The Dovekeepers

I went to take in some fresh air after the child had safely arrived, exhausted by the labor I had witnessed and by the sheer emotion of the night. I had been thinking of my own child, that beautiful girl I had lost, how it seemed only moments had passed from the first breath she had drawn to her last. To my surprise I found the Man from the North on the steps. Like a ghost he’d unclasped his manacles, then slipped from the dovecote to climb over the living hedge of thorns that kept the goats and sheep secure in their dusty pastures. If anyone had seen him, he would have been killed, taken for an escapee and a threat to us all. He shrank into the shadows as I drew near. When he recognized me, he instantly approached to ask after Yael.

“You really are a fool,” I said, “to come here and pace as if you were the father.”

“I’m no one’s father,” he said regretfully. He gazed at me, his face transformed by worry. “I’m not here for that. I’ve come because of her.”

“Double the fool,” I said, “since she’s not your wife.”

Despite my words, I was moved by his determination. I assured him that Yael was well and already mending. Still, he pleaded to see her, unsettled until the sight of her face could convince him that she was safe and well. He swore she had called to him, insisting that her voice had brought him here. He’d heard its fevered pitch and the agony she’d been burdened with, even though she’d been in a dungeon of a chamber, surrounded by stone, and he’d been locked in the dovecote. He was so sincere I led him inside, urging him to be quiet. No man was to see the workings of a birth, but he was a slave, and hardly a man. I had taken pity on him, unusual for me. Perhaps we had grown close as we worked side by side in the dovecote. Perhaps it was the manner in which his eyes shone when he spoke of the child’s arrival.

As we ventured forward, I could hear his steady breathing behind me. We stopped at the threshold to the chamber. From here we could view the flickering lamp Shirah had lit before the figure of the outlawed Ashtoreth, Queen of Heaven, giver of life.

The baby was in his mother’s arms. The Man from the North nodded, relieved to see for himself that Yael had indeed journeyed into childbirth and passed through unharmed. She appeared to be entranced by the infant in her arms, her eyes vivid and glimmering, her complexion glowing with sweat. When she laughed, enchanted by the child’s expression, I saw the slave grin as well, proudly, as if the boy was indeed his.

The Man from the North gripped my arm and gave me thanks, then left us to our business. Nahara was pouring boiling water on the stones to cleanse them. She seemed an outsider already, unwilling to speak with us, present only for the time she was needed, and now ready to retreat. She kept her eyes lowered. She was on her hands and knees, scrubbing at the blood. When I offered help, she smiled lightly.

“God’s help is everything I need,” she murmured, devout and beautiful and pure, but no longer the girl she had been.

Shirah was crouched beside Yael. Their heads were close together. When Nahara gazed up, I saw her take note of this. Shirah had slipped off one of the gold amulets she wore for protection. She presented it to Yael, promising it would bring good fortune and keep her safe from harm. One side of the disk honored our true king, Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh, I am who I am, the nameless One with a thousand names. Ha-nora ha-gibbor, the mighty One, the hero. On the other side, Hebrew letters were mixed with Greek. Chayei ‘olam le-‘olam. Eternal life, forever.

These golden amulets had come from Egypt, for there was the form of the moon and the sun stamped upon the one she granted Yael, signifying the power of the Queen of Heaven. Our people were not allowed such images, but Yael strung the amulet around her throat, pleased. It was a gift from one mother to another, accepted with gratitude. The women kissed each other to celebrate the new life. A son cannot be named until he is circumcised, and so Yael simply called him boy as she held him to her breast, the word as loving as any name might be.

Nahara gathered the afterbirth in a cloth. She would bury it in the orchard, as was our custom, beneath the drooping trees, allowing the essence of this new life to refresh the blighted earth. She stopped beside me, her white tunic splashed with blood. She had always seemed older than her years, now she seemed a full-grown woman. She coolly assessed the amulet her mother had fastened at Yael’s throat.

“That’s a gift for a daughter,” she said to me of the necklace, her tone cold. “She’s letting me know she’s not saving it for me.” There was a good measure of hurt in her voice along with her scorn.

Nahara was unadorned, as Essene women were, her feet bare upon the cold, flat stones. The bracelets and charms she’d once worn had been given away. I’d seen children playing with them in the dusty garden beside the stone house, as though they were toys.