Marah was so tired. Was she going to die? She was ready to welcome death if only to escape the pain. Then, in her delirium, she thought she felt a man’s hand on her forehead, stroking her hair. Men were not allowed in at the birthing time. Was it Zibeon? It did not seem like Zibeon. A man’s voice whispered in her ear, “You shall not die.” The voice was gentle, yet with authority and in spite of the pain she felt a peace come over her.
Then they were lifting her, compelling her to push and push again. There was one final wave of pain and tearing its way, the babe slid free of her body. The midwife caught the child and Hannah laid Marah down again on her pallet.
Athaliah’s cry of triumph died in her throat. There was a terrible silence as Hannah stroked Marah’s head.
“Have I a son?” Marah murmured, exhausted, yet anxious over the child.
“It was a boy,” Shelomith said slowly.
“Was?” With a cry, Marah tried to sit up. “What has happened to my baby?” she cried.
The midwife looked down at the still form in her hands.
“The cord of life was wrapped around his neck. In the birthing, it must have choked him. He is dead.”
Athaliah put her hands to her face and began to weep softly.
Shelomith turned to Hannah. “The father must be told and the burying of the child seen to.”
Hannah started toward the doorway. “I will tell him.”
Just then Athaliah stopped weeping. Her head came up and she stepped forward, putting her clawlike hand on Hannah’s arm.
“No. I will tell my son.”
10
Shelomith saw to Marah’s needs, for the babe had done a great deal of damage in his passing. She gave Marah other herbs to stop the bleeding. The midwife then sprinkled something in a cup and they put it to her lips. It was bitter, and Marah nearly gagged, but Hannah insisted that she drink it. Within moments she sank into exhausted slumber. All night her body struggled for life.
At last, near morning, Shelomith began to gather her potions and herbs and pack her goatskin bag. The time of danger seemed past and word had come that she was needed elsewhere in the village. Marah was barely aware of familiar voices.
“She will live. She will bear again. Return to your husband, Hannah. I will watch over my daughter-in-law.”
There was grief in Athaliah’s face but strength also. They gripped each other’s arms briefly, and Hannah left.
Marah awoke again, later in the morning to find Athaliah dozing beside her pallet. She tried to move but her body would not respond. She lay quietly, pondering the events of the night before. God had not willed that her child should live. Deep in her chest, an ache pressed like the weight of a stone. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks and she yearned for the babe they had not even allowed her to hold. She had waited for Zibeon to come to her, for a word, anything, to share the pain of the loss of their son. But Zibeon did not come.
Athaliah woke suddenly and looked down on Marah. For a long moment she did not speak, and then, “The grief will pass, but you will not forget,” she said slowly. “You are young, you will bear other children, yet always, you will remember the first.”
Marah looked at her mother-in-law through her tears. She was puzzled by Athaliah’s words. Almost in answer to Marah’s unspoken question, Athaliah stood up, looking off into the distance of a time past. “Zibeon was not my first child,” she murmured. “I lost two before he was born, a son and a daughter. Both came to the birthing and both were stillborn.”
“I . . . I am sorry,” Marah whispered, feeling a rush of compassion for the old woman. Their eyes met, and a look of understanding passed between them.
During the days of her travail, Zibeon had been waiting with neighbors in the courtyard. At night he went to the shop to sleep. A woman standing near the doorway had turned excitedly to Zibeon to say that the child was born.
“Do I have a son?” he had asked roughly, but the woman looked at him blankly.
“Find out!” he had bellowed as the woman hurried back into the house. Those in the courtyard listened for a baby’s cry but there was silence. Then Athaliah had come slowly from the house. Her arms were empty. She faced Zibeon. “The child did not live, my son.” She put her hand on his arm and shook her head sadly.
Not knowing what he would do, the men of the village backed away. Zibeon had at first looked at his mother in unbelief. With a groan, Zibeon turned away from her and beat on his great chest with one fist. Finally, “Was it a boy?”
“Yes, my son. It was a boy.”
“Bring him to me.” For Zibeon, the request was gentle.
Athaliah nodded and returned to the house. She and Hannah wound the small body with cloth and burial spices. Then Athaliah walked slowly back out to the courtyard and gently placed him in Zibeon’s arms. For one long terrible moment, he had held the child, looking down at the still face.
“He shall be called Benoni, child of sorrow,” Zibeon said softly. Then as if in a trance, Zibeon had walked slowly away to bury his firstborn son.
After the burial, Zibeon shut himself up in the shop and vented his grief. Shimei heard the sound of things being broken and thrown around, yet he dared not try to enter the shop when Zibeon was like this. Athaliah tried to bring him some food, and he shouted for her to go away and leave him alone. On the third day, while Marah slept, he had come home. Haggard and bleary-eyed, he ate briefly and then came in and stared down at Marah. When she did not awake, he finally nodded his head curtly and left the room. He returned to the shop, working long hours. On the fifth day he returned home with a bloody cloth wrapped around his left forearm. Athaliah had been alarmed, and clicking her tongue, she sought to unwrap the arm. Zibeon had jerked his arm away.
“The awl slipped. It is nothing, old woman, a mere scratch. Stop your wearisome prattling,” he had bellowed. “I can take care of it myself.”
It was at this point that Marah awakened to the commotion. Zibeon. Forcing herself to rise, she stood for a moment, swaying with dizziness. Willing it to pass, she slowly made her way to the outer room. Taking in the situation, she had carefully seated herself down by him and taking his arm gently, murmured, “My husband, let me tend your wound lest it become worse and cause you more pain.”
Zibeon opened his mouth to bellow at her and almost as abruptly closed it again. He did not pull his arm away from her. Studying her face for a moment his shoulders sagged.
He shrugged. “If you must, woman, I can see I shall have no peace until it is tended to.”
Athaliah raised her eyes heavenward. She knew, as Marah did, that because Marah had given birth, she was unclean. Yet Zibeon’s wound must be tended to, and if he would not let Athaliah care for him, Marah must do it. Athaliah stood by, wringing her hands, as Marah began to clean the wound. It was deep where the awl had pierced the skin, and the surrounding flesh was reddened. Marah did her best to clean the wound thoroughly and then wrapped the arm with a clean cloth. Zibeon’s eyes were bright as he watched her ministrations. Perspiration ran down his face.
“I am sorry for the loss of our son,” she whispered. “I grieve for him also.”
Zibeon stood up suddenly and pulled his arm away from her. His softened face became a thundercloud. He grabbed the wineskin from the peg and strode out into the darkness.
“I didn’t mean—” She turned to her mother-in-law, bewildered. “I only meant to comfort him.”
“It is the way of a man.” Athaliah sighed. She began to gather the bloody rags. “It will pass in time, Daughter.”
Exhausted, Marah returned to her pallet and sank down again. Zibeon did not return that evening and all the next day. When evening came again, Athaliah sent Shimei to find him.
Shimei returned to the house a short time later. “He is in the shop, but he would not let me in. He was mumbling. He must be drunk,” Shimei told them with a shrug of his shoulders. “Leave him alone. He will sleep it off.”
The next morning Athaliah went to the shop to take
Zibeon some food. When she returned, Marah could see she was beside herself with worry. “There was no sound and the door was bolted from within. He did not even shout at me. I am sure he is hurt. What can I do?” She began to wring her hands and sob.
Marah looked beseechingly at Shimei. He shrugged and, shaking his head in protest, reluctantly went to the shop.
When Shimei came back to the house, he and three other men of the village were carrying Zibeon. He was unconscious.
“We had to break down the door. We found him on the floor. He tried to speak to us but couldn’t open his mouth.” Shimei shrugged apologetically.
“He may wake soon, but he is feverish. It is a good thing he is unconscious, I wouldn’t venture to get near him if he was awake,” said Joab, a craftsman whose shop was near Zibeon’s.
They laid him on a pallet in the main room and turned to leave. When the men heard sounds coming from Zibeon, they bumped into one another in their haste to get out the door. Athaliah flung her hand at them in exasperation and rushed to Zibeon’s side.
Marah, due to her condition, had remained as inconspicuous as possible. Now, she moved forward to join Athaliah.
“God be praised, we can change the dressing,” Athaliah cried. She unwound the filthy rags and gasped at the sight. Ugly red streaks ran up his arm. The wound had putrefied and was oozing. Marah and Athaliah looked at one another in horror. Frantically Athaliah cleaned and probed the wound, trying to clear away all of the pus. Zibeon did not waken, but moaned as she worked.
Shelomith was called and the midwife came again with her herbs and potions, for she also tended the sick of the village. She examined Zibeon’s arm and looked at Athaliah, shaking her head.
“It is as God wills.” She pointed to the red streaks going up his arm. “The poison has spread into his body. I have seen this before.” With a sigh, she stood up and began to gather up her things. “There is nothing more we can do.”
As Athaliah grasped her meaning, her eyes widened. “Nooo ... No!” she cried out.
Marah went to her and put her arms around her mother-in-law. Drawing what little strength she had left, she comforted Athaliah as one would comfort a small child. Was there no end to this? How could she bear more? How could either of them bear any more?
Athaliah would not eat or rest. She tended Zibeon constantly and would not let anyone else near, even Marah. She cooled his brow with wet cloths and, with his head in her lap, crooned to him as he tossed about in his delirium. Hannah, who had come to help, managed the food that the neighboring women had been bringing to the house after the death of the child. She went about her tasks and brought chicken broth for Marah to sip slowly as she sat nearby watching Zibeon.
Zibeon had one rational moment, but it was not his mother he sought. With great effort he lifted a hand and beckoned to Marah to come closer.
When Marah hesitated, Athaliah bent her head down near his and nodded. “He calls for you.” Athaliah closed her eyes and bowed her head, tears running unchecked down her wrinkled cheeks. She stood and reluctantly moved away as Marah knelt by Zibeon’s side.
“Little bird,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “you shall yet escape the snare.” Marah remained silent, puzzled by his words. He took a few labored breaths and forced himself to speak again. The words were slurred through his teeth since he could not open his mouth and she leaned closer to understand him better.
“I waited for you . . . for you alone. I hoped one day . . .” He lifted his head slightly and Marah took his hand into her own. It was hot. Perspiration continued to roll down Zibeon’s face, and his clothes were moist and clung to his body. The dark eyes that had frightened her so many times were now bright with fever. Now they looked up at Marah pleading for her to understand what he could not say.
Anguish and compassion filled her heart as she leaned down and put her hand on his shoulder. She gave him the only comfort she knew in his last moments. “Zibeon, I too care for you.”
It took all of what was left of Zibeon’s great strength to reach up and touch her cheek tenderly.
Then his body shuddered and his hand fell lifeless to the pallet.
Marah cried out and bowed her head as Athaliah flung herself upon the body of her son. Her cries of anguish brought neighbors to the courtyard to join those who had gathered earlier out of curiosity. Shimei stared at Zibeon’s body in disbelief. He watched Athaliah weep for the son she had loved. For a moment he started to reach out his hand to her, but then shook his head and the hand dropped back to his side. Shoulders drooping, he opened the door and slipped outside.
Exhausted with her efforts on Zibeon’s behalf and overcome with weakness, Marah struggled, weeping, to her pallet. Her strength was spent. She could not even help Athaliah prepare Zibeon for burial.
Athaliah slowly and tenderly did what needed to be done for her son. She refused the midwife’s offer to help. Shelomith shrugged her shoulders, gathered her pouches, and departed. Hannah quickly went home to gather spices and bring them for the preparation of Zibeon’s body. Other women who lived nearby did the same. When they returned, Athaliah finally let Hannah help prepare Zibeon for burial. She tenderly washed the body and rubbed it with olive oil. She took long strips of linen and wound them around packing spices between the cloth and the flesh, for the smell of death already began to permeate the room. She carefully placed a candle at his head and at his feet. A great wailing went up from the crowd.
At last, when Athaliah could do no more, six men carried the bier with Zibeon’s body to the place of burial. As they began the procession, Athaliah wept with loud cries, tearing her clothes in anguish. She gathered dust and flung it into the air as did the other women with her. As the procession wound its way, neighbors and other villagers joined the mournful group. They made their way to a cave on the eastern side of the town where the prevailing winds blew from the west. Zibeon was placed on a ledge inside the cave, and the entrance to the cave was closed again with a large stone. Athaliah remained outside the cave, weeping and moaning. She resisted the efforts of several of the women to lead her home. At last, three or four stayed with her, adding their cries to her grief.
With Marah still in her days of purification, Hannah washed the things Marah had touched and swept the house. Marah thought about Zibeon and knew Hannah witnessed his actions in his last moments.
Marah raised herself up. “Hannah?”
“Yes child, what is it?” Hannah hurried to her side.
“Did Zibeon come and lay his hand on my brow when I was in labor?”
Hannah shook her head. “No man came in, child. It is a time of women. Perhaps you were dreaming.”
Marah considered her words, and at last, she fell into a troubled sleep. The man in her dream returned, smiling at her and reaching out his hand. With all her heart she longed to approach him, but the vision faded into darkness.
She opened her eyes again, aware of Hannah bending over her, a puzzled expression on her face as she lifted the cooling compress from Marah’s brow that was no longer feverish. The heaviness that had pressed down on her lifted, and she was able to give her friend a tentative smile before she drifted back into a deep and peaceful slumber.
Her body would begin to heal from the trauma she’d endured these past days. In the course of a single year, Marah had married, lost her first child, and become a widow. She was fourteen years old.
PART III
Shimei
11
When she had completed her fortieth day following the birth of her son, Marah went to the temple to have the priest perform her rite of purification. To her surprise, Shimei went with her. Athaliah was not well. They were reluctant to leave her alone for very long and grateful that a neighbor offered to stay with her.
Marah brought two pigeons for the offering. They cooed and fluttered in the covered basket. While she understood the laws of purification, part of her regretted seeing the birds killed. They were beautiful white birds. Death had claimed so much from h
er. Keeping her eyes properly downcast, at least she didn’t have to watch. She waited patiently as the priest performed the rituals and pronounced her clean. As she and Shimei were turning to go, the priest murmured his regrets in the death of her husband and son. His simple words brought back her pain. Then the priest looked closely at Shimei.
“You are the brother of Zibeon, the sandal maker?” Shimei nodded but didn’t speak. The priest’s eyes narrowed as he looked Shimei up and down. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. Then he turned abruptly and left them standing there.
“Let us return to Athaliah,” Shimei whispered urgently.
Marah took his uneasiness as concern for his mother, for Athaliah had begun to murmur strange things. She would pause in the middle of a task and stare off into the distance for long moments. She would hurry to prepare the evening meal as though Zibeon were coming any moment. She would look strangely at Shimei and murmur, “Zibeon? Are you finally here, my son? You have been gone a long time.” Once Athaliah had called Shimei, Josiah, his father’s name; at other times she seemed like her old self. She checked every task Marah performed, advising her on how to do it better as she had in the beginning. Marah and Shimei would breathe a sigh of relief that perhaps the time of her madness had passed.
Then one day, during the evening meal, Athaliah put down her food and looked sternly at Shimei. “It is your duty, my son.” Her hand gripped his shoulder with surprising strength. “You must raise up a son for your brother.”
Shimei looked as though the end of the world had come. He paused with a bite of food in midair and stared at her, stricken.
“You thought I had forgotten the law, didn’t you?” Athaliah said with a sly look at Shimei. “You think I’m mad,” she hissed, her dark eyes snapping at them. “But I know the law. Yes, Shimei, you must marry your brother’s widow and raise up a son for Zibeon.”
Shimei finally found his voice. “Marah is in mourning . . . for . . . her husband, Mother. Perhaps this is not the time to speak of such things.” Then, “The law says that if a man marries his brother’s widow, it is a sin. They shall remain childless.” Shimei spread his hands and shrugged.
Journey to the Well: A Novel Page 7
