Rebekah Read online

  “Are you coming?” Iltani moved up the steps and glanced back over her shoulder to where Rebekah stood at the water’s edge.

  “You go ahead. I’ll be up shortly.” She lowered her jar to the spring and waited as the water bubbled up into it.

  “Will you go to the wedding?” Selima asked as the group surrounding Iltani grew distant.

  Rebekah filled her jar, lifted it onto her head, and waited as Selima did the same. “If Laban allows it, of course.” The thought of Iltani marrying ahead of her did not matter. She would not let it. Though at nearly twenty years on earth, she had already waited long enough.

  “But,” she added as they began the long trek to the surface, “if he does not allow it, I will not be disappointed.”

  The sun blazed a path toward the western ridge when Rebekah finally found Laban alone in the family courtyard. Servants had cleared away the last of the meal, and her brother sat near the fire, a clay pipe in his hand. She smoothed the wool of her skirt as she sat on a stone bench opposite him. “I trust you had a prosperous day with the merchants.”

  Laban put the pipe to his lips and drew in the smoke of the poppy leaves, then released a breath. “The woven garments you made brought a fair price.” He jingled the pouch at his belt. “Your skills have given your family a tidy sum.” He looked at her, and she caught the glint of affection in his dark eyes, a sentiment she had not detected from him since before their father passed.

  He set the pipe on the bench beside him and lifted the purse, untied the strings, and poured several nuggets of gold into his hand, holding them out to her. She accepted them and dropped them into a pouch in her robe. “Thank you.” She was surprised at the strength of the emotion his actions evoked. Perhaps he truly did seek what was best for her.

  “You earned it fair enough.” He picked up his pipe again and puffed. “Put it away for your future. When you go from this house to the house of your husband, you shall not go empty-handed.”

  Rebekah looked beyond Laban to the dying warmth of the setting sun, her heart stirred with the thought. Yet how often had he made such comments and done nothing to make them come true? Every time she handed over a newly woven garment or length of multicolored cloth to trade with foreign merchants, he handed her the same amount, giving the same comment. Yet no husband had come to claim her in the five years since she was nubile, and she feared Laban intended to hold her until her beauty faded and it was too late.

  “About that husband,” she said, forcing down her frustration. “When do you plan to find such a man for me, my brother? You have turned away every suitor who has come to call. Men will fear something is wrong with me if you do not act soon. Why do you hesitate?”

  He avoided eye contact, dragging too quickly on the pipe. He choked and coughed for a long moment. She poured water into a gourd and he drank. At last he looked at her, but his gaze flitted quickly beyond her, as though he could not face her.

  “Tell me the truth, Laban. I am tired of waiting for you to act.” She was angry now, recognizing the sheepish grin poking from beneath the thick curls of his beard.

  His head bobbed as he nodded. “You are right as always, my sister. I have only considered your best interests. What kind of man would I be if I sold you to a life of poverty?” He leaned forward and touched her knee.

  She looked into his charming gaze, the one she had grown weary of him using to appease her. “Not every man that has come is poor. But I fear my brother expects too much. I want you to act now.”

  Laban leaned away from her and twisted the pipe in his hands, looking at the smoldering leaves as though wisdom could be found there. Silence grew, broken only by the sounds of voices coming from inside the house and the crackle of the fire in the stone hearth in the courtyard.

  At last he looked up. “I will send servants to Ur, to some of our distant kinsmen, to see if a match can be made.”

  “I don’t want to marry a distant relative or go back to a land we were forced to leave. Why can’t you choose from someone nearby? Why would you send me away?”

  “Would you choose a man like Naveed, who will inherit nothing from his father and has no means to get ahead in life? The men who have approached me could offer no better.”

  “Naveed is betrothed to Iltani.” Sudden emotion at the thought surprised her. She was happy for Iltani. Truly she was.

  Laban’s brow lifted in a quizzical expression, a sure sign he had yet to hear the news. “Well, yes, then all the better for him.” He smiled, plopping the pipe back into his mouth, then drew in the smoke and released it. “You will thank me someday that I turned him away. But do not worry, dear sister. You will marry soon.”

  She scrunched the fabric of her robe, kneading it between her fingers. Voices drifted closer, and before she could answer, her mother and Laban’s wife Farah carried in baskets of wool and settled on benches nearby.

  “Are we interrupting something?” Her mother smiled at Laban as she pulled the wool from the baskets and worked with Farah to separate the strands.

  The moon ducked in and out of the clouds, an unsteady light over the courtyard. Night air brought a chill with it, but heat infused Rebekah’s cheeks at Laban’s audacious attitude. She rose, trembling, unable to share the same fire with her mother and her favorite son.

  “Excuse me.” She hurried from the courtyard into the house, past busy servants, and down the hall toward her sleeping chambers. She turned at the sound of footsteps and saw Selima coming toward her.

  She entered the room and sank onto her couch. Leaning against the pillows, she let out an angry breath. “I am weary of his tricks. Laban is using me for his own gain. I am a prisoner in this house!” Defeat settled over her like a sodden cloak.

  She looked out the window toward the starless heavens. The scent of rain hung heavy in the air, and her clothes felt damp from the weight of it. “Am I unworthy of marriage, Selima?”

  “Any man worth anything would be honored to marry you, mistress.” Selima plucked a pillow and fluffed it between her fingers. She was a pretty girl in her own right, but not well-to-do enough to marry at will unless Rebekah released her and had Laban find a man for her.

  The thought depressed her further. She couldn’t get Laban to do her own bidding, let alone help a servant. She walked to the window, wishing the rain would come and release its hold on the sticky air. Her gaze slanted upward, and she let go of her anger with a long, slow sigh.

  God of our ancestor Shem, let me marry an honorable man, not one taken to the greed of my brother and mother.

  She let the prayer leave her heart, wondering if it took wing and moved beyond her to the One she had learned of at her father’s knee. Did He really exist? Laban would placate Him, if He did. But Laban placated every god in Harran.

  Doubt settled over her. If Laban’s words were true, which she could not trust for certain, might she truly find herself wed and in the home of her husband soon? How soon? Hope lifted her chest for only a moment. She would believe such a thing once she witnessed it.

  4

  Rebekah bent over the grindstone and gripped the wooden handle, turned the stone in a circular motion, and pressed the kernels of wheat between the top and bottom millstones. She’d been at the task long enough to cause her back to ache, and she stretched, trying to get the kinks to loosen. Three weeks had passed since her conversation with Laban, and he had not mentioned the subject of her future again.

  She did not trust Laban.

  Footsteps sounded in the adjacent house, and the voices of servants came closer. “There you are.” Deborah approached and motioned her aside. “You look spent. Let me take a turn.” She placed a woven mat beneath her knees and grabbed the wooden handle of the grindstone with both hands.

  Rebekah sank onto the bench and breathed deeply. “The sun is warm today.” She dabbed at the beads of sweat along her forehead with the edge of her head scarf.

  Deborah glanced up at her. “I thought you would have Selima do this task today. W
eren’t you planning to go to the market with your mother?”

  Rebekah shook her head. “My mother did not want my company. I think she and Farah had plans they did not think I would approve.” A sigh escaped before she could stop it.

  “Perhaps they want to surprise you. If Laban has found a match for you, they could be buying gifts for your betrothal. You know how your mother enjoys surprises.”

  “My mother enjoys keeping things from me, if that’s what you mean by her surprises.” Rebekah gave a sardonic laugh. “Do you honestly think Laban has taken a single step toward seeking a husband for me? I think he has put it out of his mind.”

  “You do not know that for sure. Men don’t always act in ways or at times we think they should.”

  The stones squealed beneath Deborah’s hand. She paused to add more grain to grind between them.

  “My father did. If I asked something of him, he gave it quickly and freely. Laban enjoys taunting me.” She paced the wide outer courtyard, glancing toward the hills where she expected Laban to soon return from a visit to the flocks. “Perhaps I should seek help from Bethuel.” If only her brother had stayed on at the estate, she could at least appeal to him.

  “Bethuel lives in the hills for a reason, mistress. You know how Laban makes him feel.”

  “As though he has no use but to be a shepherd.” She sighed. “But even in that Laban does not fully trust him. Laban left three days ago to inspect the sheep without saying a word to me. He only made those promises to placate me.”

  “You are assuming things.”

  “And you are making excuses for a deceiver!” She glanced quickly behind her, relieved that no servants stood nearby. Though her mother and sister-in-law were gone to market, Laban’s concubine Refiqa, newly pregnant with his child, lay resting inside the house. “My brother can marry as many women as he pleases, but I must dangle like poor fruit on the vine.” Though Laban was six years older than she, he had married Farah in his youth and taken Refiqa this past year. Already he had three young sons.

  Deborah paused in the grinding, took the flour from the trough, and poured it into a clay bowl. “Here, add the oil and start kneading the bread. The others will be back soon, and unless you want to run off to the hills and live with Bethuel, we can only make the best of what we have.”

  Rebekah felt the rebuke in Deborah’s tone. Deborah knew firsthand the shock of losing a husband and living ever since without one. Still, the words stung as Rebekah took the bowl to the cooking room and set it on the wooden table with more force than she intended. A thin crack appeared down one side. She uttered a curse. The bowl was one of her mother’s favorites.

  She searched the shelves for another bowl to replace it, glancing through the window as she did. A man’s form appeared, striding toward the house, but on closer inspection, she did not recognize his gait. Laban walked with quicker strides, his hands swinging at his sides as though he was always hurrying to get somewhere, whereas Bethuel moved as though time meant nothing.

  A neighbor, perhaps? One of the servants? The thought troubled her. Had something happened to Laban? Emotion surged, switching from anger to fear. She hurried from the cooking room to the courtyard to meet the stranger and found Deborah standing at the courtyard gate speaking to him.

  “You are welcome to wait in the courtyard for Master Laban to return if you wish,” Deborah was saying. “We will be happy to set an extra place for the evening meal.”

  The man shook his turbaned head and held up a hand. “No, no, but thank you very much. I have come to deliver the images Laban requested.” He lifted a heavy sack Rebekah had failed to notice from her view at the window and handed it to Deborah.

  “Images?” Rebekah stepped forward to address the man, ignoring Deborah’s pointed frown. “What images did my brother order?”

  The man looked at her, a gleam of appreciation in his eyes. Rebekah recoiled at his too-familiar look, suddenly aware of the pale blue head scarf that set apart her maidenhood. She dipped her head, keeping her eyes averted to the goatskin sack in Deborah’s arms.

  “Open it up and see for yourself. I stand by my workmanship. Laban knows where to come for the best quality.” His chest lifted in obvious pride.

  Deborah carried the sack to a bench to do as the man suggested, and Rebekah hurried to join her. She scooted close to Deborah, keeping her distance from the man, who followed them past the gate into the courtyard.

  “Three images, as you can see,” he said as Deborah pulled each one from the sack. “Carved of cedar and overlaid with gold. The finest quality.”

  Deborah turned each image over before placing them back in the sack. “We will be sure to pass them on to Master Laban.” She turned to the man. “I trust the master has paid you for your services?”

  The man nodded, though by his look Rebekah wondered if he had hoped to gain something more. Had Laban promised him something other than a simple merchant’s order? The man eyed her, and she had to force herself to stand still and not shrivel beneath his open perusal.

  “Why don’t you take these inside, mistress?” Deborah thrust the sack into Rebekah’s arms. She glimpsed her nurse’s look, sensing her protectiveness. She was only too happy to comply. Deborah turned to the merchant. “Thank you for dropping these by. I am sure the master will stop at your booth after he returns to thank you himself.” She crossed her arms, brooking no argument, while Rebekah slipped into the house. She waited just inside the door, until at last she heard his grunted thanks and his footsteps receding.

  “Why would Laban order such images?” she asked when Deborah joined her moments later. “I know my brother would placate the moon and beg the sun to do his bidding, but since when does he keep household gods? Has he completely abandoned the God of Shem?”

  Deborah shook her head. “I do not know, mistress.” She eyed the sack with a hint of fear. “The God of your fathers, the God of Shem, is a jealous God.” She met Rebekah’s gaze. “Your brother is asking to bring trouble on this house.”

  5

  Dusk deepened with an intermittent breeze, and the telltale howl of a jackal in a nearby thicket made the flesh prickle on Isaac’s arms. The flap of bats’ wings whooshed the air above his head. Familiar sounds. Comforting sounds. The cave at Machpelah had become a habitual stop on his return to Hebron from visits to the Negev. How was it that more than two years after her death, he could still grieve his mother as though her parting had been yesterday?

  He rubbed the hair on his arms and pulled the cloak about him, the chill of the night air making him shiver. His father worried over his melancholy, comparing him too often to his untamed half brother Ishmael, who roamed the deserts of Shur and Paran with his many sons—a warrior, a fighter. Even Abraham’s younger sons by his concubine Keturah carried a wild streak within them, inheriting their father’s sense of adventure.

  But Isaac had never known a desire to fight as his brothers fought or to hunt and kill as they did. While he did not share their sense of sport or hostile bickering, he did not fear the night sounds. Men might come to kill and steal and destroy, but Adonai controlled the wild beasts, and Adonai could be trusted to protect him.

  He moved from beneath the protection of the oaks toward the steps leading downward to the cave’s entrance. Darkness shrouded him now as he picked his way along, hugging the cool limestone. He stopped at the last step and sat upon it, wrapping both arms around his knees.

  His mother had doted on him all of his life. An old woman by the time of his birth, Sarah had laughed often with him and taught him early to notice the world around him, the flowers and birds, the plants and trees, the way the water dripped into the clay cisterns and how wine tasted when held on the tongue. She shared her favorite dishes, the sheep cheese, and many spices she hoarded to flavor food just the way his father loved best.

  How he missed her!

  He stared at the large circular stone guarding the entrance to the burial shelves, protecting her remains from the jackals outsid
e, the jackals she had feared.

  “Do not worry, Ima. They cannot hurt you now.”

  He leaned back against the stone step and absently stroked his beard. Scratching sounds came from the distant recesses, probably a mouse of some kind. If he had brought a torch, he might catch the creature unaware and study it for a moment. But it was a skittish animal and would likely hide from the light as he was drawn to it, especially in the Negev, where the sun warmed his back, and where his own skittish thoughts could focus on Adonai and all the things he did not understand. Unlike here, where his thoughts grew muddled and grief overtook him.

  “The days of mourning have passed, Ima.” His voice echoed in the chamber, a sound that always made him pause. “I have no tears to give you. I only came to tell you”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“this is my last visit here. I must put aside grief and live the life I am meant to live.”

  Saying it aloud made it seem possible. He needed to face the future his father had planned for him, the future Adonai had promised him. And yet . . . he was afraid. He did not fear the jackals or the wild beasts his mother had feared but the people with whom he lived. He knew too well the sting of betrayal and the sudden way a man could turn against another.

  The memory added to the grief he held too tightly. He had accepted the sacrifice, the purpose of God in his father’s actions. But his mother had never fully recovered from the shock. Though she had lived on for several years, she had changed. Where Isaac had grown more submissive and accepting, she had grown fearful. Elohim’s test had changed them all, and while his father passed the test with Adonai’s acceptance and blessing, his mother had pulled inward, had withdrawn from everyone except her son, until death claimed her.

  He had been her only joy, the only one to bring her comfort and laughter after that day. The memories only heightened his sense of uncertainty. His father said it was time to fill her place. Isaac needed a wife of his own. But he had no prospects, no women of kindred spirit in the camp who would understand him as Sarah had. Surely Adonai had a woman prepared for him. As He had made the first woman for the first man, surely He did not intend for the promised son to go without an heir.