Rebekah (5 page)

“You do not know that for sure. Men don’t always act in ways or at times we think they should.”

The stones squealed beneath Deborah’s hand. She paused to add more grain to grind between them.

“My father did. If I asked something of him, he gave it quickly and freely. Laban enjoys taunting me.” She paced the wide outer courtyard, glancing toward the hills where she expected Laban to soon return from a visit to the flocks. “Perhaps I should seek help from Bethuel.” If only her brother had stayed on at the estate, she could at least appeal to him.

“Bethuel lives in the hills for a reason, mistress. You know how Laban makes him feel.”

“As though he has no use but to be a shepherd.” She sighed. “But even in that Laban does not fully trust him. Laban left three days ago to inspect the sheep without saying a word to me. He only made those promises to placate me.”

“You are assuming things.”

“And you are making excuses for a deceiver!” She glanced quickly behind her, relieved that no servants stood nearby. Though her mother and sister-in-law were gone to market, Laban’s concubine Refiqa, newly pregnant with his child, lay resting inside the house. “My brother can marry as many women as he pleases, but I must dangle like poor fruit on the vine.” Though Laban was six years older than she, he had
married Farah in his youth and taken Refiqa this past year. Already he had three young sons.

Deborah paused in the grinding, took the flour from the trough, and poured it into a clay bowl. “Here, add the oil and start kneading the bread. The others will be back soon, and unless you want to run off to the hills and live with Bethuel, we can only make the best of what we have.”

Rebekah felt the rebuke in Deborah’s tone. Deborah knew firsthand the shock of losing a husband and living ever since without one. Still, the words stung as Rebekah took the bowl to the cooking room and set it on the wooden table with more force than she intended. A thin crack appeared down one side. She uttered a curse. The bowl was one of her mother’s favorites.

She searched the shelves for another bowl to replace it, glancing through the window as she did. A man’s form appeared, striding toward the house, but on closer inspection, she did not recognize his gait. Laban walked with quicker strides, his hands swinging at his sides as though he was always hurrying to get somewhere, whereas Bethuel moved as though time meant nothing.

A neighbor, perhaps? One of the servants? The thought troubled her. Had something happened to Laban? Emotion surged, switching from anger to fear. She hurried from the cooking room to the courtyard to meet the stranger and found Deborah standing at the courtyard gate speaking to him.

“You are welcome to wait in the courtyard for Master Laban to return if you wish,” Deborah was saying. “We will be happy to set an extra place for the evening meal.”

The man shook his turbaned head and held up a hand. “No, no, but thank you very much. I have come to deliver the images Laban requested.” He lifted a heavy sack Rebekah had failed to notice from her view at the window and handed it to Deborah.

“Images?” Rebekah stepped forward to address the man, ignoring Deborah’s pointed frown. “What images did my brother order?”

The man looked at her, a gleam of appreciation in his eyes. Rebekah recoiled at his too-familiar look, suddenly aware of the pale blue head scarf that set apart her maidenhood. She dipped her head, keeping her eyes averted to the goatskin sack in Deborah’s arms.

“Open it up and see for yourself. I stand by my workmanship. Laban knows where to come for the best quality.” His chest lifted in obvious pride.

Deborah carried the sack to a bench to do as the man suggested, and Rebekah hurried to join her. She scooted close to Deborah, keeping her distance from the man, who followed them past the gate into the courtyard.

“Three images, as you can see,” he said as Deborah pulled each one from the sack. “Carved of cedar and overlaid with gold. The finest quality.”

Deborah turned each image over before placing them back in the sack. “We will be sure to pass them on to Master Laban.” She turned to the man. “I trust the master has paid you for your services?”

The man nodded, though by his look Rebekah wondered if he had hoped to gain something more. Had Laban promised him something other than a simple merchant’s order? The man eyed her, and she had to force herself to stand still and not shrivel beneath his open perusal.

“Why don’t you take these inside, mistress?” Deborah thrust the sack into Rebekah’s arms. She glimpsed her nurse’s look, sensing her protectiveness. She was only too happy to comply. Deborah turned to the merchant. “Thank you for dropping these by. I am sure the master will stop at your booth after he returns to thank you himself.” She crossed her arms, brooking no argument, while Rebekah slipped into the
house. She waited just inside the door, until at last she heard his grunted thanks and his footsteps receding.

“Why would Laban order such images?” she asked when Deborah joined her moments later. “I know my brother would placate the moon and beg the sun to do his bidding, but since when does he keep household gods? Has he completely abandoned the God of Shem?”

Deborah shook her head. “I do not know, mistress.” She eyed the sack with a hint of fear. “The God of your fathers, the God of Shem, is a jealous God.” She met Rebekah’s gaze. “Your brother is asking to bring trouble on this house.”

 5 

Dusk deepened with an intermittent breeze, and the telltale howl of a jackal in a nearby thicket made the flesh prickle on Isaac’s arms. The flap of bats’ wings whooshed the air above his head. Familiar sounds. Comforting sounds. The cave at Machpelah had become a habitual stop on his return to Hebron from visits to the Negev. How was it that more than two years after her death, he could still grieve his mother as though her parting had been yesterday?

He rubbed the hair on his arms and pulled the cloak about him, the chill of the night air making him shiver. His father worried over his melancholy, comparing him too often to his untamed half brother Ishmael, who roamed the deserts of Shur and Paran with his many sons—a warrior, a fighter. Even Abraham’s younger sons by his concubine Keturah carried a wild streak within them, inheriting their father’s sense of adventure.

But Isaac had never known a desire to fight as his brothers fought or to hunt and kill as they did. While he did not share their sense of sport or hostile bickering, he did not fear the night sounds. Men might come to kill and steal and destroy,
but Adonai controlled the wild beasts, and Adonai could be trusted to protect him.

He moved from beneath the protection of the oaks toward the steps leading downward to the cave’s entrance. Darkness shrouded him now as he picked his way along, hugging the cool limestone. He stopped at the last step and sat upon it, wrapping both arms around his knees.

His mother had doted on him all of his life. An old woman by the time of his birth, Sarah had laughed often with him and taught him early to notice the world around him, the flowers and birds, the plants and trees, the way the water dripped into the clay cisterns and how wine tasted when held on the tongue. She shared her favorite dishes, the sheep cheese, and many spices she hoarded to flavor food just the way his father loved best.

How he missed her!

He stared at the large circular stone guarding the entrance to the burial shelves, protecting her remains from the jackals outside, the jackals she had feared.

“Do not worry, Ima. They cannot hurt you now.”

He leaned back against the stone step and absently stroked his beard. Scratching sounds came from the distant recesses, probably a mouse of some kind. If he had brought a torch, he might catch the creature unaware and study it for a moment. But it was a skittish animal and would likely hide from the light as he was drawn to it, especially in the Negev, where the sun warmed his back, and where his own skittish thoughts could focus on Adonai and all the things he did not understand. Unlike here, where his thoughts grew muddled and grief overtook him.

“The days of mourning have passed, Ima.” His voice echoed in the chamber, a sound that always made him pause. “I have no tears to give you. I only came to tell you”—his voice
dropped to a whisper—“this is my last visit here. I must put aside grief and live the life I am meant to live.”

Saying it aloud made it seem possible. He needed to face the future his father had planned for him, the future Adonai had promised him. And yet . . . he was afraid. He did not fear the jackals or the wild beasts his mother had feared but the people with whom he lived. He knew too well the sting of betrayal and the sudden way a man could turn against another.

The memory added to the grief he held too tightly. He had accepted the sacrifice, the purpose of God in his father’s actions. But his mother had never fully recovered from the shock. Though she had lived on for several years, she had changed. Where Isaac had grown more submissive and accepting, she had grown fearful. Elohim’s test had changed them all, and while his father passed the test with Adonai’s acceptance and blessing, his mother had pulled inward, had withdrawn from everyone except her son, until death claimed her.

He had been her only joy, the only one to bring her comfort and laughter after that day. The memories only heightened his sense of uncertainty. His father said it was time to fill her place. Isaac needed a wife of his own. But he had no prospects, no women of kindred spirit in the camp who would understand him as Sarah had. Surely Adonai had a woman prepared for him. As He had made the first woman for the first man, surely He did not intend for the promised son to go without an heir.

Isaac pushed to his feet, frustrated with his insecurities, and turned to walk up the steps to the surface. He looked back one last time, bracing a hand against the wall. He should say something in parting, but there were no words left to say. She could not hear him from her place in Sheol, and he could not bring her back from there.

He climbed the rest of the steps and moved forward, following the shaft of moonlight now coming through a break in the trees. A stirring in the brush at the edge of the clearing made him turn. Twin circles of light looked back at him—a jackal or a large cat. He stilled, feeling the whisper of wind against his cheek, the breath of God at his back.

I am yours, Elohei Abraham.
He had learned submission and trust through fear. Fear no longer bound him. Not fear of what God could control. Only fear of that which God gave free rein. Fear of men. Fear of relationships with those he did not trust.

He held the animal’s gaze a moment longer, watching, waiting. The animal turned. A jackal. Ran back through the brush the way it had come. Isaac followed the opposite path toward his father’s house in Hebron.

Voices, loud and boisterous one moment, muffled and angry the next, came from his father’s tent as Isaac entered the compound. He continued walking, trying to blot out the sounds of his father’s concubine Keturah, her animated voice rising higher against the booming insistence of his father.

“They are too young. You cannot send them away! I will die if you do!” Keturah’s cries turned to sobs, and the tent grew silent except for her weeping. Isaac kept walking, weary of such exchanges.