Judging Noa

by Strutin, Michel;

  As Hur watched, Haddad wrapped himself in a cloak of authority and, in an unbending voice, confronted his accuser.

  “You are making a problem where none lies. You are the problem, and I know how to deal with problems. The animal is Hur’s. Swallow the anger you are chewing on,” Haddad swept a dismissive arm toward the wilderness, “or go!”

  Scarface spat and turned aside, his neck bent just enough to indicate he understood the threat but not enough to declare the war over. The younger men returned to the task of lashing the ibex to a pole, ready for transport.

  “We are like the wolves that roam these mountains,” Haddad said, low enough for only Hur to hear. “There is one leader. I am he. My eyes must be everywhere. And my strength ever here.” He struck his chest. “You and I, we may be on opposite sides some day. I hope that day does not come. But if it does, I will be strong, even against you.”

  “You are your father’s son,” Hur offered in praise. “Between you and me, may there be peace.”

  “Yes. Between you and me, your people and my people, may there be peace for a thousand years.”

  NOA WALKED NEAR Tamar, Hur’s mother, but not so near as to draw her attention. She did not want Tamar to see the distress boiling within her. Hur put life in her belly and left. The Midianites might murder him, leave a fatherless child, and leave her trapped in a family not her own.

  Tamar feared for her son, but kept her emotions in check. “Swallow your fear and keep your dignity,” were her mother-in-law’s instructions when Tamar was a new bride. Now headwoman herself, Tamar took glancing stock of the women under her guidance. Like flocks, they calmed with her eyes on them.

  Noa’s presence irritated her, reminding her of Hur’s absence. Her eyes stole toward the horizon, looking for a sign of her son.

  She scowled. As she did, she noticed a stir toward the mountains. She looked away, fearing hope would attract an Evil Eye. But the roil of dust grew larger and steadily came closer: three young men, two carrying something on a pole, heading straight toward the raised banner of Manasseh.

  His spear held as straight as his body, Hur presented himself to his father. His mother stepped out of the ranks of the women, watching with a bursting heart as Gaddi touched his heart, then the head of his son. The two embraced.

  Tamar waited until Hur came to her, grasped her hands, and kissed them.

  “Mother.”

  Immediately, he turned to Noa, who watched him warily. Tamar fixed her smile, not wanting to humiliate herself by showing disappointment that Hur turned so quickly to his wife. She longed to savor his attention.

  “Noa, my wife,” Hur said, delighted by thought and word.

  Bursting with his success, he motioned Efram and the younger kinsman to present the ibex before Noa.

  “This goat of the desert, killed by my hand,” Hur lifted his palm in offering, “he is yours.”

  The ibex’s head hung, disjointed, and the bloodied brown mouth of the gash gaped up at Noa. Flies rose from its eyes. She looked away, her eyes glazed by nausea, fighting the rising bile. Then, flushed and sweaty, she turned her head and retched, emptying the contents of her stomach onto the desert floor.

  Everyone watched, shocked at Noa’s disgrace. Tamar pushed her younger daughter, Liri, forward with a wet cloth.

  Afraid Noa would taint her, Liri held it out at arm’s length. “Here.”

  Noa realized she had covered herself and her husband with humiliation that would wag people’s tongues. Clutching the cloth to her mouth, she burst into tears. Everyone stood, rooted, to see what would be.

  Hur collected himself and put his arm around Noa’s shoulders.

  “Give us room. Can’t you see my wife is not feeling well? Efram,” he called, “bring me the gentlest of the donkeys. Mother, two rugs, please.”

  His mother, adjusting her emotions to match her son’s, waved her arms in a hurry-hurry gesture toward her daughters, who loaded a pair of rugs on the donkey that Efram brought.

  “Noa will rest, then we will catch up. Make a feast of the goat,” he said to his mother. “In honor of my parents from their ‘son of the desert.’”

  Hur led Noa out of the stream of people and beasts and laid down one of the rugs.

  “Here, rest a while,” he said. “I will build shelter around you.”

  Weak from nausea, Noa complied. As the great procession passed, people stared. A curiosity in an otherwise barren landscape, Noa hated being the object of attention.

  Hur gathered small slabs of shale and piled the pieces on the corners of the rug.

  Her throat raw from vomiting, Noa whispered, “I am ashamed. I humiliated you. And I am feeling better. I can ride, and we can go right now.”

  Hur raised his eyebrows at her lie and smiled.

  “I don’t want you to sacrifice praise because of me,” she added.

  “Oh, the feast. My mother will make much of me in my absence. She will be free to let her praises soar. Please, drink.” He handed her a waterskin. “My father, too, will feel no restraint. For me, the prize was getting the goat more than all the words that follow.”

  He secured the second rug atop the piles of shale, shading Noa while he told his tale: Haddad, the ibex, Scarface. The story took her away, as it was meant to.

  She touched the edge of his bound wound. “You are brave. And kind.”

  “This is the praise I desire.”

  The shelter and their words separated them from the thudding feet and rumble of passing voices.

  “I have something to tell you,” Noa began.

  Hur heart swelled, anticipating what she would reveal.

  “ . . . your child is growing within me.”

  He reached to hold her. She bowed her head. It pained her to be caught in Hur’s love with none to return. She was relieved to offer a child.

  “You must tell my mother,” he insisted.

  When she had rested, Hur lifted Noa onto the donkey and they caught up with his clan. She whispered the news to his mother, who clapped her hands and laughed.

  “A feast, indeed,” she crowed, and told her sister, who told her sisters-in-law and her cousins. In minutes, all knew, and Noa’s shame was overspread with triumph.

  CHAPTER 13

  HUNGER

  THE ISRAELITES JOURNEYED in spring, when storks that wintered on African savannas soared north to the lands of the light-skinned peoples. Storks and millions of other winged migrants traced the shore of the Red Sea, named for the red mountains reflected in the water. Trudging on the western side of the mountains, the Israelites knew nothing of the sea, only the mountains and lines of storks.

  “Look, ten of them.”

  Tirzah sat on Malah’s white donkey, wedged between the donkey’s neck and her mother, her head craned toward the black-and-white birds.

  “Ten? There’s tens of tens,” said Hoglah, walking alongside.

  “Ten or tens of tens, who cares,” crabbed Tirzah.

  Tirzah rode because she was too weak to walk. Ada was thankful Tirzah had not succumbed like other children, who were hastily buried along the way. The long days struggling across the desert, the scarcity of water and food, and the heat all took their toll.

  Just before lambing, when milk was scarce, hunger hollowed their cheeks. Many were tempted to slaughter a sheep, but they held off. Their flocks were their livelihood and, soon, they expected to reach the verdant land God had promised. Only manna kept them from starving. They scraped the light, sweet stuff from leaves and came to loathe it.

  Adam ran up to tickle Tirzah’s toes with a piece of reed. He glanced to see if she smiled. He patted his belly, slightly swollen from malnutrition, like hers.

  “You have a little pot and so do I—just in case we have food to put in it.”

  She smiled at his joke, knowing he was trying to entertain her.

  “I’m so hungry. I’m so tired of being hungry,” Hoglah whined. “Mother, remind us about the foods of Egypt.”

  All through the
camps, people with empty bellies remembered the foods of Egypt and, remembering, complained at their lack.

  “Moses has brought us into the desert to die,” Hoglah said, echoing what she heard others say.

  Moses himself worried. Miriam heard him talking aloud at night to God, asking why he was chosen to lead when he only led them from trouble to trouble. After hearing these one-sided conversations, Miriam confided to Rina that she wondered about her brother’s sanity. She believed her brother sometimes wondered, too.

  “Moses carries our troubles heavily,” Milcah said, in answer to Hoglah.

  “How do you know?”

  “Rina tells me.”

  Rina also told her that Oholiav had asked after her. Milcah did not reveal this because the last time she hinted at Oholiav’s intentions, Noa cut her off with, “He is of the tribe of Dan. Not one of us.”

  “Your aim is for us to inherit, married or not,” Milcah countered.

  “Yes, but see clearly, Milcah. We want to put the camel’s nose under the tent. The rest will follow. If we do not disturb the judges by marrying outside the tribe, they will look with more favor on our appeal.”

  “But the Judges of Hundreds may be from other tribes . . .”

  “It does not matter which tribe. People like to stay in their fixed spheres. Just like the first judge said. They do not like change. We are asking them to change the order of things.”

  “So, I must be the sacrifice for your desire.”

  “My desire?” Noa’s voice rose. “What if one of us does not marry, and must be indentured or worse. You can see how close to starvation we live.”

  BOAZ AND GADDI walked with their heads bent together, their voices low but intense. Hur followed, gathering as much of the conversation as he could.

  “The mutterings against Moses have become louder,” Boaz said.

  “I, too, have heard them. As have other headmen.”

  “And who can blame them? Children, old ones, even young men are dying like fish on hot rocks.”

  “Fish. Don’t talk of fish. That is all I hear. ‘The succulent fish of Egypt—we long for home.’ They forget the other delicacies offered in Egypt—broken bones, murdered sons . . .”

  “People forget quickly the old sufferings when new ones are laid on.”

  Gaddi nodded. “Korach holds another meeting tonight. Come with me.”

  “We meet. We talk. Where does it lead?” Boaz objected.

  But he and Gaddi went to where Korach designated, at the edge of the Levite camp out of sight of his cousin Moses. With other tribal leaders, they sat on the cold desert floor, lit only by the moon.

  “Moses has been a good leader,” Korach began, careful to set a tone of respect, but hinting at the past tense. “He and Aaron showed us God’s strong arm in Egypt. We did not believe, but slowly, through miracles, we—and Pharaoh—were convinced. Such is the power of God’s path . . .” Korach paused for effect.

  Men nodded in agreement.

  “But are we still on God’s path? Does Moses know the way?”

  Korach paused again, for the words to set.

  Gaddi leaned toward Boaz. “Korach makes a good point,” he said in a voice loud enough for all to hear.

  Hur, who had wedged himself behind his father, squared his shoulders. His father had spoken first.

  “Kenites say the way to the land of our forefathers is not long,” said one.

  “They tell us that so we will leave the edge of their lands.”

  “Do we know if this promised land is any good? After all, we have not been there for hundreds of years.”

  “Do we know if this promised land has been promised by other gods to other people, who now live on it?” asked a man from the tribe of Efraim.

  The man’s kinsman, Joshua, sat in the shadows behind his father, Nun. Not much older than Hur, Joshua was of proven valor, and he served Moses. He let his gaze drift to the stars. Seeing him with his mouth slightly parted and his vision focused on the heavens, one might have taken Joshua for a dreamy young man. But he heard every word.

  Korach steered the discussion back.

  “Again, I ask, are we on the right path? God’s path? If we were, would our wives be wishing for the melons and, yes, the miseries of Egypt? Would our children be shriveling before our eyes for lack of food and drink?”

  He heard murmurs of agreement and went on.

  “Did not God say we are to become a nation of priests?”

  Korach stopped, before exclaiming with rhetorical flourish, “Each of us a priest, each a leader.”

  “Amen!” called some.

  “Tell us, Korach!”

  “What must we do?”

  “I will put this question to Moses. That we may all have a share in knowing the road to God’s will.”

  WHILE THE MEN met, wives and daughters had fallen asleep. Wrapped in robes, Malah and Seglit remained awake, sitting on the rug that served as their traveling home, gossiping, each finessing what she had heard about this one or that.

  Seglit drew a pomegranate from the sleeve of her robe, carelessly, as if anyone in an arid wilderness might find a pomegranate hidden in her sleeve. She reached for a small knife and plunged it into the leathery red skin. Ruby juice spurted from the incision and she dug her thumb into the cut to crack off a section of fruit. Where Seglit had made the cut, juice trickled down her hand. She bent to suck the juice, then looked at Malah.

  The spilled ruby juice reminded Malah of her wedding night. She wanted to know where Seglit got edible treasure, but was too proud to ask. Seglit knew this. That was how it was between them.

  Seglit cracked a second segment from the pomegranate and tossed it casually in Malah’s direction. “Here. It’s quite good.”

  Malah was so surprised that she missed the toss and the fruit rolled into the grit alongside the rug. She grabbed it up and covered her confusion by picking away the grit, her head bent to the task.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled. Fearing she sounded submissive, she said it again, head raised, nodding politely. “Thank you. It looks as good as any I’ve had,” she allowed, as if she ate pomegranates regularly.

  “So, your sister Noa is with child,” Seglit said.

  “Yes. We are all so happy for her. I look forward to new motherhood as well. To be a young mother, what could be more fulfilling?” Malah said sweetly, knowing her dagger of words would find their mark.

  “I once bloomedwith child,” Seglit revealed, her voice bitter.

  Malah stared, unsure she had heard correctly. She understood that Seglit was one of the barren ones.

  Seglit dropped her voice. “I was in love, when I was younger than you. We loved . . . he and I. And he filled me with a child. But his family was too low for my father. My mother learned of my condition and immediately set out to marry me off to someone respectable. It was not hard,” she mocked her usual coquetry, “your uncle, Boaz had no children with his first wife, the one who died. He believed the child in my belly was his.”

  She stopped, silent for a moment.

  “Well, who knows what he truly believed. There was talk. Oh, you can be sure tongues flapped. Women ‘quack-quacked’ about how quickly the bride price was arranged with Boaz, as if my family were giving me away.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Malah asked, extremely uncomfortable with Seglit’s revelations.

  “Can you not guess?”

  Malah knew it would not be an answer she wanted to hear, yet she asked, “What happened to your baby?”

  “Ah, my child did not hold. I lost the fruit of my beloved. Punishment for bringing dishonor on our family, said my mother. And I shall never have another.”

  “Why?”

  “Boaz. He is the opposite of a pomegranate.”

  Seglit bit into the fruit, sucked the flesh off the seeds, then spat the remains into the embers.

  “All juice and no seeds.”

  Malah let this sink in, finally realizing the implications.

&nb
sp; “But that can’t be. I am proof.”

  “Are you? Do you have the sickness that comes with a child in the belly? Is your belly as rounded as your sister’s? Perhaps you have been pleasuring outside Boaz’s bed?”

  “You witch to say so,” Malah hissed.

  “My deepest apologies,” she said lightly. “But if you are pregnant, I will host a meal in your honor for accomplishing a miracle.”

  Malah was quiet, then asked, “If what you say is so, why did you say nothing?”

  “Who would I have told? ‘Boaz has no seed. I know because I carried another’s bastard’?”

  “Well, you are wrong about Boaz. I am sure.”

  “You can be sure as sure . . . and go to the grave without a child.”

  Seglit leaned out toward Malah and placed the remainder of the pomegranate next to her.

  “I’m tired. The rest is yours.”

  She turned from Malah and pulled a sheepskin over her, burying her ringed toes in the curly wool.

  Malah lay down, too. The thought of the pomegranate made her sick. She hungered, but her hunger was for a child. Her mind raced with accusations, fear, and fury. She threw off her blanket and stood, took a few steps into the desert, and flung the pomegranate.

  MALAH DISMISSED SEGLIT’S accusations as the fiction of a barren woman. She persuaded herself that she had been pregnant, but the trials of their journey had been too much for the unborn within her. She feared the child had stolen back to where he had come from, playing at the feet of Asherah. After a show of monthly blood, Malah commended herself on accepting the sad fate of her first, her unborn child.

  One night, when she knew she was ripe, she crept under Boaz’s blanket and whispered, “Now, plant your seed and I will grow us a child.”

  Boaz, who sensed something had passed between his wives, had been avoiding intimacy with either. When Malah came to him, his heart leaped like that of a young man.

  CHAPTER 14

  WELL MET

  THE ISRAELITES LEFT the red mountains, continuing north. Before reaching the Wilderness of Paran, they stopped near a string of wells, none of them sweet water, but tolerable enough to slake their thirst and that of their livestock.