Deborah Calling

by Avraham Azrieli

  Resisting the urge to glance again at Petro, Deborah took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. Did Petro believe that she was Borah, a boy slave, or did he know that One Eye had been right? Was Petro her defender, or did he pose a new and bigger risk? There was no way to know for sure, but she had to believe that he’d meant what he said earlier to Kassite: “I had to protect Borah. You put him in my group.”

  She recalled with a pang of fear the way Petro had drowned One Eye in the river without hesitation. Would he not kill her the same way if Kassite changed his mind and pointed his thumb down behind her back?

  Curled up in a fetal position, Deborah hugged her knees to her chest and fought off a tremor. She missed her few belongings, especially her father’s fire-starters, which she liked to hold, one stone in each hand. In the tannery, however, Kassite allowed the slaves no personal possessions. The sack that held her meager belongings had remained at his house. The men around her snored, grunted, and passed wind, each sound reminding her of the mortal danger another exposure of her gender would bring. Unable to resist, she glanced back over her shoulder. Petro’s eyes were shut. He was no longer watching.

  The tremor returned. It swelled into outright shaking. Her teeth began to chatter.

  Anger rose inside her. Why was she wasting precious sleeping time on foolish doubts and fears? How could she survive the hard labor in the tannery without rest? None of the men around her would spend a single moment on self-pity at the expense of sleeping—that’s something she should imitate!

  Deborah pushed the memory of One Eye’s attack and his floating dead body out of her mind. She imagined the eagle flying above the clouds through a clear blue sky. Her shaking declined, her breathing slowed down, and her eyes closed.

  Chapter 2

  From high above, the town of Emanuel seemed small, a hillside village encircled by stone walls. It grew larger as they descended in circles through the clear sky. Deborah held on to the white feathers on the eagle’s neck and squinted in the rushing wind. Below, a crowd gathered near the gates of the town, across the road from the fairgrounds. Everything looked different from this vantage point, but Deborah recognized the event with a jolt of sorrow. It was the trial of her sister, Tamar, whose thick locks of orange hair glistened in the sun as she slipped, feet first, into the Pit of Shame in preparation for the stoning. Deborah saw herself below, sitting with the other maidens of Emanuel in a large circle around the Pit of Shame, forced to watch the execution of a young wife convicted of whoring—only because on her wedding night her bedcloth had shown no bloodstains.

  Judge Zifron of Ephraim, the ruler of Emanuel, sat on the platform across from the elders, who had declared the guilty verdict. Next to the judge stood the priest, Obadiah of Levi, in his white robe and bejeweled breastplate. The judge’s son and heir, Seesya, who had accused his new wife, stood at the head of a queue of men by the pile of stones, ready to throw the first one.

  Deborah looked at her hand, clutching the eagle’s feathers, and saw the ring that Seesya had pulled off Tamar’s finger and put on hers, betrothing her to be his next wife after her sister’s death. She shut her eyes, refusing to watch the horror of Tamar’s stoning again. Bending to rest her cheek against the eagle’s neck, she wished it to fly away.

  When Deborah opened her eyes, the sun was gone. A crescent moon and countless stars illuminated the night. The eagle descended to a solitary palm tree, reached down with its talons, and clutched the thick fronds. She recognized her family’s one-room house, which had been neglected since her parents’ murders the year before. The surrounding fields and orchards were cultivated, because Palm Homestead was now in the hands of the house of Zifron through Seesya’s marriages to Tamar and Deborah.

  “It’s all a big lie,” Deborah said to the eagle. “Seesya is not entitled to our inheritance.”

  Tilting its head, the eagle seemed to question her statement.

  “He failed to consummate the marriage,” she said. “He didn’t possess either of us in his bed. My poor sister—of course she didn’t bleed. And then, based on his false accusation, they stoned her. But on my wedding night, I tricked him with cow’s blood and saved myself from Tamar’s fate. He got so mad that, later in the night, he tried to kill me with his own hands.”

  The palm tree swayed under them.

  “And this tree you’re holding on to,” Deborah continued, “it bears my name.”

  The eagle’s head perked up.

  “It’s true,” she said. “My father named it Deborah’s Palm after he had seen me in a dream sitting under this tree and delivering Yahweh’s message to the Hebrews. I’ll be God’s prophet, like Moses and Joshua.”

  The eagle shifted position at the edge of the fronds, which bent under the weight.

  Looking down, she recognized herself again, standing in the dark with her friend Barac and his father, Abinoam. They had fled Emanuel in the middle of the execution when Barac’s refusal to cast a stone at Tamar drew Seesya’s ire.

  Deborah was too far up to hear their conversation, but she remembered it clearly. Barac was telling her the story of a mythical Elixirist, who had turned the women of Edom into men to take their dead husbands’ places and drive away an Egyptian army. That’s when she had realized how she could free herself from Seesya: find the Elixirist and convince him to help her transform into a man. Then she would return to Emanuel and fight to win back Palm Homestead.

  The eagle took off into the night, which quickly became day, followed by another night. Deborah saw herself standing near the communal burial cave with Obadiah, whose priestly white robe stood out in the darkness. He had just smuggled her out through the town gates, hidden in his cart under a corpse. As she prepared to leave on her quest to find the Elixirist, Obadiah held his hands above her head, fingers parted in pairs, and recited the priestly blessing.

  Riding the eagle, she watched herself, a lonely figure on the road below, as she walked through the night, took refuge when the sun came up, and was awakened by a caravan of Moabite traders, followed by Seesya’s soldiers, who were soon hit by deadly arrows from the bow of Zariz, a Moabite boy.

  Deborah watched the two of them riding together on Zariz’s horse. He taught her how to control the reins and shoot arrows, and she drilled him in throwing stones at targets while blindfolded. Deborah smiled at the sight of them laughing carelessly, but then she remembered the derisive Edomite proverb he’d quoted: “Beware of the Hebrews, for their tongue is oily and their sword is invisible.”

  It was night again when Deborah saw herself collapse on the road near Shiloh, despairing at the futility of her quest. As the eagle flapped its wings, hovering in place, Deborah remembered how she had felt that night, a helpless girl, alone in the world, without hope. She reached down from the eagle’s back to pat the girl’s shoulder and tell her that Obadiah’s blessing would come true, that Yahweh would help her find the Elixirist, who would agree to give her the Male Elixir and direct her through the long process of transforming into a man. Her hand almost touched the girl’s shoulder when a bell rang loudly and she woke up.

  Chapter 3

  Kassite was ringing a bell that hung from the edge of the pavilion roof. Sunrise painted the sky a pale red. Deborah was wedged between the slaves, some still snoring, others beginning to move about. She tried to get up, but a muscle cramp in her back made her groan and lie back down. Breathing deeply as the pain eased, she remembered last night’s events and looked around for Petro. He was already up.

  Her bandaged feet burned when she put weight on them, but not as badly as the night before. She removed the bandages from her hands and examined them in the daylight. The ointment had soaked in, the purple color had softened, and new skin had begun to emerge. Following the example of the other slaves, she folded her straw mat and added it to the pile at the end of the pavilion. She passed near Kassite, who was sitting in his chair, his wide-brimmed hat shading his face, his eyes on the piece of parchment he was holding.

  Th
e queue of waiting slaves at the latrines dissuaded her from even trying. She joined Petro and his group, which now numbered only seven slaves, at the storage area. The men picked up hammers and started pounding on chunks of limestone, which crumbled into small pieces and powder. Deborah imitated the way they used the hammers, the sound of their grunting, and the manner of their spitting when dust filled their mouths.

  The crushed limestone was collected in a wooden bucket. Every time the bucket was filled, one of the slaves went to empty it over the hides in the row of five tubs she had filled yesterday with clear river water.

  Her confidence grew, but so did her physical discomfort. The blisters reopened, setting her hands on fire. The muscles in her arms, shoulders, and back ached badly. She gritted her teeth and kept working.

  Finally, Kassite rang the bell for the morning meal, and she put down her hammer with a sigh of relief.

  After the meal, Petro checked her hands and gave her olive oil to rub on the blisters. He sent the others to continue pulverizing the limestone rocks and took her over to the tubs. He gave her oversized leather boots and told her to walk over the skins. Her weight pushed the skins deeper into the tubs, churned the water, and mixed in the limestone powder.

  It was an easy task for the first hour, but the heat of the day, the odorous fumes from the human waste in some of the other tubs, and the swirling flies gradually brought Deborah near collapse. She kept reminding herself of the Male Elixir, which had coursed through her veins since the previous evening. The road to achieving her goal passed through this hard labor. The pain meant that her body was getting stronger and building up resilience—the first phase of her transformation.

  The midday meal provided a much-needed respite, and Kassite’s nod of approval injected Deborah with new energy. She returned to walking back and forth on the skins in the tubs, mixing in the limestone. A layer of clouds gathered above, hiding the hot sun, and a pleasant breeze came in from the river. She stomped the skins and watched her surroundings with keen curiosity.

  The tannery was like a beehive, with the slaves hard at work on various tasks. No one stood idly. In the early afternoon, three oxcarts arrived from the direction of Aphek, piled high with fresh skins. Several groups of slaves left their work and went to help the oxcart drivers unload the skins. Kassite counted and wrote down numbers. When the oxcarts were empty, the drivers followed Kassite over to the curtained pavilions, where a group of women brought out finished leather products.

  In addition to leather hides, Deborah saw coats, belts, and sandals, as well as horse harnesses and straps of various sizes. There were shields made of brown leather pinned onto wood, body armor pieces for the chest, back, and hips, quivers for arrows, sheaths for swords and knives, as well as the knee-high boots favored by soldiers. Everything was tied onto the oxcarts with ropes.

  When the oxcarts rolled out through the gate and up the path to the main road, Deborah saw Kassite follow them on a horse. At the top of the path, he paused, turned the horse around, and surveyed the tannery from above. She thought his gaze lingered on her briefly, but it was hard to tell. With his dark coat and leather boots, mounted on a handsome horse, Kassite looked like a prosperous free man on his way to conduct business. The sight puzzled her. Wasn’t his owner worried that Kassite might escape?

  Deborah continued to step on the hides, pushing them underwater again and again. The churning water reminded her of One Eye’s desperate struggle in the river and Petro’s blank expression as he held his fellow Philistine below the surface until death arrived. How was it possible for a man to kill another while remaining so calm, showing neither reluctance nor remorse? Could she ever do such a thing?

  Do not kill!

  Vowing silently never to violate Yahweh’s sixth commandment, Deborah raised her eyes from the tub to the sky above, pushed away the memory of last night’s killing, and thanked Him for watching over her.

  By sunset, when Deborah was near collapse, she saw Kassite return on his horse, followed by one oxcart, now loaded with sacks of wheat and barley, jars of olive oil, and baskets of fruit. The soldiers opened the gate, helped him dismount, and bowed to him as he went into the tannery. While a group of slaves hurried to unload the oxcart, Kassite limped over to the pavilion and rang the bell, announcing the evening meal.

  Chapter 4

  The next morning, the group began the process of scudding, which involved the removal of the remaining fur from the hides, now softened up by the lime solution. They stretched the hides over wooden planks and scraped them with dull knives. The fur came off slowly, each hide taking half a day to complete. The morning and midday meals came and went, and the work continued. With her blistered hands, lacerated feet, and cramped muscles, a fog of pain dulled Deborah’s mind. She worked mechanically, no longer thinking, until the day finally ended. After the evening meal, she went over to the small canopy past Kassite’s house. There were six cots, occupied by sick or injured slaves. One of the two Philistine women treated her hands and feet. They didn’t speak a word to her.

  The following day, Deborah continued to scrape fur off the hides. Her body ached and her eyes burned from the lime fumes.

  A cry of pain startled her.

  One of the slaves held up his forearm, which was bleeding. The knife he had been using rested on the cowhide, stained in red. He cried out again.

  Deborah dropped her knife and went to him. She reached for his wounded arm, but he turned away, shouting Philistine words she didn’t understand.

  Petro came over, grabbed the man’s arm, and pushed his hand away to look at the wound. It was a deep gash, bleeding profusely. Petro clasped the forearm with his calloused hand, covering the wound, and pulled the man up. Deborah held his other arm, and together they led him up the riverbank. The two women sprang into action. One of them fetched a bowl of water from the river while the other helped the injured man lie down on the ground. The women cleaned the wound, applied a thick paste from a jar, and wrapped the wounded arm in a cloth.

  Each succeeding day Deborah woke up with her body in pain, inside and out, from her feet to the top of her head, which the sun had burned right through the soft remnants of her hair. The aches in her muscles and joints were real and nearly intolerable, but the suffering helped her understand the words of Miriam, the leper woman who had saved her in Shiloh: “Pain is the real gift from Yahweh, for without pain, there is no life.” The pain saturating every part of her body meant that the Male Elixir was making her delicate bones sturdier and her muscles mightier. With every moment, this pain brought her closer to manhood, which for her was nothing short of the gift of life itself.

  At the same time, she found herself growing more content than she had felt at any time since the day of her parents’ murders the previous year. It was odd, because life at Judge Zifron’s house, where she and Tamar had lived as orphans, had been much more comfortable than life at the tannery, and the work at Zifron’s basket factory had been incomparably less arduous than the work she was doing here. Yet, despite the grueling work under the hot sun, the gory animal skins, and the grimy Philistine slaves, she felt whole again.

  At first, Deborah credited this positive feeling to the physical changes—her growing muscles, coarser hands, and prouder posture, as well as her inner resilience, which grew by the day. But as she constantly observed the men around her in order to imitate them, she also noticed that they, too, felt content despite the hard work, harsh conditions, and total servitude. It occurred to her that the strict routine, clear authority, and repetitive tasks had something to do with it. Life in the tannery was free of confusion, regulated by the ringing of the bell and the cycle of multiple steps of treatment that transformed gory animal skins into fine leather. Each slave and every group knew what to do and when to do it. There was no need for discussion or new orders. The strict separation between men and women—even talking was forbidden—removed any risk of conflicts in that realm. In addition, the full stomachs and restful nights dulled any re
sentment the slaves might have felt, considering that many free men and women had little to eat and slept fitfully in fear of violence at their isolated homesteads or small villages. As a result, rather than begrudge the total deprivation of personal freedom, the slaves seemed to accept their fate, obey the rules, and avoid conflict. Above all, they uniformly showed unwavering reverence for Kassite.

  Watching him for several days, Deborah gradually understood the reason. Kassite alone managed every aspect of life in the tannery. He rang the bell that regulated their lives, decided every detail of every stage of the work, assigned tasks to dozens of groups working simultaneously on large batches of hides in various stages of processing, and supervised the stitching, sewing, and fabricating of the final products by the women. Deborah also came to understand why Kassite required each slave, male and female, to bow before him after receiving each meal. By that simple gesture, they acknowledged him as the giver of their food and shelter—in essence, of their very lives.

  Shifting to the next task—bating—tested her resolve. Together with another slave, she pulled from each latrine a barrel filled with a festering mix of urine and feces, carried it to the row of tubs, and poured the content onto the hides. Once this was completed, and the skins in the five tubs were covered with feces, she and the others had to stomp on them for hours in order to knead the dung and urine into the fibers of the hides. According to Petro, the bating made them pliable and more absorbent for finishing and dyeing.

  Several times during that day, she bent over and vomited. The others laughed, patted her back, and told her that every new slave vomited during his first bating—a rite of passage that separated the novice from the veteran. Petro’s attention to her hands and feet at the beginning, she realized, had been part of a well-established practice of easing a new slave into the challenging work while avoiding major injury or illness, which would cause disability and loss of a laborer for a day, a week, or altogether. But her visceral disgust at human waste was nothing more than a comedic moment for the others, and by the end of that particularly distasteful day, it made her laugh as well.