A massive millstone, a wooden rod through its center, sat in the press. The pole was connected to an upright center pole on one end, and a donkey on the other. As the donkey walked, the stone crushed the olives, pits and all.
When the fruit had been crushed to a grayish purple paste, the women packed it into wide, flat baskets. They stacked the baskets one atop the other, about fifteen high, over a round stone just a bit wider than the baskets themselves. Deep channels etched the stone, ending in one that led to the outer edge.
Muscles bulged as men pressed on the baskets using a weighted pole. They grunted and groaned, and precious golden oil filtered through the woven baskets, running down the sides. The pungent, fruity scent of olive oil permeated the air. Once the grooves inside filled up, the oil began to dribble from the outlet into waiting jugs.
Jar after jar was filled and set aside, carefully marked as to which pressing it came from. The best quality oil would be offered to Yahweh. The next best was used for food, medicine and perfume. The lowest quality was used for lamps.
Acsah set a jar of fresh oil beside the others from the day’s labor. For as much as she hated olives, she loved the precious resulting liquid. Olive oil must be one of Yahweh’s greatest gifts. What would life be like without it?
Footsteps behind her interrupted her thoughts. Othni and the rest of the men approached the pressing area, carrying a small load of olives.
“If we can get these done before the storm hits, we’re finished.” Othni glanced north, where heavy gray rainclouds gathered.
Cheers erupted. Was this the third or fourth time this fall the olives had been collected? Unlike most fruit, they ripened at various times over several months. Either way, this would be the final harvest of any crop until spring.
“We don’t need everyone. Some of the men can take the women home, inside the walls. The rest of us will be in as soon as this last batch is pressed.”
“Come, Acsah, eat something with us. Just a little something until Othni comes home. You are far too thin.” Simona threaded her arm through Acsah’s and walked her home.
The women sat in Simona’s common room as she placed bowls of dried fruit on a leather mat. She boiled water and poured it over leftover ground grain from the morning, added some fat and salt and shoved it at Acsah along with leftover bread. “Eat.”
Her daughters giggled.
Although she wasn’t in the least hungry, Acsah scooped up the porridge and stuffed it in her mouth. Simona was not a person to say ‘no’ to.
Simona beamed. “It’s so good to have the harvest complete. All of them. Praise Yahweh for our abundance.”
“It wasn’t that abundant.” Eilah all but sneered.
How could the two be sisters? They were so very different.
“We have shelves filled with raisins, wine, and grain. Now we have more than enough oil, some of which we can trade for the fruits we cannot grow here. Yahweh will send rain for a good harvest of barley. Quit whining, sister.”
Eilah only grunted, and the girls giggled again.
Acsah finished her porridge. “If it’s all right with you, I think I’ll wait for Othni at home.”
“Of course. It’s so good to see you eat. We’ll see you tomorrow.” Simona kissed her cheek.
Acsah climbed to the tower. The sun hung low in the west, refusing to release its hold on the day. Desert larks winged their way home while owls ventured out.
To the south, the blue of the sky gave way to softer colors, roses and purples. Sweet memories flooded her as she recalled the purple mandrakes and pink morning glories around Hebron’s springs.
To the north, angry gray clouds fought each other for dominance, pushing and shoving. The the east, Debir’s towers and walls threw long and distorted shadows across the valley.
“You’ll need to learn to listen a different way.”
Abba’s words had hovered in Acsah’s mind all day.
She longed to hear Him again, to feel his presence. How long had it been? Four moons?
She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky. The wind whipped her headscarf, and she caught it just before it flew away. The clouds above could no longer hold onto their load and grudgingly released oversized drops of rain, one at a time.
In the far distance, the barest rumbles of thunder could be heard over the wind.
Acsah remembered the stories Abba told of camping at Sinai, when Yahweh came to the people in a dense cloud, with a voice like thunder.
She remembered that day at the spring when Simeon handed her a wilted bunch of wildflowers.
And she understood. Abba had been right. Othni had been right. Rahab had been right. Yahweh could be seen and heard and felt in a thousand different ways, and she had been looking for him in only one way, one place.
How she had limited herself.
How many ways had she missed him her whole life?
He could be seen in the sunrise and the sunset. He could be felt in gentle breezes and ferocious winds. He could be heard in thunder and in a child’s laugh.
The thunder roared, and the clouds dumped rain on Debir. Yahweh had allowed them to harvest all the olives, and now he was soaking their fields with life-giving water.
“Acsah?” Othni’s panicked call rattled up the tower.
“Up here.”
He scrambled up to meet her. “What are you doing? It’s pouring down rain. You’ll get drenched.”
“I was drenched before, just with sweat. At least this smells better.”
“Good point. You haven’t answered my question.”
“What question?”
“What you’re doing up here in the rain.”
“Listening to Yahweh.”
“Really?”
She laughed lightly and nodded.
“The sunset?”
“No. The thunder.”
“The thunder?”
“If He can speak to all of Israel in the thunder, why not just me?”
Hearing His voice didn’t fix anything, didn’t change anything. Enosh was still lurking about. She still wasn’t sure Othni would be there when she needed him.
But at least she knew Joshua was right: Yahweh would always be there for her.
Othni knelt in the barley fields, running his hands over the tops of the stems of barley. The first ears should be visible by now, but in all the plots he had checked, not one stem had even a glimpse of one.
Sparse early rains might account for the delay in growth.
If it didn’t start to rain soon, if the barley didn’t catch up quickly, their harvest was in grave danger. And so was Debir, and every man, woman and child living there.
Othni rose.
Why, Yahweh? Had he done something wrong? He wasn’t a proficient farmer. But even if he wasn’t, there were others that were, and surely someone would have pointed out his mistakes. No one would let him lead everyone into making serious errors just to make him look bad, knowing they would starve as well.
He climbed back toward the city.
Siah and Gilad met him halfway down.
“I’m not a farmer, but I don’t think the crop is looking as good as it should be for this time of year.” Gilad frowned as he studied the plot in front of them.
Othni signed. “No, you’re right. The barley should be farther along by now.”
“So what did you do wrong?”
“Whoa! Wait a moment. What makes you think it’s his fault?” Siah raised one hand in the air.
“He’s the shophet, isn’t he?” Gilad squared off to face Othni.
“And so I control the weather? How am I supposed to make it rain?”
“How do you know it’s only the rain that’s the problem? You’re the shophet. Sounds like you’ve offended Yahweh, and now he’s punishing all of us for your mistakes.”
Othni stepped toward Gilad. “He doesn’t work like that. And if you think He does, you don’t know how He works at all.”
Siah stepped between them, a hand on e
ach chest. “That’s enough. Settle down, both of you.”
“Both of us?” Was Siah really blaming him as well? “What did I do? Why don’t you talk to your new best friend here?” He sidestepped around them and stalked up the hill.
He hadn’t trusted Gilad from the beginning, and now he knew why. But his own brother? Siah’s words felt like a punch to the gut.
He wasn’t halfway back to his house before Siah caught up with him.
“Othni, wait.”
“What do you want? Isn’t Gilad waiting for you?” His words came out far harsher than he had meant them to.
Siah grasped his arm. “Othni, please. Stop.”
He halted.
“Look at me.”
Othni dragged his gaze to his brother.
“You can’t think I believe anything he says.”
“I don’t know. You’ve been following him around for weeks.”
“I was curious as to why a man all alone, no family, would show up here early.”
“And?”
“Enosh sent him.”
Othni opened his mouth, but no words came.
Siah nodded. “I found the two of them meeting one night, though they tried mightily to keep it secret. He’s been trying to divide us ever since he got here. And he’s not very good at it.”
Heat crept up Othni’s neck. “He did a pretty good job from my point of view.”
Siah shook his head. “I never would have let that happen. But I had to see how far they would take it.”
“Any idea what they’re planning to do?”
“No. Either Enosh doesn’t trust him enough or he’s good at keeping secrets.”
“We shouldn’t let them know we know.”
“Of course.”
“Siah, I’m sorry. I should never have doubted you.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re under a lot of pressure, and you couldn’t handle it. I understand.” He laughed.
He made a face. “Thanks so much.”
He placed an arm around Othni’s shoulders and they started home. “Any time, big brother. Let’s go home. I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry.”
And if the barley didn’t grow, all of Debir would be hungry for a long time.
Acsah filled the water jar and turned to leave. She bumped into a young woman, maybe a few years younger than she was. Water sloshed out of Acsah’s jug, wetting both of them. She gasped, and put her hand to her mouth. “Please forgive me.”
The girl laughed, her eyes bright as she brushed the moisture from her chest and sleeves. “Don’t worry. It’ll be dry in moments. Come here. I’ll help you fill your jug again.” She knelt at the well and filled her bucket, her light brown hair escaping from her headcloth as she leaned forward. Tipping the container, she first filled Acsah’s container then poured the rest into her own jug. She let the bucket fall again. As she pulled it up, the rope sliding along the well-worn furrows in the curb, she said, “My name is Dania. What’s yours?”
“I’m Acsah.”
Dania filled her jug and lowered the bucket again. “Did you come here with your family?”
“Just my husband.”
“I came with my brother. Our parents died a few years ago. I have four—no, three older brothers now, but the other two are married. One lives in Ai, and one in Gibeon.” She paused, twin creases forming between her brows. “Or Gibeah … I always forget. I lived in Bethlehem but my brother came to fight this summer, and then he decided to move here.”
“What’s his name?”
“Enosh.”
Acsah’s knees buckled. Enosh had a sister? A very pleasant sister?
The water was nearing the rim of Dania’s jug, and if she said nothing more, they could scurry back to town and Acsah could try to avoid seeing her ever again.
Then again, it wasn’t her fault her brother was the most wicked man in Israel.
Dania hoisted her jug into her arms. “Do you like it here?”
“Yes. Do you?”
“I do, but my brother’s gone most of the time.”
Acsah suppressed a groan. She was exactly the kind of woman Acsah was hoping to help. And Simona and Eilah were coming today for the first time. But Enosh’s sister? “Haven’t you met anyone else?”
“No. I’ve been staying at home, inside mostly.”
“I don’t think I met you the other day. I met most of the women south of the gate.”
“That explains it. I live just north of the gate.”
“I’m trying to help those who are interested get together each day. Most of us left our families behind, and it can get lonely out here by ourselves.”
Dania’s face brightened like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “I would love that.”
“Then come to my house, just south of the gate. Bring your handstone and the day’s grain.”
Dania was the first to arrive. Simona and Eilah arrived soon after with their handstones, their husbands having already delivered their querns. Simona’s oldest, Lael, joined as well, bringing a spindle and wool. Thank Yahweh Abba had sent an extra one along when they left Hebron.
Simona introduced herself and Eilah to Dania. “This was such an excellent idea, Acsah. I’m so glad you did this. Did everyone participate?”
“Only a few so far. Most chose not to. There’s just us, and one more group.”
The women gathered in a circle near the fire and introduced themselves. They continued to chatter throughout the morning as they prepared the bread for their families.
Acsah tried to figure out exactly why she had invited Enosh’s sister to join her group. The women should be coming only after the men went to the fields and leave well before they came home, but it was still a risk, to be sure. Yet something in her eyes said she needed a friend more than anyone, something that made it worth the risk. She hoped.
Simona and Eilah returned to their house to begin chopping vegetables and soaking lentils once the bread was baked, but Dania lingered. It was clear she was in no hurry to go home.
Acsah held a tunic in each hand. “Would you like to help me mend these? I have Othni’s and Siah’s.” She giggled. “Next time you can bring your brother’s.”
Dania grabbed one and sat beside her. “How long have you been married?”
Acsah counted. “We were married a little more than a month before the Feast.”
“Not long, then. Oh!” She clasped her hands in front of her chest. “Tell me about your wedding. Is your husband from the same town as you?”
“We grew up together, but then his family moved to Bethlehem.”
“So the wedding was there then? I don’t remember one, but maybe we weren’t invited.”
“No, his parents are gone, and he had no family there except his brother. And he hadn’t lived there for years, so my abba hosted the wedding feast in Hebron, and he invited everyone.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet. You must have a wonderful abba.”
Acsah’s heart felt as crushed as one of the wheat berries they’d turned to flour. “I miss him very much.”
“Maybe I know your husband, though. What’s his name?”
“Othni.”
Dania’s hands stilled, the mending forgotten. “Othni? Your husband is Othniel?”
Acsah nodded.
Dania’s face clouded as she put the pieces together. “Caleb’s nephew.”
“Yes.”
“Caleb, leader of Judah, who offered this city to whomever conquered it?”
“Yes. And me along with it.” Her stomach soured at the memory of Abba banishing her to this … this … She glanced at Dania, thoughts of her own discomfort fleeing. “Are you all right? Your face is as pale as that tunic.”
“Yes. It’s fine. I’m fine. Tell me about the wedding. I want to hear everything.”
“All right.” Why not? She had nothing better to talk about.
The color slowly crept back into Dania’s face, and the girl seemed to drink in every last d
etail. She asked about every dish, every piece of jewelry, every guest.
“Joshua was at your wedding?” Dania’s eyes grew wide.
Acsah nodded. Until now, she had never considered how unusual it was that she had grown up around Joshua, or even her own abba, men whom the rest of Israel regarded as heroes.
Caleb, Joshua, even Othni—heroes?
To her they were family. To someone like Dania, who grew up with Enosh … perhaps they were perfect, larger than life, men who could do no wrong.
But what would Othni say if he knew his wife had invited Enosh’s sister to come to his house, every day?
Enosh wandered through the city. He always hated this time of year, even as a soldier. The shortest days, the longest and coldest nights. The rain clouding the skies. As a farmer—he still nearly choked on that word—he should be thankful for the rains, but to him they were a nuisance. They came without warning, made him wet and cold, made it difficult to plan anything. Then they disappeared as fast as they came. Not that there was much you could do with the days so short anyway.
He needed some way to distract Othniel, to upset him. There was no way Enosh would end up in control the way things were going.
Everyone loved Othniel. He obviously had had one of those lives where everything had been given to him. Not being chosen first to go into Kiriath-Sepher was probably the only setback he had ever encountered. Then one tiny misstep by Enosh, and Othniel gets the wife, the city, the leadership, the power, the respect … everything.
The question was, how could Enosh get it back?
Going after his leadership didn’t appear to be working. All the whispers in people’s ears seemed to accomplish nothing. Even trying to come between the brothers only seemed to bring them closer together. Gilad had tried to convince Othniel he was to blame for the barley crop not growing as fast as it should be, and the brother had nearly pounded him into the ground for it. It wasn’t a great plan, but he had to give Gilad credit for trying.
Enosh needed to go further, go after his foundation. His home. What was his greatest weakness? Enosh smiled. Othniel’s wife. Of course.
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