Greater than their longing to touch one another was the fear of consequences. She knew Jesse would protect her every way he knew.
“God go with you, Marah,” Jesse said, stepping back. He stood tall and straight. Marah thought he had never looked so handsome.
“God be with you also, Jesse,” she said. Turning away, she held her tears until she was far enough away. She did not look back.
4
Zibeon was in fine spirits. He and his brother Shimei had consumed several cups of wine. Usually Shimei skulked about the house and stayed out of Zibeon’s way. They had never gotten along, even as children, and there were frequent quarrels between them. Zibeon had taken out his temper on Shimei on more than one occasion, but Shimei never told on his older brother. It wouldn’t have done him any good. Their mother, Athaliah, doted on her eldest son and catered to him. He was the image of her late husband. Shimei, on the other hand, was secretive and spent a great deal of time to himself. He had been a sickly child who wearied her as she struggled to raise two boys alone. She was fortunate that Zibeon, already big for his years, had been taught well by her husband and could keep the sandal shop going. She had not been forced to seek another husband.
Enjoying the respite from Zibeon’s temper, Shimei toasted his brother, flattering him over his good fortune. Zibeon was so pleased with himself he didn’t seem to notice that it was Shimei he was slapping on the back and boasting to.
“A wife to make a man’s senses turn. More wine, woman!” he bellowed at Athaliah.
It was the closest the brothers had been since they were children. While widowed several years before, Zibeon had ignored Athaliah when she brought up the subject of remarriage. Tonight she was delighted that her favorite was to finally marry again.
Athaliah poured more wine. She had cooked Zibeon’s favorite dishes and bustled about the house bursting with pride. She bragged to neighbors that at last she would have the grandchild she longed for.
When Zibeon married the first time, Athaliah had jealously berated the girl, Rizpah, and reproved her for her constant sad face. Zibeon scowled for a moment as he recalled the frail, long-faced girl his parents had chosen for him, forever weeping. In spite of his lusty efforts, she shrank from him always. Rizpah’s constant weeping, and cries of pain any time that he sought the comforts of a husband, frustrated and angered him. After two years of marriage, Rizpah had shown no signs of producing the son that Zibeon wanted so badly.
“I shall go into my old age with no grandchild to comfort me,” Athaliah wailed until Zibeon finally threatened to wring her neck.
“Am I God Himself that I can give you grandchildren?” he flung back at her angrily.
Rizpah became gaunt and hollow-eyed. His mother continued to chide her for her weakness.
“You must eat. You will become ill. Don’t be a foolish girl. You must make up your mind to get well and take up your duties as a wife to Zibeon.”
Day after day, the ungrateful girl lay quietly on her pallet. Athaliah’s rebukes fell on deaf ears for the girl’s eyes remained closed and there was no answer. Frustrated, Zibeon came each evening after his work to stand at the foot of her bed, watching for some sign. Then after a few moments, with a snort of disgust, he would sit at the table and nurse his cup of wine, muttering about the frailty of women. At last, one early morning, in spite of all Athaliah’s efforts, Rizpah turned her face to the wall, gave one last, long sigh, and died.
“No maiden in the village interests me,” Zibeon bellowed at Athaliah when her nagging became too much.
“You do well in your shop, my son. There is not a maiden in the village who would not be pleased to be chosen,” Athaliah wheedled.
“Silence, woman. I will choose when it suits me. No more of your incessant chatter.”
Zibeon drew himself up and scowled so fiercely that Athaliah backed quickly away. He threw a bowl at her feet and stormed out.
Now Athaliah hovered over him. “She will give you strong sons. I shall have my grandchildren at last.” She beamed. “That Rizpah, always so pale, and always with such a sad face . . .”
“Be still, woman,” Zibeon growled.
His mother ignored the warning. “She was bound to make you unhappy with all that weeping. Two years of marriage and not a child to comfort me in my old age, the shame of it.” Athaliah raised martyred eyes to the ceiling. “And the foolish girl would not eat. I told her a hundred times a day she should keep up her strength so she could be a proper wife to you.” She shrugged her shoulders and spread her hands in puzzlement.
Shimei, seeing the thunder building on Zibeon’s face, feared an explosion. Hurriedly grabbing the wine, he proposed another toast to his brother’s good fortune. Fortunately for Athaliah, she was easily distracted and hastened to put more food on Zibeon’s plate.
Zibeon stared at his wine, thinking of the mothers that hurried their daughters past his shop as though he had some great plague, daughters who averted their eyes.
“Simpering, useless females,” Zibeon had grumbled to Shimei. “I don’t need any of them.”
Then he had seen Marah. Her face stayed in his mind for days. Zibeon watched for her and tried to be friendly, but like the others she averted her eyes and hurried past his shop. Day after day his frustration grew.
Reba came to the shop on a day when Zibeon was angry with Athaliah. He was pounding forcefully on the leather with a mallet, trying to make a hole with his awl. Weary of his mother’s constant nagging, he was taking his anger out on the thick leather. From the corner of his eye, he saw Reba coming toward the shop and cursed under his breath. She came many times, too many times it seemed, to purchase small leather items. She was cunning and brash, but they understood one another. Her attentions flattered his ego at times, and he let her flirt. She hinted at marriage, but she didn’t appeal to him. Now her niece, Marah, that was a different matter.
“She no longer has the figure of a child,” he had murmured one day to Shimei. “Soon she will be eligible for marriage. She dislikes me, I know, but it only makes her more interesting.” Like the lion that waits and watches its prey, waiting for the right moment to strike, Zibeon would bide his time.
With a nod from Zibeon, Shimei moved back into the shadows of the shop as Reba planted herself in front of Zibeon.
“You must work every moment?” she had asked coyly.
With great care, Zibeon put down his tools and looked at her. “There is something you need?” he asked in a low voice.
She did not miss his meaning as he rose to his full height and looked down on her, enjoying her momentary discomfort.
“Would I interrupt such a man at his work for no reason?” she said with a slow smile. “You are a strong man, Zibeon. It is a shame for you to be alone. You should have a wife to comfort you after a hard day at work.” Reba almost smirked.
Zibeon sighed irritably and sat down again, picking up his tools. He was not in the mood to be bothered with Reba’s barely disguised hints at marriage today. Perhaps if he ignored her, she would go away.
“I have a proposition.” Her voice had been low, conspiratorial. “Is there someplace we can talk?”
“Say what you have to say now. I am a busy man,” he growled.
She smiled, anticipating his reaction. “It concerns my niece. Do you wish to talk here?”
At the mention of Marah, Zibeon’s head came up sharply. She had gotten his attention.
Reba looked around to be sure no one was near, and didn’t see Shimei. “She is now of an age to be betrothed. I wish to return to Haran to my family. I am tired of this village. Perhaps we can do business?”
Zibeon licked his lips. So his interest in the girl had not escaped Reba’s attention. She was shrewd. She knew how to get to the heart of a matter.
“What do you need to return to Haran?” He also got to the point.
“A large sum, Zibeon, a worthy price for such a beautiful bride.”
They looked at each other for a moment in the
ir unity of thought.
“You are right. We cannot talk here,” Zibeon murmured, knowing Shimei was listening to the entire scene.
“I will send the girl for water to Jacob’s well tomorrow at this time. It is a long walk. I’m sure she will be gone long enough. I will be waiting,” Reba smirked.
“Tomorrow at this time,” Zibeon answered, his gruff voice dangerously soft.
Two women were headed their way and Reba pretended to examine a pair of sandals. “I have not seen anything that interests me,” she said loudly. “Perhaps tomorrow.”
“I’m sure you will find something tomorrow,” Zibeon answered in the same tone and watched her walk away, her ample hips twitching as she walked. As he moved to the back of the shop, he eyed Shimei, daring him to mention a single word. Shimei spread his hands in a depreciating gesture and moved away. Zibeon looked through one or two baskets until he found what he was looking for. He unwrapped the soft leather covering and held up a beautifully carved leather box with inset jewels. He examined it carefully and nodded his head. He stood for a moment, savoring his thoughts, and then returning to his stool, he picked up his tools. He brought the mallet down again forcefully on the awl.
Now the betrothal ceremony was over. He had only to bide his time. Zibeon continued to muse, ignoring his mother and brother. He had what he wanted. Let his mother’s words flow over and around him like a small breeze. Let her celebrate. He had the wife of his choosing and Athaliah would have her grandchildren. He nodded to himself and lifted his cup of wine.
Across the village, Marah also thought of the betrothal ceremony. She had served the guests with downcast eyes, her mind troubled. Even when the betrothal scrolls were signed, she couldn’t bear to look at Zibeon. She had already determined to be a dutiful wife, and tried to convince herself that perhaps the rumors about his first wife were untrue. Perhaps he had changed. Casting about in her mind, she sought for all the positive things that she could find, yet that night she trembled inwardly when he was near her. She watched Zibeon partake freely of the wine that was offered, and now and then he would glance her way from under his heavy brows. She looked away. Whenever he tried to get near her, she would find an excuse to move elsewhere.
Reba circled Zibeon, laughing a little too quickly at his remarks, bending a little too close as she fussed over him pouring the wine, exclaiming how pleased she was with her new nephew. Marah wondered if their neighbors and friends saw through the transparency as easily as she did. Once or twice she caught some of the women whispering among themselves and nodding knowingly toward Reba and Zibeon. Then their eyes turned toward Marah who looked away and busied herself. She did not need or want their pity!
Suddenly, Marah looked up to find Zibeon directly in front of her. The smell of the wine was strong, and he bent over her with a smile that turned to a scowl when he saw the fear in her eyes. He bent to whisper a few words and then with a laugh turned away.
Marah went white and Hannah, standing with Simon as witnesses to the betrothal, saw the brief scene and moved quickly to Marah’s side.
“Child, you are pale. What has happened?”
Marah felt she was going to be ill. She wanted to scream and run out of the house, losing herself in the dark hills. Hannah took her arm and hissed, “Smile!” in her ear as she firmly propelled Marah to her aunt. Hannah looked Reba in the eye.
“Our bride-to-be is clearly overcome with all the excitement. Perhaps she should rest?” It was more of a demand than a question.
Reba was at first irritated and then, seeing that Marah was on the verge of fainting, chose to be benevolent. It would never do for the girl to be visibly sick at this moment. She dismissed them with a cursory wave of her hand.
“It is time for our bride to rest. So much excitement,” she purred as she moved among the guests, urging more wine and food as Hannah and Marah went quickly up the steps to the roof of the house. They could hear as the guests began to drift away to their own homes.
“Ah . . . a fine match, Reba.”
“You have done well for the girl.”
As though there had never been such a betrothal event and never a more gracious hostess.
Marah heard Zibeon’s voice as he too departed, but it was low and she could not make out the words.
Marah stood quietly, with Hannah’s hand upon her shoulder. She calmed herself, taking deep breaths of the cool evening air. Staring out into the night, she was rigid with unshed tears.
“Child, what did he say to you?” Hannah whispered.
“Oh Hannah, I am so afraid.” Marah looked up, shuddering slightly as she relived the moment, and bitterly repeated the words.
“‘Soon, little bird, you will not be able to flee from me!’”
5
Marah knew Jesse would be leaving soon for the village of his father-in-law. Still, she hoped to speak with him one last time. She had waited until the middle of the day when the village was quiet. Reba slept in the heat of the day and Marah watched to be sure she was asleep. Reba snored loudly. Quietly, Marah slipped out the door and with one last fearful look about, covered her head with the dark shawl and hurried away by a path behind the village. She took a water jar to cover her steps should Reba wake and miss her.
Her heart pounded as she moved quickly through the trees to the hillside where she could hear the soft bleating of the sheep. Was Jesse still there? Had the new shepherd taken over the flocks? Marah chewed her lower lip as she thought of Jesse’s betrothed. She knew he had already met Tirzah at his ceremony.
“Is she . . . pretty?” Marah asked Hannah.
“She has a kind face,” Hannah replied tactfully. “She is not too plain, and seems to have a good temperament. She will make him a good wife.”
Now Marah climbed the hill and saw to her relief that it was indeed Jesse with the sheep. He was playing the kinnor, a small lyre, to soothe the animals. It reminded her of the small flute he had carved for her. She wondered if it was still hidden. As she watched him from behind a tree, she looked cautiously behind her to see if she had been followed or anyone at all was in sight. There was no one.
Jesse must have been thinking of the flute also, for in a moment he put down his lyre and walked over to the rock. He stood looking down for a moment and then after glancing around, lifted the rock and took out the lambskin bundle. He was standing there, looking down at it when Marah walked up quietly and stood in front of him.
“I also wanted to see the little flute. I’m glad it is still there.”
“Marah!”
She looked furtively around. Her head was covered with the dark shawl to keep from being recognized as she went to find Jesse. Now she felt like there were eyes hidden in the trees and behind the rocks. Someone would see them. After hesitating for a moment, with a show of boldness, she set down the water jar and eased back her shawl. The sun made highlights in her hair.
Jesse almost reached out to touch it and pulled his hand back as though burned by the fire of her dark tresses.
“Jesse. I . . . I wanted to speak to you. I knew I would find you here.”
He looked down, a bit embarrassed by being caught looking at the flute.
She spoke again. “I know we should probably not talk, but I heard you were leaving the village. I wanted to say goodbye.”
“Yes, I’m leaving,” he said, his eyes still on her shining hair, “to be an apprentice to Tirzah’s father. I will be learning to be a carpenter.” He shrugged self-consciously. “Can you imagine me, a shepherd, making tables and tools?”
Marah smiled. “You’ll be a good carpenter, Jesse. You are very good with wood. I know you will do well. I . . . ah . . . wish you good fortune in your marriage and that your wife will bear you sons.” She stumbled over the word “wife.”
Jesse tried to return the blessing but found the words stuck in his throat. Marah realized he could not wish her well in her marriage, nor could he wish her children by Zibeon.
“Thank you,” he answered lamely
.
Marah ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the little flute. She wanted to put it to her lips and play on the beautiful instrument that had been carved by Jesse’s gentle hands.
But knowing it would call attention to them, she sighed and carefully wrapped it in the lambskin. Jesse placed the flute back in the hole and moved the rock over it.
“It will be our secret,” Marah repeated as before. “Perhaps someday I’ll be able to come for the flute and play it.” Then she sighed again. “Flutes are for shepherds and children, and I’ll be a married woman. There will be no time for playing a flute.”
His longing reached out to her like tangible warmth, but he did not touch her. For a long moment they looked at each other, and then she turned and covered her hair with the shawl. Jesse must not see her tears. He also turned away, looking out over the sheep for a long moment.
“Goodbye, Jesse.” She struggled to keep her voice from quavering.
“Goodbye... Marah.” His voice was muffled.
Marah grabbed the water jar and fled.
6
The time of the barley harvest was nearly over. Every farmer in the village was harvesting his crop. The women exchanged bits of news and gossip as they worked. Some tossed the grain into the air from their baskets and let the wind float away the chaff. Others used a threshing board, letting the children ride on it for extra weight as the oxen moved in wide circles over the grain. Some gathered the sheaves and other women cooked, bringing out the food at midday when everyone would stop for a noontime prayer and refreshment. It was a time when the whole village worked together.
The workers harvested the family fields. As Marah moved gracefully about her tasks, she was aware that she was pleasing in the eyes of the men, young and old. During the harvest, many a maiden had been caught in the fields alone by an amorous young man and a hasty wedding had ensued. Simon watched over Marah as a father would, and Hannah stayed close by, but no one in the fields would bother her—they were all afraid of Zibeon. Many of them had been the recipient of his temper on occasion, and it was not an incident to be easily forgotten.
Journey to the Well: A Novel Page 4
