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Authors: Rebecca Kanner
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the town.
As I worried for Noah, I could not keep a startling realization from making itself known to me: I had somehow come to care for the strange, self-righteous man to whom my father had given me.
CHAPTER 9
HERAI
O ne day when Noah had climbed onto his donkey and ridden ever so slowly into town, I heard a strange sound. It was a child’s voice, fearful but without intonation or inflection. Other voices grew louder until I did not know whether the child had gone silent or was being drowned out.
“I will have this virgin half-wit to earn back the money Javan stole from me when I lay with her.”
“And I as well!” another man said.
Javan’s voice was full of rage yet steady. “Leave my simpleton alone, or I will unman you with a dull knife.” I had no doubt she would follow through if the men raped her daughter, but by then it might be too late to save the girl’s good nature.
Why had Noah not provided me with any weapon other than the wrath of his God? I did not know how to call this God to my aid. Besides, if what Noah said was true and God had crippled thegirl’s development for her mother’s sins, why would He help her now?
I secured my head scarf, lifted the door flap and peeked at the road. A man stood with his back to me, staggering under the effect of too much wine, with the girl held high over his head. A smaller man was jumping up and down, trying to grab at her. “Me first!” he cried. They were less than thirty cubits away. Javan was pounding her fists on the first man’s chest, but the man was too large and too drunk to care.
I emptied lentils from a large clay pot and brought it to the door flap of the tent. Knowing that people usually hear their name above all other sounds, I called, “Javan!” She peeked her head around the torso of the man who held her daughter in the air.
Though her daughter may have been slow, Javan herself was as quick as a man chased by fire. I flung the pot along the ground, and she ran to pick it up. The men were still playing keep-away with the child when Javan came up behind the smaller one and slammed the pot across the back of his head. He cried out and went down. The larger man turned around in time to be hit in the neck. He dropped the girl to the ground and reached for Javan. But the strength was draining out of him, along with the blood that flowed from his neck.
I would have given each of the men a few more wallops to the head, but Javan was confident of the quick work she had made of them. She grabbed her daughter by the hair and pulled her to her feet. “Dreadful simpleton!” she yelled. “Where is the knife I gave you? I should have let these diseased cocks have you. Will I have to waste the rest of my life trying to make up for your slowness?”
Without thinking, I ran to defend the child, then stopped abruptly. Javan had just injured or killed two men. Why would she not do the same to me?
“Javan,” I said, “I have some milk for the child.”
Javan looked at me without any gratitude for the pot I had given her or how I had risked drawing attention to myself to do so. “And for me?” she said.
There seemed to be no other choice. “For you as well,” I said.
She let go of her daughter’s hair and followed me back toward the tent. The girl trailed behind her a few cubits. “Come, child,” I called. She looked at me without smiling. I hope it is not too late for her, I thought. She is the only source of joy in this town. I stopped outside the tent. “Wait here.”
“You keep milk in the tent? Do you also keep mule piss inside?”
I did not answer. I skimmed the cream off some goats’ milk and put it in a small bowl for the child. Then I poured most of what remained of the milk into another bowl for Javan. When I came out of the tent, Javan was standing on a pile of dried donkey dung, likely for the fraction of a cubit it added to her height.
I gave Javan her milk first, so that her hands would be full and her attention would
As I worried for Noah, I could not keep a startling realization from making itself known to me: I had somehow come to care for the strange, self-righteous man to whom my father had given me.
CHAPTER 9
HERAI
O ne day when Noah had climbed onto his donkey and ridden ever so slowly into town, I heard a strange sound. It was a child’s voice, fearful but without intonation or inflection. Other voices grew louder until I did not know whether the child had gone silent or was being drowned out.
“I will have this virgin half-wit to earn back the money Javan stole from me when I lay with her.”
“And I as well!” another man said.
Javan’s voice was full of rage yet steady. “Leave my simpleton alone, or I will unman you with a dull knife.” I had no doubt she would follow through if the men raped her daughter, but by then it might be too late to save the girl’s good nature.
Why had Noah not provided me with any weapon other than the wrath of his God? I did not know how to call this God to my aid. Besides, if what Noah said was true and God had crippled thegirl’s development for her mother’s sins, why would He help her now?
I secured my head scarf, lifted the door flap and peeked at the road. A man stood with his back to me, staggering under the effect of too much wine, with the girl held high over his head. A smaller man was jumping up and down, trying to grab at her. “Me first!” he cried. They were less than thirty cubits away. Javan was pounding her fists on the first man’s chest, but the man was too large and too drunk to care.
I emptied lentils from a large clay pot and brought it to the door flap of the tent. Knowing that people usually hear their name above all other sounds, I called, “Javan!” She peeked her head around the torso of the man who held her daughter in the air.
Though her daughter may have been slow, Javan herself was as quick as a man chased by fire. I flung the pot along the ground, and she ran to pick it up. The men were still playing keep-away with the child when Javan came up behind the smaller one and slammed the pot across the back of his head. He cried out and went down. The larger man turned around in time to be hit in the neck. He dropped the girl to the ground and reached for Javan. But the strength was draining out of him, along with the blood that flowed from his neck.
I would have given each of the men a few more wallops to the head, but Javan was confident of the quick work she had made of them. She grabbed her daughter by the hair and pulled her to her feet. “Dreadful simpleton!” she yelled. “Where is the knife I gave you? I should have let these diseased cocks have you. Will I have to waste the rest of my life trying to make up for your slowness?”
Without thinking, I ran to defend the child, then stopped abruptly. Javan had just injured or killed two men. Why would she not do the same to me?
“Javan,” I said, “I have some milk for the child.”
Javan looked at me without any gratitude for the pot I had given her or how I had risked drawing attention to myself to do so. “And for me?” she said.
There seemed to be no other choice. “For you as well,” I said.
She let go of her daughter’s hair and followed me back toward the tent. The girl trailed behind her a few cubits. “Come, child,” I called. She looked at me without smiling. I hope it is not too late for her, I thought. She is the only source of joy in this town. I stopped outside the tent. “Wait here.”
“You keep milk in the tent? Do you also keep mule piss inside?”
I did not answer. I skimmed the cream off some goats’ milk and put it in a small bowl for the child. Then I poured most of what remained of the milk into another bowl for Javan. When I came out of the tent, Javan was standing on a pile of dried donkey dung, likely for the fraction of a cubit it added to her height.
I gave Javan her milk first, so that her hands would be full and her attention would
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