Angels at the Gate (3 page)

There is nothing within my reach.

Warily, the wolf approaches. It is lean and muscular, with short fur a mottled gray. The copper undertones are barely visible in the moonlight. I put a hand on the cool, smooth surface of the seal that hangs around my neck, hoping Lama will protect me, or at least intercede with El on my behalf. But one does well not to rely completely on the gods, as I have heard Chiram say, and I yell at the advancing wolf, the loudest shriek I can manage, which sends another bolt of pain into my side.

He hesitates, head cocked sideways in a canine question. The wolf appears to be a lone male. A human is not his normal prey, but a wounded human is another matter. He is thin without the advantage of hunting with a pack, and hungry. In the cock of his head, I read he is weighing the risk of waiting until I weaken further against the possibility of another predator finding me and robbing him of his meal. Competitors abound in these hills—lions, leopards, a pack of wolves.

I am indeed a fool. My father is better rid of me.

The wolf lifts his head, sniffing, and then moves forward, his lips pulled back, exposing sharp teeth. His instincts are wolf, not hyena. He will make his own kill.

My breaths are ragged from fear and shallow to keep the pain from stabbing my chest. He hears that and probably my galloping heart. I try to slow my breathing, hoping to appear less vulnerable.

He circles.

On my hands and knees, I scramble to remain facing him, knowing his preferred attack is from the rear, onto the back of my neck to break my spine between his powerful jaws. To keep from crying out in pain, I bite my tongue—and realize another mistake with the coppery taste in my mouth.

Now, the smell of blood stains the air.

Without taking his cool eyes from his prey, the wolf sniffs again and growls, a low, rumbling sound that freezes my heart.

I scrape my fingers against the hard ground, gathering dirt to throw in his eyes, a meager defense.

Moonlight gleams off his teeth. They transfix me. So white, so pure.
As he charges forward, I throw my pitiful handful of dirt and raise my hands to shield my face. So quick is his spring, he appears only a blur of motion. But as fast as he is, a slender black shape meets his leap like a thrown lance.

Ferocious snarls, flashes of teeth—

They fight over me, until both abruptly stop, regarding each other with lips peeled back and low, ominous growls. I peer closely at the intruding wolf. Nami! My throat clamps with gratitude and with fear for her.

Locked in a standoff, both canines vie for dominance with their posture. Nami's swollen tits hang low. She has left her pups to follow me. I do the only thing I can to help her. Grimacing, I growl low in my throat.
We are pack
, my bared teeth warn.
I may be wounded, but we are pack
.

The wolf's eyes flick to me and then back to Nami, who stands tall because of her long, slender legs.

Perhaps it is the threat of both of us, or perhaps he defers to Nami as a female he does not wish to fight. I do not know, but slowly he turns his head aside. Nami holds her position, not yielding, the short fur on her shoulders stiff with warning.

With a slow, deliberate movement, so as not to provoke her, the wolf turns his back and stalks away.

Nami waits until she is certain he is gone and then limps to my side, licking my face and taking my chin delicately in her mouth for a moment, something I have seen her do with her pups. She has turned in an instant from fierce predator to adoring dog. I hold onto her and for the second time that night, I cry into an animal's side.

“Nami, thank you.”

She gives me another worried lick.

“I promise I will save your puppies. All of them, I swear on El, my god.”

Unimpressed with my oath, Nami stretches beside me and tends to her bloody paw.

Exhausted, I ease down and rest my head on my arm, draping the other on her back. She lies by my side, but when she finishes cleaning her wound, she keeps her head raised, alert for the wolf's return or any other danger that might appear.

We are pack.

And … when Abram arrived in Egypt, everyone noticed Sarai's beauty. When the palace officials saw her, they sang her praises to Pharaoh, their king, and Sarai was taken into his palace.

—Book of Genesis 12:14-15

M
Y FATHER AND CHIRAM FIND
me just after the sun rises above the hills to copper the sky. I am most grateful to Lama and El for letting me see it. My father kneels beside me. “Are you hurt?”

“A little.” I put my hand to my side.

With care, he gathers me into his arms to hold, enveloping me in the familiar, salty smell of safety.

From over his shoulder Chiram growls, “Idiot boy!”

Father's grip on me tightens, and I catch my breath with the pain, but bury my head against him and say only, “I am sorry, Father.”

He sighs.

I have said those words often. I always mean them, but somehow, despite my best intentions, I find them on my tongue with greater frequency than any other child I know. And I am soon to be beyond childhood. That thought is a reminder of what drove me from our tent the previous night. I do not want to be a woman and leave my father and the caravan. The way he holds me tells me he feels the same.

“One more trip,” he whispers in my ear.

I clasp onto that promise.
One more. I will not be abandoned!

When my father releases me and tries to help me up, I cannot stop the cry that wrenches from my lips.

He again kneels beside me. “What happened?”

“Dune scented a wolf and threw me,” I admit. “My chest hurts. Did he return to the camp?”

He shakes his head and my heart sinks. This can only mean my horse fell to predators or perhaps, I comfort myself, he wandered to another camp.

Though I am fifteen summers, my father scoops me into his arms and carries me, a watchful Nami at our heels. The sharp stabs in my side are preferable to Chiram's grumbles. “The sheep dropped her kid while you were off wandering around.”

“Enough, Chiram,” my father finally says. “Adir is punished enough. Let it lie.”

With a last grunt, Chiram acquiesces.

A
T THE CAMP
, father lays me gently on his own pallet and gives me water. My mouth is parched and cracking. Chiram is wrong; I am beyond idiot. I did not even take water with me. I am no longer in the desperate grip of the despair that drove me out of our tent only last night. The moonlit gleam of a wolf's teeth has altered my view of things. I still do not want change, but I have another, more pressing, desire.

“Chiram will tend you,” Father says.

I groan. “No, please. I will be fine.” I do not want Chiram's greasy hands on me.

“He has the most knowledge of medicines.”

“Only because he butchers animals,” I retort. “Please, not Chiram.”

At that moment a shadow appears at the tent entrance. “May we enter?”

I recognize the accent, but not the voice.

My father pulls aside the hanging to reveal Raph and Mika, two of the messengers of El. “Be welcome in my tent,” Father says, stepping aside and gesturing for them to enter. They have to bend to avoid brushing their heads against the tent opening.

Raph glances at me and then addresses my father. “We heard your son was injured.”

I close my eyes, unwilling to face the humiliation of hearing my father tell what I had done.

“He fell from the horse,” he says simply, and my heart swells anew with love for him.

Raph gestures to Mika, who is even taller. If Mika had worn the peaked hat the third giant wore, he would not be able to stand upright inside the tent. “Mika is learned in medicine and healing. He is willing to examine Adir with your permission.”

Mika glances at me as if I am a sheep or goat. I imagine Raph has talked him into coming.

Father looks relieved and then concerned. I know what he is thinking. He does not want to give permission for a man to touch me. I certainly do not want to be touched, especially by this cryptic stranger who may be our god's messenger and looks at me with such cold assessment that I want to stomp his foot.

But the alternative is Chiram.

“It is all right, Father.” I lift my outer robe, revealing only my ribs, which already have begun to turn a pale blue.

Mika takes only one step to reach my side. He kneels without the warrior grace I observed in Raph. Despite his cold manner, Mika's hands are gentle, though it takes my breath when he prods.

“A rib—” he searches for a word and confers with Raph in a tongue I have never heard.

“Bruise,” Raph offers.

Mika nods. “Bruise. Perhaps hair-crack, but no broken.” He hands my father a small package wrapped in cloth. “Boil this and give to him.” He pauses and confers with Raph, now in the language of the northlands, which I understand. “How do you say twice daily for the next hand of days?”

Raph shrugs.

Mika turns back to us, holding up his forefinger. “Morning.” Another finger joins the first. “Night.” Then he splays all of his fingers. “Days. Understand?”

Father nods, but my eyes narrow at this brusque order given without the least pretense of politeness. Perhaps a god's messenger does not need to be polite, but I do not like this man.

He has me sit upright and wraps a wide strip of cloth tightly around my lower ribs. He does it expertly enough, and the pain eases.

Mika rises. “Check in morning.” I am not certain if he means we are to check it or he will.

“Thank you,” Father says. “May I pay for your—?”

Mika's back stiffens. “No.” He turns and strides from the tent.

Raph smiles and holds both his palms up in a gesture that apologizes for his companion. “Mika not mean rude. Just … way.”

“He can be any way he pleases,” Father says. “I am grateful for his aid.”

Then Pharaoh gave Abram many gifts because of her [Sarai]—sheep, goats, cattle, male and female donkeys, male and female servants, and camels. But the lord sent terrible plagues upon Pharaoh and his household because of Sarai, Abram's wife. So Pharaoh summoned Abram and accused him sharply. “What have you done to me?” he demanded. “Why didn't you tell me she was your wife? Why did you say, ‘She is my sister,' and allow me to take her as my wife? Now then, here is your wife. Take her and … [go]!”

—Book of Genesis 12: 16-19

I
NDEED, THE NEXT MORNING
Mika returns to check my bandage. Raph also, and I wonder why, since he is hardly needed. Father has gone to attend to caravan business, so I am alone in our tent.

Mika scowls at me, as though irritated I am taking his precious time, and I scowl back at him.

Raph grins. “Adir is not impressed with your displeasure, brother,” he says in the north language.

Mika does not acknowledge his comment.

So they are brothers. This is something I did not know, and the plan I birthed last night requires I know all I can about them.

Mika inspects the bandage, sliding his fingers beneath it to check for tightness and then pressing a hand against my flesh below it. I flinch at his touch.

He looks at me for the first time. His eyes are green. Father says mine are grey-green, flecked with tawny bits, but his are just green.

“I check skin heat.”

I nod. A bandage wrapped too tightly means the blood is not flowing well and must be adjusted. I have wrapped enough donkey legs to know this.

Mika stands. From my perspective sitting on my pallet, he seems more like a tree straightening in the wind. “You live.”

The words are edged with sarcasm, as my wound is not major. I start to retort he should not bother with me anymore, and then I remember I need his assistance and hold my tongue.

Raph rests a friendly hand on my shoulder. “You dash soon about.”

He is much the handsomer of the two. They are both exotic, but when Raph gets close, I can feel the pulse in my neck throb. I have never had romantic notions toward any boy, but this man with his sun-gold hair and blue eyes is different. I wonder what it would be like if he leaned down and brushed my lips with his—a custom of the Egyptians, the people of the Black Land—a custom I thought disgusting until this very moment.

Startled, I realize they are unaware of my dreaming and are almost out the tent. “Wait,” I say, too loudly.

Both turn.

“I have a proposition.”

Mika lifts an eyebrow. Raph gives me a kind smile that makes my heart leap.

“Proposition?” he asks, and by the way he says the word—as if it is a strange fruit in his mouth—I know he does not know what it means.

“A barter,” I say.

“You have nothing to want,” Mika snaps and starts to turn.

“I do.”

He hesitates. “What?” His hand has already brushed aside the entrance hanging, and a gust of wind sweeps into the tent, carrying the smells of the caravan—the sweet musk of donkeys, the pungent aroma of goats, and the dizzying allure of simmering soup. My stomach whines.

“I do not know your business,” I say, which I do not, other than some mission of El's, or perhaps they are finished with that and now pursue their own goals. “But whatever it is, you would do far better speaking Akkadian.”

Mika stiffens. “We Akkadian speak.”

I shake my head, “I have sat at more negotiations with my father than I can number, and I have seen this happen. Men perceive you as vulnerable if you do not speak the language with skill.”

Raph nods and says in the northern tongue, “Adir has a sharp meaning there, brother. One's language carries more than words. You have often said this to me.”

Now I spread before them the most persuasive element of my argument. “Besides, your Akkadian words are those of the northern dialect. Where we go, you will need the southern dialect.”