Until the Mountains Fall

by Connilyn Cossette

  I did not relish being the one who must tell my master that, indeed, according to this document, the man owed the original loan amount along with only half the interest the two had verbally agreed upon. Had I been in service to him at the time this contract was written, the borrower would not have gotten away with this. Knowing my master, he would find a way to exact payment anyhow, and the man would regret ever doing business with the richest, most ruthless trader in Edrei. It did not matter that the man was Hebrew and therefore, by Mosheh’s directive, should not have been charged interest in the first place. Samil always found a way to profit.

  I had completed nearly five years of my indenture contract to Samil, and by Torah law could go free at the beginning of the seventh, but my situation in this household was far better than most, and I anticipated it would be necessary to continue on in his employ. What choice did I have, other than finding some man to marry like Nessa had? That path was one I refused to entertain. When she and I had left Kedesh with our heads full of foolish notions of freedom and determining our own futures, who would have guessed that servitude would be my best and safest choice? At least my master was so wrapped up in his two young, voluptuous Canaanite wives that he had no interest in forcing me to submit to him in other ways.

  It had been weeks since I’d seen Nessa, as she lived on the outskirts of Edrei with her husband and two boys. When I had crossed paths with her in the marketplace, her hollow-eyed sadness gutted me, as did the faint bruise along her jawline. The achingly handsome young man with whom she’d been so enamored when we came through this city with the traders five years ago—and the reason we’d stayed after they’d traveled on—had only revealed his true nature after he’d gotten her with child. Now, trapped in a marriage to a man likely far worse than the older man her father had pledged her to, and with a third baby in her belly, Nessa had even less freedom than she had before.

  After unfolding myself from the dirt floor to stretch, I crossed the room to the washpot, hoping that a splash of cool water on my face might revive my weary mind. Since we’d returned from our journey past the Tigris River a few weeks ago, Samil had not given me a day to rest, not even on Shabbat. But since the city elders in Edrei did little to enforce Torah unless it served their purposes, those of us considered slaves had no choice but to work from sunup to sundown if our masters demanded it.

  The side door crashed open, slamming against the mud-brick wall, and Anataliah flew into our shared quarters, accompanied by the smell of charred fabric. Whisking off her headscarf, her brown curls sprang free as she held out her arm to me. “I burned myself again!”

  I dunked the linen towel I’d been drying my face with into the washpot and ordered the girl to sit on our one three-legged stool. Hissing from the pain, she obeyed and sat with gritted teeth as I applied the cool compress to the burn on her arm. When her body began to relax, I lifted the cloth and inspected the injury.

  “It’s not nearly as bad as the one on your hand last month,” I said. “Dab a little honey there and it will heal quickly.” I did not envy Anataliah’s grueling job in the open-air kitchen courtyard, shaded only by a threadbare canopy of black wool. My many duties as Samil’s personal scribe were nothing compared to the never-ending task of preparing meals for his large and demanding family and for all the many servants and laborers in his employ, as well as serving during the numerous banquets he put on for men whose business or favor he was courting.

  “Are you certain?” she asked, peering at me anxiously.

  “Yes, it won’t leave a scar. How did you accomplish such a thing?” I asked.

  She blew out a low, exasperated breath. “I was kneeling to stir the coals in the oven and one shattered and flew right at me. It hit my arm and then landed in my lap.” She gestured to the walnut-sized hole in her tunic right above her knee. She groaned. “I’ve ruined yet another garment.”

  “We can fix it. I’ll ask one of the weavers for some thread and a needle. Don’t fret.”

  “Are you sure? When I spilled pomegranate juice all over that awful sheer linen dress Samil made me wear when those Egyptians dined here two years ago, I thought he would murder me on the spot.”

  I had no doubt he’d frightened the breath out of the girl. More than once I’d seen Samil turn red as a sunset while berating servants for an offense. And if they had embarrassed him in front of potential customers, all the worse.

  “Here,” I said. “We can trade tunics. You’d better get back to the courtyard before Dilara notices you are missing.”

  Samil’s pampered second wife, a Canaanite girl he’d met on a trading run to Edom, had little more to do with her days than breeze around the villa, ordering servants to perform additional tasks and reporting any infractions to her husband with the air of a wounded doe. Even though at twenty years of age she was already the mother of two, Dilara was little more than a simpering child herself, dressed in fine Egyptian linens and draped in precious gems, reveling in her power over all of us. And now that she was pregnant with her third child, she was even more volatile than usual.

  We traded garments and I sent Anataliah back out to the kitchen, leaving the side door ajar to allow some cool air to filter into the stuffy room and to enjoy the sound of the children playing a gleeful game of chase in the courtyard.

  My young Moabite roommate had been sold by her own parents six years ago to satisfy their debts after a devastating crop failure, and although she barely spoke above a whisper to most everyone else, living together in this small room had given me the chance to get to know her well, and we’d come to depend on each other. In many ways her quiet manner and shy smiles reminded me of Chana, Malakhi’s younger sister.

  Malakhi.

  I tended to avoid dwelling on thoughts of the young man who would have been my husband, had I not selfishly walked away from everything good in my life, but the sweet sound of boyish laughter wafting through the back door sparked a memory from when I was nine years old. Gidal, Malakhi, and I had been playing at the stream while our mothers laundered linens together, and the two boys had darted after a rabbit bounding through the tall grass. In my haste to follow them, I tripped on a fallen branch and scraped both of my knees. Malakhi heard me cry out and returned, dropping to the ground beside me. Embarrassed by my tears, I’d snapped at him and told him to leave me alone, but instead he went back to the stream, filled his cupped hands with cool water to wash off the blood, and then helped me stand and return to my mother. Somehow, with all the frustrating childhood memories I had of Malakhi, especially those after my mother died, the memory of when he’d come to my aid, refusing to leave me behind, had gotten buried.

  I heaved a sigh, again pushing aside my futile regrets, and retrieved one of the sheets of papyrus I’d saved beneath my pallet, an old inventory report Samil had ordered me to destroy. I also fetched my wooden ink palette—the only item I still owned from my life in Kedesh. Having traveled with me for five years, the surface was cracked, worn, and stained with layer upon layer of black and red ink, but as it had for the years I served my father as a scribe, it continued to serve its purpose well. Now that I’d deciphered the contract, I had a few moments to write down the lyrics that had been trailing through my head since I’d awakened this morning. I folded myself down cross-legged and set my writing board across my lap, wishing I had the one I’d left behind, then turned over the used papyrus and inscribed the words, humming to myself as I did so and hoping I would remember the melody later.

  I’d only written three lines when a knock sounded on the front door. Startled, I quickly slipped the filched papyrus beneath our sleeping pallet before putting a hand to the latch. Samil rarely came to my quarters, but I had no desire for him, or anyone else, to catch me using my skills for something that profited him nothing.

  I tentatively pulled open the door to find a strange man standing two paces away from the threshold, his face turned toward the large white villa across the courtyard where Samil, his wives, and his nine children live
d in luxury. The stranger stood a head taller than me with the broad-shouldered, confident posture of a soldier. His wavy black hair was shoulder length, his beard trimmed neatly at his jaw, and the depth of his sun-bronzed skin attested to a heritage that was not purely Hebrew. He did not seem to have noticed my appearance in the doorway and continued staring at the villa, his arms crossed over his chest and a stony set to his jaw.

  “Shalom,” I said. “Is there something I can do to help you?”

  With a slow turn of his head, the man faced me and unforgettable gray eyes met mine. My knees went liquid and I gripped the doorpost to keep myself upright. His name moved across my lips without sound. Malakhi.

  “Shalom, Rivkah,” he said, in a voice much deeper and richer than I remembered. “Your father sent me.”

  CHAPTER

  twenty-two

  Malakhi

  She looked up at me, mouth agape. I kept my arms tight across my chest and my jaw locked, doing my best to appear impassive as I drank in the sight of her. Maturity had only deepened her beauty. Even though she stood in the doorway of what was obviously servants’ quarters, dressed in a stained and ratty tunic, her black hair bound in a tight knot at her neck and an ink smudge across her cheek, there still was no one as captivating as Rivkah.

  The moment I saw her, the speech I’d prepared during the walk from Golan this morning was wiped clean from my head. So to avoid stumbling over my words and appearing a fool within the first moments in her presence, I kept my lips pressed tightly together as we continued our silent survey of one another, and my double mind battled itself. I refused to allow her a glimpse of the effect she still had on me.

  This was the girl who’d stolen my fourteen-year-old heart beneath a terebinth tree.

  But this was also the woman who’d trampled that heart and tossed it aside to run full speed into betrayal—of me, and of my family.

  A hard spike of anger shot up my spine, and in response my shoulder began to ache, but I kept my posture firm and measured my breaths. She must have sensed my hostility. With a little gasp, she lifted her fingers to her lips and blinked her amber-gold eyes, a glint of moisture in their corners. I dropped my hands to my hips, broke eye contact, and tipped my chin to the side, putting Rivkah in my blind spot as I gathered my wits.

  But before I could string together enough words to deliver Amitai’s message, and then gather the courage to turn my back and walk away, a small warbly voice interrupted my scattered thoughts.

  “Ima, Tarron pushed me down.”

  My gaze jerked back to Rivkah. A boy of about four years stood at her side, his fingers gripping the seam of her ruined tunic. His little round face was streaked with tear trails, and his lower lip quivered as he looked up at me with curious but somber dark brown eyes. Eyes that I’d seen before.

  Gidal’s eyes.

  I took in the curve of his jaw, the cleft in his chin, the lock of hair above his left brow that refused to lay flat. Everything about the child standing before me was almost the perfect image of my older brother who’d died five years ago.

  Before she answered the boy, who’d pressed his face into her thigh with a sob, Rivkah looked up at me, unable to hide the guilty expression that further confirmed the truth. Gidal had a son. An heir. Instead of staying true to her vow of levirate marriage to me, this woman had left two months after his death, carrying with her the only piece we had of him. My mother and father did not know they had another grandchild on this earth, that their beloved son’s lineage had not been stamped out after all.

  Lailah was right. Rivkah was selfish. Set on having her own way without a care for the destruction she caused. She’d taken the trust I’d given her, that my family had given her, and tossed it aside like refuse. I’d been fortunate that I’d not ended up shackled to a woman who would do something like this.

  With a slight flinch that made it clear she registered the barely constrained fury barreling through me, Rivkah knelt down and gathered her son—my nephew—into her arms. “What happened, my lamb?” In spite of my looming presence over the two, she somehow managed a gentle tone. She pressed a kiss to his forehead and drew up his chin to look into his eyes.

  “We were playing with the hoop and Tarron stole it.” His lower lip quivered again. “He is mean.”

  “Are you hurt?” she asked, her hands smoothing down his arms, checking for injury, and when he lifted his hand, she turned it over in hers. A slight graze at the base of one palm had reddened the skin. Even though there was no blood, I had the sudden urge to find this Tarron and ensure he’d never torment another child again. But instead of flaring with anger like she had whenever it had been me tormenting her all those years ago, Rivkah kissed the wound gently and then lifted the other uninjured palm and kissed that one as well. I braced hard against the hit of reluctant emotion the affectionate gesture caused in my gut.

  “Better?” she asked, and the child nodded with a sniff. Rivkah pulled the boy’s head to her shoulder, running her ink-stained fingers through his tousled hair. “I am sorry. He should not have hurt you.”

  He pulled back to frown at her, a slight demand in his tone that reminded me of how Gidal had chided me whenever I took my antics too far. “Tell his abba to make him not mean.”

  Rivkah’s grimace was a poor attempt at a comforting smile. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said, then wiped the dirty tear trails from his cheeks and kissed his sweaty forehead. The boy peered up at me again, his gaze sharply inquisitive and so like his father that I was nearly knocked backward with a rush of longing for my brother. Gidal should be here right now, watching this tender moment between his wife and child. Not me.

  “Who is that, Ima?” he asked.

  Rivkah ignored the question and delivered a swift distraction. “I know what will make your hand feel better, Amit. One of those dates we brought back from Damascus.” She nudged the boy with a finger to his belly. “Go see if Ana has one left.” With a spark of anticipation in his brown eyes, he nodded and then slipped out the side door and into the walled courtyard beyond, both wound and stranger seemingly forgotten.

  Amit. She’d named her son for her father. Still on her knees, Rivkah watched him go, then dropped her chin, eyes closed as if in prayer. I’d come here to deliver a message, put my hurts behind me, and instead I had discovered that Rivkah’s betrayal had been far worse than I’d even imagined. My breathing was labored as I gripped the nape of my neck with a trembling hand, drawing on my military training to contain the outrage that begged to spew from my lips.

  Finally, Rivkah ran her palms down the length of her thighs and stood. “Come inside.” Both her posture and her tone spoke of unequivocal resignation. “I am sure you have many questions.”

  An understatement if ever there was one. I had five years’ worth of questions.

  She stepped aside to allow me entrance through the small doorway. And although I was not nearly as tall as Eitan, I was still forced to stoop and tilt my shoulders to fit through the narrow opening—and to avoid any contact with the woman I’d once dreamed of touching.

  Rivkah stood as still as a cedar post as I entered, then peered outside, her swift glance sweeping to the right and left before she closed and latched the door. She crossed the tiny room and shut the side door that led out to the courtyard as well, enclosing the two of us in complete privacy for the first time in my memory.

  The light from the high window illuminated one large pallet made from a few meager layers of wool blankets, along with one stool and Rivkah’s inks and reed brushes next to some sort of document on the floor. My eyes flicked back to the bed, noting that it was large enough for three. Was she married? The thought threw me into another confusing sea of emotions, so I looked away as she sank down on the pallet, cross-legged. I leaned back against the wall, arms folded over my chest, head down and ankles crossed, feigning calm.

  “So my father received my message, then?” she asked.

  “He did. We traced you back to Golan through the L
evite who delivered it.”

  “But how did you know I was here?”

  “We asked around in the marketplace for information about a woman scribe. Someone said they’d seen you with this Samil, whom we discovered lived in Edrei.” I waved a vague hand toward the enormous white-plastered villa outside. “It took little effort to discover your whereabouts once we arrived this morning. Your unique position is well known.”

  “A woman scribe is rare,” she agreed. “Although I have met a few on trading runs with Samil in the East and South.”

  I lifted my brows. “You have traveled outside Israelite territory?”

  “I have,” she said. “I have crossed the Tigris and Euphrates and been as far south as Avaris.”

  She’d seen Egypt? I’d once journeyed with my father and his men up to Tyre and Sidon and gone north of Laish while searching for Rivkah, but to travel back to the country our people left sixty-five years ago? To see the Black Land of the pyramids and the Nile? With admirable restraint I kept my expression calm. Now was not the time to ask the flood of questions such a revelation provoked, especially since Amit was the much greater surprise.

  “The boy is Gidal’s,” I stated.

  “He is.”

  “And you knew you were with child when you left.”

  Her eyes went wide and she shook her head. “I did not, Malakhi. I promise you. It was not until three weeks after Nessa and I left Laish that I understood the . . . changes that were happening to me.” Her cheeks reddened. “If I had known . . .”

  My blood heated with a rush and I pushed off the wall. “What, Rivkah? You wouldn’t have run off? Devastated my family and yours? You would not have stolen my brother’s heir from his grandparents?” And left me broken and bleeding behind your sandals?