Avishag by Yael Lotan

It was bitter cold in that place and a curious smell hung in the air. Strange people went in and out of the big hall, and every time they drew aside the leather curtain which hung over the entrance, an icy draught blew in, causing the flaming torches to flutter and smoke wildly.

The smell came from the torches, which were made of some unfamiliar wood, and also from a brazier that stood in the middle of the hall, filled with smouldering embers. From time to time someone would stir the coals and sprinkle them with a powder that made them flare up and spread a strong sweetish scent. It made the girl's throat tingle, but it was not unpleasant, only strange. Now and then, when the rumble of voices in the hall ceased for a moment, she heard the wind whistling and moaning through the wall slits. The walls were built of stone, with tall narrow openings at regular intervals. Wooden shutters hung over the slits, but some of them were propped up to let in the air. Making sure no-one was looking at her, she crept nearer the wall and peered out under a shutter. She saw a dark mass of cloud flying across a rosy evening sky and felt a little reassured. The sky, at least, was the same here as at home.

The thick woollen rug on which she crouched was striped red and black and had long fringes, but the floor was paved with large stone flags and their chill penetrated through the rug. The feet of the people who walked about the hall were clad in leather buskins up to their ankles, ending in criss-cross thongs, which disappeared under their gowns.

For a long time she remained crouched in her corner, huddled in the great woollen mantle her brother had given her in parting. She kept tucking her face into its folds and breathing in the good odours of home, of the goats and of her brother. It sheltered her from the chill, the incense and the strange voices, which went on talking and talking, incomprehensibly. Now and then tears welled up in her throat and threatened to stream from her eyes, but fear or shame stopped them every time. Then she would raise her head from the mantle and look about her.

Soon the light that showed under the shutters faded altogether as night fell. The hall was quieter. Four or five dark-cloaked men still moved about, talking together or occupied with other tasks on the far side of the hall. Only then did she perceive, in the flare of the clustered torches at that end, a dais piled with rugs, cushions and furs. On it lay a figure huddled, as she was, in a great cloak. It was this personage whom the men kept addressing, and now she could hear his voice, low pitched and deliberate - the voice of a leading elder, expecting obedience.

One by one, the men bowed low and went out of the hall. For a moment she was alone with the elder on the dais, and her heart began to pound. Then a woman entered, swathed in white, her back bowed, her head veiled. She bustled up in short fussy steps to the dais and addressed the elder in a high, quavering but self-assured voice. Then she turned and approached the crouching girl. With her heart in her mouth, the girl did not understand the old woman, who repeated irritably: "Get up! Get up! What are you doing? Get up and come with me!"

Her language was familiar, but her missing teeth and the unexpected words sounded strange in the cavernous hall.

The heavy mantle clung to the girl's legs and impeded her movements. She gathered its folds with trembling hands and wrapped it around her. Shivering with cold and fear she followed the old woman across the floor, her bare soles touching rugs and stone, rugs and stone, up to the sumptuous dais and the bundled figure that lay on it...

When morning came she felt as if she had not slept at all, though she must have caught brief snatches of sleep while remaining alert to every sound and movement, as she used to do when guarding her father's vineyard.

The old man was asleep. He lay on his back, propped up on a bolster; his nose raised like a sword, while rhythmic croaks tapering into soft whistles issued from his beard. All night, among the vast shadows cast by the flame of a single oil-lamp, he had been unquiet, tossing and twitching, muttering to himself. Once he drew himself up and clapped his hands, and the sharp sound echoed in the vast chamber. A moment later the old woman, who must have been lying behind the wooden screen at the head of the dais, came around with a brass jug and a beaker. The old man took a sip or two and fell back on his pillows, sighing deeply. Soon after he made a sudden movement and seized the girl's shoulder, pulling her close and down towards his feet. His legs were thin and hard as sticks and his feet were icy cold. Her own warmth under the rugs could not thaw them.

He did not say a word to her all night. Except when he tried to warm his feet against her stomach he seemed unaware of her presence. She felt a pain in her lower belly, where all her fears had knotted at his touch. Now, with daylight seeping into the hall, she watched him closely and all at once her fears dissolved. The danger had not passed. He might still wish to handle her body or to mount her, and she would have to submit. But in the pale morning light he looked so fine, his upturned face was so remote and austere - like the village priest when he spoke with the oracle - that her terrors vanished.

Was he truly the King? Perhaps he was not the King but one of his ministers, testing her?