Rebekah

by Jill Eileen Smith

  The sound of children’s voices drifted closer. Isaac caught sight of Keturah’s sons making their way toward the campfire. “What did you decide to do about Zimran?”

  Abraham glanced up at the flurry of boyish activity and sighed. “I will warn him to obey, to be kind to his brothers. Then I will send him to spend time with the sheep. The boy needs to work, and some time alone with the animals will do him good.”

  The children scampered closer, greeting Abraham and settling on logs spaced at various intervals around the fire pit. Isaac bid his father good day and headed off to find Haviv and Eliezer. He would oversee the things they planned to take on their journey, then he would gather his own things and return to the Negev. He had stayed in his father’s camp only one night, but it was long enough.

  Isaac led a donkey loaded with his simple provisions south of Hebron later that afternoon. He hated the look of longing in his father’s eyes when he made his excuses to leave, and Jokshan took a lot of convincing that he would return with just the right piece of wood to make a three-stringed lyre. He should have taken the boy to look for the wood and stayed to carve it, to teach him how to craft such an instrument. But a certain restlessness always came upon him when he was near Keturah’s children, an impatience he did not feel among the animals of the desert.

  He slowed as he came to an outcropping of rocks, tightening his grip on his staff. Robbers were known to waylay sojourners along this path, though they had never troubled him. Still, one could not be too careful. He urged the donkey to a faster walk and kept his eyes and ears attuned to his surroundings. The path took a bend, and he knew a cave awaited him up ahead.

  Adonai Elohim, let the cave be free of bandits. He glanced at the donkey. And free of lions and bears, he silently amended on behalf of the beast. He edged closer, pounding his staff into the clay earth as he walked.

  He breathed deeply, tasting the dry, sand-gritty air on his tongue, and glanced up the hill above the cave where the last of the trees stood sentinel against the encroaching desert. The donkey kicked up clods of red clay as it made its way up the incline a short way and settled at the mouth of the cave.

  “There you go, girl,” he said as he tied her reins to an acacia tree. He opened a sack and dropped a handful of grain onto the ground near her mouth. While she ate, he moved farther into the cave, checking to see if he was alone.

  Satisfied, he returned, drew the donkey farther into the cave, and set about making a fire. He would settle here for the night and make his progress toward Beer-lahai-roi, where he would meet up with Nadab and see to the state of his father’s newest lambs tomorrow.

  He lay in the dirt near the glowing embers, grateful for the fire’s warmth while the animal slept nearby. He closed his eyes, and his thoughts drifted. Sleep came fitfully at first as he fought to keep the dreams from haunting him . . .

  His surroundings blurred, his sleep peaceful, but too soon a movement caught his eye, and he startled to see his father standing over him, one hand extended. Haviv and Nadab waited at the entrance of the cave.

  “Come, my son. We must go.” Abraham gripped Isaac’s outstretched hand and pulled him to his feet. The donkey stood beside Haviv, its bundles flung over its sides. Haviv held a torch and turned to leave the cave, and Nadab followed, a bundle of thin twigs tied to his back.

  “How did you find me here?” Isaac rubbed a hand over his eyes, still groggy, but quickly obeyed. He trudged after his father, whose feet seemed determined to follow his course, yet somehow weighted and plodding. “Where are we going?” It was not like his father to come after him when he set out alone for the Negev. What could he possibly want at this hour, and why were they traveling while it was still night?

  “To a place God will show us.” His father’s look was shadowed by darkness, but the firmness in his tone allowed no argument. “Come.”

  Isaac fell into step beside his father, who moved ahead of the servants, taking the lead. They traveled in silence, the night sounds giving way to birdsong and the pink light of dawn. A mount rose above them in the distance, dotted with trees, growing ever closer as the sun rose higher in the sky. By midafternoon they reached the summit.

  Abraham turned to Eliezer’s sons. “Stay here with the donkey while I and the boy go over there. We will worship and then we will come back to you.” He motioned to Nadab. “Isaac can carry the wood now.”

  Isaac lifted the bundle in his arms while his father took the torch from Haviv. They trudged ahead, Isaac’s arms growing heavier with each step. His heart beat too fast as he blinked against the sun’s glare. If his father planned on building an altar, where was the lamb for slaughter?

  They walked a steady pace, the question bounding in and out of his thoughts until he could keep silent no longer. “Father?”

  “Yes, my son?”

  Isaac cleared his throat, swallowed, and tried again, a sense of foreboding nearly claiming his words. “The fire and the wood are here, but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?” His father had always come prepared for a sacrifice. How could he overlook something so important?

  “God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son.” Abraham walked on, saying nothing more. Isaac’s fear rose higher. His father had never been so closemouthed. Or determined.

  Sweat broke out on Isaac’s forehead when they reached a place that seemed to please his father. He set the wood on the ground and watched as his father built an altar, all without accepting his help.

  What are you doing? The question begged an answer, but he could not bring himself to voice it.

  When the last stone was placed on the altar and the wood put on top, Isaac looked toward the bushes, the trees, straining to see if God had truly sent the lamb his father expected. He turned to face his father, who stood above him now, a flaxen rope in his hands.

  “Father?” He choked on the word.

  Sorrow filled his father’s dark eyes, and the fear Isaac had known since they left Haviv and Nadab paralyzed him.

  “Hold out your hands, my son.” His father’s words came out hoarse. “Please, do as I say.”

  Isaac studied his father for a suspended moment. They both knew he could say no, could run off or fight his father’s intentions. But in that moment, Isaac’s fear lifted as clouds might drift from the sky, replaced by unalterable truth and a strange sense of peace.

  And yet he also knew he was going to die at his father’s hand.

  He slowly lifted his hands, the wrists close together, so his father could bind them, then fell to his knees, allowing his father to bind his feet. Tears coursed down his cheeks. The news of his death would kill his mother. If only for her sake, he would not do this. But a deeper part of him sensed he was born for this moment. His life had been a miracle, and his death would be the ultimate act of sacrificial worship.

  But what of the promise to his father? What of the descendants not yet born?

  The questions flashed in his thoughts as his father somehow managed to lift him onto the wood, the sharp sticks poking into his skin. The pain would end quickly. His father would not let him suffer. But his humiliation could not be more complete. How could the son of promise be led like a lamb to slaughter? Was this how God provided, by asking a man to kill his own son? Had the Creator ever suffered such indignity, such pain and loss? How could He ask such a thing of a mere man?

  Isaac could not meet his father’s gaze, so blinded was he by his own tears, but he caught the glint of the blade as his father’s hand lifted above his neck. He closed his eyes as the blade came down . . .

  “Abraham! Abraham!” a voice like booming thunder called from above.

  “Here I am!” The knife clattered against the stone as Isaac’s eyes flew open. He blinked, trying to clear his vision.

  “Do not lay a hand on the boy,” the voice said. “Do not do anything to him. Now I know that you fear God, because you have not withheld from Me your son, your only son.”

  Isaac lay perfectly still as his fa
ther hurried to undo the knotted rope and helped Isaac down from the altar, then pulled him into his arms, weeping, their tears mingling.

  Isaac rubbed a hand over his damp face. The action jolted him, and suddenly he was sitting beside the campfire in the cave, the donkey still asleep beside him, trying to wake from his stupor. The dream had not changed with the years, the memories as powerful now as they had been twenty years before. Would he never be free of them? And yet he knew it was the binding that defined him. The ram caught in the thicket nearby and offered on the altar in his place had been followed by the words of the Lord Himself, reiterating the promise his father had spoken of so often. And now it belonged to him as well.

  He shook himself, wishing the memories were a little less vivid, a little less overpowering. He could still taste the tears that always accompanied the dream. Would the dreams continue when he took a wife? What would his bride say when he woke in the night, sweating and weeping?

  He walked to the cave’s opening, into the starlit night.

  I will surely bless you and make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and as the sand on the seashore.

  He drew in a long, slow breath, rubbing the tears from his cheeks. “May Your will be done, Lord. I am ready.”

  7

  Shouts, joyous laughter, and singing accompanied the grape harvest as men cut the heavy clusters from the vines, and women quickly followed behind with their woven baskets. Squeals of children coming from the nearby winepress matched the rhythm of their stomping feet as they squished the fruit between bare toes as fast as it could be harvested. A week of arguing with Laban about the images he had paid for and set up in the main area of the house had drained Rebekah’s spirit, and she welcomed the harvest with a sense of relief.

  “Let me empty that for you.” A young man leading a donkey and pulling a cart stopped in the row where Rebekah and Selima worked. He lifted Selima’s bucket and tossed the grapes into a larger one in the back of the cart, then did the same with Rebekah’s.

  “Thank you.” Rebekah did not allow her gaze to linger. The man had stripped to the waist to work in the sun, and Rebekah felt heat fill her face at the sight of him. He paused as he set her empty basket at the base of the vine but did not move on.

  “The pleasure is mine.”

  She heard the smile in his voice and glanced at his face but looked quickly away from his interested expression. She looked instead at Selima, who was watching her with wide, amused eyes.

  “Yes, well, if you do not hurry, the others will overflow their baskets.” She pointed beyond her to men and women from the village cutting the fruit from the vine. She turned to her work, but her heart gave a little flutter as he looked at her a moment too long. At last he grabbed the donkey’s reins and moved forward.

  “I will return,” he said, looking back over his shoulder.

  His smile made her stomach quiver. The man was too bold and much too interesting. Who was he? But she squelched the thought as a passing nuisance. He was probably a lowly servant, and Laban would want nothing to do with such a man, even if the man did choose to approach him.

  Selima giggled when the servant passed out of earshot. She hurried to Rebekah’s side. “Every man in Harran is attracted to you, mistress. You must admit, that one is comely to look upon.”

  Rebekah shrugged and returned to her work. “You think every man you see is comely.” But she smiled at her servant just the same. “Get back to work before we lose daylight.”

  Selima obeyed, still giggling as she went. Rebekah tilted her head to accept the kiss of the early afternoon sun. Soon it would be too hot to continue in the fields, and she would have to set out food for Laban’s workers beneath the shade of the trees in the nearby orchard. And in the days ahead there would be the continued work of setting grapes to dry in the sun and cooking the last of the fruit into honey. She would have little time to think of handsome young men who were too bold or too poor.

  She jolted at a touch on her shoulder, turning to see who dared interrupt her concentration.

  “They said I would find you here. How do you fare, my sister?”

  “Bethuel!” Rebekah’s heart lightened at the sight of her oldest brother, and she quickly abandoned the vine, falling into his embrace. “I was beginning to wonder if we would ever see you again. It has been far too long.”

  Bethuel patted her back and released his hold, keeping her at arm’s length. “The sheep needed me.” He smiled in that half crooked way she had always loved.

  “I am glad you are here.” She leaned closer. “Soon we must speak.”

  Concern etched thin lines along Bethuel’s turbaned brow, and he studied her a moment as he thoughtfully stroked his beard. “Is Laban treating you well?”

  She nodded, but emotion stuck in her throat. “I am well, but there is a matter we must discuss.” She lowered her voice and glanced around, aware of too many people who might overhear, despite the singing and laughter surrounding them.

  “After the evening meal then,” he said, his gaze somber. She knew he would not brush her concerns as quickly aside as Laban had.

  Daylight dimmed, and the workers in the vineyard bid their farewells, carrying heavy baskets of ripe fruit to their homes. Rebekah lifted her basket onto her head and moved behind a group of women, anxious to get home and speak with Bethuel. She had sent Selima on ahead to help her mother with the evening meal’s preparations, though she would have preferred the girl’s laughter to the company of the women of Harran and Nahor.

  A soft breeze feathered the fabric of her head scarf against her face, and she had to pick her way carefully over the roots of the uneven vines. She stopped abruptly, nearly tripping headlong, as a man stepped from between the vines and stood in her path, blocking her way, a too-familiar gleam in his eye.

  “What? Excuse me. Please, let me pass.” Her heart beat faster as she suddenly recognized the man who had earlier taken her basket and loaded the fruit onto his cart. He was fully clothed now in a white tunic and striped cloak held together with a golden, jeweled clasp. This was no peasant worker, and by the symbol etched into his embroidered robe, she recognized him as a son of one of the elders of Harran.

  “I had thought to do that. But your brother Laban had suggested I . . . shall we say, take your measure, before agreeing to a match. He assured me you were the most beautiful virgin in the land.” He let his eyes travel the length of her. “I can see he is a man who speaks truth.” A roguish smile lifted one corner of his mouth, and Rebekah felt her insides grow warm, her cheeks heating at his perusal.

  “Please,” she said, her voice weaker than she intended. “Let me pass. My brothers are expecting me, and if I am late, things will not bode well for you or for me.”

  He chuckled as though he found her quite amusing. “I do not fear your brothers’ wrath, betulah. I am Dedan of Harran. I fear nothing.” His fingers lightly grazed her cheek.

  Was this man Laban’s idea of a suitable match for her? What kind of a man would accost a virgin in the vineyard with dusk approaching? She stepped back abruptly, nearly tipping the basket from her head.

  “You are a fool if you fear nothing. The wrath of the God of Shem be upon you if you do not move away and let me pass!” She raised her voice, hoping someone was still near enough to hear her. He had not stated his intentions, but weren’t they clear enough? Any man who waylaid a virgin had only one desire, and she was not about to give it to him without a fight.

  His laughter died as he studied her in the waning daylight, his brows knit close in a frown. “You are a bold one, betulah.” He stroked his beard. “I should enjoy taming that fiery spirit.”

  His tone made her blood run cold. Fear snaked its way up her spine, but she held his gaze without flinching.

  He stepped forward, his breath fanning her face. “If I choose to take you, I will. If I choose to betroth myself to you, I will. Your brother has come begging, and now I can see why. He is weary of a sister who is too bold.” His
fingers drew a line from her temple to her jaw. “Though no one can deny your beauty.” He leaned forward as though he would kiss her.

  She clutched the basket and stepped back. He grabbed her arm. She jerked away and quickly lowered the basket to hold like a shield between them. He released her and stepped back, holding both hands up in a gesture of defeat.

  “Do not act so worried, betulah. I only meant to steady you, to keep you from falling.” He chuckled again as though he were quite pleased with himself. “You shall make a fine bride.” He tipped his fingers to his head and saluted her, then backed away. “We shall meet again, betulah.”

  Rebekah stilled, her breath coming fast, not certain she could trust that he was gone. But a moment later, she shook herself, thrust the basket back onto her head, and fairly ran the rest of the way through the vineyard. Heart beating hard against her ribs, she did not stop until she reached her family’s courtyard.

  8

  “I will not become his wife. You cannot force me.”

  The evening meal had ended, and Rebekah grew increasingly angry, unable to shake Dedan’s actions from her thoughts. She stood now in front of Laban, arms crossed to still her nerves, while he reclined against plush cushions, smoking his clay pipe. Bethuel sat to his left, and she glanced between the two of them. “He accosted me in the vineyard.”

  Bethuel jumped to his feet. “He will pay for this.” He strode toward the door, and Rebekah had to hurry to catch up with his long strides. It would cost him his own life to kill an elder’s son.

  She touched Bethuel’s arm, halting him. “He did not harm me. He only frightened me.” She smiled, assuring Bethuel with a glance she spoke truth. When Bethuel grudgingly took his seat once more, she faced Laban, who seemed not the least worried of what Dedan might do to her. “The man is a reckless fool, and I will not marry him.”