Rebekah (2 page)

“Is he suffering?”

Deborah lifted a shoulder in a shrug, but a hint of worry filled her eyes. “I do not know, mistress. I do not think so. Not very much.”

A sigh escaped her, and Rebekah stepped closer, kneeling at his side. She took his hand, clasped it between both of her own, and lowered her head to kiss it.

He rallied and cradled her cheek in his palm. “My dear Rebekah.”

She strained to hear the words, leaning close so as not to tax his strength any further. “Abba, you must rest so that you can get well. We need you.” Tears made her voice waver, and she could not stop them from freely flowing over her cheeks. “I need you.”

A faint smile formed at the edges of his beard. “My Rebekah. My strong one.” He paused, and she counted his breaths, silently begging him to continue, yet not wanting to press him.

O God of Shem, please do not take him now!

He opened his eyes once more, his look infinitely loving and sad. “Your mother knows best, dear one. She will find you a husband and all will be well. Do not fear.”

“But I don’t want to lose you.”

She waited, but he did not respond.

Deborah came near and placed a hand on her arm. “He is sleeping, mistress. He will not likely speak again. He has spent his last words.”

Rebekah gently squeezed her father’s limp hand and laid it beneath the covers, watching the slow beat of his heart barely lift the sheet that was meant to warm him. She faced her nurse and fell weeping into her outstretched arms.

“My mother does not know best.” The words came out broken and soft, though she knew Deborah could hear her.

“There, there, now. Obviously, your father does not agree. Perhaps he has already passed on his wishes to your mother. Soon you will live in the home of your husband and all will be well.” She lifted Rebekah’s chin in her sturdy hand. “Trust Adonai and wait and see.”

Rebekah wiped the tears from beneath her eyes and willed her emotions under control. She glanced once more at her father, her regret and anger and hurt mingling with every labored beat of his heart. “All will not be well,” she whispered, hoping he could not hear. She turned and held Deborah’s sympathetic gaze. “I will have no say in the matter, and my father will not be there to defend me.”

She was no match for her mother, but she would not cow to Laban’s rule without a fight. She was not her father’s daughter for nothing.

Hours passed, and the sun sank low on the horizon outside her father’s bedroom window when the telltale sound of rattling in her father’s throat jolted Rebekah. Deborah sprang to his side, but Rebekah stared, unable to move, watching as he strained to take first one breath, then another, until at last no more breaths would come. The sheet stopped moving, and his pinched expression softened in the unmistakable mask of death.

“Your father rests in Sheol now,” Deborah said, her words barely registering at the fringes of Rebekah’s heart. “He does not suffer any longer, dear one.”

Rebekah nodded numbly as servants rushed into the room, and loud keening sounds burst from the waiting mourners’ lips.

She staggered from the room into the hall where her brother Bethuel stood looking lost and forlorn. Their father had called for him, but the message had not been conveyed soon enough to bring him in from the fields, not soon enough to thwart Laban’s plans. Anger flared once more at her mother and Laban and their callous indifference to this brother who had never hurt a soul in all of his life.

She touched his arm and looked up into his sober eyes. “He loved you. He wanted to bless you and would have. You must believe that.”

He nodded but did not speak.

“I don’t care what Ima and Laban have done. I need you, Bethuel.”

He placed his large hand on her shoulder and patted it awkwardly. “I will take care of you, Bekah.”

She reached both arms around his waist, relieved to feel his arms come around her. But as her mother’s voice sounded in the distance, giving orders to the servants to prepare her father for burial, she felt little comfort from his reassuring hold.

Laban’s and her mother’s actions had changed her future. Nothing would be the same again.

 2 

The city gates loomed in the distance early the next morning. Laban cinched his cloak closer against the dawn’s first chill, his nerves on edge with every step. There would be no problem convincing the elders the documents were real. His father’s seal on the parchments would act as proof enough, and as long as Bethuel kept his tongue . . . He cinched his cloak again, glancing behind him at his father’s steward—his steward now. The man would support him. All of the servants favored his leadership over that of his brother. There could be no doubt that his father’s namesake was slow. Not exactly witless, but a clumsy oaf whose only skills lay in caring for the sheep.

Still, Laban tucked the pouch of parchments tighter beneath his arm as though holding them close would protect his assets. They would believe what he told them. Of course they would.

He shivered as a line of young maidens glided past him carrying jars on their shoulders, headed to the well outside of the city. He spotted Rebekah among them with her maid Selima, relieved when she did not stop or attempt to engage him in another confrontation. She alone had insisted that the
firstborn Bethuel should carry the birthright of their father’s blessing and had tried to convince both Bethuel and him that she was right. Thankfully, she’d stopped short of threatening to expose him to the elders. Her fate rested in his hands, and she knew it.

Lifting his shoulders in a shrug, he tried to brush the conversation aside, but the tension would not abate. The weight of guilt pressed in on him. It was ridiculous, of course. He had done nothing wrong. In fact, he had done the most prudent thing to protect his family.

He watched Rebekah’s graceful form move beneath the gates toward the well as he approached the gate himself. Her beauty surpassed that of every maiden in Harran, and already he had received requests from several men willing to pay for the privilege of marrying her. He smiled, glad their father had not given in to the potter’s request for his son Naveed. Rebekah’s beauty belonged in kings’ palaces.

But plans for his sister must wait for another day. He sighed, glanced at his steward, and entered the gate to meet the elders.

“Greetings, Laban, son of Bethuel. Have you come prepared to take your father’s seat among us?” The chief governor of the palace motioned to the seat his father used to occupy as head of the merchants’ guild.

“I am ready, Kenan.” He handed the documents to the leader of the elders and took the seat offered him. “You will find everything in order there.” He leaned back, confident that the documents his brother had signed along with his father’s seal looked authentic even to the discerning eye.

The governor studied the parchments, running his fingers over the seal at the bottom. Laban waited, forcing himself to remain calm, to breathe normally, lest he show his anxiety. If he was caught deceiving these people, he could end up losing his place of honor and, even worse, be imprisoned
for fraud. But they need not know the full truth. Any one of them would have done the same.

“Everything seems to be in order,” the man said at last. He rolled the parchments up again and placed them back into the pouch.

Laban handed the pouch to his steward, relieved. He settled back, listening as the day’s order of business commenced.

As the morning waned and the sun rose higher in the sky, the meeting at last came to an end, and the men left, most to attend business elsewhere. Laban moved toward the stairs leading to the streets below the city gate. At a touch on his arm, he turned.

“Laban, son of Bethuel.” One of the elders approached.

“Yes, my lord.”

“I would have a word with you.”

Laban’s heart kicked over in a silent surge of uncertainty, but at the look on the man’s face, he relaxed and walked with the elder through the city gate toward the main thoroughfare of Harran’s market streets.

“I am sorry for the loss of your father, may he rest in peace.” The man lowered his head in a proper gesture of sorrow.

“Thank you, my lord. His presence is greatly missed.” Laban touched a hand to his forehead, dutifully agreeing with the man’s sentiment.

They walked in silence several moments, passing a baker carrying a tray of pastries on a wooden platter, headed toward his market stall, while street urchins raced in and around the patrons, nearly toppling the man’s tray. Laban glanced at the sky, fighting the urgency to hurry the man along.

“Your father and I had discussed the possibility of a match between your sister and my son Dedan.” The man cleared his throat, and though Laban looked him in the eye, he would not meet Laban’s gaze.

“What did my father say about the matter?” By the man’s
shifty expression, Laban knew the answer. His father probably thought the man a liar and a cheat and would never give Rebekah to such a man’s son.

“Only that he was weighing several offers.” At last the man stopped and faced Laban. “I am prepared to offer whatever you request. I think it will benefit both your house and mine to make such an alliance.” His earlier disquiet seemed to disappear, replaced by sudden confidence. “My son is anxious to meet your sister.”

Laban stroked a hand over his beard. He would find opposition from Rebekah and probably Bethuel if he acted too quickly in this. He lifted a brow, feigning uncertainty. “I am afraid this is a subject I am not as familiar with as I should be. If you will forgive me, my lord, my father’s affairs are not yet fully set in order. I must consult with my older brother on this matter before I can give you an answer.”

“I thought the papers indicated these decisions rest with you.” Skepticism filled his expression, setting Laban’s heart to a quicker beat.

“It does—they do. But like you said, my father had many offers, and I have not yet had the chance to look into them.” Sweat pricked a line along his turbaned brow.

The man nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Of course. I understand.” He turned to head in the opposite direction, and Laban breathed a sigh. “But do not keep me waiting long.” He gave Laban a pointed look. “I am not a patient man.”