Free Angels at the Gate by T. K. Thorne

he pointed to one of the small, irregular white spires along the shore and quoted.
“All her tears came to naught, leaving only a pillar of salt.”
It was a saying I had heard all my life, but I was amazed to see the pillars of salt. What giant lady had wept so many tears to leave the dazzling white crystallized lumps, encrusted stones and salt towers, someas large as I? The wonder of it dried my own tears from the bitter bite of the water.
    â€œDid she cry into the water and make it so bitter?” I had asked.
    â€œMy apologies,” Hurriya says, pouring hot tea from a copper vessel and pulling my attention back into the present. “There is no use in polishing copper when the sea belches pitch.”
    â€œWhat mean you?” Mika asks.
    â€œThe Dead Sea releases … pungent odors.”
    â€œMot’s farts,” Lot says.
    I laugh, but Hurriya looks annoyed.
    â€œA story told of pitch from sea?” Mika, normally quiet, has expressed curiosity about everything since entering Sodom. Instead of answering, Hurriya looks to her husband to explain, while she putters about seeing to our meal and comfort, assisted by a small young woman with skin the color of cinnamon. A slave brand marks her upper arm. She is not named and does not speak.
    â€œA true story you were told,” Lot says. “Pitch from the pits is used for mortar and waterproofing and such, but the sea produces a finer quality and more of it. The people of Egypt use it in the preparation of the dead.”
    Mika raises an eyebrow. “How so?”
    â€œI don’t know all the details. They wrap the bodies in linen. A secret mixture containing pitch preserves the cloth and what lies within it. Of course, only the wealthy can afford such an elaborate procedure. Abram says it is better to return to the dust from which we were made.”
    â€œHow do harvest it from sea?” Mika asks.
    â€œIt rises to the surface and floats, then the boatmen gather it. We often have unwelcome warning of this event through our noses.” He scrunches his face.
    I am still pondering why anyone lives here. Men will put up with anything for wealth, I decide. Not all the pitch in the world could replace a clean wind on my face.
    â€œAnd the copper—” Hurriya reminds him.
    â€œAh yes.” Lot shrugs. “Everything tarnishes. No point in cleaning it—the green always returns. We normally stay away during this time, but I wanted to show you my home.”
    More,
show off
his home.
    We settle on the rugs, my mind as much taken with the quality oftheir weave as the heady smells of roasting lamb, heavily spiced with turmeric and cumin. The aroma intoxicates. Chiram is much stingier with his seasonings, as they are imported and costly.
    The younger daughter, who is several years older than I, presents the first platter, just as a dark shape bounds through the open doorway. Hurriya cries out in fright. The chickens squawk and flap, and Raph leaps to his feet, drawing a knife hidden in his robe. I had thought him unarmed, because most men wear their knives proudly displayed in their front sash.
    Waving her tail in tired pleasure, Nami trots to my side and collapses, panting. She knows she belongs to me, or I to her, and she was apparently not to be left behind, as evidenced by the piece of chewed strap dangling from her neck.
    Everyone has frozen, except Mika, who chooses a date that interests him and lifts it to his mouth. Hurriya sputters, unable to form words for her thoughts. Her daughters cling to each other, as if Nami might decide they looked tastier than the dates. She is a large dog.
    My father’s brows rise, and he looks at me.
    Raph’s shoulders settle, and he slides the knife back into its hiding place with a laugh. “I thinking wolf found us!”
    My father leans toward me. “What is this about, Adir? Why is Chiram’s dog here?”
    My first thought is to ask him why he is asking
me
why