Rebekah's Treasure (17 page)

“Well, have you heard?” Leah repeats breathlessly, her head-covering askew, wisps of gray hair curling across her forehead.

“Who has not heard?” I say, continuing my work. “Surely, even the Gentiles on the other side of the wadi know this by now. Our community has talked of nothing else.” For the past hour this news has been passed from one house to the next, and eagerly devoured. Our Temple is gone. Jerusalem will surely follow. And we’ve yet to learn of our loved ones. We’re all filled with sadness, but never speak of it. Instead, we speak of Ira and Rina—the widow slightly older than Ira who kindly tended his house when he first broke his leg. It’s the sort of distraction we need. And like chickens, we hunt and peck the soil of our lives in search of such morsels.

“Well, good news is worth retelling.” Leah moves closer as though examining my work. I’m used to her. She’s always stopping by with questions or a bit of news. “What’s the wool for?” she says, her eyebrows peaking.

“A rug for Ira and Rina. I only hope I can finish it before the wedding.”

“Such a gift! You’re very generous, Rebekah. If only my hands . . . well, there was a time . . . .” She sighs, turning her gnarled hands over as if examining them. “My gift is not so generous. I’ve pledged thirty loaves of my olive-and-rosemary bread for the wedding feast. For that I don’t need fingers. I can work the dough with my palms. But fuel for the oven is a problem. My few sheep will be unable to produce enough dung.”

“Did I tell you? I’ve bound too many thistles and acanthus.” I continue rolling the wool, not bothering to look up for I’m trying to conceal
’ my smile. I gesture, with a flick of my head toward the bundles. “See for yourself.”

“Ahhhhhhh.” The sound rolls slowly from Leah’s mouth when she sees the pile of bound thistles and spiny acanthus in the corner. “Yes . . . you have a sizable heap.” She looks down again at her gnarled hands. “When I was younger . . . when my hands were younger, I could bundle this amount in a day. Now . . . .”

“They are a nuisance. More than once I snagged my tunic and nearly ripped it. You must take some. I’ve more than enough. It would lessen the pile and prevent me from getting entangled.” When she shakes her head I add, “It would be a service to me.”

“Well, just one or two bundles . . . maybe three. If I mix them with dung, it will be enough for my bread.” She glances at her hands. “I never planned on becoming this useless.”

“Useless? Oh, Leah, you are far from useless. Doesn’t everyone come to you for prayer? I hear you as I pass your house praying for Tirzah’s baby, for Amos the cheesemaker, for our crops to be fruitful, for every need we bring you.”

She bends and kisses my forehead. “And I haven’t forgotten about your request, either. I’ve been praying day and night for Esther.”

Crash
. I roll over, dragging the woolen blanket across my shoulders.
Thud
. My eyelids are as heavy as anvils but I force them open. What . . . was that? I did hear something . . . I think. Or . . . a dream? Have I been dreaming? I listen. All is quiet. I rub my face and pull myself up on one elbow. Then I glance over to where Esther sleeps quietly on a nearby mat. Yes, a dream, nothing more. Of late, my sleep has been fitful and full of images of Ethan and my sons, and Esther, too. Sometimes I wake up wet with sweat or tears. I run my hands across my body. I’m not wet now. Only warm—the soft moist kind that comes from sleeping
beneath a cover. I pull the blanket over my shoulders, and just as I close my eyes there’s another crash.

This is no dream.
Someone is in the house
.

I crane my neck and listen. Voices. Men’s voices! Then footsteps on the paving stones, all heading for the ladder. Perspiration beads my forehead and rims my neck. I glance at Esther. She’s still asleep. Thank God she can sleep through anything. But what to do? My mind swims through a murky sea of choices. Only one seems right. I must go downstairs to prevent them from coming up here and hurting Esther. I descend the ladder while sending up desperate prayers.
God, please help me
.

My feet barely touch the stone flooring before two men surround me. One holds an oil lamp, the light of which splashes unevenly across his face, creating shadows beneath his eyes and across both cheeks and make him look like an eerie specter. His hair is twisted into strange knots.
Argos
? Who else can it be? But the other man I don’t recognize.

“Why are you in my house?” I say, facing Argos.

“Where’s the cup?” he hisses. “Give me the cup and no harm will come to you.”

“You have no right to be here.”

“I
must
have the cup.” His free hand clamps my arm. I can’t believe his strength. Is it possible? This little man? He holds me so fiercely I fear he’ll snap me like a reed. “Everyone in Pella knows I’m a healer. They know that Isis, the Queen of Heaven, has given me this power. You’ll not defame her with these false healings of yours.”

The man near Argos moves towards me. For the first time I see the club in his hand. It has strange markings carved on one side. He raises it threateningly, but lowers it when Argos waves him off.

“I’ll take the cup to the temple and dedicate it to Isis.” Argos’s eyes widen as though visualizing the dedication. “And as reward, she’ll surely increase my powers.”

I back away. I know what temple he speaks of. Zechariah told me about the ancient Canaanite temple, the one that sits across the wadi
’ north of the city, and how Argos had it rebuilt, patterned after the temples in the Nile delta. I close my eyes not wanting to imagine what evil is performed there. “The cup is pure. I cannot give it to you,” I hear myself saying, then at once feel Argos’s hot breath on my face, smell the stench of his sour vapors.

“I’ll destroy your house!”

I open my eyes. He’s but a hand’s length away, glaring at me like a demon with flaming eyes. When I remain silent, he flicks his hand in the air, and at once his companion, with the end of his club, begins overturning the baskets on the floor and scattering their contents.

“Don’t provoke me,” Argos hisses, “or you’ll lose more than your house. Demas likes nothing better than to employ his club in the smashing of heads.”

My knees shake beneath my tunic but I remain silent.

Demas is now working the shelves. His flailing club sends baskets and wooden bowls crashing to the floor. Next he whacks the pouch of salt, bursting it and sending it to the ground, followed by a cone of sugar. When he has emptied the shelf, he looks at the one above it—the one containing the cup, along with three other cups, more wooden bowls, and some spare oil lamps. He raises his club, ready to smash everything, not even considering that one of these four plain cups could be the prize. But just as he extends the club as high as he can and is ready to bring his full fury down upon the shelf, he lets out a shriek.

“My eyes! They burn! Oh, my eyes. Put it out. Put out the fire!” Demas drops his club. “Ohhhhhhhhhh.”

“Wash them with water and stop your howling,” Argos growls as he glances at the shelf, perplexed.

Demas stumbles to the door, feeling for the large water jar near the entrance. “Yeeeee! It burns! Yeeeee!” he screams, then runs from the house without even stopping to wash.

“What sorcery is this?” Argos says, turning to me. “What have you done?”

“I’ve done nothing.”

Outside, Demas’s shrieks and howls are loud enough to wake the neighbors. I hear their sleepy voices calling out. Argos is clearly nervous, and anxious to be off before anyone appears. Even so, he pauses to put his face to mine. “This is not over. I
will
have the cup.” With that, he picks up Demas’s fallen club and bolts out the door after his companion.

“What’s wrong, Mama?” I hear a tired voice say overhead. “What was all that noise?”

When I light a lamp and look up, I see Esther peering over the top of the ladder, and though I know she can’t see me clearly in the semidarkness, I smile. “It was God doing another miracle.”

Argos, the thief
.
Argos, the tormenter of women
. That’s what people call him now. Everyone is outraged over his attempt to steal the Holy Cup, the Cup of the Lord. It was better when it was just
my
cup. It wasn’t such a burden then. But its weight is becoming too heavy for me. For the elders, too, I think. It has forced them to act. Headed by Zechariah, a small group of believers have confronted Argos and demanded justice; and, Jepeth, the metalsmith, was paid with contributions from the community to make two bells, one for the upstairs and one for the downstairs of my house, to ring at the first sign of further trouble. And all this without my prior knowledge. But that was weeks ago, and aside from the two bells that are now in my house, nothing good has come of it, for Argos stood his ground before the men of our community and called me a “liar.”

Now I look at one of the bells as I ready myself for the wedding. It is not small and delicate like those attached to the hems of the priestly robes my father or Ethan once wore. Rather, it is larger than a man’s hand and resembles a cup with a thick-lipped barrel-shaped body and handle. It is made of sand-cast copper, and creates a frightful clamor when rung. I wish I could ring it now as an alarm to God. Would He
hear? If He did, I’d say, “What is happening with my Esther? Why aren’t You helping her?”

She has refused to go to the wedding. All my scolding, threats, and crying have availed nothing. She is immovable. A mountain of resistance. I blame her father, for she has his temperament
. Oh Ethan, if only you were here! If only you had left Jerusalem with us!
And then I feel the familiar anger. I don’t want to be angry. But there it is, bubbling in my stomach like a pit of bitumen. If only Ethan had come with us. If only he had made our sons . . .
my
sons, come too. If only Daniel had come. Then we would all be together. We would all be happy.

What am I to do?
Can you hear me, Lord? My voice is a clanging bell crying for help. Am I a widow? Have I lost my sons? Will I lose my daughter, too? Have pity on me. You are my only help. You are my refuge and strength. In You do I trust
.

Esther watches me from the corner of the room. She sits on a rush mat wearing a threadbare tunic that is mud-caked along the hem. Her hair is a mass of tangles. “It’s not too late.” I force a smile and point to the beautiful gray garment with thin red stripes that hangs from the wall peg. “I’ll wait while you wash and dress.”

Both of our tunics are newly purchased from one of the Gentile shops across the wadi. I did it hoping to please Esther, hoping it would pull her from her deep despair. And though I hated taking more coins from my
semadi
and squandering them on such trifles, I even purchased a box of kohl and a small bronze spatula for applying it to our eyes. But best of all, I bought a tiny clay phial of sweet cane perfume. It’s been so long since we’ve scented our bodies.

I adjust the veil over my freshly plaited hair. “You would look so lovely in your new tunic, and with the kohl on your lids you’d . . . .”

“No, Mama. Must I tell you again that I’m
not
going?” Determination and defiance harden her face like plaster. “Can’t you understand how impossible it is for me? I, who should have danced at
my
wedding, am forced to wonder if I’m a widow before I’m even a true bride.” She leans her head against the cool of the wall as a hot wind blows through the small open window, and with it, the noise of people gathering in
the street below. “I rejoice for Ira and Rina, but I don’t feel well and would make poor company. I have no wish to cast a shadow over their happiness.”

“But Esther . . . .”

“Let it alone, Mama, and go in peace.”

“But . . . .”

“
Please
, Mama, let it alone.”

My lips pucker like dried figs as I tie a colorful braided cord around my veiled head. It’s useless to argue any longer. And after a final glance at my thin, pale daughter I head for the ladder.
Oh why don’t you hear me, Lord? I clang and clang and still you don’t answer
.