by Ann Burton
As long as they worked hard, Hlagor treated Meji and the other men well enough. The stableman didn’t like me, however, and he did not know of my gift. More than once he had given me the back of his hand for little reason.
“He was the same with your mother,” Meji told me once during the cold season, when we lay huddled together in the straw to share our warmth. “She refused him, and it soured his heart against her and you.”
“Refused him?” I drew back as Meji made a crude gesture with his fingers, imitating the motions of a ram mounting a ewe. “No one told me that my mother served in the house.” She had been a stable slave, the same as I. Then I thought of the other way a woman could be made to serve.
Women used to give relief to Ybyon’s hands were kept in the back section of the main farmhouse, where the master’s hired men slept. When the women were not attending to men’s needs, they were put to work by the housekeeper, washing and bundling shorn fleeces for market. Despite this, their lives were far more comfortable than mine or my mother’s had been.
Meji pressed my cold, thin fingers between his own strong, bony hands. “It was said that your mother served the master himself,” he whispered. “That is why Hlagor desired her.”
I had been a slave all my life, so I understood how men used women to relieve their needs. It was as much a part of life on the farm as when the rams were brought to breed the ewes, and often just as indiscreet. Still, I could not imagine my mother serving Ybyon any more than I could her giving relief to Hlagor. My mother had not been a pretty woman, according to the shepherds who spoke of her. Her face had been branded across the brow with a witch mark, and she had borne many other scars, most likely inflicted by Ybyon’s frequent beatings. The other slaves had deferred to her because of her gift, but none desired her. In truth, most admitted that they had feared her touch.
Had the master known of my mother’s gift? I would have asked Meji, but by that time he had fallen asleep. He seemed to regret saying as much as he had to me, for every time after that, he avoided my questions about my mother, Ybyon, and Hlagor, and we never discussed the matter again.
My arms and back were aching by the time I had finished mucking out one side of the barn, and as soon as I saw Hlagor walk up to the main house for the midday meal, I slipped out to use the privy. On the walk down the path, I risked taking another bite of the cheese Meji had stolen for me. The second taste was more delicious than the first.
If I had not been slave-born, I might have married a wealthy trader who would buy me cheese to eat every day. My eyelids drooped as I imagined the bounty of food to be had as a free woman. The master bought huge wheels of cheese for his family, and kept bowls heaped with ripe brown dates on the tables. His children drank five full jugs of goat’s milk every day, and they gobbled up countless loaves of golden lehem made from smooth, sifted qemah. I knew this because when I was younger I would watch them eat, spying through the window slits at the back of the kitchen. Now and then the old cook would notice me, and being blessed with a soft heart, she would sometimes give me a handful of scraps from the master’s table.
I tucked the morsel of cheese back into my sleeve, saving the last bit for later, and blinked hard. I was tired of being so hungry that all I thought of was food I would never eat, and freedom I would never enjoy.
Offer thanks to the One God for what you have, my mother would tell me in my dreams, not complaints about what you do not. His favor is shown not to those who ask, but to those who ask not.
I had never asked Jehovah for anything, but He had not blessed me with His favor, so I did not know if her words were true. That I dreamed of a mother I could not remember made me wonder if in my loneliness I was not imagining it all.
The slaves’ privy was only a pit covered by wooden planks, but at least this one was not out in the open. When the old pit had been filled, the men had dug the new one between three old terebinth trees. The oaks’ wide, gnarled trunks provided a little privacy for the female slaves, who were obliged to lift their skirts, crouch, and perch unsteadily over the plank holes. The resins collected from slashes in the trees’ bark, which the men used in many ways, also left a sharp, cleansing odor that chased away the smell of the pit.
I had just finished making my water when I heard footsteps shuffling through dry grass beyond the trees, and the master’s voice speaking.
“It is a long journey from Ephraim to Hazor,” he said, in the fawning manner he used with the wealthy men who sometimes came to inspect the flocks. “Did you not first try the markets at Taanach or Megiddo?”
I nearly tumbled over when I heard the reply. “The southern Canaanite kings have decreed that no merchant in Ephraim may sell livestock to anyone but the supply caravans for their armies. We are obliged to travel far north now to supplement our herds.”
The merchant’s low, pleasant voice was strangely accented, but I knew it, for I had heard it before, many times—calling to me in my dreams.
I pulled down the frayed hem of my middo and moved between the trunks of the two largest trees, wedging myself there, where I could observe but would not be seen. I spied on my master as he walked slowly across the pasture with the merchant whose voice I knew as well as my own.
The merchant was not one of the many who came to barter with Ybyon for livestock and wool. This man’s kesut was long and simply fashioned, as was his head covering, not at all like the merchants of Hazor, who dressed in grand, richly ornamented garb. Also, his clothing had been fashioned from thick, dense wool, as if the man had dressed expecting cold weather. A short, sun-lightened brown beard covered the lower half of his face, but it was trimmed, not oiled or braided. The corners of his long dark eyes were tilted, the lids darkened with green-black kohl.
Who was this man? I had never seen anyone like him, but there was something about him that seemed familiar—as if I should have known him.
I shifted around the trunk to move out of the sunlight and get a better look. Quite handsome, this merchant was, but perhaps what caught my eye was the lack of adornments. I thought some of the master’s buyers looked more like women than men, so bejeweled and perfumed were they. His ears and nostrils were not pierced, as was also common among the men of Hazor, and no tattoos or brands proclaiming his patron god marred his tanned brow. The finely worked copper chain around his neck sported no protective pendant or talisman against curses. He was also unusually tall, one of the tallest men I had ever seen, and he moved in such a way as to make my master appear squat and ungainly.
“I shall need one hundred healthy young ewes and thirty fertile rams,” the merchant was saying to Ybyon. “You may deliver them to the river crossing the morning after Sabbath.”
Sabbath. I covered my mouth with my hand to smother the groan that rose in my throat. No wonder he had no god-symbols or talismans: he was a Hebrew. A stupid one, at that, for he did not know how much Ybyon loathed our people. Why would he reveal himself so openly? He was alone, with no personal guards or retainers to defend him. Did he not know that Hazor had no treaty with Israel, and the Canaanites here despised our kind so much they would happily hang him from the king’s gatepost to feed the vultures?
My master paused and stared at him for a long moment. “You are a Hebrew, Merchant Lappidoth?”
Lappidoth. The name seized me like an angry hand, making me forget everything else, even the helpless terror of knowing a man was about to die a painful, undeserved death.
“I am, but my father was Lappidoth,” the foolish man replied. “I bear his name, but Jeth is how I am called.”
Many young Hebrew men named after their sires were given different family names to avoid confusion, but that was not what seized my heart with new dread.
When I was very young, my mother came into my dreams and spoke of this man. She had known his surname, Lappidoth, and had described him to me. He looked familiar because he appeared exactly as the woman in my dreams had said.
Someday this man’s life will cross yours, Deborah
, Dasah had said. Do not avoid him, or it will mean death for both of you.
As a child I had not understood the disturbing dream portent any more than I did now. The message upset me, though, and I had much trouble sleeping for weeks after one of the dreams. I had many bad dreams, dreams of great battles and men falling around me and blood staining the land, but I tried to forget them as soon as I woke. Now here was the man from the dream of my mother, exactly as she had described him, bearing the name she had repeated over and over, so that I would never forget.
Jeth Lappidoth, the man my dream mother had predicted would come, was here now crossing my life. Would he bring sorrow and misery to me? Who would not avoid such a man?
“I thought you were of the Rephaim,” Ybyon was saying.
“You did?” Jeth sounded a little amused. “The Rephaim are cowards and outlaws, who hide in our mountains and prey on unprotected travelers.” His gaze moved over Ybyon’s features. “I worship Jehovah, but my silver is no different from any Canaanite’s.”
I covered my eyes, for by saying such a thing, his fate had been sealed, and now Death would come for him. No Canaanite would tolerate being compared to a Hebrew, least of all Ybyon. At any moment, my master would strike down the foolish son of Israel and kick him until his blood turned the grass crimson and his bones were dust.
“As you say,” I heard Ybyon reply in a calm, unperturbed tone. “Yes, I can deliver one hundred and thirty in three days to the river crossing.”
“I shall have payment waiting for you,” Jeth promised.
I looked through my fingers to see the two men clasping hands, the way men did after coming to a business agreement. My master was smiling with pleasure at this Hebrew merchant, as if they were on the friendliest of terms. There would be no beating, no killing.
That was not possible, unless my master had suddenly gone completely mad.
I waited until they walked out of sight before I ran to the barn. Hlagor was still up at the main house, likely meddling with one of the kitchen slaves, as he used them often. I hoped he would take his time, for there was still half the work waiting for me to finish. I would have to do it quickly before his return, or the stableman would take a switch to my back.
I went to the next stall to be cleaned out, only to find the work done. The others were the same, and when I checked the barrow, it was empty. Someone had done my work for me, and even carted the soiled grass out to the refuse heap.
“There you are,” a relieved voice said behind me. “We thought you had run away.”
I turned around to see Meji and two of the younger men standing behind me. They held sheaves of fresh, clean straw to spread, and dirt from the work that I should have done stained their hands and arms.
“You should not have done this,” I scolded him, keeping my voice low. “Do you not have enough tasks of your own to do?”
“We grew restless waiting for you to return.” Meji thrust a sheaf into my arms. “If you feel so guilty, you may help us.”
Together we worked until the floor of the barn was covered with fresh bedding. The men liked to talk and jest with each other, but they were silent around me. I did not mind the quiet—my thoughts were filled with the Hebrew merchant I had seen with Ybyon.
Jeth Lappidoth. How had my dream mother known his surname? Was it so common, or was the man some kin to her? Had he promised to come for her? Had she known that he would come to Hazor someday?
More puzzling was what I had witnessed. Why had the master been so amiable toward Jeth? That Ybyon hated Hebrews was well known, even among his slaves. Often we heard him speak fondly of his grandparents, who had traveled to Hazor from Jericho just before the Hebrews had come out of the wilderness to invade Canaan. Jericho had been the first city the Hebrew general Joshua had destroyed. Ybyon’s grandparents lost every member of their family in the battle. They could not return, either, for after the Hebrews had brought down the mighty walls of Jericho, they had burned the city to the ground.
“Hebrews are like rats,” Ybyon would often say. “Let one go free, and in a week you have forty more gnawing at your sandal straps.”
That was one of the kinder remarks my master made. There were other, far worse things that came from his mouth that I tried not to hear.
I knew a little of the politics involved in the Hebrews coming to Canaan from listening to the master and some of his older shepherds talk about it. Egypt had enslaved my people for centuries, until Jehovah had brought so many plagues that Pharaoh had freed the Hebrews and sent them into the wilderness. There they wandered for many years, punished by the One God for their own sins, until such time as they were cleansed and prepared to enter the Promised Land. So they did, as an army of nomad tribes, hardened by years of struggle and loss. They conquered everything in their path, and killed those who stood in their way.
How my mother became separated from her tribe, I knew not. She had never spoken of them or her life before she had been sold into slavery, but I always suspected it was something more terrible than she wished anyone to know.
Then, too, the older slaves who had known Dasah were always reluctant to speak of her.
“The past is a grave, Deborah,” Tarn, the oldest slave among us, told me whenever I asked about her. “Do not dig it up from the ground, for you will not like what comes out of the dirt.”
Over time some of the Canaanites had accepted the presence of Hebrews in their land, and had struck treaties with the armies to protect their cities from attack. King Jabin of Hazor was not one of these, and he had sent his armies to attack many Hebrew settlements. Thanks to our king, the Canaanites of Hazor would not acknowledge our faith or worshipping the One God, and they ridiculed our belief in His promise that this land would be ours. Some did worse; I had long suspected that the master bought mostly Hebrew slaves to take pleasure in overworking and abusing us. Perhaps he thought it proper revenge for what Joshua and his armies had done to his family.
“Outside with all of you,” Hlagor called from the open door of the barn. We filed past him and into the bright sunlight, where we waited while he inspected the work we had done. He came out looking more disgruntled than ever, and passed me without a glance.
“High praise,” Meji whispered. “Soon he will be so overcome with joy of us that he will make his mark on our freedom scrolls.”
“Of course he will,” I murmured. “Just as soon as the stars fall to earth and the sheep shear themselves.”
“You must tell me if you dream of that,” my friend murmured, and grinned. “I will take a bucket and catch a star for you.”
CHAPTER
3
As soon as the stableman stalked out of sight, two kitchen servants carried a large pot, a basket, and several rounds of rough brown lehem, which they handed to Tarn for our midday meal.
Tarn was so old that all his hair had turned silver. Like me, he had been enslaved since birth, but most of his life had been spent serving a trader whose caravans crossed the length and breadth of Canaan. The deep, old scar across the front of his throat bespoke of his strength and endurance. When I was a little girl, he had told me how he received it as a punishment for trying to run away from his master. He had been caught, brought back, and tied to the back of a mule with a slip-knotted rope around his neck. He had been forced to walk thus for the three weeks it took his master’s caravan to cross the southern desert, and several times had fallen and nearly choked to death.
“When you look at me,” he warned, “remember that every time a slave defies his master, he risks his neck.”
The pot and bread were carried to the shady side of the barn, where the men sat in a circle as I divided the bread among us. We dipped our pieces into the pot to soak up the thin bean porridge inside, made of water and twice-cooked adasim and himmesim, but as always there was only half a pot, so it was soon emptied. The basket held a meager amount of overripe siqma figs, which I also portioned out to the men.
“That is all?” Chemesh, one of the
newer slaves, complained as I handed him his share.
“I am sorry.” I felt guilty, although I had no say over how much food we were given. None of us did. “This is all that was brought today.”
Chemesh’s face darkened. “Why do you decide what I eat? You are only a woman.”
Some of the men looked at each other. No one looked at me. New slaves were not told of my gift until we could rely on them to hold their tongues and follow our ways. Chemesh had been brought to the farm only two weeks past; no one trusted him.
“Serving food is a woman’s task,” Tarn, the eldest of the stable slaves, said. “Deborah is honest and fair to all.” He glanced at the two withered figs that I had taken for my portion. “Except to herself.” To me, he said, “You should have more than that, girl. You missed the morning meal.”
I smiled at him. “My stomach will wake me earlier tomorrow.”
I did give the men more food than I took for myself, but that was only right, for they were bigger, did heavier work, and needed more food. It hurt me to know how hungry they were, for the master’s stinginess showed in the gauntness of their bodies and the hollows in their faces. I was fortunate to have had the cheese Meji had given me—without it I would have spent the rest of the day feeling dizzy and strange-headed.
“I am starving here,” Chemesh muttered. “Has anyone more?” As the other men shook their heads, he hit the ground with his fist. “A babe could not be sustained on what we are given.”
Tarn shrugged. “Eat less, sleep light, and work more.”
“We cannot work at all,” Chemesh said, “if we are reduced to sticks. Can you not speak to Hlagor, and tell him we need more than this?”
Tarn, who had been shearing sheep for the master since he was a boy, squinted at the younger man. “Balaa, the man whose place you take in this circle, also did not think we were given enough to eat, and he spoke of this and other grievances to Hlagor. The next day the master lashed Balaa to the counting post in the fleece shed and whipped him, then left him there to bleed. It took him three days to die.”