She could be as good as them.
“Very well,” she said aloud. “I will obey this law. I would not give them cause to speak out further against me.”
“Good!” Javan’s smile eased the coldness that had built from her first steps into his village.
As she watched, the smile disappeared. There was a menacing purpose about him that suddenly frightened her. He had the advantage as he came back across the room, for she still sat on the stone floor, and by the time she scrambled to her feet, he had reached her side.
“Do not be afraid. I am not going to hurt you.” He caught her hands that she held up as though they would stop him. Despite his reassuring words, his face was grim. “I have one thing I must do tonight. It is something neither of us wants. If it were not the Law, I would not, but I have no choice. Neither do you.” Javan sighed, a deep, heavy sound. “I must shave off your hair,” he said bluntly.
“No.”
“It is not a choice, Taleh. I must shave off your hair.” He actually looked sad.
What a liar his face was. “I will not let you.” But she did not know how she could stop him.
“It is my law, my covenant. I have not broken faith with it before, I will not do so now. And neither will you. It will be part of your life, from now on.”
“My hair is part of my life. It is part of me. I do not care what your precious law says. I will not let you shave my head!”
He did not answer, just looked at her with that implacable face. The force of his will lapped at her.
She could only stare at him. He was serious. This was not a trick. He meant every word. “I will hide it. I will wear a veil, a headdress, whatever you say. No one will know.”
Javan made no move toward her. “Everyone will know. Even if they did not, my God will know, and he is the only one who matters. What kind of start is deceit?”
“I will cut a little.” She even sounded like she was pleading, but she did not think demands would get her anywhere.
He was still, too still. “No. It must be shaved. All of it.” Even his voice was hushed. “It is the sign of mourning. Surely you want to mourn your family.”
Anger tore through her. “That is a despicable thing to say. I have been mourning them every day since you killed them. How dare you use that as an excuse to humiliate me in front of your entire village!” She took a step backward, hoping he would not notice. He must not catch her. She dared not look behind her, dared not take her eyes from him.
He simply walked over to the only opening in the room and stood, cutting off what her mind knew had been her destination. The hopelessness of her situation finally became clear to her. “I will hate you if you do this,” she said.
“I know. I wish I did not have to do it. Surely you know it will grow back. I will never ask you to cut your hair again. I know that is no comfort now, but I make you that promise.”
He blurred as tears filled her eyes. She did not care if she had to plead. “Please, please do not do this. I will never disobey you, I will be the perfect wife, I will never deny you anything, but please leave me my hair.”
“I cannot. I cannot break my faith, or betray my God. It will grow back. You will gain the respect of the village. Did you not just say you would do what was necessary?” He finally took a step toward her. “This is necessary.” He stopped right in front of her and gently set his hands on her shoulders. “Taleh, I do not ask you for your permission. This is my land, my law, and my home. You are my wife. I will make sure we obey this law, with or without your cooperation. Please make this easy for both of us.”
She wanted to pull away, to lash out. Shave. He has said shave, as in nothing left. And he was not going to back down.
“I hate you for this,” she said. Her words, so inadequate for her hurt, held no emotion. She would not let him hear her fear, and she had already bared too much with her tears.
“I know.”
His eyes looked down at her, barely recognizable through the tears that spilled over their bounds. She remembered her own guilt when the armies swept over her village, remembered wondering if it had been her heresy that had brought such destruction on them all. She had betrayed her gods.
Would she actually ask him to betray his?
What punishment did his god have for them if Javan disobeyed? Would it be worse for her, the unbeliever? Maybe his god’s retribution would come from the angry men at the gate. Maybe they would cut her down, her last sight their satisfied faces.
Did she really want to chance it?
An aching sob burst out of her, as the grief of weeks finally let loose. She shoved her fist against her mouth, bowed her head so she could not see his triumph, and nodded.
How long would it take her to forgive him for this night? The tears in her eyes were like a knife through him.
He turned her around so he could begin. Her hair was in its customary braid, and now that would serve to help him, for it would be a simple thing to cut through it with his sharp knife.
Simple. It was the wrong word.
He ached to get it over with. He pulled his knife out of its familiar place in his belt with one hand and took her braid with the other. It was so thick, so heavy. And so very long. He remembered combing it, how the ends draped nearly into the sand where she sat. His knife was so sharp a few hairs separated when he set it against its target. Fast, to get it over with? Or slow? But the knife made up his mind for him as more hairs sheared away. One swipe, another through the heavy mass that gave its own protest, a gasp of realization from his wife, and the braid came away in his hand.
He looked at it, dangling from his fist, and some quixotic impulse made him turn her around. The straggled ends tumbled around her white face, what he could see of it as she turned her head away. He slid his knife back into his belt, picked up her hand, and folded her fingers around it.
Her hand closed tightly, and she pulled the braid against her heart, folding her arms over herself to hold it in place. He saw a silver tear fall onto it.
Javan turned her away again, and reached for the razor he had hidden out of her sight earlier. His hand paused, and he looked over at the sacks of plunder. Somewhere in them was oil and ointment, something to protect her skin from the razor and to soothe it after. She stood where he left her, head bowed, clutching the braid as silent tears slipped down her face.
He rummaged quickly, afraid she would suddenly bolt. There it was, this one would be perfect, a rich lotion that he could pour easily. She had not moved. Taking the stopper out, he dribbled the lotion over her with one firm hand while the other tilted her head far enough back so the thick liquid did not run into her eyes. She flinched when the moisture hit her scalp, but stayed quiet.
He felt her shudder, and realized how hard she fought to keep her tears inside. For a moment, he almost stopped.
When the jar was empty, he dropped it on the floor, hearing it crack when it hit. He picked up the razor and set the sharp edge against her skull.
His hand shook. He steadied it. It took an astonishing amount of willpower to slide the blade along the soft skin hiding under her black tresses, even more not to stop as the first strands came free.
The razor cut another dark swath, and another. Oil scented the air with oppressive sweetness, mocking the tears that ran down her face and mingled with the slippery liquid. A small silky curl slid free over her shoulder, and Javan saw her hand slowly reach out as it washed down her robe, and close over it. A braid and a curl were all she had left, and she held them both with poignant tenderness.
The last black curls lost to his blade, and it was over.
Dark, oil-covered hair littered his legs as liberally as it did her robe, sliding off onto the slippery stone beneath his feet. She must have known it was all gone, because Taleh burst into loud, agonizing sobs that shook her entire body as she slowly sank onto the floor. Javan flung the razor aside as he felt her go down, knelt beside her and pulled her into his arms, holding tight, trying not to think, to fe
el.
She continued to wail like a grieving mother over a lost child for long moments, soaking his tunic with her tears. He felt wetness on his own face, and knew with surprise that he wept with her.
Taleh suddenly went limp, her anguish burned out like a sputtering lamp. Javan’s relief sapped his own strength. He looked down at her tear-streaked face, to discover she had fallen asleep. As he watched, her body grew heavy. He shifted her into his arms, and rocked himself onto his feet.
The sleeping pallets lay where they had been unrolled, and Javan kicked one into position. Kneeling with Taleh in his arms was more difficult than standing up had been, but he did it without waking her. She looked breakable, fragile and hurt. The scraped skin of her scalp made him wince. He had tried so hard to be careful. Her beautiful hair was gone, all of it, leaving her dark brows startling slashes across her skin. Oddly, the effect highlighted her features, their perfection all the more apparent without the distraction her hair had provided.
Still, he thought, if only there had been another way! But the Law was everything, his whole life, the contract with Moses and Israel, and obedience to his God was not negotiable.
Muffled sounds and thumping caught his attention. Despite his own problems, Javan stifled a tired smile. He was not the only one in for a difficult night.
Too tired to do anything more, Javan slipped off his outer tunic and threw it into a corner. It would have to be burned – tomorrow. He pulled the other pallet alongside hers. He would keep her warm during the night, and he would keep her there. He opened a blanket, laid himself down heavily, and covered them both with it. Warmth spread through him, easing the last bits of tension. He closed his eyes, and was asleep.
C H A P T E R 15
The sun peeped through a small gap in the closed lattice, teasing Javan with the morning. Years of training had taught him to know instantly where he was. Without opening his eyes, he knew Taleh lay where she had been all night. He could hear her soft breathing, and turned his head to see her body relaxed in the sweet release of sleep. He took advantage of her unconscious state to look his fill.
Her lips were slightly parted, and dry. Tear tracks had left their silver trails overnight. The visual reminder of her restless night sat uncomfortably, of lying next to her, knowing she was not even aware of her soft sobs.
In the mellow light of the early day, he could see the damage the razor had done to her scalp despite his care. Her scalp was dotted with spots of dried blood where the razor had cut too closely. Other areas were abraded, leaving behind patches of tender skin, like an active child’s knee.
He had done his best to make it as comfortable an ordeal as possible. He would not apologize for carry out the law.
He could, however, protect what was left of her dignity.
Among his spoil, the sacks hid beautiful swatches of linen specially woven for headdresses, and bands to keep them in place. It would take time for her hair to grow back, but there was no need for her to feel any more exposed than necessary. She was a stranger to the land, the customs and laws. She would have enough of a struggle finding a place for herself. Whatever he could do to smooth her way, was it not his responsibility to do those things for her?
He eased himself away from her side, hearing the slight change in her breathing that signaled her own return to wakefulness. For some strange reason, he found himself hurrying. Was he sparing her modesty, or his own? The thought that he might be uncomfortable with her eyes on him was almost funny. True, for many years it had been only men around when he dressed or bathed. There was little room for false modesty in an army of men, nor the time or inclination to pander to such foolishness.
He paused briefly to consider himself unclothed. He was not disappointed in his body. It was tall, and strong. It did what he wanted it to do. It had always been there, bigger than most, stronger than many. He had given it little thought, save on the rare occasions when he had been wounded. Now he wondered how she would see it, what she would think.
This was not the day to test her reactions.
He washed quickly, using what water he found in the pitcher. He looked at the robe he had worn yesterday, and many yesterdays before that. It needed burning, he had not changed his mind overnight. Somewhere in his soldier’s pack, he had another robe. It would be dusty, but whole, and untainted by the heavy oil he had used last night.
While Taleh slept, he searched through the spoils for things that might find favor with an aggrieved wife. What a lovely word that was – wife. Despite the long wait ahead of them, she was his wife now, and he was her husband. He liked the connection, the acknowledgement of possession, both his – and hers.
Robes of rich colors were pulled out. They felt gritty to the touch, thick with dust and sand. He could not give these to her! They had to be washed before anyone could wear them.
Taleh needed a new robe. Even if it had not been a part of the Law, necessary for him to obey in order to marry her, he would have done so anyway. Women in Israel did not wear such garments as she had.
He would have to get something from Sarah. She would not be happy but he would find something to serve as compensation.
“You never thought the robes would get dirty? How like a man,” Sarah muttered under her breath, but she gave him a robe. It was too large and colorless, undyed, but it was linen and had a sash and headdress. In its place, Javan gave her a small golden bowl of the size women liked and men thought too little to serve any purpose.
Sarah smiled when she held it in her wrinkled hands. “I guess I can forgive you your foolishness.”
Javan returned to his room, laid out his gifts and waited. The warming air released the heady scent of the oil he had used on her last night. He wished he could rid the room of the odor.
What would she think today?
A deep sigh heralded her awakening, followed by restless stretches. He braced himself. She yawned loudly, and he smiled at such a solid sound coming from such a frail creature. Her actions were so normal, so usual.
Until she reached up to brush her hair from her eyes in long habit.
Javan held his breath.
She froze for an endless moment.
When her eyes opened, he was surprised by the anger in them. He expected tears, but not anger.
“You did this to me,” she hissed.
“I obeyed the rules of our Law,” he quickly corrected her. “You agreed last night. I can give you my word that you will never be asked to do anything like this again, but I do not think you feel like accepting any promises. There is no reason for you to hide in here. I have a robe and headdress for you. It is not necessary for others to see your head. I think you will be more . . . comfortable with it covered. Go help Sarah with whatever she needs to do. You are healthy and young, Sarah is old.” Javan wished he knew what Taleh was thinking. She gave no indications, just that mutinous stare. He continued, “Try to win Sarah’s good favor. Word will spread of your kindness. Consider this a challenge, not punishment.”
He ignored her glare. “They are willing to let you prove yourself, you will see. Now wash the oil from your skin and put on the robe. There is much to do today.”
Taleh looked at the small pile of gifts he had waiting for her. If only he would leave!
He sat where he was and waited. What did he want of her now? Her temper, pushed to its limits by the shock of her baldness, vibrated through her like a live thing.
Javan said firmly, “Taleh, Sarah is already up and working. Surely you do not want to give her reason to complain.”
Lifting her chin, Taleh snapped, “I will help her, if she will let me. Please leave now, so I can get dressed.”
Javan rose and went over to pick up a small pile of soiled clothes from the floor, then went to the curtain that covered the door. “I will get you water to bathe. Perhaps you would wash the oil off the floor. I find I grow tired of the smell of it. I will be back as quickly as I can.”
Taleh sagged with relief when he was gone. Mournin
g and vanity and humiliation swirled around inside her. She wanted her hair. The pain of its loss surprised her.
Over on one of the many sacks of plunder from her city, something pulled her attention. It almost looked like another gift, long and silky-looking, ripples that reflected the morning light in shades of black and blue. Taleh took one step, another. She knew that color, that shape. She moved in slow steps until she reached the pile, then stopped, looking down at her braid, left out on top with the rest of Javan’s spoils. Next to it she saw a simple curl.
She remembered him placing the braid in her hand, remembered rescuing that lone curl as it slipped away down her robe, remembered holding both tightly. Sometime during the night she must have let go, though she could not imagine ever releasing either, even in sleep.
They sat, both, on top of Javan’s plunder from Minnith. Was that how he saw them, another bit of Ammon’s wealth? Dare she take them back? But if she did, she had nothing in this room of her own, no place to hide them. Everything belonged to Javan.
He had kept her hair.
She reached out a finger, and ran it along the braid. “Just hair,” she whispered into the air. “It will grow back.” But how long would it take?
She had wasted too much time. He could just walk in. She was his now, regardless of this month he spoke so much of. As quickly as she was able, she stripped her robe off, tattered, stiff with dried oil, thick with scent.
The pitcher of water was empty. Wash yourself, he had said, but he had left her nothing.
Javan’s gifts to her lay in obvious display on the floor. She glared at the pile as though Javan himself were there.
Javan walked quietly up the stairs with the heavy water jar in his arms, hearing no sounds from the room that served as Obed’s dwelling. Sarah had grumbled, and he worried about leaving Taleh in her company. If he were not so constrained by the amount of work he had to do preparing his old home and fields, he would stay with Taleh on this first day. She needed to begin making her way among his people. She could not make a place simply by being his wife.
Temper The Wind (Ancient Israel) Page 14