Judging Noa

by Strutin, Michel;

  Hur lifted Haddad and helped him back to where their fire ebbed. The left shoulder of Haddad’s robe was shredded. Beneath, so was his flesh. A scrape of teeth had bloodied Haddad’s neck just as Hur had attacked.

  His body and voice trembling, Haddad breathed out, “My bag . . .”

  Hur eased Haddad near the fire and found the leather bag set in the sand.

  “Same stuff,” was all Haddad could manage.

  Hur removed the felted leaves, familiar from his ibex-hunting injury. He cleaned his friend’s wounds and applied the poultice. Then Haddad said, “Get a hairy leaf, toothed, from my bag. Just one . . . for pain. And one for yourself.”

  Hur found a small bundle, handed a leaf to Haddad, watched him chew slowly, then did the same.

  “Help me into the canyon. We can sleep, protected, on the rock shelves.”

  “I don’t think namir will return,” Hur said, with more certainty than he felt, as they halted into the canyon.

  He found a long, shallow shelf that floodwaters had sculpted over the centuries. Hur helped Haddad down and wrapped his own robe around him. He felt the cold bite of the desert night through his tunic, and wedged himself in. They lay pressed together for warmth until they both fell into deep, strange sleep.

  In Hur’s dream, Noa stood before him and smiled in a way she never had before, a seductive smile. She turned and floated deeper into the canyon. He arose and followed, the rock walls curving like the hips of a woman. Noa beckoned and disappeared where the canyon bent toward the left. Hur stumbled forward, trying to keep his eyes on Noa and his feet beneath him. He saw her lying on a low ledge, her belly high and rounded. He went to her and bent to kiss her.

  Spots blurred his vision, rising toward him in rosettes. Noa’s face melted and reformed as the fangedgrin of a leopard, who wrapped his front legs around Hur and dug the tips of his claws into his back. He smelled the leopard’s breath, an odor of rotted meat. Far away, Hur heard himself scream. Again, he reached for the knife at his waist. The leopard’s spots danced before his eyes, and he could not see where best to stab, so he stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, as the leopard became Noa. He threw down his knife and tried to staunch the holes he had made in her body, but he could not stop them all. From each hole, blood poured out to form a baby. Hur tried to catch each one. Some fell to the ground and ran away. His breath came hard and fast and he awoke, shivering with cold and horror.

  His head ached, stars above skipped from one spot to another, and the whole of heaven trembled. He flinched at the sound of rustling. Leaning out to look, he saw a porcupine with its spray of black-and-white spines, waddle deeper into the canyon. Hur rubbed his arms to regain warmth, then curled back into sleep.

  Haddad’s sleep, too, was disturbed. He saw his scar-faced cousin, muttering, searching for something, finding the edge of Haddad’s robe and cutting, cutting. Then he was gone.

  WHEN HUR AWOKE again, a mist hovered over the ground in the pale light of dawn. His breath billowed white in the morning chill. Slowly, he unfolded his stiff, aching body, and stood. The mist reached his knees and purled along the canyon bottom like a river.

  He heard Haddad stir, then answered his greeting. “Morning light . . .”

  “We survived the night,” Haddad croaked. He rolled from his rocky bed and stood cautiously.

  “Does it still hurt?” Hur asked.

  “Am I made of flesh? Yes. But now my stomach growls like a leopard.” He clawed at Hur, grinning to hide his pain. Hur lightly slapped away the claw, grinning himself.

  “Yes, let us eat.”

  They ate their loaves and drank from the spring, filling their waterskins before starting their trek out of the crater.

  “My life was in your hands.”

  “My knife was guided by God,” Hur demurred.

  “You will take my knife as a small gratitude for my life.”

  Haddad handed Hur a sleek blade with a finely tooled handle. And that is how Hur obtained the knife of a Midianite prince.

  “ . . . and I will tell how you saved me. But first I will tell my wife that these ‘scratches’ on my back are from a fiery night with the wife of Ba’al.” He laughed at his own joke.

  Hur was surprised. Until now, Haddad had not mentioned a wife.

  Haddad spoke of how ardent his wife was. He told Hur that his father warned that when a wife’s zeal turns from her husband to her children, it is time to take a second, younger wife.

  “A leader must pour his seed into a woman, who will pour her strength into the shoots that arise,” Haddad declared.

  “Thus, a leader builds his house,” Hur agreed.

  “And when the children grow, the first wife still has the lesser wives to rule over, they and their children and bondswomen, each ruler of a tiny kingdom.” Haddad laughed.

  Hur laughed with him, but thought of Noa. She was dutiful, but not ardent. He assumed all wives were like Noa. Haddad had told him something different.

  As the trail rose, sunlight fingered its way down the canyon walls. He considered his disturbing dream and decided to see it as a good omen: he would be father to many.

  “You know, I feared Scarface might be lurking when we first arrived,” Hur said.

  “He is always lurking. But he is cowardly. Look.” Haddad spread his robe and pointed to his hem. “This cut. I dreamed he was here. I believe he was here. Slit my robe as a sign that he could as easily have slit my throat. I cannot be weak.”

  “There is always a Scarface.”

  “But our friendship is a counterweight,” said Haddad.

  “In truth.”

  The two headed toward the journeying tribes, and Haddad reclaimed his ring. Before they parted, they clasped each other and vowed to unite their families through their children.

  NOA WALKED WITH Gaddi’s women, but remained apart. She held her head high, but her spirits were low. Tamar had refused to allow her to return to her family, even for a night. Hur’s female cousins seemed to set their shoulders against her as they chattered like the young wives of Malah’s group. So it seemed to Noa. Or perhaps it was she who had nothing to say to them.

  “I am not made that way,” she told herself, at once disdaining and desiring their easiness.

  Hur’s two sisters treated her like a visiting Egyptian princess. Shyly, they asked her permission to speak, isolating her with their awe.

  She formed no warm bond with Tamar. As matriarch, Tamar had a proprietary interest in Noa’s pregnancy and did not hesitate to reach over and pat Noa’s belly, talking to family members as if the belly and its contents belonged to her. Noa hated the touch of her mother-in-law’s hand on her body.

  “I once felt as you feel,” said a voice drawing alongside. It was Tamar. “My older daughter, now a mother in her husband’s house, feels the same. Separate.”

  “I can’t help it . . .”

  “You will grow into us, somehow.”

  “But what would one night with my family have harmed?”

  “We are your family now. And, no, I won’t allow your running back to them at every difficult moment. You must learn to live with us. As I had to. One day, you will become who I am, head of the women. And you will have to set an example. I finally fit in and—there!—my mother-in-law died. Then I had to work to separate myself, to give myself distance in order to gain respect and keep all of the women in their proper places. I deny you in order to strengthen and straighten you. That is my job. One day, it will be your job.”

  “But if I am not made that way?”

  “You can make yourself whatever way is necessary. You must train your feelings to serve you, rather than you serving them.”

  Tamar nodded farewell, and strode ahead toward a knot of women her age. Noa nodded in return, but Tamar was gone.

  Noa did not want to marshal her feelings. She wanted the comfort of Yoela. They were each other’s refuge, caught between childhood and womanhood at a strange time, in a strange place.

  Yoela’s father, wh
o could boast of little besides his daughter, could barely contain his pride that Zerach ben Efraim had chosen Yoela for Barzel, his second son. He was amazed by the ease of the match and the fine bride price Barzel brought, and he congratulated himself that his daughter’s future was set. Yoela and Noa had heard the ugly rumors about Barzel. Yoela knew she was sold to his family to help hers survive.

  After she had told Noa that the contract was confirmed, Noa said, “I can save you with my claim for land . . . for any daughter.”

  “Noa, I am not brotherless. You think winning this plea will cure all ills. And winning seems so . . . unlikely.”

  Remembering their conversation, Noa was interrupted by her unborn shifting within her womb.

  “Once you arrive,” she whispered to the child within, “you will give me strength to win over the Judges of Hundreds.”

  Engrossed in thoughts of child and judges, Noa did not hear Hur fall in step with her.

  “ . . . a most amazing journey,” he finished.

  “I am sorry. I was lost in thought.”

  “I can see, but I must tell you about this great footprint of the gods. Bigger than eyes can imagine. And the colors . . . the artists of Egypt cannot compare. We stopped at the springs where travelers rest. Here,” he said, handing her his waterskin, “I’ve brought you sweet water.”

  “And what did you do there?”

  “I saved Haddad from a leopard.”

  “Ah, you love Haddad more than you love your wife,” she half-joked.

  “No, truly. If you wish some meat, I will find some before the sun crowns the sky. I swear.”

  His pledge was so heartfelt, Noa could not help but smile. Her smile lit his face, giving him hope that, like Haddad’s wife, her desire would match his.

  CHAPTER 16

  THE SUITOR

  HOGLAH SAW ASAF’S coppery top regularly. One day, he dashed past with a group of young men and turned to stare boldly for a moment. Another time, she felt the wind at her skirt. She looked down to see his hand brush past as he walked ahead, turned, and . . . winked. She bit her cheeks to keep from grinning back at him. She liked his silent games.

  One evening, at a tamarisk grove framing a well on their way, Asaf edged close to Hoglah, tied the end of a flexible branch upon itself, and, fixing her with a significant look, held the limb for her inspection. Slyly, he indicated the ring made by the looped limb and raised his eyebrows.

  “Your answer?” he asked, before slipping into the shadows, knowing that “yes” would be her every answer to him.

  “What could he mean?” Hoglah wondered. “Who can I ask?”

  She was tied in a knot tighter than the tamarisk. She decided to question Malah as obliquely as she was able.

  The next morning, she sought out Malah and said, “A friend has asked a question. Perhaps you can answer.”

  “Go on,” urged Malah.

  “If a person . . . not a maiden . . . a person, who is a man. Well, if that person showed a friend of mine a tamarisk branch knotted upon itself to make a circle. My friend wants to know what that means. He seems interested. In her.”

  “Why would someone knot a living tamarisk limb?”

  “That’s exactly my question.”

  “I will ask among my circle, but it sounds like something a desert-dweller would do. Hardly something one of us would do.”

  “Oh.” Hoglah sounded disappointed.

  Malah looked at her suspiciously. “What friend are you talking about? Perhaps you are asking for yourself?”

  “Me? Who would be interested in me?” Hoglah widened her eyes, disingenuously.

  This answer satisfied Malah, and she agreed to put the question to her young wives.

  Later that day, Hoglah asked again, “Well . . . what is the meaning? My friend is beside herself. She must know.”

  “I was right. It is one of those quaint desert customs that our people seem to be picking up. The man ties a knot in the limb to show he is interested in a maid. The maid, if she is willing, ties another knot alongside it. Oh, the sight of that . . .” Malah loosed a long, pealing laugh. Since hearing Seglit’s tale of Boaz’s impotence she had little reason to laugh.

  “Yes,” said Hoglah cautiously, “I can see how silly that would look.”

  “If there are matching knots, well . . . your friend should run to her father and tell him to expect a proposal.”

  When the sun left only a golden glow at the edge of the desert, Hoglah walked out to the tamarisks. She tried for a careless pose, though her heart pounded and her face flushed. When casual glances did not reveal the knot she sought, Hoglah began searching in earnest. She feared he had reconsidered and undone the knot. She pushed into the tangle of tamarisk, desperately looking. Her arms became covered with the fine, dew-like manna that coated the leaves. Tufts from the tamarisks’ flowery plumes stuck to the manna on her arms, turning her arms into white wings. Still she did not see the knot.

  And, then, there it was. Hoglah smiled, quietly, then boldly. She looked around to make sure no one was there to see and quickly tied a companion knot at the end of the same willowy limb, then fled back to her mother, anxiously brushing her feathered arms.

  The next evening, Asaf came to Boaz bearing introductory gifts and a proposal for Hoglah to be his wife. Boaz knew nothing of this unexpected young man nor who his people were.

  Taking a few moments to compose himself, Boaz called for Seglit, “Bring tea, a few loaves . . .”

  Tirzah, who had been running with the boys, passed the copper-headed man sitting with Boaz. She rushed on to her mother and demanded, “Why is the sheep shearer talking with Uncle Boaz?”

  “What sheep shearer?”

  “He was one of the shearers Hoglah and I brought the sheep to. He’s fast. Zip, up one side. Zap, down the other.”

  “A sheep shearer?” Malah was sitting with her mother, and her face soured as she put together Hoglah’s query about the tamarisk. She lifted her mother.

  “Quick. For Hoglah’s sake, for our sakes.”

  Malah pulled her mother along to Boaz with Tirzah dancing around them, delighted by the drama. As they approached, she heard the sheep shearer say, “I was orphaned in Egypt. I have no siblings. Yet, I made my way. I am resourceful and I will be a good provider.”

  Malah dragged her mother onto the rug, Tirzah slipping in behind them. Startled, Boaz introduced them, despite their breach of etiquette.

  “My sister-in-law and my wife. Please, Malah, sit over there.”

  Boaz turned back to Asaf and asked, “And your family? Who are they?”

  “You are Manasseh, yes? As I am. We are one. I will tell you:

  “My uncle, Bar-On, the very one. Bent now, but his line is long and distinguished and once stood tall. And so my father was, and his father before him. My father’s fathers were giants among the bowed of Egypt. They lifted up those beside them. You have heard, undoubtedly, of Eri, father of Ozni, who never left a one out in the cold. And Avram the Wise. Of Hever who did so much that his name is now gilded in our memory. And my mother, she from the family of the former gilders to the pharaohs, known for their exquisite work and she herself was. But her family, alas, perished in Egypt. They stood in the way of powerful forces. Not merely bending the backs of our people, but forces flailing them like reeds in a storm,Egyptians who wanted to win the gilders’ trade from the Pharaoh. If only they, my mother’s people—Shelah ben Saul ben Nahum ben Zoma, Mica with his good eye and even better hand, Zahavi the master of all gilders—were here to bring their skill, the beauty of their work to the canopy of a bride. Such as your niece, whose beauty would be mirrored in their work. But I am, for now and ever, an orphan, with Bar-On as the only other remnant of a rich history. From the mighty river that was my family, we have come down, a small stream, goodly and well-meaning with seeds of greatness and I, who would, with your beneficence, build up a house again, to blend our two families, yours whose might you have built even here, even in this desert—praise to
you—would live again . . .”

  Boaz, unsettled by Asaf’s abrupt appearance, was drowning under the suitor’s flood of words.

  “I know how to buy and sell, and I am the shearer of shearers . . .”

  Tirzah could not contain herself and jumped up. “You should see him.” She smacked her hands, up then down. “Zip. Zap. It’s done!”

  “Tirzah!” Malah and her mother gasped.

  Ada leaned out, as if to grab Tirzah back.

  “Can no one stop this girl?” she wailed.

  Malah shot a sharp look toward her mother, grabbed Tirzah, and dragged her back while apologizing to Boaz for the intrusion.

  Asaf concluded with farewells, departing just as Hoglah returned from the well, struggling with a huge skin of water. Asaf rushed to relieve her of her burden and, bowing to Hoglah’s mother, laid the skin before her, turned, and skipped away, leaving Hoglah with marveling eyes.

  Boaz asked Ada for a moment in private. In one hand he held a limp bunch of grapes, shriveled by the heat of the sun. In the other hand, he held an ostrich plume.

  “What am I to make of this?”

  “It is the feather of an ostrich,” Ada answered. “They say they live in the valley of the Kenites.”

  “I do not need a lesson on ostrich feathers,” Boaz roared. The wife of his brother sometimes set his teeth on edge with inanities.

  “I am sorry, sister, I did not mean to shout. I care nothing for a feather. I mean the young man . . . who arrived unannounced. He says he is an orphan, of our tribe. I could not quite follow the connections. Coming without proper introduction, I doubt we need to take this proposal too seriously.”

  He held up the grapes. “Grapes. Where does a simple shearer get grapes in the desert? And, indeed, what is the use of this?” Boaz demanded, waving the long, silky ostrich plume.

  Tirzah ran to his side. She slipped the plume out of Boaz’s hand and fanned it over her mother’s head. “A fan for the queen of the desert.”