Deborah Calling

by Avraham Azrieli

  Applause broke out across the hillside, all along the road, and at the top of the town’s walls. Deborah raised her right fist and cheered, “Justice! Justice! Justice!”

  When the crowd had quieted down, Judge Zifron said, “The accused has been found guilty by the elders of this town of murdering another Hebrew man. The punishment under the law is but one: a murderer must be stoned to death.”

  Seesya appeared dazed by his quick downfall and didn’t resist as two men took him by the arms and led him down from the platform. Obadiah followed. They went around the platform, past the pile of stones, through the circle of girls, and reached the Pit of Shame.

  Seesya looked over his shoulder and cried, “Father, help me!”

  Judge Zifron looked on, his face pale, his lips pressed tightly together as his son’s pitiful voice made the crowd laugh. Deborah, however, didn’t laugh. Even in this pathetic state, Seesya was pure evil. She remembered their wedding night, his failure to possess her in bed and his admission that the same had happened with Tamar, whom he’d then accused falsely of not being a virgin. When Deborah had asked him, “Don’t you fear Yahweh?” he’d grinned and answered, “Why should I? Yahweh loves me. All the gods love me. Otherwise, why would they give me power, wealth, and the future of a king?” Watching him now, a convicted murderer about to receive his due punishment, Deborah felt no relief or satisfaction. As much as she longed to see him stoned to death, her heart told her that he was too conniving, too elusive, and too resourceful—that the evil force in him was too great to be pinned down and killed with stones.

  The soldiers made Seesya stand at the edge of the Pit of Shame.

  “Repent now,” Obadiah said. “Ask Yahweh’s forgiveness, for you have sinned.”

  “Father! Save me!”

  “Repent,” the priest said, “and God will forgive you.”

  “Shut up, old man!” Seesya tried to get out of the soldiers’ grip. “Let me go!”

  The crowd laughed harder.

  Obadiah turned and walked away from the Pit of Shame. His gaze briefly met Deborah’s, and he nodded. She understood. They both remembered Tamar’s dying words: “Seesya, son of Zifron, I curse you that you will suffer the same fate as I suffer today!”

  The soldiers lowered Seesya, legs first, into the tight hole until only his head and shoulders showed above ground level. A puff of wind blew at his hair, fanning it like a black cloud over his pale face.

  On the platform, Judge Zifron picked up the effigy of Mott and held it to his chest with its face toward the Pit of Shame.

  Babatorr went over to the pile of stones and selected one. As the accuser, he would have to cast the first stone. The elders lined up behind him. Other men from Emanuel joined the line.

  Back at his spot next to the judge, Obadiah pounded his staff three times. “The condemned may plead for a pardon now.”

  The crowd’s booing grew as loud as the rumbling of a thunderstorm. At the Pit of Shame, Seesya’s face stuck out above the ground, his eyes wide and his mouth open.

  The priest raised his hand to silence the crowd.

  “Father,” Seesya yelled, his voice screeching. “Have mercy. Pardon me, Father!”

  Countless eyes focused on Judge Zifron. He could either grant his son a pardon by putting down the effigy of Mott, or refuse a pardon by raising Mott high, its face remaining toward the condemned.

  For a long moment, Judge Zifron stood motionless. He looked around at the spectators, then down at his feet, clearly contemplating putting down Mott to pardon his son.

  Deborah raised a clenched fist, took a deep breath, and shouted, “Justice!”

  The crowd immediately answered her call with chanting, “Justice! Justice! Justice!”

  Judge Zifron glanced at the sky, now appearing to contemplate raising Mott up to deny a pardon.

  This hopeful sign energized the crowd, which chanted on and on, “Justice! Justice! Justice!”

  Having run out of strength to yell, Deborah kept pumping her clenched fist in the air at the pace of the crowd’s chanting.

  With a deep sigh, Judge Zifron pulled Mott away from his chest, held the effigy in front of him, and began to raise it.

  “No!” A woman’s scream, filled with desperation, made the judge pause. “No!”

  Vardit appeared from behind the platform, ran to the Pit of Shame, and stood in front of Seesya to shield him from the stones. She raised one hand and brandished a figurine. It was a very small statue of a naked woman with long hair, her arms folded under her breasts, which were full and healthy. Below the hips, the shape blended into a pillar, with the base flaring out like a dish. It was the Womanhood Charm, Deborah remembered, and the people close enough to recognize it began to spread the word to the rest of the crowd, which quieted down.

  “In the name of Yahweh,” Vardit pleaded, “I beg of you, don’t kill my boy!”

  The crowd’s murmuring grew louder, and Judge Zifron looked around, frozen with indecision.

  Falling to her knees, Vardit turned to Deborah, and cried, “You’re like a daughter to me. Have mercy. Forgive him, and God will forgive your sins, too.”

  Deborah approached the platform and faced the judge. She raised her hand, unclenching her fist, and showed the ring, which glistened in the sun.

  The murmuring died down, and all eyes focused on the ring.

  “Tell your son to release me,” Deborah said.

  Judge Zifron turned to the Pit of Shame.

  Seesya shook his head.

  “Fine,” Deborah said. “His death will end my betrothal.”

  Still on her knees, Vardit turned and faced the Pit of Shame, “My son,” she cried, “soften your heart! Release this girl!”

  Voices in the crowd yelled, “Release! Release! Release!”

  On the platform, Judge Zifron moved Mott to his left arm, hugging it, and pointed at Seesya. “I order you,” he said. “Release the girl!”

  Vardit dropped forward and prostrated herself on the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.

  This time, Seesya didn’t shake his head.

  Deborah walked over, passed by the weeping Vardit, and held out her hand to Seesya.

  From the depth of the Pit of Shame, Seesya looked up at Deborah. In his dark eyes, for the first time, she saw something other than coldness and glee. It wasn’t exactly fear or regret, but a glint of human understanding. He struggled to get one of his arms out of the tight hole and reached up to pull the ring off her finger. The touch of his hand made Deborah shudder in revulsion, but she didn’t step back. It wasn’t only about recovering her freedom from a forced betrothal to a cruel husband. To watch him pull off the ring and release her in front of all these people would be a great victory over this evil young man, who had murdered those she loved.

  His hand shook, and the ring was tight.

  “Pull harder,” she said. “Put your heart into it, if you have a heart.”

  Seesya’s face twisted into a grin, or a grimace, it was hard to tell. “It’s not over,” he said, his eyes cold again. “You belong to me.”

  “I belong to no one.” She put her ring finger in her mouth, moistening it, and thrust her hand back at him. “Pull!”

  He grasped the ring carefully between a finger and a thumb and managed to get it off her finger. Raising the ring to his right eye, he peered at her through it and said, “Until next time, girl.”

  Deborah cleared her throat and spat in his face. She turned her back to him, raised her hand, now without the ring, and waved it at the crowd, which broke into cheers.

  Clenching her fist, Deborah yelled. “Justice!”

  The crowd roared back, “Justice! Justice! Justice!”

  Seesya tried to climb out of the Pit of Shame, but the soldiers, glancing around fearfully, pushed him back in.

  At the pile of stones, Babatorr got ready to throw the first one.

  “No! No! No!” Vardit leaped to her feet, screaming, “You’ll have to kill me first!”

  The c
rowd continued to chant, but with less enthusiasm.

  “Will you kill an innocent woman?” She held the Womanhood Charm up front as a tiny shield. “Will you kill a mother for her boy’s sins?”

  The chanting died down.

  “People of Emanuel,” Judge Zifron said. “Listen to the cry of a desperate mother.”

  “Justice!” Deborah raised her fist. She knew the judge would find a way to spare his son’s life, but wanted to make sure he would impose an adequate substitute punishment. “Give us justice! Justice!”

  Many voices joined her, but no longer the whole crowd.

  “I’m your leader,” the judge said. “Your protector and humble servant. This poor woman is my oldest wife, and the condemned is her firstborn, her little boy, her flesh and blood.”

  Vardit was on her knees now, sobbing uncontrollably.

  “He is my firstborn, too,” Judge Zifron continued. “My heir and namesake. How can I let him die like this?”

  A few voices protested, but most of the crowd remained quiet.

  “You also have sons.” The judge looked around, seeking their sympathy. “We all try to be good fathers, good teachers. My son erred terribly, and his errors are my fault. The burden of leadership is heavy, full of worries, responsibilities, and risks. We have many enemies, near and far. Not only the mighty Canaanites, but also the Ammonites and Moabites in the east, the Hittites and Assyrians in the far north, the Philistines and other sea people in the west, the Egyptians and desert nomads in the south—they all desire our land, crave our women, and dream of our enslavement. Even our fellow Hebrew tribes—Judah, Benjamin, and Simeon in the south, Dan in the west, and the greedy Manasseh in the north—are always ready to pounce, steal our wheat, and take our daughters.”

  Many men in the crowd shouted in agreement, cursing the neighboring tribes.

  “I’m growing too old to carry alone the burden of your safety and survival.” Judge Zifron sighed loudly. “It’s you and your families that I had in mind when I taught my son to be aggressive, to fight hard, and to have no mercy, because I knew that he would have to lead our soldiers in battle to protect this town of Emanuel, to defend the Samariah Hills, and to preserve the tribe of Ephraim.”

  It was a clever argument, and Deborah could see that the people were buying it. She wanted to yell for justice again, but Kassite held a finger to his lips.

  “This trial,” Judge Zifron said, “taught my son the importance of humility, which I, being preoccupied with my duties to the people of Ephraim, have failed to teach him. Today my son will learn a painful lesson through his punishment. It will be painful for me, as well, but it’s a worthy lesson that will stay with him when he returns to serve you in defending this land from our vicious enemies.”

  Turning to the Pit of Shame, the judge declared, “Seesya, son of Zifron, I sentence you to fifty lashes of the knotted whip.”

  And with that, the judge put down the effigy of Mott, sparing Seesya’s life.

  Her anger was boiling, but Deborah knew that there was nothing she could do to change what Judge Zifron had cleverly achieved. His words, together with the harsh punishment he had imposed on Seesya, satisfied the crowd. With the heat of the day reaching full blast, even the angriest spectators had calmed down. She stood between Kassite and Sallan and watched the soldiers take Seesya up the road to the Weeping Tree, strip his top leather armor, and tie his wrists to a high branch.

  At the same time, a few men cut down Tamar’s bones and collected them in a sack, which they brought over to Obadiah of Levi.

  Babatorr held the knotted whip and prepared to administer the first strike. He hesitated. Seesya glanced over his shoulder and said something. Raising his arm, Babatorr landed the whip on the exposed back. It made no sound.

  A grumble of dissatisfaction came from the crowd.

  On the platform, Judge Zifron yelled, “Don’t stroke him. Strike him!”

  Babatorr raised the whip again and struck, producing a noise like that of a hand slapping a horse’s behind. Seesya groaned, but the skin on his back remained intact.

  Next came the oldest of the elders, who barely managed to hold up the whip. He moved it across Seesya’s back gently, like a paintbrush. The other elders seemed almost as weak, but behind them, a line of men was forming, ready and eager, each likely bearing a grudge over some wrong Seesya had inflicted in the past.

  Meanwhile, Judge Zifron picked up the effigy of Mott and stepped down from the platform. He hurried to the gates with his young sons and disappeared inside Emanuel.

  Deborah felt an overwhelming sadness. Her parents had been murdered, cut down for no reason other than Judge Zifron’s greed and his son’s unbridled violence. The flogging did nothing to ease her grief.

  The red robe stuck to the wounds on her back, and the pain was spiking again with each movement.

  Obadiah of Levi came down from the platform and stopped at the spot where the effigy of Ra lay in the dust. Using the butt of his oak staff, the priest shattered the Canaanite sun god, leaving it in small pieces. Satisfied, he turned to head for the gates, but paused when he saw Deborah.

  “This isn’t justice,” she said, glancing at the sack of bones in Obadiah’s hand. “He murdered my parents, Tamar, and Barac, son of Abinoam, as well as many other victims he has slaughtered. Flogging isn’t punishment enough.”

  Sallan and Kassite nodded in agreement.

  The crowd noticed the priest speaking with Deborah, and everyone paused. At the Weeping Tree, an elder standing with the whip over Seesya paused and turned to watch the unusual sight of the white-robed priest speaking with the young woman in the red robe of the condemned and impure, her shaved head bare under the blazing son.

  “He deserves to be stoned to death,” she said.

  “Your courage inspired the people,” the priest said. “They answered your call for justice, and they will resist him from now on.”

  “Will you resist him?”

  Obadiah touched his breastplate. “Faith frequently falters under fear.”

  “Frequently, or always?”

  “Not always. I’ve seen men die for their faith.”

  “Were any of them priests?”

  He sighed. “To judge others, one should be without sins. Are you free of sins?”

  Her face flushed. “I only ask for justice.”

  Obadiah tilted his head at the Weeping Tree. “You’re free of his betrothal now, but not of his hate. I suggest that you travel far away before he recovers.”

  “I’m not afraid of him,” Deborah said. “I’ll go to Palm Homestead and work the land.”

  “Without a husband, you’re nothing. By law, only men may possess land. If a man dies with no son but a daughter, the local judge will hold the land in trust until the daughter marries and her husband becomes owner of the land, provided that he is from the same tribe.”

  “But Judge Zifron is the one who tried to steal it from us. Who will protect Palm Homestead while I’m away?”

  “It’s land,” Obadiah said. “They cannot hurt it, but they can hurt you. And after today, Seesya will seek to murder you with no witnesses. Your only choice is to go away with your master, if he is willing.”

  “Of course,” Kassite said.

  “You’re safe with the prince,” Obadiah said. “The judge will not allow Seesya to pursue a foreign dignitary and a business partner. Stay with them for a while, and then find a Hebrew man to marry—but make sure he is not of another tribe, or he will not be allowed to own land in Ephraim’s territory, just as a man from Ephraim may not own land in Judah, or Manasseh, and so on. Do you understand?”

  Deborah nodded.

  “Good,” Obadiah said. “When you come back with a husband, Palm Homestead will still be here, and your husband will become the rightful owner, entitled under Yahweh’s law to work the land, hire workers, and defend his land by force, if necessary. The people will not allow Seesya to deprive a rightful owner of his land.”

  She had no i
ntention of giving herself away to a husband, Hebrew or not, but telling the priest that she intended to come back as a man would, at best, make him laugh.

  “Guard my land,” she said. “Don’t let your faith falter under fear.”

  Sallan and Kassite mounted their horses, and the other Edomite men did the same.

  Deborah paused before mounting Soosie. “Will you give my sister a proper burial?”

  He nodded. “May I bless you?”

  Deborah bowed her head.

  Obadiah held his hands over her head, the four fingers in each hand spread in two pairs. “May Yahweh bless you and protect you. May He show you kindness and grace. May He illuminate your path and grant you peace.”

  Back on her horse after a day and a half of humiliation, pain, and mortal danger, Deborah filled her lungs with air and exhaled with a sigh that carried both anguish and relief. She had survived, but she had to leave the Samariah Hills and abandon Palm Homestead in the hands of Judge Zifron. She knew that Obadiah was right—who better to know the law than a priest? But following his advice broke her heart.

  Leaning forward, she rubbed Soosie’s neck on both sides and whispered into his ear, “We’ll be back.”

  The horse rocked its head up and down.

  They began to advance, but Deborah felt a tugging at her robe.

  “Please forgive me.” Vardit was walking beside the horse, her cheeks wet with tears. “I beg you, forgive me!”

  Conscious of the silent crowd watching them, Deborah pulled on the reins to stop Soosie and bent down, speaking softly, “There’s nothing for me to forgive. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “It was all my fault.” Vardit wept. “I pushed you to submit, to obey, to be a good wife to my son. I didn’t know that he’d killed your parents, that he hated you and Tamar because you looked like your mother, who gave him the scar. I should have helped you run away from the start. Oh, I’m such a stupid woman!”

  Deborah held Vardit’s hand. “You’re not stupid, only goodhearted and kind, which is why you didn’t realize the depth of Seesya’s hatred.”

  Vardit glanced at the Weeping Tree. “I’m his mother, and his life is my life. I had to save him. Do you understand?”