And the angel also said [to Hagar], “You are now pregnant and will give birth to a son. You are to name him Ishmael (which means ‘God hears’), for the Lord has heard your cry of distress.
—Book of Genesis 16:11
THAT NIGHT, THE MEANING OF the hyena’s presence becomes clear.
As we finish our evening meal of flatbread, red lentil soup, and the staple of every meal—milk-butter served in wooden bowls—Yassib wipes his mouth and announces, “We will move tomorrow. The camels have grazed enough here. We will start the summer-trail.”
Jerah, one of Yassib’s sons, looks up. “But the hunting is still good here.”
“We release the birds tonight,” Yassib says.
There is some grumbling at that. Unaffected by it, Yassib picks up his bowl and drains it. “Summer’s fire is almost upon us. The birds suffer. Would you have them die in the heat?
A younger man, Kerit, nods in agreement and then turns to Jerah. “Remember brother, it was the dogs who found the gazelle.”
“That is true,” Jerah agrees, reluctantly. “The dogs can still hunt, but my bird is the best I have ever had.”
“Next spring, can I catch a bird?” Shem asks. “I am almost old enough.”
Yassib plucks a dried fig from a dish. “Next spring is next spring.”
When we finish the meal, all of the men and boys of the clan gather on the highest point near the encampment—the hill where Mika and I trek every night. Kerit allows Shem to wear the thick leather bindings on his hand and arm and carry his falcon. Shem radiates pride at being given this task. Jerah bears his own bird, as does Yassib. All three falcons are hooded.
I walk beside Shem, admiring the glossy feathers. Shem’s chest expands. “My grandfather’s bird is the best hunter.”
“I have never seen a capture,” I say. “How is it done?”
“With a net. My mother and sister wove it. You tie the bait to a stake and wait. When a falcon strikes, you wrap it in the net. You must be careful not to harm the bird because it is frightened and fights.”
“I would be too,” I say.
He nods. “Yes-yes. It takes much skill and patience to train a falcon. My grandfather is the best. He is known throughout the land. I would be good because I am very good with the camels.”
Yassib laughs and puts a hand on Shem’s shoulder. “Enough, Shem. Too much chatter.”
When we reach the hill’s summit, the men make a circle. Kerit takes the bird from Shem, and he and Jerah stand in the center with Yassib, who raises a hand to the sky. “We thank the sky gods for the loan of their winged hunters, and we now return their gift.” He pulls the hood from the regal bird and holds him aloft. “Go now to your summer place, to the cool of the hills, to the high places.”
Jerah and Kerit repeat the words.
A sudden wind brushes my face, lifting my headdress. I turn into it without taking my gaze from the falcons, which watch with haughty eyes and shift restlessly on their handlers’ arms. Kerit’s bird lifts his wings and then settles them—a signal he is ready to fly, or that he does not wish to leave his master?
My question is answered as Yassib, Jerah, and Kerit lift their arms in assist. Wings snap the air, and Yassib’s bird gives a piercing shriek, a wild cry that declares it has never really been tamed. I hold my breath, feeling for a moment as if it is I who flies into the wind.
We watch them until they are lost in the sky.
LATER THAT NIGHT, we sit around the fire outside Yassib’s tent. Even though his tent is the largest, it is too small for all to gather there. It is also cooler outside in the breeze. The women serve us fermented camel’s milk, something for which I am acquiring a taste. The night is peaceful, and I have forgotten the hyena until Yassib’s youngest daughter, who is four summers of age, waddles to where I sit next to Mika and points at me, announcing, “He is a girl. I saw him squatting to make water.”
My heart stops.
Everyone looks at me.
“She is a child,” Mana says quickly. “She is confused.”
Yassib silences her with a gesture, his gaze fixed on me, studying my features with the intensity of a leopard measuring its prey. Slowly, his face infuses with blood.
Mana grabs the girl into her arms and backs away. The others watch intently, but do not speak or move. My heart is racing. I sit very still.
In a smooth movement that belies his summers, Yassib stands and draws his dagger, the curved one, its golden bronze blade catching the firelight. It will fit nicely around the arc of my neck.
Mika, whose attention had been on his drink, hastily rises and steps forward at an angle to Yassib. “What is happening?” he says, facing Yassib, but wisely not drawing his own weapon. Instead, his hands are spread before him, palms open, signaling a desire for peace.
“Talk,” I say in Mika’s native tongue.
“What do I say?”
“Anything, just talk quickly in your own language.”
“I do not know what is happening,” Mika says. “Please explain to me why you have drawn a knife and are staring at Adir with such anger? Has he displeased you?”
I translate: “Most excellent host, why are you angry? How have we displeased you?”
Yassib shifts his gaze from my face to Mika’s. “I opened my tent to you, yet you have deceived me. The boy is a girl, a woman.” The last word is almost spit, as if it is a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Talk more,” I say to Mika, again in his own language. “Say anything; just speak in the northern tongue. Do not try Akkadian. This is delicate.”
Mika widens the space between his hands in a gesture of confusion. “I wish I could understand you, but I do not know your language. I am most grateful to you, but I will not allow you to harm Adir.”
Despite my fear, my heart warms at Mika’s brave words. He towers over Yassib, but he still favors his leg, while the desert man is no doubt swift and his blade at hand. I glance about the fire at the young men watching the drama. All are armed, most with more than one weapon. These are men hardened by a harsh land. They seem confident in Yassib, but should Mika harm their grandfather and leader, I have no doubt there would be many knives and swords at his throat in an instant. Everything depends on what words I put in Mika’s mouth.
“My customs,” I say, “are not as yours, yet I ask you to stay your hand and let me answer you.” Despite the recent tang of fermented milk, my throat is dry as dirt. When did the girl see me relieving myself? Why have I not prepared for this moment and thought of some explanation?
“Answer then,” Yassib says, and I hear nothing but death in his voice.
Mika needs no further prompting from me. “I come from distant land.…”
I do not pay attention to his words, only to the cadence. When he stops, Yassib flicks his eyes toward me, indicating I have permission to translate. I have ceased to exist to him as a human being. I am only a woman, a woman who has deceived him and violated his customs.
“Men seek our lives,” I say with sudden inspiration. “Powerful men. They have stolen my brother and now they pursue me and my wife.”
Yassib’s knife lowers slightly. “Your wife?”
I look to Mika, and he babbles on about rivers and green hills on an island across the sea.
“Yes. These men look for me and my wife. That is why you found us alone in the wasteland with no provisions. We had to flee. I instructed her to wear a man’s clothing to confuse them when they ask if we have been seen. She is obedient to my wishes.”
For a long moment, Yassib stands where he is, breathing slowly, as if to regain control of himself. Finally, he slips the dagger back into its elaborately decorated sheath. “Why did you not tell me this?”
Mika’s posture relaxes slightly, but he keeps his position. “By goddess, I wish I knew what is happening, but I suppose my part is just keep talking. You seem to be handling it, Adir.”
I clear my parched throat and speak formally to remind Yassib of his obligations. “Excellent host who has granted us the hospitality of his tent and his protection, I did not wish to bring danger to you and your family and so I kept this from you. I ask your forgiveness and that you allow us to continue to deceive our enemies.”
Yassib takes a deep breath and extends his arms. “You are my guests. Forgive me for my anger. Your enemies are my enemies.”
Mika allows himself to be embraced and does fairly well at keeping the bewilderment from his expression.