The Man from the North revealed that, in the country where he’d been born, each warrior’s arrows were decorated with the sign of his tribe, in his case a stag, the creature he had told us about but one we hardly believed in, for he said this deer’s shoulders were as tall as a man, its antlers spreading farther than the span of a vulture’s wings. From the time he was a boy, he assured us, every arrow he’d carried had been engraved with the image of that miraculous creature. “Tie feathers to the end of the shaft,” the slave told Aziza as she constructed her weapons. “That is how to make them fly.”
Because Amram was thought of as a phoenix, rising from every battle to fight again, Aziza crafted arrows that might be worthy of him, adorning each with hawk feathers dyed in a bath of madder root. Soon her hands were red; I overheard Yael teasing her, suggesting she was so consumed with passion that heat was rising from her skin in waves of scarlet.
When it came time to test Aziza’s handiwork, she sent Adir to the garrison for a bow. Adir returned soon enough, laughing, joking and making rude remarks, suggesting that his sister had best not touch the bow or she might shoot herself accidentally. Aziza grinned and sent him away with a push.
I sat with Yael, who had her baby resting in a sling made of finely spun wool. Arieh was a quiet boy, with dark, liquid eyes, as calm as the sheep he’d appeared to resemble on the evening of his naming. Though only weeks old, he slept through the night, clutching the square of blue fabric Yael let him hold to settle him. He still had the red birthmark on his cheek, but it had been treated with a salve mixed from wheat, honey, and aloe, and had begun to fade. We imagined that his thick black cap of hair was a sign of his virility, marveling over the size of his hands and feet, and his small, manly penis, suggesting he would likely be able to lift a donkey above his head by his tenth year.
“Perhaps we should let Arieh test the arrows if he is already a warrior,” we teased, for we had no man among us.
Aziza handed the bow to the Man from the North, even though it was a crime to place a weapon in the hands of a slave. He took up the bow, grateful for the trust. Each of Aziza’s arrows made its mark when the slave turned to his target—a knob on the stump of the ancient olive behind the dovecote. He stood in the threshold so no one else would take notice. When we called out praises, he bowed. He noticed the intent expression on Aziza’s face, her gaze fixed on the bow in his hands.
“Let me teach you,” he suggested. “Then you can see for yourself the worth of what you’ve crafted. These arrowheads are among the finest I’ve ever used.”
Aziza backed away, shaking her head, her eyes masked. Still, there was something resembling desire etched across her face.
Women were not to touch weapons, such was our law, but we had already broken the law by handing the bow over to a slave. We who had already sinned did not question or condemn. We stared back at those who whispered about Yael and her baby until they were the ones forced to lower their eyes.
“Try what you’ve made,” I urged, if only for our amusement.
“Fine.” Aziza nodded. “But only to please you.”
The slave showed her what she must do, and she listened carefully. She held the bow with ease, a broad smile bursting upon her face. Her very first arrow hit the mark. I could see the surprise on the slave’s face.
“You have a warrior inside you!” he remarked.
“Pure luck.” Aziza dropped the bow and went to gather the fallen arrows, admiring her handiwork, making certain each feather was in place. “The phoenix always prevails,” she said. “Whoever Amram strikes will fall before him.”
Shirah had remained inside the dovecote. Now she came to the doorway. Her expression was trancelike, difficult to read. She had changed since Nahara’s departure, becoming more wary and withdrawn. Some people whispered she had the ability to see through our world into the next. If this was indeed true, then for Shirah the future was not a distant place. We, who had no idea what was to be, sat in the courtyard enjoying ourselves, applauding as Aziza hit the target again and again, her agility and grace a revelation to us all.
As for Shirah, she only watched, the way one might keep a wary eye on a swarm of bees already in flight, when it was too late to wave them away or return them to the hive. When the damage had already been done.
BEFORE LONG the new year was upon us, a time for celebration. But we entered into the holiday of Rosh Hashanah frugally and without joy. Our tables were set with simple things, gourds and leeks, a few thin partridges, lentil salads, yogurt cheese. Yael brought some of this meager feast to her friend Tamar. The Essene woman was grateful, and in return her son, Yehuda, a dreamy boy who was often climbing trees in the orchard when he should have been at his studies, surprised my grandsons with the gift of a carved spinning top. The children were delighted with their present; they were happy enough with so little. They didn’t notice how Yehuda stared at them, curious once he’d discovered they didn’t possess the power of speech. Noah and Levi seemed to accept their plight, however. They made the best of things, ignoring the stares that greeted them in the plaza from the curious who tried to guess what had caused them to become mute. The boys enjoyed the new baby in the house, spending hours entertaining Arieh with his rattle, or with gourds made into flutes, and now with the clever little top Yehuda had fashioned.