Rebekah (30 page)

She nodded, but the action seemed hesitant, as though she did not completely agree. “I know you love me.” She breathed the words against his chest. “I fear it is Jacob who is not certain of your love, as you once wondered about your father’s for you.”

Her words were sharp arrows, tearing at scars now healed. Was it true? He looked away, seeing again his father’s still form, and was suddenly reminded of his loss, of the man who had taught him obedience but whose own obedience had made Isaac question his love.

“Jacob knows I love him.” He winced at his harsh tone. “I have taught him everything I know.”

“Not everything.”

He looked at her again, reading more in her expression than he wanted to dwell on just now. “He does not care for the hunt. I cannot make him do what is not in his heart to do. My father wished me more like Ishmael, but we were not the same. What do you expect me to do?”

His anger rose with the question. He knew what she wanted, what she said she had heard from God long ago. But he had not heard it, and in looking at his sons, he struggled to believe it.

“You could teach him to lead, prepare him to oversee your interests. You could prepare Esau to accept Jacob’s rule.”

“Esau is the older.”

“The older will serve the younger.”

“So you say!” His words made her draw back, and he saw that he had wounded her, as her words had hurt him.

“So
God
has said.” Her words were hushed. “You do not believe me.” Her expression grew suddenly closed, shadowed.

“I did not say that.” Yet he could not deny it.

“You said enough.” She pulled her hand from his and wrapped both arms around her in a self-protective pose.

The flap of the tent rustled, and Isaac turned to see Haviv stepping into the darkened interior. He approached, looking uncertain. Isaac motioned him forward, relieved to be through with this conversation.

“What is it?” He ignored the sense that Rebekah had moved farther away, glancing toward her only briefly to see her leave the tent.

“Your brother has arrived, my lord. We are ready to take the body to Machpelah.”

Isaac’s stomach tightened at the news. Ishmael’s presence always posed a challenge and left Isaac’s emotions taut as bowstrings. And now with the added grief over his father . . .

He glanced from Haviv to Abraham’s still form once more, feeling bereft of father and wife—and apparently at least one son—all in one blow. Ishmael would not make the emotions lighter. But he could not avoid dealing with them.

He moved with Haviv to the door of the tent. “Take me to him. We leave at sunset.”

A full moon lit the path on the trek from Hebron to the cave of Machpelah. Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau, and Ishmael’s two oldest sons, Nebaioth and Kedar, carried the bier while servants walked before and behind, carrying torches to light the dark places along the way.

Rebekah clutched Deborah’s arm for support as the two followed at the head of the women, Selima and Lila and the other maids making a closely woven group. The piercing cries of the mourners made Rebekah’s heart twist in pain. But the
pain was not for the loss of her father-in-law nearly as much as it was for what she had done to her husband.

She looked at him, his back straight and strong, his muscles flexing as he gripped the rod holding the bier. She knew the weight of his father’s body rested most heavily on his shoulders—if not physically, then surely emotionally. Isaac stood as the leader of the clan now, with no other to look to for guidance. And she had added to his burden in the tent of mourning, bringing up a subject that could have waited.

Would she never learn to curb her tongue?

She released her hold on Deborah and wrapped both arms about herself. Guilt gnawed her middle as the group at last came to a stop near the large oaks of Mamre. The outline of the cave came into view. Isaac had brought her here once to see where his mother rested, but from then on he had stayed away.

Had he stayed away? Who knew where he went on those many treks he made to wilderness areas and beyond?

“Will you go with them into the cave?” Deborah’s voice barely registered.

How well did she know her husband? What did he really do when he left her in the camp and went off alone or with Haviv or Esau?

A touch on her arm made her jump.

“Are you listening? Your husband is speaking.”

Deborah’s hissed whisper brought her thoughts into focus. She turned and met the woman’s gaze with a silent nod.

“My father was a great man,” Isaac was saying, his voice carrying beyond her, its clear tones marred by the hint of sorrow.

She studied him in the torchlight, feeling the pain in his eyes, and suddenly wished she could rush into his arms and hold him close, beg him to forgive her for making him feel worse than he already did.

“Adonai once promised him that he would become the
father of many nations. Three wives have given him eight sons and grandsons too numerous to count. Adonai has fulfilled His promise and rewarded our father’s faith.” He looked at Ishmael, and Rebekah sensed something pass between the brothers that had not been there before. Was that a flicker of respect in Ishmael’s brooding eyes?

At Ishmael’s slight nod, acknowledging Isaac’s words, she shifted to look at her sons. Esau stood close to his uncle, and she did not miss the furtive glances he cast Ishmael’s way, the admiration sparking in his expression. Had Isaac’s favorite son ever looked at him with such respect, such longing? The thought troubled her further, and she pressed a hand to her middle to quell the unease.

“He was a man of intense passion in life, and one obedient to Adonai Elohim even unto death,” Isaac said, drawing her eyes to him once more.

His face carried an expression of awe as he spoke the Name, making her look heavenward. Even the stars seemed brighter somehow, as if the night approved of Isaac’s words.

She felt herself nod in agreement as her gaze shifted to Jacob, finding the same awe in his eyes, and when this son looked at his father, she saw respect, even longing. Why could Isaac not see how this was the son who was worthy to inherit the promise, the blessing, and his affection over the other?

Isaac stepped aside and allowed Ishmael the chance to speak, but the man waved his right to do so away. She glanced behind her at the waiting throng, forcing her irritation in check. Ishmael had brought only his sons with him to the burial, so the crowd surrounding them now belonged mostly to Isaac. His refusal to speak was fitting, perhaps, though clearly not a good reflection on how he felt about his father.

A sigh escaped her. Why were relationships between a father and his sons so difficult?

The sound of movement and the sway of the torches made
her turn to watch Isaac again as he took his place once more at the side of the bier. The men lifted Abraham’s body and took the steps to the cave below. She followed and glanced back at Deborah, motioning her to come as well. She did not want to go there, to look on the linen-wrapped bodies, but she could not bear to allow her husband and sons to do so without her.

They stopped again at the cave’s entrance, set the bier on the smooth stones, and the four younger men gripped the large rock guarding the entrance and shoved it aside. The scraping of stone on stone grated on her ears, and she gritted her teeth against the sound. She looked at Abraham’s body and wished again that she had known him sooner, known him when Isaac was a boy. If she had understood the father, she might better understand her husband and her sons now.

She strained to hear the hushed voices of the men, but she only half heard the giving of directions and the grunts as they bore the bier in strong, masculine arms and disappeared into the cave. Moments later the men emerged, the stone was shoved back into its slot, and the men moved back up the stairs.

Rebekah waited with Deborah, unsure what to do. Esau never glanced her way, but Jacob stopped at her side and slipped his arm through hers. She smiled into his eyes.

Isaac came up behind both sons but barely paused in his climb back up the steps, as though he could not be free of the place fast enough. His jaw was set in a grim line, and he did not look at her, causing the guilt and regret to mix anew within her.

She felt Jacob’s grip and tug as he silently led her to follow the men. Looking at him once more, seeing the affection for her in his gaze, she felt a small measure of relief to know she was loved.

But as she lay alone in her tent that night, it was Isaac
whose arms she missed, Isaac whose heart she longed for. And she knew from experience that his return to her would be a long time in coming.

The period of mourning for Abraham lasted seven days, with talk and feasting and celebration of the great man’s life. Ishmael set his tents just outside the circle of Isaac’s camp but spent each evening at the door of Isaac’s tent, breaking bread and talking as they had never done before.

Rebekah stayed near the shadows, listening and watching with increasing distress as her son Esau asked his uncle Ishmael question after question, until the two fairly dominated the discussion. Only when Ishmael discounted the goodness of Adonai did Isaac finally speak.

“I do not see how you can call Him good, Brother, after what He put you through,” Ishmael said. “Or perhaps it is our father you blame for nearly taking your life on the mountain?”

Isaac stroked his bearded chin, his look thoughtful. “I do not blame our father, nor do I blame Adonai’s command to him. Look around you at the many blessings Adonai has given. You have twelve sons and are the wealthy prince of a mighty clan. Our flocks and herds are flourishing, the land has yielded grain when we need it, the rains fall mostly when they should. Has our father’s God not blessed us both? Does this alone not make Him good?” Isaac leaned forward on his cushion and rested both elbows on his knees, his expression challenging.

Ishmael ran a finger along the edge of a golden goblet of spiced wine, but his gaze never left Isaac’s. “You are to be commended, Brother. You make a good point.” He glanced at Esau and smiled, then faced Isaac again. “I will admit, God has blessed us both with sons and flocks and the fruit of the land, but if our father’s God is truly good, why put His
people to the test? Why allow my mother to be sent away? Why command you be killed? Our father’s God was not kind to our mothers in either case. So I will ask again—how can you say that He is good?”

Rebekah stilled, stunned by the depth of the question and the bitter tone that accompanied it. Did Ishmael still carry the scars of his youth, as her husband once did?

But of course he did.

“You ask a hard question, my brother.” Isaac’s words held assurance and calm, and Rebekah felt a small measure of peace as she looked once more in his direction.

“I did not expect you to have an answer.” Ishmael’s tone moved from bitterness to the familiar mocking, but his eyes held a hint of yearning, as though he wished Isaac would prove him wrong.

Silence followed the comment, and one glance at Isaac told Rebekah he was carefully crafting his response. But what could he possibly say to such a thing?

A shiver worked through her, and she suddenly wished Ishmael had never voiced such thoughts. What good would it do for her impressionable sons to question their God before they had even lived long enough to know Him? And yet surely they were old enough to hear, to ponder, to question, as Isaac had done. Still, worry niggled her thoughts as she glanced from one son to the other, reading doubt in the eyes of one and curiosity in the eyes of the other.

“God is good because He is,” Isaac said at last, drawing her attention back again. “He does not need a reason to do what He does, and He is not answerable to us when He chooses to test our faith. But we can see His goodness in the things He has made, in the very creation that surrounds us.” He pointed through the tent’s opening to the shadowed trees and the sounds of night animals surrounding them.

“If God is good, why do evil men live?” Ishmael pulled a
small dagger from the leather pouch at his side and held it between them like a shield. “I could kill you in your sleep, and who would stop me?”