Rebekah (40 page)

“My lord, there is news of Ishmael.” Haviv’s quiet voice held the hint of concern Isaac had come to expect from him. Concern matured by the heartache of losing his brother Nadab to his own choices, and by the deaths of his parents Eliezer and Lila several years before. Few were left of Abraham’s generation.

“Tell me.” Though he already sensed the truth.

“Word has come through a messenger sent from Kedar, Ishmael’s son, that Ishmael now rests with his fathers. They buried him several weeks past.”

“And they are just now sending word?” He would have traveled to bid his farewell if he could have done so with ease. But at one hundred and twenty-four years, he did not move about as he once did. Blind men did not go anywhere of their own accord.

“It would seem that they sent word as soon as they could, my lord. The distance is not a close one.” Haviv always managed to make the truth realistic.

“I am sorry for Uncle Ishmael’s loss, Abba.” Jacob touched his shoulder, and Isaac lifted his face in the direction of his voice.

“Has your brother Esau been told?”

Esau was the one who would miss Ishmael the most. Esau still visited his uncle from time to time, staying away longer with each visit, giving Isaac and Rebekah even less respite from the two Canaanite wives he left behind. At least when Esau was home in the camp, he managed to keep peace between the women.

As Jacob’s sigh reached his ears, he regretted asking after his brother. “Esau left the moment he spoke to Ishmael’s messenger. I do not expect he will return for several weeks now,” Haviv said, speaking for Jacob.

“He left without a word to me?” The boy could have at least said farewell. The thought pained him, but he did not voice it. “He is impulsive. He will miss his uncle.”

“Yes.” Haviv cleared his throat. “He did not take the women or children with him, so perhaps he will return more quickly.”

Isaac grunted. “Would that he had.” He lowered his voice. “Is there not enough strife in the camp since he brought them here?” He and Rebekah had grieved long and often over Esau’s two Canaanite wives.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Father, in Esau’s absence?”

Jacob’s voice held a thin thread of hope, and Isaac wondered not for the first time what he had done wrong that this son should think he did not accept him. He only favored Esau to make up for Rebekah’s lack.

“Father?”

The question brought his thoughts up short. Had his mind wandered again? “Yes, my son?”

“Can I bring you anything? Is there anything you need?” The voice had shifted slightly away from him, as though Jacob desired to leave.

“No, no. I am fine. You may go and complete whatever tasks your mother has for you.” He offered a feeble wave to send him off and listened as his son’s steps retreated.

“He is not a child that you should send him to his mother.” Haviv’s tone was gentle, though the words held reprimand.

Isaac rubbed a hand along his beard and blinked, wishing for one moment that when he opened his eyes they would see as they once did. “I forget sometimes.” How faulty his thoughts were of late! Though the moments of his childhood seemed sharper in their focus, the early years with Rebekah were a bittersweet memory.

“I know you do. But you would do well to remember that
your sons are men now. Men fully capable of leading the men of the tribe in your place.”

“You think me old.” But of course it was true.

“I do not think you old. Your father lived to one hundred and seventy-five winters. You have many years ahead of you.” Haviv leaned in close so that his breath touched Isaac’s ear. “I think you must prepare your sons to lead after you, however. Bless them and give them control as your father gave you.”

Isaac settled back among the cushions and caught a whiff of stew carried to him on the breeze, drawing nearer with each breath.

“Are you ready to eat, my lord?” Rebekah’s tone held a smile, and he sat straighter, grateful for the interruption.

“Yes, if you will stay with me and share the meal.” He turned toward the sound of her voice. “I will let you join your family,” he said, sending his words in Haviv’s direction. He did not need the man telling him what to do. Not now. Not while he had yet to grieve his brother’s death.

“I will speak with you again later, my lord.”

Isaac heard the man walk away but did not respond.

Days passed with unending sameness, and though Isaac conferred often with Haviv and Jacob over issues arising in the fields with the shepherds and herdsmen, and listened to the normal laughter and bickering among the men and women of the camp, he could not shake the desire to hear Esau’s voice once more. How long would he stay away? Still, he knew the trek to Ishmael’s camp was not one a man traveled quickly.

Afternoon shadows blocked the heat of the sun several weeks after Ishmael’s death, bringing with them a welcome respite. Isaac settled among the cushions in the receiving area of his tent, the sides drawn up to let in the breeze. He briefly dozed, then jerked awake, his thoughts troubled and weary.
Was Haviv right in his assumption that Isaac had many more years ahead of him? Would he live long in this state of blindness? The thought pained him, making him suddenly long for Sheol. He had lived a long, good life already, so what need was there to continue in it? He was old and useless, and it was time he passed on the blessing of leadership to the son who would inherit that blessing. The blessing Jacob should now receive.

But Jacob had stolen Esau’s birthright. Did he really deserve Adonai’s blessing as well?

He shifted, silently cursing his inability to see the colors of the cushions Rebekah had made to brighten his surroundings. Cushions he had taken for granted in his sighted years. He tilted his head at the sound of male voices coming near, tuning his ears to listen more closely. But a moment later the voices quieted and someone stepped into the room, his presence obvious by his heavy breathing and the scent of the fields clinging to him.

“Father, I am home.” Esau knelt at Isaac’s side. “How good it is to see you.”

Isaac warmed to his son’s presence and lifted his arms toward the sound of his voice. “Come closer, my son. Let me feel your kiss on my cheeks.”

Esau leaned in and did as Isaac requested. Isaac responded in kind, then pulled Esau into a fierce hug. “You are back. Why did you not tell me you were leaving?”

“There was no time, Abba. A caravan had just passed along the route toward Havilah, and I wanted to join them. It is safer to travel in numbers.” Esau touched Isaac’s knee. “But I regretted my impulsiveness and wished I had told you. I would have taken you with me if I could. Ishmael’s sons were pleased that I came. I gave them your condolences.”

Isaac felt his pride lift at Esau’s words, his commanding tone, the practical reasons for his choices. “Thank you, my
son. You have done well, have carried yourself like a man and a fine representative of our household.”

It was true. Jacob would never have been able to broach the territory where Ishmael lived without returning with some kind of ill will between the groups. Jacob could please his mother and the men and women of the camp, but he did not carry the understanding to appease other tribes.

The thought beckoned him, and he turned toward his son with new vision. Vision that did not need physical sight.

“My son,” he said, renewed resolve filling him. He had always known that Esau would make a great leader one day, and it was time he followed through on that belief.

“Here I am.” Esau leaned close again, the scent of the fields filling Isaac with a deep sense of rightness, of peace.

“I am now an old man and don’t know the day of my death.” He reached out a hand, fumbling until he touched Esau’s bearded face. “Now then, get your weapons—your quiver and bow—and go out to the open country to hunt some wild game for me. Prepare me the kind of tasty food I like and bring it to me to eat, so that I may give you my blessing before I die.”

Esau did not respond quickly, and Isaac feared he would refuse the blessing on account of the birthright he had so easily despised. But surely it was his impulsive nature that had made him act so rashly. Surely he did not truly despise his heritage and all that his father believed.

“It will be as you say, Father. I will go at once.” He bent to kiss Isaac once more in farewell and quickly stood. “Pray that your God heeds my success.”

As Esau’s footsteps retreated, Isaac did just that.

Rebekah took a step back from the entryway of Isaac’s tent, her blood pumping hard and fast, her mind working
to understand what she had just heard. Isaac had promised the blessing to Jacob. Could he truly have just changed his mind and gone back on his word? Or had his word been given under compulsion, something he had never intended to keep?

She held her breath, willing her racing heart to calm, as Esau emerged and turned left toward the tents that sat across the compound, the tents that housed his two wives and sons. He had to be weary from his recent journey, but he would waste no time leaving again to do Isaac’s bidding.

How could Isaac do such a thing?

She smoothed her hands along the sides of her robe, trying to still their sudden trembling. She could not let this happen. Isaac was simply too old and his memory too weak to realize what he was doing. She would help him see. Should she go in and talk to him, to convince him to bless Jacob before Esau returned?

Indecision made her palms slick with sweat, and her heart picked up its pace once more. She moved away from Isaac’s tent and crossed the compound toward Esau’s with an attempt at casual indifference, her mind churning. Should she confront Esau?

But no. While this son might have once despised his birthright, he surely desired the blessing now. A blessing he did not deserve. A blessing Isaac should not have offered.

She came to the entrance of Esau’s tent and paused. How could she explain her presence here? She avoided contact with his wives at every turn and could not afford to confront them now. Gliding past in the pretense of moving toward the well—never mind her lack of jar to carry the water—she stopped at the back of the tent, darted quick looks in every direction, and pressed her ear toward the tent’s back wall.

“Are you going so soon, my love? You just now returned!” Basemath’s whiny voice rose above the din of his sons’ clamoring and Judith’s loud, mournful sigh.

“I promise you, I will soon return, and when I do, it will be for blessing far greater than we have yet seen. Soon we will send my brother to the hills, and all that my father owns will be mine.”

The women squealed at Esau’s boast, and with it came a sudden surge of anger rushing through Rebekah’s body like hot coals. She stepped away from the tent and moved along the tree line until she was half hidden by a row of servants’ smaller quarters. She watched, waiting for Esau to leave, her anger growing, her thoughts roiling, until resolve wound her decision tightly around her heart.

Esau emerged from his tent, bow and sling hung over his shoulder, his stride arrogant and sure. She waited until she could no longer see him as he disappeared over a rise toward the open country, then lifted her skirts and hurried to find Jacob.

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