Providence (2 page)

He rummaged inside a sack tied to his belt and offered a pomegranate. “Sit and share with me. Looks like you could use some.” He carefully removed a carving knife from the woven bag and sliced off a piece of the honeycombed fruit, revealing bright red berries.

She ignored his insult and watched his blade, anticipating any move in her direction.

He skillfully sheathed the knife with one hand and shoved it back into his sack.

“Go on, take it.” He inched the fruit closer to her mouth.

“I have nothing to trade.” Hannah crossed her arms and burrowed them against her waist. “And I do not want for food.”

He bit off a chunk of pomegranate and swallowed. “The cost doesn't matter. I gleaned it.”

“Then I shouldn't take it from you if you are allowed to glean with the poor,” Hannah said.
This may be the only food he has all day
.

He shook his unruly hair and dropped his satchel near her. “I am not poor. I offer protection during the harvest. And I can tell by the weave of your tunic and your ruby bracelet, you are not in want.”

Hannah glanced at her wrist. Scarlet gems sparkled at the edge of her sleeve. The bracelet hadn't stayed hidden. Why couldn't anything go right today?

In an instant, he reached out and brushed the pomegranate against her lips.

Flinching, she bumped her shoulder bone against the wall.

“You touched it. Now eat.” He tilted his head and grinned as if he dared her to challenge his hospitality.

She hesitated, rubbed her arm, and accepted the fruit.

Slumping next to his bag, he leaned into the wall and kicked out his legs. His fingertips pursued the pomegranate's berries.

Hannah eased down the wall and sat near him. The man's closeness caused a tingling along her side and in her belly. It had been years since a stranger ate next to her, touching her, sharing food. She let the fleshy seeds roll on her tongue. A squirt of juice washed over her taste buds. It might as well have been water.

“Sweet, huh?” he asked.

She nodded and smiled to encourage his generosity. No need to explain her condition.

He furrowed his brow and laughed. “It is a tart one. You jest.”

Embarrassed, Hannah did not return his gaze. She fished out another red seed. “What is your name?”

“Gil. Gilead when my mother has need of me and calls down the street.” He mimicked his mother's voice.

Her mouth fell open at his silliness. “Stop. She will hear you.”

“No, she won't. Her ears are dead to my voice.”

“But your father? He will scold, or worse.”

Gil dipped his chin and beheld her with wide eyes. “I am more concerned with your father.” He cocked his head. “I do not know your name.”

“Hannah!” The boom of her brother's voice rattled down the lane.

She jumped up, heart racing. For a brief moment she considered staying put, but then thought better of it.

“That is my name.” She crept along the wall, steadying herself with her palm as her fingers still clutched the fruit. “My brother calls for me. Shimron
ben
Zebula.”

“The priest?”

Hannah nodded and then dodged around the linen barrier.

“There you are. Have we not suffered enough today?” Her brother clamped down on her wrist and noticed the piece of pomegranate in her hand. “Where did you get that?”

A shiver shook her arm. “From—”

“Me,” Gil said, stepping forward. His arched back broadened his shoulders.

Her brother's glare raked over Gil. “He is filthy. Has he kept the ceremonial laws?” Her brother shook the fruit from her hand. Dirt coated the saliva-soaked peel.

Gil bent to pick up her piece of pomegranate. He drew to her brother's height and bested it. “You cannot judge me.”

Hannah cut off her brother's reply. “Gilead showed me hospitality. We owe him better.”

“Not much,” her brother jeered.

Pain pulsed down her arm from her brother's grasp. He hurried her up the street. When she looked back, Gil had started after her. There was no more moonlight in his eyes.

She whipped around, broke free from Shimron, and ran toward Gil. Her family did not need another scene in the streets. “Do not pursue us,” she whispered. And louder, “
Shalom
.”

Gil glanced at her brother and then handed her the dropped fruit.

Shimron flanked her side. “She is not worth your concern.”

Hannah met Gil's questioning gaze. No denial formed on her lips. Her boldness withered under the burden of her shame.
If I was healed, I would be worthy.

“Is she of no concern to God?” Gil's voice grew too loud. “Does He not provide for the weak and the widow?”

“Of which she is neither.” Shimron stomped forward, grazing Gil's toes. “Do not pretend to know the Law as well as I do,” Shimron spat. “Some followers deserve their fate. I will you show you the punishment in scripture.”

Her brother turned and took hold of her anew, pushing her up the street, chastising her for being disobedient.

“Can God not choose mercy?” Gil called out. “If she deserves it?”

Does he mean me?
She hesitated and nearly stumbled. Flailing a hand behind her back, she tried to keep Gil silent.
Please listen. Do not add to my misery.

Gil did not follow.

Tears welled in her eyes. She fisted her hand and thought of the miracle she had witnessed, of a boy frolicking in the dirt. She wanted to be free from the scorn of her family. To enjoy a meal with a welcoming neighbor. To pull her hair into a braid and dangle earrings from perfect lobes. The prophet had to return to Jerusalem soon. Surely he was needed at the temple. And when the man of God returned, she would seek an end to her curse and her humiliation. A humiliation the prophet had made public.

2

Hannah wilted from the heat of the cooking fire, but she would rather be in the secluded courtyard at home, than facing mockery from citizens on the streets. She skimmed burnt paste off the top of her stewed figs and tried to salvage some of the fruit. As the sole daughter of Zebula, the chore of preparing supper lay at her feet.
Oh,
w
hy couldn't the prophet have healed my nose?
She handed a spoon to the wife of her brother Shimron. “Can you taste the ash?”

Her sister-in-law, Rebekah, wrinkled her nose. “If you do not tell, perhaps they will think it a new spice.”

Hannah groaned. She had already made one trip to the well in the heat of the day. Now she needed more water to start over. At least the afternoon sun kept the whisperers away. Three Sabbaths had passed since the prophet's refusal to heal her. Three Sabbaths and the prophet had not returned to Jerusalem. Three Sabbaths and the people remembered her shame, even if they did not know its origin.

Pulling her head covering low to hide her face, she walked several streets until she reached the well. As she neared its round, stone wall, a woman hurried off, sloshing precious water from her jar. Had she too, been at the gate that day? Hannah carefully wrapped her hand in white cloth before hoisting the bucket. She filled her jar, lifted it onto her shoulder, and used it as a shield from the curious eyes of the street dwellers.

When Hannah returned home, her aunt sat in a shaded corner of the cooking courtyard, rubbing Rebekah's rounded belly.

Hannah greeted her aunt with a kiss on the cheek.

“I will come to help birth Rebekah's baby,” her aunt said.

Hannah poured water into a fresh pot and began serving the remainder to her aunt and sister-in-law. “I will also care for the babe.”

Her aunt took a generous sip. “What about Azor's children? Will you not care for them in Hebron?”

Hannah's pulse quickened. Her stomach plummeted into an imaginary well, coming up empty. She looked to Rebekah for a glimpse of understanding. Hannah's fingers trembled as she held a cup of drink out to her sister-in-law. “Why would I mother Azor's children? I am not his wife.”

“You will be.” Her aunt spoke in pronouncement of a well-known truth.

Hannah clutched her waist. Surely, her father had not arranged a secret betrothal. To Azor no less. A priest twice her age with children as old as she. “Father has praised Azor's service. He is a respected priest, but no word has come to me of his interest in another wife.” She held her voice steady, willing her words to be true.

Her aunt's eyes narrowed. “Your father has not spoken of the widower?”

Hannah shook her head. Her stomach churned at the thought of being bound to an old, shriveled stranger. What did Azor have to offer her? Nursemaid? Servant? Hannah's breaths caught in her chest. “My father and brother have been receiving offerings at the temple. There has been no mention of my—”

“Soon,” her aunt stated in the definite tone of an elder. “You will do what is chosen.”

Hannah shivered as if a locust had crawled down her back. She turned away from her aunt and Rebekah. The throb in her forehead made reasoning difficult. How could her father accept an offer of marriage for her from a man so aged? A man whose own sons had taunted her in the temple? Her father would have refused Azor if she was not cursed.

Water boiled in the pot, waiting for new figs. She shut her eyes and prayed
. Give me wisdom, Lord. If Azor is my future, why do I only dream of Gil? He showed me kindness and treated me honorably.

She stirred the figs and thought of her future, of the alley, of Gil. If she was to be healed and open to other offers of marriage, she would have to seek the prophet on her own. But how? The man of God had not returned to Jerusalem. Her father and brother grumbled at the fact that the prophet remained in Mahanaim, in the home of a wealthy landowner.

Traveling north to the border without an escort would cause more scandal to her reputation, more so than her curse. If indeed her father was entering her into a marriage contract with Azor, none of her family members would dare challenge his decision and help her escape. Only one man was bold enough to stand up to her brother. Her blood pounded through her veins as she recalled Gilead's strength. Was Gil brazen enough to help her flee the city? Would he travel with her to Mahanaim? Would he brave the scandal for her?

With a rag-draped hand, Hannah lifted the pot from the fire.

The harvest was ending. Gil would not be needed in the fields. If they left soon, she could be healed and left free to petition her father for another husband before he exchanged sandals with Azor and sealed her fate.

“I need to go to the market.” The words flew from Hannah's lips. “My family shall not want of fig cakes.”

“The sun is still high. Can it not wait?” Rebekah said with discomfort in her voice.

Oh sister, if you only knew how much it cannot wait.

“There is a merchant who sells to…who will sell me honey.”

“Make haste,” her aunt added. “Your mother's prayers will end soon.”

Hannah beheld her aunt's gaze. “I know my place.”

After walking at a slow pace until she was a few houses from her own, Hannah raced down an alley toward the marketplace near where she had met Gil. Vendors called to her as she passed by, oblivious to who was behind the head covering. She had no time to tarry. A woman stepped into her path blocking her passage.

“
Tova.
Good,” the woman declared, holding a leek up to Hannah's nose.

Hannah jerked away. There was no way she would know if the woman's offering was good or not. All food tasted like the wind.

The woman stepped back and gasped.

Hannah shielded her face and ran between two men bartering over spices. She scanned the sides of the street as she milled between buyers and sellers.

A few sheets dried in the sun, lining the street. Would she recognize Gilead's alcove? She peeked behind billowing blankets and between houses trying to find the right alley. Gilead's room. She stopped for a moment and rubbed her throat, smothering the fire that burned within. As she gasped for air, she studied the buildings ahead. The yellow hue of a sheet caught her attention. Either the woman of the home did not know how to keep house or the sheet had stayed up longer than an hour.

She jogged toward the familiar house with the high window, certain Gil lived under its sill. Ready to whip back the cloth and make a bold entrance, she hesitated. What if Gil wasn't alone? What if he didn't remember her?

Carefully, she pulled back the edge of the sheet ready to release it in a hurry if need be.

The crates were there.

The barrel was there.

Gil was not there.

Her shoulders slumped like each one held a jug of water. Where was Gil? In the fields? She knew he worked for a landowner but she didn't know which one. Neither time, nor her safety, would allow a trip out of the city.

Voices grew louder from the window above where Gil slept. A vision of Gil's mother yelling his name down the street filled her head. Would Gil's mother know when he would return?

She rushed to the doorway. Her tongue swept over her teeth, wetting her mouth.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She waited.

Answer. Please.
She knew someone was home.

The door cracked open
.
Hannah rubbed her palms together smoothing the moisture over her skin. She bowed her head and held her covering taut against her face. “Greetings.”

A woman stepped outside, a woman younger than Hannah imagined Gil's mother should be. Did Gil have an older sister?

The woman studied Hannah's sandals, woven belt, and embroidered head covering. Her brown eyes blinked as if she had been caught in a dust storm.

“
Shalom,
” Hannah said softly. “I am in need of Gilead. Is he your son?”

The woman pressed forward, glancing back into the house before shutting the door.

“I cannot help you,” she whispered. “I know little of my son's whereabouts.”

Hannah bit her lip to keep from weeping. She was a fool to think her plans would be fruitful. God had cursed her. Her own people shunned her. Even Gil's mother refused her.