Abigail's Story

by Ann Burton

  “I had to speak with my husband, and see you and our parents.” I touched his cheek and admired the sleek, oiled curls of his beard and hair. His eyes were clear and his skin tanned, and he had gained some weight on his lean frame. “You look very well.”

  “Very well fed, thanks to your friend Cetura. She stuffs us all like fowl to be roasted.” He put his arm around me. “Come, I know it will delight our father and mother to see you.”

  It was strange not walking back to our parents’ home, but taking the narrow road to Cetura’s house, a big two-level brick house tucked into a cool corner of the town’s walls. My feet yearned to change direction and return to the place where I had grown up, so I could again sit among the herbs in the garden and watch the stars come out. Only now I would not long for a husband, for the Adonai had granted me that wish.

  Now I would wish that my husband were someone else. Someone with black eyes and gentle hands.

  “You must tell us what has happened with you since you left,” my brother warned me.

  Not everything. “I shall.”

  Cetura greeted me at the door with a shriek of happiness and a close embrace before she led me inside, where my mother and father were eating their midday meal. My mother recognized me and cried as she said my name and covered my cheeks with soft kisses. My father took me into his shaky embrace and stroked his gnarled hand over my hair.

  “My daughter, my daughter,” he said, over and over, as if he could not believe his eyes.

  “It is me, Father.” I rested my cheek against his heart for a moment before I drew back. “Come, sit. I have so much to tell you.”

  Cetura’s sons, Harek and Tul, were also at the house, in town to deliver their wheat harvest for their mother to sell. They greeted me like a treasured sister while their mother brought tea and little honey cakes. There was some confusion at first as I tried to answer everyone’s questions and spoke of my time in the hills.

  “It is so beautiful there, Father,” I said. “I thought I would miss life in town, but in truth the only things I have missed are you and my friends.”

  “We hear so many rumors about the people of Paran,” Cetura said, “and we have been worried. They say there are bandits in the country who roam about and prey like wolves on the helpless.”

  I thought of the shepherd and his men. “I have seen no bandits, nor wolves, but there are plenty of sheep and goats.” I described Yehud’s camp and the women of his family whom I had befriended before adding, “They do not live as we do, but they are a kind and generous people. I think you would like them, Father.”

  “My grandfather was a shepherd from Paran,” he reminded me. “We likely share some distant kinship with them.”

  We laughed and talked for hours. Rivai told me of his apprenticeship with Amri, and how well his carvings were selling at market now that they were being used as containers for Amri’s spice. “No one fears them as pesel as long as they serve a purpose,” he said.

  Cetura told me about the other merchants of Carmel, and how the coppersmith’s son Tzalmon had scandalized everyone by running off to Hebron with Devash. Happily the families reconciled themselves to the match and had worked out an agreeable exchange of mohar and zebed, so the young couple were expected to return and celebrate their marriage in Carmel.

  “It is good that her father is so forgiving,” Harek, Cetura’s older son, said. “I would have chased down the rogue and given him the thrashing of his life.”

  His younger brother laughed. “Then you would have bandaged his wounds and carried him to the wedding feast.”

  As the sun sank to the west, my mother grew weary, so my father took her to their room to rest. It was then that Rivai went to tend to the goats, leaving me with Cetura and her sons. The widow sent the men to deliver some barley to the beer maker, and then we were alone.

  “More brought you here than a desire to see us,” Cetura said as she sat down beside me. “Now that we are alone, tell me what you would not say before your family.”

  “You are my family,” I told her, but she only waited with a knowing look in her eyes. I sighed. “I need food for the people in the hills. I fear they do not have enough to last them until shearing time.” I explained how desperate the situation was growing for Yehud and his family.

  “Life in Paran is always a struggle,” Cetura said sadly. “What can be done?”

  “Nothing. I asked Nabal, but he refused. He forbid me touch his stores or my zebed, and said Yehud and his family could starve.” I pushed aside my anger over that. “I cannot return to Paran with nothing for them, Cetura. They are in great need, and I especially fear for the children.”

  “What of the pay your husband owes them?”

  “It will be another moon before they drive the flocks to Maon. He says they must wait until then to receive their payment. Then it will take some days for them to sell the animals they receive from Nabal.”

  “That is a terrible thing,” the widow agreed, “but it is not all that disturbs you.”

  I thought of Keseke’s warnings and what the old man at the crossroads had said. It had hovered in the back of my mind all day, but I had refused to face it. “Strange things have happened. Keseke, Nabal’s serving woman, gave me food on my journey out to the hill country. I did not like the taste of it, and when she was not looking I fed it to an innkeeper’s dog. Yesterday I learned that the dog died in the night after I fed him.”

  Cetura paled. “Abigail, there can be no mistake?”

  “It might have been old cheese, but . . .” No, I could not make that excuse. Old cheese might have made the dog sick, if he had eaten a great quantity of it, but so little? “I think she meant to poison me, even kill me.”

  “Did she do anything else to you? Did any of her food make you ill?”

  I shook my head. “The only other oddity was when I woke the first night in the hill house. I saw Keseke standing over me with a heavy branch. The branch came from the roof, part of which had fallen in.”

  “Clever, this witch is,” Cetura said, anger making her face tight. “She might have beaten you to death in your sleep and then made it look as if the roof had come down on you.”

  I frowned. “I cannot make sense of it. If she wished me dead, why not try again? Since that first night she has done nothing to harm me.” I covered my eyes with my hands. “Perhaps I imagine it all.”

  “Who sent this woman with you? Nabal?” At my nod, Cetura thumped her hands down on the table. “Then he means you ill.”

  “Why?” I was confused. “There was no ire between us. He was happy to see me go in his place.”

  “Think on it, Abigail,” the widow urged. “You brought zebed, to his house and were sent away the next day. If you had died in the hill country, he could be rid of you, keep the zebed, and perhaps even find a way to reinstate the debt Rivai owed to him.”

  I did not think my husband could be capable of such evil intentions, but then Keseke’s words came back to me. Some think he killed his family, so that he would have everything to himself. “What can I do, Cetura? He expects me to return by sunset.”

  “You will not go back to Maon tonight,” she declared. “It is not safe for you there.”

  “I cannot hide here. By law he can come and take me away, and I fear what he might do to my parents and Rivai if I drive him to anger.”

  The widow slapped her palms together. “That is it. You will go back to the hill country and stay there until shearing time. When you return with the herdsmen and the flocks, you will petition for divorce.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “Yehud and his family cannot bear another mouth to feed. I cannot even go back to the hill country unless his men take me.”

  “You must take sanctuary with those people. If only you could . . .” A gleam came into her eyes. “Nabal told you that you could not take food from his stores or your zebed for the herdsmen, were those his words?”

  I nodded. “He was very specific about it.”

  “Not
specific enough, child.” Cetura looked up as her sons returned from their delivery. “Harek, Tul, load your sturdiest wagon with six kor of wheat and three of barley. Send for the fruit seller and the cheese maker; we will need them to deliver our order tonight.”

  “You have a craving for raisins and goat cheese, Mother?” Harek teased.

  “No. We are sending this all to the hill people.”

  I nearly fell off the bench. “Cetura, what do you say? I cannot pay for so much. I cannot even buy a single sack of barley for them.”

  “You do not have to pay for them,” the widow said, her smile turning grim. “Master Nabal does. He is responsible for you, and in your absence, he must pay your debts. It is the law.”

  “He will refuse, and then you and the other merchants will have no payment. I cannot risk it.”

  “You were a merchant but a moon ago, child, and you have forgotten the law? If Nabal does not pay, then his property will be seized and sold to satisfy the debt.” Cetura rested her hands on my cheeks. “Cannot you see the balance of it, child? Nabal did precisely this to your brother. If he is to take refuge in the law, then he must abide by it as well.”

  It sounded wonderful, and my heart pounded wildly. My excitement faded, however, when I remembered how it felt to have a debt I had never asked for dropped on my shoulders. “Cetura, doing this because Nabal did the same thing to Rivai does not make it right.”

  “In the eyes of far older law, it does,” Harek said. “ ‘For all things inflicted, so shall you inflict.” ’

  “ ‘A life for a life,” ’ his brother chimed in. “ ‘A debt for a debt.” ’

  I closed my eyes. “He shall be so angry.”

  “Yes, so he shall, but by the time he realizes what has been done in his name, you will be in the hill country, where he cannot easily get to you. We merchants will keep him so busy with the matter of the debt that he will have no time to attend to you. When you return, you will come here, to my house. My sons will protect you until we can win a divorce from the shofet.” Cetura turned to her sons. “You will take Abigail back to Paran. Watch carefully on your way; Nabal may have a bright moment and send his men after you.”

  “Let him,” Harek said, and cracked his knuckles with a lazy movement. He was one of the largest men in Carmel, and no one who desired his body sound and whole challenged him to a brawl. “We will send them back.”

  “After we change their parts around to suit us,” Tul tacked on.

  Cetura smiled at me. “It will be well, Abigail. I promise.” She regarded her sons. “Now, you oversize, adorable mules, let us get the wagon loaded with this wheat. Push it to the back, for I want to make sure there is room for plenty of fruit and cheese.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  Cetura’s sons made the journey back to Paran a happy one for me. They laughed and joked, and told amusing stories of their wives and children. Both enjoyed their farming life and had many questions about the land near the edge of the wilderness and what grew well there.

  “Land like that is good only for terrace farming,” Harek pronounced. “Too much climbing about for me.”

  “But there are pretty shepherd girls who jingle when they walk,” Tul said, stroking his beard. “I wager they gild their fingernails and smell of jasmine.”

  “They trim their nails to keep them from catching on the yarn from their distaffs,” I said wryly, “and they mostly smell of the leban they love to drink.”

  “Leban?”

  “Curdled milk.”

  Tul made a face. “I think I shall be happier to stay farming in the valley with my Shahera.”

  Harek clapped a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Your wife would gouge your eyeballs from your head ere she found you trifling with a shepherdess.”

  “My eyeballs might go,” Tul returned, “but your wife would part you from a certain rod.”

  “I do not think so,” Harek said. “She is very fond of that particular rod.”

  “Oh, but a rod is a rod,” I said, keeping a straight face. “Besides, they are cheap and plentiful at market. She might get another for herself.”

  Tul shouted a laugh. “There you are, Harek—perhaps you should buy another and keep it as a spare!”

  Despite our general merriment, I noticed how watchful Harek and his younger brother were. Nothing moved that did not draw their attention, and they did not stop in the valley of the crossroads.

  “We will water our mules and have some food at the stream on the other side of the valley,” Tul told me. “There should be no surprises there.”

  We arrived at Yehud’s camp while the sun was still up. As when first I came, Leha walked out to greet us. She looked tired and wan but was pleasant to Cetura’s sons and happy to see me.

  “I have missed you,” she said, taking my hands in hers and pressing her cheek to mine. “We worried you would not return.”

  “I could not stay in town, for there are too many people, and too much noise. I did bring back something for the children.” I went around to the back of the wagon.

  “Abigail, you should not have—oh!” Leha’s mouth rounded as Harek and I pulled the wagon cover off the sacks of fruit and wheat, and the stacks of cheeses. “Is this—” She reached out and then snatched her hand back. “This cannot be for us.”

  My throat hurt, and I had to swallow before I could speak clearly. “It is for you. Wheat and barley, fruit fresh and dried, and thirty wheels of cheese.” I gave her a sorrowful look. “But no curdled milk. There was none to be had in Carmel.”

  “Dearest friend.” Leha embraced me. “How can we repay you for this?” she whispered, still worried.

  My husband had done this. His cruelty had wiped the hope of kindness from these people. In that moment, I was very glad I had agreed to Cetura’s scheme. “You may make me all the honey nut cakes I can eat.”

  By now children had come to the wagon, their dull eyes growing large as they saw the food. While Harek and his brother unloaded the heavy sacks, I gave raisin clusters to the young ones.

  “You will have to help me test this cheese,” I told them as I tried to lift the first wheel from the wagon. “I think it is too green, and we may have to feed it to the goats.” I chuckled at the many, eager cries they gave. “Well, perhaps not.”

  The cheeses were the largest to be had from Carmel’s cheese maker, and far too heavy for me to carry even one. Two of the oldest boys came on each side of me, and together we carried it into their mothers’ tent.

  Bethel rose from her place by the cooking pit and frowned at me. “What bring you here, wife of Nabal?”

  The boys and I placed the heavy cheese before her, and I bowed my head. “I have brought food from the house of my husband.” Since he was paying for it, it was considered a gift of his house. “It is to express our gratitude for the hard work you and your people have done in caring for our flocks.”

  “Your husband would not send a single, withered fig to us that we had not earned,” the old woman said in her harshest voice. “I know this from years past, when we were hungry and he let us starve.”

  I looked into her fierce eyes. There was no denial I could make, nothing that would redeem my husband. There was not even the desire in my heart to do so. “Then I would ask you to consider this a gift of my heart, wife of Yehud.”

  “You were our honored guest,” Bethel said, still unswayed, “but you are not kin. You are the wife of our master. We serve you. We do not take offerings or gifts from you. We are not interested in your heart.”

  It was like a slap. Was that how she saw me? As the patronizing wife of her rich master? Did I mean nothing more to Yehud’s family?

  I felt terribly embarrassed. Now I saw my time with the hill people from their eyes. They had only tolerated me because they feared Nabal. There was no place for me in the house of my husband, and no sanctuary to be had here.

  “Where is Keseke?” I asked, holding on to the ragged edge of my composure. “I shall collect
her and leave you in peace.”

  “Your friend stayed with us until her ankle was healed, and ate our food, and complained all the day and night. Then she slipped away in the dark while we were sleeping.” Bethel made a sound of disgust. “She knew we did not have enough, and still she took all the food she could carry. Good riddance to her.”

  “I am sorry she stole from you.” I removed my samla and held it out. “Please accept this.” Giving it would not replace what Keseke had taken, but it was a symbol of my shame and contrition.

  Bethel ignored it. “You should go now before I truly become angry.”

  One of the older girls came up and tugged on the seam of Bethel’s khiton. “Grandmother, please, it is Abigail. She brought cheese for us, and gave us raisins. Please do not be angry at her. She will take the food away, and our tummies ache.”

  “Send me out of the camp,” I said to the old woman, “but I beg you, keep the food. The children need it.” I turned and moved toward the tent flap.

  “Abigail.”

  I looked over my shoulder.

  “You cannot go.” Bethel put an arm around her granddaughter. “This food must be wrapped and stored away, and the cheese cut up for the children, and I am too tired to do it.”

  My shoulders sagged. “Your daughters can do so."

  “Is this so? I shall not have the wife of Nabal here, but Abigail of Carmel may stay, if she is willing to live here as our kin, and do her part of the work.” She hobbled forward and inspected the cheese. “Where are we to put this monstrosity? It is as big as a ram’s head. Two rams’ heads. Could you not bring something a little smaller?”

  Leha gasped. “Aunt!”

  I laughed through the tears stinging in my eyes. “I do not know, but I should say that there are twenty-nine more exactly like it still on the wagon.”

  From that day forward, Yehud’s family treated me just as any other woman in camp. As Bethel had pronounced, I was kin now, and so I was praised and scolded and put to work the same as any of her daughters.