If we lost our faith, we would become like the clouds that swell across the western sky when the wind pushes them into the desert, promising rain but empty inside.

IN THE MORNING, I always had a moment to myself before my grandchildren arose. For me, it was the best time of the day. I watched the boys sleeping next to me, their faces serene. I imagined they were in their own beds at home, that their mother was outside the door readying their morning meal, that they hadn’t lost their voices in the desert, stolen by a demon, grabbed from their throats and stored in a locked box in the World-to-Come.

I tied threads knotted into the wool of their garments for protection while they slept. This was permitted until they turned nine, then I would have to give them over to the will of Adonai, or so people said. I was grateful for the amulets Shirah offered me. I paid no attention to those who claimed she was a witch, whispering that her presence on this mountain would bring us to ruin. I had seen what was wicked in this world, and it wasn’t the woman I worked beside. Inside my grandsons’ tunics I bound small pouches which held salt to keep away Lilith, who steals the breath of children, a shell from the red sea as a gift for the angel called Michael, the root and seeds of the mandrake, which would chase away the terrors that came with dreams, for there were surely terrors for the three of us that remained of our family, as certainly there were for the fourth among us who survived, the man who no longer spoke to us, who lost himself when he lost his faith.

I leave Noah and Levi their morning meal before slipping into the predawn. Small pressed cakes of almonds and figs so they would know sweetness, dates that grew wild on the cliffs so they would taste the fruit of the desert, flatbread I fried in oil on a griddle, sprinkled with coriander and cumin and salt, so they would remember the taste of their grandfather’s bread. On some mornings I took note of Shirah’s son, Adir, racing along the path where mint grows wild. He’s a charming boy, wild, with black hair and yellow-flecked, slanted eyes. He recently turned twelve, but I knew that inside his tunic were dozens of knots. It is written that one has to rely on Adonai without the use of magic, and so it should be. But our boys were valued highly. The mother of a boy was considered impure only for seven days after she gave birth, while she who delivered a girl was considered teme’ah for twice that time.

I understood why Shirah would do anything necessary to guard her only son.

I did not listen to what others said about her, but once, when she was ailing and I brought her soup made of turnip broth, I spied a hidden altar to the goddess. I had entered the chamber without waiting for a reply after rapping on her door. Shirah quickly closed the cabinet where the altar was concealed, but I saw the spark in a lamp lit before an offering of honey and oil that had been set out to honor alabaster terafim. One, the small, luminous figure of a woman, had her arms upraised. I recognized Ashtoreth, the mother and warrior, whose presence has long been outlawed. We were not to have idols, nor were we to give thanks to the goddess. Those women who did made certain to close their altars so the lamps that burned were never revealed.

Shirah thanked me for the soup. We did not speak of matters some might claim to be sorcery, and I did not raise my eyes to her altar again. I had compassion for her, for I had often spied worry spreading across her striking, fine-boned face. Try as she might to keep him a child, Shirah’s son was already straining to be a man. She called out cautions, but Adir hurried to the garrison, determined to be among the men he admired. When the wind is so strong that we women know we will choke on the rising dust if we fail to tie our scarves across our faces, boys will always ignore the elements and race through storm clouds, dreaming of glory. Even a witch can’t stop her son from becoming a warrior. There is no spell great enough for that.

BEFORE YAEL CAME, I was the new woman in the dovecotes. I thought I would be sent to the baker, for my husband had taught me much about the mysteries of bread. But I was wearing my white mourning shawl when I arrived at the fortress, and perhaps the council members were reminded of doves as I stood before them, head bowed in defeat. The moment I entered through the carved wooden doors of the largest dovecote, a circular tower with flaps for light in the roof, I was certain a curse had befallen me. I couldn’t understand why the original dovekeeper and her beautiful daughters took such pride in what they did. They assured me I had been honored, and they welcomed me with wreaths of flowers, which I quickly cast away. I thought that doves were filthy things, good for a stew or perhaps a few fresh eggs, nothing more. I had now sunk even lower than these simple creatures, for it was I who was commanded to collect their leavings into barrels. I was a slave to their waste and their filth, disgraced in the eyes of the Lord. Such was my station in life. Such was my fate.