The Thief (43 page)

“Good morning, Mara,” said a soft voice behind her.

Mara turned and smiled at Leah. At least she was always kind. Leah’s long, silver hair fell down her back in a thick, shining
braid that caught the sunlight. Although stooped and frail, Leah still fetched her own water; she had no servant or daughter to do it for her.

“Let me help you with that, Leah.” Mara reached for the old woman’s water jug and set it on the edge of the rocky opening. She sent the gourd back down into the well.

“And how’s your mother today?” Leah asked, her quick eyes darting toward the other women and back.

Mara replied carefully, “Sleeping when I left.” She tipped her head toward the women. “What is it?”

Leah bit her lip. “They found Dara this morning, dead, on the east side of Mount Ebal.”

Mara dropped the rope, and the full gourd splashed back down into the well. “Dead? What happened?”

“She must have been gathering wood and fallen down a ravine. Jobab always said she was clumsy.” Leah took the rope from Mara’s still hands and began pulling.

Clumsy. She had heard Jobab—old enough to be Dara’s grandfather—complaining in the marketplace about his young bride. Dara burned the stew and her hands as well. She broke her arm when she fell down a stony path.

A heavy ache filled her chest. Dara was her age and one of the few girls who still talked to her, although not since she’d married at the early age of thirteen. The girl had lived with Jobab on the far side of Mount Ebal and rarely came into the village. When she did, she rushed through her marketing, her head down and not a word for anyone. As though she was afraid.

Guilt brushed her spine like a cold hand. She should have made the climb to the shepherd’s hut to find out why Dara had so many bruises and injuries.

Leah poured water into her jar with shaking hands. “She lost another baby last month. Jobab was so angry.” Bright tears glittered on her wrinkled cheeks. “I should have told someone. I should have checked on her.”

It wouldn’t have mattered. A woman’s word against a man’s
never did. Dara was Jobab’s second wife. The first had died not long after giving birth to a stillborn boy—fell and hit her head on a stone. Poor Jobab, the men would say, his wives died before they could give him an heir. Poor wives.

Mara brushed her hand over Leah’s stooped shoulders. She lifted the heavy jar to her head and turned to the road. A flurry of motion caught her eye, then her path was blocked.

Mara stepped around the girl who had once been her best friend. “Good morning, Rivkah.”

“Mara.” Rivkah’s smile stopped Mara mid-stride. Her eyes swept over Mara’s tattered tunic, her uncombed hair. She ran a hand over her own dark braids, twisted into an elaborate design and pinned with brass ornaments. “I wanted you to be the first to know. Jebus and I are to be betrothed. The ceremony is today.”

Mara sucked in her breath. She steadied the jar on her head. She and Rivkah had been childhood friends before Adah, Rivkah’s mother, had married Shimon and turned her back on Nava. Like all little girls, Mara and Rivkah had spent their days talking about their betrothal ceremonies, dreaming of husbands and families. A husband meant security and protection and, most of all, children—the ultimate sign of God’s favor. They had always assumed that Mara would be the first to marry, but Rivkah, more than a year younger, was betrothed first.

“You are blessed,” Mara said. She heard the tremble in her voice. “Jebus will be a good husband.”

“Yes, he will. He begged for the betrothal to be shortened. You know how men are.” Rivkah smirked. “But it will be a full year. My father insisted.”

Mara looked down at her bare feet and ragged tunic.
Yes, I do know how men are.
She stepped around Rivkah and hurried toward the road.

As Leah fell into step beside her, Mara slowed but didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

The path forked—one way went to the village, the other to
the valley. This was where they would part. Leah patted Mara’s arm with her gnarled hand. “Your time will come, my dear.”

Mara shook her head and swallowed hard. No, her time would not come. They all knew that. She nodded good-bye to the old woman.

The path blurred under Mara’s feet, and the heavy water jar pressed down on her head. She should be mourning Dara—although she barely knew her—but she mourned for herself instead.

Rivkah was betrothed. And to one of the last unmarried men in Sychar. She couldn’t even hope for a young, handsome husband like Jebus. Not anymore. Rivkah would be married in one year and probably with child soon after.
I’ll still be struggling to feed Mama and Asher. No one will marry me.

Today Rivkah’s childhood dreams would come true. Her father and brothers would carry her in a litter to the house of her handsome groom. Her sisters and friends would scatter nuts and dance to the music of harps and tambourines. And Mara wasn’t even invited.

I’d be content with any husband who treated me kindly and put food on the table. Anyone who provided clothes and a roof that didn’t leak. Anyone who would take care of me and Asher.

No, there would be no betrothal for her. No man would make a marriage offer for Mara, daughter of Nava, the most disgraceful woman in Sychar.

“MAMA, YOU CAN’T
let him come here again. You know that, don’t you?”

Nava didn’t answer. Mara knelt next to her mother’s huddled body, hoping that she would listen to reason, but Nava just pulled her cloak closer around her shoulders and turned her face to the wall.

“Mama, if they find out . . . what will we do?” Mara’s voice rose.

“What’s the matter, Mara?” Asher piped up from the corner. “Mara, what is it?” He crawled to Mara and climbed into her arms. He was small for his age and too thin, but she had never seen a more beautiful child in all of Sychar. His almond-shaped eyes were deep green. Long, dark lashes brushed his high smooth cheeks. Asher snuggled up to her, and she pressed her cheek to his dark curls. She kissed the top of his head and breathed in his musty sweet scent.

Yes, Asher was a beautiful child. But he had been born lame. Not just lame—deformed. And in Sychar, deformity meant sin. Nava’s sin.

He was in all other ways a perfect boy, but one leg, knotted and bent, hardly looked like a leg at all. The heel of his foot pointed sharply outward, like a misplaced elbow. The foot twisted so that the pink sole faced upward, and his deformed toes closed like a fist. But Asher’s heart . . . his heart was as pure and sweet as the water from Jacob’s well.

Mara pulled his thumb from his mouth. “Asher, no. You’re almost eight.”

Nava pushed herself up from her mat. “Let him be.” She folded her legs and patted her lap. “Come sit on Mama’s lap.”

Mara pushed Asher into his mother’s lap. “Stop treating him like a baby.”

He snuggled up to his mother and stuck his thumb back in his mouth.

Nava didn’t rebuke him. She pulled him closer and stroked his arm.

Even with dirty hair and a sleep-lined face, Nava was lovely. Her honey-toned skin was only slightly lined from thirty summers. Her teeth flashed white and straight behind dark, full lips. Long, black lashes and straight, black brows highlighted her perfect features. Even now, when other women showed signs of age, Nava’s skin stretched smoothly over high cheeks, and her chin was a firm, straight line.

Mara dipped a worn wooden ladle into the water jug and
gave it to Nava. She had heard the same words her whole life: she was the image of her mother. Except for their eyes. While Nava’s wide eyes were as green as Egyptian jade, Mara’s were a startling mix of green shot with gold. No one had ever said they were beautiful.

Nava drank, then passed the ladle to Asher. “My poor baby boy. Why must God punish you for the sins of your mother?”

Blood rose in Mara’s face. “Mama, you act as though you have no choice.” Mara carried the heavy jar to the coolest corner of the house. “I didn’t see you asking Alexandros to leave last night.”

Even as Nava buried her face in Asher’s skinny neck and wept, Mara didn’t regret her words. Why couldn’t she see the danger?

“Alexandros?” Asher said, looking from his sister to his mother. He puffed out his cheeks and lowered his brows, very much like the big pagan. “I don’t like him.”

“I don’t either,” Mara agreed. She gathered her damp cloak from the floor and shook it hard. If only she could shake some sense into her mother.

Asher squirmed in his mother’s arms; she was still crying. Mara loosened Nava’s grip on Asher and dragged him from her. “Mama is a little sad, Asher. Go outside and gather sticks. We’ll make some breakfast.” She sent him on his way with a forced smile and a little swat on his bottom. He crawled quickly through the door, dragging his lame leg behind him.

She crouched beside her weeping mother. “Mama, you can’t let him come here again.”

“It is for Asher. He needs a father.”

I don’t believe it. She isn’t making any sense.
“Asher has a father. Or did you forget about Shaul? You know, your husband?” She took a breath and tried to speak calmly. “Mama, Alexandros doesn’t want to be Asher’s father. He’s not going to marry you.”

Nava wiped tears from her cheeks. “At his age, Asher should
be learning a trade, not playing with toys. He needs a man to teach him.”

“Yes. Shaul is the one who should teach him. If you would just . . .” If she would just get up in the morning and work hard all day. If she would just take care of her children. Then she could send word to Shaul—beg him to come back. They could be happy again.

But Mara couldn’t say that. They never spoke of her mother’s illness.

Nava lay down and turned her back on the room. She pulled her cloak over her head like a shroud, as though she intended to sleep forever.

Mara blew out her breath in frustration. Nava would not get up again today. Sleeping seemed to be her only refuge from the dark thoughts and sadness that bound her.
Lord, why do we have a mother who is not a mother at all? If she is the one who is sinful, why must Asher and I suffer?

Mara left the gloom of the house and crouched by the cooking pot. The two looming mountains seemed to press down on her. Would she ever reap the blessings of following God’s laws, or would she only see the curses that were sown by her disgraceful mother?

ALSO BY STEPHANIE LANDSEM

The Living Water Series

The Well

The Thief

The Tomb
(coming April 2015)

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Stephanie Landsem

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First Howard Books trade paperback edition February 2014

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