Read Journey to the Well: A Novel Online
Authors: Diana Wallis Taylor
Journey to the Well: A Novel (5 page)
“How I hate her!” Jesse said, clenching his fist.
Marah, startled by his vehemence, suddenly realized he was also thinking of Reba. She shook her head sadly. If only Jesse had spoken sooner. God did not will them to be together.
“My parents travel even now to Sebaste to make the arrangements for my betrothal to a cousin. Her name is Tirzah.” He shook his head. “If only I had not waited. If only I had gone to my father sooner. How could I know about Zibeon?” He sat down suddenly on a nearby rock.
The pain in her heart was tempered by a small gladness. He had gone to his parents. It was just too late. She sighed. There was nothing that either of them could do. How could they have foreseen what different paths their lives would be taking?
“There is so little time, Jesse. Reba has set the wedding date for after the fall harvest.”
“She does not give you the full year?” His face showed the anguish he felt.
Marah watched him struggle with his emotions. He remained quietly regarding her, and then with a sigh, he smiled at her.
“Marah, I have something for you. You must take great care.” He bent down and lifted a stone near the tree. Taking out a small bundle wrapped in lambskin, he held it out to her.
Her eyes grew wide as she anxiously unwrapped the gift. Jesse had carved another flute. She thought of the first small flute Jesse had carved for her out of olive wood, and of her joy when he placed it in her hands.
“Oh Jesse, you can carve anything! It is so beautiful,” she had cried, her face radiant as she carefully took the little flute. She had few possessions, making this a wondrous gift.
Covering the small holes with her fingers, Jesse showed her how to hold it and blow gently, producing the notes. She had kept it hidden under her pallet, taking it with her when she took the sheep to the fields. Then, one day, as she returned, it had fallen out of the folds of her mantle. Reba had snatched it up and noted the fine workmanship.
“Where did you get this?” she demanded.
“The shepherd made it for me. He carved it.” Marah waited anxiously for Reba to return the flute.
“You have more important duties to attend to while looking after the sheep, such as making sure we have enough yarn! You can spin from your distaff to the spindle if you have that much free time. You are too old for such foolishness!” Reba chastised.
Marah watched helplessly as her aunt bore the beautiful little flute away and hid it somewhere among her things. With a sigh, Marah turned away, wondering what to tell Jesse.
When Jesse noticed the absence of the flute, she had told him sadly where it had gone.
Anger blazed on Jesse’s young face. “Reba took the flute away?” He would not let Marah make excuses for her. “Are you the only one in the village who cannot see what kind of a woman she is?”
“Reba is all the family I have,” Marah reminded him.
Jesse snorted in disgust.
It seemed like only yesterday. Then, aware Jesse was speaking again, she turned from her thoughts.
Venting his anger, Jesse almost spat the words. “So now Reba arranges a marriage for you to Zibeon. He is too old for you! When I think of the two of you together and the wedding.” He paused and Marah lowered her eyes. “If Zibeon hurts you—” His voice trailed away as if he could not speak the thoughts he contemplated in his heart.
The bleating of the sheep brought Marah back to reality.
She ran her hands gently over the new little flute, feeling its smoothness. “Oh Jesse, I shall treasure it always.” Wrapping the flute gently in the lambskin, she would have taken it with her, but then she remembered Reba. She looked sadly from the flute to Jesse.
Sensing her dilemma, Jesse gently took the flute and put it back under the stone. “It will be our secret. Reba shall never know.”
Marah nodded and tried to smile. “It will be our secret, Jesse. I will always remember you as my friend.”
“And I shall remember you as my friend,” he answered.
Marah looked into his earnest face. She could not touch him she knew, but like gentle fingers, her eyes caressed his face.
Rising slowly, she adjusted her mantle. “I must cut some wild mustard to take home.”
Jesse glanced at the sheep, grazing peacefully, and surveyed the surrounding pasture. All was peaceful.
“Let me help you,” Jesse offered. It would prolong the time.
They walked together on the hillside, cutting the wild plants and glancing back from time to time to make sure all was well with the sheep.
“I must return. I am to prepare the house for our betrothal ceremony tonight. Oh Jesse, I . . .” She strove to hold back the tears and be strong for them both.
The anguish in his face nearly broke her, but she knew she must not allow Jesse to embrace her. She was a betrothed maiden, and if anyone saw them, she would be compromised.
Greater than their longing to touch one another was the fear of consequences. She knew Jesse would protect her every way he knew.
“God go with you, Marah,” Jesse said, stepping back. He stood tall and straight. Marah thought he had never looked so handsome.
“God be with you also, Jesse,” she said. Turning away, she held her tears until she was far enough away. She did not look back.
4
Z
ibeon was in fine spirits. He and his brother Shimei had consumed several cups of wine. Usually Shimei skulked about the house and stayed out of Zibeon’s way. They had never gotten along, even as children, and there were frequent quarrels between them. Zibeon had taken out his temper on Shimei on more than one occasion, but Shimei never told on his older brother. It wouldn’t have done him any good. Their mother, Athaliah, doted on her eldest son and catered to him. He was the image of her late husband. Shimei, on the other hand, was secretive and spent a great deal of time to himself. He had been a sickly child who wearied her as she struggled to raise two boys alone. She was fortunate that Zibeon, already big for his years, had been taught well by her husband and could keep the sandal shop going. She had not been forced to seek another husband.
ibeon was in fine spirits. He and his brother Shimei had consumed several cups of wine. Usually Shimei skulked about the house and stayed out of Zibeon’s way. They had never gotten along, even as children, and there were frequent quarrels between them. Zibeon had taken out his temper on Shimei on more than one occasion, but Shimei never told on his older brother. It wouldn’t have done him any good. Their mother, Athaliah, doted on her eldest son and catered to him. He was the image of her late husband. Shimei, on the other hand, was secretive and spent a great deal of time to himself. He had been a sickly child who wearied her as she struggled to raise two boys alone. She was fortunate that Zibeon, already big for his years, had been taught well by her husband and could keep the sandal shop going. She had not been forced to seek another husband.
Enjoying the respite from Zibeon’s temper, Shimei toasted his brother, flattering him over his good fortune. Zibeon was so pleased with himself he didn’t seem to notice that it was Shimei he was slapping on the back and boasting to.
“A wife to make a man’s senses turn. More wine, woman!” he bellowed at Athaliah.
It was the closest the brothers had been since they were children. While widowed several years before, Zibeon had ignored Athaliah when she brought up the subject of remarriage. Tonight she was delighted that her favorite was to finally marry again.
Athaliah poured more wine. She had cooked Zibeon’s favorite dishes and bustled about the house bursting with pride. She bragged to neighbors that at last she would have the grandchild she longed for.
When Zibeon married the first time, Athaliah had jealously berated the girl, Rizpah, and reproved her for her constant sad face. Zibeon scowled for a moment as he recalled the frail, long-faced girl his parents had chosen for him, forever weeping. In spite of his lusty efforts, she shrank from him always. Rizpah’s constant weeping, and cries of pain any time that he sought the comforts of a husband, frustrated and angered him. After two years of marriage, Rizpah had shown no signs of producing the son that Zibeon wanted so badly.
“I shall go into my old age with no grandchild to comfort me,” Athaliah wailed until Zibeon finally threatened to wring her neck.
“Am I God Himself that I can give you grandchildren?” he flung back at her angrily.
Rizpah became gaunt and hollow-eyed. His mother continued to chide her for her weakness.
“You must eat. You will become ill. Don’t be a foolish girl. You must make up your mind to get well and take up your duties as a wife to Zibeon.”
Day after day, the ungrateful girl lay quietly on her pallet. Athaliah’s rebukes fell on deaf ears for the girl’s eyes remained closed and there was no answer. Frustrated, Zibeon came each evening after his work to stand at the foot of her bed, watching for some sign. Then after a few moments, with a snort of disgust, he would sit at the table and nurse his cup of wine, muttering about the frailty of women. At last, one early morning, in spite of all Athaliah’s efforts, Rizpah turned her face to the wall, gave one last, long sigh, and died.
“No maiden in the village interests me,” Zibeon bellowed at Athaliah when her nagging became too much.
“You do well in your shop, my son. There is not a maiden in the village who would not be pleased to be chosen,” Athaliah wheedled.
“Silence, woman. I will choose when it suits me. No more of your incessant chatter.”
Zibeon drew himself up and scowled so fiercely that Athaliah backed quickly away. He threw a bowl at her feet and stormed out.
Now Athaliah hovered over him. “She will give you strong sons. I shall have my grandchildren at last.” She beamed. “That Rizpah, always so pale, and always with such a sad face . . .”
“Be still, woman,” Zibeon growled.
His mother ignored the warning. “She was bound to make you unhappy with all that weeping. Two years of marriage and not a child to comfort me in my old age, the shame of it.” Athaliah raised martyred eyes to the ceiling. “And the foolish girl would not eat. I told her a hundred times a day she should keep up her strength so she could be a proper wife to you.” She shrugged her shoulders and spread her hands in puzzlement.
Shimei, seeing the thunder building on Zibeon’s face, feared an explosion. Hurriedly grabbing the wine, he proposed another toast to his brother’s good fortune. Fortunately for Athaliah, she was easily distracted and hastened to put more food on Zibeon’s plate.
Zibeon stared at his wine, thinking of the mothers that hurried their daughters past his shop as though he had some great plague, daughters who averted their eyes.
“Simpering, useless females,” Zibeon had grumbled to Shimei. “I don’t need any of them.”
Then he had seen Marah. Her face stayed in his mind for days. Zibeon watched for her and tried to be friendly, but like the others she averted her eyes and hurried past his shop. Day after day his frustration grew.
Reba came to the shop on a day when Zibeon was angry with Athaliah. He was pounding forcefully on the leather with a mallet, trying to make a hole with his awl. Weary of his mother’s constant nagging, he was taking his anger out on the thick leather. From the corner of his eye, he saw Reba coming toward the shop and cursed under his breath. She came many times, too many times it seemed, to purchase small leather items. She was cunning and brash, but they understood one another. Her attentions flattered his ego at times, and he let her flirt. She hinted at marriage, but she didn’t appeal to him. Now her niece, Marah, that was a different matter.
“She no longer has the figure of a child,” he had murmured one day to Shimei. “Soon she will be eligible for marriage. She dislikes me, I know, but it only makes her more interesting.” Like the lion that waits and watches its prey, waiting for the right moment to strike, Zibeon would bide his time.
With a nod from Zibeon, Shimei moved back into the shadows of the shop as Reba planted herself in front of Zibeon.
“You must work every moment?” she had asked coyly.
With great care, Zibeon put down his tools and looked at her. “There is something you need?” he asked in a low voice.
She did not miss his meaning as he rose to his full height and looked down on her, enjoying her momentary discomfort.
“Would I interrupt such a man at his work for no reason?” she said with a slow smile. “You are a strong man, Zibeon. It is a shame for you to be alone. You should have a wife to comfort you after a hard day at work.” Reba almost smirked.
Zibeon sighed irritably and sat down again, picking up his tools. He was not in the mood to be bothered with Reba’s barely disguised hints at marriage today. Perhaps if he ignored her, she would go away.
“I have a proposition.” Her voice had been low, conspiratorial. “Is there someplace we can talk?”
“Say what you have to say now. I am a busy man,” he growled.
She smiled, anticipating his reaction. “It concerns my niece. Do you wish to talk here?”
At the mention of Marah, Zibeon’s head came up sharply. She had gotten his attention.
Reba looked around to be sure no one was near, and didn’t see Shimei. “She is now of an age to be betrothed. I wish to return to Haran to my family. I am tired of this village. Perhaps we can do business?”
Zibeon licked his lips. So his interest in the girl had not escaped Reba’s attention. She was shrewd. She knew how to get to the heart of a matter.
“What do you need to return to Haran?” He also got to the point.
“A large sum, Zibeon, a worthy price for such a beautiful bride.”
They looked at each other for a moment in their unity of thought.
“You are right. We cannot talk here,” Zibeon murmured, knowing Shimei was listening to the entire scene.
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