Abigail's Story (10 page)

Rosh meant that Yehud was the leader and head man in this place. I was not certain if he was equal to a town's shofet, but I would treat him with the same deference.

“You are welcome at this house.” I thought of the mess and standing puddles inside, and decided against inviting them in. “We have no drink or food prepared, but if you will spare us a moment we can bring—”

“Where is the Master Nabal?” Yehud asked. “We expected him to journey here for the yearly accounting, after the last of the night frosts, as he promised.”

It became cold enough here for the ground to freeze? Would there be snow? “Nabal's business keeps him in Maon.” I produced what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “He has sent me in his place.”

My announcement took all three by surprise. Elas turned his head and made a soft, coughing noise to cover another, less polite sound. Ur simply stared at me with wide eyes.

Their father's stony countenance showed no change, but his shoulders stiffened, and his hand tightened on his staff until the gnarled knuckles turned white.

“This cannot be,” Yehud said at last. “This is no place for a woman alone. You must be returned to your ba'al.”

He thought me a slave and Nabal my owner. “The men who brought us here left last night, Rosh Yehud,” I informed him carefully. “Nabal will not send them again until the next moon. We cannot do else but stay.”

Elas choked and had to be pounded between the shoulder blades by his brother.

Yehud made a gesture. “Go back to camp, my sons. I shall join you there ere I deal with these women.”

“But, Father—” Ur protested.

“Go.” The quiet voice turned to flint. “Now.”

I watched the two younger men trudge back down the hill and sensed a time of bargaining had arrived. I glanced at Keseke. “Would you fetch more water, please? We will need it for our meal.”

The serving woman gave Yehud an uneasy look before she picked up a jar and walked off.

When she was out of earshot, Yehud stroked his beard. “You do not speak as a slave or servant would.”

“I am not.” I met his gaze proudly. “I am the wife of Nabal.”

“If you lie to me, woman, you will have much regret in it.” He inspected me. “When did the master wed you?”

“Yesterday.” Before he could ask why I was not in Maon enjoying my marriage feast, I added, “My husband was quite eager for me to come to the hills and take the yearly accounting for him.”

“The men of your family, they are to come here?” When I shook my head, he appeared confused. “Adonai yireh, why do they not?”

“My parents are too old and ill to make the journey,” I said. “My brother is needed at home to care for them.” Suddenly the hill country did not seem so beautiful, only far away from those I loved. “That is all the family I have.”

“You mean to stay here with only that serving woman to attend you?”

“Keseke and I shall abide well on our own—”

The old man lifted his hand, a gesture so like Oren's that without thinking I fell silent. “Mistress Abigail, I have seven daughters of my own. They have lived in these hills since birth, and all are married and fine mothers to my grandchildren. Yet not one of them would I permit to wander about the land, or dwell by themselves. Not without protection. Either your father is dead, or he knows nothing of where your husband has sent you.”

I was tempted to confide to the rosh the entire, wretched tale of my brother's debt. Yet if I was to deal fairly with these people, I would need their respect, not their pity.

“I am not your daughter, Rosh Yehud. I am your master's wife, and he sends me to do his work. That is what I shall do.” I ignored the sudden contempt that glittered in his eyes. “I would appreciate your help with repairing this roof, and making this house habitable for me and my serving woman, but that is all I can accept on my husband's behalf.”

“Your husband is a fool.”

It was now apparent that my husband had very few admirers anywhere. Still, it would not do to allow such talk. “He is your master, and mine. I ask only what Nabal would ask of you.”

“Then you are a greater fool than he.” Yehud turned and made his way down the hill to where his sons waited.

I felt a familiar sense of frustration. Was my life to be a series of endless, impossible tasks, made all the more insurmountable by some man's ridiculous pride?

Stand and you shall fall,
I heard the m'khashepah whisper inside my head.
Kneel and you shall rise.

The only person who might help me in this place was walking away, deeply offended because I had tried to deal with him as a husband would.

“Rosh, please, wait,” I called out as I hurried after Yehud. For a moment I thought he would not, and then he stopped walking and waited. I came to him and took a moment to catch my breath. “I was unmannerly and spoke in ignorance.”

Yehud said nothing.

“You are right. I am but a foolish woman who has no family or friends in this place.” I looked at the ground and tried to sound humble. “You advised me as a father might, out of concern. I see that now. Forgive me.”

“It is good that your eyes have cleared.” The rosh sighed. “Mistress, I cannot spare any of my sons to guard you or to take you back to Maon. Nabal's wife would not be welcome in our camp.”

“Then I think you must leave me to live here, as my husband wishes.” I looked out over the hills. “If I were to call your name from here, would you hear it down in your camp?”

“If you shouted it, perhaps.” He glanced at the collapsing roof. “This house is not fit for a hoopoe, and it cannot be made right in a day and night.”

I grimaced. “We shall be here longer than that.”

He seemed to be deciding something again. “Very well, wife of Nabal. You and your companion may come to my camp tonight, and my wives will make you welcome.”

It was the invitation I had hoped for. “I would be honored, Rosh Yehud.”

CHAPTER
10

“I
still do not see why we must bring food when we have so little for ourselves,” Keseke grumbled that evening as we walked down the hill to the herdsmen's encampment.

“It is not polite to arrive somewhere empty-handed.” I smiled down at the bundle of three lehem in my arms. Keseke and I had found a better quern stone near the house that afternoon, and the grain I had ground on it had turned to a fine, smooth flour. “Besides, that leek and root soup you made is delicious. Rosh Yehud's wives will enjoy it and praise your talent.”

“Better
we
enjoy it ere we starve,” the serving woman said. “Why do you keep looking about that way? Do you hear something?”

The twilight hid my blush. “No, nothing.” Nor did I see any sign of the shepherd with the blue mantle, which disappointed me. “Their tents are very large, aren't they?” I asked as we passed between two of
the worn horoi stones, which Keseke had told me earlier marked Nabal's herd lands. “They must be comfortable here.”

“For aimless wanderers.” Keseke shifted the pot of soup she carried from one hip to the other. “Whatever they present to you, be it food, drink, or a gift, refuse it the first time it is offered, but accept it the second.”

“Why?”

She glowered. “I do not know. It is their ridiculous custom, not mine.”

That she did not wish me to embarrass myself touched my heart. “If you keep protecting me like this, I shall never become a terrible mistress.”

“You already
are
a terrible mistress.” The older woman's steps slowed, and her brow furrowed. “Now what is this?”

I followed her gaze and saw a group of men crossing our path. They wore the same garments as the noqed, but all of them carried spears and knives. One stopped long enough to look carefully at us before he continued on. “Perhaps they are Rosh Yehud's guards.”

Keseke shook her head. “The herdsmen have never had guards.”

We reached the outer tents of the encampment a few minutes later. The place seemed very strange to my eyes, accustomed as they were to seeing dwellings of brick and stone. Here the great tents of the herdsmen had been fashioned of goatskins, sewn together and stretched out over a frame of poles driven
into the ground. Ten or so tents formed a circle around a large cooking pit in the center, where a few women were tending to several pots nestled in the glowing red and black coals.

Naked children ran in and out of the tent flaps, exciting the dogs and scampering merrily about. They were completely ignored by their busy mothers. Only when one small boy tried to reach a dirty hand into a cook pot did one woman scold him. A moment later, she dipped a small bowl into the pot and handed it to him with a smile and a kiss to his brow.

“They allow their children to run free, the small beasts,” Keseke told me. “They spoil them, too. They do not strike or beat them at all.”

My parents had never raised a hand to me when I was a little girl, so I thought that a fine thing. I repeated one of Cetura's favorite sayings: “It is always easier to know how to raise another woman's child.”

“Unless one is a slave,” Keseke snapped. “Then one has no choice but to trot after the master's brats and wipe their bottoms.”

I sighed. “When Nabal and I have children, dear friend, I shall attend to them myself.”

She rolled her eyes. “So you say now. Wait until you have the little demons running about your household. Then we shall see how eager you are.” She would have said more, but something seemed to make her start, and she fell into a silent brooding.

A young woman approached us. She wore a plain khiton and head covering like the other women, but
the tentative smile she gave us seemed friendly. “Greetings. I am Leha, daughter of Eulo, brother of Yehud.”

It seemed a very formal greeting, but I returned it in kind. “My name is Abigail. I am daughter of Oren and wife of Nabal. This is Keseke, my companion and friend.” The last word made the serving woman stiffen beside me.

“In the name of Yehud, my uncle, you are welcome here.” Leha made a shy gesture. “Please, come with me.”

We were led to one of the tents in the very center of the camp. The only way to enter was through a narrow flap, which Leha held open for us. Inside there were more than a dozen women sitting and talking, but their voices stilled as soon as we entered.

I felt very uncomfortable under the scrutiny of so many strange eyes. In the market, buyers never truly looked at me, only my pots. Here I was examined like a crack in the clay.

“I am neither friend nor companion to you,” Keseke told me under her breath. “Why did you call me so?”

“That is how I regard you,” I whispered back. “That is how you shall be called by me.”

She muttered something that did not sound complimentary to my mother, but I pretended not to hear it.

“Aunt Bethel,” Leha said, addressing an elderly woman, “I bring visitors.” To me, she said, “This is Bethel, first wife of our rosh.”

The white-haired woman rose but did not stand straight, and I realized that age had left her bow-backed. She showed no sign of pain, however, and regarded me with curious, bright black eyes.

I came forward to introduce myself and Keseke, and bowed with respect before I offered Bethel the bundle of lehem. “We are grateful for your hospitality.”

“Wait until it has been offered,” Bethel said in a voice as arid and ageless as desert sand.

Some of the women giggled, but Leha put a hand on her aunt's shoulder. “Aunt, please. Uncle invited these women here to meet us.”

“Your Uncle is very fond of finding strays for me to attend.” Bethel looked past me at Keseke. “Is that food you carry?”

“Yes.” I placed the loaves on the mat where food and drink were laid out, and Keseke did the same with her pot of leek soup.

“You, I remember,” Bethel said to the serving woman. “Is your tongue as sharp as it was last spring?”

“I cannot say.” Keseke's mouth curled. “But it seems that yours has not changed.”

“Age does that to a woman; that is why the Adonai makes old men grow deaf. In all things, there must be found balance.” Bethel sighed and sat down again. “Come, take a place beside me, Abigail. Your mother should be proud, for your manners make up for your choice in husbands.”

Bethel introduced each of Yehud's other four
wives, her and their daughters, daughters-in-law, nieces, granddaughters, and other assorted female relations, and although there were too many names for me to remember, many of their smiles were friendly.

The women here were not like those I knew well in town. A woman of Carmel who outlined her eyes with kohl would be considered daring, even foolish, for it was the practice of prostitutes to paint their faces. Yehud's daughters and wives not only darkened the rims of their eyes with the gleaming black cosmetic, but darkened their lips and rouged their cheeks, as well. The sweet tinkling of belled bangles chimed from their wrists and ankles, and silver and gold rings glittered from pierced earlobes.

“They jingle like harlots,” Keseke muttered next to my ear.

“I like the sound,” I said, earning another glare. “It does no harm to wear such out here, away from strangers.” I imagined Yehud and his sons appreciated the care their women took in making themselves attractive.

Bethel invited us to kneel by a wide mat filled with bowls and platters of food, where she said a blessing over the meal.

Leha offered us steaming hot cups of a pungent herb tea. I remembered to politely refuse the first offer and accept the second, and won an approving nod from Bethel. I was too anxious to eat much, however, and that, too, was noticed.

“You peck like a bird.” Bethel shook a finger under my nose. “Up here the nights are cold even into
summer, and without a husband to keep you warm you will need more flesh on your bones.”

She had given me a generous helping of grain softened in a strong-flavored meat broth. It was unfamiliar to my tongue, but I tried to swallow a little more. “How long have you and your family dwelled here, Bethel?”

“More years than I can count,” she said. “My mother's grandfather and his kin came here from the land bordering Egypt and farmed for some years before they became herders for the master's family. Yehud's kin came here from the east when my mother was a girl.”

“So you grew up together.” The thought charmed me.

“Women grow up. Men grow beards.” She cackled out a laugh.

Leha offered me a small bowl of lumpy white liquid. The smell identified it at once, but I still asked, “Is the milk, uh, soured?”

“Curdled. We drink it so. It is called leban. Try it,” she urged.

I could not pinch my nostrils closed and pour it down my throat—that would have been rude—but I confess, I did hold my breath. The taste was as sour as I expected, but the coolness of the milk and soft curds slid easily down my throat. If not for the oddness of the leban's taste I might have called it refreshing.

The meal finished with a generous offering of fig cakes and sweet grapes. Keseke and I were the object
of all eyes, and whenever I spoke, some of the women covered their mouths with their fingers and murmured to each other behind them.

“Stop that,” Bethel said when one of the younger wives sitting closest to us indulged in such whispering. “Where are your manners?” She scanned the faces around us. “All of you, behave yourselves.” To me, she said, “They wonder why your father wed you to such a mean-spirited man, who would send you far into the wilderness only a day after your wedding, as if you were gerusa.”

Gerusa were what Hebrews called a few poor women in town, women to whom my mother had never allowed me to speak. When I grew older, Cetura explained that the gerusa were outcasts, divorced by their husbands and left to fend for themselves. It was something that generally did not happen the day after the wedding.

“I do not yet know my husband very well,” I admitted, “but it was not his displeasure or cruelty that sent me here. I freely offered to come in Nabal's place and do the accounting.”

“You see?” Bethel gave one of her daughters-in-law a haughty look before she gestured to me. “No tears, no petty grievances aired. She does not bleat like a shofar blown to the wind. This is how a proper wife speaks of her husband.”

I could not remember the name of the daughter-in-law she reproved, but the younger woman's expression darkened, and she rose unsteadily. As she
stalked out of the tent, I saw the unmistakable curve of her belly under her loose khiton.

“When is her child due?” I asked.

“Within the moon, if it comes out at all,” Bethel said. “That babe has had to listen to his mother Malme wail and cry for months, and I fear it will not wish to be born in a world of such noise.”

“Aunt, that is not fair,” Leha said in her gentle voice. “Malme has never been away from her mother. Our ways are still strange to her.”

“No stranger than hers, which are evidently to lie about all day, fret, and refuse to work.” Bethel shook her head. “I told Irev not to marry a Jezreelitess; women from the cities want too much attention.” Bethel gave me a sideways look. “Well, perhaps not all.”

“Carmel can hardly be called a city.” Gratefully I handed Leha my empty food bowl and refused more of the leban.

“Tell us a story, Leha,” one of the children begged, and the others chimed in until Bethel's niece smiled and held up her hands.

“I shall, but only one,” Leha warned, “and then it will be time for sleep.”

Bethel chuckled as the children groaned over this. “They would have Leha spinning her tales until dawn.”

The children gathered closer to Leha as she began to tell her story.

“This tale is of a terrible soldier from Gath, a cruel
and boastful man who stood six cubits and a span. He was of the Rephaim, a tall and arrogant people from the west who take gold to make war on Israel and Judah.”

I had heard rumors of the mercenary Rephaim, who were often hired by the Philistines to serve in their army. Nothing good had ever been said about them, and they were so large that many Hebrews thought them a race of giants.

Letha leaned forward, moving her hands expressively as she described the monster. “He was the champion of the Philistine army, and towered head and shoulders above the very tallest men in all the lands. So, too, this giant was unnaturally strong, for he walked about wearing a coat of copper mail that weighed as much as five thousand sheqels, and wielded a mighty sword with a copper blade that weighed six hundred sheqels.” Her voice dropped to a menacing whisper. “His very name caused dread and fear in the hearts of brave men, so people only whispered it, as do I now, for he was Goliath, the Giant of Gath.”

I saw Keseke's eyes widen like the children's, and suppressed a smile.

“Now, it was known that the Philistines wished to make war against good King Saul and Israel, and so they brought their men into our land and took up on one side of the valley of Ephesdammim. Our brave king sent his army to face them, and as the battle lines were drawn, the enemy sent out their
dreaded champion, Goliath, to strike fear into the heart of Israel.