To Dwell among Cedars

by Connilyn Cossette

  Even when Ronen had found me behind the sheepfold, dressed in Philistine clothes and my speech thickly accented by my mother tongue, he had never made me feel like a foreigner. But the assessing look his cousin gave me now made me acutely aware of my heritage, even though my hair was hidden from view.

  I was rescued from responding to Machlon’s unnerving statement when my father came around the side of the house, his smile lighting up at the sight of Ronen.

  “Shalom!” he called out. “I am so glad you’ve braved the rain to join us!”

  “A little water would not stop me from accepting such gracious hospitality,” Ronen said, before again introducing his cousin.

  “Abiram’s son?” my father asked.

  “That I am,” said Machlon with a firm nod. However, his smile was tight, and I wondered if there must be some sort of strain between him and his father.

  “A man of great honor,” said my father. “Even if we’ve had our differences in the past, his leadership among the Levites is to be commended.”

  A barely perceptible glance passed between the cousins, one that further solidified my feeling that there was contention within their family.

  Oblivious to the undercurrent, my father gestured toward the open courtyard gate. “We have fresh water to wash the mud from your feet, and Eliora here will make sure you have something with which to dry your heads. She’s already prepared a lovely fire to warm your bones.”

  Ronen turned his dark eyes to me as water dripped from his hair and trailed down his high-cut cheekbones. “From all I have seen and heard, your daughter is the very embodiment of generosity, Elazar.”

  My father too turned to look at me, a twitch of amusement on his normally solemn mouth. “That she is. There is no one like our Eliora.”

  “Indeed,” said Ronen, so softly that I barely heard the word.

  My face blazed at the pointed attention on me. It took everything I had not to spin around and run into the house, away from both the scrutiny and the unexpected pleasure of that one word from Ronen’s lips.

  But then, perhaps sensing how close I was to bolting, my father clapped a large hand on Ronen’s shoulder. “And we have you to thank for her presence in our lives, as well as Natan’s. The day they joined our family was a joyful one. One meal will not be sufficient to convey my gratitude for finding them, and for your help yesterday, both in the gardens and with my son.”

  At the mention of my brother, I realized that he and the donkey were no longer standing beside us. I leaned to peer around Ronen and Machlon, catching a glimpse of him leading Kalanit into the house, where she would be tucked into the warm stable on the lower level.

  For as surly and snappish as Natan was with most people around him, he treated animals with the utmost care, something he’d done even when he was a small boy. In fact, I’d even overheard him talking quietly to the donkeys in our native language a time or two at night, when everyone else was asleep upstairs. Although I remembered much of the Philistine tongue, I’d refused to speak it out loud since I’d adopted Hebrew ways as my own, so he must have decided to keep his knowledge of the words alive in a different way.

  “Come, my friends.” My father gestured for the men to follow him into the courtyard. “We will fill your bellies with the best food and wine on the mountain and then you must tell me news of Abiram and the other Levites in Beit El.”

  The rain picked up again as I watched them go, droplets sliding down my face and soaking my headscarf. Regardless of the disquiet Machlon stirred up and the strange draw Ronen had on me, there was food to carry, fires to tend, people to serve. So, although there was still much to discuss with my brother, I ran to fetch towels, determined to extend the full measure of my family’s generosity. The thought of shaming my mother and father by allowing any important detail to fall by the wayside tonight was too humiliating to even consider, especially when I had the disconcerting feeling that Ronen’s cousin might be watching my every move.

  Twenty-Two

  Ronen

  Trying to ignore how stiff my fingers were, I shifted my weight as I crouched in the wet brush and tugged my woolen mantle closer around my body. I breathed out slowly, listening for the scuffle of footsteps, the rasp of a body moving through the woods, or even just a change in the air.

  “See anything?” Machlon whispered near my shoulder.

  “No,” I replied, keeping my voice low as well.

  “They have to be here somewhere,” he mumbled. “They said they’d meet us here when the moon was high.”

  While Machlon and I ate with Eliora’s family, Osher and Shelah had been scouting the area, trying to pinpoint exactly how many guards were positioned around the top of the mountain and where they were stationed.

  Since Tuviyah and the other musicians would assume Machlon and I had been invited to stay the night with Elazar’s family after the meal, we took advantage of the freedom it gave us to do some exploration of our own after we left. So far we’d seen four armed Levite guards, men who were surprisingly alert as they paced back and forth in the moonlight, eyes roving the trees. As I’d noticed during the wedding celebration, there were no torches lit to mark the resting place of the sacred vessel, but if the guards were here, then it could not be too far away; within a thousand cubits, I ventured to guess.

  Nothing more than a few night birds trading stories and the whisper of the frigid breeze in the trees broke the silence around us. Perhaps Osher and Shelah had returned to camp after all, leaving the two of us here in the woods, waiting for no one.

  I began to get drowsy, my belly overly full from the feast Elazar’s wife and daughters prepared. I had to admit that the two old weavers had been correct to say that the fruits and vegetables harvested from Eliora’s garden were second to none—the flavors richer and deeper, or sweeter and more delicate, than I’d ever tasted before. I’d been helpless against Yoela’s continued insistence that I pile more food into my bowl, especially when every bite I scooped into my mouth seemed more delicious than the last.

  Although Eliora’s mother in no way resembled my own—her diminutive size and overabundance of black curls the opposite of my mother’s willowy build and sleek brown hair—they were both generous in their affection for their families, and I could not help but be assailed by memories of my ima as I watched Yoela interact with her youngest children. They adored her, ever clamoring for her attention and never being turned away. Even when she was deep in conversation with one of the other women, she was stroking one of their heads with gentle fingers, or tugging one onto her lap, or pulling another tight to her side.

  It had been nearly nine years since I’d seen my mother, and I could still feel the distinct sensation of her lips pressed to my forehead, as if the last kiss she gave me before her new husband drove away was permanently tattooed onto my skin.

  Even worse than the dredging up of the pain of her loss was the twist in my gut as I watched Gershom and Iyov laugh with Yonah. Seated between his oldest brothers, the boy who walked with a distinct limp due to a deformed foot beamed with all the brightness of the sun at their focused attention. Not only did the sight stir up longings for my own younger brother, who’d only been an infant when he left, but it also called up memories of my older brothers and the way they always spoke to me like I was a man, even though I was over a decade younger than either of them.

  Along with evoking deep yearnings for the return of my family, sharing a meal with Eliora’s family made me admit that my uncle’s home was not nearly as warm and loving. Abiram and his wife had given me a roof over my head and food in my belly, but there was none of the overt affection or the animated chatter that characterized Elazar’s household and, indeed, had been the norm in my own. I missed it, more than I’d even realized, and found myself envying Eliora and Natan’s adoption into such a welcoming clan.

  I shifted again in place, unsettled by my own musings, and very glad that my cousin could not hear such traitorous thoughts. Even if my uncle was unbendin
g and rarely spoke to me about anything other than his plans for the Ark, he had invited me to stay when my mother left and had told me many times that one of his goals in all of this was to avenge my father’s and brothers’ deaths by removing the descendants of Itamar from the seat of High Priest. I owed him my loyalty.

  Besides, half of my family was dead and the other half gone, so without Abiram and Machlon, I had nowhere else to go.

  “I met with the men from Be’er Sheva while you were digging in the garden,” whispered Machlon, the sound seeming too loud in the stillness.

  My response was barely above a breath. “And were they receptive?”

  “I think so. Of course, I said little, only asked questions and let them speak. After a few cups of beer, I did not even have to guide the conversation; it flowed easily into the exact stream I expected. I have no doubt we’ll have plenty of men to overtake these guards when the time is right.”

  Remembering the way the Levites from the territory of Simeon had so brazenly called out Tuviyah, I was not surprised that they were of like mind with us, but I still could not understand why Machlon was so eager to trust men he’d only met. This entire mission was too precarious to place faith in the wrong people. We only had a narrow window of time to recover the Ark and could not afford a mishap.

  “Excellent work on the Philistine girl, my brother. She is smitten with you.”

  A jolt of panic seized hold of me at his assertion.

  I’d suspected that she’d begun to trust me the moment she told me of her fear that Natan was following in his birthfather’s dangerous footsteps, but instead of feeling pleased that I’d already maneuvered myself into her confidence, I found myself second-guessing my plans.

  And tonight, instead of simply considering her a source of information on the Ark, I’d found myself fascinated as I watched her move about the tent filling cups, delivering baskets of bread, and bending low to look each of her young siblings in the eye while she spoke to them in calm and patient tones. Ever in motion, she was like a gentle gust of wind flowing about, unseen except for the effects of her silent, selfless service to all those around her.

  As I’d allowed my curious gaze to follow her while Elazar recounted a story about Samuel the Pretender that I’d only been half-listening to, I found that what truly amazed me was that I was the only one who seemed to be watching her.

  As full as that tent had been with people, a number of them unmarried men, everyone else fell prey to her skillful knack for disappearing among the crowd, regardless that she stood nearly a head taller than most of the women. And although many of those other women wore scarves on their heads, none wrapped their hair so diligently that even the color was a mystery—a mystery that, for some reason, I was desperate to solve.

  Eight years ago, her hair had been braided and wound into a knot, and it was dirty from her long trek from Ashdod, but I remembered it was lighter than anything I’d ever seen and guessed that now it was similar in color to Natan’s. As foolish as I felt even admitting it to myself, I could not stop wondering how long it was, or what it might look like in the sunlight, unfettered.

  “Ronen?” Machlon prodded, dragging me out of my musings over a woman. I was glad it was too dark for him to see the flush that crept up my neck or I’d never hear the end of it. I hoped he would assume I was only pausing to listen for evidence of more guards.

  “I believe I’ve won her trust,” I said, ignoring his earlier provocation, “but it’s done me little good. There was no talk of the Ark during the meal. Elazar was too busy extolling your father to say anything of note.”

  Eliora’s father had indeed spoken of Abiram with admiration, which surprised me since my uncle practically snarled and spat whenever he mentioned Elazar, or his late father, all too quick to expound on their faults.

  Yet, after spending a few hours with Elazar, listening to him unspool the ancient and tragic story of Yaakov and Esau to a captivated audience in the flicker of firelight, and hearing the bone-deep sincerity in his voice when he lifted a blessing over the heads of the people at the conclusion of the Shabbat gathering, I’d begun to wonder whether Abiram’s perspective might be somewhat skewed.

  “Do not let that snake fool you, cousin,” said Machlon. “He knows exactly what he is doing. His father was in league with Eli and his wicked offspring from the start and fell in with Samuel and his unsanctioned babblings years ago. We must expose the Pretender for who he truly is before he digs his claws any deeper into the people.”

  Most of what I knew of Samuel had been from the lips of Abiram, other than the ridiculous story of Yahweh talking to him as a boy inside the Mishkan, which was an oft-told tale. Many among the tribes believed him to be a prophet, the mouthpiece of Adonai himself, and his supporters among the priesthood were strong in number.

  But the idea that a child of tender years and untrained in the ways of Mosheh was a conduit by which the Almighty One spoke to his people was laughable. How his fame had continued to grow among Israel since then—as if he were on equal footing with Mosheh himself—was beyond my comprehension. Until I heard a prophecy from his mouth being confirmed with my own ears, I would never believe such stories were anything more than exaggerations or outright lies. Lies like the ones that led to my father and brothers being slaughtered on a field in Afek and the rest of my family being stripped from me.

  “And just as you must be wary of Elazar’s treachery,” Machlon said, “you must remember that it was a Philistine beauty who was Samson’s ultimate downfall. Don’t let Eliora beguile you. Too many are counting on us to deliver the Ark into the right hands. We cannot afford to be distracted from our purpose. The future of all Israel is at stake.”

  Although I could not see my cousin’s face in the darkness, the censure in his voice was as clear as midday. Perhaps I’d been the only one watching Eliora, but Machlon had been watching me.

  I inhaled a sharp draft of air through my nose, meaning to refute him or offer an excuse for why my eyes seemed compelled to follow her whenever she was near, but we’d been careless as we whispered, growing complacent the longer we’d crouched in the brush under the full moon.

  Just off to our left, and far too close to be coincidental, a twig snapped.

  Twenty-Three

  Eliora

  White light spilled through the window, beckoning me to slip quietly from the bed I shared with Miri and Amina and pad across the room to peer up at the sky. Round and full, the moon cast its gaze in such a familiar way that I could almost understand why so many of my ancestors revered it as a god. But knowing what I did now, that Yahweh spoke the heavenly lights into existence and placed them there to remind us of signs and seasons and mark time with perfect consistency, I pitied those ancient ones who worshiped the created thing instead of the Creator.

  It had been hours since the last guest departed, every bowl and pot had been cleaned, and the little ones had fallen into dreams, but no matter how hard I’d tried, I could not sleep.

  Tonight had been a disaster.

  Although all of our guests, including Ronen and his cousin Machlon, seemed to enjoy the food and drink, eating to their hearts’ content, I had made an enormous mistake.

  When the dog and its prey had burst in on me, I’d been so startled and disoriented by the ruckus that I’d dropped the fresh wicks for our oil lamps on the ground and then ran from the memories the animals had provoked.

  But apparently the squirrel had not escaped like I’d thought, and it seemed that a violent chase had ensued inside the tent after I’d left. Pillows had been gutted, lamps broken, and one of the tall ceramic braziers I’d lit beforehand had been knocked over, setting coals flying and one wall of the tent alight. Thankfully, not only was the outside of the tent still damp from all the rain, but someone in the courtyard smelled the acrid scent of smoldering goat hair and doused the fire with a nearby pot of rainwater.

  I’d been horrified when I’d returned with towels for Ronen and Machlon and realized what h
ad happened. Not only were our guests forced to endure the odor of burnt hair throughout their meal, but the new wicks I’d prepared for the lamps were also soaked and muddy, so old ones had to be scrounged up from the houses while everyone waited in the dimly lit tent.

  Even though the images of Harrom’s terrible threshold sacrifice had reared up with such force and vivacity that I’d been engulfed in a flood of emotions, I should have locked them away like I normally did whenever thoughts of Ashdod nagged at me. It was almost like Ronen’s appearance in Kiryat-Yearim had broken the latch on the box where I usually kept them.

  If only I had not let myself get so caught up in memories that were better left buried in the past, or let my anxiety over both Natan’s behavior and Machlon’s subtle disdain for me distract me from my responsibilities.

  It did not matter that my mother brushed aside my profuse apologies, nor that no one else mentioned the lingering odor of charred wool. I’d been devastated. Only the certainty that my parents would be even more shamed if I fled the courtyard kept me from running out into the woods and secreting myself away in my special place.

  I’d not even had the courage to look Ronen in the eye after that. What a clumsy fool he must think me. I was so grateful that the men had congregated on one side of the tent and the women on the other so I’d had every excuse to stay far away.

  Only one time had our gazes tangled. Halfway through the meal, my sisters fussed at me to stop serving and sit down to eat, and I’d finally given in to their persistent coaxing. The moment I folded myself onto a cushion, my youngest sister, Dafna, toddled over and plopped down in my lap, filling my ears with some unintelligible story full of sweet giggles and waves of her chubby arms. Suddenly feeling as though I was being watched, I allowed myself the briefest glance toward the other side of the tent and found Ronen’s attention on me, one side of his mouth tilted upward. Struck by embarrassment, and the way my pulse tripped over itself under his attention, I’d immediately dropped my gaze, shifted Dafna to my mother’s lap, and returned to filling wine cups and replenishing bread baskets. As for the warm curl of pleasure I’d felt in my belly when he’d met my eyes for those fleeting moments, I’d pushed it aside. If anything, he was simply noticing just how different I was from my tiny black-haired sister, or noting how awkward I was around the Levite wives.