And … when Abram arrived in Egypt, everyone noticed Sarai’s beauty. When the palace officials saw her, they sang her praises to Pharaoh, their king, and Sarai was taken into his palace.
—Book of Genesis 12:14-15
MY FATHER AND CHIRAM FIND me just after the sun rises above the hills to copper the sky. I am most grateful to Lama and El for letting me see it. My father kneels beside me. “Are you hurt?”
“A little.” I put my hand to my side.
With care, he gathers me into his arms to hold, enveloping me in the familiar, salty smell of safety.
From over his shoulder Chiram growls, “Idiot boy!”
Father’s grip on me tightens, and I catch my breath with the pain, but bury my head against him and say only, “I am sorry, Father.”
He sighs.
I have said those words often. I always mean them, but somehow, despite my best intentions, I find them on my tongue with greater frequency than any other child I know. And I am soon to be beyond childhood. That thought is a reminder of what drove me from our tent the previous night. I do not want to be a woman and leave my father and the caravan. The way he holds me tells me he feels the same.
“One more trip,” he whispers in my ear.
I clasp onto that promise. One more. I will not be abandoned!
When my father releases me and tries to help me up, I cannot stop the cry that wrenches from my lips.
He again kneels beside me. “What happened?”
“Dune scented a wolf and threw me,” I admit. “My chest hurts. Did he return to the camp?”
He shakes his head and my heart sinks. This can only mean my horse fell to predators or perhaps, I comfort myself, he wandered to another camp.
Though I am fifteen summers, my father scoops me into his arms and carries me, a watchful Nami at our heels. The sharp stabs in my side are preferable to Chiram’s grumbles. “The sheep dropped her kid while you were off wandering around.”
“Enough, Chiram,” my father finally says. “Adir is punished enough. Let it lie.”
With a last grunt, Chiram acquiesces.
AT THE CAMP, father lays me gently on his own pallet and gives me water. My mouth is parched and cracking. Chiram is wrong; I am beyond idiot. I did not even take water with me. I am no longer in the desperate grip of the despair that drove me out of our tent only last night. The moonlit gleam of a wolf’s teeth has altered my view of things. I still do not want change, but I have another, more pressing, desire.
“Chiram will tend you,” Father says.
I groan. “No, please. I will be fine.” I do not want Chiram’s greasy hands on me.
“He has the most knowledge of medicines.”
“Only because he butchers animals,” I retort. “Please, not Chiram.”
At that moment a shadow appears at the tent entrance. “May we enter?”
I recognize the accent, but not the voice.
My father pulls aside the hanging to reveal Raph and Mika, two of the messengers of El. “Be welcome in my tent,” Father says, stepping aside and gesturing for them to enter. They have to bend to avoid brushing their heads against the tent opening.
Raph glances at me and then addresses my father. “We heard your son was injured.”
I close my eyes, unwilling to face the humiliation of hearing my father tell what I had done.
“He fell from the horse,” he says simply, and my heart swells anew with love for him.
Raph gestures to Mika, who is even taller. If Mika had worn the peaked hat the third giant wore, he would not be able to stand upright inside the tent. “Mika is learned in medicine and healing. He is willing to examine Adir with your permission.”
Mika glances at me as if I am a sheep or goat. I imagine Raph has talked him into coming.
Father looks relieved and then concerned. I know what he is thinking. He does not want to give permission for a man to touch me. I certainly do not want to be touched, especially by this cryptic stranger who may be our god’s messenger and looks at me with such cold assessment that I want to stomp his foot.
But the alternative is Chiram.
“It is all right, Father.” I lift my outer robe, revealing only my ribs, which already have begun to turn a pale blue.
Mika takes only one step to reach my side. He kneels without the warrior grace I observed in Raph. Despite his cold manner, Mika’s hands are gentle, though it takes my breath when he prods.
“A rib—” he searches for a word and confers with Raph in a tongue I have never heard.
“Bruise,” Raph offers.
Mika nods. “Bruise. Perhaps hair-crack, but no broken.” He hands my father a small package wrapped in cloth. “Boil this and give to him.” He pauses and confers with Raph, now in the language of the northlands, which I understand. “How do you say twice daily for the next hand of days?”
Raph shrugs.
Mika turns back to us, holding up his forefinger. “Morning.” Another finger joins the first. “Night.” Then he splays all of his fingers. “Days. Understand?”
Father nods, but my eyes narrow at this brusque order given without the least pretense of politeness. Perhaps a god’s messenger does not need to be polite, but I do not like this man.
He has me sit upright and wraps a wide strip of cloth tightly around my lower ribs. He does it expertly enough, and the pain eases.
Mika rises. “Check in morning.” I am not certain if he means we are to check it or he will.
“Thank you,” Father says. “May I pay for your—?”
Mika’s back stiffens. “No.” He turns and strides from the tent.
Raph smiles and holds both his palms up in a gesture that apologizes for his companion. “Mika not mean rude. Just … way.”
“He can be any way he pleases,” Father says. “I am grateful for his aid.”