Rebekah

by Jill Eileen Smith

  “At last it is done!”

  Eliezer’s shout was followed by the long blast of a ram’s horn. The singing and dancing and feasting would last until nightfall.

  She felt Isaac’s arm come around her, and she relaxed against his shoulder, smiling. She looked up and straightened at Abraham’s approach. Isaac’s arm fell away, and he stood.

  “Father.” Isaac offered Abraham the seat next to them, helping him settle before sitting beside her once more.

  “Thank you, my son.” He leaned forward, holding his staff, and looked at her. “And you, my daughter.” He smiled at them both. “Now I can die in peace, knowing you have someone to watch over you.”

  Isaac bristled at his father’s words, and Rebekah sensed that this was only part of the friction between the two men. “I hardly need someone to watch over me, Father.” Isaac’s voice was low, barely heard between them with the heavy music and laughter of the crowd.

  Abraham patted Isaac’s knee as though he were a small boy. “No, no, of course not, my son. I only meant that now I can rest, knowing that you have someone to share your life with, someone to continue the line of Adonai’s promise.” His smile was soft, but his face held a distant, pensive expression. “Your mother would have been pleased.” He faced Rebekah, and she wondered how she could help strengthen the peace between father and son.

  Isaac stiffened, though Rebekah knew his father meant only good.

  “I should have liked to have met Isaac’s mother,” she said, holding Abraham’s gaze. “You must have loved her very much.” She slipped a hand in Isaac’s and squeezed, hoping to breach whatever wall had so suddenly been erected.

  “You would have loved my Sarah. She was a passionate, giving woman”—he glanced at Isaac—“albeit a protective one.” His look grew wistful, and he smiled at something unseen. He shifted to face Isaac, his knuckles whitening on the staff. “She loved me well, even through our differences. I hope you both know half the love I had with your mother. None other compared to her or could replace her.”

  “I hope so too,” Rebekah said before Isaac could respond. “Isaac has told me enough about her to know that I hope to please him as much as she pleased you.” She smiled, hoping Isaac would not resent her interference. She was relieved when she caught the twinkle in his eye and felt the reassurance of his fingers encasing hers. “I trust that someday you can sit down and tell me about her as well, my father.”

  The lines on Abraham’s face softened, and he released a deep sigh. He glanced beyond them, and Rebekah looked to where Keturah stood near her tent’s opening, holding her youngest son in her arms. The woman was beautiful but much younger than Isaac’s father, young enough to be Isaac’s wife. Had Abraham’s marriage to this lesser concubine bothered Isaac? Had Isaac suffered jealousy that his father would marry while he was forced to wait?

  She glanced at her husband, seeing the slight tensing of his jaw, then looked again at Abraham and wondered if her father-in-law had any real affection for Keturah or her sons.

  “At week’s end, we will be leaving for Beer-lahai-roi, Father.”

  Isaac’s words brought her gaze back to his, and she heard Abraham’s quick intake of breath.

  “So soon, my son?” Yet his comment did not indicate surprise, and his look held silent resignation.

  Isaac ran a hand over his jaw, and his expression filled with sudden weariness. “It would be better for your sons to have you to themselves, Father. You have much to teach them, and Rebekah does not need to share her place with your wife.”

  “There is much you could do to help me,” Abraham said. “I do not have the strength to teach them as I taught you.”

  The admission made Rebekah look to her husband.

  “I am not their father,” he said.

  How many times had father and son had this discussion? Though Isaac was old enough to be father to each one of Keturah’s sons, he obviously did not want the job of raising his brothers. Did he resent their entrance into his life?

  “Of course not,” Abraham said with sudden vehemence. “I take full responsibility for that. I had only hoped you might teach the older ones to hunt—”

  “You would be better off entreating Ishmael to do such a thing.”

  Abraham gave his son a sharp look. “That comment is unjustified and you know it. You are as good a hunter as any of my men. And I have not seen Ishmael in years.”

  “Perhaps it is time you sought him out.”

  Abraham stared at his son, and Rebekah grew still at the silent war going on between them. She searched her mind for something, anything, to say to help ease the tension, but could find nothing.

  “I am old, Isaac. I ask for your help because I want to keep you near me. Is this such a hard thing to understand?”

  Abraham’s words drew Rebekah’s sympathies.

  “No, Father, of course not.” She heard the words come out of her mouth but could not believe she had been the one to utter them. Heat infused her cheeks, and she could not meet Isaac’s eyes, fearing she would see the disapproval she already felt from him. “That is, I do not see a reason why we could not stay for another week or so to help you.” Her cheeks burned at the lift of Abraham’s brow, and when she finally drew courage to glance at Isaac, she lowered her gaze, consumed by the fire in his dark eyes.

  “I am sorry,” she said, wishing she could run to her tent and hide. “I spoke without thinking.”

  The ensuing silence grew thick, churning her stomach. Indeed, she did not feel well and wished she could escape, yet feared that if she did so, she would add another insult to the offense she had already caused.

  “I will spend some time with Zimran and Jokshan before we leave at week’s end.”

  Isaac’s tone sounded conciliatory, but Rebekah still could not look up at either man, and Isaac did not move to touch her, to reassure her that all was forgiven.

  “But I cannot stay longer. I have sheep shearing at Beer-lahai-roi in less than a month.”

  The music momentarily stopped, and women hurried to spread the final wedding feast before them.

  “Thank you, my son,” Abraham said as he pushed himself up with the help of his staff. “We will talk again.”

  She watched her father-in-law walk away and turn toward his tent, though they had yet to eat of the feast.

  “Will he be back to join us?” Rebekah looked at Isaac, praying she would see compassion in his eyes. But they were hard as flint and fixed on her with a look she had never seen.

  “Do not speak for me again.”

  His voice was low but firm, filling her with shame. She had only meant to appease his father. Was that so wrong? And yet she knew by Isaac’s reaction that she could not step into the role of peacemaker without offending one of them.

  “I am sorry, my lord. Forgive me.” She studied her toes peeking out of her jeweled leather sandals. “I only meant to ease the tension between you.” Her words came out hoarse and strained, and she wished she could have this discussion in the privacy of their tent. Would he share her tent again this night? “Sometimes I speak too quickly.”

  She risked a glance at him, caught the faint hint of a smile lift one corner of his mouth. His eyes held sudden understanding, kindness even.

  “I have noticed.” His look held her captive, and she released a short sigh as his expression softened further. “But you do me harm when you make a decision without consulting me, especially when it contradicts what I have just said.”

  She swallowed, and the sick feeling churned once more inside of her. “I did not realize. I would never seek your harm, my lord. Not ever.”

  “My father does not like to see me leave. He would have me live in his camp until I take over all of his affairs. But he has already given me charge of his flocks and herds, and they require that I live where there is more space for them to roam and graze. All he has here are his wife and sons, and there is little I can do to help him in that respect. Nor do I want to.”

  It was mo
re than he had said to her regarding his duties or his feelings for his half brothers, and she felt chastened, chagrined that he would tell her only because she had goaded him by her brash words.

  “I should have respected your decision,” she whispered. “I am used to my father indulging my opinion, and my brothers were no match for my wit.” Her smile was rueful, and she wondered how much harm her father and brothers had done her by not being men of greater character and strength.

  Isaac did not immediately respond, and she realized that she would have to adjust to his pensive and quiet moments, to his pondering and his comfort with the silence she despised.

  Did she despise it? If nothing else, she needed to fill it, but she held her tongue, waiting, watching him.

  “You will find I am a man of great patience, Rebekah, but a man without respect, especially respect from his own wife and for himself, is a man easily swayed by the opinions of others. And easily discouraged.”

  He paused, and she ached for him, wishing she had never opened her mouth to speak, had simply listened and learned. But it was too late to retract her words.

  “I would earn your respect, Rebekah, but in the meantime, I would ask you to offer it freely until I can prove to you that I deserve it.” He smiled and reached for her hand. “Can you accept that?”

  “Oh yes, my lord! I already respect you a great deal.”

  What kind of man was this that he could be so gentle with her, even though she knew she had angered him?

  “All is forgiven, my love.” He kissed her fingers, then released them as platters of food were set on a smooth rock. “Let me concern myself with my father and the tension you sense between us.” He motioned to the platter for her to take from its bounty. “Let us eat and drink and rejoice.” He lifted the golden chalice in her direction and smiled.

  She returned his smile with a tremulous one of her own and drank from the cup he offered her.

  16

  Rebekah rose the next morning and dressed quickly before Isaac was fully awake. Dawn had barely crested the horizon, but the other women of the camp would surely be up by now, preparing the morning meal. She glanced at his sleeping form, love for him rising within her. She would work hard, make him proud, and somehow repay the kindness he had shown her from the first day until now.

  Lifting the clay urn by the neck, she hoisted it onto her shoulder and slipped beneath the tent’s flap. Pink predawn light bathed the camp in its fresh, new glow. She spotted Selima emerging from the servants’ tent and hurried to meet her.

  “At last you are joining us again.” Selima clutched her own clay jar, and the two fell into step as they walked up an incline and traveled a short distance until they at last heard the water of the stream rushing by. “So tell me, mistress, is he everything you thought he would be?” She stopped, her large eyes open, earnest. “Do you love him?” Her expression grew dreamy, and Rebekah laughed.

  “You are impossible! I have only known him a week. How can I know all that he is so quickly? Even a wedding week is only time enough to begin to understand one another.” She knew the words were true but could not stop the smile she had awakened with that morning.

  “Oh, come now. I see the way he looks at you. Is he . . . that is . . .” Selima blushed and looked away.

  Rebekah laughed again and lowered her jar to the bubbling water. “Some questions are not meant to be answered, my friend. You will just have to wait until Haviv takes you to his tent and puts all of your wild imaginings to rest.”

  Selima’s color heightened further, convincing Rebekah that she had guessed correctly.

  “Has he stated his intentions toward you?” Rebekah waited for the water to reach the top, then hefted the heavy jar onto her shoulder again, watching while Selima did the same.

  “Not in so many words.” A hint of a smile appeared. “But he has seemed quite attentive. I did not wish to say anything until your week had passed, but if he should ask . . .” She met Rebekah’s gaze, her expression uncertain.

  “If he should ask, I would happily allow you to marry him.” They fell into step together again, balancing the jars on their shoulders.

  “But who will serve you then, mistress?”

  “You will, of course. As Haviv serves Isaac.” She glanced at her maid, wondering what thoughts tumbled in her pretty head. “I still have your mother to help me, and I am sure Isaac has servants that will suffice.” She felt almost guilty declaring their stations in such terms, but it was the truth, and she could not pretend otherwise. “But you are free to marry him if he asks for your hand. You have my blessing.”

  Selima nodded. “Thank you, mistress.” They walked in silence a few moments, the morning sounds of chirping birds waking the rest of the camp as they approached. “If Haviv were to leave Isaac’s employ someday, would I be free to follow him?”

  It was an honest question for a slave, but Rebekah had never considered Selima a slave, though in fact, her father had purchased both Deborah and Selima when the girl was still an infant.

  Rebekah stopped at the edge of the camp to look at her maid, her friend. The thought of ever losing Selima or her mother had never once occurred to her, and she did not like the feelings such thoughts evoked now.

  “Would Haviv do such a thing? Has he said as much to you?”

  Had Isaac misread his overseer? Did Haviv have no desires to take over the duties of his father once Eliezer grew too old to continue them, especially once Abraham rested with his fathers?

  Selima glanced around as though afraid someone would overhear them. “No, mistress, he has not said any such thing. But he is a restless sort, and so I have wondered if he would remain happy here.”

  Rebekah looked toward the waking camp, the scent of the fire and the first smells of baking bread reaching them. She breathed deeply, her heart warming to this place, and wished not for the first time that Isaac did not intend to leave at week’s end. But she knew better than to ask him to reconsider.

  “Perhaps Haviv is only as restless as Isaac is to return to Beer-lahai-roi and to begin the shearing of the sheep. Men do not like to stay near the tents and have little to do.”

  Though Isaac hadn’t seemed to mind being secluded in the tent for a week with her. But a wedding week could not go on forever.

  “Perhaps that’s all it is.” Selima giggled as though suddenly taken by a new thought. “He does seem to like me, though.”

  Rebekah glanced at her maid and caught her smiling. “Does he now?” They started forward again and made their way carefully down the incline. “Shall I speak to Isaac about this, or do you want to wait to see if Haviv acts first?” It was within her rights to seek a mate for her maids or give them to her husband as a concubine if she so chose. But Isaac had already said he would not marry her maids. A relieved little sigh escaped her at that thought.

  “You would do that for me?”

  Selima’s delight brought a pang of regret to Rebekah that she had not considered to ever mention such a thing before.

  “Of course.” Rebekah lowered her voice as they neared the central fire. “I will speak to Isaac about it the first chance I get.”

  The end of the week came too soon, and Rebekah rose before dawn to make sure the last of their items were packed for the journey to Beer-lahai-roi. She and Selima had already been to the river to fill the goatskin sacks with water, and Isaac began taking down their tent as the first rays of pink brightened the eastern sky. She hurried now, baking flatbread over the three-pronged camp stove, then tucking the cooled loaves into sacks for the journey. They would eat as they walked or rode the distance from Hebron, south through the Negev to the oasis at Beer-lahai-roi.

  “So you are finally going.”

  Keturah’s sullen tone brought Rebekah’s head up. During their stay in Abraham’s camp, Rebekah had sensed the woman’s dislike.

  “I’m sure we will return again not too many days hence.” She busied herself tucking the last of the loaves into the leather sack, then fo
lded it closed. She lifted the hot oven from the fire and set it on the stones to cool. “I am sorry we cannot stay longer.”

  She met the woman’s gaze but looked quickly away, pushing down the sudden anger that flared at her mocking look. She had done nothing to earn the woman’s resentment, and she would not allow Keturah’s bitterness to cloud the last few moments she had in Abraham’s camp.

  “If you will excuse me, I must finish packing.” She hurried off, away from Keturah’s scowl, taking the bread and oven with her. She found Selima among the donkeys and handed her the items to pack.

  “Are we almost ready?” Rebekah asked.

  Something in Keturah’s manner had made her suddenly anxious to leave, though she wasn’t sure what could have prompted the woman to act so sullenly. Ever since Isaac had returned from a hunting trip with Keturah’s two oldest sons, Keturah had seemed eager for the week to end and for them to go.

  “We are just waiting for the tents, mistress. Will we not break the fast with Master Abraham before we depart?” Selima secured the oven into one of the donkey’s saddlebags and came to join her.

  “Isaac did not want to take the time. We will eat on the road. He hopes to arrive in Beer-lahai-roi within two days.”

  They walked together back toward the area where Haviv and Isaac were rolling up the last of the goat’s-hair tents.

  She smiled when Isaac looked up, his tan turban held in place by the blue cord she had given him. It was just one of the many little gifts she planned to bestow on him from her weaving skills. There had been no time to make them before her marriage, but now she had a lifetime to give gifts to him.

  “We will say our goodbyes and leave soon.” He glanced at her, then at the sky.

  She nodded and turned at Abraham’s approach. Isaac hefted the tent in his arms and went to secure it to one of the donkeys’ backs. Rebekah hurried to Abraham and knelt at his feet.

  Abraham touched her bowed head, then helped her to stand. She took his hand and kissed it.

  “Thank you, my father. I will miss you.” A pang of regret filled her at the sadness in his gaze. “But surely we will return soon. And you must travel to visit us.”