Overpowered Page 3

  “Sit, boy.” Thorn tugged at her tunic; she dodged away, suddenly wary. “Sit! Do you want everyone sitting lookout on a hill to know where we are?”

  Snow swallowed the lump in her throat and dropped to her knees. He was right—the starlight made her view of the other hilltops clear, so anyone there would be able to see her as well.

  “So. What did you steal, then?” Thorn mocked. “That you had to run away.”

  “Nothing but myself.”

  “Then I suppose your mistress beat you,” he said scornfully, as if that was no reason to run.

  “No.” She looked, but she could see nothing of him but one arm covered in ropy scars. “It wasn’t really my mistress that I ran from. It was her son.” She stopped, because while it was obvious why a young woman might run from her mistress’ son, for a boy it was less obvious.

  “No blood crime, then? Is that why you’re wandering the hills like a lost sheep instead of snug in the Refuge?”

  She relaxed slowly, sitting cross-legged on the rocky ground. Down in the valley the air would be still as death, but here she could feel a faint breeze like the breath of the Overpowerer. Strange, that it was probably safer to be truthful with this bitter hillman than with the honest women of the villages. “There was a blood crime. I killed him.” A stab of pain ran through her shoulder, like the ghost of the blow she had dealt.

  Thorn snorted. “You and Fig. The young should learn not to kill in a moment’s fury.” He was silent for a moment, then hissed softly. “You should kill in battle, when you’re being paid. Why kill when you gain nothing by it?”

  She should be afraid of a man who would say such a thing. If Vine had said it, she would have believed that he meant it; but she didn’t believe Thorn. He was fierce and bitter but not, she thought, poisonous.

  “Go down and sleep, Snow,” he ordered, and she went.

  The space left for her had grown smaller. Vine was twitching in his sleep, his face seeming ten years younger in the starlight. “Nnnn!” he insisted.

  Snow eyed him. A girl might comfort him; a boy might give him a kick… She did neither, but lay down with her back to him, bracing her arm against a rock. Cool air ran over her face as the wind flowed through the valley.

  I should have a plan, she told herself. All her life she had planned: when to sow, when to reap, when to bake the bread. But now she ran blindly through the world.

  If I had any sense at all, I’d be afraid. Murderers were the only ones who sought Refuge—and those who killed by accident could dwell within its walls. So if these men lived outside the Refuge, their blood-crimes must not have been accidental.

  Snow tilted her head so that she could watch the stars of the Manacles drift across the sky. No, think it through. If these men couldn’t enter the city of the Dawn, why would they come here at all? Were they recruiting mercenaries? Five men was small for a raiding band—at least, if you hoped for a city-ruler to hire you—though it would be large enough to rob a village. Yet Cypress looked too professional to be a mere robber. Robbery was not the only way for a landless man to live—he might be hired as a mercenary, or as a flock-guardian, or even as a harvester when the grain was ripe. It was in the best interest of the men of towns and villages to hire the outlaws to do something, lest hunger drive them to darker acts.

  Criminals had no love for those who asked questions about their lives, but Snow needed to know whether remaining here would bring her more blood-guilt. If not, she would stay if they would let her. They might be murderers—but so was she.

  This is where I belong now. The Refuge might have taken her in, but she didn’t deserve to be there. Overpowerer, does his blood still cry out from the ground against me?

  Vine whimpered. What horrible things did the young braggart have to dream of? Snow squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again with a sigh. She rolled over and reached out to shake his shoulder. “Shh. The Overpowerer is watching over you.”

  That might not comfort him; it did not, could not comfort her. She tried again. “Peace. All is well.” She didn’t know if it was her soft voice or the steadying grip on his arm, but Vine stopped twitching.

  There was a faint sound from the other cluster of bodies. With a flash of fear, Snow pulled her cloak over her head. At last the band slept—all but Thorn, sitting guardian in the starlight.

  **

  The Avenger of Blood reached Refuge as the sun began to sink. He strode at a steady pace, walking neither slower nor faster as he crested the long slope. The gatekeeper watched him come; yet though the keeper looked intently at his face, he could not tell whether the man was old or young.

  “Do you come for refuge, or do you seek a fugitive?” asked the gatekeeper.

  “I come seeking.” The voice of the man told the gatekeeper nothing at all. Almost he felt that he knew less about the man, having heard him speak, than he had known before.

  “Whom do you seek, and for what crime?”

  The Avenger of Blood met the gatekeeper’s gaze with eyes that glittered. “I seek a murderess. She might have reached here three days ago.”

  “None such have begged sanctuary at the gate, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t here.” Come in were the words the doorkeeper should say next. He eyed the turbaned man. Many angry men came to this gate; he was used to their threatened violence. Yet there was trouble in the city of the Dawn, strange murmurs, hushed muttering in the streets. The doorkeeper did not relish the thought of bringing yet another man bent on bloodshed into his city.

  The Avenger’s face was calm. He seemed well-rested, not like the fugitives who came, half-starved and desperate, or like the men who pursued them, sleepless and broken-hearted. This man did not seem especially angry, yet there was something dark in his gaze.

  “Come in,” the doorkeeper said at last. The Avenger inclined his head and passed through the gate, leaving the bloody sunset behind him.

  Gimel.

  Seven months later.

  On the roof of a little house in the town of Aphirah, Yotam son of Yerubba’la was dreaming a dream.

  In his dream, Yotam looked and he saw: a hill—endless, rolling—covered with ten thousand trees, a forest so vast that all the trees that Yotam had seen in his waking life could not have filled up a hundredth part of it.

  Yotam walked among the trees, his footsteps soundless; only the leaves of the trees made a sound, rubbing together in the wind. He walked for a long time, wondering at the forest. “What is this place?” he asked at last. He saw no one, yet he was certain that one was there, listening.

  Strange, strange. Here was a myrtle tree beside a willow, with a balsam and a terebinth beyond it. He stopped and looked around, but he could see no other myrtle trees, no willows, no terebinths, though trees surrounded him. “One, then, of each kind?”

  No answer came, so he walked on, and found a path beneath his feet. He did not turn from it to the right or to the left. In a short time or a long time—what does time matter in a dream?—he came to the top of the hill. Here was a young olive tree, its branches covered with olives just ripening. He leaned his back against it and looked out over the forest.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said, content.

  But there was a wind in the trees. It grew strong, shaking the treetops till branches cracked and unripe fruits thudded to the ground. Yotam shaded his eyes with his hand, the olive tree solid against his back. “What’s that coming? I see—”

  Fire. In a rush a balsam tree exploded into flames of fire, and the fire ate it, consuming its very heart while the trunk still stood. The myrtle beside it stood untouched; yet a bowshot away a juniper tree began to smolder, then to burn, the fire starting at the tips of its branches and working inward.

  The gale whipped up the sparks. How they leaped, catching in tree after tree, till half the trees around him roared with flame, branches shattering like breaking bones.

  Yet Yotam stood unscathed beneath the olive tree, and the olive tree did not burn. For some reason, this fille
d his heart with relief. “It does not burn!”

  The wind stirred the smoke and sent it curling into his throat, where it settled with a taste like incense. Every tree is planted according to its purpose, cried the burning trees. The olive may seem to be the lord of trees, yet its fruit is pressed and its blood burned for the honor of God and men.

  All at once the vision seemed to reverse itself before his eyes. Instead of groans of agony, the creaking of the trees became a chorus of triumphant shouts. Instead of falling empty-hearted and branch-broken, the trees stretched tall, their flames arcing skyward like golden boughs, their hearts glowing. We were made to burn!

  Yotam glanced up at the cold branches of the olive and fell, his face to the ground. “Overpowerer, deliver me! Let it burn! Let it burn!”

  He felt the olive tree go up like a torch. Sparks fell on his skin and scorched him. “Let it burn!” He felt heat in his chest, as if he too were about to burst into flame.

  Suddenly there was a cool draft on his cheek. Go out from the place where you are, said a voice in the wind. For hatred has entered your brother’s heart, and he intends evil toward you.

  “I will go,” he agreed, and woke abruptly. What the first part of the dream meant, he did not know; but the end of the dream was clear.

  Thus Yotam son of Yerubba’la left his town before the rising of the sun.

  **

  The men of the Dawn gathered to the oak that grew by the stone of Hoshea. A procession came forth from the gates of the Refuge, the sounds of the timbrel and the flute floating on the air. One man was singled out of the crowd and brought forward to kneel under the oak tree, where a man in white garments poured oil on his head.

  Yotam could not hear a word that was spoken; even the piping of the flute could not reach him. He stood high on the slope of the Mountain of Cutters, looking down toward the Dawn. “Abimalk, what are you doing?”

  He did not know his brother well. When a man had seventy brothers, he could not set his heart upon them equally; and Yotam was the youngest of all his father’s sons. Ten years had separated him from his brother; yet he had loved Abimalk for the clever flash of his eyes and the strong grasp of his hand. Once they had climbed down into a wadi together. Abimalk had caught a green-bellied lizard and held it in his hands so that the much smaller Yotam could stroke its bumpy skin. No doubt someone had set Abimalk to watching him, but Yotam had not known that at the time. He had thought the day to be a wondrous gift. “Overpowerer have mercy.”

  The sons of the Dawn were cheering now, throwing headcloths and sandals into the air in their joy.

  Where were his other brothers? Surely they had not agreed to this—to have the Refuge thrown under Abimalk’s hand. A dozen of them lived in the city of the Dawn; where were they?

  A stocky middle-aged man came puffing up the hill. He dragged a donkey behind him, well laden-down with goods: tall jars and bulging sacks, a bow and quiver, and three great hunting spears tied down over all. He stopped when he came to Yotam and stood panting.

  “Elishama? What are you doing here?” the young man asked, stepping forward to put his hand under the older man’s elbow.

  “A wise man does not set out on a journey without his servant,” huffed the other. “Or his belongings. A man must prepare himself like the ant, or in winter he will wither like the lily.”

  “Ayeh. I didn’t expect you to follow me. Sit down, sit down, my friend.”

  Elishama did not sit down. “A soldier does not sit down to eat a meal when he retreats from the army of his enemy.”

  “We are not in retreat, Elishama. I left Aphirah because of a dream,” Yotam explained. “If I had known you were following after me, I would have waited for you at the lower springs.”

  “Does the moon wait for the sun as it passes across the sky?”

  “Elishama, I know that your heart loves proverbs, but if you wish me to understand you you will have to speak plainly.”

  The older man swayed slightly. “They are dead, young master. All your brothers who lived in Aphirah. Abimalk came with a band of landless men and slew them.”

  “What?” Yotam gripped Elishama’s arm more tightly. “He would not …”

  “I saw it, master. He called them all together. They suspected nothing, and he slaughtered them like sheep.”

  It was because of this danger that the Overpowerer sent me the dream.—But why, why did You not tell me that danger was coming for my brothers also? Yotam stretched out his hand toward the sky and bowed his head. He thought of Hiliq, of merry Abiazri, of firstborn Yitir, whose children he had played with in his own childhood. “Did my brothers’ children escape?”

  “I saw some of the maidservants fleeing with the little ones. But there was nothing I could do for anyone, master. I came away. I knew that Abimalk would question me about you, for do not all know that I have been your servant since your birth?”

  “Not my servant, Elishama,” Yotam told him reflexively. It was an old argument. The older man had owed the family of Yerubba’la no debt, yet he had put the awl through his ear into the doorpost with his own hand. When Yotam was born, last of his father’s sons, the servant had assigned himself to the child’s care. When the youth asked why he had done this, Elishama answered only with a proverb and a smug expression.

  “You don’t need to explain anything to me,” Yotam said softly. A part of him wanted to wail. So many of his brothers were dead—and what remained of his family was broken. Alas, Abimalk. Do you even understand what you’ve done? Far below his brother’s procession was returning to the Refuge while the people of the land scattered, singing and dancing with delight.

  His breath tasted of smoke and incense. He turned up the mountain, toward the holy place at the top of the Mountain of Cutters.

  “Master, where are you going? We must leave before your brother’s men fall upon us.”

  The stone road was under Yotam’s feet—the path on which the sons of Yeshurun had walked as they spoke the blessings of the Overpowerer’s covenant. He felt the Mountain of Curses like a dangerous presence at his back, looming beyond the city of the Dawn. You have slain your brothers and mine, Abimalk. You have called down bloodguilt on yourself. There is no need for me to curse you.

  “Master!”

  Many of Abimalk’s multitude were coming up the road behind him, coming to the holy place to thank whatever gods they served for the anointing of their new king. He heard the sound of their laughter.

  He came to the top of the mountain and turned and waited. Overpowerer, let me burn.

  Elishama was trying to drag him away, but Yotam rooted himself like a tree and said, “Be still, Elishama.”

  The people paused when they saw him, the ones behind pressing forward until they formed a great half-ring before him. He heard their whispers like wind in the leaves. Why are we standing?—Spear of the Thunderer, that’s one of the sons of Yerubba’la—Which one?—What’s that to me and to you? Let’s kill him!—Thus! Let’s kill him for Abimalk!

  Yotam felt the exact moment when they united with one heart, the moment when they decided to smite him. Before they could surge forward, he opened his mouth and spoke and said, “Hear me, rulers of the Dawn, so that God may hear you! The trees went out to anoint over them a king…”

  The crowd paused. A story? He’s going to tell us a story? They could strike him when he finished. There was no reason not to listen to what he had to say.

  Yotam spoke of trees, and his heart burned within him. “…So the trees spoke to the thornbush: come, rule over us! And the thornbush spoke to the trees: if with true hearts you are anointing me as king over you, come, shelter in my shadow; but if it is not so, let fire come forth from me, and let it eat up the cedars!” He looked out over the multitude, his eyes clouded with tears.

  “And now,” he said softly, and all the people leaned forward to hear. “And now, if you acted with true and blameless hearts when you made Abimalk king, and if you have dealt well with Yerubba’la and wit
h his house—and if according to his deserts you have acted toward him—toward my father, who fought for you and cast his life before him and delivered you from the hand of Midiyan—when you arose against his house today and killed his sons, and made Abimalk king over the Refuge because he is your brother… then rejoice in Abimalk and let him rejoice in you.”

  His mouth was dry as ash. He tried to finish, but his voice rasped in his throat.

  “Here, master.” Elishama thrust a waterskin into his hand. Yotam moistened his lips. The crowd waited, wide eyes fixed on Abimalk’s brother.

  “But if it is not so,” Yotam declared in a voice that rang even as it trembled, “let fire come forth from Abimalk and eat up the rulers of the Dawn, and let fire come forth from the rulers of the Dawn and consume Abimalk! Hear me, O sons of the Dawn, and turn, and do right!”

  Kill him! Kill him now! some cried. But others blocked their way. Didn’t you hear him? He must be a prophet!—Not of our gods!—What’s that to us? Do you truly want a prophet’s blood on your hands?

  As the people argued, Yotam walked away. They hardly seemed to notice him. He walked southward over the top of the mountain and made his way down the opposite slope, turning his foot neither to the right nor to the left.

  “Master, will you hurry?” Elishama urged him, still hauling the reluctant donkey with one hand.

  “They won’t come after us, Elishama.”

  And they did not.

  Dalet.

  The Avenger of Blood walked slowly into the narrow gap between houses. His quarry had left a trail—red drops on the dusty ground. The Avenger carried his bronze sword ready in his hand.

  He had grown weary of waiting in the Refuge after these many months, but this week’s upheaval had made the city of the Dawn interesting once more. An anointing, a slaughter—an opportunity for the Avenger to gain the new king’s favor. Abimalk had promised honor and power to the man who slew the greatest number of his inconvenient brothers. The Avenger was not afraid to shed blood; he would surely win that power. Then, with the help of Abimalk’s men, he could scour the countryside. He knew that the girl had come this way. She was here—somewhere.