Rebekah

by Jill Eileen Smith

  He stood but did not return to the fire. Instead, he trudged up the incline to look down over his fields in the plain below. The sky brightened further, and he picked his way down the low hill until he came to the first heads of barley. He fingered the stalks, frowning. Already the signs of too little water and too much heat were evident in the thirsty green stems. There was not enough water in the stream to divert to the fields even if he brought a hundred men to carry it.

  He turned back, releasing a sigh, the weight of the goatskin too light in his hands. This was not good. They would lose the crop, and the herds would have little place to forage for food if they stayed in this place.

  Concern rippled through him as he walked back to the fire. Esau sat before it, a camp stove set over the flames and a handful of wheat berries already toasting above it.

  “Where did you go?” Esau met Isaac’s gaze, then glanced toward the skin in his hands. “I could have gotten that for you. You should have awakened me.”

  Isaac smiled despite his anxiety. “I dare not come near a man who thrashes about so in his sleep.”

  Esau gave a sheepish grin. “Jacob used to holler at me when we were small and shared a tent. I whacked him in the night, waking him.” His grin turned wicked. “He only thinks I was asleep the whole time.”

  Isaac lifted a brow. “You mean to tell me those bruises were intentional?”

  He could not stop the amusement from lifting the corners of his mouth. The boy had caused Rebekah many a lost night of rest. Just as he had surely caused her with his unexplained absence even now. He should have told her he was leaving. Should have reassured her of his love, despite their differences.

  Guilt pierced him, but Esau seemed not to notice.

  “Can’t let my little brother think he’s stronger than me, now can I? A few smacks when he isn’t expecting it don’t hurt anything.” His gaze glanced off Isaac’s, and sudden color heightened his already ruddy hue.

  Perhaps neither of them was immune to feeling guilt over the hurt they had inflicted. But he let the matter pass.

  “We will turn back to camp today,” he said, kneeling beside the fire to heat the water and herbs he carried.

  “So soon? But we just left yesterday, and I had hoped . . .” He looked in the distance to the south, away from the camp.

  “Had hoped what?” Isaac narrowed his gaze, trying to read his son’s intentions. That his son might want to spend time with him was tempting . . .

  “I had thought . . . that is . . .” Esau stirred the wheat berries with a tree branch to keep them from burning.

  Isaac waited, but it appeared Esau had changed his mind. “There is a famine on the horizon, and we must prepare for it.”

  Esau’s brows drew together in a frown, and he looked as though he wanted to speak. Again Isaac waited, as Esau wrapped the thick part of his robe around his hand and pulled the camp oven from the fire to cool.

  “We could stay with my uncle,” he said, at last meeting Isaac’s gaze. “There was no talk of famine in the hills where he lives.”

  Isaac studied his son, noting the eager light behind his eyes at the mention of Ishmael, and with the knowledge he felt the slightest hint of sadness. Was the boy too taken by his uncle? Ishmael did not carry the promise passed down from Abraham. Perhaps Rebekah had been right. But he could not trust that thought.

  “We will send men to seek greener pastures and move where the water still resides,” he said, mixing the mint leaves into the heated water to steep. “We will not be joining Ishmael.” He glanced up to read Esau’s expression. The boy’s disappointment lasted but a moment.

  “To Egypt then?”

  Esau’s eagerness did not diminish with the change of location. Isaac released a sigh. Perhaps it was only adventure he sought.

  “I do not know where Adonai will lead us, my son.”

  “But Egypt has water, Father. The Nile flows continually, and they say that famine never visits the black land.” He reached in his sack for a handful of dates and cheese and popped some in his mouth, then handed the rest to Isaac.

  Isaac took a handful of both, fingering the dates’ smooth, sticky surface. He glanced at the cloudless sky, already feeling the heat rising with the sun, which threatened to bake the earth before it had fully risen. Sweat broke out on the back of his neck, and he rubbed the spot as he popped the dates into his mouth. He broke off a hunk of the soft cheese and tucked the rest into his pouch.

  “We will return to camp and discuss our options with Haviv and Eliezer.” He met Esau’s gaze. “We will go where God leads.”

  He waited, assessing Esau’s reaction, but he seemed suddenly interested only in the food and the fire. Isaac poured the tea into clay mugs and handed one to his son, content with the silence and the interruption of twittering birds greeting the dawn.

  When the meal finished, Esau cleaned up the utensils and packed the donkey’s sacks while Isaac put out the fire. But as they turned west to head back to camp, Esau approached Isaac’s side once more.

  “Abba?”

  “Yes, my son?” Isaac gripped the head of his staff, holding tight to the donkey’s reins as he braced for what he sensed was coming next.

  “What if I waited out the famine with my uncle? I would be one less stomach to fill, one less person to worry over. He did invite me to stay with him. And if you are going to move us regardless, then wouldn’t now be a good time for me to make that visit?” He rested a hand on the donkey’s mane and met Isaac’s gaze across the animal’s back.

  Isaac looked at his son, Rebekah’s warnings rising in his thoughts. And yet, as he saw the earnestness, felt the pleading in his tone, he could not help wondering anew whether her fears were unfounded. The twins were no longer children. Each one had to decide what he would believe, whether or not he would follow in the faith of their grandfather Abraham. It was not a decision Isaac could make for them. Perhaps time with his uncle would help Esau see the difference in the two households and long for his father’s faith.

  He looked beyond his son’s head to the distant hills where Ishmael lived. It would take a few extra days to make the trip, but perhaps the boy was right. If Isaac took him there now, he could return and have that time alone and consider how best to make Rebekah see his view of things.

  He paused but a moment, the decision made. “Very well, my son. I will take you to Ishmael. Perhaps if we hurry, we can catch up to his small caravan before they reach the hills. I will send for you when we are settled in our new location.”

  Never mind that they could use Esau’s help in packing and moving to wherever they were going. His loss would mean less conflict between the twins, and perhaps less conflict between himself and Rebekah.

  He did not stop to ponder that he was only fooling himself.

  28

  Rebekah stirred the lentil stew with the whittled branch Jacob had fashioned into a scraping utensil, her heart anxious, aching. Would the turmoil never cease? How was it she had lost both husband and one son in the space of a few weeks? But Abraham’s death had changed Isaac, and Ishmael’s visit had made Esau bolder until she feared she did not know either one anymore.

  Their argument and Isaac’s absence had lasted nearly a week, and when he returned, Esau was not with him. Isaac had given in and taken him to Ishmael only days after he agreed it was too soon, that the boy was too impressionable. The threat of famine should not have changed anything. Esau should go with them to wherever they were going.

  Her stomach knotted at the sound of voices entering the camp and coming closer to the central fire. She peered through the sides of the open tent, where she stood over one of many cooking fires, to see Isaac and Haviv in deep discussion.

  The ache intensified. Isaac had confided little in her since his return, saying only that they would be packing up the camp and moving west toward the sea. He had not shared her bed or stayed to talk after the evening meal since Ishmael had left nine days earlier.

  The knot turned sour as she
pondered the thought, and she felt the threat of tears. He stood so close, yet so far. How she missed him! Missed what they had once shared. But how could she get it back when neither one of them was willing to compromise? Bile rose in the back of her throat, and she struggled to swallow it.

  A touch on her arm made her jump, making acid stick in her throat. She whirled about, nearly dropping the stick into the stew pot. “Jacob! You know better than to scare me like that.” Had she been so absorbed by her thoughts that she had not heard his footfalls?

  “I’m sorry, Ima.” He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “But Father is asking for you.”

  She met his sober gaze and stiffened. “If he wants me, let him come to me.” She lifted her chin and looked away, her anger bubbling.

  “Ima.” Jacob’s gentle tone brought tears to her eyes. How could she treat him so? At least this son cared for her feelings, even if his father and brother did not.

  She turned to look at him, and her grip tightened on the stick as she stirred and scraped, feeling the broth thickening. “He should come to me.” But she dropped the pitch of her voice, knowing she did not mean it as fiercely as it sounded.

  “How would it look to his men if he humbled himself to seek you out? Please, Ima, do not force him to step beneath his pride like that. Do not make him lose the respect of the men in the camp. If you do not heed his voice, who will?”

  Jacob rested both hands on her shoulders and kneaded the tenseness until her muscles grew less rigid, her anger slowly dissipating. Of course he was right. Her bitterness would not accomplish her goals for Jacob. She must find better ways to appease and convince.

  “You will come with me,” she said. She glanced around the tent and spotted Selima at the other end. She called to her to take over stirring the stew, then straightened her head scarf and followed Jacob to the central fire.

  “Here she is, Father.”

  Jacob’s announcement brought Isaac’s attention from Haviv to her. He smiled, but there was no laughter in his eyes or joy in the action.

  “Rebekah, Haviv tells me that Abimelech, king of the Philistines in Gerar, has not felt the effects of the famine. He has accepted our request to settle in Gerar, and we will leave at first light. Please have your maids pack the belongings and be ready to go.” He held her gaze, obviously awaiting her nod of acceptance, but she could not bring herself to acknowledge the wisdom in leaving with such speed.

  Silence settled between them, and she felt the eyes of Haviv and Jacob on her.

  “Is there a problem?” Isaac asked when she did not move or speak.

  Warmth heated her face. She should not make him coax a response from her. That he even cared that she answer dissolved some of the ire from her heart.

  “We shall do our best to be ready, my lord,” she said at last, offering him a tentative nod. “We have accumulated many things, and a day or two longer might cause less burden on the men and women in their packing.” She looked at him, searching, unable to keep the longing for him from invading her thoughts.

  Isaac’s look turned thoughtful, and he glanced briefly at the distant sky. She followed his gaze, uncertain what it was that he studied in the bright, cloudless heavens. His eyes swept the camp, then he glanced at Haviv before coming to look at her once more.

  “I will send every available man to help you. But the sky does not bode favorable for us to stay here. I sense a storm brewing, and it will not hold rain.”

  “One with sand and wind?”

  He nodded. “The conditions are right, and while the trees here might shelter us, the sooner we can get to the coast, the better for the flocks and herds—for everyone.”

  His urgency suddenly made sense, becoming her own.

  “I will do as you say.” She turned, then thought better of it. “Shall I get started now?”

  He smiled fully this time, and she felt a measure of relief in knowing her attempt at peacemaking had had its desired effect. “Yes, thank you. I will be along soon to help you.”

  She turned to leave, glancing back over her shoulder. “The food is ready. If you would eat now, we can pack the cooking utensils and eat flatbread and dried fruit in the morning.”

  He nodded his agreement, and she lifted her skirts and hurried across the short distance to the cooking tent. There was much to do, and the packing would be an almost overwhelming burden. But Isaac’s gentle tone and genuine smile had given her new hope. She would make things right with Isaac whether she agreed with him or not. She would not move to Gerar with a heart of bitterness.

  The trip to the outskirts of Gerar took three days for the members of the camp, longer for the herds, before they had passed the last of the burned-out grasses and dry wadis. Isaac walked the length of their makeshift encampment, listening to the sounds of nightfall and the soft voices of men huddled around enclosed fires. Women and children lay on pallets in a few of the larger tents that had been set up for protection against the night. They would unpack the rest of their goods when they arrived in Gerar tomorrow.

  The thought both comforted and worried him as he paused at the tent that housed Rebekah and her maids. Would the change in location give them a new start, allow them to set their differences aside? Surely they had lived through worse disagreements down through the years of Rebekah’s barrenness and troubling pregnancy.

  But as he looked at the tent, longing to call her out to him, to hold her close, he glanced down at the entrance and spotted Jacob stretched out near the tent’s door, a guard against the night. His stomach tightened at the sight, a mix of pride and jealousy rivaling for space within him. How could he be jealous of his own son? And yet, had not Rebekah turned more often to Jacob than to him of late?

  He searched his mind for a time, an event that had caused her to turn away, to favor Jacob over Esau, over him. Had it been since the twins’ birth, with the vision she claimed? The vision that had divided them from the start?

  No, even if the vision were true, she had been a caring mother, loving both boys, devoting herself to their care. No one in the camp could call her neglectful, and at times he had feared she would smother them as his mother had done him. There had to have been a time—something that caused the change.

  But despite the longing to understand, he could not place the cause. She had favored Jacob long before Abraham’s death.

  The memory made him move on, but he was surprised at the grief he still felt. Since his father’s death, he needed Rebekah more, not less. Needed her laughter and her love. But he had spoken little with her during the journey, and she had fallen exhausted on her pallet soon after dusk each night.

  His feet crunched stones and dry twigs as he walked toward the tree line circling the camp, and the black sky overhead winked down on him with stars too many to count. A throat cleared, and he looked toward the sound, seeing Haviv striding toward him.

  “Is everything settled?” He fell into step with Haviv and continued toward the seclusion of some overhanging oaks.

  “All is well.” Haviv ran a hand along the bumpy bark. “But there is news you should know.”

  Isaac waited, crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me.” Though by the look in Haviv’s eyes, he sensed he would prefer not knowing.

  “The traders we met at the pass had news of Gerar, of the men of the place.” Haviv stepped back from the tree and rubbed a hand along the back of his neck, clearly troubled. “They do not fear Adonai as we do. They do not respect a man’s property, particularly the women in his household . . . not even his wife. If our women go to market alone or mingle with the women of the city, they will be at risk. And I fear . . .” His pause was too long.

  “You fear what?” A lump formed in Isaac’s throat.

  “I fear that the more beautiful women in our group will be at the greatest risk. Selima. Rebekah.” Haviv let the words hang on the breeze, his look saying more than words.

  “My father faced this in both Egypt and Gerar before I was born. Surely the new king of Ge
rar is not as debased as his father, for even his father repented of taking my mother without thought, and Adonai protected her even then.”

  But fear still found its way into Isaac’s heart, and he wondered if his father had lost faith for lying to the men, saying his wife was his sister, or if he’d been wise in the way he approached both kings.

  “Is the situation dire? Should we turn back or go south to Egypt?”

  Haviv shook his head. “I do not know what is best. My father lost his first wife in just such a manner, by an unworthy king.” He shifted from foot to foot and glanced over his shoulder, as though he feared the men of Gerar were already close enough to hear them.

  “What will you do with Selima?” He could not have every man in the camp claiming to have no wives, to make every woman a sister. The lie would be too obvious.

  “I do not know. I will accompany her to market or keep her only in the camp. She has our youngest to attend. A babe on her hip should be a strong deterrent.”

  Selima had given Haviv five strong sons and four daughters in their nearly thirty-five years of marriage, their youngest still not having weaned. But Rebekah had borne only Esau and Jacob with many years since their birth. She carried the body of a younger, still beautiful woman, not worn down with childbirth as Selima had been.

  “Perhaps if we moved farther south,” Haviv was saying, “toward Egypt, we would find the land still fertile, less arid.”

  “There is desert between here and Egypt. We face danger either way.” Isaac looked once more to the starlit heavens. “I will think on it and pray.” He met Haviv’s gaze. “I will give you my decision before we break camp in the morning.”

  Isaac picked up a handful of stones, sorted through them for several smooth, round ones, tucked them into the pouch at the left side of his belt, and readied the sling in his right palm. He moved away from the camp, letting the moon guide him along the path at the side of the hill, aware of every sound, every flap of wings, every cricket’s mating cry. The hoot of an owl drew him to look up at the sky, and he caught its form silhouetted in the moon’s bright glow.