by Ann Burton
A different sort of movement caught my eye.
It came from a shepherd, who emerged from a thicket of trees and made his way through the swaying grasses and up the side of the tallest hill. The distance between us made it impossible to see his features, but from the way he moved I guessed him to be young and strong. He wore a mantle of blue over a plain ivory khiton.
Why was he climbing up there, in this weather?
At the very top of the hill, the shepherd fell to his knees and bowed his head. He remained thus for a few moments, and then rose and lifted his staff over his head. He seemed to be shouting something at the sky, but the rising wind snatched away his voice.
A crooked, white streak of light shot from sky to earth, so close to the shepherd that I covered my face with my hands. “No!”
When I dared look again, my hands fell to my sides. The lightning had not touched him, nor did he seem afraid of it, for he stood tall and straight and unflinching. Rain swept up and over the hill, pouring over the shepherd, who began to turn and twirl.
Slowly I walked forward, not stopping even when I felt the thunder shake the ground beneath my feet. Huge and terrible as the storm was, the man was not cowering or hiding or running way.
The shepherd was dancing. In the rain.
I had never seen anything so brave, or foolish, in my life. I could not go back inside, even when the rain at last reached me. Instead I held out my arms as if to welcome it, turning up my face and closing my eyes.
In Carmel, the rain came soft and cool in gentle showers. Here, it was hard and cold and forceful, pricking my skin like a thousand tiny thorns. It was unlike anything I had ever felt, and my heart pounded in my breast. Now I understood exactly how the shepherd felt. How could one feel such power and not wish to shout and dance about for the joy of it?
“Mistress!” Keseke dragged me back to the house. “What are you doing? Have you no sense in your head?”
I laughed. “It is wonderful.”
“It is rain. Wet and cold, as are you now.” The serving woman guided me over to a dry spot under a part of the roof that had not fallen. She kept hold of me as she wiped my face with the edge of her head cloth. “You will catch your death of chill, and then the master will . . .” she faltered before she gave me an angry glare. “Never mind that. Hold still!”
She fussed at me until I removed my sodden khiton and changed into a dry one, and then built up the one fire the rain had not yet put out.
“This is a fine thing,” she grumbled after we had shifted our supplies to a dry corner. “The brushwood is all wet and useless. We shall freeze.”
Seeing the shepherd and feeling his exhilaration were worth it. “Have you ever lived in such a beautiful, amazing place as this?”
Keseke’s mouth sagged open. “Do you already have the fever?” She pressed her palm against my brow.
I laughed again and shook my head.
As swiftly as the storm came to us, so it went. A short time later the clouds had hurried on, and the sun came out, making every leaf and blade of grass sparkle. The air smelled fresh and alive, and I wanted nothing more than to run across the hills and breathe it all in.
“I want to take a walk,” I told Keseke. I hoped I might see the dancing shepherd again.
“Good.” The serving woman reached the door before I did. “We need dry wood, and reeds for new bed mats, and something to repair this roof before the beasts come to carry us off.”
I looked over her shoulder and saw three men climbing up the hill. Was the rain dancer among them? “Perhaps we should first greet our visitors.”
Keseke hissed at me to move inside, out of sight, but I covered my head and stepped out to meet the men, who stopped a few feet from the entrance to the house.
All three carried the long staff of the noqed, the keepers and raisers of herd animals. Living and working out-of-doors had tanned their skins to a deep, weathered brown, and they bore the scars and calluses of hard workers on their arms, hands, and feet. None of them wore the blue mantle of the dancing shepherd.
Nabal’s herdsmen.
Their dress seemed odd. The few noqed I had seen at market had the similar, roughly woven garments, but these men wore their simla shorter and without sleeves. Their sandals were plain leather soles attached to a single long strap that passed through a notch in their toes, encircled their ankles, and tied to a loop at the base of their heels. They wore no amulets or head coverings, and their beards were long and untrimmed.
The first and shortest of the men stepped forward ahead of the others. He had heavy, hooded eyes and the longest beard, with broad streaks of white in it. His two companions were younger men, darker and taller, but their features suggested that they were closely related to the eldest man.
They all smelled strongly of wet wool, sweat, and something that reminded me of milk when it soured.
I kept my expression polite and my voice respectful as I greeted the eldest of the trio. “I am Abigail, Zaqen. This is my companion, Keseke.”
Keseke bobbed her head but said nothing.
“I am Rosh Yehud,” the elder said, and used his staff to indicate the other two men. “My sons, Elas and Ur.”
Rosh meant that Yehud was the leader and head man in this place. I was not certain if he was equal to a town’s shofet, but I would treat him with the same deference.
“You are welcome at this house.” I thought of the mess and standing puddles inside, and decided against inviting them in. “We have no drink or food prepared, but if you will spare us a moment we can bring—”
“Where is the Master Nabal?” Yehud asked. “We expected him to journey here for the yearly accounting, after the last of the night frosts, as he promised.”
It became cold enough here for the ground to freeze? Would there be snow? “Nabal’s business keeps him in Maon.” I produced what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “He has sent me in his place.”
My announcement took all three by surprise. Elas turned his head and made a soft, coughing noise to cover another, less polite sound. Ur simply stared at me with wide eyes.
Their father’s stony countenance showed no change, but his shoulders stiffened, and his hand tightened on his staff until the gnarled knuckles turned white.
“This cannot be,” Yehud said at last. “This is no place for a woman alone. You must be returned to your ba’al.”
He thought me a slave and Nabal my owner. “The men who brought us here left last night, Rosh Yehud,” I informed him carefully. “Nabal will not send them again until the next moon. We cannot do else but stay.”
Elas choked and had to be pounded between the shoulder blades by his brother.
Yehud made a gesture. “Go back to camp, my sons. I shall join you there ere I deal with these women.”
“But, Father—” Ur protested.
“Go.” The quiet voice turned to flint. “Now.”
I watched the two younger men trudge back down the hill and sensed a time of bargaining had arrived. I glanced at Keseke. “Would you fetch more water, please? We will need it for our meal.”
The serving woman gave Yehud an uneasy look before she picked up a jar and walked off.
When she was out of earshot, Yehud stroked his beard. “You do not speak as a slave or servant would.”
“I am not.” I met his gaze proudly. “I am the wife of Nabal.”
“If you lie to me, woman, you will have much regret in it.” He inspected me. “When did the master wed you?”
“Yesterday.” Before he could ask why I was not in Maon enjoying my marriage feast, I added, “My husband was quite eager for me to come to the hills and take the yearly accounting for him.”
“The men of your family, they are to come here?” When I shook my head, he appeared confused. “Adonai yireh, why do they not?”
“My parents are too old and ill to make the journey,” I said. “My brother is needed at home to care for them.” Suddenly the hill country did not seem so beautiful, only far
away from those I loved. “That is all the family I have.”
“You mean to stay here with only that serving woman to attend you?”
“Keseke and I shall abide well on our own—”
The old man lifted his hand, a gesture so like Oren’s that without thinking I fell silent. “Mistress Abigail, I have seven daughters of my own. They have lived in these hills since birth, and all are married and fine mothers to my grandchildren. Yet not one of them would I permit to wander about the land, or dwell by themselves. Not without protection. Either your father is dead, or he knows nothing of where your husband has sent you.”
I was tempted to confide to the rosh the entire, wretched tale of my brother’s debt. Yet if I was to deal fairly with these people, I would need their respect, not their pity.
“I am not your daughter, Rosh Yehud. I am your master’s wife, and he sends me to do his work. That is what I shall do.” I ignored the sudden contempt that glittered in his eyes. “I would appreciate your help with repairing this roof, and making this house habitable for me and my serving woman, but that is all I can accept on my husband’s behalf.”
“Your husband is a fool.”
It was now apparent that my husband had very few admirers anywhere. Still, it would not do to allow such talk. “He is your master, and mine. I ask only what Nabal would ask of you.”
“Then you are a greater fool than he.” Yehud turned and made his way down the hill to where his sons waited.
I felt a familiar sense of frustration. Was my life to be a series of endless, impossible tasks, made all the more insurmountable by some man’s ridiculous pride?
Stand and you shall fall, I heard the m’khashepah whisper inside my head. Kneel and you shall rise.
The only person who might help me in this place was walking away, deeply offended because I had tried to deal with him as a husband would.
“Rosh, please, wait,” I called out as I hurried after Yehud. For a moment I thought he would not, and then he stopped walking and waited. I came to him and took a moment to catch my breath. “I was unmannerly and spoke in ignorance.”
Yehud said nothing.
“You are right. I am but a foolish woman who has no family or friends in this place.” I looked at the ground and tried to sound humble. “You advised me as a father might, out of concern. I see that now. Forgive me.”
“It is good that your eyes have cleared.” The rosh sighed. “Mistress, I cannot spare any of my sons to guard you or to take you back to Maon. Nabal’s wife would not be welcome in our camp.”
“Then I think you must leave me to live here, as my husband wishes.” I looked out over the hills. “If I were to call your name from here, would you hear it down in your camp?”
“If you shouted it, perhaps.” He glanced at the collapsing roof. “This house is not fit for a hoopoe, and it cannot be made right in a day and night.”
I grimaced. “We shall be here longer than that.”
He seemed to be deciding something again. “Very well, wife of Nabal. You and your companion may come to my camp tonight, and my wives will make you welcome.”
It was the invitation I had hoped for. “I would be honored, Rosh Yehud.”
CHAPTER
10
“I still do not see why we must bring food when we have so little for ourselves,” Keseke grumbled that evening as we walked down the hill to the herdsmen’s encampment.
“It is not polite to arrive somewhere empty-handed.” I smiled down at the bundle of three lehem in my arms. Keseke and I had found a better quern stone near the house that afternoon, and the grain I had ground on it had turned to a fine, smooth flour. “Besides, that leek and root soup you made is delicious. Rosh Yehud’s wives will enjoy it and praise your talent.”
“Better we enjoy it ere we starve,” the serving woman said. “Why do you keep looking about that way? Do you hear something?”
The twilight hid my blush. “No, nothing.” Nor did I see any sign of the shepherd with the blue mantle, which disappointed me. “Their tents are very large, aren’t they?” I asked as we passed between two of the worn horoi stones, which Keseke had told me earlier marked Nabal’s herd lands. “They must be comfortable here.”
“For aimless wanderers.” Keseke shifted the pot of soup she carried from one hip to the other. “Whatever they present to you, be it food, drink, or a gift, refuse it the first time it is offered, but accept it the second.”
“Why?”
She glowered. “I do not know. It is their ridiculous custom, not mine.”
That she did not wish me to embarrass myself touched my heart. “If you keep protecting me like this, I shall never become a terrible mistress.”
“You already are a terrible mistress.” The older woman’s steps slowed, and her brow furrowed. “Now what is this?”
I followed her gaze and saw a group of men crossing our path. They wore the same garments as the noqed, but all of them carried spears and knives. One stopped long enough to look carefully at us before he continued on. “Perhaps they are Rosh Yehud’s guards.”
Keseke shook her head. “The herdsmen have never had guards.”
We reached the outer tents of the encampment a few minutes later. The place seemed very strange to my eyes, accustomed as they were to seeing dwellings of brick and stone. Here the great tents of the herdsmen had been fashioned of goatskins, sewn together and stretched out over a frame of poles driven into the ground. Ten or so tents formed a circle around a large cooking pit in the center, where a few women were tending to several pots nestled in the glowing red and black coals.
Naked children ran in and out of the tent flaps, exciting the dogs and scampering merrily about. They were completely ignored by their busy mothers. Only when one small boy tried to reach a dirty hand into a cook pot did one woman scold him. A moment later, she dipped a small bowl into the pot and handed it to him with a smile and a kiss to his brow.
“They allow their children to run free, the small beasts,” Keseke told me. “They spoil them, too. They do not strike or beat them at all.”
My parents had never raised a hand to me when I was a little girl, so I thought that a fine thing. I repeated one of Cetura’s favorite sayings: “It is always easier to know how to raise another woman’s child.”
“Unless one is a slave,” Keseke snapped. “Then one has no choice but to trot after the master’s brats and wipe their bottoms.”
I sighed. “When Nabal and I have children, dear friend, I shall attend to them myself.”
She rolled her eyes. “So you say now. Wait until you have the little demons running about your household. Then we shall see how eager you are.” She would have said more, but something seemed to make her start, and she fell into a silent brooding.
A young woman approached us. She wore a plain khiton and head covering like the other women, but the tentative smile she gave us seemed friendly. “Greetings. I am Leha, daughter of Eulo, brother of Yehud.”
It seemed a very formal greeting, but I returned it in kind. “My name is Abigail. I am daughter of Oren and wife of Nabal. This is Keseke, my companion and friend.” The last word made the serving woman stiffen beside me.
“In the name of Yehud, my uncle, you are welcome here.” Leha made a shy gesture. “Please, come with me.”
We were led to one of the tents in the very center of the camp. The only way to enter was through a narrow flap, which Leha held open for us. Inside there were more than a dozen women sitting and talking, but their voices stilled as soon as we entered.
I felt very uncomfortable under the scrutiny of so many strange eyes. In the market, buyers never truly looked at me, only my pots. Here I was examined like a crack in the clay.
“I am neither friend nor companion to you,” Keseke told me under her breath. “Why did you call me so?”
“That is how I regard you,” I whispered back. “That is how you shall be called by me.”
She muttered something that did not sound co
mplimentary to my mother, but I pretended not to hear it.
“Aunt Bethel,” Leha said, addressing an elderly woman, “I bring visitors.” To me, she said, “This is Bethel, first wife of our rosh.”
The white-haired woman rose but did not stand straight, and I realized that age had left her bow-backed. She showed no sign of pain, however, and regarded me with curious, bright black eyes.
I came forward to introduce myself and Keseke, and bowed with respect before I offered Bethel the bundle of lehem. “We are grateful for your hospitality.”
“Wait until it has been offered,” Bethel said in a voice as arid and ageless as desert sand.
Some of the women giggled, but Leha put a hand on her aunt’s shoulder. “Aunt, please. Uncle invited these women here to meet us.”
“Your Uncle is very fond of finding strays for me to attend.” Bethel looked past me at Keseke. “Is that food you carry?”
“Yes.” I placed the loaves on the mat where food and drink were laid out, and Keseke did the same with her pot of leek soup.
“You, I remember,” Bethel said to the serving woman. “Is your tongue as sharp as it was last spring?”
“I cannot say.” Keseke’s mouth curled. “But it seems that yours has not changed.”
“Age does that to a woman; that is why the Adonai makes old men grow deaf. In all things, there must be found balance.” Bethel sighed and sat down again. “Come, take a place beside me, Abigail. Your mother should be proud, for your manners make up for your choice in husbands.”
Bethel introduced each of Yehud’s other four wives, her and their daughters, daughters-in-law, nieces, granddaughters, and other assorted female relations, and although there were too many names for me to remember, many of their smiles were friendly.
The women here were not like those I knew well in town. A woman of Carmel who outlined her eyes with kohl would be considered daring, even foolish, for it was the practice of prostitutes to paint their faces. Yehud’s daughters and wives not only darkened the rims of their eyes with the gleaming black cosmetic, but darkened their lips and rouged their cheeks, as well. The sweet tinkling of belled bangles chimed from their wrists and ankles, and silver and gold rings glittered from pierced earlobes.
