Abigail's Story

by Ann Burton

  He looked me over with a strange greediness in his eyes. “Perhaps I shall keep you here a day or two.”

  Before she had left last night, Cetura had taken me aside and in hushed tones told me of the intimate duties of a wife to her husband. The widow assured me that the pain I would feel at first would pass, and that in time it would grow to be a pleasant thing.

  I looked at Nabal and tried to imagine part of his body inside my own in that bizarre fashion that Cetura had described in detail to me. It seemed a very unclean business, given the exact parts involved. I surely could not imagine my own parents doing such a thing. According to the widow, however, it was the only way to get children, and so I would submit.

  I bowed my head. “As my husband wishes.”

  Nabal grunted and ordered one of the servants to bring wine. He then washed his hands and ordered the older woman to bathe his feet. Nothing was offered to me, not even a place where I might sit.

  I turned to his steward. “Why has food not been brought? The priest will be here soon.”

  The steward blinked, confused.

  “The priest comes to marry us, not to stuff his gullet,” Nabal said. “He can feast when he returns to the bamot. The Adonai knows every year I am forced to donate enough food to that temple to choke ten mules.”

  I tried not to gape at him. Even as poor as my family was, we gave a portion of our food to the holy priests each winter. “Giving food to the bamot is to invite the Adonai’s blessings upon your house, Master Nabal.”

  He gave me an unpleasant smile. “I have all the blessings I need.”

  Amri and the priest were ushered in by the steward a short time later.

  “You are the daughter of Oren?” the priest asked. He was a tall, thin man whose imperious expression matched the grandeur of his finely embroidered linen simla.

  “I am.” I bowed over my open hands, the proper sign of respect for one who served the Adonai.

  “This man had my scribe make up a contract, giving you to Master Nabal in marriage.” The priest made this sound as if I was poised to run off a high cliff. “Do you agree to this willingly?”

  I answered yes, and responded politely to the rest of his questions. It seemed as if the priest wished to persuade me out of the idea, but at last he sighed and made the sign of blessing over me.

  “Let us see to this business, then, Abigail of Carmel.”

  Nabal did not take kindly to being rushed into the marriage ceremony, and demanded that it wait until herbs could be brought for a sudden headache he was suffering. He also objected to the priest’s suggestion that we stand together before him and instead had me come to the side of his chair so that he did not have to rise.

  “Say your words over us, and bring me that contract, Priest,” Nabal said, and gave me another of his oddly keen looks before drinking from the cup of herbs his steward had prepared.

  I had only attended a few weddings, but they had been happy occasions in rooms crowded with the family and friends of the betrothed. Marriage was blessed by the Adonai, and brought children to renew the blood of the family. Brides were dressed with great care, draped in fine linen and gold collars, their skins rubbed with costly unguents, and their hands and feet tinted red to befit the crossing from maiden to wife.

  Here in the house of Nabal, the priest’s intonations sounded lifeless and hollow, echoing as they did within the nearly empty room. My husband-to-be seemed bored as he listened to the priest recite vows that would bind me to Nabal of Maon forever.

  Each word burned into my heart like a flint brand. You will take this woman to wife. You will give her home and children. You will protect her and keep her.

  Nabal did not wish to make such promises, that much was obvious. He snapped out his vows as if he resented being made to say them. He complained about a fly that happened into the room and stopped the ceremony until one of the servants killed it. When the contract of marriage was brought for his mark, he made his mark at the bottom of the parchment too small, and had to make it a second time. He complained about that, too, and then had to have his hands washed again.

  His behavior was atrocious, and so shameful my face remained red throughout the ceremony. By the time the priest was finished, I was full ready to weep, such was the embarrassment I felt.

  The priest had far better manners and only showed a glimmer of distaste as he rolled up the contract and handed it to my husband’s steward.

  “Are we done?” Nabal demanded.

  “Wait for the blessing,” Amri snapped back at him.

  “May the Adonai bless you with many sons, healthy herds, and fruitful pastures,” he said as he waved a handful of seedpods over my head, and then Nabal’s. “May you protect that which is yours. You belong to each other now, husband and wife.”

  Amri came forward to congratulate us, but he was very stiff and showed his dislike plainly. “You are a fortunate man, Master Nabal. I wish you receive all that you deserve.”

  I winced. His words were not exactly a blessing.

  My new husband’s upper lip curled. “May you have a double measure of what you wish for me.”

  The spice merchant turned to me. “Abigail, you are not to worry. Cetura will look after your kin.”

  I knew Cetura would see to my parents’ comfort, but that still left the problems with Rivai. Without strong guidance, he would surely fall in with the wrong sort again and put Cetura and my family at terrible risk.

  “My brother could use some new friends. Someone who understands beauty, and can provide ways for him to sell his art. Perhaps a shrewd merchant who has no son of his own.” I gazed up at him. “What do you think?”

  The spice merchant said nothing for a long time, and then he muttered, “I think you could sell sand to one dying of thirst in the middle of the desert.”

  My mouth curved. “I was taught by the finest of teachers.”

  The steward came forward and led Amri from the room.

  I was married, and my family was safe.

  At last Nabal stirred and rose from his chair. The scent of the oil that slicked his chest and feet was almost overpowering, and his small eyes gleamed as his soft hand took my arm. “Come, wife.”

  Cetura had told me that husbands guided their new wives in their intimate duties, as most men had some experience with the matter.

  “Be calm and quiet and do as he wishes,” was her final advice. “Men know what is to be done, and he will likely make it quick for you.”

  I managed to hold my tongue as I went with Nabal to what I guessed was his sleeping chamber. It was nearly as large as my parents’ entire house, but much more richly furnished. The two bed slaves lay sleeping on the mound of pillows and furs that was apparently his bed. Their mouths hung wet and slack as they snored, and the thing responsible for their deep slumber—a large, empty wine jug—lay on its side between them.

  “Lazy harlots.” Nabal kicked the one nearer him, and she howled. “Get up.”

  The woman crawled over her companion to stagger, clutching her belly, from the room. Nabal simply started kicking the other until she, too, stumbled out in drunken haste.

  “An Edomite gave them to me,” my husband told me as he flopped in the middle of the mound and reclined. “I would sell them, but they have their talents. Remove that.”

  I reached for the wine jug.

  “Not that. That.” He gestured toward my khiton.

  Cetura had said there might be nakedness involved. I never disrobed, except when I went to the public baths, and that was done in the dimly lit bathing rooms with only my mother and other women about me. Now I would have to show Nabal what no one but perhaps my mother had seen.

  Slowly I lifted the side edge of my khiton and brought it over my head. Beneath it laid only the shift I wore as an undergarment. I felt a bit ashamed at its threadbare condition, but I kept it clean and mended.

  The sight of my shabby shift seemed to amuse my new husband. “That, too.”

  I felt the full me
asure of a maiden’s fear as I eased the shift off my shoulders and let it fall to my ankles. My face burned as if on fire, and I didn’t know what to do with my hands.

  Nabal looked at my pale, plump body, and shifted his gaze from my small breasts down to my round hips and back up again. “Unwind that braid.”

  I released my hair and drew the dark strands over my shoulders. Like other Hebrew maidens, I did not cut my hair, and unbound the curly ends nearly touched the floor.

  The smile left Nabal’s mouth, and he beckoned to me. “Come and lie with me, wife.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  I left for the hill country the next day, before dawn. The journey would take until nightfall, Nabal’s house steward told me, and I would be accompanied by four guards and an older serving woman. The house in the hills that belonged to Nabal had not been occupied for nearly a year, so provisions were sent with us.

  “You will go without delay, Mistress,” the steward told me when I came out of the small chamber adjoining my husband’s. I was not given time to do anything more than pack my belongings before I was escorted out to the waiting wagon.

  “Who are these men?” I did not recognize the two men on horseback or the one driving the wagon, but they carried many weapons: spears, knives, and cudgels.

  “Master Nabal’s guards. They will escort you to the herdsmen’s encampment and return ere you are installed there.”

  That would leave me with but a serving woman to put the house to rights before I summoned the herdsmen for the annual accounting—however one did that—and inspected the flocks. I did not dare demand anything; Nabal could easily divorce me for not fulfilling our marriage agreement.

  “I would know the name of my husband’s most trusted herdsman,” I said with some desperation.

  The steward gave me a blank look. “Master trusts no one, especially herdsmen, Mistress.”

  The serving woman, the one I had seen attending to Nabal’s seat the day before, made an impatient sound from where she sat on the wagon’s only bench seat.

  “We have to go now, or we will not reach the encampment before darkness,” she said in her gloomy voice. “If the bears and wolves do not attack us during the dark hours, the marauders will.”

  I had not thought the hill country so dangerous. Suddenly I felt glad the guards were well armed. “Why would marauders attack us?” I asked as I climbed up and sat beside her.

  “For the mule, the horses, and the food. If we survived, they would sell us to slavers.” The serving woman inspected me. “Have you never traveled through the hills?”

  “No.” I had never traveled anywhere.

  “Good journey, Mistress,” the steward said as he prepared to return to the house.

  “Would you tell the master that I . . .” How did I apologize for what had happened between us the day before? I had thought on it all night, but I was still not sure of what I had done wrong. “That I shall send word of how we fare?” I finished awkwardly.

  The steward shrugged. “If you can, Mistress. If you cannot, he will send the men with fresh supplies in one moon.”

  One moon? I glanced at the pile of rations the wagon carried, which now looked rather pitiful. “Surely we will need them before then.”

  “The herdsmen have adequate for you.” He gave me a pitying look before he called out to the guards. The one driving the cart slapped the reins on the backs of the two mules hitched to it.

  With a jerk and a groan from the wheels, we were on our way.

  I did not watch the house of Nabal disappear as the wagon lurched and jostled its way down the hill. I kept my back to it and looked over the horizon. If I squinted, I could just make out the top of Carmel’s outermost wall. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I could see the tops of the market stalls, too, and the smudge of smoke. Families would be rising now in the merchants’ quarter, having their quick breakfast of bread and fruit before going out to sell their wares.

  Right now Rivai is milking the goats, I thought, aching for the familiar sight and smells of my family’s home. Cetura will be grinding grain with my mother, and making tea for my father. Chemda will be so surprised when she sees the sweet rolls I made for her last night.

  Would my mother miss me? Or would her unreliable memories fade until I became forever a stranger to her?

  “Here.” The serving woman thrust something into my hand. A piece of dark bread, I saw, with a strange sticky cheese on one side. “Eat.”

  I nibbled at the edge of it, but the taste of the cheese was bitter, as if it were old. I did not wish to hurt her feelings, however, so I pretended to eat it while I dropped it, piece by piece, into my bag.

  “That was unlike anything I’ve ever tasted,” I said honestly. “My thanks.”

  She frowned at me. “You should not speak to me so. I am not a free woman. I serve you.”

  “I shall tell you a secret,” I said, lowering my voice so that the driver did not hear me. “I have never before had a servant, so I shall probably say other things wrong.”

  The woman had eyes like a scale, ever weighing my words. After a long moment of silence, she said, “My name is Keseke.”

  It was not a Hebrew name, but it sounded familiar, as if I had heard someone speak a word like it once. “I am most grateful for the food, Keseke. It was thoughtful of you to provide it.” I only hoped my stomach would not growl much during the remainder of the journey.

  She glowered. “If you are to be our mistress, then you must do what is proper and stop thanking everyone for their service. Those who serve do so or they are starved or beaten.”

  Not by me. “Have you ever made this journey before? I understand my husband goes each spring.”

  “I have been to the hill country twice,” Keseke continued, sounding even more aggrieved. “It is cold and empty. The house there is little more than a hovel.”

  Surely she exaggerated. Nabal would not live in such a grand house in one place and not in another. Then again, he did not like the hill country . . . perhaps she meant the house was simply smaller. “What are the people like?”

  “The hill people? They live like the beasts.” She gave me a long look before she added, “They harbor many hard feelings toward the master.”

  Did no one like my husband? I tugged at the edge of my head cloth.

  Her gaze narrowed. “You did not have that bruise yesterday.”

  I tugged my head cloth forward so that it veiled the swollen, purplish mark on my cheek. “I was clumsy and fell.”

  “I know the mark of a man’s hand when I see it.” Keseke sniffed. “Too much wine, and you a maiden.” She shook her head.

  What had happened between my husband and me had been confusing, and I wished I knew Keseke well enough to ask her about it. But even were she my friend, it was not appropriate for a wife to discuss a husband with his—her—servant.

  I would go into the hills with the mark of his anger on my face, for all to see. I did not understand why Nabal had become so angry with me. Was it because I had known nothing about how to please him? I was a maiden; I was not supposed to know.

  A day after my wedding, I was yet a maiden.

  So I shall remain a maiden for a time, I told myself. There is nothing I can do about it while Nabal and I are apart. When I return, I shall make a place for myself in his heart and his bed.

  I had to, or there would be no children.

  “It is better this way,” Keseke told me, as if she could hear my thoughts. “You do not wish to spend the months in the hills feeling sick and listless while your belly swells with child, do you?”

  I shook my head. As badly as I wanted a child, I would not wish one now. My present burdens were large enough, and when time came for me to deliver, I wanted Cetura and my mother there to sing to my child, rub him with salt and cut his cord, and help me present him to his father.

  Why was it so hard to imagine Nabal the father of my children?

  “Well, then.” Keseke made a face as the wagon’
s wheels bounced over a rut in the road. “My teeth will be rattled out of my head before we reach the crossroads.”

  “Where is this place?”

  “In the valley, behind that peak.” She pointed toward a distant hilltop. “The guards will stop there, and there is an old gerum couple who provide food and drink for passing travelers.” She paused. “If they are still alive.”

  Did she mean the couple, or the travelers? I was afraid to ask.

  It took two more hours to reach the valley of the crossroads, during which I checked own my teeth several times to assure they had not loosened. But the air was crisp and clean, and the sky a blue so bright and deep it almost hurt to look upon it.

  What would it be like, to call these hills home? I was used to the crowded, merry noise of the market, or the sounds of busy families in our quarter. Here there was nothing that disturbed the stillness but the sound of the wagon and the horses. It felt unsettling at first, but as the time passed I thought I might easily grow accustomed to it. This is how the world was before the Adonai made us. Simple and open and peaceful.

  Keseke did not speak much, but she readily identified different bushes and trees that I had never seen when I asked her about them.

  “That is the juniper; the juice from its berries makes tough meat tender.” She pointed to another, smaller patch of wide green shoots. “Look there. Those are leeks, as good as onions and garlic for flavoring.”

  “Were you raised in this part of Judah?” I asked her, curious as to how she had gained so much knowledge of the local plants and fruits.

  “No.” Her expression hardened, and she said no more after that.

  By the time the wagon rumbled down into the valley of the crossroads, I felt bone-weary and in desperate need of a drink to clear the dust from my throat. My stomach felt queasy, too. As the guards tended to the animals, Keseke and I climbed down and walked the path to the little house built in a grove of scraggly terebinth.

  Before we reached the threshold, an old man emerged. He gave us a toothless smile as his dog, a friendly little thing with brown-and-white spotted fur, darted out to sniff at the hems of our samla. “You are welcome here, ladies. Come in and rest yourselves.”