her. “I’d nearly forgotten you had that,” he murmured into her hair, and she knew he meant Mishpat. “You are taking it?”
“I am. It has only ever been used for one thing. Where God is sending me, I may need it.” Devora closed her eyes, just feeling his warmth. “Why have you never been angry?” she whispered. “I deceived you when I came to you.”
She had not told him she was barren, or why. Yet he had sheltered her in his tent all these years, not because she was the
navi
but because she was a woman, a woman he loved. Nor had he ever taken a second wife—though this meant his seed would not be passed on. He had once told her there was only one woman he wished to see bearing his child within her.
This morning might be the last she would ever see him.
“You didn’t know.” His voice a rumble at her ear, his presence heavy and strong in the dim light.
“I feared it,” she murmured. Then she shook her head, breathed out slowly, straightening her back, refusing to lean any longer into his arms. She wanted to, so badly, but she could ill afford to begin this morning weak. Tears were a luxury reserved for women who did not have a People in their care. Her eyes hardened again, with purpose and with denial of all weariness.
“Sarah was barren,” she said suddenly. “Our father Abraham’s wife. Her body aged and she bore no child, and bitterness ate at her heart. Then two men came to her husband’s tents beneath the oak trees. Only they weren’t men, they were
malakhim
, angels of
El adonai
our God.”
Lappidoth pressed his face to her neck with a soft sound in his throat, to comfort her.
“They said to Abraham, we bring you
niv sefatayim
, fruitful words from the God in high places. A year from now your wife will give birth to a boy.” Devora lifted a hand as she spoke, moving her fingers gently through her husband’s hair. “Sarah was within the tent, concealed from the sight of men who were strange to her. When she heard the words, she laughed. A cold laugh, for she did not think God could bring anything green and alive out of the desert she felt her body had become.” Devora’s voice fell, became soft. “But a year later, she had the boy. Then she laughed a second time, with tears. Isaak I name you, she said to the boy as he suckled at her breast, Isaak, my laughter.
“I have tried to live a life as holy and set apart, as
kadosh
, as Sarah’s,” she whispered, “but when I was a girl I broke the Covenant twice, and God remembers it.”
Lappidoth’s arms were around her.
“There will be no laughter for me in my old age.” She gave him a small, bitter smile. “And perhaps I will not come back from the hills.”
“You
will
come back,” her husband growled. She could hear in his voice that her words had upset him. He gripped her chin suddenly, turned her face toward his. His eyes were fierce in the dim light. “You have a covenant with me, not only with God. And how can you keep it from beneath a cairn? You will come back.” And rather than wait for an answer, he kissed her.
At that moment there were shouts outside, sharp cries of fear. Devora stiffened, and Lappidoth’s eyes went dark with alarm. Swiftly he rose from beside her. He strode toward the tent door, cast it to the side. Devora got to her feet, had time to cry, “Wait!” but then Lappidoth was already through the door, and gone.
Devora’s heart pounded. She started toward the door, stopped. Glanced back at the blade that lay unsheathed on therug. It looked lethal. A moment ago she had been mourning her inability to bear new life. That blade was meant to sever life.
Another cry outside, a scream. This time one of pain.
With a moan of dread, Devora bent and took up the blade, then hurried out the door.
THE SOUNDING OF THE SHOFAR
D EVORA BURST from her husband’s tent and was nearly trampled down by a man on horseback; she let out a cry and sprang back, tripping. Then the man was past with a glance at her
“I am. It has only ever been used for one thing. Where God is sending me, I may need it.” Devora closed her eyes, just feeling his warmth. “Why have you never been angry?” she whispered. “I deceived you when I came to you.”
She had not told him she was barren, or why. Yet he had sheltered her in his tent all these years, not because she was the
navi
but because she was a woman, a woman he loved. Nor had he ever taken a second wife—though this meant his seed would not be passed on. He had once told her there was only one woman he wished to see bearing his child within her.
This morning might be the last she would ever see him.
“You didn’t know.” His voice a rumble at her ear, his presence heavy and strong in the dim light.
“I feared it,” she murmured. Then she shook her head, breathed out slowly, straightening her back, refusing to lean any longer into his arms. She wanted to, so badly, but she could ill afford to begin this morning weak. Tears were a luxury reserved for women who did not have a People in their care. Her eyes hardened again, with purpose and with denial of all weariness.
“Sarah was barren,” she said suddenly. “Our father Abraham’s wife. Her body aged and she bore no child, and bitterness ate at her heart. Then two men came to her husband’s tents beneath the oak trees. Only they weren’t men, they were
malakhim
, angels of
El adonai
our God.”
Lappidoth pressed his face to her neck with a soft sound in his throat, to comfort her.
“They said to Abraham, we bring you
niv sefatayim
, fruitful words from the God in high places. A year from now your wife will give birth to a boy.” Devora lifted a hand as she spoke, moving her fingers gently through her husband’s hair. “Sarah was within the tent, concealed from the sight of men who were strange to her. When she heard the words, she laughed. A cold laugh, for she did not think God could bring anything green and alive out of the desert she felt her body had become.” Devora’s voice fell, became soft. “But a year later, she had the boy. Then she laughed a second time, with tears. Isaak I name you, she said to the boy as he suckled at her breast, Isaak, my laughter.
“I have tried to live a life as holy and set apart, as
kadosh
, as Sarah’s,” she whispered, “but when I was a girl I broke the Covenant twice, and God remembers it.”
Lappidoth’s arms were around her.
“There will be no laughter for me in my old age.” She gave him a small, bitter smile. “And perhaps I will not come back from the hills.”
“You
will
come back,” her husband growled. She could hear in his voice that her words had upset him. He gripped her chin suddenly, turned her face toward his. His eyes were fierce in the dim light. “You have a covenant with me, not only with God. And how can you keep it from beneath a cairn? You will come back.” And rather than wait for an answer, he kissed her.
At that moment there were shouts outside, sharp cries of fear. Devora stiffened, and Lappidoth’s eyes went dark with alarm. Swiftly he rose from beside her. He strode toward the tent door, cast it to the side. Devora got to her feet, had time to cry, “Wait!” but then Lappidoth was already through the door, and gone.
Devora’s heart pounded. She started toward the door, stopped. Glanced back at the blade that lay unsheathed on therug. It looked lethal. A moment ago she had been mourning her inability to bear new life. That blade was meant to sever life.
Another cry outside, a scream. This time one of pain.
With a moan of dread, Devora bent and took up the blade, then hurried out the door.
THE SOUNDING OF THE SHOFAR
D EVORA BURST from her husband’s tent and was nearly trampled down by a man on horseback; she let out a cry and sprang back, tripping. Then the man was past with a glance at her
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