Judging Noa

by Strutin, Michel;

  Of the words that Moses spoke, the ones she best remembered were, “I have put before you today life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life.”

  Noa had discovered no answers to the questions she had brought to the nazir hut. She feared there were no certain answers.

  “Perhaps I can’t know,” she told herself. “But perhaps the way to atone is to ‘Choose life.’ This I can do.”

  Noa’s time as a nazir had come to an end. Leaving her things to collect later, she hurried home to be with her family, to tell Hur the learning of her heart.

  As she passed between stands of flowering broom throwing shadows near the close of day, she looked up and saw a great white bird circling above. Odd to see one in the evening, Noa thought. The sweet smell of broom blossoms filled the air, dizzying her with their scent.

  Noa stopped, suddenly fatigued, then walked on, but more slowly. She looked up again when she noticed a shadow darkening above her. The white presence was circling down toward her. Disoriented, Noa felt she was falling. The presence reached her and wrapped its pearled wings around her, enveloping her. Gently, the wings tightened, squeezing breath from her body. She was not frightened. The embrace secured her as the world spun crazily. Her heart trembled, or was it the wings? A gauzy veil of blossoms covered her, then thinned to a mist. Noa thought, “I am in a cloud.” The winged thing carried her upward, enfolding her ever tighter, absorbing her breath until, finally, Noa was released into its embrace.

  THE EMISSARY ARRIVED at Hur’s tent near dusk and announced to the woman who greeted him, “I have word from Moses for the daughters of Zelophechad. Please to follow me.”

  He had assumed Ahuva to be Noa. She, realizing his mistake, knew there was no time to find Noa among the nazirim, so begged the man to wait while she fetched Malah, who would know what to do.

  As Malah strode toward the emissary, with Ahuva trailing behind, she called out, “I am the first daughter of Zelophechad.”

  “Moses himself would address you.”

  Winding through the tribal precincts, they arrived at Moses’s tent and the emissary ushered Malah inside.

  Moses raised his eyebrows in surprise when he saw Malah instead of the woman he expected. Malah saw his confusion and opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, unsure whether she should speak without permission.

  “And you are?” Moses asked, inviting her answer.

  “I am the first of Zelophechad’s daughters. My sister Noa is ill,” she explained, embarrassed to admit that Noa stayed among the nazirim.

  Night approached and Moses knew his time was short. He wasted neither time nor words. “As God has said, your plea is just. Zelophechad’s daughters will be given a hereditary holding among your father’s kinsmen. In accordance with the Lord’s command, this is the law of procedure for all Israelites: ‘If a man dies without leaving a son, you shall transfer his property to his daughter.’”

  Moses noted Malah’s self-importance and added, “Of course, to all of his daughters.”

  “A God of justice . . .” Malah murmured, as she bowed.

  “ . . . and of mercy,” Moses completed.

  “Please give your sister my wishes for her complete recovery and for successin her land,” Moses said, knowing he never would have what he wished for Noa.

  Malah understood her interviewwas at an end and hurried home in the near dark. It was too late to seek out her sister among the nazirim. She would tell Noa at dawn’s light.

  CHAPTER 30

  BEHOLD THE PROMISED LAND

  AS THE GRIFFON vultures landed, they stood for a moment to steady their legs. Large and long-necked, they were as regal standing as they were in flight, their dark, glossy necks rising from white ruffs. Majesty faded as they vied for position, chesting each other while eyeing the body the night hunters had missed. In the slanting light of dawn, they hopped awkwardly and squabbled, casting hooked beaks heavy as hand axes.

  Small Egyptian vultures looked for opportunity, their white plumage ruffled against the morning chill like the hair of children just awakened. As the larger raptors squabbled, one of the smaller birds stepped quickly toward the body, its beak, long and delicate as a bone awl, aiming for the eye.

  As it moved, a challenger rushed the birds, its robe spread like giant wings. Then another caped body ran at them.

  “Go. Grraggghhh!” screamed the smaller of the two, as she flew toward the birds.

  “Thieves!”

  The other dipped, scooped up a rock, and flung it as she ran, hitting the closest griffon vulture squarely on its side. The vulture croaked, rose awkwardly, and veered away.

  Seeing Malah’s success, Milcah scanned the ground for a rock, then flung it at another vulture. The two women screeched while pelting the remaining knot of scavengers until they drove them off, robbing them of their meal. The sisters turned to the body. Except for a certain tension around her mouth, Noa looked at ease, gently laid to sleep.

  They stood, silent.

  Malah reached down to brush back a strand of hair that fluttered across Noa’s face. As close as a twin, yet so different.

  “She looks asleep. Only asleep.”

  Was her soul still within?

  Malah drew back.

  Milcah saw her sister’s fear and said, “Malah, if you would, bring my birthing bag.”

  Malah, too struck to wonder at Milcah’s request, turned to do what her sister asked.

  When she was alone, Milcah whispered, “Birth, death. The coming and going of life requires honor.”

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  A gust dusted the desert floor, then died.

  “You will never know that you won for us.”

  She looked for signs of violence, from animals, from humans, and found none. She felt Noa’s arms, not surprised to find that stiffness had set in.

  “A miracle nothing has touched you,” Milcah said, her eyes on the vultures now circling high above, waiting.

  “A miracle,” she whispered, stroking Noa’s hand. “You are a miracle.”

  Morning breezes rose and fell until finally, breathless from speed and shock, Hur, Gaddi, Hur’s brother, and Hoglah’s oldest son rushed to where Milcah knelt.

  Malah carried Milcah’s birthing bag, Hoglah at her side. Gibor trailed, moving as quickly as his crutch allowed.

  “She died in the arms of God,” Milcah said, hoping to ease Hur’s grief. From her bag, she drew a long piece of linen, which would serve as a winding cloth.

  Their faces blank with disbelief, Hur and Gaddi lifted Noa as Malah slipped the cloth beneath. Milcah wrapped the body, but before she covered Noa’s face, Hur stayed her hand.

  He laid his hand on her forehead, anointing her with love. His look said, “Please . . . open your eyes and live.”

  Never perfect, their lives had become so entwined that to lose her was to lose part of himself. He could not move, and they allowed him his time.

  Milcah waited, then squeezed his shoulder—a sign to release her—and finished covering Noa.

  Gaddi wept as he walked. After the battle with the Midianites, his mother’s death was another introduction to the burdens of life.

  That same day, Moses slowly ascended Mount Nebo. From the Mountains of Moab, he saw the whole of the promised land, all the way to the great western sea. He saw the land where they would go, but not he. And Moses died there.

  FOR THIRTY DAYS, the Israelites mourned the loss of their leader. For thirty days, the house of Hur mourned Noa. Those who loved her needed no reminder of the fragility of life. Death was well known to all.

  “Why Noa?” Milcah demanded. “The one of us who dreamed beyond her own life. Who pursued justice.”

  “And won. Now my children are safe,” said Hoglah.

  “If the ones in charge remember long enough,” said Malah.

  “But it was God who decreed.”

  “People follow decrees as it pleases them.”

  They fell silent for a moment.

  “S
he was the star that pointed my way,” said Milcah.

  Their mother’s eyes had already become dimmed and, upon hearing the word “star,” asked, “Where’s my little Tirzah, my little star?”

  Because they had all gathered to mourn Noa, Tirzah was there to answer, “I am here.”

  Tirzah’s pain at the loss of Yared had curdled to anger still so palpable that her sisters gave her room. Her mother addressed her alone.

  “When I am called to sleep with my ancestors, bury me here,” she insisted, though her voice was but a whisper. “Right here. With my husband, Zelophechad. I am too tired to travel farther.”

  When their mother died a few days later, her eyes and mind too clouded to realize that Noa had preceded her, they buried her and the bones of her husband together, placed with a view of the Jordan River and beyond. Her death marked a line between the past and the future.

  TRIBE BY TRIBE, they waited impatiently for the call to begin the march into their promised land. Rolled rugs and baskets piled with household stuff stood near tents. Some had already folded their tents, readied for the backs of donkeys.

  Milcah gathered a circle of the clan’s younger children, helping them pass the time with a story. Gibor stood at the center of the circle, miming her story, using his crutch as a camel, a horn, a rainbow,making the children laugh with delight, taking up Milcah’s story himself when she paused at the rhythmic sound of stone on stone off to one side.

  Glancing sideways as Gibor continued her story, she saw Gaddi throwing pebbles at a rock.

  Rimon and Tikvah stood near, their arms flung around each other. Rimon nodded toward Gaddi and whispered to Tikvah.

  Gaddi noticed and called to them, “What are you saying about me?”

  Relaxed, looking more boy than man, he appeared nothing like the young warrior who fought alongside his father or the son mourning his mother.

  “We saw you talking with Talia today,” Rimon challenged, naming a friend of theirs.

  “We saw you talking with Talia yesterday as well,” Tikvah added.

  Gaddi blushed so deeply his ears burned.

  He flung the next pebble at Rimon’s feet and mumbled, “ . . . business with her brother,” and twisted away, trying to cover the spreading grin with a stern face.

  “Ha, it’s true. We’ve got you.” Rimon laughed.

  Milcah saw them bantering with each other. Gaddi squirmed comfortably under his cousins’ teasing. She ached for Noa to see.

  “Noa,” she said, hope filling her heart, “we are almost there.”

  Michal Strutin is an award-winning author of eight books on natural and cultural history, including Places of Grace: the Natural Landscapes of the American Midwest, Discovering Natural Israel, and two volumes of Smithsonian Guides to Natural America. Her articles on travel and natural and cultural history have appeared in the New York Times, Los Angeles Times, Tablet, Outside, Rolling Stone, and other newspapers and magazines. In addition to spending time with her family, she enjoys traveling, anything outdoors, and gardening.