by Mesu Andrews
“Nooo!” she cried. “Please, Job. Please, stop.” She lifted her face.
“Sitis, come to me.” He spoke softly now, barely over a whisper. “Come to me, my wife.”
She lay still, staring at him in silence. He wondered for a moment if she’d even heard his plea. Finally, she began to crawl on hands and knees toward the pinnacle of Job’s ashes. She’d never come this close without covering her face against the stench, and Job saw her gag several times before reaching the top. Judging from her frail frame and dry heaves, it could have been days since she’d eaten anything.
She sat beside him and refused to meet his gaze, staring instead across the canyon at Sayyid’s grand palace. “Please curse your God, Job. Please do something dishonorable so I can stop loving you.”
“I will not curse God, Sitis.”
“Sayyid cut my hair in the public market today as payment for that bread.” She motioned to the three cold loaves lying in the ashes and began to cry again. “I’m not strong like you, Job. I don’t deserve your love. Part of me enjoyed Sayyid’s touch. It’s been so long since I’ve felt a man’s contact . . .” She covered her face and fell silent. “Curse your God, Job,” she breathed, “and release us both from this misery. I deserve a man like Sayyid, and you deserve a good woman like . . . like Dinah.”
The words were like a searing blade piercing Job’s soul. “I will not curse El Shaddai, Sitis.” Tears burned the sores on his cheeks. “I love you, my wife. I will always love you.”
He reached for her, but she pulled away, crying out when she saw the deformity of his hands. “How can you keep faith with a God who does this to you—to us?”
And then her face registered a horror that surpassed even the night of the tragedies.
“El Shaddai has done this because of my blasphemy, because of my idolatry!” She scrambled to her feet, crouching over Job, then backing away slowly. “This is my fault, Job. My children are dead because of me. Our home destroyed because of me. You’ve lost your fingers because of—” Hysterical, she ran down the ash heap.
“Sitis, no, wait!” Job’s weak voice was swallowed up in the immense canyon, but to his utter amazement—and relief—his wife ran headlong into Dinah.
Sayyid waited in his bedchamber for Sitis, sipping sweet wine as a serving girl fanned him with an ostrich plume. How long does it take to deliver three loaves of bread to a leprous husband? Of course, the maids would need time to bathe her—especially after visiting Job on that dung heap. But after forty-one years of waiting, Sayyid would finally taste the forbidden fruit of his Sitis-girl. He swished a mouthful of wine through his teeth and eyed his chambermaid. She kept her gaze averted, using the black-and-white feathers to stir warm afternoon air with deep, rhythmic stabs.
“Come here, girl.” Sayyid studied his newest young Sitis, her glossy raven hair and full lips. Though he would soon possess his one true obsession, he would always need the young replicas—especially since Sitis had become disheveled and gaunt in the past year.
Setting aside the ostrich plume, the maid’s hands trembled, and she smoothed her sky blue linen robe.
Just as he pulled her into his arms, a violent knocking resounded on his chamber door. “Master Sayyid! I have urgent news of utmost importance.”
“Aban, someone had better be dying or you are dead, my friend!” Sayyid leapt from his seat, and the girl jumped back like a skittish mare. He clutched the collar of her robe, drawing her close enough to smell the frankincense he insisted all his girls wear. It was the scent of royalty, the scent Sitis had worn since they were children. “Pick up your fan. We are not finished yet.” By the time he’d released her, Aban had entered the chamber.
“Master, our scouts have just returned with word of a great army approaching Uz.” His chest was heaving, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead.
“What? Uz has never been at war.” Sayyid felt the blood drain from his face. “What great army would dare attack our town? Job has a family treaty with the Edomites and Sitis with the Ishmaelites.”
“Sitis’s brother Bildad and Job’s uncle Eliphaz lead the army. Our scouts say that Bildad commands at least a thousand men and Eliphaz over seven hundred. The merchant Zophar travels with them, his caravan loaded with supplies, presumably to restock Job’s household.”
“How long before they arrive?” Sayyid choked out the words, considering possible strategies.
“Just before dark.” Aban paused. “It seems the young man Elihu was successful in his mission.” The captain bowed as if his words sealed Sayyid’s tomb.
A terrible premonition washed over Sayyid, and his feet felt rooted to his bedchamber floor. As if lifting two boulders, he commanded his legs to carry him to the balcony. Desperately, he searched the canyon below. There on the dung pile were three discarded loaves of bread—his bread—and Sitis lying next to her leprous husband.
Something inside him snapped.
“Aban,” he said barely above a whisper. When his captain didn’t respond, Sayyid turned calmly and beckoned the man to the balcony railing. Aban obeyed, but reluctantly. Sayyid placed one hand on the large man’s shoulder as if consulting a close friend. “Aban, are the Nameless Ones still refurbishing Job’s home?”
“Yes, my lord,” the guard said warily.
“Speak to their leader. I want him to kill Sitis. Now, this instant. He can name his price.”
Though Aban was young, he was already a hardened warrior, nearly unshakable. However, this command slackened his jaw like a corpse.
Sayyid patted his cheek to draw a little blood to the surface. “Do you have a better idea, my friend? Shall we let Sitis show brother Bildad her hair, cry about her home, complain that I let her children’s flesh rot from their bones? Or will you join me in accusing the Nameless Ones of her murder and ascribing Job’s ranting to a mind demented by the gods?”
Aban shoved away Sayyid’s hand, his gaze hard and unwavering. “I will issue your command, but it will be the last time I obey you. I have wronged too many for too long with too little in return.” His face twisted, disgust seeming to war with a burgeoning streak of greed. “From this moment on I will name my price for keeping your secrets. I will no longer call you master. You will show me respect, Father.” The big man strode out of the chamber, his retreating footsteps echoing down the stairs.
Sayyid stood aghast. Silent. Stunned at Aban’s sudden fury and insolence. His heart raced, and he struggled for control. No child of his concubines had ever dared assert their position as his offspring.
Only a moment passed, however, before a slow, wry smile replaced his shock. Perhaps he is more like his father than I realized.
An echoing chuckle rumbled from deep in his belly. Yes, Aban might someday be worthy of Sayyid’s bequest. “But today you will obey me,” he said aloud.
“Come, girl, you can fan me on my balcony,” he said to his chambermaid. Turning toward the canyon, Sayyid watched Job’s ash pile, ready to witness the end of his lifelong obsession.
15
~Job 2:11~
When Job’s three friends, Eliphaz the Temanite, Bildad the Shuhite and Zophar the Naamathite, heard about all the troubles that had come upon him, they set out from their homes and met together by agreement to go and sympathize with him and comfort him.
Dinah gathered Sitis in her arms, comforting the once proud Ishmaelite princess who was now stripped of her hair and dignity. “Sitis, I have no doubt it was Sayyid who did this to you.” Bile rose in Dinah’s throat at the thought of a man who could inflict such humiliation.
Nogahla deftly wrapped Sitis’s headpiece around her short scalp of hair, and Dinah mouthed a silent “thank you.”
“You’re not going back to serve in Bela’s household,” she said as Sitis wept quietly. “Sayyid will find you there and mistreat you again.” She bent down to meet the woman’s gaze. “You’ll come back to Widow Orma’s cave and stay with Nogahla and me.”
“No! I can’t. I won’t!” Sitis’s
eyes were suddenly wild, panicked, mirroring the confusion around them. The canyon echoed with children’s playful songs, tambourines, and trilling flutes.
Dinah wanted to calm Sitis or at least ask why she reacted so vehemently, but a few paces away, the desert tribe pounded and scraped the walls of Job’s home and shouted taunts at his pain. Job’s wife began her march away from the dung heap.
“Sitis, wait!” Dinah cast a questioning glance at Nogahla. Perhaps she could guess at Sitis’s hesitation. The girl just shrugged, so Dinah tried again. “I know it’s only a cave, Sitis. It’s not what you’re used to, but—”
“No!” Sitis shouted as she turned. “I can’t bring disaster on the widow, on you and Nogahla!” She whirled around and took another step. “Stay away from me. I’ll bring a curse on you too!”
Dinah grabbed Sitis tightly, feeling every bone in her skeletal frame. Sitis flailed valiantly, but her strength was diminished by hunger and fatigue.
“Shh,” Dinah soothed, “tell me what has happened. Tell me why you’re so frightened.” Dinah motioned Nogahla to ascend the ash heap, where Job was gesturing wildly and crying. Sitis finally sagged to the ground in Dinah’s arms.
“I’m afraid of El Shaddai, Dinah,” the woman said between hysterical hiccups. “All our tragedy is El Shaddai’s punishment of my blasphemy, my idolatry. It’s because El Shaddai is angry with me.” She was limp, lying against Dinah like an infant in its mother’s lap.
Dinah allowed a lingering silence to prepare the woman’s heart and then set her upright to look into her eyes. “And who has convinced you that this is Yahweh’s punishment? Did El Shaddai reveal it to you?”
“I don’t know.” Sitis looked away, unable to hide her discomfort. “Not exactly.”
“Did Job, the priest of your household, tell you the tragedies were judgment because of your sins?” Dinah waited, noting a slight spark of hope in the woman’s dull stare.
“I think Job might have been trying to tell me my fears were unfounded, when I rushed away crying.” Dinah watched the release of life-giving tears roll down Sitis’s cheeks. “But Dinah, what other reason could there be for this punishment? Job certainly doesn’t deserve this. It must be me. I’m the bad one. I’m unworthy. Don’t you see?”
Dinah held Sitis’s face tenderly between her hands. “I see more clearly than you know, my friend.”
Sitis offered a furrowed brow and a puzzled tilt of her head.
Dinah chuckled at the irony. “Can you honestly say that I—Dinah of Shechem—don’t understand feeling unworthy?”
Sitis tried to look away.
“No, don’t turn away. Look at my face, Sitis. It bears no shame. Not anymore.”
Sitis’s eyes held new emotion. Compassion now mingled with sorrow. “Those stories can’t be true, Dinah. I’ve seen who you really are. You couldn’t have lured Prince Shechem into a false marriage or had any part in your brothers’ murderous plot.”
Dinah’s heart stopped. There it was in an almond shell. The tale merchants and shepherds had told for twenty-one years. “No, Sitis. I did not lure Prince Shechem, and there was no plot. However, I sinned in my relationship with the prince, and my brothers’ bloodstained hands carried me to Canaan on Shechemite plunder. For these sins I bore shame for twenty years, but El Shaddai forgave me. He removed my shame and made me better than before.”
Sitis’s tears stopped, replaced by red-hot flames. “El Shaddai will never forgive me, and my life will never be better than before, Dinah. My children are gone. My home is destroyed. My—”
“I’m talking about you, Sitis,” Dinah interrupted. “You will be better. Not your children or your possessions. You. Yahweh can wipe away your shame, and you can become cleaner, more complete, than ever before.”
“El Shaddai might forgive others, but not one like me, who has blasphemed and cursed Him.”
“El Shaddai forgives everyone who asks it of Him.” Dinah locked Sitis in an unyielding stare, knowing intimately that secret turmoil between doubt and yearning. The silence stretched into discomfort, but neither woman was willing to look away—until something in the dust captured their attention.
Oop-oop-oop. The preening pink-and-black-crested hoopoe speared the dirt with its long beak, tossing dust into the air for a gritty bath. The beautiful little creature had no inkling of its significance, but Yahweh knew. And Dinah knew she should share her special treasure.
“Did you know that the hoopoe has recently become a sign of God’s presence in my life, Mistress Sitis?” she confided. “Not an idol to be worshiped or an embodiment of El Shaddai Himself, but a reminder of His watchful care of even the most insignificant creatures.” Dinah reached for Sitis’s hands. “If Yahweh calls a hoopoe to encourage the brokenhearted, wouldn’t that same caring God eagerly forgive anyone—no matter how undeserving—when they ask Him?”
A tentative glow rose in Sitis’s features, and her voice rang with new clarity. “How do I ask Him to forgive me?” Her trembling returned, but it was accompanied by the hoopoe’s trilling and her gentle gasp. “If Yahweh has the power to command the flight of a hoopoe, He could easily strike me dead. Are you sure He’ll forgive me if I ask?”
Dinah watched the little bird run across the dusty canyon floor, and she shivered too—but from sheer joy at the prospect of Job’s restored wife and marriage. “Yahweh won’t strike you dead, my friend, and He will forgive you.” Her words sounded more certain than she felt. Regardless, Job had helped her believe El Shaddai’s mercy extended to any forlorn woman with a truly penitent heart. “Let’s go tell your husband, and he can help you with the next step.”
Just as the women turned toward Job’s ash heap, they heard the thunderous pounding of a camel’s swift approach.
“It’s Elihu!” Sitis cried, looking over Dinah’s shoulder and waving both hands wildly. Dinah saw joy light the woman’s features, but just as suddenly watched disappointment strangle her hopes. She cupped her hands over her mouth and whispered, “He’s alone, Dinah. Job’s uncle Eliphaz and my brother have refused to help us.” Letting her hands fall to her sides, she walked toward the dung heap. “Perhaps El Shaddai is the only one who can save us now.”
Aban stood inside Job’s kitchen, peering around the archway at the approaching camel and rider. The scrawny, unkempt leader of the Nameless Ones gawked and prodded, trying to see past him. “Who’s on that camel?”
Aban reminded himself to breathe through his mouth to avoid the stench of the old man’s breath. It could melt the skin off a snake. How could one so vile have risen to leadership over hundreds of men? Aban examined the desert bandit. The little man certainly couldn’t overpower any of his ragtag crew, but perhaps he was as wily as he was repulsive.
Shrugging the old thief back, Aban returned his attention to the courtyard and canyon beyond. “The man on the camel is no one you know, but someone we should both fear.”
The Nameless One straightened and smiled, a gaping hole where his front teeth used to dwell. “I fear no one, Captain, not even you.”
Quicker than a cobra’s strike, Aban clutched the man’s throat and lifted his feet off the floor. “Then you are a fool, old man.” The bandit sputtered and groveled, grasping Aban’s forearm with both hands, gulping pleas for mercy. Aban released him and he stumbled, steadying himself with one hand against the wall. “Our plans must change.” Aban spoke absently, returning his attention to Elihu, who was now dismounting his camel just outside the breached courtyard wall.
“Good. I have no patience for kidnapping.” The little scoundrel sucked air between his back teeth. Probably dislodging some of the roast lamb Sayyid had provided for the bandits’ midday meal. Aban turned toward the sound and noticed the man studying him. “I had hoped Master Sayyid would order me to kill Mistress Sitis, not kidnap her.”
“No!” Aban roared, and the Nameless One staggered back. “The plan remains kidnapping. You are not to harm Mistress Sitis, do you understand?”
“All rig
ht. All right.” Both sooty hands went up in mock surrender. “What do you suppose Master Sayyid wants us to do with the woman now that our new visitor has arrived?” The bandit’s beady eyes and self-assured smile danced with suspicion.
Had he somehow guessed Aban’s double cross of Sayyid’s murderous command? Regardless, Aban refused to let any harm come to Sitis. The woman looked just as he remembered his mother—before Sayyid sold her to Egyptian traders. The same fiery spirit that sustained Mistress Sitis through Sayyid’s abuse had also dwelt in his mother, giving her the needed strength to serve such a man.
“I will take care of making plans, old man. You take care of following my orders.” Aban leaned down to meet his gaze. “Now get back to work until I call for you again.”
A chill skittered down Aban’s spine at the wildness in the man’s eyes. This wilderness lunatic was unpredictable enough to ignore both him and Sayyid. The only reason the Nameless Ones had obeyed them at all was because of Sayyid’s constant supply of food and the roof over their heads. Thankfully, they seemed in no hurry to return to their desolate wasteland to eat salt herbs and broom tree roots.
Job’s heart raced at the sight of Elihu’s bouncing form on the galloping camel. If he’d not been overcome with grief for his wife’s humiliation, he might have even felt some hope at the young man’s return.
“Nogahla, you must go and persuade Sitis to come up here so I can talk with her.” Job’s voice was barely a whisper now. His attempts at shouting must have torn open the sores in his throat. He was now spitting blood into the only clean bandage Nogahla had rationed for the day.
“Master Job, I’m sure Mistress Dinah is coaxing her to do that very thing, but you must trust El Shaddai to do His work.” The girl sat close beside him, as comfortable as his own daughter.
Job watched Dinah’s ministrations, silently praying for her wisdom and for Sitis’s receptive heart. El Shaddai, I would bear ten times the pain of my sores if You would just heal my precious wife. Please, Yahweh, know her despair and heal her inner wounds!
