Abigail's Story (9 page)

 

The journey from the crossroads to the herdsmen's encampment seemed to take much longer. Clouds spotted the serene sky with puffs of white and gray, and I wondered if it might storm before we reached the encampment. I would have to learn how to read the sky.

It did not help that I was peering into every stand of trees and cluster of bushes we passed. I did not know what I expected to see—piercing eyes, spears held ready to throw—but after hearing the old man's tale, I felt very uneasy.

Keseke's gloom deepened with every mile of road that passed under the wagon's wheels. She refused to share a cake of figs and only drank a little water from the skin the old man had refilled for us. She did, however, ask me if I felt sick with every passing mile.

“My belly feels fine,” I told her. “Stop worrying.”

After that, she did what she did well: complain.

“The air in the hills turns my skin to leather.” She poked at her sunken cheek. “By the time we return to Maon, I shall resemble a lizard.”

“Some goat curds mixed with oil will keep your skin supple,” I advised.

“So I may smell of spoilt milk instead?” She
hmph
ed. “Then there will be the vermin.”

“Vermin?”

“Rats, flies, snakes, fleas, ants,” she listed with dismal delight. “If it bites or stings, I venture that you will find it in your bed or crawling down the collar of your khiton.”

I looked out over the hills. “There cannot be that many, or the herdsmen would move the animals somewhere else.”

“That is another thing.” She shook a finger at me. “Don't touch any of the sheep, however clean they
look. They carry pests that will creep under your skin and into your hair. They feed on your blood and have to be burned out.”

My mother had found some lice in my hair once when I was a little girl. She had smothered them with a liberal amount of olive oil. After that it had taken hours for her to comb out the eggs they had laid, but she hadn't burned me with anything. “I shall not go near them.”

Keseke glared at the guards. “The Master should have left the men with us for the season. Women cannot be expected to drive off starving lions.”

Rats and lice were bad enough, but now lions? I swallowed. “It will not be that bad, surely.”

“What do you think carries off half the lambs each spring? And we two without protection,” the serving woman said with a kind of relish, “for those lazy herdsmen cannot bestir themselves to look after their own women and children. They will do nothing but protect the sheep.”

“Maybe we should take to wearing a fleece.”

Keseke's nose elevated a disapproving notch. “Jest if you like, but it will not make these things go away.”

She was right, of course. Women alone always had to be careful, particularly far from civilized places, and that wasn't a joking matter. I did not relish the thought of being snatched by marauders who would sell me to a slaver caravan—or worse.

“We should stay indoors at night, and only venture out together during the day.” I might fashion a
staff for myself, too. Rivai and I had played Moses and Pharaoh with sticks when we were little, and I had nearly always won. A good club to the head might dissuade lions as well as slavers.

As long as I do not encounter that outlaw the old man mentioned,
I amended. I would not wish to face a man whom someone as mighty as King Saul could not catch.

Keseke gave me a look of dislike. “Do you worry about anything, Mistress?”

So the serving woman did
not
know my thoughts.

“When this wagon will stop.” I pressed a hand to the curve of my spine, which was now throbbing in time to the jostling of the wagon. “My back bones feel ready to split.”

The wagon slowed but did not stop until we reached the edge of the wilderness. Valley pastures flowed wide and green at the base of the outer hills, which were dark with thick forests of oak and pine. In the distance, I saw a great flock of sheep move as one, drifting over and down a steep hill. There were faster, darker animals moving out the outside of the herd, and the faint sound of barking reached our ears.

“There it is.” Keseke pointed at a small structure nestled back in a thick grove of trees.

In my eagerness, I did not wait for the wagon driver to help me down, but leapt from the wagon. I hurried to the grove, expecting to see servants emerge from the house and bid us welcome.

No one came out.

My steps slowed as I drew closer. Rotted boughs sagged over walls of cracked plaster and crumbling brick, while weeds and brush, blocking the dirt path to the doorway, grew as high as my waist. I nearly tripped over the door, which had fallen from its hinges and lay over the threshold.

Calling Nabal's hill house a hovel would be flattering it.

I peered inside. There were no lamps, no food laid out to welcome us. Perhaps my husband had not sent word that I was to come and stay. As I cautiously stepped over the fallen door, a nest of mice erupted from beneath it, squealing as they ran into several holes at the base of the house.

“We will need fire and water.” Keseke came to stand beside me and eyed a dusty cobweb. “Keep your head covered or spiders will drop in your hair.”

There was no danger of that. I was not going to remove my head cloth until I returned to Maon.

One of the guards carried a flint stone and, with a bit of grumbling, started a fire for us. The others unloaded the wagon. Keseke used the last of the daylight to collect brushwood to feed the fire. I tried not to look at the mess inside the house, but glancing up I saw patches of twilight sky through the gaps in the collapsing roof. The boughs supporting the reed mats under the roof plaster were rotted, and some appeared ready to drop at any moment.

“We cannot stay here,” I told the driver of the wagon. “The house is not safe.”

“You may see the herdsmen in the morning,” the
driver said. “They can repair it.” He sounded tired and grumpy, and revealed the reason for it with his next words. “We cannot, for Master Nabal ordered us to return tonight.”

“But the animals must be exhausted.”

He shook his head. “We change them at the crossroads.” He handed me a sack half-filled with dried fruit. “This is the last of it. We will bring more supplies with the new moon.” He went out to the empty wagon and climbed up behind the mules.

“Wait.” I hurried after him. Part of me wanted to beg them to stay. Another wished to beg go with them. “Please ask my husband to send word to my family that I arrived here safely.”

The driver nodded before he turned the mules and drove away, followed by the other two guards. I watched them until they disappeared over the rise, and then hugged myself with my arms. The setting of the sun brought coldness to the air, but it was the silence which sank into my flesh and gnawed at my bones.

“Well?” Keseke folded her arms.

Her prediction had come true. We were but two women in a strange place without adequate shelter, alone and friendless. The lions would likely come at any moment.

“It grows cold,” I said. “Let us go inside and make the place livable for the night.”

CHAPTER
9

K
eseke proved very useful in finding things to make our new home somewhat more comfortable. She unearthed three unbroken saucer lamps and a juglet with a small measure of oil still inside. I made wicks for the lamps by twisting together threads plucked from the hem of my khiton, and lit them with a straw touched to a coal from the fire.

“There,” I said as I set the lamps out. “We will have light by which to work.”

A fallen pine branch worked nicely as a broom, and I used its stiff brown needles to sweep the floor while the serving woman banked the fire. She encircled the coals with stones and bits of brick, too, so that the fire would not wander while we slept.

“We should make some food now,” I suggested, “while there is still enough oil to keep the lamps burning.”

Keseke told me she would cook, but I insisted on sharing the work, so we both prepared the meal.
Keseke made a soup while I ground enough grain to make a small lehem to bake on a pit stone. The grinding stones were old and worn, and I spent a few minutes picking the largest pieces of grit from the flour.

Despite the present condition, this place had once been a permanent home for someone. “Who lived here before Nabal?” I asked.

“I do not know.”

There were no bowls to be had, so we were obliged to share the pot between us. The hasty preparation and lack of proper seasoning did not seem important, as hungry as we were, and the hot soup proved to be tasty and filling.

“This is good,” I told her as we dipped pieces of the unleavened bread into the broth. “What is it?”

“Food,” was her reply.

Her terseness might have offended me, had I not recalled my husband's manner toward his servants. The woman had probably known little kindness from him. “I meant, how do you make it?”

“Leftover beans, a small onion, and a bit of marrow bone set to boil in water.” She gave me a suspicious look. “Why?”

“I like it. I would make it myself, perhaps with some goat cheese crumbled atop it.” Not that we had any cheese left, or a goat. I frowned. Would the herdsmen give us one of theirs for milk?

“Fennel improves it, too.” The serving woman reached for the last heel of bread, hesitated, and broke it in half. “Here.” She thrust one piece at me.
“What the master sent is not enough, but we can dig roots and greens. There are sycamore and nut trees here.”

“My mother used to make me pistachio nut sweet cakes.” The memory made my mouth water. “I wonder if there is any honey to be had.”

“There are more important things to have first, such as a new roof,” Keseke said. “If the wind does not cause this place to fall in on our heads before the morning.”

“I shall pray it not.” I gave her a rueful smile. “The driver said the herdsmen could see to it.”

The serving woman sighed heavily. “Oh, they will, when they make time for it. Which could be tomorrow, or on the eve of the next moon, or the day after we depart for home.”

“It does no harm to ask.” If the herdsmen would not help us, then we would find the means to do it ourselves. I had taught myself to throw pots; mending a roof could not be much harder than that. “Where do the herdsmen camp?”

“I saw their tents over there.” Keseke pointed to the east. “It is an hour's walk.”

It was growing too dark to cross such a distance. “We shall go to them in the morning.” I frowned and removed a bit of grit from my tongue. “Do you know any of these people?”

“The herdsmen?” The older woman sniffed. “Their names are too long and strange to recall. They do not let strangers see their women, only the master.”

Just how aloof and unfriendly were these people? “I am the master's wife.”

“I think you are too young to be let out of your mother's sight.” She used a length of fallen wood to prop the door in place, and then wedged it in a clever way so that it blocked most of the wind. “I would not sleep on those mats tonight; they are likely full of bugs and mold.”

I watched Keseke spread out her shawl to make a bed beside the cooking pit, and I did the same with my mantle. The dirt floor was cold and hard, and I shivered a little until the heat of the fire and the soup inside my belly warmed me. All at once weariness crept into my limbs, which felt as sore as if I had been carrying water back and forth from the well all day.

“I wake at dawn,” Keseke said, as if to warn me. “Someone has to fetch water and wood.”

“If you will do that, I can grind more grain and make our bread.”

She gave me a sideways look. “If you wish to see the herdsmen tomorrow, I shall walk with you to the camp.”

I hid a smile with my hand. “That would be pleasant.” I did not have to pretend my yawn.

I was so weary I would have slept without dreaming, if not for the strange noises that kept assailing my ears. Owls called, insects chirped and hummed, and broken reed mats rattled as the wind chased itself through the remnants of the roof. Then there
were the growling sounds coming from the forest, the likes of which I had never heard.

There are lions and bears and wolves in this country, and we with no door to bolt and barely a roof over our heads.

Each time something woke me, I tried to identify the source of the sound. When I could not, I closed my eyes and murmured prayers to the Adonai.

Toward dawn, I woke to see a shadow hovering over me. “Adonai yireh.”

Something thumped to the floor, and then Keseke crouched down beside me. “I thought I saw a rat crawling here.” She shoved away the heavy branch she had dropped.

“I am blessed to have you here with me,” I told her. “I shall praise the Adonai in your name.”

“No more praise to Him, I beg you. Morning will come soon enough.”

“I am sorry. I am a little afraid.” I should have admonished her for speaking so to me, but I was shivering too hard. “And cold. Will you sleep beside me, so we can share our warmth?”

The serving woman stared at me in disbelief, and then rose, grabbed her shawl, and walked around the fire to lie beside me. “There, now. If anything comes in to attack us, it will feast on me first. Now go to sleep!”

“I shall.” But not before I closed my eyes and sent a final, silent prayer of thanks to the Adonai for this new friend.

 

The next morning came far, far too early. It came with damp cold air, and thin light, and an ominous, rumbling sound that pressed in on my ears.

I sat up and gathered my mantle around me. My muscles ached from sleeping on the hard-packed dirt floor, but I forgot the soreness when another unearthly rumble filled the air. It did not fade away like the first, but seemed to roll around the house, coming from all directions at once.

“Who is there?” I called out.

Keseke rolled over, looked up, and groaned as she pulled a corner of her shawl over her face. “It is but thunder, Mistress. Go back to sleep.”

“Thunder does not sound like that.”

“It does here,” she argued. “The valleys here carry its echo.”

All my tiredness left me as I stood and went to look outside. The door fell out again the moment I removed the branch Keseke had wedged to keep it in place, and added to the lingering rumble with its own heavy thud. Outside, the air was as dark as inside the house, and swollen, dark gray clouds billowed up from behind the hills, rushing quickly toward the house.

My heart pounded as I stepped over the threshold and faced the storm. It was so close that it seemed if I reached out I might place my hand against the uneven, dark wall of clouds. At the same time, I had never seen the weather change so swiftly. The storm
raced toward the hill house like a charging army, pursuing the last bit of blue to the sky and swallowing it whole.

A different sort of movement caught my eye.

It came from a shepherd, who emerged from a thicket of trees and made his way through the swaying grasses and up the side of the tallest hill. The distance between us made it impossible to see his features, but from the way he moved I guessed him to be young and strong. He wore a mantle of blue over a plain ivory khiton.

Why was he climbing up there, in this weather?

At the very top of the hill, the shepherd fell to his knees and bowed his head. He remained thus for a few moments, and then rose and lifted his staff over his head. He seemed to be shouting something at the sky, but the rising wind snatched away his voice.

A crooked, white streak of light shot from sky to earth, so close to the shepherd that I covered my face with my hands. “No!”

When I dared look again, my hands fell to my sides. The lightning had not touched him, nor did he seem afraid of it, for he stood tall and straight and unflinching. Rain swept up and over the hill, pouring over the shepherd, who began to turn and twirl.

Slowly I walked forward, not stopping even when I felt the thunder shake the ground beneath my feet. Huge and terrible as the storm was, the man was not cowering or hiding or running way.

The shepherd was dancing. In the rain.

I had never seen anything so brave, or foolish, in
my life. I could not go back inside, even when the rain at last reached me. Instead I held out my arms as if to welcome it, turning up my face and closing my eyes.

In Carmel, the rain came soft and cool in gentle showers. Here, it was hard and cold and forceful, pricking my skin like a thousand tiny thorns. It was unlike anything I had ever felt, and my heart pounded in my breast. Now I understood exactly how the shepherd felt. How could one feel such power and not wish to shout and dance about for the joy of it?

“Mistress!” Keseke dragged me back to the house. “What are you doing? Have you no sense in your head?”

I laughed. “It is wonderful.”

“It is rain. Wet and cold, as are you now.” The serving woman guided me over to a dry spot under a part of the roof that had not fallen. She kept hold of me as she wiped my face with the edge of her head cloth. “You will catch your death of chill, and then the master will . . .” she faltered before she gave me an angry glare. “Never mind that. Hold still!”

She fussed at me until I removed my sodden khiton and changed into a dry one, and then built up the one fire the rain had not yet put out.

“This is a fine thing,” she grumbled after we had shifted our supplies to a dry corner. “The brushwood is all wet and useless. We shall freeze.”

Seeing the shepherd and feeling his exhilaration
were worth it. “Have you ever lived in such a beautiful, amazing place as this?”

Keseke's mouth sagged open. “Do you already have the fever?” She pressed her palm against my brow.

I laughed again and shook my head.

As swiftly as the storm came to us, so it went. A short time later the clouds had hurried on, and the sun came out, making every leaf and blade of grass sparkle. The air smelled fresh and alive, and I wanted nothing more than to run across the hills and breathe it all in.

“I want to take a walk,” I told Keseke. I hoped I might see the dancing shepherd again.

“Good.” The serving woman reached the door before I did. “We need dry wood, and reeds for new bed mats, and something to repair this roof before the beasts come to carry us off.”

I looked over her shoulder and saw three men climbing up the hill. Was the rain dancer among them? “Perhaps we should first greet our visitors.”

Keseke hissed at me to move inside, out of sight, but I covered my head and stepped out to meet the men, who stopped a few feet from the entrance to the house.

All three carried the long staff of the noqed, the keepers and raisers of herd animals. Living and working out-of-doors had tanned their skins to a deep, weathered brown, and they bore the scars and calluses of hard workers on their arms, hands, and
feet. None of them wore the blue mantle of the dancing shepherd.

Nabal's herdsmen.

Their dress seemed odd. The few noqed I had seen at market had the similar, roughly woven garments, but these men wore their simla shorter and without sleeves. Their sandals were plain leather soles attached to a single long strap that passed through a notch in their toes, encircled their ankles, and tied to a loop at the base of their heels. They wore no amulets or head coverings, and their beards were long and untrimmed.

The first and shortest of the men stepped forward ahead of the others. He had heavy, hooded eyes and the longest beard, with broad streaks of white in it. His two companions were younger men, darker and taller, but their features suggested that they were closely related to the eldest man.

They all smelled strongly of wet wool, sweat, and something that reminded me of milk when it soured.

I kept my expression polite and my voice respectful as I greeted the eldest of the trio. “I am Abigail, Zaqen. This is my companion, Keseke.”

Keseke bobbed her head but said nothing.

“I am Rosh Yehud,” the elder said, and used his staff to indicate the other two men. “My sons, Elas and Ur.”