He drew close to an overhanging oak, where he spotted Ezra. He should turn around, come back when he was in a better frame of mind, but his overseer saw him and waved him over. Boaz released a pent-up breath and came up beside him, dismounted, then tied the reins to a tree limb. A low table sat beneath an awning in a clearing near the field.
“Peace be with you,” he said to Ezra. The workers approached, and he gave his traditional welcoming wave and repeated the greeting.
“And also with you, my lord.” The return blessing came unanimously from several lips.
Ezra met his gaze as the men took their seats. “You’re early today. I expected you to stay away until the meal had passed.”
“I should have,” Boaz said, knowing his tone matched the anger still brewing in his heart. “I am afraid I am not good company.”
Ezra stepped closer and placed a hand on Boaz’s tense shoulder. “Never mind what type of company you are. The men are glad to see you. I’m glad to see you. And it will do you good to be in the fields instead of moping about that big house, scaring your servants half to death.”
Boaz lifted a brow. “I don’t scare my servants.”
Ezra gave him a look that said he did not agree. “Have you spoken to them lately in a tone that didn’t sound like a barking hound?”
Boaz frowned. He put up with far too much from this man. “So now my servants are complaining to you behind my back?” He should replace them all! But Adi would have objected and told him he was being completely unreasonable.
“One or two have mentioned it.” Ezra held his gaze, unflinching. Boaz had always appreciated the man’s straightforwardness, but sometimes he was exasperating.
“Give me their names and I will speak to them.”
“Not while I live and breathe.”
Boaz crossed his arms, glaring at his overseer. But a moment later he lowered them again. “Am I really that bad?”
Ezra patted his shoulder. “Sometimes. But people understand you are grieving. I just think it is time you come back from the land of mourning and help with the harvest. It will give you something to do and less time to think about your troubles.”
Boaz nodded. He followed Ezra under the awning and took his seat at the head of the long table. His cooking servants had prepared a stew that morning and brought it to the men and women to enjoy, now that the majority of the morning’s work was past.
“Good day to you, my lord.” He turned at the sound of female voices and caught the looks of interest in the eyes of several. A few giggled behind their hands.
Did they really think he was interested in flirting with them? He scowled but managed, “And to you.” He avoided meeting Ezra’s disapproving gaze and ate his meal in silence.
The following morning, before Boaz had even donned his sandals, a knock on his door brought Reuven with a message.
“Your cousin Hamul has invited you to dine with Melek tonight, my lord. Shall I tell Hamul that you will accept?”
Boaz rubbed his chin and wiped his hands on a linen cloth, removing any remnants of the morning’s goat cheese and date sauce. “Why would my cousin want me to dine with him in the middle of the week?” Melek was never one to send Hamul, his only son, on a servant’s errand. Hamul had probably begged for a chance to leave the overprotective confines of his father’s house. Melek set great store by the boy, finally conceived after several daughters. The child would never grow up properly if Melek didn’t stop hiding him indoors. He glanced around at his own house, so empty without Adi’s presence, and wondered briefly if Ezra was right. Was he a raging bear of a man in this place, hiding from life as Hamul was sometimes forced to do? How long would it take for the ache of grief to subside even a little? No meal with a cousin or sister or anyone else could bring her back, and he was in no mood for any type of socializing.
He looked at Reuven. “Send the lad to me.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Boaz shook himself as Reuven left him to his disparaging thoughts and led Hamul into the sitting room, where Boaz joined him.
Boaz looked at the boy, taken slightly aback at how much he had grown since he last saw him. He had the new growth of hair on his chin, and he now towered over Reuven. “You have grown from a child to a man without my notice, Hamul.” He motioned for the young man to sit on one of the couches, but he shook his head and remained standing. Boaz did the same. “Tell me, Hamul, why has your father asked you to come here today?”
“My father did not send me, cousin Boaz. My mother did.” He glanced around at Boaz’s sitting room. Since Adi’s death, Boaz had changed nothing lest somehow he forget her. He barely allowed the servants to dust the urns and other pieces of pottery she had made. Was he losing his mind in his grief?
“Why would your mother wish me to come to your house and choose to send you rather than a servant with the invitation?” He had a rather tenuous relationship with Melek and could see no reason to spend any more time with the man than necessary. The boy, on the other hand, reminded him that had his first son lived, they would be the same age. He covered a wince with a hand over his jaw.
“My father’s wives made me promise not to tell.” Hamul smiled, tentative, as though he, like Boaz’s servants, were afraid to speak much in his presence.
Boaz walked to the threshold between the sitting room and outer court. “If I cannot know the reason, then please tell them I cannot come.” He did not look at Hamul as he spoke and waited to hear the boy walk out of the room.
But Hamul stepped closer, bolder than Boaz expected.
“Is something wrong with my answer, Hamul?”
“It is just that they told me not to accept no from you, and that if you did not say yes they would make me pluck the pits from every date in the jar.”
Boaz nearly bit his tongue to stave off a sharp laugh. Foolish women.
“How old are you now, Hamul?” The boy should not be doing such work at his age. He should be in the fields helping with the crops.
“Thirteen years,” he said, lifting his chin. “My father has promised to declare me a man after the harvest.”
“I see that you are already carrying the look of one.” Boaz stroked his chin. “It takes much more than height and a beard to make a man.”
“I know that a man would not be taking orders from his mother or doing the work of women.” Hamul’s tone had turned hard, and Boaz saw the hint of rebellion in his gaze. What had this son of Melek lived with all these years that should harden him so?
“Don’t think that just because you are a man, you will never have to listen to your mother or your wife. Women are treated with respect under the law, and you never outgrow the need to honor your mother and your father.” Boaz looked at the boy, but Hamul merely shrugged. Perhaps Boaz should accept the invitation just to see what really went on in Melek’s household. Perhaps he could do the boy some good.
“Tell your mother I will come.” He crossed his arms. “But only if they let you come with me to the fields tomorrow.”
Hamul lifted a curious brow. “Why?”
“Because it is time you learned the ways of a man.”
If his cousin would not step up to the task, he would. At least it would give him something else to fill his mind. And perhaps save him from going mad in this house where Adi’s face never faded and their unborn children’s voices called to him in his dreams.
Hamul nodded, but Boaz could not tell if the thought pleased the young man or not. Was it too late to remove that seed of rebellion from his young heart?
The room was already abuzz with the voices of women the moment Boaz arrived at his cousin Melek’s large estate. An uncomfortable prickle crept up his spine, and he felt sweat trickle down his back. He should not have come. He had been at odds with Melek since the day Elimelech moved to Moab. They had disagreed over so many issues regarding the famine, and when Melek discovered that Elimelech had sold his land to a neighbor outside of the family, the man nearly burst a vein in his neck.
“Boaz.” Melek greeted him with a kiss to each cheek. “Welcome! Welcome! It has been far too long since you have come to visit.” He motioned for Boaz to sit among the plush cushions.
Boaz eyed him, gauging the man.
Melek sat across from him, and both men accepted wine from a servant girl.
“Tell me,” Melek said once the girl left them, “how goes the harvest in your fields?”
Boaz sipped from his cup. “Things are going as one would expect. The crop is the best I’ve seen in years.” Of course, after such a famine anything seemed better than nothing. “We can be grateful Adonai has seen fit to finally send the rains.” People expected him to give Adonai the credit and glory, though in his heart he struggled to be grateful for even one thing when the most important thing to him was lost.
“It is too bad Elimelech did not stay to witness this,” Melek said, looking first into his cup, then meeting Boaz’s gaze. “One wonders . . .” He left the sentence unfinished.
“One wonders what? That Elimelech was responsible for his own death? Perhaps you would say the same for Adi?” He gripped the cup too hard and felt immediate remorse for speaking so forthrightly when he was here as a guest.
“No, no, of course not.” Melek’s appeasing tone grated, but Boaz bit back the retort dangling on his tongue. “I only wonder . . . was it not unfaithfulness on his part to leave Israel? And to sell his land to someone other than family?”
The land again. Of course. Melek’s concerns were always surrounding wealth. He would have been only too happy to purchase Elimelech’s land and then find excuses not to sell it back seven years later.
“The land would have reverted to Naomi several years ago regardless,” he said, forcing a civil tone. “If she were ever to return to claim it, I’m sure the man would give it to her. In any case, we have the right of the law to persuade him.”
Melek waved a hand. “It is of no consequence to me. I doubt we will ever see any of Elimelech’s family again, considering how long they have been in Moab.”
“So there has been no news since Elimelech’s death? Surely your wives hear gossip from the merchants.” Adi had rarely participated in the gossip, though she did share news with him if it was something he needed to know.
“None that I’ve heard,” Melek said, downing the liquid in his cup and accepting more from the servant. “It is simply too bad my brother thought he had no choice but to move.” He shook his head as though he truly missed the man.
“I wonder how Naomi and her sons are faring with him gone.” Though it had been more than ten years, Boaz could still see the sad parting at the city gate in his mind’s eye. Adi had walked around in a melancholy state for weeks after Naomi left.
Melek shrugged. “The last caravan that passed this way heading north said nothing, and that was weeks ago. Before that, I did hear that Mahlon and Chilion had taken Moabite wives.” His lip curled in disgust. “Hamul will marry an Israelite in our clan, a woman of the highest breeding. I cannot believe Naomi allowed her sons to do otherwise.” He glanced toward the courtyard where Hamul was sitting outside rather than joining the men in the sitting room.
Boaz sat in silence a moment, glancing toward Hamul. He had no doubt Melek would get his way in choosing Hamul’s wife. But Naomi could have been hard-pressed to fight against the will of two strong sons. “Perhaps she had no choice,” he said at last. “It is not like Mahlon and Chilion are children. And with their father dead, they might have found Naomi easier to convince. You cannot put all of the blame for their choices on her.”
Melek’s face darkened in a slight blush as though he was ashamed. “I was not suggesting she was to blame.” He glanced beyond Boaz toward the cooking rooms. “Still . . . my brother should not have left Bethlehem. That much I think we can agree upon, can we not, cousin?”
“At least on that much we can agree, yes.” He looked up at the sound of the servant calling them to the evening meal.
“Shall we?” Melek pushed up from the low chair, no easy task given his girth.
“While we are in an agreeable mood,” Boaz said as he moved ahead of Melek into the area where they would recline at a table, “I want to ask your permission to show Hamul some of my barley fields.”
Melek gave him a sharp look. “Hamul has work enough in our own fields.”
“If that were true, then he would not still be taking orders from his mother to do the work of women.” Boaz waited for Melek’s response before he sat. If he had roused the man’s anger, this would be a very short meal.
Melek’s brows drew down, his scowl evident. But a moment later, he laughed as though Boaz had made a humorous statement, and sank onto the cushion. “Women’s work! My son? You do not know of what you speak, cousin. But I will humor you. Go ahead. Take Hamul to your fields and show him a thing or two. It will make him a better overseer of my own fields someday.” He reached for a platter dripping with the fat of a lamb’s leg and offered it to Boaz, who still stood, feeling outwitted—by either Hamul or Melek, he could not tell. Had the boy lied to him? Or was Melek simply covering his embarrassment by denying what Boaz had sensed was truth? Had Boaz become too trusting of the lad simply because he reminded him of all he had lost?
He sat, accepting the platter from Melek’s hand, but his guard went up, and he determined to keep a sharper eye on both this wily cousin and his son.
25
Boaz walked with Ezra and every able-bodied man, woman, and child through Bethlehem’s gates. The road to Shiloh wound north past Jerusalem, where Jericho had once stood, and the remains of Ai. Shiloh had been set up during the days of Joshua as a place where God put His Name, and the priests ministered to the Lord there at the tabernacle.
The journey toward Passover was a few days’ walk, a joyous time when no regular work was done but the people gathered to sacrifice to the Lord and eat the Passover meal of remembrance. Boaz glanced at the donkey at his side, where a large sheaf from the first cuttings of barley was strapped to its back. Boaz would offer a thank offering, an early firstfruits of gratitude, though the act felt like mere formality instead of the true gratitude he should feel after so many years of famine.
How did one rejoice during grief?
He felt a knot in the pit of his stomach as he trudged with the throng, listening to the songs of praise. Maybe he should have taken Adi away from Bethlehem as Elimelech had done with his family. Maybe it was the famine that had weakened her and caused her to lose so many babes. But his mind discarded the thought as quickly as it came. Elimelech had moved, and he was dead.
He glanced again at the sheaf on the donkey’s back and felt the weight of the sacrificial lamb draped over his shoulders. Despite his grief, he had picked the best from the small flock—just not one of Adi’s favorites.
“Want me to take the lamb for a time, my lord?” Ezra pointed to the animal, his gaze sober. “You shouldn’t have to carry the burden the entire way. Not when we are sharing the Passover meal.” He stopped, arms outstretched.
Boaz patted the lamb, so content on his shoulders. He should feel the weight of his sin with the weight of the lamb, knowing that in a few days its life would end on his account. And Ezra’s. And Ezra’s family.
But as he lifted the small animal and handed him over to Ezra, he felt nothing. No sorrow over its coming loss, as Adi would have felt. As he should have felt. All he could pull from his emotions was anger. He clenched his hands as he continued to walk, his mind whirling. How could a good God do this to him? He’d done nothing against the law, nothing to deserve to lose every child Adi ever conceived, nothing to deserve to lose Adi too. He swiped an unexpected tear as a sense of injustice, even rage, burned within his chest.
&n
bsp; Ezra settled the lamb on his broad shoulders and continued walking, saying nothing for many breaths. “’Tis a hard thing,” he said finally, glancing Boaz’s way. “Celebrating a feast when you are barely past the grieving period.”
People walked with them before and behind, and conversations rose and fell around them. Children darted between carts and people, laughing and joyous. Boaz looked about at the throng, felt the heaviness grow within him.
“There can be no set grieving time for such loss,” he said, meeting his friend’s gaze. “I would not have come at all if you had not been so stubborn.” Ezra had not stopped nagging him like an old crone the entire week before the festival.
“You cannot stay cooped up inside your house for months and do nothing, my friend.” Ezra gave him a concerned look. “The fields are nearly ready for the full harvest, as you can see by the firstfruits. I cannot manage it all without you.” He touched Boaz’s arm, but Boaz did not respond, though neither did he shove his friend aside.
“You could manage just fine and you know it.” How bitter he sounded. He clamped his mouth shut when he saw several women look in his direction. Of course they had heard him, for he had fairly shouted the words.
“Well, I am glad you came. Even if your heart is not in it”—Ezra patted his own chest—“God knows. He understands why sacrifice is so hard for you—for all of us, really, for isn’t that why it is called a sacrifice? If it was an easy thing to give our best—the best of our flock, the first of our harvest, not knowing if there will be more—and to give our thanks when we are not thankful, then where would the sacrifice be?”
Boaz said nothing, unwilling to agree or disagree. He simply could not bring himself to care. He glanced at the animal Ezra carried. The young male had been his favorite, for he could not bear to part with anything that Adi had ever preferred or loved. But what did it matter if he gave away everything he owned that wasn’t hers? He had nothing left worth caring for. Nothing left worth living for.
Redeeming Grace: Ruth's Story Page 14
