The Book of Heaven: A Novel Read Online Free Page B

narrowing his eyes. Then without hesitation, he ripped it from bodice to hem, and tossed it to the soldiers to finish shredding. “These reflect,” he said to Souraya. “They are image-givers.” The soldiers set on the dress, and quickly destroyed the sequin-covered sleeves it had taken months to design and then to sew, hands moving to the rhythms of the marriage mantras. She covered her own eyes then.
    The commander made some gesture afterward indicating to the compound that the search was successfully completed. Then a torrent of music opened out over the landscape, and the wedding party was swept inside the walls, where hundreds of torches were lit at the same moment, and the rhythmic clapping of the families of the community welcomed them. A gaggle of children rushed forward to touch Souraya when, from the whispers and gestures, they realized she was the bride. Souraya didn’t smile at them or respond to them, though as a rule, she was lavish in her smiles with children, and could, with a still, steady gaze in which a small flame of smile flickered, bring the smiling willingness to be adored out of nearly any child, even one determined to wail.
    But the violence that had been done to her wedding dress made her feel both hostile and anxious. The fabric had been set to her body as words to music, as the knife to her husband’s clay hand. It was a dress in which she felt as certain as a goddess must, absolutely sure in her movements, perfect in her shape with the ancient perfection of a sheaf of wheat, perfect enough to pass into archetype, and become immortal, which was the purpose of all ornament.
    It is a strange fact that a dress can safeguard a woman, its elegant design or fine color functioning as a counterweight at the moment she risks stepping off a precipice. It is a strange fact that a few lengths of cloth can bring a woman to life. But water, if it is to be drunk deeply enough to satisfy thirst, needs a cup, as an idea needs a sentence. And the strangest fact of all is that what we ourselves make gives us life. Souraya had a wild thought of running from them, these madmen who would dismember a dress. Her confidence in her new people had been shaken, as her confidence in herself.
    She had not known ideas could be violent, had never seen anyone destroy something beautiful for an idea. If these people were haters of beauty, then they would surely hate her, too. And she would hate them in return, with her own red terrifying capacity for savagery. But the worst of her fears was beyond impersonal. She had glimpsed an implacable demand that something she thought of as lovely, harmless, and lawful must be destroyed. What else that was precious to her sight must not exist? She passed through the crowd toward the nuptial lodging.
    Later, she would remember this progress as blind; she could not distinguish a single face in memory until she saw Adon’s, the face that belonged to the right hand she already knew and had held. And looking at the angular planes of that face, set on the colossal height of Adon’s body, she found her balance.
    Adon’s features were set on the scaffolding of his bone as if riveted there; they expressed a force that seemed almost metallic. When he turned to look at her, his eyes gleamed, not only with obvious pleasure in her beauty, but with a kind of will to friendship, even though his mouth stayed stern. It was like having a shield smile at her. The kindly look relieved her of the burden of violent hatred she had been feeling after the mutilation of her wedding dress. Her flood of relief and gratitude at not hating her husband on sight was so strong that her great willingness to love felt akin to love itself. It was as if the blood inside her turned to wine.
    With the help of two kinswomen, she chose a costume to be married in. They helped her dress, and after the priest had joined the couple’s hands and given them wine to drink together, the women helped her again, to undress. One of