Rebekah (3 page)

“We will be moving at the end of the week.” Laban leaned against the threshold between the cooking rooms and the area where they entertained guests during meals. The place where Rebekah’s father had presided over family meetings and conducted urgent council business. But only days after her father’s body rested in the family burial cave, Laban was
already turning her world inside out. “Take whatever you will need to move to the house in Nahor in Paddan-Aram.”

Their grandfather’s home in Paddan-Aram, the city of Nahor, was larger by far than their house in Harran, where more people wanted to live in less space, where the king’s palace and the seat of their government resided.

Rebekah turned from the table where she kneaded the dough for the next morning’s baking to look from Laban to her mother, who was seated at the table chopping figs.

“Why should we move? Harran is our home.” Rebekah shoved the heel of her hand into the soft, doughy mound, but it did nothing to release the sudden tension in her heart.

“If your brother thinks we should move, he has good reason.”

Her mother’s rebuke stung. Rebekah had argued with Laban all of her life. She would not follow his lead without question. She shoved the dough harder, turning it as she went, forcing back the ache that came every time she thought of her father.

“We won’t all go. Not all at once,” Laban said to Nuriah as though Rebekah were not in the room. “But I want you to take Rebekah and her maids and leave the city. Farah will stay with me for a time. People will understand during this period of mourning.” Laban took a few steps into the cooking room, then seemed to think better of it and returned to prop one arm against the threshold.

Rebekah whirled to face him, flour-coated hands on her hips. “You cannot push me out of your life and send me away. Not until you have secured a proper betrothal for me.” If she left, he might forget his responsibility to her.

“You’re not coming with us?” Nuriah’s thick brows furrowed, her mouth a tight line.

“I will visit often, and soon. Once things are settled here, Farah and I will join you.”

Rebekah turned the dough over into a clay bowl and covered it with a cloth, refusing to look at him. “You still have not
answered my question.” She closed the distance to the table where her mother sat and braced herself, facing him. “Why should I leave?” She would find Bethuel and enlist his help to keep her here if she must. She had lived in Harran most of her life. Her friends were here.

“It is a safer place for you. Until I can sort out the many suitors who have come calling, it is better if you are not in the city.”

A knock sounded on the outer door, silencing her protest. Laban moved into the sitting room while a servant went to see who had come to call. Rebekah glanced at her mother but ignored the shake of her head that told Rebekah to stay where she was. She walked quietly to stand along the wall and peeked around the corner to watch and listen.

“Baruch, welcome, my friend. Come in. Have some refreshment.” Laban embraced the potter and kissed each cheek, motioning him to sit among the cushions.

“No, no. I would not think to impose on your hospitality so late in the evening.” The potter rubbed a shaky hand over his beard, his gaze fixed solely on his feet. “I only wondered . . . that is . . . my Naveed is anxious for your answer.” The man looked up, and Rebekah caught the hopeful glint in his eyes. Naveed’s father had asked for her hand before her father died, and it was up to Laban now to give the man an answer. She waited, her breath held tight within her.

Laban nodded and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I am sorry to have kept you wondering, my friend. Your son is surely a worthy man that would make any woman proud.”

But not your sister.
She knew with the release of a sigh that Laban had no intention of giving her to the potter’s son, the third born, who would inherit little and likely make only a modest, perhaps even a poor living the rest of his life.

“I am afraid, however, that the amount you offered for Rebekah’s hand has already been exceeded by several other
hopeful fathers just this past week. Unless you can offer much more than you already have . . .”

Disappointment filled the potter’s expression as he slowly shook his head. “I have offered you all that I could spare. I am afraid I will have to withdraw the request.” He bowed then and turned toward the door, looking back for a brief moment. “Thank you for your
hospitality
.” He swept out of the house before Laban could respond.

Rebekah did not miss the man’s sarcasm, nor the hint of anger directed at her brother. How many men of Harran would he offend by setting too high a bride-price for her? Was this why he wanted her to leave the city, so he could conduct his business without her knowing, so that she would not have to face the good people he had offended once she finally wed?

“It is just as well.” Her mother’s voice came from beside her. When had she moved close enough to hear? “Naveed was a poor potter’s son. He would have never been able to provide for you as you deserve.”

Rebekah stilled, her cheeks flushed with anger, a familiar feeling she had known too often of late. “Naveed was a good man. Better a poor man who is good than a rich, evil one.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Laban said, joining them in the cooking room again. “Pack your things. You leave in three days.”

Rebekah’s arms ached from lifting and carting heavy baskets laden with clothing, cooking utensils, and the washed wool for her weaving to the donkeys’ carts, only to do the task in reverse once the small caravan reached her mother’s new home. The city of Nahor in Paddan-Aram was situated in a lush valley surrounded by higher hills. Her grandparents’ former home occupied one of the wealthier, more spacious sections of the town yet smelled musty from long disuse.
Some of the furnishings used by her grandfather Nahor, his wife and concubine, and their children still took up many of the rooms.

Rebekah explored the large estate as servants bustled about her, sweeping and arranging things the way her mother told them to. The air was cleaner here than in Harran, the noise decidedly lessened with the house situated far from the markets and some of the more pungent trades. She breathed deeply. Her weaving room was larger and more airy, and the view from her bedchamber’s window was beautiful. She should thank Laban for sending them here, but she could not forgive him long enough to even consider such a thing.

She moved into the courtyard, where Deborah and Selima had begun preparations for the evening meal. The donkeys’ carts sat outside the courtyard, empty now, the animals rubbed down and munching hay in the large stables near the house. She joined Selima near the millstone and poured the ground grain into a clay bowl.

“I think I could get used to living here,” Rebekah said, adding oil to the flour and mixing them together. “There is so much room. Smells better too.” She moved her hand in an arc. “But don’t tell Laban I said so.” She wrinkled her nose and Selima laughed.

“Your secret is safe with us, mistress.” Selima’s hands gripped the millstone, her body swaying with the motion of the turns. “It helps to have the animals in a stable away from the house, rather than below us.”

“I do miss the sound of the camels when they belch.” Deborah laughed and Selima joined her.

“I think the animals smell better than some of the people,” Rebekah said. Her own brother among them, though in truth, Laban wore plenty of perfumes to mask his body’s odor. It was the smell of his deceit she had grown to despise.

“I thought you liked the scents of myrrh and sweat.”
Deborah bent over the clay oven, poking the fire beneath it with a long stick.

“I like the scents of the river and how a body smells when it is clean.” Rebekah smiled, enjoying the company of these women. Even Naveed could have improved his habits of cleanliness, though he was better than some.

Naveed. Surprise filled her that she did not miss him or his offer of marriage. In truth, she could think of no one in Harran she pined after. She drew in a slow breath as she glanced through the courtyard’s gates in the direction of Harran. Even the cone-shaped homes of the town were not visible from this distance, only a road that trailed into a thin line outside the city wall the farther it went.

“I wonder who your brother will pick for you.”

Selima’s comments brought her thoughts up short. Selima was obsessed with weddings and thoughts of marriage.

“I am like a prized camel in his eyes. He will sell me to the man with the biggest purse.”

“And for such a purse you should be grateful. It is proof your brother cares for your welfare.”

Her mother’s caustic tongue set Rebekah’s head to aching. She hadn’t heard her approach.

“My brother cares only for the wealth I can bring him.” Though she couldn’t prove it, she suspected Laban kept back part of the gold she earned from her weaving, despite his assurances that he was giving her the full amount.

“Your brother thinks you are fit for a prince.” Her mother stepped closer, carrying a basket of wool on her way into the house. She looked Rebekah up and down. “Though with that disobedient spirit, you should be glad Laban sent you away from Harran. That tongue of yours will get you into trouble, Daughter. Don’t think I didn’t warn you.” She stalked out of the courtyard and into the cool interior of the house.

Rebekah stared after her, stunned. How was it possible
that her mother’s words hurt more now than they ever did? She had endured the woman’s scorn all of her life. But Abba had protected her then.

She swallowed hard at the touch of Deborah’s hand on her arm. “She did not mean it as it sounds, mistress,” Deborah whispered into her ear.

But Rebekah knew better. “I care nothing for spoiled princes. I want a man who treats me well. A man I can trust.” She flung the words toward the house, certain her mother could hear.

“One day you will thank me,” her mother called from inside, so self-assured, so matter-of-fact.

Rebekah turned her back to the house and looked at Deborah, refusing to continue her mother’s argument. What could she say to such words? Deborah placed an arm around her shoulders and drew her toward the women’s circle, where Selima glanced up from her grinding, her normally smiling face suddenly somber. Even her maids were weary of Nuriah’s outbursts. With Laban away and her father gone, her mother had grown increasingly bitter.

Deborah, her nurse from the day of her birth, was more of a mother to her than Nuriah had ever been. And Selima, Deborah’s daughter, was more of a sister than a maid, though social dictates did not allow her to be treated as one.

Rebekah scooped the ground grain from Selima’s pile and sifted it through the sieve. She worked in silence for several heartbeats, and when she glanced into the distance, she saw a man walking the thin path toward their estate.

“Someone is coming.” She set the bowl aside and walked to the edge of the courtyard to get a better view. The man drew closer, and she would have recognized his lumbering gait among any crowd of men. “It’s Bethuel!” She snatched a linen cloth from the bench and wiped her hands on it as she ran toward him.

She reached him moments later, breathing hard, and threw
herself into his brotherly embrace. “How I have missed you, Bethuel! And now you are here!”

He twirled her in his big arms like he used to do when she was a child. “Laban needed me to watch over you.” He set her down and moved a piece of hair from her face. “A house needs a man nearby, you know.”

She clutched his arm. “And I could ask for no better man to protect me.”

With Bethuel nearby, her mother would mind her tongue. Both her father and this brother had quietly commanded a respect Rebekah could not seem to gain on her own. One look from him would silence her mother’s misguided words.

She smiled into his thoughtful eyes, pleased when he winked back at her.

“We will find you a good husband, Bekah. I will make sure of it.”

“If you help Laban decide, I know all will be well.” Bethuel could judge a man’s character in one glance. If only he had remained the one in control of her fate. “But come, there is time enough to worry about protecting me. You must be hungry, and the evening meal is almost ready.” She smiled at him again, relieved that he had chosen to come rather than go off to his beloved hills and be alone with the sheep.

He rubbed his middle with one hand. “I could eat a whole goat right now.”

She laughed. “Well, unfortunately, red lentil stew will have to do.”

“Spiced the way I like it?” He looked like a small boy the way he asked, and she suddenly was a young girl again learning to prepare her father’s favorite dishes, pleased and proud when she succeeded in making him smile.

She patted his arm, her thoughts wistful, and wished her father were with them too. “Spiced just the way you like it.”

They took their time walking back to the house.

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