Echoes of light, p.24
Echoes of Light, page 24
Of Epher.
Of Maya.
Or little Mica.
Of Mother and Father.
Joy mingled with grief, laughter with tears, until Ofeer shrieked and smoke filled the bakery, and she rushed toward the oven and pulled out blackened rolls.
When the smoke cleared, and when fresh rolls were baking, they sat together for a long time, silent, leaning against one another, remembering their home.
ABISHAG
Abishag had always walked upon light. In rolling grasslands, in courtyards of worship, in houses of healing. She had always sought peace in labor, divinity in toil. Here across the sea, collared and branded, she found her gods in soil and vine, in grape and sunlight, in song and in memory.
The vineyard spread across the valley from sea to mountain, a day's walk from the city of Polonia south of Aelar. A handful of other slaves worked here with her, singing old songs of their homelands as they picked the grapes. As Abishag worked among them, moving between the rows of vines, she tried to think only of the grapes, the sunlight above, the crumbly soil between her toes, the song on her lips.
Yet sometimes, between songs, sudden pain flared, and she felt again the whips against her back.
Sometimes, filling her basket with grapes, she remembered filling her cart with soil and rocks, building a ramp in the desert.
Sometimes at night, as she slept in the wooden hall with the other slaves, she remembered weeks in the belly of a ship, chained and beaten, shivering and ill.
Sometimes, when she stomped on the grapes to make the wine, Abishag remembered standing in the slave market in Aelar, naked and collared, her feet white with chalk, as the auctioneer extolled her virtues.
At these times, she carefully pulled her awareness away from those memories. Gently, she returned her mind to the grapes, or to the straw bed beneath her, or simply to her slow breathing.
Let those memories fade from me, she thought. Let there be nothing but light on the vineyards, the whispering sea, and the piney mountains.
Through spring and autumn, Abishag spoke little, not socializing with the other slaves. Many labored here in the vineyard of their dominus, slaves from many lands. In the evenings, as they all sat in the big wooden house, eating fish and bread and cheese, they shared their stories. They came from around the world, captured in the endless expansion of the Empire, and they spoke varied tongues, able to communicate with one another only with a smattering of Aelarian. One man spoke of five years rowing a galley, finally sold for striking his master. A woman spoke of three years serving a cruel dominus, pouring his wine and warming his bed. Another woman, graying and weary, spoke of twenty years as a wet nurse, breastfeeding the babes of wealthy dominas in Leer; when finally her milk had dried up, they had sold her for a handful of denarii instead of finally granting her freedom. A somber child spoke of parents slain, of soldiers killing all the men in a village, capturing all the women and children.
Abishag always listened to those stories, but she could never tell her own. Whenever the slaves turned toward her, the pain seemed too great. She could bring none of it to her lips.
Winter came and the rains fell, and burlap covered the vines until spring. The slaves moved toward tasks in the villa of their dominus, building fires in the hearth, cooking, cleaning, and tending to the master's children.
One day, it began to snow, and all the slaves huddled in their house and gazed in wonder. Most had never seen snow before, and even the Aelarian masters marveled at it, for it had not snowed here by the Encircled Sea in two generations. As Abishag watched from the window, she realized that it was exactly a year to the day since she had met Maya outside Beth Eloh. That day too it had snowed, a rarity in Zohar. That day she had emerged from shadows.
And finally Abishag spoke.
But she did not speak of herself. She did not speak of a shepherd's daughter in the hills of Zohar. She did not speak of a consecrated sister worshipping in dust outside a temple of gold and marble. She did not speak of a woman chained, beaten, sold.
She spoke of an ancient city of stone and light and copper and gold.
She spoke of rams' horns and the song of lyres.
She spoke of the war of the princes, of the love between Prince Yohanan and Ishay, and of the cowardly King Shefael who had hidden within his city.
She spoke of a cruel prince sailing from the sea, of a vicious princess invading from the northern hills.
She spoke of war, bloodshed, and courage. Of brave Jerael, fighting on the walls of Gefen. Of wise Shiloh, holding her kingdom together even in its darkest hour. Of mighty Atalia, who fought with a horde of barbarians and vanquished all her enemies in the arena. Of broken, haunted Ofeer, who betrayed her homeland and family, who found light in the greatest darkness. Of Koren, who had always loved joy and laughter, forced to shed blood, saving his humanity in the face of devastation. Of Epher, last king of Zohar, who fought and died with nine hundred lions.
And she spoke of Maya.
She spoke of Maya traveling across the desert, finding sanctuary in an oasis, and healing the king of Sekadia. She spoke of Maya facing the adversary in the desert and casting back the dragons of sand. She spoke of Maya transcribing the Luminous Writ by the eastern sea and defeating the priests of Dagon.
Tears filled her eyes when she spoke of finding the Gate of Tears, of Maya returning into the city with hope, with healing. Her voice dropped to a whisper when she spoke of Maya dying on the cross, of the city falling, of light dimming.
"She is gone," Abishag whispered, tears flowing. "But I will always carry her wisdom with me."
The other slaves gathered around her, eyes damp, listening to her speak.
Abishag continued in a shaky voice. "Every light casts a shadow. But we can meet every shadow with more light. Maya taught me that the world is balanced. We can only face harm with healing. We can only face destruction with labor. We can only face hatred with love. We can only face darkness with light. It is our task, we who follow Maya, to repair a broken world. Not with swords. Not with hatred or fear or devastation. The world is broken. The world is full of evil and chaos. With love, compassion, healing, art, wisdom—we will face destruction. We will mend. And we will remember her."
It was several days later, as Abishag was picking mushrooms in the grove behind the vineyard, that her master's son approached her.
Abishag dropped her basket, spilling her mushrooms. She stood between the pines, torn between kneeling and fleeing. The master's son was a man in his twenties, his hair curly and brown. She had served him wine at his table before, and she had washed his togas and linens, but she had never spoken to him. He walked closer to her, not seeming to mind the mud that clung to his sandals and the hem of his toga.
"Your name is Abishag?" he said.
She nodded. "Yes, dominus."
He knelt in the mud—even with his costly toga—and helped her lift the fallen mushrooms. "For days now, the fellow slaves won't stop babbling. As they pour my wine, shave my face, cut my hair, serve my meals—I hear them mumbling about battling princes, about a last stand on a desert mountain, about an ancient city of light, and of a teacher who died on a cross." He tilted his head, a small smile on his lips. "You wouldn't happen to know how they heard such a story, would you?"
Abishag trembled, fearful that he would beat her. She lowered her head. "I'm sorry, dominus. Please forgive me. I told them this tale. Please punish me, not them."
His eyes softened. He returned her basket to her. "Is that what you think of me?" He sighed. "I suppose you would. I suppose that is who we are." He placed a finger under her chin and raised her head, so that she stared into his eyes. "Nobody will hurt you again, Abishag. You're safe here. And in a few years, if you work well and earn it, we will grant you your freedom. My father frees a new slave every year to motivate those who remain."
Abishag felt hope flow through her like mulled wine in winter. "If I had my freedom," she said, "I would travel the world, and I would share this tale with all who would hear."
"Then we'll need to write it down." The master's son nodded.
"I don't know how to write, dominus."
"I do. I think your time laboring in the vineyards, garden, and groves has ended. I would like you to serve in the villa. During the days, you will clean, cook, and tend to the children. And every evening, I'd like us to write another chapter in this story. Zohar is gone. Its fall will forever be a stain upon my people." He lowered his head. "I am Aelarian, and your story shames me. But if I could help you write this story . . . perhaps I can find some comfort for my soul. I cannot resurrect Zohar, but perhaps we can still tell her tale, still keep her name alive."
That evening, after Abishag's duties were done, she stepped into the chamber of the master's son. He sat at a desk, a quill in hand, blank parchment before him. Abishag placed two mugs of mulled wine on the table and sat beside him. As she spoke, he wrote the first words in a long tale.
The dog came to her from the hills.
OFEER
Often in her dreams, Ofeer found herself again on the hills outside her old home. She walked there in a simlah, the simple cotton dress of Zohar, wandering between twisting pines, gnarled carob trees, and ancient olive trees as old as the kingdom itself. A figure ran before her, flitting from tree to tree, always just out of view, just out of reach.
"Maya!" Ofeer called out, chasing her, knowing she had to find her, had to save her.
Yet the figure remained always in the distance, disappearing into valleys and reappearing on hills, racing behind boulders and trees, appearing again on rocky paths.
"Maya, please!" Ofeer shouted. She had to tell her she was sorry. That she loved her. That danger waited ahead.
She looked up, and she saw it in the distance. A cross in a valley, rising from ashes, illuminated by a sunbeam. Waiting for Maya.
"Maya!"
Her younger sister vanished from view. Ofeer slowed down and walked the pebbly path between mint bushes. Movement caught her eye, and she looked up to see a dog limping across the hills. Mange had claimed its fur, leaving weeping sores. The animal's back leg was twisted, and its bones were visible, pressing against what remained of its skin. It was hard to believe that a creature so ravaged could still live. Ofeer lifted a rock, knowing she had to kill it, to end its pain.
The dog limped toward her and collapsed at her feet, and when Ofeer knelt above it, she saw that it wasn't a dog at all. It was Maya, removed from the cross, holes in her hands.
"You did this," Maya whispered.
Ofeer sat up in bed, drenched in sweat. She tossed off her blankets, feeling hot, struggling to breathe. For long moments, Ofeer didn't remember where she was. She thought she was back in the villa on Pine Hill, or in the palace of Aelar, or perhaps in the Lunapar or bakery. As the dream faded, as her breathing slowed, her new life came back to her.
I'm home.
She rose from bed, poured a cup of water, and walked through the dark house. It was smaller than the villa on Pine Hill. Three bedrooms. A dining room. A pantry. Ofeer walked out onto the patio, and she stood under the moonlight, gazing at the Aelarian countryside. Cypresses rose around a farm and vineyard, shielding the delicate plants from the wind. Between them, in the distance, Ofeer could just make out the black sea. In the darkness, she could almost imagine that she was back in Zohar. Back on Pine Hill. She could almost imagine that when dawn rose, her mother would come to work on her garden, and Epher would tend to the horses, and Maya would approach to tell Ofeer the latest tale she had read in a scroll.
Ofeer lowered her head.
But that home is gone.
She stepped off the porch, and she walked in the darkness. She passed through the farms and vineyard and between the cypresses, the land Empress Valentina had given Ofeer and her family. Past the border of their homestead, she walked through wild fields of swaying grass. Ofeer remembered a day two years ago, fleeing from her mother, from her home, racing to the sea—to sail away with Seneca, to find a different world. Here in the darkness, Ofeer ran again, ran with tears on her cheeks, ran until dawn rose and she reached a different shore.
The sea spread before her, gray-blue tipped with white, gurgling, whispering, washing over her feet. Ofeer stood in the sand and gazed across the water. Somewhere in the east, so many leagues away, her home now lay in ruins. For but a day, Zohar had been free. For but a day, Seneca had given her this gift, had died for this gift.
Seneca was dead now, and in the east, once more, awaited only Aelaria Orientalis—once called Zohar, now ruins swarming with the legions. As Ofeer looked across the water, she tried to remember. The villa on Pine Hill. The towers and domes of Beth Eloh. The rolling dunes. Her parents. Epher. Maya.
Gone.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I miss you."
She fell to her knees in the sand, and such pain gripped her heart that Ofeer wanted to enter the sea. To let the waves claim her. To sink forever into the hidden worlds underwater. But as the waves washed around her knees, Ofeer remembered a time when she had lain near death. Bleeding. Fading away, the life in her belly fading with her. And she remembered light, the grace of Luminosity, and the voice of Eloh in her mind. She remembered feeling loved.
"I am loved," she whispered, trembling. "I sinned. I hurt my family. I parted from them with hatred. I spit on them, betrayed them, and now they're gone. But I am loved." She wept. "I am loved. I am loved."
The dawn danced over the waves, and Ofeer rose to her feet. She turned away. And she ran.
She ran back through the fields, through the vineyard and farm, and back into the small home Valentina had given them. She entered Ariel's bedroom. The toddler was sleeping calmly, so beautiful. His hair and skin were dark like hers. His little fists were curled up. Tears still on her cheeks, Ofeer lifted him and hugged him close, never wanting to let go.
"Mother?" he mumbled, waking up.
She rocked him against her, her tears in his hair. "I love you, Ariel. Do you know that? I love you forever."
He wriggled free from her grip, stuck his tongue out at her, and darted out of the chamber. Soon she heard his laughter and the clatter of dishes in the kitchen.
Ofeer followed him into the kitchen, where she found Koren too. Her brother was busy juggling rolls of bread while balancing on one foot. When one roll fell, Ariel grabbed it before it could hit the floor and bit into it, releasing a wisp of steam.
"The little devil of yours stole my bread!" Koren said, looking at Ofeer.
Ofeer grabbed another one of the rolls he was juggling, leaving him with only two. "Just because you hog it all." She bit into the bread. It was soft and fluffy, flavored with honey.
Atalia shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. She yawned gloriously, stretching her arms so wide they knocked into hanging sausages and nearly toppled a shelf.
"Food," she said, grabbing another roll from Koren.
He hefted his last roll and sighed. "The curse of siblings."
Yet as soon as Koren had spoken those words, Ofeer glimpsed his sudden, brief wince, the flash of pain, and she knew he was thinking of Maya and Epher, and silence fell across the kitchen.
Ofeer broke the silence. "Now to the garden with us! There are weeds to yank out, and there's a fence to fix, and the sheep won't milk themselves."
They toiled throughout the day, and Ofeer found comfort in the soil under her fingernails, the weariness to her back, the dryness on her hands after she washed the laundry and pots. As a youth, she had sought her escape in cups of wine, hookahs of spice, beds of sailors, and dreams of princes, but here she found a different peace, a busyness to banish her grief, her memories.
Yet sometimes still, as she worked in the vineyard or garden, a sudden memory would fill Ofeer. The dead in Gefen. Jerael on the cross. The men assaulting her in the alleyway. Tirus grabbing her son, preparing to bash Ariel's head against the wall. And at those moments, Ofeer knew that the grief, the pain, the horror—those would never leave her. Even should she grow old and gray, the nightmares would fill her. Even should years of peace pass, the war would forever rage inside her.
I died in Gefen, she thought. I died long ago, a girl by the sea. I died with Zohar. All I am is this empty shell.
And when the pain filled her, when the horror constricted her, when the dead still danced, she turned to her son, and she hugged him close, and she kissed his cheek. Sometimes at night, when he slept, Ofeer walked into his room, and she simply sat beside him, stroking his hair.
"May you never know grief," she would whisper to him. "May you never know war. May you never know loss. May you never have to run from pain, hide from pain, hurt others for your pain. May we build a better world for you, my son. May you know nothing but love, nothing but joy, nothing but light."
It was on a winter evening that Koren returned home from the nearby town, carrying a box of candles. He placed the candles on the table, and Atalia and Ofeer approached. Normally in their home, they simply lit wicks in clay lanterns, for candles were costly.
"It's Lel Urim," Koren said. "Do you remember how we used to light the candles back home?"
Ofeer remembered. "We would each hold one, and Father would douse all the lamps in the house. We would walk through the darkness, carrying our candles, singing to banish the darkness." She lowered her head. "It seems wrong to do the same here. So far from Zohar. Without them."
Atalia reached for the tinderbox on the shelf. "Even if we don't walk through the house, we can still light the candles." She stared at Ofeer. "For them."
