Somehow his justifications did not still his conscience.
He eased open the leather curtain. Taleh had not heard him enter. She knelt on the floor, wrapped in the blanket. His gifts, Sarah’s gifts through him, still sat in a pile on the floor. She clutched her old yellow robe.
Did she mean to still wear it? Would she reject his gift out of spite?
“Give your old robe to me.” Javan spoke without preamble. Taleh gave a sharp gasp and went completely still. “I must burn our clothes.”
Still she did not move.
“Taleh, you know you cannot wear your robe again. It is worn and dirty, and nothing like what our women wear. It was not . . . appropriate even when new. I am burning my own robe as well. I can provide you with new garments. I do not want you to save it for the memories.” Javan set down the water jar, walked slowly over to her and knelt at her side. He cautiously rested his hand on her shoulder and rubbed lightly. She stayed motionless under his touch.
She did not lash out at him. He took it as a good sign. Taleh slowly let go of the yellow robe. Javan reached behind him for the nearest sack and put it in her hand, tucking it around her clenched fingers. Without once raising her eyes, she hesitated, and then, as though getting a distasteful task over with, thrust it in the sack and shoved the ragged lump at Javan.
“Thank you. I have brought you water to wash yourself. Sarah waits by the table. She will need your help.”
He rose to his feet, feeling as though he should say something more but not knowing what it could be. At the doorway he stopped, struggling to find words to extend as peace offering. “Taleh . . . I have not eaten this morning. I shall wait for you.”
Her nod was a tiny one, but it was an agreement.
Taleh trembled with a fury so powerful it was almost physical pain. The small area she had wiped clean on the copper pot was an unsparing mirror. Her head, once covered with lush hair, was bald. He had shaved it down to the skin, beyond in some spots that showed dark and raw. Her eyebrows stood out like freakish slashes. Her eyes, with their shocking dark brown, took up most of her face. The pot pulled her face wide, the expanse of skin a cooper-tinted orange. The tip of her nose glowed back at her, betraying her tears.
She dabbed again at her swollen eyes, and set the pot down. She would never forgive Javan for this, never! And he sat at the table, waiting for her to come politely down the stairs and join him at his meal.
If she did not go soon, he would come back for her. She could not cower here in the room they had to share. Had she not told him, just the night before, that she would prove herself?
Last night, she had not known what a task she had been set.
She tightened her sash, pulled the too-large neckline of the plain, undyed robe back into place, and reached for the headdress. She placed it awkwardly on her head. The linen caught on the raw spots and she winced. The only times she had ever worn one before, her mother had put it on for her. It was much more difficult trying to do it herself. Her father had wanted men to see her hair, and did not permit her to cover it except rarely.
Tying the multi-colored woven headband around her forehead to anchor it, she braced herself and walked out.
Javan looked up when she entered. His only acknowledgement was a brief nod. Taleh cringed inside. She must have done something wrong. No wonder, with a pot for a mirror. The headdress must be crooked, or too low over her eyes. Or not low enough.
Was she violating some custom? He could – should have – come back and looked at her before she had to come down in front of everyone else. Unless this was another test.
Javan turned back to Obed and asked, “Will you be moving into your father’s house?”
She stood in the doorway, her feet suddenly stubborn. He had said nothing to her. Not a word. Were women not to be recognized during the meal? Another thing it would have been nice for Javan to have told her, but he had invited, no, ordered her to come down. Why so insistent, if he could not speak to her once she got there? Merab sat, quiet and withdrawn, beneath her own headdress. Sarah was there also, sitting just far enough from Merab to show her opinion. Neither spoke.
Obed swallowed his mouthful of food and replied, “I do not think that would be wise. The house is too small already, and a mother-in-law is not the right person to instruct Merab on our customs. I would rather she know more of what will be expected of her before she spends too much time with my family.”
Merab flinched from Obed’s unthinking words, obviously hurt. Taleh waited for Obed to notice. Something uncomfortable hung in the air.
Obed sopped up another bite of soft curded cheese on a bit of bread and looked over at Javan. “And you? Will you rebuild your family’s home?”
“The land is mine,” Javan said with firmness. “I will go out today and see how much is left.”
No one paid attention to Taleh. She felt awkward standing in the doorway waiting for an invitation that was not likely to come. Her feet came unstuck with sheer will. She walked over to the table and seated herself next to Merab on the long bench.
The bread was still warm, its freshness scenting the table. A pitcher sat there as well, and a large bowl of the soft cheese curds Obed was eating. More bowls held fresh apples, and dried pressed cakes of figs, dates and pomegranates. The fruit harvests were not long over, and Taleh worried that they were eating Sarah’s winter store.
She suspected the old woman of going to so much effort so early in the day expressly to impress them with the burden they were for her.
A cup and bowl had been left in front of her place, directly across from Javan. She broke off a piece of bread and put it in her bowl, then reached for the dish of soft cheese curds. Javan glanced over as she lifted the heavy pottery, and apparently decided she needed no help, for he continued to discuss the orchards with Obed.
Everything smelled wonderful, fresh-baked bread and pungent cheese, sweet fruits and the sharp tang of goat’s milk, but tension soured the feast. The men were preoccupied with their conversation, Sarah glowered, and Merab sulked. The table vibrated with resentment. Taleh felt choked by every bite she took.
How could the men eat so freely?
Merab handed her the pitcher, and Taleh poured the warm goat’s milk into her cup.
The two men had almost finished eating. Obed asked idly, “What do you expect to find?”
“I do not know. There was fire everywhere. I remember the smoke. Even if the trees burned, I hope they might have grown back. It has been fifteen years. We had so much.” His voice sounded far away, soft and lost in memory. “We grew dates and figs and pomegranates, olives and apples, some nuts, even apricot trees that were my father’s pride. I remember climbing the trees and throwing the fruit down to my brother when I was small.”
Taleh heard the pain in his voice, felt how tightly he held it in check.
“My mother had a garden. She grew watermelon and cucumbers, leeks and garlic, and celery.” Javan’s voice cracked, and Taleh’s heart clenched around the hurt that started within her, his hurt and her own loss that could not be voiced here.
Obed coughed as though to clear his throat. “My father said he has some skins he thinks are done curing. I plan to go with Jesse to the pit and help dig them out. This is not the part I enjoy. Have you ever smelled skins when they are first dug up?”
Javan forced a laugh. “I did once.”
“I much prefer designing. I like to look at the skin and try to see what it can become. I had forgotten how much I missed the challenge.”
So Obed was a leather-worker, Taleh thought. Javan had been a farmer. She still found it hard to imagine Javan behind a plow. A warrior following oxen? The picture would not come.
Javan stood up, and finally deigned to speak to Taleh. “I have much to do before the month is up. The land must be cleared, then the house must be built, the fences repaired, and the fields plowed and planted. The orchard must be trimmed, I am sure. If there is any fruit,” he gave a harsh laugh as if the mere idea w
as ludicrous, “it must be picked and dried.”
Obed stood as well, and turned to his own wife. “I, too, have much to do. We need a house. I must discuss sites and find craftsmen. The materials must be chosen and brought in. I hope to plant several olive trees for my own use, and perhaps a fig tree or two. My father also wants to teach me the things I have forgotten.”
The two men left to begin the impressive list of chores. Taleh thought the list would have been more convincing if they had not been in quite so big a hurry to leave.
Sarah still glared. Perhaps she had no other expression.
An oppressive silence settled over the table after the men were gone. Merab picked at the piece of bread she held, absently dropping the small bits on the table in a crumbly pile. Taleh did not realize she was vacantly dipping her own bread into the cheese curds until a soggy piece fell off with a soft plop.
Unable to sit placidly any longer, she mumbled an excuse, pushed herself away and fled up the stairs to her room.
It took her a little time to unload all of Javan’s sacks. Sitting on the cool stone floor surveying the treasures he had received from the plunder of Minnith and the other cities, Taleh wavered between pain and relief. Nothing was familiar. None of his goods had come from her house. Had she really thought to find something that once belonged to her?
The pot Taleh held was covered in dust. She picked up another, and it was the same. The fabric and robes piled on the floor were gritty, the oil lamps clogged with sand. Everything Javan had taken from her city had parts of the long journey wrapped around them.
She looked at the piles around the room and groaned aloud. Until now, she had not given any thought to what had been happening to the things they carried.
She picked up one of the sacks and shoved the copper pots into it, staggering under the weight as she got to her feet.
Sarah had not moved from the table, where the remnants of the early meal curdled in the beginning warmth of the day. For the first time, Taleh saw the dark circles under the old woman’s eyes. Guilt pierced her.
She had foolishly hidden behind walls of fear and ignorance, and missed Sarah’s gesture of apology, of welcome.
“I am sorry,” Taleh said hesitantly. How did one begin to apologize for running out on a meal, leaving the giver of all that hospitality sitting alone among the remains? “I have many things to wash. I thought, perhaps . . . we could wash everything at one time.” She lifted the heavy sack slightly, and waited.
Sarah nodded. She cleared her throat, and Taleh could hear the tightness of her tears in the sound.
A shadow filled the doorway, and Merab stood there. She glared at Taleh, and the table.
Sarah turned around, following the direction of Taleh’s eyes. Had she seen Merab’s first expression, the anger she wiped away so quickly? Taleh hoped not. The venom there left her shaken.
“We will need more water,” Sarah said calmly. “This is a good time to go. It is not so warm yet. Many of the women from the village go at this time.”
Taleh and Merab exchanged horrified glances.
Sarah ignored their reactions. “Of course, you cannot use any of your things without washing them. I have some water jars. They are too large for me to carry, but you are both young and strong, and we will need plenty of water.”
Taleh fingered her headdress. A single tug could dislodge it. Sarah was going to take both of them through the city, where everyone would se their headdresses and know what they were trying to hide.
She did not know quite how Sarah got them out of the house, but they soon found themselves swept up in the activity that started the day. People of all ages filled the wide streets. Doors stood open in the well-spaced houses and latticed windows were flung wide to catch the coolness of the morning. The shadows stretched long, the sun still low enough to provide welcome shade. Taleh saw olive trees at every house. Birds flitted from one to another as though unable to decide which tree was best.
Men walked past with purposeful strides, carrying the tools that marked their trades. Leather skins, hammers, baskets, wooden ladders, and carts laden with goods of all kinds moved in every direction. Children dashed with enviable skill between their elders, and their shrieks of laughter rose above the other noises.
Here and there a water jar bobbed among the crowd, as mothers led their daughters in the daily procession toward the village gates.
Sarah knew her way through the confusion, and Merab and Taleh had no choice but to follow. Taleh tried to avoid looking anyone directly in the face, but it was difficult, especially as the city was filled with curiosity about these ‘enemy brides.’ No one wanted to ask questions of them, no one wanted the truth, but plenty of them wanted a close look.
As she stepped outside the gate, the bright light of the morning sun caught Taleh in the eyes. She stopped abruptly, only to have someone behind her bump solidly into her back. She clenched the large water jar’s handles as she stumbled forward.
“I am so sorry,” a voice said. Taleh turned around.
The speaker was a young woman, perhaps a few years older than herself, with the ripeness of figure that comes from motherhood. Her hair was much lighter than Taleh was used to seeing, glowing wheatlike in the sun. Her eyes were the color of the first leaves of spring.
But the strangest thing of all was the lack of anger or distaste or dislike of any kind in her face. She smiled, an apologetic, half-embarrassed smile.
“I think the fault was mine,” Taleh ventured, wondering without expectation if this sweet-faced woman might be a friend.
“I know how bright the sun is this time of the morning.” The other woman had a kind voice. “There have been days when I wondered if my eyes would ever be the same.”
Conversation died. Taleh looked across the gulf that separated the two women, despite how close together they stood.
“My name is Leah,” the woman said, breaking the awkward silence.
“My name is Taleh.”
“I knew your husband when he was younger,” Leah went on. “He was always pleasant to me, polite and well-mannered.”
Out of nowhere, jealousy burned through Taleh. It came as a surprise. How could she feel this way about the man who shaved her head just the past night? The man who had left her alone today, with no support, to face hostile strangers?
She could not respond.
“I married three years ago,” Leah continued, as though unaware of Taleh’s tension. “I have only been back a short while. My husband took me with him to his village, not too far from here. I came back after he died.”
A widow.
With no husband. And very likely children.
An Israelite, with a long friendship with Javan, and already familiar with the customs of the land.
A rival? Or a friend?
Sharp fingernails suddenly dug into Taleh’s arm, tugging at her sleeve. She turned to find Sarah scowling at her once again. “We have much to do today. There is no time to stand about.” She stalked off, muttering about ingratitude.
“I did not mean to get you into trouble,” Leah said. “Perhaps another day I can come to visit you.”
Perhaps. Taleh nodded.
Most of the women were done filling their jars. The dirt around the well, dry yesterday afternoon, was muddy and bore the imprints of many sandaled feet, both large and small. Even little girls carried water in small jars as they learned their role. Merab stood to one side, out of the way of the village women. Taleh felt very much the outsider, interloper, not excluded but not welcome, and Merab looked like she felt the same.
Sarah pushed them ahead. Taleh resented her callousness even as she acknowledged that, without encouragement, she would have waited until everyone else was gone before stepping forward.
The women parted to let them through. Taleh felt much like an odd creature from a distant land. Perhaps here she really was.
Merab’s hiss was barely audible. “I wonder what they expect us to do.”
“Noth
ing good,” Taleh whispered back.
When she was hauling up the full jar, a voice, taunting and carefully raised to ensure it would carry, asked, “How long do you think our newly arrived soldiers will wait before they take another wife? There are so many widows and virgins here. What a relief to see even two new men in the village.”
The rope slipped through Taleh’s fingers. The jar landed back in the water with a muffled splash. She could not remember quite what to do to bring it back up, and fumbled ineptly before a hand reached over her shoulder for the rope.
“Think nothing of their unkind words,” Leah said softly. “They do not know you. It is unworthy of them to behave so cruelly.”
Taleh blinked back tears, but not in time. She brushed one off her cheek with shaky fingers. Please, she thought quickly, let no one see, let them not know they made me cry.
“Javan is under no obligation to take another wife.” Leah’s eyes held compassion and perhaps some understanding.
“But he can?” Taleh already knew the answer. She wondered why it should hurt so.
“He can, but not all men do. Even if he does, you are his first wife. Nothing can change that.”
“Can it not?” Taleh whispered bitterly, more to herself than to Leah. What place would she have if Javan took someone from his own people? What incentive would there be to help her fit in if he had another in his house who already had a place with his nation? How would he explain his Ammonite wife then?
“It is pointless to borrow trouble,” Leah went on, as though Taleh had not spoken. “I doubt anyone in this village has any understanding of what Javan has endured since he left us. Yes, most of us had friends or family killed by your armies, but we were still on our land. Javan has been gone a long time, fighting. I suspect he feels a little lost himself.” Then she smiled, a happy smile, full of unexpected humor. “Besides, after seeing you, why would Javan stop to look at another woman?”
Temper The Wind (Ancient Israel) Page 15