She strained the water through a thin piece of linen to remove the gnats and set it where Bilhah could easily reach it, all the while her thoughts churning with the argument she and Jacob had shared the morning after he had taken Zilpah to his tent.
“How could you do this without even consulting me?” She had followed him to the sheep pens, keeping a short distance between them due to her uncleanness.
He had jerked to face her, his cheeks flushed, angry. “Since when do I need to consult you on every choice I make? I recall you made the same decision with your maid.”
“Yes, but I had a reason. I did it to have a family through her. Leah already has four sons! She doesn’t need more. She is only using you to stay ahead of me.” Her voice had cracked on the words, and she sounded like a petulant child.
“Aren’t you doing the very same thing?”
She could not hold the fierceness of his gaze, shamed even now by the accusation he had flung at her.
“No,” she whispered as Bilhah’s moans deepened, snagging her thoughts back to the birth about to take place. I wouldn’t do that to you. I had no choice, don’t you see?
The memory of her defense to him rang hollow in her ears now. He had looked at her long and hard, then shook his head and walked off, calling the sheep to him. He didn’t see then, or now. And he had stayed in the fields for a week, letting the shame of her words continue to trouble her.
That he had at last returned held little comfort, for he had avoided her tent and everyone else’s, retreating to her father’s house after the meal or to his own tent alone. Would he come to hold Bilhah’s child on his knees and claim it as his own? For her sake? Had his love grown cold?
Unshed emotion burned at the back of her throat, accompanying the guilt that condemned her one moment and justification that absolved her the next. She had done nothing any other woman wouldn’t do. She was not wrong. Leah was the one adding to the conflict by giving Jacob a fourth wife. And a pregnant one now, though Rachel took some comfort in knowing that at least Leah was not carrying another.
The thoughts wearied her, and she pushed them away as her mother and Farah arrived to attend Bilhah. The hours passed in agonizing slowness, but at last a son burst from Bilhah’s womb. Rachel was the one, guided by Suri, to catch him, clean him up, and claim him as her own. She glanced at Bilhah, who looked on the boy with motherly affection and longing, and felt her heart twinge with the slightest hint of jealousy. The baby was not really hers, though by all legal rights he would be her adopted son. Still, she could not nurse him, and he would never bond to her as he would to the one who had borne him.
She glanced away from Bilhah’s pleading expression, not wanting to give her the boy but knowing she must. She tucked the blanket closer around him and walked through the tent’s door to the small crowd waiting near the fire pit. She searched for Jacob, relieved to see him sitting with her brother Bahaar.
She strode to him, lifting her chin. “You have another son, my lord,” she said, holding the boy out to him.
Jacob met her gaze and smiled, though the smile seemed forced. She must speak to him. Apologize for her earlier outburst if she was ever to enjoy the presence of his company and the love they had once shared.
He took the child from her and rested him on his knees. “What will you name him?” He looked at the boy, touched a finger to his soft cheek.
“Dan,” she said, grateful when he looked up once more and held her gaze. “God has vindicated me,” she said softly. “He has heard my plea and given me a son.”
He nodded. “A good name, beloved.”
She released a long-held breath, relieved. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Perhaps now you can find some peace?” His look held such hope and expectation that she longed to assure him all would be well. But the niggling fact still troubled her. Bilhah was Dan’s true mother. How could she find peace apart from bearing a son of her own?
“I hope so, Jacob.” If only Adonai would notice her too.
She took the babe from Jacob’s arms and looked into the child’s sweet face, knowing the peace Jacob hoped for would be a long time coming.
Jacob stood at the edge of a cliff, staff dug into the dirt, bracing himself against the wind. Dark clouds billowed overhead, the scent of coming rain in the swirling air. He glanced at the sky, its darkness matching his mood. The rare moment away from the sheep, away from the chaos of his household and the women fussing over another birth through Bilhah for Rachel’s side, should bring some sort of relief. But relief would never come as long as Rachel remained dissatisfied.
He should never have listened to Leah and taken Zilpah to wife. For Zilpah had also borne him a son and then conceived again shortly after Bilhah. “What good fortune,” Leah had said, as if the child’s birth were part of a game of chance and she was fortunate enough to have won a round. And so Gad had joined Leah’s family, making five for her, soon to be six, and two for Rachel.
He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed, glad for the feel of the wind’s relentless strength pushing against him, flattening his robes to his body, whipping the edges of his turban about his face. Let it pummel him. The wind’s beating was preferable to the cackling of the women in his tent, the fierce, endless restlessness of Rachel always vying for more sons. If she found another maid to give him, he would refuse. He was weary of her unhappiness and yet, in the same breath, felt his own unease, knowing he could never deny her. How he longed to give her what she asked!
How long, Adonai? Would God ever remember her and give Rachel a son? Please. Let it be so.
He had stopped worrying about losing her in childbirth. None of the other women had been lost to him, and he realized that though such things sometimes happened, his worries were unfounded. Surely God would take care of her.
His prayers for her had come haltingly at first. But somewhere in the past year or so, they had become a daily necessity. As he watched the trees sway in the valley below him, felt the first fat drops of rain hit his cheek, he knew he would not stop seeking God’s favor until He granted Rachel’s deepest desire for a child. He could do no less than his father had done for his mother. If he did not do this, did not give her his heart in prayer and petition on her behalf, his love for her would be found wanting. He could not let that happen.
For though he would prefer to be rid of the need for such prayers, he would never be released from his intense love for Rachel. He was as bound to his prayers as he was to his love for her. And he would wrestle the wind to bring the answers forth if that was what it took to please his beloved.
19
Rachel held Bilhah’s second son, Naphtali, against her shoulder and slowly paced inside her tent, relieved when his crying ceased and he at last slept peacefully. He was not as contented a child as Dan had been, and she wondered not for the first time if he was mocking the name she had given him—“my struggle.” Her words to Jacob the night of his birth still rang in her ears. I have had a great struggle with my sister, and I have won. But had she?
She glanced at Bilhah, recalling the girl’s violent efforts to bring him forth. For a time they had feared they would lose her, and Rachel knew she could not beg Jacob to sleep with the woman again anytime soon. Like Leah had after Judah’s birth, Bilhah would need time to recover.
Rachel glanced at Naphtali’s sweet face, thinking to lay him in the basket beside his mother, but she could not seem to release her hold on him. Already she loved this child as her own.
Almost as her own.
The thought brought the familiar restlessness to her heart, and she moved through the spacious tent to walk with the boy toward the pens where Jacob should soon be returning from the fields. She darted a quick look in the direction of Leah’s tent and saw Zilpah, heavy with child, sitting with Leah in the shade of Leah’s tent, both working the spindle and distaff while the children slept or played nearby. Reuben had gone with Jacob to the fields, already old enough to learn some of the easier tasks of shepherd
ing.
If Zilpah bore a son, which Rachel fully expected, Leah’s sons would number six while Rachel could name only two. She gently tightened her grip on Naphtali, forcing back the discontented thoughts. It did no good to feel such contention. The boy would surely feel her heart beating too fast beneath her tunic and wake up, crying again. Her struggle was not with the child, and she could not bear to upset him.
Mourning doves sang their sad dirge in the trees circling the edge of the tents, and the breeze softly rustled the hair she had let hang loose down her back. She approached the sheep pens, seeing Reuben running and jumping ahead of Jacob in the distance, the sheep following obediently behind them.
Her heart stirred at the sight of Jacob, so rugged and swarthy and strong. She caught the way his lips curved in that hint of a smile as he watched his oldest son, and she knew it pleased him to share his time with the boy. What man wouldn’t want sons to follow in his steps?
She moved from the shadow of the trees and waited near the gate. His smile widened as he approached her, and his look made her heart melt. He patted Reuben on the head.
“Go on to your mother now, Reuben. Tell her all that we did today.”
The boy glanced up at Jacob, his look full of pride and affection, then raced off toward his mother’s tent, calling, “Ima!”
Jacob cupped his hands to his mouth. “Do not yell for her. She will think you are hurt.”
The boy skidded to a stop, turned, and nodded. “Okay, Abba.” He ran down the hill, his young voice again calling his mother’s name, this time more distant.
Jacob chuckled. “He is anxious to tell her of his adventures.” Jacob met Rachel’s gaze. She turned Naphtali so he could get a better glimpse. “And how is my youngest today?”
“He finally sleeps.” She stepped closer and kissed Jacob’s cheek. “I have missed you.” He had spent little time with her of late, and she feared she was somehow the cause.
“I have missed you too.” He touched her nose with his finger, then stroked the baby’s head.
“Will you come to my tent tonight?” She needed him near, away from the others.
He glanced at her, raising a brow. “Of course. If that is what you want.” His look told her she had only to ask.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so petulant since Leah gave you Zilpah.” She wasn’t really sorry, for she did not know how she could help such feelings, but perhaps saying so would ease her jealousy and make him believe her.
He took Naphtali from her and patted his back in a gentle rhythm. “It is not easy leaving your side to be with the others.” His admission quieted her spirit. “You know how I feel about you.”
She nodded, ashamed of her selfishness. “If only God would have seen fit to bless us together . . .” Her voice trailed off, the words too often said, nearly too painful to repeat.
He stopped, shifted the boy into one arm, and took her hand in his. “There is no need for more sons from the others, beloved. I would give you my time alone if you but ask.”
She searched his handsome face, undone by his kindness. She did not deserve his patience. “Why do you put up with me? I act no better than a spoiled child sometimes.”
He smiled. “Sometimes you do.” He touched her cheek. “But most of the time you are simply a woman whose desire has been too long denied. Thwarted desire makes the heart sick, beloved. My mother felt the same.”
“Your father prayed for her, though, and she had you.”
“And I have prayed for you over and over again. Do you doubt it?” His look was so earnest, so open and sincere.
“I do not doubt you.” A lump formed in her throat, and she swallowed unshed tears. “Why does Adonai not hear our prayers then? Should we offer a sacrifice? How can we make Him see and hear us?” The desperation she always felt crept into her voice, and she hated her inability to be happy and content with what she had.
“I do not know, beloved.” He caught a stray tear from beneath her lashes. “We must wait and pray as my father Isaac did, and as my grandfather Abraham did as well. Do not fret over what we cannot control.”
Heat filling her cheeks, Rachel swallowed hard and glanced away from him, wishing she were stronger, wiser. “Do you love them?” Her stomach twisted, and she suddenly wished to hold Naphtali, a shield between Jacob’s words and her heart.
He shifted the child’s weight again and lifted a strand of her hair with his calloused fingers. “I love only you, Rachel. You know this.” A deep sigh escaped him, and his gaze shifted to the path in front of them and the tents beyond. She fell into step with him as he continued walking, fearing she had angered him by her repeated need for reassurance.
But as they neared Rachel’s tent and he handed the boy back to her, he held her gaze, his own full of love for her. “Come to me tonight.” He offered her a smile, then walked off to his own tent and shut himself in.
“How happy I am! The women will call me happy.” The words burst from Leah’s lips as she stepped out of her tent carrying the bundled son of Zilpah, whose travail had lasted throughout the night.
“Of course they will. And well you deserve it,” her mother said, glancing Leah’s way, her grandmotherly pride nearly as great for this child as it had been for Leah’s own.
Leah lifted her chin, scanning the camp for Jacob. Surely he had not yet left for the fields without checking on Zilpah’s progress. But of course he could have. Rachel had managed to steal nearly all of his time since Naphtali’s birth, an action that had not gone unnoticed.
She stifled the hurt that always accompanied that thought, squinting against the bright rays of dawn’s early glow. There he was, sitting with Rachel beside the fire deep in conversation. She glanced at her mother, whose nod of approval gave her courage, and walked across the dew-drenched grasses to stop near Jacob’s seat.
“You have another son, my lord.” She waited, relieved when he met her gaze.
Jacob placed his clay plate on the ground, then shifted to face her, arms outstretched to accept the child. As she leaned down to place him in Jacob’s sturdy hands, their fingers touched, and Leah’s heart stirred with longing to feel his arms around her again. His smile, first at her, then at the babe, melted her heart.
“What will you name him?” Jacob touched the boy’s soft cheek and the crop of straight dark hair.
“Asher,” she said, crouching low to better see his face.
Jacob met her gaze. “You are happy then?” His earnest look searched hers. How she longed to tell him the truth. No. She would never be happy as long as Rachel kept him from her. She wanted her husband to be a husband to her again. But one glance at Rachel’s tight smile stayed her words.
She nodded, unable to speak. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I am happy, Jacob. Happy in knowing you are pleased.” She held his gaze, hoping he could read the truth in what she didn’t say, wishing she could say it clearly.
But later, as she pondered Jacob’s question, she could not deny the truth of her unhappiness. She needed Jacob’s time and attention and, pray God, his affection. And she would find a way to have it. Soon. Whether Rachel liked it or not, Jacob could not be kept from her. She needed him. And she would see that he knew it.
Rachel spread the kneaded dough into a large, thin square, took the date filling from her mother and spooned the mixture over it, then sealed the edges and placed it above the hot embers. Heat from the ovens in her father’s cooking rooms drew sweat along Rachel’s brow, and she swiped at it with the back of her hand.
“I need some water. Do you want some?” Rachel handed the now empty bowl to her mother.
“You could bring me a cup.”
Rachel left the room and moved to the outer courtyard where the breeze cooled her skin and water stood in large urns near the door. She took a cupful and drank, looking toward the path the men would take when they returned. Leah’s son Reuben hurried toward her, clutching the wide green leaves of a plant, his gait swift and sure. He glanced at Rachel and moved
to pass her, but Rachel stayed him with her hand.
“Are those mandrakes?” Rachel had seen the flowering green leaves when she walked the fields with the sheep but had forgotten their aphrodisiac uses.
Reuben pulled the plants close to his chest, his eyes wide. “They’re for Ima.”
“Of course they are. She is in the cooking room. Come. I will go with you.” She quickly dipped another cupful of water for her mother, then followed Reuben inside.
“Ima, look what I found!” The women in the room stopped their work to look in Leah’s direction. “Aunt Rachel says they’re mandrakes.”
Rachel glanced at Leah, who stooped to Reuben’s eye level and took the precious fruit from his hands. “They are beautiful, my son.” She touched his face, and his cheeks flushed pink despite his soft smile. “Where did you find them?”
He straightened, lifting his chin. “In the fields near the wheat where Abba is working. He said I could bring them to you.”
Rachel’s heart twisted, and she wondered what Jacob intended by saying such a thing. Did he know the fruit’s value? They could be the answer to her barrenness! If she could eat them and feed some to Jacob . . . and if the tales were true . . .
She stepped closer to Leah. “Please give me some of your son’s mandrakes.” She would beg and plead if she must. Leah certainly didn’t need them.
Leah stood up, her face flushed. Rachel felt the stares of everyone in the room and braced herself, feeling the anger in Leah’s look.
“Wasn’t it enough that you took away my husband? Will you take my son’s mandrakes too?”
Warmth crept up Rachel’s neck as she felt the censure of the women around her. She stiffened her back. She had done nothing wrong. “Very well,” she said, pushing back a rush of guilt, “he can sleep with you tonight in return for your son’s mandrakes.” The mandrakes would keep another day for Rachel to use them herself.
Leah smiled, her look triumphant. She glanced at Reuben, placed several mandrakes in Rachel’s hands, then turned to her son. “Lead me to the fields. I must speak to your father as soon as he is done working.”
Rachel Page 15