Heavens Before (14 page)

He was waiting for her at the river; Annah dimly recognized his presence. Uncomprehending, she dropped to her knees, watching the current as it rushed away. A small stone plopped into the river before her. She stared dully at the sparkling spray of water and the resultant rings emanating across the surface. A second stone fell, forcefully this time. The spray of water touched her hands, which were limp on the woven-grass bag in her lap. A thought came to her then, cold and clear, as if from a distance:
Look at him; he is waiting
.

With an effort, Annah lifted her head and met his gaze. He was wide-eyed, alarmed, questioning her silently:
What’s wrong?

After an instant of blank stillness, Annah reached down and scooped up a handful of river sand, letting it sift through her fingers, telling him:
Death. Death is wrong
.

He copied her gesture of the sand through the fingers, then raised his hands, desperately pleading with her to answer:
Who is dead?

The intensity of his emotions finally reached her, breaking through her numbness. Annah took a deep breath. Trying to answer him, she raised four fingers:
Four people
. She lifted her hands to pull her hair back, indicating a mature woman.
One
. Then she depicted a full, pregnant belly, sweeping her hands downward fiercely to indicate the loss of a child.
Two
. Trying to convey the death of Chathath, she implied a smooth-faced person taller than herself, then clenched her hands and slammed them toward her heart as if holding a knife.
Three
. Following this, she pulled her hair back once more and drew her finger across her throat, indicating a fatal slash.
Four
.

This last action brought back the memory of Iltani’s death-stare, causing Annah to press her hands to her mouth. She could not let herself be sick in front of him—though nothing but dry heaves could come of the sickness; her stomach was empty. Overcome, she began to cry, bowing her head into the sand, grasping fistfuls, flinging it away blindly as she sobbed.

When her sobs faded, she heard the plop of a stone in the water. Pulling herself up listlessly, she watched him, exhausted. He looked heartsick. Running his hands over his face, he held them out to her, displaying his tears:
I am grieving with you
.

Weakened by his show of emotion, Annah began to cry again. He gestured emphatically, pleadingly, pointing upriver:
Go to the bridge!

She stood, not knowing what else to do. Wiping her eyes on the edge of her veil, Annah shouldered her grass bag and began to trudge upriver. The numbness was descending upon her again, and it frightened her. It would be too easy to allow the numbness to consume her, to suck her into a thoughtless, mindless madness.

O Most High
, she thought wearily,
help me
. She sensed the Most High as she walked to the bridge—His quiet presence urged her steps forward, willing her to concentrate on her surroundings.

During their walk to the bridge, her beloved matched his pace to her own. Now and then he would toss a pebble in her direction, begging her to look at him, to reassure him that she was able to continue. Each time, she nodded in mute agreement and plodded onward. When they reached the bridge, he motioned to her, imploring her to sit on the riverbank and wait for him. Twice he looked back, asking with his hands and his wide, dark, eloquent eyes:
Will you wait?

Exhausted, she knelt and nodded, patting the sandy riverbank to assure him:
I’ll stay here
.

She watched as he ran up the riverbank and vanished into the trees.
He’s afraid I might kill myself
, she realized.
But I’m too tired
. Using her veil and her bag to cushion her head, she curled up on the sand and shut her eyes. Almost immediately, she fell into a shock-numbed sleep.

The touch of a hand jolted her awake. Annah jumped, terrified, flinging herself away from the hand, as gentle as it was. Her beloved’s mother stepped back, startled. Recovering instantly, she knelt, facing Annah, her dark eyes concerned. “Child,” she murmured, low and soothing, “tell me what has happened.”

Tell her? Using words?
Annah felt the blood drain from
her face. Faint with fear, she lowered her head into her hands. His mother touched her again, comfortingly. Annah forced herself not to run from the touch, but she trembled. Had anyone touched her in kindness since the death of her father? She couldn’t remember.

“You’re safe,” his mother whispered. “No one will hurt you now. It is not proper that my son should approach you yet, so I am here. Please, tell me what happened.”

Talk!
Annah commanded herself. Scared, she struggled to force sounds from her throat, past her lips. “Last night … my mother …” The effort of making words almost gagged her. Swallowing hard, she began again. “My mother … was bearing a child. My brother’s wife is … was … barren.”

Keeping her head down, she told the story in fragments. To her own ears, her words sounded abrupt and hollow. She told of her mother’s death. She told of Iltani taking the stillborn to the Nachash. She described her flight for her life and her nightlong vigil in the ancient Tree of Havah, ending with the deaths of Iltani and Chathath.

The only detail lacking in her story was the presence of the Most High. She dared not confess Him to the mother of her beloved. Not yet. Her belief in the Most High would most certainly be accepted as evidence of her madness. Her beloved and his family might feel compelled to reject her. And today of all days, she would not be able to endure their rejection. Finished speaking, Annah waited, utterly spent.

The mother of her beloved touched her arm. “Child, look at me.”

As Annah met her gaze, she said, “I want you to wait here while I speak to my husband and my son. They are
over there.” She inclined her head toward the opposite bank. Annah saw her beloved there, standing with his father. She could not see their faces; his father’s hands were on his son’s shoulders, their heads lowered as they talked. “Tell me you will wait,” the mother of her beloved commanded.

“I will wait,” Annah agreed tonelessly.

The mother of her beloved crossed the swaying bridge with amazing speed, her gait youthful, confident. Her husband and her son had finished their conversation and welcomed her approach. They talked briefly, their words accentuated by nods of agreement, their discussion ending with the three of them turning to study the bridge. Her husband spoke once more, and all three of them seemed satisfied. Once again, the mother of her beloved crossed the bridge to Annah, bounding off the last step, looking contented.

Annah stood, quivering. The mother of her beloved clasped her hand, speaking gently. “Child, if we were to speak for you, to bring you into our family as the wife of my son, would you come with us freely?”

“Yes, but …” Annah faltered, then burst out, “Yerakh would never agree. He won’t give me a marriage portion.”

“He will agree,” the mother of her beloved answered firmly, forbidding argument.

Distressed, Annah lowered her head. “I must tell you … if you wish to be free of me, I will understand. I’m considered to be mad. I’m the most despised person in the settlement.” She took a quick breath, tears welling in her eyes as she continued, “I have no value. I’ve avoided the others, and I haven’t spoken to anyone since my father’s death.”

The mother of her beloved blinked, astonished.
“How? We remember your father. He died—what—twenty-five years ago? How have you said nothing for all these years?”

Annah looked away as tears slid down her cheeks. “Often I have been tempted to talk. But I feel Yerakh choking me—snapping my neck, as he snapped my father’s.”

The mother of her beloved lifted a corner of the veil. Briskly, protectively, she mopped Annah’s tears, as she would wipe a young child’s face, saying, “There will be no more of this! I’m coming to speak to your brother this afternoon. Whether he likes it or not, he
will
agree with me. This will be your last night in that place. Now, look at me.”

Obedient, Annah looked.

The mother of her beloved smiled, resolute and tender. “You must return to your brother’s lodge. Be as you always are; say nothing and let them believe whatever they believe. Today, they will honor the death of your mother and your brother. This afternoon, I will come to speak for you. By tomorrow night, you will be freed from that place.” Pausing, she shook out the corner of the veil, which was damp from Annah’s tears. “This is a beautiful thing, this veil.”

“My family … they hate it.”

“Child,” the mother of her beloved answered softly, “we are your family now.”

“I’ma, what is her name?” Shem asked as they were leaving the river.

Naomi frowned, wishing the young woman had not
already started back to her settlement. “I forgot to ask.” She glared at her husband as he laughed.

Nine

JUST AFTER midday, the entire settlement gathered to witness the burial of Parah and Chathath. Earlier, Iltani’s body had been unceremoniously dumped into the waste pit; a disgraceful burial fitting a murderess.

K’nan and some of the younger men—Tseb-iy included—jostled each other and snickered as they lowered Chathath’s leather-encased body into the grave beside Parah. Annah ducked her veiled head, biting her lip hard. She wanted to scream without stopping. The entire settlement would hear her giving words to her sorrow and rage. It pained her that these young men—Tseb-iy in particular—could enjoy themselves now. Only her sisters showed any grief.

Ayalah stood at the foot of the grave, sobbing. Haburah protested bitterly, asking the young men, “Did you hate my mother and my brother so much that you laugh
over their bodies?”

Tseb-iy immediately became silent, but K’nan answered quickly, “I swear, Haburah, we aren’t laughing because of your brother or your mother.”

At that instant, Annah felt someone snatching her veiled hair, the action so fierce and swift that she fell hard on her rump. Again the young men snickered.

Ayalah said indignantly, “My mother is dead and you’re laughing, K’nan. Stop it!”

“Enough!” Yerakh snarled.

The snickering stopped. Resentful, the young men shuffled their feet, impatient to cover the grave and be done with the burial.

Annah despised them all. She was raging inside, humiliated.
I know what they’re thinking
, she told herself.
Why not just bury Parah’s mindless daughter with her this very day? This is why they are laughing
.

As she got to her feet, Annah felt the children of the settlement shoving her. Not content with wrenching her to the ground, they were pushing her toward the open grave. She sat down again.

Being in the center of a crowd unnerved Annah. She could not hide in the shadows and slip away if she felt threatened. Worse, she could not sense one person from another because together they formed one overwhelming presence. And having to endure abuse from the children of the settlement only added to her distress.

The children continued to attack Annah, poking her, striking her, kicking her.
If I ever have children, which I doubt, I’ll never allow them to behave as these children behave. But it’s useless for me to even think such things; I’ll never have a child. Yerakh will refuse the mother of my beloved this afternoon. I wish she wouldn’t speak for me. Yerakh will laugh at her
.

The thought made Annah heartsick. She prayed the Most High would prevent the mother of her beloved from being shamed. She also feared to think of her beloved’s face, and the faces of his parents and brothers, when they realized that she believed in a legend of old, the Most High. Her beloved’s family probably would throw her into the river for believing such foolishness. Yerakh surely would—never mind that he feared and sheltered the Nachash, the enemy of the Most High. He didn’t regard
her
existence as foolishness.

Grieving, Annah watched her brothers and sisters cast dust into the grave, honoring death. Fearful of attracting attention, Annah kept still. The children, having grown bored with her, watched the burial process instead.

Women from each lodge lowered remembrances into the grave: special pieces of burial pottery, flowers, and spices. As the final gifts were placed with Parah and Chathath, the young men quickly shoveled dirt into the grave, eager to be done. The remaining members of the settlement departed to their own lodges and fields. Tonight they would bring gifts of food to the lodge of Yerakh for a mourning feast.

“Why are you still here?” Yerakh snarled at Gammad. “Go check the fields. And you two …” He rounded on Haburah and Ayalah fiercely. “You have work to do. Come back later when you’ve finished tending the herds.”

Gammad looked as though he would like to strike his brother. Naham was watching, however, and Naham would defend Yerakh. Gammad turned abruptly and strode away, his long dark hair flying back from his shoulders.

Annah sighed noiselessly, relieved. If Yerakh and Gammad attacked each other, one of them would die, and
Annah could not endure the death of another member of her family. Not even the death of Yerakh. For once, she was glad that Naham was nearby.