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RAIN

By Dana McNeely

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Chapter One


Be careful not to forget the covenant of the Lord your God that He made with you; do not make for yourselves an idol in the form of anything the Lord your God has forbidden. For the Lord your God is a consuming fire, a jealous God.
~ Deuteronomy 4:23-24


Preparation Day
Before dawn, last day of the month of Elul, the olive harvest, a time of gathering
Samaria, the Northern Kingdom of Israel, 869 BCE

ABAN PAUSED WHEN HE SAW THE dried blood, even though he knew time was running out. A smear stained the altar, flowing to a darker brown. He gathered a corner of his tunic and tried to scrub it clean, but only a few flakes fell away. He let his tunic drop. It would take water and a hyssop brush to get in the crevices, and there would be more blood next sacrifice, but everything in him wanted to erase the dirty stain.

His gaze swept over the bronze feet, the outstretched arms, and the head of the bull. The god’s image seemed smaller somehow without the holy fire burning at its feet. Although the other boys still slept, Aban glanced swiftly around before he fell prostrate on the cool marble floor. Outside, hinges moaned as the city gate opened. The other acolytes could wake soon—no more time to delay.

“Oh, Melqart, beloved of our queen and protector of Israel,” he whispered. “Tomorrow I take my public vows. I promise to serve you well.” He lifted his head, hands clasped. The too-long sleeves of the coarse tunic caught his gaze, and heat suffused his face. “Forgive the offense, my lord. I shouldn’t appear before you in this common garment.”

He shouldn’t be here at all—not before he was elevated to priest. But he had passed the Debir, seen it empty, and taken the opportunity to speak privately with the god. He began to back away on hands and knees, then paused once more.

“Have others sought you out? We all yearn to know the secrets of power.” He listened, but for what? The god to speak? He held his breath, but he only heard a rooster crow from a distant housetop. He paused, then closed with the formal blessings that Melqart expected.

A few seconds later, he jumped out the rear window—the very one he guarded during nightly rituals to keep freeloaders from climbing into the temple. He stifled a curse when the ill-fitting tunic caught on the window frame, tightening against the scars on his back. He loosed it with a yank. He’d traded for the garment with one of the Israelite boys he taught to read—a tunic of fine linen for this scratchy one smelling of sheep dung. The lad hadn’t believed his good fortune. But the humble garb made a disguise of sorts. Aban could walk the streets unnoticed, and that was worth the price.

He paused on the cobbled street outside the window. Inside, the soft snores continued. From the other side of the temple came the muted sounds of early morning in the marketplace—a muffled dispute between vendors, a donkey braying, a rumble of wheels against the drought-hardened street. He ran a hand down the rough cloth covering his slight form. He felt for a moment as if he stood in a different world. Though excited about tomorrow and all it would bring, he had kept this last morning for himself.

The need to see his younger brother, once more before First Rites, prodded his gut like hunger. He jogged down the alley, wanting to put the temple behind him before Rakim or any of the other acolytes woke. He didn’t intend to be questioned by them, nor delayed by the temple guards. But he did plan to see his brother.
Maybe he didn’t need to worry. Wine had flowed at last night’s celebration, a fine vintage from Sulonen’s private stock, and the high priest drank only the best. Aban had held back, knowing he wanted to wake early this morning, but the other acolytes didn’t let the opportunity go to waste. They would sleep past noon, and even if they did wake, they’d be drawn to the vendors in the market square.

And yet, when something dark flitted above him, he veered from its shadow, scraping his shoulder against a plastered wall.

He looked up to see the arched wings of a young raven settling on a roof ledge. He chuckled. The bird was no threat, no omen, nothing more than hungry and eying the alley refuse. As if in confirmation, the raven dipped its head to focus a beady eye on him and cawed, leery of the only living thing standing between it and breakfast. Aban clicked his tongue and hurried on.

He continued through the familiar twist of alleys until he emerged into a broad square. Across the square stood the gates, and behind them the palace, on the highest knoll of the city mount. Its white walls soared three stories high, gleaming pale in the dawn. Behind the palace lay his destination, the Temple of Astarte.
He’d heard it said that King Ahab, besotted with his queen in the early years of their union, wasn’t content to honor her with the massive temple he built for Melqart. And so, he built another, a tribute to Astarte, the goddess who favored women. Some said it was the king himself who preferred the goddess—and her priestesses. Only the gods and the king knew the real reason, but the Astarte temple stood near the palace, sharing a common courtyard with the northeast corner of the royal residence.

When Aban rounded the corner, he spotted two guards in front of the iron gates to the courtyard, rubbing their hands together over the coals of a watch fire. Because the courtyard gave entrance to both the temple and the palace, one guard was chosen for each. Maalik, an aging temple eunuch, had traveled from Tyre with the queen. Dov, a great bear of an Israelite, was appointed by King Ahab to protect the palace.

“Maalik, Dov,” Aban said. They’d known him as long as he could remember, watching him grow up under Donatiya’s care. Once Dov had given him a carved horse and chariot, with wooden wheels that turned. The day of his seventh summer, when Aban left for the Melqart temple, Maalik had turned aside and Dov’s face grew stern. After Joah was born, Aban was allowed one visit each fortnight if he completed his duties to the high priest’s satisfaction. Those visits with his brother would not be Aban’s only loss, he realized, when he was elevated to the priesthood.

Dov spread his arms wide. “Little water boy!”

Aban cringed. He’d once made the mistake of telling Dov that his Phoenician name meant water—common among his seafaring ancestors but seldom heard in this desert country. It meant all forms of water—rivers, lakes, streams—but Dov latched onto the image of a small boy relieving himself in corners. Aban wasn’t bothered by the good-natured teasing. But Dov needed to realize Aban was no longer a boy.

“I’ll wager you’ve come to see the child.” Dov’s gaze traveled over the oversized, ragged tunic. “But why are you—”

“A safe wager,” he replied, glancing down at the tunic and momentarily ignoring Dov’s question. When making his plans for this morning, he hadn’t thought how his disguise would seem to these two, who’d seen him dressed only in fine linens and dyed wools since his childhood.

Of course, Dov wouldn’t understand. Though he guarded the temple doors, he’d never stepped inside. A soldier, he said, trusted in sword and shield, not incense and incantations. Besides, he was an Israelite and steeped in their superstitions. He didn’t realize that acolytes of Melqart must stay cloistered in the temple on Preparation Day, that they must be seen as virginal before the fertility rites. If they were found on the streets … well, anything could happen.

But Maalik knew the decree. Aban glanced at the eunuch, expecting a reprimand. Instead, he saw concern etched on his normally stoic features. Maalik had undergone his own First Rites, many years ago, when he’d lost his manhood as well as his freedom.

Aban closed his mind against the bloody image. That wouldn’t happen to him. He was the son of the high priestess, destined to be high priest himself someday. He squared his shoulders. Tomorrow, he would become a man. He didn’t have to explain his odd clothing. In fact, he didn’t have to explain himself to anyone. Especially not his friends. Giving Dov a hard look, Aban withdrew a pouch from his tunic. “I’ve brought my brother a toy.”

Dov stepped closer. “What have you got there? A carved horse? A lion?”

Aban handed him the pouch and watched as Dov shook the ivory squares into his scarred palm. The inked symbols turned as the pieces fell, clicking together softly. His brow creased beneath his leather helmet. “You think you’ll teach an infant to read?”

“He can play with them until he’s old enough. See how they fit together?” Aban linked two tiles by their carved notches, making the word for sky. But then he scooped the pieces back into their pouch. Dov was right. Why hadn’t he thought of a carved lion? He’d been pleased with the game when he bought it from the merchant, but suddenly it didn’t seem like such a good gift after all.
Aban turned to Maalik. “Can you take me to him?”

“They’re sleeping.” But the eunuch lit an oil lamp with a taper from the fire and walked across the courtyard.
Aban followed, tightening his hold on the pouch as they passed beneath the stone image of Astarte. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t a child any longer, to shut his eyes at the long, curved horns of her headdress, though they were sharp as Khopesh swords.

At the rear of the courtyard, Maalik pushed open the temple door. Aban followed him past the draped windows of the outer chamber into the darkness of the inner rooms. As they entered the narrow hall, his nostrils twitched at the cloying smell of Susinum, the Egyptian scent in which most priestesses drenched themselves.

Lamps smoldered along the walls, their wicks drooping into the last dregs of oil, but Aban’s steps were sure on the cool marble. Even in the near darkness, he knew the way to the former storeroom as well as he knew the rooms of Melqart’s temple.

At the last doorway, Maalik tapped on the frame. He looked inside, and a smile creased the corners of his eyes. He turned then, handed Aban the lamp, and returned to his post.

Aban paused a while in the doorway. The clean smell of mint and anise, rather than Susinum, filled this room.
Shielding the lamp with his cupped hand, he gazed a moment at the two forms curled together on the sleeping mat. Donatiya’s arm curved around Joah, a cloak covering them both. He hesitated to wake the two, for the temple midwife looked tired, even in sleep. Aban knew his young brother demanded constant attention. In fact, they had this tiny room to themselves because the other priestesses complained Joah disturbed their sleep—and their customers.

Despite the fertility rites, there were no other babies in either temple due, in part, to Donatiya’s skill with the purging herbs. And when the herbs failed, she’d explained, infants were given to childless Israelite couples who raised them as their own. But not Aban, and not Joah. The children of the high priestess were promised to the gods. It made for some envy on the part of the other priestesses, but Donatiya had claimed Joah for her own.

He lifted the lamp like a beacon. Light spread over the room. Joah stirred, slitted his eyes, then quickly sat up. “Ban!” He shoved the cloak aside and stretched up his arms.

Aban dropped to all fours and drew nose to nose with his brother. How could he be parted from him? “I brought you a present, Joah.” He rattled the contents of the pouch and repeated slowly. “Pre-sent!”
“Ban!” The baby waggled his head comically. Proud of his ability to say his brother’s name, Joah refused to learn any other words.

Donatiya sat up, her graying hair falling from its plaits. He’d seen her like this, many early mornings—tunic rumpled, face unpainted. Though a priestess charged with preventing children, Donatiya had also been nursemaid to Aban the first of his fourteen years, and two for Joah. She’d been their mother in all ways but blood since their births.

“Why are you here, my heart?” Donatiya wrinkled her nose at the rank odor coming from the tunic. “What is that you’re wearing? And how long ago did it die?”

“It’s probably just ancient sheep dung.” He shook the tiles onto the mat. “Look here, Joah.” His gaze settled on the baby’s rounded forehead. In this moment, with his brother and the woman who had raised them both, Aban wanted to forget the coming rites. Of course, it was an honor to serve the gods, and he looked forward to becoming a priest. He did. But the truth was, he didn’t welcome all the changes that would come.
Bending forward, he linked the pieces together, pronouncing the symbols aloud as he aligned the daleth with the kaph, the nun with the sadhe.

Interested, the baby plopped forward on his hands and knees and crawled toward the remaining pile of loose squares. He grabbed one and shoved it in his mouth.

Swiftly, Donatiya hooked a finger between his clamped lips and wiggled it out. Still holding Joah by the shoulder, she shifted her gaze to Aban. “Answer. Why are you here on Preparation Day?”
Aban pretended interest in the tiles, as if he could anchor himself to this moment, escape the pull of time by fixing his thoughts on squares of ivory. He picked one up at random. Daleth—a door.
He glanced at Donatiya. “Tomorrow, I become a priest. Everything will change.” He swallowed, not knowing how to go on. Finally, he said, “I don’t need further instruction about … the rituals. Sulonen and the other priests have taught us and … we’ve watched.” Blood heated his face at the memory of bodies entwined on the temple floor. “But there’s something else. Does it seem to you … the priests, the priestesses … they are all I can see, all I hear. And they are always in between. And even among the priests, some seem … false. Will the rites remove that barrier, between myself and the god? Is it true that I will be in Melqart’s inner circle?”
It was as if she’d waited for this question. “Hold back your heart, Aban. Everything else belongs to the gods—our service, our bodies. We mortals are their tools in the world. But your heart, who you really are, that is yours to give or withhold, as you choose. Remember that.”

Aban dropped his gaze back to the tiles, turning over another. Kaph was the one he’d selected. Not only a door, but a hand that chooses to open or close it.

Joah lunged for the linked squares. Laughing, Aban trapped the squirming boy between his knees, keeping him away from the joined tiles and instead scooping the loose ones into a heap. He took hold of the little hand and helped Joah stack several into a miniature tower, but the baby wriggled free. Then with thumb and forefinger, he picked up one tile at a time, stacking them into a crooked little tower of his own.

Hold back his heart? Strange advice for someone who would become high priest one day. His heart should belong to Melqart, shouldn’t it? He picked up a tile to add to Joah’s stack, but the child scowled, waved his arms, and fussed until Aban dropped it back in the pile. And yet …

“I think that is what Sulonen has done. But I wonder … is it possible for a man to know the god? To speak to him? To hear his voice?”

“I don’t know what goes on in the inner chambers. But I’ve never heard such a thing.”
“Heard what?”

Aban froze. Mara. The high priestess stood in the doorway, imposing even in her sleeping tunic. The baby glanced sideways at her, his eyes crinkled. Then showing off, he slapped the tile tower he’d built and sent it clattering across the floor.

Aban stood and bowed respectfully. “High Priestess.”
She slid her gaze over the farmer’s tunic. “The future high priest. You honor us.” She inclined her head. Was she mocking him?

His mother, handsome even in the smoky lamplight, had captured the lust of a thousand men and the envy of a thousand women. Like the goddess she served, she was tall and strong, her will as chiseled as the stone image itself. She folded her hands now, not moving to touch either of her sons. That was not her way.
Unconcerned, the baby began to build a new tower.

“I came to see Joah,” he said. “One last time, without guards or priests.”

She nodded, something unreadable in her expression.

Donatiya shoved to her feet with a little intake of breath. “He’s come to seek your wisdom, Mara. About the gods.”

Aban looked down.

“You wish to know of gods and magic?” his mother said. “It’s really quite simple. Farmers seek the fertility Astarte promises and the sun and rain Melqart commands. They bring gold, and their prayers are answered. Simple, you see? But they come to the temples by night, always in the shadows. Why is that?”

Aban shrugged. Whenever they talked, he ended up feeling like he was looking for something lost, something he could never find. “Who knows what goes on in the minds of Israelites?”

“I know.” Her voice became hoarse, almost a whisper. “They despise us. Even their god hates us. Yes, the farmers—and smiths, potters, and shopkeepers—worship our gods in secret. But they worship their own god by day. Some are afraid of their neighbors, but all are afraid of their god. Even though they enjoy the pleasures of our temples, they fear their god. But not even a rich Israelite, one who worshiped with us in our temple, would bring the spawn of Canaanite gods into his home. We are who we are, Aban. You can’t put on a stranger’s tunic and become someone else.”

There it was again—the bewilderment of being a step behind. Become someone else? Did she think he would rather be a common Israelite than the next high priest? And, weren’t the adopted temple children, in fact, ‘the spawn of Canaanite gods’? The Israelites brought them into their homes.

“Mara!” Donatiya clutched the priestess’s wrist. “It’s Preparation Day. He doesn’t despise his heritage. He wore the tunic so he could visit the child without fuss.”

The high priestess twisted her hand free. “It is Preparation Day, Donatiya. The time for secrets is over.”
She hitched up her robe, revealing a knife sheath strapped to her calf. The iron blade hissed as she slid it from the leather.

Without really knowing why, Aban dropped beside Joah, shielding the baby in his arms.

His mother’s hand tightened on the knife and she stared at him, as if weighing whether or not to continue. “You are right to hate me. Neither of us will forget that night—the fires, the burning arms of the god. They told us, to please the god we must give what we held most dear. But I fought—do you remember? I saved you from the flames with fists, threats, and lies. You are scarred, but you lived.”

Aban tried to make sense of her words, his arms tense around his brother. She spoke of his dedication to Melqart—what did that have to do with his scars, the hard, red skin on his back, rippled like wind-blown sand? Were they a sign of the god’s favor somehow? And what was this fight she thought he remembered?
Uneasy, Aban watched as she strode across the room, wheeled, and returned. She put him in mind of the wild panther King Ahab kept chained beside his throne. Shipped from Cush and carried across the desert in a cage, it paced the four feet of marble floor allotted by its tether, back and forth for hours, glaring at enemies, real and imagined.

Mara offered him the knife, lying flat across her two palms. He loosened his grip on Joah and took it.

“I’ve asked Melqart to protect you. But take this, should you need to protect yourself.”

He stared at the ivory-handled knife, its curved blade sharp and wicked looking.

“Listen to me,” she said. “You must submit. Perform the fertility rites with whoever approaches you—man or woman. But don’t let anyone harm you. Protect yourself.” She bent to unstrap the sheath and gave it to him also. “Don’t worry about Joah. We will see to him, eh, Donatiya?”

Aban tightened his grip on the knife. He’d come here, not only to see his brother, but to have his misgivings set right. But Donatiya and Mara seemed more concerned than he, which should have made him feel worse. He didn’t understand Mara’s allusions to the past, but no matter. Strangely, he felt elated. More than ever, he was impatient for his elevation. First Rites were only the beginning, and he was ready. Once he became high priest, he could protect Joah. He could protect them all.

He strapped the knife to his own calf, where it was hidden by the too-long tunic. Then he knelt once more to brush his hand along the back of Joah’s neck, smiling at the baby’s ticklish squirm. Solemnly, his brother offered the contents of his clenched fist, uncurling his fingers to drop two tiles in Aban’s palm. He closed his hand around the gift.

Then he left, striding past the rooms where the other priestesses still slept. Along the wall, a few lamps still held enough oil to glow dimly, but ahead the door to the courtyard stood open, flooding the entrance with the stark light of morning.

He stepped outside, blinking in the sudden brightness. Dov stood in front of the courtyard gate, speaking to someone Aban couldn’t see behind the soldier’s broad back. Then the person stepped around him—a familiar figure wearing the white tunic of an unsworn temple acolyte.
Rakim.

“So, you’re here, Aban.” Rakim hesitated and then hitched his shoulders as if bracing himself against a blow. “The high priest asks for you.”

Aban frowned. If the high priest summoned him, it was only because Rakim reported his absence, wanting to cause trouble.

Behind him, he heard a rustle, then he smelled mint and anise. He turned. Donatiya stood in the shadow of Astarte, Joah a bundle on her hip. He gazed at them until their image seared on his heart.
Hold back your heart, she had said. The one thing that is yours.
When he felt certain he could master his voice, he turned back to Rakim. “Thank you for finding me. Are the others awake?”

They were, and preparation rituals had begun. After a whispered discussion between the two guards, Dov wrapped his cloak around Rakim and escorted them back to Melqart’s temple.

Aban’s anger ebbed as they followed the big soldier. Though he couldn’t trust Rakim, the younger boy shouldn’t be blamed. Aban would be high priest someday, a position envied by many. He made a silent vow—to become a leader who would earn the respect of his priests.

Then he became aware of something digging into his clenched palm. Keeping his hand close to his side so the other acolyte didn’t notice, he uncurled his fingers, exposing the ivory pieces Joah had handed him. The final two squares of the four he’d so randomly linked together.

Nun, a fish. And sadhe, a hook.

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