“Aaron never mentioned . . . he never said . . . .”
“No, he wouldn’t.”
Now I understand the new hardness on Aaron’s face, his aged and troubled look. Perhaps to other seasoned warriors, killing an innocent child would give them only a moment’s pause. So many children were dying these days. One could not weep over them all. But for Aaron . . . my tender Aaron . . . it was an act that was bound to leave a deep wound in his heart.
“Thank you for telling me,” I say, feeling my own heart weighed down. And just as I’m about to ask him not to let Aaron know we spoke, I hear a spine-chilling sound.
“Eeeeeee! Eeeeeee!”
It comes from below. Demas and I quickly follow it to the lower level pool, scrambling over rocks and boulders, and nicking our ankles on the thick, sharp vegetation.
“Eeeeeee! Eeeeeee!
The cry is louder now. What could it be? A wounded animal? A dying traveler? An escaped captive? It could even be a trap. I suddenly remember Ethan’s warning not to stray from camp. Perhaps we’re foolish to follow the sound. But we’re nearly there; too close to turn back now. I slip and scrape my leg as I slide down the incline, nearly missing a pile of wild goat droppings.
“Grrrrrrrr! Eeeeeee!” The cries are hideous, and full of anguish. No human could make such sounds. It had to be an animal.
“Careful, Demas,” I caution as he maneuvers around a white limestone boulder, and I behind him. And then we see it . . . more beast than human, wearing a tattered dirt-covered tunic, with a face nearly obscured by dirt and long, wild, tangled hair. Its hand is buried in a crevice as though tightly wedged, until I see the swarm of bees, and know that the creature has found a hive and is after honey.
“Let go!” Demas shouts. “Let go of the comb! They’ll keep stinging if you don’t.”
The creature groans in pain as bees sting its grimy arms and legs, its face. Other bees get caught in the wild tangle of hair, and sting the scalp. Dark eyes blink behind the matted hair when it sees us. Its mouth parts and emits what I can only describe as a growl. To scare us away? Still, the hand remains jammed in the crevice.
Without another word, Demas bends and picks up a thin, flat rock. I wonder if he plans to use it as a weapon, but no, with it he scoops up a clump of goat dung, sets it aside, then quickly peels a piece of bark off the trunk of a dead balsam. He picks up a nearby stick, lays the thin bark over the dung and after pressing the tip of the stick against the bark begins twirling it rapidly between his palms, grinding the point through the bark. The heat of the motion suddenly ignites the dung.
What was he doing?
As the dung begins to smoke, Demas, carrying it on the stone plate, moves toward the creature that is now hissing and spitting and making clawing motions with its free hand. Its fingernails look long and menacing. A madman for sure.
“Watch his claws!” I shout, and as I do the creature turns to the side and I see the small mounds on its chest. “Oh, Demas, it’s a woman!”
Demas moves slowly, ignoring the hissing and growling. Oh, what a poor mad creature this is; spitting and grunting and crying out with pain as bees swoop and sting. “The smoke will calm the bees,” Demas says, speaking softly. “Then you can claim your honeycomb.”
The madwoman suddenly makes barking sounds, almost like a dog, then spits again. I shrink back behind the reeds, keeping my distance.
“No one will harm you,” Demas says, stepping past the giant reeds to get to the crevice. “And no one will take your honey.”
The woman thrashes about, whether in pain or madness I cannot say. She even lunges for Demas, barely missing his shoulder with her claws, all the while keeping her hand wedged between the crevice. Demas stops, just out of her reach, and calmly blows smoke toward the woman; blowing, blowing, blowing until little by little the bees fly away.
“Now,” he says, his voice gentle, “if you let me blow smoke into the fissure, the bees that guard the hive will become calm, too.”
The woman doesn’t answer, but when Demas moves closer with his smoldering dung, she doesn’t hiss or growl or try to claw him. “Bees won’t harm you if you know how to handle them,” he says, blowing smoke as he walks. “And it’s surprisingly easy. My mother was a beekeeper. Do you know what she used to do? She used to call to the young queen bees with a reed flute. If they answered, she knew she needed to separate them and put each queen into her own hive. So you see how manageable they are?”
The woman just stands like a pillar of dirt, her hand in the crevice, not moving a muscle as though both Demas’s voice and his smoke has calmed her as well.
“If you let me break off the front piece of the comb, I think I can get the rest out.”
She doesn’t respond at first. Then slowly she removes her hand, steps away and allows Demas access to the crevice. I hold my breath for I fear when his back is turned, this madwoman will attack him. But no, Demas places his smoldering dung near the large crack, spends some time blowing smoke into the opening, then reaches in. After twisting his arm this way and that, he finally pulls out a large comb dripping with honey, then smiles and hands it to the woman.
She grabs it without a word and begins devouring it as if she hasn’t eaten in days. She rips it with her teeth, swallowing large chunks at a time. But she has earned her spoil. Even from my partially hidden spot, I see the large welts on her hands, arms, legs and neck.
I watch as honey drips from her chin and down her wrists. She grunts as she eats, then makes sloshing sounds as she again tears into the comb.
She is such a sad sight that I’m overcome with pity. I rip the hem of my tunic, then, leaving my hiding place, step out and quietly kneel at the pool to wet my rag. “Come child,” I say, when she has finished eating. “Sit by the water and let me bathe your bee stings.”
Her body becomes rigid. I can’t see her face beneath the tangle of hair, but her partially visible eyes are wide and staring. For a moment I think she’s going to bolt. But then she cocks her head and walks slowly toward me. I remain by the pool, not knowing what to expect. Will she claw me? Bite me like a savage? I should run. But how can I leave this poor creature in such a state? I point to a flattened area near the water line. “Sit here while I wash you.”
She doesn’t sit, but remains standing, then stares at me for a long time, those eyes peering between matted strands of dark hair. “Mama?” she finally says, bringing shaking hands up to her face and brushing hair from her eyes. “Mama, it’s me. Esther.”
What joy we all feel! Even my Ethan, normally so strong and composed, weeps when Demas and I return with Esther between us. And the hugging and kissing that goes on! Aaron especially is overwhelmed. He holds his sister for such a long time I begin to wonder if he’s ever going to let her go. How tenaciously he clings. Perhaps it’s not only Esther he’s trying to hold onto, but the past, the way things were, how life once was for us all. Even the other two women who are strangers to my daughter join in the weeping and kissing and rejoicing.
But Esther doesn’t weep. She stands like a stalk of wheat, allowing us to make fools of ourselves with hardly a response.
It takes me hours to scrub Esther’s dirt caked body and hair, then another hour to untangle the nest of knots on her head, and while I do, the other women take Ethan’s ornately embroidered Syrian tunic, since we have no others, and cut it down for Esther.
It’s nearly noon by the time we’re finished, and Esther is once again recognizable. Her clean hair is plaited. The fine white Syrian tunic with its ample folds of material is belted at her thin waist by a piece of fabric cut from the hem. Her eyes, dominating her pale, drawn face, seem enormous, but she looks nearly as she used to, and yet so different. Suffering has aged her.
She remains silent while I direct her to a mat, then place a bowl of date cakes before her. She looks around nervously, and hesitates before taking one, as if frightened to do so. She squirms in place, seeming uncomfortable, and avoids my eyes by shielding hers with her long
lashes as she fixes her gaze downward.
Then Demas comes and sits beside her. What an affect he has! Suddenly, Esther lifts her eyes, her face relaxes, her squirming stops. He is like a soothing balm.
“You should eat,” he says, pointing to the cake in her hand.
Without a word, she brings it to her mouth and takes a large chunk, then nearly swallows it whole. She looks again at Demas as she takes another bite. This time the bite is smaller, and she chews more slowly.
“That’s right. You don’t need to worry. There’s plenty of food here,” he says, smiling kindly.
She slowly eats the rest, then takes the cup of spring water Demas offers her, and drinks. Finally, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “What did you say your name was?” Her voice is almost childlike.
“Demas. I’m from Pella, but I don’t think we’ve ever met.”
Esther shakes her head. “I would have remembered.”
“She won’t talk. Not to any of us. Not even to me,” I say to Demas. Ethan stands beside me, his big scarred arms folded behind his back, his face a cloud of worry.
“I’ve seen this with other captives; captives who have been nearly starved to death, mistreated, and often humiliated and shamed. Some are driven mad by it all. Others commit suicide. Those who don’t, often become hardened, callused. Some, like Esther, become sullen and withdrawn.”
“But we are her parents,” I protest. “We love her. She knows that. She’s safe now.”
“Be patient,” Demas says, frowning. “She’s like a tightly closed bud and won’t flower all at once.”
“Mama.” The soft, childlike voice weaves between my dreams. “Mama. Mama.” Now it evaporates my misty sleep and forces me to open my eyes. I’m on a rush mat near the other women on the stone ledge. Esther has chosen a spot further away. “Mama,” I hear her say again.
I leave my mat and creep closer, feeling my way in the dark, trying not to wake the others. I’m glad the men are at the far end of the ledge. I hear my sons snoring.
“Mama!” the voice becomes louder.
“Here I am,” I say, reaching my daughter’s thin curled frame. I’m on my knees, and stroking her face softly. Then, as though she was no heavier than a handful of wool, I gently lift her and cradle her in my arms. “I’m here, Esther,” I repeat, not knowing if she’s asleep or awake. This is not the first time she has called out in the night.
“Oh, Mama,” she says in a choking voice and clutching me tightly. “Oh, Mama.”
“Yes,” I say softly. “I’m here.”
“Why did I ever leave Pella? Why didn’t I listen? Why am I so foolish and headstrong?”
“Because you take after your father,” I say, laughing softly, trying to make light of a heavy thing for Esther’s sake. But my heart pounds wildly. Esther is actually talking, and she’s talking to me.
“But if I’m really like Papa, shouldn’t I have his courage, too?” She sounds as if she’s choking over the words. “But instead of having courage, I’m so cowardly.”
“You were brave enough to rush into the mouth of danger in search of your husband. Brave enough to stand up to two strangers when you thought they were going to steal your honey.”
Esther groans. “I was nearly mad from hunger. I think I would have tried to kill Demas if he had taken that honey from me. Oh, what would have happened to me if you hadn’t come along? What would have I become?”
“God is gracious, and in my finding you, has answered my prayers. But He alone knows how much you could have endured.”
“Does he? Does He really? There were times I felt He had abandoned me, Mama; abandoned all our race. I felt as forsaken as our Holy Jerusalem. It burned, you know, our beautiful Jerusalem. I wish I hadn’t seen it. Even now, I can’t dig that memory out of my head. Oh, the sounds! The screams! It was horrible. The Romans killed without mercy; slaughtered men, woman and children. Only the young and healthy they kept alive, both to sell and for their own amusement. My lips can’t even speak of all they did. Of their cruelty, their depravity. In the face of all this horror . . . this terror, why should I weep because two drunken legionnaires took me away from the other roped women and . . . defiled me?”
“Oh, Esther,” I say softly, pulling her closer.
“Don’t lament, Mama. What does one woman matter? I saw many women defiled. Why should I be any different? But the drunken pigs passed out before they retied me, and in the dark I made my escape.”
I hold her for a long time, and weep softly. Then, I hear her cry, too, just little sniffling sounds at first that gradually turn to sobs so deep they shake her entire body. We stay like this for a long time, holding each other until we are weary from crying. And then in the quiet, I hear her soft voice.
“Do you think anyone can ever love me again . . . after . . . after what happened?”
“I love you,” I say, and at once understand that wasn’t the answer Esther wanted to hear.
I trudge up the steep ravine to the small waterfall and pool just above our campsite. It’s our trysting place, Ethan’s and mine. In spite of the difficult climb, I hum as I go, for my joy won’t be contained. We haven’t been here in days, not since Esther’s return. I’ve not wanted to leave her. But she’s blooming even faster than Demas expected, due mostly to his kind attentions and his knowledge of how to handle such a wounded soul. They’ve become inseparable. And this morning I actually heard Esther laughing at something he said.
Ethan has decided to stay in En Gedi a few days more, to allow Esther time to regain her strength for the trip to Masada. I’m not complaining. I welcome the chance to stay longer; to be all together as a family and to have more time with Ethan. When we reach Masada, it will all come to an end. Ethan and my sons will be busy once again with matters of war. Josiah will surely want their help in preparing the fortress for the Roman attack that is certain to come.
So I climb cheerfully, wishing to savor the moment, thinking of Ethan, thinking of his arms around me and his voice whispering words of love in my ear. We were to come here together at noon, when the sun climbed the sky. He’s sure to be angry that I came alone. Ethan’s a soldier, seeing danger everywhere. Even now, he’s scouring the hillside for trouble, he and my sons and that bear of a man, Skaris. But how could Ethan understand a wife’s desire to come and prepare herself, her desire to bathe and scent her body and hair before seeing the man she loves? All morning I’ve been steeping, in water and oil, the crushed dried acacia flowers Ethan brought me awhile ago. Now I carry the crude perfume in a small bowl-shaped rock, trying not to spill the precious contents as I maneuver the rough terrain. I only hope that after Esther tells Ethan I’m here, he’ll not be too angry to appreciate it.
I hear the small waterfall splashing merrily ahead and picture Ethan’s face when he arrives. At first it will be crinkled with annoyance. Yes, as wrinkled as a raisin. But then he’ll smile and fall into my arms. And what will we talk about? Esther, for one. And Demas’s growing attention. Should I worry? Could their growing affection lead to something more? And if so, would Ethan object to a Gentile as a husband for Esther? I must ask him for I see how Demas and Esther are beginning to look at one another.
I enter our secret refuge of shimmering pool and greenery. I love it here. There will be nothing like this at Masada. I look up at the sky and see that the sun is already overhead. I must hurry if I’m to be ready for Ethan. I carefully place my perfume near a clump of reeds, then unbraid my hair. But just as I’m about to remove my tunic to bathe, I hear a rustling sound behind me, and then a voice.
“I was beginning to think my little quail was never going to fall into my trap,” a man says, snorting with laughter.
Whirling around, I stand and blink stupidly. I don’t recognize him. His clothes appear costly, but he smells like rotting fish. His mouth arcs in a wide grin, revealing decaying, brown teeth. His eyes are cruel and hard. A large scar covers one cheek.
“Who are you!” I demand, trying to so
und braver than I feel. My hand reaches for a large stone, but the man is swift and grabs my arm.
“She has courage, this wife of Ethan, eh?” He looks up at the ledge above the falls. I follow his gaze and see a half dozen men standing there, then notice what looks like an opening barely visible through the dense vegetation.
“That’s right,” Lamech says, grinning. “There’s a cave up there.”
“Hurry and bring her here before Ethan comes,” one of the men shouts. There’s fear in his voice.
The scarred man laughs as he cups my face with the dirt encrusted fingers of his free hand. “Yes, Ethan will surely be here soon, for I’ve seen how he loves to sport with his wife.” When I knock his hand away, he quickly pulls an ornate dagger from his belted waist. “Careful, woman. I’m not a tolerant man.”
“Don’t kill her, Lamech!” one of the men shouts in panic. “We’ll never get the treasure then.”
The scarred man grins and gently brushes the tip of his dagger across my neck. “Just a little more pressure, that’s all it would take. Remember that. If you give me trouble, any trouble at all, I’ll slit your throat.” With that he grabs my arm and pulls me to a path so obscured by dense vegetation I never noticed it before.
And as I’m yanked and jerked up the steep incline, I chide myself for coming here alone, for not listening to Ethan, and I burn with anger. But I don’t know what angers me most: that I have fallen into the hands of this pig, or that all this time he and his men have been watching Ethan and me make love.
I’m sweaty and bruised and cut from my forced rapid climb. But I’m hardly settled on the ledge above the waterfall, when I see Ethan.
“Rebekah,” he calls, as he looks around the pool.
Lamech yanks me to my feet. Then grabbing me by the hair on the back of my head, he forces my chin upward and lays the blade of his dagger against my throat.
“She’s up here, Ethan, with me,” Lamech shouts over the noise of the splattering falls. “And if you don’t want to see her die, you’ll make no trouble and listen to me carefully.”
Rebekah's Treasure Page 29
