“It’s been nearly a week,” Nadia said, wrapping her cloak tightly about her. “Do you think they came upon robbers?” Her whispered words held the same thread of fear that was in Jael’s heart.
Jael reminded herself that she was the older, wiser one here. It was up to her to comfort. “I’m sure they are fine. They must have been delayed in Hazor. Perhaps the king invited them to a banquet.” Or imprisoned them for some ridiculous reason. But if Sisera had sent them to King Jabin, he would know what had become of her husband and sons. And if something bad had happened, his chariots would be on the door of her camp. Even now she and her girls would be in Canaanite hands.
“If they don’t come soon,” Nadia said, pacing with her words, “what will we do?”
Jael glanced at the tents where Raja and Daniyah had bedded down for the night. Pray God they slept, for Raja with her swelling belly needed her rest. Worry would not help her, might in fact cause harm to the child. And Daniyah’s fears were evident with every waking moment. “Where is Abba?” she had asked over and over. “They should be home by now.”
It had taken all of Jael’s self-control not to rebuke the girl for her repeated worries. To do so would only reveal her own.
“You have a plan, don’t you?” Nadia’s soft voice brought Jael’s thoughts around to her again.
“Not a good one.” She fiddled with the scarf at her neck, repositioning it over her hair. She should go into the tent and let down her hair and sleep as one who expects pleasant dreams. But she had kept her hair up and her staff and cloak at the ready. Just in case.
She looked at Nadia and touched the girl’s slight shoulder. “If they do not return in two more days, we will pack everything up and move south, back to our people. It is the only place where we might find safety.” How they would get there unnoticed, she did not know. They would have to keep to the paths in the hills, off the main roads.
“It is what I would do,” Nadia said, her voice catching on a sob.
Jael took the girl into her arms and patted her back. “Mahir will be fine. They are just delayed. I’m sure it is nothing.”
Nadia nodded and clung to Jael for a suspended moment, then pulled away. “I best get some sleep.”
“Yes, as will I.” Though Jael knew sleep would come fitfully, if at all, for another night. For despite the guards Heber had left to watch over them, Jael would not feel truly safe until her men rested near her again.
The slow clomping of donkeys’ hooves woke Jael the next morning. She jumped up, smoothed her rumpled clothing, which she had not bothered to set aside the night before, and peered through the door of her tent. Daniyah rose to look out as well, but when she saw Heber, she burst from Jael’s tent and ran straight into her father’s waiting arms.
“Daniyah, my sweet.” He kissed each of her cheeks, held her close, then looked her over again. “How tall you have grown in just a few days.”
Daniyah laughed. “You make fun, Abba. I am the same as I was when you left.”
Jael hurried from the tent, taking turns hugging each one of her sons, clinging to them as though her very life resided in theirs.
And then everyone was talking at once. Her daughters-in-law claimed her two married sons, and Daniyah moved to talk to her brother Ghalib. Jael walked to Heber’s side, but one glance behind him made her stop and stare.
A young woman sat huddled on a donkey, covered from head to foot in a filthy, torn robe and headscarf.
“Who is this?” Jael met her husband’s gaze, searching.
“She was a slave to Jabin. I purchased her freedom.” Heber pulled Jael into his arms and bent low to her ear. “It is a long story, and I am too weary to tell it more than once. I will explain everything over the evening meal.” He kissed her forehead. “She is not a concubine to me or any of our sons. She was kidnapped and abused. She is a Hebrew. I will tell you the rest later.”
He turned then to extend a hand toward the frightened girl. “This is Yiskah. Please treat her kindly and make her presentable.” His look toward Jael held apology. “Her clothes . . . it was the best we could do.”
Jael nodded. “No apology needed, my lord. We will take care of her.” She lifted a quizzical brow at Heber to let him know she did not intend to be left without knowing all. Then she turned toward the girl with a smile and led her to her tent.
“Where are you from, Yiskah?” Jael searched through a basket of clean tunics for an appropriate one for the girl, who stood shivering near the tent wall, unwilling to sit or even speak.
Daniyah stood at Jael’s side and pointed to a pale yellow tunic near the bottom. “That one should fit.” She bent close to Jael’s ear. “She won’t answer you, Ima. She’s afraid.”
Jael pulled out the tunic and found a matching belt and a spare robe, then turned to face the girl. “Here, give me the veil.”
The girl clung to it as though the flimsy material would protect her.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Jael soothed, her voice soft, as though speaking to one of her children when they were small. “Please, let me see your hair.”
The girl stared, wide-eyed, her gaze shrunken, her eyes deep wells of anguish and sorrow. At last she let the veil fall from hair that was matted and filthy and . . . short. Someone had cropped it closer than a man’s hair. No wonder the girl was ashamed.
“There, now,” Jael said as tears filled the girl’s dark gaze. “Come. We will take you to the spring and wash the dirt from you first.” She grabbed the soap and hyssop and a thick woven blanket and motioned both Yiskah and Daniyah through the tent.
They made their way through the trees to a spring that ran behind the campsite. Daniyah held the blanket for the girl’s privacy while Jael helped her bathe. “There, there, it’s okay to weep.” She could not miss the deep welts along her back or the bruises on her arms and legs, not to mention the mark of shackles or ropes at her wrists. How much abuse had she suffered?
Yiskah’s tears fell in silence, mixing with the water Jael poured over her head. On the third rinsing, Jael declared her clean and quickly helped her dry off and dress.
“Why, you are beautiful, dear girl.” With a new veil covering her short-cropped hair, she was pretty. But who was she? From where had the Canaanites taken her?
Yiskah shook her head but still said nothing. Jael shrugged, then sighed. She couldn’t make her talk. She had done what she could.
“Come. You will eat something and then sleep. We can talk in the morning.”
The girl followed Jael and Daniyah back to the camp, accepted cheese and dates in silence, eating them as one savors a last meal, then lowered her body with great care onto the mat Jael provided. Jael watched, her heart squeezing tight at such a broken creature.
She left a lamp burning in the tent, then went outside to prepare food for the men, wondering at how easy it was to fix the outside of a person. But the inner Yiskah might never be healed.
Later that evening, after the men were fed and had gone to their tents, Jael slipped into Heber’s tent and lowered the flap. He rose up on one elbow to look at her.
“Good, you are still awake.”
He rolled onto his back and placed one arm over his eyes. “I wasn’t until you walked in. What do you want, woman?”
Jael lay at his side and snuggled beneath his arm, resting her head on his shoulder. “Tell me what you know of this girl.”
“I already told you at the mealtime.”
“You told me what you wanted our daughters to hear. But you know more than you told them. Who is she?”
Heber’s chest lifted and fell in a defeated sigh. “You push too much, Jael.”
“It is a wife’s job to do so, my lord.” She placed one arm across his chest, waiting.
“I told you what Barak’s men found when they entered Hazor.”
“Yes.” She shuddered to imagine such a gruesome sight.
“Well, it was worse than I said. Jabin had certain slaves standing, never allowed to sit, on eit
her side of his throne.” He sighed again. “They were not clothed.”
Heat filled Jael’s cheeks at the image in her mind’s eye. “How awful for them.”
“Yes,” he said softly, as though it pained him to say even that one word. “Barak, when I’d met him along the way, had pleaded with me to save even one of them, to purchase one of the men or women from Jabin. He did not know about the girls in Jabin’s audience chamber.”
Jael shifted, clinging to him for his comforting presence.
“I knew I could not help the men and women in the market square, nor the ones in the ring meant to die. But apparently Jabin displays these few for his courtiers and visitors. They were . . . for sale.” Heber turned to face her. “He is despicable.”
“Yes. As is his commander,” Jael whispered, shivering again at the way Sisera had touched her.
“I only had enough gold to buy the one, or you would have two servants to care for.”
“You did what you could.” She stroked his arm, his bearded cheek. “You are a good man.”
“She is related to the prophetess.”
Jael sucked in a breath. “The one in Israel? The one who judges those who come to her?”
“The same.” His gaze held hers. “That meant her cost was greater. I ended up trading all of the weapons for her.”
“It is of no consequence. We will get by.” Related to the prophetess. Jael’s thoughts whirled. “They must be frantic, wondering what has happened to her.”
“Perhaps.” Heber yawned, and Jael knew he would say little more.
“Would you think otherwise?” She had to know his thoughts.
“It is strange that no one has come searching for her. That the prophetess wouldn’t have known where to find her. Perhaps the girl lied about the connection. There is only one way to know for sure.” Heber stroked her cheek, placed a finger on her lips. “You must take her to Deborah.”
“Me?” She stared at him, dumbstruck. “Not alone, surely.”
“Of course not. I would send Ghalib and Fareed with you. You will stay to the side roads and hill country. The journey is not very far.” He lifted her chin with a gentle touch. “And you might consider leaving Daniyah with her. I think she would be safer with the prophetess than here where Sisera . . .” He did not finish the thought, but he did not need to.
Obviously, her husband had thought about this, and not for a little time. “But if the prophetess’s village is so safe, how did Jabin’s men get Yiskah?”
Heber shrugged. “I do not know. Ask Deborah. If her answer pleases you, leave Daniyah in her care. If it does not, bring her home. I will find a way to send you all back to my brother, though it troubles me to even suggest it.”
She kissed him, recognizing the struggle of such a statement. He would forgo his pride to save his women. “Kiss me now and we will talk of this later.” She ruffled his hair and drew him to her. His slow smile warmed her, and she gladly welcomed him into her arms.
16
Barak moved into the courtyard of his empty house, his steps tentative. He had stayed away so long. Even when he had returned to Kedesh-naphtali and stayed with his parents instead of his own house, he had been unable to bear being so near the memories of this place. Perhaps this determination to face them now was foolish.
He glanced about the decaying court. The clay bowl Nessa had placed his feet in to wash after his work in the fields lay covered in dust, and a nest of cobwebs filled the dry hole now. The stones of the court held a thick layer of road dust as well, and Nessa’s broom stood silent, as forgotten as all that used to be normal about his life. All that used to give his life meaning.
A weary sigh escaped. Three years. How was it possible? Only yesterday she stood laughing as he twirled her in his arms and kissed her in the center of this court. Only yesterday she had stroked his beard and whispered sweet words in his ear. But now, all that remained of this place was dry earth and stale memories.
He swallowed. Hard. There was so little hope left—especially after the news of Endor’s shame and decimation had reached them. Sisera had killed Endor’s men and maimed their youths, and eventually he would find and destroy Kedesh-naphtali, the prophetess’s village, and every other small town left standing in Israel.
The defeat should have sparked greater determination, but Barak had lost the strength for the fight. He’d had no choice but to send his men home—even Keshet—for there was nothing more to do. Before long Barak would lie in Sheol with Nessa.
He raked a hand through his hair.
His grip tightened on a lamp he had borrowed from his mother, and he walked about the rooms, trying to see them without imagining Nessa weaving in one corner or spinning in another. He closed his eyes and took in a long, slow breath. Nessa. His throat thickened. He moved to another room. Their bedchamber.
He stopped, staring into the semi-darkness. The room was musty from disuse, the mats in dire need of beating, which his mother would have done if he had allowed it. He couldn’t bear to change a thing even now. A painful ache filled his chest. He took one step. Another. Stopped again and looked slowly from one edge of the room to another. He had laid her here when the women of the village tried to save her. The scent of her blood and the foreign smells that had clung to her were gone now. Nothing but dust remained.
For you are dust, and to dust you shall return. The Creator’s words to his ancestor Adam on that long-ago day when beauty was broken.
Nessa had been beautiful. So beautiful.
He set the lamp on a low table and knelt beside the mat. She was there again in his mind’s eye, her eyes closed . . . peaceful.
“Please, Nessa . . .” His voice had cracked, and he wasn’t sure he could say more. But he must. He must convince her to stay. “Don’t leave me.” He gripped her pale, lifeless hand, and her strength ebbed even as he held tighter.
Her eyes fluttered open for the briefest moment. “Barak.”
She attempted to lift her hand to touch his cheek, but she could not raise it high enough to reach him. Just as he could not reach her now.
Memories of that day blurred—shouts to the women to do something! Curses at Sisera as Barak had stomped the fields near the burial cave. And tears. They came in the wilds where he had wandered for weeks once darkness fell, and outside the tomb where Nessa’s bones lay. She had gone to a place he could not follow, and he needed her. Desperately.
How could he live without her? Even now the question brought pain, and yet somehow he had managed to still breathe. His own body had betrayed him and refused to follow her to the nether world, despite his constant prayers to do so. Revenge and hatred had grown strong, pushed him forward. He would avenge her death. He would live long enough to destroy the man who had done this to his only love. Then he would stop caring what happened to him.
And yet, he had made no dent in Sisera’s terror and was no closer to catching and killing the man. He had only proved his own failure by watching Sisera grow stronger with each passing year. And Israel grow weaker.
He sank to his knees, his thoughts as deflated as his anger, like a cloud dissipating into air too thin to hold it. How bitter the taste of defeat.
I wish these days had never come. Hadn’t he walked with God? While his neighbors and fellow Israelites had followed other gods, hadn’t he clung to his faith? Hadn’t he done all he could?
His self-defense did not comfort.
The fronds of the palm branches swayed above Deborah’s head as afternoon waned. The line of people who had come seeking her judgment had at last dwindled. She shaded her eyes against the sun’s slight glare and drank greedily from the flask of water at her side. In the distance, she caught sight of two men and three women coming from the city gates, walking along the main street as though looking for something.
Looking for her, no doubt.
She sighed, suddenly weary of the weight she carried. Why, Lord? Why her? If she hadn’t been so outspoken, if she hadn’t listened to Lappidoth’s coaxing
when he insisted God intended her to lead, if she hadn’t been called by the visions and dreams . . . Why, Adonai? If she could have chosen, she would have picked a different way of life.
As the group drew closer, one woman older than the rest hurried forward. She was not of Israel, Deborah immediately noted. She sat straighter. Not Canaanite either. She tilted her head, studying the unusual markings on the woman’s robe. Kenite. Deborah breathed easier.
“Are you Deborah, the prophetess of Israel?” the woman asked, coming to kneel before her.
“I am Deborah. And you are of the Kenite clan.” She glanced at the rest of the people in the small group.
The woman looked at her strangely for a moment, her eyes wide with a hint of wonder.
“The markings on your robe give you away,” Deborah said, pointing to a small emblem of something metal, a dagger or a tent peg perhaps.
“Ah yes,” the woman said, smiling. “My husband is a metalworker. I am Jael, wife of Heber the Kenite.”
Deborah gave a slight nod. “What do you seek?” She should offer the woman hospitality, but she waited, wanting first to hear why they had come.
The woman backed slightly away and motioned for another, younger woman to come forward. “My husband had dealings with Jabin, king of the Canaanites. While he was in Hazor, he saw that they had female slaves . . . for sale.” She halted briefly as though choosing her words. “This woman was among them.” She glanced from the woman to Deborah. “She claims she is related to you.”
Deborah squinted, searching the other woman’s face, trying to deny the recognition that had pierced her heart the moment she drew close. It couldn’t be. But her heart told her otherwise.
“Yiskah,” she said, her voice a gentle command, “look at me.”
The woman seemed to find fascination with her sandals, but at last she lifted her head. “It is I, Prophetess.” She lowered her gaze again, no longer the defiant woman who had cast a rebellious eye toward her when confronted with her false gods.
The Prophetess - Deborah's Story Page 13