Wings of the Wind

by Connilyn Cossette

  The large tent was sparsely outfitted—a low stool stood guard near the entrance, a few pots and baskets, and another rumpled pallet. Blood-splattered armor lay where it had obviously been shed after the battle, my quiver and bow next to it. He’d kept my bow?

  The tent door flipped open, and a man stooped low to enter. My pulse stuttered, then pounded. This man had me on a sleeping mat, tied and wounded. What would he do to me? The aftermath of the battle flooded back, the screams, the smell of death. This was the same cursed Hebrew soldier who had found me on the battlefield.

  Anger ripped through me. “Where am I?”

  My loud demand startled him. He froze, then took one step backward. “In my tent.” His tone was defensive but not as arrogant as I’d expected.

  “Why did you bring me here?” My voice was steady, thank the gods. I would not let this Hebrew see even a hint of fear.

  Head brushing the low ceiling, he filled the space like a wide tamarisk tree, blocking my escape. I was tall for a woman, but I guessed he would stand at least a head above me. How could I possibly overpower such a huge man? I eyed the dagger at his belt; perhaps if I surprised him with a quick attack I could kill him and take out a few more Hebrews before I was caught.

  “You were injured.” He gestured to the wound that should have killed me, if it had done its job.

  “Why bother? I am your enemy.”

  He folded his arms across his wide chest and tilted his head as if trying to assess my character. “I could not let you bleed to death.”

  You should have. “So you saved me for what reason? To use me?”

  He winced. “I have no such intentions.”

  Of course not. I snorted. Closing my eyes, I released a breath, slow and steady, through my nose. “Whatever your intentions are, make it quick and be done with it.”

  “I will not harm you.” His voice was closer now, the rumble of it almost soothing. A ruse to lull me into false security, no doubt. I had survived this far without being violated, and I refused to let down my guard for a moment.

  I dug my nails into my palm and squeezed my eyes tighter. He was a Hebrew, my enemy, and just as barbarous as any other man. My own father and brothers were fierce on the battlefield, and off. Thankfully, they had wrestled and sparred with me as if I were a boy. I could give as good as I got. And nothing has changed, Hebrew. I’ll fight you to the death. “How long have I been here?”

  “Since yesterday.” The whisper of cloth rustling told me he had lowered himself to the ground nearby.

  Restraining myself from shifting farther away from his looming presence, I opened my eyes to glare at the woolen canopy above me.

  “No one, except a healer, knows you are here.”

  Why did he keep my presence a secret? “Are you going to let me go?”

  No answer.

  I shifted my glare toward him, to no effect. He sat on the ground, arms folded across bent knees, head down. A curtain of wavy hair hid his face.

  “Will you release me?” I pressed as I darted a look behind him at the tent flap. I shifted my shoulder to test its mobility, but pain speared me again. How could I escape with such a wound? I had already fainted once and had no idea what awaited me on the other side of the door.

  “I cannot.” His throat moved as if he were swallowing a burning coal.

  “Why would you go to the trouble of treating my wound if you were going to kill me?”

  “I am not going to kill you.”

  A fresh wave of memories washed over me again. Cries of anguish, then swift silence as the Hebrews completed their grim task of slaying my countrymen. I attempted to rein in the rush of anger flowing through my chest, but my words flew out like daggers.

  “Why not? You put the sword to the other soldiers on the field. Showed no mercy.”

  He met my furious gaze with a questioning one of his own. “You are a woman.”

  “It makes no difference.”

  He cocked his head, studying my face. His brown eyes seemed darker in the tent than they had in the sunlight, the intensity of their appraisal tempting me to squirm. “Did your husband force you to fight?”

  I scoffed. “I have no husband.” My cousin made sure of that.

  His brows bunched together. “Then why were you on that battlefield?”

  Lifting my head, I scowled at him with all the force of my hatred. “To kill Hebrews.” That was all the information I would give this huge man who had dragged me away from the welcome arms of Prince Death. I growled and threw my head back against the pillow.

  A pillow? Even as I groaned against the needles of pain my quick action had caused, a question niggled at the back of my mind—if he meant to harm me, why would he provide for my comfort?

  The man thrust a hand toward me as if to help, then snatched it back just as quickly. “Are you hurting?” his low voice rumbled.

  “I am fine,” I said through gritted teeth, ignoring the tenderness in his tone.

  “Do you need anything?”

  “I said I am fine.”

  Silence vibrated in the tent for a long while, submitting to the mundane sounds of low conversations outside, sandaled feet scuffling by the tent, and horses nickering nearby. Would he sit there staring at me all day?

  A female voice called from outside the tent. “Tobiah? Are you in there? I brought food.”

  Tobiah—for that must be his name—rose and lifted the door flap.

  An older woman bustled in, the tiniest woman I had ever seen, a large pot on one hip and a basket balanced on her head. “Oh, my dear, you are awake? How are we feeling? I brought some food and clothing for you. After I change your bandages, we can get you out of that horrid tunic.”

  The woman did not wait for an answer, but instead pelted Tobiah with questions about my healing progress.

  Yes, I had just awakened.

  No, I had not eaten.

  No, he hadn’t told me.

  Yes, my fever was gone. He’d touched me while I slept?

  “Wait!” I threw up my good hand. “Told me what?”

  They exchanged a look. The woman frowned and arched a silvery brow, and Tobiah studied his folded arms.

  The woman arranged the lines of her face back into a reassuring smile as she turned to me. Deeply freckled from years in the sun, she reminded me of a little speckled sparrow from the way she flitted her hands about when she spoke. I could see the stories written in the lines of her weathered face, still delicate and fine-featured beneath a layer of age spots and wrinkles.

  “What is your name, dear?”

  I pinched my lips together, reluctant to reveal anything of myself, even to a seemingly harmless woman. She lifted her brows and waited for my answer. I had the sense she would not give in until I did. I released a huff. “Alanah. Now—what do I need to know?”

  “All in good time, Alanah.” She leaned down to pat my good hand. “I am Shira, the midwife.”

  I recoiled. “Midwife? But I am not—”

  She released a childlike laugh that did not fit a woman with a silver braid trailing down her back.

  “Yes, dear, but no healers were available to help you when Tobiah brought you into the encampment. A few of us midwives came along with the army to help the wounded.”

  “Oh.” I was glad she had been the one to tend my wound. I shuddered at the thought of a strange man taking advantage of my unconscious state. However, Shira was my enemy too. Albeit an enemy who sat next to me unwrapping my shoulder, smiling and chattering about her pleasure that the swelling seemed to be abating.

  Tobiah, on the other hand, had retreated as far across the tent as his height would allow. He glowered at the ground, his jaw working as if grinding his teeth. He must be regretting his earlier decision to stay his hand and save me. No matter, I would soon give him the chance to rectify his mistake.

  After Shira rewrapped the bandages, she ordered him from the tent so she could help me remove the dirty tunic I still wore. She explained that she had cut my sho
ulder free but had not been able to undress me without help.

  “Since Tobiah forbade that I reveal your presence, I could not bring any other women here. I hated to leave you in that bloodstained garment, though.” Her brows pinched as she clucked her tongue in frustration.

  With gentleness that contradicted my status as a captive, she helped me sit up. When the tent stopped spinning, I saw what she meant. My brother’s tunic had been gray. No longer. Crimson stained the wool from hem to neck.

  My eyes went wide. Was this all my blood?

  Apparently reading my expression, she patted my hand. “No, dear, Tobiah pulled several dead men off you before bringing you here. The fact of the matter is, however, those bodies saved your life. You must have fallen early in the battle?”

  I nodded but winced at the shock of memories her question resurrected.

  Yes, I was wounded early, but not early enough to escape the horror. Wails, sightless stares, limbs, arrows whizzing, swords clanging, bodies piled on bodies, and blood, so much blood. My pulse raced as much as it had when I stood in that valley of death.

  Shira’s intense gaze pierced me, as if drawing out the poisoned images flickering through my mind. She put a warm hand on my face and closed her eyes. She breathed a steady rhythm until my heart slowed its pounding and my hands ceased their trembling.

  “You poor thing. No woman should ever experience such things. Your shoulder is not the only open wound, is it?”

  I clamped my lips tight against the sob building in my throat.

  She lifted the corner of her mouth. Was she laughing at me?

  No. There was no mockery in her gray eyes. Her lips curved into a smile that matched the warmth of her gaze, and my shoulders relaxed in response. “You will heal.” She smoothed my hair as if I were a child, laid her hand aside my face, and rubbed my cheekbone with her thumb, a gesture that soothed me even more. “You both will.”

  Before I could ask what she meant, she ordered me to lift my right arm and began the task of undressing me without jostling my wound. An impossible task. Excruciating spikes of pain radiated down my side, across my chest, and up my neck.

  Better to die naked than endure more. But Shira persisted, and somehow I bit back the screams while she sponged my bloodied and bruised body and washed my hair over a pot of water spiced with myrrh. She dressed me in a soft woolen garment, a sleeveless tunic the color of ripe olives at harvest.

  She fashioned a linen sling for my arm and then tied a wide, woven belt around my waist. I trailed my fingers along its complicated pattern of yellow, red, and green obviously fashioned by a skilled hand.

  Shira’s eyes lit. “Do you like it?”

  I dipped my chin. “I cannot wear this.”

  “Of course you can. My brother’s wife, a master weaver, created this. She would be pleased to see it displayed so well.” She lifted a chastening brow. “And offended if you refused.”

  “Now—” She moved a stool to the center of the tent and pointed at the ground in front of it. “Sit and eat while I braid your hair.”

  I hesitated.

  For such a diminutive woman she certainly commanded obedience. My stomach demanded I comply, but I was reluctant to turn my back, even to this tiny woman. She could just as easily slit my throat as Tobiah in my weakened state.

  “I won’t hurt you.” As testament to her sincerity, she held up a small loaf of flatbread and some dried meat. “I know it’s not much. But you must have not eaten anything substantial in days. Best to start slowly.”

  I accepted the food and sat cross-legged in front of her.

  I nibbled at the meat. It was good, salty. Gazelle, if my guess was correct. I tore the soft bread, stirring a sweet fragrance that caused my mouth to water. “What is it?”

  “Exactly,” Shira responded.

  I looked over my shoulder, questioning her with a lifted brow.

  A twinkle of humor sparked in her eyes. “It’s manna, or ‘what is it?’ in our tongue.”

  “Is it made from barley? Or emmer wheat?”

  “No. It’s made from a substance that falls from the sky.” She was teasing me, she had to be. Even so, Shira held a knowing look on her weathered face. “I know it sounds impossible. But Yahweh, our God, feeds us every day with manna. Every morning we gather what we need and discard what we do not.”

  I scoffed. Was this woman a liar? Or simply insane?

  With a low laugh, she put her hands on either side of my head and guided it forward again to keep braiding. “Just go ahead and eat. You will see in the morning.”

  With a shrug, I took a bite. Nothing I had ever tasted, not fresh honey-raisin bread, not the ripest, most succulent fruit, could compare with the spicy-sweet flavor of the manna. I closed my eyes and groaned.

  Shira chuckled behind me, her bony knees vibrating against my back. “Delicious, is it not?”

  I did not answer. My mouth was full of bread, but I chewed slowly to savor the ethereal treat. If this fell from the sky every morning, I would be up at dawn.

  No one had ever braided my hair. The sensation of someone else’s tender fingers weaving patterns into my thick curls was new, and a small bit disconcerting. No one else I knew had hair even remotely as garish as mine—a product of my mother’s heritage from some far northern country her ancestors had fled from long ago. Merciless children had teased me about the odd color until, at age nine, my fists ended the harassment, along with any chance of friendship with the other village children. They kept their distance. Either afraid of my ready temper or disdainful of my mother’s well-known occupation.

  Hypocrites, all of them. Looking down their noses at me while at the same time their fathers and brothers partook of the pleasures at the temple in Arad on a regular basis. Their mothers turned a blind eye to their husbands’ disgusting exploits yet tossed epithets at me whenever I walked through the village.

  I looked down at my empty hands, heartbroken that even the crumbs of the luscious delicacy were long gone.

  “There, all done.” Shira patted the top of my head as if I were a little girl. I lifted my hand to explore the intricate braid wrapped around the top of my head. Beneath the plaited crown, the rest of my hair cascaded down like a waterfall to the middle of my back, still damp from washing.

  The tent flap flew open and Tobiah poked his head in. “Ready?”

  I cocked my head and narrowed my gaze. “For what?”

  Shira said nothing. Tobiah seemed to have something very large stuck in his throat, and his eyes went wide before flitting away from me to Shira.

  “You did not tell her?” he rasped as he entered the tent.

  “It’s not my place, young man.” They had a silent standoff for a few moments before she stood and began to pack her basket with the remnants of my bloodstained tunic and bandages.

  I stood on unsteady legs like a newborn lamb, gauging the troubled look in Tobiah’s eyes. Was he turning me over to be killed? If he was not interested in ending me himself, perhaps he would let the other Hebrews do the job.

  But why would Shira treat my wound, give me a beautiful dress, and braid my hair for an execution? Perhaps I was to be sacrificed to their god in thanksgiving for victory against my people, or to ensure more of that delicious manna fell from the sky.

  I challenged Tobiah with a look, but his gaze slipped quickly away from mine, as if he were loath to look at me. Perhaps he was frustrated with having to give up his war spoils to appease his god. I wondered what sort of bloodthirsty deity they worshipped. Was he even worse than Ba’al? The screech of infant sacrifices suddenly wailed through my head and I shivered terribly. Would I, too, be tossed into the gaping mouth of an idol to perish in flames?

  “What are you going to do with me?” I attempted to snarl the words, but they deflated. The assurance I had felt on the battlefield, when I flew in without a second thought for my life, seemed less today, as if Shira’s soft hands braiding my hair had rearranged something inside my head.

  Tobiah
cleared his throat, looked down at his sandaled feet, and dropped his shoulders. “Marry you.”

  5

  His words flew around inside my head like a senseless flock of chattering blackbirds. “What did you say?” I squawked.

  Tobiah sighed, loud and long. “I must marry you.”

  My voice pitched high. “Why?”

  “It is our way. If a man takes a woman captive, he must marry her.”

  Nonsense. Anger flushed through me, and I knew my face was as red as my hair. I stepped forward in challenge, wishing again that I could get my hands on his dagger. “Kill me and get it over with.”

  He lifted his palms with spread fingers. “I have no wish to kill you.”

  “Then let someone else do it.”

  He stepped back as if I’d slapped him, confusion thick on his face. “Why?”

  I pursed my lips and balled my fists. Why did he care?

  Shira stepped forward to put a gentle hand on my arm. I barely suppressed the urge to yank it away. “Tobiah is trying to save your life, not take it,” she said. “We are in the middle of a war camp. No one knows you are here, or other men might lay claim to you. And”—she dropped her voice lower—“some of them would use you before killing you. Not all among us respect the laws of Yahweh.”

  I shivered against my will.

  “Marry Tobiah. He will protect you. I have not known him long, but I believe him to be a man of honor. Please”—she slid her hand down my arm to grasp my hand with a strength that belied her size—“trust me.”

  An orphan ray of sunlight through the door highlighted a band of green that encircled the gray in her pleading eyes. For some unknown reason, I did trust her. This little Hebrew woman treated me with kindness I had never known. Sincerity permeated her every word.

  But the taciturn man in front of me—I knew nothing of him. Only that he’d rescued me against my will. Every answer he gave was short—terse even—and now he seemed to be determined to look anywhere but in my direction.

  Did I have any choice? Either I marry this enigmatic Hebrew or subject myself to the humiliation of being passed around. I had few options, none of them appealing. At least this one ended with only one man owning me, instead of many. I would have time to plan an escape later.