Until the Mountains Fall

by Connilyn Cossette

  “I am glad to meet you, Rivkah,” she said as she waved her own apple toward the headscarf that covered my hair, indicating that I was no longer a maiden. “Does your husband approve of you working as a scribe?”

  My teeth ground together. “I am a widow.”

  Her brow furrowed with pity. “May his memory long endure. How long ago?”

  “Not yet two months.” I twisted the stem off the apple with an aggressive flick of my wrist. “But I am already betrothed to another.”

  “Oh?” Her eyes widened. “Who are you to marry?”

  “My husband’s brother.”

  Her jaw gaped. “You are to be given in levirate marriage?”

  I let my grimace respond for me and bit into the apple with a satisfying crunch.

  “You are upset over this arrangement? Is this brother cruel?”

  Although it was tempting to exaggerate, I acknowledged the truth. “No. Aggravating, but not malicious.”

  “Ah, then he is ugly?” Her dark brown eyes twinkled in mock sympathy. My mind wandered back to the other night, when Malakhi had been seated all too close and the shiver of awareness I’d felt as his strange silvery eyes had been trained on me. He’d not seemed a boy in that moment, but rather a young man with an inexplicable draw that he knew how to wield on women. On me. Not trusting myself to utter the words “extremely handsome” out loud, I shook my head.

  “Then why do you seem so hesitant to marry him?”

  I had few friends in this town. Either they avoided the daughter of the head priest, as if association with me was somehow distasteful, or they feigned friendship with me to garner favor. And ever since my mother had died, I’d avoided even the friends I’d had before, annoyed by both their overwrought tears or awkward words of sympathy. Strangely, only Malakhi had treated me no differently than before I’d lost the most important person in my life, becoming even more of a nuisance instead of acting as if I were some fragile rose petal. But this girl had no preconceived notions about me or my family—or Malakhi’s, for that matter. So I told her about how my father was deaf to my arguments, insisting it was to my benefit that I marry a boy who’d given me so much grief over the years.

  “My own father recently announced that I too will be wed,” said Nessa. “To some ancient, toothless farmer.”

  “Have you voiced your opinion of the match?”

  “My father cares nothing about who he marries me off to.” Her deep brown eyes went as dark as obsidian. “The man need only be willing to take me off his hands and out of his house.”

  Somehow I sensed that beneath the razor-edged words ran a deep vein of sadness, as if this was not the first time Nessa had felt like an unnecessary appendage. “Surely he values you enough to make sure you are well cared for?”

  “I am not a son and therefore of little worth to him.”

  The bleak words touched a tender spot in my soul, making me feel an instant kinship with this girl I’d only just met. “What can either of us do?” I asked. “All authority lies with our fathers, and then, when the time comes, our husbands.”

  “But your betrothed can still change his mind, isn’t that true?”

  “Yes, he could appeal to the council of elders at the city gates and release me.” Although the severing of the betrothal would be akin to a writ of divorce and likely rule out any future marriage prospects, at least I’d be free.

  “Then perhaps . . .” She stood, tossing her apple core toward a goat tied up nearby, then hauled her basket of apples to her hip. “You could do what I plan to do when I meet this ‘grandfather’ my abba plans to sell me off to during the Festival of Sukkot in a few weeks. You can show him just how ill-matched you are.” Her little grin was pure mischief, a stark change from the gravity of her expression as she spoke of her father. “I’d best deliver these apples to the storehouse and then return home before the sun goes down. I’d like to make it back before my cousins realize I am gone or my aunt will give them no end of grief for leaving me unescorted.”

  I laughed as she winked and walked away. It was not until she’d disappeared from sight that I realized I’d forgotten to take down her family name and the amount of her offering. But hopefully I’d see her again soon, for although the conversation had been brief, I’d found encouragement in our shared grievance with our fathers’ high-handedness.

  As I packed away my inks and reeds, rolled the papyrus, and headed for home, I considered her idea about showing Malakhi that our match would be a disaster. Plans began to form in my mind, and for the first time since my father had announced I would marry again, I felt a small measure of hope.

  CHAPTER

  four

  Malakhi

  11 Elul

  I yanked on the branch, twisting it back and forth until it snapped free. After tossing it atop the pile that had grown all too slowly at the foot of the tree, I brushed slivers from my palms and then wiped the sweat and dirt from my eyes.

  Why had Gidal ever found working in the orchard a pleasant occupation? I slid to the ground and leaned back into the shade of one of the larger quince trees that stood in this hidden grove on the hill above Kedesh, closing my eyes against the glare of sunlight overhead. It had been a few hours since I began the arduous task of pruning, and I’d only completed five of the twenty or so bushy trees in this recently harvested grove. I’d much rather be hauling their carcasses into Kedesh for one of Eitan’s carpentry projects. This task would take me days, and it was only one of the many varieties of fruit trees my brother had tended around the city over the last few years.

  As boys Gidal and I had been inseparable, flitting around Kedesh with the slings Eitan made for us tucked in our belts, racing through the marketplace as if chased by wolves, and, of course, aggravating our sisters and Rivkah. But the older he’d gotten, the more serious he’d become, sometimes disappearing for hours as he puttered in the dirt around tree trunks or tended his beehives. I’d never understood his excitement over crop yields or new fruit varieties brought by traders from far-flung places, nor why he seemed so content to poke around in the soil like a mole.

  Rivkah spoke the truth; I had made myself scarce whenever Gidal needed me. In fact, the day he’d surprised a viper coiled beneath a fallen branch, I had brushed off his request for help in favor of hunting with some other young men. It should have been my arm that deadly snake sank its fangs into, not Gidal’s. Not my solemn, kind, honorable brother. I could not undo my choices that day, could not bring back my best friend, but at least I could tend his fruit trees and keep them alive.

  Groaning, I rose to my feet, picked up my iron-toothed handsaw, and once again set myself to the task of shearing off the diseased or damaged limbs from the trees that had recently bowed low to the ground with golden-skinned pomes. If only I’d listened more closely when Gidal described how to ensure the trees would bear the most fruit in the coming year. I had much to learn, but I would do it. For him.

  As if conjured by the loud protestations of my empty stomach, Rivkah appeared in the orchard a few hours later, a basket on her hip that I very much hoped was full of food from my mother’s kitchen. If I were not all but certain she would slap my face, I would have thrown my arms around my betrothed and kissed her lips at the prospect of a fresh meal.

  She regarded me warily as she approached, almost as if she’d divined my thoughts. “What are you doing out here?” she asked.

  My brow wrinkled at her odd question. “Tending the orchard.”

  “But you despise these trees.”

  I blinked at her astute assessment. “They’ve been neglected for the past months.” I did not point out that it was Gidal’s death that had led to their abandonment, but the purse of her mouth told me she heard the silent words all too loudly.

  “I brought you some food,” she said, holding out the basket with a brusque motion.

  My stomach growled in appreciation, so I gave her a warm smile that I hoped might melt the icy expression she maintained. She turned, as if t
o head back to the city, but I grasped her wrist before she could take a step. “Please stay,” I said, desperate to spend more than just a few moments with her. “Eat with me.”

  Although she twisted her arm from my hold, she nodded, and once I was settled on the ground, folded herself down a couple of paces away. Plucking a twig from the ground, she proceeded to scrawl symbols in the earth, reminding me of the many hours I’d seen her practicing letters on shards of pottery, on rocks, even on strips of bark. I knew only the rudiments of our written language, but her single-minded commitment to learning not only Hebrew but so many strange and foreign tongues only deepened my regard for her.

  Reaching into the basket I pulled out two large rounds of bread, still warm from the oven, and breathed deep of the rich smell. I offered her one, but she shook her head. “I made them for you,” she said, continuing to scratch lines in the dirt.

  “You made this?” Warmth curled in my chest.

  She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “If I am to be your wife, I’d best get used to providing your meals. You eat more than I’ve ever seen any one man consume.”

  “My mother says the same thing.” I took the bread in both hands, but instead of tearing with steamy ease, it snapped in half like a shard of flint. Flipping it over I realized that although one side of the loaf was gently marked with brown spots, the other was charred black.

  I flicked a glance up at Rivkah. She was watching me intently, so I kept my expression even and took a bite. The bread was hard as slate and tasted like a hunk of coal. But she had made this for me, of her own free will, so I refused to hurt her feelings. That would be no way to ease her into a life with me, nor to overcome the obvious reservations she had about our marriage. I chewed the mealy mouthful and then took a great swig from the waterskin she’d brought. The water was tepid, with a slightly gritty aftertaste, but I forced myself to react as if it were the freshest water from the spring nearby.

  Reaching into the basket again, I discovered a large bowl of lentils, barley, and chickpeas, seasoned with cumin and coriander, just the way my mother prepared it. Murmuring my appreciation, I used one of the stony pieces of bread to scoop the fragrant concoction into my mouth. The instant it hit my tongue, I sucked in a breath through my nose.

  Salt. So much salt that it nearly brought tears to my eyes.

  But it was either spit out the foul mouthful or brazen it out for Rivkah’s sake. I chose her. Keeping my mind on the prize of her affection, I ate the awful mixture, drinking tepid water every few bites to rinse the layer of brine from my battered tongue. Had she always been such a terrible cook? I did not remember Gidal complaining of it, but my brother was the best of men, full of magnanimous grace. He would never shame his wife by voicing such a thing, so I vowed to do the same.

  She sprang to her feet, turning away from me as she scanned the orchard, then tugged absently on one of the leafy branches. “Do you even know how to maintain quince trees?”

  I restrained the impulse to bristle at her sharp question. “Gidal taught me which branches need pruning after harvest. And I am certainly capable of cleaning away the brush and weeds.” To my relief there were three green apples in the bottom of the basket, along with a hunk of soft cheese and some olives. Nothing that Rivkah could ruin. I nearly sighed with relief at the burst of tart flesh in my mouth as I bit into one of the apples.

  “Cultivating fruit is far more complicated than simply pruning and weeding,” she snapped. “Your brother was forever going on about the challenges involved. Since you refused to help him out here, I doubt you learned enough to follow in his footsteps.”

  Stricken by her insult, I chewed thoroughly and swallowed the bite of apple before responding with a measured tone. “Perhaps I listened more than you realize. I—”

  She cut me off with a shake of her head. “Why don’t you let one of the men deal with this grove?”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. One of the men. Which meant that in her estimation I was not to be counted among them. She considered me a child. I squared my shoulders, feeling a swift defense of my maturity surging forward. I may only be nearing my seventeenth year, but I had been working alongside Eitan for years now, forging weapons, crafting tools, felling trees, and swinging an adze with proficiency. And my father had been training me in the art of war and stealth since I was fourteen. I could wield a sword as well as many of the soldiers in his command, if not better, and had a talent for spying that rivaled his own. I was no mere boy.

  But just as I opened my mouth to plead my case, I remembered the grief on her face during the betrothal ceremony, the way she so bravely held her body still as the ketubah was read, and the way she questioned my resolve to honor both my brother and the Torah by caring for his widow.

  So instead I smiled at her, popped a couple of olives in my mouth, and then worked to keep my voice soft. “Whatever I do not know I will learn. You are right that I was not attentive enough to my brother’s tutelage, but I will do my best to maintain his trees and continue his work. Following in his footsteps, no matter how unworthy I am to do so, will be an honor.” My response seemed to shock her. Her mouth gaped for a moment before she rolled her eyes skyward and huffed out an exasperated groan. “Fine. I’ll leave you to it,” she bit out. Then she whirled around and stalked off, forgetting the empty basket on the ground.

  I kept my eyes pinned on the woman who would soon be my wife as she strode toward the city like a soldier bent on breaching the walls. Obviously, I had much to prove to her and a long way to go before I could break down her defenses, but much as I vowed to learn the secrets of Gidal’s orchards, I would learn hers as well. I would work to clear away the thorny weeds of our childhood and tend our marriage with the same attention I would give a delicate sapling. Even if she never loved me like she had my brother, I would do my best to earn her trust and respect.

  And thankfully, my mother was the best cook in the entire city—perhaps in all of the tribe of Naftali. Surely Rivkah would glean some skills from her along the way. As I turned back to the never-ending task of pruning the quince trees, her meal laying like a mud-brick in my stomach and the taste of ash still on my tongue, I fervently prayed it would be so.

  CHAPTER

  five

  Rivkah

  I clamped my lips together until I was well out of Malakhi’s hearing before releasing the hard spurt of laugher I’d been suppressing. It must have taken a will of iron to choke down that lump of char. A note of begrudging admiration for my betrothed’s newfound restraint struck me. The boy I’d known my entire life would have spat it out, wiped his mouth with his arm, and then mocked my cooking skills. I’d been braced for just such a reaction, ready to make it clear I had little intention of putting forth any great effort into preparing meals for him. And yet to my great surprise, he’d accepted my burnt offerings without complaint. And he’d been almost honorable in his determination to continue Gidal’s work in the orchards. But whether or not he had gained a modicum of maturity over the years, it did nothing to change my opinion about this marriage.

  Lost in my thoughts, I’d nearly forgotten that the women of Malakhi’s family were gathered at the stream to launder clothing and bedding and that I was expected to join them. I shifted my course away from the city gates to search them out among those filling waterskins and washing in the sweet water that flowed from the spring deep beneath the foundations of Kedesh.

  “Did Malakhi enjoy his meal?” Moriyah asked as I approached the place where she and her daughters knelt by the stream. Not pausing for my answer, she returned to her task, her strong arms and capable hands making easy work of scrubbing one of Darek’s tunics. “That boy eats even more than Eitan ever did. I am sure it won’t be long before he’s under my feet asking for more, but hopefully you gave him enough to stave off his ravenous hunger . . . for an hour or two.” Her easy laughter made it clear that she hadn’t suspected my scheme against her son. She would be horrified that I’d ruined her lovingly prepared f
ood when her back was turned, but I had to induce him to break the betrothal by whatever means necessary.

  The girls laughed too, well acquainted with Malakhi’s unparalleled appetite, then delved back into discussing when Darek and his men would return from whatever mission they were on at the moment. Disinterested with chatter of soldiers, spies, and enemies, I let the words fade into the background as I retrieved a tunic from the basket between them and knelt on a flat rock at the water’s edge, putting my hands to work scrubbing the grime and soot from the filthy garment.

  Three small boys with light brown hair and a multitude of freckles between them bounded into the stream, sending up a spray of cold water that soaked the front of my dress and dripped from my eyelashes. “Boys, do not splash the ladies!” Sofea called out as she approached with her tiny daughter on one hip, her rounded belly causing an uneven gait. Although it had been years since she’d learned Hebrew, her lilting accent always strengthened when she was frustrated with her active brood. “And stay near the edge or you’ll get swept downstream!”

  She repeated the warning in her original language, which always made the threat more substantial, and added a command to greet their grandmother. They sheepishly sloshed back to the bank, where Moriyah offered each an exuberant kiss and a fresh date roll from a basket tucked near the roots of a nearby willow tree. Collecting a few fallen willow branches, they set off to explore with Tirzah, Malakhi’s youngest sister, who seemed to much prefer playing with wooden swords and climbing trees with the boys to spending time with girls her own age.

  “I apologize for the dousing,” Sofea said to us as she handed her daughter to Moriyah and rubbed the small of her back. “And I would have been along to help sooner but the boys begged to help their father sand a cedar beam, so it took much longer than I expected. And of course once I let Eitan hold Mari he refused to give her up.”