Return to Me

by Lynn Austin

  “Do you have proof that she’s a suitable wife for a priest? Is she devoted to the Almighty One?”

  Zechariah turned away, hoping Saba wouldn’t read the truth in his expression. Should he tell them about the dream he’d just had? Would they believe him?

  “Yael’s family dabbled in astrology and sorcery in Babylon,” Saba continued, “and she’s been mingling with the Samaritans all these years.”

  “I know. But the same is true of our entire nation, Saba. Our ancestors all drifted from the Holy One, didn’t they? Yet He forgave us and offered us a second chance. Isn’t Yael still a daughter of Israel? Doesn’t she deserve a second chance?”

  “But what kind of a marriage will you have,” Safta asked, “if she loves someone else and not you?”

  Zaki couldn’t think about that right now. This was the answer, he was certain of it. “You both have to admit that this is the best solution to the problem. Everyone knows that Yael and I have been friends since childhood. We might have been promised to each other years ago.”

  “Let’s not rush into this,” Saba said, holding up his hands. “There must be a better solution. Once our emotions have calmed down, maybe we’ll see it.”

  Zechariah drew a deep breath, his mind made up. “I’m my own man, Saba. The decision is mine to make. I’m going to offer Mattaniah my proposal so he can turn down Zabad’s. If Yael and Rafi run off together, there’s nothing we can do about it, but at least we tried.”

  “If they decide to run off, Yael would become his concubine, not his wife,” Saba said. “I tried to explain that to her last night, but I don’t think she was listening.”

  “I promised her mother—”

  “I know, Safta.” Zechariah rested his hand on his grandmother’s shoulder. He was taller than her now by more than a head. “And I’m going to help you keep that promise.”

  “Wait,” Saba said. “You need to pray about this some more and ask the Almighty One what to do.”

  “I already know what His answer will be,” he said, remembering his dream. “The Torah forbids mixed marriages with Gentiles because we’ll end up adopting their ways, worshiping their gods. Wasn’t that why we were exiled? But He allowed us to return to the land to rebuild our nation. To marry and to have children—”

  “Zechariah, listen to me—”

  “I’m sorry, Saba, but it makes sense that I marry her. I love Yael, and I want to save her from making a huge mistake. I’m going to do this.”

  Zechariah returned to his room before his grandparents could argue further. He could see how upset Saba was, but Zechariah was surprised to discover that his confession was true. He did love Yael. He always had. He would do what he’d tried to do all his life and save her, even though it would cost him the priesthood. That’s what the sacrificial knife had meant in his dream. He could never be a priest, never stand before the Almighty One and serve Him knowing that his own wife worshiped idols.

  Chapter

  33

  Yael grabbed the front of her father’s robe as she pleaded with him. “Abba, no! Please don’t make me marry Zaki! I don’t love him, I love Rafi!”

  “It’s done, Yael. I told Zabad I was sorry, but you were already spoken for, that you’ve known Zechariah your entire life. I showed him the betrothal agreement. He understands that it’s a father’s right to decide for his daughter.”

  “Was Rafi there? He would have fought for me, I know he would have.”

  “No, Rafi wasn’t there. He had nothing to do with this proposal. In his village, the fathers arrange these matters.”

  The walls of the tiny room seemed to close in on Yael. Abba stood in front of the door, leaving no escape. How could this be happening? “Please don’t do this to me, Abba! Please!”

  “I’m sorry, Yael, but I honestly believe that this is what’s best for you. Zechariah is a good man, and he’ll treat you well. I can’t say the same for Zabad’s son. The Samaritans aren’t like us, especially the way they treat women. How can I allow my only daughter to marry a man who sees nothing wrong with polygamy or with marrying a twelve-year-old child?”

  “Rafi would never do that. He loves me.”

  “I know the men in his village, Yael. It’s a sign of prestige to have more than one wife—and several concubines, too.”

  She clutched the front of Abba’s robe tighter, trying to shake sense into him, but he was unmovable. “Abba, please don’t do this!”

  “It’s done.”

  She remained in her room the rest of the day, refusing to speak to anyone, even Hodaya. She would figure out a way to be with Rafi. She would! Everyone watched her closely, making sure she didn’t run away. Abba slept right outside her door that night, blocking her path. But just before dawn, when everyone slept, she managed to pry off the wooden shutters and squeeze through the tiny window in her room. She knew the way to her father’s farm, even in the dark, and she waited there until it was light enough to walk to Rafi’s village. Yael had promised him that she wouldn’t walk across the valley all alone, but she had to. From now on they would be together.

  Rafi wasn’t sitting outside with the village elders as she had hoped. Yael lifted her chin, intending to walk past them without speaking but one of the young men who attended the elders stopped her. “What is your business in our village?” he asked. The way he and the others looked at her made her shiver, as if undressing her with their eyes. Jewish men would never gaze at a woman so directly, so disrespectfully.

  “You know me,” she told them. “I’ve been coming here with my father for years to visit with Leyla.”

  “Leyla no longer lives here.”

  “I know. But her family does.” She turned and strode past them into the village, hoping they wouldn’t stop her. Rafi said that her fearlessness had surprised him, and it must have surprised the elders, too, because they let her go. She hurried toward Rafi’s house, her progress slowed by all the village women who rushed forward to greet her, touching her and begging her to stop and give them advice from the stars. “I-I’m sorry but I didn’t bring my charts with me . . . maybe another time . . .” They followed her all the way to Rafi’s house as if worshiping her.

  Zabad’s wives were working outside in the courtyard, their children playing in the dirt when Yael entered the family compound. They all looked up at her, then quickly looked away again as if afraid. She strode over to Raisa, who stood at the loom, working the shuttle through the threads, and said, “Good morning, Raisa. Is Rafi here?” When she didn’t reply, Yael took the shuttle from her, halting her weaving. “Raisa, I helped save your life when your first baby was born, remember? Please. Send a message to Rafi that I’m here. That I need to speak with him.” The women had all stopped working and even the children were still. Everyone seemed to hold their breath as they waited, watching her. Finally, Raisa summoned one of her sons.

  “Go ask your brother Rafi to come here.”

  His brother. Yael felt the shock all over again at the reminder that this woman, ten years younger than Rafi, was his stepmother.

  At last Rafi strode out into the courtyard. Yael had to resist the urge to run into his arms. She saw love in his eyes when he first saw her, then a look of pain. Then anger replaced all of his other emotions. “What are you doing here, Yael? You shouldn’t have come!” Before she could reply, he glanced around at all the women and children who watched and listened, and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Leave us!” The courtyard emptied.

  “Rafi, I love you. I came so we could run away together. Remember what you told me about claiming a wife? That if I was all alone it meant that—”

  “No!” The anger in his eyes intensified. “No, Yael. That would bring shame on my family. My father is the village leader. Men of our standing pay a dowry for a suitable bride. They don’t marry a sotah who throws herself at a man. And they don’t steal a woman who is already betrothed.”

  “My betrothal is a sham.”

  “It doesn’t matter. If I took
you, you would become my concubine, not my wife. I need to marry a wife first. My heir can never come from a concubine.”

  “Do you love me, Rafi?”

  For a moment his eyes glistened with unshed tears. “With all my soul,” he said quietly. Then his face turned hard again. “Go home, Yael. Marry your Jewish friend.”

  “But you and I are free people. If you love me and I love you, we can defy our fathers. No one can stop us from being together.”

  “I would never defy my father. It would cost me my inheritance.”

  “Not even to marry me?”

  He hesitated for a very long moment. “No. Not even for you.”

  Yael turned and fled—out of the compound, through the village streets toward home. Rafi didn’t follow her. She felt real terror as she ran past the elders and the knot of young men surrounding them, remembering how they had looked at her, remembering Rafi’s warning. Yael could barely breathe, barely see through her tears as she raced across the narrow valley, her legs pumping as fast as she could go. When she finally dared to look over her shoulder, she was horrified to see that three of the young men from the village were following her.

  “Oh, God, no . . . please!”

  Their steps were unhurried. They would easily catch her once she tired. She couldn’t possibly make it all the way up the hill to Jerusalem, to safety. Even if she made it to her father’s farm, Abba wasn’t there to protect her. No one was. She heard the men’s laughter behind her as they came closer.

  “Oh, God, please help me!” She had no idea who she was pleading with.

  She was nearly to her father’s house when she saw a man burst out of Abba’s front door, running toward her. “No!” she screamed. One of them must have left the village ahead of her, and now she was trapped. She veered away from the man, no longer knowing which way to run.

  “Yael!” She heard the man calling to her. “Yael, wait!” She looked over her shoulder and saw through her tears that it was Zechariah. “Yael, run this way! Run to me!”

  She did what he said, whirling around and staggering toward him as he closed the gap between them, falling into his arms. “You’re safe now,” he soothed. “I won’t let them hurt you.” But there were three Samaritans, and Zaki was outnumbered. She clung tightly to him, trembling with fear, as the men came within a dozen yards of them and halted.

  “Yael is my wife,” Zaki told them. “We’re betrothed. Even you aren’t low enough to rape a man’s wife right in front of him, are you?” He turned Yael around, turned his own back on the men, and slowly walked with her the rest of the way to her father’s house, still holding her tightly. He never looked over his shoulder.

  When they reached the house, Yael stumbled inside and sank down on the floor, weeping. Zaki stood in the open doorway, gazing out, saying nothing. A long time later, she finally dried her eyes.

  “You followed me,” she said softly. “Why?”

  “To save your life. It’s what I’ve been trying to do all these years. That’s why I’ve kept your secret for so long, so no one would know about your sorcery.”

  She couldn’t comprehend it. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He looked at her for a long moment, then came to crouch beside her. “Are you all right?”

  “I begged Rafi to run away with me, but . . .” A long, slow tear traveled down her cheek. She brushed it away. “He refused. He cares more about his inheritance than he does about me. He could have defied his father if he really loved me.”

  Zaki exhaled. “I’m so sorry, Yael. I don’t know what else to say.”

  “We’d better go home. Everyone will be worried.” She stood and they left her father’s house to walk up the road to Jerusalem. She would do what Abba wanted and marry Zechariah.

  Rafi didn’t love her.

  Chapter

  34

  Dozens of people filled the courtyard of Zechariah’s house for his wedding—priests and Levites, his fellow Torah students, people who had made the long journey with him and Yael from Babylon. There was lively music and joyful dancing and a feast of food and wine, yet Yael’s father looked worried and Zechariah’s grandparents looked unhappy. Zechariah had misgivings himself, wondering if Rafi and his gang of ruffians would burst into their home to disrupt the celebration and steal Yael away. But the day passed peacefully. Rafi didn’t come. Zechariah sat close enough to Yael to see the sorrow and pain on her face beneath her veil.

  Late in the evening, he escorted her to their bridal suite—a new room added onto their house just for them. His chest ached as he closed the door behind them and set the oil lamp in its niche on the wall. Yael yanked off her veil and unpinned her hair. She was such a beautiful woman. No wonder the Samaritan had wanted her. But instead of moving toward her, Zechariah crossed to the other side of the room and sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall. “What are you waiting for?” she asked. “Just go ahead and get it over with.”

  He shook his head. “I know you don’t love me. In fact, you probably resent me for taking Rafi’s place. It’s supposed to be an act of love,” he said, gesturing to their marriage bed. “Not a conquest.”

  “An act of love?” she repeated, and he heard the scorn in her voice. “Do you love me, Zaki?”

  “I’ve always loved you. Ever since we were children. I love your spirit, your sense of adventure, your zeal for life, and I didn’t want the Samaritans to destroy all those things. And they would have, you know. That’s why I asked your father for your hand.”

  Yael stared at him for a moment, her defiant expression still in place. Then she closed her eyes, and he saw her defiance transform into grief as she sank down on their bed. “I loved Rafi . . . I really did.” Her tears began to fall. Zaki longed to go to her and comfort her, but he stayed where he was.

  “I believe you. But a few years from now, after the passion faded, your life with the Samaritans would have become a living hell. And you could never undo it or change your mind and come home. I know you don’t see it right now, but I rescued you from a terrible life.” She didn’t look at him, didn’t reply. “If you don’t want to be married to me, if you still want to run away, I won’t stop you.”

  Yael finally stopped crying. She wiped her tears and lifted her chin to look at him. “They’re waiting for us to show them the sheets, the proof. No one believes that I’m a virgin. They think Rafi and I have already been together, but it isn’t true.”

  “I believe you. But I won’t seal our marriage until you’re ready.”

  “Until I’m ready? You’re my husband. Doesn’t the Torah give you the right to rule over me? Why aren’t you claiming your rights?”

  “Because I’m guessing that the only way you can endure our marriage bed is by pretending that I’m Rafi. And I want you to be glad that I’m your husband. I hope you’ll love me someday. In the meantime, I saved a little bit of blood from one of the goats we slaughtered for the wedding feast. We’ll put it on the sheets to fool them.”

  Yael lowered her face into her hands, weeping again. Her grief broke Zechariah’s heart. He stood and went to sit beside her on the bed, wrapping his arms around her, comforting her the way he had after her mother died when they were children.

  “Without love, we won’t have a true marriage,” he told her. “I see my grandparents, the love they share, and I want the same thing. Safta is devoted to Saba. And he couldn’t survive without her. I know their marriage hasn’t always been perfect, yet they stay together, work together, through the good years and the bad.” He waited until Yael stopped crying, then stood again, pulling one of the coverings from the bed. He carried it back to his place in the corner and removed his outer robe. “I’ll give you time to decide what you want to do, Yael. We’re not married until you decide that we are.” Then he lay down on the floor to try to sleep, exhausted from the strain of this long, emotional day.

  With the lamp still lit, he watched Yael’s shadow on the wall as she rose from the bed and crouched beside the bags that
held all her belongings. Safta had moved Yael’s things into their room earlier in the day, but now Zechariah was certain that Yael would gather them up and leave. Instead, he heard a rustling sound, and when he sat up on one elbow, he saw her sitting on the floor, bending over an open scroll. “What is that? What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I need to see what the stars say about my future . . . I don’t know how else to decide what to do.”

  He lay down again, disgusted. There was no point in telling her that the Torah forbade it—much less in a priest’s house. Yael knew. He had told her many times before. Saba had warned him that he shouldn’t marry her, that she still had idolatry in her heart, and here was the proof. He would resign from the priesthood as soon as his marriage week ended. He sighed and closed his eyes. “Good night, Yael.”

  Yael bent over her star charts, searching for answers. She’d seen things so clearly when she’d studied the charts in the past, but tonight she couldn’t make sense of all the signs. They seemed to contradict each other. Maybe she was too close to the situation to read them clearly. After all, these were her stars, her future. Maybe what she wanted them to say was getting confused with what they really did say. But Leyla’s grandmother was dead, and Yael didn’t know anyone else who could help her interpret them.

  Frustrated, she left the lamp burning in the room and went outside to the courtyard. Maybe if she looked up at the real heavens, the answer would become clear to her. The cool night was beautiful, the sky sparkling and cloudless as if scrubbed clean, the moon so bright she could read her star charts without an oil lamp. More and more stars appeared as Yael gazed up, as if coming out of hiding to talk to her. And sweeping across the center of the sky was a sparkling white river of stars.

  The heavenly bodies all said that the love she shared with Rafi was real. They had predicted a happy life together, forever. But the stars had been wrong, just as they’d been wrong about Leyla’s marriage. How could she have been so mistaken? What was she doing wrong? Why wouldn’t they give her guidance? Her future seemed unknowable.