“But he’s not simply offering you, like fruit in a bowl, is he?”
“Of course not,” said Leah. “Officially it’s simply a courtesy, nothing about marriage at all. But men who really come on business, Father doesn’t present us, he keeps us out of sight. Only the men who specifically ask about us, and then only the ones he thinks are even remotely eligible. But none of them were really to be considered, till now.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re all Ba’al-worshippers.”
Bilhah didn’t understand. “But don’t we worship the Lord in this camp, as well?”
“Not the Ba’al they teach about, those false priests. They make their statues of Ba’al, people pray to them, the priests take their offerings, but none of it gets to God.”
“But your father has statues, too. He prays to them,” said Bilhah.
“He doesn’t pray to them,” said Leah. “He keeps them because they belonged to his great-great grandfather, Terah. Abraham got the birthright, but our family got the statues.”
Bilhah said nothing, but from her posture, Leah knew she wanted to. “What?” Leah asked.
“If he doesn’t pray to them, why does he always have them in the tent with him when he says his prayers?”
“He keeps them in the inner room of his tent because they’re a great treasure to the family. And he prays in that room because it’s his most private place.”
“And he faces them while he’s praying because …”
“How do you know where he faces when he prays?” Leah was suddenly suspicious. Had Bilhah been spying?
“Don’t you know that servants go everywhere and see everything?” said Bilhah.
“Oh, so you’ve heard this from others,” said Leah.
“And seen it myself.”
“Why would my handmaiden have occasion to enter my father’s tent?” She had a sudden, horrible suspicion. “Oh, Bilhah, he couldn’t be …”
It took Bilhah a moment to realize what Leah feared. “Oh, don’t be silly,” she said. “He’s an old man and I’m just a girl.”
“I’ve heard stories of what wicked masters do,” said Leah. “But my father would never.”
“He would never,” said Bilhah. “And he has never, and even if he would, I would never, so it will never happen.”
“Good,” said Leah. “I’m sorry I even wondered. You think something is unthinkable simply because you never thought it, only then one day you do think it, and then you realize, this isn’t unthinkable after all. But still it’s a relief to know that I needn’t have thought of it.”
Bilhah’s mind had already wandered to another subject, though—she never seemed to stay on the same topic for more than a few moments. “Leah, isn’t your father presenting you to suitors—isn’t that like, I don’t know, offering a servant to someone who might want to buy their bond?”
“Nothing like,” said Leah. “Nothing at all. Was the princess Sarah a bondwoman to Abraham? Did Rebekah go to Isaac to be his bondwoman?”
“Why are all your examples taken from Abraham’s family instead of your own ancestors?”
That was the maddening thing about having Bilhah as your only companion—she kept jumping from thought to thought, and had no sense about which questions were just silly. “I’m not even going to answer that. Abraham’s family is famous, that’s all, with lots of stories, and our family is not famous and we have no stories except when we’re part of Abraham’s story.”
“Why should that be?” said Bilhah. “Why should Abraham be famous? And even if he is, why should his sons and grandsons be famous? They’ve never done anything except when Isaac married Rebekah, and now maybe there’ll be a story about Jacob because he came here—but it seems to me that the only stories that matter about Abraham’s children and grandchildren don’t even get interesting till they come here to your family, so who’s the interesting one?”
“Abraham has the birthright, and then Isaac got it, and now Jacob, I suppose. They’re chosen by God to be a mighty lineage. We’re chosen by God to be shepherds and get along as best we can. Of course Abraham is famous and we’re not. Let’s not waste more time talking about obvious things like that.”
Now that Bilhah had brought it up, however, Leah could not let go of the question. Why had God chosen Abraham and not one of her family? And how was Jacob chosen?
“I’m probably wrong,” said Bilhah, in that tone of voice that she used whenever she wanted to argue but didn’t want to seem to be arguing, “but it seems to me, if you don’t mind my saying …”
“I wouldn’t mind you saying if you’d just say it,” said Leah.
“Isn’t your family just as chosen? I mean, not all of Abraham’s lineage got the birthright. Not Isaac’s half-brother, whatever his name was—”
“Ishmael.”
“Not him, and not Jacob’s brother, either. And Abraham had brothers, because you’re descended from them, so they didn’t get the birthright either, so even in that line, the birthright picks one. Well, in your family, too, right? That servant came and picked Rebekah.”
“Well he could hardly pick Father, could he?” said Leah.
“And now Jacob has come and he’ll pick one of you and leave the rest behind. Just like happens in his own family. One out of each generation. Just as many from your family as from Abraham’s.”
“But our family only supplies the women, so it’s not as if they have the birthright.”
“Oh?” said Bilhah. “What was the promise … Abraham’s and Isaac’s descendants would be numerous as the sands of the sea? Well, won’t that be true for Sarah, too? And if it’s true for Isaac, won’t it be just as true for Rebekah?”
It had never crossed Leah’s mind to think that way. To her, always the outsider, the birthright was just one more thing that would never be hers. But it really did belong to Aunt Rebekah too, now, didn’t it. And Sarah received it as surely as Abraham.
And in that moment she was filled with grief to realize that the choice had already been made in her generation. It was Rachel who had the vision of meeting a man at the well. Rachel who had his kiss when he arrived. Rachel who was the pretty one, the one he’d want, the one he certainly already wanted.
Tears came unbidden to her eyes. Something precious had been brought so near to her, but she could never have it. She had thought of him with hope only a few moments ago, because he would be the angel who could tell her what God meant her to make of her life. But Rachel wouldn’t have to ask, and he wouldn’t have to tell her God’s purpose. He’d simply bestow her purpose on her. What Rachel was to make of her life was to be his wife and therefore the mother of a posterity as boundless in number as the stars in the sky. Question answered before it was ever asked.
While for Leah the question was an empty one, for she could not make anything of her life, and if she had progeny it would be because Father could give a good dowry or because the man was unpleasant in some way that would make him believe she was the best wife he could get; or, in the best case, because some man pitied her and mistook that sentiment for love. Such a man would be kind to her all her life, as Father had been kind to her. He’d take care of her, protect her. She might even bear him children. But she would be useless otherwise. Even raising her own children—how could she do it? How could she be a mother and rear children she couldn’t see?
“I’m sorry if I made you cry,” whispered Bilhah.
“No, no,” said Leah, brushing the tears from her cheeks. “It wasn’t you. My thoughts already left what you said, and went to another matter entirely, and besides, with my bad eyes I always shed tears more easily. It doesn’t mean I’m sad, it just means my eyes are irritated.”
“Dust? My eyes water when I get stung by dust.”
“Yes, I’ll bet that’s it,” said Leah. “Because I certainly have nothing to cry about! As you said, my family is as great a one as Abraham’s!”
Bilhah was silent for a while. And then she said, “So, what are
you going to do so you can arrange to meet Jacob before the official presentation?”
“What do you mean? Nothing. I’m going to do nothing. A well-bred girl doesn’t throw herself at men.”
“Rachel’s life is such that she’s there, where Jacob can see her,” said Bilhah. “Not that she’s like that horrible Zilpah, always flaunting her body to make the boys go insane, but still, there she is, and where are you? Here in your tent, or in the garden. It can’t be helped, but it’s still not fair.”
“No,” said Leah. “Not fair, but nothing is fair. You’re as good a person as me, if not better, but your father is gone, while I still have mine. Is that fair?”
“And neither of us has a mother,” said Bilhah, “while Zilpah has hers, and that’s not fair either, but I wouldn’t trade places with her.”
Leah chuckled. “I suppose I don’t really know her, not well. They must not have her work near me very often.”
“Nobody would let her do your hair, if that’s what you mean. But she got Reuel to let her serve at dinner Jacob’s first night here, and the things I hear about the dress they put on her—”
“Derkah told me it was my mother’s dress,” said Leah.
“Well, it must have been one she wore while nursing you or Rachel, because there was nothing to bar a baby from finding its food.”
Leah had to laugh. Bilhah had a way with gossip.
“Still, Leah,” said Bilhah, “there’s no reason Rachel should have all the advantage in this. Why shouldn’t you get to know Jacob, too?”
“Rachel didn’t plan it,” said Leah. “God led them to each other.”
“So?” said Bilhah. “How do you know God didn’t lead me to your father’s camp in Padan-aram so I could sit here at this very moment and say to you, There must be some reason for you to seek to talk to Jacob.”
“You almost make it seem possible,” said Leah.
“It can’t be forbidden, or Rachel would be kept from him.”
“But for them it’s natural. For me it would be contrived.”
“Oh, yes,” said Bilhah, “I’m sure Rachel always used to tend to the lambs every morning, at exactly the times Jacob’s sure to pass by.”
Leah had to giggle. Oh, it was good to have a friend. She was a friend, it seemed. Who could have guessed it? But God couldn’t have been so cruel as to take her father’s life and cause her dowry to be stolen just so she could be here to befriend Leah. If she started thinking that God was shaping the whole history of the world to make her life better, that would surely be the beginning of madness.
“How do you know God didn’t put this idea into my head?” said Bilhah.
“Be careful,” said Leah. “If you claim to be a prophetess, somebody will believe it and then they won’t leave you alone.”
“I never thought of that. A soothsayer! Some of them get very rich,” said Bilhah.
“And some of them get stoned to death if they are accused of witchcraft, so I think you’d better not. They’re all frauds anyway, Father says. God doesn’t tell the future to people who charge money for it, and the devil doesn’t know the future, so all he can tell are lies.”
“I can watch,” said Bilhah, “and tell you when he’s coming, and then you can walk out into the path and get him to lead you somewhere.”
Get him to lead her. Because she’s blind.
Not a friend, after all. Just a servant girl with a lot of chatter in her. “I’m done with you for now,” said Leah. “You can go.”
“What did I say?”
“I’m tired. I need to rest.”
But the girl didn’t go. She lingered near the door. Even with her back to her, Leah could hear her—the breathing, the slight movement of fabric as she shifted weight.
“Is it because I said you might use your tender eyes to show that you need his help?” said Bilhah. “Well, if that makes you so angry that you send me away, then shame on you for a fool.”
“I won’t be talked to that way,” said Leah.
“Maybe not, by servants, but I’m a free girl, and I tell the truth to my friends. How do you think Rachel got to know Jacob? He uncovered the well for her because she wasn’t strong enough! Jacob is a man who helps, but it has to be something a woman really needs from him. I have to lead you through this camp because you can’t see well enough. Did I make that up? Or am I supposed to pretend that you cling to my arm because we’re such close friends? Well, close friends don’t send each other away like slaves who’ve spilled something on the rug. Rachel really was too small to move the stone, and you really are too tender-eyed to walk safely without a guide. Or would you expect a man to marry you and spend the rest of his life pretending you can see like normal people? Whom do you think you’re fooling? Only yourself.”
“I don’t ever want to see you again,” said Leah.
Bilhah laughed harshly. “I’m a better friend than you think. But perhaps you prefer to live your life with people who go along with your pretenses.”
“How long are you going to stay here? Until I hate you so much I have to beg my father to send you away from the camp?”
“Is that where it goes? A true friend tries to help you find a road to happiness, but because she says it wrong, you’ll destroy her, just like that. What are people to you, Leah? Flies to be flicked away, without regard for whether it kills them?”
“I beg you to leave,” whispered Leah.
“I never want to see you again, either. So I’ll pack up the nothing that I own and find my way back to Byblos and find some tiler who will take me on as his assistant.”
And then, finally, the torment ended. Bilhah was gone.
Yes, Bilhah. You can leave and become a tile sorter, arranging the bits by color and size. But what could I do? Where could I go? If someone hurts you, you can leave. But I can’t leave. My only chance is to send them away from me, since I can’t go away from them. Did you ever think of that?
It was a good thing that she had provoked Bilhah’s temper like that. It was good to know that Bilhah was not her friend, no more than any of the other women in the camp. That was Leah’s fate. To spend her life completely alone.
She cried in solitude, but not for long. Once the first rush of fury was gone, she controlled herself and lay there in the silence, thinking. Not about Bilhah—she refused to let herself think about the harsh things Bilhah had said.
Instead she thought about Jacob. And, following Bilhah’s suggestion, she began to think about how she might contrive to meet him. Not so she could marry him—that thought was absurd. What she wanted was not to meet a husband, but to meet the keeper of the word of God.
She had been thinking about doing that already, before Bilhah said a thing. So it wasn’t that cruel girl’s idea, after all. Maybe it really did come from God.
CHAPTER 8
Leah made her way to Jacob’s tent early next morning, when the sky was barely lighter than full darkness. When else could she be sure of finding him there? Except at night, of course, but she could not have gone to his tent in the darkness, or it would look as if she were trying to entice him. During the day, though, he would be out in the camp, among the animals, among the skilled workmen, the weavers, the dyers—he cast his attention on everything and showed that he knew all there was to know about tending a great herdsman’s household.
But all of that was Rachel’s world, and that was why he would marry her. Leah could only reach out to one part of him. Not as Bilhah had urged, as a ploy to try to compete with Rachel. What good would that do? No, Leah would do what she planned in the first place. She would come to him as the keeper of the birthright, and ask him to open the holy books and tell her what God had in mind for her.
Approaching his tent, though, her mind wandered for a moment, and suddenly she realized that she did not know precisely where she was. There wasn’t light enough to show her the shadowy shapes of the tents. And she had lost count of her steps, and which turns she had made. It was infuriating—with eyes as wea
k as hers, with the whole world constantly blurred, why was she still so utterly dependent on what she could or couldn’t see?
Well, she wasn’t. She just had to remember to use her other sense. So she closed her eyes entirely and listened.
There was a shape to the sounds the breeze made among the tents. A certain snap to the doorfly of one tent, a whistling along the eave of another. And there were smells, and the sounds of animals stirring in the dawn, and after a few moments she could hear the sounds of a few people moving about in the camp. That faint thump would be the cook’s assistant dropping the day’s logs beside the fire. And the soft murmuring would be two girls going down to the well to bring the morning’s water.
In moments, someone might come along and see her and insist on helping her.
No sooner had she thought this than she heard the faint sound of a man passing his first water of the morning. Few of the men liked to rise this early, and all of those that had to rise at this hour slept on the far side of the camp. So unless some bad dream had roused Father or Reuel or one of her brothers—oh, that was likely, one of those lazy boys rising early, if they were even in the camp tonight—she was hearing Jacob. She almost turned around and headed back to her tent.
She had to remind herself that no one but her could hear so well. There would be no embarrassment, as there would be if a woman happened to see him at such an indelicate moment. So instead of fleeing, she boldly walked toward his tent. For of course she knew now where she was, and where it was, and she made a point of walking boldly, with her longest stride—and she was long-legged, a good walker, what a pity it was wasted on someone who could never walk anywhere except the familiar paths of the camp.
She reached the door of his tent just before he did.
“Have you come to see me?” he said softly.
She turned toward him. “Are you already up and about? Then I can come another time. I hoped to talk to you before you had started on the day’s work.”
Rachel and Leah (Women of Genesis) Page 9