Rahab awoke and slipped on her tunic. The ritual cleansing to prepare to join the Hebrew nation required her hair to be shorn. Many women of Jericho cropped their hair, but it was an oddity among the Hebrews. She ran a hand across her head, needlessly smoothing the stubby curls of her once-luxurious tresses. As she reached for a pouch to make her morning trip to the stream, Rahab remembered and stopped herself. No work today, she thought. It’s Shabbat.
After stretching and yawning, she pushed aside the curtain between the nook occupied by the female members of the family and the main living area. Her mother and father sat cross-legged on the carpeted ground, eating food prepared the previous day. “Good morning, Daughter,” Karmot said, as Rahab sat next to Bilda.
“Good Shabbat, Father. Mother,” she replied. She heard sounds of her brothers and sisters stirring behind the thick goat hair curtains. “I hope you rested well.”
“Yes,” Karmot said, while Bilda merely nodded. “Though not as well as I shall when our tent is with the tribe of Judah. Once we move inside the camp, your brothers and I will go and hear the reading of the law with the other men on the Shabbat.”
“I hope you will remember everything and share it with mother and me,” Rahab said.
“Yes,” Karmot replied, taking another bite of cold bread. “I have already learned it is a man’s duty to instruct his whole family in the ways of the law.”
“My head itches,” Sanda declared as she and Masula entered the common area.
Bilda motioned toward the tray of bread. “Eat. Food will help your hair grow.”
Masula rubbed her eyes. “Maybe my new hair will be curly, like Rahab and Kemil’s.”
The adults smiled, while Sanda shook her head and reached for a chunk of bread. “No one will want to marry me while my head is bald,” she said.
“You are too young to be married among the Hebrews,” Karmot said. “Their men often do not take wives until they have passed twenty summers. Or, as they prefer to say, when they are twenty years old. You have at least two years to wait before I find you a husband.”
Yassib and Kemil emerged from the curtain separating the men’s sleeping quarters. “It will take some time to gather a dowry,” Yassib said with a yawn.
“These people give gifts to seal a marriage promise, but they do not appear to consider women a possession to be sold. I sometimes believe my new friend Matthias treasures his two daughters as much as he does his son.” Karmot shook his head. “The high bride prices we knew in Jericho are not the custom.”
“If no goods or silver are required, how can a marriage be sealed?” Yassib sank to sit by the food tray.
“As I understand it, the fathers simply make a pledge to each other. Again I say, these Hebrews are most peculiar.”
Kemil still lingered near the men’s curtain. “Yes, they are unusual. There is no God in their place of worship, and every seventh day no work is permitted.” He folded his arms. “Perhaps we should move on toward the sunset instead of joining ourselves to them.”
“Because of the invisible God or the Shabbat?” Karmot stopped eating and looked up at Kemil.
“Because they have too many rules,” Kemil answered. He paced and poked the air with a finger to emphasize each point. “You cannot eat this. You must wear that. This is clean, but something else is forbidden. Too much bathing, too many restrictions on getting familiar with their women.” He sighed. “I do not like it here.”
Yassib grinned. “Perhaps you are dreading the rite of circumcision.”
“I do not fear the cutting, if that is your meaning,” Kemil said. “But I am concerned about carrying the mark of a Hebrew for the rest of my life. Once the thing is done, there is no going back.”
“I feel like taking a stroll,” Yassib said, rising. “Will you go with me, Brother?”
“Yes,” Kemil said. “I feel like a chained bear on the Shabbat.”
“Stay close,” Karmot said as his sons exited the tent. “Remember the limit on how far you may walk today.”
Yassib nodded. “We will take care, Father.”
“Me go.” Karmotil pointed to the open side of the tent.
“Best you stay,” Bilda said, pulling her grandson into her lap.
Karmot’s head was bowed. “Have I made a mistake, wife?” he asked.
“No,” Bilda replied. “This is a good place. I can walk through the camp without fear.”
Rahab was dumbfounded. Did she dare believe her ears? Karmot asked Bilda’s opinion, and her mother spoke freely. She could never remember hearing such a conversation before. Then Karmot surprised her again. “What is your thinking, Rahab? Do you agree with my decision to join our family to the Hebrews?”
“You have chosen well, Father,” Rahab said, trying to contain the excitement she felt at being asked.
“We have nowhere else to go,” Karmot said, still not looking up. “I think of the people from the sunrise side of the river, those who passed through Jericho. I doubt any of them survived.” He sat without speaking for a while. Finally he added, “The Hebrew army is strong. Their God is powerful. Do you find truth in what I say?”
Rahab hesitated, not certain whether the question was directed toward her or her mother. “I do,” she said at last. “I believe their God delivered Jericho into the Hebrews’ hands and will give this whole land to them, just as they say. All the way to the great sea.”
“My sons and I will become soldiers. Our family will face hardships, and all of us must learn to obey their laws.” Karmot met Rahab’s eyes. “Yet the Hebrews treat us with kindness. Their ways seem better to me than those we left behind.”
Sanda asked, “Will I have a Hebrew husband?”
“I see no reason why not.” Karmot raised a finger. “But remember, you must wait until these people consider you of age.”
“Is Rahab old enough to marry?” Masula asked.
When she could stand the silence no longer, Rahab said, “Many of the Hebrew women have a skill. Perhaps one of them will teach me how to weave or make clay into pots.”
“If such is their custom, it would be well,” Karmot said. He stood and brushed crumbs from the front of his tunic. “I will see about my sons.”
After Karmot left the tent, Rahab turned to her mother. “I am certain I shall never forget this Shabbat, the day Father asked to know our thoughts.”
“Um,” Bilda grunted.
“Concerning our clothing as Hebrews.” Rahab glanced at her mother. “I have it in my mind to wear the dress of a widow.”
Bilda released Karmotil from her lap. “But you are not.”
“Nor am I a wife or a virgin,” Rahab replied. “There is no clothing to indicate a former harlot, but widow is the closest match.”
“I will speak with your father on this matter,” Bilda said.
“Mother,” Masula asked, “what does ‘circumcision’ mean?”
“Eat,” Bilda replied.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The women and children stood by quietly while the high priest Eleazor prayed and pronounced blessings over the three thousand soldiers going to take the city of Ai. The commander-in-chief Joshua was first, followed by the tribal leaders. Rahab watched Prince Salmon step forward, then kneel. As he lifted his hands toward Heaven, the men of Judah fell to their knees behind him for the traditional prayer and blessing. Rahab was moved to tears by the simple beauty of the priestly ritual. She was both sorry her father and brothers were not among the soldiers and relieved they were not yet required to fight.
Walking back to the tent, she told her mother, “The spies reported Ai is not nearly as strong as Jericho. The men will gain an easy victory.”
“Yes, Lord willing,” Bilda replied.
Rahab smiled. “You are starting to speak like a Hebrew, Mother.”
Bilda shrugged. “They are our people now.”
One of Karmotil’s hands was firmly in his grandmother’s grasp. With the other, he pointed toward the dust cloud rolling behind the d
eparting soldiers. “Me go?” he asked.
“No,” Bilda said. “You must stay and help guard the camp, like your father and Grandfather.”
Rahab caressed the boy’s head. “May all of our battles be won before your little arms are strong enough to lift a sword.”
It was a long walk back to the other side of the camp, where the tents of the tribe of Judah stood. The army marched in the general direction of the sunset, which the Hebrews called ‘west.’ “I find it most interesting our new people have names for directions and divide time into months and years,” Rahab said. “They seem to like order and precision.”
“Um,” Bilda replied. She brushed away Karmotil’s outstretched arms. “Walk,” she instructed him.
When Karmotil turned to Rahab and held his hands up to her, she tried to keep from smiling and said, “You heard your grandmother. You are becoming too heavy for us to carry you all the time.” After failing to convince Masula and Sanda to pick him up, Karmotil walked along, grabbing Bilda and Sanda’s hands.
“How old do you think the baby is, counting years as the Hebrews do?” Rahab asked her mother.
“Two,” Bilda said. “Maybe two and a half.”
“What about me?” Sanda asked, swinging Karmotil’s hand back and forth.
“I think you are twelve, and Masula ten.” Karmotil lifted his feet, shifting his weight to his aunt and grandmother’s hands. “Stop that,” Bilda said, swatting close to the child, but not quite connecting.
“In Jericho, lots of girls were married before they had passed twelve winters,” Sanda commented.
“We are not in Jericho,” Bilda said. “The ways are different here. You may become betrothed earlier, but Karmot has decided you will not marry until you are at least fourteen.”
“Rahab can get married,” Masula said. “She has four summers more than Sanda.”
“Karmot will make marriage contracts for Yassib and Kemil first,” Bilda replied.
Not wishing to hear any additional explanation her younger sisters might receive from Bilda concerning her own status, Rahab slowed her pace and fell behind her family group. Whenever she saw the reflection of her face in the river’s water, she appeared to be little more than a child. Yet she felt much so much older than the brides she occasionally saw in Hebrew wedding processions.
A girl about her own age fell into step beside Rahab. “You are a young widow,” she said. “Was your husband killed in battle?”
Rahab decided to match this young woman’s bold questioning with her own frank answer. “I have never been married.” She turned her head to measure the impact of her words on her companion’s face. “I dress as a widow because I was once a harlot.”
“Then you must be Rahab.” The young woman smiled. “I have heard of you and have wished to make your acquaintance. My name is Milcah. I am one of the infamous daughters of Zelophehad. Perhaps you know of us?”
“No, I do not recall hearing anyone speak of you,” Rahab replied, relieved not to have to explain her past once again. “Perhaps I have forgotten. The longer Hebrew names often do not stay with me,” she admitted.
Milcah laughed. “My father always said his name was difficult, although he claimed Egyptian names are even worse. He insisted all of his children must have short, common names. Your family will join the tribe of Judah, I believe.”
“Yes. Our tent is on the east side of the camp, closest to the river.”
“Have the Judeans welcomed you with kindness?” Milcah asked.
Rahab took another step while she considered her answer. “For the most part they have been more than kind. Matthias, our leader of ten families, is teaching my father the Hebrew law and customs. His wife helps my mother understand what foods we can eat. We exchanged silver for our tent and some furnishings, but no one took advantage of us in making bargains. Most amazing of all, no one has demanded a bribe for anything.”
“And the women?” Milcah glanced at Rahab. “Do they display stone faces as you walk by, or turn their backs when you are about to greet them?”
“Most are cordial,” Rahab said. “Once in a while someone makes it a point to address me as ‘Rahab the harlot’ as if all three words are part of my name.”
“Yes, women can be sly in expressing their displeasure. Men are more inclined to state their disapproval flatly, as if assuming everyone wants to hear their thoughts.” Milcah turned toward a different pathway. “Come and see where I live with my sisters. Then you will know where to find me when you want to visit.”
Unable to restrain her curiosity, Rahab asked, “What have you done to make the women angry?”
“Nothing as I see it,” Milcah replied. “But some have a different way of thinking. My sisters and I caused amendment of the inheritance laws. Before, the property of a deceased man who had no sons went to his nearest male relatives. My parents had only daughters.” She stood still and looked directly at Rahab. “My father was filled with wonder and awe at the ways of the Lord. After attending the tent of meeting each Shabbat, he instructed us on the ways of the Almighty One. He raised questions even he could not answer, and each daughter was expected to state her thoughts.” Milcah resumed walking. “We are almost there. One more turn. After our father died, my sisters and I engaged in much prayer and discussion about our situation. We concluded the Almighty One never intended disinheritance for any of His people, even the females.” Pulling aside the flap of a small tent, Milcah said, “Welcome to my home. Make yourself comfortable. Would you like some barley water?”
“No, thank you,” Rahab replied, settling onto the bare earth floor. “I ate just before this morning’s ceremony.” She blinked her eyes to adjust to the reduced light and was surprised to realize her family’s tent was larger and better appointed than Milcah’s. More than anything else at the moment, she wanted to hear about Milcah and her sisters. “So the law was changed for you?”
Milcah set a tray before Rahab and handed her a pottery cup. When Rahab hesitated to take the drink, Milcah said, “When refreshment is offered, you must accept it. Otherwise, we think you find our food unappealing or our hospitality unwelcome.”
Rahab smiled and took the barley water. “Thank you. I was not aware of your custom.”
“We are a peculiar people,” Milcah said with a grin and a toss of her head. “Even we say so.” She settled opposite the small tray. “It was an ordeal, getting the law amended. My sisters and I pressed our cause before Moses at the tent of meeting. Our boldness in and of itself was a scandal.”
When Rahab took a sip of the barley water, Milcah smiled. “You learn quickly,” she said. “Moses was the wisest man I ever knew. Instead of dismissing our case immediately, he inquired of the Lord.” Milcah drank from her cup. “Then he came back and said we were right. Now if a man with no sons dies, his land passes to his daughters. We have no land yet, of course. But when we have taken full possession of this territory, my sisters and I are to receive a portion.”
“I never heard of such a rule in Jericho,” Rahab said.
“Nor anywhere else I know of,” Milcah replied. “I can understand men disliking what my sisters and I did, because the ruling took something from them. But the women? The daughters of Zelophehad won a victory for them as well as ourselves. I still cannot understand why so many grumble, saying we should have found husbands to provide for us and never questioned the law.” Gesturing to the girl entering the tent, she said, “This is my younger sister, Tirzah. Tirzah, meet my new friend Rahab.”
“Hello,” Tirzah said. “What is your tribe?”
“My family plans to join Judah,” Rahab replied. “Until now, we lived in Jericho.”
“Jericho!” the girl exclaimed. “Then you are the one who hid the spies. Even if you have already told Milcah your story, I must hear it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Four days after the army marched away, an exhausted runner came into the camp. Rahab saw him approaching while she was in a pasture, inquiring about the price
of sheep. The shepherdess quit speaking and put her hand at her throat. “News of the battle,” was all she said before she and Rahab broke off their negotiation. The runner brushed people away, refusing to answer any questions until he reported to the captain of the men guarding the camp.
Rahab returned immediately to her tent, reasoning the wife of Matthias, the leader of their ten families, would soon bring news. “Our army has suffered a terrible defeat,” Leah said as soon as she came into the tent where Rahab waited with her mother, little sisters, and Karmotil. “Thirty-six men were killed. The wounded will begin arriving this evening. We must prepare to care for them.”
Bilda clapped her hands over her mouth and rocked back and forth, speechless. “We understand,” Rahab said, as she went to embrace her mother. After Leah departed, she turned to her sisters and said, “Let us prepare food for the evening meal.” Not knowing what else to do, Bilda and Rahab set a campfire and began to boil vegetables with lentils.
“Is Father all right?” Masula asked.
“Of course,” Rahab answered. “He is patrolling around the outside of the camp, along with Yassib and Kemil.” When she found no more chores to assign the younger girls, Rahab suggested she and Bilda go to the opposite edge of the camp to await the army’s arrival.
“I want to go, too,” Sanda insisted.
“No,” Rahab said. “Wait here with Karmotil and keep the fire low under the soup. We will be back as soon as possible.”
“You are not in charge just because you are older than I am,” Sanda snapped.
“Do as Rahab tells you,” Bilda said. “And be careful to watch Karmotil constantly so he does not wander away.”
Bilda and Rahab joined a huge, quiet crowd slightly to the west of the tents of the tribe of Ephraim. A few women wept, but most waited silently, their eyes scanning the horizon where the sun sank low in the sky. Rahab stole a glance toward Jericho. The blackened ruins no longer smoldered. If someone comes and burns this camp, there will not even be a pile of rubble, she thought. She was completely convinced of the power of the God of the Hebrews. Yet in this battle He must have favored their enemy. Was such a thing possible? Matters that seemed clear before were now muddled.
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