Sunrise on the Mediterranean Read Online Free PDF

cares nothing for what transpires outside her borders.”
    Having lived as an Egyptian, I knew this was true. “Can we replace the
teraphim?
That way no one would need to return to battle. Perhaps negotiate something with them?” Since I was here, I might as well
     make suggestions.
    She shook her head. “There is little possibility of negotiation. Their mountain god feasts on blood. The highlanders take
     no prisoners; they take no living booty. For them war is
herim.
Death to all and everything; it is
hal.
”
    Hair-ream? Hall?
    Across a chalkboard in my brain, the word was spelled;
    h-a-l.
However, it was spelled first in wedge letters, then in chicken scratchings I couldn’t identify before it became English.
     What was
hal?
    As though a page of a dictionary were being copied, words were quickly written on the chalkboard:
Hal
=
The utter giving over of something to God through destruction in a holy war, which is
herim.
Those who survive the
herim
are
hal.
    “Those” … the word sank slowly into my brain. Even people?
    Hal
=
people & possessions.
    Yikes!
    The silence stretched out. Takala’s beady eyes bored into me. People and possessions? I looked at her again, “What do you
     want me to do? What can I do?” I clarified.
    “Intervene,” she said. “With, uh, Dagon?”
    Her glance was the type one reserves for misbehaving children and blithering idiots. One got the impression that in her perspective,
     few people escaped both those categories.
“Lo
, intervene with the highlander’s ruler, when he arrives.”
    Intervene? Like Mata Hari would or like Winston Churchill?
    “He is said to be arrogant, though brilliant,” Takala said. “He has an eye for women in general.” She looked me over from
     head to toe. “A good thing you don’t have a tail,” she murmured. “It is rumored that his hair is the same color as yours,
     so perhaps he will be drawn to you as to a sister.”
    Sister, in the Egyptian sense of the word, which was a lover? Or sister because we had the same hair color? My head was starting
     to pound again. “You just want me to meet with him?”
    She waved her hands, gesturing for her slaves to haul her upright. Takala planted her fists on either side of her broad hips.
     “You seem to me no more than a mortal,” she said. “But if you are a goddess, or a sea-mistress, then use your wiles on this
     Dadua of the Highlanders. If not, there will be no one to worship you or your fishtailed lover, either, because the Pelesti
     will have been wiped from the land!” She turned and stomped off. Slaves in her wake left gifts for me, clothing, vials of
     perfume, sandals, a small set of scrolls, and fruit.
    Not bad for someone who arrived in a net.
    Tamera scurried in, carrying trays of steaming corn products. Corn cakes, corn patties, corn on the cob, corn salad with vinegar,
     creamed corn, corn with yogurt, corn with cucumber.
    They had shellfish nearby, and all they ate was corn? Could a goddess change a culture’s eating habits? I was ravenous, so
     I ate corn. More corn. The wine was good; the beer tasted predictably like corn.
    While I ate, priests came and sang to me: verses 342–768 of the Dagon song.
“Dagon of the mighty thews; Dagon, Rapist of the Rivers; Dagon, beloved of Ursinnahal; Dagon, spewer of salt …”
Dagon this and Dagon that.
    Apparently he was a real “catch” in this mythology. Ugh, life is bad when you are wincing at your own awful puns. I waved
     away the corn meal, the beer, got refills on wine, and proceeded to plan my escape.
    I’d go to Egypt. My lower pyramid of needs had just been met: food, shelter, clothes. Then how would I get out of here? Was
     I a hostage or a guest? Either way, my time was limited. The words of the sailor haunted me:
Pity about her dying.
    I’d go to Egypt. Though my husband’s whereabouts were a mystery, it had been only one day. I’d rest tonight, gather more supplies
     tomorrow, then head out at night. We’d find each