Deborah Rising

by Avraham Azrieli

  There was a third way, Deborah knew: if she ceased to be a girl altogether and became a boy. But she wasn’t ready to tell the priest about that.

  “Yahweh created everything,” she said. “The earth, the sun, the moon, and all the stars that fill our sky. I believe He can find a way to free me from Seesya’s betrothal.”

  Obadiah looked at her at length. “You’re a true believer, aren’t you?”

  She nodded.

  He glanced back at the crowded courtyard to make sure no one was paying attention. “I need time to think about it.”

  “I don’t have time.”

  Two men standing nearby looked at the priest and the girl curiously.

  Obadiah turned away and spoke under his breath. “Go pray at the temple.”

  Deborah was about to argue, but the priest left her.

  “Make way!” His voice roared over the noise of the crowd. “Make way!” He returned to the center of the courtyard, where the slave warden and his helpers were busy untying the captives and dressing their wounds. Obadiah pointed at the corpse. “Carry this Hebrew woman to the temple so that I can prepare her for burial in accordance with our sacred laws.”

  Four slaves in sleeveless long shirts lifted the dead woman by her arms and legs and followed the priest out of the courtyard. Deborah lowered the hood of the red robe over her face and trailed them.

  The temple was located a small distance up the main street from Judge Zifron’s house. It had an open plaza with seven stone columns lining up the front, benches on the right side, and an elevated platform with a large altar in the middle, as well as a stone basin filled with water for washing hands. On the left, under a canopy, open baskets awaited offerings. She could see a few olives, grapes, dates, pomegranates, and apples. A wooden barrel was marked for wheat, and another for barley. A small corral carried no sign. Its purpose—livestock offerings—was obvious. Deborah noticed that the baskets and barrels were almost empty, and the corral held only one small goat that looked back at her with sad eyes.

  The slaves carried the dead woman across the plaza and put her in an open handcart with four wheels. Obadiah waved them off and covered the corpse with a sheet of red cloth. Deborah stood by one of the columns, drawing no attention from anyone. When the slaves were gone, the priest beckoned her.

  Deborah glanced around to make sure no one was in the street and hurried over. His house was in the rear of the plaza. He led her into a room off to the side and closed the door.

  A single oil lamp burned in the corner. A desk held a large parchment, which was about one-third filled with words, beautifully written along straight lines. Several writing feathers rested next to a bottle of ink. Behind the desk, wooden shelves were filled with dozens of scrolls.

  Deborah peered at the parchment. “What are you writing?”

  “Yahweh’s laws.” Obadiah pointed to the first line and quoted. “Honor your father and your mother, and your days shall be long upon the land that I give you.”

  “My father used to recite that when my sister and I misbehaved.” Deborah paused as the memory of Tamar brought a new wave of grief.

  “I still quote it to my sons, who are grown men already.”

  She took a deep breath, struggling not to cry. “My father said it was one of the Ten Commandments, written on the stone tablets that Yahweh gave to Moses on Mount Sinai.”

  “That’s correct,” the priest said. “Your father was a good man, a God-fearing man. He used to bring his offerings here every harvest time, one-tenth of all his crops and new livestock, without delay or deceit, unlike most other men.”

  His kind words about her father brought up the tears Deborah had been struggling to keep at bay. She wiped her eyes. “Most men don’t bring offerings?”

  He gestured at the door. “You saw the baskets out there. Did they look full to you?”

  “No, but why?”

  “Too many Hebrew men have turned their backs on the one and true God. Even our ruler, Judge Zifron, holds up the effigy of Mott at trials, while his women kneel before Ra when the sun rises.” The priest’s voice was bitter. “That’s why God is punishing us, sending one tribe to fight against the other and allowing the Canaanites to oppress the northern tribes—and it will get worse unless the we repent and correct our ways!”

  “Is that why you write down the laws?”

  Obadiah sat down in a chair and sighed. “Since Moses threw down the tablets and broke them, Yahweh’s laws have passed from father to son, each law recited repeatedly until it was etched in our minds. My father made me memorize Yahweh’s laws, as did his father before him. I’ve always felt blessed to learn such a treasure, a whole system of laws that came down from the Creator to Moses to each one of us, guiding us on how to live righteously as Yahweh’s chosen people. But now, many fathers fail to teach their sons, and my own sons are more interested in counting the offerings and complaining about our diminished revenues than studying the law.”

  “I’d like to memorize God’s laws.”

  He laughed as if she’d told a joke.

  Deborah reached out to touch the parchment.

  “Don’t!”

  She recoiled.

  “You’re impure.” He rolled up the parchment and put it on a shelf. “You asked that I help you escape. What’s your plan?”

  “I must leave tonight.”

  “That’s not a plan. Zifron’s courtyard is locked up every night. How will you get out?”

  “There’s a small window high up in the wall of the washroom. I’ll use it to climb down to the street.”

  “When?”

  “When the moon reaches the top of the sky.”

  He tugged on his beard. “What about the town walls?”

  “I don’t know, but if you want to be released from my sister’s curse, you should find a way to get me out of Emanuel.”

  “How? The gates are closed at night and guarded by sentries.”

  “Pray to Yahweh.” Deborah went to the door. “He’ll provide you with a solution.”

  Out in the plaza, near the covered handcart bearing the dead woman, Deborah saw a group of young boys. There were over thirty of them, from about five to twelve years old, sitting cross-legged on the ground in the shade.

  Deborah paused behind one of the columns and watched.

  Obadiah of Levi appeared. One of the boys brought him a chair. The priest sat down and began to recite. “Moses came down from Mount Sinai and said to the Hebrews: God has spoken. I am the Lord, your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, the place of slavery.”

  The boys chorused in thin voices, “I am the Lord, your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, the place of slavery.”

  The priest continued, “You shall worship no other gods but me.”

  Deborah murmured with the boys, “You shall worship no other gods but me.”

  As she walked away, the priest continued his recitation. “You shall not make any statue or picture of what is in the sky above or in the water under—”

  Halfway down the street, she could still hear the boys repeat after him, their voices young and full of enthusiasm.

  Part Three

  The Escape

  Chapter 8

  When Deborah returned, the courtyard was quiet again. The captives had been taken to the slaves’ quarters, and the puddle of blood was covered with straw. At the factory, Sallan told her to sit between Vardit and a young concubine at one of the round tables. The two women moved farther apart to avoid unintended contact with Deborah. She sat on the bench, her heart beating hard in her chest. One of the slave girls brought her a bundle of braided strands.

  “Go ahead,” Vardit said. “Start as I showed you last night.”

  From the neighboring women’s quarters, Mazal could be heard crying for her mother.

  Deborah looked at the connecting door.

  “Don’t worry,” Vardit said. “She’ll be with another child soon enough.”

  Deborah’s hands sho
ok as she started to weave the strands together, alternating over and under to interlace them in a checkerboard pattern, as she had practiced the night before. Her unstable hands made the task harder, and when Mazal cried out again, the weave collapsed and the strands fell from Deborah’s hand.

  Vardit got up. “I’ll be right back,” she said to Sallan and went to the women’s quarters.

  “Go on,” Sallan said. “Back to work.”

  Deborah started a new weave. Her hands still shook, but she was determined to succeed. After all this time of doing mindless work at the dipping tub, she was finally being allowed to prove herself as a real basket maker. Even if this was her last day in the factory, she didn’t want to fail.

  Vardit came back and looked at the weave before taking her seat. “Very good,” she said.

  Deborah smiled. “Thank you.”

  A sense of accomplishment filled her. If only Tamar could see this. She would have clapped with joy, hugged her tightly, and told her how proud she was of this achievement.

  As Deborah continued weaving, it occurred to her that she might have been hasty to make an escape plan with the priest for tonight. Perhaps Vardit was right about Seesya and his dislike of orange hair. After all, who knew him better than his own mother? Vardit had been certain that dyeing Deborah’s hair black and applying a layer of makeup would surprise and please Seesya. If true, then Deborah would be no worse off than every other wife in the household. Their lives were hard, with frequent pregnancies and related illnesses, but the women lived and worked together, sharing the pains and joys of motherhood. She would become one of them, no longer alone in the world.

  And, speaking of being alone, how could a solitary girl make the journey by foot through land she didn’t know all the way to Shiloh—at least three days away? There was no doubt in her mind that Tamar would tell her to trust Vardit and stay.

  The thought of Tamar led to recollection of the stoning. Images of that horror flashed before Deborah’s eyes. Her hand slipped, and she lost grip of a strand.

  “Careful, girl.” Vardit reached over and pointed. “Put it through again, right here.”

  Deborah did, and it held. She glanced at the other women around the table. None of them looked up from their work. Their fingers moved much faster than hers, with confidence and accuracy that she could only hope to match one day.

  As if reading her thoughts, Vardit said, “You’ll get better, don’t worry. By harvest time, you’ll be as good—”

  “No talking!” Sallan limped over. “That’s all you’ve done so far?”

  His words made Deborah’s chest tighten. Her fingers grew stiff. She struggled to push one strand between two others.

  “Not like that.” He reached over her shoulder and touched the loose strand with his thick forefinger. “This one should go in from the bottom.”

  When Deborah tried to turn the piece over, the whole thing separated and fell apart, dropping to the floor.

  “Stupid girl!” Sallan nudged her from behind. “Clean up this mess!”

  The factory went quiet, and everyone watched.

  Her face burning with embarrassment, Deborah bent and picked up the braided strands.

  “Try again!”

  She began to weave the strands again, but her hands trembled so badly that the strands separated as soon as she tried to interlace them.

  Vardit put down her own work. “Here, let me help—”

  “Leave her alone.” Sallan’s hand came between them. “I told her to practice last night.”

  Deborah looked up at him. “I practiced until the oil burned out.”

  “It’s true,” Vardit said. “She was still at it when I fell asleep.”

  “I don’t care how long you practiced. Either you can do the work, or not.”

  Using more force, Deborah held the strands together with one hand while forcing each strand into the next interlock, but the pressure forced one strand to bend too far, causing the rest of the woven piece to bend.

  “You ruined it.” Sallan reached down and snatched the piece out of her hand. He tossed a fresh bundle of strands on the table in front of her. “Try again.”

  This time, she arranged the strands on the tabletop and started to interlace them there, avoiding the complexity of holding the strands while weaving them. The women around the table watched her.

  “Go back to work,” Sallan told them. “It’s not a show.”

  They resumed working, but Deborah felt them glancing at her hands, expecting her to fail again. She breathed deeply, trying to ignore everyone and concentrate on weaving according to the pattern.

  It went well for a while, and she was getting near the full length of her strands. At this point, Vardit had explained to her, she should tie new strands to the ends and continue the pattern. But the strands weren’t all the same length, and when she tried to pull one of them slightly so that it would reach the same length as the others, the whole thing separated and fell apart. With Sallan hovering behind her, she groaned in frustration, and the women around the table giggled, except for Vardit, who seemed ready to cry.

  “You’re wasting my time!” Sallan pointed. “Go back to the dipping tub!”

  Barely able to see her way through the tears, Deborah walked across the factory to where the other girls were dipping fresh stalks of straw in the tub as if nothing were going on.

  Behind her, Sallan called out, “Stupid girl!”

  She stopped and turned to him. “I’m not stupid.”

  “I think you are.” Sallan limped toward her. “I think you’re totally stupid!”

  “No!” All her shame and distress combusted into anger. “If you think I’m stupid, then you’re stupid!”

  The whole factory froze, the workers’ hands suspended in midair, their eyes wide open. No one had ever spoken to Sallan like this.

  The foreman himself was stunned by her outburst. After a long moment, he limped to his work desk and picked up a parchment from a stack of scrolls. He came back, holding it in front of her.

  “If you’re not stupid,” he said, “then read what it says here.” He pointed to a line of inked text.

  She couldn’t read.

  “How about this line?” He pointed. “It’s in your language, the language of the Hebrews, the language of your prophet Moses. Read!”

  Her eyes dropped.

  “What’s wrong? Can’t you read it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Anyone else?” He waved the parchment at the rest of the factory workers. “Ladies? Girls? Anybody?”

  No one responded. Only men could read and write. The law forbade women from even trying to learn, a crime punishable by fifty lashes.

  “I’ll tell you what it says.” Sallan read aloud: “We require twenty-four small baskets and eighteen medium-size baskets before the next apple harvest—”

  Deborah turned and went to the dipping tub.

  “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” Sallan’s voice rose, filled with scorn. “You’re stupid! All of you! Now get back to work!”

  Chapter 9

  Deborah spent the rest of the day without looking at anyone else. She dipped the stalks, pulled any remaining whiskers, and passed the stalks on for braiding. When sunlight finally dimmed, Sallan clapped to signal the end of the workday. She dried her hands on her red robe and headed for the door. In a few hours, she would slip away from the compound and leave Emanuel to begin a new life that, even if cut short by violence on the road to Shiloh, would be better than this life of worthlessness and humiliation.

  Vardit was waiting for her at the door to the women’s quarters, her face filled with pity.

  “Hey, stupid girl!” Sallan called from behind her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  She turned.

  “Come back here.”

  “I’m tired,” she said.

  “Me too. Do you see me walking away?” Sallan pointed at the round table. “Sit down and practice your weaving.”

  Deborah gl
anced back over her shoulder, but Vardit was gone.

  “That’s it? You give up?” His voice was sarcastic. “You want to remain stupid?”

  His words stung. She went back to the table and sat down, determined to get it right this time. Sallan lit up several oil lamps and sat at his desk. The factory was quiet except for the rustling of his parchment and the scratching of his writing feather. He didn’t bother her, even when he walked over once in a while to check on her progress.

  With the oil in the lamp almost gone, her stomach aching from hunger, Deborah finished a rectangle of woven stalks, interlaced in even checkerboard pattern, its size fitting the measurements Vardit had given her.

  Sallan took it, examined the pattern, and used a ruler to measure the length and width. “Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all.”

  Bending it into a circular sidewall of a basket, he placed it over a flat, round base and used a thread and a long needle to stitch it together. The needle moved rapidly in his hands, the thread tight and evenly looped, binding the bottom of the sidewall around the edge of the base.

  “Keep it.” He handed her the small basket. “Maybe you’re not as stupid as I thought.”

  Carrying the basket in her hand as if it were a treasured heirloom, she headed to the door, eager to show it to Vardit.

  “Wait,” Sallan said. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  Surprised by his question, she pointed toward the women’s quarters. “There’s always some food left after the evening meal.”

  “You call that food?” He sneered. “I’ve seen what the women eat. Worthy of cows and chickens. Let me show you what real food looks like.”

  He snapped his fingers. His two servants appeared, hurrying down the staircase from the second floor. They helped Sallan up the stairs, his limp making the climb difficult.

  “Come on, girl,” he said.

  His invitation was so unusual that Deborah was paralyzed by confusion.

  “You won’t regret it,” he called from the top of the stairs.

  She realized that this might be her only opportunity to ask him about the story he had told Barac. Would Sallan know where she could find the Elixirist?