Deborah Rising

by Avraham Azrieli

  They left early in the morning, heading north through the hills and valleys. Zariz and his father rode up front, navigating along narrow paths that were barely noticeable. Deborah rode with Orpah on a donkey, the younger girl sitting in front and holding the reins. They sat on a rough blanket tied over the donkey’s back. The monotonous back-and-forth rocking made Deborah feel sick. She would have liked to ride with Zariz on his horse, holding the reins while his arms supported her on each side and his hands rested on top of hers. Abu Zariz, however, had told her to ride with Orpah.

  Orpah drank from a waterskin and offered it to Deborah, turning with a bright smile that made her resemble Zariz.

  “Thank you.” Deborah took a few sips and recorked it. “The sun is getting hot.”

  “Yes,” Orpah said. “It’s always hot in Canaan.”

  Deborah was curious about what had happened to Orpah at Emanuel. “It’s good that you’re back with your family.”

  The girl’s smile faded.

  “Do you miss your home in Moab?”

  Orpah nodded.

  “Will you be going home soon?”

  “In the winter.” She smiled again. “My grandfather’s house is only a two-days’ ride from the Sea of Salt.”

  The path descended a hillside, and the donkey tripped, regaining his footing with a jolt that almost tossed them both off. They held on, and when the danger had passed, they giggled.

  “Is your home in a town?” Deborah asked.

  “It’s in Dibon.” Orpah moved one hand in a wide circle. “A big town.”

  “Do you have a king?”

  “King Bin-Lot of Moab. His palace is in Dibon, not far from our home. I wish we were going home now.” Orpah leaned forward, rested her head on the donkey’s neck, and shut her eyes.

  When the sun reached its apex, their path intersected the main road to Shiloh. As Obadiah of Levi had predicted, the road was busy with travelers. They rode on horses or donkeys, or walked while pulling handcarts loaded with produce, young lambs, or baby goats for the priests. Many had a daughter or two with them, young maidens who seemed ready for betrothal and marriage. The Moabite caravan joined in, heading east into the higher peaks of the Samariah Hills.

  It was late in the afternoon when Deborah first saw the vineyards—rows upon rows of grapevines, vividly green and lined up perfectly, stretching across the vast valley and over the slopes like long strands of freshly combed hair. As the caravan got closer, the individual grapevines came into view—lush, leafy coils over wooden frames, with meaty bunches of red or green grapes hanging from the vines.

  Soon Shiloh itself came into view. Built on a hillside, it was bigger than Deborah had imagined, with fortified walls that seemed twice as tall and as thick as the walls of Emanuel. The top of the hill was dominated by a large structure painted turquoise. From a distance, it appeared many times bigger than a house, with heavy columns evenly spaced along the sides and front. It was the Holy Tabernacle, Deborah knew, and the sight made her heart beat faster.

  The fairgrounds near the city gates served as a marketplace and campground for visitors. It was crowded, but Abu Zariz found a spot near the road. Everyone got off the horses and donkeys, and the family began to set up camp for the night.

  As the sun touched the horizon, drums began to beat, trumpets sounded, and various string instruments came to life. Hundreds of girls in white dresses and loose hair emerged from tents in the fairgrounds and from the city gates. Like a river of milk, they filled the road and flowed down into the valley, where they danced their way into the vineyards. Hundreds of torches were fixed to poles along the lines of vines, turning night into day. Music filled the air, and the girls sang as they danced in long white chains between the rows of vines.

  Deborah stood with Zariz and his father, watching the event from the edge of the fairgrounds.

  “A beautiful sight,” Abu Zariz said. “I have seen it several times before, and it always amazes me. No other people I know allow this.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “It’s a mating ritual,” he said. “Bees and birds do it, but even the poorest Moabite man wouldn’t allow his daughter to dance around for strangers. Marriage is a serious business to be arranged in advance between fathers, who bargain and agree upon proper terms before marriage, not a game of matching left to the whims of foolish girls or the lust of precocious boys.”

  Young men, fourteen and up, soon emerged from the tents and the city. They stayed in groups and ventured to the slopes around the vineyards, talking to each other, pointing, and laughing with feigned swagger. Once in a while, one of the boys would leave the group and approach a girl, who would either decline and continue dancing, which would cause his friends to laugh, or leave the dancing to speak with him, which would earn him cheers from his friends. The couple would step aside and chat by themselves for a few minutes, and then return to their respective friends.

  “It’s nice,” Zariz said. “They find someone they like, and then their fathers can arrange the marriage terms.”

  His father waved in dismissal. “A girl should like the man her father chose for her. This kind of foolishness leads to bad marriages.”

  “My parents met at this dance,” Deborah said. “And their marriage was good and happy.”

  “Really?” Zariz’s eyes widened. “Did their fathers approve?”

  “My mother was an orphan with no family. She’d heard about the Dance of the Maidens and traveled here all the way from the land of Judah. And my father was here to sacrifice a lamb in memory of his parents, who had died of the fever. He said that, of the hundreds of maidens that night, my mother was the most beautiful.”

  “I believe it,” Zariz said, his voice scratchy. “I do.”

  Deborah turned to him, dismayed.

  Abu Zariz cleared his throat. “It’s time to say goodbye.”

  She shouldered her sack. “I’ll pray to Yahweh at the Holy Tabernacle tomorrow for your safety and prosperity, and for good husbands for your daughters.”

  “I appreciate that.” The Moabite trader smiled. “And I’ll pray to Khonsu that the journey taken by the girl with orange hair leads to the place where her dreams come true.”

  Deborah touched her scarf, making sure it was tied properly. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” Zariz said, gesturing toward the gates.

  His father put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Please, Father,” Zariz said. “I’d like to say goodbye.”

  Abu Zariz lowered his hand. “Make it quick.”

  Zariz and Deborah walked together. Guards in leather armor and long spears stood along the access road, and others watched from atop the gatehouse and adjoining towers that overlooked the whole area.

  “Your father disapproves of me,” she said.

  “He says you’re a hardheaded Hebrew.” Zariz smiled. “Can’t argue with that.”

  Deborah didn’t think of herself as hardheaded, but she realized that arguing would only reinforce Abu Zariz’s characterization. “I’m a Hebrew—that much is true—but my tongue isn’t oily and I don’t carry an invisible sword.”

  Zariz laughed. “My father actually likes you very much. That’s why he’s worried.”

  “About me?”

  “He is a wise man, experienced in the way of people. He explained to me that a young man like me is bound to become enamored of a girl occasionally—caught by a glint in an eye, a shy smile, a lock of hair catching a slight wind. He said that a girl can steal a boy’s heart with her scent alone, draw him to her like the swirl of spinning water in the river until he drowns.”

  Anger filled Deborah. She wanted to tell Zariz that his father’s clever words were mean and that the only reason she had liked him in the first place was his likeness to Barac, who would never accuse her of trying to steal his heart or trick him with her scent.

  Zariz stopped before they reached the gates. “I can go no further. Only Hebrews are allowed inside your holy city.”
He glanced at the soldiers.

  Deborah was still upset. “Better check your chest, make sure I didn’t filch your heart.”

  “It’s too late,” he said, looking down.

  She regretted her harsh words. “Don’t be sad. It’s my birthday today.”

  He looked up, surprised. “Really?”

  “The fifteenth of Av in the Hebrew calendar. I was born exactly two years after my parents met.”

  “How old are you today?”

  “Fourteen.”

  He stepped off the road and pulled two trumpet-shaped orange flowers from a honeysuckle bush. “Look, the same color as your hair.”

  She took one from his hand and placed its stem between his lips. He did the same, inserting the second stem between her lips. Their eyes locked. They sucked the drops of sweet liquid from the flowers and let the flowers fall to the ground.

  “Zariz!” His father called, beckoning him to return.

  Pulling the Khonsu figurine from his pocket, Zariz kissed the single horn on the miniature horse and the ball on top of the childlike god’s head. “Keep her safe, Khonsu. Keep her safe from danger and evil men.”

  He held it forward for Deborah to kiss.

  She hesitated.

  “Zariz!” The Moabite trader was now walking briskly in their direction. “Zariz!”

  “Please,” Zariz said. “If your Yahweh really created the whole world, then He created Khonsu, too.”

  The argument was easy to counter, because Yahweh was the only God and would not create other gods, but she saw the distress on his face and relented, touching her lips to the figurine.

  His father was getting closer.

  Replacing the figurine in his pocket, Zariz stepped backward, smiling, his dark eyes glistening with tears. “Goodbye, Deborah,” he said. “I’ll see you in my dreams.”

  Deborah wanted to say goodbye but was too choked up to speak.

  Part Five

  The Discovery

  Chapter 19

  With the scarf pulled low over her eyes, Deborah approached the gates. On the right, the twelve flags of the Hebrew tribes flapped in the wind from tall poles. The soldiers were watching the Dance of the Maidens. She hoped they wouldn’t notice her.

  “Hey, you,” one of the soldiers yelled. “Girl!”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you live here?”

  Deborah shook her head.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Deborah, daughter of Harutz.” There was a tremor in her voice, though she tried to mask it. “Harutz of Ephraim,” she clarified, pointing at the black flag with the white ox, which flew next to Manasseh’s flag, also black, but with a picture of a white antelope, its horns long and straight like arrows.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Emanuel.”

  “Who’s that boy you were talking to?”

  “He and his family are Moabite traders, friends of our judge.”

  “A girl alone shouldn’t be cavorting with Moabites.” The soldier stuck a finger in her face. “If I see you again, I’ll tell your father.”

  She lowered her head. “Yes, sir.”

  “Go on,” he said.

  Deborah passed through the great gates into Shiloh. Aware that the soldier might still be watching her, she kept walking as if she knew where to go.

  The poor lived at the bottom of the hill in a dense mass of tents and huts, which gave off the same stench of poverty as in Emanuel.

  She continued up the main street. It gradually widened, and the packed dirt gave way to cobblestones as it ascended the hillside. The houses and shops grew in size and apparent affluence. The sewage, which in Emanuel ran down the street in an open ditch, was covered with a wooden grate. The houses weren’t the hodgepodge of wood, mud, and rough-hewn stone dwellings of Emanuel, but well-built structures of clay bricks and blocks of limestone. The front facades were plastered, and flowers bloomed in small gardens between the houses and along the street. Alleys branched out on both sides, with houses that seemed more modest, but still tidy and comfortable.

  With the sun gone, most of the shops were closed, but the blacksmith’s door was open. It reminded her of Abinoam’s shop in Emanuel, where she had often watched Barac help his father work on bronze and iron tools. Inside the shop, the owner bent over a workbench, his hammer landing repeatedly on the red-hot piece of iron that he was forging into a tool.

  He noticed her and frowned. “What do you want, girl?”

  Resisting the urge to turn and go, Deborah stepped in through the door.

  He reached into his pocket, drew out a coin, and tossed it to her. Raising his hammer, he struck the iron with a deafening bang.

  Deborah picked the coin up from the floor and placed it on his workbench.

  His hammer paused in midair, and he looked up.

  She pointed at the tool he was forming. “A sickle, is it?”

  “Correct.” His expression softened.

  “My friend in Emanuel worked in his father’s shop.” She looked around. “Just like this one.”

  The blacksmith put down the hammer. “You come from Emanuel?”

  She nodded. “Do you know Abinoam?”

  “I know of him. My grandfather, a bronze smelter, learned the work from his grandfather, whose name was also Abinoam.” He put the piece of iron back in the fire. “My name is Nehoshtan of Ephraim. My grandfather moved to this holy city during the Great Famine, when most of the Samariah Hills emptied out.”

  She was relieved that he was also from the tribe of Ephraim. “I am Deborah, daughter of Harutz.”

  “Harutz of Ephraim? Owner of Palm Homestead?”

  “Yes,” she said eagerly. “Did you know my father?”

  “No.” He moved the piece of iron around in the fire, disturbing the embers to reignite them. “My grandfather told me about Palm Homestead and the ancient cistern that had been given to the family of Harutz. Many among the tribe of Ephraim were envious of it, especially during the Great Famine.”

  “It’s a good homestead, but my father is dead now, and he left no sons.”

  “A pretty name, Deborah. Did your father keep bees?”

  “There was no need. We had enough wild bees.”

  “It figures,” Nehoshtan said. “Where there’s water, life blossoms.”

  Deborah looked around more carefully, now that her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark interior. She saw no figurines of false gods and decided she could trust this man, Nehoshtan. “Abinoam and his son had to escape from Emanuel.”

  He watched her, waiting for more.

  “Our judge is onerous and unjust.”

  “Unfortunately, many of the judges today rule over their people not with Yahweh’s justice, but with Baal Ammon’s greed.” Nehoshtan again reshuffled the embers. “Here in Shiloh, we have no judge. The priests rule here with their strict laws and heavy taxes.”

  Deborah put down her sack. “I just arrived here, and—”

  “I’m sorry.” He gestured vaguely. “It’s not possible for me to host you. My wife is pregnant and works too hard as it is, with the children and all.”

  His eyes went to her hand, and he noticed the ring on her finger. “You didn’t mention a husband,” he said.

  “I’m betrothed.” She adjusted the scarf over her head. “To a very bad man. There is a priest here who will help me, I hope.”

  “Who?”

  “His name is Shatz Ha’Cohen.”

  “Shatz?” Nehoshtan’s eyebrows rose. “Why would he bother to help you?”

  “I have a note from our priest.” She patted her sack. “They are cousins. Can you direct me to his house?”

  Nehoshtan went out to the street with her and pointed uphill. “Go almost to the top. You will see the large houses of the elder priests. Shatz’s house is on the right side of the street. It’s at least ten times bigger than my house, with a horse stable on the right and livestock pens on the left. Above the front gate you’ll see a menorah made of silver
.”

  “Real silver?”

  “As real as the shekels I pay the priests in taxes every new moon.” He shook his apron, jangling coins. “Go into the courtyard and ask for Shatz. At this time, he’ll be adding up his take for the day.”

  “Thank you.” Deborah shouldered her sack. “I have another question. When they sell slaves here, in Shiloh, is there a list of who bought each slave?”

  “That’s a strange question. Why do you ask?”

  Deborah took a deep breath. She didn’t want to tell him about the Elixirist, but lying would be almost as bad. “One of the judge’s slaves,” she said, “asked me to find out who bought his friend many years ago.”

  “The slave warden keeps the records of sales, but that nasty old man won’t give you any information.”

  His warning hit her hard, but she didn’t want him to see her disappointment. “Thank you,” she said. “Good night.”

  Nehoshtan watched her walk up the hill. “Listen,” he called after her, “if you need anything, come back here.”

  Deborah waved. “Yahweh’s blessing upon you.”

  “Amen,” Nehoshtan said. “And upon you, too.”

  Near the top of the hill, the houses grew to sizes that awed Deborah. They were like palaces, easily dwarfing Judge Zifron’s house, which she had naively imagined to be the greatest in the land. With stone columns and elaborate carved-wood doors, they exuded wealth and luxury. Each was set back from the street to accommodate a large courtyard. Mint bushes and flower boxes gave off pleasant scents, and a soft breeze carried away the day’s heat.

  Deborah recognized the house of Shatz Ha’Cohen by the large silver menorah mounted over the courtyard entrance. The horse stable on the right had a separate gate and enough space for twenty or thirty horses. The livestock pen on the left housed cows, sheep, and goats, fenced in sections and filled to capacity.

  She entered the large courtyard. A healthy flame burned in the firepit at the center, producing a thick column of smoke. Two slaves worked by the well on the right, raising bucket after bucket and pouring the water into a barrel. Near them, a group of women sorted fruit and vegetables from hefty baskets. They arranged the produce by type and quality, tossing the bad ones onto a heap of trash. In a corner to her left Deborah saw an open workshop, similar to the basket factory at Judge Zifron’s house, but more odorous. Shirtless men worked under the glow of torches, cleaning large pieces of cowhide and goatskin with heavy brushes. The workshop didn’t have a roof. She saw tall piles of skins on top of open carts, sorted by the type of animal they came from.