Temper The Wind (Ancient Israel)

by Boyd, Mary Ellen

  “No! No, that is not what I meant.” Taleh did not know how to explain. “I believe your soldier told you that. It is just that . . . I think . . . you see, I am to be a slave. I know the soldier will not stay away, but he has not mentioned marriage.”

  Merab smiled the superior smile Chelmai had used when she wanted to gloat. “You will know soon enough that I am right. I will come back, and we can talk more later.” With a conspiratorial wink, she walked off into the milling crowd.

  Had Merab told the truth, or was she lying? However unlikely it seemed, was she part of the revolt? Were they trying to search out her loyalties? Or was Merab no more than what she appeared, a young woman pretty enough to catch the eye of a soldier, and clever enough to see the advantages in it?

  C H A P T E R 6

  Javan stood over his woman, compassion warring with duty. Moonlight outlined her slender form in its blue glow, giving her the ethereal appearance of a night’s dream. Her dark hair spilled over the pillow and onto the dusty ground, but it made little difference in the amount of dirt coating the long strands. Her face was drawn with exhaustion, and caked with sweat and grime. She had fallen asleep without eating, he knew, for he was the one with the food.

  They had encamped near a large cistern, cut deep into the rock. Steps led down to the water so well protected beneath the ground. The waterskins had been refilled before the soldiers had gone below to bathe in shifts.

  Now the captives got their turn. It was several days’ march until the next cistern this size, where the women would again be able to bathe in private. Javan knew if Taleh were to miss out on the chance to be clean, her feminine vanity would be injured, and he had a compulsion to show her he would be kind to her. Perhaps it would make things easier when they got to Gilead. He had no desire to sleep with one eye open in his own house.

  He knelt beside her, and gently shook her shoulder, holding it longer than he needed to. “Taleh? Taleh, wake up.”

  Someone kept saying her name. Taleh struggled awake. She opened her eyes and looked up into the face of her soldier. Alarmed, she sat up abruptly, heart pounding, looking about her in fright. He should not have come! He was placing both of them in danger. Even the darkness could not shield them.

  Javan gave her an odd look. Too late, she knew she had made her fear all too visible, but he asked no questions. “I did not mean to frighten you. I only brought food. When you are done, there is a cistern near here in which you can bathe. It is deep enough and no one will disturb you.”

  Taleh willed her heart to slow. The trap grew tighter, pinning her between her loyalty to her people and her fear of the repercussions waiting for the rebels. Her life now was not much, but it was life. She had seen too much death, she did not want to give it up easily.

  He was offering her a bath. She had never been this dirty in her life. Her face felt stiff with dirt and sweat, her ankles and feet were brown with dust and sand, and as a final embarrassment, she could smell herself. If this was her only chance to wash, she would gladly miss out on sleep for it.

  She moved to rise and every muscle screamed with pain, bursting out between her lips. “Ohhh!” Even the thought of effort hurt.

  “Come with me.” His voice was quiet and calming. He handed her a piece of bread. “The cistern is not far. I will return to watch your things.”

  She nodded, and took a bite. Taking the lead, he guided her through the vast camp. His leather belt creaked against the weight of the weapons it held.

  Taleh did not see the cistern until they were nearly upon it. Only the swell in the ground gave away its location. Javan stopped to get a pottery hand lamp, absurdly delicate in his large hand, the flame dancing at the end of the tip, from one of the soldiers standing guard nearby, and handed it to her. She brushed the crumbs off her hands and took it. Oil splashed in the bottom, oil no doubt stolen from someone’s house. The lamp, as well, and she felt her face wrinkle in an angry scowl.

  “Do not worry about the men. No one will disturb you.” She turned her scowl on him and Javan grinned. Grinned! What was it about this man – aside from being one of the victors – that made him so quick to smile? “You are almost the last one to bathe. Have you heard any screams?”

  Still provoked, she retorted, “I have been sleeping.”

  He gave an impatient shake of the head. “You will see. Go down there. Take your bath. I promise, you will be safe. Can you find your way back, or shall I come for you? It is dark.”

  “I can find my way,” Taleh responded a little sharply. “All I need to do is look for the guards.”

  Javan nodded, refusing to be baited. “The camp of the women is well marked. Very well. I will stay by your supplies.”

  By her tiny pile of things, hardly worth such a guard. And he was taking a risk at that, but she could not tell him so.

  “I will watch for you, in case you become lost. I will not allow harm to come to you.”

  Taleh looked at him in surprise. She could not honestly fault him for his care of her until now, but these words carried the weight of a vow. Was Merab right? Were more of the soldiers taking women as wives? No one would make such a promise to a slave, would they?

  Confusion seemed to be her normal state in the last day, that and grief. Taleh turned away, carefully picking her way down the rocky embankment. Steps had been cut into the walls of a natural cave, leading down to an underground pool. The rock stairs were wet from the bathers who had gone before, and she went down slowly, holding the lamp aloft to make the most of its light. Sounds echoed up to her, bouncing off the curved walls. Female voices, women enjoying themselves. Laughter rippled through their voices. For this brief time, they could forget.

  Torches had been placed in holders to light the way down. In the heavy dark of night and the oppressive dark of the cavern, they provided eerie patches of flickering brightness that the blackness quickly swallowed up until the next glow appeared. When she got to the bottom, she saw that the water level in the cistern was low enough to permit her to walk out onto the cave floor. The rainy season would be coming soon, and this cistern would fill up along with the others scattered throughout her land, but there would be no one to use them. The thought depressed her, so she resolutely thrust it aside.

  The other women saw her when she stripped off her robe and walked out into the water. Silence descended.

  One by one, the others left the water, taking care not to look her way. Taleh watched them go, too hurt to find the words to ask them to stay. Did Javan know what his presence had done to her? She was now an outcast among her own people, being forced – by Him, and them – to make a choice for which she was not ready. Could they not see that she was just as much a victim as they were?

  She moved further into the pool, and wallowed in water and misery. How long she would have remained there she did not know, but she heard muffled footfalls coming down the steps. She hastily scrubbed the tears from her face before anyone could see her weakness.

  The steps ceased.

  She waited, but no one came. Taleh could feel someone watching her. Keeping very still to make no sounds in the water, she held her breath and listened. Despite the silence that greeted her, she knew she was not alone.

  Javan would have come boldly down. If not him, then who was it?

  She had managed to get the worst of it off, and her hair had been rinsed. That would have to be sufficient. She wanted to get out of this dark cavern where evil could hide. Trying to keep away from the puddles of light, away from the watcher, she eased through the water over to where she had left her robe.

  It was gone.

  Taleh covered her mouth to muffle the whimpers of terror that bubbled up, and forced her mind to work.

  The watcher?

  She rejected that possibility, for surely no one had made it all the way down to where her robe had been. She would certainly have seen them, even in the dim light from her small oil lamp.

  The women?

  Would they have been so cruel as to
take her robe with them? A fresh ache started around her heart. Yes, the women might have done this thing to her.

  She took a chance, and lifted the lamp, looking about frantically for something – anything – to cover herself. A flash of yellow caught her eye.

  Along the shadow cast by the steps, against the wall of the cistern, her robe was floating in a sodden mass. When she picked it up, she knew it was no accident. It had been tied in a tight ball to ensure it would fall straight down, that no trailing edges would give it away. With shaking fingers, she untied it, struggling with her emotions as much as with the wet robe. She pricked her hand on something sharp, and unrolled the tight wad more carefully. Inside, her brooch had been pinned as added weight to make the bundle sink faster.

  How very fortunate the water level was low.

  Anger boiled inside her as she struggled with the dripping fabric to get dressed. It was a good thing the dress was light in weight, it would dry enough to walk into the camp but it would take time, too much time.

  Javan sat in the midst of a rebellion. What would he think, if the women chose tonight to attack and she was not there?

  What reason had she given him to believe in her now?

  Night moths flirted dangerously with the smoky campfires. Taleh had been gone much too long. Javan turned the gift he had for her around and around in his hand – a comb, beautifully carved from rich dark wood. When he had first seen it, several cities back, something moved him to set it aside. He saw it sliding through her hair, and smiled. He had better enjoy her hair while he could, for after it was shaved off, it would take a long time to grow to this length again.

  There was still no sign of her.

  All was not well. He shoved the comb into his belt and stood, walking quickly back toward the cistern. The guards were all in place, the same ones as when he brought her. He knew two of them by name, Hanoch and Enan, and approached them.

  “Do you remember a young woman I brought over here earlier this evening?”

  “Oh, yes,” Hanoch nodded eagerly. “I remember her.” He stopped speaking abruptly after a look at Javan’s face.

  “Has she come out yet?”

  “No, my lord. One group left just after she came, but she was not among them.”

  “Thank you.” Javan whirled away and hurried down to the entrance. Another guard stood before the opening. Javan knew him well, and was surprised. A chief of the army assigned to guard duty? He felt a vague stirring of unease. Pelet was an impressive soldier and a stern commander, but Javan had never been able to find anything else about the man to respect. He was harsh and haughty, rude to those beneath him. To his leaders, he was a man of two faces, fawning to those over him to their face, yet disrespectful and slanderous behind them. Still, if Jephthah had seen fit to keep the guards over the bathing women under guard themselves and if he had chosen Pelet to do so, Javan would not fault the decision.

  “Greetings, Pelet,” he said, trying to keep the stiffness from his voice. “How have the men been conducting themselves?”

  Pelet did not answer for a moment. It was an ugly silence, an unexplained silence. Javan forced himself to remain composed. Caution let the other man make the first move.

  “There have been no incidents, Javan. What brings you here? Did you miss your opportunity to bathe earlier?”

  Javan knew he looked and smelled clean. “No. I am here to check on a young woman I have claimed. Is she still bathing?”

  Pelet snapped, “How should I know? Do you think I would go down and look? Is that what you are saying, Javan?”

  Javan held his sudden anger in check. “I made no accusations, Pelet. There is no need to take offense, for I meant none. The young woman belongs to me, and has been gone too long. I was simply checking on her.”

  Grim and unspeaking, Pelet looked at Javan. Tension made the air thick enough to touch. Javan said nothing and waited. With a harsh laugh, Pelet yielded.

  “Forgive me, Javan. It has been a long day. If your slave went down to bathe, she will still be there. No one has attempted an escape. You are free to go down and get her.” He stepped aside stiffly and motioned Javan below.

  As Javan neared the bottom, the smoky air played tricks. The little lamp was out. He thought it had enough oil. He did not see Taleh, and fought alarm. Three men would not lie in collusion as they stood guard in the middle of camp, would they? Then, in the shadows, there she was, was sitting very still, almost a statue. Before he could speak, she leapt to her feet, whirling to face him.

  “You!” If he had never claimed her, if he had only left her to herself, she would not be in this position. She would be able to find friends among the women. She would not have to worry about being stabbed to death in the night.

  She would not have to feel responsible for his fate.

  But she could not tell him any of that.

  “Yes. Me.” He stood there, arms folded. “I waited for you. You did not come.”

  She seized on a convenient excuse. Her hair had soaked through the back of her dress. “I was still wet.”

  Did color rise on his cheeks? “I had not thought of that.” He paused. “Wait here, I will go back and get your cloak.” And he left her alone.

  Again. Only she was not certain she was alone. Where was the watcher? Undoubtedly whoever it was had vanished when Javan came. But how far away had they gone? Was it one of the women? Or a soldier? Threat loomed on all sides.

  She waited, wondering how fast he would move. Water lapped against the sides of the cistern. One of the torches sputtered out and despite the warning of the last flickers, Taleh shuddered in the increasing gloom. She was dry now. She could walk out and across the vast camp . . . past the huge army of soldiers . . . toward the camp of women . . . alone . . .

  No. That would be utterly stupid.

  Heavy footsteps came down the stairs. “Taleh?” One of the torches was pulled out of a holder, Taleh heard it scrape, and the light bobbed closer. “I have your cloak. Put it on, and let us go back.”

  The guards were still in their place outside the cistern entrance, and bid Javan goodnight with respect. They showed no guilt.

  Was either of them the watcher? Both? She did not look back as they walked away. For the moment, odd as it was, she was protected. By the enemy. Javan.

  He showed no tension as they neared the camp of the women captives, but then, he had no way of knowing the danger, and he had a belt of weapons and a sword swinging in its scabbard by his leg.

  How could the women think they stood a chance against such an army?

  When they reached the spot that was hers, he pulled something out from his tunic and held it out. A beautifully carved comb for her wet and tangling hair. From which city had it come, and how long had he been keeping it?

  When she hesitated, he looked up and smiled again, a different smile, warm and appealing, inviting her to appreciate his gift. She did not want him to smile. She did not want him to do anything to tie them together, to make him matter, to let her forget he was the enemy. It would be so much easier if he kept his distance. It ruined everything when the enemy had a face, and a smile, and compassion.

  Just being here could very well cost him his life. Too many years of watching death on the high places, too much death in the destruction of her own city, now even one more death, no matter whose it was, was one death too many. She had forgotten, or perhaps she no longer knew, on which side she belonged.

  She sat down and looked at the comb still waiting in his hand, not wanting to presume on his generosity, not wanting any watchers to see her accept his gift. Not everyone was asleep.

  It was better if she took nothing for granted.

  Heaving a frustrated sigh, Javan sat down an arm’s length away, reached for her own hand, ignoring her resistance, placed the comb in it and wrapped her fingers around the smooth wood, holding her gift and her hand in his.

  “You will accept this.” He made it a command, not a question. “Your hair needs combing. Either y
ou will do it, or I will. Choose.”

  Taleh cringed inwardly. How intimate this must look, how friendly, how treasonous to any open eyes! “I will do it myself.”

  Javan released her hand, leaving her the comb.

  Wet, her hair hung down almost to the ground on which she sat. It had been a long time since she had combed her hair without the help of an ointment. Despite her care, the long strands tangled. Javan did not take his eyes off her, and his unwavering gaze added to her nerves. She was certain there must be alabaster cases of myrrh, or calamus, perhaps even nard, among the spoil that she could use to smooth the way of the comb, but she dared not ask.

  The longer Javan watched, the more her hair tangled. And the worse her frustration grew. She knew that the scattered campfires gave off enough light to make them the object of many eyes. How could he not feel it?

  Javan could not take his eyes off her hair. He saw himself cutting away the wonderful lustrous bounty, and he had to clench his fists into the ground. I will obey, he repeated in his mind. I will obey. But it was so beautiful. How long would it take to grow back? He wanted to grab it, and bury his face in it, smell its fresh-water-clean scent, twist it around his hands and hold on tight. How could he follow that command? How could he shave it off?

  Finally, he could bear it no longer. She was losing control, tugging the comb through her thick hair and tearing strands out. He let go of the soil, brushed off his hands and rose, to walk the few steps to her side. Slowly lowering himself behind her, he watched her go absolutely still. He took the comb from her fingers, working it free of her grasp, and set it to her hair. He saw his hand tremble and subdued it, then drew the comb down, watching the dark curls part as the wooden teeth slid past.

  With all the gentleness he had, Javan worked the tangles from her hair. The damp strands were cold. He was close enough to catch the freshly washed scent drifting from the silken glory. He captured more of her hair, guiding the comb through the shimmering thickness, working the snarls from the ends, and tried not to think of the razor that waited it back in his village.