Delilah: A Novel Read online

  My home, the Court of the New Moons, lay between the Court of Service and the Court of the Rising Moons, those girls who had passed through the first initiation and chose to continue upon the Moonlight Path. That was my heart’s desire: to dance the Path that led to Our Lady Herself. To someday be the High Priestess of the Great House of Atargatis, Goddess-on-Earth and Lady Ascalon Incarnate. I prayed daily and nightly to Our Lady that I might gain such honor, that I would be forever remembered, and begged Her to grant my fervent petitions.

  I had not yet learned to be careful what I asked of the gods.

  I ran lightly past the Rising Gate, the silver charms and carnelian amulets sewn into my skirt chiming to the rhythm of my bare feet upon yellow tiles. The Lady’s Luck favored me, for the gates to the Full Moon and the Dark Moon courts also were closed. It was Tammuz, hottest month of the Season of the Sun, when the days stretched longest, and it was near midday, when most of those who dwelt within the Temple withdrew to shaded gardens or to terraces hung with wet reed curtains that caught and cooled summer breezes. No one saw me; I made my way unchecked to the Passing Gate that led from the private courtyards to the Temple courts beyond.

  I had a goal: the shaded Court of Peace that lay between the High Priestess’s own court and the inner Temple itself. I wished to gaze upon the oracular fish that swam in the sacred pool. I had never seen them, although of course we heard many pious tales of the wisdom imparted by the revered creatures.

  But I did not gaze upon the Lady’s Fish that day. For as I reached my hand to the moonstone-studded bar that held the Passing Gate closed, the pale bar lifted and the gate swung open. To my dismay, I found myself facing Chayyat, priestess in charge of the New Moons. I braced myself for a scolding, but to my surprise, Chayyat looked pleased to see me standing there at the Passing Gate, where I had no particular business being.

  I remembered enough of my manners to fold my arms over my breast and bow my head. As I lifted my eyes to Chayyat’s face, she inclined her head and touched two fingers of her left hand to her heart in response.

  “And here is one of your new sisters now,” Chayyat said, and pushed forward a girl who had been hidden behind the priestess’s seven-tiered skirt. “Now stop weeping, child. Here you will soon learn to be happy.” The priestess nodded to me and stepped back, leaving me staring at a girl perhaps a year older than I.

  She was thin as a starved cat, and dirt dulled her skin. Hair that seemed the color of summer dust tangled in a mat at the nape of her neck. Her eyes glowed pale as a dawn sky. Tears hung upon her eyelashes like heavy raindrops.

  “Aylah has just come to Our Lady’s House,” Chayyat said. “I give her into your care, Delilah. She is to be to you as a true sister. Take her to the Court of the New Moons and tell Meitilila to do all that must be done for her.” A brief pause, during which the only sound was the new girl’s sobbing breaths, then Chayyat added, “Summati bought her in the bazaar, so she comes to us with nothing.”

  It grieves me to say that my first thoughts, when I looked upon my new Temple sister, were cross and ungenerous. Now I shall lose my day’s freedom! Why should I have to share my hours with her?

  More, despite her hunger-sharp bones and her tangled hair, Aylah was beautiful. Even my jealous eyes could see that once she had been freed of dirt, and fed enough to smooth out the lines of bones too close beneath her skin, she would glow like a rare pearl. The Temple had accepted her as a New Moon with no dowry, no offering, save that untouched beauty. Or rather, the Temple had paid for the privilege of claiming her for Atargatis.

  Now I faced what I wished I had been: a girl whose beauty unlatched doors closed to those less blessed by the gods. I looked upon Aylah and knew my dreams of becoming Goddess-on-Earth were as much a fantasy as my mother’s dream of regaining my heart. Who would choose me when true beauty stood beside me, waiting?

  “Delilah.” Chayyat’s tone reminded me that I was only one of the New Moons, not yet even a novice priestess—and that she commanded my obedience.

  I forced myself to think of my anger and jealousy as two cords, one scarlet and one black. When I saw the cords as clearly as if they lay before me upon the cool stone floor, I bound them into a knot, imprisoning my unworthy emotions. Then I smiled and held out my hands to Aylah. “Welcome, sister,” I said, and Chayyat’s approving smile gave my words added warmth. “I am Delilah. Come, I will show you where you shall live now.”

  Silent, Aylah followed me as I led her into the Lady’s House, past the closed gates to the Dark Moon and Full Moon courts. I tried to take her hand, but when my fingers closed about hers, she slid her fingers from my grasp. That first day, she was cold and elusive as winter wind.

  But I did as Chayyat had bidden me; I took Aylah into my care. One cannot always choose one’s sisters.

  “This is the main corridor—if you go that way, it leads past all the courtyards to the doors into Our Lady’s Temple. If you go the other way, you will find the gate to the Street of Songbirds. To pass that gate is forbidden to us. We are only New Moons; we are not permitted to leave the Temple.” I glanced sidelong at Aylah, but still she said nothing.

  It is hard to walk in silence beside a silent companion. To fill the empty air, I chattered away, my words coming swiftly as a hoopoe’s cries. If Aylah listened, she knew all my life and all the history I knew of Ascalon’s Great Temple before we had walked half the distance to the Court of the New Moons.

  There we climbed the corner stairs to the second floor, and I showed Aylah my room, which I supposed would now also be hers. As a true sister, Chayyat had ordered; a sister would share my bedchamber.

  Still Aylah said nothing, but her eyes widened. I later learned she had never seen a house of brick or of stone until she had been brought to Ascalon. Her own people dwelt in huts of earth, or in caves, if they could find some that had not been claimed by bears or wolves. She had never looked out of a window, either; when I beckoned her over to the opening and pushed aside the blue linen curtain, she peered out and then drew back like a startled fawn.

  “It is all right,” I told her. “No one can see us.” The Temple ensured that no unhallowed eyes spied upon its priestesses. My window looked inward, not out—I saw only Temple roofs and the tops of fruit trees in the courtyard gardens. To see more than that, I had to go to one of the corner towers and climb to the rooftop. I told Aylah this, and her eyes grew round as moonstones. “Would you like to go up to the rooftop?” I asked, and after a long pause, she nodded. But still she did not speak; I wondered, now, if she were mute.

  So I ceased trying to make her answer me in words and took her hand, cautiously and gently, as if she were fragile as the glass vial Nikkal kept her Egyptian perfume in. I was about to lead Aylah out of my room, take her up the tower stairs to the roof, when I realized her hand was cold as well as bone-thin. I truly looked at her, and saw the grime under her nails and the knots and tangles in her dust-dulled hair. And for once, I thought before I acted.

  “You must have a bath, and food,” I said, “and your hair—” I wondered if her dirt-matted hair could be combed out at all; I hoped it would not need to be shorn short. “And clothing, you must have something proper to wear.”

  The Lady only knew where the grubby length of cloth wrapped about Aylah’s too-slender body had come from, or what had turned it that dull mud color. I only knew that until she was clean, my new sister was not sitting upon my cushions or lying in my bed.

  “Come with me,” I said, and, still silent, Aylah obeyed.

  When she set eyes upon the Lady’s newest Moon, Hattah, the woman in charge of the baths—not the ritual baths but those for the mere cleansing of the body—was horrified. “By Our Lady’s Breasts, where did this stray cat come from? Well, I suppose it is up to me to turn her out of here sweet and clean as springwater.” She studied Aylah disapprovingly, dismissed her garment as too filthy to trouble over, and eyed the knotted mass of her hair.

  “Don’t cut her hair!” I don’t kno
w why I was so insistent upon saving Aylah’s hair. After all, shorn hair grew again.

  “We’ll see” was all that Hattah would promise.

  My new temple-sister remained silent throughout the long process of scrubbing her clean enough to look like a human girl rather than a mud-puppy. Even when two slaves peeled the filthy cloth from her body, Aylah did not utter a sound.

  She endured the series of baths, moving and turning as ordered. After three soakings and soapings, Aylah emerged clean at last . . .

  “But her hands and feet might be made of horn! She must have run about barefoot on stones to create such hardened skin.” Hattah pushed Aylah onto one of the benches and summoned maidservants to rub scented oil into the rough skin of her hands and feet. As the maidservants labored over the marks of Aylah’s past, Hattah set her hands to the matted mass of Aylah’s hair.

  Hattah tried to untangle the knots with her skillful fingers, without success. At last she shook her head. “I think we must cut all this off and let her hair begin again.” The Mistress of the Baths reached for the ivory handle of the knife that lay among the tools with which she created beauty. The bronze blade curved like a sickle, and its edge was new-honed each morning. The blade could slice through any barrier of flesh or bone. To sever hair from a girl’s head would be an easy task for the gleaming bronze.

  “No!” The word burst from my lips; the maidservants all paused in their work, staring, and Hattah turned her eyes from Aylah’s tangled hair to me. I straightened my back and pretended my face had not flushed hot.

  After a long moment, Hattah spoke. “Why not, little moon? Have you seen that ill will befall if I cut away the knots and tangles? Has Our Lady spoken to you, sent you a Sign?”

  I shook my head. “No—at least, no Sign I recognize as such. But you must not cut it—surely we can oil her hair, and comb out the knots? I will do it myself.”

  Hattah looked from me to Aylah and back again to me. “Very well.” She set the ivory-hilted knife aside and took up a sandalwood comb instead. “Comb out her hair, Delilah, if you can.”

  Hattah handed the sandalwood comb to me. The comb had been well-made, its teeth polished smooth so they would not snare hair; across the wide handle serpents twined, their carven bodies weaving the emblem of eternity. It weighed oddly heavy in my hand.

  The Mistress of the Baths stepped back, away from the still figure of Aylah. Now I must do as I had so rashly sworn to do. I prayed in silent haste. Please, Bright Lady, let me comb out Aylah’s hair and I will—

  I would what? I had nothing to offer up in exchange for the Lady’s favor. Nothing save my love for Her. O Lady Atargatis, let my hands be skillful and my touch gentle. Grant me this, and I shall do whatever you ask of me. And let Aylah speak, if she can, I added.

  I waited, but there was no Sign to indicate that the goddess had heard. Still, I must act as if She had agreed to the bargain.

  I studied the tangled thicket that was Aylah’s hair. Only her hunched shoulders revealed that she had heard my plea, and Hattah’s acquiescence. I lifted the sandalwood comb, glancing from its shining wood to Aylah’s dull hair. The comb alone would be useless. I took a deep breath and turned to Hattah.

  “I must have a bowl of oil. Warm olive oil would be best. Will you have it brought here?” It was the first time I had given an order to one of the chief handmaidens, and that Hattah asked no questions, but merely sent a maidservant off to obtain what I had asked for, surprised and pleased me.

  Even after soaking Aylah’s hair in warm olive oil, combing the knots to smoothness took all the afternoon, and I was tired and cross by the time my task ended. But my hard work was rewarded, for my new sister’s hair lay smoothly down her back. The oil darkened its color, but that was easily remedied. Once again the bath maids scrubbed Aylah’s skin, and this time they washed her hair, too. As her hair dried, the maids stroked it with silk to make it shine.

  At last Hattah nodded, and motioned to Aylah to stand before us. Only then, as twilight darkened the sky and the servants lit the oil lamps, long hours after I had led her into the bathing rooms, did we see Aylah’s true appearance.

  Skin white as new ivory pulled tight over sharp bones. Hair pale as morning sunlight fell straight as a bowstring to her waist. Only her mouth had not altered; she kept her lips pressed together as if she feared words might utter themselves did she not guard against their escape.

  Too thin, too pale, too silent—but somehow all these faults did not matter. Despite her flaws, Aylah was beauty itself, fair as the jeweled image of Our Lady Atargatis that stood behind the great altar in Ascalon’s Temple. I heard some of the maidservants sigh, envious.

  “Once there’s some meat covering those bones, you’ll be passable enough, Aylah.” With Hattah’s prosaic statement, the odd sense of awe vanished. Aylah became once more just another girl new-come to the Temple. Of course, Hattah rarely spoke well of any of us, saying all girls were vain enough without her adding to our high opinion of ourselves. For her to call Aylah “passable” was high praise indeed.

  Now Hattah turned to me. “You—Night-Hair—take her to the Mistress of Clothing and have her dressed properly. And it’s time and past for the evening meal, so get her something to eat before her bones slice through her skin. And yourself, too. I don’t want to see you both looking like your own ghosts. Now run along, the pair of you.”

  “Come, little sister,” I said, and grasped Aylah’s hand; she resisted, and I tugged her hand, glancing back to see why she did not follow. When our eyes met, Aylah shook her head; her cheeks burned red. Aylah gestured, a flowing wave of her hand indicating her unclad body. I understood and smiled, hoping to ease her worry.

  “That does not matter. Only the priestesses and the women servants come here. You will have clothing soon enough.”

  Aylah ducked her head; honey-soft hair veiled her face. Her hair alone adorned her better than a queen’s robe. I told her so, but all my flattery gained was a shake of her head. I hesitated, thinking that I could ask for a drying cloth to wrap about her. But I changed my mind and released her hand that I might untie the knots that held my spangled skirt close about my waist. Clad only in my plain underskirt, I offered my outer skirt to Aylah; she stared at me as I slid the silver-sewn garment about her and tied its strings around her waist.

  “There,” I said, and as I straightened, I saw the Mistress of the Baths smile at me, and nod. Hattah’s rare approval warmed me—I had earned it twice within a short span of hours—and I clasped Aylah’s hand again and hurried her away before Hattah found anything to criticize in my looks or behavior.

  Derceto

  “The land of Canaan was a land of gods, a land of goddesses. Men built great temples to these gods, these goddesses.” When he sang these verses, Orev fitted their words with great care to the ears of those who listened. Sometimes the gods were evil and cruel, enemies of Yahweh. Other times, to other listeners, Orev sang of goddesses more loving than any mother. False gods or true did not matter to the song’s own truth. “And the men and women of Canaan gave all they possessed to these gods, served them as if they were living kings and queens, never seeing their own folly . . .”

  She was High Priestess of Our Lady’s Great House in Ascalon; she acted, when the occasion demanded it, as Goddess-on-Earth. What more could any woman desire?

  Bitter amusement curved her scarlet-painted lips. What more indeed? O Bright Lady, were You as foolish as I was as a child, when You were young?

  Briefly, Derceto wondered if the gods ever had been young. She supposed it did not matter. The grinding-stone of Time wore away youth and youth’s wild bright ambitions, until at last all that remained was smooth discontent, and the knowledge that no matter what the gods granted, never would it be enough. Not for her.

  Once she had loved Atargatis with all her heart. That had been long years ago, when she had been only Derceto, New Moon in Our Lady’s service. Like every girl who set her feet upon the Moonlight Path, she had yearned t
o become High Priestess one day—to be the Goddess’s vessel on Earth, to rule as Lady of the Great Temple, a rank as high as that of a queen.

  I wonder why I bothered. Did I think it would make me happy? Derceto supposed she must have believed that, long years ago. Before she had been chosen and the Crown of Atargatis had been set about her brow.

  I saw only the glitter, the gold, the beautiful men. The power. She had thought Atargatis’s Crown would raise her high, set her above all others. And so it had. She need only lift her hand or utter one word to have her lightest whim obeyed as absolute law. She wore garments and gems fit for Atargatis Herself. She commanded as Our Lady’s lover any man for whom she felt even fleeting desire.

  She was Derceto, High Priestess of Atargatis, trapped beyond any escape. She had held out eager hands for her own shackles. Now, far too late, she understood the smile with which High Priestess Zimmarli had greeted death. As she watched Zimmarli slip away from them, Derceto had heard the soft whispers of other mourners. “She smiles—Our Lady must reach out to her.” “See how she smiles, as if a lover awaits her in the Land Beyond.”

  See how Zimmarli smiles, to leave all this work behind her, to lay her burden in my hands. Derceto rubbed the mark Atargatis’s Crown had pressed into her forehead. Now I know, Zimmarli. You smiled only because you no longer had breath to laugh. You knew how much I desired to stand as High Priestess before Our Lady’s altar. And so you granted my wish. What better punishment for one you always thought too proud and willful?

  For what Derceto had not seen was the labor behind the glory. The High Priestess not only stood in dazzling brightness as Goddess Incarnate, she ruled the Temple and all it possessed. Derceto stared down at the rolls of papyrus stacked neatly upon the table. A dozen at least, each a report that she must read, and consider, and answer.