Return to Me (33 page)

D
ozens of people filled the courtyard of Zechariah’s house for his wedding—priests and Levites, his fellow Torah students, people who had made the long journey with him and Yael from Babylon. There was lively music and joyful dancing and a feast of food and wine, yet Yael’s father looked worried and Zechariah’s grandparents looked unhappy. Zechariah had misgivings himself, wondering if Rafi and his gang of ruffians would burst into their home to disrupt the celebration and steal Yael away. But the day passed peacefully. Rafi didn’t come. Zechariah sat close enough to Yael to see the sorrow and pain on her face beneath her veil.

Late in the evening, he escorted her to their bridal suite—a new room added onto their house just for them. His chest ached as he closed the door behind them and set the oil lamp in its niche on the wall. Yael yanked off her veil and unpinned her hair. She was such a beautiful woman. No wonder the Samaritan had wanted her. But instead of moving toward her, Zechariah crossed to the other side of the room and sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall. “What are you waiting for?” she asked. “Just go ahead and get it over with.”

He shook his head. “I know you don’t love me. In fact, you
probably resent me for taking Rafi’s place. It’s supposed to be an act of love,” he said, gesturing to their marriage bed. “Not a conquest.”

“An act of love?” she repeated, and he heard the scorn in her voice. “Do you love me, Zaki?”

“I’ve always loved you. Ever since we were children. I love your spirit, your sense of adventure, your zeal for life, and I didn’t want the Samaritans to destroy all those things. And they would have, you know. That’s why I asked your father for your hand.”

Yael stared at him for a moment, her defiant expression still in place. Then she closed her eyes, and he saw her defiance transform into grief as she sank down on their bed. “I loved Rafi . . . I really did.” Her tears began to fall. Zaki longed to go to her and comfort her, but he stayed where he was.

“I believe you. But a few years from now, after the passion faded, your life with the Samaritans would have become a living hell. And you could never undo it or change your mind and come home. I know you don’t see it right now, but I rescued you from a terrible life.” She didn’t look at him, didn’t reply. “If you don’t want to be married to me, if you still want to run away, I won’t stop you.”

Yael finally stopped crying. She wiped her tears and lifted her chin to look at him. “They’re waiting for us to show them the sheets, the proof. No one believes that I’m a virgin. They think Rafi and I have already been together, but it isn’t true.”

“I believe you. But I won’t seal our marriage until you’re ready.”

“Until I’m ready? You’re my husband. Doesn’t the Torah give you the right to rule over me? Why aren’t you claiming your rights?”

“Because I’m guessing that the only way you can endure our marriage bed is by pretending that I’m Rafi. And I want you to be glad that I’m your husband. I hope you’ll love me someday.
In the meantime, I saved a little bit of blood from one of the goats we slaughtered for the wedding feast. We’ll put it on the sheets to fool them.”

Yael lowered her face into her hands, weeping again. Her grief broke Zechariah’s heart. He stood and went to sit beside her on the bed, wrapping his arms around her, comforting her the way he had after her mother died when they were children.

“Without love, we won’t have a true marriage,” he told her. “I see my grandparents, the love they share, and I want the same thing. Safta is devoted to Saba. And he couldn’t survive without her. I know their marriage hasn’t always been perfect, yet they stay together, work together, through the good years and the bad.” He waited until Yael stopped crying, then stood again, pulling one of the coverings from the bed. He carried it back to his place in the corner and removed his outer robe. “I’ll give you time to decide what you want to do, Yael. We’re not married until you decide that we are.” Then he lay down on the floor to try to sleep, exhausted from the strain of this long, emotional day.

With the lamp still lit, he watched Yael’s shadow on the wall as she rose from the bed and crouched beside the bags that held all her belongings. Safta had moved Yael’s things into their room earlier in the day, but now Zechariah was certain that Yael would gather them up and leave. Instead, he heard a rustling sound, and when he sat up on one elbow, he saw her sitting on the floor, bending over an open scroll. “What is that? What are you doing?” he asked.

“I need to see what the stars say about my future . . . I don’t know how else to decide what to do.”

He lay down again, disgusted. There was no point in telling her that the Torah forbade it—much less in a priest’s house. Yael knew. He had told her many times before. Saba had warned him that he shouldn’t marry her, that she still had idolatry in her heart, and here was the proof. He would resign from the
priesthood as soon as his marriage week ended. He sighed and closed his eyes. “Good night, Yael.”

Yael bent over her star charts, searching for answers. She’d seen things so clearly when she’d studied the charts in the past, but tonight she couldn’t make sense of all the signs. They seemed to contradict each other. Maybe she was too close to the situation to read them clearly. After all, these were her stars, her future. Maybe what she wanted them to say was getting confused with what they really did say. But Leyla’s grandmother was dead, and Yael didn’t know anyone else who could help her interpret them.

Frustrated, she left the lamp burning in the room and went outside to the courtyard. Maybe if she looked up at the real heavens, the answer would become clear to her. The cool night was beautiful, the sky sparkling and cloudless as if scrubbed clean, the moon so bright she could read her star charts without an oil lamp. More and more stars appeared as Yael gazed up, as if coming out of hiding to talk to her. And sweeping across the center of the sky was a sparkling white river of stars.

The heavenly bodies all said that the love she shared with Rafi was real. They had predicted a happy life together, forever. But the stars had been wrong, just as they’d been wrong about Leyla’s marriage. How could she have been so mistaken? What was she doing wrong? Why wouldn’t they give her guidance? Her future seemed unknowable.

She was still looking up at the stunning heavens when she heard a rustling sound near the gate. She turned, startled to see a man standing there. For a moment she froze, her heart quickening. Then she recognized him—his height, his stance, his beautiful curly hair.
Rafi!
Yael ran to him, throwing her arms around him, weeping tears of joy. “Rafi! You’re here! You came for me!”

“Yes. I’m here,” he said. But his voice sounded strange. And he didn’t return her embrace. His arms hung stiffly at his sides. Yael released him and looked up at him.

“Rafi, what’s wrong?”

“Where’s your new husband?” The cold expression on his face made her shiver. He seemed different tonight, not the Rafi she knew.

“Zechariah isn’t my husband yet,” she told him. “We haven’t consummated the marriage.”

“I don’t believe you.” Again, that strange, icy voice. She embraced him again as if her love and the warmth of her arms could thaw his coldness.

“I love you, Rafi. Zechariah knows that. He said I could run away with you if I wanted to, and he wouldn’t stop us. I came out here to consult the stars for answers, but now that you’re here, I don’t have to. Come on, let’s leave.” She tried pulling him toward the gate, but he was as immoveable as a pillar.

“He and your father signed a marriage contract, didn’t they?”

“Yes, but—”

“Does your husband love you?”

“That’s not important, Rafi. Please—”

“You didn’t answer my question. That must mean that he does love you.”

“I would have run away with you before the wedding. I told you that. Why didn’t you come for me sooner?”

“I didn’t come for you now, Yael.”

“What? . . . What do you mean?” In reply, he grabbed her upper arm, holding it so tightly he would leave fingerprint bruises on her arm. This man was a stranger, not the gentle, loving man she knew. “Rafi, let go. You’re hurting me.”

He yanked her toward the door to her room, the door she had left open with a lamp burning inside. “You belong to me, Yael. You’re mine.”

“Yes, I already told you that. Why are you acting this way? You’re hurting me.”

“I don’t like losing someone I love. Basam had to pay for Leyla, and now it’s your husband’s turn to pay.” They reached the door, and he kicked it wide open. Zechariah sat up, startled. “Is that your husband?” Rafi asked her.

“I told you, it isn’t a real marriage. Tell him, Zaki—”

But in one swift, strong move, Rafi pulled Yael against his chest, pinning her arms to her sides. Something cold and sharp pressed against her throat. A knife. “Neither of you make a sound,” Rafi said, “or I’ll slit her throat right now.”

Fear washed through Yael, draining her strength. If Rafi hadn’t been holding her, she would have collapsed. Her body trembled so violently she might have been standing naked in a snowstorm. As tears blurred her vision, she couldn’t see Zechariah’s expression in the dim lamplight as he slowly rose to his feet.

“Wait! Put the knife away, Rafi. Don’t hurt her.” He raised his arms in surrender.

“I should have let my friends beat you to death years ago. Of all people, I had to lose Yael to you. To
you
!” He spat out the words like bitter gall. “The suffering you caused me—it was like watching Yael die, knowing I could never have her. Now you’ll have the agony of watching her die. It will be the last thing you’ll ever see before I kill you, too.”

“She loves
you
,” Zechariah said calmly, “not me. She wanted to marry you. Why would you kill someone who loves you? Kill me if you want to, but why kill Yael?”

“Because you stole her from me. And because you love her. I want you to suffer the way I have.”

Yael felt his grip tighten. The knife blade pressed against her flesh. She was going to die. “No, Rafi, don’t!” she begged.

Iddo awoke from the dream, gasping.

“Shh . . . It was just a dream, Iddo,” Dinah soothed. “Go back to sleep.” He sat up, his clothing drenched with sweat. The nightmare had been so real that it took Iddo a moment to figure out where he was. In his bed. Beside Dinah. In Jerusalem. But why have a nightmare now, after all these years without one?

“Did I cry out and awaken everyone?” he asked.

“No one heard you but me. . . . Was it the same dream, Iddo?”

“Yes.” He had crouched beneath the wagon as Jerusalem burned. The soldier was attacking Mama, and his brother had crawled out to help her. Iddo had tried to leave his hiding place and save the people he loved. He had tried to move, to crawl out and rescue them—but the dream had jolted him awake before he could move. He tossed the covers aside and climbed out of bed.

“Where are you going?” Dinah asked.

“Outside for some air. I’m sorry for waking you.” Iddo left the room but even the canopy of glimmering stars couldn’t erase the nightmare from his mind. Fear and dread lingered like a sour taste that couldn’t be washed away. What could have triggered the dream? Yesterday had been a joyous occasion—Zechariah’s marriage to Yael. True, Iddo hadn’t wanted him to marry her, but even so, he marveled that he had lived to see such a day. Soon there would be children, reversing the curse of death and bringing renewed life.
“Look up at the heavens and count the stars—if indeed you can count them. . . . So shall your offspring be.”

But Iddo couldn’t concentrate on the night sky. The lingering horror from the dream had left behind an aura of evil. He tiptoed around the courtyard, searching for—he didn’t even know what he searched for. But he recalled the nest of vipers they’d found when building the foundation of this house, and like rooting out those snakes, he felt an urgent need to find the source of evil and destroy it.

He heard a sound. Voices. They came from the new room added on for Zechariah and Yael. He inched toward the sound and saw the open door and a light burning inside. A man stood silhouetted in the doorway. Not Zaki . . . he was shorter than Zaki. Not anyone from Iddo’s household.