A Light on the Hill Page 7

  “I saw a clump of white flowers near some boulders around the next bend in the path.” I held out a hand, and after a slight hesitation he grasped it tightly. “Let’s go see if it’s what we need.”

  Although he continued to help me search out the other herbs I needed for the meal, his usual bright curiosity seemed buried beneath the same blanket of sadness that had smothered me since yesterday. How could I possibly walk away from not only my father, but Ora and Eitan too? I’d endured the veil and the weight of my memories from Jericho only because of the love that surrounded me here in Shiloh—would loneliness drag me completely under after Raviv claimed me?

  He may be willing to marry me, but his disparaging comments about my face and his near-eagerness for my father’s demise gave me little hope that Raviv would ever value me as much as he valued my dowry.

  CHAPTER

  Eight

  “May I have a taste?” Eitan leaned over the steaming pot, his greedy eyes taking in the thick lamb stew where it hung simmering over the fire.

  “Of course.” I dipped the wooden spoon into the fragrant mixture and lifted it to his mouth. “Blow on it first though, it’s hot.”

  Licking his lips, he patted his belly with a satisfied moan. “Delicious.”

  “That is because you helped me make it. Food always tastes better when you make it yourself. I’ll give you a bowl to enjoy now, but this can simmer a little longer, until the men return from the meeting.” I gave the stew another stir and then bent down to check the balance of herbs and spices by smell. “Hmm. I think I will add a little more garlic, for good measure.”

  Eitan’s smile wobbled as I ladled a portion for him into a clay bowl. “How long until they come?”

  “I’m not sure.” After handing him his stew, I craned my neck to peer out the open window. “The sun is just beginning to go down, so it won’t be much longer.” I pointed to my kneading trough on the floor, where a lump of floured barley dough rested. “When you are finished and have washed your hands, perhaps you can help me prepare a few more loaves of bread. I’m not sure I made enough this morning. You are so good at making perfect circles for me.”

  Turning away, I diced a clump of garlic leaves with my sharpest flint knife, then slid the finely chopped bits into a small bowl. The waist-high preparation table my father had built for me last year had been a blessing; I no longer had to squat on the dirt floor to cook.

  A knock sounded on the door. I re-secured my veil before opening it, and to my surprise Raviv’s two sons, Zeev and Yared, stood outside. Both had mussed hair, as if they’d been tussling with someone, or with each other. And judging by the way they both shifted their stance as I regarded them, neither was happy to be here.

  “Is our father here?” one of them said—which one, I could not divine. They were so similar that even their stony expressions matched.

  “Oh, no. Not yet.” I glanced at Eitan, who’d finished his stew and had scooped a ball of dough into his palm and begun patting it into a circle. “You are welcome to come inside and wait. We are working on the meal for tonight.”

  Neither of them smiled as they entered. Their eyes swept the room before landing on Eitan, who immediately dropped his gaze back to his work, as if unsettled by their presence.

  “You must remind me who is who,” I said with a nervous laugh as I moved to stand between the boys and Eitan, in the guise of stirring my stew. “It may take some time for me to keep you two straight.”

  “I’m Zeev.” He poked a finger into his brother’s chest with a smirk. “That’s Yared, the ugly one.”

  Yared elbowed him and then directed a foul gesture at his brother, who responded by punching his shoulder so hard that Yared cried out in pain.

  So they had been wrestling before I opened the door. Shocked by their aggressive behavior, I cleared my throat as I stirred the pot again, wishing I could find words in its depths that might smooth whatever was going on between them. How would I mother boys who were only seven years younger than me?

  “Yes, well . . .” I searched my mind for something, anything, to say that would distract them. “You both are handsome. You take after your father. I look forward to getting to know you all. Have you been living with family while your father and uncle were away?”

  Apparently satisfied that he’d bullied Yared into submission, Zeev ignored my question and instead gestured with his chin toward Eitan. “Who’s that?”

  “Oh! This is Eitan.” I smiled at my little friend who was busy shaping the dough into rounds on the other side of the room, his deaf side turned toward me. “He has been helping me prepare tonight’s meal.”

  “What’s wrong with his ear?” said Yared, his lip curling in distaste. “It’s all mangled up.”

  Defensiveness roared to life. Normally Eitan kept his shoulder-length hair free, but I’d asked him to tie it back while we cooked. Internally, I flogged myself for doing so. The poor boy was so sensitive about his useless ear. So as not to embarrass him, I lowered my voice. “He was born that way.”

  “Is he deaf too?” Yared raised his voice. “Hey, little cripple, can you hear me?” He slipped around me and clapped his hands at Eitan, who turned to face him with humiliation glinting in his big hazel eyes. My stomach constricted as the twins laughed at his reaction and heat flooded my body.

  “That’s enough,” I snapped. “Leave Eitan alone.”

  “Or what?” Zeev lifted his chin with defiance. “You aren’t our mother.”

  My pulse pounded as I clenched my fists. “No, I am not, but I soon will be. You must treat me with respect.”

  “I don’t care that you are going to marry my father. You are not that much older than us anyhow,” Zeev said as he stepped closer to me, his height allowing him to look me straight in the eye. “Besides, you have no right to say anything to me.” He leaned in, his tone threatening. “You are nothing but a whore.”

  Yared laughed at his brother’s insolence. “We’ve heard what they say about you. Don’t know what my father is thinking.” His eyes traveled down my body, a leering gesture that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. “Or maybe I do.”

  How could thirteen-year-old boys be filled with such hate and degradation? Did their father know they acted this way?

  Zeev peered at me with curiosity. “What’s under that veil anyhow?”

  With a movement so quick I barely had time to react, he grabbed for my veil. I jerked backward and slapped my palm to my cheek, preventing him from grasping the linen to reveal the scar. I took two steps back, out of range of his hands, my cheeks aflame.

  Eitan sprang up, dropping the dough he’d been kneading to the floor in a spray of flour, and strode up to Yared with determination in the set of his little shoulders. “You leave her alone!”

  Yared spun on the boy, towering over him with a sneer. “What are you going to do, little cripple, fight me?” He shoved Eitan in the chest, and the small boy’s breath released in a surprised huff.

  With fury screaming in my veins and civility shattered to pieces, I forced myself between Yared and Eitan. “What is wrong with you? He is only a little boy! How can you be so cruel?” My voice spun higher as I pressed forward, a trembling finger in Yared’s face. “I don’t care what you say to me, but if you so much as lay another hand on Eitan, things will not end well for you!”

  Shocked by the force of my protective instincts and the realization that I had just stepped over a line, leaving a footprint that would not be easily wiped away, I stopped with my mouth gaping open. My reaction, while justified in protection of Eitan, was far from wisely measured. What would Raviv say when he’d heard what I’d said to his sons? Would he refuse to marry me now?

  Some small movement snapped my attention to the open window, but I saw nothing there. Had someone heard my scalding words and fled with my guilt on their lips? Fear and regret rolled over me in unrelenting waves. I put my hand over my mouth and stepped backward, horrified that my building emotions from the las
t few days had boiled over.

  When he’d heard what I’d done, my father would be humiliated, and possibly forced to make public amends. I closed my eyes and took a long, deep breath. What is wrong with me?

  All I could do now was humble myself. “Please. Forgive me. I was carried away.” Imagining I was Ora—kind, peaceful, diplomatic Ora—I attempted a smile, one that tasted of bitter gall. “You both must be starving. Why don’t you both go out in the courtyard and sit by the fire pit. We will be eating out there this evening. I’ll bring you a bowl of stew to hold you over until the men arrive.”

  As if thrown by my quick change of attitude, the boys glanced at each other, brows lifted, before shrugging and complying with my request. Perhaps empty, snarling stomachs had contributed to their belligerent behavior today, and if so, food might indeed be my best ally in winning them over. Zeev glared at me as he left, mumbling something about a woman knowing her place.

  As soon as the door closed behind them, I cleared my throat. Without turning around, I asked Eitan to return to his bread-making, hoping to calm myself for a few moments before I faced him. Not waiting to see if he moved, I went back to my preparation table, grabbed another handful of leaves from my herb basket, and continued dicing, grateful of the occupation for my trembling hands but unsuccessfully fighting the tears that blurred my vision. I clenched my jaw against a sob, but it escaped nonetheless. I dropped the knife, which clattered to the table, tumbled over the edge, and fell to the floor.

  Eitan, who obviously hadn’t obeyed my directive, threw his arms around my waist.

  I twisted around to kneel down and wrap him in a hug. “Are you all right?”

  He sniffed as he nodded, his body shuddering in my embrace. He must be nearly as undone as me. “Those boys are mean.”

  I pulled back to look him in the eye. “I’m so sorry they hurt you.”

  He bunched his lips to the side and shrugged, as if brushing off the confrontation with the older, much taller boy. The tear tracks on his freckled cheeks contradicted the move. “Are you really going to be their mother?”

  I sighed. Unless I’ve ruined everything. “I believe so.”

  Eitan’s jaw tightened and his brows came together in a dark line. “They can’t treat you like that.”

  “I am sure we will learn to get along. But you . . .” I swept back his hair to kiss his forehead. “You were my hero today. It’s a good thing you didn’t have your bird-scaring stick with you today.” I gave him a wink and whispered, “Or those two wouldn’t know what hit them.”

  A trace of humor sparkled in his eyes and his body relaxed a bit, so I stood and gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Now, let’s finish this meal before everyone else arrives. I must tend the stuffed grape leaves. Will you toss those garlic leaves into the stew and give it a good stir?”

  While he followed my orders, I wrapped my hands with woolen cloths and removed the lid from the pot that had been buried in the hot ashes for the last hour. The fragrant smell of the spiced meat and barley announced the dish was nearly ready to serve. I drizzled a wine sauce, thickened with fresh butter, over the steaming grape leaves. I replaced the lid and then asked Eitan to slap a few rounds of dough on the walls of the oven, knowing he would be careful to avoid the coals, as I had taught him.

  “I’ll take some food to the boys and then come back to help you with the bread.”

  Eitan nodded, but his large hazel eyes watched me warily as I filled the bowls with hot stew. The set of his small cleft chin told me he was prepared to barrel out the door and throw himself between me and the twins, if need be.

  “I’ll be fine, Eitan. I promise.” I juggled the clay bowls to open the door. “Go ahead and work on the bread. I’ll be right back.” A rush of love for the sweet, protective boy washed over me, softening the edges of my regret as I stepped outside with my peace offerings.

  What could be taking the men so long? I peered out the window yet again as I swiped the back of my hand across my forehead. Dusk would soon chase the vibrant red from the sky, but Raviv, Pekah, and my father had yet to arrive. I lifted the lid from the stuffed grape leaves, irritated that the sauce had evaporated too much, leaving a thick sludge over the dish, instead of the lovely wine glaze I’d prepared.

  Eitan had slipped away earlier, saying that his uncle had insisted he come home before dark. Although he usually begged to stay longer, his anxiousness to leave worried me. Zeev and Yared’s taunting must have truly affected him.

  “Moriyah!” A yell from outside jerked me to attention. “Help!”

  One of the twins was calling me? I dropped the lid back on the pot and hurried to open the door.

  “Hurry! Yared is sick!” Zeev hollered as I stepped over the threshold.

  Before I could reach him, Yared retched loudly near the fire.

  “What is wrong?” I said, arms out to the boy.

  Pale-faced, he pushed me away with clammy hands. “Leave me alone!”

  “Let me help you, Yared.”

  He vomited again, a whimper escaping as he slumped to the ground, his arms around his belly. Zeev sat on the ground, helplessly watching as Yared moaned and coughed up bile. “What is happening?”

  “Did he complain of feeling ill earlier?”

  “No. He just dropped his bowl and got sick all over the place.”

  I crouched next to Yared. “Let me fetch a cup of water. Perhaps that will help.”

  “It hurts!” He grabbed at his stomach, tears streaming down his face, looking more like a small boy than the thirteen-year-old who’d verbally attacked me earlier. “It feels like a knife in my gut!”

  “What is going on? Yared?” Raviv appeared, pushing me aside to reach for his son. Yared clung to his father, who brushed his son’s disheveled and sweat-soaked hair away from his face with a trembling hand.

  “What happened?” Raviv’s expression was an anguished plea. “Why is my son vomiting like this?”

  “I wish I could tell you,” I choked out. “Whatever this is came on so suddenly.”

  “Abba, he is so sick!” Zeev pleaded. “Do something!”

  Raviv tried to lift Yared from the ground, but the boy retched yet again and cried out. “I can’t see. My eyes are blurry! Abba!”

  Raviv knelt down and wrapped Yared in his long arms. “It’s all right, son, I am here.” Although his voice was strong, the panic in his dark eyes shook me. I hadn’t felt this helpless since I was tied to an Asherah pole.

  Gripping at my tunic to control the shaking of my hands, I stepped closer. “Where are my father and Yuval? I’ll get help!”

  “At the storehouse,” he snapped. “Yared!” He gripped his son as the boy’s head lolled back in a faint, his plea becoming a demand. “Son! Answer me!”

  I backed up a few steps, my mind traveling a thousand places at once. What could have caused such a violent reaction in the boy? I’d never seen an illness come on so quickly. My gaze flitted to Yared’s bowl on the ground. He’d had two servings, just as Zeev had done.

  It couldn’t be . . . could it?

  “Abba,” Zeev’s voice warbled. “I don’t feel well either.” His arms snaked around his middle. “And my head hurts.”

  No. Not both of them. What had I done?

  Holding my breath, and the gasp that clogged my throat, I spun and ran into the house. The lamb stew still simmered over the cook fire. I grasped the ladle and lifted a scoop, then let it dribble out as I examined the thick liquid. Nothing.

  I exhaled. I’d worried for nothing. It must only be a quick-moving illness. Just to make sure, I dipped the ladle back into the stew and lifted it again, leaning over the fragrant mixture.

  A leaf.

  Not even a full leaf, but one diced in half by my flint knife, lay atop the stew, announcing what I’d dreaded to admit to myself.

  I’d poisoned Yared and Zeev with the oleander I’d distractedly tossed into my herb basket this morning.

  With horror pumping through my veins,
I tipped the pot of stew onto the floor. The deadly mixture sloshed across the dirt, oozing toward me. I tripped back away from its taint, seeing more shards of the poisonous leaves among the meal.

  I’d killed Raviv’s sons.

  CHAPTER

  Nine

  The door to the storehouse opened as I approached, my heartbeat racing ahead of me. Lamplight spilled from the doorway, and Eleazar, the High Priest and son of Aharon himself, stepped outside, thanking my father for his time and declaring his wine was the best he’d ever tasted. I skidded to a stop in the shadow of a cedar, grateful that the sun was dipping lower in the sky.

  I’d seen Eleazar before, but not this close. What would he think of what I’d done? Would he condemn me right here? My stomach quailed at the image of a crowd pressing me over the edge of a cliff, dropping large rocks on my broken body—

  My father interrupted my horrifying thoughts as he followed the priest out the door, trailed by Yuval with a torch in hand. “I’ll send down a few more jugs of wine in the morning for the daily offerings.”

  “Yes, please do.” Eleazar clapped my father on the back, his silvery beard catching on the breeze, and then caught sight of me lurking in the shadows. “Shalom! And who is this?”

  “Oh Moriyah! Come . . .” My father beckoned me to his side. I hoped the priest could not see the clench of my jaw as I clamped down against the chattering of my teeth, or the way the rest of me trembled with frigid terror. “This is my daughter, Moriyah. She was in Rahab’s house when Jericho fell.”

  “Oh, yes! I remember.” His dark eyes dropped to my veiled cheek, his expression openly sympathetic. “You were injured by the priestess, weren’t you?”

  I dipped my chin, not trusting my voice.

  “You were very brave, my dear,” said Eleazar. “Without you and your friend, Rahab and her family might have perished in that rubble and our spies might not have survived.”

  I restrained the urge to correct him and clarify that such things were Alanah’s doing, but desperate to speak privately with my father and not wanting to prolong his stay, no matter how kind he seemed, I held my tongue.