Abigail's Story

by Ann Burton

  “They jingle like harlots,” Keseke muttered next to my ear.

  “I like the sound,” I said, earning another glare. “It does no harm to wear such out here, away from strangers.” I imagined Yehud and his sons appreciated the care their women took in making themselves attractive.

  Bethel invited us to kneel by a wide mat filled with bowls and platters of food, where she said a blessing over the meal.

  Leha offered us steaming hot cups of a pungent herb tea. I remembered to politely refuse the first offer and accept the second, and won an approving nod from Bethel. I was too anxious to eat much, however, and that, too, was noticed.

  “You peck like a bird.” Bethel shook a finger under my nose. “Up here the nights are cold even into summer, and without a husband to keep you warm you will need more flesh on your bones.”

  She had given me a generous helping of grain softened in a strong-flavored meat broth. It was unfamiliar to my tongue, but I tried to swallow a little more. “How long have you and your family dwelled here, Bethel?”

  “More years than I can count,” she said. “My mother’s grandfather and his kin came here from the land bordering Egypt and farmed for some years before they became herders for the master’s family. Yehud’s kin came here from the east when my mother was a girl.”

  “So you grew up together.” The thought charmed me.

  “Women grow up. Men grow beards.” She cackled out a laugh.

  Leha offered me a small bowl of lumpy white liquid. The smell identified it at once, but I still asked, “Is the milk, uh, soured?”

  “Curdled. We drink it so. It is called leban. Try it,” she urged.

  I could not pinch my nostrils closed and pour it down my throat—that would have been rude—but I confess, I did hold my breath. The taste was as sour as I expected, but the coolness of the milk and soft curds slid easily down my throat. If not for the oddness of the leban’s taste I might have called it refreshing.

  The meal finished with a generous offering of fig cakes and sweet grapes. Keseke and I were the object of all eyes, and whenever I spoke, some of the women covered their mouths with their fingers and murmured to each other behind them.

  “Stop that,” Bethel said when one of the younger wives sitting closest to us indulged in such whispering. “Where are your manners?” She scanned the faces around us. “All of you, behave yourselves.” To me, she said, “They wonder why your father wed you to such a mean-spirited man, who would send you far into the wilderness only a day after your wedding, as if you were gerusa.”

  Gerusa were what Hebrews called a few poor women in town, women to whom my mother had never allowed me to speak. When I grew older, Cetura explained that the gerusa were outcasts, divorced by their husbands and left to fend for themselves. It was something that generally did not happen the day after the wedding.

  “I do not yet know my husband very well,” I admitted, “but it was not his displeasure or cruelty that sent me here. I freely offered to come in Nabal’s place and do the accounting.”

  “You see?” Bethel gave one of her daughters-in-law a haughty look before she gestured to me. “No tears, no petty grievances aired. She does not bleat like a shofar blown to the wind. This is how a proper wife speaks of her husband.”

  I could not remember the name of the daughter-in-law she reproved, but the younger woman’s expression darkened, and she rose unsteadily. As she stalked out of the tent, I saw the unmistakable curve of her belly under her loose khiton.

  “When is her child due?” I asked.

  “Within the moon, if it comes out at all,” Bethel said. “That babe has had to listen to his mother Malme wail and cry for months, and I fear it will not wish to be born in a world of such noise.”

  “Aunt, that is not fair,” Leha said in her gentle voice. “Malme has never been away from her mother. Our ways are still strange to her.”

  “No stranger than hers, which are evidently to lie about all day, fret, and refuse to work.” Bethel shook her head. “I told Irev not to marry a Jezreelitess; women from the cities want too much attention.” Bethel gave me a sideways look. “Well, perhaps not all.”

  “Carmel can hardly be called a city.” Gratefully I handed Leha my empty food bowl and refused more of the leban.

  “Tell us a story, Leha,” one of the children begged, and the others chimed in until Bethel’s niece smiled and held up her hands.

  “I shall, but only one,” Leha warned, “and then it will be time for sleep.”

  Bethel chuckled as the children groaned over this. “They would have Leha spinning her tales until dawn.”

  The children gathered closer to Leha as she began to tell her story.

  “This tale is of a terrible soldier from Gath, a cruel and boastful man who stood six cubits and a span. He was of the Rephaim, a tall and arrogant people from the west who take gold to make war on Israel and Judah.”

  I had heard rumors of the mercenary Rephaim, who were often hired by the Philistines to serve in their army. Nothing good had ever been said about them, and they were so large that many Hebrews thought them a race of giants.

  Letha leaned forward, moving her hands expressively as she described the monster. “He was the champion of the Philistine army, and towered head and shoulders above the very tallest men in all the lands. So, too, this giant was unnaturally strong, for he walked about wearing a coat of copper mail that weighed as much as five thousand sheqels, and wielded a mighty sword with a copper blade that weighed six hundred sheqels.” Her voice dropped to a menacing whisper. “His very name caused dread and fear in the hearts of brave men, so people only whispered it, as do I now, for he was Goliath, the Giant of Gath.”

  I saw Keseke’s eyes widen like the children’s, and suppressed a smile.

  “Now, it was known that the Philistines wished to make war against good King Saul and Israel, and so they brought their men into our land and took up on one side of the valley of Ephesdammim. Our brave king sent his army to face them, and as the battle lines were drawn, the enemy sent out their dreaded champion, Goliath, to strike fear into the heart of Israel.

  “ ‘I come to challenge your greatest warrior,’ Goliath cried out to the Hebrew soldiers. His voice was like thunder, and shook the earth under their feet. ‘Send out one man to fight me alone,’ said the monster, swinging his battle sword over his head. ‘The loser of this combat shall cause his army to surrender, and henceforth they shall become as servants to the army of the victor.” ’

  “That’s not fair!” one boy cried out.

  “That is what you get when you trifle with Philistines,” Bethel said, her voice stern but her eyes twinkling.

  “What happened next, Leha?” the boy demanded.

  “Well, day and night for forty days, Goliath stood and called out his challenge to the army of King Saul, but no soldier dared accept it. For who would risk an entire army on the outcome of a fight with such a monster who would surely win against anyone who stood up to him? And so the Philistines laughed and taunted our army, and our soldiers felt the bitterness of defeat and shame.” Leha held up one hand. “Such it was, until a shepherd came into the camp of the Hebrew soldiers. Although he carried no sword or spear, and wore only a simple khiton, the young shepherd boldly strode to the edge of the valley and summoned the brute Goliath. The shepherd was David, warrior son of Jesse.”

  The children gasped.

  “David had heard of Goliath’s challenge and had journeyed all the way from Bethlehem to face the monster. And so the giant emerged from the Philistine’s camp, his towering body clad in his polished coat, a spear in his left hand, and his great copper sword in his right. Before him walked his armorbearer, carrying a long javelin of iron and an enormous shield. As Goliath came to face David, every Hebrew who saw him fell and covered his head and trembled with fear.”

  “But not Melekh David!” someone cried out.

  “The Giant of Gath called upon the gods of the Rephaim to shower David with stones fro
m the sky and bolts of lightning and other evils,” Leha said. “He would show the Hebrews that their Adonai was no match for his many, powerful gods.”

  “That was silly,” one girl said. “There are no other gods but the One and True.”

  Leha nodded. “But Goliath did not believe in the Adonai, nor in the shepherd who had come in His name. The giant ridiculed David, trying to shame him into retreating. Then David spoke, and his voice rang out over the valley.”

  Leha paused, waiting until the children clamored for more before continuing with the tale.

  “This is what David said: ‘You have come to me with a sword, and a spear, and a javelin, and a bearer laden with a shield. But I come to you with the name of the Lord of our armies, the One and True, the Adonai of Israel. It is He whom you have taunted with your boastful words.” ’

  “Did he try to kill David?” a small girl asked, her eyes huge.

  “No, little one. As Goliath lifted his sword to strike at David, the shepherd slung a single stone from his sling, the only weapon he carried. The stone struck the giant in the center of his brow, and he fell to the earth. David then went to stand upon Goliath, and used the giant’s own mighty sword to cut off his head.”

  The bloodthirsty children cheered.

  “After the great battle that followed this, David took Goliath’s head to Jerusalem and left it there for all who doubted the might of the Adonai to see. Then he returned to tend to his father’s herds in Bethlehem.”

  “As a good son should.” Bethel clapped her hands together. “It is time for sleep, children.”

  “Bethel, when we came here we saw some armed men walking along the edge of your camp. Has there been some sort of trouble for the herdsmen, that they are needed?”

  Bethel gave Leha a strange look before she answered me. “Those dal are not our men, nor should they be here.”

  Dal, those who had fallen from prosperity, were usually beggars—not armed men. I thought of the tales the old man at the crossroads had told me. Surely the outlaw giant-killer he had mentioned was not David, but these dal might very well be his army. “Are they threatening you?”

  “No, not us.” She waved an impatient hand. “If you wish to know more about the dal, you will have to ask Yehud, for it is none of my doing.”

  “I see.” I doubted the rosh would appreciate my questioning him. “This morning I think I saw one of your sons upon a hilltop near my husband’s house. He did not appear at all afraid of the storm.”

  “Any son of mine has the sense to take cover during a storm,” Bethel said, now puzzled. “What was he doing up there?”

  I could not describe his fearlessness in the face of the storm, or his dancing. I did not want her—or anyone—to laugh at him. “I am not sure. The man carried a staff and wore a blue mantle.”

  All the friendliness left Bethel’s face. “I do not know of whom you speak, but a wife newly wed should not be watching strange men walking the hills alone. Stay away from the dal, too. Leha.” With the help of her niece, she struggled to her feet. “It grows late. You will stay here for the night.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  Rosh Yehud’s wife Bethel insisted Keseke and I stay in camp until her sons could repair the roof of the hill house. Storms came each afternoon and lasted far into the night, so it was only sensible to abide with them. There were so many women that the tents were crowded, but they were also warm and dry.

  My serving woman had no real objections. “Everything smells of goat and sheep, but there is enough to eat, I suppose, and men to watch over us.” She gave me a stern look. “You are not to be alone with any of the men. Most of them are married.”

  “So am I, and I do not wish to be.” That was almost true. I did think often about meeting the shepherd who had danced in the rain. It was a childish wish, and nothing could come of it, but still my thoughts lingered on him.

  I looked for the blue of his mantle whenever I walked outside the tents, but saw no sign of him. The few women I asked about the shepherd did not seem to know of whom I spoke.

  I began to think I imagined him.

  The armed men we had seen the first night appeared now and then, but they never spoke to any of us or moved within the camp. Most often I saw the dal patrolling beyond the torches, circling in groups of five and six, always alert and carrying many weapons. I had no opportunity to ask Yehud about them, for the rosh left at dawn with the herds and did not return until late at night, when he retired to his tent and sent for Bethel or one of his other wives to attend him.

  “My uncle is having some trouble with other herdsmen from the south,” Leha told me. “There is only one stream where the men can water the herds at the noon hour, and sometimes our men are made to hold back the herd and wait while the southerners water their flocks. Since ours are much larger than theirs, and our sheep are thirsty, the men must work hard to keep them back.”

  “Is the water on my husband’s land?” That would mean our herdsmen deserved the right to use it first.

  “No. It cuts through land that belongs to King Saul.” Leha made a face. “The king’s law says whoever comes first, waters first.”

  With each day, I learned a little more about the way Yehud and his people lived, and the difficulties and hardships of tending the flocks. Each morning the sheep were brought out of a walled pasture, which Leha called the sheepfold, at the edge of camp. The flock was so large that it had to be divided, else the sheep were in danger of scattering and being lost once up in the hills.

  Yehud’s sons all had their own portion of the flock to drive to graze, and incredibly each had trained his sheep to come at the sound of his voice. I would not have believed it, had I not watched three thousand sheep divide themselves as they came out of the sheepfold and follow their herdsmen in smaller flocks.

  “Sheep are not as witless as one might think,” Bethel said. “The ewes protect their lambs, even from their own shepherds. The sound of a stranger’s voice will make the entire flock turn and flee.”

  After learning that, I took care to be very silent whenever I was near the sheep. Leha noticed and laughed at me. “They will not run away unless you use your voice while trying to herd them.”

  I looked out over the sea of white fleece in the sheepfold enclosure. “I do not think I shall try that.”

  The herdsmen did not carry a great deal as they and their dogs drove the sheep to graze. Each morning Bethel and the other women prepared leather food pouches with bread, fig cakes, and olives for the men to take with them for their midday meal. Besides the pouches, which they carried slung over their shoulders, the herdsmen carried long wooden staffs, some soft pieces of hide, and vials of olive oil.

  “The hide is for bandaging any legs the sheep might injure,” Leha explained when I asked her about the unusual items being packed in the shepherds’ bags. “The oil is rubbed on open wounds to slow bleeding and cover the scent of blood, which attracts beasts.”

  There were many hardships to be faced. Forever at the mercy of the weather, the herdsmen endured the heat of summer and the cold of winter as they made their daily drives. Lambs too young, weak, or weary to make the journey from camp to graze or back again had to be carried like children. When they felt threatened, ewes giving suck could unexpectedly turn and butt and kick, and their hooves often inflicted deep gashes.

  Even after the day’s work was finished, and the sheep were counted and safely contained within the sheepfold, one man took a turn as doorkeeper. That meant standing guard at the entrance to the pasture, staying awake through the night, and driving away any beasts that tried to attack the flock.

  After driving the sheep up into the hills to graze and drink at the stream, the herdsmen had to turn their flocks around and drive them back to camp, hopefully before dark. Once there, each man counted his sheep as they passed under his staff and into the sheepfold. Then the doorkeeper for the night would sta
nd guard until dawn, when the whole process had to be repeated again.

  It was a hard life, but a good one, too, I thought. The herdsmen trained their dogs well and displayed a rough sort of affection for their herding partners. They often brought back some fruit, berries, or herbs they found while out with the sheep, and directed the women as to the source so they could go gathering. One husband brought a handful of wildflowers for his blushing wife, while another produced a wooden ring he had whittled out of smooth, hard oak for his young son, who was fretting with sore gums.

  I grew to love the people as dearly as I had the merchants in Carmel.

  Leha, Bethel’s youngest niece, quickly accepted my offer to help with the daily chores of grinding, cooking, milking the goats, and looking after the youngest of the herdsmen’s children. I did not mind the work, and preferred to keep busy so that there was no resentment at my continued presence in the camp.

  Leha in turn did much to ease my way among the other women and particularly liked to hear stories about life in Carmel and selling pottery at market.

  “We can weave the baskets and clothing we need, but we must trade for our pots,” Leha told me. “There is plenty of clay near the crooked hill path, but we have no potter.”

  I asked her to show me the place and found the dark, reddish clay to be thicker and stiffer than that near the springs of Carmel. I dug out enough to make a few things and demonstrated the hand-roll method of making simple pots and bowls, which could be fired in the camp’s large stone bread ovens.

  Leha was skeptical, until the first firing cooled and I presented her with a shallow serving bowl and two cooking pots. “These are wonderful, Abigail.”