Rebekah

by Jill Eileen Smith

  He reached toward the low table at his side and felt for the cup of wine Esau had left for him, lifted it to his lips, and drank deeply. But the satisfaction of being right did not settle in the deep places of his heart as he had expected it would. Had he done the right thing? Rebekah had been so certain, so convinced of Adonai’s will for the twins throughout their years. It had been the cause of many an argument, yet she was unwilling to give in despite his pleas that she do so. He had considered her unwillingness a lack of respect, had determined to somehow prove her wrong in the end, despite his promise to Jacob after Esau sold him the birthright.

  Was he wrong?

  Uneasiness settled within him, and he checked himself, frustrated with the rambling thoughts of a foolish old man. What did it matter? Esau was the firstborn. He deserved the blessing, and Isaac had given it. Somehow Rebekah would come to accept it, and all would be made right between them again.

  But a moment later, as footsteps sounded outside his tent once more, a sense of foreboding filled him, making each movement languid.

  “Father?”

  A dim shadow further darkened the room, and a man moved closer. “My father, sit up and eat some of my game so that you may give me your blessing.”

  The foreboding grew, and his heart thumped hard within him. “Who are you?” The question came out raspy, as though spoken through dry reeds.

  “I am your son, your firstborn, Esau.”

  Swift and violent trembling shook him, and he could not get his hands to hold steady. He dropped the goblet, felt the wine spill over his robe.

  “Who . . . who was it, then, that hunted game and brought it to me?” He swallowed and told himself to breathe. “I ate it just before you came, and I blessed him—and indeed he will be blessed!”

  Silence lasted the space of several heartbeats as Esau seemed to come to grips with the truth. Isaac startled as a moment later Esau’s voice rose in a loud and bitter cry.

  “Bless me—me too, my father!”

  “Your brother came deceitfully and took your blessing.”

  Which meant Rebekah had also deceived him, making him the greatest of fools. Had God truly spoken to her then? Had He allowed this to come about because of Isaac’s own stubbornness, his refusal to believe her? But Elohei Abraham did not need to deceive to accomplish His will.

  “Isn’t he rightly named Jacob? He has deceived me these two times. He took my birthright, and now he’s taken my blessing!” Esau’s voice cracked, and he leaned closer, grasping Isaac’s hand. “Haven’t you reserved any blessing for me?”

  Sorrow rose within him, and suddenly the meal Jacob had deceitfully fed to him churned to bile in his gut. How foolish he had been to bless him so thoroughly, reserving nothing for his brother.

  “I have made him lord over you and have made all his relatives his servants, and I have sustained him with grain and new wine. So what can I possibly do for you, my son?”

  “Do you have only one blessing, my father? Bless me too, my father!” Tears mingled with Esau’s words, and the pain of it wrenched Isaac’s heart.

  When at last Esau quieted, Isaac gripped his hand and pulled him close to kiss him. “Your dwelling will be away from the earth’s richness, away from the dew of heaven above. You will live by the sword, and you will serve your brother.” He paused, searching his heart, silently praying for something he could offer this favorite of sons. He turned unseeing eyes toward Esau and gently held his face in his aged hands. “But when you grow restless, my son, you will throw his yoke from your neck.”

  Isaac kissed each of Esau’s cheeks and allowed him to take his leave. At least he would not remain a servant to Jacob forever. In the end, he would rule his own tribe in his own land. In that, Isaac rested his hope.

  34

  Rebekah lifted the jar to her shoulder, the effort strained, and walked toward the well of Shibah, her legs moving slowly as though weighted with sand. The hour was early, dawn’s crest barely visible above the eastern ridge of earth, but Rebekah could not wait for the other women of the camp to awaken. She had spent a restless night on her mat and found little comfort in its proffered rest.

  Sluggish and anxious, she moved along the tree line, past Esau’s tents, until she had climbed the low incline and descended to the well in the low-lying valley below. Dew tickled her feet where the grasses rose over her sandals, and she shivered. The morning chill would be gone soon enough. But she found no comfort in the thought.

  She took her time going and coming, the anguish of the night invading her every breath and Esau’s bitter cries mingling with her misery. What had she done? Could there have been a better way to secure blessing for Jacob? Must she have resorted to hurting Esau so deeply?

  He would never forgive her. And now, if the rumors were true . . .

  She looked up toward the camp and saw the shadow of a woman silhouetted on the low hill, facing her. Rebekah lifted the full jar again and began the trek home. The figure moved to meet her. She drew in a relieved breath at the sight of Deborah.

  “I feared Judith or Basemath had risen early to come here.” She looked at Deborah for the briefest moment, unable to hold her steady gaze. “I cannot bear to face them.”

  “Perhaps it is Esau you should fear, mistress.” Deborah rarely referred to her as mistress anymore, a sure sign of her disapproval, and it added to Rebekah’s guilt.

  “Do you not think that I already fear his reprisals? My son is impulsive and hot-tempered. But what else could I have done? Isaac would have thwarted Adonai’s plan! I could not allow him to do such a thing. He may not believe that God spoke to me, Deborah, but I know what I heard, what I saw.” Rebekah’s words came out rushed, and still she felt the urge to talk until no words would come. She drew a calming breath and forced herself to release it.

  “God’s plans can never be thwarted, dear one. He chose Jacob from before his birth. He would have found a way without your help.” Deborah’s pointed look made her squirm as though she were still a child. “I fear the damage is only beginning.”

  Fear spiked like bursting flames within her. “What do you mean? What have you heard?”

  Deborah sighed and looked into the distance, as though seeing something only she could see. “Esau is making threats against his brother. He is consoling himself that once his father dies, he will kill Jacob.”

  Alarm jolted her, and she stopped, gripped the jar with both hands, and lowered it to the earth, nearly tripping as she strove to steady it. She lifted her head to search Deborah’s face, to discern some misconception, to be sure she had heard correctly.

  “Jacob must not stay here.”

  Deborah nodded her agreement. “No, he must not.”

  “But where can I send him?” A sudden sense of loss filled her, followed by waves of deep grief. “He must go home to Harran, to my brother Laban.” The thought did not comfort, though at least with Laban, Jacob would be safe.

  “It is said that your brother has daughters.” Deborah’s smile was weary and sad.

  “Yes, this is a good plan. Isaac will allow Jacob to flee if he goes in search of a wife in Paddan-Aram.” Rebekah held Deborah’s gaze, noticing the lines along her temples and the drawn pull to her mouth. When had her servant aged so much? But Deborah was the one person she could trust to see that Laban welcomed Jacob, to see that he was protected and cared for and found a wife to guide and please him. To love him, though no one could ever love her son as she did.

  “You must go with him.” She crossed her arms, trying to look convincing, though in truth she needed some place to put them to still the shaking. “Laban knows you, Deborah, and Jacob will need someone to comfort him, since I cannot go with him.”

  Deborah did not immediately answer, and Rebekah knew that what she was asking was perhaps more than the woman was willing to give, since Selima and her children would remain with them. The thought made her pause, but in the next moment, she shored up her resolve and held Deborah’s unflinching gaze.

&nb
sp; “You would ask me to leave my daughter, my grandchildren?”

  Rebekah slowly nodded, her resolve weakening. How could she send her nurse, her confidante, away? “It would be only for a time. I couldn’t bear to live without you both for long. Just long enough for Esau’s anger to subside and for Jacob to choose a wife. A month, maybe longer. Nothing more.” She would send for them the moment Esau’s wrath abated.

  Deborah looked at her for another lengthy moment, then shook her head. “I cannot go with him, Rebekah. This is a journey Jacob must make alone.”

  Rebekah took a step back and nearly lost her balance, so rocked was she by her nurse’s words. “But he needs me. And if I cannot go with him, which I cannot, then you need to go in my place.”

  But her argument had lost its earlier strength. Isaac’s long-ago accusation returned in full force. I will not expect his mother to coddle him and keep him from the life God intends.

  I do not coddle him, she had said, referring to Esau.

  No, you reserve that for Jacob, he’d said.

  The memory of his comment made her limp, weak. She sank to the earth and wrapped both arms about her knees.

  I do not coddle him. But she did. And as she felt Deborah kneel at her side, saw the firm set to her jaw and the compassion in her gaze, she knew. Deborah was right, as Isaac had been.

  Weariness came in waves, and she looked into Deborah’s tender yet unflinching gaze. “I don’t know how I will live without him.”

  Deborah lifted a veined hand and cupped Rebekah’s shoulder. “It is time you both learned how to do so.”

  Rebekah could not meet her gaze. “I cannot let him go.” But she had no other choice. She closed her eyes and forced her exhausted limbs to rise. Lifting the jar once more to her shoulder, she pushed one weighted leg in front of the other. “I will appeal to Isaac on Jacob’s behalf to send him to my brother. Why should I be bereaved of both sons in one day?” For as she walked, a new thought struck her. If Esau killed Jacob, Haviv, on behalf of Isaac, would be forced to kill Esau to avenge Jacob’s blood. She could not abide such a thing. She would die of guilt and grief.

  “If Adonai is willing, we will all live to see another sunrise,” Deborah said.

  Rebekah could not bring herself to think of that as good.

  Isaac rolled over on his pallet, forcing his weary body into a sitting position. But the effort had lost all meaning and desire in the past month. Everything had changed with Rebekah’s deceit and Jacob’s departure to Paddan-Aram.

  He rubbed a hand along his beard and licked his lips, tasting the salt of leftover tears. He had wept in silence in his tent, while Rebekah’s tears had carried long and loud throughout the camp for days and days after Jacob kissed her goodbye. In the early years, he would have gone to comfort her. But now . . . now her betrayal and deceit could not break through the barrier of his grief, a grief of lost faith, of lost love.

  He could not bear it.

  But the death he expected would come to him soon seemed to linger far out of his reach. What if he did indeed live as long as his father had lived? If Haviv was right, he had many years left ahead of him. Sighted or not, he could not sit and wait for Sheol to open its jaws and beckon him like jackals in the night.

  But he also could not stay here. He needed to get away from the voices, the whimpering nagging of Esau’s women—now three instead of two—from Esau’s sulking and grumbling, from Rebekah’s aloofness and formality and distance. It was her guilt that kept her from approaching him. Nothing else could explain her actions since that final day when she goaded him into sending Jacob to her brother. And though he knew deep down he still loved her, he could not live with her in peace.

  He was becoming just like his father, their marriage like his parents’.

  His body clenched with the knowledge, and he forced his shaky limbs to stand, reached for the staff he once carried with ease, and hobbled from the tent until the sun hit his face, the warmth of its rays kissing his cheeks.

  “My lord, you are up.”

  Haviv’s voice warmed him, a steady rock in his now uncertain world.

  “Yes, and I want you to do something for me.” He would act even if it went against all better judgment.

  “Anything, my lord. You know that.”

  He nodded. Seeing the barest shadow of Haviv’s form, he touched his shoulder. “I do know that. You are a faithful servant . . . and friend.” He smiled, though he could not see Haviv’s reaction. “I want you to take me to the Negev, to the places I used to go.”

  Haviv paused but a moment. “How soon do you wish to leave?”

  Isaac sniffed the scents of bread baking and the distinct smell of oaks and mulberry trees filling the air around and above him. He sighed with a depth that brought an ache to his heart. “Today. As soon as you can ready the animals.”

  “I will give instructions to my sons and be ready to leave with you after we break our fast.”

  Isaac nodded, then let Haviv guide him to his seat near the fire. Voices of the women came toward him, and he picked Rebekah’s out among the closest.

  “I have brought you some dates and cheese. The bread is almost ready.” She touched his hand as she placed the tray within it, the shock of her touch surprising him.

  “Your hands are cold.” Was she trembling?

  “Are they?” Her voice sounded lifeless.

  He fingered a date but did not eat. “I am leaving for the Negev today. I do not know when I will return.”

  When she did not respond, he looked up, trying to see if her shadow still stood above him. It did. How he wished he could read her expression! He looked down instead, cursing his blindness. Had he always been blinded to her ways? How many years had she deceived him? Had she ever loved him?

  “I will miss you,” she said at last, startling him. Was she speaking truth?

  “I should not be gone long.”

  Perhaps Jacob would return before he did, and she could have her love returned to her. She was only sad because she missed her favorite son. Nothing more.

  “Is there anything else you need?” Her voice remained toneless, devoid of feeling.

  “No.”

  She would see to bringing the bread and make sure he was well fed whether she spoke to him again or not. He could not bear to say more when there was nothing left between them.

  Rebekah stood on the hill at the crossroads leading north and south, the hill where she had lost both husband and son. Isaac’s back had long since disappeared from view, two donkeys and two men heading south toward the Negev where the wild things grew, where Isaac could be at peace in the surroundings he had loved since childhood.

  Numbness worked through her, the kind that comes with shock too great to comprehend, with loss too great to bear. What had her life come to?

  She turned to face the breeze coming down from the north, whipping the scarf about her and her robe behind her, cooling the tears that came in a steady stream over her cheeks. Jacob! His name hurt to speak aloud, and the memory of his last hug was fading with every sunrise. Would she see him again? Had he arrived safely in Paddan-Aram? Surely Laban would eventually send word. But no caravan had come from Mesopotamia thus far, and no message had been received.

  She closed her eyes, seeing him once more, his expression solemn as he took his staff and a donkey laden with few goods to make his travel light. He had looked at her with a mixture of faith and fear, and when he held her, she had clung to him, never wanting to let go.

  A guttural cry burst from within her at the memory, and she sank to her knees, the weight of her loss pressing in on her with a force too great to hold her upright.

  Oh, Adonai, what have I done?

  If only He had spoken to her again in the years following the twins’ birth. If only He had spoken to Isaac to confirm His words. Things would have been so much different.

  Dry sobs rose to choke her, but the wind caught them and snatched them from her. Would a sandstorm arise too, destroying all sh
e had left? She crawled on hands and knees and turned to face south once more, squinting against the faintly swirling dust of the earth, knowing she could no longer see Isaac’s bent form riding away from all they had once held dear.

  What had happened to their love? He had loved her once. More than she could have ever thought a man capable. But the memories of their better days lived now on the fringes of her thoughts, and though she tried to grasp them, they were like the wisps of dust, floating just out of reach.

  Oh, Adonai, Elohei Abraham, Elohei Isaac, hear me!

  The cry broke loose something deep within her, and in that moment she knew with new clarity how much she had lost. Jacob’s love for her had meant too much, his future too consuming. And she had thrown away the only man who loved her as herself, as his only, favored wife.

  She lowered her face to the earth, tasting the grasses and dirt mingling with fresh tears. Both hands were clenched, fists pounding the ground beneath her, until at last, spent and exhausted, she released her hold and opened her palms facing upward.

  She must go after Isaac and beg his forgiveness.

  35

  Isaac lifted his face toward the west, feeling the last glow of the setting sun on his weathered face. The scent of the fire Haviv had built wafted nearby, and birds spoke in their many languages among the desert trees. The oasis at Beer-lahai-roi was quiet this time of year, and the hint of winter rains hovered in the air around him. They would find warmth enough in their tents for a time but eventually would need to take shelter in the caves. One tent standing alone in the wilderness did not offer the protection from the elements that an entire camp did. Would Haviv be willing to stay with him so long away from Selima and their children?

  A weight settled in the place where his heart used to be, a perpetual ache that made him feel defeated and old. Was this how his mother had felt at his father’s imagined betrayal? Instead of understanding and forgiveness, she had placed a wall around her heart and set her love on her son, in the place where love for his father should have been. And she had carried the loss she felt with her to the grave.