“A dedication is a sacrifice,” Orpah’s mother said, her once happy tone now lifeless.
“Our god requires a pure sacrifice once each year, and by Chilion’s own words, this year the offering is his son.” Te’oma lifted a curled hand to his mouth and blew on his knuckles. “It is a simple thing, really. You give us the child or I take Chilion.” He looked Chilion’s way, the gleam more evil than Ruth had ever seen.
“No!” Naomi screamed and rushed for her son. “You leave right now. You cannot have my son or my grandson. You do not own us here. We are not Moabite and we do not worship your god!”
Mahlon’s arm came around Ruth in the exact moment she thought she might faint.
“Oh, my dear woman, I am afraid that is not true at all. Your husband sought alliance with us, and this son of yours offered sacrifices to our priests so that his wife could bear a child.”
“To keep the child, not give it to the flames!” Naomi was screaming at Te’oma now, and Ruth wondered if the man would strike her. But he seemed amused by her outburst.
“Orpah is young. There will be more children now. But the agreement was made and the child will come with us.” His guards took hold of Chilion, restraining him against every effort to break free.
A priest pushed past the gate and into the courtyard, past Mahlon who seemed frozen in place, past a screaming Naomi who was restrained by another guard, and into Orpah’s bedchamber.
Ruth listened, her heart beating fast, waiting for Orpah’s cries of disbelief and refusal. But the midwife followed the priest outside, carrying Orpah’s child, with no sound from her sister-in-law. Had they killed her?
But hours later when the men and child were gone, Ruth found Orpah on her bed, drugged, and Chilion weeping at her side. Naomi sat in the corner near her loom, numb, unmoving, and Mahlon paced, making and discarding plans to rescue the child.
Ruth said nothing as she moved in silence from room to room, offering water or flatbread, feeling nothing but pain. She knew there was nothing to be done now. Orpah must have also agreed to this foolish plan when she made the offerings to the gods and when she begged Chilion to pay the priests to pray for a child.
They’d paid for a child, that was true. And the priests took exactly what they’d purchased.
16
Ruth kissed Naomi’s cheek and glanced again at Orpah, who sat in a corner of the room, silent, unmoving. She had been like this for the past three weeks, once the drugs wore off, the screaming subsided, and the sounds of the festival to Chemosh—one none of them would attend—ended.
“I will be back soon,” Ruth promised Naomi with a worried frown, looking from one woman to the other. “Unless you would rather I not go?” She felt torn with the thought of leaving her mother-in-law alone with an unresponsive daughter-in-law, but she needed answers that only her mother could give, and she had promised Mahlon she would try to find them.
“We will be fine, my daughter. Go quickly, and hurry with whatever you need to discover.” Naomi did not smile, only nodded as she worked the loom, barely looking at the device or the colors of the threads.
Ruth did not tarry, but accepted Naomi’s nod as understanding. She had not told her mother-in-law her reasons or her questions, only that she needed to visit her mother. If what she suspected was true, then any children born to her and Mahlon or future children born to Orpah and Chilion could be in danger.
Her heart skipped a beat at the thought, and the sick feeling in her gut that had begun three weeks ago would not leave. She hurried through the gate and across the field toward the town, whose large stone gates stood guarded by towers and men on either side.
When she approached the first guard, he recognized her and waved her through. She breathed a sigh that she still had no trouble entering the town she had known most of her life.
She greeted merchants with a passing nod or wave but did not stop to talk. If she turned to the right or to the left, she would never finish with her mother in time to return to Naomi before the men came in from the fields. Besides, a few moments with her mother was long enough. Sometimes a few moments felt like hours.
She turned a bend in the path and continued through the center of town, past the temple to Chemosh, trying to avoid looking in its direction. A shudder worked through her at the very thought of the bronze image and its heated arms and tongue. When she closed her eyes, she imagined a snake licking the ashes of the dead.
The thought made her nearly sick, and she clutched her arms to herself and picked up her pace. She turned another corner to a row of stone houses all near each other, some sharing a common courtyard. She came upon the home where her mother and sister resided, pushed open the gate—surprised to find it unlocked—and walked to the door of the house.
“Ima?” she called loud enough to be heard through the open window, then turned the latch. Finding the door open as well, she walked into the house, darkened except for a lone clay lamp and the light spilling from windows set high in the walls. “Ima? It’s Ruth.”
Her sister, Susannah, emerged from the back room, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Ruth?” She rushed forward into her sister’s arms and hugged her tight. “It is so good to see you!”
Ruth returned the embrace and held her sister at arm’s length. “It has been too long. Look how you have grown!”
Susannah smiled and twirled in a circle. “Ima says I am to wed by next year.” A blush filled her cheeks at the announcement.
“So you are betrothed already?” Why hadn’t she been privy to this news long ago? But she had avoided even her sister these past few years.
Susannah nodded and smiled. “Yes. He is the potter’s son.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “The younger one,” she added.
Ruth tried to picture the boy, now a man, but could not recall of whom Susannah spoke. “And you will have to tell me all about him. But first”—she tweaked Susannah’s nose—“I must speak to Mother.”
“She is not here.”
No wonder Susannah had lain abed so long.
“Where is she?”
“She spends many a night at the governor’s mansion and doesn’t come home until late morning. Especially when there has been a festival. Ima helps plan them now.”
Ruth sank onto one of the cushions, absorbing this information. Susannah came and knelt at her side. “When did this start?” The words felt weighted even as she said them.
Susannah looked away, as though she was ashamed to tell Ruth the truth.
“Tell me,” Ruth insisted. “Was Mother part of the last festival? Did she have anything to do with the choosing of the sacrifice?”
Susannah’s attention snapped back to Ruth. “No!” She looked away again and drew a deep breath. “She has nothing to do with the chosen ones, but she did say that you never should have married the Israelite. Te’oma has been angry ever since, and the governor has been plotting a way to get back at you. So when Mahlon’s brother came to the priests, they finally had their plan.”
Ruth leaned against the cushions, stunned.
“Te’oma wanted it to be your child that was chosen, but you haven’t had one yet.” Susannah glanced around as if afraid the walls would hear them.
Ruth sat up again, her eyes widening in sudden understanding. “So if I bear a child, boy or girl, the governor will make sure the child is chosen as a sacrifice just because I did not want to marry his son?” Anger flared as she spoke, though she hushed her words.
Susannah nodded, fear showing in the whites of her eyes. “Forgive me, my sister, but I have prayed to the gods that you would be spared a child, for I could not bear to know they would take it from you. Promise not to tell anyone?”
Ruth looked long at her younger sister, surprised and touched by her loyalty. Though she doubted any prayers to Chemosh were the reason for her barrenness. Look at what such prayers had gotten Orpah!
The thought of her sister-in-law caused her stomach to churn again. “So Mother has no power or say over the choice
s. It is Te’oma making the decisions now, isn’t it?”
Susannah nodded slowly. “Though his father still governs, he has given much power to Te’oma. Ima says repeatedly that you could have been powerful and wealthy if you had just wed the man. I think Ima resents your marriage too because if you had wed Te’oma, she might have gotten the governor to wed her.”
“She is tired of simply being his mistress? He has a wife. The best she could hope for is the status of a concubine.”
“That is better than a mistress. She would have protection.” Susannah looked away. “She is afraid, Ruth. And vulnerable. That is why I agreed to Mother’s choice of the potter’s younger son after the older married someone else. At least once I am wed she will have someone to take her in if the governor finds her in disfavor.”
Ruth pressed her hands to her knees, holding her sister’s gaze. She had not realized until that moment that her mother’s anger had been a mask for her fear. She had acted as though she had the best life, that all was well, that the governor had made great promises to her. But she had not been the same after Ruth’s father died, and the governor’s promises were never to be trusted.
“I have to go.” She stood abruptly, sick with the realization that she could have done more for her mother and sister and would have saved Orpah the pain of such loss. If only she had married Te’oma instead of Mahlon.
“Just take care about getting pregnant,” Susannah whispered as she neared the door. “And warn Orpah the same. As long as you are married to those Israelites, your children are not safe.”
Ruth kissed her sister and left, thanking her with a nod. But on her way through the town and back to Naomi’s home, she wondered what it would take to convince Mahlon and Chilion to leave Moab. They had established lands here, which were showing signs of success. And Bethlehem was still under the curse of drought.
But the curse of drought sounded like a safer thing than the curse of Chemosh and the governor of Dibon, who chose victims on a whim or in vengeance, leaving Ruth feeling frightened and shaken.
Mahlon paced the small room that was exclusively theirs, his anger evident with every step. The urge to flee from her husband had never crossed her mind until this moment, but his wrath caused her heart to pound and sweat to break out on her brow.
“So you are telling me that my brother’s only child was taken because you would not marry another man? Then why did your mother even offer me the chance to pay a higher bride-price for you?” He stopped, staring into her eyes as though their marriage never should have taken place and all that had happened to Orpah’s child was her fault.
“She was bargaining, but I do not think she expected you to be able to pay,” she said, keeping her voice low, though Mahlon did not seem to mind raising his. “I had told my mother no to her requests that I marry the governor’s son for over a year before I met you. In our country, a woman has a right to choose, especially without a father to settle the matter for her.”
Mahlon’s gaze did not waver, but a moment later he moved away from her and walked to one of the two high-set windows, where his height allowed him to look out on the fields beyond. He released a long, steady sigh. Silence followed, and Ruth did not know whether to draw close to him or stay where she was.
At last he extended a hand toward her without looking in her direction. She came to him slowly. He looked at her, his dark eyes no longer filled with the rage she had witnessed moments before. Relief filled her.
Mahlon took her hand and squeezed. “I am glad you did not marry that man. Everything I have ever seen in my dealings with him has not impressed me.” He glanced beyond her toward their closed door. His voice lowered. “I wish my father had never made us beholden to the governor, nor purchased land from him. I wish my brother had not included your priests in his quest for a child.”
“They are not my priests,” Ruth corrected gently. “I have wanted nothing to do with Chemosh or any other gods of Moab for quite some time, even before you came here.”
Mahlon studied her. “I sensed that in you from the beginning. It was why I wanted to marry you.” He took both of her hands in his and kissed her cheek. “But I am afraid your little sister is right. Though Adonai has not yet given us a child, we must not chance having one as long as we live in this place. It is too risky.” His smile was sad. “I will tell my brother to do the same. Orpah must never bear again until we can move back to Israel or far from this city.”
Hope rose in Ruth’s heart at the mention of Israel. “Why not move us back to Bethlehem even now? Your mother would be glad of it, and it wouldn’t take long to make the journey.”
He shook his head and then slowly released his grip on her hands. “It’s not possible. Bethlehem is still suffering from the drought and famine. We would have little food to eat and nothing would grow there.” He turned back to the window. “Besides, the wheat harvest is nearly upon us here, and we will soon have the grape and olive harvests to bring in. We cannot leave until we have harvested all our crops.”
“But then we could take the crops with us and return? Surely there would be enough to eat for a time from what we gather, and by then the rains would certainly have returned to your land.”
He glanced at her for a brief moment. “The famine in Bethlehem has gone on many years.”
“But are we sure it is still going on? Has someone come from Israel with news?” She knew travelers came and went and the merchants shared their gossip. Her husband must have heard something when he went to the city in the evenings to drink in the gaming houses.
Mahlon blew out an exasperated breath and ran a hand over his hair. “Would I not have told you if I had heard such news?”
Ruth did not flinch despite her desire to take a step back. His anger was so temperamental, but he had never struck her. “I suppose you are right,” she said carefully. “I just thought it might be possible that perhaps the townspeople had withheld such information from you and Chilion. Some of the men could have reason to want you to stay.” To take her husband’s money as quickly as they could—but she did not say so. Without a doubt, Mahlon and Chilion had made a profit off the land their father had obtained, and even since the marriage feasts that had cost them so much, it seemed that blessings had followed them where the crops were concerned.
Until Orpah began giving gifts to the gods for a child.
Truth dawned as Mahlon’s earlier words filled her mind. If Mahlon was not willing to move to Bethlehem soon, and he did not want her to bear a child . . . “What are you saying, my lord? Regarding children?”
Mahlon did not look her way. “I mean that we will share separate sleeping quarters. You and Orpah will share a room, and I will go back to how things were with Chilion before we wed. Until the danger is past, we cannot take any chances.”
Ruth looked at him for the space of too many breaths. She had been married for nearly eight years and now she would live as a widow? “The danger will never be past. Not while we live here.”
He moved closer and met her gaze then. “I promise you that once the harvests are in, I will send word to Bethlehem to see how the famine fares. And if the land is still barren, I will look for another place where we can go back to living as husband and wife.” He touched her cheek. “Please tell me you understand.”
She nodded to appease him, but she could not bring herself to say the words. Tears threatened, something Mahlon could not abide. He bent to kiss her cheek, then strode from the room, leaving Ruth reeling from his words.
17
1284 BC
Two years passed. Two harvests brought in, with no sign of Mahlon keeping his word. There had been no messengers from Israel, and whenever Ruth attempted to pull information from her husband to see if he had sought a place away from Dibon where they could safely move, he said nothing.
“It is as though Chilion has shut me out of his life,” Orpah complained for the hundredth time as the two of them walked to the Arnon for the morning ration of water. “Has anything
changed with Mahlon?”
Ruth shook her head. “Nearly ten years of marriage, yet it feels as though we are virgins again, only living in a different home.” She swallowed the emotion that often accompanied that thought. It wasn’t so much the lack of physical affection with her husband, it was his unwillingness to talk to her, to share his thoughts as he once had. To hold her when she was afraid, and explain why hoarding an abundance of crops or selling them off to buy things they did not need mattered more than living in the safety of a place that might offer them the possibility of a child, a family.
“Have you spoken to Naomi about this?” Orpah’s question was one Ruth had pondered but never voiced.
“No.” She looked at her friend’s shadowed expression. Orpah had never recovered from the loss of her son, and if she did smile, it never reached her eyes. “I honestly do not think there is anything she can do.” They were grown men, and she was a small, insignificant woman in their eyes.
“Have you heard anything from the women at the market? Has there been any news of the famine in Israel?” Orpah was more talkative today than at most times in the past two years, and Ruth wondered at the change. Perhaps her friend was finally feeling hope again.
“You are hoping there will be a way to convince our husbands to return to Israel?” Ruth stopped at the river’s bank and set down her jar, kneeling beside it and urging Orpah to do the same.
Orpah sank to the grass, but her gaze skittered beyond Ruth’s to the rushing waters. “Many times I have thought to throw myself into the river and let it take me away,” she admitted, clasping her hands in her lap. “It seems obvious that no one would miss me, and without my son . . .” She choked on a sob and put a hand to her mouth. It was the most Orpah had said since the incident.
Ruth touched her arm. “Of course we would miss you!” She coaxed Orpah to look at her. “I am very sorry for your loss, my sister, and even sorrier that Te’oma seems to have vengeance in mind against all of us because of me.”
Redeeming Grace: Ruth's Story Page 9