Rachel’s legs lost their strength and her breathing grew jagged. Joseph’s arm came around her, his muscles tense. She glanced at him, saw the fire in his eyes. He had not been party to this. She looked from Joseph to Jacob, who leaned heavily on his staff, and it seemed he aged in moments as she watched him. She sought a deep breath but felt it lodge in her throat.
Jacob coughed and ran a hand over his beard, his low voice like a wounded animal. “You have brought trouble on me by making me a stench to the Canaanites and Perizzites, the people living in this land.” He looked slowly from one son to the next, seeking to drive home his point with sharp fury. “We are few in number, and if they join forces against me and attack me, I and my household will be destroyed.”
Their silence lingered but a moment. “Should he have treated our sister like a prostitute?” Levi spat into the dirt at his feet, whirled about, and stormed off, Simeon following.
“Let me go to him, Ima,” Joseph whispered in her ear. “He needs me now.”
She nodded, hating to lose the strength of his support but knowing his father needed it more. She let him go and made her way to Leah’s side, then escorted her sister and a still weeping Dinah into Leah’s tent, wondering what on earth they were going to do with a city full of widows and their children.
Jacob walked the length of the camp, his heart as heavy as the stones he had chosen for the altar he had first built on coming here. Now those stones seemed to mock him, as though his guilt were no longer cleansed, his sacrifices a stench in God’s face. Just as the acts of his sons were a stench in the nostrils of the men in the cities surrounding Shechem. That none had come to avenge the murders of Hamor, Shechem, and their clans brought little comfort. He was responsible, and yet he was powerless against the vigilant anger of his sons.
He dug his staff into the dirt to help him climb the low hill to the altar, his knees weakening as he approached the place where he had once felt God’s favor. How was it possible such disaster had come upon him? God had saved him from Esau’s hand, but He had done nothing to stop Dinah’s shame or the acts of Simeon and Levi. And Reuben, Judah, Issachar, Zebulun, and Zilpah’s two sons had joined in the greedy taking of booty. Even Bilhah’s sons had taken captive brides from among the women of the town, leaving Jacob to deal with foreigners and their wayward gods.
He bowed low, kneeling in the dust at the foot of the altar, his heart yearning for the man who had wrestled with him that long-ago night. To feel His strength imbued into him again, to feel the blessing of God on his head would do much to ease the pain he felt now.
Oh, Adonai, what am I to do?
He waited in the silence, listening. A stiff breeze moved the branches of the nearby oaks, each limb dancing a different rhythm to an unfamiliar song. Birds twittered and chirped, and the voices of many children coming from the tents of the captives carried to him where he knelt. He closed his eyes, put his face to the earth.
Go up to Bethel and settle there, and build an altar there to God, who appeared to you when you were fleeing from your brother Esau.
The words joined the music of the birds and the dance of the trees, and he could not escape the thought that he should have gone to Bethel months ago. If he had not stopped here . . . But there was nothing to be done with what was past.
He pushed to his feet, a slow sense of rightness, of peace, settling in the place where the weight had been. They would purify themselves, rid themselves of the foreign idols the women had brought with them from Shechem, and change their clothes—symbols of the past, of all that could defile them. He would bury the lot of it under the oak tree that stood on the path to Shechem and lead his family in faith to Bethel.
Rachel placed a hand over her protruding belly and held Jacob’s hand as the two walked the fields near Bethel several months later, the sheep grazing nearby. “Do you remember when we first met?” she asked, smiling up at him. His beard was not nearly as dark as it had been back then, and the lines along his brow had deepened since Dinah’s defilement and Deborah’s recent death. But when he looked at her, the light in his eyes still held a love so great it took her breath. She blushed like a young girl at his boyish smile.
“I will never forget that moment, beloved.” He squeezed her fingers, then brought them to his lips and kissed them. “You captured my heart from the moment I set eyes on you, my sister, my bride.” He stopped walking and bent to kiss her, a soft, gentle reminder of how much they had shared.
She looked at him, her heart yearning with longing and love so strong it almost caused a physical ache within her. How long would she have him? How long would she live to show him her love? The thought had troubled her too often of late, especially since the loss of Deborah. Though she had not known the woman long, her death haunted Rachel, and she couldn’t quite escape the reality of its finality.
He smiled down at her, then continued to lead them toward the altar where he had first met Adonai on his way to Paddan-Aram, when he escaped Esau’s wrath all those years before. A stone pillar still stood where he had placed it, and as they approached it now, he stopped several paces away, his gaze lifting beyond to a man walking toward them.
She instinctively took a step behind Jacob, placed a protective hand where the babe lay. “Do you know him?” she whispered, suddenly aware of a stillness in the air around them.
“I have seen him before.” Jacob bowed as the man approached, and Rachel knelt, unable to bend as far forward. She peeked at the man through hooded eyes as he stepped up to Jacob and placed a hand on his bowed head.
“Your name is Jacob,” He said, His voice like music and rushing waters and joy all wrapped in one, “but you will no longer be called Jacob; your name will be Israel.”
Her pulse jumped, her heart racing at the sound of His voice. A tremor rushed through her, and she could not meet His bright gaze.
“I am El Shaddai, the All-Sufficient One. Be fruitful and increase in number. A nation and a community of nations will come from you, and kings will come from your body.”
She felt a stirring inside her at His words, and the babe moved as though he too yearned for the promise, a promise this child would bear a part in fulfilling. Tears sprang to her eyes, deep emotion warring with gratitude and unworthiness. She covered her face with both hands, shivering as the man continued to bless Jacob.
“The land I gave to Abraham and Isaac I also give to you,” He said, “and I will give this land to your descendants after you.” His words ended, and the air around them moved again, the birds singing louder, endowed with new life.
Jacob rose slowly to his feet and stared for the space of many heartbeats into the place where Elohim had stood. At last he turned and helped her up, his expression unreadable.
He took her hands in his, tears shining like pinpoints of light in his eyes. No words passed between them. Moments later, Jacob released her and limped to the side of the path unaided, picked up a heavy pillar as he had once moved the heavy stone from the well the day he had met her, and set the pillar upright where Elohim had stood over him and blessed him.
He took the flask of water from his belt, untied it, and poured it over the pillar, then took a smaller goatskin of oil and did the same.
“This is Beth-El,” he said, “house of Elohim. For Elohim has met me here twice, and I am blessed.”
She nodded, meeting his gaze, still too shaken for words, and let him lead her back toward the camp.
Leah glanced at Dinah’s bent head as the girl turned the millstone in its rhythmic circle, grinding the grain as if they could store her cares within its crevices. Dinah’s voice never rose in song since the trials at Shechem, and Leah found herself longing for the arguments and rebellion she had once faced rather than this detached, sad silence. But as before, she could not find the words to help her daughter, and every attempt failed in Dinah’s continued brooding.
Leah released a sigh as she fell into step with Rachel on the way to the well. In the weeks since Jacob had decided to move
away from Bethel to return to his father’s house in Hebron, Rachel had grown large with child, and the weight of it seemed to draw her inward, as though she carried a secret along with the babe.
“Let me get the water this time,” Leah said, aware of the way Rachel’s shoulders sagged as she walked. Even the empty jug seemed too heavy for her.
Rachel glanced sideways at her and smiled, her expression as captivating as always, putting Leah at ease. “And have you think me weak?” She laughed, the sound musical.
“I think you are about to burst with that child, and I don’t want you to have it halfway to the well.” Leah’s scolding brought more laughter from Rachel, and she waved Leah’s concern away.
“I’m fine.” But her secret smile made Leah wonder.
“Have the pains begun?” But no, she would not smile if they had.
Rachel placed a hand on her lower back. “Some slight aches in my back. Nothing more.” She shifted the jug slightly on her head and continued walking. “I wonder what Father Isaac is like. Jacob speaks so highly of him. I look forward to placing our son on his knees.” She glanced at Leah. “I am sorry you did not have the chance to give him a babe to hold. I wish we had made this trip long ago.”
Leah’s heart stirred with the genuine compassion in Rachel’s gaze, and she saw no trace of the rivalry they had once shared. “You have changed,” she said without thinking.
“Have I?” She smiled again, causing the slightest twinge of jealousy in Leah’s heart. “I am sorry it has taken so long.” She touched Leah’s arm. “Please forgive me for the things I’ve said, the bitterness between us.”
Leah shook her head, guilt touching her. “I am as much to blame. We have had a hard life sharing a man.” She looked away, too aware of Rachel’s sincerity. “At least you have always known he loves you.”
Rachel lifted her hand from Leah’s arm, and silence fell between them. At last she spoke. “He loves you too, Leah. Not in the same way. I don’t think Jacob is capable of the same type of love for more than one person at a time.” She paused in her walking and faced Leah. “Sometimes his love is so fierce, it staggers me,” she confided. “It is as though he depends on me for his very breath.” She looked away. “Sometimes I fear . . . I fear what will happen to him when I am gone, if he outlives me.”
“Don’t say such a thing. Jacob is far older than either of us. We will bury him long before he buries us.” She said the words to make them true, suddenly realizing how much it would hurt to lose her sister. She could not bear the thought. Even if it meant she would have Jacob more exclusively.
They walked on, coming soon to the well, and drew the water they needed before turning back to camp. “What are you going to do with Dinah?” Rachel asked, apparently done with thoughts of death and love. “I feel so bad for her.”
Leah’s heart grew heavy again with the impossible situation. “What can I do? She barely speaks. She will never marry—what man would want her? And so she will never bear children. I wish . . .” She shook her head. She wished her sons had not been so rash. “There is no sense wishing for what cannot be undone.”
“No. There isn’t.”
As they neared the camp and saw Dinah still bent over the stone, working her fingers raw, Rachel touched Leah’s arm. “See if she can watch some of the children of Shechem. A babe in arms, even if it is not her own, can do much for a breaking heart.”
Leah met Rachel’s gaze, reading in her dark guileless eyes the memories of her own empty arms of years past. She spoke from experience.
“I will see what I can do,” Leah said.
The pains in her back grew stronger as night waned, and Rachel could no longer keep silent. She sent a servant to fetch Leah, who quickly returned with the camp midwife, Bilhah, Zilpah, even Jacob.
“You should not be here, my lord,” Rachel said as he squeezed her hand and bent to kiss her sweaty cheek.
“I know.” He gazed at her, his smile gentle, the softest hint of concern lining his brow. “I love you, Rachel. I always have.”
“I know.” She drew in a sharp breath as another wave of pain washed over her. “You should go.”
He nodded, at last releasing her hand. He left the tent, and the women crowded around her, all giving advice at once. The midwife examined her and proclaimed the birth a long way off, but the pains did not abate.
Hours passed, and Rachel moved from pacing the tent to collapsing on her mat, her strength slowly ebbing. She looked at Leah, caught the fear in her gaze, and her heart beat fast with dread. Why wouldn’t the child come?
The midwife bade her to lie down again and checked her progress. Her breath no longer raced within her. She struggled to speak as Leah drew close and took her hand.
“If anything happens to me . . .” she said, her voice brittle as dried leaves.
“Nothing will happen.” Leah squeezed her fingers, but Rachel could not respond. She closed her eyes, imagining the man who had spoken to Jacob and blessed him standing over her now. I am El Shaddai, the All-Sufficient One. Be fruitful and increase in number. A nation and a community of nations will come from you, and kings will come from your body. Kings would come from her! Would to God that it were true. And if not her, then surely Leah.
She opened her eyes and looked at her sister, suddenly wishing the years had been kinder to them, that they had settled their differences in their youth.
“Don’t be afraid, for you have another son,” the midwife said, her words distant.
Leah’s face faded from her view.
“Ben-Oni,” she said. Tears slipped down her cheeks, and her eyes slowly drifted closed.
Leah bent over Rachel, waiting, her breath catching on her tears. “Rachel?” The babe’s lusty cry came in response, but Rachel did not move, her chest no longer rising and falling with labored breaths. Her skin had paled with the effort of the birth, her bright lips cracked, her cheeks streaked with tears.
Leah rested a hand on Rachel’s chest, her own heaving with sobs. A flurry of activity broke around her as Bilhah cleaned and wrapped the babe and the others washed Rachel’s limp body for burial.
Rachel! Leah wanted to scream her name, to shake some sense into her, to demand she return from that place of Sheol. She felt Bilhah’s presence at her side, the squalling babe in her arms, tears falling freely onto his soft blanket. She offered Leah the child.
“Jacob must be told,” Bilhah said.
Leah took the boy and nodded, moving silently through the tent into the courtyard where Jacob waited with Joseph. Her sons had dispersed to their tents, though some of them were still with the sheep in the fields. Simeon and Levi had kept their distance since Shechem, even since the sacrifice at Bethel and Jacob’s command to purify the camp. Her thoughts drifted to them now, to their births, to the children God had blessed her with. And now Ben-Oni made twelve sons of Jacob.
But what kind of life would he have as the son of Rachel’s sorrow? The thought pricked her heart, and she wished she had been the one to die in her sister’s place. How would Jacob bear such loss?
She approached Jacob and Joseph, the babe held close to her heart. She met Jacob’s gaze across the circle where the fire still burned low and the men sat in quiet conversation. He stood at her approach, and she could not stop the tears as she held the babe out to him.
“Ben-Oni,” she said. “As she was dying, Rachel named him ‘son of my sorrow.’”
Jacob sank back to the seat, the staff falling to the dirt beside him, hands resting on his knees as if trying to hold himself up.
Joseph’s voice rose beside him in a deep, guttural moan. “No!” He rocked back and forth, seemingly unaware of Leah’s presence, and Jacob buried his head in his hands, weeping.
Leah stood, uncertain what to do, longing to fall to her knees and weep at his side, but the babe’s cries broke through their sobs, causing both men to quiet. Jacob looked up, saw her there, and seemed to realize why she waited. He lifted his arms, accepted the child, and re
sted him on his knees, tears still streaming into his beard.
“He shall not be Ben-Oni, but Benjamin, son of my right hand.” His voice filled the courtyard, and Leah glanced beyond him, seeing that all the family and servants who were in the camp had gathered. She caught Judah’s look as he stood near his tent, saw the hurt in his gaze. By Jacob’s words, Rachel’s son had been elevated to a place above her own sons, beside Joseph.
She should have known, had always known Rachel’s children would rise above hers. She had come to terms with the idea long ago, but her sons did not share her sentiments. She must do what she could to keep peace among them. With Rachel gone, there was no one else who would look after Rachel’s children to keep them safe.
Movement caught her eye, and she saw Dinah emerge from the shadows to sit at Joseph’s side. She touched his arm, and the two held each other. Perhaps Dinah would find solace in Rachel’s sons, in caring for Benjamin and consoling Joseph.
Leah moved closer to Jacob, aware of the babe’s quiet cooing. He would need a wet nurse soon. But for now, she sat beside her husband and placed a hand on the babe’s head. Jacob looked at her through his pain, and she determined she would do whatever it took to ease it. She was his first wife now in every sense.
“Do not worry, my lord,” she said softly. “I will care for Rachel’s Benjamin.” Her brow furrowed. “That is, if you want me to.”
He nodded his thanks, words seeming to fail him, and handed the babe back to her, then picked up his staff and rose, limped across to Rachel’s tent, and let the flap close behind him.
34
Jacob touched Rachel’s hand in the darkness of her tent, where a single torch cast shadows over the room that hours before had been full of life and hope. Stars blanketed the sky outside her tent, making it impossible to choose the place for her grave this night. He looked into her face, the skin ashen, drained of color, her beautiful smile hidden, yet her lips somehow faintly showing a hint of the smile he once knew. She had teased him with a similar look when she acted coy and wanted to get him to see things her way. She had always succeeded, partly because he loved giving in to her.
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