Rachel

by Jill Eileen Smith

  Reuben smiled, a toothy grin. “Sure, Ima. Come on.”

  Leah looked back at her mother, who shooed her off. “We can finish these. Go.” Leah went without a backward glance while Rachel took the mandrakes to her tent.

  20

  Jacob gave a parting nod to Bahaar as the man took the path toward the threshing floor where he would spend the night threshing and guarding the wheat with Suri’s other sons. Jacob’s turn would come on the morrow, but for tonight he intended to enjoy Laban’s feast and relax in his tent with Rachel at his side. He chuckled at the thought of her quick smile and how easily they had fallen into a comfortable family rhythm since he had finally learned to divide his time between his wives and children, saving the evenings when the stars hung low for Rachel alone.

  His other wives seemed to accept the situation, he told himself, and Rachel seemed happier, which mattered most to him. He denied the little kick of guilt he felt when his gaze met Leah’s. Of the three other women, Leah missed him most, but he could not bring himself to visit her tent when Rachel waited so eagerly. Even on the nights when he could not touch her, she listened to him speak of his homeland, his mother and father, Deborah and Selima and Eliezer’s son Haviv, of Esau and his foolish wives and the competition that had always been between them. She was his friend, his confidante.

  He quickened his pace over the rocky path, kicking up small stones with his sandals in his hurry to be with Rachel. She would serve him at the feast, of that he had little doubt, and tease him with those large, beguiling eyes of hers, eyes that had captured his attention even from a distance from the moment he first met her. He would taste the pastries she had promised to make for him and watch her while he drank with her father and brothers, knowing that there could be no distance between them as there once was. She belonged to him now. No more working those many years to finally have her to himself, though the truth was he still had two years left to work to complete his contract with Laban. But then he would be free to return to his homeland. Though he would have little to show for it aside from his wives and children. All the wealth he had now still belonged to Laban.

  He glanced about, glad for the solitude and the fact that no one else was privy to his thoughts. The sun dipped at an angle that made him squint to see without shading his eyes. A hawk squawked and soared in the sky overhead, circling, at last diving to a field where some unfortunate prey would soon wish it had been more observant.

  He pondered the irony of that thought, reminded of his own lack of observation. Had he been more aware of the schemes of men, his own included, he might be in a far different place today. Would he have stayed in his father’s camp? Would he have found a different woman to share his life? But he couldn’t imagine life without Rachel, no matter how difficult their circumstances.

  The path took a turn as he neared the edge of the wheat fields, and he spotted a woman hurrying toward him, half walking, half running. Rachel? He shielded his eyes, his heart skipping a beat. Leah. She rarely came to him in the fields. What could she want? A moment of swift blinding fear for Rachel made his heart kick over again, but as he drew closer, he shoved the fear aside. “Is something wrong, Leah?”

  She stopped, out of breath, placing a hand over her heart. “You must sleep with me,” she said, her gaze bold. “I have hired you with my son’s mandrakes.”

  He stared at her. “Perhaps you should explain yourself.”

  “My son found mandrakes in the field. He said he told you.”

  Jacob nodded, remembering. “They were growing wild in the field.” He had wondered at the time how a five-year-old could recognize the leaves and fruit among the other plants of the field. “He asked if he could bring them to you.” He rubbed a hand along his jaw. “I see he did.”

  “Yes, and Rachel bought them from me for the price of a night with you.” She glanced beyond him, and her face flushed beneath her headscarf.

  “Why would she do that?” He searched his mind for the uses of the fruit but could pull nothing from his memory.

  “Mandrakes are said to remove barrenness.”

  He glanced away from her pointed look, suddenly uncomfortable. “If that is true, then it is Rachel I should be with tonight.” He would like nothing better and wanted nothing more. But he knew that only God had the ability to give children.

  “She offered you in exchange for them.” She suddenly looked up, her boldness turning to a beseeching look. “Please do not deny me.” She glanced away and clasped her hands in front of her, looking as if she wanted to say more but didn’t.

  A sigh escaped him, and one look at her told him she had noticed. But he could not help the weariness he felt at the struggles of his household. He looked at her hopeful face, the familiar guilt filling him. It was only one night. Surely he could put aside his own desires and give her that. He owed her more, just for the fact that she had given him so many sons.

  He placed a hand at the small of her back and turned her toward home, falling into step beside her. “All right,” he said, his pace slower than it had been when he thought Rachel was the one who would be awaiting him. “Let’s go home.”

  Rachel knelt in front of the tent and rocked the heavy goatskin back and forth, waiting for the milk to curdle. The skin was half as large as she was and suspended from wooden poles stuck in the ground, its feet and neck tied with palm fibers. She’d been at the task since Jacob left for the fields with the sheep just after dawn, grateful for work that could be done alone. She needed the distance from Leah and her children and the maids and their children. Always the children. And now Leah’s belly swelled with yet another, a child conceived on the one night Rachel had bartered for the mandrakes, whose fruit had been worthless on her behalf.

  She closed her eyes, her body rocking with the rhythm of the churning, silently keening for her own dead womb. Her chest ached with unshed tears. She was weary to death of weeping and weary of pretending all was well in Jacob’s company. If she complained to him too often, he might grow tired of her and seek another, and she could not bear such a thing.

  But how could God bless Leah again—and after only one night? It was completely unfair! What had she done to deserve this slight? Was this her reward for capturing Jacob’s love? Why, Adonai? Why do You not remember me too?

  A sob rose to choke her, and she blinked hard against the threat of more tears. The whole thing made no sense, and despite the many herbs and remedies she’d tried, the many prayers and even the sacrifices Jacob had offered—this goatskin a reminder of one of the more recent ones—still her womb remained closed.

  The sound of the milk’s sloshing changed, and she listened closely now for the sloshing to decrease and the feel of the skin to show the curds of milk within. A few moments later, she stopped the rocking and untied the neck. Hefting the heavy skin in both hands, she poured the creamy liquid into an urn, a treat she would save for Jacob, Bilhah’s children, and, if there was enough, Jacob’s other children as well. Everyone loved qom, the tasty water left from the cheese. Perhaps she would have a drink herself, if she could get past the queasy feeling and lack of appetite brought on by her grief.

  When the last of the qom drained off, she carried the skin to the waiting clay pans spread out in front of her tent in the full heat of the sun and pressed the curds from the skin into the pans. Footsteps caused her to glance up, and she was briefly annoyed with the intrusion but grateful that it was Bilhah and not Leah.

  “Can I help?” Bilhah shifted Naphtali to her other hip and placed a restraining hand on Dan, whose eager, curious fingers wanted to explore the white curds.

  Rachel shook her head. “You have your hands full. I can manage.” She smiled, though it was forced. She looked away, squeezed the rest of the curds into the last pan, and set the goatskin aside. A covered jar of salt sat nearby, and she took a handful and mixed it with a sprinkling of dill in one pan and parsley in the other. The third pan she left simply salted, the original afiq, which seemed more pleasing to the childre
n.

  When Bilhah did not move immediately away, she glanced up again. “Did you need something?”

  Bilhah shook her head, but her look grew thoughtful. Naphtali squirmed in her arms, and Dan toddled off toward her tent. She gave Rachel a sheepish look. “I’m sorry. He won’t sit still today, and Naphtali seems to think he must see everything Dan sees and go everywhere Dan goes.”

  Rachel rested a motherly gaze on Naphtali and smiled. “He has grown so quickly.”

  “Yes,” Bilhah agreed. “And he is always hungry.” She took a step back, and Rachel gave a slight nod, granting her leave. “I’m sorry about Leah,” Bilhah said, pausing midstep, looking uncertain. “If I could bear more sons for you . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “No, no. Do not fret over this. It is too soon for you to bear another.” Though in truth, Leah’s first four children had been conceived and born only a year apart. Naphtali’s birth had been too hard on Bilhah, and despite her longing for more, Rachel had no desire to use her maid in that way again. She brushed a strand of hair from her mouth and pressed the cheese with the palm of her hand into the pan. “There is nothing to be done about Leah.” She looked at Bilhah, then returned to her task, pouring the last of the qom from the pressed curds into the urn.

  Bilhah walked away, and Rachel blew out an unsteady breath. The only thing to be done about Leah was what she had already done for two years. And one night of weakness to seek answers for her own needs had brought about this child. She could not continue to deny her sister. If Leah would bear Jacob a child every time he came to her bed, then truly God must be in the giving. Perhaps she’d been wrong to deny her sister Jacob’s company so long. The thought left her heart sore, vulnerable.

  Would You ask me to give him up to her? He is the only thing I have left! Her prayer, wrought in anger and hurt through pain she could not escape, surged from a place deep within her, leaving her spent, weak. She pressed her palms to the last of the curds, her arms shaking with her weight. She could not give Jacob freedom to visit whichever wife he liked.

  She needed him.

  If she let him go so freely, Leah would surely win, and Rachel would be left with nothing.

  Leah knelt beside her month-old son and tickled his belly, laughing at the coos and giggles she elicited from him. The sides of the tent were rolled up to let in the late afternoon breeze, bringing with it a welcome cool after the hot summer sun had made her eyes heavy with sleep. She had awakened with Issachar’s soft whimpers to change him and delighted in the joy this new child had brought her.

  “God has rewarded me for giving my maidservant to my husband,” she’d told her mother and the women who had attended his birth. If not for Bilhah, Leah could be counted as single-handedly giving Jacob seven sons, building a tribe of princes for him. She bent to kiss the baby’s belly and blew bubbles against his skin, laughing with him.

  “How blessed we are, little one.” She glanced up as she spoke, catching sight of Rachel hurrying past her tent with Bilhah, Naphtali in her arms. Had she heard? She had not spoken softly, and sound carried well with the tent sides open.

  Guilt filled her as she picked Issachar up and nestled him against her shoulder. She leaned into the cushions, positioning him to nurse, her gaze shifting of its own accord to her sister. How hard it must be for her to watch every one of Jacob’s wives giving birth and still, after six years, be denied.

  The familiar bitterness she always felt when she tried to justify her blessings against Rachel’s hold on Jacob’s time and his heart soured her stomach. Even the tug of the babe against her breast did not fill her with the delight it normally did. She looked down at the boy, brushed the soft, straight dark hair from his forehead, and caught a glimpse of her own heart. She had not been kind in her thoughts to Rachel. She had endured and continued to promote the bitter struggle between them for love of Jacob.

  But at what cost?

  The ugliness of her heart made her squirm. Issachar seemed to notice and grew impatient with the flow of her milk. She tried to relax, but the burden of her heart would not ease.

  Adonai, forgive me. Could You not look with favor on Rachel and give her a son?

  The prayer surprised her, but even more the peace that followed the request. Had God heard? Should she speak to Jacob or to Rachel of her prayer? She pondered the request a moment, testing the peace, silently confessing the hurt and anger and betrayal she had fostered and felt all these years. Someone needed to bridge the gap between them, to make peace for Jacob’s house. If she would not do so, Rachel never would.

  The thought came with another wedge of guilt. It was unfair to think such a thing. She could not know Rachel’s motives or her heart. And Leah wielded the power of her many sons, who would care for her when she was old and Jacob rested with his fathers. Rachel had only the sons of her handmaid, who were not nearly as likely to care for Rachel as they would for their own mother. Surely it was time to hold forth an olive branch of peace to her only sister.

  She drew in a breath, turning the idea over in her mind, feeling suddenly vulnerable and weak. Could she give up the right she should have to Jacob’s time and attention? Could she go to her sister and pray for her, truly seeking her good?

  She glanced at her son, at last contentedly nursing, then again spared a look toward Rachel’s tent. God help her. She would do the right thing. For Jacob’s sake.

  And her sister’s.

  21

  Jacob’s knife slit the throat of a year-old male goat, prime among Laban’s flock. The loss would come out of the pay counted toward the debt he owed the man, but it was a loss he must bear. If only God would hear and answer!

  He searched his heart for words that could express his longing, Rachel’s longing, but found none. The goat’s body grew slick in his hands as blood spilled onto the stones of the altar he had painstakingly built. Fire burned in a torch held tight in the ground, waiting to consume the sacrifice. Laban appeased all gods on various occasions, but this was not a sacrifice he would think necessary. What did it matter if Rachel bore a son? Jacob already had nine sons, and Leah was carrying another, if her hints were true. And still Rachel waited.

  How long, Adonai?

  He had offered bulls and goats a few times in the recent past, but never with such a heavy burden upon his heart. Never with such a longing to see God answer his prayers. Could Adonai see the suffering of his beloved and feel the pain of his heart? Were his own sins the cause? To think so seemed far-fetched. God had blessed him with sons through three other women. To be denied a son with the woman he loved—would not the burden be hers alone to bear?

  His great love for her told him otherwise. And as he cut up the goat and placed it on the altar, he felt the weight of his sins resting heavily on his shoulders. Surely he was sinful at birth! One who grasps the heel. A deceiver. Was he paying the price for such practices?

  The rustling of grasses near the altar made him turn, his heart yearning at the sight of her, his beloved. How small she looked, head bent and draped in a white head covering. No jewels adorned her neck or ears, and her feet were bare. Her robe was simple, unassuming, and her hands were clasped in front of her. She stepped closer, and he longed to go to her, but she knelt in the grasses, head bent to the earth.

  He stared, his heart constricting at her humility and the pain he had glimpsed in her large, luminous eyes. He reached for the torch, turned back to the altar, and lit the pieces of flesh until they caught fire. Smoke lapped the blood and animal flesh and rose to the heavens. Jacob set the torch back in its spot and came to kneel at Rachel’s side.

  Tears filled his throat, not from the smoke as much as from the sobs and soft prayers coming from his beloved’s lips. He faced forward as well, palms splayed before him, his own prayers offered heavenward.

  Forgive us, Adonai Elohim. Please, remember Your maidservant, my beloved, and grant her heart’s desire. You have blessed me with many sons, but of this woman You have not given any. Look with favor on us, Y
our undeserving servants, and give us a son, as You did for my father and my grandfather before me. Remove the sting of her barrenness, I pray. He swallowed the unshed tears.

  Please, hear my prayer.

  He waited, searching his heart for any last words that he might utter to convince the Almighty to act on Rachel’s behalf. As the last of the smoke died away and the sacrifice turned to ash on the scorched stones, Rachel rose slowly to her knees, and Jacob took her in his arms. She rested her head on his chest, and he stroked her back, his silent tears falling softly now with her own, and he sensed that she still prayed, seeking God’s face.

  The sun dipped to blazing pinks and oranges by the time they stood apart. Jacob grabbed the torch and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, retrieved his own sandals from the edge of the clearing, and led her to the path home, feeling as he did the night he had met the Holy One at Bethel on the way to Laban’s house. Truly God did not dwell only in Canaan’s lands. His reach was long, and He could see them even here.

  Surely He had heard their prayers.

  Rachel awoke with a start, a queasy feeling in her middle. She rose quickly from her pallet and hurried to the clay pot, heaved over it, and lost the remnants of last evening’s meal. She leaned back on shaking limbs and wiped her mouth with a linen cloth. Was she ill? She glanced at her sleeping mat, where Jacob had risen on one elbow, looking at her.

  “Shall I send for your maid?” Concern etched his brow as he pushed to his feet and came to stand over her. “What can I do for you, beloved?” He placed both hands on her shoulders, and she leaned into his strength.

  “I am all right now.” She turned. “Help me up.” He grasped her hand and tugged, holding her close.

  “You are not ill?”