they throw,” she
whispered, “you run.”
“Amma
…” he whispered.
“You run , Koach. Your brother and I, they will not throw at us . They
will not .” There was a savage edge to her voice.
At
that moment, Barabba wheeled his horse, and his long knife rang from its
sheath. “I will take care of this for you,” he shouted, and kicked his heels
in. But even as his gelding sprang forward, Shimon tore the heavy fishing coat
from his shoulders and flung it over the animal’s head. The horse reared,
hooves striking the air. Cursing, Barabba fought for balance.
“Run,
Koach!” Rahel cried.
Koach
stumbled back, then fled, the slap of his sandalled
feet against the dry, packed earth before the synagogue. Someone grabbed for him
and missed; others sprang out of his way. Glancing over his shoulder, Koach
caught a glimpse of Barabba tearing the coat free and hurling it aside. A spray
of red in the air as his knife took Benayahu across the face; the nagar had tried to grab at the bridle, and now fell back with a gurgled cry. Zebadyah
was shouting, and there were screams, and Rahel stood before Barabba’s horse.
Then
a turn in the narrow streets hid the synagogue and the Outlaw from view, and
Koach panted as he ran. More screams—terrible screams—but he didn’t dare stop.
Panic beat an overpowering drumbeat in his chest, and in his ears he heard his
mother’s voice: Run, Koach, run. Run. Run.
He
ran. Gasping for breath, he leapt as far with each stride as he could, down the
slope of the land toward the sea. He began ducking through the narrower spaces
between houses. Behind him, hooves like battle-drums against the packed earth
of Kfar Nahum’s streets, and in his ears the rush and roar of his blood.
Without thought, Koach ran to where the small houses were packed thickest,
nearest the water where his mother and his brother and the surviving fishers
lived. Barabba bellowed somewhere behind him, but he ran on, panting. He had
the confused impression that if he could get to his mother’s house, he might
hide somewhere within. But already his sides burned, and he ran half hunched
over.
Then
he could see his mother’s house ahead, that small stone structure, its walls
whitened by the sea, and the hooves were louder behind him. He ran past the
last few houses, and the door to the house ahead of
him—the door of the last house before his mother’s, the nagar ’s door, in
better repair than most—was thrown open. A girl stood there, one his own age, a girl with a strange face and a frightened
look.
“Inside!”
she cried. “Quickly!”
Koach
had only half a breath in which to make up his mind. Home was before him, but
he would be alone there, in an empty house, with a furious man and a blade
coming for him. He could hear the hoofbeats behind, just around the corner. He
didn’t trust others in the town, none but his mother and perhaps Shimon his
brother and perhaps Bar Nahemyah who was alone, as he was.
“Come
on!” the girl cried.
Something
in her eyes told him what he needed to know.
With
a gasp he flung himself toward the girl and her door.
THE
CARPENTER’S DAUGHTER
The
girl caught Koach’s hand—her fingers so warm around his—and pulled him up
against her side and into the house; her other hand caught the latch of the
door and swung it shut against the sound of hooves. Her eyes were wide in the
soft dark. Koach could hear her breathing and his. He could also feel her body,
the softness of it, pressed to him. It made places low in his body heat in a
way that astonished him.
She
put her lips to his ear and whispered, “Come on. I’ll hide you.”
She
led him quickly across the atrium of her father’s house, beneath the open sky.
Koach looked at her in wonder. There were few young women in Kfar Nahum, and
few young men, but Koach did not remember having seen her before. There were
finger-shaped bruises just below her sleeve, as though someone had gripped her
arm hard enough to drag her
whispered, “you run.”
“Amma
…” he whispered.
“You run , Koach. Your brother and I, they will not throw at us . They
will not .” There was a savage edge to her voice.
At
that moment, Barabba wheeled his horse, and his long knife rang from its
sheath. “I will take care of this for you,” he shouted, and kicked his heels
in. But even as his gelding sprang forward, Shimon tore the heavy fishing coat
from his shoulders and flung it over the animal’s head. The horse reared,
hooves striking the air. Cursing, Barabba fought for balance.
“Run,
Koach!” Rahel cried.
Koach
stumbled back, then fled, the slap of his sandalled
feet against the dry, packed earth before the synagogue. Someone grabbed for him
and missed; others sprang out of his way. Glancing over his shoulder, Koach
caught a glimpse of Barabba tearing the coat free and hurling it aside. A spray
of red in the air as his knife took Benayahu across the face; the nagar had tried to grab at the bridle, and now fell back with a gurgled cry. Zebadyah
was shouting, and there were screams, and Rahel stood before Barabba’s horse.
Then
a turn in the narrow streets hid the synagogue and the Outlaw from view, and
Koach panted as he ran. More screams—terrible screams—but he didn’t dare stop.
Panic beat an overpowering drumbeat in his chest, and in his ears he heard his
mother’s voice: Run, Koach, run. Run. Run.
He
ran. Gasping for breath, he leapt as far with each stride as he could, down the
slope of the land toward the sea. He began ducking through the narrower spaces
between houses. Behind him, hooves like battle-drums against the packed earth
of Kfar Nahum’s streets, and in his ears the rush and roar of his blood.
Without thought, Koach ran to where the small houses were packed thickest,
nearest the water where his mother and his brother and the surviving fishers
lived. Barabba bellowed somewhere behind him, but he ran on, panting. He had
the confused impression that if he could get to his mother’s house, he might
hide somewhere within. But already his sides burned, and he ran half hunched
over.
Then
he could see his mother’s house ahead, that small stone structure, its walls
whitened by the sea, and the hooves were louder behind him. He ran past the
last few houses, and the door to the house ahead of
him—the door of the last house before his mother’s, the nagar ’s door, in
better repair than most—was thrown open. A girl stood there, one his own age, a girl with a strange face and a frightened
look.
“Inside!”
she cried. “Quickly!”
Koach
had only half a breath in which to make up his mind. Home was before him, but
he would be alone there, in an empty house, with a furious man and a blade
coming for him. He could hear the hoofbeats behind, just around the corner. He
didn’t trust others in the town, none but his mother and perhaps Shimon his
brother and perhaps Bar Nahemyah who was alone, as he was.
“Come
on!” the girl cried.
Something
in her eyes told him what he needed to know.
With
a gasp he flung himself toward the girl and her door.
THE
CARPENTER’S DAUGHTER
The
girl caught Koach’s hand—her fingers so warm around his—and pulled him up
against her side and into the house; her other hand caught the latch of the
door and swung it shut against the sound of hooves. Her eyes were wide in the
soft dark. Koach could hear her breathing and his. He could also feel her body,
the softness of it, pressed to him. It made places low in his body heat in a
way that astonished him.
She
put her lips to his ear and whispered, “Come on. I’ll hide you.”
She
led him quickly across the atrium of her father’s house, beneath the open sky.
Koach looked at her in wonder. There were few young women in Kfar Nahum, and
few young men, but Koach did not remember having seen her before. There were
finger-shaped bruises just below her sleeve, as though someone had gripped her
arm hard enough to drag her
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