I sighed as I plunged in. “My home is in a beautiful valley. The hills all around are lined with terraces where we plant fruit trees, date palms, and vineyards. My father spent years and years building the terraces that stack nearly to the top of the hills.”
“Why?” Tobiah asked.
For a moment I was confused that he would ask about such a common thing, but then I realized that Tobiah had lived his entire life in this wilderness, being fed manna every day. He’d never held a scythe in his hand. He’d never furrowed the ground or spread seeds and hoped that the gods would be satisfied enough with our offerings to bless the tender shoots with rain.
“The terraces help retain water and keep the soil from washing down the hillsides. The irrigation ditches water the wheat and barley crops on the valley floor.”
In the arid desert climate, every drop of rain was gold and silver. It had taken my father many years, longer than my life, to build up the stone fences that formed the wide steps curving up the hills to the west and east of our home.
This year more than any other, Baal had blessed our land with heavy winter rains, and the terraces embraced lush crops—a boon for Dagan, who dripped not one bead of sweat into the soil yet had reaped the benefits of my father’s hard work, and mine.
A surge of frustration, mixed with longing for my home, welled up inside me. As if to remind myself, in case the memories faded with time and distance, I began to paint a picture for Tobiah with my words—the arid harshness, the bake of the sun as I hauled stones to patch tumbled-down terraces after a winter of rainstorms, the deafening rush of the wadis during a flood, and the rolling green plains interwoven with wildflowers of every color in the early spring, the red kalanit blossoms threading themselves among the tall grasses . . .
I stopped talking midsentence, shocked at how much I had said and how easily it had rolled off my tongue, as if years of pent-up words had gushed out. I blinked, fingers pressed against my mouth. What was wrong with me? Had I drunk too much wine? Or had some invisible barrier crumbled?
“Don’t stop,” said Tobiah, his tone low but urgent, as if he was afraid that I had reached the end of my words. And perhaps I had.
I scanned the crowd around us, all of them oblivious to the earthquake of emotions reeling through me. Why had I opened my mouth? These people were my enemies. Tobiah was my enemy. I repeated the statement over and over and over in my head, but truly I did not believe it anymore.
Most of the Hebrews, with the exception of Tzipi, who seemed to be pretending I did not exist, had been nothing but kind to me. Nita had welcomed me into her tent. Shira had bound my wounds, tended to my healing, and encouraged me. And Tobiah had protected me in a way that my own brothers had not. That my own father had not.
My father had kept me physically safe—no one had ever laid a hand on me, although my brothers’ ruthless reputations probably did more to guard me than anything. But the older I got, the further away he seemed, as if every day he added a stone to the wall between us.
I had worked alongside him. He taught me to shoot and hunt and fight. But by the time he walked out the door to go attack the Hebrews, he barely spoke to me, other than to order me to finish chores and tend the animals. He’d left me to be bossed around by his brainless wives.
A thought struck me as I surveyed the revelers. “Where is the bride? I thought this was a wedding.”
Tobiah laughed. “You really haven’t been to a wedding feast, have you?”
I tossed him an annoyed look.
“This is the second day of feasting. The groom has already taken his bride into their marriage tent.” He gestured across the campsite with a flick of his wrist. “They will enjoy a few days together there . . .” He cleared his throat. “Becoming one.”
“Are you telling me that everyone is out here feasting while they . . . ?”
He smothered a smirk with his large hand. “Yes, that is what I am saying.”
“But . . . but why?”
“Because marriage is beautiful to us, Alanah. We are glad when two lives are joined together. We celebrate the union of two people bound in a sacred covenant. It is blessed by Yahweh. In fact, marriage was designed by the Creator himself.”
I’d never heard such foreign ideas about marriage, yet these notions were filled with such beauty. To me, marriage was nothing more than an arrangement that benefitted the man much more than the woman. Girls were sold into marriage before their first flow most times, could be tossed out for any offense, and often turned to prostitution to stay alive. Men had many wives, used the temple whores without compunction, and offered any unwanted infants to the baalim to ensure their crops prospered. It was the way of things. I’d never much questioned it, until now.
Suddenly, I realized that my father had protected me in the best way possible—he had not sold me into the slavery of a Canaanite marriage. Gratefulness burst open inside me like an almond blossom in the sun. My father had his faults—he’d never shown me anything resembling love—but in this at least he had shown me a measure of respect.
Five more days. Only five more days until the consummation of the marriage covenant.
“Will there be . . . ?” Stricken with sudden embarrassment, I clamped my mouth against the question I’d been about to ask.
Tobiah lifted his brows, waiting for me to continue.
I looked down at my hands in my lap, braided my fingers together until I composed an even tone. “Will there be a celebration like this . . . for us?”
Tobiah did not answer.
My skin prickled with mortification. It took every bit of restraint in me to not jump up and run away. But determined not to show any more of my vulnerabilities to Tobiah tonight, I lifted my chin to face him, willing courage to infuse my bones with strength.
“No. There will not be a celebration like this one.” His voice dropped low. “Our marriage is not a normal one. And especially after my sister’s husband . . . it is best if it is done quietly.”
My breath released in a rush of relief. I could not have imagined enduring a horde of Tobiah’s family and friends all staring at me during some sort of false celebration of his marriage to an enemy.
“But . . . my beautiful bride . . .” He leaned in close, his shoulder pressing against mine and his warm breath brushing across my lips. My cheeks heated in response. “I have already prepared our marriage tent. We will have plenty of time there to celebrate. Together.” His mouth quirked as he lifted his cup. “And I will make sure to have plenty of this wine stocked there.” He winked. “I like the way it loosens your tongue.”
19
10 IYAR
1407 BC
Who is that girl behind us?” I said to Nita as we walked through camp with empty water jugs on our hips. “I’ve seen her a few times with Tzipi. She will not stop staring at me.”
Nita glanced over her shoulder toward the young girl walking between Simcha and Noach, the one whose startling silvery eyes seemed to follow me whenever she was around. With a shining black braid trailing over one shoulder and her skin a honeyed bronze, she looked more Egyptian than Hebrew.
“Oh . . . that’s Moriyah.” Her smile faltered as she faced me. “Shimon’s sister.”
Shimon’s sister? No wonder she watched me; she must hate me as much as Tzipi did.
“A mirror image of her brother, that one,” said Nita with a sigh. “There was always a joke or ridiculous tale on Shimon’s lips. There was not a story he told that did not have us all holding our sides with laughter. Moriyah is just as vibrant, perhaps more so. Although”—she flicked a glance back at the girl—“Shimon’s death has tarnished her sweet smile a bit.”
Moriyah was quite tall and already a beauty but could not have been older than thirteen. Somehow, though, there was something penetrating about her attention, something in those light eyes that reminded me of one of the seers who wandered through my village, begging for a meal or a coin in exchange for a glimpse into the future. A shiver skittered across
my shoulders as I turned my head. “Is she Egyptian?”
Nita stopped at the edge of a large pool. “Her father’s parents were among the few Egyptians who chose to leave Egypt with us. Her mother is Hebrew, of the tribe of Yehudah. Both she and Shimon favor their father, however.”
Before I could ask more, I caught sight of the origin of the pool lapping at our toes. From a cleft in the cliff above us came a gushing flow. My jaw went slack. How could such a forceful waterfall bound down the face of the orange rocks when it was far past the season for such a thing to exist? There was no mountain snowcap to feed such a torrent. Was this water from some enormous underground spring that the Hebrews had stumbled upon?
“As unlikely as it is, wherever we travel, there is always a rock gushing water, just like this one, and it’s always more than enough for all of us. I don’t know how Mosheh always knows . . .” She lifted her eyes to the flow that cascaded white down the slopes, gathering in this enormous frothy pool. “As wondrous as this is, you should have seen the first rock. The one Mosheh struck near the mountain where we spent our first year. The water sprayed so high, it was like a storm cloud shooting skyward. And within days, flowers and grasses sprouted along the path of the stream. Between the rock and the stream that flowed from the mountain itself, the lake that formed southeast of camp afforded us ample water. And my, was it ever sweet . . .” Her voice trailed off as she dipped her feet into memories and wandered farther downstream, her convoluted explanation doing nothing to satiate my confusion.
Crouching, I filled my jug in the unlikely flow and then bent to wash my face, savoring the coolness on my skin. The midday sun refracted off the red rock walls, intensifying the heat. I dipped my palm in the clear pool, then dribbled water down the back of my neck with an inward sigh of relief.
“It is unbearably hot today, isn’t it?”
Shimon’s sister squatted next to me, mirroring my efforts to cool myself by patting my face with wet hands. I nodded an agreement but did not reply. I hadn’t expected this young girl to approach me, and I found myself with nothing to say. Could it be Tzipi’s absence today that lent Moriyah such courage? She seemed in no way fearful of me; her silver-eyed gaze revealed only curiosity. Neither did she seem bothered by my silence—she sat down next to me, cross-legged, and dove into a one-way conversation.
“I liked the camp we stayed at when I was six. There were palm trees everywhere, and tall green grasses that swayed in the wind.” She sighed. “My brother used to take me with him when he hunted for quail there.” She paused, waiting for me to answer. But what could I say with my tongue tied in knots?
“I am Moriyah,” she said, apparently losing patience with my lack of response. She lifted her black brows, waiting.
I flattened my lips. “Alanah.”
“I know.” Her eyes rounded with surprising enthusiasm. “Nita told me all about how Tobiah found you and saved you and married you.” A faraway look gathered in her enormous eyes. “I think it’s lovely.”
“Lovely? You think it lovely that I was nearly killed and then dragged here against my will?”
She put a hand over her mouth, but her eyes danced. “No. Not you almost dying. That was bad.” She furrowed her brow. “I meant how Tobiah is in love with you.”
I nearly tumbled backward. “What . . . ? What makes you say such a thing?”
“Oh.” She flipped her hand. “I overheard Noach and Simcha talking a few days ago. They said that Tobiah threatened to practically murder a man when he talked about . . . you know . . .” She bit her lower lip and leaned in, brows lifted. “Harming you.”
My mouth was a desert. Tobiah had done such a thing? In my defense?
“It takes quite a bit to get Tobiah to explode like that. My brother always tried, but always failed.” She pressed her lips together, a shadow crossing her features, and then she nodded with confidence. “He’s in love with you for certain. The only reason he left you in the care of Noach and Simcha today was because he was commanded to go to a meeting with the elders.”
With a small downturn of her full lips, Moriyah looked toward the waterfall, her long fingers clutching a small wooden whistle that hung from a cord around her neck. “I know how much my own heart hurts right now, I miss my brother so much. And Tobiah considered him a brother as well. But if anything can ease his grief, perhaps it is this marriage.”
I gestured to the turban around my head. “Have you forgotten that I am Canaanite? An enemy?”
She frowned. “Forty years ago, as plagues swept through Egypt, my grandparents had a choice to make. They could either stay enemies of the One True God or follow him. Perhaps you have the same choice before you as well.”
I was vaguely aware of Moriyah walking alongside me as our small group moved back through camp with full jugs and skins of water. She chattered the entire way, pointing out the different camps, explaining how each son of their ancestor Yaakov was situated around the Mishkan and how that related to their position within Israel, but I absorbed little. My mind was instead sorting through her earlier words, attempting to organize my thoughts into a manageable reality. Tobiah could not love me. He was my enemy. He was my captor. He was—
Angry voices suddenly overlapped one another. A large group of men had gathered in the wide open space near the Mishkan, shouting at each other and at a few priests who were standing in front of the red, blue, and purple fabric gates.
Noach appeared at my side, his hand gripping my elbow. “We must go back and around. I should not have led us this way.”
“Why? What is happening?” I felt Moriyah press closer to me as the shouting grew louder.
Frustration flickered across Noach’s face. “There are a few who are angry about the eastern route that Mosheh and Yehoshua have determined to use to skirt the lands of the Edomites.”
“And why is that?”
The division between his heart and his mind was plain on his face. “We have been in this wilderness nearly forty years. We are ready to take the land we were promised. The crops are ready to harvest now. If we wait any longer . . .”
“But you have manna to eat.”
He made a low noise in the back of his throat. “Many among us are sick of manna. We are ready to partake of the milk and honey we were promised. We are ready to enjoy the fruits of the Land—now.”
“The fruits of my land, you mean—”
Someone slammed into me, cutting off my angry retort and knocking me sideways into Moriyah. The man’s eyes were as wild as his dark hair, his face pale as death, and a spray of crimson smeared across his cheek. Blood? Without apology he pushed past us, scrambling toward the ornate embroidered gates of the Mishkan.
I watched in fascination as the man slipped through the large crowd, pushed past the white-linen-clad priests who stood at the gates, and disappeared behind the curtain.
Why would someone who was obviously being pursued run toward the Mishkan, where a giant, angry cloud stood guard? That would be the last place I would ever run.
20
All this is doing is making me hurt worse.” I dropped the infuriating rock at my feet with a groan.
“It may seem that way, but you must work that shoulder more, or you will never pull a bowstring again.” Tobiah bent, retrieved my nemesis, and placed it in my left hand. “Now, lift it again.”
I rolled my eyes at him but complied, holding the stone straight out in front of me as he had ordered. My shoulder screamed but I held steady, stomach taut, determined to keep the agony off my face and master the endless exercise.
“Good.” He took the stone from me just as my muscles began shaking from the strain. “Rest a few moments.” He handed me a water-skin.
I tipped my head back to quench my thirst and then swiped at my wet mouth and chin. “Why do you bother with this?” I squinted at him. “Why do you care whether I can use a bow again?”
He tossed the stone from palm to palm. The cursed thing looked small in his big hands. “Isn’t that what
you want?”
I nodded.
“Then I can help. I’ve seen others with wounds similar to yours who did not work at training their muscles so soon and it took longer to heal. Sometimes they never regained their former strength.”
“Aren’t you concerned I will use my bow against you?” I glanced at his sister’s tent nearby. “Or someone else?”
He tipped his head to one side. “Will you?”
“Not unless someone tries to harm me.”
“Then we both have the same goal. Your defense.” He handed me the rock again and gestured for me to lift it, higher this time than the last. My shoulder protested the abuse, but I refused to let a sound pass my lips.
When I could not take the burning ache any longer, I dropped my arm.
The reminder of Moriyah’s claim, that Tobiah had defended me to another Hebrew, curled around my heart again, squeezing it in new ways. To distract from the errant thought, I asked the question that had been bothering me since Simcha and Noach had hurried us all back to camp with troubled faces, but no explanation. “Did your cousins tell you about the man who barreled into me at the Mishkan?”
Tobiah’s cheek twitched as he took the stone from me again. “Yes. Did he hurt you?”
I rolled my shoulder back to diffuse the pain. “He startled me more than anything. I nearly toppled over on Moriyah. But why would someone run like that past the gates? I thought it was forbidden for anyone but your priests to enter.”
Tobiah moved to stand behind me and began kneading my shoulder, causing my skin to prickle. “He is a murderer.”
My mouth dropped open as I remembered the splatter of blood across the man’s face.
“Unfortunately, you were in the way of his flight to the altar.”
“An altar inside the courtyard?”
“It is our law. A man accused of stealing the life of another may grab on to the horns of the altar. Plead mercy from those who demand retribution.”
“And was he given mercy?”
Wings of the Wind Page 12