The Sons of Isaac (2 page)

That night Laban and the men of his family would go to escort Barida to his home. The agreement had already been signed and Laban was excited. Though he had been warned by his mother and his sister of Barida’s snaggle-toothed ugliness, he was pleased beyond reason to be marrying into the family of Nazzim.

Nazzim always had the best of everything. His house was of the same mud brick as the rest of the villagers, but it had many rooms and the courtyard was large and shaded. He owned the local caravansary and shop where travelers and men from the village could sit and talk while drinking his fine barley beer or eating roast lamb that turned endlessly on a spit over the fire.

Nazzim was old now. Though his face was creased like a crumpled sheet and his thin lips sucked in over toothless jaws, his eyes were hard as agates and missed nothing. There was now no hint that in his younger days he had been a lusty, handsome man. Numerous stories were told of his questionable exploits right in their village and in the countryside beyond.

It was said that if he saw a woman he wanted, he would go to any lengths and pay any price to get her for his harem. Things had changed now, and it was whispered that he had outlived all of his favorites and had even sent some of the younger women back to their families in disgrace. “They were totally useless,” he complained. “None of them were entertaining and any dish they prepared was uneatable.”

*  *  *

As Laban sat getting the last fine shaping of his beard by one of the slaves, he heard a commotion in the outer room. The men with Laban fell silent as they listened. Voices could be heard, muffled and indistinct, rising and falling as though in some urgency. Then there was silence but for the soft padding of bare feet on wet stones.

A young man appeared in the doorway. He stopped and peered around the room until his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. When he spotted Laban, he came quickly and knelt before him. “My lord,” he said. “My master, Nazzim, waits outside. He wishes to see you alone.”

Laban was immediately alarmed, though he struggled to look unconcerned. He had visions of the old man calling the whole arrangement off, even taking his daughter back to give her to a more likely prospect. “Show him in,” he said nervously. He waved for the members of his family to leave him alone.

The young man disappeared and again came the sound of voices in the outer room and then a shuffling, slow, dragging sound accented by the solid thumping made by a staff. Laban’s anxiety became acute as he realized how important this meeting must be for Nazzim. The old man had trouble walking and rarely left his own courtyard. What could possibly be so important that he would come to the public bath to seek out the bridegroom of his daughter?

By the time the old man stood in the dim half-light of the doorway, Laban was dabbing the sweat from his brow. He rose and came to kiss the old man’s hand as was the custom, then led him to one of the benches that surrounded the wall. “I’m most honored,” he stammered as he puzzled over the strange affair.

Nazzim thumped his staff on the hard stone floor and shouted an unintelligible order that brought two young men carrying cushions and a tray with brass goblets filled with his famous date wine. He jabbed the staff at the bench, indicating where he wanted the cushions and the armrests. Then with great difficulty he sat and again ordered the cushions to be adjusted and the armrests to be put in place. When he was comfortable and the young men had helped him pull his feet up so he could sit cross-legged on the bench, he signaled for Laban to come sit beside him.

Laban hurried to accommodate him while the two young men held the tray of drinks for both of them. With this completed, Nazzim motioned for them to wait just outside the door; then he turned to Laban. “This is a good day for our families,” the old man said, looking with sharp, piercing eyes at Laban.

“You greatly honor me,” Laban said as he tried to find some clue as to Nazzim’s purpose in coming.

“May this day be blessed by all the gods,” Nazzim continued.

“May I bring happiness to your family,” Laban said as he became more relaxed.

“May my daughter be fruitful in your house.”

Nazzim obviously had not come to call off the wedding. Laban became more confident that he had come to ask some favor that could not wait. The sense of relief was so great that he was inclined to grant any favor the old man might ask.

The two sat in silence sipping the date wine and testing the atmosphere for any hostility. Finally with guarded words, Laban spoke, “What can I do to show my gratitude for the privilege of marrying your daughter?”

Nazzim stroked his beard and smiled. Laban had obviously said the right thing.

“Since you have broached the subject …” He hesitated and looked at Laban as though needing encouragement.

“What subject, my lord?” Laban asked, leaning forward with eager anticipation.

“Why, the subject of marriage,” old Nazzim said as he chuckled and then coughed with the exertion.

“Marriage?” Laban said, puzzled. Did the old man have wedding counsel for him at this late hour?

“Yes, marriage. I have decided to marry again.”

Laban choked and coughed in surprise. Then collecting himself, he asked, “May I ask who is to receive this great honor?”

Again Nazzim laughed. “Of course, that’s why I’ve come to you. I am an old man but rich. I can give great favor to those I choose.” As he said this he leaned over and tapped Laban on the arm. He didn’t smile but instead grimaced and nodded with a knowing look.

Laban was more puzzled than ever. He couldn’t imagine what he might have to do with Nazzim’s getting married. If the old scoundrel wanted help, he would give it gladly. He quickly sifted through the possible meanings and could think of nothing. “You are very generous,” he said at last. “I’ll do anything I can to help you find the happiness you seek.”

Nazzim sucked in his breath and worked his lips back and forth over his toothless gums; a cunning look came on his face. Laban had seen this look before when he was about to make a clever bargain. “Then it is settled.”

Laban squirmed uneasily. “Everything is settled but to find who the lucky woman is.”

“Of course, of course, I can’t expect you to presume so much. How could you possibly guess? Quite simply, it’s your sister.”

“My sister!” Laban could not keep the surprise from his voice.

“Yes, I believe her name is Rebekah. Strange name. They say she is a beauty and yet is not lazy.” Nazzim’s small eyes settled on Laban as if waiting for some expression of his pleasure.

Laban squirmed uncomfortably. He smiled a forced, stiff smile and stared at Nazzim. The man was as old as Haran and more feeble. He smelled of musty grain, garlic, and rotting flesh. Rebekah would never go along with such an arrangement if she could help it. It would be very difficult to persuade her. However, he could see many advantages.

It was almost as though the old goat-god beneath the stairs had answered their prayers in record time. Someone rich, they had asked, and who in all the area was as rich as Nazzim? If Rebekah married the old man, he began to think, what wealth they would control. With his marriage to the daughter and her marriage to the old father, they would soon be in charge of everything the old man owned.

There had always been a problem when marriage to Rebekah was discussed with other young men and their families. They all expected, even insisted, that any young woman they would consider must first participate in the secret fertility rites at the temple of the goddess. Above all else they wanted a bride who would produce children, and such rites were deemed an absolute necessity. The family of Terah had always managed to cleverly evade these demands by marrying their women within the family. However, with Rebekah there were no young men available within the family.

Now Laban looked closely at Nazzim. He had sons and daughters by his many wives and there was a slight chance he would not feel so strongly about the fertility rites. If he really wanted Rebekah, it was possible he would not insist on the offensive rituals.

Laban felt he must somehow manage this. What did it matter that he was old and repulsive? He was so feeble he was not likely to last a year. “I am honored, greatly honored,” Laban stammered as he smiled.

“There is one thing you must do for me first,” Nazzim said. “The fertility rites in the temple are not necessary, but it is important that I see her before we draw up the final agreement.”

Laban was elated. The old man must have heard from his daughter about the problem of the fertility rites, and he was willing to marry Rebekah without that requirement. He smiled and then quickly frowned. To grant the old man’s request to see Rebekah would be very difficult to manage. “Rebekah is sometimes out with my father’s sheep and you could …” he began hesitantly.

“No, no, no, I am too old to go running about after a pretty shepherdess. It must be something less troubling, something easier.”

“You could just happen to be riding by the well at the time the women go out to fill their jars.”

Here Nazzim was even more emphatic. He shook his head and muttered a few well-chosen curses. “My son, until now you have been extremely clever. I have been impressed with your understanding of difficult situations.”

“If you must see her …” Laban dared not show his impatience, but he was getting more and more frustrated.

“To be wise, my son, you must learn to study the facts. The facts will always lead to the solution.”

“The facts?”

“Exactly. If you had said, ‘Nazzim has hurried here today. There must be some urgency about his request.’ Then if you followed with what day it is and what is going to happen this evening … you would find an easy solution.”

Laban looked at Nazzim and listened closely to what he said, but even then he did not at first understand. “This day is my wedding day,” Laban began. “I will come with the men of my family to get Barida and take her to my house.” When he said this it began to dawn on him just what Nazzim had in mind.

“Yes, yes,” Nazzim broke in impatiently. “It is not usually done … but a man of my distinction can make his own rules. If I decide that I, along with the men of my house, wish to escort my daughter to her new home, who would dare criticize?”

“And I am to manage to have my sister where you can see her.”

Nazzim beamed. “You are indeed as clever as I had at first thought. Be assured, you will be richly rewarded whether I decide to marry her or not.” With that he assumed it was as good as agreed upon. He handed Laban his walking stick to hold for him while he clapped loudly three times for the young men who were waiting for him. They helped him to his feet, gathered up the mats and cushions, and within minutes Laban heard the soft, shuffling sound, the tapping of the walking stick, and Nazzim’s heavy breathing.

Then all was quiet.

When the men of his family returned, Laban ignored their questions about Nazzim’s visit. He needed time to ponder the strange turn of events. He wanted no discussions on the subject. He was determined to see that no one gave his sister even a hint of his plans until all the arrangements were made and it was too late for them to be changed.

When he reached home he saw that everything was in order for the celebration. “Go to the roof and sit,” the women advised. “We don’t want you in our way until you are to bring the bride.” He had time only to warn them of Nazzim’s coming, and then he got out of their way.

Laban headed for the stairs and then turned around and came back. He opened the big door under the stairs and sprinkled more of the precious incense in the dish in front of the old goat-god.

“See Laban,” one of Rebekah’s maids whispered. “He wants things to go well with his bride tonight.”

Laban heard her and laughed to himself. “Not for myself, old goat-man, but may my sister find favor in the eyes of Nazzim.”

W
hen evening came the men of Nahor’s family made final preparations for the short ride through the city of Haran to the house of Nazzim. The dancers and drummers arrived, torches were lit, and last touches were given to the trappings of the donkeys that were to carry Laban and his entourage. Laban was obviously nervous. He shouted orders, made hasty decisions and then canceled them, paced back and forth until old Nahor cautioned that he would wear out the tiles of the court.

When at last the moon rose over the courtyard, Laban announced that it was time to leave. He glanced quickly in the direction of the small room under the stairs and noted with satisfaction that a thin trail of sweet incense was oozing out around the door. The old goat-man should be well pleased with his work.

As he rode out the gate he stopped to anoint the clay plaque dedicated to the moon god, Sin. Sin was the god of the people here in Haran, and Laban believed in acknowledging all the gods. He was determined to leave nothing to chance. He was sure that with these gods favoring him he would at last have the good luck and riches he so desperately wanted.

As he rode along the dark, cobbled streets lit only by moonlight and their own flaring torches, people appeared in the lighted windows above him. Some even leaned over their parapets to shout raucous advice and good wishes, which could hardly be heard over the drumming and singing of the wedding party.