Love Amid the Ashes

by Mesu Andrews

  “Will you follow me to the fire?” he said and then looked at the Cushite. “Alone.” Nogahla’s gaze fell to her feet and she backed into the tent as Dinah stepped into the night.

  Dread twisted Dinah’s stomach. “What is it?” She gazed around the camp. All the servants were in their tents. She was standing in the moonlight alone with Job. No! El Shaddai, no, not again. The last time a man was kind and led her to a place alone like this . . .

  “Dinah, don’t be frightened.” Job gently placed his hand at the small of her back and nudged her forward. “I simply want to talk with you. Will you sit with me by the fire?”

  He had laid two rugs side by side. Dinah began shaking her head. “No, please. I can’t. I won’t. You’ve promised me to your son!” She turned and started to run into the darkness, anything to escape the betrayal of another man.

  “Dinah, listen to me.” He captured her in his strong grasp, but when she fought him, he released her immediately. “I won’t hold you, but you can’t run into the desert at night.”

  Trembling so violently she could barely stand, Dinah wrapped her arms tightly around her body and stared at the rocky, red soil. No tears, El Shaddai. Please, I don’t want to shed more tears.

  Job stepped toward her and reached out his hand, but she drew back like a frightened child. “I simply want to sit by the fire and talk to you about El Shaddai before we arrive in Uz.” His eyes were tender. Clear, as Nogahla had mentioned before. “I won’t hurt you. Look at me, Dinah.”

  But how could she ever look at him again? Their first encounter had been her hysterical nightmare, and now she had accused him of planning a despicable act with his soon-to-be daughter-in-law. Why wouldn’t he pack her things and send her back to Abba Jacob’s camp right now? Suddenly she realized she and Nogahla were very much the same. They both lived in terror of being rejected by their masters.

  Stiffly, Dinah moved to the fire and sat near the flames. She would listen to Job. She would even speak if required. But she could not look at him.

  Job’s patience unnerved her. The fire popped and cracked. Several sparks flew heavenward before he finally broke the silence. “Tell me about Prince Shechem, Dinah. Did you love him?”

  Her breath caught. She blinked hard, breathed fast, fought the emotion. No one had ever asked her—not even her imas had cared to know. She threw a piece of dried dung on the fire. Maybe he’d ask a different question.

  “Dinah, please. I saw the way you cared for Grandfather Isaac in his last days. I know you have a heart full of love. You were so young when Simeon and Levi rescued you. Did you believe you were married when Prince Shechem took you to his bed?”

  “How dare you ask me such intimate questions!” Her outburst startled even her. “Not even my abba spoke of such things!” Dinah balled her fists, willing their trembling to cease.

  Job waited, but she couldn’t restrain her tears much longer. Panicked, she tried to scurry to her feet, but Job’s strong hand held her fast. “Stop running, Dinah. Stop hiding. Tell me what happened at Shechem.” His eyes pierced her. “I visited Grandfather Isaac at harvesttime and shearing every year, but I never knew you were in his camp until last week. Why did you hide for fifteen years, Dinah?”

  “They made me hide because they were ashamed of me!” Her tortured scream echoed in the desert sky, racking her body with sobs. Job released her arm as if she were leprous. Was it revulsion on his face? Shock? Horror? Bowing her head, she let the tears flow quietly, too spent to care.

  A screech owl called out in the distance. Job moved closer. “Dinah, listen to me.” He touched her shoulder, and she flinched. “I’m sorry,” he said, releasing a sigh. “Please, Dinah. Did you love Shechem?”

  “Yes, yes, I loved him,” she cried, “and he loved me.” Dinah glared at the man who would determine her future. Replacing the shield of pain and bitterness around her heart, she wiped her cheeks. “He loved me, Job. Is that so hard to believe? Why can’t anyone believe a man could love me?”

  Job placed one arm around Dinah’s shoulders, and she felt his tenderness but no passion. The simple act dismantled her fragile defenses. She hugged her knees tightly, burying her face in a private world of release.

  Job let her cry, let the silence do its healing work. Then, when her tears had slowed, he said softly, “Dinah, I must ask you another hard question. It is not to judge you or chastise you but to ultimately free you from the pain you’re feeling right now.” He laid his cheek on the top of her head like a caring father with a small child. “Did you know it was wrong to submit to Prince Shechem before receiving your abba’s and El Shaddai’s blessing?”

  Dinah closed her eyes and pulled away from his embrace. She started to stand and go back to her tent when Job grasped her arm. “Answer me, Dinah.”

  She pulled away roughly and wiped the tears. “Will you at least send a guard to accompany me back to my abba’s household?” Laughing bitterly, she added, “Or do I deserve whatever a bandit gives me?”

  Job reached for her again, rising to his knees, and this time he grasped her hands gently. “Please answer, Dinah. It’s important that you say the words aloud.”

  “Yes. I knew!” she said, ripping her hands away from him. “I knew that lying with Shechem before receiving Abba’s blessing was wrong, but I did it anyway.” Tears came again. “This may be impossible for someone like you to understand—someone who has lived a blessed life without pain or struggle. But Shechem was the first person who ever loved me, Job, and I simply couldn’t say no.”

  Job drew out a knife from his belt. A rush of fear coursed through her, and Dinah instinctively tensed to run. But just as suddenly, resignation settled like a shroud. It was the fate she should have shared with her husband twenty years ago. She closed her eyes and waited for the blow.

  Instead, she heard Job rise to his feet and walk away. She watched him retrieve a lamb that had been tethered to his tent. He led the perfect little creature back to where she stood by the fire.

  “Dinah, we all sin—every one of us—and sin brings death. But El Shaddai taught Adam and Noah and Abraham the way to atone for our sins through blood.” He knelt by the lamb, looked up at Dinah, and then slit the lamb’s throat.

  “No!” She fell to her knees. “What are you doing? Why did you kill this helpless creature?” She began to shake, anger welling up as the lamb’s blood poured out. “I thought you were kind and gentle, but you’re as ruthless and uncaring as all men.” She had heard of Abba Jacob’s and Grandfather’s blood sacrifices, but as a woman, she had never been allowed to witness their offerings.

  “The lamb died, Dinah, so you could live.” Job’s steady, calm voice broke through her bitterness. “This is El Shaddai’s way of freeing us from the weight of our sin. As the priest of my family, I make regular offerings for my children just in case they’ve cursed God in their hearts.” Job touched her hand, and the lamb’s blood smeared on her wrist. “You are soon to become my daughter-in-law. I make this offering for you,” he said. “Now you must release your shame.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. “How can you give me to your son now, knowing the shame that hangs on me like filthy rags?”

  “I will offer this lamb to El Shaddai as a burnt offering, Dinah. By morning, nothing will be left of it.” Job stood and helped Dinah to her feet. “What shame?” he asked. “I see no filthy rags on you.” Turning away, he began the priestly work of preparing the animal for offering. Dinah watched in silent wonder for a few moments before returning to her tent.

  Nogahla met her with wide, questioning eyes, but Dinah was too numb to explain. “We will speak of it in the morning,” she promised, and then drifted to sleep with the sweet aroma of roasted lamb in her dreams.

  4

  ~Genesis 3:1, 4–5~

  Now the serpent was more crafty than any of the wild animals the LORD God had made. . . . “You will not surely die,” the serpent said to the woman. “For God knows that when you eat of [the forbidden fruit] yo
ur eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”

  The public dining hall of Sitis’s cliff-hewn palace buzzed with midday activity. Beggars, widows, and orphans filled every table in the large, square room with its high ceilings and private courtyard. She gazed into the sea of hungry faces seated on the benches and chairs, while more of the needy waited outside to partake of Job’s daily provision. Household guards stood at each table to keep order, and the mingling odors of dirty bodies and barley gruel saturated the air. Sitis waved away a fly from her face and wondered if her husband ever dreamed they’d feed this many people each day.

  Everyone in the house was busy serving, even Sitis’s old nursemaid. “Nada, put your tray down and hurry over to Ennon’s house.” Sitis, her own hands full, motioned with her head for one of the other servants to take Nada’s tray. “Tell his lazy wife to come help us.” Sitis took a quick inventory of her other children and counted all three daughters serving, as well as her other five daughters-in-law. Her seventh son had never settled down long enough to marry. “Tell Ennon’s lounging princess that if she refuses to dish up gruel, she’ll not wear my son’s gold.”

  Nada was already pressing her wide body through the narrow aisles, fists balled on hips, marching off to deliver the ultimatum to the prodigal in-law. Sitis watched her go and mumbled, “Job should have let me pick Ennon’s wife. I would have chosen Bela’s daughter. At least that girl knows how to work.” A little wicked delight teased Sitis’s heart as she imagined Nada’s stormy reprimand to Ennon’s wife.

  But the reality of toothless beggars, dirty children, and sickly women closed in around her. Did Job think his household could save the world?

  Pressing on a smile like a potter working half-dried clay, Sitis tightened her grip on her serving bowl and ladle. She dabbed her forehead with the back of her hand and bent down to serve. “Widow Orma, would you like more barley broth?”

  The old woman’s eyes were cloudy but perceptive as she rose from the widows’ table. “Mistress, why don’t you allow me to serve your guests today? Your husband has been gone for nearly a full moon, and you’ve been working too hard.” A little mischief played on the old woman’s wiry gray brows. “Have you had your motherly talk with Uzahmah before her betrothal banquet?”

  Sitis’s baked-on smile broke into genuine pleasure. Widow Orma was her favorite of all the widows who regularly came for provisions. She almost made this degrading charade worthwhile. “No, Orma. I’ve had little time to do anything but keep up with household duties.”

  The widow gently relieved Sitis of ladle and serving bowl. “Go, dear. Every day this household serves those of us who have no food. Let me serve today, and you rest.”

  Though Sitis perceived no judgment in Orma’s words, a twinge of guilt shadowed her heart. She didn’t really despise serving the needy—at least, not as much as she used to. It was just that she had so many preparations for Uzahmah and Elihu’s betrothal banquet. “Thank you, Orma. Job and Elihu should both be arriving in three days, and I want to have everything ready to surprise them.”

  The widow smiled her good-bye and began serving. Sitis watched for a moment—the way the old woman leaned close, spoke quietly, touched a shoulder, listened well. I suppose if you had nothing or no one else, you could spend your days listening and serving as if you hadn’t a care in the world.

  Sitis hurried past the sweaty bodies and emerged through the heavy red-gold tapestry into the small, dark hallway. Oil lamps sputtered on shelves niched into the rock walls, and Sitis closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Crushed cloves and dried mint bathed her battered senses. The relief of this place was like water to a parched desert soul.

  Would she ever grow accustomed to the foulness of the poor? As Ishmael’s granddaughter, Sitis had grown up in the most luxurious desert tents and thought Job’s ideas of charity a coarse knot to untangle. She chuckled to herself. In forty years of marriage, serving maid was only one of many masks she wore to maintain their relationship—a small price to pay for ten beautiful children and the prospect of grandchildren someday.

  Taking a long, cleansing breath of the sweet-smelling spices, Sitis proceeded to the private banquet hall, where the gifts and decorations for Uzahmah’s betrothal banquet lay spread out on tables. Her fingers brushed lightly over the shiny silver cups she’d purchased from Aramean merchants yesterday. She lifted a bronze plate and checked her image in its shiny reflection. Hmm, more fine lines under your eyes, Sitis. Her black hair was streaked with a few gray strands, and the rosy cheeks of youth were gone.

  “Yes, Sitis-girl, you’re as beautiful as when we were thirteen.”

  The deep, resonant voice made Sitis jump, and she nearly dropped the plate. “Sayyid! What are you doing sneaking into my house? You’ll give me more gray hair!”

  Her childhood friend walked toward her confidently, regally, as befitted a wealthy grain merchant. With mischief in his voice, he bowed and said, “I’ve come to ask the mistress of the house if she’ll require more grain for the grand occasion of her youngest daughter’s betrothal banquet.”

  “Oh, stand up.” Sitis waved away his antics like flies in the beggars’ hall, but she couldn’t wave away the smile that always came with his presence. “You know we have more than enough grain. You’ve been generous as always, my friend.”

  Sayyid’s eyes lost their playful glint, and his usual gentle gaze captured Sitis’s heart. “I’ve brought something special for Uzahmah.” He glanced around the empty banquet room as if ensuring they were alone. Reaching into the folds of his robe, he produced a leather pouch that appeared heavy with its contents. “Just as I gave you the gift of Ishmaelite wisdom so long ago, so I wish to grant life to your daughter.” He loosened the string and let three perfectly crafted Ishmaelite goddesses fall into his hand: Al-Uzza, Al-Lat, and Manat.

  Sitis gasped. “Oh, Sayyid, they’re exactly like the ones you gave me, when . . .” Tears welled up, and her throat tightened with emotion. “When Job’s God had forgotten me, you gave me the goddesses, and I never miscarried again.” She couldn’t meet his gaze. This wasn’t something a woman talked about with a man, but Sayyid wasn’t just any man. His family had been tenant farmers in her father’s camp, and Sayyid had loved her once—many years ago. “My daughters were a gift from our Ishmaelite deities.” She finally looked up and was startled at the ferocity of his expression.

  “Job almost killed you, expecting you to bear sons like the herds of Edom. No woman can bear three sets of twins in six years and survive.” Sayyid’s anger at Job still burned after all these years, but Sitis had learned to keep the men apart—though the two remained close in her heart.

  “It wasn’t Job who mistreated me, Sayyid,” she said, reaching out to stroke his cheek. “My husband loves me. It was Job’s God, El Shaddai, who forgot me.” Letting her hand fall again to her side, she felt the familiar hardness overshadow her at the mention of Yahweh. “It was just as you’ve always told me, Sayyid. El Shaddai is a man’s God and doesn’t hear the pleas of a woman longing for a child.” She gently placed each of the three images on the table in front of them. “I told Job that our daughters’ names proclaimed their Ishmaelite heritage, but their names were truly reminders of my fertility goddesses.” She transferred a kiss from her finger to the head of each of the goddesses. “Alathah was named for Al-Lat, Manathah for Manat, and Uzahmah for the almighty goddess Al-Uzza.” Turning to Sayyid, she smiled tenderly and kissed his cheek. “And of course, they always remind me of my childhood friend, who rescues me whenever I need him.”

  The ground shook, and shouting pierced the first rays of dawn. Chaos exploded in Job’s camp. Dinah saw an ox run past her tent, a herdsman in pursuit. She threw off the heavy furs that had warmed her through her first dreamless sleep since childhood, and she shot straight up on her goatskin rug. The aroma of sacrificial lamb had completely faded.

  Nogahla was huddled in her arms before Dinah was fully awake. “Nogahla,” Dinah whisper
ed, “go hide under that mound of blankets. They mustn’t find you.” Marauders often came just before dawn, and if Job’s caravan was indeed under attack, raiders would soon burst into their tent.

  “But mistress, where will you hide?” The girl’s voice trembled as she scrambled toward the blankets.

  Nogahla pulled her last fingertip under the woolen mound, and Dinah listened to the sounds around her. Instead of the clomping of camels’ gallops, she heard the pounding thunder of horses’ hooves. Now Job’s servants were crying out more in confusion than fear.

  “What is going on out there?” Dinah said. Gathering her courage, she moved toward the slender shaft of sunrise cutting through the front of their tent. She peered through, watching Job and a portly Sabean sheik walk calmly toward the fire, while the rest of the camp continued to stir. She couldn’t quite make out the other man’s features in the pre-dawn glow.

  “That’s odd,” Dinah whispered. “There’s something familiar about that sheik.”

  When the confusion began to settle, Nogahla peeked from beneath the blankets and asked, “Is everybody dead?”

  Casting a chastising glance at the girl, Dinah reached for her head covering and cautiously opened the tent flap. She bowed to exit, and when she straightened to full height, she met the gaze of the Sabean sheik seated by Job—a man she’d indeed met before. His hatred burned her cheeks like hot coals. Dinah recoiled blindly into the tent, nearly knocking the center post to the ground. Elohim, not him, not now.

  “Mistress, are you all right?” Nogahla had emerged from her woolen fortress and caught Dinah as she stumbled backward. Fear clouded her features when she glimpsed Dinah’s expression. “Have they harmed Master Job?”

  “No, Nogahla,” Dinah whispered, regaining her balance more readily than her composure. “Master Job is well.” She glanced around frantically, trying to discern what they could pack quickly into small bags. “We must hurry and pack a few things. Master Job will be sending us back to my abba’s camp any moment now.” Who knew if Job would allow them to take a camel or donkey—or if they would be cast out of the camp to find their way on foot.