Judging Noa

by Strutin, Michel;

  The sisters stood, transfixed.

  “She tried to poison my family. At the wedding of my wife’s cousin, he who was Barzel ben Zerach.”

  Malah felt Noa stiffen. Without dropping Noa’s arm she called back, “But that wedding was years ago.”

  “My wife recognized her only yesterday.” His stabbed his finger toward Noa. “She remembers this woman thrusting a cheese as a gift. My wife thought it strange and the taste of the cheese stranger still.” His voice deepened with anger as he called out, “Strange because it was full of poison!”

  A low rattle, like locusts, rose from the crowd as it twitched with rumor and speculation.

  “Everyone fell ill,” he called out, then turned his face, no longer mild and forgettable, directly toward Noa. “Do you deny giving this ‘gift’?” He spat out the word as if the word itself were poison.

  “I did . . . I did offer . . .” Noa stuttered, clutching her sisters’ supporting arms.

  The square-faced judge stood, but the lead judge waved him down, saying quietly, “Let us hear this out.”

  “And did you mix poison into your gift?”

  “Poison? Only an herb, for taste,” she lied, fearful of this sudden eruption of the past. In her mind, her lie gained ground. “An herb Barzel had a taste for, I heard.”

  “And who did not hate Barzel?” Malah demanded, unwittingly adding fuel to the fire lit by the judge. A few women’s voices in the crowd ululated in agreement with Malah’s assessment. “He beat his third wife so badly she lost the child within her belly. Who did not sigh with relief when this unfortunate woman’s brother spilled Barzel’s evil blood in the dust?”

  Upon hearing her sister speak up in such voice, Noa burst in, “He killed his wives slowly. He killed one as close to me as my own soul. And . . . and . . . I heard no one of the guests died,” she finished lamely.

  “So. You did try to poison Barzel ben Zerach and, instead, succeeded in poisoning all of his guests,” said Noa’s accuser. “Intent-to-kill is at the root of your deed. And intent means something.”

  At that point, the lead judge rose, saying, “Yes, intent is a serious matter and, as such, we must consider this accusation. As law states, two witnesses must step forward.” He turned to his fellow. “If tomorrow you will bring your wife and one other who witnessed this deed, we can proceed.”

  “EVEN BEYOND DEATH this cursed woman will not leave me alone,” Hur thundered when he heard what Noa had done to avenge Yoela. “And what would you have me do? Do you think I can save you? No one knows better than you that the law stands.”

  After Hur’s initial eruption, the family decided to plan a strategy. Hur had insisted that, as his wife was at the heart of the matter, they should meet in his dwelling. Boaz, too tired to cling to even this remnant of leadership, did not argue. He felt unwell and said to his wives, “Tell me what was decided. Hur will find the right path.”

  “I will stay with you,” Seglit said.

  The men and women gatheredon their respective sides of Hur’s tent. They had only an evening to find a way to defend Noa and their honor. Each side was hot and crowded with people, opinions, and the pungent smells of wool and anxiety. Flickering oil lamps tossed shadows back and forth, adding to the sense of confusion and urgency.

  On Hur’s side, the men crowded around a platter holding cups of tea and piles of seeds. Opinions and seed hulls flew. Boys packed the spaces just behind the men, eager to take part. As the men argued strategies, so did the boys behind them. In lowered voices, they supported or argued against fathers’ and uncles’ views, keeping an ear to the flow of talk at the center.

  Yared agreed with his father’s opinion that they should challenge the accusation. Gibor was more circumspect. Gaddi, Noa’s oldest, who wished the problem swept away as soon as possible, supported his father’s inclination toward a negotiated settlement. Ahuva’s son, who usually challenged Gaddi reflexively, backed him this night.

  The women’s side was a cacophony of contention. Tirzah’s fury to fight against the accusers buffeted Milcah, who had her arm around Ora, Noa’s daughter. Ora quivered with outrage over the accusation and the possibility of humiliation if her mother were guilty. Noa sat next to her mother, both crumpled in a corner.

  Hoglah, who feared that somehow she was at fault, organized her children to heat water and serve tea. Tikvah stepped carefully with the bubbling jar, but Ahuva’s ten-year-old suddenly stuck out a leg, causing Tikvah to stumble. Hot water splashed onto the younger girl, mapping wet channels over her dusty leg. She howled and pulled her leg close as Ahuva reached for her.

  The girl stopped sobbing long enough to spit out, “Clumsy,” at Tikvah.

  All were aware of Hoglah’s diminished status, which devolved to her children. Tikvah bit back an ugly reply and stifled the urge to grate the girl’s leg with her ragged toenails. She was learning quickly that those at the bottom must learn to pick their way carefully.

  Malah made an excuse to relieve herself and slipped outside. Thankful the night was dark, she allowed her eyes to adjust, then pulled her headcloth forward to shield her face before setting out, a rod-straight wraith walking quickly toward the tents of the tribe of Efraim.

  The night was dark but not silent. She heard murmurs from within the tents she passed. Men still sat before embers here and there, looking up briefly as Malah strode by. One called after her, “Hey,” seeing if he might waylay a woman on her way to an assignation. But Malah’s shadow had already become a shadow.

  Sporadic bleats rose from the brush pens at the edges of camp. Out alone, skirting barely seen obstacles, Malah was anxious. Her destination, wrapped in the dark folds of night, seemed farther than she imagined. She feared she had missed the borders of Efraim until, finally, she made out the tribe’s fluttering standard, an adder snaking its way across the folds of Efraim’s flag.

  Relieved, Malah allowed herself a moment to breathe in the night air, softly sweetened by white broom blooming in the wadis. It reminded her of the smell of the man who planted his seed in her. She felt an unexpected stab of desire. Then hurried on.

  To avoid being seen in the tight intersection ahead, she veered toward the sheepfolds. On the far side, a trio of watchmen bent over something. One of them threw his hand downward and cried, “Two!” She bent her head away and nearly tripped over a tent peg, dodging another one as she navigated back among the tents, hoping her divergence had not put her on the wrong path.

  Earlier, after the judge’s accusation, Malah had learned the way to his tent, signaled by a loom with a striped pattern. Now darkness tricked her eyes and she found herself in a bewilderment of tents, anxious and near tears with frustration.

  “Why is it that I must clean up the messes made by my thoughtless sisters?”

  Gripped by self-righteous anger, Malah drew herself up and, at the horizon, caught sight of the rising crescent moon. The right horn pierced the night sky, a crooked finger in the heavens. Malah relaxed her shoulders and allowed herself a deep breath as anxiety and anger dissipated at this sign of Asherah. Suddenly, she saw the tall loom with the 3-2-3 pattern of dark and light stripes. She sent a silent message of thanks to the heavens.

  Next to the loom, she noticed the gazelle horn used for beating in the weft. “Careless. Laying there for anyone to take,” she thought. This hint of the weaver’s failing gave her confidence in her mission.

  Malah eased herself down next to the loom. Her hand found the horn and thumbed its ridges like a talisman. The side of the tent was rolled up only a few handbreadths, so all she saw was the backside of a woman sitting on a fleece.

  “Please tell your mistress I have vital information about her daughter,” Malah whispered urgently.

  The woman startled and hissed back, “Who is that?”

  “The sister of the midwife who will attend the daughter of the judge.”

  “I am the mistress of this family,” the voice answered, lowered to match Malah’s. “You are speaking of my daughter.
What do you want?”

  “Let us speak here, by your loom.”

  “I do not meet with strangers in the night.”

  “I am of Manasseh, a lone woman among the tents of Efraim. You are the safe one. My news is urgent.”

  “I will come with one of my women.”

  “This is for your ears only. For your daughter’s sake. Only a few steps separate us even now.”

  The whispered exchange ended, and Malah heard a faint sigh of cloth shifting. Malah stood and stepped away from the loom, grasping a tent pole for support, ready to disappear into the night. She waited.

  Finally, she saw a form approaching, and a woman breathed into the night, “Who is there?” When the woman did not hear an immediate answer, she turned. “Eh, a trick.”

  Malah quickly stepped forward. “I am here.”

  The woman challenged, “What concerns you with my daughter?”

  With the ends of their headcloths wrapped to conceal all but their eyes, Malah and the cousin of Barzel began a dark, muffled exchange. Malah began by praising the woman for the wisdom to choose Milcah as midwife.

  “But,” Malah said, “I have a story to tell, one that happened long ago, one that is darkened by the death of a young and innocent woman.”

  Malah related Yoela’s story, without giving her name. She saw the woman’s eyes narrow, guessing the identity of the husband who abused his wives.

  “She was like a sister to my sister and to me.”

  Malah had practiced this untruth, reminding herself that the goal was forwarding her daughter’s claim to land. Whatever she had to say, she would.

  “How does this concern my daughter,” the woman insisted.

  “The woman you accuse . . . her sister is the midwife who will attend your daughter. You have chosen the midwife well. Her hands are blessed,” Malah said. “But if your accusation stands, she will not attend the birth of your first grandchild.”

  “And who will stop her? You?”

  “Do not doubt that I can. Consider: your accusation or the safety of your daughter and the child that is the future of your house.”

  The woman did not speak. Ever attuned to drama, Malah swept her robes around her and left. Unsure of the outcome, Malah asked the night air, “Who would not act in her greatest self-interest?”

  Having expended all of her heat, Malah shivered as she retraced her route. Despite the rising crescent moon, the way back seemed darker and devoid of people. She had to pick her steps with care so as not to step into the hot remains of cookfires covered by ash.

  Shadows thickened as she passed. She feared they were evil spirits, as every man was now in his tent. From the direction of the sheepfolds, she heard the low “oooo-whoop” of a hyena, then a sleep-muffled curse, and the thud of a rock.

  Finally she arrived home, breathless, chilled by fear. She slipped onto her bedding and reached for a fleece to cover herself with. When her hand found the warm wool, she wrapped herself tightly and waited for her body to stop shaking. As she fell asleep, Malah congratulated herself on her courage in the service of her daughter.

  “Just as Noa said, I am completing God’s intended work.”

  MALAH WAS AWAKENED by a sharp cry that dissolvedinto a low, animal moan. Seglit. With an awful premonition, Malah sprang up and tore through to the other side of the still-dark tent where she found Seglit sitting, holding Boaz’s hand.

  “He is gone,” Seglit said.

  Malah found Boaz’s other hand. It lacked the warmth of life. No one among them was unfamiliar with death’s gaunt face. Malah thought she had prepared herself, but at this moment she felt lost.

  His two wives sat, enveloped by grief and disbelief.

  Suddenly shaken by a vision of Rimon as a baby in her father’s arms, Malah remembered that Noa’s fate would be cast today. She prayed that her work last night would remove the barrier to Noa’s progress, but feared that Boaz’s death might muddy a delicate deliberation. Malah would let nothing impede her daughter’s future.

  “We must keep this between us, only until nightfall,” she whispered to Seglit, fearing Rimon and the dead might hear.

  “What do you mean?”

  “His death. No one must know during this day.”

  “Why? His body must be cleaned and prepared. We cannot wait.”

  “We must, only until sunset. Our daughter’s fate depends on it.”

  Malah explained, and Seglit agreed. Seglit would guard against intrusion while Malah promised to make sure Rimon was busy with Milcah. She was thankful she would not have to remain in the tent as the flesh that was once her husband stiffened.

  In a rare expression of sympathy, she said, “I am sorry to leave you alone. I will return as soon as the bet din makes its judgment.”

  They remained in the dark, each wrapped in her robes and her thoughts, until daybreak. When sunrise found their tent and Rimon awoke, Malah hurried her off to Milcah’s. Malah then went to find Noa to escort her to the bet din.

  “I hope you will hold your thoughts until you see what will happen,” she urged Noa as they walked. “I believe this accusation was just a boil in a pot. It will likely come to nothing.”

  Pressing through the crowd like the breath of God through the Sea of Reeds, Malah parted a path for Noa. They stood to one side of the arc of people, with Milcah and Rimon. Hoglah waited at home, too anxious to hear her children’s fate in public.

  The judges came forward and took their seats. The judge who had confronted Noa had been replaced by a short, hairy man. Malah saw the recused judge standing at the other edge of the arc.

  The crowd had come to hear the results of yesterday’s accusation. Some who recognized her looked toward Noa, whose face was colorless and set like stone. At last, the judge with the walleye stood, the better to be heard.

  “In the matter of Noa, daughter of Zelophechad, accused of intent to poison, which event occurred in years past . . .”

  He took a breath before continuing and the crowd leaned in.

  “The witness withdrew her accusation. Mistaken identity. This matter is finished. As for the petition regarding inheritance of daughters who lack brothers . . .

  “It will be forwarded to the Judges of Thousands, the highest bet din of the people of Israel.”

  The crowd bubbled with comments and opinions. The judge stirred them down by announcing the next case, as the sisters slipped to the edge of the crowd on their way home. Women reached out to Noa, touching her arm as she passed, and she acknowledged their quiet congratulations with a set smile.

  The recused judge left, his face sour. First his wife accused, then she recanted. She made him look a fool before his fellow judges, and he vowed she would pay. He did not know that she had already paid, twice over. Initially, when his wife remembered Noa’s face at the bet din, she was filled with the rage of retribution. She offered one of her best gold bands to a kinswoman willing to bear false witness.

  “This, for you, as my second witness to a crime committed against our family. And your vow of silence regarding this exchange.”

  After Malah’s threat to withhold Milcah, the judge’s wife told her kinswoman no second witness would be needed. But the woman refused to return the payment.

  That night, the daughters of Zelophechad and their families, busy with the rituals of death, did not celebrate Noa’s victory. They readied Boaz for burial and praised his name. Noa was relieved to be in Boaz’s shadow, but the accusation reminded her that no legal machinations could remove the stain of what she had done.

  With Boaz’s death, Hur’s desire for unrivaled leadership was, in one stroke, resolved. As the sole leader of the tribe of Manasseh, the responsibility both weighed upon him and elated him even as he mourned.

  Later that night, Hur said to Noa, “If I am the leader of Manasseh, I must model the straight path.”

  “And Gaddi? Will it still be right for Manasseh to match Gaddi with the daughter of the Midianite?”

  With the highest bet din
about to consider a woman’s right to inherit, Noa did not want to soil her case with the possibility of a Midianite inheritor.

  “Now that Manasseh has grown in numbers and in strength,” Hur conceded, “perhaps we do not need alliances . . .”

  “ . . . with strangers,” Noa finished.

  She was happy that Hur’s heart had hardened against matching their son with the daughter of Haddad. Hur wondered how he would break his oath.

  CHAPTER 26

  BLESSINGS AND CURSES

  THE TRIBES HAD lived at Kadesh Barnea since the spies’ bad report. Over the years, they became accustomed to the dry hills that framed their tents, the palms, and the sweet-water wells. It was said that Miriam’s very presence caused living waters to flow.

  Over the years, the generation that had fled Egypt was reduced by death. Miriam and her brothers were among the last of that generation. When she died, the wells that had been dug deeper and deeper into the sands dried up.

  The people cried out to Moses, “There is no water to drink.”

  Grieving over his sister’s death, Moses could not hear. God heard the peoples’ cries and directed Moses to call water forth. Moses had little will to intercede, yet he silenced his mind and raised his staff over the rock that God had designated.

  At that moment, a man shouted, “Why did you make us leave Egypt to bring us to this wretched place?”

  In frustration, Moses cried out, “Listen, you rebels, shall we get water for you out of this rock?”

  As Aaron stood silent, Moses struck the rock and broke his rod. Water flowed but God’s forgiveness did not. Moses was forbidden from the promised land.

  “THE JUDGES OF Thousands . . . theirs is the final decision on our land,” Noa said. “But will they have time to hear me before we set out?”

  Miriam’s death marked the end of their time at Kadesh and everyone was too busy packing to note Noa’s urgency.

  The way forward led through the lands of the Edomites. Moses requested safe passage, promising that the tribes would turn neither left nor right and pay for any water their herds drank. The Edomites refused, and the Israelites, journeying eastward, skirted their lands.