A Light on the Hill

by Connilyn Cossette

  Worry pattered through my mind with quick steps. “Are you feeling ill again?” I swayed toward him, hand outstretched to grasp his. “The pain in your chest?” The image of my father, pale-faced, sweat drenched, and gasping for breath a few weeks ago, surfaced. Panic outpaced worry and my lungs constricted.

  “Oh, no—No.” He squeezed my fingers with a reassuring smile. “I am much stronger today than I have been in a long while. But . . . the episode reminded me that I have been lacking in my duties.”

  “Your duties? There is no one that works harder than you in this vineyard. Are you sure Yuval has enough men lined up to begin the harvest? You must not overexert—”

  “Moriyah,” he interrupted. “I am not speaking of my vineyard. I am speaking of you.”

  “Me?”

  He curved a callused palm over my veiled cheek. “I must ensure you are provided for, should I not recover next time.”

  My limbs went slack, and I nearly dropped the food basket. “There won’t be a next time. You said you are feeling stronger.”

  “Daughter.” Censure lowered his voice. “I will not live forever. Your brother is gone. Your younger sisters are all married. When I am gathered to my fathers, you will have no one to care for you.”

  The reminder of my older brother Shimon, killed in battle before even setting foot in Canaan, pierced me through. If only he’d lived, he would no doubt have protected and provided for his castoff sister. Shimon had been a warrior, unwavering in his fierce defense of his family and his God. The space he’d left behind still vibrated with emptiness.

  “I have Yahweh to care for me,” I said, feigning confidence. “And perhaps one of the cousin’s families will allow me to live with them. Elisheva in particular enjoys my cooking, and his wife is kind—”

  My father shook his head, halting my arguments. “You need a husband. This land is too perilous, my daughter. You must have someone to protect you. I would be remiss as a father if I did not ensure that you were safe. Cared for. You will be a wonderful mother. At twenty years of age you should already be a mother.” His lips flattened. “It is my fault that you are not.”

  “It is not your fault that no one will have me, Abba. Nor your fault that this happened.” I gestured to my veil. “You have tried your best to find a match.” I shrugged the thought away. “It is no use. This brand will forever mark me as a temple harlot. What man would choose to bind himself to such?”

  His eyes brightened, a secret brewing in their silver depths. “I have found you a husband.”

  “You what?” I tripped back a step. “But who?” At a loss for words, and breath, I longed to yank the suffocating veil from my face.

  “He is one of the men who has been surveying the land for Yehoshua for the past few months. His father Pekah is a reputable man of the tribe of Naftali—a man who fought well under the leadership of Calev at the battle of Ai and sacrificed much. I have come to know him quite well in the past few weeks.”

  “But what of the son?” The words scratched to the surface. “Does he know . . . ?” Instinct drew my hand to my cheek.

  “He does. And he does not care.”

  “But . . . why? When he has not even seen me, why would he agree?”

  My father’s expression twisted with stark guilt. “I ensured your dowry was sufficient.”

  How much would cause a man to brush aside my affliction? “You said all the gold our family carried from Egypt is gone. You used the last of it to rebuild the vineyard.”

  He paused, his gaze drifting over the valley. “I offered the vineyard itself.”

  My hand flew to my veiled mouth. “Abba, no!”

  “What use is a vineyard when I am in the grave? My firstborn son is dead. It was always my plan to use this land to provide for you, to ensure some man would . . .”

  “Accept a wife with a blasphemous scar on her face?”

  He lowered his voice. “Perhaps it is the vineyard he desires now, my beautiful daughter. But no one could resist loving you, if they give it a chance. I believe that Yahweh is providing a man who will see beyond the veil, past the mark, and into your heart.” He pulled me close and kissed my ruined cheek through the linen. “I will not let any harm come to you, my beautiful daughter. I would give everything I have and more to see you cared for and cherished, the way you deserve to be.”

  CHAPTER

  Two

  Lured by the inviting scent of leeks and onions, I paused at the market stall to survey the farmer’s goods. The colorful array of vegetables displayed on the table beckoned me, stirring ideas for new dishes in my imagination. Lifting a head of red cabbage, I examined it from every angle. Once satisfied with its weight, firmness, and lack of browned edges, I offered the farmer’s wife a fair price for it and for a bunch of leeks that was so fresh the soil on its tangled roots was still damp.

  With a nod of her white head and a smile, she accepted. I drank in the kind gesture like cool water. So few people even bothered to look me in the eye anymore, as if connecting with my gaze would taint them somehow. Or perhaps to most people I was simply invisible.

  Tucking the goods in the basket at my elbow, next to my other purchases, I moved along to the next stall. Yuval walked beside me, as he always did when I ventured to the crowded marketplace. If I could avoid coming here to purchase ingredients, I would do so, but the last two times I asked him to select a few things, I’d received unripe fruit and flavorless spices. I needed to see, touch, smell, and taste for myself. Besides, I had need of a distraction from thoughts of my upcoming betrothal.

  Due to the overwhelming business of completing the harvest and preparing the wine, along with the ongoing negotiations between the tribes over the land, formal introductions would not be made until after the grape-harvest festival in a few days.

  Despite my misgivings and questions about the man my father had chosen for me, the bustle of the many bodies pressing in to peruse the goods, the layered chatter, and the insistent bartering made my blood race with anticipation. Since I’d been a small girl and caravans of traders would come through the Hebrew camps out in the wilderness, I’d always adored market days.

  “Look, Yuval!” I gestured toward the next stand, which nearly sagged beneath the weight of pots mounded high with spices. The mingling of the disparate aromas enticed me, and I leaned in to inhale the strangely pleasant combination. “What is this one?” I asked the grizzled trader beside the booth.

  “Cumin.” His rheumy eyes took in my veil with cool disaffection. “Brought in from the western coast.”

  “Such an interesting smell!” I gestured toward the tiny seedpods. “May I?”

  With a nod, he indicated that I was welcome to sample, so I scooped up two seeds, smashed them between my fingers, and then snaked my hand beneath my veil to taste. I closed my eyes, imagining what flavors the cumin would pair best with. Lamb? Poultry?

  “Oh, I know!” I said to Yuval as I tucked my veil back into place, as if he’d been privy to my imaginings. “I’ll use this spice in that stew Ora loves so much. It will complement it so well!” I asked the trader for two handfuls of the seedpods, and with a sniff he turned to search out a square of linen to wrap them in.

  Someone called out to Yuval, and we both turned to search out the origin of the summons. One of my father’s young workers, barely grown into his sparse beard, darted through the crowd to reach us. “I was sent to find you. The largest of the treading vats cracked. Juice is seeping into the ground. We need you!”

  Yuval glanced at me with concern but I waved a hand. “Go! My father is likely beside himself. He’ll need your expertise. I have only a few more things to purchase. I’ll be fine.”

  “Your father instructed me to ensure your safe return.”

  Still raw from thoughts of my father’s decision to send me away, I held back a loud sigh. “I will be fine. Go. Save the wine.”

  “You will come straight back when you are finished?”

  “I am a grown woman, Yuval.” I
put a hand on my hip, frustration building. “I made it out of Jericho alive, I am certain I can walk up the hill on my own.”

  Yuval scanned the market, his gaze wandering over the crowd and whatever threat he perceived to be among them. But he nodded his head and followed after the young man, the blue and white tassels at the corners of his garment swaying with his long stride.

  Since the day my father had spared his life during the invasion of Shiloh, Yuval had been a loyal servant, even so far as abiding by every Torah regulation—from wearing the tzitzit on his clothes in reminder of the laws he’d vowed to follow, to circumcision, to worshipping Yahweh alongside his master. He’d thrown off everything of his former life to become an Israelite and was now four years into a voluntary six-year indenture period. I wondered where he would go when set free, once his time was fulfilled.

  I turned to search the nearest stall for some scallions and peppercorns for the surprise I was preparing for my blind friend Ora.

  “ . . . must be hideous.” The hissed words sliced into my meal planning, and against my will, my eyes traveled to their origin. Two girls, possibly three or four years younger than me, stood near a pottery stand, scrutinizing me.

  Seeing they’d captured my attention, the taller one leaned toward her companion, without taking her eyes off of me, her golden-brown hair shimmering in the bright sun. “I heard they carved her face like they carve one of those idolatrous Asherah poles.”

  The story of my rescue from Jericho was a popular one, told around campfires for the last seven years. There were many variations of the story, each one more exaggerated than the next. None of them the entire truth. Although there were many who regarded Alanah and me as heroines for surviving Jericho and all its perils, some assumed that a girl taken prisoner, hidden away in the home of a prostitute for months, and then marked as a temple harlot by the High Priestess of Jericho could in no way remain a maiden. In their minds I’d been sullied over and over by depraved worshipers in the temple of Ba’al, even though in truth I’d never even stepped foot inside.

  White-hot flashes of shame pulsed through my body, through every extremity. This was why I loathed venturing away from the vineyard, away from the safety of our home, the comforting smell of my spice pots, and the distraction of baking and cooking for my family and friends. Although most people ignored me, content to let their eyes slide past the girl in the veil, there were a few who took it upon themselves to trumpet their opinions, regardless of fact.

  The chatter in the marketplace dissolved into awkward silence; even the few children who had been playing chase among the stalls stopped to stare. Stomach swirling with dread, I turned to head home, wishing that my veil could block me completely from sight—as if I’d never even existed. Why had I not left with Yuval?

  The girl behind me delivered one last lash, her tone arched with derision. “That’s right. Go back and hide among your ill-gotten vines, zonah. Your Egyptian whore-bred father didn’t deserve that land in the first place.”

  By sheer force of will I held my tongue, restrained the hot tears that threatened to expose my weakness, and placed one foot after another until I was free of the market. I trudged up the steep path that led to the vineyard, feeling as though I was dragging that girl and her vicious words behind me in the dirt. Just as I neared the top of the ridge and the boundary stone that marked my father’s land, something slammed into the back of my head.

  Disoriented, I spun around, and two rocks thwacked into my chest. With a sharp cry, I lifted my arms, hoping to block the assault as more rocks hurtled toward me. The high-pitched insults of two boys followed the missiles. With cackling laughter, they repeated the accusation they’d obviously heard the girl toss over her shoulder in the market and added in a few of their own.

  A roar of juvenile anger echoed behind me as a small boy raced by, wielding a long leaf-laden branch that he wielded like a giant’s sword. “Get away from her!” he screamed, shaking his weapon at the boys. “Leave her alone!”

  Although Eitan was smaller than both of my assailants, he’d surprised them with his ferocity. They dropped their handfuls of stones and ran down the hillside, dodging tree stumps and tripping over their sandals as they fled.

  “Don’t ever come near her again!” my rescuer hollered after the little cowards, before turning to offer me his usual freckle-cheeked grin. “Told you I would protect you.”

  I could not restrain the laugh that escaped, a mixed product of relief, release of my tumultuous emotions after the market, and the hilarity of a scrawny nine-year-old boy with shoulder-length tangles of dark hair chasing off two older boys with a tree branch.

  When I finally reined in my outburst, Eitan’s face was screwed into a scowl. “Are you laughing at me?”

  The question washed the humor from my face. “Oh. No, Eitan. You rescued me. I am laughing at those two field mice, scuttling away as if a wildcat were on the prowl. You terrified them with your big stick!”

  His lips quirked. “I’ve been using this to scare the birds away from the grapes. It works better than just flapping my arms. Your abba said I was a smart young man to think of such a thing.” Pride lifted his nearly concave chest.

  “And he is correct.” I stepped closer and knelt to put my arms around his bony body, wincing at the fragility of his build. “You are smart and very courageous to come to my aid. Thank you, Eitan.”

  He leaned his head on my shoulder and returned my hug, exposing the tortuously curled earlobe that normally stayed hidden beneath his wild, overlong hair. The underdeveloped ear had kept him from hearing anything on his right side since birth.

  “You’d better return to the fields. My father will wonder what happened to you. He relies on you to keep those birds out of his grapes.”

  His shoulders straightened with pride. “He promised I could help tread grapes tonight, if I work hard today.” His hazel eyes sparkled with anticipation.

  “I’m not sure if I’d enjoy grape juice oozing through my toes.” I wrinkled my nose. “And you’d best wash those feet before you step in the vat.” I pointed at his grimy toes. “Dirt-infused wine does not sound appetizing.”

  With a grin he turned away to return to his bird-scattering job among the vines, which was no more than an excuse for my father and me to feed him extra food every day, since his uncle seemed unconcerned whether his half-sister’s orphan wasted to nothing. When my father had caught Eitan pilfering grapes one morning last year, he’d chosen to give the scruffy boy an occupation instead of running him off. There had not been one day since that Eitan did not appear, eager to please. At the time I’d wondered if his uncle would forbid his constant presence in the vineyard, but since the man had not uttered one word of complaint, I assumed he preferred to keep the boy, his deformity, and his myriad questions out in the fields.

  Just before Eitan reached the top of the ridge, I remembered the items in my market basket. I called out his name and he swung back around, his leafy branch swaying.

  “I am making chickpea stew for Ora. I’ll need your help this afternoon.”

  His lips rounded in surprise. “Truly?”

  “You said you wanted to learn. Tonight is as good a night as any to begin our cooking lessons.”

  Dropping his stick, he ran back and hugged me around the waist. “Thank you, Moriyah. I promise to listen and be a good helper.”

  “I know you will.” I bent to kiss his disheveled head. “Now, go, scare some birds! Or there will not be one grape left to tread tonight.”

  After a wave of his retrieved weapon, he disappeared into the green sea of vines, ready to plunge into battle with the crows and grackles that were the bane of my father’s existence.

  Although I wished I could offer the sweet boy a home, my father had insisted Eitan’s uncle would learn to care for the boy in time. The fraying tunic Eitan wore contradicted that assessment. As I made my way to our little house, I plotted how to alter one of my father’s old tunics as payment, of course, for his “i
nvaluable” help treading wine with feet that would do little more than bruise the top layer of grapes.

  I paused, my hand on the wooden door handle. Oh, how I wish I could see Eitan hopping about in the vat tonight, trying to keep up with the men! But as soon as the juice-soaked image came to mind, the words of the market girl and the two rock throwers clashed against the humor, layered atop my anxiety over whomever it was that my father had selected for me to marry. No. I would not chance another public encounter today, even to drink in the sight of Eitan enjoying his reward.

  I entered the house and closed the door, ensuring the latch was secure on this morning’s ill-fated excursion. My stew pot, my spices, and my bread oven silently awaited me in the shadows. I had cooking to do, and a new spice to experiment with. I would be content with such things for now. For all too soon, a stranger would lift my veil and I’d have nowhere to hide and no Eitan to rescue me.

  CHAPTER

  Three

  If it were not for the linen-covered bowl in my hands, I would have sprinted down the hill between vines, where my blind friend Ora and her young son Tevel, who worked as a field hand for my father, lived in one of the mud-brick hovels at the far edge of the vineyard.

  Only for Ora would I emerge after my disastrous trip to the market yesterday. Since she could not come to me on her own, I’d slipped down through the vineyard, keeping an eye out for any workers before darting to her door from the shelter of the tall vines.

  Ora had carried her son Tevel, along with the weight of shame, after suffering an attack by the drunk stranger who’d fathered him fifteen years ago—a man whose face she could never identify. The injustice never failed to spark hot anger in my belly.

  At my knock on the door, Ora’s bright voice greeted me from within. “Moriyah! Is that you? Come in! Come in!”

  Across the room Ora sat at a large loom, her capable hands working the woolen threads with uncanny ease for a woman who could not see the results. Although accomplished completely by touch, Ora’s work was second to none. She once informed me that she differentiated yarn colors by using her keen sense of smell.