Angels at the Gate by T. K. Thorne

presence of holiness. She strides into Lot’s house with regal poise, as if it is now part of her territory.
    Finally, Lot composes himself enough to stand, and I slip off to my pallet, though I am unable to sleep. I keep seeing Mika’s staff and arm engulfed by cold fire and the black smoke from the burning pitch spreading across the city. What does it all mean?
    T HOUGH I SLEEP fitfully, the city’s dawn catches me dozing. Nami’s cold nose on my neck rouses me from the warmth of my pallet. I throw on my garments. Everyone appears to sleep deeply. Raph has his arm thrown over his cheek. Mika’s back is to me. I am certain whatever they carried to the overlook is back inside the box that lies between them. Perhaps they meant to hide it in the cave, but my presence changed their plan. When we came down from the cliff, Raph carried it wrapped in the bearskin that now again covers the chest. I would love to slide that skin aside and open the box, but I do not dare. Raph is a warrior and probably sleeps as shallowly as a wolf. I have not decided what Mika is. But whatever is underneath the fur, it is something they wish to keep secret.
    Alone, Nami and I slip onto the street that runs the length of the city from the northeastern gate to the southern gate and out to the massive burial grounds. The road is stark, deserted by all but an occasional reveler staggering back to his house. Even the dogs are still asleep, and we are not challenged. The east tower gates remain open, and just outside them, we turn this time to the right, walking beside the eastern wall to the river that runs down from the cliffs. It turns with the slope of the land and feeds the fields below. If the Vale relied on water from the Dead Sea, it would be a desert. Most wadis are dry gulches or riverbeds that only fill when the spring or winter rains come, but a few, like this one, are fed from sweet water whose source is underground.
    Sodom’s idea of plumbing is the privacy behind one’s house. I prefer a place between boulders. Nami is not so particular. The fresh waters of the wadi run nearby, and we both are happy to drink from it. I take the opportunity to wash.
    It is still early, and on our return, I climb the cliff where the blue fire struck Mika. Below, a thick mist covers the calm silk of the Dead Sea. Like the city, she gives no indication of the violent storm that plowed her surface last night. Nor is there sign of what burned, although not far out from shore, I can see men in small boats hauling in the pitch that floats like black flatbread on the surface.
    The wind shifts, and the stink of rotting eggs rides with it. The Dead Sea’s nature is complex. It is beautiful, yet poisonous. No life can survive in it. From its depths comes the black pitch and noxious gases, yet the pitch has made many men wealthy, including my father, despite his protestations to Lot. The run to Egypt is a long, hot journey but one with great rewards. With such a dowry, even the problem of my slightly flawed nose can be overcome.
    I slap my leg and Nami bounds to my side. My heart is light. Somewhere in the turmoil of the night, I have decided to shed my persona as a boy and marry Raph, although I will not do so until I can speak with my father. He will be pleased and know what to do. No one is his equal at negotiations. I will talk Raph into joining us. Mika can come too, if Raph wishes and if his angel’s mission allows it. And then I will not have to leave Father or my beloved caravan. How can my father not approve? Though Raph is not of our tribe, his people and ours are connected, as Lot said, and he is an angel’s brother. That has to be something of account.
    T HE FOLLOWING DAY , Chiram’s son, Danel, arrives with instructions from my father. With the money earned from the black donkeys, we are to buy five camels for the desert journey to Egypt and return with them and with the pitch pots he has purchased to Lot’s