“Don’t preach—you of all people. I’ve seen your manipulations and trickery, how you’ve gotten Father to do what you wanted.”
“I’m your mother,” she cried. “Yahweh will punish you!”
“Enough with your Yahweh. I have plenty of gods on my side—better gods, stronger gods.”
“Why won’t you listen to me? All I do, all my efforts, everything is for your success and happiness. Everything!”
“That’s your duty.” He spat again. “Make sure she doesn’t escape again, that’s all.”
“If you don’t have compassion for me, at least have some for this girl. She’ll make a good wife.”
“She’s a whore like her sister and her mother. I’ll prove it tonight and, tomorrow, we’ll go back to Emanuel and summon another trial. The tribesmen of Ephraim will enjoy another stoning—a better stoning, not like the last one. I’ll make sure that this one goes as it should, that she dies slowly, little by little, one stone at a time, screaming and wailing and suffering like she deserves! And then, I won’t have to look at those ugly freckles and orange hair ever again!”
Stunned by the naked venom in Seesya’s voice, Deborah ran up the rest of the stairs and went into their room. With shaking hands she reached into her sack, pulled out the waterskin, removed the cork, and gulped water.
Vardit entered the room and closed the door. She pulled off her dress, lay facedown on the mat, and wept into the crook of her arm.
The conversation she had overheard left Deborah with no hope, but seeing Vardit’s agony, compassion overtook her own helplessness. She poured Sallan’s potion from the clay bottle on her hand and gently rubbed it on Vardit’s back. All the welts had developed scabs and appeared to be healing well. She was careful not to disturb the scabs.
Gradually, Vardit calmed down, her breathing slowed, and she fell asleep.
In the late afternoon, Vardit got up and announced with forced cheerfulness, “It’s time to get ready!”
She mixed black dye with water in a clay bowl until it was smooth and even. Deborah sat in a chair, removed her scarf, and untied her hair. Vardit applied the dye, starting at the roots.
Surrendering to Vardit’s capable hands, Deborah thought about Zariz—his large, warm eyes, which looked at her with fervent longing, his face, bright and sad at the same time. She remembered a similar expression on the face of Barac, son of Abinoam. Both boys had black hair and a dark, handsome complexion. While in reality there were many differences between them, in her mind the two merged, and she wasn’t sure who was who. And yet, the orange honeysuckle flowers and their sweet taste would forever be associated with Zariz.
“That’s it,” Vardit said, stepping back to look at the results of her labor. “We must let the dye dry slowly by itself, or it won’t take.”
Deborah held up a lock of her hair, now completely black. “I don’t have my mother’s hair anymore.”
“In less than a year, you’ll be a mother yourself. But in the meantime, since your mother is no longer alive, it’s my responsibility to tell you what to expect tonight.”
A shudder went through Deborah. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I understand how you feel, but unfortunately, you really need to know.”
“I know what to expect. I’ve seen animals do it.”
Vardit caressed her cheek. “You’re not an animal.”
But Seesya is, Deborah wanted to say, yet she didn’t. Having overheard the conversation between Vardit and her son earlier, she felt sorry for the older woman.
“I want to know only one thing,” she said. “Will it hurt?”
“For a short time,” Vardit said. “Until he’s done. Usually new husbands get very excited, finish quickly, and let you go back to the women’s quarters to dry your tears and clean up.” Vardit hesitated. “Blood comes out, but not thick and gooey like your female blood. When a girl loses her virginity, the blood is bright red and thin, as if blood from a fresh cut had been mixed with a bit of water.”
A film of sweat covered Deborah’s face.
Vardit handed her the waterskin. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”
Taking a few sips, she tried to calm down.
“All this talk of blood,” Vardit said, “can make even a hardy girl scared. Think of it as spilled pomegranate juice, because that’s how it will look on your bed cloth.”
“What if there is no blood?”
“Have you—?”
“I’ve never been with a man, but neither had Tamar, and look what happened to her.”
Vardit went to the window. She looked out for a few minutes, her breathing belabored, as if she was struggling not to cry.
“Please,” Deborah said. “Tell me what to do.”
“Some virgin girls don’t bleed,” Vardit finally said. “It’s how they’re made down there, or how the man is doing it. No one can tell.”
“How can a bride know beforehand if she’s going to bleed or not?”
“It doesn’t matter, as long as she makes sure her new husband thinks she bled—the more the better. I’ve heard men brag about how much their wives bled on the first night, as if it were proof of their virility. Oddly childish, isn’t it?”
Deborah looked at her, confused.
“You’re not the first bride to worry about it,” Vardit said. “Every girl is taught by her mother to produce blood, just to be safe.”
“You mean—”
“As soon as the man is done, while he’s busy catching his breath, cleaning himself, or getting dressed, the bride checks herself for blood. If there’s none, she puts in a finger and gets it going.”
Deborah sucked air in shock, covering her mouth.
“Show me your hands.” Vardit pointed at the right-hand forefinger. “This one has the longest nail. Put it in and scratch really hard until you feel blood.”
“Hurt myself?”
“That’s the whole point.”
“I could get sick, or lose the ability to bear children!”
“Would you rather have your new husband complain you’re not a virgin? Besides, usually it heals just fine.”
“Oh, dear Yahweh!” Deborah hugged herself, rocking back and forth. “This is terrible!”
“It’s not as terrible as other pains we suffer—like childbirth, for example.”
“No, I mean it’s terrible that Tamar didn’t know what to do.”
“She did know,” Vardit said. “I told her. But some girls aren’t capable of doing what’s necessary. They’re afraid of the pain, or think it’s wrong to start marriage with a lie.”
“Is that what Tamar said to you?”
“She said she’d do it. That’s why I was shocked when her bed cloth was clean and Seesya accused her.”
“Did you ask her afterward?”
“She was locked away, guarded by Seesya’s soldiers until the trial. I’ll always wonder why she didn’t scratch like I told her.” Vardit touched Deborah’s hair. “The dye isn’t dry yet. Stand in the window to let the breeze through your hair. I’ll go wash and change in the meantime.”
Alone in the room, Deborah stood at the window and watched the preparations below. Slaves used brooms and water from the well to clean the courtyard. They replaced the torches on the walls and piled fresh wood by the firepit. Across the courtyard, they hung sheets of cloth to hide the workshop, where bare-chested slaves continued to clean the bloody cowhides. Along the inner part of the courtyard, where steps led into the main house, servants arranged tables and covered them with linen.
All these preparations for her wedding to Seesya felt unreal to Deborah, as if some other girl would be getting married tonight—a happy girl, a girl filled with gratitude for marrying a judge’s first son, a girl who didn’t know Seesya’s dark heart and wasn’t aware of what he had done to Tamar.
Vardit’s latest revelation haunted Deborah. Why had Tamar failed to make herself bleed? Had she been reluctant to self-inflict an injury on her most intimate parts, or unw
illing to perpetuate deceit at the outset of her marriage? It occurred to Deborah that her own reaction to Vardit’s advice might be instructive. She was terrified of actually doing it, and Tamar had probably felt the same, but whatever the reason, she had paid dearly for failing to make herself bleed.
Now, knowing what she had to do in Seesya’s bed, Deborah doubted whether she could actually do it. Should she try to escape again? If only she could find a way to sneak out of Shiloh. And then? She would travel to Aphek, find Kassite and convince him to help her become a boy before Seesya hunted her down. Her chances were slim, at best. It had been eighteen years since Orran bought the slave. Kassite could be serving a second owner, or a third, or be dead and buried for years with no one to tell her one way or the other. But still, he was the Elixirist, a man of great wisdom and abilities. Surely he had survived and could help her. And then—no more girl, no more betrothal, no more marriage to the evil Seesya!
Her hopes quickly faded under the weight of reality. She was a prisoner. There was no way to get away from here, and no chance of avoiding tonight’s marriage. Could she bring herself to draw blood? And even if she produced enough blood to soak her bed cloth, would Seesya let her live much longer? A husband who didn’t fear Yahweh could find a hundred ways to cause his wife’s death, and no one would hold him accountable.
Her hands were shaking, and she clasped them together. Zariz had said: “Listen to your fear, but don’t let it control you.” Why was she unable to assert control? Why was she yielding to her fear? Sallan had promised that the Reinforcing Liquid would grow more effective with time and make her increasingly stronger. Why was she feeling weaker?
Deborah inhaled and blew air through pursed lips. She had to think as a strong person would. Her immediate survival depended on proving her virginity beyond doubt so that Seesya wouldn’t be able to put her on trial. But what about the future? Abinoam had said, “Even the most wretched young man grows up to love his children and respect his children’s mothers.” Did the prediction apply to Seesya? Was he capable of change? Deborah didn’t think so. Hadn’t he subjected his own mother to flogging? Hadn’t he threatened Vardit with even worse punishment? If he could be so vicious and cruel to his own mother, wouldn’t he be worse to a wife he’d openly hated from the start? Deborah had no doubt that, once he won full ownership of Palm Homestead, Seesya would find a way to end her life.
Her conclusion was simple, born not out of fear, but out of facts. Seesya would never change, and she would never be safe as his wife. This conclusion made Vardit’s advice impractical. Injuring herself in the most tender and sensitive part of her body could make Deborah bedridden for days, or even weeks. No. She had to survive the first night while remaining healthy and strong in order to run away as soon as possible.
Still at the window, Deborah returned her attention to the scene below. She watched as one of the soldiers guarding the stairwell hurled a piece of fruit across the courtyard, hitting a slave. Startled, the slave dropped a bucket of water on his bare feet and screamed in pain, which made the soldiers laugh.
After a moment of anger and disgust at this cruelty, Deborah had an idea. She tied a scarf over her head, took her waterskin, and left the room. Halfway down the stairs, she ran into Vardit.
“I’ll be right back,” Deborah said. “I’m going to fill my waterskin with clean water from the well.”
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t.”
When Deborah came out, the two soldiers got up. She held up her waterskin and pointed at the well.
They nodded and watched her go.
The bucket was at the bottom of the well. She turned the handle on the pulley to raise the full bucket, uncorked the waterskin, and dipped it in the water until it swelled about halfway. Taking a sip, she swirled the cold water in her mouth before swallowing, and glanced at the soldiers furtively. They were sitting on empty wine barrels, chatting again.
Making her way slowly across the courtyard, Deborah watched the slaves hanging sheets over the open wall of the workshop. On the right side were several open carts with piles of cowhides and other animal skins, ready for shipment. A large wooden container held discarded clumps of bloody flesh and fur that had been removed from the skins.
She leaned against the container, her back to it, and watched the courtyard. Up close, the stench of blood and rotting flesh was nauseating. The workers glanced at her, but she took her time, looking around with feigned interest. She took another sip from the waterskin and left it open. When no one was looking, she put the cork in her pocket, reached behind with her free hand into the waste container, and felt around for a small piece of meat. It was slippery, but she managed to grasp it with her fingers and push it in through the narrow neck of her waterskin.
Glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention to her, Deborah reached back into the waste container for another piece.
In all, Deborah got four bits of bloody animal meat into her waterskin before the soldiers started to eye her curiously. She pretended to sip from the waterskin one last time, corked it, and crossed the courtyard at a leisurely pace. Once inside, on the way upstairs, she pressed the waterskin to her chest to squeeze the blood out of the pieces of meat inside, pressing as hard as she could. Her life would depend on it tonight.
Part Six
The Marriage
Chapter 24
The sun had set, and its afterglow painted the sky red. The purifying bath, located near the slave cages at the bottom of the hill, was a rectangular hole in the ground, three steps by six steps, plastered thickly to keep the water from seeping into the ground. Yahweh’s law required impure women to immerse in fresh water. A system of channels from several nearby roofs brought in rainwater a few times a year, and a wooden cover kept the water from evaporating during the hot days. A straw canopy and side curtains provided privacy. Every woman in Shiloh came here at the end of her seven days of impurity. Because the water was replaced only when rain came, the purifying bath was far from clean.
Under Vardit’s watchful eye, Deborah put aside her waterskin, took off the red robe and scarf, as well as her undergarments, and entered the murky pool. The water felt warm against her naked skin. She knew that nothing could be lurking beneath the dark surface of the water, but her imagination was fueled by her anxiety, and she expected a rat or a snake to bite her. Quickly, she pinched her nose and immersed completely once, twice, and a third time. As she climbed out, Vardit poured clean water over her from a bowl, waited while Deborah rubbed her body with a rag, and poured another bowl over her.
Drying herself with clean cloth, Deborah said, “At least this part is over.”
“It’s the first time of many—every month or so for the rest of your days, except when you’re pregnant, or if you live to the old age of fifty or more, when your monthly blood dries out.”
“I don’t know if I’ll live until tomorrow, let alone to age fifty.”
“Don’t say that. You’ll live for many years and have many babies.” Vardit handed her clean undergarments and a white dress. “It’s the best thing about being pregnant—no bleeding, and therefore no impurity and no immersion in the dirty purifying bath.”
“People are waiting,” Obadiah of Levi said from outside the curtains. “Is it done?”
“Almost.” Vardit helped Deborah put on the dress and tie a scarf over her hair. “Ready now.”
The priest came into the enclosure. “Did she immerse completely three times?”
“I witnessed it,” Vardit said.
“Was there any sign of blood?”
“No.”
“Very well,” he said. “She is ready for her husband.”
Vardit fixed a sheer white veil over Deborah’s face and pinned it to the scarf.
“We’ll start the procession now,” Obadiah said, turning to leave.
“And then what?” Deborah ignored Vardit’s restraining hand. “We go back to Emanuel, where you’ll pronounce me a whore
and let them stone me like Tamar?”
The priest paused. He leaned on his staff and sighed. “For your sake, girl, and for my sake as well, I pray that the bed cloth is stained tonight. Otherwise, even Yahweh in all His glory won’t be able to save you.”
The street outside was filled with people. While most marriages started with a simple blessing by a priest and a consummation in the husband’s bed, wealthy families held more elaborate celebrations in their homes, with food and music to entertain guests. Yet only powerful judges and rich priests celebrated their sons’ weddings with large processions and animal sacrifices. Tamar had also been taken by a procession from the purifying bath in Emanuel to the house of Judge Zifron. However, this procession was even larger than Tamar’s, reminding Deborah of the Edomite proverb that Sallan had quoted: “The higher the rise, the steeper the fall.”
Right in front of the exit from the bath was the huge black stallion, Seesya’s gift to Shatz. Two stable boys held the silver bridle, and two female servants helped Deborah climb onto the elaborate leather saddle. The white dress was loose, so Deborah sat sideways on the saddle. She began to slide off, but Vardit noticed what was happening and supported Deborah’s legs until the two servants could push her back up. Once her weight was balanced, she held steady with a firm grip on the saddle horn.
Shaken up, Deborah had a nagging feeling that she’d forgotten something, but the procession began to move forward. At the front was Obadiah of Levi, walking with his oak staff. Behind him were a dozen Levites, also in white robes, tapping on tambourines and hand drums. She recognized some of their faces from the group that had beaten her with bloody bones at the Holy Tabernacle that morning.
Suddenly she remembered. “My waterskin!” She looked around, spotting Vardit close by. “I forgot my waterskin—it’s still in there!”
Vardit hurried back and soon returned with the waterskin. Deborah hung it from her neck by the strap.
A choir of boys commenced singing the traditional wedding hymn, whose lyrics described the marriages of Jacob and his two wives—the older and wiser Leah and the younger and prettier Rachel. The boys sang with the same angelic, thin voices that had touched her heart in the morning, though now she felt nothing but dread.
Deborah Rising Page 18