Abigail's Story Page 17

  “Will you promise me something?” he asked. “If there is ever a need in you for something only I can give, will you come to me?”

  “You are to be king. I would not presume—”

  “You have a rich husband, and I may be dead before winter.” He made a careless gesture, as if his life meant nothing. “Promise me anyway. Promise that if I am alive, you will find me.”

  I would never go to him. “I shall.”

  He nodded and tucked the lyre into his hagor. “We are sending for supplies and expect them to arrive shortly, and then we will journey to Ziklag. I shall think of you often, little dove. Do not forget your vow.”

  David did not climb down to embrace me, as I had hoped. He bowed to me, as if I were some queen, and then slipped away.

  I sat until the sun was full up, softly repeating the words of his song to myself until they were burned forever upon my heart.

  The time to drive the sheep to Maon came two days later, and I readied myself for the journey. Yehud and most of his sons would not only drive the sheep, but would shear them when they arrived at my husband’s house. That, too, was part of the service Nabal demanded of the herdsmen, and they would not be given their portion until that last fleece was sheared.

  “You should remain here,” Bethel fussed. “I do not trust your husband to leave you alone.”

  “He might yet send men here to retrieve me,” I reminded her.

  “If he does, they will have to go through the dal. They intend to remain here to protect us until Yehud and the men return.”

  I was surprised to hear that. After the farewell we had exchanged at the spring, I thought David and his men would leave as soon as the flocks had.

  “I must settle things with my husband and family,” I told her, “but I shall not stay away long.” I hesitated. “Bethel, both my parents are old and ill. If it seems that Nabal wishes to take revenge on us for what I have done—”

  “Bring them with you,” she said firmly. “I would appreciate the company of a few more people my age, and they are kin now, as you are. Make no protest, for I know Yehud would say the same.”

  I embraced her. “My thanks.”

  Keseke would not allow me to journey back to Carmel by myself.

  “My ankle is better, and you will need a witness to aid your petition. I shall tell the shofet all that the master has done.” She sighed. “Though it means my imprisonment for harming you, I deserve it.”

  “I recall no time that you harmed me,” I said.

  She gave me a suspicious look. “You would lie for me?”

  “It is not a lie. You never succeeded.” I gave her my surliest look. “It is the only way I shall allow you to come back with me, so you may as well agree now. Or you may stay here and help the women prepare to move the camp when we return.”

  “Queen of Heaven, do not leave me here.” She sent a nasty look to the milk-filled goatskin churn suspended from poles outside the tent. “They intend to make liters of that wretched sour milk for the journey, and who better than an old woman to sit and rock the churn?”

  “I would not subject you to such torment.” I shooed her along. “Go, pack your things. We leave at dawn.”

  Driving the herd made the journey twice as long as it took by wagon, but Yehud and his sons insisted we ride their mules while they walked most of the way. Long years of herding made their legs accustomed to the distance, and they seemed to prefer staying close to the flock.

  Making camp was enjoyable, and the task of preparing food for the men easy with the stores Bethel had sent along with us. The tents the men had brought were so small they were suitable only for sleeping, and even so, the one Keseke and I shared barely had room for that.

  “If you snore, I shall shake your shoulder,” I told her as we curled up together.

  “If I do not snore, shake my shoulder,” she snapped, “for I shall no longer breathe.”

  We remained together with the men and the sheep as far as the outskirts of Maon, where we parted ways.

  “I will tell the master that we left you back in Paran,” Yehud said as he bid me farewell.

  “Would it be better, perhaps, not to speak of me at all? If Nabal asks, you can say you do not know where I am.” That would not be an untruth, for Yehud did not know the location of Cetura’s house in Carmel.

  He reluctantly agreed. “But when we return to Paran, you will come with us, Abigail. Were I to leave you here, Bethel would beat me without mercy.”

  I smiled. “I would not see her make you suffer so.”

  Keseke and I walked the road between towns, and I noticed that the closer we came to Carmel, the more silent she grew.

  “I shall explain everything to my family,” I assured her. “They will not resent you.”

  “You have a forgiving family.”

  The sun drew near its zenith by the time we reached town. The market was just closing, so I was able to greet my friends among the merchants packing up their goods. The warm welcome they gave me was punctuated by demands that I visit their households. Shomer was especially adamant.

  “Cetura told us of your seeking divorce from Nabal,” he said. “Until the petition is granted, it is best if you not be where your husband can find you.”

  “Shomer, was he very angry about the debt of food?” I asked.

  “He came here himself to argue over the bills he received. The fruit seller had to summon the shamar when he threatened to have his men tear down his stall. He would not pay until the shofet threatened to take his land and house from him.” The rug seller sighed. “Truly, Abigail, I had hoped this man would be good to you, but I have never known such a jackass. I prayed to the Adonai you would not forgive him and return to his house.”

  Keseke listened closely to every word Shomer uttered, but remained silent, casting only a few odd glances at me.

  “That will not happen.” Dread forced a cold knot in my belly. “I shall come to visit tomorrow, if I may.”

  “You must. We have a new grandchild to present to you, and my wife wishes to hear all about the hill country.” He held his hands up as if beseeching the Adonai. “And you know what she is like when she is denied that which she wants.”

  We left the market and went on to Cetura’s house, where Keseke paused outside the door. “I would go and see a friend of mine, Abigail. We have not met since last winter, and she lives in a house but two streets from here.”

  She was yet nervous about meeting my family. “My friend, you will not be treated badly here. I shall tell them everything you have done, and they will see you as I do.”

  “Yes, yes, but I would see my friend first.” She gave me a long-suffering look. “You would not deny me this small pleasure, would you?”

  She had had so little in her life that I could not. “You will come here directly after,” I said. “I do not want you where Nabal or his men might see you.”

  “They never noticed me before; they will not see me now.” As if on impulse, she leaned over and kissed my cheek. “I shall not fail you, Abigail.”

  “Of course you won’t.” I smiled at her. “Only remember that you are among friends here.”

  After Keseke went off to visit her friend, I went into the house. Cetura and my mother greeted me, but my father and Rivai were gone for the afternoon.

  “Amri needed help sorting goods he bought from an Egyptian,” the widow explained, “and your father wanted the walk.”

  I knew the midday heat would feel good on my father’s painful joints, and Amri would take care that he did not overexert himself. “I brought some figs from the hill country, and the honey cakes they make.” I gave her the sack of fruit and cakes that I carried. “They are almost as good as yours, Mother, except they do not have nuts.”

  My mother only murmured something vague, and the looks she gave me were quite puzzled. As Cetura and I were picking over some lentils for a stew, Chemda said, “You are very brown, and there are streaks in your hair. You do not look much like my
daughter, Abigail.”

  I was tanned from my weeks working in the sun—most often I had worn one of the sleeveless khitons favored by Leha and her sister—and my head cloth always slipped to my shoulders after a time.

  I examined my arms ruefully. “It is still me, Mother. It is but a darker version.”

  “I think you are much shapelier since last we saw you,” Cetura put in. “You have grown into a woman’s body.”

  My waist and thighs seemed smaller since I had gone into the hills, but my breasts had become fuller and larger. I felt slightly embarrassed by their scrutiny and tugged at my khiton. “We have been working hard to prepare the camp to move.”

  “Where will the hill people go, once this shearing is finished?” the widow asked.

  I explained that this would be the last year Yehud watched over Nabal’s flocks. “The master of the shepherds in the southland has dismissed his men for drunkenness and stealing from the local farmers. He sent word that he sought to hire new men, and Yehud went to speak with him just before we left. They struck a good bargain, and so the herdsmen will be tending to his flocks for the winter months.”

  Cetura nodded her approval. “Your husband will have neither men nor wife to piss on now.”

  Her slightly crude remark provoked my mother to slap her arm. “Cetura, for shame! You should not speak so in front of the children.”

  The widow and I regarded the two puppies sleeping at my mother’s feet. Harek had brought them as a gift for her just after she and my father moved in with the widow, to help calm her agitation. Cetura claimed Chemda was fascinated with the young dogs and that they seemed to have done much to keep her mind from wandering.

  “She still insists they are your and Rivai’s siblings now and then,” Centura admitted.

  “I do not mind,” I told her. “If she must sleep with something, let it be a pup instead of a goat.”

  I helped the widow prepare the evening meal while we waited for the men to return, but a feeling of unease set in as the hours passed and Keseke had not yet returned. I went to the window several times to look out into the street, but saw no sign of her.

  “She did not say how long she would visit,” I told myself. “She promised not to fail me.”

  Cetura joined me at the window. “Did she tell you the name of this friend she went to visit?”

  “No, only that she lived two streets over from your house.”

  The widow frowned. “Abigail, there are only tanners on that street, and their wives do not live there for the smell. All their women dwell on the other side of the town.”

  I picked up my samla and wrapped it around me. “I shall go and find her.”

  Cetura forbade me to leave alone. “With things as they are between you and your husband, you cannot simply walk about without someone to watch over you. You must wait for your brother to come home.”

  A short time later my father returned without Rivai, and greeted me sadly. “We were readying to leave Amri’s when the shamar came for Rivai.”

  Nabal. “Father, did they arrest him?”

  “No, they needed him to come to attend to a woman they found outside the merchant’s gate. She was left there to die after she had been attacked and beaten. She asked for your brother.”

  “Keseke.” Before anyone could stop me, I ran out of the house and down the road, heading toward the market.

  Not halfway there, I saw my brother and Amri walking toward me. In my brother’s arms was a huddled form swaddled in blankets.

  “Keseke?”

  “It is she,” Rivai said. “We are taking her to Amri’s house; it is closer. No, do not touch her, Abigail. Her bones are broken.”

  I looked at the blood dripping from the blankets he had wrapped around her. “Which bones?”

  Amri pulled me back and made me face him. His eyes were bleak. “All of them, Abigail. She was beaten until they broke all of them.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  It seemed to take forever to walk the short distance to Amri’s house. I could not think; I could only hover near Rivai and try to see Keseke’s face. The blanket covered most of it, only showing her bloodied mouth and broken nose.

  My brother carried her in, and Amri put several blankets over his largest worktable. “Place her here, Rivai. Abigail, light the lamps so I may examine her.”

  My hands shook as I used a burning straw to light the wicks. Surely not all of her bones were broken. No one could break all of them.

  Amri carefully unwrapped the blankets and revealed Keseke’s khiton. It was soaked in blood. Her limbs were bent in too many places, some with the broken ends of bones sticking out through wounds.

  “Rivai, go and summon the healer,” I said as I went to her side. I would have taken her hand in mine, but her fingers were shattered.

  Amri said something to Rivai that I could not hear, and they both went outside for a time. Only the spice merchant returned, with a vial of sweet-smelling liquid.

  “This is made from parts of a flower, the juice of which can take away great pain,” he told me as he gently held the vial to Keseke’s lips. “Only a few drops are needed for most pains. A whole vial will remove all her pain forever.” He looked at me but made no move to give her the liquid.

  I understood what he was asking. I was no healer, but even I could see that there was no hope. Her body would never recover from such injuries. Still, I wanted to smash the vial out of his hand, and scream at him, and curse the Adonai for permitting this to happen to my friend.

  I did none of those things. I did the thing that was right, and merciful. “Give her the full vial.”

  He tipped the liquid into her mouth.

  Keseke swallowed it and then opened one eye. “Red flower juice. My thanks.”

  Amri murmured a blessing over her.

  “I thought I would not see you again,” she said, looking up at me. Her voice was a raw, ruined sound. “I planned not to.”

  I choked back a sob. “Your plans never do seem to work out well.”

  “I did not ask for you,” she said. “I was afraid his men were watching the gate and would see you. That is why I asked for your brother.”

  “Did Nabal do this to you?”

  She nodded and coughed. “I almost got away with it. Almost. Another inch and I would have slit his throat, but for that slut Edomite screaming.”

  “You tried to kill Abigail’s husband?” Amri asked.

  “Someone has to,” she told him. Her voice was growing slurred. “I shall speak to Abigail alone now.”

  Amri left us. I placed my hand on the top of Keseke’s head, stroking her dry, brittle hair. “Why did you do this?”

  “Someone has to,” she repeated. “You must listen to me now, Mistress. My life does not matter anymore. There are others in danger.”

  My parents, Rivai. “Whom will my husband harm next?”

  “The leader of the dal who guard Yehud’s camp sent men to speak to the master this morning. The kitchen wench overheard it all and told it to me. These men greeted the master in Melekh David’s name and wished peace on him and his household. They told how his shepherds were guarded by the dal, who did not hurt them or steal from them, and that Yehud and the herdsmen would attest to this. They asked that he find favor with them, as they had come on a feast day, and to give them enough food to last them a week, so they could make their journey out of Paran."

  I wanted to scream. How could David do such a foolish thing? By believing your tale of a generous husband, my heart told me. “Nabal turned them away.”

  “He was yet drunk from the night before when they came. He laughed at them and insulted them. He called them liars and thieves, and Melekh David a runaway slave.” She paused to cough, and I saw more blood appear on her lips. “One of the Nabal’s guards followed them back to the dal’s encampment. They are but two hours away from here. They repeated the master’s foolish insults to Melekh David, and he ordered them to strap on their swords and ready themselv
es for battle. He is coming tonight with all four hundred men to kill the master and every member of his household.”

  I thought of the shearing sheds, so near the house of my husband. Yehud and his sons would still be there working. “No.”

  Keseke clutched at my khiton with her broken fingers. “You must go there now, and warn everyone to flee, while there is still a chance.”

  “Hush now.” I wiped some blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. “Why did he have you beaten like this?”

  “I failed him, and I tried to kill him.” She gave me a strange smile, her one eye turning dark from the effects of the juice. “But I did not fail you, did I, Mistress?”

  “No, my friend.” I bent to her and put my arms around her, careful not to jostle her broken limbs. “I knew you would not.”

  “Then I can rest. Go, Abigail. Go before he comes and . . .” She released a choked breath, then another, and went limp in my arms.

  I closed her eyes with my hand and tenderly eased her down upon the bloodstained blankets. I prayed over her and anointed her brow with oil. “Adonai, bless her soul and forgive her sins. She did not fail me or You.”

  Amri promised to watch over Keseke’s body for me until a proper kispu could be arranged. Outside I spoke with my brother, who demanded to know who Keseke was and why she had been beaten so.

  “She owed a debt to my husband, and he collected it this way,” I told him.

  “I shall go to the shofet—”

  “No, there is no time. I must go out into the valley of the crossroads.” I looked and saw Amri’s empty wagon, and his mule cropping some grass near the opening to Amri’s stockroom. “Bring Amri’s mule here and hitch it for me. I shall take that.”

  Rivai caught my shoulders. “Abigail, you cannot leave now.”

  I looked up at him. “Rivai, for once, I beg you, do as I say.” When he did not release me, I shoved him aside and went to hitch up the mule myself.

  “You are doing it wrong.” He came and took the harness straps from me. “Father will kill me if anything happens to you.”