Temper The Wind (Ancient Israel)

by Boyd, Mary Ellen

  In spite of herself, Taleh smiled back, although it trembled slightly. Perhaps there was something to be said for being beautiful.

  It gave her a place to start.

  C H A P T E R 16

  Javan was not prepared for the sight that met his eyes. It was not so much the tumbled stones, still blackened from the fire of fifteen years ago, that hurt, as it was the total devastation of the place. Weeds, grown tall over so many years, poked their stubborn way through the charred wood, remnants of doors and roof. The stone floor his father so lovingly laid in place had been torn apart by the walls’ collapse and now lay tilted pieces.

  Wild goats, perhaps descendants of the ones he had herded and milked as a boy, ran off at his approach, his feet whispering through the tall grass. Had he not known this place, had he come upon it as a traveler unaware, he would not have given it a second glance. It could have been abandoned five hundred years ago as easily as fifteen. The fences he had built with his father and brothers were blurred lines of rock, hiding among the vegetation. Wheat and barley stalks waved sparsely, lost in the encroaching wilderness. Olive trees, scraggly volunteers, had popped up from seeds fallen and left untended. Neat rows were long lost to neglect.

  Javan hardly knew where to start.

  He needed a house, but he also needed to get his seeds into the ground. There had to be crops for next year, to eat and to sell. The slave boys with him were full of the energy of youth. Perhaps it would not be impossible to do both.

  He had no intention of taking his wife for the first time under someone else’s roof.

  The piles of stone that marked what had been his home beckoned with an ominous pull. His feet moved him forward while his heart pounded in his ears. The interior, if this exposed shell could be said to have such, showed no sign of the people who had lived here, nothing of his family. Was that better, or worse? Looking in and around the jumbled mess, Javan saw only simple blocks of charred stone.

  A strange detachment settled over him. If not for the almond tree so close to the wreckage, he could believe this place had belonged to another family.

  Twisted landmarks, shadows of the past, taunted him with echoes of memories, but he shoved them back with the skill of long years of practice. He examined the stone, counting blocks, measuring the ground, feeling safe nothingness. How many blocks were still intact? What would it take to lay a new foundation? Do not think, do not remember. He moved around the ruin, trying to turn his soldier’s mind to more mundane pursuits, pacing off the steps, pulling deep into his mind to remember long-unused skills.

  Here was where he found his father’s body.

  He stumbled, losing his footing at the tearing shock of the memory, turning away to see the slaves waiting silently for his signal, watching him with expressionless faces.

  In that instant, he hated them, every one of them, hated them despite their quiet acquiescence, their seeming obedience and resignation to their own fate. It mattered not at all that they had not been the ones who killed his family. He knew, from somewhere deep inside, that their behavior was compliant because they were unsure of their place. There were too few of them and too many of his own people. Their land was far away, its very direction lost in the twists of the long journey. If they could be assured of success, they would find a way to strike back and flee to their homeland. He had no doubts about that.

  He motioned them to come, reveling in their subservience, enjoying his power over them. It was fitting that they be the ones to undo what their people had done.

  He pointed at one of the boys. What was his name? He could not remember, his mind too caught up in pain, bound to the past.

  The boy came quickly, nervous at being singled out.

  “You . . .” Javan’s pointing finger trembled, and he lowered it quickly.

  “Hadron,” the boy gave his name.

  “Yes, Hadron, you and . . . you,” he gestured to another, “you two will pile the wood. All of the wood.”

  “Pile it where?” Hadron asked audaciously.

  “Find a place,” Javan snapped. “What difference can it make where?”

  The boys hurried to obey.

  Javan walked over to the others. They each took a quick step back, leery before his fury, palpable in the air. “Move the rocks. One pile for broken pieces, one pile for whole pieces. And remember this, all of you.” He raised his voice so each could hear. “We are here to work. I will be watching.”

  Watching, yes, he would be doing that. Watching for sluggards, watching for rebels, for warning signs that would tell of trouble ahead. These were his enemies, though only boys. Boys could kill. He had seen it.

  They obeyed.

  Javan made sure of it. He ignored the odd discomfort he felt, as though his skin no longer fit around his anger. It was right that they sweat, even bleed on the rough stones that resisted their efforts before giving in.

  He walked around the side of the house, away from their too-attentive eyes. He wanted no witnesses to his pain. Even the waving grasses and wild lilies could no longer disguise the sights he still saw in his dreams.

  Here he had found his youngest brother, a spear through his belly. He had been six years old.

  The almond tree still stood where it always had, having suffered no ill effects despite being so close to the burning house. He wanted to go over to it, but his legs would not carry him. The almond tree had shielded him from the first sight of Phineas, his closest brother and playmate, pinned by an arrow to its trunk. For a few precious moments the tree had been kind, hiding its secret, giving Javan blessed ignorance.

  This was his land, but how long would it take before he saw only what was in front of his eyes? How long before the images from his past faded?

  He had to turn away. He could not face the tree, not yet. A small pile of oddments the slaves had set aside caught his attention. Grateful for the distraction, he walked over to it.

  Javan had thought for many years there was nothing left of his heart to break. He was wrong. Hiding under the charred wood and leaning stones were broken bits of his life before, secreted away from his first look. A bowl that had burned and rotted in the rain and moisture of fifteen lonely years, part of a bench his father had built that pretended at first to be just another piece of fallen timber.

  A silver brooch, melted from the fire but still identifiable. His mother had worn it many times to decorate her robes and cloaks. The metal circle that had once been a mirror of copper, somehow surviving the worst of it. Tarnished, charred, and bent, it seemed to hold his mother’s face within. If he looked closely, he could almost see himself as a young child, peering over her shoulder to see his wavering face next to hers.

  He wanted to scream at the slaves digging through the ruins to leave things alone, to get out of his sight. Their presence was a defilement, an unexpected torment. He was ripping apart inside, bleeding unseen in agony.

  Everything he touched, everything they touched, held a memory, a fragment of pain. The memories were spoiled, twisted by the taunting satisfaction on the faces of his slaves, and the devastation that surrounded him. It was hard to meld the images, the faces of his family too clear again after so many years when it had seemed they were fading, the home where they had loved each other now only so much wreckage.

  He drove the slave boys he owned with a vengeance, trying to work them hard enough to wipe the expressions from their faces, trying to purge himself of memories in their sweat and strain.

  “Look out!”

  A shout of fear ripped the air, and Javan had his dagger out of its sheath. Dust swirled and stones slid, scraping against each other. The boys jumped like gazelles away from the ruin, stopping in a ring around its edge.

  “What happened?” Javan yelled.

  “I think we moved a support,” one of them answered, his voice shrill with unrelieved tension. He brushed a bruised hand over his bleeding leg.

  From all sides, wide, frightened eyes turned to Javan for guidance. He counted quickl
y. None were missing.

  The slaves were smeared with charcoal and ash from piling charred wood out of the way, their fingers raw and bruised from heavy stone. The sun was past its peak, heat beating down, sweat making trails through the grime on their flushed faces.

  Errant drops of his own sweat dripped into his eyes and he blinked against the sting. He looked at the faces of his enemies and saw only boys, not even young men, scared, hot, hungry, bruised, and tired.

  Had they really deserved such punishment?

  His anger seeped out of him, draining away, leaching into the forgiving ground.

  He ordered a halt, and went to collect the food Sarah had sent, plenty of bread and wine, an oversized bowl, its fitted cover protecting cold stew with meat and vegetables, heavily spiced and smelling like paradise should, even fruits, figs and dates, and an assortment of nuts. They settled down in the meager shade the midday sun allowed.

  He watched them while he eased his own hunger. Had he eaten like that when he was their age?

  He allowed them to take their time, giving them the rest they needed during the hottest part of the day.

  When they were ready to go back to work, they labored hard over their tasks, but Javan found he could be compassionate. His hatred had been spent.

  Giving up that hatred exhausted him. He had spent so many years steeped in it. He watched and helped the boys, and wondered what to do about the gaping hole its absence left. It had driven him onward, gave him a purpose.

  He had no idea what to put in its place. He had Taleh, the land, the animals, the slaves. Somehow, he doubted that would be enough. Hatred and vengeance had been his all-consuming passion.

  What was he going to do with the rest of his life?

  Taleh refused to acknowledge the thrill she felt when Javan and his slaves came through the courtyard. She told herself it was because she had been working hard all day, washing pots and dishes, that she was simply tired. She told herself his presence meant they all could eat.

  She tried to make herself believe she had not really missed him. How could she miss him, after all he had done to her?

  But he looked so tired, more than tired. He looked like a man who had faced his demons and nearly lost. A sack was flung over his shoulder, black seeping through the threads. His tunic was streaked with the same black substance, his legs scratched and bruised, his face smudged with ash, his hands scraped and bloody. The slaves with him looked the same.

  Sarah had set a basin of water by the door earlier, next to a bench. Taleh knew, even before Obed came back, what it was for. There used to be one much like it in her own home . . . her parents’ home, she corrected herself. This custom was familiar to her, the traditional welcome of washing the feet of honored guests.

  Sarah had glared Merab into washing Obed’s feet. Merab obeyed with gritted teeth while Sarah stood guard to ensure her submission.

  Now Javan seated himself on the bench, and reached for the rag in the basin. Some irritating urge made Taleh go over to his side and kneel.

  “I will do that,” she heard herself say, and bit her tongue. Excuses tumbled through her brain, explanations and justifications: Sarah was too old, Merab had done it, how could she let Merab do something she would not? She herself had done the same thing a hundred times in her father’s house for his guests.

  This time was different. None of the men in her father’s house had made her heart beat and her breath catch like Javan did.

  He leaned back against the rough stone wall and closed his eyes, stretching his long legs out before him. Wet rag in hand, Taleh looked down at the display of male legs and swallowed hard.

  Despite the scratches, the dirt, and smears of charcoal ash, his legs fascinated her. They were thick with muscle, liberally covered with dark hair. As she hesitantly touched the rag to the nearest leg, the hair tickled her fingers, softer than she had expected.

  His legs were as hard as the stone behind his head. They spoke of power, of the endless days of walking. She wondered idly how far he would have to go before exhaustion made him stop.

  Javan cleared his throat, and Taleh jumped. Her hands had slowed into stillness while she gazed at his legs. She glanced up quickly, only to find a pleased smile on his face. Humiliation burned up her face. Did he know what she had been thinking? She focused all her attentions on her chore, finishing as quickly as possible, trying to ignore the odd feeling in her stomach.

  Javan offered her thanks when she was done, despite his fatigue. Had she missed the sound of his voice, or was it always that warm, wrapping around her like a soft blanket?

  Before she could rise, Javan caught her shoulders and pulled her against him, clutching her close, unmoving and unmovable. He covered her lips with his own, and claimed her. The anger Taleh had nursed all day still simmered beneath the surface, but something deeper fed it, something only Javan could bring forth.

  “I want you to remember,” he said when at last he stopped for breath. “You belong to me. Get used to the feel of me, to the sound of me, to my presence. When I finally can claim your body, I do not want you to be frightened by the tales of women who know no better, or the whispers of virgins who know nothing and believe everything.”

  His eyes were so close to hers. Sitting, he seemed to surround her, above, in front and behind, his arms solid against her back. She felt swallowed up by him. She was supposed to be angry with him for something. What was it? She could no longer remember, her senses so controlled by his taste and touch, by his smell, heat and hard work and Javan.

  And then his hands caught the edge of her headdress and it started to slip. She remembered, and started to struggle away, but he would not permit it.

  “Do not fight me now,” he voice growled, and his lips claimed her again.

  All thought fled.

  C H A P T E R 17

  Taleh stood cautiously in the shade, one hand anchoring her to the wall of Sarah’s house, and looked out at the busy street. Children played noisily, tossing small rocks at a target, little girls held their carved wooden dolls, or chased each other with little girl shrieks. A cart went by, stirring up dust briefly before the light breeze caught it and carried it off. The laundryman left one house and made his heavily laden way to the next one. At the far end of the street where it joined with another, she caught a glimpse of Obed as he crossed behind a tall white stone fence, probably going back to his father’s shop after delivering one of the leather pieces they made.

  Taleh stepped out into the street with a courage she was far from feeling. She had tried to venture out before, but each time she found she was not ready to face the resentment that pressed in on her from all sides. No one had done anything overtly cruel after the incident at the well, but their reactions ranged from turning away to looking down their noses at her to pretending she was not even there. It was hard to accept, day after day. If this continued, Taleh feared she would become as lost to view as the villagers so obviously wished she were.

  What a contrast to her other life! In Ammon, she had often wished to be hidden from sight, that she could walk down the streets and no one would see her, no man would stop and leer. Now she had her wish, and found it was not what she wanted after all.

  Despite the fact that she dressed exactly as they did, everyone in the village could spot her in an instant. How did they do it? Her robes were as bland as theirs, her fringe on the bottom no longer or shorter, the everpresent blue thread just above the fringe on every garment was in its place on her own robes. She was not the only woman, either, to wear a headdress.

  Of course, they had hair peeking out from under theirs.

  True, her hair was coming back in, she had known it would, Javan had promised it would, but it was little more than a sheen of fluff. She carefully wrapped her headcovering each time she went out where she could be seen, no matter how close to the house she would be. It did not help.

  Every day Taleh hurt, seeing the other women’s hair sliding over their shoulders as they went about
their business, to see them pull their own coverings off if a breeze came and let it cool them. They did it so often that she suspected it was deliberate. She tried not to watch the wind lift the strands, playing with them before setting them back down. She often felt phantom memories of her own hair, but reality was hard to ignore and impossible to forget.

  So how had Leah managed to make her promise to visit – today – allowing no excuses, further delays, or other stalling?

  If she were not so frighteningly lonely, not even Leah’s kindnesses and persuasion would have gotten Taleh this far. Her days had developed a pattern, one she was not happy with but did not know how to change. Javan left each morning early, most of the time before she even awakened. Some days he came home covered in soil, some days in dust, and sometimes he had wood chips liberally coating his body. Whatever occupied him, it still left her alone with Merab’s sulking and Sarah’s frowns.

  This was not how she had envisioned her life going. She knew only she could fix it. Javan certainly would not. She wondered if he even remembered he had a wife.

  It was still cool, this early in the day. The sun had not moved high enough yet to eat away all the shade, but there was a brief lull in the activity, and at the moment only children were on the street.

  Taleh did not find it so hard to walk down the street with just children about. Much to her surprise, she got plenty of shy smiles. As she reached the end of the street and started around the corner, several boys came racing straight at her, far too quickly to stop. With a startled shriek, Taleh jumped aside. The boys never stopped, just continued on their way.

  Taleh frowned after them, but she had not gathered all her courage together to be stopped by children, however poorly behaved.

  She had gone only a few steps when she saw the man. As he struggled to get to his feet, his hand groped into open air, trying to find a familiar support. Without stopping to think, Taleh hurried over to him.