Her breath quickened. “Did Reva say that? That it was your doing?”
“No. Reva wasn’t there. Until . . . until it was too late.”
“You dealt with the delivery on your own?”
“Dvorah was there, but she wasn’t sure what to do . . . so I tried . . . but I must have done something wrong—there was so much blood—” My stuttering explanation came to a halt.
“And the child?”
“She lives.”
“Well.” My mother patted my hand. “Then some good has come of this sad night.”
I sniffed and closed my eyes, but Leisha’s pale face was painted there in stark detail. My eyelids flew open. “I cannot go back.”
“Why would you go back?”
“She made me promise.”
“Who?”
“Leisha made me promise that I would help with the baby, make sure she was cared for.”
“Why wouldn’t her family take care of the child?”
I tugged at the braid that hung over my shoulder. “There was something . . . wrong, between Ayal’s family and Leisha . . . She was so adamant . . . said that they would refuse.”
“Hmm. Strange.” My mother pulled at her chin, her tone pensive. “Ayal will need help if his family refuses to accept the child.” She was silent for a long moment, then a curious expression lifted her brow. “You must go back.”
“What? No, Ima, please don’t make me—” I took two quick steps backward.
She pursued me, determination on her face. “You will go. Ensure the baby is cared for. You made a vow to that woman. You must honor her final request.” She lifted my chin with a finger, censure giving weight to her words. “You made the decision to go against my wishes, Shira. Now you will do as I say and face the consequences of the choice you made. You will harvest what you have sown.”
I searched her face for any sign of yielding, but it was plain that her decision was wrought in iron. I had no choice but to obey. No matter what had been Ayal’s intentions by the stream that day, or how loud my pulse thundered at the prospect of seeing him again, I must face the man whose wife I had killed with my incompetence.
If it took the rest of my days, I would atone for what had happened today. My mother was right. There was no option but to pay for Leisha’s life with my own. A life for a life.
Ayal was sitting cross-legged in front of the tent, long fingers splayed in the dirt. His head was down, his face concealed in shadow.
I approached, the soles of my hesitant feet scraping against the rough ground. Bracing for his anger, I cleared my throat. “How is the child?”
He did not look up but stared at his fingers as they traced circles in the rain-soaked sand. “Dvorah is with the baby.” His voice was gentle, as if he was afraid I would run again.
“I came to help. I . . . I promised your wife I would.” I straightened my shoulders. “I will stay as long as you want me to.”
His fingers stopped moving.
Will he send me away now? Silently, I pleaded with him to do just that, but without lifting his head, he gestured for me to enter the tent. Stomach swirling with dread, I complied, half expecting to see Leisha’s body laid out. But during the couple of hours I had been gone, someone had taken her away.
“It’s about time you came back. I have to go.” Dvorah pressed the baby into my arms.
Staggering backward, I nearly collided with Ayal, who had followed me inside.
“Will you come back? She needs to be fed again soon,” he asked Dvorah.
She huffed. “I have my own son to nurse. He isn’t fully weaned.”
Dvorah has a son? How had I not known this?
“Please. I have no one to nurse her. None of my brothers’ wives have infants—even if they were willing to help.”
Dvorah lowered her thick brows, her stance unyielding.
“I will pay you. In wool and in milk,” said Ayal.
Her shoulders softened, and her brows lifted. She cocked her head, dark eyes pensive and latched onto the sleeping baby in my arms. “I will ask my—” A look of indecision brushed across her face. “I will try to come twice a day. But that is all I can do. I still have my duties as a midwife.”
“I will do all I can to help when you are not here,” I said.
She peered at me. “Reva will want to know where you are.”
“Please tell her I am needed here for now.” I gestured to the newborn. “My mother gave permission for me to stay.”
Dvorah looked at Ayal, then back to me, as if searching our faces for something. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and the corners of her mouth quirked. “You’ll have to find some goat’s milk to supplement. I cannot be here every two hours,” she said. “It’s a good thing the others are weaned.”
Ayal had other children? I stifled a groan, remembering that Leisha had spoken of twins. Two more motherless children added to my account.
Dvorah turned to me but spoke to Ayal. “I don’t have time to watch the boys. Shira will have to keep an eye on them.”
Ayal had moved to the far side of the tent, as if ensuring a wide space between us. With his mouth turned down and his shoulders slumped, he seemed to have aged ten years since that day by the stream. Shaking off the now-tainted memory of his lips on mine, I cleared my throat. “Unless your mother wants to be the one to care for them?”
His brow furrowed. “My mother is dead.”
“Oh, I thought Marah was . . .”
“No, Marah is my brother’s wife. She has no interest in helping me. She only agreed to watch them until Leisha was . . . until I buried her.”
What was between Leisha and these women that they refused to even care for her children? Surely not everyone in Ayal’s family held such disdain for her. And even if they did hate her, now that she was dead, why would they not step in to support Ayal?
The baby in my arms shifted in her sleep. She had been so quiet I’d nearly forgotten I was holding her. I’d held many new infants in the past few months, but after cleaning and wrapping them in salts and oil, I always handed them to their mothers for nursing. I had never had the chance to hold one close and watch it sleep.
Her face captivated me. Her rosy lips puckered, as if nursing in her dreams, and then she sighed. Her contentedness pierced me, causing anguish to well in my throat. Her mother was dead, at my hand. She would never know her touch, never feel her kiss, never hear her voice. Oh, little one, forgive me.
I braved a look at Ayal, expecting to see grief in his expression, but when his gaze clashed with mine, something flashed in those amber eyes that I did not understand, something that reminded me of that day by the stream. Instinctively, I stepped backward, fear curling in my stomach. My resolve to help with the baby for Leisha’s sake withered. Ayal was not trustworthy. What was I doing in a tent alone with a man who had made advances toward me? A married man who had tossed aside his vows?
As if he sensed that I was near to bolting back to the safety of my family, he retreated to the door. His voice came out rough and harsh. “I will keep the boys with me tonight. You can sleep here with the baby. I do not anticipate she will sleep well.”
I nodded, but my stomach continued to roil. My impulsive vow to a dying woman, and my mother’s insistence that I fulfill it, had put me directly in the path of her wandering husband.
“I will go find some goat’s milk,” he said before sweeping out of the tent.
I sank to the ground in relief, cradling the baby, and soon I was entranced all over again by her tiny features. The sounds of evening surrounded us—the crackle of campfires, hushed tones of mothers putting restless children to bed and whispering prayers of safety over their heads, the laughter of young men, probably huddled near a fire joking together like Eben and Jumo always did in the evenings. A yearning to be among my own family tugged at me.
The baby twitched and murmured in her sleep, eyelashes fluttering. I paced the floor, rocking her gently, humming a wordless tune until she relaxed in my arms.
>
“Who will you be now? With your ima gone? Who will you look to?” I kissed her forehead and breathed deep of her fresh scent. “Mmm. You smell like talia, morning dew. That would be a good name for you.”
“You can call her whatever you wish.” Ayal’s intrusion, and his emotionless statement, caused me to flinch.
Unnerved, I lifted the baby toward him. “Are you ready to hold her?”
He shook his head. “I am unclean. I just buried a body. Mosheh gave us instructions that we cannot work at the Mishkan for seven days after handling the dead. We must wash our bodies and begin the purification ritual.” His words were clipped, as if delivered from a place of rote memorization instead of regret for their meaning.
Why would he speak of his wife in such stark terms? As if she were no more than a stranger to be tossed into a shallow grave? His refusal to even touch his new daughter provoked me. How could I have misread this man so completely?
My response was razor-edged. “Then I am unclean as well. As well as anyone who was in this tent when your wife died.” His gaze darted to the back wall, his jaw tight. Regretting my harshness, I softened my tone. “You could begin purification tomorrow.”
Ignoring my suggestion, he handed me a sloshing skin-bag, a small pitcher, and a narrow strip of linen cloth. “I brought milk. My brother’s wife gave me this pitcher. It’s meant for feeding an infant. I do not know if the child will take to it, but you can try.”
I sat cross-legged on the pallet where Leisha had died, trying to disregard the images it conjured in my mind. Someone had removed the soiled linens and replaced them with fresh ones. Every remnant of the woman who had passed from life to death here was already wiped away, except for the little bundle I held in my arms.
A tiny spout carved into the side of the alabaster pitcher offered a small trickle of milk. I wrapped the linen cloth around the end to protect her tender mouth. After a few messy tries, she began to suckle the fabric, taking the goat’s milk. Relieved, I released a sigh and gently rocked her. When an ancient lullaby sprang to mind, I gave it voice.
After a few moments, my attention suddenly flew back to Ayal. I’d nearly forgotten he was there, watching us with hooded eyes. He startled and turned away. “Call out if you need me. I will sleep next to the fire tonight with the boys. We will discuss arrangements tomorrow.”
I watched his back as he escaped the tent, and then I began to sing again. I was glad to see him go.
18
11 CHESHVAN
8TH MONTH OUT FROM EGYPT
Dvorah strode in after sunrise, an unwelcome interference after a wakeful night of feedings, changing soiled wrappings, and pacing the floor with a restless infant. I was not sure who was more annoyed by the woman’s noisy entrance, the baby or myself. Talia announced her displeasure with a loud yowl.
“Not as easy as you thought, is it?” Dvorah smirked, thick brows aloft.
My first instinct was to disagree and feign cheerful confidence, but instead, I sighed and dropped my head back to the pillow. “No, I am exhausted.”
Dvorah lifted the baby from my side, which provoked an even louder squall. But as soon as she dropped the tunic from her shoulder, delicious silence filled the tent. I stretched, hands over my head and as far as my toes would reach. A night of curling around the baby, terrified I might roll over on her, had tied my back into a thousand knots.
“There is an omer basket on the floor. Go collect manna before it melts in the sun,” Dvorah said with less concern than I thought possible.
My stomach complained. How long had it been since I had eaten?
Although Talia was not mine, somehow anxiety tugged at me. “Will you be all right?”
Dvorah lifted her brows with a condescending twist of her lips, as if offended I should question her competence. As well she should. She had at least one child, possibly more, and all I knew of mothering was with my sisters.
I passed through the door into the weak morning light and stretched again. Cold air slapped at my face, and my breath trailed away in a white cloud. The stifling heat had finally given way to the season of rain. The campsite was deserted, except for Ayal, who sat near the fire with his long legs pulled up to his chest, and two little boys playing swords with sticks—his twins. Looking up from his blank-eyed gaze at the flames, Ayal acknowledged my presence with a nod, then glanced off toward the mountain as if it were painful to look at me.
The sounds of the boys’ carefree play dredged up fresh grief, but I pasted on a smile and approached them. “Shalom.”
“Shalom!” said the dark-haired boy. “Want to play swords with us? Dov is Pharaoh, and I am Mosheh!”
“Oh. Well now, who would I be in this game?”
Dov, the bronze-haired boy, waggled his sword-stick at me. “You are a bandit.”
I raised a brow. “A bandit? What have I come to steal?”
Dov scanned the campsite, contemplating, and then pointed at Ayal. “Abba. You’ve come to kidnap Abba.”
Before I could respond, Ayal stood. “Dov, Ari, no more.” The censure in his voice gave the boys immediate pause and shocked me. A couple of silent moments passed before he released the tight set of his shoulders and the draw of his mouth. He took a quick breath and then spoke gently. “Shira has only just awakened. She is tired from tending your new sister.”
Dov’s eyes widened in excitement. “Can I see the baby?”
Ari added, “Please, Abba?” on top of his brother’s plea.
Ayal’s lips twitched. The boys’ sweet voices had blunted his sharp edge. “Not now, she is nursing. But perhaps we can help Shira gather manna?”
Dov and Ari applauded the suggestion, and I found both my hands grasped in their small ones. My heart squeezed as if trapped in one of the vises Eben used to train wood for his instruments.
My fault, my fault, the guilt jeered at me. Without my failure, these boys would be holding their mother’s hand this morning and not that of an unwelcome substitute.
Obviously Ayal had not yet told them of their loss, for they chattered with abandon, asking what their sister’s name was and when she would be able to play with them. When Ari asked when he could see his ima, Ayal deflected by handing the boys my basket with a gentle command. “Go. Fill it to the top now, Shira is hungry.”
Unaffected, the boys each gripped one side of the handle. They trudged off, pulling against each other and arguing over where to find more of the white grains.
I looked everywhere but at Ayal, who stood equally stoic beside me. If there were not thousands of people milling about this morning, gathering their own morning rations, I would not have suffered another moment beside this man who had lured me like a bee to honeysuckle. His silence—about his actions toward me, about Leisha, about his coolness toward his daughter—condemned him.
Ayal’s kind words, his warm smiles, the rich melody of his laughter—those memories were false. All of them should have been given to Leisha before she died. I focused on the boys and their antics among the desert brush where they dipped their little hands deep into the white manna and filled the basket to overflowing. For their sake, and for their innocent sister, I would endure this time near their father, but not one moment more.
Dvorah met us near the campfire, Talia cradled against her shoulder and annoyance on her face. “I told you that I cannot stay here all day. I have my own child to tend and a job to do. And if she”—Dvorah pointed her chin at me—“refuses to help midwife today, I will have twice the work to do.”
My eyes darted to the basket in my hands. I had not even voiced the conflict raging inside me, but Dvorah had lifted it from my mind. How could I tend a laboring mother with Leisha barely cold in her grave?
“Can you return this evening before the baby goes to sleep?” Ayal asked.
Dvorah shrugged a halfhearted indication that she would.
“Thank you,” he said. “I have some fresh milk for you.”
Dvorah handed me Talia, but before leaving the camp
site with the small pot of milk on her hip, she glanced back, frowning at me, as if loath to leave the infant with such a novice. Perhaps she was right.
Talia stretched in her sleep, one arm above her head. Dov stood on tiptoe, so I crouched down to allow the twins a look at her face, so peaceful in contented sleep.
“She’s all smashed,” said Dov, wrinkling his nose.
“And red,” said Ari.
I laughed. “She is, but it won’t be long until she is the most beautiful girl in the world.”
Ari petted her face with a gentle finger. “I think she is very beautiful.”
“She is.” Tears welled in my eyes. “And you boys will be the best brothers anyone has ever known. Do you know what the job of a brother is?”
They both shook their heads, their eyes wide. Dov’s were brilliant amber like Ayal’s, and Ari’s were changeable hazel like Leisha’s.
“Shall I tell you what my mother told my brother when he was about your age and I was born?”
They nodded little chins.
“A brother is to be a tall fence for his siblings, a strong wall to protect and to comfort.”
Ari puffed his chest. “I am strong.”
Dov elbowed him. “I am stronger. Look at my muscles!” He flexed his spindly arms to show me.
With mock seriousness, I told them they were equally brawny and Talia would have no worries with such powerful ramparts protecting her—especially when Ari was named for a lion and Dov for a bear.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the faintest trace of a smile on Ayal’s face before he beckoned the boys to help him gather sticks for kindling. He gestured to the two women who squatted near the fire, making bread, assuring me that I was safe with them nearby.
I recognized Aiyasha, the tall, ebony-haired woman who had fetched Dvorah and me for the birth, but the other woman, with tight brown curls framing her round face, seemed closer to Marah’s age. Marah was not with them, but I assumed these were Ayal’s brothers’ wives. Ayal made no move to introduce them.
After he left, the women darted a few glances my way but continued to ignore me. Feeling like an interloper, I went inside Ayal’s tent, found a soft blanket, and swaddled Talia. She quickly dropped off to sleep.
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