Heavens Before (31 page)

Already, she was taking Yepheth’s hand to distract him. “I’ma-Naomi will be waiting for us, and we don’t want her to think we’re being forgetful. Annah, will you come back with us?”

Annah began to pack her tools into the leather bag. “Yes. But I’ll bring these with me; the bar of gold is at the lodge. Perhaps I’ll cut some gold off the bar and test it tonight.”

She checked inside the hut to be sure there was fresh water and food waiting for Shem. He would sleep here after the midday meal. As an afterthought, Annah opened the storage chest and removed the fine gold cuff bracelet that Naomi had given her. Annah’s father had beaten the gold of this bracelet flat, then embossed it and tooled it delicately in a pattern of stylized vines and fruit. Studying the bracelet might give her ideas for Ghinnah’s hair talismans.

Annah pressed the bracelet over her forearm and hurried outside, ready to leave. Yepheth held the leather bag of tools, prepared to carry them for her. She smiled, touched by his consideration.

Ghinnah admired Annah’s gold cuff bracelet. “It’s so beautiful! Did your father really make this before you
were born?” Without giving Annah the chance to reply, she said, “I’ll do your chores this evening, if you’ll work the gold.”

With Yepheth and Khawm leading, and Annah and Ghinnah lingering behind to visit, they followed the path edging the trees. As they approached the lodge, Khawm sighed, disgusted. “Look, here’s another family for my mother to send away.”

A wooden, two-wheeled handcart was outside the lodge, guarded by a brooding, fully bearded man of about two kentums. The man eyed Khawm speculatively.

Clearly discomfited, Khawm nudged Yepheth. “You greet him. I’m going inside.”

Silent, Annah and Ghinnah followed Khawm into the lodge. Annah felt the stranger staring at them and disliked him at once. Inside the lodge, she breathed in the scent of fresh grain cakes and simmering fruit. Naomi was seated near the hearth, formal, but smiling at three women who sat on a mat opposite her.

The oldest woman was slender, lovely and haughty, with tightly braided and bound hair that curled luxuriantly at the ends. She was undoubtedly the mother of the two younger women who sat to her left, for both of the younger women were also slender with long, richly curled black hair. The younger, smaller daughter was pretty, but restless. She was pinching and nudging her elder sister, who repeatedly swiped her hands away. At last their mother admonished them, “Behave. You shame me, both of you!”

The younger daughter wrinkled her nose and stared at Annah boldly, as if to say,
Who cares what my mother thinks—I do as I please
. But the older daughter clasped her hands tightly in her lap and looked up at the reed-and-grass roof
of the lodge. Despite her unapproachable air, her eyes were lustrous, her black eyebrows exquisitely arched, her nose delicate, her mouth full and wonderfully curved.

She’s more beautiful than Taphaph was before her marriage to Yerakh
, Annah thought, amazed. Kneeling beside Naomi, she glanced up at Khawm. He was staring at the older sister, obviously staggered by the sight of her.

Naomi reached up, patting Khawm’s hand to get his attention. “Be seated, my son. Ghinnah, please sit down. Ma’adannah, this is Ce’appah, and her daughters, Tirtsah and Hadarah. They will be staying the night.”

Annah watched Khawm obliquely. He gazed at the older daughter, Tirtsah, and his expression hardened. Raising his eyebrows at his mother, he pressed his lips together, clearly threatening to rebel if she sent this young woman away. Naomi returned his look, equally hardened, silently demanding his respect. At last Khawm lowered his eyes. But his rebellion remained.

Nineteen

WARMED BY the afternoon sun, Annah strode through the grass toward the slender, aromatic spice-fruit tree, followed by the chattering Ghinnah and the silent Tirtsah. Each woman wore a sturdy tapering basket slung across her back to hold the spice-fruits that flavored Naomi’s special grain cakes. At Naomi’s request, they were also searching for any other ripe fruits. They could pick whatever pleased them; nothing was wasted in the lodge of Noakh. To Annah, however, picking the fruit was less important than being outside; she hoped the work would clear her thoughts.

Oblivious to Ghinnah’s chatter, Annah chose a heavily laden branch and began to pick the fleshy, yellow, palm-sized spice-fruit. Ghinnah started to pick at a branch to the left of Annah, Tirtsah to the right. As they worked, Annah watched Tirtsah from the corner of her
eye.
O Most High, if only I could perceive this woman’s thoughts. She worries me. I think she wants nothing to do with us
.

Since the departure of her parents and sister two days before, Tirtsah had been quiet, impassive, and remote. She acted with proper courtesy toward everyone, kept her hands busy with work, and ate and slept normally, but with no tears, no frowns, no laughter, and no attempts at conversation.
Yes. No. Thank you
.

“Ma’adannah!” Ghinnah called out irritably, pelting Annah with one of the yellow spice-fruits. The fruit split in half, revealing its plump red-and-violet-brown seed as it fell away from Annah’s shoulder.

“What?” Annah stared at Ghinnah, bewildered.

Ghinnah stared back at Annah, enunciating her words, sweetly, carefully, as if addressing a child. “I just asked if you would speak to my husband’s parents for us.”

“Speak to them … ?”

“About combing the sheep to get fibers for weaving. You haven’t been listening to me at all! Are you becoming like her?” Ghinnah jerked her head toward Tirtsah. “Will you become once again a woman of no words, Annah?”

Annah bit her lip, distressed. “Ghinnah, I’m sorry. I was thinking about something else. But why do you need me to speak for you? The parents of our husbands will listen to you.”

“But they’d be more likely to agree with both of us,” Ghinnah argued. “Or with all three of us—though one of us seems likely to refuse.” She turned to Tirtsah, none too fondly. “Tell me, O Tirtsah—now that we’re away from the lodge and you may talk freely—do you hate us so much that you intend to say nothing for a lifetime?”

Her hands poised in the act of picking, Tirtsah stared at Ghinnah and Annah. Toneless, she asked, “What
should I say?”

“Anything but yes and no, which is all you have said for the past two days!” Ghinnah cried. “Are we so horrible, so beneath you that we don’t deserve your companionship?”

Tirtsah frowned and continued to pick in silence. Ghinnah flung a yellow spice-fruit at Tirtsah, striking her forearm.

“There!” she snapped. “Now you can hate me with reason. Whether you like it or not, you’re bound to us, sister!”

“Ghinnah.” Annah spoke softly, quenching Ghinnah’s tirade with a word. Looking at Tirtsah, she said, “Before I married my husband, my life was nothing but silence and hating others. If you don’t speak, Tirtsah, you’ll eventually die of the hatred.”

Tirtsah’s dark eyes burned and her delicate nostrils flared as she scowled at Annah, then at Ghinnah. Her voice husky with rage, she asked, “Again, what should I say? Should I say I’m happy to be here in the wilderness, away from the city and my friends? Should I be pleased that my parents exchanged me for sheep and grain, then left me with no marriage portion for my old age?”

While Annah listened, appalled, Tirtsah continued. “Do you want me to pretend that I’m glad my husband purchased me for his own use? No, I won’t!” She clenched one small fist, striking herself at the base of her throat. “How can I be glad? I should be able to lift my head high and say that I’ve brought something of value to this family—something other than my own body and an armful of clothes. Instead, I have nothing, and I’m shamed by it!”

Annah shook her head. “No—it’s no shame.”

Tirtsah didn’t seem to hear. “And as for you—all of
you—are you insane? What about that monstrous box behind the lodge? That ‘pen’? I can hear my parents laughing even now! It’s just as well that I’ll never see my friends again; they’d point to me and say, ‘There’s poor Tirtsah, who was sold to that madman’s family—the ones with the giant’s box behind their lodge.’ ”

She was crying now, the tears sliding down her cheeks. Pained, Annah shut her eyes briefly, then faced Tirtsah, determined to make her listen.

“It’s my fault, Tirtsah. If you blame anyone for your misery, blame me. My husband is the one who first offered to pay for a wife—for me. It was the only way he could free me from my family.”

As Tirtsah glared in sullen disbelief, Annah explained, “When my husband offered a brideprice for me, I was as shocked as you are. But I was also grateful to him; he loved me enough to part with half of all he owned for my sake. And, out of loyalty to my husband, his brothers have made the same offer to the families of their wives.”

Tirtsah looked unconvinced. Annah sighed. “Tirtsah, I assure you, your husband does not consider you a thing purchased for his own use. Ghinnah and I are cherished and respected by our husbands and their parents, as you will be cherished and respected. Please, I’m telling you again, if you blame anyone for your unhappiness, then you should blame me, not your husband and his family.”

“I suppose you’re going to say you’re responsible for that pen, too!” Tirtsah snorted, challenging her. Before she could reply, Tirtsah said, “No, don’t try to explain
that!
It won’t make any difference—you’re all insane!”

“Well.” Ghinnah glared at Tirtsah. “You’re very sure of yourself! So, tell us, what will you do now? Run away?”

“Where could I go?” Angrily, Tirtsah wiped her eyes,
then snatched at the plump yellow spice-fruits, flinging them over her shoulder into the basket as she talked. “I can’t go back to my parents. They were glad to sell me. You should have seen the looks on their greedy faces when that Qeb-al told them I could be sold for five hundred animals and a cartload of grain. I hope they lose everything on the journey home.”

She gave a bleak little half-laugh. “It didn’t occur to my parents that they would need help on their return journey with all that grain and all those animals.
I
certainly wasn’t going to tell them. Anyway, my father never listens to anyone but himself.” Tirtsah sneered at Ghinnah. “Your uncle may have had five hundred animals when he left the lodge of Noakh, but he didn’t have that many when he arrived at my home. He claims he traded them, but I think he was lying to cover his own stupidity in losing them.”

“As I believed he would,” Ghinnah said airily. She turned away from Tirtsah and continued to pick spice-fruit.

But Annah studied Tirtsah quietly. Obviously, Tirtsah was still seething. Fearing that Tirtsah would eventually subject Noakh and Naomi to a similar display of rage and scorn, Annah said, “Tirtsah, please, won’t you even give us the chance to befriend you? Everything would be easier for you—for all of us—if you would let us understand you and help you.”

Tirtsah snapped a tiny branch from the tree, the lovely curves of her mouth rebellious. “Why should you care? You’re strangers, and I don’t need you to care for me—obviously no one else has ever cared for me.” She shook her dark-curled head decisively. “No, I have nowhere to go. So I’ll stay and be a wife to that Khawm. It doesn’t matter.”
Her voice dropped dangerously. “Now, leave me alone.”

“Gladly,” Ghinnah muttered. To Annah, she said, “Did I sound like this the day I agreed to marry my husband?”

“Only for an instant,” Annah whispered. “But I’m afraid Tirtsah will be angry for much longer than that.”

O Most High
, she pleaded silently,
help us gain this Tirtsah’s love before she destroys us with hatred
.

Crouching in the predawn darkness, Annah lit a slender, resin-soaked taper from the banked coals in the hearth before the hut. Cupping the flame protectively, she carried it into the hut and lit the solitary oil lamp. Shem stirred, rubbing a hand over his face. Annah smiled, loving the sight of her husband. She blew out the taper and sat beside him, taking his hand.

Still half-asleep, Shem pulled her into his arms, his voice slow and drowsy. “You’re awake before me?”

“I didn’t sleep well,” Annah confessed, nestling into his warm shoulder.

“Hmm,” Shem responded in soft agreement. He stroked her unbound hair and yawned. “I knew you were too quiet last night. Talk to me now.”

Propping herself up on her elbow, Annah said, “Tirtsah hates us. I’ve been trying to understand her these past four days—trying to appease her. But she simply hates us.”

Shem opened his eyes wide in the lamplight, as if forcing himself to concentrate. “How do you know this when she refuses to speak beyond yes and no?”

“She said much more than yes and no the day before
yesterday. She said that she despises our entire family. And yesterday, while we were combing the sheep to gather fibers, she wouldn’t even look at us. I dread facing her today.”

Shem tightened his arms around Annah, caressing her. “What will you do today?”

“I’m going to work on Ghinnah’s hair bindings this morning, then we’ll go down to the river to wash the fibers we’ve combed from the sheep.” Feeling Shem tense, Annah straightened defensively, sitting up again. “Ghinnah insists that it’ll be easier to work at the river. She knows you don’t want us going down there, so she wouldn’t insist if we could do this work some other way. We’ll try to finish quickly and return to the lodge as soon as possible. I promise we’ll be careful. Actually, I’m more afraid of Tirtsah now than anyone. Even Yerakh or Naham.”