The Dovekeepers

AFTER MY first evening at the fortress, I often found my way back to the orchard where the almonds were in bloom. It was the month of Adar, the beginning of spring. I needed a quiet place which would offer me an escape from my father’s displeasure. He glared at me, unhappy to share his residence with me, begrudging me the corner where I was to live, cursing my existence. I never dared to speak back. I knew three new moons had passed since I had last had my monthly bleeding. In the orchards, Egyptian honeybees were swarming and the air was mild and pink. We had come from a wasteland to a garden, from valleys of death to fields of plenty. I was so accustomed to blistering white light that it pained me to see the many shades of green and gold and pink. I had to squint and hold one hand over my eyes. I had grown used to the silence of the wilderness. Here there were nearly a thousand people, a jumble of humanity, for a city had burst forth in the clouds with no need of the rest of the world. The council printed their own coins in metal shops. Grapes were gathered for wine, hives were kept for the honeybees. There were looms set up in the plaza for the women, and in the evenings their voices burst forth as they carded wool. Pens for animals were made of fences woven from thorn trees. Dusty sheep called to each other; black goats and their kids had space to run. There was the scent of bread baking, meals cooking, the fresh green fragrance of herbs, of coriander and dill and dusky gray sage.

It was too much for me to take in after our time in the desert, a torrent of noise and scent engulfing me like a tide. I yearned for what I’d once had. A bird among the rocks. The dusty prints of a leopard. I myself barely spoke, and if I raised my eyes to someone, it was for but an instant. Some women glanced at me as I walked by, curious. A few waved, but I pulled my scarf closer. Some young girls darted past on their way to the baths. I felt regret rise inside me when I spied them. I wished I could throw off my scarf and run with them, chattering, hopeful. If only I could slip off my garments and plunge into the bath, perhaps I could be cleansed and forgiven and start anew, a girl again. Yet if I’d had to take back all that had happened, I would have refused. I yearned for everything I’d lost. I wished I could reclaim the goat who was my angel. I would tie a rope of bells around her neck and another around my feet so that we could find each other whenever storms arose. I would watch the dark wash across the sky as I listened for the sound of bells. I would not have to pretend to be anything other than what I had become.

I spotted the auguratorium, the bird observatory left behind by the Romans when they’d camped here. It was one of the many towers built along the huge wall that circled the entire outpost. The observatory was in the most favorable position, overlooking the northern hills, the air tempered by cool breezes. I’d seen such towers in Jerusalem, sacred edifices where bird bones were thrown to tell the future, from whose heights magicians might observe the movement of flocks that could predict what was to come.

The sages said that magic might be studied and learned but never practiced; it was forbidden, yet it could be found in the dark or hidden in towers such as this one. I climbed the wooden ladder. The air was even cooler here, the gleaming distance shimmering in waves. I gasped at the world before me, blinking in the bright light. There were hawks gliding through the sky, but I didn’t know what their flight meant, not when they dipped closer to the cliff nor when they soared into the western horizon. I had no talent for magic of any kind.

I knelt down to see hundreds of bones on the floor, left behind by the Romans when they fled. The ground was speckled with white shards. I had no idea what they signified. Yet I was deeply affected to see the sharp little bones, so hollow the wind made a song of them. I felt I was being watched. I gazed up to see that a dove had lit on the wall. I was quiet and held out my hands. After all I’d done and all my sins, it came to me, unafraid.

IN THE MORNING a girl was sent to find me, perhaps one of those who’d run by me on the way to the baths, a girl too young and innocent to know what secrets there were between women and men, who thought what you observed in the daylight was all there was and had no knowledge of the night. She was polite and pretty, no older than thirteen, with little earrings of carnelian and gold in her ears. She said her name was Nahara, which she shyly explained meant light. She had brought me a pair of sandals. She laughed when I hesitated, distrusting a gift from a stranger. “You’ll need these where you’re about to go,” she informed me.

My own sandals had been ruined by my long journey, the leather falling off in strips. I slipped on the new ones to find they fitted me perfectly. As we went along, Nahara informed me that she was bringing me to the position to which I’d been assigned. She asked for my name, a word I’d not spoken aloud for so long I had nearly forgotten its sound.