Angels at the Gate (4 page)

Raph and I both look to Mika, who stands very still. Finally, to me he says, “And want you?”

Well, there is hope for him as a bargainer. “I want a young goat.”

With a wave of his hand, Mika says, “No goat we.”

“You have things of value,” I counter. “Buy one of our goats.”

Mika presses his lips together and points a finger into Raph's chest. “You.” Then he strides out of the tent.

Raph returns and squats near me. His eyes sparkle with amusement. “You understand northern tongue, yes?”

“I understand it,” I say, taking care with my accent.

“You know others?”

I beam. “Many.” It is not a boast. Since I was three summers and my mother died, I have traveled with my father, who took advantage of my young mind and had me learn from various peoples, many of whom traveled with us for a time. It is dangerous to travel alone. Bandits and thieves prey upon travelers, and kings sometimes decide to make war on their fellow cities. That happened summers ago, and Abram's nephew Lot was taken prisoner. Abram had to rescue him. After that, Lot decided every word of Abram's came straight from El, and he became a most devoted and ardent follower of the god of Abram.

“When you teach?” Raph asks.

I have already thought of this. My tasks are mostly finished by dusk when the animals are settled. “In the evenings after the night meal,” I say. “I can come to your tent.”

Raph considers. “And when your goat?”

This is the tricky part. I do not want to wait long. “In three days,” I say in his language to further impress my skills. “I will teach you for three days, and then you will say if my lessons are worthy. If not, you
owe me nothing, but if you wish to continue, you must purchase my goat.”

With thumb and forefinger Raph rubs his clean-shaven chin. “This fair.”

“A pact then,” I say, holding out my palm.

He nods and presses his palm into mine. “A pact.”

Abram was very rich in livestock, silver, and gold.

—Book of Genesis 13:2

A
S SOON AS RAPH LEAVES
, I roll onto my hands and knees and carefully rise, taking shallow breaths to avoid the pain. To my relief, Mika's bandage helps. I will not run and jump for a while, but this is manageable. I eat the breakfast of flatbread, dried dates, and goat's milk my father has left, clean my face with a damp cloth, and go to find Chiram.

Chiram has already begun to pack, which means bread, dried meat, and dates for the mid-meal. He sends Danel to find something. As he passes by, Danel shakes his head. “Stupid boy.”

Chiram kneels before the bronze pot that is his pride and looks up at me from beneath the black forest of his brows. “So, you live.”

I look down at the grass and shift a stone with my foot.

“Idiot,” Chiram grumbles. His voice is gravel. “You cost me.” He places a long wooden stirrer into the pot for traveling, protecting it with leather packets of spices and dried food. Between them, he lays a couple of knives. Chiram is most fond of his knives—he always tucks at least two into his sash. His favorites are two matching daggers with ibex-horn hilts. When he is not busy with matters of the pot, he sharpens or practices throwing them. He is quite skillful.

My foot rolls the stone back over. “Cost you? How?”

“Lost the pups to hyenas while that bitch was out chasing you.” His brows slide together, forming a single dark ridge over his eyes. “You owe me.”

His words seem to float somewhere above my head, refusing to sink into my head.
Lost the pups?

My chest hurts with a different kind of pain than the fall from Dune imparted, my mind filling with images of each pup—the perpetually sleepy one with a white splash on his throat; the female who was a reflection of her mother, black face with golden brown on her brows and under her muzzle; the playful silver-gray one with black splotches; and the sweet one with a golden nose I had taken with me yesterday.

The pain in my chest twists up into my throat, and I have to wait long moments before speaking. Finally, I say, “I am sorry.”

I am sorrier to Nami than to Chiram, who intended to cook them all. “I will pay for all of the pups in three days with a young goat.”

“A goat?” Chiram looks up.

I quickly add. “And for Nami.”

Chiram considers. “That's a costly dog.”

I stare at him. “Why did you buy her? Surely, you did not purchase such a dog to eat her pups. Better a goat that will give milk every day. A goat is a very good bargain for a dog.” He has no use for a dog anyway.

He shrugs. “Won it. Let some desert rat stake it in a game.”

Chiram does not think much of the desert nomads. My people are wanderers too, but our customs are different, and we do not traverse the deep desert, but stay in the hills and grasslands with our flocks.

“Meant to put it back in,” Chiram grumbles, “but the former owner passed out.” He runs the knife expertly along the sharpening stone. “So I was stuck with the scrounger.”

Scroungers
. That is how people in the city look at dogs. Herders and farmers, and, of course, the desert people see dogs through better eyes. I do too, but Chiram is originally from the city and thinks them dirty beasts of little use, other than as delicacies for the pot.

“Where are you getting a goat?” Chiram asks, his wide forehead bunched in suspicion. “Your father has no need for a dog to feed.”

I pull myself straighter and do not mention I have been feeding Nami in any case. She can hardly live on the tiny amount Chiram gives her, even though her breed subsists on less food and water than others. They are
desert creatures, like the camel. “I am working for the goat. I will bring it to you in three days.”

Chiram rubs the fold of skin at his neck and then pulls on his dark, coarse beard and looks down at me. “Three days, then.”

D
ESPITE THE STONE
in my chest, I hurry to a hollow in a hillside where Nami had settled with her pups when we first arrived. She is curled up in the place where their scent lingers. I remember how she paced beside the donkey that carried them, checking every few moments to make sure she could still smell her pups. She did not leave them, even for water. But the past night she spent with me, and hyenas had killed them all. My shoulders sag with the burden of that as I kneel beside her. Her teats are tight and swollen.

“Oh, Nami, I am so sorry.” I offer the back of my hand, half hoping she will bite it, as I deserve. Instead, she sniffs my hand and then solemnly licks it, which makes me cry. And that makes my chest hurt anew.

“Adir, what are you doing?”

I look up at my father, unaware until that moment of his presence. “How do we deserve them?” I ask.

“What? Why are you out here and not in the tent resting?”

I hiccup.

“Come,” he says more softly. “Back to the tent. I have told Chiram to unpack. We are staying a few days.”

I let him lead me, casting a glance over my shoulder. Nami is nosing the place where her pups had lain, searching for them, feeding her longing with their scent. My heart is breaking for her.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I go about my chores, despite my father's protests. “They are just bruises,” I tell him. “I am fine.” But the only thing that convinces him is, “A
boy
would not lie around because of a few bruises. Do you want to ignite suspicion?”

My father told the caravan he wanted the animals to graze another day or two before we left. I suspect he wanted me to rest, but the caravan master's decision is not questioned.

I hate staying in the tent. I love the early morning when mists rise in
the hills, kissing the grass with dew. A magical stillness wraps the world before the heat descends.

Philot always greets me with a bray. My donkey nuzzles my hand before scooping up the date treat with his big lips, nodding his head as he eats, as if he has never tasted such an odd thing before, though I bring him one every morning.

“You have another day or two to eat and doze,” I tell him. “No packs or traveling, a gift from my stupidity. But,” I add, “that part you do not have to share with anyone.”

Philot sniffs my hand to make sure he has not missed a date.

Nami had accompanied me when I checked the animals, but now she will not leave the place she last saw her pups. After the animals are accounted for, I go to her. She lies on her side as if her pups will appear at any moment, eager for her swollen teats. Her tail thumps once at my approach, but she does not move. I kneel to stroke her head. How does a dog express grief? I let my tears fall for us both.

T
HAT NIGHT, WHEN
Raph indicates I may enter their tent, I am surprised at my reluctance to do so. It is as if I feel the future splitting here—a stream encountering a stone that forces it to a different course. But I enter. I have made an oath.

Their tent is simply furnished. I expected something more lavish for El's messengers, but only a rug, bedding pallets, a bronze bowl, and two plain cups furnish the interior. At the far side is the object covered by a black fur they have carried with them. Whatever lies beneath appears to be about as long as my arm. If I had a fur that thick, I would have it on my pallet for the cold nights. Perhaps it had been, but now it covers something—something they do not wish me to see and gossip about?

Curiosity is another of my faults. It has gotten me in difficulties as much as my lack of obedience. The older man, the one who wears the pointed hat, sits beside the object. He has removed his hat; his hair is sparse and gray, his beard as long as his hair.

“This is Anan,” Raph says, indicating the old man. “He not speak Akkadian and not receive the lessons. He soon returns north.”

I bow my head to acknowledge him. He does not return the gesture.

Raph waves a hand to a spot on a rug. “Be seated.” I sit on the rug,
disappointed it is of ordinary weave. These exotic travelers should have more interesting possessions, so by this I know they are not traders.

Mika lowers a cup at his lips and scowls, obviously disapproving of me or of the plan to instruct them. One of the rumors that swirl about them is they are very learned men. It would be insulting to allow a caravan boy to teach them. I must tread carefully. If Mika throws me out, Nami will stay Chiram's dog, and any future pups will die in the pot, if she does not end up there herself.

This is a serious concern. I am not good at treading carefully.

“Tea?” Raph offers a cup.

“Thank you.” It is rude not to accept.

“So,” Raph pours a brown liquid from the bowl into his own cup and hands it to me. “How begin?”

“Perhaps,” I say, “if I know your purpose, we can start with the words you will most need.”

“Not concern you,” Mika says.

I bite my lower lip and bow my head. “No offense or intrusion is intended. I only wish to be useful.”
And earn my goat
.

“A good plan,” Raph says. His grasp of our language is more sophisticated than Mika's. Perhaps Mika considers himself too holy to bother with a language not his own.

Raph rubs his chin. “Begin with only words.”

So I translate their words into my tongue. It is an odd list, including “star, white, daughter, stone, morning, storm, dream,” and several more, but Raph will not proceed until he and Mika can say each with the correct accent. I explain that pronouncing a word differently can change its meaning, and so it is important to get it right.

Despite his surly attitude, Mika is quicker than Raph and remembers everything almost the first time he hears it. This annoys me, but it gives me an excuse to look at Raph more.

He is very pleasant to look at.

He took his wife, Sarai, his nephew Lot, and all his wealth—his livestock and all the people he had taken into his household at Haran—and headed for the land of Canaan.

—Book of Genesis 12:5

A
FTER TWO DAYS OF REST
, we resume our journey. Nami trots alongside the donkey that had carried her pups and sniffs the empty bag. Heartbroken, she whine-sings her anxiety and returns to my side. We travel quickly all the morning, and approach the oak trees and the tents of Abram while the sun is still high. The rich scent of roasting lamb fills the air, along with the high-pitched laughter of children, and I identify Ishmael's voice. My cousin is twelve summers, and a head shorter. I spot him among one of several sheep herds that belong to Abram and his family. Ishmael waves, but he is busy with the sheep and does not run out to meet us.

Convinced at last that her pups are not with the donkeys, Nami follows me like a shadow inside the largest tent, and I follow Father, already almost his height. Sarai knows I am a girl, but she keeps our secret out of respect for my father's judgment. Though considered an elder, Father defers to Abram. They grew up together in the city of Ur. I have been to Ur, Babylon, and Egypt. I have traveled the world, at least the most important parts of it.

I sit at the back of the tent on one of the sheepskins spread throughout, scrunching my nose at the smell of men's bodies in a cramped space. I would rather be outside with Ishmael. Instead, I play the part of Zakiti's only son. Nami drops beside me, resting her head on her paws. My fingers work on the mats under her ears.

Father looks back over his shoulder and shakes his head at me. I regretfully decline the offering of fermented camel's milk, but grab a handful of dates from the copper tray a slave offers.

Ishmael wriggles in beside me. “Nice dog,” he says, eyeing Nami appreciatively, and then tilts his head at Mika, Raph, and Anan, who have settled along the tent's edge. “Who are they?”

“Giants,” I mumble ominously.