“Think of the children,” Zara urged. “They’re happy here.”
When I looked at the boys, cheerfully shouting as they played together in the shade of the date palms, I put away my fears. We stayed where there would be water, the most precious element of all, even though hyenas came to drink in the twilight, drawn to water, as all beasts in the desert are. These fierce creatures stayed close, their eyes gleaming as they stalked the donkeys, another omen we ignored. At night these ungodly spotted animals made a wailing sound, for they desired what little we had, or perhaps they wished to convince us they were tame, like dogs, longing for our company, when what they really wanted was our flesh.
We saw few people during this time, only stray travelers who filled their water flasks, then moved on, too wise to make camp in such uncertain times. We were told that Zealots from Jerusalem had taken over several outposts nearer the Salt Sea, including Herod’s fortress, that marvel of a palace perched on white cliffs, built by a king so cruel he murdered anyone who opposed him. One old man, a hermit with his feet bound in cloth and his tunic shredded by the wind, warned that, although the desert might appear vacant, it was teeming with life. What looked empty was full, much like water in a cup. What was most important was invisible to the eye.
THE BIRDS had remained with us, like a plague hovering in the sky. Even I, a simple woman, knew this foreshadowed evil. One day there were so many we hid in the tent where we slept, frightened by such extreme darkness in the middle of the day, a world blackened by ravens. When we went out the next morning, the road that led to the east was strewn with feathers. Birds had fallen from the sky, stricken by some unknown disaster. Zara and I were busy foraging for twigs to make a fire so we could take our noon meal. Before I could stop them, my grandsons had gathered feathers and begun to play with them, adorning themselves, pretending they’d been turned into ravens. My daughter and I exchanged a look. All at once we had realized it was Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, when we ask God to forgive our sins. In the wilderness every day was much like the next, and we had forgotten the divine aspect of the day until that very moment. We had not been meant to work or eat, only to beg for forgiveness.
It was said that in the Temple there was a scarlet rope hung at the altar; at the close of Yom Kippur, after fasting and sacrifice and many prayers, it would turn white when God forgave us our transgressions. Now we had ignored the most holy of days, and in doing so we had turned our backs on our God. The boys were dancing in the sand, covered with feathers, clucking to each other like birds. It was the sort of mistake that calls demons from their hiding places. I wondered if we had taken the wrong path in our journey and had heedlessly turned to the left, the side that gives rise to all evil.
My daughter’s husband was furious when he saw the boys romping like savages. Compelled to make amends, he ran to pray, pacing into the desert, the wind hitting against him, leaving its mark like whips. He shouted through that ferocious wind that he would make things right and beg for forgiveness, he would pray for God’s mercy, even if it took him all day and all night. But my daughter and I knew what we had done could not be righted. We had forgotten Adonai. We’d thought only of ourselves and our own trifling human needs. For that, we would suffer. Our sins would grow and swallow us whole.
I had named my daughter after morning’s radiance, but morning has two meanings, and perhaps I called down a curse when I chose to call her so. Now I wondered if I had foretold what was written even though learned men insist no woman can foresee what will come to be. They can say what they like. I knew nothing good would come to pass in the desert on the Yom Kippur that we forgot. My daughter’s husband could pray for forgiveness until his throat was dry. I could tell by the rising wind, the one without mercy, that there would be none.
THAT TERRIBLE DAY would still continue to overtake my every thought if the racket in the dovecotes did not distract me with a constant stream of sound. A clatter of noise mirrors silence, for one is alone in both situations. I often noticed Shirah watching me as I worked. I wondered what she made of me. I was not afraid to get my hands dirty, and did not overstep my bounds. When she had her eye on me in the dim air, I bowed my head to hide what resided within me. There was a single stream of sunlight that poured in the roof, and I avoided walking through it, afraid the brightness would reveal the truth of my mourning. But one day, not long after my arrival, Shirah suddenly took my hand in hers. I was startled by her action, and before I could think to pull away, she gazed into my rough palm. Her touch was like water, cool upon my skin. Afterward, I could tell that she knew. I had a murderer’s hand. It burned at night, in the dark. Other women looked at the moon as it rose to see their fate reflected, but I peered into the palm of my hand to see what was written and what I had done.