Rachel and Leah (Women of Genesis) (6 page)

“I opened the well for you, Lady Rachel.”

“You look drier than the sheep,” she said. “Go ahead.”

He grinned. “You saw the test of my strength,” he said. “What about the test of yours?”

She glared at him. “I’m just a child, but I can draw water well enough.” She lowered the bag into the well, then braced herself and drew it up, full, and without letting the rope rub against the sides of the well, either.

“Done like a shepherd who knows the value of rope,” said the traveler.

“Done like a shepherd who has plaited many a rope and
has better things to do with her time,” said Rachel. “Now will you dip into the water bag or do I have to do that for you, too?” She tried to conceal how much she was panting from the exertion of lifting the water straight up.

The stranger took his own cup—a rather fine one of bronze—and dipped, and drank. He did not tip his head back and pour the water over his face, the way some did, to show off how thirsty they were. Instead he sipped carefully, husbanding the water, swishing it in his mouth several times before swallowing.

She watched him and thought, Is this the man from my vision? She couldn’t remember what that one had looked like—it had been too long ago, and maybe she had never actually seen him, in that peculiar way of dreams, where you know that a man is standing there, but you don’t actually see any part of him. And what if it
was
the man? This was no servant of Abraham, come to woo, for there was no chance that his bundle contained enough presents to impress a man like her father; and besides, Rachel was too young to wed, and she knew her father would never allow it.

Then she realized that she had been thinking of this man as someone who might marry her—an attitude she never took toward any of the men who came to visit Father, even the ones who
were
sizing her up as a mate for themselves or one of their sons. And she wondered if that was the point of the vision, to make her think of strangers at wells as having something to do with her future.

Having drunk his fill, he put his hands into the water and, bowing over the waterbag, brought two cupped handsful to his face, to wash. And then, before she could suggest doing it, he carried the bag to the trough and emptied it.

The sheep, of course, were quite interested in this, and crowded around the trough. The traveler laughed. “Sheep don’t bother to hide their passions, do they. Water! Grass! That’s why God didn’t give them speech. They would only need a couple of words to cover the entire range of their desires.”

He lowered the bag into the well himself this time, and drew it up far more quickly than she had. But she saw how he was careful to spill nothing between the well and the trough—what he drew was to be used, not wasted on the ground. He poured it out into a second trough—but the two of them had to drag sheep from the crowd milling around the first trough, because they were too intent on the water there to notice water that was much more easily reached.

She saw how he handled sheep, and knew that though he might be dressed as a traveler, he
was
a shepherd after all, and a good one. He used just the right amount of strength to bring the sheep, murmuring peaceably to them as he turned them smoothly and pulled them toward where he wanted them to go. And once a few of the sheep were drinking from the second trough, it was enough simply to turn the other sheep that were not already drinking.

He left Rachel to that task while he fetched yet another skin of water and filled the third trough. When the flock was evenly divided among the three, he continued drawing and pouring, ignoring Rachel when she said, “Surely you’ve done enough now. The work
is
mine.”

“The work is Laban’s,” said the traveler, “and I want it to be seen how readily I labor in his service.”

“Have you traveled so far, without knowing whether my father needed another servant in his household? And you’re a
free man, sir, one accustomed to wealth, from your clothing. Surely you can do better than the poor wage that a free man makes from my father, even if he were to hire you.”

He smiled and continued watering the sheep. Rachel took her turn at last, dipping with her own cup from the waterbag. When she had drunk her fill, she fastened the cup again at her waist.

“Do you know my father, sir?” she asked.

“We’ve never met,” said the man.

“And yet you traveled all this way to serve him? Why should the fame of my father be known so far abroad?”

He laughed then. “You don’t know how far I’ve traveled.”

“Of course I do,” she said. “We had rain three days ago, and yet your clothes are heavy and white with dust. So you come from a place where the roads are dry and where the rain did not fall. That means you come from the south, because the paths are grassy to the north and east.”

“What about the west?”

“A man who knows animals as you do is no sailor, sir.”

The watering was done; they both knew when there was enough in each trough to satisfy the whole flock, and now Rachel’s work was to pull off the ones who she knew tended to drink more than was good for them, while the stranger slid the stone back in place. This was harder than uncovering the well, Rachel knew, because there was some lifting, not just sliding, but he did it with no more strain than he had shown before. She hoped her father
would
hire the man. She would try to get home early, to tell her father what she had seen of him, how hard he worked, how strong he was, how good with the animals. And if he didn’t have skill with weapons, too, she’d be surprised. A man who dared to travel alone, armed
only with a heavy walking staff, had great confidence in his ability to wield that staff to keep better-armed robbers at bay.

“Did you have to fight anyone on the way here?”

“No, thanks be to the Lord,” said the traveler. “But I don’t look like someone worth robbing, do I? No pack animals laden with goods to sell.”

She laughed. “I’ve heard of robbers setting on a half-naked beggar, stealing his loin cloth, and beating him for not having had more to take.”

“Ah, but there you are, a half-naked beggar isn’t likely to put up much of a fight. Men don’t go into the robbery business because they’re brave.”

So he did think of himself as a formidable fighter.

It was only now that Old Jaw and the boys appeared over the crest of the hill. Apparently once she had gone on ahead, they had taken their own lazy time about sauntering along.

But when they saw her with a stranger, Old Jaw began to hurry down the hill, coming as close to a run as a man that old was capable of. Rachel smiled at that. Oh, yes, Father would hear—from the other herdsmen, not from her—about how his daughter had come to the well alone, and took up with a stranger for fifteen minutes before Old Jaw could be bothered to show up, and him entrusted with the safety of Laban’s daughter! As if hurrying
now
would change any part of
that
story. Of course, Rachel would assure her father that she had deliberately outpaced the old man and was never in danger. And she would jolly him out of whatever anger he might feel toward the old man, and deny that it had been any time at all before he came.

Old Jaw was full of challenge when he got near enough to
speak. “Who are you, stranger! Why are you bothering this child?”

Anger flashed in the stranger’s eyes. “What do you accuse me of, sir!” he said. “Have I bothered her? Have I laid hands upon her?”

Whereupon he
did
take her by the shoulders. His hands were huge on her, and yet his touch was even gentler than it had seemed upon the sheep.

She remembered again the man in the vision, and the girl of eleven or twelve. She had seemed so big to her then, when she had the vision, but now she
was
eleven.

“When you came over the hill, did you see me watering the sheep? Or was I kissing her?”

And as he bent toward her, and she realized that he was, in fact, going to kiss her, she remembered the voice that had chanted to her all the way to the well today, urging her on, faster, so she wouldn’t be late. If her vision meant anything at all, it meant
this
, that she was supposed to be here.

She did not have to let him kiss her. His hold was gentle and she could break away at any time, without effort. And he had not tried to touch her until he was accused falsely. It was so perverse, to be defiant like this and actually do the thing he was accused of. But she understood such impulses; hadn’t she done the same to Leah, acting as she was accused of being, just to show how different things would be if the accusation were true?

And yet it was a dangerous thing for this man to do. There were more witnesses than Old Jaw and the boys. Those other herders, they’d have the story all over the land of Haran within days, and then how could Father keep his honor without hunting down this stranger and killing him? She should not let him kiss her.

All this flashed through her mind in the time that it took him to bend, deliberately, and kiss her, not upon the cheek, but on the lips, a bold, firm-lipped kiss like a father, like a brother.

“You are a dead man!” shouted Old Jaw. “You think because I’m old you can have your way, but her father is a mighty man in this country! You take your life in your hands, sir!”

The stranger pulled away from Rachel, and to her surprise, tears were streaming down his face. Yet they were not tears of grief—his smile was broad and his eyes were kindly as he looked at her. Nothing like the frown she wore on her own face.

“I know that her father is Laban,” said the traveler, his tone amiable enough, “and this is his daughter Rachel. Which makes her my kinswoman, for I’m a son of Laban’s sister, Rebekah. Laban and I are truly brothers, and like a brother I greet his quick-witted daughter with a brother’s kiss. Do you dare to say I have no right?”

And in that moment, everything changed. This was one of the sons of Isaac. A prince, truly, for he was a grandson of Abraham. And as Rebekah’s son, he had claim upon that story, too—the tale of the woman who met a stranger at a well.

Meanwhile, Old Jaw was about to continue his bluster. “Any man can claim to be a kinsman, but how do I know—”

“I know you, sir,” said Rachel. “For Aunt Rebekah has two sons, one who is known to be red and hairy, which is not you, so you must be the other one.”

“Yes,” said the man, laughing. “I am, always and forever, the other one.”

“How can this be true!” demanded Old Jaw. “The camp of Isaac is at Beersheba.”

“And from Beersheba I have come,” said the traveler. “I
am Jacob, son of Isaac and Rebekah, grandson of Abraham and Sarah, and I have come to ask the hospitality of my brother Laban.”

“It’s a strange thing, to ask it upon the lips of his favorite daughter!” said Old Jaw angrily.

Favorite daughter. It made Rachel shiver, to hear it said so baldly. Was it true? Father doted on Leah, constantly looked after her, made sure her every whim was catered to. While Rachel was expected to do a full share of work in the camp, learning all the work, and not just the work of women, either. It had always seemed to Rachel that it was Leah who was the most favored. Leah was pretty, wasn’t she? And even though she couldn’t see well, she wasn’t
blind
. Father loved Leah dearly. Surely more than he loved Rachel, who was always getting into trouble and whom he constantly had to rebuke.

But if this was what everyone believed, then Leah must believe it, too. No wonder she is so angry at me for no reason. She thinks I’m Father’s favorite! Such foolishness.

“My father,” she said coldly to Old Jaw, “has no favorites among his children.”

But it was Jacob who answered. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ve had enough of parents who have favorite children.” Then he grinned at Old Jaw—not a friendly grin, a grin full of malice, like a baboon challenging a stranger. “And I’ve had enough of accusations. I am who I say, and my proof is that only a fool would have kissed this young woman if he were
not
who I say I am.”

His hands were still upon her shoulders, but now they felt heavy to Rachel. Too big. She could be lost in those hands, powerless, swallowed up. This man who could move the wellstone by himself, this man who could turn sheep where he
wanted, with his strength and his soft murmuring voice, she could be lost if he held her a moment longer.

She pulled away, and as she had thought at first, he held her so lightly that he barely had to move his hands to let her go.

“I have to go,” she said. Or meant to say. The words came more like a gasp. “I
must
go. Must
run
. And tell my father.” Old Jaw and the boys and the dogs could bring in the sheep. She turned her back on Old Jaw and found herself facing Jacob. Her cousin Jacob.

Isaac had been Rebekah’s cousin.

He smiled at her. And laughed.

He had called her quick-witted. Not beautiful. Could a man be more perfect than that?

She turned and ran away from him then, because she had to tell her father that he was coming, and especially to tell him about the kiss before anyone else could, so she could turn away Father’s wrath before Jacob came into the camp. And she also ran away from him because it frightened her to think that perhaps God had brought him to her, and had planned it since she was a little girl, or perhaps had planned it all her life. Perhaps she had always belonged to Jacob, and never knew it.