I could see that my sister didn’t like this idea, and I immediately informed my parents that I had no interest in the girls’ dancing, nor in the celebrations, but that I actually was very interested in the market. And as long as I was kept away from there, I would declare a full retreat from my studies since, in my opinion, being a member of society was more important than learning to speak Egyptian and improving my writing.
This uprising achieved victory, and in the beginning of summer I found myself unloading grapes in the market square. At first I felt stifled and dizzy and almost confessed these feelings to Father, but within a few weeks, I had made friends with other boys my age who worked in the market, and I joined them in watching the coquettish sauntering of the merchant girls, who pointedly ignored us and had eyes only for the older boys.
Market days eclipsed my monthly visits to the cave. I loved the spicy smells, the vibrant colors, even the crowdedness. In the evenings, Mother and Elisheba would join us, and we would go to have dinner in the shack of Necho the Egyptian, whose cooking was famous all over Mount Ephraim. I gorged myself on hot pita and lamb and raisin stew, but even more so on the flowing conversation with the owner, who didn’t miss any opportunity to talk with a Hebrew boy who spoke Egyptian. One time, Mother started to explain to him that the tribes of Joseph didn’t hate the Egyptians like the other Israelites did because Asenath, our matriarch, the wife of Joseph, had been an Egyptian. But, for Father, this topic was on the list of dangerous topics, and he gestured for her to keep quiet.
We continued our tradition of eating at Necho’s place on market days until a strange encounter with the king’s soldiers, which startled not only fearful Father but also brave Mother. After this incident, she made me swear to stay away from Necho’s shack so that I wouldn’t run into any more curious soldiers who might further investigate my accent.
We were sitting as usual on the mat, soaking up the leftover sweet sauce from the lamb stew with our pita bread, when three soldiers walked in. They greeted everyone politely and sat down next to us. I felt no hostility toward them, nor fear of them, but only attraction and curiosity. Father’s anxiety and Mother’s resentment made me yearn for their company all the more. They must have noticed that I was interested in them, unlike the rest of my family, and they smiled at me. I smiled back and tried to start a conversation, but Mother stood up and said that it was late and that we had to get going. I stood up, too, but before I could leave the shack, one of the soldiers asked me if we were going back to the land of Benjamin that night.
“Benjamin?” I asked in puzzlement. “I’m from Zeredah.”
The three soldiers looked me up and down. “Say Shibboleth,” said one of them.
I knew what they were doing, and it amused me. I did everything I could to emphasize our particular whistling sh sound as I said, “Sibboleth.”
The soldier burst out laughing. “What do you say about that?” he asked his friends. “The voice is the voice of Ephraim, but the height is the height of Benjamin.”
Only when we got outside could I see how pale my parents’ faces had become. I whispered to Mother that it disappointed me to see that she was scared of soldiers, too. I wanted to ask her if all Benjaminites were as tall as I was, but I decided it was best not to bring it up.
Four
Elisheba persisted in her refusal to visit the lepers’ cave. Each month she came up with a different excuse, but I knew that she just couldn’t put out of her mind the scary stories I had told her after that first visit. The guilt I initially felt turned into puzzlement, then anger, and finally resentment. My little sister was and remained my closest confidante, but her stubborn refusal cast a shadow upon our special connection. The monthly visit to the cave had become a most significant part of my life, and I knew that if she didn’t take part in it, a rift was liable to form between us. Eventually, I got my chance, but it led to the family’s good and obedient child having her first conflict with our parents.
That day, I was sitting in Zeruah’s cell as usual, reporting everything I had been up to since our last meeting. Since I had already turned sixteen, my stories about playing in the thicket and about new Egyptian words had been replaced with racy descriptions of the pretty girls I saw on market days. I knew Zeruah was even more afraid of the king’s soldiers than Father was, so I didn’t tell her about the other expeditions I’m able to accomplish thanks to the excellent excuses of my faithful sister, who backs me up and enables me to enjoy some freedom every once in a while. Zeruah wanted to know who the most beautiful girl in Zeredah was, and I answered without even a moment of thought that it was Elisheba, though she wasn’t yet twelve. I added with enthusiasm that no other girl had curls as abundant as hers, almond eyes as bright, or a body as lithe. Zeruah studied me with interest from behind her mask, but I wasn’t embarrassed.
At some point, I got up to set the table. When I came to visit, Zeruah liked to eat with me in her cell, rather than in the big hall with everyone else. She didn’t want to miss a moment of my company. I carefully ladled Mother’s lentil stew and tore off the fragrant bread she had baked early in the morning before we had headed to the cave. Zeruah got up from her bed and went to the table, but when she tried to sit down on the mat her long cloak got caught between her legs and pulled up all the way to her elbow. I looked at the bare arm and couldn’t believe what I was seeing: the skin was smooth and healthy.
Zeruah quickly covered up and then embarked on an unusually long series of questions. I realized that she was trying to hide her feelings and pretend that everything was normal. I wanted to go along with her charade and carry on our conversation as if nothing had happened, but my food got stuck in my throat.
On the way back, I didn’t tell Mother what I had seen. When we got home, I reluctantly sat down to supper and couldn’t wait for it to end. Elisheba sensed that something was wrong and tried to find out what it was. I signaled for her to be patient. But Father chose that night to give us a long, boring description of the low-quality vines his competitor had grown this year and the fine profit we could look forward to. When he saw that I wasn’t listening, he took offense and muttered that it was time I showed some interest in his business, since, as their only son, I was the one who would carry on this fine family tradition. I replied that the occupation of a single generation was hardly a fine family tradition. His own father had worked as a hired servant his entire life, barely able to feed his many wives and children. Mother intervened, saying angrily that if tradition was what we cared about, then we might consider the fact that Father and Grandfather had both been married by my age. She said that the time had come to find me a wife, too, and that only marriage would be able to bridle my raging youth and tamp down my rude behavior.
I wanted to kick the table and run out with Elisheba, but I held back and apologized for what I had said. Lately, fighting with my parents has become a daily occurrence. Father’s fear of the soldiers is driving me crazy. As a child, I saw it as an expression of love, but now I feel isolated and trapped. Marriage could be my way out, but I’m not ready to live with a woman. The pretty girls in the market excite me, but at night, when I pleasure myself in bed, I am not thinking of them.
The unpleasant dinner was finally over, and my parents retired to their bedroom. I went out to the thicket with Elisheba, nearly at a run.
“Why do you always fight with them? When will you learn to restrain yourself?”
“I’m hotheaded.”
“Tell me what happened today. I’m dying to know.”
“Talk about restraint!” I said, making her wait a little longer. “What could possibly happen to lepers who spend their entire lives in a cave?”
“Come on, Shelomoam. I’m begging you.”
I tried to tell her everything exactly as it had happened, the way I did every night, but I was so excited that I couldn’t find the words and mumbled something about Zeruah’s cloak getting caught between her legs. Elisheba didn’t understand a thing. I started over again
, from the beginning, but I was so excited that I jumped right back to the end again.
“So what do you think?” I asked. “Can you explain it?”
Elisheba was at a loss. “An unblemished arm?” she finally asked. “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
“It can’t be. Did you ask Mother about it?”
“She’ll say I only imagined it, just like she did years ago when I saw Zeruah shaking.”
Then I had a bold idea, and though I knew it was a wicked one, I could think of nothing else. Elisheba noticed the glint in my eye and demanded an explanation. I laid out my plan with enthusiasm, but when I saw how shocked she was, I knew that I had no partner.
“Have you lost your mind?”
“I need your help. I can’t do it alone.”
“I can’t.”
I knew that I mustn’t give up. “We don’t have a choice,” I told her. “We have to find out the truth.”
* * *
A month later, Elisheba was sitting beside me in the wagon. Mother was absolutely overjoyed and talked the whole way there about the surprise we had in store for Zeruah, who had been waiting for so long to meet the little girl who had now grown so big and so beautiful.
“I’m not big at all,” Elisheba protested. “My head barely reaches Shelomoam’s waist.”
To distract Mother from our nervousness, I chatted cheerily about my height, telling her proudly that everyone looked short next to me, and that when I came to the market with Father people whispered about how unbelievable it was that little Benaiah was the father of such a giant. I had hoped that Mother would laugh, like she had in the old days, but instead she pursed her lips and said nothing more the rest of the journey.
When we got to the cave, I was afraid that Elisheba would change her mind and refuse to get off the wagon. I already had a plan for persuading her behind Mother’s back, but she jumped off without hesitation and gave me her hand.
“Take me to Zeruah,” she said.
Mother’s face testified to her utter astonishment. “Wait a moment. Let’s unload the food first.”
“We’ll help you later, Mama. Please. I can’t wait to meet her.”
I admired the tone of entitlement that Elisheba uses when she wants something from our parents. It is so different from my aggressive attitude, which never achieves anything and only confirms my status as the rebel of the family.
The desired outcome soon followed. It was demonstrated once again that Mother is powerless to withstand her daughter’s sweet talk. “Fine. Go meet Zeruah, but don’t be too long. She’ll have a flood of questions for you and will want you to stay with her until we leave. Tell her you have to help me unload the wagon first.”
“Don’t worry, Mama. We’ll be right back.”
Elisheba bounded confidently into the main hall, as if she knew the place. Not a muscle in her face so much as twitched as she sped past the covered-up lepers who watched her with clear interest from behind their masks. I recalled how frightened I had been the first time I saw Zeruah’s mask and was proud of my brave little sister. But when I thought of what we were about to do, I felt my knees buckle and had a hard time keeping up with her as she moved down the long hallway. When she paused in front of the correct cell, I nodded. She drew the curtain aside and walked in.
Zeruah was sitting on the bed. She turned to face us.
“I promised you I would get my sister here one day.”
I thought that her body would begin to shake beneath her cloak, the way it had the first time she saw me, but she watched Elisheba with calm curiosity.
We walked over together. I stood behind Zeruah and pulled my knife out from its hiding place, while Elisheba stood in front of her and leaned forward, as if she were about to kiss her.
Zeruah recoiled, and then, in perfect synchrony, I made a quick slit in the cloak, from the top of the head down to the neck, while Elisheba pulled the mask off Zeruah’s face.
It all happened so quickly that we met no resistance. She didn’t even cry out.
One look was enough.
The woman sitting before us was no leper.
Five
Instead of protesting our act of violence and making us apologize, Mother looked in all directions with horror, the way Father always did, and made us swear not to tell anyone what we had seen. Then she ordered us to get back on the wagon, and she drove the horses wildly down the mountain. Elisheba and I tried to remind her that we hadn’t unloaded the food yet, but she ignored us and went on with her flight.
When we got home, I said to Elisheba that we could no longer pretend to be a normal family. I had often tried to convince her that our parents were hiding something from us. I told her that they had chosen to live in our huge house not only because they were wealthy enough to purchase a thicket of wasteful trees that bore no fruit, but also in order to seclude themselves from the world and hide their mysterious secrets among those trees. That’s why all the rich people in Zeredah have slaves, while we don’t even have hired servants, but just the workers who help Father in the vineyards and who never enter our house.
Now I didn’t have to convince her anymore. I told Elisheba my plan for the rebellion, and she promised to stick to it until our parents revealed all their secrets.
We didn’t speak with them for over a week. We spent almost all the hours of the days and the nights in the thicket, among the oaks and the terebinths, and we came inside only for sustenance. There were a few moments where Elisheba came close to breaking. She missed her soft bed, hot meals, and, most of all, Mother, but I was able to strengthen her resolve and give her hope that our nightmare would end soon.
Maybe it was only my imagination, but I could swear that our parents weren’t mad at me. Their contorted faces showed signs of confusion and distress, but not anger. I was surprised. I couldn’t comprehend why Mother would send fleeting tender glances in my direction when she knew that I was inciting Elisheba against her, or how Father could stop himself from beating me over my open rebellion against him. I was taller and stronger than him, but fathers are allowed to beat their sons even after they grow up.
Sleeping outside wasn’t good for Elisheba. For my part, I actually enjoyed lying by her side on the moist dirt and watching the stars beyond the treetops, but I knew that I was putting her health at risk. Her bright eyes were sullied by a burning redness, and her coughing fits became ever more frequent. Still, I wouldn’t end my rebellion. “It’s now or never,” I kept telling her. “There won’t be another chance.” I was willing to do anything to uncover our family secrets.
Our rebellion lasted eight days. On the ninth night, Mother stepped outside quietly and woke us up with gentle caresses. I don’t know what would have happened if she hadn’t declared her surrender. It scares me to think how far I would have gone.
“Be quiet,” she whispered. “Father won’t let me tell you the secrets, but I know that they are ruining our family life and disrupting the most important thing in my life: my relationship with my children. I’m sorry I hurt you, but now you will hear the story and understand that I had no other choice.”
Mother’s confession went on till morning, and when she had finished, I knew that what she had told us was only part of the mystery and that it would be my fate to go on living in the dark.
* * *
As soon as she began, Mother surprised us by saying that she and Father had been born in Bethel, the large, important city on the border between the lands of Benjamin and Ephraim.
I was eager for Mother to skip to the end of the story so that I could find out what our parents had been hiding from us all these years and what it all had to do with Zeruah, but Elisheba kept interrupting her with annoying questions, and Mother couldn’t keep going. I realized that my sister, who after all was still a child, was reveling in the very fact of this conversation and wasn’t as eager as I was to solve the mystery, but I decided not to stop her. She had paid a heavy toll on my behalf. Her resilient body wou
ld recover from the cough and from the burning eyes, but the battle with our parents might come at the cost of her comfortable position as the good girl of the family.
“Then why did you always tell us you were born in Zeredah?”
“We didn’t want you to make a connection between us and the events that occurred in Bethel.”
“What events?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“Sorry, Mama, please go on.”
“The God of Israel, the maker of matches, the One who brought Rebecca to Isaac and Jacob to Rachel, brought me and your father together in the home of a small family.”
“Small like ours?”
“Much smaller. That family only had a father and a daughter.”
“Poor things.”
“Don’t feel too bad for them. They owned many fields that yielded the best oats on Mount Ephraim, and they had a fine pedigree as well.”
“What pedigree?”
“The father was a direct descendant of Rahab the Canaanite and Joshua son of Nun the Ephrathite, the great leader and conqueror.”
“How did you and Father come to know such an important man?”
“We were his servants.”
Elisheba gave a huff, as if she was having trouble breathing. I couldn’t see her face in the dark, but I knew it had turned pale from the affront.
“That can’t be. It’s true that Grandfather was a hired servant, but Father studied the art of growing vines, bought some land, and became an independent grower. And you received a large inheritance after you were orphaned at a young age. That’s what you’ve always told us.”
“We’ve told you lots of things.” Mother sighed.
“So, you were servants?” Elisheba asked, unable to process this new information.
“Well, Father was a hired servant, while I … I was … a slave.”
This time I caught my breath as well. Our strong and independent mother, who always stood her ground and feared no one, had been a sl … I couldn’t even repeat that wretched word in my mind. Mother’s warm hand searched for mine, as if trying to tell me that she was the same woman I knew. I didn’t respond to her touch. I felt like this revelation had turned me into somebody else, as well.
The Secret Book of Kings: A Novel Page 4
