To Dwell among Cedars Page 26

  I was stunned speechless at such a comparison and grateful that Abiram was not here to hear it. He might suffer a fit of apoplexy from such a bold statement.

  “And I am determined that until Yahweh commands the move of the sacred vessel, either through Samuel’s mouth or other divine means, it will remain upon this hill. Anyone who ignores the lesson of Pinchas and Hofni’s arrogance will undoubtedly suffer the same demise, and I will do everything I can to prevent such a tragedy.”

  Thirty-Two

  Eliora

  With Ronen’s lyre secure in the cradle of my arms, I headed for the stairway that led to the upper room, where he’d passed the night with my older brothers and Natan. It had taken them until after dark to ensure that the fallen tree was no longer smoldering after the cloudburst passed over, so he’d been invited to stay. Assuming he might want to leave first thing this morning to head down to the musicians’ camp, I’d woken before dawn, anxious to return his instrument before I left to survey the damage to my flowers.

  But just as I lifted my foot to the first step, my mother called my name across the courtyard. I paused, waiting as she bounded across the space toward me as if she were not well into her third decade and carrying a babe within her womb. Her coils of dark hair, like Miri’s, framed her round face as she reached for me, tugging me down to kiss my cheeks.

  “Shalom, my lovely,” she said. “Did you sleep well?”

  I tried to smile, but it fell flat. “Truthfully, no. It was difficult to see exactly what was ruined last night after twilight fell, and I’ve been dreading what might greet me. But I could not remain abed any longer. I have to see.”

  With her brown eyes full of compassion, she reached up to place her palms on my cheeks. “I know it hurts, daughter. You have put so much of yourself into that garden these past years. But it will grow again. And perhaps you will be surprised at not only what survived such a devastating blow but what beauty will be born from the destruction.”

  I sighed. “I do hope so, but I am preparing myself for the worst.”

  She winced, her hand dropping to her belly. “This one afforded me little sleep last night either. I have a feeling this will be another boy to add to our family, if the early movement is any indication. Although Dafna was almost as lively.” Her attention dropped to the burden in my hands. “What is that?”

  “Ronen’s lyre,” I said. “He asked me to keep it safe while the men tended to the tree.”

  Her brows lifted. “Did he now?”

  Something in her tone made heat rush to my cheeks, and I cursed my too-pale skin when she grinned at me. “He seemed to be greatly concerned for your gardens last night.”

  “He is kind. I am grateful that he saw the lightning strike in the first place, or the orchard may have met the same fate as that oak.”

  She peered up at me, maternal knowing in her gaze. “It seems to me that it was more than kindness, Eliora. Should your father and I expect a visit from him sometime soon?”

  Seized with strongly competing emotions at the idea of my parents arranging a match with Ronen, I insisted that nothing was going on between us, but she talked over my spluttering response.

  “And why not?” she said. “Not only has he proven himself to be honorable and concerned for the well-being of others, but if I am not mistaken, he is quite enamored of you. None of us are blind, daughter, and that man follows you with his eyes.”

  “He . . . he does?” I choked out, pulling Ronen’s lyre tight against the place where my heart seemed to be squeezing into a tight fist.

  “Indeed.” Her gaze turned questioning. “But do you feel the same? I thought perhaps you might, but I cannot quite decide if I am correct, since you treat him with the same kindness you do everyone else. If you were Miri, I’d have no such trouble, since she withholds nothing, but you keep your emotions pressed down so deeply that I cannot discern the truth.”

  Memories of the woman who’d given birth to me seemed almost transparent now, and for as much as I still loved my Philistine mother, it was Yoela who’d chosen me, who’d taken me into her brood with no thought for my enemy heritage, and whose warm and loving home had offered me the peace I’d been promised by Azuvah that last night in Ashdod.

  And now, with her gentle prodding into places that I’d not truly even allowed myself to dwell in too long, especially after the abrupt shift in Ronen’s demeanor in the tree, I barely suppressed the urge to throw myself into her arms and let everything pour free the way Miri was prone to do.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted, dropping my gaze to my sandals. “With all he’s done for Natan . . . and then with the tree last night . . . I cannot help but be drawn to him. If I am honest,” I said, my cheeks flaming, “I’ve thought of him many times over these past years, even before he returned.”

  She placed her fingers under my chin, nudging me until I met her eyes. “Then why are you so hesitant about entertaining a betrothal?”

  “I can’t leave here,” I blurted out. “I can’t. This is where I belong.”

  “Oh, my precious girl, of course you belong here. Yahweh brought you to us in his marvelous generosity, and I cannot thank him enough for doing so. But for as much as I selfishly would love for you to remain here, he may have plans for you beyond this mountain, whether that is with Ronen or with another man who will see the great worth in you and plead with us to make you his wife and the mother of his children.”

  Every bone in my body recoiled at the suggestion of leaving Kiryat-Yearim. “But I must stay. This is where the Ark is.”

  She tilted her head, studying my face intently. “And why must you be where the Ark is?”

  I chewed on my lip, gripping Ronen’s lyre even closer to my chest. “Because . . .” My voice dropped. “Because I feel safe here, in the place Azuvah told me I would find peace. And because it is nearby, I am at rest and know that Yahweh hears my prayers. When I go too far away, even down into town, I am . . . uneasy.”

  “Oh but, daughter, do you not remember that Yahweh is not a regional god like those of your people? He does not live on this mountain, or even within the Ark, although there have been times when the indwelling has resided upon its throne. The Ark itself is just a thing, fashioned by the hands of men, even though it was commissioned by Yahweh himself. But the Eternal One was not made by man; there is no place you can go that he will not be with you. Whether that is here, or Beit El, or Ashdod, or any other place. He is the God Who Sees. There is no place you can go to escape his vigilant watch over you. If it were not so, then he would not have heard our ancestors cry out to him from Egypt or see our sufferings there.”

  “But what about Natan?” I sputtered. “I could not abandon him, especially when he seems so lost. And you’ll have another little one soon. I need to help you and Rina too—”

  “Eliora,” she interrupted, “do you remember the story of Sarah? The wife of Avraham?”

  I blinked at her abrupt question. “Of course. Grandfather told us the story of her life many times.”

  “She was not perfect, by any measure. And neither was her husband, for that matter. But one thing is clear: when Avraham was told to pack up all he owned and leave his country for this one, she went too. She left all she knew back in Ur. Family. Friends. Her home. And although she did not even know her destination, and even though there were many pitfalls along the way, she trusted Elohim enough to go. And look at the blessings that came from her obedience. She is the mother of Yitzhak. The grandmother of Yaakov. The great-grandmother of the tribes of Israel, and therefore, by rights of adoption and covenant, your own ancestor.”

  Although I’d been coming to a deeper understanding of what my joining with the people of Israel meant, I’d not considered that their forefathers were now my own as well.

  “And what if she had refused?” my mother continued. “What if she had planted her sandals on the ground and refused to go with her husband? Refused the call of a God she could neither see nor hear? We can never guess what
may come of our obedience, Eliora, but that is not for us to know anyhow. We are not the All-Knowing One. We are simply called to ‘hear and obey’ and to love Adonai our God with all our hearts, all our minds, and all our strength. I do not know what good things he has in store for you, but I will say this: if Ronen is one of those gifts, it would be disobedience to turn it away, even if that means leaving Kiryat-Yearim. It is not the Ark you must follow, my precious child. It is the God who made you.”

  Tears blurred my vision as she laid bare all my fears with the gentlest of chastisements.

  “I have prayed for you to be married to not just a good and kind man, but one who sees you for who you truly are and appreciates every part of you, even the parts you do not count as valuable. If that is Ronen, then your father and I will be pleased to see you joined with him, even if it will pain us to let you go. And as for Natan—” She sighed, her palm swirling over her belly in a soothing gesture. “I know you love him, and that your heart is just as burdened as ours over his brokenness. But you are not his God, Eliora. You cannot save him from himself. That task is Yahweh’s alone. Remember, you were not the only orphan who was led to Kiryat-Yearim that day. He too followed the Ark, even if he did not understand the reasons for it. And I hope . . . no, I believe that there is a reason for it all. Just like Sarah and Avraham, our path is not always straight, and at times we may lose our way, but somehow Yahweh’s good will always prevails.”

  She gripped my wrist, lifting it and turning my hand upward so my palm lay open, fingers splayed wide. “Let go of the firm grip you have on Natan. Release him to the care of the God Who Sees, and have faith that no matter what may happen to that boy, and no matter how far he may stray, Yahweh still holds him in the palm of his hand. And then be still, my daughter, and know that he is God, no matter where he leads you.”

  Before I could gather my thoughts enough to respond, she pressed a kiss to that palm, smiled up at me with the same generous affection that she’d offered since the first day I’d met her, and sent me on my way up the stairs. With my mind in turmoil, I obeyed, and nearly collided with Gershom as he and Iyov met me at the top.

  “Shalom,” he said. “I thought you might already be in the garden, surveying the damage.”

  “I am heading that way,” I said, then patted Ronen’s pack, and I hoped that the confusion and upheaval I felt after my conversation with our mother was not written all over my face. “I just need to give Ronen his lyre before he leaves.”

  “Ah. He did say he would be expected down in camp first thing this morning.” Gershom’s expression turned compassionate. “I am sorry, sister, about your flowers. We will all do our best to save what we can.”

  Iyov nodded in agreement. “Abba has given us both leave from our training to help chop up the tree. Natan says he’ll build a charcoal mound with the remains.”

  “I am just glad that no one was injured, and that the fire did not spread.”

  “We have Ronen to thank for it,” said Gershom. “We owe him a great debt.”

  “That we do. He is a good man.” Iyov grinned at me as he moved to follow Gershom, who was already halfway down the stairs. “The kind I might not mind having for a brother someday.” He winked as he passed by, leaving me blushing. Was I truly so transparent?

  When I turned around and found Ronen himself leaning against the parapet a few paces away, watching me, I nearly bolted from the roof. But instead, I prayed that he’d not heard Iyov’s comment and composed a smile on my face.

  “Shalom,” I said, holding out his instrument as I approached. “I brought this for you. I knew you would need it this morning.”

  “Thank you,” he said, accepting the pack. “I appreciate you keeping it safe for me.”

  “And I am so grateful that you came to our door when you did.”

  His gaze moved to the portion of the terraces that could be seen from the rooftop. “I only wish your oak hadn’t been destroyed. Along with your beautiful flowers.”

  Turning to the parapet, I leaned forward, placing my folded arms on the stone ledge, and allowed myself to look in the same direction. Even from here I could see the gap where my special tree used to stand, and the sight gutted me.

  “They were only flowers. I am just thankful that the vegetable garden and the orchards were spared,” I said. Then, hit with a wave of exhaustion that had followed me through a restless night of worrying over what I might find on those terraces in the daylight, I scrubbed at my eyes with my fingertips.

  “Have you slept at all?” he asked. He was no longer staring out at the vista, but instead scrutinizing my face, a pinch of concern between his brows.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “The shadows beneath your eyes tell another story.”

  Without thinking, I pressed my fingers to the place he’d spoken of, as if I could hide the telltale signs of a night spent tossing and turning.

  “When your brothers and I went to bed last night, you were still awake, scrubbing pots and cleaning, and that was after you helped herd all the little ones to bed and served a meal in which you barely took three bites for yourself. Yet here you are, barely after dawn, delivering my lyre before you scamper off to tend that huge garden by yourself.”

  Bewildered by his obvious frustration, I stared back, slack-jawed for a few heartbeats. “I could not leave all the work for my mother and sister. And I love working in the gardens, you know this.”

  “I do, but rarely do I see you rest, Eliora. If you are not in the gardens, plucking every weed that dares mar its perfection and harvesting bushels and bushels of produce to deliver to others, you are in this house, serving your family from the rising of the sun until well after nightfall.”

  “It is my pleasure to serve my loved ones.”

  “And rightly so. Your family. . . .” He paused, swallowing hard. “They are wonderful, Eliora. Your brothers remind me so much of my own. And your parents, your siblings, they plainly adore you. So why do you work so hard for a place at their table when you already have one?”

  Speechless, I blinked at him in confusion.

  “I have watched you these past weeks, and at first I thought perhaps you were just as the people of Kiryat-Yearim told me: an extraordinarily kind woman whose good deeds had no deeper motive. But I was wrong.”

  Stung, I backed up a step. “I have no motive other than love for my family and love for the people on this mountain.”

  “No,” he said, meeting my retreat with his own step forward. “You misunderstand me. I do not mean to insinuate that your reasons for such self-sacrifice are anything but honorable, only that you do not allow yourself to relax and enjoy what you have, because you are working so hard to earn something you’ve already been given.”

  I had no ready response to such an accusation. Already this morning I’d been told by my mother that I was holding too tightly to Natan and now here was the man who’d come to mean so much to me, the one man for whom I’d considered the unthinkable—leaving Kiryat-Yearim—saying that I was trying to earn my family’s love?

  “You told me that day in the orchard that you were like those foreign branches, grafted into a new tree. Do you remember?”

  I nodded, jarred by the shift in subject.

  “And yet I think that maybe you’ve not truly accepted that you are indeed bonded permanently to the root. I wonder if you so fear being rejected by them—that someone will come along, think that you don’t belong, and cut you off again—that you cannot embrace who you are now.”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t understand.”

  “This,” he said, pointing at my tightly wrapped headscarf. “Why do you wear this thing?”

  My hand instinctively went to my crown, and my hackles rose. “Many women wear head coverings.”

  “They do, but not every moment of every day. I would venture to guess that even your family does not see you without it.”

  He would be right. The habit of wrapping my head every morning was deeply ingrained aft
er so many years.

  “So why?” he pressed. “Why cover your hair? From what I remember, it is a striking color, like liquid gold.”

  His choice of words made my heart thump unevenly. “People stared,” I said, the admission coming out on a soft breath. “I didn’t like it.”

  “Being admired?” he asked, looking shocked that I’d reject such attention. “Being beautiful?”

  “Being Philistine!” The words spilled from my mouth, unbidden and unrestrained. “I hate that I stand a head taller than my mother and sisters. I hate that my hair is garish instead of dark and lovely. I hate that my veins flow with enemy blood. I wish I’d been born on this mountain. That I’d known nothing but Kiryat-Yearim and did not remember awful things from Ashdod that I can never wash from my mind.”

  “But that is who you are! And just like those cuttings from Naftali territory that produce distinctly flavored apples because they are now nourished by roots established on this mountain, you bring your own uniqueness with you from Ashdod. Revealing your hair, standing at your full height, or displaying any other markers of your heritage will not cause the people you love to cast you out, Eliora. They adopted you. Made a binding covenant with you. And anyone else who does not see the beauty in the incredible story of your grafting into Israel or misses the brilliant light that shines from the very center of your being does not matter.”

  I stared in disbelief at his outburst, along with the realization that Ronen had been much more observant that I’d thought. I felt exposed like never before, but at the same time, understood in a way I’d never experienced. My mother’s words from earlier came back to me: “I have prayed for you to be married to not just a good and kind man, but one who sees you for who you truly are and appreciates every part of you, even the parts you do not count as valuable.”