She blinked and looked away quickly—he’d been staring. He swept his arm through the entryway. “Come in.”
As she stepped through the gate, a soft scent of mint tickled his nose. He closed his eyes and breathed it in. He’d been around sheep for far too long. He replaced the stick and caught up to her.
They hiked through the lush pasture. He pointed to a young man. “That’s Micah.” Then he spread his arms and turned in a circle. “And these are my sheep.”
Arisha's eyes widened as she scanned the animals surrounding her. Most lay on the soft grass. A few wandered toward the spring for water. Shika trotted near and bumped against her leg. Zadok braced for her to squeal or pull back, but she knelt to touch its fur. The lamb nuzzled her face.
Zadok crouched beside her. “This is Shika. Short for Neshika, because she loves to give kisses. I’ll move her.”
He started to rise, but Arisha put her hand on his arm. “No, it’s all right. I like her.”
Zadok’s heartbeat doubled. She was smiling, not running away, not making disgusted faces.
“They’re all yours?”
“Actually, most of them belong to the priests. Only a few are mine.”
Arisha petted Shika a few moments longer, then stood. She looked at the lambs lying on the grass, her brows furrowed. “What’s that sound? It sounds like one of your sheep is hurt.”
He tilted his had to listen. “No, that’s one of the ewes getting ready to give birth.”
“Why is she making that noise?”
“She’s calling to her lamb.”
“One of her older lambs?”
“No, the one being born. A ewe will call to her lamb as she is giving birth and after, so he learns the sound of her voice. Even in a flock as big as this one, or bigger, a newborn can always find his imma by sound sooner than by sight.”
Arisha grew quiet. Were those tears in her eyes?
He held out his hand. “Come, I want to show you something.” She slipped hers into his, and he folded his fingers around hers.
Nearby, one blanket lay on the ground, and another was held up by four tall sticks. Several bowls or baskets lay on the blanket covered by cloths. A couple wet skins hung from one of the sticks.
“I brought some food out here before I came to get you, and made us a shelter from the sun so we could stay a while.” He didn’t tell her he doubted they’d actually use it.
Her jaw dropped, and she stopped walking. She stared at the blanket.
“Is something wrong?”
She shook her head. “No. Nothing’s wrong.” She turned to him and managed a feeble smile.
“Come.” He pulled her forward.
A yearling lay on the blanket. Zadok scooped up the baby in his arms, rubbed its head. “What are you doing here, Sarah? This blanket is not for you.” The lamb baaaed at him. He stroked her neck. “No, I'm sorry. Not today.” He set her on the ground and turned to Arisha.
“Not today what?”
“She wanted to stay. I told her today was just for you.” He grinned.
Her cheeks flamed, and she tried to hide her face as she lowered herself to the blanket. She tucked her feet to the side, arranging her tunic to cover her legs. “Do you name all your sheep?”
“Yes. Usually just regular names. So far this year Hannah, Sharon, Rachel, Leah, Reuben—my watchman wasn’t too sure about that one—and Michael have been born.” He uncovered the bowls. One had manna cakes, another had dates, a third—the smallest—had some date honey. Two cups lay next to the bowls.
She raised a brow. “You named one after your watchman?”
He chuckled. “Not really. I just pick names I like.” He popped a date in his mouth. “Maybe I should name one Arisha.”
Her mouth fell open. “You wouldn’t!”
“I like your name.”
“But it’s my name.” She placed her hand on her chest.
“All right. I’ll let you keep it. For now.” He gave her a cup, and stood to retrieve the skins, hung wet to keep cool by evaporation. He sat again—this time closer to her, and poured her a cup of milk, then one for himself.
“You really like being a shepherd, don’t you?”
“I do. I love taking care of them. And sheep need a lot of care. They have no way to protect themselves, they wander off, they would follow one another literally off a cliff. Here, in this oasis under Yahweh’s cloud, with springs that constantly bubble clear water, the grass never withers for them just like the manna falls for us every day. But otherwise, they would stay in one spot and eat down to the dirt and die of starvation.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I am. They’re not very bright. They won’t cross even a tiny stream. But I love them. And they will follow me anywhere.”
He set the bowl of dates closer to her. “Now, want to tell me what upset you back there?”
“It was the ewe, calling to her lamb.”
“Why did that bother you?”
She sucked in a shuddering breath and pointed to Sarah, lying nearby. “Because, this not-very-bright sheep, as you call it, knows its imma’s voice, but I don’t know mine.”
She closed her eyes.
Why couldn’t she just keep her mouth shut?
Zadok didn’t speak for a long moment.
Now I've done it. Now he won’t want me either.
He hooked his finger under her chin and lifted her head to face him. His eyes were dark brown, but soft. They seemed to look all the way into her heart. “You don’t remember the sound of your mother’s voice?”
“No. I don’t know it. I wouldn’t know it if she were standing here. I left my home when I was about four years old.”
“Why did you leave?”
Looking down at the blanket, she picked up a date, rolled it back and forth between her finger and thumb. “I didn’t exactly leave. She sold me. As a servant. Then that family sold me. Then at the last house, the master took me to the temple and left me there. They gave him some silver and he just…left.”
“Arisha, I'm so sorry,” he whispered.
She jerked her head up to catch his gaze. His face was hard to read. His eyes were full of … not guilt. He hadn’t done anything wrong. It was the look she’d seen in Miriam’s eyes when she’d found her at the spring. Compassion, kindness. But at a deeper level.
“So that’s when you went to the spring?” He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His touch made her shiver. “Are you cold?” He grabbed her cloak and settled it around her shoulders.
“Thank you.” How could she tell him it wasn’t the air that made her shudder? Now what was she saying? “No, I stayed there a few more years until… Miriam told you about the rites?”
He nodded.
“That’s when I left. I went to the wazir. He’s the one who taught me about Yahweh. He went to one of the traders he knew, who also worshipped Yahweh, and asked him to bring me as far south as they could, as close to the Israelite camp as they could, before they headed toward Egypt. He trusted him, but he also warned him they would never be allowed to trade in Arad again if he ever heard anything happened to me.”
“So you rode here with the traders?”
“We got pretty close in the caravan. Then I walked for about half a day until I reached the spring. I figured out what manna was and gathered some before anyone else was awake or came to fill their water skins. Slept in the heat of the day under the broom bushes. I don’t know how Miriam found me.”
He tilted his head. “Yahweh showed you to her.”
No. Yahweh would not care for someone like her. Not for the enemy of His people. “Why would He do that?”
He sat back. “What do you think would have happened if you had stayed at the spring alone?”
“I don’t know. I never thought about it.”
He held up three fingers. “I think one of three things.” He folded down his fingers one at a time as he spoke. “You would have died. You would have been found by a less than hon
orable man. You would have been found by a wonderful family who would raise you as their daughter and find a suitable husband for you. Which do you think is the most likely?”
She scoffed. “Not the last.”
“Why? I think you probably had as good a chance at that one as the others.”
“Still one out of three.”
He nodded. “True.” He took her hand in his. “But Yahweh had a better plan.”
“Miriam?”
The smile that took over his face sent a frisson of heat throughout her body. She struggled to keep her mind on the conversation at hand. “Miriam says you’re part of the plan.”
“Whatever His plan, you are safe now. And He will keep you safe.” He removed his hand and leaned back on his palms.
She immediately missed the warmth of his touch. Maybe Miriam was right.
She was beginning to hope so.
“I think we should go back. The sun is starting to set. I don’t want Miriam to worry, or give anyone reason to talk.” He grinned. “But Micah’s been here as a chaperone.”
She glanced over his shoulder at the boy ambling among the sheep as she gathered the bowls and cups.
“Besides, I have to get back here for night duty.”
“Do you sleep out here every night?”
“Until the last couple weeks, I was out here pretty much every day and every night.”
Her hand stopped in mid-air. “Why would you do that?”
He took a deep breath. “That story will have to wait for another day.”
They folded the blankets and headed for camp. Zadok held her hand until they neared the tents.
At Miriam’s, she simply nodded to him and slipped inside. Thank Yahweh Miriam was outside, so she didn’t have to explain the smile on her face.
“Zadok, wait a moment, will you please?”
He halted and spun around. “Yes?”
“Have you given any more thought to my question?”
He couldn’t stop the grin. “I no longer find it objectionable, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Good. Then we can set the ceremony for … next week?”
“Ne- next week?” So many thoughts racing through his head … He felt dizzy. “Isn’t that a little fast? I'm not sure she’s ready yet.” There had to be another way.
Miriam rolled her eyes. “Zadok, I am dying.”
He shifted. “So you’ve said.” Did she have to keep saying that? He didn’t want to hear it.
She waved her hand. “No, I mean very soon. A week or two at the most. I know Arisha will insist on being with me to the last. You know that means seven days outside of camp. And I don’t want her to have to return to this empty tent when it is over. I want her to have someone to comfort her, hold her.”
Zadok rubbed the tip of his thumb over his lip and stared over her head at the mountains to the north for a few moments. “Here is what I will do. I will ask her. If she will not marry me, there is nothing I can do. If she will marry me now, so be it. If she agrees to marry me, but not yet, she can move into my family’s tent when she returns. That’s where we would live, and I’ve been sleeping in the pasture, anyway. She would not be alone. I could be with her during the day, and my mother would be there if she awakens in the night until she wishes to wed. Does that meet with your approval?”
Miriam grinned. “No need to worry. From the look on her face just now, she’ll marry you.”
Four
22nd day of Adar
ARISHA GRABBED THE water skins and set off for the spring, the biggest one northeast of camp, where abundant songbirds made their homes in the broom bushes and in the tops of the date palms. Occasionally a blue-headed agama lizard or spiny mouse skittered away when she buried her feet in the sand.
The late afternoon sun shined on her back—not so hot as to be uncomfortable, just enough to give her a pleasant sense of warmth. After spending most of her life inside as a servant, she loved being outside. Close to the water, the laughing call of doves caught her attention. In a nest in the same broom bush where she’d seen them last month, the male now sat on two white eggs. The father warmed the eggs!
Glancing around for the female, Arisha spotted her under a nearby bush pecking at the ground for seeds. She stepped closer to inspect the eggs, but the male raised up on his tiny feet, straining his neck and puffing up his chest. The mother darted out from under the bush dragging a wing as if she were injured, hopping away from the nest, trying to draw Arisha away from her babies.
Such care for their little ones—it was fascinating. Was this how it was supposed to be? How would she know? She’d lived with her masters, the priestesses, Miriam—never a real family. That she remembered, anyway.
She knelt at the spring and sank a skin under the water. The gurgling bubbles—fast and loud at first, slowing until the skin filled—soothed her frazzled mind. She repeated the process with each of the other four, then gathered them up and plodded toward her tent.
Moses and Aaron were expected tonight. They met once a week, taking turns at each other’s tents. Miriam said they’d done it ever since they left Egypt, discussing the camp, the elders, plans—anything regarding Israel. She also told her they mostly did it because Moses enjoyed spending time with the siblings he’d lived eighty years without.
For the last few weeks, the brothers had come to Miriam’s tent so she didn’t have to walk so far.
Aaron’s wife Elisheba sat by the fire chatting with Miriam as Arisha neared. Arisha slowed, almost turned back. Too late. Elisheba had seen her. She generally remained in the tent as Miriam chatted with her brothers, and whenever visitors came around.
Elisheba jumped up. “Arisha, it’s so good to see you. You’re always away whenever I come by.”
Not away, actually, just inside, where it was safe. But Elisheba didn’t need to know that. It would look like Arisha avoided her specifically, and that was not true.
Elisheba put her hand on Arisha's face. “Aren’t you pretty? Aaron has mentioned you many times, and I see he does not exaggerate your beauty. I know you’ve brought Miriam much joy. Anyway, I’ve brought the manna for Aaron and Moses. He looks forward to these nights so very much. Almost as much as Moses.”
She laughed as she set the pot in front of Miriam—didn’t she didn’t realize Miriam was too weak to cook? Before Arisha could escape, Elisheba wrapped her in a tight embrace. Arisha stiffened as the hug squeezed the breath from her body. When Elisheba released her, Arisha she forced a smile, and tried to make her arms and legs move again. Elisheba knelt and hugged Miriam before she left.
Arisha set the skins by the fire and reached for the manna. “I guess she doesn’t know you’re no longer cooking.”
Miriam looked up. “Of course she does. She didn’t want to embarrass me by handing it to you.”
Arisha's cheeks warmed—she should have realized Elisheba would be sensitive to Miriam’s plight. She stirred the embers in the fire pit into a flame and dumped all the manna, including hers and Miriam’s, into a large pottery bowl. When the water was warm, she poured enough into the manna to make a soft dough, and formed it into cakes, which she placed on a wide pan to brown. She had just placed the hot, golden cakes onto a serving platter and risen to retreat into the tent when Moses and Aaron approached the fire.
“Good evening, daughter. Isn’t this a lovely evening?” Aaron’s deep voice always startled her, even when he stood right before her. But this time she hadn’t been paying attention, and now she was trapped, between Miriam and her brother.
She glanced up into his kind face, but said nothing. Why was he so frightening? He’d never said a cross word to her.
“Thank you for looking after Miriam.”
She nodded.
Moses stepped near. “Won’t you join us this evening?”
Her throat closed—what would she say to them? No, she was better off in the tent. She backed up and shook her head, then escaped into the tent, closing the flaps behind her.
&nbs
p; Danel drew in the rain-cleansed air before he yanked the wooden shutters tight against the spring rains.
The king threw open the door and stomped in. “Can’t you leave even one window open? It’s not raining that hard yet.”
Danel took a slow breath and turned to face his ruler. “Of course I can, but then the floor will be wet in the morning. You know the wind usually picks up at night and blows the rain inside. Which would you prefer: to hear the rain, or a dry floor?”
Keret growled, but gestured at the windows.
A servant lit the three large oil lamps waiting on the shelf in the corner and then placed them around the enormous room, saving the largest for the table by the oversized cedar bed. After pulling a thick blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed and spreading it out, he bowed and exited.
“Would you like some water or something to eat before I leave you for the night?”
“No, I'm not hungry.” He stalked to the wall and placed his palm against a shuttered window. He stared at his hand a moment. “What do you suppose they’re doing out there tonight?” His voice was low, almost as if he were talking to himself.
“The same thing they’ve been doing for the last thirty-nine years.”
He stood silently a moment longer, then spun and waved a hand at Danel. “That is all.”
“Have a pleasant night, then.” He bowed and slipped from the room. A guard stood on either side of the door instead of the customary single man, a spear in hand and dagger strapped to his hip. They nodded to him as he shut the door, then he strode down the hallway.
His legs felt like weights, and he longed to go home to his wife and grandchildren, but he needed to see Aqhat. He trudged down the stairs, then the long hall to his friend’s office and closed the heavy wooden door, checking twice to ensure it was locked behind him. The thick cedar blocked out sounds from the hall, and kept their conversations private, but did little to keep out the tantalizing smells from the kitchen a few doors down.
Soup that would simmer slowly all night made his mouth water. How could Aqhat possibly get any work done in this office? How many evenings, long ago, had Danel sat in that same kitchen watching his mother? She would cut up vegetables and meat leftover from the evening meal, dropping it all into a huge cauldron of water before setting it over a low flame.
The Walls of Arad (Journey to Canaan Book 3) Page 4
