Angels at the Gate (14 page)

Other than that foray, I leave Mika's side only briefly to get water where it has pooled in the wadi's deepest spots or to hunt on my own,
returning with my robe full of little snails that cling to some of the low brush and the little fishes that emerge from the sand when there is water. I thought I spotted a bush farther away that might have lentils. I throw the snails into the wooden pot with more dried onions.

Nami returns panting, but with nothing. She watches me crack and eat the snails, though it hurts me to disappoint her. She is barely more than a pup herself. I am certain the litter she lost was her first. Her training to hunt would have begun by putting her in the company of other seasoned dogs. She may never have made a kill on her own. But it is clear she recognized the words, “Go hunt!” and possibly the gesture with it.

I take her long, elegant head between my hands and look directly at her. She is still for this, listening, her bright eyes fixed on mine.

“I need you Nami. You are a desert dog, bred to hunt. Find something or we will die here together, the three of us.”

Her dark eyes are intent, as if she is trying to read my soul. I have no problem reading hers. She wants to understand, to please me. My belly moans loudly. The snails were not enough. My head feels like a cloud, and I release Nami and lie down beside Mika.

He is hot again.

I try to think. I must do something. I could return to Lot's tents, bring back help, but I am days away. Mika would be dead before I returned. “But,” I murmur, “we will all be dead if I do not.”

A strangling sound comes from Mika's throat. Has he heard me?

Nami licks his outstretched hand, either in sympathy or for the salt.

T
HE ONE THING
we have is water, but less and less of it every day. There may be more flooding, or no more rain until winter. The heat has descended. Everything goes still at midday, and I drag Mika around to keep him in the scant shade of the tree. The flies are a bother when we move out of the smoke from the burning dung or the handfuls of weed. Both stink, but I am used to the smell.

W
E HAVE DEPLETED
the dried onions, and I fear to eat the other herbs, as I do not know their use. Mika's leg is still swollen and red. He sweats constantly, and tears leak from his eyes. He needs more water than I can spare.

I
AM WEAK
from hunger. In the evening, I hunt into the now-dry wadi as far away as I dare, keeping Mika within sight in case a predator comes. Once, I was most fortunate, stumbling upon a porcupine that was agitating a horned viper into attacking it. The snake struck over and over at the raised quills until, exhausted and wounded, it lay inert. I snatched it up, though the porcupine escaped, but now—a feast! Nami whines when I give her nothing. I can see each one of her ribs. “Go hunt,” I snarl.

I
AM SO
tired. I just want to lie beside Mika and drift away, but he moans, his muscles seizing up in a cramp, and I drip water into his mouth … the last of it.

Then I do lie down. I should go and try to find more water while it is cooler, but I am so tired. My bones ache. Is this how it feels to slowly starve? Oddly, I do not feel panic at the thought. It is almost as if I am watching myself from somewhere outside my body. A fleeting shadow pulls my gaze upward to the unmistakable wingspread of a vulture.

Mika stirs. His lips are cracked and raw, as is the skin of his face and hands. His people were not meant to live in the desert. Where then? Where did this chosen one of my god come from? And where is Raph, my beloved?

My beloved
. The words now seem strange, as though their power has lifted like steam into the sun's heart. Even the loss of my father has buried itself beneath my attention. I have not thought of love the past days, only how to survive and how to keep Mika alive. I consider the long length of man beside me.

His god has abandoned him, but I have not.

Who is like you among the gods, O Lord [Yahweh]—?”

—Book of Exodus 15:11

The average layman, whether Jew or Gentile, still believes that the official Hebrew religion was a strict monotheism beginning with God's revelation of Himself to Abraham. Scholars date the origin of Hebrew monotheism a few centuries later, during the days of the great prophets.

—Raphael Patai,
The Hebrew Goddess

N
AMI'S DEEP BARK WAKES ME
instantly. She does not bark except to alert. My hand grips the knife that sleeps in my grasp, and I am on my feet before I even remember where I am.

Moonlight, so clear it casts shadows, illuminates the world in grays and blacks. I see no danger, only Nami sitting close by, her gaze intent on me, her ears pricked toward me.

“What?” I ask her.

Only then do I see the bloody heap before her. It is the length of my forearm and dead. That is all I know at first. That is all I need to know.

“Oh, good girl, Nami,” I breathe. “
Good girl
!”

This acknowledgment is what she has waited for and she jumps up, forgetting her dignity, to wash my face with her joy at pleasing me.

“Great hunter,” I say, stroking her and praising her over and over. She has a wound on her leg, but seems to have licked it clean, and I leave it alone.

“Let us see what has given you such a fight,” I say, and turn to the hunter's prize. Nami accompanies me to inspect it, her nose close. I push her back, full of love for her. She could have eaten it herself. She was even hungrier than I, but other than battle bites, she has not touched it. My eyes fill with tears. I have starved her, but she has shared her prize—all of it.

Are we worthy of such companions?

The animal has a dark underbelly and a back of silver-white fur. Wicked teeth. “Nami, you could have chosen a less ferocious prey for your first kill! This is a honey badger. No wonder you are wounded.” I stroke her again to make sure she knows how proud I am.

Nami sits nearby, watching my preparations avidly. I make her wait for the meat to cook, grilling it over the fire, but at a slant, so the juice drips into my bowl. It does not seem wise to give her the message it is fine to eat the meat raw. I want her to bring the spoils of her hunt to me. It might not matter, but our lives balance on this, and I will not chance a mistake.

The smell of the meat makes me dizzy. Nami's eyes water from the smoke because she will not move from its path. I hope that is not a bad omen.

After we have feasted on the cooked badger, I drip the meat's juice into Mika's mouth. My strength returns. Nami curls at my side for a well-deserved sleep. Dawn is not far away, and I wait for it, watching with reverence, keenly aware of the closeness at which death hovers over every moment. I feel privileged to be alive, to see the morning star pierce the dark blue-black of the sky.

Mika's groan startles me from my trance. This time his eyes open. At first they do not see me, but dart around as if he is a trapped animal. Then they fix on the morning star shining in her glory, and he calms at once.

“Mika?” I am at his side with a damp cloth and run it over his face, clearing the night's crust from his eyes and mouth. Slowly, his gaze pulls from the star to me. I answer the unspoken questions in them. “You fell, and a scorpion stung you. You have been unconscious for days.” Still he stares, and I shake my head. “I do not know where Raph is. We have lost his trail.”

Then his eyes close, and he drifts away. I feel for a pulse at his neck. It is stronger. This is not the last moment of strength before death, as I feared. He is only asleep. My heart hammers with elation.
He will live
.

I watch over both of them—Mika and Nami—until the sun, rising behind the acacia tree, tips its low branches with light. Then Mika wakes again, and Nami ambles to him to lick the salt from his face. It is a morning ritual. A smile cracks the dried skin around his swollen mouth. He lifts a hand to Nami's coat for a moment and then lets it fall, his expression stricken with the realization of the extent of his weakness.

With some trepidation, I move to his side. “Do you need to make water?”

He swallows and nods. I help him roll to his side. Long ago, I stripped him of his clothing, just letting him lie naked beneath his robe to ease my job of keeping him clean. The ground slants here, so his urine pools away from him. Usually I drag him to another spot afterward, but this time, I just cover it with dirt. It is only a tiny amount and enough indignity that I must do this.

There is still a little badger broth. I throw the head and skin to Nami to gnaw and take the bowl to Mika, setting it aside to help him sit, but soon realize I cannot keep him upright. It requires sitting behind him, and it is too awkward. “No!” I say when he reaches for the bowl with a trembling hand. He will spill it before it ever reaches his mouth. “I have an idea.”

Gently, I lower him back down and move the precious liquid to safety. Then I grasp his upper body to my chest in a well-practiced movement and drag him closer to the tree. After some maneuvering, he can sit, supported by the trunk. Despite his burned skin, he pales and faints.

I push his head down between his legs so the blood can return to his brain, and I wipe his face and the back of his neck. After a moment, he groans, and I help him back to a sitting position.

Fearing he will spill the broth, I say, “Just sit for a moment and let your body get used to the position.”

Again, he nods and leans back against the tree.

When finally I hold the wooden bowl to his mouth, keeping my own grip on it, he can drink only a portion of its contents. We do not speak, but his eyes track my every move like a nursing infant. I am his connection to life.

Twice more he awakens, and we repeat this. He
is
an infant. I must continue to do everything for him.

He does not know I am a woman, so it is perhaps less humiliating for him. But now I find myself blushing, even though I have handled and wiped clean his manhood without thinking much of it for days. Now it is different. I feel the burn on my cheeks and wonder if he notices. He says nothing. It is as if he has forgotten how to speak. A new fear worms into my chest. What if the poison has attacked his mind and he cannot speak? What if he never recovers and I must care for him forever?

What if the moon falls from the sky?

Yes, Father. I hear you. For the first time, the thought of him makes me smile instead of weep.

I have blessed you by Yahweh of Samaria and his Asherah.

—Hebrew inscription on storage jar in northeastern Sinai, 700–900 BCE

To Yhwh and his Asherah

—Tomb inscription in Judea, 700–800 BCE

M
IKA DOES NOT SPEAK FOR
a long time. I remind myself he spoke little before the scorpion stung him, but still I am relieved when he does, even though he makes little sense.

“Must find it,” he mutters, thrashing his arm to the side.

“What?” I ask.

“Must dream … Raph.”

These utterances do not connect. I touch his forehead to see if fever has replaced the chill of his limbs, but it is only warm from the desert heat.

At last, he sleeps.

W
HEN HE OPENS
his eyes, he sees me. I know because he calls my name, “Adir.”

I tell him again what happened. “Yes,” he says. “I remember told me.”

“I think you will live.” El had favored him, my father would say, but I would not call allowing a scorpion to bite me a great favor.

“I will live,” Mika whispers through cracked lips, “because you.” His eyes are upon me in a strange way. It is said saving a person's life binds you to him. I am not certain I want to have such a connection to this man. Suddenly his presence is akin to standing close to a windstorm that blows you where it will.

I shrug.

At that moment, Nami arrives with her prize, a fat mouse, which she drops before me. Mika's brows arch in surprise. I praise Nami as if she has delivered an ibex, skinned and ready to cook. Her plume tail switches in pleasure, and she lies before me, paws crossed, focused on her mouse—plainly inviting me to do my part.

But before I can begin to skin it, I catch a movement at my vision's edge. “Be still,” I tell Mika. He follows my gaze and stiffens.

A brown, many-legged creature, larger than my fist, climbs over the bandages of his wound. With a quick flip of my hand, I swat it off, and Nami jumps to investigate. “No, Nami!” Despite my warning, she pokes her nose at the creature.

Mika looks pale.

“Just a camel spider,” I assure him.

With a sharp yelp, Nami trots to my side and sits, pressing against me for comfort. A tiny bit of blood wells on her sensitive nose, and she licks it off.

“It bites, but it is not poisonous.” I do not laugh at Nami; she is quite pitiful. I understand the pull of curiosity over obedience.