Chapter One: In The Marketplace

The dust rose in clouds from her feet as she walked the deserted street. She choked on the fine, brown powder in the stale air. Her thirst was all-consuming and she could think of little else but finding some water. A sudden sound rooted her to the spot. The dust settled on her arms and feet and the sound reverberated in the still air. A scream. She looked quickly around, spinning in the street until she faced the temple. Black and gray clouds roiled angrily above its pyramidal top. Before she had time to contemplate shelter, the rain came suddenly, in heavy, pounding drops. She turned her face up in delight, opening her mouth wide to catch the fresh, abundant moisture. She laughed and held her arms wide, praising the god of rain for his gift. She opened her eyes and slowly brought her arms down, her momentary joy suddenly swallowed in a wave of revulsion. Her arms were speckled, not with raindrops, but with blood. She heard the scream again and her eyes darted back to the temple. Rivulets of blood were running down its steps and into the street, mixing with the dust into a thick red paste no rain would ever wash away. She scrubbed at her arms, but only succeeded in smearing the blood and coating herself. The thick stickiness ran down her neck . . .

Abish sat upright very suddenly in her bed, cringing as she felt sweat running from her hair down her neck, sticking her night shirt to her moist back. She gripped the side of her sleeping mat and took deep breaths to calm her racing heart. It was only a dream. The moisture on her back was merely sweat. Her arms were clean, at least relatively. Water for washing was a luxury during the dry season and she could count her baths on a single hand during these long, hot months. The sky outside the window in her tiny loft was still inky black. There was no hint of pink in the east and the stars shone brightly. She sipped at the water cup near her bed: it was not the same luxury as a bath, but having the cup near her bed was an indulgence.

As she fell back on her mat, trying to think about something other than the heat, she wondered about her dream. In the weeks leading up to the return of the rains, she often dreamed of water. Even as a small child, she’d wake up, nightmarish and thirsty, begging for a drink just before the weather broke. But this dream was different entirely. It was only six months ago, at the beginning of the dry season, that her father had finally relented and explained the gory details of the ritual he helped the priests perform at the top of the temple before the rains could come. Abish welcomed the rain: she knew her people needed it. But this year she also knew the high price paid for those rains. She did not fall asleep again quickly.

Her next fully conscious thought was a loud banging on the ladder. Again, Abish sat upright quickly, getting her bearings. She ruefully noted the dawn spilling into her tiny room and immediately placed the rapping sound as her mother’s wooden spoon on the ladder. Her middle of the night waking had caused her to oversleep. Abish groaned silently and stuck her head through the hole in the floor. “Coming, Mother,” she said in a voice that she hoped sounded both meek and repentant at the same time. She quickly changed into her daytime dress and re-braided her hair. Her small loft had finally cooled off and she secretly wished to linger, but Lanishe never tolerated such dawdling.

As soon as her feet hit the floor her mother said with great sarcasm, “I suppose that because today is your birthday you expected me to overlook your laziness.”

Her tenth birthday! The vividness of her dream had caused her to completely forget. Careful not to stammer she said, “Of course not, mother. My sleeping in was entirely unintentional.”

Lanishe’s eyes narrowed slightly, “And what will happen when you run your own household and oversleep? Will you use such excuses on your husband, hoping that he’ll decide not to beat you?”

Abish wisely held her tongue, knowing that her gentle and loving father would never raise his hand in anger to a woman. The way her mother spoke of husbands confused Abish. Her father was so different than the picture Lanishe often painted for Abish’s future. After a moment’s silence, Lanishe continued, “However, since it is your birthday, you’ll at least escape a rap to your knuckles—if only because your father would disapprove.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Abish said the words dutifully, knowing that her father’s gift would be more than a mere avoidance of punishment. His gifts were extraordinary, personal and highly anticipated. It said something about the power of her dream that she had forgotten her special day.

Her father smiled broadly at her over breakfast as he thanked her for the tea she had brewed. Abish knew this was a sign he’d remembered. As he left their mud house that morning he whispered, “I have a surprise for you later.” She beamed broadly, and just knowing about that surprise carried her through a morning of grim silence broken only by an occasional insult.

It was a midweek day, and, as usual, Lanishe asked her daughter to walk to the market to pick up needed items. Abish was grateful to escape—her housework skills were rather clumsy, but she had proven adept at shopping. She was not easily fooled by the sellers in the market; even though she was young, she could bargain with them to get fair prices. Despite this well-handled responsibility, she was never praised for her skill, only berated for what she lacked. Abish had a sister who had once done all of the household chores with ease and grace, but she had been married for some years now and lived far away in another city. Visits were rare, and Abish only had vague memories of her sister’s beauty and talent. When her memory failed, Lanishe was sure to remind her.

Her sister’s many perfections were far from her consciousness, however, as she traipsed up the hill. She was more intent on enjoying the bustle of the city and watching the people she passed. It was late in the morning and the day was already intensely humid. The heat seemed to shimmer and rise in waves straight from the dust. As it was so late in the season, many of her favorite foods were scarce. But she was not ungrateful: at least there was money to purchase items, even if the variety was lacking. The poorest people in their city were not so lucky. Daily the mothers in such families would drag their baskets, mats and woven fabrics up the hill, with babies strapped to their backs. If Abish had been a child in one of those families, she would have spent hours each day gleaning what meager food she could find in the forest. Her father once told her that the children separated in the forest in order to maximize their search. It was common for children as young as four to disappear, never to be seen again, likely devoured by a leopard or bitten by a snake.

Despite the warmth of the day, Abish shuddered. As a priest’s apprentice, her father would not get rich, but they would not be hungry. And he might one day become a priest. They would then leave their mud house, already a sign of prosperity, for a place in the palace. She forced such thoughts from her head—it might be years from now, if ever. The moisture ran down her neck and she was glad it was uphill going to the market while her basket was light.

The items her mother wanted did not take long to purchase, so she took a few minutes to indulge herself by walking from booth to booth where exotic spices and fabrics were sold. She knew that most of what she saw was Lamanite in origin, but having only traveled outside the city once in her life, many of the things were still wondrous. There were other things, even stranger and more expensive; these were probably the things from Nephite lands. Things traded from far away to the north, or things stolen from unsuspecting caravans. Her imagination wandered as she contemplated what it would be like to be a marauder stealing from a band of unsuspecting enemies.

For the Nephites were their enemies, the bitterest of all. They had spent generations teaching their children of Lamanite wickedness, but Abish knew they were mistaken. Abish had been taught the names and functions of the various gods since the time of her earliest memory. Her father was an integral part in making sure that their sacred, sacrificial ceremonies were performed with exacting strictness. She knew the depth of his sincerity: what else would compel his normally peaceful hands to commit such violence? She knew about religion. And while her father had never been able to give her a satisfactory explanation for why their gods demanded so much blood, she could never doubt that the dry season had always been followed by the rainy season every year. She imagined Nephite lands to be arid and unproductive. She knew they paid homage to only one god. She had once scoffed at this idea, but her father had said, “And what if you were a young Nephite girl whose father told her the Lamanites worshipped many gods? What would you think then?”

Abish had never thought of such a thing before, but she replied gravely, “I suppose I would think it was very strange.”

Her father had laughed and ruffled her hair, “Good girl. That is using your brain. After all, one all-powerful God is not so much harder to believe in than many, less powerful gods. They even have their own version of a blood sacrifice.”

“Really?”

“Yes, daughter. I like to think there are fathers of faith in all lands teaching their children what they have learned of truth.” In the market, Abish pondered her father’s words as she looked at a strange statue of a serpent. Did the artist of this statue have a young daughter? And what did he tell her about his craft? What had it meant to him? She overheard two men haggling over the price and she shuddered inwardly. She hoped the artist had been paid a tenth of what it would go for here in the Middonite market.

The sun was nearing its zenith. She shifted the basket to her other arm. It was growing heavy and the walk home would seem long. Just as Abish began to walk back down the dusty street, she saw a large carriage held by eight Lamanite guards pass near. Traffic on the street stopped entirely. Without any apparent signal, the large men stopped simultaneously and gingerly set the coach on the ground. The woman attending the booth where the carriage had stopped hurried forward with her arms full of blue fabric that shimmered beautifully as the light caught it. She held it up to the curtained doors of the carriage and bowed her head low. An arm emerged from the delicate curtains.

Abish gasped as she saw the arm. It was fair, so fair it seemed to glow white in the sun. And the hand! Abish was close enough to see it was delicate, perfect and pure. Like the hand of a small child. Abish had heard of a city of Nephite descendents living the heart of Lamanite lands in a city called Jerusalem. Was this one of their noblewomen? The fabric was fingered for a moment and pulled into the carriage. An exchange of coinage was made and the carriage moved on.

Abish felt rooted to the spot. She could not get the image of that perfect, white hand out of her head. She shifted the basket again and looked down at her own hands. Even though she was young, she already had the hands of a Lamanite housewife. Never especially graceful, her hands were large and rough and very brown. Her fingers were blunt and the fingernails ragged. They were thick with calluses and work. Just like her mother, Abish would spend her life working and serving others for little thanks and no recognition.

Her reverie was shaken by the jostling of an old woman who walked too closely. Even at barely ten years old, Abish was taller than the woman. She said something rude and admonished the girl to move along and stop blocking the road. Abish murmured an apology and hurried quickly away.
When she entered the house her mother began criticizing almost immediately. Abish kept her head low, biting her lip to remember what she had resolved in the market to say. She nodded her head, apologizing for her lateness. Lanishe’s breath was spent and her brows furrowed at her daughter. Abish plunged ahead before she lost her nerve, “Mother?”

“What?” The impatience was evident.

“Thank you for all you have done.”

The furrow between her brows rose slightly and she repeated, “What?”
“You work hard every day for father and me. I just wanted you to know that I appreciate it.”

The surprise was plain on her face, but the momentary tenderness was erased almost as soon as it flashed through her eyes. “No time to waste now, there is dinner to prepare.”

Abish nodded and put her head down, fighting the urge to sigh. Would nothing win her mother over? She diligently prepared her father’s evening meal, trying to guess what kind of surprise he would bring her.

It was a tablet on which she could practice her writing. The surface was a hard, white polished piece of wood that she wrote on with a piece of charcoal. Sand rubbed on the surface would remove her writing so that she could use it again. Abish thought it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. It was unusual for a Lamanite to read and write—particularly a woman, but her father had taught her. It was difficult to find time for these lessons, but he managed. She cherished this time with him as some of her most precious hours. Her mother’s lips pursed at the idea of such an inappropriate gift, but she said nothing to dampen her daughter’s elation. Abish would have to be very careful to not practice when she should be doing other things.

In her dreams that night, Abish again walked the streets of Middoni alone, but instead of being filled with dust and blood, they were lined with rich blue fabric. The air was scented with heavy spice, and the rain fell lightly on her shoulders, refreshing and life-giving. She looked at her hands, half expecting to see blood drops instead of rain, but they were clean and un-calloused, her fingers long, soft and graceful--how her hands might have looked had she been born to a different kind of life. Her sleep was sound, and she woke, refreshed, just as the barest hint of pink touched the eastern sky.

Unable to sleep any longer, Abish climbed slowly down the ladder to begin the morning routine. Even when she did not oversleep, Abish did not relish this morning time. If there were mistakes, morning was when her mother was the angriest about them. The punishments for incorrect cutting of the meat, improper grinding of the corn or letting the water boil over ranged from harsh words to a rap on the hands with Lanishe’s wooden spoon to boxed and ringing ears. Her words and wrath only served to make Abish more flustered, and one mistake led to others. As she grew older she had gotten better and better at this morning routine, but she had not grown closer to her mother.

Abish’s father generally rose not long after dawn to eat his boiled mush and dried meat. He also drank a strong tea made from herbs Abish gathered a few times each week at the edge of the great forest. As she came down the ladder this day she could already smell his strong tea and wondered if she was late again. She turned, expecting to see the fire in her mother’s eyes for her tardiness, but instead her father sat on his brightly colored mat sipping his warm drink slowly. He regarded her warmly and smiled. His face always brightened the room and Abish wished it was possible to start each day with her father’s instead of her mother’s chilly looks and criticism. She smiled back and then raised her eyebrows quizzically. She couldn’t remember a day in the past three years when her father had been awake before her mother. He read her puzzled face and said, “Something awoke me early this morning and I have been here thinking of it ever since.”

Her father often pondered or discussed his dreams in the morning—it was him who taught her to pay attention to the dreams she had. She nearly opened her mouth to tell him about her own dreams from the last two nights when her mother emerged from behind the curtain which partitioned their sleeping mats from the rest of the house. She looked worried. “Armac, what is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong; I have just been unable to sleep for these several hours.”

“Are you ill?” As she asked this she advanced toward him. She was clearly concerned and Abish could see the worry lines on her face crease deeply around her eyes and mouth. She knew her mother was not a young woman, because Abish was the youngest child by many years, but she would always remember this as the day her mother first looked old to her.

“No, good wife, I am not ill. I have had a vision.”

“The gods be praised!” Lanishe exclaimed and knelt on the rug next to her father. She made a motion as if she would bow toward him the way that the citizens did to the priests on ceremony days. Before she could pay obeisance however, he stopped her with a frown on his face.

“No, Lanishe, not me—not ever.”

Lanishe seemed confused. “But you will be a priest now. A priest and councilor to the king!”

He continued frowning, but said nothing. Abish was puzzled. She tended to agree with her mother’s approach to the situation. Her father had been apprenticed to the priests for many years although his advice was already valuable to the king. He didn’t enjoy the full status or prestige of a priest yet for two reasons. First of all, he had not had any visions. At least not visions he would say were from God. For all the importance he placed on dreams, he counted a true vision from one of the gods as something else entirely—a rare gift sent to bless and help. She knew he was quietly critical of other priest’s apprentices who claimed to have such visions regularly. Often these claims were of otherworld messengers who came to give glowing reports about the king and his reign. The current king of all the Lamanites had many sons and nephews. He appointed these relatives to be lesser kings of the surrounding lands. The vanity of Middoni’s king was legendary, and he had squandered countless resources to build monuments to himself. In Armac’s mind, the priestly visions were merely flattery to feed his insatiable ego.

The second thing that kept him from becoming a full priest was there were already 15 priests, according to their tradition. A death would have to occur before a new priest was appointed. Despite the head priest’s trust and dependence on Armac’s counsel, there was no room for an appointment. Armac was obviously the next in line, and a vision would seal his claim. Abish’s nature was a mix of practicality and faith; and if there is one thing she always had faith in, it was her father. If her father said he had a vision, then she believed him. But his manner now puzzled her. He had spent nearly every day of Abish’s life and years before at the temple and palace, training for this very thing.

Armac still addressed her mother. “I don’t know if I will be a priest now.”

“But father! You have studied so long and worked so hard!”

These were Abish’s first words of the morning and they came out scratchy and harsh; she moved quickly and sat down on a mat next to him where she could better read the expression on his face.

“Indeed, Armac; this vision is the last thing that is needed to make your dream a reality.” Her mother agreed.

He put a strong, brown hand on Abish’s face and addressed his wife, “You do not know the nature of the vision I have had.”

“Are not all visions the same? The gods come and tell you of the greatness of the king and his followers. Surely the gods are pleased with us?” Lanishe sounded momentarily nervous.

“My vision has caused me to rethink what I have always known of the gods.”

“How do you mean?” Her nervousness was quickly giving way to panic.

“I think that perhaps there may not be many gods at all; but only one God. And he is not a frightening presence. Indeed, he looks more like a man.”

“But Father, that is a Nephite belief!” Abish blurted out.
Her mother turned to her and acknowledged her for the first time. “And how would you know such a thing?” Her tone was both accusing and questioning at the same time.

“Father told me.”

Armac nodded slowly and Lanishe was quickly silenced from her tirade. In general, most of a young girl’s education would come from her mother, but in a Lamanite household, the father’s word was law. If Armac had been filling his daughter’s head with useless information then it was not her place to question. “Indeed, child. These are not the ways of the Lamanites. I fear I have misunderstood and misjudged the Nephite people.”

“The king will not want to hear this.” Abish slowly shook her head.

“I know, Abish, but he needs too. The whole world needs to hear the good news I have to share.” And for the first time, Abish noted something different in her father’s face. Even knowing he was sharing news that would come as a blow to his wife and daughter, his eyes were strangely bright and he radiated some inner strength she had never been aware of.
Lanishe took a deep breath and uncharacteristically spoke her mind to her husband. “I don’t want to hear it. Not a word of it. It must be a false dream if it is blasphemy against the priests, the kings and the gods.”

Armac sadly shook his head. “I think if you would just listen, Lanishe, then you too would understand the wonder and majesty of the knowledge I now have.”

“Armac, listen to yourself!” Lanishe’s pleading was almost hysterical as she knelt before her husband and took his hands in hers. Abish had never seen her mother behave in this fashion. She didn’t understand her irrational terror over the vision they had not even heard yet, especially when this thing had obviously made her father so filled with light. “For years you have trained to become a priest. I have worked every day with my hands without a word of complaint about our lowly station. And now, look! Look at my hands! They are the hands of an old woman who is worn and weary with work. And your hands! Stained with the blood of much human sacrifice—these dues you have paid and for what! To give it all up because of some cloudy and false dream? I had so hoped that the last years of our lives would be spent in the luxury of a palace home and servants to provide our wants; that our youngest daughter would have opportunity to marry one of the lesser courtiers instead of a tradesman or soldier. If you begin to preach that the Nephites are right and the Lamanites are wrong, then you will surely be the next sacrifice to the gods.”

Lanishe’s eyes filled with tears as she paused for breath. Abish was looking down at her own rough hands, thinking of the dream she’d had just hours ago. A life of softness and luxury to a husband of some prestige was a thing she had never even imagined possible. In the last days she had begun to sense the enormity of work her mother had done to keep their household together. There had been more than just Abish and her sister. There was an older brother too who was soldier of some distinction in a land far away. She knew of at least two failed pregnancies and there were three children who had died as infants or children in their household. Lanishe herself had almost died after Abish was born. Her mother’s life had indeed been one of difficulty and sacrifice. The years of work stretched out before her and for a moment she felt as old as her mother looked.

“Dear Lanishe,” her father said slowly and carefully as he kissed his wife’s hands, “have our lives really been so terrible?”

“Oh, Armac, not terrible—just so different from how I imagined it. I had thought by marrying a man destined to be a priest everything would one day be wonderful, but you have been apprenticed so many years. I beg you, please do not tell anyone of your vision. For our sakes, please.” Abish knew that her mother included her in this blanket wish, a thing she wasn’t sure she agreed with. She was curious, but she wisely said nothing. “In fact, make something up! Something that will seal your place as valuable and important to the king.”

“Lanishe, you ask too much! No more can I sacrifice innocent lives for the benefit of gods I do not believe in; no more can I feel that serving the king is important; no more can I lie for the sake of appearances; no more can I lie to the true God who has sent me a glorious vision to teach me of my mistakes. It would be a bitter condemnation to my soul to do so.”

Lanishe stood, towering over her father; this was a thing that Lamanite women never did. “You are not the man I thought I married.”
He did not stand to challenge her, but merely raised his head to meet her eyes, “And for that you should be grateful.”

The awful silence between them was broken by the growling of Abish’s stomach. She gulped hard and held her hands around her middle to muffle the noises, but there was no mistaking what it was or where it came from.

Her father leaned over to help Abish from the mats. “We have talked the morning away.” He smiled wanly. Abish felt compassion for him. He had been so eager to share his vision and had met only criticism or, perhaps worse, mere curiosity in the place of real interest. “I do not need breakfast this morning. Maybe that will save you and your mother the time you have lost this day.”

“Maybe it won’t. We still have to eat. Come Abish, there is corn to grind.” Abish had never heard her mother speak so sharply or disrespectfully to her father. She wondered if things would always be this way now.