He murmured a prayer as he carried away the flasks, for among his people he had the power of blessing even though he was no more than seventeen.
The Essene women were grateful when presented with our gifts, yet the reflection of the slain shone in their eyes. Nahara stood aside with the young Essene man; she was too young and pure to hear of brutalities served upon the Essenes. But Yael and I sat with the women as they told us in matter-of-fact voices how their children had been murdered. They didn’t cry out or swoon with grief, for they believed their children would rise again at the End of Days. At that time mothers would once again embrace their sons and daughters, and husbands and wives would again be one.
Tamar was quieter than the other women, her face pinched with sorrow, achingly pallid. When we went to leave, she placed a hand on Yael’s arm, drawing her near. “I won’t lose this one,” I heard her say. Her boy, Yehuda, was sprawled in the grass, looking upward as the first stars began to appear in the darkening sky. The Essene men had gathered in the field, and we could hear them chanting in deep, luminous tones. It was so hot that every movement of the air was like a plume of flame, every star a lantern in the night. “Promise you’ll help me, as I once helped you,” Tamar whispered. Everything about the Essene woman seemed bruised; even her tone was an incantation which sprang from her affliction. She nodded at Yael’s swollen middle. The baby would come any day now. “I knew when you wanted a fever charm it was a man you wanted to save. I could see it written upon you.”
Yael glanced at me. I quickly looked away so it wouldn’t seem that I’d overheard their conversation. When I saw Yael embrace her friend, I knew her promise had been given. As we walked back I didn’t ask why she would grant the fervent wish of this woman who belonged to a group so different from us, who clearly looked down on our ways. I didn’t question which man’s life she had tried to protect, or why she had been willing to cross the desert on his behalf no matter the sacrifice. I merely added these bits of information to my list, ready to offer them up should Yael and I ever disagree and I needed to prove that she was, indeed, human.
WHEN THE MONTH of Av was upon us in all its force, and the moon was as red as the sun, Abba sent the young Essene man to the dovecotes to work among us to thank us for the rations we brought to them. Because his people were so strict, and men were not allowed to touch women outside their own families, this young man, named Malachi ben Aaron, often worked in the small dovecote alone. Yet soon enough he was befriended by Nahara, and before long these two were engaged in long conversations. Malachi ben Aaron was only a few years older than Nahara herself. He was strongest among his kinsmen, and extremely well spoken. Because of this he was granted great respect, and he seemed to regard himself as a man of honor. We who worked beside Nahara still thought of her as a child; perhaps it was merely that we wished to see her as such. We were surprised to see that two who had so little in common often sat together on the wall during the noon break. Malachi spoke and Nahara listened, rapt, as if every tale he told was an illumination. Some of his words wafted toward us. He spoke of the End of Days and how his people were preparing, confessing their sins, following the path of light, offering their life on earth to Adonai. They would not fight the Romans because this world we walked through was not the end for them; they would arise after death and shine in God’s favor.
Since my arrival at the mountain, I had known Nahara to be a serious girl, older than her years in ways of learning and responsibility. Her mother had taught her to read Aramaic and Hebrew. As he instructed her, Malachi was surely impressed with her—for good reason; not only was she bright but she was lovely and pure. Before long they both began arriving earlier at the small dovecote so their discussions could begin as soon as Malachi had finished his morning prayers. They whispered in the breaking light, and those whispers became a bridge between them.
Like others of his household, Malachi wore only white, his hair braided. He eschewed sandals and went barefoot in the dust, for his people believed they must walk into heaven barefoot and wait there in the mist for the world to be resurrected after the End of Days. Malachi was quiet, a hard worker, a scholar who was not afraid to get his hands dirty. He had been sent to the dovecote because Abba believed that hard work and praise to God went hand in hand. Though Malachi was young, he wrote upon the parchment scrolls with his elders, and it was said that his letters were so beautifully wrought that the angels came to observe them as they formed; he was so righteous, the walnut oil ink he used turned to blood and appeared red upon the page. It had already been decided that Malachi would take Abba’s place when the time came, and the two often sat with their heads together, deep in conversation and prayer.