Angels at the Gate

T.K. THORNE

Maps, List of Characters, Author's Notes, and Bibliography may be found at the back of this book.

Copyright © 2015 by TK Thorne, Alabama, USA

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

ISBN 978-3-906196-02-2

Published by Cappuccino Books
Cappuccino Books, Alter Postplatz 2, CH 6370 Stans, Switzerland
www.cappuccinobooks.com

Interior book design by Neuwirth & Associates, Inc.
Cover design by Laura Katz Parenteau
Maps by Patricia Martin

Printed in the United States

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For my sister, the wind beneath my wings.
And my father, who taught me to ask questions
.

A
HEARTFELT THANK-YOU
to all who helped me in this endeavor: Margaret and Giora Duvdevani for their warm hospitality in Israel; Ronin and Asa-el Helman for sharing their wisdom and love of the Negev desert, and for helping me find the right spots; Avishay Levy for his energy and enthusiasm; and Dr. Sandy Ebersole, James Lowry, Dr. Norman Rose, and Jessica Papin for their professional advice and expertise.

To editor, Catherine Hamrick, of the keen eye; proof editor, Paula Marshall, who took on the daunting task of making everything consistent; and Patricia Martin for the perfect maps.

My thanks to my publisher, Adriano Viganò, for his openness to “a good story,” and to Marisa Lankester for her warm welcome as a new friend and fellow author at Cappuccino Books.

I owe the moon to my sister, Laura Parenteau, for the beautiful cover and constant underpinning, encouragement, and editing skills. Her partnership is a gift I can never repay.

To my “first-reader” friends, for their support and editorial input—Jimsey Bailey, Clarence Blair, Fran, Lee, and Scott Godchaux, Debra Goldstein, Warren and Sarah Katz, Dottie King, Judi Miller, Dianne Mooney, Joyce Norman, Jessica Papin, Laura Parenteau, Harriet Schaeffer, Dale Carroll Short, Roger Thorne, Sue Brannon Walker, and Alice Hart Wertheim. If I have left anyone out, I beg his/her forgiveness.

To my husband, Roger Thorne, who supports me in so many ways—from his editorial help and patience with my need for solitude to work, to picking up a camera and accompanying me to Israel, where he endured treks through museums, the desert, and the perils of the West Bank to snap pictures of rocks, cliffs, trees, artifacts, and anything else he thought I might need.

I am also grateful to all the readers of this book, for entrusting me to take you on this journey.

But Lot's wife looked back as she was following behind him, and she turned into a pillar of salt.

—Book of Genesis 19:26

C
ANAAN
, 1748 BCE

In those days, and for some time after, giant Nephilites lived on the earth, for whenever the sons of God had intercourse with women, they gave birth to children who became the heroes and famous warriors of ancient times.

—Book of Genesis 6:4

I
F THE PATH OF OBEDIENCE
is the path of wisdom, it is one not well worn by my feet. I am Adira, daughter of the caravan, daughter of the wind, and daughter of the famed merchant, Zakiti. That I am his daughter, not his son, is a secret between my father and myself. This is a fine arrangement, as I prefer the freedoms of being a boy.

At the head of our caravan, my father and I walk together beside our pack donkeys, the late day sun casting stubby shadows before us. Our sandaled feet raise a cloud of dust along the dry path that winds through Canaan's white-and-taupe hills, studded with shrubs and spring flowers. We are taking a gift of sheep to our tribe's elder, along with a portion of our recent purchase of olive oil and wine. I am less than enthusiastic. Father sees this in my face. He reads me well—often, too well.

“You are not happy to see Abram and Sarai?” he says, giving my donkey a pat. “Why not, Adir?” He always uses the masculine form of my name, even when we are alone. He is afraid if he does not, he will forget one day when he is angry or tired.

I shrug. “I am happy to visit with my cousin, Ishmael, but Abram is old and likes to talk.”

“He is a wise and learned man,” my father says, resting a hand on my shoulder. “You should listen to him.”

I should do many things I do not. But a visit to old Abram is not without benefits. His wife, Sarai, produces very fine weavings; one of bright russet covers my head. Also, and more importantly, his second wife, Hagar, makes excellent honey cakes.

I glance at the three strangers, the northmen who joined our caravan less than a moon ago when we traveled through the north hills of Canaan. They, too, are on their way to see Abram, whose herds graze in the valley of Hebron. These northmen tower over everyone. The oldest man is very thin and wears an odd, peaked hat. The two younger men do not wear hats. One, who walks with a tall staff, has hair and a full beard of a bright copper and eyes as green as the fronds of a date palm, and the other, the more handsome, is golden-haired and clean-shaven with eyes the blue of the Galilee deep. At their appearance, rumors darted like hungry fish through the caravan: They are giants; they are Egyptians; they are El's angels. Their donkeys carry an object covered in thick black fur among their possessions. I am curious to speak with them, whoever they are, as I have a skill with languages and a yearning to learn about other peoples, especially mysterious ones, but they have kept to themselves.

The sun knifes through my fine headdress. Inside my robe, the pup wriggles, adjusting his position before settling back for a nap. I stole him from the litter, afraid he would not survive Chiram's pot, having overheard our cook complain about wasting food on the pups when they are weaned. I take a peek when Father is not looking, amused at his tiny gold-brown paws and black nose nestled against my chest. His little eyes have not opened, and he smells of milk. It is fortunate for me my breasts have only begun to swell, though I am fifteen summers. Otherwise, there would be no room for pups or baby geese or any of the creatures I hide there.

Father has told me often enough not to carry animals in my robes. I think he is trying to ease me into the idea that I am no longer a child but, as I have mentioned, I do not excel at obedience. Fortunately, the heat of my body has lulled the pup to sleep. My job with the caravan is to help manage the animals, and I am good at it because I pay attention, a skill
I learned at my father's side in negotiations. Father says understanding comes when the right question has been asked.

“What is the right question?” he asked me the first time I went with him to a trade.

I said what came to my mind, certain I was correct. “How much will they pay?”

“No.”

The next time I gave greater attention to the process, trying to discover the right question. This time, when he asked me, I said, “The right question is this: What is the price that makes both buyer and seller happy?”

“No. Pay closer attention.”

“I did!” I protested.

Father stroked his beard, considering me. “So what did the man from Harran wish to purchase?”

“Salt,” I said at once.

“Any salt?”

“No, only the finest. He was very adamant.”

“Why?”

I had no answer.

“Find the answer to this question, and you will know the answer to my question.”

It took two summers of studying. My father would question what I saw at each trade, what I heard or smelled or felt, and then he would return to the subject of the man from Harran, the man who wanted the finest salt. For two summers, I thought about this man before I went to sleep each night. I went over everything I could remember from the encounter, time after time. Though I would tire of worrying over the problem and try to forget it, the puzzle always returned to plague me.

Finally, I woke abruptly in the middle of the night and knew the answer. That day I studied the negotiations with different eyes, and when my father made me recite all I had observed, he asked, as he always did, “And what is the right question?”

Excited, and fearful I was wrong, I said, “The man from Harran said he wanted the finest salt, but that was not what he truly wanted.”

I had trapped my father's attention. “And that was?”

My heart drummed. “What he truly wanted was to be seen as a man who knew more than others and who watched out for the interests of his people.”

The slightest of nods. “He wished to be seen as a leader. And how did you decide this?”

“When he spoke, he angled his body to be sure his words carried to the crowd around him. He studied and tasted the salt with large movements, so they could see.”

Now my father gave me the rarest of gifts, a smile of approval. “And so, in negotiations, what is the right question?”

“Not how much we will give or they will pay,” I said carefully, “but what they want.”

“Yes,” my father said.

I felt as if I had climbed the highest mountain in the world and brought my father the prize he desired most. “And you, Father, gave him that by praising his eye for salt in a loud voice!” I laughed. “And he announced he would buy all the salt we had.”

Now I understood why my father made me attend to every nuance. People speak in many ways other than with their words—the catch of emotion in their voice, a twitch of cheek, or a brush of hand across the mouth, even the way they position their bodies. Animals also “speak” in these ways if you watch and listen and have a good nose. I will say that for my knotted beak—it can smell.

One of our goats is about to birth her kid, and Father decides to stop for the day. When dusk falls and everyone is busy making camp, I sneak my pup back into the litter to let him suckle. Chiram has already chosen the evening's fare and has no need to cook puppies tonight. His burly son, Danel, is helping him, so I am relieved of that duty for now.

Nami eyes me reproachfully, knowing one of her pups has been missing. She is new to the caravan and new to motherhood, but I am not sorry I took him. There is no way to be certain when Chiram will decide to be rid of the litter. They crawl blindly over one another to get to her teats. I wish I could save them all, but I am not even sure how I will save the one. Chiram knows every handful of grain, every pomegranate in his stores, and I am sure if he considers these fat pups as a future meal, he knows how many there are.

When my borrowed pup wriggles himself between his siblings, I stroke Nami's head and tell her what an excellent mother she is. She thumps her plumed tail and licks my hand. She is indeed a beautiful creature, a black hunting dog, prized by the desert people. Standing, she comes to my thigh. Just looking at her is a pleasure—the graceful curve
of her, like a cresting wave from her slender hips to her deep chest. My first glimpse of her standing on a hill took my breath. Wind caught the long, silky flow of her ears and the white feathering on the back of her forelegs. She stood like a carving, like a dog of the Egyptian kings, barely deigning to notice the world.

Because of her size, some of the caravan boys feared her when Chiram first brought her into the camp, but I saw a sense of humor in the expressive golden-brown tufts over her eyes and the smiling line to her mouth. We became friends at once, and she followed me around the camp until she had her pups. Then she spent her time as we traveled anxiously pacing beside the donkey that bore them, lifting her slender nose every few moments to check the sack where Chiram had stuffed them.

Chiram ignores her. She belongs to him, but she does not seem to know it. Only two of the many animals of the caravan are truly mine—my aging donkey, Philot, and a brown horse with black legs. We purchased the horse in a small city north of Harran. Father did so for a trade, but I begged to keep him. He relented, though Chiram grumbled greatly about how useless it was and how it ate food meant for the goats or donkeys. I am not supposed to run the horse, but I love the feel of the wind in my face and the slide of powerful muscles beneath me.