A Light on the Hill

by Connilyn Cossette

  Putting aside the saffron-dyed yarn she was winding around a shuttle, she pulled in a noisy breath through that perceptive nose. “I know what that is! Chickpea stew! I can smell the capers and onions. Oh my sweet girl, you spoil me.” Ora dropped the shuttle and clapped her hands like a child, sightless eyes searching for the origin of the smell. I could not help but laugh as she reached both hands out, grasping greedily in the air for the bowl I’d brought her.

  “And why not? You deserve such high treatment.”

  After handing Ora the linen-covered bowl and two still-warm loaves of barley bread, I folded myself down to sit beside her as she devoured the stew, using the bread to scoop the flavorful mixture into her mouth and humming with satisfaction. Her eyelashes blinked rapidly as she chewed. There was no greater pleasure than watching someone truly savor one of my meals—especially if they were discovering a new dish I’d concocted for the first time.

  With full lips, olive skin, and a graceful curve to her brows, Ora was one of the loveliest women I’d ever seen. The clouding of her dark eyes announced her blindness, but detracted nothing from her beauty.

  “This is even more delicious than the last time.” Ora wiped a drip from her chin with the back of her hand. “Did little Eitan help you?”

  “He did. You know he’s been after me to teach him. We used a new spice I purchased in the market yesterday, although I was afraid to add too much. And it’s missing scallions and peppercorns.” No thanks to that girl in the market . . .

  She waved off my misgivings. “It has wonderful flavor, Moriyah, just as everything you prepare.” She used the last piece of bread to sop up the remainder of broth from the bowl. “But I agree it could use more of that new spice, to balance the coriander.” Ora always had a way of wrapping a suggestion within a compliment to soften its edge, her mind as quick as her heart was soft.

  “Then I will have to make it again soon and adjust, won’t I?”

  “That you will! How about tomorrow?” Her mischievous grin provoked me to laugh again and agree to return with another bowl of the stew.

  “Now,” she said. “Let’s walk. I am desperate for a drink of sunshine to finish off my meal.”

  Ora and I emerged from the hut, and she squeezed my arm as we plunged into the leafy maze of vines and fences. “Tell me, my girl. Tell me about the day.”

  Ora had not been born blind, but when her parents purchased an eye salve from a trader, to supposedly cure her of an infection she’d picked up from the blowing sands in the desert, the salve had instead blinded her permanently. Five years old and never again able to see a flower, a bird, a sunset. She’d never seen the face of her only child.

  “It is a beautiful day,” I said. “The sky is the color of a robin’s egg, a soft blue. There are a few wispy clouds way high. To your right is a vine that towers above us, one left unscathed after the Amorites burned these fields. The fruit is dark purple, frosted with a white film.”

  Although I attempted to focus on describing our surroundings to Ora, my father’s revelation continued to press into my thoughts time and again.

  Throughout the long, restless night on my bed, I conjured up all manner of doubts, trying to imagine what sort of man my father had chosen for me, what he might look like, and what he would think of me. Had he heard rumors like the ones that market girl had flung at me? And when he did, would he change his mind or ignore them? I was not sure which outcome I feared more.

  “Where have you gone, my friend?” Ora elbowed me gently, snapping me back into awareness. “You stopped talking.”

  Embarrassed, and yet relieved to have someone to unload the burden upon, I sighed. “My father has selected a husband for me.” Somehow, saying the words out loud made them more solid, more real.

  “Ah. Yes. I knew he could not hold on to you much longer.”

  “Hold on to me?”

  “You need a family, Moriyah. A good husband to bless you with children. Your father adores you of course, but he has gripped you tightly for far too long.”

  “Regardless, I am content the way things are. I want to help my father; he has no one else. Besides,” I shook my head. “I have no need of a husband. You never married.”

  “Moriyah. You know it is not the same. No one would have married a blind woman with an illegitimate child. You are a vibrant young woman with an extraordinary talent for cooking.”

  “Have you forgotten that I have a hideous brand seared into my skin? One that tells the world I am sullied and a slave to those foul Canaanite gods?”

  Her brows bunched. “No, dear, I have not forgotten. But neither has Yahweh.”

  I did not respond to that assertion—Yahweh had absolutely forgotten me. His silence reverberated deep within my soul.

  “Who is this man? What is he like?”

  I lifted a shrug she could not see. “I know very little, other than he is marrying me for this vineyard, which my father offered as a dowry, and that he traveled with the surveyors. When they are finished meeting with Yehoshua to discuss tribal boundaries, I will be introduced to him. Most likely after the festival on Tu B’Av.”

  “Oh, yes! I heard about the festival. Tevel says there is to be dancing!” She clasped her hands to her chest and then swung them back and forth by her sides. “Oh how I wish I could dance all night long! You will have such a wonderful time.”

  The rapture on her face fueled my own desire for such a thing, but just as quickly the memory of the girl in the market who’d vocalized what people thought of me drowned out the spark. “I’m not going.”

  “Not going?” She jerked me to a stop. “You must go, Moriyah. And even more so now that you are to be married.”

  “I have no desire to endure a night of blatant stares and behind-hand whispers.”

  “But didn’t you hear? That won’t matter! All the girls will be veiled!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tevel said that the maidens have been asked to wear white and to veil themselves to allow all the girls to mingle with the unmarried men, without regard to tribe, station, or heritage, at least for this one night.”

  “Veiled? So no one would . . . ?”

  “That’s right, everyone will look the same, dear girl, rich or poor. You would be free to enjoy the dancing without fear. And just think, this may be your very last chance to enjoy such a thing as an unmarried woman. And you won’t have the hindrance of trying to impress a man, since your father has already made arrangements. You can simply enjoy.”

  Pressing my lips together, I considered her argument. The memory of dancing around the campfire in the wilderness was made fresh in my mind. The swirl. The heat. The freedom. I could nearly feel the rush of wind in my hair and the flush of pleasure in my cheeks.

  Could I dare? Would I? Ora was right that this would be the last time I’d attend a festival as a maiden. The last time I’d be free to choose something for myself before a husband took the reins of authority from my father.

  Entertaining the idea, I slipped my arm into hers and tugged her to my side. “You should come with me. We could dance together.”

  “No.” She laughed, slapping at me playfully. “I am no young maiden. I am an old woman.”

  “You are nothing of the sort, Ora. You are beautiful and have not even seen thirty-five years.”

  “No more talk of that now.” She waved a hand at me with a loud scoff. “It is you who must enjoy the festival. If you won’t go for yourself, then . . .” she groped about for a moment, before finding my hand and gripping it tightly. “Go for me. Dance for me, pretend I am with you, seeing everything through your eyes, and then come home and describe every detail.”

  How could someone who’d endured such suffering remain so untainted? I felt the oily sheen of shame on my soul at every moment. I was weary of its darkness. Weary of its weight. I had no idea how to leave it behind, even for one night.

  “I’ll think on it,” I said.

  “Why are you here, Moriyah?”

&
nbsp; I startled. “What do you mean? Do you want me to leave?”

  “Of course not. Your visits are the best part of my day while I wait for Tevel to return from the fields.” She squeezed my arm. “What I mean is that you need to be among others your own age.”

  “You know it’s not easy for me. Not with this . . . thing on my face.”

  “Why is it so difficult?”

  I told her what happened in the market yesterday, the shame I’d felt when at the mercy of that girl, and then the attack by the boys and the way Eitan had come to my rescue.

  “And does everyone treat you this way? Were the rest of the people in the market unkind?”

  “Well, no. Most everyone keeps to themselves. And the woman who sold me the vegetables was very kind.”

  “Have you always hidden yourself away like this?”

  “No. . . .”

  “You are a vivacious and lovely young woman whose personality and wit bring color to my dark world. Why do you hide in your home? I know for a fact that Yuval delivers meals from your hands to many people in Shiloh who are hurting or suffering. Perhaps you should deliver them instead? Bring some of your cheer to their homes along with your delicious food?”

  The more she spoke, the more my stomach twisted with fear and guilt. How had I come to be this way? To the point that leaving my home and walking among my own people had become something that made my palms sweat and my nerves jangle like dented cymbals?

  Ora’s long pause and pointed silence goaded me to confess.

  “At first it was for my mother. It was she who suggested the veil in the first place. A way to keep the enflamed wound hidden when it was still so raw and red those first couple of months. But then, when it finally healed, I tried to go without the linen across my face and the stares began. The whispers. The prodding questions about what went on in the temple.” I shifted foot to foot. “I am sure that most of it was mere curiosity, but some of the young men made advances on me, assuming that I had more knowledge of what goes on between men and women than I did.” My voice rasped to a stop as the painful memories surfaced: the groping hands, the leering, the lurid whispers in the marketplace. A throbbing wound echoed in my chest.

  Ora turned and placed her hands on my veiled face. “I am so sorry, dear one.” Indeed, out of anyone, Ora would understand.

  I smiled and patted her hands. She slipped her arm back through mine, and we continued walking.

  “And so,” I said, “my mother suggested I remain veiled, for my own protection. And to be honest, it was a relief to not have wary looks directed my way, to not have to constantly explain what the brand was and how I’d gotten it. Over time it became easier to fade into the background, to stay in my home and cook where I can take off the veil and be myself, instead of ‘that girl who was taken captive and marred in Jericho.’”

  “What did you say to that girl in the market? Did you defend yourself?”

  “I left.”

  Ora’s pursed lips challenged my cowardice.

  “It would have done nothing to change her mind about me.”

  “Perhaps not. But at least you would have been able to finish purchasing your goods. And I would have some scallions and peppercorns in my stew.”

  I tilted my head back and laughed, and Ora joined me.

  She lifted my hand and kissed my palm. “You are a joy, sweet Moriyah. A young woman with a heart that is loyal and strong and a talent for cooking beyond anything I’ve ever known. I know your mother meant to protect you, as any mother would when she sees her precious child suffering. . . . But you must not keep that sweetness, that vibrance, or that brilliance hidden, my dear. I’d like nothing more than to keep you all for myself, but I fear that unless you stop hiding yourself away, in body and mind, Yahweh will not be able to use such gifts for his glory.”

  9 Av

  Drawing my knees to my chest, I leaned back into the hidden curve of my fig tree. This spot, overlooking the entire valley, was my refuge whenever the urge to escape the confines of our house drove me outside. And today thoughts of my father’s choice to marry me to a stranger combined with the challenge Ora had tossed at my feet drew me to this secret place, desperate for air and answers. Only here could I breathe easy.

  The tree behind me was bent to one side, its trunk twisted into a strange angle. The wide spread of leaves shaded me well, and its enormous gnarled roots hid me on either side, giving me a private place to look northwest, toward the Mishkan.

  Surrounded by a vast assortment of Hebrew tents—the leftover tribes that had not yet received their portion of this land of Avraham’s promise—the black-topped sanctuary stood enclosed by the white linen fences, a number of priests and Levitical workers moving about its courtyard as they fulfilled their daily duties. Smoke lifted from the four-horned altar and sunlight flashed against the bronze laver where the men washed their hands and feet in preparation for worship.

  As a young girl I’d been fascinated by how quickly the Levites raised the sanctuary at each long-term encampment in the wilderness, each one performing their assigned job with efficient precision that enabled the entire project to be completed in a matter of hours.

  Although the Cloud did not hover over the Mishkan anymore, there were times when I could almost feel its presence. I’d been drawn to it throughout my childhood, begging my brother Shimon to take me closer for a better look. Would I hear the Voice, I’d wondered, if I could get as close as Mosheh had?

  Even during the times when the Cloud had rumbled and sparked and caused the earth to shake, I’d always been comforted by its protective presence. After our people had crossed the river into Canaan, the Cloud had disappeared, hidden from sight. I missed it, even more than I missed my brother, if that were possible. Lowering my veil, I slowed my breathing to a crawl and whispered the name “Yahweh” with reverence. Concentrating on the breeze against my face and the faint smell of incense from the Mishkan, I repeated the Name.

  From the time I’d been a little girl I’d been convinced that Yahweh was so near to me that, like a father on bended knee, he’d heard my simple prayers. Over the years there’d been times when I’d sat in silence, listening to songs of the birds and feeling the soft wind caress my cheeks, allowing the magnificence of creation to permeate every heartbeat—that I’d felt the weight, the glory of his presence all around me. And even more shocking were the moments when such strong impressions of truth built within my soul or echoed within my dreams that I could not deny it was the Creator speaking to me. But now there was nothing but awful, empty silence.

  The scar on my cheek seemed to flare, hot and angry, and instinctively I laid my palm there. I’d seen Jericho fall with my own eyes, felt the otherworldly shaking as it tumbled down—I knew Yahweh was there, but the gap between myself and his presence seemed even larger today than it had before. Perhaps, like the girl in the marketplace, Yahweh had no tolerance for a woman branded with the symbols of false gods.

  All the years between Jericho and now seemed to be charred beyond redemption, as though the brand had sunk deep into my soul, burning away even the roots of hope I’d once clung to, and leaving behind only a barren patch of ashy dust.

  The only path laid out before me was obedience to my father, even though the thought of leaving him made me bereft. He’d lost Shimon nearly eight years ago, and my mother shortly after we’d arrived in Shiloh. Why was he so determined to live out the rest of his life alone?

  Down below, the sound of the Shema prayer arose from the lips of Eleazar, the High Priest, the words somehow amplified by the close embrace of the hills. “Shema Israel, Adonai Elohenu, Adonai Echad . . . Hear, O Israel, the Lord your God, the Lord is One . . .”

  As the daily reminder of Yahweh’s commandments continued, I tilted my face toward the dappled light filtering through the fig leaves, soaking up the warmth on my skin, reciting the familiar words along with the priest. Yet somehow the words seemed only vapor today, not the drenching rain they’d once been for my thirsty
soul.

  Closing my eyes, I imagined the brand, too, dissolving in the sun, dissipating into the blue sky, leaving my face whole again, revealing the girl behind the wound, whoever that was. Would Yahweh speak to me then?

  Perhaps Ora was right. I should go to the festival, seize upon these last few days of freedom, and maybe, for just a moment, I could remember who I’d been before that fiery brand touched my cheek and even my God had turned his face away.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  15 Av

  Festival of Tu B’Av

  Silver-fingered moonlight caressed the oak leaves as I inched toward the edge of the clearing. The laughter and chatter from clusters of white-clad young women gathered around the wide space filtered back to my hiding place among the trees. Twelve large clay braziers had been set in a circle around the edges of the clearing—a ring of firelight to determine the boundaries of the dancing ground that lay to the east of our vineyard.

  Sweaty-palmed, I gripped the seams of my white linen tunic, my feet somehow incapable of moving ahead. Every bone in my body screamed to flee and put an end to this foolishness. But then Ora’s face, lively with joy, flashed into my mind. She’d had such confidence that I could do this, release the part of myself that I’d cinched so tight. And I wanted to—oh! how I wanted to let go, be free, if only for the evening! For the hundredth time I ensured my white double-wrapped veil was secure across my face, fearing the linen might slip free in the center of such a crowd.

  A group of young men stepped into the circle, swaggering confidence on full display as they passed by a cluster of maidens who tittered and whispered with white-veiled faces close together. The men called out a playful challenge to the ladies as the drums began to beat a steady rhythm. One of the girls, wearing a crown of bright yellow flowers, stepped forward, boldness in the set of her shoulders as she strolled to the center of the grounds. Without hesitation she began swaying to the sound of the lyres and flutes that partnered with the drums, her arms lifting to the heavens. As the drums gained speed the girl responded in kind, her feet turning in a circle that grew faster each time.