Until the Mountains Fall

by Connilyn Cossette

  “Yes,” Malakhi replied.

  “Good. And are the wages to your satisfaction?”

  “Yes.”

  I planned to be especially generous with those wages. Samil rarely, if ever, questioned my judgment in such matters anymore. “You will be expected to arrive before the men and not leave until the last one vacates the jobsite. All meals will be provided. Anataliah will make sure you are served in the kitchen courtyard.”

  He lifted his brows in question. I knew he was curious about whether I wanted him near Amit.

  “All the servants and their children eat together at mealtimes.” I fabricated a smile, even though my insides were still churning. “You will be welcome to join us.”

  A bit of the iciness melted from his expression. “Thank you. That is . . . I appreciate that.”

  As Malakhi turned and passed the servant girl to exit the room, the girl’s jaw dropped open. She craned her neck to follow his form until he’d disappeared around the corner of the hallway, then flashed a wicked grin at me. “Please tell me that one isn’t married.”

  Unbidden, the word whipped from my mouth like a stone from a sling. “Betrothed.”

  CHAPTER

  twenty-eight

  Malakhi

  6 Elul

  Ceding to the demands of my stomach after a long morning of labor on the villa, I finally made my way to the kitchen courtyard to search out Anataliah. One of the servants directed me to the slight young woman who was elbow-deep in a dough trough. The process of making bread for such a large household must be a never-ending task.

  “Shalom,” she said as I approached. “Rivkah told me to expect you for meals. She also hinted that your appetite is quite impressive.” Anataliah looked to be around the same age as Chana but her cheerful demeanor and wild brown curls made her seem nearly as youthful as Tirzah.

  I smothered a smile at her gentle tease. “Well, growing up with a mother whose main goal in life is to prepare the most delicious food in all of the Hebrew territories, I had a duty to consume as much of it as possible.”

  “A worthy endeavor.” With a flour-covered finger, she pressed a coil of hair that had escaped her headscarf back behind her ear and grinned up at me in a way that made me wonder what else Rivkah had said about me.

  “Why don’t you fetch some water from the cistern and then rest over there?” She gestured toward the corner of the courtyard where a small cluster of date palms offered a reprieve from the direct sun—a spot that was very near the room she shared with Rivkah and Amit. “I’ll bring you some food while I let this dough rest.”

  Gratefully I obeyed, slaking my thirst with three dippers-full of water, then headed over to sit in the shadows with my back against one of the tree trunks and massage the morning’s ache from my right shoulder.

  Not wanting to distance myself from the carpenters with whom I’d been working for the past three weeks, I’d continued hefting beams and swinging the adze alongside them, even as I directed their efforts. I was determined to earn their loyalty and respect instead of demanding it from afar, as I’d seen other men in high positions do. Jumping from the rafters and shielding the boy had aggravated my injury, but not as much as I’d expected. Perhaps Baz’s assertion that my shoulder would heal in time was not as unimaginable as I’d once thought it to be.

  As I reveled in the cool shade and breathed in the homey smells of smoke and yeasty bread that wafted through the kitchen courtyard, I surveyed the assortment of servants gathered to partake of the afternoon meal. Samil’s household was an odd mix of Hebrew and Canaanite. Clusters of indentured Hebrews sat on the ground together, evidenced by the tzitzit on the corners of their simple tunics and the blessings spoken over their food. But nearly as many foreigners were interspersed between them, likely those who’d been forced into labor after our people swept into the land of Bashan.

  Anataliah approached to hand me a basket of food and a fortifying cup of barley beer. I was surprised by the assortment of fruit and cheese that accompanied the steaming hot bread and commented that I’d expected more meager fare.

  “Samil is generous with us, for the most part,” she said. “He feels that it breeds loyalty.”

  “So you are content, then, to be part of this household?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I had little choice. I was purchased like a sack of grain when I was twelve, and my small bundle of belongings was burned in front of me the one and only time I dared question an order.”

  Rivkah had hinted a number of times about Samil’s tendency toward ruthlessness, and I feared that burning belongings was the least of the man’s transgressions against those who flouted his authority. She’d said that he had not demanded her body, but her insistence that she and Amit were safer inside the villa than outside of it did not sit well with me.

  “Why did she leave you?” she asked, the blunt question making me nearly choke on the gulp of beer I’d just swallowed.

  “Has she not explained why?”

  “The only thing she’s ever told me is that she was married and that he died. Only when you appeared did I discover she’d even been betrothed to another man.”

  “The two of you seem to be good friends. Why has she not confided in you after all these years?”

  “I don’t know.” Anataliah chewed on her lip. “It wasn’t until after Amit was born and she was forced to rely on me to care for him during trading runs that she even told me that much. She keeps her thoughts to herself. It is only love for Amit that shines brightly on her face. Everything else is buried beneath layer upon layer of guardedness.”

  I had to agree. Rivkah had always been adept at hiding behind a mask of indifference, which is why as a child I’d made such a game of drawing her emotions to the surface. Seeing her weep out of sheer relief when she realized I was not there to steal her son had gutted me. It had taken all the restraint in my body to keep from rushing around the table and scooping her into my arms. I’d then spent the entire night flipping back and forth on my pallet, wondering what could have been.

  “All I know is that she did not want to marry me,” I said. After all this time, the words still stung.

  “Why not?”

  “I was only sixteen years old at the time. And she was grieving Gidal.”

  “Do you plan to fulfill your marriage contract?” she asked, again shocking me with her plainspokenness.

  “Ana!” Amit barreled into Anataliah, slinging his arms about her waist with a joyful greeting, saving me from supplying an answer I did not have.

  “Shalom, little jujube,” she said with a tweak to his nose. “Is your belly rumbling?”

  “I have plenty to share,” I said, gesturing to the basket near my feet. Rivkah may soon fly in and bustle the boy away, but I would enjoy at least a few moments with Amit before she did. Without reservation, the boy folded himself down into the dirt to reach for an apple and some bread.

  “I must return to my duties,” Anataliah said, apparently not sharing Rivkah’s wariness of my spending time with the child. “If you two need more food, come find me.”

  Amit spoke around a large bite of apple. “Ima said you saved Tarron when the roof fell down.”

  Although pleased that Rivkah would offer any word in my favor, I forced a stern look in lieu of the smile that threatened. “If he had not been in the wrong place, he’d not have been injured. You will stay away from the workers, won’t you?”

  He nodded, his solemn expression a mirror of Gidal’s. Now that the shock of discovery had worn off, I’d begun to enjoy looking for scattered pieces of my brother in this small child.

  “Did you fall too?” He pointed at the scrape Tarron’s stick had inflicted on my cheek.

  I ripped the loaf of bread down the middle and handed him half. “No, but building can be very dangerous. All of us must be very careful or someone could get hurt or even die.”

  Amit’s eyes grew very round. “My abba died.”

  My lungs constricted, and the bite of bread
I’d just taken went down my throat like a clump of straw. “Yes, I know.”

  “You knew my abba?”

  Obviously Rivkah had not explained who I was, so I must be careful in my answer. “I knew him very well.”

  “He was very brave and good,” he stated, as though the words were deeply ingrained in his mind.

  “He was,” I said, overwhelmed by the knowledge that in spite of all she’d done, Rivkah had still lifted Gidal high in his son’s regard. A glut of emotion ached in my throat. “I admired him my entire life and always wished to be more like him.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. In addition to being brave and good, he was one of the kindest and most generous people I’ve ever known.” No matter how I pushed my brother, he’d rarely flared with temper, and even when I cajoled him to join one of my ill-conceived schemes and landed us both in trouble, he never pointed the finger of blame. He’d accept the consequences with astounding grace, which usually made me feel more convicted than if he’d laid all the responsibility at my feet, as he should have. “Would you like to hear about the time he and I climbed to the very top of the storehouse?”

  “Yes!” Amit scooted a little closer, his smile growing wider as I launched into the first of three stories about adventures we undertook as boys. With each one, the child’s eyes grew larger, and I imagined his estimation of his father did as well. By the time I’d finished telling of how Gidal rescued me from falling into the deep cistern at the center of town—after I’d insisted that I could walk the edge with my eyes closed—I guessed that Gidal may well be ten cubits tall in Amit’s eyes. He’d peppered me with questions throughout the telling and had moved so close our knees touched.

  “It is time for a rest,” said Rivkah, startling both Amit and me. We’d been so wrapped up in stories of Gidal that she’d come up beside us unnoticed. I wondered just how long she’d been listening to my tales.

  “But, Ima, I want to hear another story about Abba,” Amit said, even as a yawn stretched across his lips.

  “I must return to my work.” I stood and brushed the dirt from my tunic. “I wish I could take a rest like you. But perhaps if your ima gives her permission, I will tell you more stories tomorrow?” I directed the question to his mother.

  To Amit’s satisfaction Rivkah agreed, then with a kiss to his forehead sent him inside with instructions to lie down on the pallet. She began to follow him inside but paused at the threshold.

  “I have something for you,” she said to me, with a hint of hesitation. “Wait here a moment.”

  She disappeared into the room, admonishing Amit to lie still and then offering a muffled promise of some sort before she appeared back in the doorway. “This is for your shoulder,” she said, handing me a small alabaster jar. “I’ve been told it works miracles.”

  I pulled the stopper from the top and peered inside. The smell of the balm within was a heady mixture of spice and wood pitch. “What is it?”

  “An unguent made from a certain tree that grows only in this area.”

  “Where did you get this?” I asked, knowing that such a fragrant ointment must be costly.

  “My duties put me in contact with those who can procure certain items,” she said, her tone making it clear that she was not interested in explaining such a cryptic statement. But the idea that she’d done something like this, had even taken my pain into consideration, raised a lump in my throat that was hard to clear away.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She swiped a hand through the air, brushing away my gratitude. “It is nothing.”

  It was not nothing at all. Rivkah earned no wages for her labors, so the only way she could have procured this item was by a trade of some sort. Although I wanted to demand she tell me what she’d given up in order to alleviate my discomfort, I let it go for the moment.

  “I thank you not just for the balm, although I am grateful,” I said, “but also for telling Amit of Gidal. For making my brother a hero in his eyes.”

  “He was always kind to me,” she said. “It was important that Amit knew.”

  “I hope you do not mind my stories.”

  “Of course not,” she said. “I want him to know more of Gidal. I have only scattered memories of our childhood, and our time together was short.”

  A familiar emotion flared to life at her words, one I’d thought I’d buried.

  Jealousy.

  No matter that his time with her had been fleeting, Gidal had been her husband. He’d gotten to hold her and touch her. She’d not run from him like she had me.

  Uneasy silence settled between us, but with Amit only a few paces away, this was not the time to address our unfinished conversation. She must have felt the same because she turned and walked into her room, latching the door behind her without another word. Rooted to the spot, I stood staring at the door, my thumb stroking the smooth surface of the alabaster jar. How much had this gift cost her? And why had she done it for me?

  Just as I willed my feet to move, a voice began, the sound so low I nearly missed it.

  Rivkah was singing Amit to sleep. She must have thought I’d already walked away—and I should—but instead I moved closer to the window and folded myself down to lean my back against the brick.

  The song was familiar, a lullaby that my mother had sung to me, but instead of reviving memories of my own childhood, the melody ushered me back to my fourteenth year and the day I’d followed Rivkah with every intention of teasing her and instead found myself under her spell.

  That morning, Gidal and I had been charged with working in the fruit orchard to the south of Kedesh, cutting back brush after the late-season rains had caused an abundance of overgrowth. Tired of the monotony after working since sunrise and nowhere near as enthralled as my brother with tending the various fruit trees around the city, I’d made the excuse of being desperate for a drink and wandered over to the spring that flowed beneath Kedesh and burst free just past the eastern wall.

  Kneeling in the tall grass on the bank, I lapped the cool water like a pup, then wiped my chin and laid back, arms folded behind my head to watch the clouds, hoping Gidal wouldn’t seek me out. I loved my brother, but the older he’d gotten, the more serious he’d become, sometimes going quiet for hours as he puttered in the dirt around tree trunks. His fascination with the earth and its fruits was not one I particularly shared.

  At first, I thought the pale yellow fluttering in the corner of my vision was a butterfly dancing in the weeds, but when I sat up, I saw Rivkah darting across the open area, skirting a stone sheep pen and heading for the tree line with swift purpose. Curiosity compelled me to follow.

  Dodging trees and ducking beneath branches, I followed her to where white limestone markers were set in a perimeter, a clear delineation of the boundaries of the refuge city—the line past which a Blood Avenger could not pursue an accused manslayer and past which my mother, who’d been sentenced as such, was banned from crossing. Although Rivkah checked over her shoulder twice, I slipped behind a tree both times and she did not slow her steps. She lifted her hand to her eyes, scanning the horizon beyond the tangle of olive trees. For a moment I considered whether she might be running away, but then she sat down on a nearby boulder, beneath a terebinth blooming in vivid shades of red. Pulling a piece of papyrus and a reed pen from her satchel, she scribbled something down on her page. Then she gazed off into the distance, her slender body still and quiet, and then, to my surprise, she began to sing.

  The sound startled me, its crisp, sweet notes blending with the birdsong and the blossom-scented air in perfect harmony. Using the silent movements my father and Baz had taught me, I crept forward, keeping my body low in the knee-high weeds.

  Finding a vantage point just out of her sight line, I crouched on my heels, keeping my body behind a tree trunk but peering around so I could see her face. I’d hoped to discern her words, yet found that the distance swallowed their shape. But even so, all thought of teasing her dissipated and I was held cap
tive. I’d never heard anything as beautiful as the sounds emanating from her lips. Lips that in that moment somehow became the most intriguing thing in my world.

  The hair I’d yanked too many times to count shone in the sunlight, trailing down her back like liquid obsidian. Her amber eyes were closed as she sang, chin tilted upward as if to worship the feel of the sun on her golden skin. Thick black lashes brushed her cheeks where I knew a few freckles lay. And knowledge hit me like a boulder falling from the heights—the girl I’d spent a lifetime provoking was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen.

  Thrown off balance, I wobbled and dropped a knee to the ground, cracking a twig. Her song broke off and her attention snapped to me. Heart pounding and face on fire with embarrassment, I ran. Behind me, Rivkah shouted my name—along with a fairly violent threat to maim me for spying—but even as I flew through the olive grove, my laughter trailing behind me as I dodged the pebbles she lobbed at my back, I determined that someday I’d make her mine.

  With Rivkah’s unexpected gift clutched in my fist, I rose and headed back toward the construction site. For as lovely and gentle as Ayala was, it had been easy to dismiss the thought of marriage to her from my mind. No matter that Rivkah had fled Kedesh, lied, stolen Amit, and who knew what else, there was still no one else I wanted as my wife. I still was just as much a fool for her as I’d ever been.

  CHAPTER

  twenty-nine

  Rivkah

  I pressed down on the point of my reed pen with such force that it split up the center and blotched ink all over Samil’s latest correspondence. Groaning, I tossed the now-useless tool to the ground and dropped my head into my hands, massaging the ache in my temples that had taken up residence during my earlier visit to the marketplace today.

  Never in my life had I wanted to throttle anyone before, but I’d been sorely tempted to strangle Nessa today. And once I finished shaking some sense into her, I’d make sure the man she called “husband” suffered a slow, painful death. The woman refused to listen to reason, and instead clung to a lecher whose frustrations were once again displayed on her arms and neck in shades of blue and purple.