Kissa
The night John Hyrcanus left the high priest’s palace, Shelamzion and I went to bed at sunset as usual, yet neither of us could sleep. I tried singing, but my throat had tightened with worry so that my voice came out scratchy.
Finally, Shelamzion said I should stop. “Your singing is sweet,” she said, obviously trying to be kind, “but your song does not fit my feelings.”
“And what are you feeling, miss?”
“I am feeling . . . dark. Like when I wake in the night and cannot see anything. Or hear anything. I know I’m all right, but danger seems to be waiting for me.”
“I know that feeling,” I answered, closing my eyes against a premonition of impending doom. “I have felt it many times.”
“So let’s talk about something happy,” Shelamzion said. She fell silent for a moment, then clapped. “I know! Tell me about your fondest wish.”
Grateful that she could not see me, I made a face in the darkness.
“Kissa? What is your fondest wish?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Tell me yours.”
“That’s not fair, I asked you first.”
“I can’t think of anything.”
“Sure you can. If HaShem came to you like He did to Solomon—”
“I don’t know this Solomon.”
“You don’t?” My mistress heaved a sigh. “Long ago, Solomon reigned over the kingdom of Israel. HaShem came to him in a dream at night and said, ‘What should I give you?’ And Solomon said, ‘I am but a youth. I don’t know how to go out or come in. So give Your servant a mind of understanding to judge Your people, to discern between good and evil—for who is able to judge this great people of Yours?’ So Adonai said, ‘Because you asked for this thing—and have not asked for long life, nor asked for riches, nor asked for the life of your enemies, but asked for understanding to discern justice—behold, I have done according to your words. I have given you a wise and discerning mind, so that there has been none like you before you, nor shall anyone like you arise after you.’ And then HaShem said He would give Solomon riches and long life, as well.”
I smiled. “That is a nice story. For a moment I forgot to be afraid.”
My mistress chuffed in exasperation. “So what is your fondest, most secret desire? Is it money? Nice clothes?” She hesitated, then whispered, “Do you want to be free?”
I blinked in surprise. Every human wants freedom—the ability to wake when you want, do what you please, and go where you will. But I had lived long enough to know that, although freedom is something everyone wants, it is also hard to attain. Even the high priest, with all his power, was not truly free. Responsibilities and care filled his days, and I knew he did not want to be hidden away at the Baris while his beloved wife remained at home.
If Shelamzion was clever enough to appreciate a slave’s yearning for freedom, maybe she would understand my truest and deepest desire.
“I want,” I said, keeping my voice low, “to go home and find my parents. I want to see them, tell them how much I miss them, and feel their arms around me. I was crying when they sold me, and I want to tell them not to feel guilty. That I understand . . . they did what they had to do.”
“But you said they were dead.”
“I said they might be dead. But what if they still live?”
The bedchamber swelled with silence, and for a moment I thought my mistress had fallen asleep. But then I heard her hiccup, and when I sat up, I discovered she was sobbing.
“I—I—am sorry,” she said, hiccupping. “I wish I could take you to Egypt. I would—if—if I could.”
“Do not worry.” I sat on the edge of the bed, slipped my arm around her shoulders, and squeezed. “You are kind to feel that way, but I do not expect you to grant my desire. Only the gods could make such a thing happen.” I pushed damp hair away from her face and smiled, hoping she could see the shimmer of my teeth in the darkness. “Aren’t we only pretend-talking? I thought this was a game.”
She hiccupped again. “Yes.”
“Then what is your desire, miss?”
I heard nothing but pebbly sounds from a wagon in the courtyard. Then Shelamzion shifted to face me. “I want to have two babies and love them both the same.”
I laughed. “That is not a secret—you have said that many times.”
“Then I want . . . to matter. To be important to someone. Maybe lots of someones.”
“You are important to your mother.”
I heard the brush of her hair against her tunic as she shook her head. “Not really.”
“You are important to your uncle. He brought you here, didn’t he?”
“He barely knows me, so how could I matter to him?”
I pulled away from her. “I do not know what you are talking about, but if you wish it, then may it be so.” I slid off her bed and landed on my pallet. “All right then. You are talking nonsense, so I am going to sleep. Good night, little mistress.”
“Good night.” I heard the rustle of her blanket as she lay back down, and the sound filled me with peace. What an odd child she was! Perhaps it came from being born into a family of priests.
But no matter. Her little game had worked—we were no longer thinking about war and danger, and we were both ready to sleep.