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Deborah Rising

Page 17

by Avraham Azrieli


  Deborah wiped her tears. “Please release me from Seesya’s betrothal.” Her voice quivered. “I’m an orphan, with no father or brother to defend me. You can protect me. Only you.”

  There was a rapt silence around them, and the priest’s round face softened. “Who am I to protect you, poor child? The Almighty, the Creator, the God of the Hebrews is our protector. The one and only.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with a raised finger.

  “Do you remember, girl, what Yahweh said to Eve after she lured Adam to eat the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden?”

  Deborah could not remember.

  “Anyone else?” Shatz turned to Obadiah of Levi. “Cousin?”

  The old priest raised his head, met Deborah’s eyes, and cleared his throat. “‘And to the woman God said: I shall multiply your pain and agony; in anguish you shall bear children; always you shall lust after your husband, and he shall reign over you.’”

  The men murmured in agreement, but Deborah struggled not to break down in tears again.

  “Those are divine words,” Shatz said. “A clear and precise law for Eve and all women until eternity: ‘Always you shall lust after your husband, and he shall reign over you.’ God ordained that women belong down here.” He put his hand down near the ground. “And men reign over you from up here.” He held his hand at eye level. “Do you wish to argue with Yahweh, our Creator, the Almighty?”

  Deborah shook her head. “I’ll submit to a husband, but not this one.”

  Everyone burst out laughing, especially Shatz, who pounded Seesya’s shoulder several times, bellowing, “She doesn’t like you, young man. She wants someone else!”

  When they calmed down, the priest wiped his face and smiled at her. “Do you want to choose a husband for yourself? Is that it?”

  “Yes!”

  He sighed and looked up in contemplation. “Tell me, girl, did your father grow wheat at Palm Homestead?”

  The question surprised her. Why did he want to know?

  “Yes,” she said. “A great field of wheat still grows there. I saw it recently.”

  “Imagine how the wheat looks when it’s ripe.” Shatz put his arm out and moved it from side to side as if caressing shafts of wheat. “Like a thick, golden carpet, perfectly flat, yes?”

  She nodded.

  “And if you look across the field and see a stalk rising above the beautiful expanse of ripe wheat, what is it?”

  “A weed.”

  “Correct. It’s a weed. And what did your father do when he saw a weed rising above his good wheat?”

  “He pulled it out.”

  “Exactly,” Shatz said. “And the same goes for a girl who demands to choose her own husband. She is like a weed, rising above the field of good women. We can’t have it, can we?”

  The men in the courtyard voiced their agreement.

  “It’s settled, then,” the priest said. “Tomorrow night, after sunset, we will hold a wedding procession to celebrate this blessed union, and the bride will ride on my new stallion!”

  Seesya bowed to Shatz. “Thank you.”

  Everyone applauded, and the horse neighed, swaying its head.

  “In honor of our esteemed guests,” Shatz said, “I’d like to name this stallion Emanuel. What do you think of this name, girl?”

  Again, she was the center of attention, but she felt paralyzed by dread and sorrow. The warmth of the wine in her belly made Deborah remember the Reinforcing Liquid she had ingested. What was Sallan’s advice? “Banish your fear and embrace your strength.” But with all these faces looking at her, expecting her to respond, fear clung to her with a hawk’s clutches, whispering words of discouragement in her ear.

  “Go on,” Shatz said, “don’t be afraid, child. What do you think of naming this gorgeous animal Emanuel in honor—”

  “It’s a bad idea,” she blurted out.

  Everyone groaned at her rudeness, but Shatz laughed again, his chins shaking. “Why do you think my idea is bad?”

  Deborah’s fear spiked again, muting her.

  “Speak up, girl.” Shatz clapped. “Tell us—”

  “I think your idea is bad,” she said, “because Emanuel means ‘God is with us,’ and Yahweh wouldn’t be happy to have a horse named for this sacred declaration of faith in Him. The name you propose is a mockery of God.”

  The priest stopped laughing.

  Everyone quieted down.

  The silence lingered.

  Turning to Seesya, Shatz said, “My young friend, considering that this girl will soon become your wife, let me say this: I feel sorry for you!”

  Everyone laughed, and Shatz Ha’Cohen waved the tail of his white robe and walked into the house, followed by Seesya and the rest of the men.

  Deborah followed Vardit up the stairs to the women’s quarters on the second floor, where a separate room had been prepared for Judge Zifron’s wife. Once inside, Vardit handed her a small clay bottle.

  “Sallan prepared this,” she said.

  Deborah took the bottle. “What is it?”

  “A potion with olive oil and herbs to soothe the pain and heal the wounds.”

  “I’m not injured,” Deborah said, confused.

  “It’s not for you.”

  Vardit pulled off her dress and lay down on one of the straw mats, face down. Her exposed back was crisscrossed with angry red welts.

  “Yahweh’s mercy!” Deborah cried. “What happened to you?”

  “You escaped, and I got punished. That’s what happened.”

  Barely able to speak, Deborah whispered, “I’m sorry. It’s terrible.”

  “You should be sorry. And yes, it’s terrible. Now rub the potion in, but do it gently.”

  Deborah knelt and poured some of the potion into the palm of her hand. She hesitated to touch Vardit. “I’m still impure,” she said.

  “Why should I care about impurity?” Vardit laughed bitterly. “My husband won’t summon me to his bed any time soon.”

  As lightly as she could, Deborah spread the potion on the wounds. The older woman groaned. When it was done, Deborah put away the bottle and fanned Vardit’s back with a cloth until her breathing slowed and she appeared to be asleep. But when Deborah put out the lamp and lay down next to her, Vardit spoke quietly.

  “I don’t blame you for trying to escape,” she said.

  “Really?”

  Changing position, Vardit groaned in pain. “If he can do this to his mother, what will he do to his wife?”

  Deborah was shocked. Husbands had the right to beat their wives, and most did it, though rarely with such severity, and almost never a mature wife with grown sons. But for a son to have his mother flogged was unheard of—even with his father’s permission, which she assumed Seesya had received prior to committing this sordid act.

  “He’s a wicked boy,” Vardit said.

  “Yes,” Deborah said softly. “He is.”

  “But I’m his mother, and you’ll soon be his wife.” Vardit began to weep. “I don’t have a choice, and neither do you.”

  In the dark, Deborah reached over and held her hand.

  Chapter 22

  Deborah woke up at dawn. She went to the window, which overlooked the courtyard. Shirtless slaves were already cleaning animal skins on the opposite side, and others were loading empty baskets and cloth sacks onto a wagon in preparation for another long day of accepting pilgrims’ offerings down by the gates. She leaned forward through the window and looked down. Two soldiers sat on wine barrels by the entry to the stairs. They watched the slaves work, but Deborah knew why they were stationed there.

  “You’re up already,” Vardit said.

  Deborah turned, saw the welts on the exposed back, and felt a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry to have caused your punishment. And it was all for nothing. The calamity I tried to escape from is about to happen anyway.”

  Vardit sighed. “Marriage is not a calamity. It’s the way of the world.”

&n
bsp; “Then why do I feel like a sheep going to slaughter?”

  “There won’t be any slaughter.” Vardit eased herself up, her face twisting in pain. “I’m going to make you beautiful. Seesya will find you attractive, and all will be well.”

  Deborah touched her hair. The thought of being in a room alone with Seesya terrified her, but even worse was the idea of having physical contact with him.

  “I promise you. He’ll be happy with you.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Men are all the same,” Vardit said. “A new wife excites them, at least for a while. Let’s wash and begin to—”

  “I want to pray at the Holy Tabernacle.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Now.”

  A nervous smile crossed Vardit’s face. “I’ll take you there, but first you have to do something for me.” She took the Womanhood Charm from her bag and held it out. “For good luck with your wedding and all future childbearing,” she said.

  Deborah didn’t bother to argue. She held the naked female figurine by its concave base and went to the window. Lifting her left foot, she looked up at the sky, kissed the tiny head three times, and pretended to count in her head while thinking of the Elixirist and how only he could free her from the curse of womanhood.

  “Very good.” Vardit put it away.

  “Will you take me to the Holy Tabernacle now?”

  “Today is your wedding day, and it’s a sacred duty to make a bride happy on her last day as a maiden.” Vardit slipped on a dress, careful not to disturb the fresh scabs over her back, and tied a scarf over her head. “Let’s go.”

  They went downstairs, and Vardit spoke with the two soldiers, who followed them out of the courtyard. At the exit, Deborah touched the mezuzah scroll, fitted in a rectangular cavity in the doorjamb. It reminded her of the missing mezuzah at Palm Homestead.

  Heading up the street, they passed a few more houses, as large and as opulent as Shatz’s, and a square building with no windows.

  “That’s the bathhouse,” Vardit said. “The elder priests immerse here before every ritual.”

  “Is this where I’ll immerse tonight?”

  Vardit pointed downhill. “Women use a purifying bath near the slave cages. That’s where you’ll immerse before the procession.”

  The hilltop was flat, cleared of stones, and at least five hundred steps across. The Holy Tabernacle, a large structure painted in pale turquoise, occupied the center and was surrounded by a fence made of wood pillars and turquoise cloth. The fence had two tall wooden doors, carved with intricate designs. Both doors were closed.

  The rest of the hilltop clearing was taken by a great stone altar, much larger than the modest altar at the temple in Emanuel, with two stone work surfaces off to the side. Thick smoke rose from the altar.

  Many priests in white robes were busy around the altar area. Some of the priests held a live goat or a sheep for sacrificing, and others helped with cleaning carcasses of slaughtered animals.

  A group of musicians played various instruments, including a gold harp, a silver trumpet, a mahogany flute, a pair of copper tambourines, and several hand drums. A choir of Levite boys sang in thin voices that pierced the air and touched the heart.

  Deborah noticed how efficient the sacrifice process was. A priest would place an animal on a stone surface next to the altar and cut its neck with a single slice. The gushing blood drained into a receptacle connected to a channel that went downhill. The intestines were removed and thrown away, the internal organs were placed on the burning altar, and the fleshy parts went on a bed of embers for slow cooking.

  Most of the priests were young men, but the one standing over the altar had a long white beard and a breastplate that rivaled Shatz’s in its elaborate ornaments.

  “That’s Mankaliahu Ha’Cohen,” Vardit said. “He’s the High Priest, the most senior of the elder priests.”

  Deborah craned her neck to see him better. “Is he the one who enters the Holiest of Holies on the Day of Atonement?”

  “That’s him. He leads the sacrifices and decides all the affairs of the Holy Tabernacle.”

  Deborah was filled with awe. “What about the offerings? Doesn’t he collect from the pilgrims at the gates?”

  “His family takes care of that,” Vardit said. “In addition, the other elder priests must give him one-tenth of everything they collect, and he alone receives all the gifts the people give during the ten days between New Year and the Day of Atonement. Besides, every household inside the walls of Shiloh pays taxes, which the elder priests share equally except for the High Priest, who receives a double share.”

  “You know a lot,” Deborah said.

  Vardit smiled. “My husband is an ambitious man. He often entertains important visitors, and I’m a good listener.”

  “You eavesdrop on their conversations?”

  “A wise woman keeps her mouth shut but her ears wide open.”

  Vardit’s tone hinted of criticism, which Deborah understood, considering how much trouble she had caused. But the advice made her realize that she would have to learn a lot more if she wanted to survive as a woman in a world run by men. Listening helped a woman gain knowledge and gather information that could be useful, or even lifesaving. Deborah committed Vardit’s advice to memory, determined to listen more and speak less.

  The smell of burning flesh sickened Deborah. Skirting the altar area, she approached the tall doors in the fence around the Holy Tabernacle and peeked through the crack between the doors. Inside, the structure itself was built with wooden columns and turquoise walls that appeared to be made of fine linen. She could barely breathe, in awe at being so close to the house of God. Her father had once described to her the ornate top of the ancient Ark of the Covenant, with its arching gold seraphs and elaborate adornments. She imagined it resting inside the Holy Tabernacle, only a stone’s throw away from where she stood, its splendor glowing with divine holiness.

  She knelt and pressed her interwoven fingers under her chin. “Yahweh, God of Israel, I am your servant Deborah, daughter of Harutz. I was going to come here to thank you for helping me discover information about the Elixirist, but instead I must pray for more help. Please deliver me from evil, help me regain my—”

  Shouts interrupted her, and the music and singing stopped. She turned to look.

  A herd of young Levites in white robes ran toward her, wielding red sticks, yelling, “Impure! Impure! Impure!”

  Before Deborah could move, they were upon her, beating her with the red sticks, which were actually bones of sheep and goats that they had picked up from the refuse pile. She cowered and covered her head as they kept yelling, “Impure!” and raining blows on her back.

  The two soldiers ran over and pulled Deborah and Vardit away from the irate Levites, who followed them from the Holy Tabernacle to the edge of the hilltop, hurling the bloody bones and yelling, “Impure! Impure! Impure!”

  Chapter 23

  When they entered the courtyard, Seesya was standing by the firepit with a few men, chewing on a roasted leg of lamb. The men paused and stared at the two women, who were disheveled and covered in bloodstains.

  “It was my mistake,” Vardit said. “We went to the Holy Tabernacle. The priests saw her red robe and shooed us away.”

  “Looks worse than shooing,” Seesya said, making the men around him grin. He gestured at Deborah. “Better clean her up before tonight. I don’t want my bed getting more filthy than necessary.”

  This threw the other men into a fit of laughter.

  Vardit waited for them to quiet down and said, “Please, Son, may we have a word in private?”

  He grunted.

  Walking ahead of them, Deborah crossed the courtyard, took the stairwell halfway up to the women’s quarters, and stopped to listen.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs, just outside the doorway, and stopped.

  Seesya cleared his throat and spat.

  “I wasn’t much older,” Vardit
said, “when your father possessed me as a wife in his bed. I carried you in my womb for nine month, gave birth in agony, and nursed—”

  “Every cow, goat, and sheep does all that.”

  “It’s true.” Vardit spoke in a voice so low that Deborah could barely hear her. “But their offspring doesn’t have them flogged and humiliated.”

  He spat again.

  “Son, listen to me. She’s practically a child, and you should—”

  “Is that why you helped her escape from Emanuel?”

  “She slipped away while I was asleep. Why don’t you believe me?”

  Seesya sneered. “You think I’m still a naive little boy, don’t you?”

  “Sometimes I wish you were still a boy, it’s true. I do miss those old, innocent days.” Vardit sighed. “You’re a grown man now, but you’re still my son, about to marry a girl, and I know about—”

  “You know nothing. There’s a lot riding on that ugly little witch. When I possess her and make her my wife—only then!—we’ll have full ownership of Palm Homestead and the endless supply of water from its cistern. All those men of power who kiss my father’s ass—the elders in Emanuel, the rich priests of Shiloh—all of them would like nothing better than to use the law against us and tell the people that we don’t own Palm Homestead. So hear this, Mother. If the girl escapes again, it’ll be the end of you. The end!”

  “Son, please, listen to me—”

  “If you betray me again,” he said, “the flogging will take place in public, for everyone to see, until all the skin peels off your back.”

  “No! Your father won’t allow it!”

  “He didn’t interfere the first time.”

  “He will!”

  “You think he’s still the big man, the judge, the all-powerful ruler? Not anymore. Behind all the pomp and ceremony, Father is an old man who knows I control the soldiers—and the future.”

  “How dare you?” Her voice broke. “Have you forgotten Yahweh’s commandment? ‘Honor your father and mother, and your life shall be long on this land that your God gave you.’”

 

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