Ordering Abra to stay back within the protection of the trees, I edged toward the ridgeline, low to the ground, and looked down toward the gates of the city. Immediate relief sluiced through my veins. There was no enemy invasion. The gates were open wide and no defensive measures had been implemented. But before I could inform my sister of the news, the shofarim sounded again—a familiar but insistent call for the people of Kedesh to gather in the main plaza.
With only one shared look of urgency between us, Abra and I ran down the slope. We did not stop to inquire of the guards at the gate or pause at the inn, heading directly toward the Levite storehouse that had once been a pagan Canaanite temple, knowing our family would already be there. The area around the storehouse, as well as the marketplace nearby, was packed full. The overlapping chatter of the crowd made it clear that whatever announcement was forthcoming had not yet been revealed. With the habit of a lifetime of congregating in the same place during festivals and recitations of the Torah, Abra and I threaded our way through the multitude, heading to where my family always gathered in the shade of the three large date palms at the very center of town.
Abra went directly to the side of her husband, Liron, a grandson of one of the elders of Naftali. The man dipped his chin in my direction as he wrapped an arm around her waist and spread his fingers over her gently rounded belly, a nod of gratitude for delivering his wife and unborn child to safety.
My mother and father, always a unit, stood together near the largest of the palms, surrounded by their children and grandchildren. After the argument this morning back at the inn, when I’d emphatically told them both I had no interest in marrying the latest of a long string of eligible young women they’d dangled before me, I avoided their searching gazes. But in doing so, I ended up pinned by a scowl from Eitan, who’d obviously left the foundry in a hurry, as evidenced by the soot covering his face, hands, and tunic. It seemed Abra was not the only sibling frustrated with my less-than-gentle rebuff of Chana’s offer to introduce me to her friend Ayala.
I was used to my twin sister’s oft-sharp tongue and lack of restraint in sharing her every opinion with me, but my older brother’s censure was a rare and weightier matter. Before I could react to the reproach in his expression, the shofarim rang out over the crowd again. The entire congregation went silent, with only the squall of a few babies startled by the ram’s horns and the incessant scuffle of sandals carried across the crowded plaza. A contingent of unfamiliar Levites stood on the porch of the storehouse, dressed in the white linen garments worn during festivals or while performing sacred duties at the Mishkan. A frisson of dread traveled up my spine at the solemn expressions on their faces.
Amitai stepped forward. Although he was nearing the age of retirement from his duties in Kedesh and his face was lined with heartbreak over his lost daughter, the voice he lifted over the congregation was strong. “These Levites were sent from Shiloh,” he said. “They carry news from Eleazar, the High Priest of Israel, a message that they are spreading throughout the Land with heavy hearts. It is with great sadness that I announce Yehoshua, son of Nun and successor to Mosheh, has passed from this life to the olam ha’ba.”
An immediate chorus of wails burst from the lips of many of the women, the mournful ululations filling the air with a thick layer of grief. Although I was certain he had much more to say, Amitai allowed the outburst, his head bowed as the city lamented the death of the man who’d led us out of the wilderness into the Promised Land. As I watched an elderly man kneel in the dirt and rend his garments, two questions arose in my mind: Could anyone ever take the place of a leader who seemed nearly as immortal as the mountains? And what would our enemies do now that he was gone?
CHAPTER
fourteen
Rivkah
15 Tammuz
Golan, Israel
Yehoshua is dead?
The news, delivered without even a hint of regret by the young woman surveying goods on my market table, caught me completely by surprise. “How long ago?” I asked her.
“A week, perhaps? At least that is when some priests came here from Shiloh with the news.” She shrugged, indifferent as she pawed through my master’s stock of finely woven headscarves. Surreptitiously, I adjusted the slippery pile of fabric she’d knocked askew before the precious material could slide off the table and into the dirt. It certainly would not be this flippant young woman bearing the blame if anything were damaged.
I surveyed the bustling marketplace around me, my gaze flitting from one busy stall to the next. There were no women weeping in the streets, no drawn faces or rent garments, no sign that our venerated leader had been laid to rest. There was only the volley of traders and customers haggling prices, vying for supremacy over each transaction in the never-ending battle of commerce.
“Is no one mourning him?” I asked.
She wrinkled her nose, kohl-lined eyes full of disdain. “There are better things to do than wail over some ancient warrior.” Her complete lack of respect for Yehoshua was astounding. But truly, after five years of living outside Kedesh, nothing should shock me. For as many Hebrews who respected the Torah and held the lessons our people learned in the wilderness in high regard, the same number had traded many of the old ways for the twin shackles of idolatry and compromise.
And yet I had no right to speak. The table in front of me was not only laden with lovely fabrics and pottery purchased from far-flung eastern cities, it also contained an array of jewel-inlaid wood carvings featuring the images of Ishtar and Tammuz. The Babylonian idols fetched high prices within the Hebrew territories east of the Jordan River—a testament to just how far our people had distanced themselves from the Torah, and how far I’d strayed from my father’s house. My slavery, however, had been willingly self-inflicted, bartered and sealed with a few misguided swipes of my own reed pen.
Without thought, my hand went to my belt, where a scrap of papyrus lay tucked inside its folds, the ink faded by years of indecision and cowardice. When my master had declared that we were to stop in the market of Golan before heading back to his villa after our weeks-long journey, I’d taken it as a sign that not another day should pass before putting the missive into the right hands—Levite ones.
“How much for this?” the girl asked, lifting a scarf higher to examine the intricate embroidery that scrolled with silvery eloquence over the swath of scarlet.
I gave her a price and her eyes bulged. “For this?” She fisted the fabric near my nose, crinkling the delicate surface.
Summoning my well-worn trader’s smile, I gently but firmly tugged it from her grasp, then spread it on the table in front of her. “This piece was purchased in Damascus, but it was carried there by another trader who brought it from a land that lies at the very edge of the world.” I slid my fingers over the scarf to highlight its skillful design and to smooth the wrinkles. “The threads are spun by a certain type of worm and the fabric is woven with a process of utmost secrecy, guarded under pain of death.”
“Worms!” The girl’s face contorted into an ugly grimace. “Who would wear such a thing?”
I slid my palm across the fabric that glided like water over my skin. Not for the first time, or even the hundredth, I remembered the weight of the silver and jewelry I’d once had at my neck—the value of which could have bought this piece many times over and would have staved off the desperation that had led me into chains.
Each time I allowed myself to think of the bridal gifts I’d left behind in my father’s chest, I hoped that the woman who’d ultimately received them was a far better wife than I would have been to Malakhi. Although his handsome features had somewhat faded in my memory, the devastation in his silver eyes as I mercilessly flayed him with my words in the quince grove had not. Thank goodness he would never know just how deep my betrayal had gone.
As was my habit, perfected by five years of practice, I pressed the overwhelming regret as deep as it would go and turned my mind back to the girl and the potential sale. “My m
aster and I have only just returned from Aram, where we purchased this scarf. This fabric is so precious that only royalty wear it there.” I allowed envy to lift my brows and sighed in obvious want. “Anyone fortunate enough to cover their head with a scarf like this would rival a queen.”
Lust flared in the girl’s eyes, and within moments my palm was empty of the fabric and my price met without arguement. I watched her disappear with her purchase into the overcrowded marketplace. Golan was a city of refuge, just like Kedesh. It was surrounded by high walls, and set aside to give asylum to those convicted of manslaughter, but that was where the similarities ended.
I’d expected Golan to be a place like the one in which I’d grown up: quiet and peaceful, and with Levites, townspeople, and manslayers living in relative harmony. Instead, I’d found a hectic center of commerce with a marketplace nearly three times the size of that in the city of my youth. Although there were no pagan altars at the entrance to Golan, a multitude of market stalls greeted visitors, and the cacophony of many traders barking out their wares to any passersby was eerily reminiscent of my disastrous two days in Laish.
Although I’d traveled many places with my master, both inside and outside the Land, this was the first time I’d accompanied him to Golan. When we’d first passed through the gates this morning, I assumed I’d have little problem encountering a Levite, but so far I’d seen only two men who wore the distinctive garments of their office, and neither had approached this large merchant stall at the center of the plaza. They wouldn’t, stocked with idols as it was, and I could not walk away from the merchandise or my master would be furious. So I called out to new customers, negotiated prices, and entered transactions on the record my master insisted I keep while he was off meeting with city officials.
I did not bother to pray for one of the sons of Levi to come along. Yahweh’s ears were long closed to me. But I watched and waited as the morning meandered lazily into the afternoon, ever aware of the tiny roll of papyrus concealed in my belt.
After weeks of bumping along on a camel through Aram-Naharim and back, I wanted nothing more than to hand off my message and return to my tiny room in the servants’ quarters behind my master’s villa. I was anxious to ensure that my young friend and fellow slave Anataliah had kept her word to me while I was away—
Someone knocked into my table, jarring me from my musings. Two carvings wobbled before toppling onto their faces, and I scrabbled to save the slippery fabrics from slithering to the ground again.
“You cannot sell those here!” said a man, his gnarled finger pointed at me and his silver brows pulled low. With every word his voice grew louder. “How dare you peddle such blasphemy!”
In wide-eyed shock I stuttered a nonsensical response, mortification rising hot in my cheeks. Here I’d been searching for a Levite all day and the first one to find me was ready to publically cast stones at my head. Everyone within our vicinity stared, no doubt salivating at the prospect of some entertainment at my expense.
“This is a Levitical town, girl. Your gods have no place inside these walls.” He kicked the table leg with his foot, making more of the statues wobble before they tumbled onto the cobblestones. The largest of the idols lost a head, its obsidian eyes glaring accusingly at me as I scrambled to pick up the mess. My master would be furious! He’d traded three handfuls of precious Egyptian stones for this lot of gods and expected to profit handily from them.
Pounding a fist on the table now, his face mottled red, the stranger continued to berate me for my “heathen ways,” but I could only wonder what Samil would do when he returned. It had been a long while since he’d punished me—years, in fact, since I’d even dared contradict him aloud. I’d learned early on in my indenture that my master was relaxed, gregarious, and even quite generous when his word was obeyed. But if crossed, he skipped right past scolding and directly into threatening whatever was most precious.
I’d watched him order Anataliah’s meager belongings be tossed into a flaming brazier after she’d burned a meal during a visit from one of the most powerful elders of the tribe of Manasseh. And in horror I’d been forced to witness the lashing of his steward’s oldest son when the wax seals failed on a shipment of wine that was not properly attended. Thankfully, Samil valued my scribal and language skills highly enough that I’d escaped his worst fits of temper, but as I grabbed for the remaining idols this stranger seemed intent on destroying, my blood ran cold.
My master was well aware of what was most precious to me.
“Please,” I said to the angry Levite, with as much humility as I could muster. “I make no decision as to what is sold here. I worship Yahweh.”
“You are Hebrew?” he shrilled. “How can you abide such effrontery to the Almighty? You are worse than a pagan. You know the truth.”
Head down and hands full of splintered idols, I said nothing as he continued to scold me. I did not think it possible for the pit of shame to grow any larger within me, but I was wrong. I’d heard the stories passed down from my great-grandmother Shira about the three days of hideous darkness in Egypt, and somehow it felt as though the same palpable blackness had coated my soul and was slowly consuming me from the inside out.
“You are right,” I said, my voice small when he finally paused to take a breath. He blinked at me, startled by my acquiescence. The girl I was five years ago would not have abided such harsh criticism, but the woman I was now knew she deserved every word. Pulling together the last threadbare shreds of courage I had, I lifted my chin, meeting the Levite’s confused gaze. “But no matter the stupidity that led me here, I have no choice now but to do as I am told.”
The man’s face was still flushed from his tirade, but his bearded jaw hung slack. Knowing Samil would return any moment, I dropped the broken idols on the table with a clatter and slipped my message from my belt. Coming around the table, I moved closer to the man, then pursued him when he shuffled back two steps in bewilderment. I was determined not to miss this, my one and only opportunity.
“Please,” I said, my voice low and urgent as I pushed the scrap of papyrus into the Levite’s hand. “Please, can you find a way to have this sent to Amitai, the head priest in Kedesh?”
Astonishment pushed the man’s silver-laced brows together, a sneer of disdain contorting his face. “Why would I do that? Amitai is well respected, a man of impeccable honor and righteousness. He would have nothing to do with the likes of you.”
The truth of such a statement was never so clear as this man, consecrated by Yahweh for holy service just as my father was, glared down his nose at me. I had taken advantage of every single moment in my father’s presence—every hour spent learning to read and write at his knee, every gentle touch of his hand on my forehead as he recited Shabbat blessings over me, every laugh and smile and endearment. I did not deserve to be his daughter.
“That may be,” I said, the blackness inside swelling so high that my words came out in a strangled hush. “But even so, there is something I must say.”
CHAPTER
fifteen
Malakhi
15 Tammuz
Out here among the hives there were no weeping women still ululating over the loss of Yehoshua, no worry over the future of Israel or her enemies, and no expectations from my family. There was only me, the whispering leaves, the blazing sun, and the buzz of the colony.
Seeking an excuse to escape the inn and the all-too-frequent hints that it was past time for me to take a wife, I’d decided it was time to brave a harvest of honey now that I’d cleared the debris and carefully repaired the worst of the damage. The old Levite who’d helped me rebuild the hives five years ago said harvesting was best done at the peak of the hot season at midday, to allow the sun to do much of the work of extracting the viscous liquid from the combs. I hoped I remembered enough of what he’d told me, because he’d died last year, and without Gidal I had no one else to fill in the gaps.
As the Levite had taught me, I’d wrapped strips of linen around
my arms and legs and draped a woolen scarf over my head and twice around my neck, the flimsiest of armor for my incursion. I struck my iron knife against a shard of flint to kindle a spark inside a clay pot I’d placed between the hives. When the flame caught, I used a stick to prod at the dried leaves and grass at the bottom and stirred the embers until smoke curled around my head and stung my eyes. Blowing on the smoldering pile, I encouraged the spooling gray trail to billow and fill the glade.
Once the smoke had done its work to calm the bees and the insistent buzz of the colony had lulled into a gentle hum, I approached one of the hives from the back, so as not to provoke the bees’ ire, and lifted the reed mat I’d secured over the hidden opening. Reaching inside, I kept my breaths slow and shallow, hoping the colony would ignore my raid.
I immediately earned two war wounds on my thumb for my efforts. Hissing against the sharp stings, I brought my hand to my mouth, sucking out the stingers and spitting them aside, but the tiny points of pain were nothing compared to the near-constant fire that throbbed in my shoulder. In fact, the stings were almost a welcome distraction from the perpetual ache in my worthless arm.
Drawing on my military training, I pushed aside the instinct to retreat and engaged the enemy again, without flinching at any injuries I sustained. When I was rewarded with a glistening honeycomb, its tiny cavities overflowing with precious liquid, I wished that Gidal were here to see the spoils of my victory. In spite of my foolishness and neglect, something of what he began all those years ago was actually thriving.
Voices drifted up over the ridgeline and I sighed at the invasion. So much for a peaceful afternoon among the bees. Eitan, Sofea, and all six of their children threaded through the trees, followed by Chana, who’d been avoiding me since I’d lashed out at her. Guilt nagged at me. I really should apologize to my sister.
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