Abigail's Story (11 page)

“ ‘I come to challenge your greatest warrior,' Goliath cried out to the Hebrew soldiers. His voice was like thunder, and shook the earth under their feet. ‘Send out one man to fight me alone,' said the monster, swinging his battle sword over his head. ‘The loser of this combat shall cause his army to surrender, and henceforth they shall become as servants to the army of the victor.” '

“That's not fair!” one boy cried out.

“That is what you get when you trifle with Philistines,” Bethel said, her voice stern but her eyes twinkling.

“What happened next, Leha?” the boy demanded.

“Well, day and night for forty days, Goliath stood and called out his challenge to the army of King Saul, but no soldier dared accept it. For who would risk an entire army on the outcome of a fight with such a monster who would surely win against anyone who stood up to him? And so the Philistines laughed and taunted our army, and our soldiers felt the bitterness of defeat and shame.” Leha held up one hand. “Such it was, until a shepherd came into the camp of the Hebrew soldiers. Although he carried no sword or spear, and wore only a simple khiton, the young shepherd boldly strode to the edge of the valley and summoned the brute Goliath. The shepherd was David, warrior son of Jesse.”

The children gasped.

“David had heard of Goliath's challenge and had journeyed all the way from Bethlehem to face the monster. And so the giant emerged from the Philistine's camp, his towering body clad in his polished coat, a spear in his left hand, and his great copper sword in his right. Before him walked his armorbearer, carrying a long javelin of iron and an enormous shield. As Goliath came to face David, every Hebrew who saw him fell and covered his head and trembled with fear.”

“But not Melekh David!” someone cried out.

“The Giant of Gath called upon the gods of the Rephaim to shower David with stones from the sky and bolts of lightning and other evils,” Leha said. “He would show the Hebrews that their Adonai was no match for his many, powerful gods.”

“That was silly,” one girl said. “There are no other gods but the One and True.”

Leha nodded. “But Goliath did not believe in the Adonai, nor in the shepherd who had come in His name. The giant ridiculed David, trying to shame him into retreating. Then David spoke, and his voice rang out over the valley.”

Leha paused, waiting until the children clamored for more before continuing with the tale.

“This is what David said: ‘You have come to me with a sword, and a spear, and a javelin, and a bearer laden with a shield. But I come to you with the name of the Lord of our armies, the One and True, the Adonai of Israel. It is He whom you have taunted with your boastful words.” '

“Did he try to kill David?” a small girl asked, her eyes huge.

“No, little one. As Goliath lifted his sword to strike at David, the shepherd slung a single stone from his sling, the only weapon he carried. The stone struck the giant in the center of his brow, and he fell to the earth. David then went to stand upon Goliath, and used the giant's own mighty sword to cut off his head.”

The bloodthirsty children cheered.

“After the great battle that followed this, David took Goliath's head to Jerusalem and left it there for all who doubted the might of the Adonai to see. Then he returned to tend to his father's herds in Bethlehem.”

“As a good son should.” Bethel clapped her hands together. “It is time for sleep, children.”

“Bethel, when we came here we saw some armed men walking along the edge of your camp. Has there been some sort of trouble for the herdsmen, that they are needed?”

Bethel gave Leha a strange look before she answered me. “Those dal are not our men, nor should they be here.”

Dal, those who had fallen from prosperity, were usually beggars—not armed men. I thought of the tales the old man at the crossroads had told me. Surely the outlaw giant-killer he had mentioned was not David, but these dal might very well be his army. “Are they threatening you?”

“No, not us.” She waved an impatient hand. “If
you wish to know more about the dal, you will have to ask Yehud, for it is none of my doing.”

“I see.” I doubted the rosh would appreciate my questioning him. “This morning I think I saw one of your sons upon a hilltop near my husband's house. He did not appear at all afraid of the storm.”

“Any son of mine has the sense to take cover during a storm,” Bethel said, now puzzled. “What was he doing up there?”

I could not describe his fearlessness in the face of the storm, or his dancing. I did not want her—or anyone—to laugh at him. “I am not sure. The man carried a staff and wore a blue mantle.”

All the friendliness left Bethel's face. “I do not know of whom you speak, but a wife newly wed should not be watching strange men walking the hills alone. Stay away from the dal, too. Leha.” With the help of her niece, she struggled to her feet. “It grows late. You will stay here for the night.”

CHAPTER
11

R
osh Yehud's wife Bethel insisted Keseke and I stay in camp until her sons could repair the roof of the hill house. Storms came each afternoon and lasted far into the night, so it was only sensible to abide with them. There were so many women that the tents were crowded, but they were also warm and dry.

My serving woman had no real objections. “Everything smells of goat and sheep, but there is enough to eat, I suppose, and men to watch over us.” She gave me a stern look. “You are not to be alone with any of the men. Most of them are married.”

“So am I, and I do not wish to be.” That was almost true. I did think often about meeting the shepherd who had danced in the rain. It was a childish wish, and nothing could come of it, but still my thoughts lingered on him.

I looked for the blue of his mantle whenever I walked outside the tents, but saw no sign of him.
The few women I asked about the shepherd did not seem to know of whom I spoke.

I began to think I imagined him.

The armed men we had seen the first night appeared now and then, but they never spoke to any of us or moved within the camp. Most often I saw the dal patrolling beyond the torches, circling in groups of five and six, always alert and carrying many weapons. I had no opportunity to ask Yehud about them, for the rosh left at dawn with the herds and did not return until late at night, when he retired to his tent and sent for Bethel or one of his other wives to attend him.

“My uncle is having some trouble with other herdsmen from the south,” Leha told me. “There is only one stream where the men can water the herds at the noon hour, and sometimes our men are made to hold back the herd and wait while the southerners water their flocks. Since ours are much larger than theirs, and our sheep are thirsty, the men must work hard to keep them back.”

“Is the water on my husband's land?” That would mean our herdsmen deserved the right to use it first.

“No. It cuts through land that belongs to King Saul.” Leha made a face. “The king's law says whoever comes first, waters first.”

With each day, I learned a little more about the way Yehud and his people lived, and the difficulties and hardships of tending the flocks. Each morning the sheep were brought out of a walled pasture, which Leha called the sheepfold, at the edge of camp.
The flock was so large that it had to be divided, else the sheep were in danger of scattering and being lost once up in the hills.

Yehud's sons all had their own portion of the flock to drive to graze, and incredibly each had trained his sheep to come at the sound of his voice. I would not have believed it, had I not watched three thousand sheep divide themselves as they came out of the sheepfold and follow their herdsmen in smaller flocks.

“Sheep are not as witless as one might think,” Bethel said. “The ewes protect their lambs, even from their own shepherds. The sound of a stranger's voice will make the entire flock turn and flee.”

After learning that, I took care to be very silent whenever I was near the sheep. Leha noticed and laughed at me. “They will not run away unless you use your voice while trying to herd them.”

I looked out over the sea of white fleece in the sheepfold enclosure. “I do not think I shall try that.”

The herdsmen did not carry a great deal as they and their dogs drove the sheep to graze. Each morning Bethel and the other women prepared leather food pouches with bread, fig cakes, and olives for the men to take with them for their midday meal. Besides the pouches, which they carried slung over their shoulders, the herdsmen carried long wooden staffs, some soft pieces of hide, and vials of olive oil.

“The hide is for bandaging any legs the sheep might injure,” Leha explained when I asked her about the unusual items being packed in the
shepherds' bags. “The oil is rubbed on open wounds to slow bleeding and cover the scent of blood, which attracts beasts.”

There were many hardships to be faced. Forever at the mercy of the weather, the herdsmen endured the heat of summer and the cold of winter as they made their daily drives. Lambs too young, weak, or weary to make the journey from camp to graze or back again had to be carried like children. When they felt threatened, ewes giving suck could unexpectedly turn and butt and kick, and their hooves often inflicted deep gashes.

Even after the day's work was finished, and the sheep were counted and safely contained within the sheepfold, one man took a turn as doorkeeper. That meant standing guard at the entrance to the pasture, staying awake through the night, and driving away any beasts that tried to attack the flock.

After driving the sheep up into the hills to graze and drink at the stream, the herdsmen had to turn their flocks around and drive them back to camp, hopefully before dark. Once there, each man counted his sheep as they passed under his staff and into the sheepfold. Then the doorkeeper for the night would stand guard until dawn, when the whole process had to be repeated again.

It was a hard life, but a good one, too, I thought. The herdsmen trained their dogs well and displayed a rough sort of affection for their herding partners. They often brought back some fruit, berries, or herbs they found while out with the sheep, and directed
the women as to the source so they could go gathering. One husband brought a handful of wildflowers for his blushing wife, while another produced a wooden ring he had whittled out of smooth, hard oak for his young son, who was fretting with sore gums.

I grew to love the people as dearly as I had the merchants in Carmel.

Leha, Bethel's youngest niece, quickly accepted my offer to help with the daily chores of grinding, cooking, milking the goats, and looking after the youngest of the herdsmen's children. I did not mind the work, and preferred to keep busy so that there was no resentment at my continued presence in the camp.

Leha in turn did much to ease my way among the other women and particularly liked to hear stories about life in Carmel and selling pottery at market.

“We can weave the baskets and clothing we need, but we must trade for our pots,” Leha told me. “There is plenty of clay near the crooked hill path, but we have no potter.”

I asked her to show me the place and found the dark, reddish clay to be thicker and stiffer than that near the springs of Carmel. I dug out enough to make a few things and demonstrated the hand-roll method of making simple pots and bowls, which could be fired in the camp's large stone bread ovens.

Leha was skeptical, until the first firing cooled and I presented her with a shallow serving bowl and two cooking pots. “These are wonderful, Abigail.”

I had made no slip for the pottery, and they lacked
the perfection of balance and form that wheel turning gave the clay, so I did not share her enthusiasm. “Likely you could trade for something prettier, but they will serve.”

“Pretty things do not last very long, and so we do not have much use for them. Whatever we can produce ourselves saves us that much in trade.” Leha gave me a rueful look. “We are a plain, dull people, I fear. It must be much nicer to live in town with all the conveniences.”

“It is more convenient, but not better.” I had grown to love being in the camp, surrounded by the women and children. “I have always wondered what it would be like to belong to a big family. I envy you. At home I only have my brother and my parents.”

“And your husband and his kin,” Leha reminded me.

Yes, there was Nabal. The husband I had left behind, and of whom I rarely thought now. As I watched the herdsmen's children chasing each other through the labyrinth of the tents, I wondered what would happen to me when I returned to his house.
We will have many babies, and caring for them and Nabal will be my life.

Bethel was so delighted by the pottery I had made that I promised to share the method of fashioning the pieces with Leha.

“My husband will be pleased by what you have done,” Bethel told me one night after the evening meal. “When he returns, I shall ask him if you may stay the summer here with us.”

The prospect delighted me, until I remembered what I was supposed to be doing for my husband. “I think I had better not. Bethel, when my husband came here last spring, what did he do?”

“Besides drinking all our wine and eating all our meat?” She made a sound of contempt. “He slept all day, had our women haul a thousand jugs of water to his house, and made my husband and sons very angry with his constant complaining.”

I cringed a little. “No, what I mean is, what did he do for the yearly accounting?”

“He ordered the herds counted, divided for shearing, and then figured our portion.” She eyed me. “You have done this? You know how our portion is reckoned?”

I could no longer keep up a pretense, not with her. “No. In truth, I know nothing about herding or the accounting of it.”

“Yet you offered to come here and perform these tasks.” Bethel made a clucking sound with her tongue. “What were you thinking, girl?”

“I thought I might find someone who could instruct me.” I gave her a hopeful look.

Bethel laughed. “Such an innocent face, for one so devious. Now, now, do not take offense, girl. I suspect that you have your reasons for coming here, and I like your spirit. You fooled a man none of us like, and you have given us the gift of your skill with the clay. I shall be happy to teach you what is to be done with the herds. Does that suit you?”

This trade was more than fair. “Yes.”

 

The next day Keseke and I returned to the hill house, which now had a sound roof. The inside was damp from rain, but with the longer, hotter days would soon dry out. It took two days to clean and set the place to rights, and I missed the company of Bethel and the other women, but given their unhappiness with my husband, I did not wish to impose on them any longer.

Keseke reverted to her former gloom. “I had just grown used to sleeping in those smelly tents.”

“I can borrow one from Rosh Yehud and pitch it outside, if you like,” I teased her.

After our morning chores were finished, I walked down to the camp to spend a few hours making pots with Leha and the other women. The first results were somewhat hilarious—even hand-rolling clay requires some skill—but my students were nothing if not determined. Within days the women of the camp began producing clumsy but usable pottery, and I assured them that with time and practice, their work would improve.

Bethel kept her word and taught me how the annual accounting was done. The previous year's count was kept on wooden disks, notched one time for twenty animals counted, and dotted for single animals. My task was to count the animals under Yehud's care and make two new sets of disks, one for the rosh and the other for my husband. From these I learned that Nabal owned over three thousand sheep and a thousand goats.

“So many,” I said as I stacked the disks and replaced them. “I did not know.”

“These are the animals that were lost after shearing.” Bethel gave me a single disk with black marks counting nineteen animals. “They are to be taken out of Yehud's portion.”

Yehud's portion was only one sheep out of every fifty and one goat out of every hundred I counted. That was his only pay for the entire year, so a debt of nineteen animals would lower his portion considerably. “How were they lost?”

The old woman eyed the black-marked disk. “A few died of sickness. Most were stolen by marauders during the night, when Yehud has the fewest guards around the sheep.”

I was confused by this. “But there are so many dal patrolling the encampment each night.” Indeed, when I passed them after dark, they seemed like a moving wall between the camp and the rest of the world.

“I told you, those men are not ours. They—” Bethel cut her words off. “It does not matter. The dal were not here last season.”

“I see.” I didn't, but it was plain that she did not wish to speak of them. “In any case, it does not seem right that Rosh Yehud should suffer the loss of stolen animals alone. Why does my husband not take half from his own portion?”

Bethel gave me a sharp look, but then claimed she was tired and the teaching would have to wait until the next afternoon.

Keseke accompanied me to the camp every day and spent her time watching the children while I taught pot making, until the morning she stepped into a burrow hole while she was out gathering wood.

“I shall get a stick to use as a crutch,” she told me, her face ashen with pain as I applied a warm poultice of barley mash and aromatic oil to her badly wrenched ankle. “There is no need to pamper me. I am your servant.”

“Yes, you are, so you will stay here and rest,” I said. “I mean what I say, Keseke. If you move an inch, I shall beat you.”

She snorted. “You cannot bring yourself to kill spiders.”

“They eat the other insects. I do not see you doing that.” I finished wrapping her ankle and stood. “You are not to do anything while you sit, either. We have plenty of water drawn and flour made, and I shall collect the figs from the drying rack ere I return.”