Prize of War

by Carole Towriss

  Acsah nodded.

  “He is unmarried?” Simona raised a brow and smirked.

  She nodded again.

  “Well, what about her?” She pointed to Dania.

  The girl gasped as Eilah and Simona laughed.

  Acsah was glad the attention had turned to someone else.

  “Why not? She is pretty. He is nice to look at as well. They make a good match.”

  “Simona, stop trying to match people up.” Eliah frowned at Simona. “You are always doing that.”

  “And name one match that did not work out!”

  “Benaiah and Eliora.”

  “Because he died! That’s not fair.”

  Acsah glanced at Dania’s faint smile as the older women continued squabbling and grinding the grain. At least they weren’t talking about her anymore.

  But how much damage had she done? She placed a hand on her belly.

  Yahweh, please let me—and Othni—keep this baby.

  As the sun’s edges touched earth, the scent of roast lamb saturated the air. The bitter herbs added a pungent tang to the aroma.

  Othni’s mouth watered at the thought of the tender meat, served with onions and carrots, cumin and garlic, fresh bread, and maybe a rich lentil stew. What a change from winter’s poor diet of barley bread and olive oil.

  “Smells likes it’s time to head back.” Siah glanced west and then exaggeratedly sniffed the air. “Makes me hungry. What about you, Rapha?” He laughed as the boy smiled and nodded, eyes bright. “Let’s go, then.”

  Othni tied up another sheaf of barley and grabbed his sickle, then the three headed north. Once inside the gates, they turned right. His chest puffed involuntarily at the sight of groups of families scattered throughout the city, chattering and cooking together. Four or five families would share one lamb, as all the meat had to be eaten tonight. The city was finally full, working together. The long months of hard work had been worth it.

  Simona, Amram, and their girls waited with Acsah at his house, along with Eilah and Gilad. Dania was there, and against his better judgment, even Enosh had been invited. Siah tried to tell him he should keep his enemies close at hand, but it seemed too risky to Othni.

  Enosh wasn't there, so it didn’t matter. Where was he? And why would he let Dania come here without him?

  Othni took the sickle and waterskins to the broadroom and put them in their places. Back in the courtyard under the silver light of the full moon, he took his place next to his wife.

  Rapha never seemed to be far from Siah. Siah found an empty space, conveniently near Dania. Othni hid a smile when he realized Siah was more often than not near Dania. “Is the meal ready?”

  “We’ll get it. One moment.” Acsah started to rise.

  “Acsah, sit.” Simona beckoned to her oldest, Lael. “We’ll do it. Just rest.” They moved to the large spit set up near the back of the house. Dania and Eilah followed.

  Othni watched Acsah, but she avoided his gaze. Why did Simona insist she rest? Was something wrong with her? He’d have to ask later.

  He searched the expectant faces of the children. He’d never done this himself. Hopefully he could remember what he’d seen others do. “While we’re waiting, who here is the youngest?”

  Sabra, Simona’s youngest, raised her hand.

  “Do you remember your last Passover meal?”

  “Not really.” She frowned and ducked her head.

  “She slept through it!” Marah teased.

  “That’s all right. Come sit by me, if your abba says you may.”

  Amram smiled and nodded, and Sabra sat beside him, next to Acsah.

  Simona and Lael returned with the lamb in huge bowls. Dania and Eilah brought a pot of lentil stew and another bowl of fresh unleavened bread and set it in the back of the room before joining the circle.

  “Now, I want to tell you a story, because that is why we have this special meal each year. Who knows what this meal is supposed to help us remember?”

  “Leaving Egypt!” shouted Marah.

  “Exactly. We lived in Egypt for hundreds of years. But Ramses, the king of Egypt, was worried we were becoming too many. So he made us slaves. We had to make bricks out of mud to build his cities. But Yahweh sent a very special man. What was his name?”

  “Moses,” answered Zev, the oldest boy.

  “Yes, Moses asked Ramses to free us. When he refused, Moses told Ramses very bad things would happen. Do you remember any of them? What happened first?”

  “The water turned to blood and then frogs came.” Marah made a face as she answered.

  “Yes, good. What was next?”

  No one answered.

  “Aaron—who was Aaron?” Othni held up one hand, palm up.

  “Moses’s brother,” Lael said.

  “Who did all the work and got none of the credit.” Siah winked at Dania.

  Othni rolled his eyes. “Yes, Aaron waved his staff and the dust became gnats. Then biting flies came that bit even their eyelids.” Othni pulled on one lid.

  “Eew!” The children giggled, and Sabra clambered onto Acsah’s lap.

  “Next, all the cattle, horses, and camels became sick with a disease and died.” He held up all the fingers of one hand and his other thumb. “Sixth, the Egyptians broke out in horribly painful sores on their skin.”

  More groans.

  “Anyone remember the next ones?”

  “Thunder!” Zev pounded his thighs with his fists as he made loud noises.

  His sister made faces at him then turned her attention to Othni. “And hail. Then locusts.”

  “Yes, locusts ate everything the hail had not taken. And then the city was surrounded by a darkness so deep you could feel it.”

  “Dark like this?” Sabra asked, cringing as she looked to the black sky.

  “Darker. Much darker,” he whispered.

  Sabra clung to Acsah.

  “Then the last plague. Everyone knows that one, right?”

  A hush settled over the group. Simona, unconsciously it seemed, drew Zev nearer to her side.

  “The last and most horrifying plague was that all of the firstborn sons—men and animals—in Egypt would die.”

  Sabra whimpered, and Acsah held her tighter. Othni reached over and grasped her tiny hand.

  “But we were given a means of protection by Yahweh. Zev, what was it?”

  Zev sat tall. “Moses said they were to kill a perfect lamb and mark their doors with the blood. That would be a sign to the ‘Angel of Death’ to pass over their homes.”

  “Exactly. And did it work?”

  “Yes!” All the children answered at once, the younger ones bouncing on their heels.

  Othni laughed. “And when his son died, Ramses called for Moses and said we could go. So we left, quickly. But what happened then?”

  “Ramses changed his mind!” Marah answered.

  “He sent his armies after us,” continued Zev. “And when we reached the Yam Supf, Yahweh parted it for us, and we crossed on dry land, but it crashed down on the soldiers.” He made a crashing sound, bringing his fists from over his head to his knees.

  “Perfectly said, Zev. So every year, we eat this meal to remember what Yahweh did for us when he rescued us from the Egyptians. And we are to teach our children, and you will teach your children, so we will never forget what He did for us.”

  Amram smiled. “Very well done, Othniel.”

  A sigh escaped. Was it relief, or pride? Or both? Didn’t really matter, in the end. He surveyed the happy faces.

  “I think it’s cooled enough to eat now.” Simona dished out the food, and everyone quieted for a while.

  Othni tried not to watch too closely as Acsah accepted a generous portion of lamb and a full bowl of stew and then proceeded to eat it all. Women felt better as babies grew larger within them, he knew that. But overnight?

  Across the circle, Simona caught his eye. She was trying to tell him something, but what? Was Acsah ill? Had he done something wrong?


  He likely wouldn't get any answers today. The best he could do was let Simona care for her, and trust Yahweh.

  Something he found himself doing a lot lately.

  In the chill of the early morning, Enosh sat in front of a cold fire.

  Dania hadn’t come home last night.

  Just when his worry was about to boil over, she traipsed in as if nothing were amiss and headed for the broadroom. He made it there before she did, towering over her, glaring down.

  “Where have you been?”

  “At Acsah’s for the Passover meal. Where do you think I was? You know I couldn’t leave after sundown.”

  Of course. He’d forgotten about that. His concern melted away.

  “They were asking about you. Where were you?”

  “That is none of your concern.”

  “Nothing is ever my concern,” she muttered.

  “What do you do over there every day, anyway? It’s that brother of his, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She sighed, nearly rolled her eyes, as if he were a small child. He hated when she did that.

  “Then what do you do?”

  “Acsah’s been teaching me to weave, and she says I’m very good at it. We could even make or buy a loom. We might have to buy some yarn at first, since we don’t have any sheep, but we could sell what I make and eventually we could earn some silver.”

  He suppressed a sneer. “That’s what you’ve been doing over there? Learning to weave?”

  “Most days. Not yesterday. It was Passover, so we roasted and ate the Passover lamb, and Othni told the story of Israel’s rescue to the children. I was following Yahweh’s Law. Surely you cannot be surprised. You did remember it was Passover, didn't you?”

  He hadn’t, but he certainly wasn’t going to admit that to her. “Of course I did. I just observed it elsewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “That is not—”

  “Not my concern, I know.”

  “What has Yahweh ever done for you—or me—anyway? I have conquered more cities for Yahweh than anyone, and what has it gotten me? Stuck out here in a village in the negev, subject to the whims of a child-soldier who is in charge only because his uncle gave him control. The uncle who treated me like a son and then discarded me. I should be this city’s shophet! I earned it. I deserve it. And I will do whatever it takes to get it.” He turned on his heel and left.

  Missing the Passover feast had perhaps not been a good move. He could say he was with someone else, but eventually that would be proved untrue. All he could do now was keep the Feast of Weeks in fifty days. He sprinted toward his field.

  The other fields had sheaves tied up and ready for threshing. His alone stood full of golden grain. Half of it anyway. He’d not planted it all, since he had only he and Dania, and his plot would feed twice that. He could have planted and harvested it all, and then sold it, but that was far too much work.

  He put his sickle to the stalks. After only a few swipes he removed his cloak, tossing it aside.

  Soon a good quarter of his plot stood harvested. He inspected those around him. It appeared no one had actually removed any of the barley yet. Which made sense, since none could be eaten until some was presented by a priest to Yahweh.

  As if He’d had anything to do with it. Enosh scoffed.

  He drew his arm over his brow. The warm, dry spring air was a welcome change after the long, wet winter. If it never rained again he would be happy.

  Then again, a great many things that seemed impossible would make him happy. And topping that list was never working again, getting rid of Othniel for good, and getting what was rightfully his.

  It was hard to imagine that not quite a year ago Acsah was harvesting wheat in Hebron.

  It wasn’t all that different from what she was doing right now. Wheat wouldn’t be ripe until the next full moon, when the rains were completely over and the dry season was upon them. The barley harvest, with the milder temperatures, westerly breezes, and occasionally gentle rains, was always far more enjoyable.

  What changes a year could bring.

  Next year would be even more different, with a baby beside them.

  Her heart leapt. Her hand went to her belly, now nicely rounded after a few weeks under Simona’s care.

  The rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of flint sickles all around her contrasted with the crunch of sandals on dry barley stalks. Unable to bundle as fast as Othni could reap, she’d fallen far behind him. He was now several rows over. She tied off the bundle of sun-colored stalks and spread the ends apart to steady it, then moved ahead. She bent to gather more.

  In the plot beside them, Jedediah swung his sickle, leaving huge swaths of naked stumps in his path. His moves seemed almost effortless, especially for a man of his size. His children followed at a safe distance, bundling sheaves twice as fast as she could. It was obvious they’d done this before.

  “Jedediah, you’re such an excellent farmer,” she said.

  He grinned. “Thanks. Learned from my abba.”

  She picked up another handful of stalks. “He taught you well. I’m sure he would be proud.”

  “At least this year we don’t have to leave the corners unharvested. The crop this year was good, but not great.”

  She glanced at Othni, then stood tall to face Jedediah. “What do you mean? Why wouldn't we?”

  He gestured toward the desert. “Who’s going to pick them? There are no poor in the desert.” He laughed. “It’s not necessary.”

  She stepped nearer. “But that’s not for you to decide. It’s the law, given to us by Moses. It’s Yahweh’s law. You can’t decide when it’s necessary and when it’s not. We can harvest it ourselves and store it for when it’s needed.”

  “I’m not doing that. I have six children, and we need it now. I can’t afford to store it away just ‘in case.’” He shot a glare her way and then continued reaping.

  “Jedidiah, you never know what might happen, who might need it. What if it were your family? Suppose something happened to you, and your wife and children were left without you? Wouldn’t you want there to be a store of food for them to depend on?”

  He halted and turned slowly to face her, his eyes shooting daggers. “I may have to listen to your husband, but I don’t have to listen to you. If you’re so concerned about my wife and children, maybe you should let me make sure I can feed them. Leave me alone.” He turned his back on her and put sickle to grain.

  How could anyone not care about the poor? Those left without anyone to look after them? There might be no one like that in Debir at this moment, but she knew all too well how fast that could change. How fast the most important people in your life could be taken from you.

  She’d spent her life making sure no one was left alone, or uncared for. She wasn’t going to stop now.

  Othni started when their neighbor burst through the gate into their courtyard without knocking.

  Jedediah’s face was red, his finger pointing at Acsah. “You couldn’t resist telling everyone about our conversation yesterday, could you?”

  She backed away. “What conversation?”

  “The corners? Remember?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t. What purpose would that serve?”

  Othni stepped between them. “Jedediah, what are you talking about?”

  He glared at her over Othni’s shoulder. “Your wife here chastised me like I was an errant child for cutting all the way to the edges of my fields.”

  “It is Yahweh’s Law to leave grain standing,” Othni said.

  “So she reminded me. But that’s between me and Yahweh. It is not a matter for all of Debir to know and discuss and judge me for.”

  “I told no one.” Acsah repeated from behind Othni.

  “She didn’t even tell me. If she didn’t tell me, I doubt she told anyone else.”

  “She must have, because all morning, people have been coming up to me and either telling me I will be punished by Yahweh, or th
at they admire me for being sensible in difficult times.” He swept his arm toward the street. “Half the city hates me.”

  Which meant the other half loved him for disobeying Yahweh? “There are others who feel as you do?”

  “A lot of them. I told her yesterday, it makes no sense to store away grain when we might need it ourselves. Everyone knows there are no widows or orphans, or poor in Debir. I have my children to think about. But I’m supposed to just trust Yahweh, right?” He scoffed.

  Acsah peeked from behind Othni. “Jedediah, you have to believe me. I told no one.”

  “Maybe. But someone did.” His face said he didn’t believe her. “I have to get back to my barley now.”

  “Othni, it wasn’t me.” She whispered as he left.

  He ran his hands down her arms. “I know. I think I know who did tell, though.”

  “Who?”

  “Enosh.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised, but how do you know?”

  “It was the way he said, ‘We’re just supposed to trust Yahweh.’ I’ve heard Enosh say that, and that’s how he got Jedediah upset over the size of the plots allotted for the barley. He’s been stirring things up again.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. But I can’t leave the city divided like this. With the Anakim still out there, I need to know everyone will follow me, fight with me if something happens.” He walked to the end of the courtyard, then called over his shoulder. “I’ll be back.”

  He wandered though the streets of Debir, the city Caleb had given him to lead.

  If only he could talk to Caleb. He needed his wisdom, his calm advice.

  But Caleb wasn’t here, and eventually he would have to quit running to him every time he needed a decision. That was his job. He was the shophet. He was leader. Judge. Champion. Protector. Guide.

  Of course, the situation had to involve Enosh. That man was determined to ruin Othni’s life. He’d killed Malachi, and how many others had his foolish actions caused to die?

  What had Joshua said at his wedding? “You must be certain every decision you make lines up with His law in every aspect. Never compromise.”