twenty
My family and Hakim’s family, along with Baz and his wife and daughters, were gathered around the long table in the courtyard, oil lamps flickering joyfully along its length. Every Shabbat of my life I’d partaken in an evening meal just like this one, replete with overlapping conversations, delicious food, and an air of contented relaxation as we paused our work and celebrated together, even when my father was away on a mission. But as I approached the table tonight, the laughter dried up like a shallow cistern beneath the sun until every eye was on me.
I flicked an accusing glance at Baz, who’d obviously told everyone that Amitai had summoned me earlier. I had not told anyone of what I’d witnessed at the gates the day the young woman was brought into town for asylum—not even Hakim, who’d been standing next to me—but it would not be difficult to guess who the priest and I had been discussing.
Tirzah bounded up to me, her dark hair in wild curls around her upturned face as she gripped me about the waist with both arms. “Malakhi! You have missed most of the meal!” she said, seemingly oblivious to the tension I’d dragged back with me to the inn.
I’d spent hours out among the quince trees after I’d left Amitai’s home, puttering with the beehives and clearing out brush, weighing whether I should refuse his request or pursue the woman who’d run from me. Among the many considerations was my father’s challenge to return to my place under his command, and Baz’s impossible assertions that even with my injuries I might someday move into my father’s position. I’d come to the conclusion that even if by some miracle I healed enough to step into such a role in the future, the time was not now. However, in the back of my mind, I wondered whether perhaps this quest to search for Rivkah might be a gauge of whether I even desired that future anymore.
I forced myself to turn my attention back toward my sister. At fourteen she was teetering on the edge of womanhood but stoutly refused to give up the sling she carried with her everywhere, just like I had when I was a boy. With constant scrapes on her shins from climbing trees and ever at the ready to challenge boys her age to shooting matches or footraces, Tirzah would be a force to be reckoned with in the years to come and regularly drove my frazzled mother to her knees.
“Ima had me save your portion,” she said.
“Even the honey roll?” I asked, catching a glint of gold on her chin.
Her eyes went wide and she rolled her lips inward, a mask of guilt settling over her features. I forced a halfhearted laugh and kissed her forehead. “You little imp, you still have honey on your face,” I said, then leaned down to whisper in her ear. “But you know I can always talk Ima into making more rolls.”
She grinned and spun off to return to the table, finding her place among my younger nieces and nephews, who adored her spirited and adventurous nature. I strode forward, ignoring the stares, to fold myself down in my usual spot near the end and take a piece of flatbread to fill with lentils and onions.
The unnerving silence continued as I chewed, until Abra could take it no more. “Malakhi,” she growled from directly across the table, “are you planning to leave us in the dark all evening?”
I finished chewing and took a draft of wine, taking a bit of pleasure in drawing out the moment and watching her face contort with annoyance. “I spoke with Amitai.”
“And?” she prodded, gritting her teeth. Being with child seemed to have sliced her already short patience in half.
The image of that small scrap of papyrus and the two simple words seemed emblazoned in my mind. “Rivkah sent him a message.”
A ripple of gasps went around the table. Only the young children and my mother seemed unaffected by the news. Her silver eyes held only concern for me, so I avoided her all-too-keen gaze. Had she somehow known this day would come? She’d always come to Rivkah’s defense in the past, but would she approve of me running off to find the woman who’d stolen Gidal’s legacy?
“A message?” Abra’s eyes narrowed. “After all this time?” Her husband put a calming hand atop hers, knowing, just as I did, how fiercely protective she was of those she loved. The reason it had taken so long for Rivkah to contact her father, and why now, were only two of the myriad questions that had been buzzing around and around in my head since the moment I’d held the message in my hand.
“She sent it through a Levite,” I replied. “One of the men who arrived with the manslayer the other day.”
“Why has it taken him until now to speak with you about it?”
“He has spent the last four days in prayer and fasting.” I’d avoided Lailah when I left, since I was too much of a coward to explain why I’d been entertaining the notion of trying to find her sister after she’d specifically begged me not to.
Abra lifted her brows pointedly, irritated with my piecemeal information. “Well? Where is she?”
I sighed, knowing if I avoided the question now she’d only badger it out of me later. “Possibly up near Golan, in the eastern territory of Manasseh.” I took another sip of wine, savoring the deep flavor on my tongue as I closed my eyes to deliver the rest. “He wants me to retrieve her.” The tension around the table stretched and grew, looming in the courtyard like a storm cloud. Even the children held their tongues.
“And you told him no,” Abra stated.
“I told him I would consider it.”
“No. You aren’t going anywhere for that—”
“Stop,” I interrupted, lifting a palm. “Not another word. She is Amitai’s daughter.”
Her lips snapped shut, going pale with the pressure, and the eyes that matched mine flashed with frustration, but Liron’s hand tightened around her fingers in silent warning. Surprisingly, the gesture seemed to have the intended effect. Abra took a long, slow inhale before resuming. “Where has she been?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does she want to return?”
Did she? A plea for forgiveness was not a call for rescue. Perhaps she was married to the Hebrew she’d been seen with in Laish. Perhaps she’d forgotten she was ever betrothed to me and only wanted to clear her soul of transgressions toward her father. “All I know is she is alive and Amitai has asked me to find her.”
“Why can’t someone else make the journey? You are injured.”
I couldn’t explain Amitai’s reasoning without exposing myself too much, but I’d already made my decision out in the orchard and refused to be swayed by Abra’s hostility—especially when I knew it was only born of her deep love for me. So I said the one thing I knew would close her mouth, my tone of voice brooking no more argument. “Because he asked me to, and no matter what she did, her father is deserving of respect.”
Silence reigned over the table until Hakim spoke, his dark-eyed gaze on me. “I will go with you, my friend.”
Although my instinct was to turn down his offer, I nodded my thanks, since a companion would be welcome on such a trek. Benamin laid a palm on his son’s shoulder, his expression warm and approving. “We planned on staying here through the cold season anyhow. You are welcome to one of our wagons, if you’d like.”
I shook my head. “Thank you, but we’ll walk. It’ll give us more flexibility to move off the trade roads when need be.” While the territory we had to cover between here and Golan had been settled by the tribes of Naftali and Manasseh, there was always the chance that enemies were about. Bumbling along in a wagon would only draw unwelcome attention. It was best to move quickly and quietly.
“I cannot go with you,” said my father, an edge of frustration to his voice. “The threat from the Arameans is too dire. And Eitan needs to come with us this time since we are going so far north. He’s been anxious to see Hittite ironworks with his own eyes in order to duplicate their processes, and this may be his only chance to do so. But perhaps Baz can accompany you and Hakim. He’s been with us in Golan many times over the years and even has a few contacts there and in the surrounding areas.”
My father’s most faithful friend lifted his brows, some silent con
versation going on between him and my father, but after a swiftly whispered consultation with Sarai, Baz thunked his wine cup on the wooden table with a loud “Agreed.” There was no reason to argue. When my father gave an order, Baz obeyed, and there would be nothing I could do to convince him otherwise.
Although I could still feel Abra’s disapproval radiating from across the table, emotion pinched the back of my throat as I let my gaze travel over my family and friends. They knew the devastation Rivkah had left behind. I’d been sixteen and not all that skilled at hiding my emotions. I’d been surly and difficult to be around for months. It wasn’t until Baz and my father had channeled my anger into weapons training that my wildly vacillating moods had leveled out. And if the sympathetic looks from around the table were any indication, then perhaps they all knew, just as Amitai had, how enamored I’d been of Rivkah. And yet other than my twin, who would without a doubt like nothing more than to thrash the woman who’d wounded me so deeply, they all seemed to understand why I needed to go.
My mother met my eyes, and the peace and pride across her scarred but beautiful face reinforced my decision. I cleared my throat of the lump of gratitude and affection for the loved ones who surrounded me and lifted my half-empty cup in salute to Hakim and Baz. “Well then, we’d best enjoy our Shabbat rest. We have a long walk ahead of us.”
The journey across Naftali territory took only a day, even with the wide berth we gave my uncle Raviv’s valley. I doubted he would know me by sight, especially since I’d only seen him when he came looking for Nessa and he’d paid me no attention as we’d traveled to Laish. But Baz and I deemed it best to avoid contact with him nonetheless.
After our futile search for the two wayward girls five years ago, Raviv had walked away without even a parting farewell to my father, seemingly resigned to his loss, with silent, contrite nephews in his wake. From all that I knew of Raviv, he’d likely written Nessa off as dead and not thought much of her again. Any man who could shut out his younger brother for twenty-five years over a mistake, albeit a tragic one, had no room for forgiveness in his heart.
Now, after days of trekking across the tribal territory of Manasseh, up and over a multitude of hills, through narrow rocky valleys, and crossing a number of streams and rivers, we were finally nearing Golan.
Har Hermon sat to the northwest of the city, its snowy peaks stark white against the green landscape. Fruit orchards, olive groves, and lentil, barley, and wheat fields spread in every direction, and the verdant hills all around were layered with terraced vineyards and thick forests. The land of Bashan, once ruled by the giant King Og, was wealthy beyond what I’d even imagined. No wonder the enemies to the north and east were slavering to wrest it from our grasp. The city itself was built on a hill at the center of the broad valley, and even from our far vantage point at the top of the ridge, I could see the wide-open gates beckoning weary travelers and manslayers to take refuge within its high walls.
After months of languishing in Kedesh as I’d healed, doing little more than helping Eitan cut down a few trees and working in the foundry, I’d initially found the pace Baz set a bit of a challenge. Hakim, with his long-legged stride, had little trouble keeping up, but I lagged behind all too frequently. Only sheer force of will kept me moving forward, and bit by bit I’d begun to relish the burn in my legs and remember the exhilaration of accomplishment as our destination came ever nearer.
Nearer to Rivkah.
Most hours on the trail I’d been content to clear my mind of thoughts about the goal of our mission, but the closer we came to Golan, the more I was flooded with memories of the girl I’d known.
The days after her mother’s death had been a confusing time. Even though I’d been only nine years old, I’d never forget the sight of Rivkah’s drawn face as she walked behind her father while her mother’s body was carried outside the city walls for burial.
I’d had the inexplicable urge to walk alongside her, to hold her hand so she wouldn’t be alone, but unable to deal with such heavy thoughts as a child, I’d instead made a face at her in a feeble and immature attempt to make her smile. Her blank-eyed response sobered me instantly. It was almost as if she’d died too.
It had taken weeks for her to react to my teasing after that, but to my childish way of thinking, provoking her was the only way to keep her from being so lifeless. If Rivkah was yelling at me, chasing after me with threats of bodily harm, then at least she was still alive. It was not until that day under the terebinth, her sweet voice lifting up a song I’d never heard before, that instead of goading her into anger I was desperate to have her smile at me. But then, within only a few months, my father and hers had agreed to a year-long betrothal to Gidal. And out of respect for my brother I pushed aside all of my longings, even though at the time it felt like it was me who had one foot in the grave.
“What thoughts are making you frown so, my friend?” said Hakim, with a nudge of his bony elbow to my ribs.
I waved a hand toward the road ahead. “Just ready to be done with this.”
“And find your woman?”
I inhaled sharply. “She’s not my woman anymore.” She never truly was. “I am doing this for Amitai’s sake and then I will return to Kedesh and marry Ayala.”
His black brows arched high. “Oh? I thought you had not made this decision yet.”
“Why not?” I said. “She’s beautiful and kind. Chana tells me she’s a wonderful cook. Besides, I think my sisters are deliberately attempting to drive me to the brink of sanity with their nagging.”
Hakim tipped back his head and laughed. “Chana is much too sweet for that,” he said. “But I certainly would not put it past Abra.”
I chuckled, but then admitted I’d taken Chana aside after the Shabbat meal and asked her to hint to Ayala that I would likely approach her father on my return. “They are right; it is time. And I am ready for sons and daughters of my own.”
Hakim nodded and clapped me on the back with his large hand. “I am glad to hear it. And perhaps . . .” He paused to take a long, deep breath before continuing. “Perhaps if I can convince your sweet sister to marry me, we will be fathers together.”
“You . . .” My jaw dropped open and I stopped in place to gape at him. “You want to marry Chana?”
A shy expression crossed his face, and somehow his dark skin deepened all the more. “Does this displease you?”
“Of course not!” I gripped his forearm. “Does she know you have an interest?”
He shrugged. “We have spoken a number of times at the inn over the past months. She is . . . so lovely. And her heart is pure and generous. I have admired her for years but did not have the courage to say anything until now. Do you think your father will be amenable to the union?”
“I do. Our parents will be thrilled with such a match.”
“Even though we are not Hebrew?”
“You are devoted to Yahweh, are you not?”
“We are. Thanks to your mother’s influence on my own mother so many years ago, we serve the One True God. No matter where we travel, we obey the Torah and worship him alone.”
“If you have committed to taking part in the Covenant, then I do not foresee any impediment to your marriage to Chana. And truly, Hakim, I can think of no better husband for her.”
“What are you gossiping about back there?” shouted Baz, his giant paws fisted on his hips.
“Women,” I said, shoving Hakim’s shoulder with a snicker. “What else?”
Hakim surprised me by pushing back, sending me off balance and into the dirt. I responded by hooking my arm around his knee and pulling him down with me. We tussled back and forth until both of us were panting and sweaty. Toki, delighted by our antics, left Baz’s side to run in joyful circles around us, yipping and bouncing, her hooked tail flailing back and forth in glee. Baz had tried to leave her back in Kedesh, going so far as to have Sarai keep her in a locked room until he was well away from the city, but not an hour after we’d departed she’d fou
nd us on the road, tail wagging, to take her place at her adored master’s side.
With an exasperated growl, Baz threw his hands up in the air. “Enough, you fools. I’d like to make it inside the city before they close the gates.”
After a few more playful shoves, Hakim and I caught up with Baz, who furrowed his brows at us but seemed to be pressing his lips together to squelch a smile. “You two are worse than fifteen-year-old trainees,” he said. “If we had time, I’d stop right here and make you build a useless stone wall and disassemble it again, but the sun will be setting soon, so let’s move.”
Although I’d been grateful for the distraction Hakim’s declaration had provided, as we neared the entrance to the city all amusement retreated, allowing thoughts of Rivkah to crowd back in. What had transpired over the past five years to bring her to a refuge city so far from home?
We walked by the surprisingly large number of traders’ booths and wagons lining the road to pass through the cedar gates. My stomach clenched tight as, after a brief consultation with the guards on duty, we headed toward the home of one of the priests who governed Golan, hoping he might have answers as to Rivkah’s whereabouts.
One thing we knew for sure: she had been here only a month before. Her feet had likely trod these same cobblestones. For the past week, since I’d given in to Amitai’s plea, I’d been contemplating what I would say to her once I found her, but I still had no answer. What did one say to the woman who’d run as far and as fast as she could to escape marriage to you?
CHAPTER
twenty-one
Rivkah
15 Av
Edrei, Israel
I lifted my bleary eyes from the papyrus, rubbing at the ache in my neck after an hour of bending over the faded letters I’d been attempting to decipher. Samil had insisted I determine how the man he’d provided a loan to six years ago had swindled him. But whoever had prepared the agreement guaranteeing Samil a portion of the man’s crops was undoubtedly the worst scribe I’d ever encountered. The marks were haphazard and crudely formed, and the poor quality ink so faded in places that many words were nothing more than a guessing game. But such was the nature of my duties as Samil’s personal scribe.
Until the Mountains Fall Page 14