by Mesu Andrews
“Yes, but Ishmael adopted Shuah. The two are actually brothers by blood. Ishmael is Abraham’s son by Hagar, just as Shuah is Abraham’s son by Keturah. When Abraham died, Isaac received all his father’s wealth, so Keturah was left without provision. Ishmael married the young slave-widow and adopted her sons as his own.”
Dinah blinked in astonishment. Job wished he could smile at the innocent shock on her face, but the stretch of his mouth would cost him too much. “Bildad views his disheveled heritage as a reason to prove himself. His heart is committed to teaching El Shaddai’s truths to the Ishmaelites though he acknowledges Isaac’s line holds the covenant blessing.” Job’s heart ached at the thought. “Just as my heart was committed to teaching El Shaddai’s truths to my family—the Edomites—though I acknowledge your abba’s line holds the blessing.”
Lost in grief at the mission that had died with his sons, Job didn’t realize Dinah had drawn close enough to whisper in his ear. “Why does Sitis feel Bildad betrayed her?” she asked.
Job squeezed his eyes closed and let salty tears and the excruciating stretching of his sores overwhelm the pain in his heart. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
Dinah paused. She seemed to respect his pain, but her intruding voice demanded an answer. “I need to know, Job. If Bildad doesn’t return with Elihu, I must try to mend Sitis’s broken heart.”
Opening his eyes, Job saw both Dinah and Nogahla waiting, concern etched on their faces. “Bildad studied at the House of Shem from the time he was eleven, instructed by Noah’s great-grandson Eber, of the priestly line of Shem. Bildad, Eliphaz, Zophar, your abba, and I are the only living disciples of Noah’s direct descendants. Bildad was forty when his and Sitis’s mother died, and their father died soon after. Bildad chose to continue his training at the House of Shem instead of returning home to be a father to Sitis. She blames Bildad and El Shaddai that she was raised by servants. She loved Atif and Nada but always felt neglected by her brother.” Job bowed his head. “But the second betrayal was worse. Bildad forced her to marry a disciple of the House of Shem rather than the man she loved.” He couldn’t voice the names aloud. El Shaddai, please let Dinah and Nogahla understand.
“She loves that man from the House of Shem now, Master Job,” Nogahla said, tears glistening. “And she will see the wisdom of El Shaddai soon.”
Dinah spoke in barely a whisper. “How could you allow Sayyid to live across this canyon all these years? This was your city. You could have banished him.” Her voice rose, every word feeling more like an accusation. Still, he was glad the women had guessed who the men were without an explanation.
“At first I didn’t know who my young bride mourned. By the time I discovered it was Sayyid, he’d become an established merchant in Uz, and I thought I’d won my wife’s heart.” His lips trembled. “Dinah, true love must be chosen, not forced. If I had imprisoned my wife or removed her choice, would I ever have been certain of her love? Even this morning, when I watched Sitis walk away without visiting me, I didn’t question her love. I only feared for her soul.”
He watched a spark of angst ignite in Dinah’s eyes. “We must pray for Sitis, Job.”
A writhing dread burned in Job’s belly at the words.
“I don’t know what her plans entail, but I fear for more than her soul right now.”
14
~Job 2:8–10~
Then Job took a piece of broken pottery and scraped himself with it as he sat among the ashes. His wife said to him, “Are you still holding on to your integrity? Curse God and die!” He replied, “You are talking like a foolish woman. Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?” In all this, Job did not sin in what he said.
Sitis walked through the busy marketplace, parting the citizens of Uz like the bow of a ship in the Great Sea. Most stared in silence, but some pointed and mocked the disheveled, dethroned queen of Uz.
“Where is your master?” Sitis asked one of the bread vendors, her stomach rumbling at the aroma of the warm, brown loaves.
“Master Sayyid is at the city gate with the other elders,” the loathsome man answered, his teeth the color of desert sand, his breath like camel droppings. “Mistress Sitis is looking a little worse for wear these days. Hard work is hard, eh, mistress?” He threw his head back, laughing. The open ridicule seemed to empower the crowd, who no longer made way for Sitis’s passage. She was jostled from side to side as others in the unforgiving crowd joined the mockery.
Were these the same people she and Job had served in their home at the beggars’ tables? Hadn’t she been kind to them? Hadn’t Job taken food from his own children’s mouths to feed these ungrateful slugs? She struggled like a donkey in deep sand, wading through the throng toward the ornately carved pillars at the city gate, where Sayyid stood screaming at a caravan merchant.
“My barley and wheat are the best-quality grain in any city from Egypt to Damascus. You’re a fool to buy your grain in Egypt and try to transport it all the way up to your northern cities.”
“I’m sorry, Master Sayyid,” said the man, red-faced, “but Egypt’s vizier has been stockpiling grain for seven years. He can offer his grain at a lower price, and we can trade twice as much by the time we reach Uz.”
“Who is this imbecile? Doesn’t he understand the complexities of trading, bartering, and caravanning for all the cities along the trade routes? Egypt’s grain can’t last forever, you know, and when the Nile basin shrinks to a withered brown hole, that arrogant vizier will have to get on a camel and curry the favor of merchants like me.” Sayyid’s composure looked badly chipped and nearly broken.
Sitis smiled for the first time in several full moons.
The merchant bowed but remained silent. Sayyid sat down sullenly and let Bela present his merchandise.
“Now, my gems are not so dependent on Egypt’s weather, good man,” Bela began smoothly.
Sitis rolled her eyes, nauseated at Bela’s hypocrisy. He was a fat cow who starved his servants. A man who spoiled his wife to gain more concubines. Because he was an Edomite, and therefore a kinsman to Job, Sitis had been compelled in her previous prosperity to invite Bela and his wife to annual celebrations. Bela had eaten at their feasts, drank their wine, played with their children. Now he treated her as if she were lower than a slave, less than a woman. It was clear he’d helped Sayyid ruin Job, and by the gods, Sitis would repay him today.
“I have a complaint to bring before the elders!” Sitis lifted her chin and gathered her tattered dignity.
The visiting merchant trying to haggle for Bela’s gems sneered as though she was rotting fruit on the refuse pile, but Bela’s expression grew fearful.
Sayyid rose from his marble elder’s throne, standing beside his portly Edomite friend. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said to the disgruntled trader, “but this woman once held a position of some importance in this town, and we must be patient with her.” Offering a forbearing smile, he nodded to Sitis and resumed his seat.
The commotion had drawn the attention of the bustling market, which had fallen as quiet as a tomb. Villagers hurried to the city gate, every voice hushed, every eye focused on the once great lady of Uz.
Sitis straightened her posture and held her head high, reminding herself she was an Ishmaelite princess, daughter of Shuah, sister of Bildad. “Elders of Uz, I have been wronged by my current employer.” Worry lines deepened on Bela’s forehead, and she delighted in his obvious discomfort. “Bela has chosen to obey Sayyid’s instruction to give me only one bowl of gruel each day in order to keep me from sharing bread with my husband.”
Sitis had chosen her words carefully, pregnant with insinuation, yet veiled enough to save Sayyid’s reputation if he wished to recant. She hated Bela with all her heart, but a part of her still wanted to believe Sayyid was capable of kindness—if he was forced into it.
Bela’s mouth opened and closed several times, emitting no sound. He was as awkward as a newborn camel, and Sitis smelled victory in the silence. But Sayyid stepped forward aga
in, brushing aside the flustered elder.
“Citizens and visitors of Uz, if you would gather round, please.” Sayyid spread his arms grandly, like a father welcoming his children to a feast.
A terrible sense of foreboding wrapped Sitis like a shroud.
“Let me restate Mistress Sitis’s complaint for all to hear. She’s offended that I have limited her daily ration to one bowl of gruel. How many of you eat only one bowl of gruel a day? Come on, let me see your hands.”
Several in the crowd lifted their hands, and Sitis could feel her cheeks warm. “Sayyid, you know that’s not my point.”
He held up his hand to silence her. “Mistress Sitis has forgotten that a petitioner remains silent when an elder begins his judgment.” Offering her a denigrating smile, he continued. “But the mistress has neglected to inform the elders of the reason for her small ration. Out of respect for Sitis’s past position in this city, Bela has remained silent about her laziness.”
“What? I am not lazy!”
Disapproving stares shot at Sitis like darts.
“The woman takes off at all times of day and night—as she has done today—to visit her husband and rest in the sun.” Sayyid allowed his words to further unsettle the grumbling crowd. He pierced Sitis with raven black eyes, and she was finally convinced they reflected the complete evil of his heart.
She bowed her head, listening to the dying rumble of the crowd. When she looked up again, Sayyid had descended the platform and was standing before her.
“Mistress Sitis, I would be happy to sell you some bread. For a price. As we speak, my vendors’ booths are full of warm loaves.” The crowd was now hushed, seeming to relish her humiliation. When she hesitated, Sayyid feigned shock. “Surely you don’t expect me to simply give you bread.”
Sitis bowed her head. “I cannot pay you for bread, Sayyid. You know this.”
“I’m sorry, Mistress Sitis. I couldn’t hear you. What was that?”
She looked up, expecting some mercy, some relenting from this torture. “Sayyid, please.” Tears began spilling down her cheeks. She couldn’t lose control in front of these people.
“Truly, Sitis, the bread is just waiting for you if you’d like to purchase it.”
Feeling her lips quiver, she tried to speak. She closed her eyes, fighting for composure. “I don’t have any gold or silver kesitahs, Sayyid, and you know it!” she screamed at him, and began beating his chest.
He grabbed her wrists and held them with as little effort as a child’s toy. “Come now, Sitis. We both know you can buy bread with something other than gold or silver.” His voice mocked her, and when she stopped struggling, she gazed into the face of evil personified.
“You wouldn’t ask it of me, not in front of all these people.”
Sayyid bent to whisper in her ear. “Don’t worry, Sitis-girl. I wouldn’t marry you now if you begged me.”
“Ohh!” She began kicking and fighting, but he was too strong. His laughter rang out, and the crowd joined his mocking.
When all her energy was spent, she collapsed, sobbing. Sayyid slipped one arm around her waist and carried her, lying limp over his arm, to the same bread vendor she’d visited on her way to the gate. “Come, Sitis, let me show you my price.”
Sitis glanced up at what seemed to be the whole town behind them. Too beaten to care, she leaned against the one she had leaned on all her life. “What do you want from me, Sayyid? We need bread.” His arm tightened around her waist, and he drew her chin back against his chest. She could feel his heavy breathing, but he said nothing.
He glanced at the vendor and said, “Give her your stool.”
While the man hurriedly placed the stool in front of his booth, Sayyid set her down roughly. The bread vendor shielded them momentarily from the approaching crowd, and Sayyid stood behind her. As he loomed over her, his hand, hidden from the crowd, found its way inside her robe.
She was too weak to fight but whispered, “Please, Sayyid, stop.” Her sobs were a muffled whimper, choked by shame.
“Do you want bread?” he whispered.
Her head rested against him. As she looked up through her tears, his face no longer appeared as her handsome friend but as the fiendish mask of an enemy. “Yes. We need bread.”
“Then I will never stop.” Removing his hand, he stood and held her head roughly between both hands. To the crowd, he announced, “Mistress Sitis has agreed to trade her hair for three loaves of bread.” At the first tug, her headpiece fell to the ground, and Sayyid combed his fingers through her loosely braided hair.
“Sayyid, what are you doing?” It was Bela’s voice. “Women are shielding their children’s eyes and turning away.”
“The woman and I have struck a bargain,” Sayyid replied. “Her hair for bread.” His rough hands continued their probing, meticulously unweaving Sitis’s long braid. Each stroke became bolder. “I am inspecting my payment.” Sayyid’s voice was dreamy, distracted.
Sitis squeezed her eyes shut, her heart beating faster as he clutched great fistfuls of her hair and caressed her throat. Tears flowed amid moaning sobs. If she had been stripped naked, she wouldn’t have felt more exposed.
A presence stood in front of her, blocking the afternoon sunlight. “Sayyid, you must stop this.” Bela’s voice again. Urgent now. “People are leaving. They’re offended at this spectacle.”
Sitis reached for her head covering to hide her shame, but Sayyid used her hair like a bit and bridle, pulling her back into submission. When she cried out under the force of his iron grip, he laughed.
“Let the women take their children home,” he said. “The men will enjoy it more if their wives are gone.”
Sitis began to tremble, a soft whine threatening to overtake her. She felt her sanity slipping away—until she heard the sing of Sayyid’s dagger unsheathing. The cold blade rested against her cheek, focusing her senses.
“You’re mine now, Sitis-girl,” he said, leaning in so only she could hear. “You may take this bread to Job and tell him good-bye. Then you will enter my household—not as the wife you could have been, but as the concubine you will become.”
In what seemed a dream, she nodded her consent and heard a sickening swoosh! Sitis felt Sayyid’s blade slice off fifty-six years of luxuriant hair. The few stragglers drew a collective gasp. Her heart slammed against her chest, and she longed to cry for help—but what god would hear her? She fell forward, burying her face in her hands, hiding at least the windows of her soul from those in the public square.
“I will have no further part in this,” she heard Bela whisper to Sayyid.
“I have no further need of your services,” Sayyid said. “I have finally broken her. Sitis is mine now.”
Job had spent most of the morning gazing at his unbandaged hands, trying to determine which fingers—if any—would recover fingernails. El Elyon, if I live through this, will You restore my flesh?
Dinah had suggested leaving most of his sores uncovered today in hopes that fresh air would speed his healing process. They had moved him to the farthest ash pile in hopes that the Nameless Ones wouldn’t spray him with ash or dung, and Nogahla had spoken to Sayyid’s captain, asking for special protection while the wounds were completely exposed. After his caregivers left, Job wondered if Dinah’s suggestion was motivated by medical genius or the inevitable shortage of bandages. She said she would return this evening to check on his progress, and when she did, she would get an earful of complaints. He itched terribly! And without fingernails to scratch himself, he had resorted to shattering one of her discarded pots and scraping the wounds with the shards.
He was in the midst of a frenzied scratching fit when Sitis’s voice split the afternoon sounds. “By the gods, Job, look at you.”
He jumped as if a shofar had sounded in his left ear. “Oh! Sitis, you startled me.” His voice was still raspy and painful, but he was pleased she had drawn so near to him this afternoon. Usually she stood several paces away because of the odor. “What�
�s this?” For the first time, he noticed three loaves of bread in her arms. Her headpiece looked odd, and she’d been crying. “What happened, my love?”
“What happened? You ask me what happened? I’ll tell you what happened, Job.” Her cheeks flamed, and she threw the loaves—one at a time—on the dung heap. “Your God has abandoned you. That’s what happened. Are you still holding on to your integrity? Are you still saying He will defend you, restore you someday?”
“Sitis, tell me what has happened so I can help you.”
“You can’t help me, Job!” She tore off her headpiece, revealing patchy, cropped hair. “The only way you can help me is to curse your God and die. Die! Release me from this marriage and let Sayyid do with me as he wishes.” She picked up a handful of ashes and threw them with such force, she fell to the ground. “Let me go to the man I deserve!” She lay there swimming in ash and dung.
Job’s breaths came in giant gulps, his mind spinning, the pain in his heart now greater than the excruciating sores on his body. El Shaddai, help me! What has happened to her hair, her dignity, her strength?
“Sitis, look at me!” he shouted as best he could. The woman at the edge of the dung heap was writhing in sorrow. “Sitis, you’re not making sense. Tell me what’s happened.” He choked out the words, horrified at the thought. “I will never let Sayyid do with you as he wishes.”
She grew still and gazed at him with bleary eyes. “I want to sleep on a wool-stuffed mattress again, Job. I want to drink honeyed wine in the shade. I’m tired of cleaning slop jars and being whipped by a lazy witch.” She began to beat her fists into the dung pile. “Please, Job. Please. Curse your God and die. I beg you. And release me from this torment.” She buried her face again, her shoulders heaving with great sobs.
Job searched the tattered woman he’d called wife for so many years. “My precious Sitis, how can we accept good from God and not trouble? This will pass, my love, but my commitment to you and to my God will endure forever.”