Crown in the Stars (6 page)

“I’m hoping you will.” Shoshannah hugged Adah’s thin shoulders, enjoying her sister’s conspiratorial air—she was a trustworthy tattler. “No doubt he’s going to keep the whole tribe in an uproar. If worse comes to worse, beg Father to be merciful to Kal, for my sake.”

“You know I will.”

Arms linked, the sisters walked onward through the encampment.

“Be sure our Shoshannah stays out of mischief while you’re gone!” Uzziel, Mithqah’s father, lectured loudly, giving Mithqah a hearty kiss on the cheek.

He turned to wink at Shoshannah, who longed to make an impudent face in return.

His bright eyes crinkling in a smile, Uzziel continued, “And don’t run away with any strange young men—I’d whip you both!”

“Don’t lose any of your gear,” Ritspah added, fastening Mithqah’s woolen cloak with a new copper pin, then kissing her good-bye.

While Mithqah uneasily nodded at her parents, Shoshannah kissed her grandparents. Chaciydah wept as Meshek patted her.

Keren looked as if she might cry, but she hugged
Shoshannah tightly, smoothing her curls. “Behave yourself! And return safely. I pray the Most High blesses you.”

“I pray He does,” Shoshannah agreed, feeling her throat tighten, tears stinging.

She stepped away from them and went to I’ma-Annah and Shem. I’ma-Annah dabbed Shoshannah’s tears and said, “Here’s a hug from I’ma-Naomi and our Ancient One, Noakh. We’ll be praying for your safety.”

Shoshannah accepted her hug and looked over at Shem, who widened his big dark eyes at her, fond and serious at the same time.
Is it true?
she wanted to ask him.
Will I die before my parents?
Pushing the fear away yet again, she made herself smile at Shem. “Father of my Fathers, I give you my word I’ll try to stay out of trouble.”

“But will you succeed?” he asked, giving her nose a light swipe. “That would be a wonder from the Most High.”

She pretended to be hurt. He grinned, suddenly looking very boyish, confirming all her fears.
It’s true
.

His grin faded. He stared at her as if trying to read her thoughts. Shoshannah couldn’t look at him again.

She went to her father, who had been cautiously re-checking her dark little mare, Ma’khole, and retying all her gear. Zekaryah looked so… forlorn. Was it possible? She flung her arms around his waist and hugged him with all her might. He returned the hug fiercely, kissing her hair, then patting her silently. Stricken, fighting tears, she said, “I love you.”

He could only nod. But he kissed her again as if to reassure her.

Parting with Kaleb was equally difficult. Because they weren’t betrothed, they couldn’t linger or touch each other. She had to content herself with gazing at Kaleb for as
long as she dared, watching him stare after her unhappily as she rode away with Tsinnah and the Tribe of Metiyl.

“She’s learned the truth somehow,” Shem whispered, watching Shoshannah depart. Annah looked up at her husband, aching at his desolate tone. The truth. She didn’t want to discuss it; she would cry.
O Most High, how I wish You could give my children some of my years! Why must this be so? I feel as if the Great Destruction has returned in a different form …

Zekaryah lay staring upward into the nighttime dimness of the leather tent. Keren was curled up beside him, beneath their coverlet and furs, also still awake, he was sure. Again, he wished he could have said good-bye to Shoshannah—warning her to check her gear, to practice with her weapons, to trust no one, and to stay away from the Great City. But his emotions had been too raw—were still too raw—from the men’s conversation the previous day. Everything within him wanted to deny the truth he’d been resisting for years. His children could
not
die before him. The thought made him want to rave at the Most High, demanding answers.

Even so, rage would change nothing. And his dear firstborn, Shoshannah, would be gone for a year. Zekaryah prayed she would be sensible and safe. When she returned, he would ensure that she never strayed so far from the Tribe of Ashkenaz again. If their time as a family were to be shortened, then he would be selfish and keep her close.

“She didn’t want to leave,” Keren whispered suddenly.

Zekaryah could feel her breath, warm against his neck. Turning, he pulled her closer, kissing her cheek, adoring the softness of her skin. “I know.” Hardly able to believe he was saying the words, he murmured, “Kaleb loves her. And she loves him.”

And if she married him, she would remain with the Tribe of Ashkenaz. She would be happy. Also, Kaleb was of Shoshannah’s generation. Their lifespans would be the same—shortened.
Kaleb, too, will die before me
. The thought, finally admitted, was intolerable. Haltingly, fighting tears, he said, “I think Shoshannah has guessed the truth. We should have told her ourselves.”

Keren had never seen her husband cry before—not even when their children were born, which had touched him deeply. His grief was unbearable. She wept with him, held him, and lay awake throughout the night, wishing she had found the courage to tell Shoshannah what she had been denying for years—what she still denied.
I will not outlive my children. O Most High, it cannot be true
.

In answer, the wind howled in the darkness outside.

“Do you think it’s true?” Shoshannah begged Tsinnah, while they unloaded their gear on the evening of their second day of travel.

“I… Wait…” Looking claylike, badly shaken, Tsinnah hurried to her husband. Shoshannah regretted bringing up the subject. Particularly when she saw Tsinnah’s amiable husband, Khawrawsh, droop like a beaten man as Tsinnah whispered to him. Khawrawsh’s father, Metiyl—unloading his sturdy, dusky horse nearby—also hung
his head, apparently listening to their unhappy discussion. Soon Metiyl’s wife, I’ma-Tebuwnaw, approached Shoshannah and Mithqah, her usually cheerful face puckered, her black-brown eyes brimming.

“I’m sorry. What you heard, Mithqah… we’re afraid it’s true…” Tebuwnaw’s voice broke. She pulled Mithqah and Shoshannah into an embrace, weeping and rocking them as if she were their own mother, overwhelmed in mourning.

Shoshannah knelt outside Tsinnah’s comfortably nondescript circular mud-brick home, pounding almonds with Mithqah, I’ma-Tebuwnaw, and Tsinnah. They had settled into a comfortable routine with the passing months, cleaning, spinning wool, preserving foods, and preparing for visits from the other cousin tribes, who were also demanding return visits from Shoshannah and Mithqah.

The painful revelations from the encampment were no longer spoken of, as if ignoring them would make them untrue. But Shoshannah continued to ponder this dire shuffling of the generations. She had to be brave for her parents’ sake. Truly, some potential situations might be ridiculous. Laughable.

Glancing at Tsinnah, who seemed tired this morning, Shoshannah spoke lightly. “I’ma-Tsinnah, if I’ll be old and gray before my parents, won’t they have to honor me as an elder?”

Tsinnah stared, as if befuddled. “An elder? You?”

While she was evidently trying to imagine such a thing, Mithqah gaped at Shoshannah, incredulous. But
Tebuwnaw burst out laughing and smacked her pounding stone onto its flat base, almost hard enough to break it.

“Trust you, Shoshannah-child, to think of such a thing! I confess, I don’t know how to answer you.” She turned to Tsinnah. “Daughter, what will we do when our children are older than we are?”

Tsinnah pressed her hands to her forehead, teary-eyed. “I don’t know. And I’m sure I’m going to have another.”

“You’re bearing another child?” Shoshannah gasped, delighted, as Mithqah and Tebuwnaw hugged Tsinnah happily. Like Keren, Tsinnah had not borne a child for years, and—like Keren—she had been baffled by her apparent infertility. “Oh, I’ma-Tsinnah, how wonderful! But don’t cry. If our lives are going to be shortened, we shouldn’t spend all our time mourning—there’s too much to do!”

“I wish your dear mother could hear you,” Tsinnah wept. “She would feel so much better—forgive me; I’m going to be sick.” Tsinnah hurried away.

Shoshannah tried to not feel abandoned.