Abigail's Story Page 16

  I laid a hand on the top of his round head. He had a dark pink, wrinkled face and tiny black curls. His hair felt softer than lamb’s wool. “There is no creation of the Adonai’s more precious or amazing than a newborn child.”

  “We have your friend to thank for that,” Leha said, nodding toward Keseke, who was crouched over a water basin and cleaning Malme’s blood from her hands.

  My smile faded. “Yes.”

  I went over to join Keseke. I had no desire to speak to her, but there were matters to be settled. Such as, “Why did you come back?”

  “Why not? There was nowhere for me to go. I could not walk all the way back to Maon, and there are no caves near here. Trees do not make comfortable beds.” She nodded in the direction of the forest.

  “Yet you left before,” I pointed out. “You remember, when you stole the food from the people who cared for you.”

  “There are things out there that are much worse than here, Mistress. I did not know this when I fled.” She shrugged. “Now I do.”

  Had she no conscience? “Keseke, you stole from these people. You knew they had little food left, and that their children were hungry, and yet you did this. How could you?”

  “I was afraid.” She glared at me. “No one here adopted me as their daughter, did they? No, I was only tolerated because of you.”

  I started to argue with her and then remembered how I had felt when Bethel had heaped her scorn upon my head. “What you did was wrong.”

  Her scowl deepened. “I saved the life of Malme and her child, did I not? Does that make up for my theft?”

  “A good deed in exchange for a bad one; that is your thinking?” She nodded. “Then how will you make up for trying to take my life?”

  She went silent and stared at her hands, and then rubbed them against her khiton. At last she met my gaze. “How did you know?”

  “It matters not, only that you tried twice to kill me,” I told her. “What do you plan to exchange to make up for them? Must I wait until you can deliver my first two children?”

  She rested her face against her hand and wrapped an arm around her knees. Curled over as she was, she began to rock back and forth. “He will never give you children. He did not want you for his wife. He wanted your dowry. Nothing pleases him unless he can have it to himself.”

  Cetura had suspected as much, but I had been hoping the evil had come from another source. Still, I had to be sure. “Did my husband order you to kill me?”

  Keseke became angry. “I warned you, did I not? But you would not listen.”

  I pretended to think. “I recall no words of warning when you gave me that poisoned bread and cheese on the journey here. Nor before that night, when you made to beat my head in while I slept.”

  Shame and defeat dulled her eyes. “I could do nothing else. The master told me that it was your life, or mine. I did not wish to die.”

  “Yet you failed twice to kill me,” I pointed out. “Why did you not try again? There were many times you might have succeeded. I ate all the food you prepared; I slept like a child in your presence. There was nothing to stop you.”

  “Nothing? What of you, calling me friend instead of servant?” She flung out one hand. “Bringing me here with you, sharing your food and fire, other kindnesses too many to number. You set out to defeat me. You bored into my heart like a worm of goodness.”

  Had the woman a single drop of shame in her body? “Yes, I can see how horrible it must have been for you.”

  “It was.” She thumped her breast. “I could not do as I had been told. It was the goodness in you, it blinded me.” She ducked her head. “It made me hope when I had vowed never to feel so again.”

  “Oh, Keseke.” I wanted to throttle her and embrace her at the same time. “If you did feel that way, then what were you to tell Nabal? How would you explain your failure?”

  “I did not intend to die for you, if that is what you mean,” she snapped. “I thought when the time came to return to Maon that we would flee him together. Only I could not think of how to tell you what he had done, and what I had tried to do.”

  “I could see where you might have trouble finding the right words.” I made my voice an imitation of her crossest tone. “ ‘Oh, Mistress, let us run away together into the wilderness so that I do not have to try to poison you again or crush your skull in the night.” ’

  “Exactly so.” Her mouth softened. “I do not think anything bad will ever happen to you. It is as if the Adonai protects you with a shield no one can see.” She gave me an uncertain look. “Do you forgive, Mistress?”

  “You will call me Mistress no more,” I said. “To you I am Abigail.”

  “Abigail.” Keseke said it carefully.

  “You will work hard for Yehud’s wives and make up for that which you stole from them,” I continued sternly. “And you will never follow any orders. I am making you a free woman, of free will. Whether you choose to stay here or leave, you are responsible for your actions from this moment hence.”

  “You cannot free me,” she muttered. “The debt of my husband to yours is too large; my servitude is for life.”

  “I am still the wife of Nabal. I may incur debt, or I may release it. That is the law. I release you from your debt to my husband.” I kissed her brow. “There, it is done. You serve no one but yourself.”

  “Foolish girl, to set free a servant so. I can see you will need careful guidance if you are not to beggar yourself after this divorce.” Keseke sighed. “I shall stay with you then”—she eyed me—“as friend and companion.”

  I smiled at her. “As you have always been.”

  The food I had brought to Yehud and his family gave them time to gather and replenish their stores. By the time the sheep were ready to be driven to Maon for shearing, the hill people had regained their health and were once more strong and vigorous.

  The same could not be said of the dal. Four hundred men required a great deal of food, and the southern shepherds had exhausted the local supply of game. Hunger made the men grow gaunt, yet no complaints were made, and the patrols around the camp and the herds never ceased.

  “I would feed them all,” Leha said one day, watching the patrol, “but they are too many. We cannot share without depriving our own children again.”

  I knew how she felt. That morning I had seen two of David’s men sharing a root from a broom tree. Only the worst kind of hunger would drive someone to subsist on such bitter stuff. “They were to leave after the flocks are driven to Maon for shearing.”

  “They must go before that, or soon they will not have the energy to make such a march,” Leha predicted.

  The dal were scrupulous in their dealings with Yehud’s family, even at cost to themselves. When a young goat somehow escaped the sheepfold during the night and was found by the patrol, the dal might have taken the kid to their camp, roasted, and devoured it without anyone the wiser. Instead, they brought the animal back to the camp, where they presented it to Yehud, along with a warning about the shepherds to the south, who had been raiding towns and villages for food.

  “They cannot exist much longer on roots and grass,” Bethel said to me one evening as we were readying the children for sleep. She tugged a nightdress over the head of one small child and kissed her granddaughter before tucking her under a soft warm blanket.

  I thought of David eating weeds to stay alive, and the good meal in my belly turned to a solid lump. “What can be done for them?”

  “I have spoken to my husband, but it is as Leha says. We cannot share with them and have enough for our own kin.”

  I thought of the raids to which the southern shepherds had resorted. “Melekh David will not lead them against anyone to obtain the food they need, will he?”

  Bethel shook her head. “David has prevented too many such attacks to indulge in one himself, no matter how hungry his men are. He has his most trusted men on patrol, and leads the others in long hunts every day. My husband said of late they are killing and eating
wolves and lions.”

  I grimaced. The flesh of predators could not be much better than bitter roots. Part of me was glad to know this, though, for it explained why I had not seen David of late. Instantly I felt foolish for even thinking such a thing. “We must pray for them.”

  “Pray they leave these lands and find new graze before they begin burying each other,” Bethel said.

  Keseke overheard my conversation with Bethel and came to me. “There is an old farm in the hills, beyond the forest of the spring. It is abandoned, but there is wheat growing wild and many fig and olive trees.” She took a twig and drew a crude map of the farm in the dirt.

  I examined her drawing. “How do you know this?”

  “It is where I stayed when I went wandering.” That was how she referred to her theft and flight during my absence. “There is not enough food for half of four hundred, but what could be gleaned from the fields will be better than lion meat.”

  I regarded her carefully. “You did not have to return here, then. You might have stayed at that farm and lived well.”

  “I have no talent for farming, and the house was atrocious. Swine would be uncomfortable in such a place.” She sniffed and went to grind grain for the morning bread.

  I smothered a chuckle. It would seem that Keseke, who claimed she had no heart, was yet the owner of a very guilty conscience.

  Once the children were all on their mats, and the last of the daily chores completed, I slipped out of the tent and went to walk along the perimeter of the camp. As no one had come from Maon for me, I no longer felt afraid of being alone, even in the darkness.

  I meant only to speak to one of the dal about the abandoned farm, but as soon as I called to the patrol, a familiar figure came out of the shadows.

  “Melekh David.” I bowed my head with deliberate, deep respect. Such respect would have to remain like a wall between us until the time I returned to my family. “I have learned of something that may be helpful to you.”

  His mouth formed a bitter curve. “Is it the arrival of forty wagonloads of grain, sent from the king’s silos, along with a royal pardon for imaginary crimes?”

  “No, but should such come along, you will be the first to hear of it. Unless I encounter another army of men in need of food and forgiveness.”

  My serious response made him utter a short laugh. “Oh, my dove, you always bring gladness to my heart.”

  While he was in this better mood, I related what Keseke had told me and pointed in the general direction of the farm. “She says it may not be enough, but I thought you might use what was there for your journey.”

  The good humor left his eyes. “We cannot leave until the flocks are driven to Maon.”

  I grew angry. “David, we are all aware that your men are starving. Are you?”

  “I suffer with them every day, little dove. The Adonai shall keep us safe and whole.”

  “The Adonai does not have to march on patrol each day,” I said. “You know that you and your men cannot stay here. Yehud and his sons will look after my husband’s flocks. Go, before the shadow of death steals into the valleys and your men begin dying.”

  “What of you?” He glided the side of his thumb over my cheek. “Who will look after you, care for you, little dove? Who will warm your sleeping mat at night, and wake you to joy in the morning? Not this husband who abandons you like this.”

  If he thought me unhappy, he might never leave me alone. Better he think me a content wife, eager to return to her husband. “No one. I choose to be here, in my husband’s place. In all things, I do my husband’s will.” I took a step back. “Do not ask me to say more, Melekh David. I must go. Peace be upon you.” My khiton flared out as I showed him my back.

  Hands caught my shoulders and held me in place. “Do not fly away yet,” he murmured. He pulled away my head cloth and buried his face in my hair. “When the flocks go, so shall you, back to your husband. Is it not so?”

  “I must.”

  “I would keep my promise to you, Abigail.” David tucked my head cloth in my hand and closed my fingers over it. “Will you come to the spring tomorrow at dawn?”

  I could barely force the words out. “I cannot. I dare not.”

  “I give you my word; all I shall offer you is that which I promised.” He hesitated, digging his fingers into my shoulders. “Let me do this, little dove. Let me have this moment with you, and that will be all I ask of you.”

  “Dawn, I shall be there.” I felt his fingers slip away, and hurried back into camp.

  CHAPTER

  16

  I did not sleep that night, tormented as I was by my own thoughts. I knew going to the spring was unwise, even foolhardy, considering what had happened between us there. A man might make promises, but desire was like a veil of forgetfulness. I could not let David wrap that around me again.

  My life was not a dream.

  The accounting was finished, and the disks I would give my husband lay in a sack by my sleeping mat. Yehud had been rigorous about the precise count of adult animals, new lambs, and the winter losses. His counts and mine matched down to the last animal, and I wondered if it would please my husband to know that his flocks had increased by a full one-third over the winter months.

  Nothing pleases him unless he can have it to himself.

  Nabal had been willing to allow his herdsmen to starve because it would save their pay. He had ordered Keseke to kill me so that he could have my zebed without the inconvenience of keeping the wife that went with it. He had, I felt sure, swindled my brother into losing the eight maneh of gold—if that was even the true amount. Rivai had been made to drink himself senseless that night; Nabal could have invented any figure that pleased him, and my brother would likely not have known the better of it.

  My husband had a great deal for which to answer, and repent. And I knew in my heart that he would not. Such a man did not have a conscience. Even if my petition of divorce was granted, he would find some way to take vengeance on me and my family.

  I rose before dawn and dressed in my best khiton. I brushed my hair until it shone, but I did not braid it or bind it to my head. I made my way past the sleeping women to the tent flap and stepped out into the darkness.

  I had not gone ten paces before Keseke whispered my name furiously. I sighed but did not turn around. “Go back to sleep. I am going to fetch water.”

  “In your finest robe, with your hair down? I think not.” She came to me and thrust an empty jug into my hands. “Here. At least make it appear as if you are going to fetch water.”

  I curled my hand around the wide belly of the jug. “My thanks.”

  “Thank me in nine moons, when you are pushing a child from your womb and cursing him for abandoning you,” she snapped.

  “There will be no child.” There would never be. I would not lie with David. No man would have me after I divorced Nabal. It struck me what that would mean in my life. A divorced woman was only little better than an outcast. Like the gerusa, I would be fortunate if people even spoke to me. If Nabal does not have me killed.

  Keseke waved me on. “Go. You must return soon, or the others will suspect.”

  My steps dragged as I walked to the spring and grew slower the nearer I came to it. I did not want this to be the last time I saw David. I did not want to see him now, and love him any more than I did. I bounded from one side of my heart to the other, uncertain and afraid.

  The spring was deserted, and so I had a little time to compose myself. I filled the jug, lest I forget to do so later, and set it aside. Then I removed my head cloth and shook out my hair. This once, he would see me as a husband would.

  “You are early this morning, little dove.”

  I turned around in a circle, but saw no one. “Where are you?”

  “Look up.”

  I did, and saw him perched on the top of the tallest of the rocks surrounding the spring. “David, what are you doing up there?”

  “Leading us not into temptation.” He produced
a small lyre, and glided his fingertips across the strings. “I did not sleep last night, for the words that rushed into my head. I cannot dance, not now, but I would sing the song I made of them for you now, Abigail.”

  I sat down at the edge of the spring.

  David plucked a few strings, finding the softest, lightest of notes, and then nodded to himself and strummed his fingers across them. The sound of the lyre was honey to the ears, and made me smile in spite of myself. Watching my eyes, he sang:

  Adonai is my shepherd;

  I shall not want.

  He makes me to lie down in green pastures;

  He leads me beside the still waters.

  He restores my soul;

  He leads me in the paths of righteousness

  For His name’s sake.

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

  I shall fear no evil;

  For You are with me;

  Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

  You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;

  You anoint my head with oil;

  My cup runs over.

  Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me

  All the days of my life;

  And I shall dwell in the house of the Adonai

  Forever.

  I found myself sitting as one of the children did when Leha told a tale, so rapt was I. As the final golden notes from the lyre slipped away, I sighed my delight.

  “Does my song please you as well as the last?” he asked me.

  “It is lovely, David. More beautiful than I can say.”

  “It will be my memory of you, and my comfort when we part.” He set aside the lyre, and his face became a mask of grief. “I shall try hard to believe the words, for they surely come from the Adonai. He is my only haven now.”

  I wished that I had something of his poetry and music, so that I could give him the same in return. All I could offer was a smile, and it was a pitiful one, indeed.