Wings of the Wind Page 7

  Nita must have sensed my unease. “Would you rather wait for Tobiah to return?” Dark, silver-laced curls framed Nita’s face, softening the sharp cheekbones and thick black brows that slashed above her narrow-set eyes.

  Although tempted to ignore her invitation, my body screamed for rest. The long march from the canyon, along with the ache in my shoulder, demanded I comply. She led me to a small tent nearby but, before entering, she glanced over her shoulder and then turned around with frustration in the harsh set of her mouth. “Noach. Simcha. What are you doing?”

  Tobiah’s two enormous cousins had followed us. One of them crossed his massive arms and jerked a black-bearded chin at me. “Making sure that one stays put.”

  Nita puffed out a breath. “She’ll be here with me.”

  “Tobiah asked us to watch her.”

  “Are you going to run off, Alanah?” she asked me, brows high.

  I shook my head, although my mind was still determining how quickly I could slide into the darkness between tents before the two giants caught up with me.

  “There now. She’s not going anywhere tonight. Just look at her.” She frowned at me. “She’s exhausted.”

  “She’s a Canaanite. You can’t . . .” Simcha said.

  “Alanah, these boys seem to think you are going to murder me in my sleep. Is that going to happen?” Her narrowed eyes seemed to deliver a challenge that was half mocking, half razor-edged. “Because I keep a copper blade on me at all times. And . . .” She leaned closer. “I have excellent aim.”

  “All I want is a blanket to lie on.” Although I had considered killing Tobiah to escape captivity, the past couple of days had transformed him from a bloody-faced murderer to somewhat of a protector in my head. I had no more desire to hurt Nita than I did Tobiah. Wouldn’t my brothers bellow to hear my traitorous thoughts?

  “We’ll be right here,” Noach said to Nita before directing a glare at me. “All night long.”

  Although a wave of fear vibrated through me, I maintained a blank expression as the two men stationed themselves nearby, their backs toward the remains of the fire, but watching the tent. Watching me.

  “Pay them no mind.” The corners of Nita’s lips twitched as she lifted the door flap. “You need rest.”

  As I entered, the covering overhead drew my attention. Instead of the usual black-wool ceiling, a large patch of sheer linen stretched over our heads, leaving the sky exposed.

  “It brings me comfort,” Nita said. “I have never known anything but living in the desert. I should not know what to do if I lived in a house made of mud brick. I used to sneak out at night when my parents were asleep to watch the stars. My Zakariyah indulged me by having this tent designed for me as a gift.”

  After clucking and muttering about the lack of a comfortable pillow, Nita prepared a makeshift pallet for me and then laid on her own in silence. Perhaps memories of her husband were made fresh by the loss of Tzipi’s.

  Tzipi’s voice from the tent next to Nita’s snared my attention. Although her words were low, from the loud exclamations from her children I gathered she had finally explained their father’s death. The insistence from all three that he could not possibly be gone, and the sobbing of the fatherless children, sent echoes of grief through my own body.

  I remembered the sensation well—the throbbing ache that gripped me when my cousin came into our valley to announce that my family had been slaughtered, along with the numbness as he gleefully informed me that all the inheritance, every inch of my father’s land, was his. Although it was inevitable since I was only a woman, it stung nonetheless.

  Shifting on my pallet, I covered my ear with my good hand, but their cries wrenched my heart into a complicated knot. These Hebrews were my enemies and those boys would grow into soldiers someday—soldiers who would no doubt continue the incursion into my homeland. Harnessing my visceral reaction, I imagined a wall between myself and them, a sturdy brick wall that deflected every arrow aimed my way.

  Long after the sniffles and low whispers of the boys melted into grief-laden sleep, Tzipi’s quiet weeping and heavy breaths soaked through the thin tent walls next to me. There was only a few feet of space between her and where I lay. The sound of ripping fabric cut through the night, the tearing of a garment in mourning.

  “I will never forgive” came the breathy whisper, hitched by silent sobs.

  Was she talking to me? Did she know I listened?

  No, I recognized the whispers that followed as supplications to her god—as if a deity would hear her pleas without a sacrifice. But I could not ignore the vitriol of the words meant not only for me, but all my people.

  Why should I care what Tzipi thought of me? Her husband, Tobiah, and the rest of these Hebrews had destroyed everything I knew in their quest to take over Canaan. How dare they? What claim did these Hebrews think they had on our lands? Why were they so insistent on destroying what we built? Hot anger burned away the empathy that had threatened to soften my resolve.

  Although every part of my body screamed in exhaustion, sleep refused to welcome me. Trying to avoid the bloody battle scene that jeered at me every time I closed my eyes, I searched the linen covering above me for pinpricks of stars through the translucent fabric of Nita’s peculiar abode. The gathering of the gods and goddesses above me was familiar, but tonight they seemed even more distant, more silent, than usual.

  A breeze fluttered the tent flap, and with a start I realized that Tobiah’s cousins were not outlined against the dim glow of the fire.

  My heart thrummed in my ears. Could I hazard an escape? My shoulder was nowhere near healed, but this could be my last chance to slip out and run back north.

  With my eyes on Nita to ensure she did not stir, I reached for my quiver and bow and crept toward the flap. Slipping my fingers into the gap, I peeked out, making certain my eyes had not deceived me. But no, the two men were gone. Had they assumed I was asleep? Or decided I wasn’t a true threat? I had no time to wonder and no time to care that I had nothing with which to protect myself. Run. Now. Sucking in a deep breath, I pushed through the tent flap.

  Before I took two steps, I tripped over something and tumbled forward, twisting as I hit the ground. I fell on my good side, but my bow and quiver skidded across the dirt.

  “What are you doing?” The enormous lump I’d tripped over jostled me from underneath. Tobiah, lying in front of the entrance again. Why had I not considered that before I tried to bolt?

  It was no use dodging the truth while splayed halfway on the ground, halfway across my husband. “Leaving.”

  In silence, he waited as I pulled my legs off him, stood, and gathered my belongings.

  He stood as well. “You are not going anywhere.” Although his voice was calm and nearly a whisper, his stance was menacing, as if he expected me to attack him.

  Although I could barely see his face in the dim light, I stared at him, defiant.

  “You will be killed, Alanah.”

  My pulse raced. “You will kill me if I run?”

  “No. But there are thousands of men in this camp who will see only your heritage and slay you. Spies are dealt with swiftly here.”

  “I am not a spy.” Why did I find it necessary to defend myself to this man?

  “I know that. But no one else will stop to question you.”

  “What does it matter to you? You’ll be free of me.”

  “Have I complained?” Tobiah moved closer.

  Although the hair on the back of my neck stood on end, I held my ground, lifting a shoulder with an air of indifference. I refused to let his looming presence intimidate me.

  “Then what makes you sure I want to be free of you?”

  My thoughts spun like a leaf in a whirlpool. What was he saying? Was he content with this strange, uncomfortable arrangement? I could not believe he was.

  “What is it that you want from me?” I said.

  “I want you to stop trying to run.” He closed the gap further, until all that wa
s left between us was a handspan of charged air. He lowered his voice to a soft rumble. “Do you not remember the oath I made?”

  No matter that I’d washed that little spot of blood from my hand, I could still feel it there, pulsing in the center of my palm. I closed my fingers around the foreign sensation and resisted the urge to hide my hand behind my back.

  “Have I done anything to make you believe that I would break that oath?”

  My mouth was too dry to answer, so I shook my head and stared straight at his broad chest.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  For some reason, the thought of meeting his eyes right now under a sky full of stars seemed more dangerous than running out onto a battlefield. My muscles tensed, ready to flee.

  “Alanah,” he whispered. “Alanah. Look at me.”

  I had never heard my name spoken with such tenderness—at least since I had been a little girl, before my father lost interest in me.

  “According to the law, you have twenty-eight days left to make your decision. If after that you still want to go, I will not stop you. But for now, you need to heal. So, stay.”

  Straightening my shoulders, then my neck, and then finally, slowly, lifting my chin, I looked up into his eyes. The fierce sincerity in their brown depths burned my doubts away. The Hebrews may have slaughtered my whole family, but Tobiah would not hurt me.

  I nodded and turned to slip back inside the tent, feeling those eyes on my back even as I lay on my pallet, my mind working to untangle the knotted confusion that Tobiah’s words had created. Twenty-eight days, he’d said, and then I could go. Twenty-eight days until freedom. Yet somehow the revelation had not stirred the relief I’d expected. And why had it seemed so easy to abandon my plans when he’d appeared?

  11

  18 NISSAN

  1407 BC

  CAMP AT ZALMONAH

  Somehow all the questions I whispered to voiceless stars lulled me to sleep, and I awoke the next morning when Nita jostled me. Dawn had barely topped the horizon, but she was already checking my dressings and refreshing them with clean linen by the time my vision cleared of sleep.

  Her eyes sparkled. “Have you gathered manna yet?”

  “No.” I was exhausted like never before, my limbs heavy and eyes gritty, but curiosity for this enigma sparked and my tongue watered in anticipation. I craved manna as I had craved nothing else before. Not the sweetest dates, the ripest olives, or the freshest barley bread steaming from the oven.

  “Come, then.” She helped me to my feet, led the way out of the tent, and handed me a large empty basket. “Take only this much manna from the ground, only an omer each for you and Tobiah. Any more will be full of maggots by morning.”

  My stomach recoiled at the thought of worms spoiling the precious delicacy. “Why does it only last so long?”

  “So we will rely on Yahweh, every day.” She glanced toward the enormous cloud stacked high above the Mishkan.

  It reflected the colors of the sunrise, yet somehow amplified them, making it twice as brilliant as the rest of the clouds that hovered low in the sky. The column reminded me somehow of a tall army commander standing with arms crossed, waiting for his troops to be ready to march.

  I peeled my eyes from the awesome sight as Nita tugged at my hand. “Come now, dear, let us gather manna.”

  Sitting between his two cousins, who glared at me, Tobiah waved a greeting to his aunt from across the fire, but his small smile was meant for me—a good morning from my husband, as if I hadn’t attempted to flee from him only a few hours ago. My thwarted escape had been followed by fitful sleep that did nothing to solve the mystery of why I felt so safe in the presence of an enemy soldier who held me captive, or answer the buzzing questions that stubbornly refused to be brushed out of my mind—who was Keziah and what was she to Tobiah?

  I turned from his unwanted gesture without matching it and followed Nita as she wound her way through the camp and into the field of manna that surrounded it.

  The sun glinted and sparkled off the white that gilded the rocks and the low brush for as far as I could see. The manna lay thick on the ground like a heavy snowfall, almost to my ankles. I scooped up a handful and tasted it. It exploded against my tongue like the most exquisite honey-spiced wine.

  Stifling a groan, I rolled my eyes skyward. Nita was watching me over her shoulder with a satisfied smirk. “Do you like it?”

  I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “It is even more delicious fresh.”

  She shrugged, indifferent. “I’ve been eating it since I was a babe. It’s the same today as it was yesterday and the day before that.”

  I blinked at the dichotomy. These Hebrews ate the most mouthwatering food every single day and yet it had become mundane to them. They had forgotten the pleasure of its taste and texture. Bread was supplied from the heavens each day, but they were blind to the amazing miracle of it.

  I had worked the land, toiled each weary day to scratch food from its surface alongside my brothers and my father. The constant threat of destructive storms, or drought, or blight hung heavy until harvest each year. The back-breaking work of harvesting the wheat with a hand scythe. The endless threshing of the golden kernels until they were ready for milling. All this was done in an endless cycle year after year. A cycle that depended on the capricious gods and their whims.

  And here the Hebrews were handed food each morning with little effort. I pressed a bit of manna between my fingers. It needed no more than a cursory hand-milling to break it down to a flour consistency for baking. All around us, Hebrews gathered manna without alacrity. As if filling baskets with food that appeared from nothing was drudgery.

  My basket was quickly filled, enough for only myself and Tobiah. Nita reminded me of the consequence of taking too much. “My Zakariyah was one of those, on the first day the manna appeared, eager to collect as much as possible in his reckless youth. His spoiled pot of manna the next morning was testament to his foolishness.” Her laugh was rueful as she scraped her hand across the top of her basket to ensure that it was only just enough. “The only day we are allowed more is before Shabbat. Then we take enough to get us through the next day, and it stays fresh until the next evening.”

  How was that possible? “Why?”

  She pushed out her bottom lip. “So we have time to rest, enjoy our families, and worship Yahweh.”

  “You do not work at all that day?”

  She shook her head.

  A god who insisted that his people rest? Why would a divine being care about such a thing? The baalim my people worshipped had never done anything but take, in my experience.

  A movement in the corner of my vision caught my attention. Tobiah’s cousins again. Had they been following us the whole time? I growled under my breath.

  Nita pursed her lips as she followed my line of sight. Simcha leaned against a granite boulder nearby, cleaning his fingernails with the tip of a knife, and Noach stood next to him, his eyes on me.

  “What are you two doing?” she called out.

  Noach shrugged a large shoulder. “Keeping an eye on things.”

  My blood boiled, and I strode up to him. “I stayed all night with Nita. I’m not going to hurt her. I may be your enemy but I am not a murderer of women.”

  His brow wrinkled. “I did not say you were.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Tobiah asked us to keep an eye on you while he trains this morning.”

  “I told him last night I am not going to run.”

  Simcha looked up from his grooming, the silver knife reflecting the golden sunrise. “He didn’t say anything about you running. He just told us to make sure no one touched you.”

  Tobiah was concerned about my safety? My mind reeled back to our late-night conversation and the comment about the men who might cut me down without a thought. I had taken it as more of a way to control my movement than actual concern for my well-being. The notion somehow lodged in my throat. I had expected Tobiah to treat
me like a captive, like a slave, or possibly even like a concubine. But not a true wife.

  Noach smirked. “Besides, our grandmother truly is an expert with that knife she carries.” He winked at Nita. “I’m more worried about you than her.”

  My incredulous gaze flicked between Noach and Nita. “You are their grandmother?”

  She placed a hand over her heart as she laughed. “Of course, dear. Their father, Asher, is my son.”

  “B-but . . .” I stuttered. “You don’t look that old!”

  “Well, thank you for that.” She patted her silvery curls. “I think that has more to do with the manna than anything. It seems to give all of us an abnormal vitality. But I was twenty-one when we left Egypt, and my Zakariyah twenty-eight.”

  Another anomaly to add to the list of Hebrew attributes.

  As we walked back to the campsite, with Noach and Simcha following close behind, I noticed something else. I had expected to see slaves out here in the wilderness, a vast disorganized assortment of bedraggled, browbeaten, desperate people. But the regimented structure of the sea of tents gathered around an oversized meeting place in the center and the well-formed, healthy, fearsome men that had met us on the battlefield disproved my notions. The Hebrews had been transformed from Pharaoh’s property to a nation of warriors in the space of forty years. Warriors who were more than ready to take over Canaan.

  Tobiah

  Uriya struck me in the temple. The butt of his practice sword hit me with the force of a falling cedar. I’d be dead if it were real. With a guttural cry, I slammed my shoulder into his torso, swinging a closed fist toward his ear. Blocking the blow with a rock-hard forearm, he pivoted away while leveling another blow at my head. This time I was ready. The clash of our wooden swords reverberated down my arm.

  “Good!” Uriya dropped his defense and backed away. “Much better that time.”

  “No. Again.” I lifted my practice weapon high.

  The enormous Egyptian waved at me. “Take a break, Tobiah. We’ve been at this all morning.”

  Shaking my head, I advanced. “Again.”