The Dovekeepers

I realized that, as he walked, Ben Ya’ir was gazing in the direction of Shirah’s house. He was drawn there as the hawks were drawn to the dovecotes. It seemed he had called to her, for Shirah stepped into the liquid heat of the evening. She wore no veil, and she lifted up her hair as though to cool herself. When Ben Ya’ir went to her, he placed his hand upon her throat, for she clearly belonged to him. They stood in deepest confidence, heads together.

If I could see what was between them, surely Channa could as well. I turned to her, but in the instant I had looked away, she’d vanished from the plaza. She ran so fast that her shadow was left behind. I followed it as the shade chased after its mistress, slinking over the cobblestones. At last I spied our leader’s wife winding her way back to her chambers, the palace where Herod’s son had lived once, a son the king had murdered when it suited him to do so, when he placed his needs before all others, as men in power often do.

As she reached a hillock, I saw Channa glance back at Shirah’s house. Her eyes were bitter and black. She held one hand at her chest, for once again she could not breathe. Yet she remained there, though it was the season when she was known to lock herself away, for the hyssop was blooming—it was the single flower that could survive a season without water. In that instant, as her shadow fastened itself to her flesh, I realized that Channa was the sort of woman who was willing to do anything to keep her husband.

It came to me that, of all the spells known on earth, a child was the one ingredient that could bind a man to a woman in ways only the angels could understand.

WHEN I NEXT went to see Ben Ya’ir’s wife, I did not bring Arieh. I had rethought our bargain and realized my error. Channa’s face registered disappointment. Her eyes flashed as they had when I’d seen her on the hillock without her shadow.

“He was cranky,” I told her. “A tooth is coming in.”

If anything this news made her even more eager to see him. “Poor thing,” she whispered. “If only I could hold him, I could soothe his pain.”

I felt a chill when I saw her expression. I wondered if the pact I’d made with her had given too much away in order to help the Man from the North. The next time I went I told her Arieh was too heavy for me to carry, he was growing so fast, and I could not bring him with me again. She said nothing. Not even good-bye. She showed me to the door and closed it behind me. I heard the lock clack shut.

Not long after, I saw her prowling along the wall near our chamber. It was dark, but I recognized her. I was surprised to see her there, she who kept to herself and usually avoided the plaza. But such things are known to happen; what is sweet draws out what is sour, as the good, in all their innocence, beckon the wicked. They say that Lilith has thirteen demons to assist her when she wishes to steal a baby. One of them is the Night herself, cloaked in starry black, able to vanish in an instant in the breaking light of day, yet still lingering without a shadow outside the door.

AT LAST Shirah fashioned the charm for my grandsons. I had been patient, and my patience was rewarded. Now that the time had come, I was anxious, for this was my last hope. Beyond that hope lay a cliff, and then nothing more than the unforgiving air. The charm was an incantation bowl, a beautiful, delicate piece of pottery, the making of which had been taught to Shirah by an ancient Babylonian woman. Upon the dried clay the names of God in Aramaic and in Hebrew had been written. In the center of the bowl there was the black image of a snake-headed demon with wings, shackled with ropes constructed from the letters of God’s name.

This amulet shall gather voices and bind demons and set angels free to do what they must. In praise of God. Amen Amen Selah.

She had written these words inside a circle of angels, their wings pitch black, the feathers of ravens.

To protect and to heal, to return what belongs to the children, to reverse the effect and render the demon without a voice and without power.

“Place this under the bed and wait. Have patience still,” she instructed me. “One ingredient is missing. Because of that this bowl is powerless. I myself cannot say what is missing, but when it appears, you’ll know. Be quick to add it into the bowl and your son-in-law will have his wish.”

I was nothing but a baker’s wife, a mother without a daughter, a fool who had placed a baby in an envious woman’s hands. How could I possibly recognize the most important ingredient of all?

“You’ll know because it will come on the day I am in irons,” Shirah told me.

THE MEN who practiced magic took to the plaza one dusty day. It was the end of winter and the drought continued. Our people seemed cursed. The priest and the rabbis had failed, and now the minim who practiced outside the laws of the Temple claimed that by casting arrows they could divine the cause of the drought. People believed them because there was little else to believe. They were parched, beaten down, desperate for water. Surely someone was to blame for our anguish. The crowd gathered around those practitioners who claimed to have access to God’s truth. The men circled near, and behind them came the women, and then the children with sticks and stones in their hands. There was a line of fury on the ground, slithering forth. Someone would be blamed, we all felt that. Our people wanted more than a demon. They wanted flesh and blood, someone to turn against, someone on earth.