Rachel

by Jill Eileen Smith

  Jacob searched each face before him. “Will you come?” When they both spoke at once, he felt a heavy weight lift from his chest.

  “Do we still have any share in the inheritance of our father’s estate?” Rachel asked, taking one of his hands.

  “Does he not regard us as foreigners?” Leah stepped forward and took the other. “Not only has he sold us, but he has used up our bride-price for his own gain, payment that belonged to us and to our children.” Bitterness tinged her voice, surprising him. He expected her loyalty to reside with Laban.

  “Surely all the wealth that God took away from our father belongs to us and our children,” Rachel added. Her own tone matched Leah’s, and he wondered how often the sisters had discussed the situation outside of his presence.

  “So do whatever God has told you,” they said in unison.

  Jacob pulled them close, holding both of them to him as he had never done before. “Thank you,” he whispered, kissing Rachel’s forehead, then Leah’s. “Begin packing things for the journey, but do not alert anyone in Laban’s household, not even your mother.” He looked at Leah. “Laban cannot know we are leaving.” He released his hold, and they stood before him again.

  “When will we leave?” Rachel tucked a strand of loose hair beneath her headscarf.

  “Your father departs at the end of the week for the far pastures to shear his sheep. We will go while he is away.”

  “So, a week?” Leah fidgeted with the sash at her waist, clearly anxious to be off and starting already.

  “A week,” Jacob said. “I will speak to my steward to ready the camel’s packs and gather food for the journey. We will store it far from the house and the camp. When the day comes, we will load the camels and come for you.”

  “We will be ready,” Rachel said, stepping forward to kiss Jacob’s cheek. “You are doing the right thing,” she whispered in his ear.

  She hurried away then, and Leah looked at him for an awkward moment as if trying to decide if she should offer him a kiss as well. In the end, she turned and hurried after her sister.

  26

  Rachel folded the half-woven tunic she was making for Jacob and tucked it into one of the camel’s saddlebags along with her wool, spindle, and distaff, the last items to add to packs she had been filling for days. Joseph’s small robes and tunics were already tucked in with her clothing and everything they could spare, all packed neatly in camel cushions and saddlebags and hidden in the dark corners of the tent, lest someone from her father’s household come to call and notice something amiss.

  She glanced up at the sound of voices outside her tent, quickly set the bag aside, and peered into the darkness, relieved when she recognized her sister and Zilpah. Dawn was still many hours off, the perfect time to slip away unnoticed, before the women of her father’s household awoke to travel to the well and begin preparations for the morning meal.

  “Are you ready?” Leah’s soft whisper held anxiety, urgency.

  Rachel nodded. “I put the last items in the bag just now.” She looked toward the sheep pens where the earth rumbled beneath camels’ hooves and the soft murmurs of men’s voices drew near. Bilhah emerged from her tent, and the men came forward to load the camels.

  Jacob stopped before them and looked from one woman to the next. “Are you ready to go?”

  “We have only to wake the children,” Rachel said, glancing at Leah. They would eat a meal of unleavened bread and dried fruit as they traveled, stopping only when necessity forced a rest.

  “Good. Come. I will show each of you to your camels and those of your children. You can bring your packs and set them nearby. The men will fasten them securely.” Jacob took Rachel’s hand and led her to the first camel, motioning for Leah and his two concubines to follow. “You and Joseph can ride together. If it becomes too difficult, I will take him from you for a time.” He released her hand, and she was glad of the clear night and the moon’s glow, which allowed them to see.

  “I will go get my things.” She turned to leave, but he caught her arm. She looked at him, curious.

  “We must keep the children as quiet as possible. Don’t wake them until all is packed.” She saw the worry in his eyes, reminded of several conversations they had had that week.

  “Do not worry, my lord. My father is three days’ journey away, as are my brothers. We will be far from here before anyone can tell them we are gone.” She had reassured him of the same thing twice before, but her words could not shake the fear from his gaze. She touched his arm. “It will be all right.”

  He nodded and bent to kiss her cheek. “Your father has the power to do us great harm. He could take you back by force.”

  “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “Wouldn’t he?” Jacob’s doubt fueled an anxious one of her own. Her father’s hostility and bitterness had grown more verbal of late. Ever since her mother’s death, her father had found one reason after another to blame Jacob for his losses—his loss of a healthy flock, which wasn’t true, or of income, which had no lack—and now he carried his ill feelings on the loss of his wife.

  “My father imagines things that aren’t real. He thinks too much of himself. And he doesn’t have Adonai’s blessing.”

  Jacob touched her hand. “Be quick about your work.” He turned then to show Leah and the maids to their camels while Rachel hurried to her tent, hoisted several saddlebags in her arms, and deposited them near her waiting beast.

  She finished all but waking Joseph and packing her tent, her thoughts whirling with Jacob’s doubts and fears. Her father would return to find them gone and would take off after them. Of this she had no doubt. His best trackers would have no trouble following their trail, and at their reduced pace with the herds and flocks and children, he would catch them. When he did, what then?

  She twisted the sash at her waist, about to go into her tent to wake Joseph, when another thought made her pause. First her father would consult his gods. Hadn’t he done so when he saw his riches increase under Jacob’s watchful care? She remembered the way he had wheedled Jacob into staying six more years for wages that should have already been his, had her father not stolen the bride-price of his daughters. Her father had confessed to using divination to discover the source of his wealth.

  Had his gods truly spoken to him? She glanced heavenward at the blinking sea of stars that would light their way until dawn. Had Adonai spoken to her father through his gods? Jacob had always insisted there was only one Creator. Surely Adonai would not reveal their plans to Laban now.

  No. The God she had come to know, the God who had given her Joseph, favored her husband, not her father.

  Still . . . her father’s gods must have some mystical power, because her father knew things about God’s blessing that he shouldn’t have known, couldn’t have known otherwise.

  A camel snorted, shaking her thoughts, and she stood before her tent, sudden indecision filling her. Perhaps it was she who was deluding herself now. How could images of stone and gold speak?

  But her father believed they did. And everyone knew that the gods of her people were sought after for everything from prosperity to healing. Hadn’t she sought them herself in years past? Her father would return after the sheep shearing, or sooner if someone sent him word, and immediately consult his gods for guidance, to determine the direction Jacob had gone and the best way to defeat him. Why should he have such an advantage?

  The thought spurred her to action, and she turned and ran from her tent to her father’s house. The moon cast eerie shadows over the white bricks of the house, and Rachel slowed her pace, tiptoeing through the courtyard, careful not to allow her sandals to slap against the stones. She opened the door, grateful to find it unlocked, and eased her way to the familiar hall where her father kept his shrine, darting quick glances about the darkened interior and taking shallow breaths so as not to awaken a servant.

  A small clay lamp still burned near the images as though her father feared the gods might be afraid of the dark. S
he nearly laughed at the thought that images of stone had feelings or fears. She looked down at the small golden objects and wondered how her father could imagine a piece of wood and precious metal had any power at all.

  Memories of Joseph’s furrowed brow and worried words from the night her mother died rose in her thoughts.

  “Why does Sabba Laban keep images, Ima? Abba says we are to worship only one God, Elohim.”

  “Abba is right, my son. Sabba Laban should not keep these.”

  “Then why does he?”

  “He thinks they bring him good fortune.”

  Not this time. She snatched the images from their perches and tucked them beneath her robe. Glancing quickly about to be sure she wasn’t seen, she retraced her steps to the door, barely daring to breathe, hurried out through the courtyard, and ran all the way back to Jacob’s camp.

  By the time dawn broke night’s hold and brightened the sky, first in soft gray light and then in a burst of brilliant pink hues, Rachel had settled into the camel’s rhythm and stopped glancing behind her to see if they had been followed. Her heart had slowed to its normal pace as well once she had tucked her father’s idols into her camel’s cushions, where they hung now from the animal’s sides, softened by some combed wool and hidden from obvious view.

  Guilt had followed her rash act, chasing her as she quietly woke Joseph and settled him in front of her on the camel’s back. She had shoved the feeling aside more than once as Joseph leaned into her, soon falling asleep with the swaying movement of the animal. Her own ability to sleep had not come. How certain could they be that a servant had not heard them and watched them leave in haste in the dark of night? Even now, one of the younger boys could be headed toward her father’s camp with the news of their departure.

  She chafed at the desire to urge the camel into a faster trot, knowing the flocks Jacob was driving up ahead could not be rushed. Nor could the children handle a faster pace. But her heart skipped a beat with every thought of her father, and even her prayers seemed hindered by her guilt. Had she done the wrong thing?

  But it was too late to return the images now.

  The sun rose higher even as the thoughts plagued her. Sweat trickled down her back, and she was grateful for the headscarf that kept the bugs and wind from lashing her face. She should bury the images in the ground at the first stop they came to. But the thought was foolish, and she knew it. She had little respect for her father, but to bury his gods would be the ultimate show of contempt, and despite everything she could not quite bring herself to do so. If he caught up to them, which he surely would, she would return them to him and confront him, telling him how he did not deserve to keep anything of value because he had cared so little for his own daughters, selling them like chattel.

  She formed the words of the imagined conversation in her mind, where she saw herself casting the idols at her father’s feet, telling him that he owed them what they were worth and much more. If only she had such courage.

  Her stomach rumbled as the sound of the gurgling water of the Euphrates filled her ears. The flocks and herds and camels up ahead came to a stop, and she looked up to see Jacob’s camel lumbering toward her.

  “This is the narrowest place to cross over,” he said as he turned his mount to walk beside hers. “We will eat here and stretch our legs while the men drive the flocks and herds across. Once you are rested, I will guide you and the others over as well. I will rest easier once we have crossed the river.”

  She glanced at his turbaned brow, seeing the worry lines creasing it, knowing how much this escape was costing him. The thought made her own guilt pale in comparison. But she also knew in that moment that she could not share what she had done with him. It would add to the weight of his worry, and she would spare him whatever she could.

  He led them closer to the river before commanding his camel to kneel, hopping down, and guiding the women and his older sons to do the same. Then he showed each one how to lead the camels to the river’s bank to drink.

  Rachel wrapped her hand over Joseph’s on the camel’s lead, half stumbling in an effort to gain her bearings on firm ground again. The children laughed and ran in and around the camels’ legs until Jacob scolded them and sharply warned them against provoking the animals and receiving a swift kick. Protectiveness made her tighten her hold on the reins and put herself between Joseph and the camel’s knobby legs.

  Watering the flocks and camels and herds took until the sun had passed the midway point, the children had been fed, and they at last had made it across the river, where Jacob commanded they continue on until nightfall.

  By the time they settled at the foothills of the hill country, Rachel’s anxiety had lessened, her exhaustion palpable. Joseph lay sleeping on a mat near the fire in the open, since they had all decided to leave the tents packed, as Rachel had done many a night in her youth while watching the sheep, but tonight she could barely keep her eyes open as she lay beside her son.

  She felt Jacob’s arm come around her, grateful for his presence, grateful he had chosen her above the others. She leaned into him while keeping her arm around Joseph, a threesome against the night.

  “Tomorrow will be tougher going once we enter the foothills of Gilead,” he whispered in her ear. “Are you up for the climb?”

  She yawned, then breathed in his familiar scent. “Wherever you go, we will go, Jacob. All the way to Canaan.” She sighed as his arm tightened around her.

  “My mother and father will love you,” he said softly. “May God take us there swiftly.”

  “Yes,” she said, her mind fighting to stay focused on his words. “Swiftly.”

  Weeks passed as they traveled south and west until at last they set up camp in the hill country of Gilead. One morning, as the dawn dispelled the dew, Rachel set aside the millstone and then rose, her anxious heart keeping time with the drum of camels’ hooves coming toward them.

  Jacob emerged from his tent, barking orders to the children to gather near their mothers and wait in their tents. Rachel grabbed Joseph’s hand, quick to obey, but stood watching at the tent’s door. Jacob’s steward, Omid, and other male servants gathered near and spread out along the perimeter of the camp, a small army against an invader.

  But as the camels came into view and her father and brothers approached, Rachel’s heart slowed with an unhappy mixture of anticipation and dread. Did she have the courage, as she had imagined so often in her mind in past weeks, to toss her father’s gods at his feet and make him aware of his guilt? Would he listen? Her heart thumped faster and her palms moistened at the scenario she envisioned, but she could not make her feet move from their place to retrieve the images or to disobey Jacob’s order to stay in her tent.

  What would her father do to Jacob if he knew? Surely he would find some way to lay blame at her husband’s feet, and Jacob had suffered enough from her father.

  The thought assuaged her guilt for a moment, caught up as she was in the brooding scowl on her father’s face as he dismounted his camel and stormed to Jacob’s side.

  “What have you done? You’ve deceived me, and you’ve carried off my daughters like captives in war,” he said, his voice rising with every word. “Why did you run off secretly and deceive me? Why didn’t you tell me, so I could send you away with joy and singing to the music of tambourines and harps? You didn’t even let me kiss my grandchildren and my daughters goodbye. You have done a foolish thing.” He crossed his arms in that telltale way he had and looked down his nose at Jacob, an action that he often used to intimidate those beneath him.

  Rachel’s heart hardened at the sight, heat creeping up the back of her neck. She fisted her hands, longing to rush outside her tent and pummel her father with her fists. How dare he!

  “I have the power to harm you”—her father’s words cut into her thoughts—“but last night the God of your father said to me, ‘Be careful not to say anything to Jacob, either good or bad.’ Now you have gone off because you longed to return to your father’s ho
use. But why did you steal my gods?”

  Rachel’s heart skipped first one beat, then another. She blinked, fighting the urge to sway. Suddenly her rash act seemed foolish indeed, especially as she saw Jacob’s face darken and his brows furrow in a deep scowl. He shifted from foot to foot, but his gaze held her father’s, unyielding.

  “I was afraid,” he said, his voice holding little trace of the fear he admitted, “because I thought you would take your daughters away from me by force.” His voice held an edge. “But if you find anyone who has your gods, he shall not live. In the presence of our relatives, see for yourself whether there is anything of yours here with me, and if so, take it.”

  Rachel’s knees weakened, nearly collapsing beneath her, and she watched in a daze as her father quickly did as Jacob had offered. He marched to Jacob’s tent while her brothers stood with Jacob outside, waiting. Sounds of items being moved and shoved aside filled the quiet camp as the implications of Jacob’s words fully penetrated. Would Jacob truly order her death?

  She swallowed hard, her mind whirling. She could not possibly confront her father now. Jacob had given his word, and even if he would change his mind and have mercy, her father and brothers might not. Dare she risk her life for a pair of useless images?

  A shiver worked through her, and she forced herself to act as her father emerged from Jacob’s tent and moved to Leah’s. He would be at her door in a moment. She glanced at Joseph, who sat with his arms tucked around his knees on his mat, eyes wide, and put a finger to her lips for him to remain silent. She walked to her sleeping quarters outside of Joseph’s line of sight, took the camel cushion with the images, and laid a blanket over them.