The men shielded their eyes, lest they become entranced and transformed before her into monsters or goats. They murmured prayers, calling down God’s mercy. My mother paid no heed. She invoked the angels of heaven and the spirits of wrath, pleading with the Creator of the universe to bring affliction upon her enemies. I thought of the way the robbers Nahara’s father had murdered had fallen among us, like branches from the acacia tree, their blood like sap, so thick it took days for my mother to wash it away. As she did so she had cursed each one, the same curses she was uttering now.
The wind was shredding the garments the Essene women had strung on a wash line; it shook the marriage tent. As my mother raised her arms, the kadim seemed drawn to her. She called to the four directions of the universe. When she threw down her handful of salt, it rose like a pillar of smoke, there to do her bidding.
The sky turned black and we could not see a single star in the firmament, and it seemed that my mother had managed to close the curtain of heaven, hiding the Throne of Glory. I saw a look of wonderment and fear cross Abba’s face. He had realized that my mother was a learned woman, not a ewe in the field, there to be commanded. She would not be defeated by a fence of thorns or the indignation of a righteous man.
The Essenes were immobilized, as a mouse stands motionless before a black viper. One of their women, an old grandmother, thought to run for a pail of dirty wash water to pour over the salt my mother had cast at Abba’s feet. But there wasn’t enough water to wash it all away, and what remained settled in a pattern that resembled a snake, turning black as it filtered into the sand.
Abba, who could barely walk, now stood away from his chair. He recognized signs, but he read them to his own advantage. He believed that his people had been chosen by God and that peace was the only true way to honor the Almighty. The end of our world was upon us, and what had been written could not be unwritten or undone.
“You cannot fight what is meant to be with weapons or with curses.” As he spoke, his followers circled around for protection.
“I want her now,” my mother told him. “You cannot take what belongs to another.”
“She’s not your daughter,” Abba told my mother. “She’s the daughter of God.”
“Is that what you think?” my mother said.
Malachi came out of the house that had once been a goat barn, where his people dwelled together, eating from the same dishes, pouring water over their heads before each meal, living a life of prayer and of giving glory to God.
Abba gestured to him as he approached. “She belongs to this man.”
The boy my mother had sent away from the dovecote had heard the rising conflict and turmoil in the field and had left his marriage bed. There he stood. The bridegroom.
My mother faced him, chanting the curses from the book of spells her mother had bequeathed to her, the book that had come from Alexandria, and had traveled to the Iron Mountain and across the Salt Sea. If what had come to pass could be undone, it would unwind at this moment. The wind shifted in the direction of this settlement, throwing up leaves and rattling branches. The bridegroom knew what my mother was trying to do, attempting to unstitch fate.
“She’s already my wife,” he told her.
“We’ll see if she’s your wife or my daughter.”
No one dared interfere as my mother stalked past Malachi. Her cloak grazed him, and he flinched, fearful of the sin of touching a woman other than his wife. When I followed, I kept my eyes lowered even though Malachi beseeched me for help.
Nahara did her best to hold the door shut, but she was no match for us. At last she backed away. For an instant, as the door fell open, I imagined that my mother and I had become like the robbers in Moab, attempting to claim what belonged to another. I had a burning in my throat; every breath flared like fire. It was much like when I drew the hot liquid from my sister’s mouth on the day she was born so that she might take her first breath. Perhaps my mistake was to spit the watery blood on the floor rather than swallow the essence of her soul. Perhaps she had never belonged to me, and I had unwound us from each other at that moment.
My sister wore her simple white robe. Her hair, usually braided and covered by a shawl, was unplaited and loose, black as my mother’s hair, as long as mine. I had saved her, only to have her marry Malachi and live in this goat house. But wherever she went, however distant, she would be my sister.
“Come with us now,” our mother pleaded. “Before you belong to him.”
“Before?” Nahara raised her chin defiantly.
The room was hot, the scent of sweat and of sex lingering. There was blood on the pallet where the women of this sect had unrolled a sheet of white linen to capture the proof of my sister’s purity.