Rebekah (29 page)

Rebekah stopped her work, letting the shuttle on the weaver’s loom grow still, then stretched and rubbed the crick in her back. She glanced at Deborah, but the woman’s head was still bent where she knelt over another loom, threading colorful red strands through the brown and yellow and green already taking shape beneath her skilled fingers.

The summer’s heat seemed to grow more oppressive with each passing year, and she feared drought would ruin the crops Isaac had taken such care to plant. A crop failure would make them rely more on the game Isaac and Esau hunted, but even the wild animals would grow scarce if a famine ensued.

She kneaded the knot at the back of her neck and walked through the tent’s opening, grateful for even the slightest breeze. The sun glared down on her, and she shaded her eyes to better see the rows of black goat’s-hair tents and the open circle of stones separating several campfires among them. Jacob walked toward her, the carcasses of two young goats flung over his shoulder. She smiled at his sure stride, heard his clear whistle as he drew nearer.

He dropped the goats at her feet, his smile wide, and bent to kiss her cheek. “Are you ready to help me?”

She looked into his dark eyes and had the sudden longing to thrust the tan turban from his head and ruffle his hair, as she had done so many times when he was but a boy. How quickly those days had passed! And now he stood before her a man, yet not quite a man, in his fifteenth year. So much had changed in him, in her.

“Of course I am ready.”

First they would skin the kids, then clean and dry the skins and sew them together to hold milk or water or wine. She retrieved two large clay pots from her tent to hold the meat and fat and led him to the area outside of the circle of tents, where a wide stone slab had been set up for this specific purpose.

“Your father did not mind parting with these?”

Isaac had been training the boys to care for the flocks since they were old enough to wield a staff and sling. But it was Jacob who had taken to the task, who enjoyed the times of solitude with the sheep, as Isaac had so often when he wasn’t tending the fields of grains or going off to the wilderness to hunt.

“My father enjoys a good goat stew.” Jacob’s grin showed white, even teeth, and a hint of mischief was in his dark eyes. “And if you help me to season it just right, he will think Esau succeeded in a great hunt.”

Rebekah searched Jacob’s face. “Does your father even know you took the kids from the flock? You know he will want an accounting.”

Jacob shrugged. “My father trusts me, Ima. He knows we need to eat.”

“There are lentils and barley to fill our bellies. We don’t need to kill the goats and sheep unnecessarily.”

Isaac had indulged both boys too often. But it was clear to her that he more often favored Esau. Esau who had followed Isaac’s love of the wild and of the game that came from a
successful hunting season. The boy who carried Ishmael’s rebellious streak. And yet if the angel’s words were true . . .

“He has told me more than once that I am free to choose from the flock for special occasions. And this is such an occasion.” His grin left no doubt to his mischief making.

She laughed despite the silent urging within her not to. “What foolishness is this of which you speak? There is no day to remember, no festival, no sheep shearing.” She forced her lips into a scowl.

He looked at her and winked, but unable to hold himself back, he burst into laughter. She knelt beside Jacob and held the legs of the first goat, watching her son deftly skin the hide with all the skill of a craftsman. She beamed at him, love for him surging from a place deep within her, a place only Isaac used to hold.

“You will make a fine shepherd one day, my son. Your skills exceed the finest among the men in the camp.” Her chin lifted, and she could not keep the pride from her tone. “But what possible excuse did you give your father to allow meat on such an ordinary evening?”

Jacob continued to carve the goat into serving pieces like she had taught him, pulling the best of the meat and the fat from the bones. He tossed the last of the second goat into the clay jar and lifted the bigger jar in one arm. “The servants met us in the field as we were with the sheep. They have dug a new well, and my father is pleased. Is this not reason enough to celebrate?”

She shook her head, wanting to smack the smirk from his tanned, handsome face. “You mock me, my son.”

“Never, dear Ima!” He scooped the carcasses in his other hand and tossed the bones into the fire pit, then lifted the second jar, one on each shoulder.

“You look like an awkward woman. Let me take one of them.” She extended her arms, but he shook his head.

“Go gather your spices and meet me in the cooking tent. Let Selima or one of the other women tend to the hides.”

She ought to correct him, should not allow him to lead her when it was clear he still needed her guidance. But the coaxing look in his eyes made her hesitate. “I should not let you talk me into these things.”

He strode toward the cooking tent, and she fell into step beside him. “But I need you to chop the spices and measure the right amounts. If you are off tending the hides, who will help me? No one makes the stew to my father’s liking as you do.”

He glanced over his shoulder at her, and she could not stop the smile he elicited. But the brief encounter also brought a stab of sorrow to her heart. Jacob had her love, and he knew it. But he was not so secure in Isaac’s favor.

Though Isaac gave both boys freer rein than she would have liked, it was Esau who brought the pride to his eyes and the smile of affection to his lips. A smile Jacob received far less often.

She glanced ahead where Jacob had already entered the cooking tent and hurried aside to enter her own, where she stored the spices that she saved for when she especially wanted to win Isaac’s attention. Something she sensed her son needed now far more than she did.

The campfire crackled as the sparks flew upward, and Isaac’s laughter followed something Esau had said. Rebekah sat near her men, satisfied that the stew she and Jacob had put together had met with such approval.

“Well, Brother, you should spend more time in the cooking tents with the women. Your skills exceed even theirs.” Esau rubbed his mouth on the back of his sleeve, making Rebekah cringe. How many times had she taught him to use a linen
cloth? But it was the mocking tone toward his brother that troubled her more.

“I will take that as a compliment and not the insult you intended.” Jacob leveled his gaze at his twin, and Rebekah glanced from one to the other before meeting Isaac’s concerned look.

Had he not noticed before now the way the two bickered? Did he not see that Jacob needed his support and Esau needed his correction?

“Think what you want.” Esau picked at a tooth with a fingernail and spit the remnant of food into the dust. “I do thank you for the fine stew, though. Almost tasted as fresh as the real thing.”

“I could not tell the difference, my son.” Isaac’s comment seemed to soothe the sudden flash of hurt and anger that had filled Jacob’s dark eyes. But Isaac’s focus on his son did not last. He turned to look at Rebekah. “Your mother has always been able to turn the most common meal into a feast, and even the toughest meat into tender, seasoned game.” Isaac’s look held the affection she’d come to love and appreciate, but she did not want his attention now. She wanted him to praise Jacob, not her. To build their son’s confidence to help him become the leader she knew he would soon be. And to ease Esau into accepting a lesser role . . .

The older will serve the younger.

The memory of the words was never far from her thoughts, and the turmoil of her pregnancy and the twins’ birth as vivid as though it were yesterday. But it was the vision and God’s voice, the stunning revelation, that she silently treasured above all. Had Isaac forgotten what she had told him? But of course not. She had surely reminded him often enough.

She looked at Esau, who sipped a cup of barley beer and quickly drew Isaac’s focus to the tale of his recent trek into the nearby hills to hunt gazelle.

“The gazelles were as skittish as hares and as hard to find as a partridge in the hills.” Esau laughed, and Isaac seemed fully engaged in his tale. “But I figured out a way to trap them next time. And I got plenty of practice with my bow.” He leaned back and smiled, and Isaac said something in response.

Rebekah studied Jacob, yearning to go to him, to remove the pensive look from his face. If only she could openly declare God’s choice to both sons and boost Jacob’s confidence and pride.

She drew in a lengthy breath and slowly let it out. She waited a moment more, then walked away, unable to watch her husband engage one son at the expense of the other. She must do more to make up the lack. Surely Isaac loved Jacob. Had she somehow favored this son too much, causing Isaac to swing toward Esau’s side? But no. Isaac loved the wild, the beauty of the desert, the thrill of the hunt, and Esau shared his passion, nothing more. Jacob shared his father’s private pondering, but perhaps they were too much alike in this. Did Isaac wish himself to be more like Esau and less like Jacob?

She shook her head to rid it of the troubling thoughts and turned toward her tent to ease the throbbing that had begun just above her brow. But she stopped abruptly at the splintered cry that came from across the compound. Running feet accompanied the sound, and she stood stricken as one of the servants rushed and knelt at Isaac’s feet.

“My lord, you must come at once. Your father . . .”

“What has happened to my father?”

Rebekah’s heart stilled, and she met Isaac’s gaze above the servant’s head. But in her heart she knew before the man spoke the words.

“Your father Abraham has just now slipped into Sheol.”

 25 

Rebekah at his side, Isaac looked down at Abraham’s still form inside his father’s large tent. The servants had washed his body for burial, and a runner had been sent to summon Ishmael.

“He looks peaceful.” Rebekah reached for Isaac’s hand and intertwined their fingers, squeezing gently. “He lived a good, long life, old and full of years.”

Isaac nodded, aware of the lump in his throat. Tears had come earlier when he had slipped away alone. He had led his father’s camp and handled his interests for many years, so the loss was not one of leadership, only of companionship. He had come to appreciate the man since the day God had spoken to his heart on the mountain where he had prayed for Rebekah, for himself.

“I am glad you had time with him after Keturah.”

Rebekah’s soft words brought his thoughts around. He shifted to look from his father to her.

“As am I.”

She smiled, her expression soft, compassionate.

“We lost many years in misunderstanding. I am pleased that Adonai gave us time to make up for it.”

She nodded and leaned her head against his chest. “He
loved you fiercely, you know. As you love Esau.” The last came out breathy, as though she feared to say it.

He stiffened at the insinuation. “As I love you and Jacob as well.” He cringed at the defensiveness in his tone. “Are you suggesting otherwise?” He faced her, searching her eyes for the truth. “You know that I love you.”