Abigail's Story

by Ann Burton

  “Abigail?” Amri called from the front room. “We should go now, before the sun rises.”

  A sense of peace filled me as I stood and wiped the tears from my face. “I am ready.”

  We rode in Amri’s cart over the well-worn dirt road from Carmel to Maon. The journey took only a few minutes, but the spice merchant insisted I wear my head cloth with the end folds concealing the bottom half of my face.

  “Do not show your features at any time while we are out-of-doors,” he warned. “There are all manner of men here, and some cannot control their, ah, impulses.”

  I had never been to Maon, but sometimes on my walks I had seen the outside walls of the town from a respectable distance. More often I had spotted great flocks of sheep, during shearing time, being brought down from the mountains and driven to the gates.

  Maon was larger than Carmel, but surely size was its only advantage, for it did not present itself as an attractive place in the least. The buildings and houses of the town had been built seemingly without order or plan, sprawled as they were around narrow, unkempt roads. Instead of building sewage gutters to carry away the refuse and animal waste from the streets, there were sanitary pits, which lay open to the air. Most were filled to overflowing with waste, and the troughs meant to drain them were cluttered with filth, providing an odorous fount for hordes of flies and other pests.

  Why did the ruling men here permit this? Had our shofet discovered such filth anywhere within the walls of our town, he would have sent out the shamar to whip our citizens until they cleared it away.

  From what little my father had said of Maon, I understood it to be a rough place, a man’s town. I saw no women or girls about, and only male slaves at the communal wells. Odors seemed to hang in the air, particularly around the waste pits. Outside that stench, there was the strong smell of dung left behind by countless herds driven, judging by the innumerable hoof marks, straight through the very streets.

  “Does Nabal live here?” I asked Amri.

  “There, at the top of that hill.” He pointed to the largest building in sight.

  My heart sank. Nabal must be very wealthy, to afford so much. His house offered a commanding view of the surrounding countryside, but a man who owned the largest herds in Judah would be expected to occupy such a lofty place.

  How could this Maon be so rich and yet unmarried?

  As we passed a man who lay unconscious and snoring by the side of the road, a flask of wine still clenched in his hand, the spice merchant glanced at me. “You have but to say, Abigail, and I shall turn the cart around and take you home.”

  I thought of my mother being brought here, to be sold on the auction block like one of his sheep. It would steal the rest of her mind and drive my father out of his. “No, Amri. I must see this man and do this thing.”

  “As you wish.” He sighed and slapped the mule’s haunch with the reins.

  Nabal’s property was extensive, and it took some minutes for the cart to reach the front of the house. I wondered if he was one of Maon’s shofetim, for his home was built on a very large, grand scale, with hewn stone columns and plastered brick, almost like a small palace. The walls were painted with colorful stripes, and fine screens of woven flax covered the windows. Carved wooden boxes hung suspended on either side of the door, the bright green fern and vivid flowers growing in them spilling over the sides.

  Yet as Amri helped me down from the cart, I saw many signs of neglect to the outer properties, which appeared to belong to Nabal’s farm workers. Weeds surrounded what were little more than shacks and tents, with only a few scrawny olive and fig trees. In contrast to the dense greenery around Nabal’s house, the outer properties were obviously starved for water. As in town, mounds of dead leaves clogged the ditches providing drainage for the farmers, rendering them useless. Some water flowed in trickles here and there, but these only fed several stagnant pools fouled with green scum and tiny, writhing worms.

  Nabal’s animals, sleek and healthy-looking, occupied a pen to the side of the house. It looked as if he kept fifty sheep and as many goats for their milk and wool.

  On the farmers’ side of the fence, a few animals wandered. One lone, spindly-legged ewe came to the fence to peer at us. Dirt had turned her white wool gray, and her fat tail twitched listlessly against the cloud of black, stinging gnats following her. I thought her muzzle caked with mud, until I saw the dark blotches were actually dozens of ticks, hanging bloated with blood.

  I had never seen such conditions. Not even the poorest of the gerum by the beggars’ gate lived like this. That anyone, even slaves, would be made to dwell in such squalor sickened me.

  “Stay here by the cart,” Amri said, his disgust plain. “I shall see if we may be permitted an audience.” He straightened his turban as he strode up to the front of the house.

  While I waited, I tried not to fiddle with my head cloth or mantle. I had only this first meeting to make a good impression, and I needed to be calm and collected.

  Several minutes passed before the door to Nabal’s house opened. After a short conversation with a servant, Amri nodded and returned to the cart.

  “The master has not yet retired,” he told me, “so he will receive us.” He gave me a sharp look. “You are sure of this, Abigail?”

  Afraid my voice would shake as much as my limbs, I nodded and took his arm.

  CHAPTER

  6

  Being presented to the master of such a large house was a formal business in Carmel. Unmarried women were kept at home, and outside occasional visits to close female friends, not permitted under the roof of a stranger without a parent or chaperon. That was why I had needed Amri to accompany me, to keep my presence respectable and mannerly.

  Here, however, manners seemed to have gone the way of the trees and animals. We were ushered in without ceremony and brought directly to a banquet room. The servant did not escort us in or announce our presence, and disappeared as soon as we passed over the threshold. I feared such an ungainly entrance might offend the master of the house, until I saw his surroundings.

  It was clear that manners had not been of import here recently.

  The remains of a large feast still lay on the tables, beneath which skinny dogs slept among the discarded bones and scraps. When I saw two bare-breasted females, dressed in the abbreviated, semitransparent sadhin and standing on either side of a man sitting in a great chair, a startled gasp escaped me. Never had I seen women dressed so.

  Amri followed my gaze and touched my arm. “Wealthy men keep bedchamber slaves,” he murmured.

  “Oh.” I averted my eyes from their nakedness, feeling ashamed for them and embarrassed by my own presence, and looked instead at the man seated in the chair.

  He was a large, bald man, and sat drinking from a goblet. He could not be called handsome or young, and indeed he seemed without much form, something of a lump of a man. Immediately I felt I was being unkind in my assessment, for he did possess regular features. Perhaps his eyes were on the small side, and set too close together, but they were a placid brown. His nose was neither too large nor too small, and only a little bulbous at the end. His skin and elaborately hemmed khiton were spotless.

  If this was Nabal, he had his faults, but beyond them he appeared an ordinary man. Perhaps there was hope in that.

  His extra chin disappeared as he regarded us, and his expression wavered between curiosity and suspicion. He made as if to speak, but the steward came in carrying two wooden tablets, and spoke in a whisper.

  The man set aside his goblet to open the ivory-hinged tablets, which possessed an inner, thick layer of wax upon which were writing marks. He listened as the steward muttered and pointed to different marks. At last he snapped the tablets together and shoved them at the servant.

  “If I wanted the herds near town, I would have sent for them,” he told the steward, his voice cross. “Nor will I travel to the hills to coddle them. They are paid to watch over my flocks, not to whine about marauders and hardships
. Where is my hand basin?”

  One of the female slaves offered him a small, flat bowl of water, in which he washed his hands. The other slave held out a towel.

  “That I have used. Bring clean linen.” He held his hands out to keep them from dripping on his fine garments and eyed us. “Well? What do you want?”

  “We are grateful to you for seeing us,” Amri said politely, free to speak now that we had been addressed. “You are Master Nabal?”

  “I am. What of it?”

  “I am Amri, spice merchant of Carmel.” Amri bowed. “This is Abigail, daughter of the house of Oren.”

  “Oren. Oren.” Wiping his hands on the fresh linen which the female slave had brought, he thought. “I know no such fellow.”

  “You gamed last night with his son, Rivai,” Amri said. “It is his debt that brings us here.”

  The shiny brow furrowed again, and then Nabal uttered a grunt. “Nefat’s friend. I remember him, greedy for my gold he was. You have brought what he owes me?”

  “I am the sister of Rivai, Master Nabal,” I said, stepping forward and sinking to my knees before him.

  Nabal looked me over with a scathing eye. “He does not owe me a woman.”

  Had he no mother, to teach him not to be so unmannerly to strangers? I had never been so insulted, yet I could not afford to offend him. “It is my brother’s hope that I might please you.”

  “So that I shall say the debt satisfied?” He chuckled and threw out an arm, nearly hitting one of his slaves. “Were you ten herdsmen, or twenty comely maidens, I might be persuaded. But one slave is not worth eight maneh of gold.”

  “Were I a slave, that would be true, Master Nabal,” I agreed as I rose. “But my brother does not wish to sell me. He offers me to be your wife.”

  It took some time for Nabal to stop laughing. As I stood in the face of his mirth, I thought of turning and running on foot all the way back to Carmel. I could not do this. I could not convince him to make Rivai’s debt of eight gold maneh my bride price. Who would pay such an outrageous sum but shofetim expecting the loveliest of women in return?

  I was not that. I was the unexceptional, the commonplace. Possessing neither name nor dowry, I was the daughter of a landless potter.

  Truly I had never felt more worthless.

  Amri came to stand beside me. “He seems the type to bargain,” he said, only for my ears. “Make the most of it.”

  I did not want to take advantage of this unmannerly swindler, nor did I wish to pledge myself to him to erase Rivai’s debt. I wanted to go home. I wanted my mother and my father. I was tired of being the strong one, the useful one. It was not fair to expect this of me.

  No one demands this of you, the sharp voice of my conscience snapped. You thought of this brilliant plan, and you made Amri bring you here. No one dragged you into it; no one even knows about it, do they? So cease your whining, and do your duty by your family.

  To save those I loved, I had no other choice.

  In a sense, Amri was right: Arranging a marriage was no different than selling a pot. All I need do was convince Nabal of the bargain I was giving him. With steady hands I removed my veil and head cloth.

  For once I had taken great pains with my appearance. I had brushed and anointed my hair, braiding the heavy length and coiling it atop my head, pinning it in place with two long picks Rivai had carved for me out of bone. There was little I could do to enhance the unremarkable set of my countenance—face paints were rare and expensive and, to some, a sign of questionable morals—but I had discreetly reddened my lips with pomegranate juice and used a bit of charcoal dust to darken my lashes and the rims of my eyelids.

  I held my head high, as I imagined a queen would.

  The beguiling scent of Amri’s lotion still enveloped me, for Nabal stopped laughing and sniffed the air.

  “That is a sweet smell.” He examined my countenance. “I suppose you must wear it, for you are not beautiful, are you?”

  So much for my homemade cosmetics.

  “Young girls do not have the experience to run a household,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “Beautiful women are too busy attending to their looks.”

  “I do not need a wife or a housekeeper,” Nabal said, “but you may beg me spare your brother.” He made an expansive gesture. “Go ahead. I am in the mood to be entertained.”

  What did he expect me to do? Throw myself at his feet and cover them with kisses? My stomach clenched as I realized as his wife, I would be obliged to do just that, and anything else he commanded of me. I would have no respect or affection from this man.

  Unless I demanded it.

  “I would not deny you your pleasure, Master Nabal,” I said, making my tone as sweet as honey, “but it is apparent that a match between us would not be agreeable on either side. My thanks for your consideration.” I replaced my veil and turned to Amri. “We shall return to Carmel now.”

  Nabal’s jaw sagged, creating another chin. “Do you imply that I am not good enough for you?”

  “I would never presume to insult you so,” I said.

  “Then why do you go?” he demanded.

  “I would not prove suitable as mistress of this place.”

  His brow furrowed. “Why not?”

  Was he truly so addle-brained, or was it an act?

  I took a moment to gaze about deliberately. “This house is acceptable, I suppose, but I saw animals outside covered in vermin. Your tenants live little better than beggars, and filth breeds disease.” I let my nose wrinkle, ever so slightly.

  “They live as they wish. I do not care as long as they do not step foot in here.” Now Nabal sounded defensive and rather anxious. “What sort of disease?”

  “Many kinds,” I said, very matter-of-factly. “In any case, it is obvious that you prefer living without the interference of a caring wife. For that, and for intruding upon your time, I am sorry. Peace be upon you, Master.”

  Nabal sat up, outraged. “You do insult me.”

  “Then I may only ask your pardon again.” I briskly adjusted my head cloth. “Come, Amri. There is no place for me here.”

  “Hold.” Nabal rose from his chair, showing himself to be of average height, which only emphasized his softness and lack of form. His prominent belly swayed from side to side as he walked in a circle around us, inspecting me closely. “I would hear what makes you such a desirable wife, Abigail of Carmel.”

  “Many things.” I waited until I had his full attention before I continued. “I would bring thrift and industry to my husband’s household. Slaves and servants cannot cheat me of a day’s honest work, for I myself can cook, clean, spin, weave, and dye wool, as well as attend to all other domestic tasks. I have not been kept indoors all my days, either. For two years now, I have sold daily at Carmel market.” I paused and took a deep breath, for I was about to admit what even Amri did not know. “What pottery I have sold there, I made with my own hands.”

  Nabal made a sound of disbelief. “Women are not potters.”

  “This one is,” Amri told him. “She fashions the finest pottery in Judah, but she does not claim the work as her own. Her father is crippled, you see.” He gave me an admiring look. “Not many daughters would be as mindful of their family’s pride.”

  “I can see that,” Nabal snapped. “She has all but rubbed my nose in her modesty.”

  “Her parents raised her well,” Amri said softly. “Were I a younger man, I would take her above any other to wife.”

  “Fine, let us assume that she is, in truth, what you say.” Nabal turned to me. “What zebed do you bring to a husband? Sheep? Goats? Land? How large is your portion of your father’s nahalah?”

  “I have . . . I bring . . .” I could not lie to him. There was nothing to be brought.

  “This is the place?” a strident female voice called out. “By the Queen of Heaven, I have walked shorter distances to visit my relatives in the north.”

  “The steward says they are in here,” another, fa
miliar male voice said.

  The door opened, and Shomer and Cetura entered the feasting room. The rug seller carried a heavy roll of colorful woven wool, while the grain seller’s widow led four servants burdened with large, weighty sacks. Other merchants, similarly laden, followed them in.

  “Why do they come?” I asked Amri in a whisper. I was terrified of seeing my father hobble in to demand I return home.

  “I sent word to the other merchants.” Amri smiled down at me. “Today the market comes to you.” To Nabal, he said, “Here is the portion given to Abigail.”

  “A rug, fit for the king.” Shomer dropped the roll of wool and shook it out, revealing the largest and most intricately dyed rug from his stall. He bowed to Nabal, and then came to me and took my hands in his. “For the madder root and the many other small gifts you have brought to me over the years.” He squeezed my hands and then went back to his place.

  “Four sacks of seed wheat, a full kor,” Cetura called out to Nabal, directing his servants to place it next to the rug as she came forward. “Free of blight, mildew, and pests. Plant it anywhere and it will grow tall and golden as the sun.” She, too, bowed and moved back to speak to me. “He is not much to look at,” she said gruffly, and then bent forward to kiss my cheek. “I would not know what a daughter’s love is, but for you.”

  “Cetura.” Afraid I would weep, I embraced her.

  The other merchants stepped forward. Costly oils and foodstuffs were presented, as were fine wines and ales, artfully worked leathers and bronzes, rare resins and salts. Each merchant’s offering I recognized as the finest wares they possessed. Each came to me and reminded me of some small thing I had done for them.

  I knew what they were doing. I had no dowry, so they each had contributed something to create one for me. I wanted to cringe with shame. I wanted to sob with joy.