Until the Mountains Fall Page 4

  “That man is smitten,” said Moriyah, nibbling her granddaughter’s fingers, which instigated a shrieking laugh from the two-year-old.

  “That he is.” Sofea grinned, running her fingers through Mari’s soft curls. “And he insists that this next one will be another girl for him to dote on as well.”

  Sofea’s daughter had the same golden-brown hair and blue eyes that made her mother stand out among the mostly dark-haired, dark-eyed Hebrews. It was said that Eitan had been enraptured by her from the moment she walked into the inn after being rescued by Darek and his men during one of their missions. And from the way the two of them still gazed at each other as if they were newly married, nothing much had changed. Of course they were a rarity, a match formed by mutual admiration, not by machinations of overbearing fathers.

  Grabbing another soiled garment, Sofea knelt next to me with surprising grace for a small woman heavy with child and began scrubbing at the cloth with a smooth stone. “Malakhi was not at the foundry. Where has he taken himself off to today?”

  Brushing the wet hair from my eyes with the back of my hand, I waved back toward the grove. “Up there on the ridge with Gidal’s trees.”

  Her delicate brows arched as she followed the direction of my gesture. “Oh?”

  “Apparently he’s decided to care for the orchards.” I allowed skepticism to color my tone.

  “He has? I thought he had no interest in them.”

  I picked up a stone and focused on a particularly deep-set charcoal stain instead of meeting her curious gaze. “He thinks to take up Gidal’s work as a tribute.”

  Sofea placed a dripping hand on her chest. Tears seemed to choke off her words until she cleared her throat. “How lovely. I can think of no better way for Malakhi to honor his brother’s memory.”

  Resentment flared. “Aside from filling my belly with an heir to continue his line, of course,” I mumbled.

  Sofea’s blue eyes went round at my crass retort, and my face burned with regret that I’d spoken such a thought out loud. But I held back the apology that leapt to my tongue and scrubbed harder at the tunic.

  After a tense silence, Abra let out a sudden chuckle. “Remember when Gidal and Malakhi ate almost an entire basket of figs?”

  Sofea nodded, her eyes sparkling with humor. “Oh yes! Right after Eitan and I married. And their bellies were so sick! I’ve never seen little boys turn that particular shade of green.”

  Moriyah joined in the laughter as she bounced Mari in her arms. “I figured they earned their own natural discipline after that poor decision.”

  “But Malakhi insisted on taking the blame, remember, Ima?” said Abra. “Even though they snuck the basket into their room together, he vowed over and over that it had been his idea alone. He always did that, even though I know for certain that Gidal was no innocent in their mischief.”

  “No, he certainly was not,” said Moriyah, her tone wryly wistful for her firstborn. “Even if he was the quieter of the two, and not nearly as reckless, he had his moments of disobedience. But you are correct in that, more often than not, Malakhi usually stepped forward to accept responsibility for whatever trouble they’d gotten themselves into.”

  “He may have been reckless,” said Abra, “but there was that time they climbed to the top of the storehouse—”

  “Oh!” Chana interrupted. “I remember that! And Gidal was so scared that he refused to come down. But Malakhi stayed with him, talked him through each step, and gripped his tunic so he would feel secure.” Pride shone on her round face. “He didn’t even seem frightened at all, even though one of the Levites had fallen from that very place a year before while mending the roof and had broken both of his legs.”

  “I thought my own ribs would shatter from the pounding of my heart as those two scoundrels descended,” said Moriyah with a grimace. “And your father had much to say when their feet hit the ground. But after I began breathing again, I was ever so proud of my Malakhi for watching over Gidal that day.”

  Annoyed and still flushed with embarrassment for my ill-timed remark, I kept my eyes locked on my task as the women reminisced about Malakhi’s more valiant deeds, including the way he’d saved two of his nephews from a runaway steer in the marketplace by throwing himself in its path, and the time he shimmied into a small dark cave to rescue a trapped goat. Of course I smiled appropriately and murmured affirmations of his bravery, but my frustrations grew with every scrape of rock against wool. When they finally moved on to stories about Eitan’s childhood escapades, I wrung the garment tightly, enjoying the release of violently wrenching the fabric in my fists.

  Although none of the women had breathed a word of censure, or even directed a look of scorn in my direction, their message echoed like a shofar at dawn. They acknowledged Malakhi’s failings but would tolerate none of my opinions about their beloved son and brother.

  I had no ally among these women, nor even among those in my own family. Lailah lauded my father’s commands as the height of wisdom and chided me whenever I had the audacity to speak my mind. Prezi, Tal’s wife, was the most gracious of women and would never say a contrary word to anyone, let alone my father, whom she revered. And my mother, the only person who’d ever understood me, truly saw me, was gone. I could rely on no one but myself in this fight.

  Shaking out the tunic, I lifted it high to check my progress. It was then that I realized that I held one of Malakhi’s garments in my hands, one sullied by soot, charcoal, and wood-pitch from his work in the foundry. Glancing around to ensure that none of the others were watching, I plunged the tunic back into the water, felt around on the stream bed for a sharp-edged stone, and renewed my task with a vigor that I hoped no one would take note of.

  Malakhi may have charmed the women in his life into championing him, but I would make him understand that I would not be the fawning, compliant wife he undoubtedly imagined. He’d not walk to the elders and beg for release from the betrothal—he would run.

  Nessa, the girl I’d met in the tithing line, reappeared numerous times as I took down tithes over the next three weeks. Joining me beneath my canopy as she waited for her cousins to barter in the market, she became something of a confidante, as well as a collaborator in my underhanded plots. She’d laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks as I related the sight of Malakhi’s face as he choked down the burnt bread and strained to swallow the over-salted lentils. She’d gasped in mock horror as I described the holes I’d ground into his tunic with my sharp stone and applauded when I told how I’d used one of his favorite obsidian knives to saw through a tree branch, leaving it shattered beyond repair. And, like me, she marveled that in spite of everything I’d done, Malakhi refused to walk away.

  I’d been hoping Nessa would appear today, anxious to tell her how I offered to cut Eitan and Malakhi’s hair yesterday, since Sofea had been suffering in bed with ever-lengthening contractions. I’d left Eitan with a neat trim just below his ears and my betrothed with a lopsided shearing that forced him to cut the remainder of his black waves nearly to his scalp.

  But unlike before, when she’d appeared in the afternoons to sit beside me as I worked, this morning she was first in line, holding a basket half full of bruised apples that were nowhere near acceptable as an offering. It looked as if she’d simply taken whatever she could find as an excuse to seek me out.

  I took one look at the stricken expression on her face, packed up my scribal tools, and asked a young Levite to take my place, pleading illness. I then followed my friend around the corner and into an alley, all humor at Malakhi’s expense dissipated.

  “I am leaving,” she said, her jaw set like granite and eyes sharp as obsidian. “I will not stay here. I will not lie down and accept these dictates from my father any longer. He won’t even notice I am gone, since he barely looks at me now.” The vibrant girl with whom I’d found a kinship over these past weeks, usually so easy to laugh and quick with a jest, had been replaced by a hardened woman.

  “What happened,
Nessa?”

  “I dared question my father’s choice of husband,” she said, her back stiff and her tone oddly detached.

  “And he refused to listen?”

  “He said he fought alongside the man for years and that I would do well to marry a man of such honor.” She sneered at the word. “Not only is he old, nearly twenty years my senior, but he’s a widower with four sons. Four! I would be nothing but a servant to the children of his dead wife and a breeding sow for more of his brats. But when I said as much, my father became enraged, screaming that I would marry whomever he chose and that silver had already exchanged hands—as if I were no more than an omer of barley.”

  I slung my arms around her and pulled her close. “Oh, my friend, I am so sorry.”

  She shrugged me off. “I am leaving in three days. There is a festival in Laish and I mean to find work with some of the tradesmen there. I have been bartering for three years now in that city for my father, so I have friends there. And I know how to drive a hard bargain. How to make myself useful.”

  “But you cannot go alone.”

  “My cousins Yoash and Kefa have agreed to accompany me. Of course they think we are only sneaking away to attend the festival, but we can easily escape them and hide until they leave.”

  “We?”

  She pinned me with a determined look. “Come with me, Rivkah. If you don’t you’ll have to marry that awful boy. You’ll wither away and never know what it’s like to be free. I’ve traveled to Laish, and I know your skills as a scribe would be valuable there. You could make your own wealth, choose your own destiny. No one could make you marry unless you chose to do so. You’d finally be out from beneath the thumb of your father—of any man. You can go where you want, when you want.”

  The picture she painted was a wild one. One I’d never even thought to consider before. To thwart my father’s authority and step out from beneath his protection, and that of Gidal’s family, would be the greatest of risks. I stood blinking at her like a fool, mouth agape. “But my family . . . I could not walk away from them. . . .”

  “It need not be forever. Stay away for a few months, perhaps a year. Malakhi will marry someone else and then you can return, if you so choose.”

  “But isn’t it dangerous?”

  She swept away my concerns with a flip of her hand. “It’s only a few hours’ walk from here, and the people of Laish are known as peaceful. They tolerate everyone regardless of heritage or allegiance as long as they have goods to trade and don’t create problems for others. Many Hebrews live there too. We will find good people to work for. My friends can give us direction. They’ll watch out for us.”

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  “Please!” She gripped my hands, her expression a desperate entreaty. “I don’t want to go alone, but I will if I have to. I cannot marry that ugly old grandfather, no matter what my father says.”

  My thoughts jumbled together in a heap. “I must think on it. I am not sure I can—”

  She ignored my indecision. “I am leaving on the fifth day of the week, at dawn. I’ll wait for you at the farthest boulder on the boundary line near the olive grove. If you aren’t there, I will take that for your answer. But please, Rivkah. Come with me. Let’s make our own path.”

  CHAPTER

  six

  Malakhi

  With her head bent over her work, Rivkah’s long, graceful fingers gripped the reed pen. I followed their swift, yet precise movements as they flicked over the papyrus to detail each farmer’s tithe as they approached the head of the line.

  When I was a boy, the crowd of people bringing portions of their goods on days like these stretched nearly fifty deep, but every year the lines were shorter, the baskets smaller, and the stock less robust. For the Levites who depended on the tithe to sustain themselves and their families, the trend was a concerning one indeed. I’d heard rumors that in other Levitical cities the situation was truly desperate, and some were forced to abandon their homes to seek out a trade or watch their families starve. The more prosperous we’d grown, the less generous we’d become with those who’d been appointed to serve Yahweh and were therefore unable to inherit land of their own.

  Rivkah pointed to the storehouse behind her, directing a man to carry his basket of goods to the Levites inside, and then, as if she’d suddenly sensed my presence, her attention snapped to me. Her brows drew together in displeasure before she gestured for the next person in line to approach. What I wouldn’t do to have her offer me a welcome like she did the strangers in her line. Even the toothless old man carrying a braying brown-speckled goat in his arms received a kind greeting and a semblance of a smile. Yes, I had been awful to her as a boy, but nothing I’d done since would warrant the tricks she’d been playing on me since our betrothal.

  I could tolerate a few holes in my tunic, a broken knife, and even the shearing of my head, but today Eitan had seen me trying to choke down yet another meal Rivkah had delivered to the foundry and revealed—after he’d stopped laughing—that in no way was Rivkah a terrible cook and it was obvious she’d been ruining my food on purpose. She’d deliberately made me look a fool in front of my brother. My future bride was much wilier than I’d given her credit for, but I intended to find out exactly why she’d been inflicting such mischief.

  She continued to ignore me, taking each man in turn without looking my way again, but the stiff set to her shoulders did not soften. She gripped her reed with near vehemence, attending to her task with militaristic precision. She was determined, but I would wait her out. I would never give in—and she knew it. The cord of tension vibrated between us like a plucked string. She may not be watching me, but she was just as focused on my presence as I was on hers.

  However, the awareness between us was sliced in two the moment her father appeared at her side. Amitai patted her shoulder and then pointed at something on her list, asking a few questions. When I shifted my position against the wall, the movement somehow snagged the priest’s attention. With a pointed lift of his heavy brows toward his daughter, he gestured at me. Rivkah’s lips pursed and she shook her head. A swift, near-silent argument happened between the two of them and then, to my surprise, Rivkah stood and followed her father. I pushed away from the wall, straightening as the honored leader of our city approached. I’d known Amitai my entire life, and although he was nothing but kind, in truth he’d always intimidated me—and even more so now that he was to be my father by marriage.

  He reached to grip my shoulder with a firm paternal grasp. “Shalom, Malakhi. Has Sofea given birth yet?”

  “No, but Ima says her time is close. Eitan was so distracted in the foundry he hammered his fingers twice. I insisted he go home.”

  “Ah yes. I remember well those uncertain days of waiting for my own children’s births. So, you’ve come to visit your betrothed, I gather.” He glanced back at his blank-faced daughter, who seemed more interested in the milling crowd of the marketplace than the conversation between her father and me.

  “Yes.” I cleared my throat, hoping she would not notice the warble of my voice. “I thought to walk her home when she finished for the day.”

  “Excellent,” said her father. He reached over and nudged Rivkah toward me. “She is finished now.”

  Rivkah was skilled at keeping her face devoid of emotion, but I knew every twitch of her lips, every quirk of her brow, every flutter of her sooty lashes, and fury was in every single one of them. Any thought of confronting her treachery was obliterated from my mind. I did not want to push her away further. I simply wanted to understand why.

  Without a word, Rivkah stalked off toward home, head high and stride long, obviously determined to get as far away as possible. Was the prospect of marriage to me truly so abhorrent? Was I so lacking that she thought nothing of making a fool of me? I’d thought I could persuade her, show her the esteem I held for her, and prove that I’d provide and care for her as well as Gidal had done. But if she was this set against our union, then what p
rofit was there in holding on? The thought of asking the elders to free me from the commitment I’d pledged leached the strength from my bones. I placed my palm against the mud-brick of the building beside me to steady myself. Perhaps I should set her free after all.

  “I know she can be difficult,” said Amitai, as if he’d heard my conflicted thoughts. His gaze was full of understanding and compassion. “She’s quiet but headstrong, as you well know. And after her mother died I thought I’d never see her smile again. But she is worth the effort, son. You are what she needs, even if she does not see it now.”

  I remembered the days when Rivkah smiled and laughed freely, sometimes even paid back my brotherly teasing with taunts of her own when she played games with Gidal, Abra, and me, before her mother’s loss hovered over her like a constant death-shroud. What would it take to get her to laugh with me again?

  Amitai tipped his head toward the direction she’d fled. “Don’t let her get away.”

  After a swift farewell, I ran to seek her out in the marketplace, where she seemed to have gotten distracted from her mission to escape me. Although she gave an admirable show of pretending I did not exist when I finally caught up to her, I was given fresh determination by Amitai’s encouragement and stayed by her side as she explored the stalls. All around us, the bustle of commerce stirred the air. What had started out a desolate market when my mother first came to live here nearly twenty years ago had blossomed into rows of teeming trade. Caravans from Damascus, Tyre, and even as far as Egypt and Hattusa crossed through our city now, bringing with them a cacophony of languages and a wide assortment of foreign goods.

  Rivkah stopped to converse with a Mitanni trader. A slender mahogany box with a row of blossoming trees carved into the lid had caught her eye. Her clever fingers slid over the design in reverent exploration before she lifted the top to reveal five small alabaster inkpots. Opening each one in turn, she lifted them to her nose. Then she dipped the tip of her smallest finger into the last and smudged the iridescent green color across her palm before asking another question of the man. Nodding her satisfaction at whatever answer he gave, she closed the pot and replaced the lid, then with a gesture of thanks, walked on, weaving through the mass of bodies as she headed toward the inn with me in her wake.