. Perhaps the angel who had stood with me in the bakery was beside me again. Perhaps he who had instructed me to take up the vial of poison now murmured that this child might be the key to unlock a prison door.

  “Who could deny a smile to Arieh?” I said to Yael. “What harm can it do?”

  Ben Ya’ir’s wife might take an interest in the welfare of the dovecotes if she took an interest in the baby. If so, she might allow us to visit a man who was nothing more than a stone, but who all the same had entrusted us with his name.

  WHEN I RAPPED upon the palace door, the great man’s wife was quick to call Go away. I set to knocking once more. I’d often needed to call upon customers who had forgotten to pay the Baker; I did not give up easily when told to leave. The door of this grand house was made of red cypress, which I took to be a good omen. Our town in the Valley of the Cypresses was said to have been blessed by the angel Michael; perhaps the wood used for this door had come from our forest and had therefore been blessed as well. My mother’s great-grandmother might have walked beneath this very tree’s branches before King Herod’s builders cut it to the ground.

  Arieh squirmed in my arms. A wind was blowing and all at once I had a chill. Perhaps I’d made a mistake to bring the baby, for he was usually so good-natured and calm. Now, in the light of the dwindling day, he fussed as never before. I wondered how a woman could ever know if it was an angel who urged her on, or if one of Lilith’s demons was whispering in her ear.

  Though I fretted and worried that I had made a mistake, I knocked yet again. There were no shadows because of the clouds rushing past; perhaps that was what led me astray. I could read shadows far better than I could read flesh and blood.

  Eleazar ben Ya’ir’s wife opened the door a crack to peer out. She was thin and dark with a restless expression. “I have no time for you,” she told me.

  She would have gone on with her excuses and perhaps managed to send me away, but her eye caught on the baby in my arms. He grinned at her, the flame mark on his cheek hardly noticeable in the dim light of the doorway. It looked like the imprint of a kiss.

  “Who’s this who’s come to call?” Ben Ya’ir’s wife asked, her interest piqued.

  “This is a child whose mother needs your favor,” I replied.

  Channa was aloof again. “I have no favor to grant. My husband is the one you want, not me.”

  When she breathed in, I heard a rasping sound. I wondered if her labored intake of air was the reason she often locked herself away and was so rarely seen among other women. She turned and coughed, bringing up blood, which she hid from me in her scarf. But I had caught sight of the shadow of the stain. It was clear that she had a breathing disease, the sort that forced a person to forsake the open air. Each breath was trapped inside the cage of her ribs and could not be released. It lay there, rattling, like dry leaves caught in a net.

  “Perhaps I have a favor to grant you,” I said.

  My husband had often convinced customers to buy more loaves than they initially thought were needed. You will never go hungry, he told them. Your table will be the envy of all. Possibly there was a bargain to be struck. In the bakery this was always so, why not at the palace door?

  Ben Ya’ir’s thin, dark wife eyed me, suspicious. Her lips were bright with blood. “No one can help me.”

  I assured her that someone could. I would offer her proof that for every ailment there was indeed a cure. When I turned to leave, Channa called for me to bring the baby if I were to return. My prediction was correct. He was the key that would open a doorway so the Man from the North could escape his plight.

  I WENT DIRECTLY to Shirah’s chamber and sat at her table. We shared a tea made of the dried root of the hyssop. The boiled water was tinted sky blue. There was a plate of dried fruit, raisins and figs. My grandsons were in the courtyard with Shirah’s son, Adir, along with the Essene boy, Yehuda, Tamar’s son, who had become their great friend, though he’d been commanded by his people to stay away and pay more attention to his studies. All were taking turns with the spinning top, so we had our privacy.

  “Did she speak t
o you?” Shirah tried to be offhand about the matter, but her gaze was sharp. “She locks her door to most.”

  I wondered how it was possible that others did not see the truth as I did. Did they not take note of the unusual color of Aziza’s eyes? The shade was not unlike the Salt Sea, changing with her mood, now gray, now green, now dark as stone. Only one other person had such eyes. At the mention of Ben Ya’ir’s wife, Shirah was struck with grief. When I spoke of Channa’s illness, however, she did not seem surprised.

  “While the hyssop flowers, she can go out only at night, when the flower closes and the scent evaporates,” Shirah informed me. “She keeps the same hours as the rats.”

  Shirah took a sip of her tea, made of the bloom that caused Ben Ya’ir’s wife such difficulty. She seemed to thoroughly enjoy its sharp flavor.

  “I didn’t realize you knew her.”

  Shirah laughed grimly. “I’ve never met her.”

  I thought this over, how it could be possible for Shirah not to know this woman, yet still be acquainted with the most intimate details of her life. In our world a man who was married could lie with an unmarried woman and no one would think him the worse for doing so; he might be required to pay her family for her shame. But a woman who gave herself to such a man had no legal rights. Even her bones would be sentenced to lie alone if she was convicted of any wrongdoing; they would be cast out and unburied so that she would forever be unable to find rest among her own kind.

  “Channa has the power to open the prison gate,” I reminded Shirah. “She might be willing to do so in exchange for a cure.”

  “Then we pay the jailer,” Shirah said moodily. “Is that what you want of me?”

  “Is that what she is?” When Eleazar ben Ya’ir’s wife had peered out from behind her door, she had seemed like a prisoner rather than a jailer to me. “I pity her.”

  “Don’t be fooled,” Shirah admonished me. “Is what we see on this earth all there is? You understand there is a shadow world. Can you not spy a demon in the corner even though you cannot see her or feel her breath upon your skin?”

  Shirah was convinced to find a remedy, for there was no other recourse. She went to the shelf where she stored herbs. There were brown sheaves wrapped in cord and containers of powders, thistle and garlic, wormwood and cinnamon. When she returned she held out a leather pouch of crushed myrrh. Her instructions were simple: I was not to let the fire flame too brightly or to add other ingredients to the mix when I presented it to our leader’s wife. Cures such as this were strong and therefore dangerous. Death could occur if care wasn’t taken.

  “If she breathes in sparks, she may never breathe again,” Shirah remarked as she closed the cord of the bag. There was a certain delight in her tone.

  I reached for Shirah’s hand in order to gaze into her palm. I was not educated in such matters, yet there was one sign I knew quite well. The brand I carried, the one that signified a murderer, a mark that had twisted into my flesh on the day I’d become the thing I was now. I was relieved to find that Shirah’s hand was clear of such an abomination.

  “Did you think you’d see her blood on my hands?” Shirah demanded, drawing away. She laughed, well aware of what I had been searching for. “If I’d wanted to accomplish that, I could have done so when I was a girl.”

  This was unexpected. “You knew her then?”

  “I didn’t know her then any more than I do now.” Shirah led me to the door. “If you want her to accept this cure,” she murmured, handing me the precious herb, “don’t tell her where you found it. If she had my life and I hers, she would have done exactly as you imagined of me. If you want to look at someone’s hand for the mark of death, search hers.” Shirah nodded at Arieh now, dozing in my arms. “Bring him to Yael before you return to the palace.”

  “Why wake him? I’ll carry him with me.”

  Shirah gazed at me. She could see inside me, and she knew there was more to my reasoning. I admitted that Channa had asked me to return with him. “Who could not be charmed by him?” I said, for our lion brightened all of our lives.

  Shirah was troubled. Usually she appeared to be a girl, no older than Aziza, but at this instant she seemed her true age, a woman who had crossed the desert not once but twice, who had brought three children into the world and been marked with forbidden tattoos when she was little more than a girl herself.

  “Bring him if you must. But whatever you do,” Shirah warned, and in this she was very clear, “do not let her hold him.”

  I RETURNED to the palace and stood at the fine-grained door. This time, Channa unhooked the lock before I rapped on the wood, already waiting, curious, eyes glinting. Her breath was rasping, and she clutched at her chest, in the grip of her ailment. Still she warmed at the sight of the sleeping child and was quick to invite me in.

  I stepped over the threshold of our leader’s house, humbled. I was relieved that Ben Ya’ir was in the desert with his men so that I did not have to bow before his greatness or risk that in his wisdom he might see me for the murderess I was.

  I followed my hostess past the frescoes, highly praised by all who saw them, and for good reason. They were painted upon plaster in glorious tones of orange and red and gold. Although faded, they were clearly the work of a master. The seven sisters that the Greeks believed moved through the sky in a burst of stars had been set upon the wall, lifelike in their human guise, along with the moon, the most beautiful woman of all, in a dress of silver with strands of gold leaf running through her garment; so present it seemed real thread had been stitched through the painted fabric. Lamps lit the darkened hallway, and there was the scent of pure olive oil burning. The chamber we entered was well appointed, furnished with tables and benches left by the king’s household. I thought of our straw mats, our coarse cloth blankets, our dirt floors.

  I asked my hostess to fetch a dish and some kindling. When she did so, I brought forth the myrrh Shirah had given me. Arieh was still dozing, so I laid him upon a small woven rug. Then I lighted the kindling with my flint. When the fire caught I told Channa what she must do. She would lean her head over the smoke and I would cover her in fabric so none could escape. She was to breathe deeply and keep the smoke inside her for as long as she could without taking another breath.

  Channa recoiled, afraid she would choke to death on the fumes. She feared me, perhaps sensing the crimes I had committed. But I wasn’t there to do harm. I lifted Arieh back into my arms, and I hid the brand of my sin, slipping my hand inside the sleeping baby’s tunic, hoping I would not taint him merely by my touch.

  “Breathe in and the way will be clear,” I promised.

  Ben Ya’ir’s wife looked at me reproachfully, then did as I said. Though she didn’t trust me, she was desperate for air, willing to take the chance that the cure might be worse than the disease. She leaned forward, and I covered her head with a beautiful woven shawl. I sat watching as her shuddering gasps eased during the time she breathed in smoke. When the myrrh had burned to ash, I removed the fabric from her head. Channa drew a deep intake of air without any rasping. Her color had turned from sallow to rosy. The scent of myrrh clung to everything, a bitter fragrance in its purest form. We studied each other while the baby woke and happily began to play with a twig that had fallen from the kindling pile.

  “I’ll talk to the guards about a visit,” Channa said thoughtfully. I had the impression, however, that her thoughts were truly on other matters. “I’ll do what I can for your slave.”

  She led me back down the hall, past the orange light and the seven sisters on the wall. When I left she asked me for a promise to bring her more of the herb, so she would have access to the medicine should another attack begin. I said I would try my best to locate what she needed.

  “I think you know where to find it,” she remarked.

  She smiled grimly, clearly aware that I was not the one who possessed the knowledge regarding such remedies.

  “Tell the witch I’m grateful,” she said.

&nbs
p; YAEL WAS ALLOWED to visit the Man from the North, bringing a basket of food and a goatskin of water. She was instructed to speak to him through the door, but she had a glimpse of him when they unlocked the cell to shove the provisions inside. She saw that they had cut off his beard and his hair and had left whip marks on him with their ropes and chains.

  “Go back to the palace,” Yael insisted after returning from this terrible visit. Her face was swollen with fury. “Talk to Ben Ya’ir’s wife again. Convince her to insist that the guards allow another visit. They’ll kill him soon enough. The least I can do is bring food and water, and see if I might heal his wounds.”

  I said I’d have more luck with Ben Ya’ir’s wife if I took the baby with me.

  Yael was cautious. In this way she was far wiser than I. “Why would she care about a baby whose name she doesn’t even know?”

  “She’s lonely, friendless. There’s nothing to worry about. She’s taken a liking to him. Who can blame her?”

  Yael accepted the compliment. She ran her hand over Arieh’s black hair and held him close. She could hardly bear to let him go, even for a few hours.

  “It’s hard to say no to a face like his,” I reminded her.

  “For an hour,” she said. “No more.”

  The following day Yael watched over my grandsons while I went to Shirah for more of the breathing cure. Shirah and Aziza had already begun to cook their evening meal, but Shirah rose and went to her collection of herbs. This time she gave me both myrrh and frankincense—burned together they would be twice the remedy. Perhaps if the cure lasted longer, Channa would not ask for more. It was best to keep our distance from this woman, Shirah murmured. The wife of a man in power could become hungry for power of her own.