“Black dye will give you power?” Sallan went to his workbench and picked up a braided length from a pile of strands that had been dyed black for the Zifron brand on the baskets. Holding it at each end, he pulled. The strand tore easily. “See? As weak as anything.”
She didn’t answer.
“A bit of color won’t make a bull out of a cow.”
“I’m not a cow.”
He tossed the torn black straw away. “In the name of Kothar-wa-Khasis, I’m wasting my time on a stupid girl!” He turned to the servants, said something in the language of Edom, and the two boys came down the rest of the stairs to assist him.
“Wait—please,” Deborah said. She picked up a few more black strands from the pile, arranged them together lengthwise, and grasped the ends in her hands, holding them horizontal.
“Try these,” she said.
Sallan paused and looked at her with astonishment. She could tell that he was unsure whether to snap at her or comply.
He took the ends from her.
“Thank you,” she said. “Now pull in opposite directions.”
He pulled, but nothing happened.
“Harder,” she said.
He complied with no result.
“Harder!”
Sallan tried until his arms trembled, but the combined strength of multiple strands was too great.
He gave up with a loud groan and dropped the strands on the table.
Deborah glared at him. “Who’s stupid now?”
Sallan threw his head back and laughed.
Shaken by her own audacity, Deborah grabbed the bundle of stalks he’d given her for practice and ran to the door leading to the women’s quarters.
He was still laughing when she closed the door behind her.
Chapter 7
The next morning, Deborah woke up in the middle of a dream, which she remembered as vividly as if it had actually happened. It started with an escape from Emanuel—not through the gates, but over the walls in a silent flight accompanied only by the sound of wings beating against the air. She looked up, saw no birds, and realized that the bird was below—she was sitting on it! It was a large bird whose body and wings were almost as dark as the night, except for the neck and head, which were ghostly white. The wings tilted, and she fell off. The ground was soft. She got up and ran. It was the road out of Emanuel. She passed by the Weeping Tree, where Tamar’s body, suspended up side down, grinned with bared teeth. Deborah left the road for a rocky, dry stream, crossed it, and headed up the steep side of a crevice between giant black boulders. At the top she found a flat rock, serving as a natural threshing stone. She sprinted across, but it didn’t end. It was larger than any threshing stone she’d ever seen. A layer of wheat stalks covered it, as if threshing had just been completed. The kernels were as big as almonds, and she felt them under the soles of her sandals. Behind her, horse hooves drummed the threshing stone, getting closer. She ran faster, but the straw got deeper, reaching her knees, slowing her down. The horse was very close, its breath hot on her neck. A hand clutched her hair and pulled her up. She screamed in pain and kicked the air with her legs. But when she looked down, she had no legs, because her body had turned into a human-size stalk of straw, except that it wasn’t golden like wheat but flaming orange, the same color as her hair. A strong odor hit her nose, a mix of body odor, garlic breath, and horse sweat. The horse stopped with a neigh, and Seesya grabbed her, she realized, his right hand clenching her hair and his left holding her feet, which were not feet any longer, but the sliced ends of wheat stalks that had been dyed orange. He held her horizontally and began to pull in opposite directions. She begged him to stop, but her pleas only made Seesya laugh, and he pulled harder until the middle of her orange-straw body turned red with spots of blood, and the pain grew so intense that she woke up.
She must have screamed before waking up, because Vardit rushed over to her. “What’s wrong, child?”
Trying to speak, she had to clear her throat. “I had a bad dream.”
“Poor thing,” Vardit said. “The other girls were also shaken by watching the trial and the stoning, but it’s the law.”
Deborah heard a moan from across the room and looked over.
The other women were clustered around Mazal, Judge Zifron’s youngest wife, who was heavily pregnant. She was only a year older than Deborah.
Lying on her back, Mazal clasped the hands of two older women. Her face was white and her bare legs were bent at the knees. Between Mazal’s open legs, Deborah saw dark blood pouring out, some of it congealed into small lumps.
Mazal moaned again, and the women looked at each other, their faces worried.
Alarmed by all the blood, Deborah stood. The rag that she had kept between her legs dropped.
“Let’s see.” Vardit bent down and peered at it. “As I expected, your bleeding is already over.”
“That’s it?”
“Youth is a wonderful thing, and the Womanhood Charm didn’t hurt, did it?”
Deborah picked up the rag and stuffed it under her red robe.
“Mother,” Mazal cried from across the room. “Help me!”
“Calm down,” one of the women said. “It’s almost over.”
Mazal tried to sit up, but the women held her down.
“The baby is coming,” another one said. “You’ll have a beautiful baby.”
“I don’t want a baby,” Mazal cried. “I want my mother. Please!”
“Come, Deborah.” Vardit took out the Womanhood Charm and went to the window. “Let’s do it again to make sure you’re really done with the bleeding.”
Holding the figurine, Deborah lifted her foot, looked at the sky, and kissed the tiny clay head three times. She pretended to count to twelve in her head, though in truth she didn’t count at all but prayed for Yahweh’s help in escaping Emanuel.
“It’s hurting,” Mazal cried. “Mother!”
“Your mother is far away,” one woman said. “Now it’s your turn to be a mother.”
“No!” Mazal struggled in vain to sit up. “It hurts!”
“Very good.” Vardit took the figurine from Deborah. “Are you feeling well?”
Deborah felt awful, not only for Mazal, but also for her own fate. With her bleeding over, the seven-day impurity countdown had started, and the prospect of coming under Seesya’s possession had turned from a threat to complete certainty. She was sure that he would either find a way to get her killed as he had Tamar, or cause her to be like Mazal, lying on a her back with a huge belly, crying for her mother while lumpy blood poured out of her.
Deborah swallowed hard and said, “I’ll go to wash now.”
“Don’t be late for work,” Vardit said.
As she left the room, Deborah heard Mazal’s thin, fearful voice. “I don’t want a baby. Please make the pain go away!”
Deborah walked quickly. She thought about the dream and how it ended, with Seesya tearing her body apart, and wondered what it meant. Was it a reminder that she was a mere girl, as weak and as disposable as a stalk of straw? That if Seesya caught her running away, he would tear her apart?
At the washroom, the water in the barrel was cold. She splashed her face several times until she felt better. After relieving herself, she adjusted her robe, causing the fire-starters to clank in her pocket. She took the two stones out and pressed them to her cheeks. If only her father were alive to protect her with his big hands and quiet faith. She remembered how he had taught her to start a fire. Could she still do it?
Deborah knelt on the floor and formed a small mound of straw. It gave off an odor of urine but seemed dry enough. She held the flint in one hand and hit the fool’s gold against it at an angle.
Nothing happened.
She remembered that it had been the same when her father was teaching her. He chuckled and said, “Place the flint closer to the straw, Daughter.”
She tried again. This time, a single spark shot out from between the stones and hit the straw, but it fiz
zled, leaving a black speck and a small puff of smoke. She pressed the tip of the flint to the mound of straw, held the palm-size fool’s gold higher, and hit the flint with more force.
The impact produced a burst of sparks, which sprayed on the straw and startled her. She fell backward and hit her head on the wall. Rubbing the back of her head, she smiled for the first time since Tamar’s stoning.
The smile was short-lived, however, because when she got up, there was smoke rising from the straw, and flames crackled.
She blew on the mound, hoping to blow out the flame as one put out a candle. This caused the burning straw to disintegrate and fly in all directions, landing again on the floor of the washroom. The fire began to spread to the rest of the straw. She tried to stomp it out with her sandals, but as she extinguished one spot, another flared up. Worse yet, at the corner the flame was now licking the wooden wall.
The smoke burned her eyes, and she started to cough. Grabbing the water barrel with both hands, she pulled it over. The water spilled with a big splash, flooding the small washroom and putting out the fire. A moment later, the water had drained through the hole and the wood planks of the floor, leaving only wet, smoldering straw.
Deborah stood still and listened for alarmed voices outside, but apparently no one had noticed. Stepping out of the washroom, she paused at the sight of Seesya and his soldiers. They rode into the courtyard herding a group of women and children, bound together with ropes as a human chain. They were dirty and ragged, a few had open wounds on their arms and legs, and none wore shoes or sandals. Their feet left red prints on the ground. On the street, a herd of cows, sheep, and goats was being led to the corrals behind the house.
Obadiah of Levi appeared at the entrance to the courtyard. People moved aside to let him pass, bowing respectfully. The bearded priest walked slowly, leaning on his oak staff. His breastplate glistened with colored jewels, and his white robe was spotless.
One of the captive women saw him and pleaded, “Help us, priest. We are Hebrews, faithful to Yahweh.”
One of the soldiers kicked the woman, who fell down, pulling on the rope, which yanked the prisoners on each side. They, too, fell down, crying in pain.
“Stop!” Obadiah stepped forward, raising his staff. “No need for violence!”
Still standing by the washroom, Deborah stepped back, flat against the wall, trying not to draw attention.
“Where’s the slave warden?” Seesya turned his horse, circling the group. “Tell him to lock them up.”
“Slaves?” Obadiah looked up at Seesya. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“We’re tired, priest. Go back to your temple. We’ll send you a goat later.”
“They attacked our village,” one captive woman said. “Ein Zahav.”
The soldier raised his horsewhip to strike her.
Obadiah came between him and the woman. “Ein Zahav, you say? The one in the lower Samariah Hills, near the Yarkon Valley?”
“That’s right,” the woman said. “We are of the Manasseh tribe.”
“Not anymore.” Seesya advanced his horse, which stomped its front hooves and neighed. “Slaves don’t belong to tribes. They belong to their master.”
“Hold on,” Obadiah said. “Taking fellow Hebrews for slavery is a violation of Yahweh’s law.”
“We went there to collect a debt,” Seesya said. “My father sent me.”
“Our village owed no debt,” the captive woman said. “We’ve never taken anything from the house of Zifron.”
Seesya held up the leather tube his father had given him. “This is an obligation, signed by three men from their village who received wheat and oil on credit from us and never paid. You can ask my father.”
“I believe you,” Obadiah said. “Nevertheless, a personal debt doesn’t justify attacking their village or taking slaves.”
Seesya put away the tube. “They attacked us with axes and pitchforks. The whole village took part in it. There was a fight, and we won.”
“Not true,” the woman said. “They came in the middle of the day, and when they didn’t find the men they were looking for, they demanded that we all hand over our silver and animals. When we refused, this man and his soldiers killed all our men, raped the women, and took us in chains after stealing everything and setting the village on fire.”
The other captives nodded, confirming her story.
“Son of Zifron,” Obadiah said, “may I remind you what Yahweh’s law says: You shall be merciful to strangers, for you were once a stranger in Egypt and they enslaved you for four hundred years.”
The people in the courtyard recognized the sacred quote and murmured in support of the priest.
“Lies,” Seesya said. “All lies. Their men attacked us.”
“You killed them!” The woman pointed at him. “Murderer!”
Seesya rode over and, with a downward stab of his spear, pierced the woman’s chest.
Deborah turned away and pressed her hands to her mouth, blocking a scream.
Obadiah stumbled back, steadying himself on his staff. “You shall not commit murder!”
Seesya glared down from his horse. “Are you siding with a slave who insults her master with false accusations?”
The priest took another step back.
“The people of Ein Zahav attacked us,” Seesya yelled. “We won the battle. Yahweh’s law gives us the right to take the women, children, and livestock as legal plunder.” He made his horse turn in place as he stared at the other captives. “Does anyone else want to call me a liar?”
None of them dared to speak.
Obadiah of Levi knelt by the dead woman. He closed her eyes, pressed his hand to his bejeweled breastplate, and recited the blessing on the dead: “Blessed be Yahweh, God of Israel, king of the world, the true judge.”
Many in the crowd answered, “Amen.”
“The true judge,” Deborah whispered. “Amen.”
Above the noise, an agonized scream came from the women’s quarters. Deborah recognized Mazal’s voice.
Seesya pointed his spear at the sound. “There goes another goat.” He jumped off his horse, which a stable boy took by the reins, and went into the house.
The soldiers dismounted and tended to their horses while the slave warden came to take possession of the new captives. The priest got up with difficulty and made his way through the crowd of spectators toward the exit.
Mazal screamed again.
Deborah pulled down the edge of her hood to hide her face and hurried along the side of the courtyard in the direction of the exit. People saw her red robe and moved aside to avoid contact. She intercepted Obadiah before he reached the doors to the street and blocked his way.
“Move aside,” the priest said.
She didn’t.
He tried to get around her.
“You must save me,” she said quietly.
“What?”
Deborah was much shorter than Obadiah. She pulled up the edge of her hood and tilted her head backward to show him her face.
His eyes widened. He looked around at the people surrounding them, but the excitement of the confrontation and killing was over, and everyone had returned to their business.
“Foolish girl,” he hissed. “How dare you speak to me!”
Mazal screamed again, but no one in the courtyard paid attention.
“You made a promise to my sister before she died.”
He shook his head quickly, as if in fear. “I didn’t make any promises, and you don’t need help. You’re in no danger, unless you have also whored with another man.”
“I’m a maiden, pure and untouched, same as my sister was.” She tugged at her red robe. “In seven days, I’ll be ready for his bed—and he’ll do to me what he did to her.”
The priest tried to go around her. “You’re impure. Stay away from me.”
She stepped into his path, blocking him.
He stopped to avoid touching her.
Mazal wailed in a high pit
ch, filled with desperation. The courtyard quieted for a moment, and after brief break, another wail came, fraught with torment and despair.
Everyone waited for her to scream again, but Mazal didn’t make another sound. It was over, and now one of the women was supposed to come to the window and announce whether it was a baby boy or only a girl.
No announcement came, which meant that the baby had been born dead.
After a long moment, the courtyard returned to its usual bustle as if nothing had happened. Deborah felt tears come to her eyes, for Mazal’s pain had been in vain, and now she would have no baby to nurse and cuddle.
“Let me pass,” Obadiah whispered. “Move aside.”
“My sister’s curse is upon you,” Deborah said, “unless you save me.”
He bent as if a heavy weight had been placed on his shoulders. “There’s nothing I can do. Nothing at all.”
“You can help me escape, give me food and money for the road, and pray for me.”
“Pray?” The priest chuckled bitterly. “My prayers don’t work very well these days.”
“If you help me, perhaps Yahweh will listen to your prayers.”
“Didn’t you see Seesya kill that poor woman a moment ago? He’s a vicious little boy in a big man’s body. If he found out that I assisted in your escape, I’d need to hire another priest to handle my own burial.”
Deborah gestured at his breastplate. “Yahweh will protect you.”
At first he seemed offended, but then he exhaled and beckoned her to the side, where the wall curved, offering a measure of privacy. “Where would you go?”
Without thinking, she said, “To Shiloh.”
He nodded in approval. “Smart. The Holy Tabernacle attracts many pilgrims and beggars. It would be easy to hide among so many people.”
“I’ll pray to Yahweh at His house,” she said. “He will free me from my betrothal to Seesya.”
“A girl’s betrothal is final.” He pointed at the ring on her finger. “There are only two ways for you to become a maiden again: either Seesya takes the ring back and releases you, or he dies before possessing you in bed.”
Deborah Rising Page 6
