The Dovekeepers

I spied the soldiers as you might spy a demon, a shadow in the corner, melting across the ground. I didn’t wait to think further. I sent the boys running. It was as though a key had unlocked the future and for one brief instant I saw through to the other side.

“Go quickly and don’t venture forth,” I told my grandsons. “Not until I come for you. Even if the night falls, even if the sun is eaten by the moon, no matter what you hear, even if someone calls you by name. Don’t answer. Don’t talk.” I looked into their eyes as I instructed them. “Above all else: Stay hidden.”

I sent them to the ledge behind the waterfall where they sometimes played. The children were small enough to slip inside a crevice that had been formed where the rocks met. The water was a curtain as it rushed past. I thought if anything went wrong the boys wouldn’t be able to see through the water and God would protect them.

But water is clear, like an open window, and their eyes were open as well.

THE MEN fell upon Zara at the fire. I heard her voice the way you hear a bell, it rings and sounds above all other noises. I ran to her, and one of the intruders threw me to the side, for to him I was no more than a dried locust, good for nothing other than a raven’s dinner. I could taste blood brimming in my mouth. I charged at them, screaming, but they were four, and brutally strong, and I was a woman and unused to fighting. While two of them held Zara, tearing at her garments, the other two made quick business of me. The world grew dark when they took a rock to my head. I could feel the heat of my own blood washing across my forehead. Everything was black as night inside of me. To my shame I didn’t see what my grandsons saw, I only understood when I saw the broken shell Zara had become. But the boys observed it all: how the soldiers took turns with their mother, how she tried to fend them off, how when they were finished they tortured her with fire and with burning rocks and sharp sticks for no reason other than the sake of their own wickedness.

When I came out of the darkness and awoke again to this world, it was too late. The beasts were going through the meager possessions that were stored in our tent. I went to Zara even though I knew that we had entered the realm of demons and that each demon who walks the earth has the strength of a thousand men and that I was only a woman, made old in these few hours, an ancient, worthless thing. I dragged myself through the sand.

One moment we had all the time in the world stretching out in front of us, and in the next instant my beloved daughter was dying in my arms. She was whispering for me to finish it and let her go to the World-to-Come. She pleaded with me as her blood washed over us, the blood I had labored to bring forth into this world. It was not enough for them to use her for their pleasure and then leave us be. It was not enough for them to take all that we owned—the donkeys, the water, the tent, the provisions—and abandon us to the hyenas who were already circling. They were the angels of destruction, I saw that clearly, though they appeared to be Roman soldiers. They had come to us from the dark side of the world, where no light can penetrate. Zara’s skin was blackened where they had held burning sticks and rocks against her. They had put the rocks inside her just to hear her scream. I snatched those rocks away, but it did no good. She was already speaking to those in the World-to-Come, already broken. Now I saw that she had been split in two with an ax, and all that was contained inside her body had spilled into the earth.

In that moment, as I crouched beside her, I turned into something that was not a woman.

The beasts had tossed their weapons and armor and brass helmets onto the ground. I took up a knife they’d cast aside, slick with blood. I did as Zara asked, though it was a crime against God and against our laws. I whispered in her ear that she would be free now and that she should close her eyes. Then I did what no mother should ever have to do. I took the knife and cut her throat. I did it the way a sacrifice is made, for even a beast of burden is sent from life in this way, with compassion, in a single swift slash, completed without pain. As I did so, I leaned over and placed my mouth on my daughter’s bruised lips. Her last breath entered me, and I held her spirit inside me as I had before she was born.

The evil ones took what they wanted. They laughed when they saw me lying beside Zara. When I went after them, roaring, wielding the knife, one of the soldiers grabbed it from me and held it to my throat. I was grateful when he did so. This was what I wanted. I asked him to kill me. “Go ahead,” I said. “My death will be your gift to me.”

If he couldn’t completely understand my language, he most surely knew the meaning of the words. I could no longer endure the agonies of this earth we walked upon. But the one who was their leader told his cohort to wait. The soldiers were hungry from their wickedness. Like animals, they wanted more. They commanded me to cook for them over the fire where they had killed my daughter. The smoke carried the scent of the perfume she wore, a mixture of cinnamon and ginger oil, a cloud of fragrance arising from the ashes.