Abigail's Story (5 page)

“You are right,” Rivai said, startling me. “I am nothing but a wastrel, am I not? Yet whatever happens to me, I shall have some good memories to warm me through the cold, hard years ahead. What will you have?”

I would have my self-respect. Like prayer and hope, it was noble. Only now it did not feel very substantial. “It is late. We can stop.” I took the lopsided bowl from the wheel and mixed it back into the remaining clay. “My thanks for your help.”

His eyes glittered as he slowly straightened. With tears or anger, I could not say. “I shall think of a way out of this, Abi.”

That was good, because I could not see one for the tears in my eyes.

After Rivai had gone to bed, I shelved the pots I had thrown so that they would dry overnight. In the morning I would put them, leathery hard, in the kiln for firing before I went to market. Since I could not tell my parents about Rivai's debt, I would ask advice of Shomer, or perhaps Amri or Cetura. They
were shrewd merchants as well as my friends. If anyone could help, they would.

As I shook out my bed mat, I ignored the voice inside me that told me over and over that there was no solution, no possible way to save Rivai or my family.

Because the night was humid and hot, I put my mat next to the wall beneath one of the windows. I was always too tired to stay awake, even on the hottest nights, but now I tossed and turned, unable to sink into the dark, blessed oblivion of sleep for several hours.

At last I slept and fell into a dream.

I found myself at our market booth. Beautiful pots painted with all the colors of the rainbow sat in neat rows, linked to each other by golden strings. They were lovelier than anything I had ever fashioned, and without thinking I reached out to touch the glossy surface of one blue and gray wine jug.

The m'khashepah appeared on the other side of the booth, a strange, red-purple samla covering her thin body, her white hair smooth and anointed with fragrant oil. She pointed at me.
The hand that works the clay shapes the world.

My fingertips touched the wine jug and it shattered, releasing a puff of white smoke and, oddly, a familiar, cross-voiced complaint.
For what the mason charges? I could
build
a new house.

I snatched my hand away and looked over at Amri's stall. It was empty, like all the others.

Wife you shall soon be,
the m'khashepah said as she walked around the booth.
But whose?

Alarmed, I tried to gather my wares, but every pot I touched disintegrated, releasing different colors of smoke and other, beloved voices:

These figs are too green, child. You shall give yourself a sour belly if you eat them.

I shall have to spend some extra hours at the wheel this night.

The dice were switched, and the last were weighted, I swear it.

The voices vanished, like the smoke, leaving me alone with the m'khashepah. The potsherds on the boards of the booth between us grew, the broken pieces multiplying and piling higher until I could only see her face, and she mine.

What will you do, Father's Delight? How will you keep them whole and safe?

I cannot do anything,
I told her.
I am only a woman.

Only a woman.
She seized the last remaining intact pot and crushed it between her hands. White smoke enveloped her, and once more I heard Shomer's daughter say,
Devash is Noisan's only daughter, and she shall bring land and many sheep to her husband.

I woke up with a cry, but I was not on my sleeping mat. I was at the center of the house, standing in front of my father's wheel. On the stone lay my striped head cloth, the one I never wore to market.

The head cloth of a young, unmarried betulah.

The m'khashepah's voice echoed inside my head.
When you doubt, go back to the wheel. Turn the wheel.

I picked up my head cloth and held it in my hands. Now that I understood what could be made, I but had to find the courage to gather what was needed, and steadiness to shape it.

Taking care to keep my steps silent, I went to my parents' room.

CHAPTER
5

I
t was no more proper for an unmarried woman to travel alone between towns than it was for her to sell at market, but there were ways around such restrictions. Amri traveled to Maon every week to barter for goods with the trader caravans, and I knew the next morning was his day to go.

Just before dawn I slipped out of the house and met Amri outside his small dwelling on the edge of the quarter, where he was hitching his mule to his cart.

“Abigail.” He seemed startled by my sudden appearance, until he saw the two-handled water jar at my hip. “I did not expect delivery today.” His head went down and then up. “Why are you dressed like that?”

Beneath my mantle I wore my mother's best samla. Made of closely woven soft ivory wool with vivid blue and green stripes, it was the finest garment Chemda had ever worn, and smelled only faintly of the cedar chips she had sprinkled in its folds to repel
insects. I had never dared to touch it before; last night I had boldly stolen it from my parents' room while they slept.

“I have a favor to ask, Amri.”

I thought of telling him that a sick friend had summoned me to Maon, but I was dressed too finely. I also needed the spice merchant to help me find Nabal once we arrived. In the end, it was simplest to tell him the truth, so I did.

“I would be in your debt,” I added after relating the details of Rivai's debt and my solution. “If you will do this for me, anything I have to give is yours.”

“I have enough pots, thank you, and your idiot brother should be whipped,” Amri snapped.

“Abigail?”

I saw Rivai walking toward us and wanted to groan. “Brother, you should be home, sleeping.”

My brother looked even worse than he had last night, his nose and mouth swollen and his eyes shot with tiny red veins. He moved carefully, too, as one did with an uncertain head or belly.

“I heard you leave.” He looked from me to Amri and frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“I have asked Amri to take me with him to trade with the caravans,” I told him. “I shall return this afternoon. Go home; Mother will be waking soon.”

“You have no pottery with you,” Rivai said. “Why are you wearing . . .” His expression darkened. “No, Abigail. I cannot permit you to do this.”

“I was wrong.” Amri folded his arms. “Your brother has some sense in his head.”

“I mean what I say, Sister,” Rivai said. “Our father will never allow it.”

“I have done nothing yet,” I reminded him, “nor is it likely I shall. But I must try.”

“Child, how can you mean to throw yourself onto the mercy of a stranger, one who may be a cheat and a swindler?” Amri regarded my brother. “This ungrateful whelp is not worth it.”

“He speaks the truth,” Rivai chimed in. “Look.”

He removed a small sack from his belt and opened it, revealing all the tiny carvings in bone and wood he had kept hoarded in his room. They were special to him, and I had only ever seen one or two.

“You see?” He closed the sack. “I shall go and sell these today at market.”

My brother had never wished to sell his carvings, so it was apparent that he felt as desperate as I. But even if Rivai sold everything he possessed for three times its worth, it would not be enough.

“Let me see those, boy.” When Rivai opened the sack again, the spice merchant inspected the collection of toggle pins, hair sticks, and ornaments. “They are pretty, but not worth more than one maneh of silver,” he said, confirming my suspicions.

Rivai's eyes turned dull. “Then I shall go to the slavers. I am young, and strong.”

“Selling yourself will only bring thirty sheqels.” I looked at my feet, shod in my best sandals. “I must go to him.”

“And what if this Nabal agrees to your bargain?
Do you think your brother will cease his drinking and gambling, and become a dutiful son?” Amri made it sound impossible.

I had not thought of that, and looked at Rivai. Tired and defeated, he was hanging his head. “If I can no longer live with our parents, will you care for them as I have, Brother?”

“Yes.” He lifted his head. “I swear to you, I shall. And I shall never drink or gamble again.” His eyes shifted to the horizon. “The sun will be up soon.”

“So will our parents.” I reached up and squeezed my brother's shoulder. “Go now. Say nothing of this to them until I have returned.”

Rivai caught me in a tight embrace before he trudged away.

I had tried to sound brave, but I did not feel it. Indeed, I had to fight the urge to call him back.

“I shall see that he keeps that vow,” Amri told me as he took the smallest pack from his cart. “Come inside, child. You will need more than that maiden's garb to make this scheme of yours work.”

I followed Amri into his dwelling, which despite the rainwater damage to one wall, was larger and better built than my parents' house. Intricately woven reed mats covered the floor, while bunches of drying flowers and herbs hung from a wooden rack above my head. Stacks of filled baskets occupied each corner, except where part of the damaged wall had crumbled.

“You see?” Amri gestured toward the wood
planks covering one large, irregular hole in the wall. “Three sacks of millet the mason demands of me, and he works as a snail runs.”

If only I had such troubles, I thought sadly. “Better grain than gold, my friend.”

The spice merchant cleared his throat. “I complain too much.” He placed the sack on his table and began sorting through it.

The spicy aromas of Amri's wares filled the room, particularly around another, narrow wooden table with an assortment of small querns and grinding stones. It was where he did his work, I saw, noting the traces of seeds and stalks on the saddle-shaped surface of the querns, and the jugs of oil and other liquids sitting to one side. There were also flat clay squares covered with triangular marks that I did not recognize at first.

“You can read and write?” I asked, astonished. I could not, nor could anyone in my family. Hardly anyone could but town scribes and high priests. Rivai had always wished to learn, but there was no money for a tutor or schooling.

“My father was a healer; he wished me to be the same and so taught me before he discovered the sight of blood made me ill. Here.” Amri handed me a small goatskin vial, tightly bound with cord at the opening, and pointed to an open doorway. “Go in there and work this into the skin of your hands and face.”

I loosened the cord and sniffed. The
creamy-looking liquid inside smelled of herbs and flowers, and something I couldn't identify. “What is this?”

“An old family recipe. Rub it in well.” He walked to the entry door. “I shall return shortly.”

Amri left before I could ask where he was going, and for a moment I feared he intended to go to speak to my father about my intention. There was a small but shameful part of me that almost wished he would. But through the front window, I saw him walk in the opposite direction of my parents' home. Wherever he was headed, it was not to expose me to my family.

I went into the small room, which was simply furnished as a bedchamber, and carefully applied the soft liquid to my face. The smell of the stuff was sweet and pungent, like a costly perfume, but it was too thin to be a proper ointment. It felt wonderful on my skin, however, and when I touched my cheek it seemed smoother and softer. I was startled to see that the rough, dry skin on my hands and fingers disappeared, too. It must have been a beauty lotion, like those used by wealthy women to keep their skin young and supple.

I had never been able to afford such a thing. When my skin became unbearably dry, I made do with a little goat's milk mixed with olive oil.

Amri had meant to help, but the fact was that I was not very young, or supple, or at all a wealthy woman. No beauty lotion in the world could change that, or make Nabal of Maon believe that.

What if I go all the way to Maon for nothing?
My hands trembled as I adjusted the folds of my head cloth.
What if Nabal summons the shamar and has us driven out?

In the wall above the sleeping mat on the floor, a section of brick had been chipped out to create a recess. There Amri had placed a small oil lamp, a libation saucer, and a polished bronze disk with edge notches that suggested the sun. Although idolatry was forbidden, such small shrines were common among Hebrews and gave comfort during the long dark hours of the night. The lamp's steady flame made the bronze gleam.

I knelt before it and bowed my head. “Adonai, since the days of Abraham, You have protected me and my people. You removed Egypt's yoke from our shoulders and brought us to this, the Promised Land. I beg You guide me now, so that I shall not lose my way, or my family.” My throat hurt and my eyes stung. “What happens to me is not important. If You will only protect and deliver them, I shall gladly sing Your praises for all the days of my life.”

“Abigail?” Amri called from the front room. “We should go now, before the sun rises.”

A sense of peace filled me as I stood and wiped the tears from my face. “I am ready.”

 

We rode in Amri's cart over the well-worn dirt road from Carmel to Maon. The journey took only a few minutes, but the spice merchant insisted I wear my head cloth with the end folds concealing the bottom half of my face.

“Do not show your features at any time while we are out-of-doors,” he warned. “There are all manner of men here, and some cannot control their, ah, impulses.”

I had never been to Maon, but sometimes on my walks I had seen the outside walls of the town from a respectable distance. More often I had spotted great flocks of sheep, during shearing time, being brought down from the mountains and driven to the gates.

Maon was larger than Carmel, but surely size was its only advantage, for it did not present itself as an attractive place in the least. The buildings and houses of the town had been built seemingly without order or plan, sprawled as they were around narrow, unkempt roads. Instead of building sewage gutters to carry away the refuse and animal waste from the streets, there were sanitary pits, which lay open to the air. Most were filled to overflowing with waste, and the troughs meant to drain them were cluttered with filth, providing an odorous fount for hordes of flies and other pests.

Why did the ruling men here permit this? Had our shofet discovered such filth anywhere within the walls of our town, he would have sent out the shamar to whip our citizens until they cleared it away.

From what little my father had said of Maon, I understood it to be a rough place, a man's town. I saw no women or girls about, and only male slaves at the communal wells. Odors seemed to hang in the air, particularly around the waste pits. Outside that stench, there was the strong smell of dung left behind
by countless herds driven, judging by the innumerable hoof marks, straight through the very streets.

“Does Nabal live here?” I asked Amri.

“There, at the top of that hill.” He pointed to the largest building in sight.

My heart sank. Nabal must be very wealthy, to afford so much. His house offered a commanding view of the surrounding countryside, but a man who owned the largest herds in Judah would be expected to occupy such a lofty place.

How could this Maon be so rich and yet unmarried?

As we passed a man who lay unconscious and snoring by the side of the road, a flask of wine still clenched in his hand, the spice merchant glanced at me. “You have but to say, Abigail, and I shall turn the cart around and take you home.”

I thought of my mother being brought here, to be sold on the auction block like one of his sheep. It would steal the rest of her mind and drive my father out of his. “No, Amri. I must see this man and do this thing.”

“As you wish.” He sighed and slapped the mule's haunch with the reins.

Nabal's property was extensive, and it took some minutes for the cart to reach the front of the house. I wondered if he was one of Maon's shofetim, for his home was built on a very large, grand scale, with hewn stone columns and plastered brick, almost like a small palace. The walls were painted with colorful
stripes, and fine screens of woven flax covered the windows. Carved wooden boxes hung suspended on either side of the door, the bright green fern and vivid flowers growing in them spilling over the sides.

Yet as Amri helped me down from the cart, I saw many signs of neglect to the outer properties, which appeared to belong to Nabal's farm workers. Weeds surrounded what were little more than shacks and tents, with only a few scrawny olive and fig trees. In contrast to the dense greenery around Nabal's house, the outer properties were obviously starved for water. As in town, mounds of dead leaves clogged the ditches providing drainage for the farmers, rendering them useless. Some water flowed in trickles here and there, but these only fed several stagnant pools fouled with green scum and tiny, writhing worms.