Rebekah
Page 13
Abraham squeezed her hand, pulling her close into a fatherly embrace. Emotion rose at his touch. The faint scent of garlic clung to his skin as his strong arms held her. How she missed her own father in this moment!
“I will miss you too, Daughter. But my son has work to do, and he is restless to be off.” He held her at arm’s length, then released her.
“You must tell me more about your wife Sarah and Isaac when he was a boy next time we visit. I want to know everything about him.”
He gave her a quizzical look, his white brows drawn together. Then a look of understanding dawned, and he nodded toward Isaac, who walked among the donkeys, checking to see that all was in readiness. “My son will have to tell you some of that himself,” he said. “There are some things in a man’s past that may take him a lifetime to share.”
The look he gave her made a shiver run through her.
“Are you willing to wait for him to speak, my daughter?”
She nodded, though she wondered if her actions betrayed the lie in her heart. She did not want to wait a lifetime to understand her husband, to know what made him fall silent and introspective, to understand what had happened to cause the strain between father and son.
“Perhaps it will not take a lifetime.” She offered the words on the altar of hope, knowing by Abraham’s look that her hope was flimsy at best.
He patted her shoulder as they both turned to walk toward the waiting donkeys. “Be patient, my daughter. It is all we can do.”
She looked at him, realizing that he too waited for Isaac to come to terms with his past. To perhaps forgive? To be reconciled to the life they had now, the life that was obviously not the same as the one they had known when Isaac was a boy? But Rebekah knew that one could not go back and relive what was past. One could only move on from where they were today.
“Thank you for seeing us off, Father.” Isaac came up beside her and met his father’s gaze. “We are ready to leave.” He looked at her and tilted his head in the direction of the waiting caravan.
“Yes, my lord,” she said to Isaac, then bowed to Abraham once more. “Shalom to you, Father. Until we meet again.”
“Peace be upon you both.” Abraham rested a hand on her head again, then transferred it to Isaac’s.
Isaac embraced his father, kissing each cheek. “We will soon return,” he said, taking Rebekah’s hand.
Abraham nodded his acknowledgment, but she did not miss the hint of moisture in his eyes. Would he live to see them again? She prayed so.
But as Isaac turned her toward the donkeys and the men and women waiting to join them, excitement filled her. They were heading off to start their new life—together as husband and wife.
They arrived in Beer-lahai-roi two days later to the sound of merriment and the sight of a handful of goat’s-hair tents spread beneath the date palm trees of the oasis. Isaac recognized the colors of Ishmael’s standard flying above a large black tent at the center of the tribe.
“Will there be room enough for us here at this oasis, my lord?”
Rebekah’s question brought him up short. He had not expected Ishmael to be here at this time of year, though he knew his brother often revisited the place.
“Ishmael does not stay long,” he said, guiding her donkey to the shade of the trees on the edges of the grasses.
“The tents belong to Ishmael, your brother?” Her face held an eager wariness, as though she couldn’t decide which way to feel about meeting his infamous brother. “He is a fighting man, is he not?”
He looked at her.
“The servants talk, my lord. I cannot help but listen.” She smiled, and humor lit her expression.
He chuckled. “Of course. And yes, my brother is a fighting man—a skilled hunter. He is a restless man, never stays long in the same place.”
“Why is he here?” She glanced around her as if she feared to ask the question.
Haviv and his brother Nadab had led the servants to the edges of the oasis, awaiting his orders. Isaac looked toward the tents of Ishmael, the sounds of laughter and gaiety carrying to them, as though Ishmael’s clan were celebrating something important. Curiosity rose, and he longed to know the cause. Perhaps Ishmael would explain when they met.
He turned back to Rebekah. “Years ago, long before I was born, my mother discovered she was barren. As it is the duty of women to provide their husbands an heir, my mother offered her Egyptian servant Hagar to my father to wife. My father listened to my mother and Hagar conceived. But all was not well between my mother and Hagar after that.” He rubbed a hand over his beard, silently vowing again to never take a wife other than Rebekah, whether she bore him a child or not. It was not worth the turmoil his father and mother had suffered.
“What does that have to do with Ishmael visiting this place?”
Frown lines creased her brow, and he bent to kiss them away.
She gripped the edges of his robe and kissed his mouth but quickly pulled back. “Finish telling me first.” She looked beyond him toward the tents, and he followed her gaze. Three men strode toward them, staffs in hand.
“It is said that Hagar scorned my mother once she knew that she was pregnant, making my mother feel worse than ever. My mother lashed back by treating Hagar with . . . less than kindness for the service she was providing my parents. Hagar should not have scorned my mother, but she did not deserve the harsh treatment my mother gave her in return.”
He drew in a long breath and released it. He did not enjoy relaying such stories. His mother was a good woman, and he had tried many times to understand how she might have felt. But he could not help the hint of sympathy he felt for Hagar just the same.
“What happened to Hagar?” The men were drawing closer, and Rebekah’s question sounded rushed, as though in an attempt to hurry his words.
“She fled. She ran off alone into the desert and nearly died of thirst and hunger. We think she was headed back to Egypt, where she came from, but when she discovered this oasis, she stopped, thoroughly spent. She had no strength to reach the dates in the tops of the palms or retrieve water from the well. She waited for death.”
“How awful!” Rebekah pressed a hand to her mouth, the story clearly troubling her. “But surely that is not what happened, as Ishmael lives to this day.”
“As does Hagar. She was sent away with him from my father’s camp when I was a small boy. But that is a tale for another time.” He gauged the distance, seeing the men were almost upon them. He recognized one of them as Ishmael’s chief steward and looked quickly at Rebekah. “I will tell you the rest in fuller detail later. For now, I will tell you that this is where Hagar met the angel of the Lord and was told to return to my mother. The angel named Ishmael as he later named me, before our births. My mother always wished she had been allowed a visit from the Lord, but she did not hear from Him until many years later. I think Hagar’s encounter changed all of them.”
He touched Rebekah’s shoulder. “Wait here.”
Before she could respond, he strode forward, staff in hand, to meet Ishmael’s servants.
Rebekah watched as Isaac conferred with the men from Ishmael’s tribe, her heart beating thick with dread. What if Ishmael did not like her? During her life in Harran, she had heard rumors of the Ishmaelite tribes—men living in hostility to those around them. Though some of the stories contradicted each other, she wondered. Was Isaac safe from his brother—the brother who as firstborn should have been Abraham’s heir?
She waited, trying not to fidget, her impatience rising. She strained to hear, but the men’s voices were muffled and distant. They did not look angry, and in fact, the one man had smiled at Isaac’s approach and all three had bowed to him, obviously recognizing him.
Her pulse skittered like a bird’s fluttering wings, and she released a long-held breath when at last Isaac turned back toward her and the men left in the direction they had come.
“What did they say?” She jumped down from her donkey and rushed toward him.
She giggled. “Would you dance with me, my lord, here beneath the palm trees?”
“I would.” His eyes held mischief. “But I will wait until we can join Ishmael’s celebration.” He set her down and bent close to her ear. “Or . . . you can dance for me later, alone.”
She could not stop the blush his ardent words always evoked, but she playfully patted his arm, dispelling her embarrassment. “What does your brother celebrate? Does he welcome us? Will he . . .” She could not finish, the thought suddenly ridiculous. What did she care whether Isaac’s brother cared for her? She was Isaac’s wife. He would accept her, like it or not.
“Will he what?” Isaac lifted her chin to look into her eyes. “What troubles you, my love?”
“It is nothing.” She shrugged. “Truly. It was silly to think of it.”
“Obviously not.” He waited, and she knew his patience would win her out.
She met his tender gaze, her resolve melting away. How could she think to keep anything from him? He read her thoughts too easily.
“I only feared that your brother might think you could have picked a better wife.” She looked away, suddenly embarrassed again.
He tipped her chin toward him once more, and his eyes held hers for so long that she thought she might melt under the strength of his gaze.
“Never think such a thing. Promise me.”
She nodded. “I promise.”
He placed a gentle kiss on her lips. “What my brother thinks, what anyone thinks, does not matter. You alone are the one I love.” He touched a finger to her nose. “Besides, you are wrong. My brother will love you.” His smile reached his eyes, and he slipped his hand in hers. “But come. We must move and settle our tents, then we will go and meet my brother.”
Rebekah’s heart stirred with love for him, and peace settled over her. Isaac loved her. Isaac would protect her. Everything would work out fine.
The sun had set over the camp, the evening meal was finished, and the remnants were tucked away before Isaac led Rebekah and a select number of servants toward Ishmael’s tents. A large fire glowed at the center of the camp, and women danced, waving sistrums to the beat of timbrels and the melody of a reed flute, their colorful robes twirling about them as they circled the fire. A lone woman’s voice rose above the din, clear and beautiful, her words poetic and joyous.
Rebekah took in the sight, mesmerized by the strange dance. This place was nothing like Abraham’s camp. The women dressed in brighter colors—colors she would like to copy in her own weaving. Even the men wore bright sashes in their turbans, reminding her of the men of Harran.
The drumbeat quickened as they moved closer to the fire, and she glanced about, grateful for the press of Isaac’s hand in hers. She felt Selima’s presence close behind, and Haviv strode beside Isaac. They came to a stop near what could only be Ishmael’s tent.
A man dressed in a colorful, flamboyant robe rose at their approach and motioned with his hand toward the drummer seated nearby. The music instantly ceased, and the man closed the distance between them. Isaac’s hand fell away from hers as the two men embraced. Isaac kissed the man’s cheeks, and he did the same in return.
Rebekah stood in silence, but her heart kicked over when Isaac turned and the man set his gaze on hers.
“This is my wife, Rebekah,” Isaac said. “Rebekah, meet my brother, Ishmael.”
“A pleasure.”
Ishmael’s intent look brought heat to her cheeks, and she quickly lowered her gaze, not liking the feelings he evoked.
“My, my, Brother. You have caught yourself quite a beautiful woman here. How did one such as you manage that?” Ishmael laughed, and Rebekah glanced up as some of the men in his camp joined him.
Were they mocking her husband? The heat increased, her blood pumping fast.
“God sent her to me. She is a cousin, a niece of our father’s from Paddan-Aram.” Isaac stepped closer, placing a protective hand at the small of her back.
Ishmael rubbed a hand over his bearded jaw, but the mirth did not leave his eyes. “How fortunate that you found her first.”
His eyes held a gleam of interest she did not want. She returned it with a glaring one of her own.
“I daresay she has some spark in her as well. It’s a wonder you can keep her in check.”
“And where is the wife God has given you, my brother? I can see your sons sitting about. Perhaps she would like to meet Rebekah as well.”
Of course, Isaac would expect her to sit with the women of Ishmael’s camp, but Rebekah had no desire to leave his side. Not with this hostile brother mocking him. And yet she marveled at Isaac’s ability to deflect the barbs.
“My mother chose a wife for me from Egypt, as you well know. Our father’s God had nothing to do with it. But you would not agree with that, would you now, oh son of the promise?”
Rebekah stiffened at Ishmael’s sarcastic tone, but Isaac did not flinch or seemed disturbed by it.
Is this the way you always greet your guests? She glared at Ishmael, but she did not speak the words.
A slow smile tipped Ishmael’s lips. “I see I have angered your bride.” Ishmael met Isaac’s gaze. “I do not envy you the tongue lashings from that one.” The two stared at each other a moment in silence, and Rebekah lowered her head, growing more uncomfortable with each breath.
She took a step back and crossed her arms, but his laughter only increased until he nearly choked with the humor of it all.
“I do not see what is so funny.” She muttered the words, half hoping Ishmael could hear her but knowing her words were drowned out by his mirth.
She felt Isaac’s hand at her waist, and he bent close to her ear. “If you speak, he will mock you,” he whispered.
She met his gaze, expecting to read censure there, but he only acknowledged her with a nod. He knew what Ishmael was about but chose not to engage the man. Oh, that she could do the same!
“Come, Brother,” Ishmael said, suddenly sober. “Join our celebration and tell me how you came about finding this cousin of ours.” He motioned inside his tent, where a woman stood near the partition separating the men’s open sitting area from the women’s cooking and sleeping quarters.
Ishmael stopped near a number of plush cushions and bid Isaac sit, then waved the woman closer. “My wife,” Ishmael said, as if that was the only explanation needed.
The woman looked Rebekah up and down, her mouth drawn in a strained line. Rebekah inclined her head once, acknowledging the woman, then glanced at Isaac. At his nod, she followed Ishmael’s wife to the women’s area. Selima followed, and Rebekah breathed a sigh, relieved for her maid’s familiar company.
The evening wore on as the woman and her daughters served them fig cakes and wine, and though Ishmael’s wife prattled on about the benefits of figs and their uses in healing, not just for food, Rebekah could not help listening to the male voices coming through the tent’s partition. The men talked of sheep and the hoped-for rain, but Ishmael’s mocking humor did not ease. Even his sons joined in the barbs, and Rebekah’s skin prickled with every word.
Later that night as she rested beside Isaac, she could not sleep and wondered how he could so easily put it all aside. She turned over once, twice, until he stirred.
“Is everything all right, my love?” His words were groggy, but he rose up on one elbow to look at her. “Try to rest. It will be morning soon.”
“I cannot rest. How can you sleep after the way he treated you?” She could not shake the anger, even after Isaac had already assured her that Ishmael meant no harm. It was his way, and he wasn’t likely to change.
“Ishmael has mocked me since I was a small boy, beloved. It is why my mother had my father cast him out. It is his hurt and anger that speak. Do you not see this?” His patient tone defused some of her anger, and she leaned into him, deflated.
“I am trying, my lord.”
His arms came around her, and she rested her head against his shoulder.
“My very life usurped Ishmael’s place as my father’s only heir. And though my father loves him, Ishmael does not know it. Not in his heart where love is felt.” He kissed the top of her head and stifled a yawn.
“I am sorry I woke you,” she whispered, suddenly seeing Ishmael in a new light. All of the taunts and laughter now evoked a sense of pity, compassion even. “If only God could have chosen you both as sons of the promise and kept you both with your father.”
“It was not meant to be,” Isaac said, yawning wider this time.
He rolled onto his back, and she soon heard the sound of his even breathing as she pondered his words. Surely God had a purpose for Ishmael too. Only one could be heir to the promise, but God had spoken to Ishmael’s mother and called him by name. Surely . . .
But Ishmael did not recognize what Isaac seemed to see so clearly. He was too blinded by his bitterness.
17
Rebekah followed the sound of the lone flute, its minor tones drawing her feet forward—a swallow in search of its mourning dove. The grasses where the sheep grazed were coarse, picking through the open sides of her leather sandals, but she walked on, a basket on her arm, and spotted Isaac sitting in the shade of a terebinth tree playing the haunting melody.
How he made the flute sound so much like the actual birds he mimicked, she could not begin to tell. The skill was one she admired, but since Ishmael’s departure, the solitude Isaac sought to craft the flute not only confused but troubled her.
“There you are.” She wove her way among the sheep and approached his side.
He set the flute among the grasses and looked up, his mouth tipping in a welcoming smile. “You were looking for me?”
“I have not seen you in days, my lord. Perhaps you enjoy the time alone, but I do not.”