Crown in the Stars (57 page)

“Why did Tiyrac and I get such a little wild woman?” Demamah complained fondly. “She should be one of yours, Shoshannah, really.”

“Oh, thank you,” Shoshannah said, watching dear, naughty Ghiylath wobble to her feet. Timing her rhythm with the others, Shoshannah called to the frustrated Meherah, “Make her dance! Wear her out. Ghiylath-child, dance!”

Catching on, Ghiylath’s eyes brightened as she began
to stamp her feet and flap her hands in delightful disorder.

Mithqah laughed, calling to the other children, “Dance! Hands high to Him! Step, step, step! We’ll practice for the celebration.”

Celebration. Shoshannah sobered as she pounded on the felt. They were here to prepare for their First Father Shem’s third kentum—his three hundredth year. Language barriers notwithstanding, all the neighboring tribes, and many from beyond—including Shem’s brothers—would be arriving within days, bearing gifts and full of joy, which Shem seemed reluctant to acknowledge.

It’s because he knows he will outlive most of us here
.

“Shoshannah!”

Eliy’ezer—Shoshannah’s lanky pale-eyed youngest brother, born the winter after the confusion in the Great City—came charging up the slope toward the lodge. Shoshannah stood, alarmed by Eliy’ezer’s breathless shock; he was usually rock calm.

“Kaleb said to warn you! Adoniyram of the Great City is coming with two guardsmen. Our Noakh and Shem and Father and the uncles are going out to meet them.”

“What?” Shoshannah abandoned her work and herded the little ones together. Her second thought—after gathering the children—was to fetch her bow. But Meherah was almost underfoot, agitated by Eliy’ezer’s panic. And Eliy’ezer had gone inside to warn I’ma-Naomi and I’ma-Annah and all the aunts. They would insist upon welcoming Adoniyram, though cautiously. Shoshannah willed her fears down hard, telling herself that Adoniyram and his men were too heavily outnumbered to create trouble.

I’ma-Naomi and I’ma-Annah were already hurrying to create a resting place for the travelers just outside the lodge. Shoshannah soothed her daughter and coaxed her
to help with the food. “We’re fussing over nothing, Meherah-child, I’m sure.”

She watched as the men climbed the slope, surrounding Adoniyram and his men, “leading” them and their horses. Adoniyram was as smoothly handsome as ever, yet to Shoshannah, he lacked her Kaleb’s warmth and strength.

Kaleb strode over to Shoshannah, kissed her, then possessively wrapped an arm around her shoulders as a silent warning. Three of Shoshannah’s tawny, wild-haired young sons, Khaziy’el, Eythan, and Zebul, joined them now, mistrustful of Adoniyram. Nine-year-old Eythan, in particular, glowered.

Shoshannah nudged him. “Behave!”

“Your
son,” Kal muttered.

Shoshannah gave him a look to match Eythan’s.

Adoniyram noticed this interplay, eyebrows lifted. Shoshannah realized that he didn’t seem surprised to find her with Kaleb, or Demamah with Tiyrac.

Smiling politely, he addressed them in the same dreadful chopped, garbled syllables that had frightened her so badly years ago. Even now, her stomach churned to hear him. It was hopeless; she still couldn’t understand him.

Adoniyram felt a sinking despair. They couldn’t understand him. And he would never understand them—his own family. No uncles, no grandparents, no close cousins would ever perceive his words, much less behave as true kindred toward him.
I’m alone
.

He subdued the longing to weep. He could never tell
Shoshannah and Kaleb that he forgave their deception. That Shoshannah was still lovely and precious to him—though she was Kaleb’s. He couldn’t tell Demamah that he was glad to see her safe and obviously loved by her husband, Tiryac, who was guarding her against him as warily as Kaleb was guarding Shoshannah. He also couldn’t discuss their children and trade a father’s stories with them.

Worse, he could not question the Ancient Ones, which he wanted to do more than anything else in the world.
Tell me I will live to be as old as you …

Noakh—
the
Noakh, and his Naomi—approached Adoniyram now. The young man stared, amazed that anyone could be so ancient, silver haired, yet dark eyed. They were living legends, warm, agreeable, and surely the most significant people he’d ever seen. Yet he could ask them nothing. He felt so frustrated and helpless. Thoughts stabbed him cold and hard:
You are not the Promised One. And compared to these Ancient Ones, you are nothing but a man who will die with nothing
. A mere man.

The Ancient Ones embraced him, welcoming him with words beyond his comprehension. His journey, and his hopes, were futile. Already, he longed to leave.

After visiting for only a day and a half—unable to communicate with anyone—Adoniyram rode off with his men. Shoshannah watched him leave. He didn’t seem like a great lord now. Only a bereaved man. She pitied him. Until she remembered the morning he had deliberately allowed his mother to die in the temple. He still wasn’t sorry, Shoshannah was certain.

Demamah approached Shoshannah now, thoughtful. “I think he wanted to see all this for himself. He remembers your stories. And your warning of our foreshortened lives.”

Shoshannah looked at her cousin, her dear friend. “And now what do you think? Did I lie to you or to him?”

“No,” Demamah said slowly. “I knew you were telling the truth. And I’m sure Adoniyram knows it too—he looked so unhappy.” Sighing, she added, “After all this time, I can say that I’m glad to be with you now. And with my Tiyrac. Sometimes I miss my parents, but there was no mercy with those in the Great City. Or their Shemesh.”

Pondering these things, Shoshannah approached her parents, Kaleb, Shem, I’ma-Annah, and the Ancient Ones, who were also watching Adoniyram leave. “Demamah and I think Adoniyram wanted to speak with you, our Ancient Ones,” she told them quietly. “He wanted you to tell him that he would live to be as old as you.”

The Ancient Ones looked at her, then away, as if unwilling to discuss this hurtful subject. Her father was staring hard into the distance, beyond Adoniyram. Her mother put a hand to her mouth, clearly on the verge of tears. But Kal nodded in firm agreement.

Summoning her courage, Shoshannah continued, “I want to tell you… before the Most High… however long I live, or don’t live… whatever comes,
I’ve been happy.”

“And so have I.” Kaleb wrapped his arms around her, but the others didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. Shoshannah prayed they would remember.

Remind them, O Most High
.

“Were you able to understand the Ancient Ones at all, my lord?” asked the priest, Ebed, as he walked down the tower steps with Adoniyram in the late autumn sunlight.

“Oh, I understood them perfectly,” Adoniyram answered, sarcastic. “They told me that I’ll be immortal and loved forever.”

“Forgive me. Obviously your journey wasn’t what you hoped it would be.” Pausing now, the priest said gently, “But you’ve been missed. Your people and your lady-wife have come here almost daily to offer prayers and gifts to Shemesh for your safe return. It would have pleased you to see it.”

“You’re telling me to be satisfied with what I have?”

“Others long to be you,” Ebed murmured. “You have everything they desire. And now you’ve had this adventure… visiting the Ancient Ones.” Kindly, the priest said, “Perhaps you and your men shouldn’t discourage the people with your own disappointments. Let them believe that you had a journey they can only imagine—it should be your duty as a king to give them such dreams.”

Dispirited, Adoniyram smiled at him. “I’ll leave the dreams and storytelling to you; I’d rather forget this whole ‘adventure.’ Now, forgive me, but I’m going to go see my wife and children.”

“And practice contentment?”

“If I find it.” Adoniyram doubted he would.

You are not the Promised One. You are nothing but a man who will die with nothing
. A mere man. Bitter knowledge for a king.

In the eighteenth year after the chaotic division of the earth, Ra-Anan led his tribe from a warm coastal beach up
into a sultry, lush forest, teeming with colors, with water. With life.

“This is the place,” Awkawn announced firmly, daring the others to disagree. “We can make a clearing and build a new temple nearby—a tower to the sun.”

Everyone began to argue eagerly over campsites and food.

Slowly, followed by his intrepid, dusky nine-year-old son, Nebat, Ra-Anan lifted a spear and moved into the lush, sultry foliage, staring, amazed… disturbed.

“Father,” Nebat asked, hushed and respectful as Ra-Anan required, “are we going hunting? Is something wrong?”

What is wrong?
Ra-Anan asked himself, frowning. A brilliantly colored bird flew before them fearlessly from one rich-flowered tree to another, its elegant feathers tempting Ra-Anan to catch it for Zeva’ah. The bird was as dazzling as the flowers, the landscape, the river. It dawned on Ra-Anan then what was wrong. I’ma-Annah’s voice whispered to him in fragments, unseen.

The earth was not always as you see it today, Ra-Anan-child. Before the Great Destruction, the trees were enormous—beautiful and fruitful. And the flowers—they were so sweet that we sometimes ate them! But even more wonderful, little one, were the animals in the world of that time. They did not fear people as predators and prey …