Despite Malachi’s virtues, after only a short time Shirah began to seem displeased with our new helper. Though he was often sent to the far dovecote, where there was room only for one, Shirah had discovered that Nahara could be found working beside him in that small space. We could not help but wonder if their shoulders brushed or their hands touched. When he prayed at noontime, making a holy place beside the twisted olive tree, kissing the strands of his prayer shawl and then offering his kiss to God, did he pray to clear his head of earthly thoughts and desires? Shirah watched him closely, eyes narrowed, a dark cast over her face.
One noontime while Nahara went home to fetch our meal of lentils and olives, Shirah sent Malachi away. The rest of us stepped back to watch; in many ways these were Shirah’s dovecotes; she had been here the longest, and we deferred to her in everything.
“You can leave right now,” she told the Essene. “There’s no reason for you to stay through this day.”
Three perfect doves had been chosen to be brought to the synagogue for the priest’s dinner, and I was plucking out their feathers. I bowed my head, but I listened to the conversation.
“Is my effort not good enough?” Malachi asked, bewildered. Among his people he was not challenged, and now a woman was dismissing him. He raised his eyes to hers, a flicker of mistrust in his stare.
“There’s nothing wrong with your work,” I heard Shirah respond. “You’re just not needed here.”
Shirah must have taken note of my expression, for I was confused as well. Malachi had lightened our workload, and I saw no need to have humiliated him by sending him away. The Essenes had sent us their best man, but not in Shirah’s opinion. When we were alone, she confided, “If she was your daughter, you would do the same.” She feared the attraction between the Essene and Nahara, and I understood why she would not want him for her daughter. Malachi was too pious to see anything but God and himself, that much was true; the woman he chose would not walk beside him but would follow behind, head bowed.
When Nahara returned with our meal, she was astonished to find Malachi gone, her face flushing as she gazed around for signs of him. She glared at her mother with bitterness, and I heard her say to Aziza, “She sent him away to spite me.”
“I’m sure she has her reasons,” Aziza responded, which was true enough.
“She’s cruel,” Nahara remarked, her voice sharp. “That’s the reason. She is devoted to what she wants. You of all people should know that. You’re wise to keep your secrets.”
Aziza lowered her eyes. “She’s our mother.”
Nahara was grim. “One who doesn’t care about our happiness, as you well know.”
I thought Nahara was mistaken about her mother’s intent. Malachi was not suitable for her; he was known to pray until the first brightening of the star-strewn night. Aziza seemed to agree.
“Look at the way they live,” she told her sister when Nahara complained to her. It made sense that a mother would did not want the fate of an Essene woman for her child, one of service and poverty and sacrifice.
But although Malachi had been sent from the dovecote, his presence lingered. There were times when those around you can see your fate but you yourself are blind, stumbling toward a coil of mistakes. This was such a time for Shirah’s young daughter. We could all see her future if she chose one path rather than another, but she could not see it herself. She sulked out, slipping past the heavy wooden door though her work was not completed. Shirah went after her, but it was too late. In an instant Nahara was nowhere to be seen. It was as though she’d been snatched from the earth and all that remained was her shadow. Perhaps she had already followed Malachi to the stone goat barn of the Essenes, removing her sandals to walk barefoot among the women. She had been an obedient girl, but now her duty seemed to lie beyond her mother’s domain. I stood in the doorway beside Shirah. At this moment she hardly seemed a fierce practitioner of keshaphim, only a mother who could easily be broken by a child’s heedless actions.
“She’ll be back,” I offered hopefully.
Shirah stared into the empty plaza. She shook her head. She’d seen love a thousand times before. She had fashioned charms to induce it and amulets to sever its ties; she had recited spells to bind lovers together and others to break them apart. She was sufficiently practiced in love’s ways to recognize its web, even in the dim light of the dovecote.
“Unfortunately, you’re wrong,” she said to me, her soft voice breaking with regret. “She’s already gone. And if he knew who she truly was he would never want her.”