Judging Noa

by Strutin, Michel;

  Gibor poured his energy into simply moving forward, leaning on his crutch, dragging his clubfooted leg. Adam had carved the crutch from acacia wood and shaved it smooth as a priest’s linen robe. He had made many over the years and, although Gibor could now make his own crutches, Adam insisted on continuing this act of love. Unlike Tirzah, Adam saw beyond Gibor’s infirmity. Gibor welcomed the care his father invested.

  Gibor moved slowly, but observed what others moved too fast to see. It was he who had discovered gazelles browsing the leaves of these acacias.

  A few months before, as the brothers stood at the edge of camp, a sand viper slithered before them, linking S-curves so quickly it appeared the snake was dancing across the desert. Yared instinctively jumped back. Gibor could not, but pointed at the viper, who was headed toward a pile of rocks.

  “Watch how clever he is. Only a few points of his body ever touch the sand. He gets where he wants without burning his belly.”

  To cover his embarrassment at jumping, Yared picked up a stick and started after the snake.

  “You be the eyes. I’ll be the arm.”

  “Leave him be,” urged Gibor. “Find me a tamarisk, and I’ll show you your next bow, strong and flexible.”

  While other young men had learned to plough and hunt, Gibor was carving a niche for himself as a crafter of bows, arrows, spears, plough blades, and other tools of work and war. Adam, seeing his son’s future, brought him hollow reeds for arrow shafts that Gibor fitted with flint points. Yared brought feathers that Gibor trimmed and bound to the shaft, which he nocked and balanced for precise flight. Adam displayed his son’s weapons with pride to potential customers.

  As they waited quietly for the sun to sink and the birds to settle, Adam whispered, “I told your mother to have a pot of lentils for us when we return. I am hungry already, and we may have to wait.”

  “If I had ‘told’ her, she would have bitten back. Like she always does.” Yared’s voice was low, but full of venom.

  He and his mother had argued earlier, as they often did. She was determined that Yared be exactly as she wished him to be, the son into which she poured all her aspirations. Yared had other ideas. Sometimes he did not have another idea, but simply did not want to be bound by his mother’s demands. Their increasing conflicts pained all of them.

  Gibor had hoped for a quiet evening with his father and brother, leaving the turmoil of his mother behind. He noticed a pair of bean-caper seeds: one swelling and full, one withered.

  “Her temper is like my foot—a defect. But not everything.”

  “Why should you defend her? She pays no attention to you. Have you never noticed?”

  “Stop,” Adam hissed. “She is your mother. That’s the end of it.”

  Ahead, a gazelle edged into sight, its tan coat barely visible in the shadows. Followed by a yearling, it stepped cautiously, looking up into the trees as if anticipating a leopard.

  CHAPTER 25

  JUDGES OF HUNDREDS

  ONCE AGAIN, NOA stood before the Judges of Hundreds, hoping she appeared calm. When she last stood before judges she was little more than a girl.

  “How did I have the courage?”

  “Oh, judges are distracted by ripe youth,” Malah answered airily.

  “If that is true, what will win them now?”

  “The arrow of justice arcs true,” Milcah assured her.

  Noa was not so sure, but Milcah’s words gave her strength.

  The Judges of Hundreds sat before a small tent set up exclusively for their use within the precinct of the tribe of Benjamin. Shaded by palms, the tent was supplied with mats and pillows, a table with three cups, a tall jar of water, and a boy to serve them. When court was in session, they sat on stools before the mouth of their tent. When they tired or needed to discuss the merits of a case, they withdrew within.

  In the heat of the day, people came to be entertained, their interest juicy as just-cut melon. If a case hung on legal technicalities, their interest shriveled, leaving only a small rind of listeners. If a case flared with hot-blooded contestants, crowds gathered.

  Noa stood before the judges, her skin filmed by nervous sweat under her robe. Streaming down through wind-whipped palms, the sun flashed on and off, blinding her. Cautiously, she stepped forward a few paces to gain the shadows, hoping the judges did not think her too bold.

  Noa had consulted with Hur on the thrust of her petition, but he did not accompany her. Win or lose, the judges’ decision would be hers.

  Her sisters—save Tirzah—stood just behind her, at the front of the crowd. Malah noted more women than usual, older women and mothers with babes on hips, bouncing them to keep them quiet. Rimon stood next to her mother, her chin tipped upward, concentrating on being elsewhere. Malah reached for her daughter’s wrist and squeezed it.

  Hoglah’s children pressed close to their mother, their faces clean and hair untangled, their sand-scrubbed clothes as presentable as possible. Although she faced the judges, Noa felt Milcah’s warm, secure presence just behind her.

  She wondered who these judges were and to whom they owed allegiance. The judge on her left looked younger than she. His beard was trimmed in the style of warriors who tested themselves in skirmishes against desert bands. The planes of his square face looked chiseled, and she imagined him eating rocks to break his nightly fast. A smile rose at the picture of pebbled crumbs dropping into his lap. She quickly subdued it lest he think she was smiling at him. She doubted emotion would soften this judge.

  Noa quickly scanned the judge on her right, who looked neither hard nor soft, smart nor stupid. If she saw him walking among others, she doubted she would recognize him, except for the milky stains that striped the left edge of his robe. She hoped this judge, like her father, was careless only about appearance.

  She focused her attention on the center judge, who directed the proceedings. His face was scored by his years and by gravitas. His thinning hair and beard, streaked with gray, hung straight, strengthening a sense of vertical clarity. He sat upright on his stool, half-a-head higher than his fellows, his long fingers cupped over each knee.

  Noa was struck by his eyes. One looked directly at her. The other searched for something at the periphery. It wandered, unanchored from its mate. Noa wondered if he was able to see in both directions, or did the straight eye take precedence? Suddenly she felt a tug on her robe and the heat of a body behind her. Milcah had stepped forward to jolt Noa’s wandering attention.

  “I am so very sorry, honored judges. The sun . . . the sun blinded my eyes, and . . . You will not see inattention again.”

  The lead judge was familiar with reactions to his eyes. He ignored her inattention and simply repeated, “What brings you before this bet din? Speak up.”

  Noa breathed deeply and drew herself up. Anticipating this question, she launched the answer she had practiced. “As you know, the former head judge of the bet din you now lead—the Judges of Hundreds—refused to hear cases based on a promised land so far in our future. But, with all my heart, I believe that future is nearly upon us.”

  Noa stopped to catch her breath and to see if the lead judge’s good eye was on her, or if it, too, wandered. He waved her on.

  “We have accorded you a hearing because, yes, our time here draws to an end.”

  “My sisters and I, we have no brothers. We fear our father’s house and his name—Zelophechad ben Hefer—will wither because daughters cannot inherit. Yet, wehave all been careful to marry within the tribe of Manasseh to preserve claims promised to each tribe for when we reach our land.”

  The lead judge nodded with an implicit “ . . . and?”

  The warrior judge leaned forward, his forearm on his thigh, as if to hear more closely.

  “But,” Noa breathed deeply again, “even careful plans can go astray.”

  She looked around, her arms shrugging “What can you do?” She saw that she drew in the crowd, who leaned toward her, confirming her simple truth.

  “
Careful as we were, the fate of the children behind me lies in question.”

  Noa turned and swept her hand toward Hoglah’s children, standing meekly with their heads bowed, as they were coached.

  “Through no fault of their own, they may have nothing.” In a low voice, to avoid frightening her nieces and nephews, she added, “Their fate—bondage.”

  Noa told of the examination into Asaf’s background and explained that they had just learned it was based on a payoff and a lie. She told further of Asaf’s flight and of his new wife and life among Midianites to the east.

  The square-faced judge squinted and drilled his question. “So you say that you—all of you—were taken in by such a one?”

  Noa did not know how to reply. She felt stupid, admitting “yes.”

  “Please explain,” the lead judge prompted her.

  “Yes, we believed this man Bar-On. We had no reason not to. But bribery and lies go against the law. I hope trust does not. If that were the case, I would trust no one, not even my own blood,” she finished with some heat.

  Some of the crowd supported her passion. Some laughed.

  “Silence!” roared the lead judge, then turned back to Noa. “If you wish to bring a suit against this man Bar-On, that is another matter. Continue with your case.”

  Noa dipped her head toward the judge in thanks for pulling them back to the point.

  “The lack of law for brotherless daughters does not end with my sisters and me. Not only my sister Hoglah’s five children, but the daughter of my older sister is also at stake.”

  Malah nudged Rimon a step forward, turning her as she went so that the crowd and the judges could admire her beauty: a bloom of dark ringlets cascading over her shoulders, framing a face with rose-dark cheeks and almond eyes. Rimon’s face clouded at being put on display, but the crowd murmured its approval. Malah lowered her own eyes modestly and allowed herself a slight smile of triumph.

  “Rimon is the only child of my sister Malah,” said Noa. “The wife of our uncle Boaz, leader of Manasseh. Her situation is as ours.”

  “Make sure she marries into your tribe,” advised the judge.

  “Certainly, but even if she does marry within our tribe and her husband dies, the property reverts to his brothers, not to her. So she still will be left with nothing of her father’s inheritance.

  “And,” Noa continued, “to marry within clan or tribe . . . If the parents are poor, they may not have that choice.” She thought of how Yoela’s parents sold her to the family of Barzel. “Without a law, my father’s house, all that he and we have built, may vanish like the morning dew.”

  “We can understand your concern. But who among us can guarantee the path of our life? Only God knows.”

  With his one good eye, the head judge considered Noa and the crowd behind her. Like the dun-colored robes they wore, the people were frayed by wear. Like the flocks they depended on, they jostled among themselves, trying to catch the shade of the palms above and avoid being singled out for scrutiny. They worked hard and long for a life of little security.

  “Oh, judges, all the more reason for a ruling,” Noa said. “What you say is true—there is no way to be certain of life.” She shaped her hands as a funnel. “Without law, justice can slip away, even through a small hole.”

  “Are you saying our law is not good? That there are holes in our law?” the warrior judge challenged.

  “No. But perhaps the law . . .”

  “Who are we to challenge God’s laws?” he broke in.

  “Perhaps . . .” Noa started again, leaving a moment of silence to allow the crowd’s rumble to fade so all could hear her next words. “Perhaps God leaves gaps in the law to test us, so that we can learn from them. Perhaps it is for us to help God make the law whole.”

  “Are you saying we partner with God, like common traders? That sounds like blasphemy.”

  “I fear my words are at fault. I am speaking my thoughts poorly.”

  Noa had thought her interpretation was sound and would please and impress the judges. Now she desperately ticked through phrases in her head to come up with something more palatable.

  Finally, she said, “I beg you to consider our case and allow us to inherit the land promised to Manasseh and to our father Zelophechad, that his name may not fade from the earth. We implore you to allow the law to include the daughters of Zelophechad and all brotherless daughters. Perhaps God wants us to learn from His laws, to complete them and, in doing so, make ourselves the people He hopes we will become.”

  Finished, Noa bowed slightly before the judges and stepped backward slowly. She had done her best and had nothing more to add.

  “Well spoken, daughter of Zelophechad,” said the lead judge.

  The mild judge nodded, yet raised his eyebrows as if agreeing and querying at the same time. The warrior judge—Noa could not gauge his stony face.

  “Your petition is thoughtful,” continued the lead judge, “and requires thought on our part. We will take time to consider. Return tomorrow to learn our ruling.”

  With that, the three judges rose and entered their tent, the lead judge beckoning the boy who served them.

  “I WAS WON by your words,” said Milcah.

  The sisters, all but Tirzah, sat in their mother’s tent. Noa knew that Milcah spoke from her head as well as her heart. She valued her younger sister’s opinion, as did most who knew Milcah.

  When Nechama’s hands had become too old to bring forth babies, she gave her birthing goods to Milcah, acknowledging for the community what all had known for a while. Milcah had gained fame when she reached into the birth canal of a favored daughter of the tribe of Efraim and untangled the cord that had wrapped itself like a snake around the infant’s neck. She rescued more than one tiny life by cutting open its dying mother’s womb and lifting the infant out alive.

  She believed God guided her fingers, and she derived deep pleasure from having brought so many across the perilous threshold of birth into the world of sun and rain, warmth and cold, joy and woe—life.

  When Nechama bequeathed her birthing stool, she said to Milcah, “We are rarely given what we want. But look what you have done with the life you were given.”

  Milcah had felt a sharp but brief stab of pain, thinking of Sarai. Her love and loss of her daughter had supplanted feelings for Oholiav. And if Dor was not Oholiav, he was enough.

  Two of Hoglah’s children sprawled at their mother’s side. She urged Tikvah to rise and brew them all some tea. The girl protested, unwilling to unwind her gangly, pubescent body from the edge of her mother’s lap.

  “Look, it’s only there.”

  Hoglah pointed at the glowing embers just to the side of the open tent doorway. Tikvah got up.

  Malah, reminded of her own daughter’s part in the day’s events, said, “I am sure Rimon’s appearance added favorably to our cause. And, certainly, the judges know she is the daughter of Boaz, leader of Manasseh.”

  Noa smiled. Malah’s imperious declarations rarely rankled her. They were so much a part of her sister’s nature. They told Noa the world was in order. She looked toward her mother, whose old bones rested uncomfortably against a cushion in the corner, and wondered if her mother saw her, saw all of them, each by the odd bumps and grooves in their nature.

  Increasingly, her mother’s spirit turned toward the world of her ancestors. If she died at this moment, only Tirzah would be missing, Noa thought, just as Tirzah burst through the doorway, nearly knocking the pitcher from Tikvah’s hands.

  “Good evening and good news.”

  Their mother lifted her eyes, briefly, shining at the sound of her youngest daughter.

  “So, what is your news, oh fearless one?”

  Tirzah ignored Malah’s sarcasm, aimed at Tirzah’s role in Adam’s warrior group, one of many that had formed among the tribes.

  “Adam fights alongside a judge. They test themselves.” She threw out her forearm like a shield. “The judge complained about having to sit for
the bet din. Something about a long ya-ya-ya on daughters’ inheritance. Didn’t say the outcome. He did say the one who spoke presented fair. It must have been about us.”

  They gasped. Hoglah clapped her hands, disturbing the child curled on her lap. Noa permitted herself a small smile of hope.

  NOA STOOD BEFORE the judges, her hands folded together, her body contained and quiet. The crowd, curved behind her, was larger than the day before. Many had returned to hear the outcome.

  She hoped for a good outcome, but did not hope too much. She had determined to absorb whatever decision was given without her face telling her story.

  The judges exited their tent and arranged themselves on their stools, adjusting their robes and their composure. Despite the hot breath of the hamsin winds, their faces revealed nothing. The tall judge fixed his good eye on Noa before saying, “Noa, daughter of Zelophechad, you stood before us yesterday and presented your petition for inheritance, for you and your sisters, your father having no sons.”

  Noa dipped her head in agreement.

  “Your words were convincing. They have merit . . .”

  Noa allowed herself only a quick intake of breath.

  “ . . . but a ruling for your inheritance would set such precedence . . .”

  Suddenly hot and faint, Noa struggled to remain upright. At that moment, all she wanted was a “yes” or a “no.”

  Tears rolled down Hoglah’s cheeks. Milcah saw that Noa trembled. She whispered to Malah, and the two of them moved to Noa and grasped her arms to hold her up.

  Without warning, the third judge, whose robes now showed only faint signs of stain, stood up.

  “There is yet another matter,” he said, his voice ominous. “A matter that I alone know of.”

  The other two judges looked up at him, surprised.

  “This woman,” he pointed to Noa, “harmed my family. With evil intent.”