A Garden Locked Read online

  A Garden Locked

  Naomi Ruppin

  Copyright © 2020 Naomi Ruppin

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America

  In loving memory of my father, Judah Eisenberg.

  A garden locked is my sister, my bride, a spring locked, a fountain sealed.

  Song of Solomon

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part 1: The Wager

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part 2: The Truth

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Part 3: The Trial

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Part 1: The Wager

  Chapter One

  A Thousand Wives

  There was no railing around the roof. I guessed that the new story added just enough to a fall to make the difference between probable lifelong injury and certain death.

  “Are you afraid, Abigail?” Moth said. He knew I wasn’t fond of heights.

  “No!”

  I looked up at the wooden beams, strung across a rectangular frame like strands on a loom, a man’s pace between each two. At nearly fifteen years old, I should have been too mature to rise to Moth’s childish challenges. But apparently I wasn’t. I grasped the builders’ ladder leaning against the one completed wall and climbed. At the top, I turned to sit on the nearest beam and edged myself cautiously along its length, bracing with both hands. I had to admit the view was impressive.

  Although I was sitting on the airy beginnings of the palace’s fourth-story roof, the temple still rose high above me to my right, its crown of gold-leaf scallops glinting in the sun. The houses of Jerusalem, closely packed within its alleyways and encircled by the city wall, looked like seeds in a halved pomegranate, and among them tiny people were going about their business. Moth climbed up and sat on a beam across from me, swinging his legs. Beneath our feet the builders were heaving pale yellow limestone blocks onto the growing walls of the new story, and they cast curious glances at us, which we ignored. The constant hammering and the workmen’s shouts were as familiar to us as a mother’s lullaby to her child, but even the everlasting construction was never enough. A sea of tents billowed across the large clearing next to the main palace building, housing an overflow of perpetually disgruntled women. Besides the obvious discomforts of living in a tent, especially in the winter wet, the encampment was near the menagerie and the women’s latrine, so that winds blowing from the west were most unwelcome.

  “They’re like goats in a pen,” Moth said, looking down at the women’s courtyard. Sounds of women’s talk and children’s play floated up to our ears. “Are there really a thousand wives?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “I’d guess about half that. ‘A thousand’ is just a pretty number that sounds good in stories.”

  “But look at them all down there,” Moth insisted. “And some of them are inside. I say you’re wrong.”

  “Who lives there, you or me?” I said, irritated. I am rarely wrong, especially when it comes to numbers. “Care to make a wager?”

  “Sure. And when I win, this is what you’ll have to do.”

  Moth stood up, balanced himself, aligned his feet with the beam and began walking its length.

  “Stay away from the edge!” I called after him, frowning and tightening my grip on the beam I was sitting on.

  I rarely saw all the king’s women together; they even ate in turns, divided between the large dining hall and the women’s courtyard. I was fairly certain the legend of a thousand wives was an exaggeration—a poetic turn of phrase I could appreciate, being fond of storytelling myself. Finding out their precise number would require writing and tallying large sums—two skills I’d had to acquire by devious methods. I considered the matter while Moth leapt from beam to beam and made his way back to stand across from me.

  “I’m going to count them,” I said, squinting up at him and admiring the glint of winter sunshine on his hair, as if it were an overturned copper bowl.

  “Count what?” Moth had already forgotten his question.

  “The wives, Moth! For our wager.”

  “Oh, that. Why don’t you just ask the king?”

  “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll ask him the next time he invites me for a cup of wine.” I pulled a face. “I doubt he can tell me from the servant who empties his chamber pot. I’d also be very surprised if he knows the answer himself.”

  “So how will you do it?” Moth asked, sitting again, then hooking his knees over the beam and hanging upside down.

  “Must you do that? I’ll say I’m conducting a census, so the king can adjust taxes. I’ll visit all the women’s rooms and tents, and make a record.”

  Moth swung up to catch a neighboring beam in his hands, unhooked his legs and jumped to the floor.

  “Whatever keeps you amused.” Moth looked up at me and rolled his eyes.

  “And when I win, you’ll have to…” I took a moment to consider what would torture Moth the most, and had an inspiration. “You’ll have to write a poem. Twenty lines, all in rhyme.”

  “Plague and locusts! How do I know you won’t cheat? I’ll need to see your report.”

  “Fine with me.”

  “But what will you write on?”

  I assumed the king had papyrus and parchment for his personal use, but these were costly materials that I had no way of getting for myself.

  “I’ll think of something,” I said.

  Later that day I sat in the women’s courtyard, eating the midday meal. A fitful wind shepherded the clouds across the sky, so that the women alternately turned their faces up gratefully to the winter sun, or drew their shawls closer about their shoulders when it hid. The women were gathered in clusters about well-laden tables, talking all around me, complaining about a burnt dish, settling children’s squabbles, and gossiping about those of their peers who were too far away to hear. The clamor was deafening, but I had years of practice ignoring it and retreating into my own thoughts.

  I was still pondering the problem of writing materials when Khepri arrived, provoking as much flutter as a jackal in a flock of quails. Khepri was an Egyptian slave who, for longer than I could remember, had been the king’s body servant and liaison to the women’s court. As a eunuch, he was the only man besides the king himself who could enter the women’s court with impunity. The women were always glad to see Khepri, first because he was well-loved in his own right, and second because he was sometimes sent to give word to one of the wives that the king would be visiting her that night. Khepri would admonish the lucky woman to bathe, and impart some wisdom about how to mix kohl with a few drops of olive oil to apply it more smoothly, or how to perfume her hair with essence of jasmine. Khepri himself made use of cosmetics in the Egyptian fashion, painting his beardless face with a pale clay that made it two or three shades lighter than the rest of his skin, and outlining his black eyes with black kohl, so that they looked larger and longer than they really were.
His long black hair was braided into many slender snakes that slithered about his shoulders as he wove his way among the women, greeting each by name.

  “Esther,” Khepri said, clasping one woman’s hands in both of his, “you’re truly the most ravishing woman in all the court. I see you chose the blue embroidery after all.”

  “I took your advice.”

  “Beautiful and wise! Hava, my dove, you’re the loveliest woman in all the court.”

  “You just said Esther was.” Hava pouted.

  “And I certainly meant it at the time! But that was before I saw Rina in her new beaded headband.”

  To my surprise, Khepri stopped to greet me too.

  “Abigail! You’re…”

  “The most beautiful woman in all the court?” I laughed.

  “As beautiful as your mother.”

  I smiled up at him, pleased that he still remembered my mother. Khepri glided on and as I resumed my meal and my thoughts, a notion struck me. As I was quickly sopping up the last of my lamb stew with bread, eager to put my idea into practice, I noticed Keren looking at me from among a clot of our chattering sisters. Out of habit I assumed a bland expression and looked away. But when I’d left the courtyard and entered the palace corridor, I heard her calling after me.

  “Abigail!”

  I stopped and turned. I was alone with Keren face to face, a circumstance that for the past four years I’d taken pains to avoid. She was taller than I was and less decidedly curvy. Wispy, light-brown curls escaped from the braid that hung over her shoulder. Her wide-set eyes were fastened on mine, the cheeks beneath them flushed. Memories crowded into my mind as I looked at her, each one elbowing the other aside. Keren giving me her rag doll for comfort when I came to live with her and her mother. Giggling under the blanket in the bed we shared. Calling her stupid when she could never get past twelve in the memory game, making the ready tears roll down her baby-round cheeks. And our last, terrible fight.

  “Abigail, do you…can we speak?” Keren said now. “I have something to tell you.”

  What could she possibly have to say to me after all this time? I was curious, but not irresistibly so.

  “No,” I said. “I’m busy.”

  I was disconcerted to see tears welling up in her dark eyes.

  “Must you always cry!” I snapped, and hurried away so I didn’t have to see her woeful expression. I continued down the first-floor corridor, nodding at the guard as I left the women’s wing. I passed the guest salons and the small and large dining halls, then cut through the kitchen, dodging the cooks and servants who were already bustling about, preparing the evening meal. I exited the palace from the kitchen door and walked over to one of the outbuildings.

  I’d discovered the pottery room while poking about the palace grounds as a child, and had been fascinated by the way the clay rose on the potters’ wheel like magic between their hands and grew into a vase, bowl or pot. I’d loitered among the craftsmen, looking over their shoulders and pestering them until one of them consented to teach me how to work the clay myself.

  This time I made neither vase nor bowl, but rather a series of flat clay rectangles, each about half the size of a backgammon board. While the clay was still wet and pliable, I scored the tablets with crisscrossing lines. When the potters asked me what they were, I said I was designing a new board game. They exchanged glances with each other but questioned me no further. But wheedle as I would, they never let me use the kiln by myself. I had to wait until one of them fired it up, then beg him to leave me some space. It took me four days to sculpt, fire and cool the clay tablets in small batches.

  The day after I finished making my tablets, I wrapped three of them carefully in pieces of an old shirt I’d torn up, put them in a sack, and set off to find Moth. I left the encampment from its rear exit and passed by the menagerie, stopping to throw breadcrumbs into the cage of the small green parrots and watch them squabble over them. Behind them I could see the giraffe’s head and neck sprouting above his enclosure. He always seemed melancholy to me, as if he were straining vainly to catch a glimpse of his far-away home.

  The sun was high overhead and I judged that Moth would soon be finished with his military training session. I held my breath as I walked quickly by the latrines, trying not to let it out until I had passed them. The tablets clanked together dully and were quite heavy. I arrived at the stables and peeked through the gate that led to the horse run. The boys were learning to drive war chariots, taking turns in groups of four while attempting to stay in formation. The chariots were wooden, stained in blue and red stripes, each with two large bronze wheels and a silver six-pointed star nailed to its front. Each group of four started out slowly, the horses’ hooves making the steady sound of a gentle rain as they circled the track, then gradually gathering speed until the noise was of storm and thunder. It looked exciting, and I itched to feel the leather reins cutting into my hands and the wind whipping my hair. I entered the stables to visit the remaining horses, stroking their gleaming coats and flowing manes. One mare shared her stable with a recently born colt, and the baby’s coat was soft as thistle down.

  Finally the training session ended and the boys streamed off the field and passed the stables, punching each other’s shoulders and disparaging each other’s driving skills. All but Moth were my half-brothers. Moth’s mother Neva had married, given birth and been widowed before becoming a royal concubine. As Moth was not the king’s son, the other concubines’ sons felt superior to him, just as the wives’ sons condescended to them. If anything, the royal sons’ scorn served as a goad for Moth. He was the first to arrive at the training sessions and the last to leave, and worked hardest in between. He was determined to become a military commander, although this distinction had never been awarded to any but the sons of queens.

  When I saw Moth among the boys, I picked up a pebble, aimed carefully and struck him on the shoulder with it. He spun around and I waved at him, then ducked discreetly behind a mare’s hindquarters. I knew that my brothers mocked him for spending time with a girl and I didn’t wish to give them cause. He broke away from the group and came back to the stables, petting a horse’s nose until the other boys were out of sight. He was sweaty and his face was streaked with the dust churned up by horses’ hooves. I moved to stand beside the mare’s head and rested my elbows on the stable door.

  “Are you hungry, Abigail? Shall I bring you some oats?”

  “Very funny. Between the two of us, you’re the one that smells like a horse.” I stepped out from the stable. “Are you done playing soldier?”

  “For today. What goes?”

  “I’m ready to start my census and I need your help.”

  “What do you mean?” Moth said in mock horror. “I can’t help you! Fortunately.”

  “You can’t come with me on my rounds,” I said. “But you can help me record the women we know. I’ll meet you in your room.”

  As a male over thirteen years of age, Moth was forbidden to enter the women’s court without a sanctioned chaperone. Similarly, no women other than servants could enter the men’s court, and if I were to try to enter the men’s wing from inside the palace, a guard would stop me. But it was an easy matter to climb through Moth’s ground-floor window when no one was looking, and since I was neither wife nor concubine, I was only risking a reprimand. While Moth entered the palace from the kitchen door, I walked around to the window outside his room. I waited a few moments for some passersby to move off, then opened Moth’s shutters, hopped onto his windowsill and swung my legs through. He was just entering by the door.

  We sat on Moth’s bed and I took out the three tablets and some thin twigs whose ends I’d charred. I showed him how to fill in the squares between the gridlines, where each row represented one woman. We used the twigs to scrape black letters and symbols onto the hardened clay. I’d decided to collect as much information as I could. In addition to each woman’s name, birthplace, age and children, I planned to record other details such as
the woman’s degree of beauty (to be indicated by one, two or three lines, three being the most beautiful). We spent until midday filling in the details of all the women we knew intimately ourselves, including Neva, Moth’s mother. We enjoyed ourselves greatly arguing over the women’s beauty scores, though mostly we were in agreement.

  “Should I add my mother?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so.” Seeing my face, Moth added, “It will be too hard to find out about other women no longer living.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I said.

  I remembered little about my mother Ophrah, and hardly thought of her anymore, but still it gave me a twinge of sorrow to think that her life wouldn’t even be recorded in this small way. Between us we only knew enough to fill in twenty-six rows, and this used up one whole tablet and part of another. Then I was on my own.

  Both the palace and the encampment housed a mix of wives and concubines. As a rule, wives received preferential treatment, but any woman might suddenly find herself ousted from her palace room in favor of a new queen, who was shrewd enough to make this a stipulation before marriage. Living arrangements were a source of constant strife among the women.

  I continued my census with the palace dwellers after lunch that day. This was a good time to find them in their rooms, as many laid their children down for afternoon naps or took some rest themselves. I did annoy some women by waking them, but this couldn’t be helped. Many looked at me strangely when I said I was there at the king’s command, when I asked them about details that clearly had nothing to do with how much food and clothing they required, and their eyes grew especially wide when they saw me writing on my tablets. But no one refused to cooperate.

  After visiting each woman, I made a small mark on her doorframe so I knew she’d been counted. At sundown I stopped. I didn’t want to risk encountering the king on a visit to one of his wives. Together with my morning’s work with Moth, I now had the details of forty-four women. I sincerely hoped the king did not actually have a thousand wives, or my task would take many weeks.