Rebekah (22 page)

“I might feel the same if it were my son,” she said, suddenly wondering if God would require any other sacrifices of Isaac for their own future children. When they had children . . . Why had she not already conceived? She squelched the worry as he bent to kiss her.

“Then you can understand the struggles my family has faced since that day. It is why my father took Keturah, why my mother, though she loved him fiercely, could not forgive him.”

She nodded. “Have you forgiven him yourself?” She sensed the truth but wanted to hear it from him.

He looked beyond her, and she feared she had lost him to his thoughts. At last he leaned down and scooped up the basket, brushed the ants from its side, and placed it in her arms. “I would like to think so, beloved. It is one of the many things I ponder when I am alone, when I am seeking God’s face.”

She reached up to kiss him again. “I shall pray that you find the answers you seek.”

They walked in silence until the camp was within sight, then Isaac bid her home and returned to gather the sheep.

The morning before the Sabbath many weeks later, Rebekah awoke with the familiar monthly pains, sequestered in her own tent where she would wait out the week of uncleanness. A week she had seen every month since her marriage and now feared would spread on into a future of uncertainty. Surely she was being foolish to fear so soon. But she could not help herself.

She forced herself to stand, though she wanted nothing
more than to stay abed and moan in self-pity. Isaac would not come to her until her time had passed, and she would eat alone with the women of the camp. She would work as she always did, but she would not have the privilege of his touch, and she desperately needed him now.

The rustle of the tent’s fabric door brought her out of her melancholy, and she walked to the basket where her garments lay folded into neat piles. Deborah poked her head around the corner from the sitting area into her sleeping quarters.

“You are up. Good. Let me help you with that.” Deborah chose a fresh tunic and robe, then proceeded to help Rebekah dress.

Silence stretched between them, but Rebekah did not care to fill it.

“You are quiet today.”

“There is nothing to say.” Rebekah blinked against the sudden sting of tears, surprised at how bitter she sounded.

“Obviously there is or you would be able to say it.”

“Am I so quick with my tongue that my silence means I finally have something worthy to say?” She looked at her nurse and did not like the sardonic smile touching her lips.

“My dear Rebekah, you are very seldom at a loss for words.” She tied the belt at Rebekah’s waist and bid her sit while she pulled the ivory comb from the basket of hair ornaments. “What troubles you?”

Rebekah winced as Deborah worked to pull through her tangled mass of dark hair. “How long did it take . . . how long were you married before you carried Selima?” She needed reassurance that there was nothing at all to fear.

Deborah twirled a strand of Rebekah’s hair into a loose knot and pinned it atop her head. “Every woman is different, dear one. You have barely been married six months. You must put a child out of your head. Then it will come when you least expect it.”

“Isaac’s mother did not see it that way. She waited twenty-five years to bear him.” She tilted her head to meet Deborah’s kind gaze, her heart stirred with affection for her. “I will die if I must wait that long, Ima.” She rarely used the motherly term for her servant, but Deborah had always been like a mother to her. Somehow the word slipped out unintended.

Deborah’s smile held compassion, and she touched Rebekah’s cheek. “Isaac is the son of the promise, is he not?”

Deborah waited and Rebekah reluctantly nodded.

“Did not Adonai promise Abraham many descendants through Isaac?”

Rebekah conceded the argument with another nod.

“Then what do you fear?”

Rebekah looked away. “I don’t know. I just thought it would happen by now. And with Isaac . . .” Tears grew thick in her throat. “He can be so hard to talk to sometimes. If I had a child . . .” She let the words go unsaid.

“You think a child would replace the love you desire from your husband?” Deborah’s gaze held no reproach.

“I do not know. Perhaps.” She shook her head. “But I know Isaac loves me . . . it is just that I want to please him. He will make a good father. I know it.”

Deborah smiled and took the pot of kohl from the cosmetic basket. She picked up a long, thin tool to apply it to Rebekah’s eyes. “And in God’s good time, he will be the father you so desire. Be patient and trust Him.”

Rebekah lifted her head, allowing Deborah to dab the paint to the edges of her eyelids, just enough to enhance her appearance and make her dark eyes appear larger, brighter. “I am trying.” And failing miserably. “But you never answered my question.” She crossed her arms and met Deborah’s gaze.

“What question was that, mistress?” Deborah shrugged as though she could not remember, though Rebekah knew for sure that she did.

She squelched her irritation. “How long did it take you?”

Deborah was silent for so long that Rebekah turned to face her, reading uncertainty and perhaps fear in her gaze.

“I did not wait long.” She looked away, and Rebekah knew the answer was not complete. She touched Deborah’s arm.

“Tell me what it is that you keep from me.” She tried for a commanding tone, but the words came out more as a request.

“Some things are not meant to be shared.” Deborah turned from Rebekah and hurried to the tent’s door. “I must see what Selima is up to. Forgive me.”

Rebekah stared after her, determined to discover what Deborah kept so secret.

 18 

Deborah managed to avoid another confrontation with Rebekah the rest of the day, though she knew her mistress would not allow her to keep silent for long. The time had come to speak the truth, or at least what she would tell of it. She could not tell all. What mother would admit to such a thing when it could shame her only daughter?

She stiffened her back even as she stirred the stew for the evening meal, listening to the voices of women fussing at children and men laughing where they sat in groups around the fire.

Please, Adonai, let Rebekah’s tongue be quieted and her questions kept to herself.

She might be a servant, but she did not need to reveal everything just because her mistress wanted to know. Nuriah had not told Rebekah. Why should Deborah demean herself so?

She turned at the sound of rushing feet, startled by Selima as she came up beside her, breathing as though she had run halfway across the camp. She set the water jar in the dirt beside the fire and bent over, hands pressed to her knees to draw in air. “There you are, Ima.”

Deborah set the stirring stick aside and cupped her
daughter’s shoulders. “Slow down, my daughter. Sit and drink.” She dipped a clay cup into the water and handed it to Selima. “Now tell your mother before you upset the whole camp.”

Selima straightened and glanced quickly over her shoulder. “Haviv is back, and he and Nadab . . .” She paused, placed a hand over her heart. “They are fighting over me!” She sighed as though this was the best thing in the world, but Deborah’s heart sank with the news.

“Fighting over you? Surely you are mistaken, my daughter.”

They had clearly waited too long to give Selima in marriage, and now her imagination was running away with her.

“I am telling you the truth, Ima! I heard them.”

“And just how did you overhear such a conversation? They did not throw fists at each other in front of you, did they?” She touched her chin and studied her daughter.

In her conversations with Lila, she knew the brothers did have their differences, but everyone knew it was Haviv whose heart was bound to Selima’s. Nadab could not possibly want her too, unless he should do so to spite his brother.

“I was hidden by the tree line, and they could not see me from their place at the crest of the hill. I went to draw water at the wadi when I heard them.”

“What did they say?” Deborah took the cup from Selima and refilled it. “Drink.”

Selima obeyed, and the two walked to a corner of the cooking tent where the women were few.

“Nadab had just returned the day before Haviv did.”

“Yes, yes, Rebekah told me that Isaac had sent them to check on different flocks and herds. In opposite directions.”

“Perhaps they were already at odds before they left?” Selima’s eyes grew wide, but her voice dropped to a whisper.

“They do not always get along. It is the way of brothers. Laban and Bethuel were no different.” She thanked the God
of Shem, blessed be His name, that her only child had been a girl, despite the circumstances of her birth.

Selima’s look grew thoughtful.

“So, finish your thought, my girl! Your mother’s bones grow old waiting for you to finish.” She rubbed the small of her back to emphasize her point.

“Nadab said he had come back to ask Isaac for permission to marry. And Haviv says, ‘Good, good, I am happy for you, Brother.’ And Nadab says, ‘I’m glad you feel that way, Brother, because I am asking to marry Selima.’”

“Is there another Selima in the camp?” Deborah scowled, trying to think, but could not recall another girl or woman that shared her daughter’s name.

Selima paused and slowly shook her head. “No. I do not think so. In any case, Haviv says, ‘Selima? My Selima?’ He called me his, Ima! And then Nadab says, ‘As far as I can tell, she is not yours yet, Brother. I thought you should know that Isaac is considering my request.’”

“He already asked Isaac?”

“That’s what he said.”

“What did Haviv do?”

Selima sighed. “I wanted to sneak closer to see, for all I could hear were grunts and the sounds of flesh against bone. I think Haviv struck Nadab. Do you think he will kill him?” Horror filled her gaze and she covered her mouth, swaying as though the thought had suddenly dawned on her.

Deborah caught her arm. “Brothers have killed each other over such things before. Was not the first murder done because of jealousy? The God of Adam, blessed be His name, banished Cain for killing Abel.”

A sob escaped Selima’s lips.

Deborah’s grip tightened. “Come, my daughter. We must run to Isaac and tell him. Perhaps he can stop their fighting before it is too late.”