A Light on the Hill

by Connilyn Cossette

  Before Jericho that would have been me—abandoned to the dance, wild and free, head thrown back to the sky, and laughter on my lips . . .

  What am I thinking? I cannot do this. What if someone recognizes me? I retreated a couple of steps backward into the shelter of the trees, taking refuge in the shadows and grateful that no one had seen how close I’d come to foolishness. I turned away from the light.

  And yet, as I did, Ora’s encouragement returned to my mind, halting my escape. “ . . . Last chance . . . You can just enjoy.”

  No one knew who I was tonight. My veil was the same plain white linen as every other girl in the clearing. Only my eyes would be visible by the flames in the braziers, the darkness and the flicker of firelight obscuring the strangeness of their light color and the thin scar that cut across the edge of my eyelid. This was my chance, my very last chance. I spun back around. What was I waiting for? My feet began to move.

  The girl with the yellow flowers caught sight of me as I strode to the center of the dancing ground, her eyes smiling in welcome. We spun together like two tops, clapping to the rhythm, stomping our feet and laughing with delight as our white linen dresses fluttered and twirled.

  As music whirled around me, voices lifted in song, and more and more feet joined the dance, a familiar rush of energy welled inside me. I allowed myself the freedom to laugh with the other girls as we linked arms and danced in a large circle, feet moving in synchronized rhythm, to the right, then to the left, then in and out again. The tinkling sounds of bell-adorned anklets added to the festive atmosphere. I wish I’d worn mine, the one tucked away since I’d begun to abhor the attention it garnered. In the short lull between songs, the girl lifted the band of yellow flowers off her own head and placed it onto mine with a flourish, thanking me for my willingness to be the first to join her in the dance.

  Before I could respond to the unexpected gift, the music lifted again and she spun away. With a command for all of us to clasp hands, she led a long chain of us around the circle, snaking in and out of the braziers, before breaking free of the boundaries and plunging into the vineyard. With shrieks of delight, we followed her, gripping the hands of the anonymous girls on either side, loping along between grapevines whose leaves bobbed and swayed in the breeze our bodies created. Moonlight paved a luminescent path through the long maze of rows, up the hillside and back down again.

  Seven years. Seven years since I’d laughed until my stomach ached and tears slipped down my face. Seven years since I’d allowed myself such wild abandon. My heart threatened to take flight from sheer joy.

  By the time the chain of maidens wound its way back down the next long row of empty grapevines, I could barely catch my breath. I’d been cooped up in my house far too long; my body had forgotten how to sustain such vigor.

  Mouth dry and limbs aching pleasantly, I wandered off to search out refreshment. A few of my father’s workers had opened large pots of wine at the edge of the clearing to serve the dancers. Looking down so none of them recognized me in the line, I accepted a cupful of wine.

  A loud laugh a few paces away called my attention to a small group near one of the braziers—four young men, standing in a circle, chatting together as they surveyed the garden of white-veiled maidens fluttering around the dancing ground.

  One of them, a dark-haired man whose back was toward me gestured widely, eliciting a laugh from his companions. Although not the tallest of the group, something about him must be compelling; the rest of the men—soldiers by the look of them—seemed to regard him with admiration.

  Although I could not hear the words, the pleasing rise and fall of his deep voice nearly enticed me to step closer and hear for myself whatever story he was telling that so intrigued and amused his friends.

  He tilted his head back to drain his wine cup and then lifted it in the air as if dismayed that it was empty. He turned toward me, seeming to search out the wine servers, a low laugh still on his lips.

  My curious gaze collided with his dark-eyed one. Firelight tinged his tousled brown hair and the edges of his full beard with red. He was wide-shouldered, with a muscular frame that spoke of service within the forces of Israel; for certain a soldier, with a glimmer in his eye that could only be humor at my expense. I’d been caught—gawking. The corner of his mouth twitched as he stared back, boldly and with a question in the tilt of his brow.

  My pulse pounded in my ears for a moment, my hand nearly flying to my cheek—until I remembered that he could not see the awful scar. He did not know who I was or what had happened to me. Tonight I was just another maiden in a white dress. So, dredging up a small measure of my former pluck, I smiled widely behind my veil, letting the gesture reach my eyes. His answering smile warmed me all the way to my sandals. He took one determined step toward me.

  Someone bumped me from behind, knocking me forward. I turned to offer an apology, my cheeks still heated from the quick exchange with the dark-eyed soldier, although it was I who’d been standing still.

  A white-clad maiden spun on me.

  “My apologies,” I said, my gaze connecting with kohl-lined green eyes. The girl’s veil and headscarf had come undone, revealing her face and a hank of golden-brown hair curling over her shoulder. Recognition flared through me—it was that awful girl from the market. Her two friends stood nearby, mirroring her condescending glare.

  She leaned closer, peering at me. The flames from the brazier behind her must have highlighted the scar that crossed my eyelid, and her eyes rounded in surprise. “You!”

  I tripped back a couple of steps, reflexively glancing over my shoulder. The soldier had gone away, perhaps to refill his cup, leaving his friends behind. The knotted clench of my stomach released slightly. At least he would not be witness to this girl’s baseless disdain.

  “Why are you here?” said the girl, her words ascending in pitch and volume. “You have no business at this festival.” I could nearly taste her bitterness on my tongue.

  Voices around us hushed, as if everyone were anticipating my response.

  But Ora’s insistence that I should stand firm against such accusations wove itself into tentative resolve. So instead of cringing away like I’d done in the market, I ignored the spasm of humiliation in my gut, lifted my head, and returned her pointed glare.

  “I have as much right as any unmarried maiden,” I said. “Yehoshua invited all of us to gather here and celebrate before the tribes go to their own lands. Your opinion, formed as it is by mere gossip and speculation, means nothing.” Triumph rose like a tide in my breast. I’d not felt such a surge of passion in years.

  Her sharp laugh grated as her green eyes slithered down my body and then back up to my head, where the yellow band of flowers still rested. “There is no one in this clearing who could possibly be interested in marrying an Egyptian-bred zonah.” She spat the epithet as if it made her physically ill, her wine-laden breath reaching across the space between us. A bit of the confidence Ora had inspired crumbled, and I felt the gaps where the cracks had formed.

  With another scornful laugh she swung around, victory in the slope of her smile, but she wobbled dangerously, obviously having imbibed a bit too much of the new wine my father had supplied for these festivities. She lifted an elbow to steady herself, and instinctively I lifted my arms to offer assistance, but her wide linen sleeve fluttered directly into the hip-high brazier and a flame surged as the cloth lit on fire.

  In an inebriated panic, the girl swung her arm in the air, her attempt at retreat from the flame only seeming to fuel its greed. Her horrified friends both shrieked, “Rimona!” but seemed too shocked to do anything more than stand by with their hands over their veiled mouths.

  Just as I moved forward to help, someone rushed by me. The dark-haired soldier who’d smiled at me grabbed the girl and threw her to the ground. She kicked and bucked against him, but he rolled her onto her side, the dirt snuffing out the flame.

  How had he gotten there so quickly? Had he been standing behind m
e throughout that humiliating exchange? Grating mortification melted the small morsel of dignity I’d just wrested back from Rimona.

  A crowd gathered around in a semicircle nearby as she lay sobbing on the ground. Kneeling next to her, the man tugged at the scorched sleeve, revealing reddened skin. A minor burn, but one that required attention. The girl was fortunate that her sleeves were so loose or the injury might have been much greater.

  You know what she needs, I reminded myself, even as the impulse to turn and walk away from such a mean-spirited girl skimmed through my mind. Immediately, I chastised such ungracious thoughts. She was wounded and terrified, and with her veil and headscarf now on the ground, she appeared to be even younger than I’d guessed, perhaps only fifteen.

  “I have some ointment that will help,” I said as I approached.

  The man looked up at me, all of the earlier warmth in those dark eyes replaced with concern for the girl who had publicly insulted me twice now. “You do?”

  I nodded, gesturing up the hillside. “My home is not too far away.”

  The man searched my face, his brows furrowing and the light from the brazier again tinging his hair with that intriguing reddish glow. “I’ll carry her. Lead the way.”

  CHAPTER

  Five

  I led the four strangers through the vineyard to my home. The mud-brick and stone dwelling, which once belonged to the Amorite master of this vineyard, was nestled within a tall stand of poplars whose silvery leaves rustled in the night breeze.

  The house was dark, as my father had not returned from the wine storehouse, where his men took turns guarding the many jugs of precious wine as they aged in preparation to be taken to market. Generously ensuring that all his workers were able to participate in the festival, he and Yuval had taken the watch tonight.

  Once I’d lit oil lamps in all three rooms, I invited my unexpected guests inside and asked the man to lay Rimona down on my own bed.

  “Thank you—” I let the question hang in the air, since I did not know his name.

  “Darek,” he supplied, one corner of his lips lifting.

  “Thank you, Darek. My name is Moriyah,” I said, working hard to contain an answering smile and determinedly turning my attention to Rimona. I pulled up the blackened sleeve of her dress, and she hissed in a breath as I examined the flaming red skin, a few small blisters already bubbling to the surface.

  “That hurts! Be careful!”

  “Forgive me.” I dipped a linen cloth in some water from a jug that had been buried neck-deep in the cool earth and then laid the compress on her wound. “The burn is more extensive than I thought. I have only a small bit of calendula ointment.”

  “Why did you bring me here then?” Her lip curled with contempt.

  “I don’t have the ingredients to make more now. But . . .” I murmured to myself. “Perhaps Ora has some left from the batch I made for her.”

  “Is this Ora nearby?” Darek’s brows were drawn and a slight frown tugged at his full lips as he leaned against the doorway where he’d been watching me tend Rimona.

  “At the other end of the vineyard.”

  “I’ll walk you there,” he said.

  I hesitated to be alone with this strange man, but his concern for Rimona, and her obvious pain, brushed away my hesitations. Without an herbal poultice, the skin would blister more and might leave her with open wounds, an invitation for infection. Besides, the storehouse was not so far away; one loud scream from me would bring my father and Yuval running.

  So, leaving Rimona’s friends with instructions to keep her as still as possible and to keep the cloth cool and wet, Darek and I plunged into the dark vineyard with an oil lamp to shine light on our path.

  “Will she be all right?” he asked.

  “I’ve found that a calendula, aloe, and myrrh ointment does wonders for burns. She will heal quickly, I am sure of it. There will be no scar.”

  “You seem well-acquainted with such things. Are you trained as a healer?”

  “Not really. I had a . . . a friend who taught me, long ago. My skills are put to better use in the kitchen.” Early into the long months we’d spent confined within Rahab’s home in Jericho, Ohel, her Nubian servant and bodyguard, had discovered my interest in cooking.

  Delighted by my willingness to learn, he made a game of bringing a new herb or ingredient each time he and Rahab ventured to the market, challenging me to use it in a dish and teaching me ways each could be used for healing as well. Even though my early attempts at cooking failed, Ohel refused to let me give up, and soon I was able to turn nearly any ingredient into a tasty meal.

  In Ohel’s memory, I’d revived the game since living in Shiloh, and each time I invented a new recipe and offered it to my family or friends, I imagined his black eyes glistening with pride as he tasted whatever dish I’d prepared. Spare with his praise, he’d simply say, “Well done, Moriyah” as he served himself another generous helping.

  I blinked the sheen of tears away before Darek could catch sight of them. I missed the big dark-skinned man who’d taken a thirteen-year-old girl under his wing and blessed her with the knowledge he’d accrued over his too-short life. We’d been an unlikely pair, but his friendship had been a gift.

  “Ah. I wondered what that delicious smell was in your home.” Darek lifted a long grapevine that had sprung free of its mooring and drooped across our path, allowing me to pass beneath the leafy arch.

  “Nothing extravagant,” I said, as I ducked beneath the vine and did my best to not brush up against the man who held it aloft or the flickering lamp in his hand. “I made my father barley, leek, and lentil stew before his guard duty at the wine storehouse.”

  “Sounds delicious.” He smiled as he lay the unwieldy vine back on the path. “And will I be able to partake of these skills of yours?”

  Struck by his easy familiarity, as much as the way his smile had the effect of spiced wine in my belly, I stammered. “Oh. I have some left over. I would be happy to warm some for you all after Rimona is tended to, of course. Unless you need to return to your own friends?”

  He’d surprised me by refusing his companions’ offers of help back at the festival, but none of them had seemed offended and they’d melted into the crowd as we left.

  “I only met those men tonight after I was separated from my friend Aron. Just a few soldiers, trading war stories.” He waved a dismissive hand.

  “And looking for wives among the maidens?” Shock flooded through me at my bold question.

  Darek laughed. “Perhaps they were, I didn’t ask. Although I am certain Aron had his eye on someone or he would not have abandoned me tonight.”

  “Well, I am glad you were there, or Rimona might have been more severely burned.”

  “What happened between the two of you?” he asked. “You seemed to be having some sort of disagreement.”

  My pulse rushed in my ears, but surely he could not have been close enough to overhear what she’d said to me or how I’d responded. “A misunderstanding.” Although I did not chance a look at him, I could feel his scrutiny on my face, even through my veil.

  “She said some fairly harsh things for a mere misunderstanding.”

  My knees wobbled and my stomach roiled. He had overheard.

  “Rimona has been ill-informed about my past, and for some reason she felt the need to bring it up tonight.”

  “No doubt to impress her friends,” he said. “And it seemed as though she’d had a bit too much wine.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, still preoccupied with wondering exactly how much he’d overheard.

  “You held your ground like a soldier,” he said, admiration in his voice. “You remind me of someone I knew once . . . someone with extraordinary courage.”

  More embarrassment washed over me. Had he been standing behind me the entire time I’d dealt with Rimona?

  “It was only a disagreement between foolish girls.”

  “Perhaps, but I saw men march on Hazor with less back
bone than you displayed tonight.”

  The compliment curled itself into my chest, warming my core.

  We walked in silence for a while, the sounds of the revelers down at the festival floating up the hillside. The glow from the many braziers lit up half the valley. How many marriage matches would be made tonight within that circle of firelight?

  “I saw you dancing tonight,” Darek said.

  My blood stilled at the revelation, and I stumbled to a stop. “You did? How did you know . . .” My question trailed away.

  With one corner of his full lips uplifted, his gaze flicked to the top of my head. My hand followed the gesture. The band of yellow flowers—I’d forgotten it still encircled my head over my white headscarf. How had it not fallen off in all the commotion with Rimona?

  “Oh, this isn’t mine. Another girl gave it to me.”

  “I know. I saw when you joined her on the dancing ground.”

  “You did?”

  One dark brow twitched. “Or should I say, I saw you lurking in the trees before you joined her.”

  Heat flooded my face. He saw me before I noticed him? While I’d struggled with my memories and fears?

  “I saw you there . . .” He tilted his head to the side. “I wondered why you were hiding and thought you might just slip away. But then to my surprise, you strode out there and joined in.” He paused, lifting the oil lamp higher, as if to scrutinize my expression. “What changed your mind?”

  I considered deflecting the question for a moment, but the open curiosity in his expression drew out the truth in a near whisper. “I needed . . . I needed to dance.”

  “That’s what I thought,” he returned, his husky tone echoing mine and his eyes holding a steady gaze.

  A buzz of awareness traveled down my arms and to my fingertips. The same I’d felt in that brief moment by the brazier. The effect was heightened as we stood under the moonlight in the center of the field with the deep green smell of the earth and vines around us. I tried to blink away the sensation. One I’d never felt before. And should not. My father had already promised me to someone.