by Mesu Andrews
“Mistress, why can’t we stay for the meal?” Nogahla asked, trying to catch up with Dinah’s quick pace.
Tears began to cascade down Dinah’s cheeks. No one else had pieced together the awful truth yet, and she couldn’t bring herself to say the words aloud. They’ve poisoned Sitis with Nada’s gruel. She had to get to Aban. But as she rounded the jagged corner of broken red bricks, Sayyid’s captain was already halfway across the canyon, presumably to deliver instructions for the midday meal.
Dinah broke into a run and Nogahla followed. “Aban, wait! I must speak with you!”
He turned, his features showing his annoyance at first, but Dinah’s tears stopped him in mid-stride. “Dinah, what is it? What happened up there?”
“It’s Sitis, Aban,” she whispered, careful not to let the echo of the canyon carry the news to Job or betray Aban’s allegiance. “They’ve poisoned her with Nada’s fruit gruel.” Dinah saw the horrified realization on Nogahla’s face.
Aban grabbed Dinah’s shoulders. “How do you know this?”
“Did you hear the Nameless One laughing?” Aban nodded, and Dinah continued, breathless, tears now blurring her vision and slurring her words. “The one-eyed old woman who stood beside him delivered a pot of Nada’s fruit gruel this morning before you returned to the cave with Sitis. The old woman was adamant that Sitis eat the concoction alone—as a gift from Nada.” Dinah gasped at a new horror. “El Shaddai, no! Widow Orma ate it too!” She glanced at Nogahla, and the girl darted away before Dinah could stop her.
Aban panicked. “She can’t go by herself.” He started to chase Nogahla, but Dinah clutched at his massive arm to stop him.
“Aban, stop! Think about who is watching,” she whispered. “Be wise.” Dinah tugged at his robe with all her might. “You must finish your responsibilities for Sayyid, Aban. You cannot risk further your tentative position with your master.”
Aban relented, his expression like granite. Turning abruptly, he held Dinah’s face between his hands and drew her close enough to kiss her. He whispered violently, urgently, “You get to the cave! Get there before Nogahla finds two lifeless bodies and has to remember that image for the rest of her life. I care too much for her to let that happen.” He bent and kissed Dinah roughly. “Sayyid believes I want you. That should convince him and create an excuse for me to slip away to the cave later. Now go!”
19
~Job 14:13~
If only you would hide me in the grave and conceal me till your anger has passed! If only you would set me a time and then remember me!
The afternoon sun burned through Sayyid’s black robe, but he lingered outside the courtyard entry to his kitchen. He found Nada precisely where he’d left her earlier—standing over a steaming pot of fruit gruel, weeping. She’d been understandably distraught when one of the serving maids told her of Sitis’s death. Nada’s whole life had been devoted to her mistress. She needed Sitis like a fire needs dung chips.
The left side of his lips turned up in a wicked grin. I’ve cleaned out the dung from both our lives, Nada.
Quietly studying the maid, Sayyid wondered, Will she try to return to Bildad’s camp now that Sitis is gone? Sayyid clenched his teeth, working his jaw muscles. I will never allow Bildad to take anyone from me again.
Nada glanced in his direction but quickly returned her attention to the pot. Could he trust her? Before he ate confidently from her hands, he must be certain she believed him innocent of any involvement in Sitis’s death. She was no fool and knew his love for Sitis had skidded into dark hatred.
“Still crying, Nada?” he said, stepping into the doorway. “Surely you realize that Sitis is in paradise with her goddesses, and you need not feel guilty.” He kept his distance, realizing that the old girl could turn her boiling pot of stew into a weapon. “How could you know our new cook would put Apple of Sodom in your fruit gruel? She was a bad woman who used your helpful purgative remedy to poison our friend.”
“But I shouldn’t have left the Sodom gourds anywhere in the kitchen, Sayyid.” Nada wiped her nose across the sleeve of her robe from elbow to wrist, and Sayyid felt a fleeting disgust at what else might have dripped into the fruit stew. “I didn’t know the woman, and I shouldn’t have trusted her.”
“Nada, as I explained this morning, no one could have anticipated her hatred for Sitis. She kept it a well-guarded secret all these years.” Sayyid took two careful steps toward the old woman, but Nada raised her wooden spoon in warning. He halted and spoke soothingly. “When one of my guards saw the old crone coming from Widow Orma’s cave this morning, he questioned her and found out she’d held a grudge against Mistress Sitis all these years for the loss of her eye.”
While Nada used her already dampened sleeve to wipe her tears, Sayyid wiped perspiration from his own brow, hoping the story had fooled her. Nada need not know the betraying cook was the Nameless One’s wife, who had lost her eye twenty years ago in a drunken clash with a woman from her own tribe.
Nada finally looked up from her cooking pot. “Sayyid, you look hungry. Would you like some of my special gruel?”
Something in the woman’s eyes gave him pause. Could she know he had ordered the Nameless Ones to find Sitis and kill her? “I had a fine meal with our guests, Nada. I don’t think I need any gruel.”
“All right,” she said, “but I know how you loved Sitis’s favorite dish when you were a scruffy farm boy visiting Master Bildad’s camp. It’s a shame to let this gruel fill your maids’ stomachs when you could enjoy it yourself.”
The woman removed the pot from the fire and started ladling it into bowls. Sayyid watched her work, the aroma of cinnamon and saffron breaking down his resolve. She seems convinced that the old hag alone poisoned the gruel. Even if Nada suspected I was involved, she wouldn’t dare try to poison me.
As a final effort to safeguard his stomach, he said, “Nada, if you’ll join me in a bowl of stew, I’ll have some.”
She hesitated, and again Sayyid wondered if perhaps she was conniving. “Master Sayyid, I feel awkward eating alone with the master of the house. Should I call some of the other servants to join us?”
Sayyid chafed at the idea of allowing his servants to lounge at midday. “Why should you feel awkward, Nada? We’re old friends. Let’s pretend this is Bildad’s kitchen and I’m that scruffy young farm boy.”
Motioning to the reed mat beside the low table, he sat down. The woman carried over two bowls of the aromatic gruel, placing one in front of Sayyid and the other before herself. Sayyid studied his portion and then switched the bowls. “Ladies first,” he said, lifting the curved and hollowed wooden spoon she offered.
A flicker of understanding registered in the old woman’s expression. “Oh, Sayyid, I would never do such a thing.” She scooped the first taste into her mouth. “Now eat! Eat!”
No further encouragement was needed, and Sayyid shoveled in mouthful after mouthful of the sweet and savory mix. “Nada, this is heavenly!” He was so busy enjoying his portion that he overlooked the fact that Nada’s bowl remained untouched after her initial bite.
“Nooo!” The sickening realization was followed almost immediately by a ripping pain in his bowels.
The poisonous Apple of Sodom served in small doses was a mild purgative. But as Sayyid curled into a tight ball on his side, he realized Nada had most likely used enough to purge his bowels from his body. Delirium set in quickly, and Sayyid could only recall the rags stuffed in his mouth to silence his cries and the wrinkled brown face of a woman he’d once thought kind.
Job awakened to the sound of a hoopoe bird’s oop-oop-oop, and watched its preening dust bath at the edge of his dung pile. The sun was well past midday, and the canyon remained eerily quiet after his relatives’ feast on Sayyid’s provisions. The aroma of cinnamon and saffron lingered, bringing a wave of grief. Bildad and Elihu had taken second portions of Sitis’s favorite dish, the fruit gruel his children had savored as little ones bouncing on his knee. Zophar had even joine
d the reminiscing, telling stories of Ennon’s boyhood schemes to steal his sister’s special dessert.
Job’s stomach twisted now as it had at midday. He couldn’t endure their conversation or the fruit gruel that reminded him of happier days. How could his friends laugh and pretend all was well when his whole life was dust? How could these men, who called themselves family, go on living when Job died more every day?
Movement at the far end of the canyon arrested his attention, and he recognized Aban’s mountainous physique winding through the tents of the visiting army. Two willowy figures walked beside him, and Job sighed, relieved that his friends would soon return to offer their silent support. He wished Sitis could join them too, but Job had agreed it best she not hear their relatives’ detailed accusations. Forgiveness was hard for Sitis, and words once spoken were not easily forgotten. It was best she not come until after the relatives returned to their tents for the evening. Perhaps tonight Job and his wife could enjoy a few moments alone. Sitis still thrilled him, even when all else was heartbreak.
Aban and Dinah drew nearer with Nogahla close behind. Job sensed a heaviness in their countenance. Their shoulders sagged, faces drawn and gray. A terrible sense of foreboding crept into his bones. The hoopoe bird flew away, taking its bright feathers and lovely song with it. The canyon was quiet—too quiet. Where was Sayyid, and why hadn’t he roused his guests to begin the afternoon meeting? It wasn’t like him to wait patiently to see Job tortured further by his friends.
Dinah spoke momentarily to Aban and then left him in front of Bildad’s tent while she and Nogahla continued toward Job. Dinah’s odd behavior and quick departure before the midday meal had been cause for concern, and Aban’s shocking kiss seemed completely out of character for both of them. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.
As Dinah and Nogahla slogged through the ash and dung, Job saw that their eyes were swollen and their cheeks streaked with tears. Dinah wrung her hands, a habit she acted out unwittingly when she was nervous or afraid. Why would she be afraid now? I’m the only one here. But when he looked into her eyes, he became afraid too.
“Job, I need you to listen to everything I say before you ask me any questions. Please.” Dinah’s voice broke, and she nearly wrung her hands off her wrists. “Sayyid is dead.”
Job didn’t know how to respond. His lifelong enemy was gone. He wanted to rejoice. But the Most High says I mustn’t gloat over my enemy’s misfortune.
Before he could form another thought, Dinah continued. “Nada killed him in retribution.”
What? Job’s head spun at Dinah’s stream of words.
“An old woman took Nada’s fruit gruel to Sitis at the cave this morning, but the woman was working with Sayyid and had poisoned the gruel. Sitis and Widow Orma ate it while we were here at the meeting.” She reached out to hold his bandaged hands, but he couldn’t feel anything. “Job, can you hear me?” He nodded. “Sitis and Orma are dead too.”
Dinah’s face twisted into a tortured mask of grief, and something inside Job splintered. He thrust himself backward into the muck and clawed at his wounds, wailing and keening. “No, Yahweh! Nooo!”
Could one die of pain? Of grief? He would try. Let the agony of his sores drown him in sweet blackness.
“Ahh! Yahweh, You have destroyed all hope! All I am is gone. I am nothing.”
Hands were on him. “Job, please. You’re tearing open your wounds.”
“Master Job, you must listen to me now. You must believe. Master Job, it’s Nogahla. Remember to trust.”
Hands tried to restrain him, tried to hold and comfort the tempest raging inside and out. He ripped at his flesh. The searing fire that consumed his body gave relief to the mortal wound of his soul. He fought with all his might, blinded by rage and grief and doubt, until strong hands restrained him, held him, carried him back to his place at the pinnacle of the mire.
“Job.”
At first he refused to respond, refused to acknowledge that life and breath still held him. When he finally opened his eyes, Aban’s face met him, and the big man’s tears revealed his heart.
“I’m so sorry. I failed you.” The simple words soothed Job more than herbs. “You must let Dinah and Nogahla tend your wounds. Your relatives will come to you in a few moments to make plans for Sitis’s burial.”
Job realized that he was lying in Aban’s arms like a child. How long had it been since he’d been held in a caring embrace? “Thank you,” he whispered. Tears still falling, he was spent.
Aban laid him on the visitors’ reed mats. “Your so-called friends can find their own mats.” The guard’s face clouded. “Dinah, when you and Nogahla are finished, I’ll go to the relatives’ tents and tell them they cannot talk to Job until I return from the city gate.”
Job heard Dinah speak as if she were at the bottom of a pit. “Why must you be the one to speak in Nada’s defense, Aban?”
“Because I was the one who found her and my father’s serving maids wrapping his body for burial.”
Job closed his eyes, wishing he could join Sitis. When would the madness of this world end? El Shaddai, if only You would hide me in the grave until Your anger has passed.
A troubling thought crossed his mind as Dinah began the arduous process of tending his broken body. If a man dies, will he live again? The question had never been answered in his days at the House of Shem, and now that his children and Sitis were gone—would he ever see them again? He heard himself cry out. And then the darkness he yearned for overtook him.
The moment Aban entered Bildad’s tent and reported Ima Sitis’s death, Elihu wanted to run to Abba Job, to hold him and comfort him. When he heard Job’s wailing and saw Aban dart away, he had no idea the guard would treat Job so gently. Elihu followed at a distance and watched the guard cradle Job in his arms and speak soft words of encouragement. I should be caring for Abba Job, he thought.
Elihu realized he should never have left Uz. He’d been so certain that by gathering the influential Edomite and powerful Ishmaelite prince, Sayyid’s treachery would be exposed. Instead, Elihu’s departure left Abba and Ima more vulnerable to Sayyid’s torture and brought nothing but condemnation from the visiting elders.
He walked the last two steps into the mire and sat on a reed mat atop a nearby mound, five paces from his unconscious Abba Job. Working feverishly to rebandage Job’s wounds and stop the bleeding, Dinah and Nogahla were like a perfectly fitted jar and lid, two pieces of one unit. Dinah breathed in, Nogahla breathed out. Even Aban worked well with the women.
Elihu covertly wiped a tear, listening to Dinah command Sayyid’s captain. “Aban, lift Job’s arm so I can wrap his torso while he’s still unconscious.”
That woman could lead an army. His heart squeezed in his chest, and something inside snapped like a bent stick finally broken. Dinah wasn’t the monster Zophar described. How could Elihu have let himself be poisoned by hatred, forgetting all Abba Job had taught him about Yahweh’s forgiveness? The woman before him was a compassionate healer, who cared deeply—and purely—for Abba.
Dinah glanced up and caught him studying her. He didn’t turn away this time, nor did he glare. “I’d like to help if I can,” he said quietly, expecting Dinah to curse him or throw one of her herb jars at his head. Instead, she turned away, and he didn’t blame her. El Shaddai, please forgive my hate and unforgiveness. I want to be right with You, even if no one else accepts my efforts at peace.
Nogahla’s voice interrupted his prayer. “You can come over here and lift Master Job’s other arm—if you promise to behave yourself.” The Cushite’s round, dark eyes nearly burned a hole through him.
Rising from his mat, he crossed the chasm of emotion between the two piles. He gave the large guard a wide berth, standing next to the little maid and across from Dinah. “I will do more than behave, Nogahla,” he said. “I will apologize to Dinah.”
The beautiful healer lifted her sky blue eyes. Elihu thought for the first time he might one day be Dinah
’s friend but knew she would never be his wife. Not because she was unworthy as Zophar had said, but because he knew in his spirit that El Shaddai would lead them on different paths.
Still Dinah remained silent, and Elihu voiced his tortured repentance. “I’m sorry I allowed Zophar’s hatred to infect me and hurt you, but I don’t know if I can stand in your defense against the elders as Job does.” He felt weak and pathetic, less than a man. But all his life he’d been taught to keep silent in the presence of his teachers. How could he stand against them now?
Aban glared at him. The sight of the captain’s massive arms and the clanking of the bronze-tipped arrows in his quiver nearly sent Elihu fleeing down the ash heap in terror. The mountainous guard opened his mouth, but before he uttered a sound, Nogahla’s smooth, dark hand rested on his cheek. The man was transformed into a lamb. He turned an adoring gaze on the Cushite maid, and Elihu watched—utterly thunderstruck—as the two exchanged silent affection.
Elihu expected to see the jealousy of a woman scorned on Dinah’s features. Instead, her expression was that of a patient teacher with a slow student. “Things aren’t always as they appear, Elihu. When Aban kissed me, it was to distract Sayyid, giving the appearance of possessing me and then returning to his duties.” Her hands continued coating Abba Job’s bandages with frankincense and myrrh. “In reality, Aban slipped away to help us prepare Sitis’s and Orma’s bodies for burial.” Tears gathered on her lashes and dripped into the myrrh pot. “Sayyid was Aban’s father, Elihu.”
Aban bowed his head and expelled a long sigh. Elihu felt as if daggers had been thrust into his belly. Will my misjudgments and assumptions never cease? Elihu had misjudged Aban and Dinah’s relationship and assumed that a powerful captain would have no emotional attachment to his master.