Deborah Rising

by Avraham Azrieli

  Deborah knelt on the dirt road, interwove her fingers, and pressed them under her chin, as Tamar had used to do. Looking up at the radiant Holy Tabernacle, she prayed to Yahweh.

  “I am Deborah,” she cried, “daughter of Harutz from Palm Homestead. Please help me find Kassite and convince him to give me the elixir that will turn me into a boy. I will be your servant forever.”

  Her tears clouded the glorious view at the hilltop. In desperation to be heard by Yahweh over the surrounding noise, she raised her voice.

  “If you still want me to be your prophet,” she cried, “I will, I swear to you! As a man, I will deliver your message to the Hebrews! I will serve you all my life!”

  With the last few words uttered at the top of her voice, Deborah collapsed to the ground. She curled up by the roadside, pressing her knees to her chest. Her whole body shook—slightly at first, but worsening quickly until her teeth chattered and involuntary moans escaped from her mouth. Then there was darkness.

  Chapter 20

  When Deborah came to, she was lying on a soft bed of straw, a wet cloth resting on her forehead. She pulled it off and saw a cover above, like a tent, but with one side open, facing the fairgrounds and its many campfires. The city of Shiloh sparkled with torches and firepits, but the Holy Tabernacle was dark now.

  “You are safe, child,” a woman said.

  Deborah sat up. “Who’s there?”

  “My name is Miriam.” The woman stood outside the small tent, barely visible in the dark. She wore a robe with a hood.

  Trying to stand up, Deborah became dizzy.

  “You should take it easy,” the woman said.

  Lying back down, Deborah saw that the woman’s hands were wrapped in rags and her eyes glistened above a sheer veil that covered most of her face.

  “Why am I here?”

  “We saw you faint by the roadside and brought you here to recover.”

  Deborah noticed several other tents nearby, dark figures sitting in front, also covered from head to toe like Miriam.

  The lepers!

  “Don’t be afraid,” Miriam said. “We won’t hurt you.”

  Deborah got up—more slowly this time. There was a slight breeze from outside the tent, and it cooled her face, making her feel better. She cleared her throat. “Yahweh’s blessings on you for helping me.”

  “We only returned a favor. When we brought our offerings this morning, you spoke up when everyone else wouldn’t even look at us. What is your name?”

  “Deborah, daughter of Harutz.”

  “Pray for us, Deborah.” Miriam bowed as if before a priest or a judge. “Pray the way you did earlier by the roadside. Ask God to lift our curse and heal us.”

  Deborah was relieved to find the gates still open for workers cleaning up after the day. A sentry stopped her, extending his spear across her way. “Where are you going, girl?”

  “I’m a guest at the house of Shatz Ha’Cohen.”

  “Are you from Emanuel?”

  She was surprised he knew. “Yes.”

  “Go ahead,” he said, pointing the spear up the hill.

  As she turned to go, a large group approached the gate. Deborah stepped aside and watched as armed men on horses led a few dozen slaves into the city. The men and women, wearing soiled sleeveless shirts and no shoes, were tied to each other in a long column. They entered Shiloh and turned left, away from the main street.

  Remembering what Nehoshtan had said about the slave warden who recorded all sales, Deborah decided to follow them. She stayed in the dark as the slaves were led down a street along the tents and shacks of the poor, right under the perimeter wall. The sentries patrolling along the top of the wall whistled, and one of them yelled, “Send up a slave girl, will you? We’ll throw her back down in the morning.”

  The armed men laughed and kept going.

  A few minutes later, the slaves were pushed into large wooden cages—one for the men, one for the women. The cages, which already held other slaves, were backed up to the walls. A smaller cage held children, both boys and girls together. Unlike the adult slaves, who were uniformly quiet, some of the children were crying.

  Having secured the slaves, the armed men tied their horses and entered a house nearby. Deborah peeked in through the open doorway and saw them speaking with an old man, who sat at a table covered with parchments. He gave them a purse of coins.

  Turning to go, one of the men saw her and yelled, “What do you want here, girl?”

  Pushing away her fear, Deborah said, “Nothing from you.”

  The men laughed at her audacity, and the old man beckoned her inside.

  Deborah entered and asked, “Are you the slave warden?”

  The old man nodded and waited as the armed men walked away. He scrutinized her up and down, his eyes pausing briefly on the ring. “This isn’t a safe neighborhood for a respectable woman.”

  “I heard the children crying out there. Perhaps they need food.”

  “Or toys, maybe?” He grinned, his red gums missing most of the teeth. “Bedtime stories?”

  “They’re only children.”

  “They’re merchandise to be sold for profit.” He gestured dismissively. “Tomorrow they’ll go on the dock, and their new owners can fatten them up and sacrifice them to Baal, for all I care.”

  His callous words silenced her.

  “Who are you?” the old man asked.

  “I live at the house of Shatz Ha’Cohen.”

  “Oh, I see.” The slave warden fumbled with his parchments. “How may I assist the elder priest at this time?”

  Deborah gulped to stop herself from correcting him. She realized that this coincidence—her finding the slave warden and his thinking that Shatz had sent her—was Yahweh’s doing, the answer to her prayers.

  “Only a small matter,” she said. “A question came up—”

  “I paid my taxes in full.” The old man raised his hands as if in surrender. “I have nothing to hide.”

  “It’s not about your business, sir. It’s about a small piece of information.”

  “What information?”

  “The name of the buyer of a certain slave.”

  “That’s all? You had me worried for a moment. Which slave exactly?”

  “Let me make sure I remember it correctly.” Deborah looked up at the ceiling as if trying to recall the priest’s instructions. “The slave’s name was Sallan. He was from Edom.”

  “Sallan? I don’t remember this name. When was that?”

  “He was sold during the first spring after the Great Famine, on the eve of the Passover holiday, eighteen years ago.”

  “Eighteen years ago?” The slave warden sat back, shaking his head. “How am I to remember such information?”

  “It must be in the records.” She gestured at the parchments.

  “I’ll have to look through many records to find information that old. It’s already late, and I haven’t eaten the evening meal yet. Come back tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It can’t wait. There’s one more fact to help you search. Sallan was sold right before another Edomite slave, a man named Kassite. One of them was bought by a merchant from Mitzpah.”

  “Wait here, girl.” Mumbling under his breath, he carried a small lamp down a short hallway to another room.

  The minutes passed, and she could hear him unrolling parchments, muttering to himself. She began to worry that he wouldn’t find it, that the records didn’t go so far back. Through the open front door, she heard men yelling outside, and the unmistakable sound of whipping, followed by shouts of pain.

  “Tell me,” the slave warden yelled from the other room, “why did he send you and not one of his Levite minions?”

  Deborah froze, her mind racing, and then she had an idea. “Probably because this must remain a secret. No one but me knows about it.”

  “And no one shall hear it from me. You can tell him that, too.” The slave warden reappeared, carrying a parchment, which he fl
attened on the desk. He pointed at a line written in faded ink. “First on the dock was Sallan. And then Kassite. Each one was sold for eight silver shekels and three goats. Sallan was the one who went to Mitzpah.” The old man squinted at the writing. “His new owner was Karam of Ephraim.”

  “Karam of Ephraim from Mitzpah,” Deborah repeated. “And just in case Shatz asks me, what about the other one, Kassite?”

  “He was sold to someone else.” He peered at the parchment. “Orran of Manasseh from Aphek.”

  Deborah struggled to control her excitement. She had to remember what he’d said, or all this would be for naught. “Can you repeat that?”

  He groaned. “Orran of Manasseh from Aphek. Haven’t you heard of him?”

  “Orran of Manasseh from Aphek? It sounds familiar.” A question occurred to her. “Isn’t Aphek a city of Ephraim?”

  “It is, but the land around it belongs to Manasseh, which is another source of trouble between these tribes.” The slave warden rolled up the parchment. “Shatz does a lot of business with Orran.” He shook his head, chuckling. “And in business, good information is like silver shekels.”

  “But I came to ask about Sallan,” Deborah said, desperate to maintain the ruse. “The other slave is not important.”

  “That’s what you think.” He ambled out of the room with the parchment. “Foolish girl.”

  The discovery of the information she had sought filled Deborah with joy. She retraced her steps, hurrying down the street between the massive outer wall and the tents and shacks of the poor. The gates had been shut for the night. Halfway up the main street, Nehoshtan’s door was still open, letting out the heat of his oven and the pounding of his hammer. As she came to the door, he looked up.

  “It’s you again.” He put down the hammer, slipped the piece of iron back into the fire, and yelled, “Wife, come out for a moment.”

  A woman appeared from a back door connected to the rest of the house. She was short and round, her hair was covered with a scarf, and her face was red and sweaty.

  Nehoshtan pointed at Deborah. “This is the girl I was telling you about—Deborah, daughter of Harutz from Palm Homestead.”

  The woman wiped the sweat off her face. “Shalom,” she said. “I am Michal.”

  Deborah smiled.

  “My husband told me about you. Did Shatz Ha’Cohen help you?”

  “He gave me shelter until he decides what to do. I trust in Yahweh that all will be made right and just.”

  Nehoshtan smoothed his beard, exchanging a brief smile with his wife. A toddler came out from behind her and grabbed the bottom of her dress. He was naked except for a loincloth, and his large, dark eyes went from Deborah to his father. He grinned, showing little teeth.

  Nehoshtan swept the boy up in his arms and kissed him. “This is my youngest son, Tsoreph.”

  The boy buried his face in his father’s shirt.

  Michal laughed and patted the boy’s back. “Shall I add another plate to the dinner table?”

  “Thank you,” Deborah said, “but I cannot stay. I just stopped by to ask your husband something.”

  “Another time, then.” Michal took the boy and went back into the house.

  Nehoshtan glanced after them and turned to Deborah. “What is it?”

  Deborah pressed her interwoven fingers under her chin. “Yahweh heard my prayers and helped me find the information I was seeking. Blessed be He!”

  “Amen.” The blacksmith scratched his head. “I once heard Shatz Ha’Cohen’s father—who was truly righteous, unlike his son—preach at the Holy Tabernacle on the Day of Atonement. It was the last year of the Great Famine, though we didn’t know at the time that relief was near. I was a boy of eight or nine, but what he said stuck in my mind: ‘When you pursue your True Calling, God provides the shortcuts.’”

  “Yes!” Deborah clapped excitedly. “It’s happening to me!”

  He shifted the iron in the fire, producing a burst of sparks and smoke, giving her a moment to compose herself. “And what is it that I can provide?” he asked.

  “Do you know of Orran of Manasseh from Aphek?”

  “The tanner?”

  “What’s a tanner?” Deborah blushed. “I don’t know this trade.”

  “Why should you? It used to be a Philistine art. Only they knew how to turn butchered skins into fine leather. But a few Hebrews learned it, too. You’d find a tanner only in a big city near a river—a city like Aphek or Megiddo. Tanning isn’t something one can do in a small shop.” He gestured at his own work area.

  “Why?”

  “A tannery needs lots of water to feed the soaking tubs and wash the skins, and it has to be downwind from the town because the feces smell terribly.”

  “Feces?”

  Nehoshtan laughed. “I’m not explaining it well. Part of the process in a tannery involves soaking animal skins in tubs filled with water and rotting waste to soften the skins. By varying the length and harshness of the soaking, and by using certain types of chalk and sharp liquids, a tanner can turn the skins into different kinds of leather, depending on the intended use—thick and hard for armor, supple and pliable for chairs, or even thin as a leaf for writing, like parchment or really fine vellum.”

  “Now I understand,” Deborah said, and she meant not only that she understood what a tanner did, but also how Kassite, a man who knew how to mix potent elixirs, would be helpful to a tanner. “Have you met Orran of Manasseh?”

  “Who hasn’t? Orran owns the biggest tannery between the Great Sea and the Jordan River. The priests sell him animal skins from all the offerings and sacrifices. Once he turns the skins into leather and parchment, the priests buy those products from him for ten times over.”

  It occurred to Deborah that Orran’s tannery success might be due to Kassite, the way Judge Zifron’s basket business owed its success to Sallan. There was no doubt left in her mind that the slave warden’s information was correct. She wanted to jump up and down with joy, but she controlled herself and asked, “How far is Aphek from here?”

  “It’s two days due west, right above the source of the Yarkon River. Do you plan to go there?”

  “At first light tomorrow morning!”

  “Be careful,” Nehoshtan said. “The roads are dangerous, even for a man.”

  Deborah smiled and waved. “Yahweh’s blessings upon you and your family.”

  Chapter 21

  Her chest bursting with excitement, Deborah ran uphill. She would spend the night in the women’s quarters, keeping to herself, and leave in the morning. Her prayers had been answered, and there was no doubt that Yahweh wanted her to succeed in becoming a boy. Otherwise, why would He bother to help her find the Elixirist? “When you pursue your True Calling, God provides the shortcuts.” She felt a rush of gratitude. As eager as she was to reach Aphek, before departing in the morning she would go to the top of the hill and give thanks at the Holy Tabernacle.

  Approaching Shatz Ha’Cohen’s house, she slowed down and shielded her eyes from the bright glow. Dozens of burning torches turned night into day. Men filled the courtyard as if it were a market. Over their heads, at the opposite end, she saw Shatz Ha’Cohen sitting on a black stallion with a silver bridle.

  “A magnificent beast,” Shatz announced. “Please give your father my sincere gratitude for a generous gift!”

  “You’re most welcome,” said a familiar voice.

  Only then did Deborah notice the man standing beside Shatz, holding the silver bridle, a red scar cutting across his face.

  She screamed, drawing everyone’s attention.

  “What do you know,” Shatz said. “Here’s your lovely bride.”

  “In all her glory,” Seesya said with a crooked grin.

  Deborah turned to run, but she was too late. Two soldiers blocked the courtyard’s exit.

  “Come, girl.” Shatz climbed down from the stallion, aided by his servants. “Step over here. Don’t be afraid.”

  The crowd of men parted as
she slowly walked across the courtyard.

  Seesya was dressed in armor and held a horsewhip in his hand. Vardit, her face dour, stood behind him in a dark robe. Obadiah of Levi, a travel coat over his white robe, leaned on his wooden staff, his eyes downcast. She recognized some of the servants and soldiers from the judge’s household in Emanuel. A whole sheep was roasting over the firepit, and servants walked around with trays of fruit and cheese, as well as wine jugs to top off the guests’ goblets.

  Shatz Ha’Cohen smiled as he patted the horse’s neck. “Look what Judge Zifron sent me. A magnificent stallion, isn’t it?”

  Deborah couldn’t respond. She was rigid with shock.

  Seesya twirled the horsewhip and touched the end of the whip to his forehead in a gesture of mock greeting, his dark eyes half-hidden by his oily hair.

  “Did you lose your tongue, girl?” Shatz waved over a servant. “Give her a drink!”

  The servant filled a goblet and offered it to her.

  Deborah had to make a concerted effort to move her hand, take the goblet, and bring it to her lips. She took a sip, aspirated some of the wine, and coughed.

  “Don’t spill my good wine,” Shatz protested good-naturedly. “Drink it. It’ll make you feel happy like the rest of us.”

  Everybody laughed, and Seesya stepped forward and pushed the bottom of the goblet up without touching Deborah’s hand, forcing her to drink until the goblet was empty. She coughed some more, bending over. When the coughing spell was over, the priest clapped, and all the men joined him.

  Deborah fell to her knees and held her hands up to Shatz. “Please help me! I don’t want to marry him!”

  The laughter around her died down.

  “I beg you,” she cried. “In the name of Yahweh, save me!”

  “No need for that,” Shatz Ha’Cohen said. “Come, girl, stand up.”