The Dovekeepers

Nahara whispered for me to step forward, reminding me of her mother’s faith in me. I wondered if her choice had been made when she spied the dove who came to me without being called.

In this place of noise, Shirah was serene, a dark quiet engulfing her. I approached her, then stopped, flustered. Our glances met, and I felt something unexpected between us, a surge of heat. It seemed I was transparent in her eyes.

“I wonder how a lioness will manage in a dovecote. Can you put away your teeth and claws?”

The other women had gathered round, and they laughed at Shirah’s comment. I felt vulnerable and exposed, even though the chamber was dim, with only thin streams of sunlight entering through the roof and screened windows.

Shirah had one long black braid down her back. She was extraordinarily beautiful, with high cheekbones and dark, nearly black eyes. The other women thought she was teasing me, having sensed my displeasure over handling birds. They didn’t understand what she meant. But I did. She knew what was inside me.

“Hardly a lioness,” I said contritely. “Only a poor wanderer.”

“Aren’t we all?” the older woman, Revka, replied. “You think you’re so different from us? You’re not too good to shovel the shit of these doves, are you?” she asked scornfully. “If you are, you can leave right now.”

The women were gazing at my red hair. As Nahara had said, it was what people noticed first. Perhaps they believed that the tawny color was what Shirah referred to when she spoke of lions. They had no idea who I was or what I’d done. The birds fluttered around, unbidden, drawn to me. I kept my eyes downcast as I spoke. All I wished was to be left alone.

“I’ll do whatever work you ask of me,” I said.

Do unto me what you desire, whatever your will. I deserve nothing more than what has befallen me.

Shirah approached with a basket formed of palm leaves, beautifully constructed with a leaf-over-leaf pattern. Her eyes were huge and deep, ringed with kohl. She wore gold bracelets on her arms and amulets tied around her throat on red string, including two gold charms, which glinted in the half-light. Her daughters came and circled their arms around their mother’s slim waist. Their love for her was evident, and I envied them. I wished I’d known what it was like to have a mother, someone who would stand beside you no matter what you’d done.

The birds were cooing. I felt a pulse in my throat, remembering how I had waited for my prey in the wilderness, how they had come to me and how I had destroyed them. Shirah handed me the basket. I wondered if it had been woven with palm leaves from Ein Gedi, if some woman had set down the crossing leaves pattern on the morning of her own death.

“Even a lioness has to work,” Shirah told me.

THE WORK BEGAN right away. We were all wearing white, for vivid color was thought to disturb the doves and keep them from laying. Perhaps it had not been an accident when the Essene woman, Tamar, gave me my tunic, for it seemed as though she’d somehow known I would be chosen for the dovecote. Perhaps I wasn’t as invisible as I had imagined.

There was no time to doubt myself or to complain. Aziza quickly taught me how to feed our charges millet and wheat and vetch, and how to chase the pairs from their niches when we needed to collect eggs or clean out their droppings. Whichever eggs we let remain in the nests would soon hatch, and the parents would care for the fledglings together. Aziza was eager to help me learn the ways of the dovecote. She resembled a deer, with slim legs and arms, and a thick braid of dark hair, like her mother’s, glossy, black as night. But whereas Shirah’s eyes were pitch, Aziza’s were an unusual pale gray, like river water, filled with moving light. There was a tiny scar, much like a teardrop, barely noticeable, set beneath one eye.

Nahara came to gossip with her sister about me. Both sisters’ eyes were shining. They enjoyed having someone new to tease, an occasion to break the monotony of their workday. “She wouldn’t tell her name when I asked,” Nahara informed Aziza.

The sisters stood with their hands on their hips, considering what to do with me. I was ashamed to be considered worthy of their interest.

“We have to call you something,” Aziza insisted, wanting to befriend me.

The sisters were so close their words were like beads on the same strand of gold. Perhaps if I said my name aloud, I’d be rid of their prying. We were to work side by side, after all, and they needed to call to me.

“Yael,” I managed, for it was a word that left a bitter taste in my mouth. It had always sounded like a curse, and it remained so on this day.

The sisters seemed satisfied, assuring me that mine was a beautiful name.