Wings of the Wind Page 6

  Black, brown, and multicolored tents covered every inch of land, all surrounding a central tent, which towered above the others. A giant cloud high above its black covering shimmered with eerie luminescence. So they were true, the rumors I’d heard, that the Hebrews followed a supernatural cloud around in the wilderness. What sort of magic could conjure such a thing? I could not look away from the peculiar sight.

  Shira appeared at my elbow with a satisfied smile tugging at her lips. “Astonishing, isn’t it? I’ve lived among this throng for almost forty years, and still, it takes my breath away.”

  “Is that main tent your sanctuary?”

  “It is. We call it the Mishkan, the dwelling place. The tribes are arranged around it, according to the direction of Yahweh himself.” She pointed at a banner atop a tall pole nearest the center. “You see, there is the flag of the Levites, my own tribe. We are camped all around the perimeter of the linen courtyard, for we were granted special responsibilities. But all the tribes”—she pointed to each wing of tents spreading to the north, south, west, and east—“have their appointed place.”

  “And what tribe are you?” I arched my brows at Tobiah.

  His chest swelled. “I am of the tribe of Yehudah.”

  Shira smirked. “The family line of Yehudah, the fourth-born son of Yaakov, holds a special blessing, a royal blessing. Tobiah is right to be proud.”

  He reddened and turned his face toward the Mishkan.

  “Tobiah,” she said, “where is your family camped? I want to be able to find you again.”

  Tobiah pointed to a cluster of tents on the edge of his tribe’s appointed spot.

  She nodded. “And your father’s name?”

  His nostrils flared. “Malakh of the Shelanite clan.”

  “Very good.” She patted my arm. “Keep that shoulder as still as possible. I will find you in a couple of days to make sure you are healing. Tobiah’s family can help with your bandages.”

  “Are you leaving?” A twinge of loss surprised me. Shira had become familiar to me already, her unexpected kindness lessening the sting of captivity.

  “I need to find my family, Alanah. My sons and daughters will be worried for me.”

  “You have children?”

  Pride burned bright in her smile. “I do. Three sons and three daughters.” She placed a fist on her heart. “And eighteen grandchildren, as well. I need to kiss their precious faces.”

  “What of your husband?”

  Although her expression remained placid, for one long moment her eyes shouted grief before she responded. “My Ayal is gone, for two years now.”

  “Oh . . . I am . . . I am sorry,” I stammered.

  “There is nothing to be sorry for. My husband and I had thirty-seven beautiful years together and built a precious family. He had children from his first marriage and we also adopted another son and two daughters into our family over the years.” Her eyes flicked to Tobiah and then back to me. “He was not a perfect man, but he was a man who loved me with his whole life, and I miss him every moment of every day.”

  Rendered speechless by her declaration and not-so-subtle intimation that the stoic man next to me would somehow be such a husband for me, I glanced away, feigning interest in the landscape and working very hard to erase the unbidden images that her story had conjured in my mind, in addition to the unfamiliar longings they provoked.

  With another assurance to Tobiah that she would find us soon, Shira quickened her step, still carrying that huge bundle atop her head, and left us.

  Some of my strength and hope went with her. My foot slipped on a stone, and Tobiah gripped my upper arm to steady me. I shrugged him off. “It is nothing,” I spat out. But I touched the shoulder sling Shira had fashioned; the misstep had sent pain shooting across my collarbone.

  “Should I throw you over my shoulder again?”

  Was he mocking me? No, a hint of unexpected mischief glinted in his brown eyes. I glared at him, pursing my lips and looking away. I did not care if this man was my husband, or that he had saved me. I would keep reminding myself, until the opportunity to escape came my way, that he was my enemy.

  9

  Tobiah

  With every step that brought me closer to my sister, my sandals seemed heavier, forged from lead. How would I tell her Shimon was gone? Alanah glanced at me, as if curious about my sluggish pace. I muttered something about remembering where our family tents were—but I knew, and they were closer than I wished them to be. Close enough for my impatient nephews to find us first.

  A wiggling, laughing wall of little boys slammed into me, along with a volley of greetings and questions. “You are back!” “Did you win?” “What did you bring us?” “Where is Abba?” The last question stabbed deep, wrenching inside my gut like a rusty blade.

  Sidestepping the interrogations, and after another round of hugs from each of the three boys, I sent them off to their mother with an announcement of my arrival. My twin sister hated surprises. She undoubtedly had sent the boys ahead to warn her. If only I did not carry revelations that would devastate her and steal the shalom from her once-peaceful household.

  Would she forgive the bearer of such news? And the brother who was unable to protect the father of her children? I tried to focus on my steps and not the despair that thoughts of Shimon brought to mind.

  Would leaving Alanah on the field have made a difference? Or would I have still found Shimon as I did later that day—glassy-eyed, staring toward the heavens? If only the purifying mikveh I’d washed in this morning could purge the memory of my closest friend’s sightless eyes.

  Burying one more person I cared for in this detestable wilderness had taken more out of me than I could bear. Would I trade the life of this woman next to me—my wife—for that of my friend, my brother, Shimon?

  Yes. I probably would.

  I glanced at Alanah as if she could hear my hateful thoughts. But her attention was trained straight ahead like a soldier pressing into battle. Her face betrayed nothing, but she gripped the strap of the quiver across her chest, white-knuckled and back stiff, as if she were headed into an ambush.

  I hadn’t even thought of her as I’d greeted my nephews and had not warned her of the news I bore for my sister. But telling Alanah before I told Shimon’s wife seemed traitorous somehow, so I kept my mouth closed.

  I peered at her again. What could be going through that head of hers? The barest hint of fiery red edged the bottom of the white turban she wore. How long would it be before her lush curls would touch her shoulders again? Did she hate me for such a harsh command? Even though it had not been my own?

  Girding myself with as much courage as it had taken to march toward Arad, I stepped into our campsite. My sister stood at the center of the clearing, stirring a pot over the fire.

  Tzipi’s brown eyes, dark and wary, watched Alanah and I enter the circle of tents. My nephews were already gone, sent off on some false errand, I was sure. She knows.

  I had meant to take my sister aside, break it gently, hold her while she cried. I was not prepared for the lioness that met me, claws at the ready.

  “How did it happen?” She swirled the wooden spoon in the stew again, then tapped it on the lip of the pot.

  I turned up my palms. “Sister . . .”

  “No. Do not give me words. Give me truth.” Still clutching the dripping spoon, she crossed her arms and placed a foot at an angle. Except for the wisps of light brown hair escaping the safety of her head covering, she looked so much like our mother that I felt a sudden wave of longing for my ima—yet another victim, along with my father, of the perils of this journey and the fickle people who made up this multitude. If my brothers had not been swept into the rebellion instigated by Korah, one of Mosheh’s own cousins, then my parents would be alive to comfort their daughter in her own loss.

  I drew a long breath, latching my eyes on the manna-thickened liquid that bubbled in Tzipi’s pot. “An arrow. It was swift and shortly after our first attack. W
e were separated in the crush of the initial assault.” I turned my gaze back to my twin sister, willing her to understand, to forgive. “When I finally found him, he was gone.”

  The sight of my closest friend shot through with a Canaanite arrow was branded in my mind . . . his mouth full of blood from the fatal wound where the arrow had penetrated a weak spot in his armor . . . his infectious laughter and wise words silenced forever.

  “Are you injured?” Tzipi asked, her face and tone devoid of expression.

  “No.” Dragging a hand over my beard, I sighed. “Other than a few bruises and scrapes, I am whole.” A lie. The wound of Shimon’s loss throbbed in my chest.

  “Good.” She dismissed more talk of the battle by jerking her chin to my right. “And who is this woman?”

  Alanah’s face was a confusion of emotions, and I guessed that she was remembering back to the battlefield during my telling of Shimon’s demise.

  “Alanah, this is Tzipi, my twin sister. Tzipi, this is my wife.”

  Both women said nothing but regarded each other like two desert cats, large-eyed and wary.

  Tzipi blinked at me, her face somehow now even more devoid of emotion. “Where did she come from?” She spoke as if Alanah was not standing next to me.

  “She was wounded in the battle. I rescued her, and if I did not marry her, she would not have been safe.”

  Tzipi’s face contorted in disgust, and she aimed her dripping spoon at Alanah. “Are you telling me this woman is a Canaanite?”

  “Sister—”

  “You married a heathen woman? Some zonah you found on the battlefield?”

  “I am no zonah!” said Alanah, taking a small step forward. Her eyes blazed with indignation.

  “Tzipi.” I set my jaw as I stepped between the two women before their claws did real damage. “She is not a prostitute. Her family was killed in the first battle.”

  “You don’t know anything about her. She is probably lying!” Tzipi spat the accusation.

  I put up a hand. “That’s enough. I have made my decision. It is done.”

  “And Keziah? What of her?” Tzipi narrowed her eyes to slits.

  Like the flat of a blade against my skull, the blow struck hard. I darted a look at Alanah, who was still challenging my sister with a glare. “I will tell her. There is nothing to be done now. Alanah is my wife. We will obey the Torah and the terms laid out by the elders.”

  Tzipi’s mouth pursed as she digested the information, before her gaze swept from the sling holding Alanah’s wounded arm to her linen turban. Alanah’s hand twitched at the edge of my vision, as if she was tempted to cover her head. Instead, she straightened her back and kept her eyes trained on my sister.

  Fearless, this woman—and in so many ways the complete opposite of Keziah, the woman to whom I had been all but betrothed since I was a child. The woman whose heart I must now break.

  “Tobiah! You’ve returned!” Keziah untangled herself from the clench of her youngest cousin’s arms and directed the tiny girl toward her mother. Brushing dust from her tunic and smoothing her dark hair with a fluttering hand, she approached, her pale yellow headscarf billowing behind her. Her bright, welcoming smile and the way she looked me over, as if ensuring I was unharmed, was a fire-tipped spear to my chest. I held my breath as her brief, but enthusiastic, embrace pressed the scorching brand of regret deeper still.

  “I was so worried!” She pulled away with a timid glance at her parents, who sat next to the campfire, unabashedly watching the reunion of their daughter with the man they had no idea had come to lay waste to their expectations. Keziah’s mother, once my own ima’s closest friend, dipped her head in greeting, her smile affectionate—another woman I’d be disappointing tonight.

  “Come, sit down and eat!” Keziah tugged at my wrist. “We have plenty!”

  “I’ve eaten, thank you.”

  “Oh now, I’ve never seen you turn away another bowl of stew . . .” She pulled at me again with a little laugh. “Between you and Shimon, I don’t know how Tzipi keeps up with the cooking . . .” Her words trailed off as the realization that I had not responded to her teasing seemed to solidify. “Tobiah? Is something wrong?” Confusion flickered between her brows, and she dropped her hand to her side.

  I pressed my lips together and cleared my throat. “Shimon—” I swallowed again. “Shimon is gone.”

  Even this partial revelation left traces of ash in my throat—how could I speak more? The torment of holding my expression still as a roar of agony built in my throat was unbearable.

  “Oh, Tobiah.” With a gasp of disbelief, she covered her mouth with her hands, brown eyes wide and full of tears. “Shimon is dead? Poor Tzipi! Those poor, sweet boys!” Keziah looked up at me with compassion on her lovely face. “And you, oh Tobiah, you must be devastated.” She moved close, placing a small, soft hand on my forearm. “What can I do to help?”

  My second revelation could wait no longer. With her wide brown eyes and long dark hair, Keziah was a beautiful woman, transformed from the small girl Tzipi had taken under her wing years ago. Somewhere along the way, I’d accepted that my mother and hers would have their way and we would marry. And although I’d put it off for the past couple of years—using the excuse of my military training to postpone—she was already sixteen, and Tzipi had insisted I approach her father when I returned from the battle with Arad’s forces.

  Now. I was supposed to be asking for her hand now. Instead, I was forced to say, “Keziah. There is something else I need to tell you. I do not want you to hear it from anyone else.”

  She pulled away, wariness clouding her expression. “What is it?”

  I sucked in a steadying breath and folded my arms across the hole in my chest. “I rescued a young woman on the battlefield. She was severely wounded. It was a difficult decision, and one I did not take lightly, but I chose to follow the law and marry her, in order to protect her.”

  Her lips parted and she blinked again and again, as if trying to reconcile the words in her mind. “Married . . . you are married?”

  “I am sorry, Keziah. You have been so patient with me . . . and now . . .” I released my breath in a huff. “I am sorry.”

  And I truly was. Acceptance of our future marriage had, at some point, transformed into gladness. I’d imagined a life with this woman—her sweet voice greeting me when I returned to camp, her capable hands providing meals and clothing for our family—there was no better choice of wife than Keziah. And yet the picture I’d drawn so clearly in my mind had faded with surprising speed, replaced by one that remained hazy, unknown, yet surprisingly intriguing—one with red hair, audacity, and the unmistakable edge of raw hurt in her caustic responses to my feeble attempts at conversation.

  “Doesn’t the law say you have thirty days before it is final? Perhaps you can . . .” Although her question trailed away, the plea was as clear as if she’d shouted the words. Put her aside! Marry me!

  And although it felt like slipping my own sword between my ribs, I needed to make my position plain—to release her. So I lowered my voice in soft censure to discourage any thoughts of hope. “I plan to keep my commitment to Alanah, Keziah. She has no one else, or so it seems. And this camp is a dangerous place for her. Unless she refuses to stay, I will be her husband.”

  “Of course. That is true.” She flinched, taking a step backward as she clasped her hands together in a white-knuckled grip, the delight that had greeted me earlier now drowning in tears. “I understand.” The watery accusation of betrayal trickling down her cheeks spoke differently.

  “Please, Keziah, forgive me. This was not my plan.” I braved a glance at her father and mother, who were now walking toward us, concern on their faces. I resisted the urge to turn like a coward and run.

  “There’s nothing to forgive. Nothing was settled.” She tried to smile, but the strain of it seemed to break something inside her, and she drew a shuddering breath. However, instead of crumpling, she squared her shoulders. “Tell Tzipi
I will be by in the morning to help her with the boys. I am sure she is destroyed.”

  Her admirable strength caused me to question my decision all over again. “Keziah, I know there will be someone else who—”

  She lifted a trembling hand to halt my suggestion and shook her head. “Thank you, Tobiah. I must return to my family.” She turned to go but then looked at me, determination evident in the iron set of her shoulders. “You are a good man. I wish you happiness.”

  I didn’t feel like a good man, I felt like a worm as I saw her slip into her mother’s arms just before I turned away. I’d hurt a young woman—and a family—that I cared for, and I’d gone against my mother’s wishes. And for what? For a Canaanite woman who more than likely wished to see me dead?

  10

  Alanah

  Tobiah had disappeared halfway through the meal, leaving me at the mercy of his family and without an explanation as to where he was going or when he would return. With the exception of his aunt Nita, who sat next to me, no one said anything to me, no matter how many people streamed through the campsite, eager to bring quiet condolences to Tzipi and to gawk at me—the stranger, the enemy.

  Tobiah’s two cousins, both nearly as large as he was, sat near me all evening, sharp eyes trained on me as if I were likely to whip out a knife and stab one of their children. Clearly, Tobiah had charged them with watching his volatile wife.

  Nita leaned close to me, her dark eyes serious but kind as she took my clay bowl, now empty of the savory stew that’d disappeared all too quickly. “Tobiah explained the situation, and I believe it is best for you to stay with me tonight.”

  My gaze flicked to the dark pathway that had swallowed Tobiah. The campsite felt very empty without his large presence. How had a stranger suddenly become the only constant in my life? Everyone else was gone. I missed the weight of my copper amulet around my neck. Somehow I felt more naked without it than without my hair.