“Well, I think Elkanah can be persuaded to ask on your behalf.” She smiled, forcing a cheerful expression. “Nava, I know you would do for me whatever you could. I love that about you. But there are reasons I cannot give you to Elkanah. I want you to be free.”
Nava sat back, her long, curly hair escaping the headscarf she had worn to see Raziela. She did not meet Hannah’s gaze. “But . . . there is no need, mistress. Ezer and I both realize our lot in life. We were both born to be servants.”
“You were born to be like everyone else, Nava, and Ezer just happened to have the unfortunate beginning of losing his mother at birth. But no child of Israel is meant to be enslaved all of their lives. I am giving you your freedom whether you like it or not.”
Nava laughed, though she sounded almost anxious as well. “I don’t know how I would live on my own,” she said, twisting her hands in her lap.
“That is the point. Elkanah will find a husband for you.”
“Perhaps the master will find no man willing to wed a slave girl.” Nava’s look held a hint of sadness, though Hannah had not told her how true her words were.
“That will be for him to concern himself with. For now, I suppose we should not keep Peninnah waiting.”
“You wouldn’t have to go, mistress,” Nava said, as though trying to make up for the good Hannah had offered her. “I could go for you. I can do enough to make up for both of us. You could rest here.” She smiled. “I know the woman is hard to deal with, but with me she has no competition.”
Hannah’s chest lifted, and she released a sigh that felt as weighty as the sea. “I’m no competition to her, Nava. If she thinks that, she imagines foolish things.”
“Nevertheless, I watch her watch you, and I think she is trying to prove something.”
“She’s already proven it. She can have children. I cannot.”
“But you have Elkanah’s love.”
“She would deny me even that if she could.” Hannah looked toward the tent door. Elkanah had left early with his brothers to take care of the sacrifice for the evening’s meal. She could not waste the day or refuse to do her part, no matter the frustration that clung to her every step.
Hannah stood and gathered a basket of vegetables and a sack of lentils, while Nava took a kettle and the torch that stood just outside the tent door.
“Are you sure you will not stay behind?” Nava grabbed a skin of water to fill the pot and fell into step with Hannah.
Hannah shook her head and continued walking. “I won’t have Elkanah think me lacking.” He wouldn’t, would he? He would understand if she stayed as far from Peninnah as possible today, but Hannah just could not bear to have that woman brag throughout the meal that she had done all of the work. Not that it would stop her from bragging about her children or anything else she could think of.
“Well, there you are,” Peninnah said when Hannah at last entered her tent. “I wondered if you would even bother to join us today. Where did you go this morning?”
Did this woman truly have nothing to do with her time besides check on Hannah’s every move? She bristled at the thought, a caustic remark about it being none of Peninnah’s concern tickling the edge of her tongue. But she drew in a breath to steady herself. What did it matter if she told her?
“I went to give Hophni’s wife my greeting.” She pulled vegetables from her basket and carried the sack of lentils to the door of the tent. “I will start the fire.” That the fire in front of the tent was not already lit went unmentioned, for Hannah did not wish to find yet another reason to fight with this woman.
“I suppose you think me lax for not having more done, for letting the fire go out.” Peninnah crossed her arms over her protruding belly, her glare like bitter frost. “Well, you just try taking care of five children and carrying another and see how prompt you are at keeping other things going, then you would know.” She huffed, and Hannah imagined fire pouring from her lips like the dragons of the wild. “Besides,” Peninnah continued, “if Elkanah’s first wife can go visiting, there is no reason I should do all of the labor. I’m not a servant, you know. I’m the mother of his heir.”
Hannah stared at her, dumbfounded. At that moment, Yafa came from behind a tent curtain holding Peninnah’s youngest daughter. Hannah’s heart squeezed at the sight. Was this how Raziela felt when her husband brought home a child born in illegitimacy, expecting her to care for the child that wasn’t hers? But no one was asking Hannah to care for anyone’s child, except Nava, who didn’t deserve to be put in the position of bearing a child for Hannah. But Raziela knew the pain of sharing Hophni—far too often.
This isn’t as bad, she told herself. But standing there, staring at the life that should have been hers . . . words failed her.
She turned to leave. She would not treat Peninnah as Peninnah treated her. She would not repay evil with evil.
“I know what you think of me. You think you are better than me, but you’re not. Let’s not forget which one God has blessed.” Peninnah’s tone held such disdain that Hannah again felt the tension rise within her, until she had to hurry from the tent in order to hold it back. No wonder Sarah had reacted so when Hagar flaunted her pregnancy.
You can’t be like that. You can’t. Oh Adonai, help me.
She knelt near the fire that Nava had started and set the sack of lentils near a sieve to make sure no stones were tossed in the pot.
“Say what you will, but I know you don’t like me.” Peninnah’s words carried to her from the tent where she still stood.
No, Hannah didn’t like her. She despised her. But she also heard hurt in the woman’s tone. Was Peninnah truly jealous of Hannah? Ludicrous thought.
“She has no idea what you think,” Nava whispered as Hannah sifted the lentils and added them to the water. “She’s just a miserable person.”
“It doesn’t matter what she thinks of me or what she believes I think of her,” Hannah said, wishing the words were true. Why did she care that Peninnah berated her? The woman had her own problems.
What I wouldn’t give to have Peninnah’s “problems.” If having children were a burden, Hannah would gladly accept it.
Footfalls sounded behind her, and Hannah braced herself when she saw Peninnah carrying a sack of barley.
Peninnah knelt to grind the grain. “If you had children, you would understand,” she said, her voice mocking.
“I’m sure that I would.” Hannah clenched her teeth and kept her back to Peninnah, wondering why she had even bothered to answer.
Silence followed, and Hannah prayed that the woman would just keep grinding. The grating sound was far easier on the ears than the cruel words that felt like swords piercing her heart.
Elkanah carried the boiled lamb to the fire in the middle of his family’s camp. He’d stayed close to the priests’ servants to make sure they burned all of the fat and that the blood was spilled on the altar, but some of the fat still remained.
The noise of children racing through the tents and the chatter of women setting the places for them to eat gave him pause. His father’s household would have joined them, but with Elkanah’s growing family, he wanted to share this one meal with just his wives and children. Even Yafa had gone to share the meal with his parents, something his mother found most pleasing.
He placed the meat through a whittled branch and set it over the fire to smoke the rest of the fat away. Just to be sure. Then he could transfer it to a clay platter and serve his family.
“Can I help?” Eitan ran toward him but stopped short of the fire.
Elkanah looked up and saw the eagerness in his son’s eyes. The boy was growing so fast. “Of course.” He handed Eitan a second branch to turn the meat and warned him not to let it burn. “You understand why we do this, don’t you, Eitan?” He couldn’t help but teach. It was a father’s duty.
“To make sure all of the fat is burned, because the priests don’t always do it right?” Eitan looked into Elkanah’s face, his expression uncertain.
“That’s exactly right. Normal, good priests would burn all of the fat, which belongs to God, and would spill the blood, which is the life of the animal and we are not to eat it. But our priests do not do as God has prescribed in His law. So I make sure we are obedient to Adonai.” He paused, waiting for understanding to dawn in Eitan’s gaze.
The boy nodded. “The priests here are not good, are they, Abba?”
Elkanah examined the meat once more. How much did one tell a child about the evils of the world? Yet he could not let his children grow up thinking that all was well, that Phinehas and Hophni were truly God’s priests. “No, Eitan, Hophni and Phinehas are not good priests.” He lowered his voice. “They do not obey the word of the Lord.”
“Why don’t we stop them then? They are just two men.” Eitan’s comment sounded so simple, so innocent.
“It is much more complicated than it sounds,” Elkanah said, pulling the meat from the fire. “God set up the priesthood. He gave the job to the descendants of Aaron, and we can’t just give it to someone else. The priests have to come from the priestly line.”
“Aren’t we part of that line?” Eitan asked. “We’re Kohathites.” He shrugged as though that explained everything.
“We are of the tribe of Levi, the sons of Kohath, yes. And Amram, Moses’s father, was also a Kohathite, but only his son Aaron and his descendants inherited the priesthood. Kind of like the firstborn gets different rights than the sons born afterward.”
“I’m your firstborn,” Eitan said, his chest puffing with pride.
Elkanah laughed, though his heart felt the sting of pain that Hannah had not been the one to bear his firstborn. “Yes, my son. Yes, you are. There now. See how the meat is browned on all sides but not blackened?”
“Yes.”
“Now we take it off and put it on the plate to cut for the meal.” Elkanah used a pronged fork to push the meat onto a plate.
“That smells good.” Eitan rubbed his middle with one hand. “I’ve asked all day to taste the things Ima and Aunt Hannah have been making, but they won’t let me touch anything.” His pout made Elkanah laugh again.
“Well, I am sure they had good reason. You wouldn’t want to spoil the feast, now would you?” At least his wives had worked together. That was a good sign, wasn’t it?
Eitan glanced from side to side, then leaned closer to Elkanah. “I wouldn’t have minded a taste. But Ima is in a bad mood and I think she made Aunt Hannah cry.”
“You saw Aunt Hannah cry?” What on earth did Peninnah say this time?
“Not actually cry,” Eitan said, shifting from foot to foot, as if he felt guilty telling his father what his mother had done. “But I saw her blink real fast and Ima was yelling sometimes.”
The yelling did not surprise him. Neither did Hannah’s apparent emotion. He touched Eitan’s shoulder. “Thank you for telling me. Now why don’t you run and tell Aunt Hannah that I am ready to bring the meat.”
Eitan tilted his head, his look curious. “Not Ima?”
Elkanah sighed, longing to give vent to the tension building within him. “Yes, you can tell them both.” No doubt Eitan would tell Peninnah that he had favored Hannah yet again. The boy was obedient—to a point. But he could not trust him. He was his mother’s informant, and Elkanah must be more careful with what he allowed the boy to hear.
But as he thought about what Hannah must have endured this day, he suddenly didn’t feel as much like celebrating as he first had. Somehow he must make it up to her, make her feel special, even if it meant he did so in Peninnah’s presence. He was tired of the foolish games Peninnah played, trying to coax him to care for her and leave Hannah behind. He was not oblivious to her ways. Perhaps it was time he remedied that.
30
The sun blazed low in an array of fiery oranges and yellows, splayed between giant fingers of wispy clouds. Hannah looked over the area where they would eat, then bent to move the bowl of cucumbers closer to the children and the plate of olive oil and spices closer to where Elkanah would sit.
“What are you doing? I had that all set.”
When did Peninnah’s footfalls grow so quiet? Hannah drew a breath. “I’m sorry. I did not know you had set it. I was thinking that the children might dip their sleeves in the oil—”
“What my children do is none of your concern.” Peninnah squatted low and put things back the way she had them. “Worry about your own children.” She laughed long and hard, the sound like metal on stone. “Your own children. That’s good.” She stood, face flushed.
Hannah walked away. She would not let the woman see how she affected her. She nearly bumped into Elkanah carrying the meat toward the feast area.
“Hannah? What’s wrong?” He stopped, the plate held in both hands, the scent of garlic and rosemary mixing with the sweet smell of cooked lamb.
Hannah met his gaze. How much to tell him? Should she inform him of all she had learned from Raziela that morning? Or just share the many caustic remarks his other wife had made to her the entire day? She bit her lip, forcing back the words and the tears.
“Tell me, beloved.” He sounded so sincere. But she would only be complaining, and on a feast day of all days.
“It is nothing. It’s just been a long, difficult day and I’m tired. I’m going to put on a fresh tunic and be right back.” She smiled at him, though she knew he would see that her efforts were forced.
“I want you to tell me,” he said, but she simply nodded as she hurried toward her tent. He would have to stay with the meat because the children could not be trusted and Peninnah did not watch them well.
Once inside the tent, Hannah went to the sack of clothing she’d brought and pulled out the fresh tunic she had saved for this occasion. She was sweaty from working and longed for a chance to bathe in the river, but there were no rivers near here or the chance to do so.
Her heart raced as she hurried to change. The shofar would blow soon now that the meat was ready, and she did not want to be accused of making everyone wait for her. But oh, she did not want to go back! If she could skip this meal, if she could eat here alone, if she could be anywhere but there, she would.
She used the comb to untangle the snarls she had acquired during the work and tied a clean scarf over her hair. Kohl and ochre had been left at home. She didn’t care if her aging skin needed them. She knew Raziela took the time and was beautiful for her efforts, but Elkanah would have to accept Hannah as she was.
How bitter she sounded! But the hurt cut deeply, and if she allowed herself the slightest bit of anger, she could avoid tears. And she did not want to weep in front of her antagonistic rival.
Had Peninnah always been so cruel?
Pinching her cheeks to bring some color to what had to be a wan face, she took a deep, steadying breath and let it slowly out. She could do this. She could face Peninnah and Elkanah and the children and worship Adonai with them all.
Worship Adonai. That was why they were here.
She walked slowly toward the tent’s entrance and glanced at the fading sun. I want to worship You, Adonai. But I don’t know how anymore. I don’t know how to live with constant battering and such a deep sense of loss.
She felt her heart soften with the admission as she made her way back to the area where she could see the candles already lit and Peninnah and Nava trying to settle the children. Elkanah looked in her direction, and when he saw her he seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.
If only she could share his feelings.
Moments after the shofar blew, calling them to begin the feast, Elkanah took his knife and carved portions of the meat for Eitan, Hevel, and Aniah, then gave smaller amounts to Peninnah’s two daughters Moriah and Yemima. The youngest girl was barely old enough to chew the meat, and he noticed Peninnah take a knife and cut it finer. She looked tired, probably from the weight of the babe. How many children she had given him! He couldn’t help a surge of pride rise up at the thought of so many sons and daughters and more to come.
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God had blessed him. He couldn’t deny it. Why Hannah could not be part of that blessing, he would never understand, but he also couldn’t refute the fact that God had blessed this woman who had come into his house. Perhaps she wasn’t so bad a wife, though he did wish she would not treat Hannah so poorly.
He glanced at Hannah, waiting, watching. Peninnah did not allow Hannah to help with the children at feast times, though it was obvious she could use the help. Hannah turned and said something to Nava that he could not hear, so he continued to carve the meat, giving portions to everyone seated. When he came to Hannah, he gave her double the amount he gave his eldest sons and Peninnah. Surely she would see his desire to bless her in some way.
“Oh, so you give the barren woman the bigger portion? Maybe she will grow fat and look like she is with child. Then she can pretend, though she will never know what it is really like.” Peninnah glared at him, and he felt the heat of her anger settle into his belly.
“No. I give her the double portion to show her my love.” If Peninnah could be cruel, then he could remind her that Hannah would always be his favored one.
“So I give you sons but I am not loved? Are you Jacob, who treated Leah so poorly she cried out to God for help?” She leaned back as though ready to raise her fists and physically fight with him. What was wrong with her?
“Leah at least turned to God. She did not lash out at Rachel.” His stomach twisted, and he glanced at Hannah. He hated confrontation like this but seemed helplessly caught in it.
“So now even Leah is better than I am? We all know you love Hannah and not us, so why did you even marry me?” She was shouting now, and the girls and youngest boy began to cry.
“Peninnah, please. I never said that.” He focused on cutting a piece for himself but found no desire to eat it now.
“Well, it certainly seems that way.” Peninnah glanced at Hannah. “And you let that one go visiting on a day when I needed her help. Do you know she left me to do this work alone?” She moved her hand over the eating area, indicating the whole of the meal.
A Passionate Hope--Hannah's Story Page 19