Rebekah (9 page)

“You did not know he would be at the harvest pretending to be one of us? Or did he have your permission to look me over as though he were buying a donkey or a calf?”

Laban straightened, clearly resenting the accusation. “You need not trouble yourself so much, Rebekah. It sounds to me like the man was being shrewd. To marry a woman sight unseen would be risky for any man. Despite your beauty, my dear sister, not every man in Harran has been privileged to witness it firsthand.”

Heat filled Rebekah’s face as she recalled the man’s too-familiar comments. “Elder’s son or no, the man should not waylay innocent maidens and make them fear they will be taken advantage of. I cannot abide such a man. And if he does come to make such an offer, I want you to refuse him.” She clenched her fists, looking first to Bethuel and pleading silently with him to take her side, then to Laban, who held her fate.

Laban grunted, set the pipe aside, and glared at her. “And what if that happens, Rebekah? What then? Will you remain an unmarried virgin in my house forever? An elder’s son could give you the life you deserve. If you turn him down, where am I to go for a husband for you? You will not accept one from Ur or Nineveh or Babylon. Where else am I to look?”

“You have turned down perfectly suitable men for wealth. I am not the only one who has made this difficult.” Rebekah could feel her insides quiver, but she stood firm, unwilling to let him see her fear.

“She need not wed a man she does not want,” Bethuel said. “Father would not approve.”

Laban grunted and sat again, his glare shifting from Rebekah to Bethuel. “How do you know Dedan would be so bad? All men are fools. She would learn to live with it.”

“You are right in that, and I live with the biggest of fools right here!” Rebekah’s voice shook despite her attempt to stay calm.

Laban rose once more, his expression moving from angry to dangerous. She took a step back but not fast enough to stop his palm from striking her cheek. Shame filled her as heat filled her face, but before she could move or think, she felt strong hands lift her at the waist and set her aside. In a flurry of angry words and flying fists, Laban was on the ground rubbing his jaw.

“You will not touch her ever again.” Bethuel looked down on Laban, his expression frightful, menacing.

Laban scrambled to right himself, but he did not attempt to rise. Instead, he held up a hand as though the action would keep Bethuel at a distance. “Perhaps I acted rashly. But she needs a man who will keep her in line, and you know it.” He looked up, but Bethuel’s stony expression did not waver, and his hands clenched into fists.

“See to it that you do not lay a hand on her again. If I hear that you did, Brother, you will sorely wish you hadn’t.”

“You need not worry. I would not
think
of harming our precious Rebekah.” He rubbed his jaw once more. “But she had better agree to a match soon.”

Rebekah slipped quietly from the room, still feeling the sting of Laban’s slap, wondering if she had deserved his wrath. She had spoken harshly. But had not his actions, Dedan’s actions, caused it? Was she not allowed her anger?

She sank into a heap on her mat and hugged her knees to her chest. She really should learn to curb her tongue. She was
far too outspoken. Would Laban hold it against her and make her life miserable when Bethuel returned to care for the sheep?

Abba, why did you have to go and leave me before we could choose a man for me to marry?

Her father would have cared what she thought. Her father would have respected her choices. He might have even allowed her to request a man she thought she could love.

Her father would never have slapped her.

She rocked back and forth, still shaking and cold. But it was too late now to undo what had been done and said. Bethuel was witness. But the look in Laban’s eyes made her afraid. He had his own mind made up, and she sensed that when Bethuel left, Laban would try to force her into a decision she did not want. If she did not find a way to stop him.

Three days later, Rebekah spread the last of the grape clusters on a clean cloth to dry in the sun. The process would take several weeks, perhaps more, before the raisins could be pressed into cakes for storing. Too many days to think and fear what Laban and the elder’s son might do in the meantime.

Constant movement seemed her only relief from the plaguing thoughts. She cornered one of the young servant boys to watch that the birds and flies did not swoop down to steal or spoil the grapes, then joined Deborah in the courtyard, where she stood over a large pot, boiling more grapes into thickened honey.

“I can stir that for a while. Your arm must grow tired.” She extended a hand to the woman, fully expecting her to accept her offer.

Deborah’s grip merely tightened, and she shook her head. “I am fine. But your restlessness is going to send us all to the hills. You have not been yourself since we returned from the vineyards.”

Rebekah let her hand fall to her side. The tension along her upper back had turned into tight knots, and she had fought a constant headache since her argument with Laban. Her only consolation came in the fact that Bethuel had not returned to the hills.

“You need not fear Laban’s greed, dear one. I have seen many men look at you with longing over the years. One of them will be worthy of you and be able to handle Laban as well.”

“He would have to be a wealthy but humble prince to appease us both.”

Deborah smiled and lifted the pot from the fire to cool on the stones. “Then the God of Shem will bring you a wealthy, humble prince. Get the jars and bring them to me.”

“Such men do not exist,” Rebekah said. She hurried into the house to do as Deborah requested, with a withering glance at Laban’s shrine to his household gods.

The sun’s rays angled downward by the time the task was completed, and Rebekah finally gave vent to her restlessness and escaped to the fields behind the house. She stopped near the edge of a low hill where trees blocked the wind from whipping the house with too much force. Down the rise a large well stood with steps descending to a river below. The well served both Harran and Nahor in Paddan-Aram, and she had made the journey nearly every day from the time she could hold a jar on her head and balance it without spilling. Already a flock of sheep had gathered there, and shepherds and shepherdesses waited for all of them to arrive to fill the troughs with water for the flocks. Hearty labor considering the size of the flocks. She looked on, spotting Bethuel’s distinctive yellow and red turban among the other shepherds.

“You must not fear what is yet to come, Rebekah.”

She startled at the male voice and grabbed hold of a tree trunk to steady herself. Turning toward the sound, she felt
her knees grow weak at the sight of a man she did not recognize, a tall man whose garments shone brighter than sun-bleached wool.

“Do not be afraid of your brother Laban’s plans for you. They will not succeed.”

Rebekah’s hand covered her throat. She tried to speak, but the words would not come.
Who are you?
She could not continue to look upon him, for the light of his garments nearly burned her eyes.

“I am sending my messenger to meet you. When he comes, you will know what to do.” His words were like musical notes in her ears, and she wished he would continue speaking for the beauty of his voice. She closed her eyes against the light, leaning into the tree.

A moment later, the clouds passing over the sun made her look up. She was alone again, her breath coming fast, her heart pounding, wondering if she had imagined it all. In her fear of the future and her desperate need for control over Laban’s actions, had she conjured a vision of an angel or a god?

She shook herself, feeling weak as a newborn lamb. She gripped the trunk of the oak with both hands and drew in several long, slow breaths. Her gaze turned to the well below, where the men and women now formed a line from the bottom to the top, pouring jar after jar into the trough to water the hundreds of thirsty sheep.

Do not be afraid of your brother Laban’s plans for you. They will not succeed.

How did the man know of her brother or his designs for her? And how did he come and go with the wind? Surely she must have imagined it all.

Fearing the heat and the stress of the day was doing strange things to her mind, she turned and hurried back to her mother’s house.

 9 

Deborah drew the head covering about her face and hurried from the house to the neighboring streets of Nahor. Emotion choked her, and she blinked, silently berating herself for taking Nuriah’s comments so to heart. How often had she consoled Rebekah and Selima not to do that very thing? But the younger women did not have the history she shared with Nuriah, nor reasons to evoke the woman’s hostility.

She picked up her pace and stayed to the side of the road as several young boys raced past, shouting and chasing a runaway donkey while men and women darted out of the animal’s way. She should be back at the house working, but grief weighed her down, and for once she would give in to it. She must, or one of these nights Rebekah would hear her weeping upon her sleeping mat and ask too many questions. She had promised Bethuel. Rebekah could not know.

A deep sigh left her when at last she reached the city gates, and her feet took the road of their own accord as it curved and led to the well where the women would soon gather. Rebekah and Selima would come with the other women of the city to draw water, and she did not wish to be seen. She
veered off the path toward the copse of trees that ringed the well on one side.

But as she knelt beneath an oak tree and allowed the tears to release at last, she could not help but berate the foolish choices that had brought her to this place. If she had never been betrothed to Samum . . . if he had not treated her as he did . . . if her father had agreed to Bethuel’s first request . . . But then she would not have Selima or carry Rebekah’s trust.

She sniffed and dried her tears with the edge of her scarf, then glanced up at the shaft of angled sunlight breaking through the leaves above her, touching her face like a warm caress.

O God of my master Bethuel, God of Shem and Abraham, what is to become of me?

She could follow Rebekah to her future husband’s home, or Rebekah could release her and leave her at the mercy of her mother. If the girl knew the truth, she would choose the latter and never speak to Deborah again. Selima could also suffer her fate of rejection, something Deborah could not allow. Nuriah would not speak of it, lest she reveal her own weaknesses. Or would she? With Bethuel’s death, there was nothing, no one, to keep Nuriah from twisting the truth and standing by a lie against Deborah.

Fear accompanied a sudden shift in the wind, the soft whoosh of the leaves displaced by the angry toss of branches above her head. In the distance, near the well, came the jangling of camels’ bells, and the heavy footfalls of many beasts seemed to shake the earth. She pressed a hand to her cheeks, wiping away the remaining dampness, and covered her face once more, then walked to the edge of the tree line where she could get a better view.