Abigail's Story by Ann Burton Page B

grit from the flour.
    Despite the present condition, this place had once been a permanent home for someone. “Who lived here before Nabal?” I asked.
    â€œI do not know.”
    There were no bowls to be had, so we were obliged to share the pot between us. The hasty preparation and lack of proper seasoning did not seem important, as hungry as we were, and the hot soup proved to be tasty and filling.
    â€œThis is good,” I told her as we dipped pieces of the unleavened bread into the broth. “What is it?”
    â€œFood,” was her reply.
    Her terseness might have offended me, had I not recalled my husband’s manner toward his servants. The woman had probably known little kindness from him. “I meant, how do you make it?”
    â€œLeftover beans, a small onion, and a bit of marrow bone set to boil in water.” She gave me a suspicious look. “Why?”
    â€œI like it. I would make it myself, perhaps with some goat cheese crumbled atop it.” Not that we had any cheese left, or a goat. I frowned. Would the herdsmen give us one of theirs for milk?
    â€œFennel improves it, too.” The serving woman reached for the last heel of bread, hesitated, and broke it in half. “Here.” She thrust one piece at me.“What the master sent is not enough, but we can dig roots and greens. There are sycamore and nut trees here.”
    â€œMy mother used to make me pistachio nut sweet cakes.” The memory made my mouth water. “I wonder if there is any honey to be had.”
    â€œThere are more important things to have first, such as a new roof,” Keseke said. “If the wind does not cause this place to fall in on our heads before the morning.”
    â€œI shall pray it not.” I gave her a rueful smile. “The driver said the herdsmen could see to it.”
    The serving woman sighed heavily. “Oh, they will, when they make time for it. Which could be tomorrow, or on the eve of the next moon, or the day after we depart for home.”
    â€œIt does no harm to ask.” If the herdsmen would not help us, then we would find the means to do it ourselves. I had taught myself to throw pots; mending a roof could not be much harder than that. “Where do the herdsmen camp?”
    â€œI saw their tents over there.” Keseke pointed to the east. “It is an hour’s walk.”
    It was growing too dark to cross such a distance. “We shall go to them in the morning.” I frowned and removed a bit of grit from my tongue. “Do you know any of these people?”
    â€œThe herdsmen?” The older woman sniffed. “Their names are too long and strange to recall. They do not let strangers see their women, only the master.”
    Just how aloof and unfriendly were these people? “I am the master’s wife.”
    â€œI think you are too young to be let out of your mother’s sight.” She used a length of fallen wood to prop the door in place, and then wedged it in a clever way so that it blocked most of the wind. “I would not sleep on those mats tonight; they are likely full of bugs and mold.”
    I watched Keseke spread out her shawl to make a bed beside the cooking pit, and I did the same with my mantle. The dirt floor was cold and hard, and I shivered a little until the heat of the fire and the soup inside my belly warmed me. All at once weariness crept into my limbs, which felt as sore as if I had been carrying water back and forth from the well all day.
    â€œI wake at dawn,” Keseke said, as if to warn me. “Someone has to fetch water and wood.”
    â€œIf you will do that, I can grind more grain and make our bread.”
    She gave me a sideways look. “If you wish to see the herdsmen tomorrow, I shall walk with you to the camp.”
    I hid a smile with my hand. “That would be pleasant.” I did not have to pretend my yawn.
    I was so weary I would have slept without dreaming, if not for