Deborah Rising
Page 1
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my brother-in-law
Avraham “Tsutsu” Davidovich (1959-2015),
whose affection, wisdom and zest for life continue to illuminate my path.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Part One: The Injustice Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Part Two: The Impurity Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part Three: The Escape Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part Four: The Boy Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part Five: The Discovery Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Part Six: The Marriage Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Part Seven: The Elixirist Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Part One
The Injustice
Chapter 1
The girls came early to the stoning. They emerged one by one from the gates of Emanuel, which the sentries opened at sunrise, and spread out over the barren slopes to collect rocks. There were more than seventy girls, all of the town’s unmarried maidens, ten years and older. With their brown wool dresses and bent backs, they looked like an army of weary squirrels gathering nuts for the winter.
When the pile of rocks near the gates was high enough, one of the sentries whistled, and the girls gathered back. They sat on the ground, forming a wide circle around the Pit of Shame.
The sun had barely cleared the eastern ridges of the Samariah Hills, and the girls huddled together to keep warm. Most of them had dark skin and black hair. A few had a lighter complexion and wheat-colored hair. One girl, however, stood out from the rest with her white, freckled cheeks and braided orange locks—an unusual orange, brighter than ripe carrots and more radiant than the flame produced by the burning fat of a sacrificial lamb.
The girls didn’t speak to each other and kept their eyes down, except for an occasional glance at the scavenger birds that circled above.
As the day warmed up, the hillside filled with spectators, not only from the town itself, but also from the neighboring villages and scattered homesteads. A public stoning was an infrequent spectacle, unlike the more common whipping of disobedient wives, defiant slaves, and thieves. The rumor that the accused was a family member of the town’s ruler, Judge Zifron, drew an even larger crowd. Men, women, and children spread straw mats and settled down to wait, munching on dried figs, fresh dates, or carobs dipped in honey. Most of the men had full beards and wore wool caps in observance of the Hebrew tradition. They chatted and laughed in giddy anticipation, whereas the women sat quietly. Even a group of lepers showed up, coming down from the cave where they dwelled. Swathed in tattered rags and veils to hide their deformities, they shuffled to a rocky patch, apart from everyone else.
A short distance from the gates, along the main road, the fairgrounds served as a daytime market and an overnight campsite for trading caravans. Coins changed hands for jugs of wine or milk, baskets of apples or pears, or chunks of honey cake dipped in cinnamon. Fortune-tellers, charm healers, portrait painters, and even a hairdresser did brisk business while young boys ran around, chasing dogs, goats, and each other.
Despite the long wait and rowdy commotion, the young maidens didn’t leave the circle around the Pit of Shame.
The sun reached a third of the way up in the clear, blue sky.
Obadiah of Levi emerged from the gates in his priestly robe—stark white and embroidered with blue threads that dangled from the bottom edges. His long beard was gray, his bejeweled breastplate glistened, and his oak staff had a silver handle.
The priest brought a ram’s horn to his lips. It was long, with many serpentine loops. He inhaled deeply and blew. The sound was low and scratchy, more a growl than a roar, infused with sadness and dread that caused the crowd to quiet down until the only remaining noise came from the circling birds.
The seven elders of the town appeared next. Dressed in their white Sabbath robes, they followed each other solemnly in order of age and sat on a stone bench by the wall of the gatehouse.
Obadiah of Levi blew the ram’s horn again, not continuously as before, but in a series of sharp toots. The audience rose to its feet, except for the maidens around the Pit of Shame, who would not be allowed to get up until the last stone had been cast.
A group of foot soldiers appeared, carrying the flag of the tribe of Ephraim—a white ox against a black background. They marched through the gatehouse, their boots pounding the road, and stood in attention.
The ruler of Emanuel, Judge Zifron of Ephraim, rode on a great black stallion. The aging sovereign wore a black coat embroidered with threads of gold and silver. The coat was unbuttoned in front to accommodate his bulging belly. His beard was closely cropped, and he wore no hat. Four of his young sons followed him on ponies.
Judge Zifron’s stallion paused at the sight of the large crowd and reared up on its hind legs. The judge subdued his horse with an expert jab of the heels and leaned forward, whispering in its pricked ears until the horse calmed down.
A soldier stepped up and held the reins. Another helped Judge Zifron down from the saddle and supported him up the steps onto an elevated platform. The judge sat down in a large, padded chair and wiped his face with a rag while his young sons tied their ponies and sat at the foot of the platform. A third soldier carried onto the platform the black effigy of Mott, the Canaanite god of death. It had a human body, about a third of a grown man’s height, and brandished the scepter of bereavement in one hand and the scepter of widowhood in the other. Its head was disproportionately large, with a protruding jaw and sharp teeth in its gaping mouth. The soldier handed Mott to Judge Zifron, who held it up for all to see.
The sight of the Canaanite effigy elicited murmured protests from the crowd. Obadiah of Levi turned his head and spat.
A group of mounted soldiers emerged from the gates, led by Seesya, Judge Zifron’s first son and heir. At nineteen, he was tall and broad-shouldered. His clean-shaven face was square-jawed and handsome, except for a red scar that cut diagonally across his lips from the left cheek to his right jaw, endowing him with a permanent sneer. He wore a suit of leather armor and a matching leather helmet. A sword hung from his hip, and he carried a long spear.
As Seesya and the soldiers approached the crowd, his brown steed was also startled by the commotion and rose on its hind legs. Seesya cursed and punched it on the side of the head. The horse neighed and reared again. Seesya hit it twice more. The horse trotted sideways, stumbled on the uneven dirt road, and fell over, throwing Seesya to the ground. His spear dropped, and his helmet rolled away, exposing his shoulder-length black hair.
The crowd roared in laughter while the soldiers rushed to help Seesya. He sprang to his feet, collected his spear, and ran up the steps onto the platform, where his father sat stone-faced.
Obadiah then climbed the platform and stoo
d at the opposite end from Judge Zifron and his son. The priest pounded his oak staff on the platform three times and announced: “Bring forth the accused!”
The large crowd watched the gates in rapt silence.
A lone figure emerged, dressed in a red robe, customarily worn by those accused of a capital offense, as well as by women during their monthly periods of impurity. A red scarf covered her head and most of her face, leaving a slit for her eyes. Two soldiers followed behind, making her seem even smaller. They nudged the accused through the gates, past the seven elders, to the elevated platform, where they made her kneel before Judge Zifron, his son, the priest, and the black effigy of Mott.
At the nearby circle around the Pit of Shame, the girl with the orange hair buried her face in her hands and began to sob.
Judge Zifron stomped his boot on the platform and called, “Who accuses this woman?”
His son stepped forward. “I, Seesya of Ephraim, son of Zifron, accuse this woman, Tamar, daughter of Harutz of Ephraim. She was betrothed to me with a ring, but on the first night that I came to possess her as my lawful wife, she no longer had her virginity.” He pointed his spear at the red-clad figure at the foot of the platform. “She’s a whore!”
Judge Zifron turned to the priest. “What is the law?”
Obadiah of Levi pulled a roll of parchment from under his white robe. “This is Yahweh’s law, given to the prophet Moses on Mount Sinai.”
He unfurled the scroll and read aloud: “If a man took a woman and came to her and disliked her and said, ‘This woman I took and came to possess her as my wife but found her without virginity,’ then the woman’s father will bring to the town elders the bed cloth that shows the stains of her virginity and say, ‘This man took our daughter and then he hated her and slandered her.’ Then the elders will punish the man for slandering a Hebrew virgin. He will pay one hundred silver coins to her father and will keep her as his wife and may not divorce her all the days of his life.”
Obadiah paused and glanced at Seesya, who gestured with his spear at the scroll, signaling the priest to continue.
“But if no stains are found,” Obadiah read from the scroll, “you will take the woman outside, and the men of her town will stone her with rocks until she is dead, for she sinned among her people and disgraced the house of her father; you shall eradicate evil from among you.”
The priest rolled up the parchment. “This is the law of Yahweh, the one and only God of the Hebrews.” He pointedly looked at the effigy of Mott, and a twitch of disgust contorted his face.
“The law is clear,” Judge Zifron said. “Let us hear from her father.”
There was a long silence.
“Her father can’t speak for her,” Seesya said. “He’s dead.”
“Indeed.” Judge Zifron turned to the priest. “Who may speak for a woman whose father is dead?”
Obadiah didn’t answer.
“Tell us,” the judge demanded. “What is Yahweh’s law?”
The priest answered in a toneless voice. “Her husband may speak for her.”
Seesya signaled to one of the soldiers, who ran to the platform and held forward a bunched-up cloth. Seesya picked it up with the tip of his spear and shook the cloth until it untangled. It was white, shaped like a woman’s robe, but open in the front, with loops and buttons.
“Tell us,” Judge Zifron said with a touch of impatience. “What is this?”
“It’s her bed cloth from the night I possessed her as my wife for the first time.” He waved it in the air to show that it was without stain.
Judge Zifron looked down at the accused. “Do you deny that this is your bed cloth?”
She shook her head.
The judge gestured at the crowd. “Is there a man here who wishes to speak in this whore’s defense? Speak now.”
No one stepped forward.
“I wish to speak,” the accused said, her voice muffled by the veil over her face. “My defense is that—”
“Be quiet,” the judge said.
“But I’m innocent!”
“Quiet!”
“No man has ever possessed me,” she cried. “No one, not even when—”
Seesya threw his spear at her. The dull end of the spear hit her head, and she fell down.
The crowd laughed.
The soldiers pulled her up and held her arms.
Judge Zifron raised his hands to silence the crowd. He turned to Obadiah. “May a woman bear witness?”
“No,” the priest said. “Only a man can give testimony.”
After a brief consultation among the elders, they delivered the verdict in one voice. “Guilty!”
All over the hillside, hundreds of men applauded.
“Under the law,” Judge Zifron announced, “Tamar, wife of Seesya, is guilty as charged. She has done evil, disgraced the house of her dead father, and dishonored our tribe. Therefore, she will be placed in the Pit of Shame and stoned by the men of her town until she is dead.”
The men in the crowd cheered again.
Obadiah of Levi descended from the platform and led the way, followed by two soldiers, who held Tamar between them. They passed through the circle of maidens and stood at the Pit of Shame.
The priest pulled away the red scarf, exposing Tamar’s face. She looked younger than her fourteen years. Her hair was orange—the same color as the girl seated in the circle, a dozen steps away. They looked at each other. Tamar was slightly older, her pale face fuller and her eyes a darker shade of green.
The younger girl cried out, but her voice was lost in the crowd’s jeers and whistles. She started to get up, but Tamar shook her head, pointed up at the blue sky, and placed her hands under her chin, fingers interwoven. The girl sat back, pressed her interwoven fingers under her chin, and began to pray silently.
Obadiah raised his arms to silence the crowd and faced the condemned. “Repent now,” he said. “Beg Yahweh for His forgiveness, for you have sinned.”
“It’s not true,” Tamar protested. “I haven’t sinned.”
“He will receive your soul if you repent.”
“He knows I’m innocent,” she said. “You know it, too.”
The crowd, which had quieted momentarily to listen, booed. Only the maidens seated nearby could hear the rest of the exchange.
“It’s true.” The priest hung his head, deflated. “I’m powerless to help you. Please forgive me.”
“I’ll forgive you on one condition.” Tamar pulled a ring off her finger and gave it to the priest. “Make sure this ring doesn’t go onto my sister’s finger. Protect her from suffering the same injustice I’ve suffered.”
Obadiah turned and walked away from the Pit of Shame. His gaze briefly met the eyes of the orange-haired girl, who was praying quietly for a miracle.
Tamar sat on the ground and eased herself, legs first, into the tight hole. Only her head and shoulders showed above ground level. A puff of wind blew at her hair, causing it to fan out around her head with a fiery brightness that contrasted with the brown earth and the somber occasion.
Seesya came down from the platform and blocked Obadiah’s way. “Give me the ring.”
The priest glanced at the ring resting in his open hand and looked up at the judge on the platform.
Seesya grunted, took the ring from Obadiah’s hand, and marched over to the pile of rocks, just outside the circle of maidens.
The elders made their way over slowly and lined up behind Seesya. The rest of the men of Emanuel joined the queue behind the elders, starting with well-to-do merchants, then artisans, peddlers, and peasants. Men from the surrounding villages and homesteads, who were not allowed to participate in the stoning, watched the preparations in silence.
Reaching down for a rock, Seesya took his time to select one that fit nicely in his palm. He tossed it from hand to hand to get a measure of its weight and nodded with satisfaction.
Obadiah pounded his staff three times. “The condemned may plead for mercy now.”
/> With difficulty, Judge Zifron rose from the padded chair. He lifted the effigy of Mott and held it so that its menacing face turned to the Pit of Shame.
The spectators grumbled. They hadn’t come here to watch a whore win a pardon. A long moment passed. Everyone stared at the girl’s head, sticking out of the Pit of Shame.
“I’m innocent,” she said.
Sporadic booing came from the crowd.
“Spare me,” she raised her voice. “For your own good, show mercy and save yourself from Yahweh’s wrath.”
Hundreds of eyes focused on Judge Zifron. He could either grant a pardon by putting Mott down, or refuse a pardon by raising Mott higher.
The girl continued to pray, her lips moving rapidly, her face creased in devotion.
For a long moment, it seemed that the judge was vacillating. He glanced at Seesya, who shook his head sharply.
With an audible sigh, Judge Zifron raised Mott high above his head.
The male spectators cheered. The women and girls lowered their eyes. At the circle of maidens, the girl with the orange hair stopped praying and looked up at the sky, her mouth open in midsentence.
The priest pounded his staff until calm was restored and said, “Let the accuser cast the first stone.”
Seesya turned to face his young wife, who glared back at him from the hole in the ground. He raised his hand to throw the rock but changed his mind and walked over to the circle of maidens.
The girl was still staring at the sky in bewilderment over her unanswered prayers.
He poked her from behind with the tip of his boot.
Startled, the girl looked up over her shoulder.
“Give me your hand,” he said.
“No,” Tamar yelled from the Pit of Shame. “Leave her alone!”
Seesya reached down and grabbed the girl’s hand.
“Don’t do it!” Tamar’s voice was desperate. “Not my sister!”
He slipped the ring on the girl’s finger. “With this ring,” he declared, “I betroth you to me, to be my wife.”