13

Jacob dug the end of his staff into the dry earth and stopped at the edge of a low cliff to gaze at the valley below. Wind whipped the sides of the turban against his face, and he brushed the fabric away from his eyes. The valley held sparse patches of green against the reddish clay and sands. In another month the rains would wash the dry lands and the fields would sprout with life. But for today he would need to make his way down the ridge, guiding the sheep to one of the oases below. Which meant several nights away from home again.

The thought troubled him, but he told himself for the hundredth time that it could not be helped. He had even considered bringing Rachel with him, but Leah’s time was too near, and Rachel had insisted on being there to help her sister, though he wondered at the wisdom of it.

He turned at the sound of bleating and called the sheep to follow, taking a quick count to be sure one hadn’t wandered off. He understood the need to be near for birthing. He had attended many a birthing for his lambs. And it pleased him to know that Leah had softened some since Reuben’s birth. This second pregnancy had made her more generous to Rachel, wanting to include her. In this he counted himself blessed.

But he still sensed the tension between them when they thought he would not hear or was not near enough to notice. Did Rachel really think him so blind to her actions, her moods? How could she not understand that he loved her? Sometimes the strength of his love consumed him. He was driven by its force, controlled by its need. He wanted her. Only her. And sometimes in secret he thanked God for her barrenness.

She would kill him if she knew.

He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck and sighed, glancing behind him again at the flock as they neared a narrow path through the rock. His senses heightened to every sound, every bird call and whisper, every footfall. He scanned the area, one hand on his sling, taking careful steps over the rocky terrain. When at last he stepped through the pass onto the wider, drier soil, he moved aside, waiting, watching, and counting as each lamb made it through after him. At last satisfied that they were safe, he continued on toward the palm trees and grasses in the distance.

Rachel, his little lamb, could not possibly know how she made him feel inside. And he had so few words with which to tell her. No woman—not the women of his father’s camp or the maids of the Canaanites from which Esau had found his wives—had come close to Rachel’s appeal. And he feared losing her.

Women died in childbirth, as ewes did. Laban’s own concubine had died that way, he’d been told, leaving a squalling newborn son. Laban had found Rachel’s mother soon after, but neither Farah nor Suri had brought such a smile to Laban’s lips as his oft-recounted memories of Refiqa.

He couldn’t bear to lose Rachel in that way.

As the months passed and Rachel wept when her womanly time came upon her, Jacob knew nothing but relief. Let Leah bear his children. Leah was strong and sturdy and gave birth without much trouble, if the gossip was true. And should he lose her, her loss would grieve him as the mother of his children, but he would not miss her as he would Rachel. Rachel was his very life.

He glanced heavenward, wondering if the thought was somehow blasphemous. Forgive me. But the truth was he nearly worshiped her, would do anything to please her, and desperately wanted to keep her near . . . and safe. He knew his thoughts were selfish, his longings born of something akin to greed. He had waited so long for her. Was it too much to hope that he could keep her for a time? They had been married only two years. His mother had waited twenty to have him and his brother. There was plenty of time.

He could not bring himself to pray otherwise. If he asked it of Adonai, He might grant the request and take Rachel in the process. A child of her womb was not worth the loss of her life.

And though he knew without doubt his fears were unfounded, he worried just the same.

Rachel stood in the corner of Leah’s bedchamber, watching as Leah sat upon the birthing stool, surrounded by maids and mothers. Suri squatted low, waiting to catch the child, while Farah rubbed her daughter’s shoulders and Zilpah allowed Leah to grip her arm until Leah’s knuckles whitened and Zilpah winced at the pain she was inflicting. Leah’s labor had been shorter than the last time, though Rachel had only known that by the strength of the sun at her labor’s beginning and end, not by any personal experience of being there.

Perhaps she should have stayed away this time as well. Though there was something forceful and intriguing about birth that every woman longed to be part of, Rachel doubted her own good sense. Jacob had been right to question her motives. What good did it do to be here if it only instilled in her the reminder of her own failures?

Leah’s grueling shout startled her, and a moment later the babe’s hearty cry drowned out all other sounds. Suri quickly wrapped the boy in a clean linen cloth and took him aside to a table where a bowl of water, another of salt, and a stack of fresh linens waited. Leah groaned again, and while the others attended her, Rachel moved to Suri’s side.

“Let me,” she said, holding her hands toward her mother.

At her mother’s dubious expression and glance back at Leah, Rachel knew the request might not be well received. She touched her mother’s shoulder. “Please. Leah can do the same for me someday.”

Suri nodded, handing the child to Rachel. “He’s slippery, so hold him over the table while I wash his limbs.”

Rachel did as she was told and took the child carefully while her mother dipped a cloth in the water that Bilhah had kept warming on the coals and gently but quickly rubbed the blood and fluids from his body. Heat from several lamps flickered nearby, causing sweat to form above Rachel’s lip, but she dared not try to wipe it away.

“We must act quickly,” her mother was saying, “lest he get chilled.” Within moments she finished, then took a handful of fine salt mixed with olive oil and rubbed it over his soft skin. “Now place him on the cloth.” Rachel did so. “Turn him slightly and bind these bands around his arms and legs.”

Rachel took the linen strip and tucked it under the baby’s upper arm, wrapping it tightly, though not too tight, down his arm to his fingers. Her mother looked on as she wrapped the other arm and finally the legs.

“Good. Now we tuck the blanket around him.” She stepped closer, edging Rachel aside to show her, though Rachel had wrapped Reuben and the babies of her brothers more times than she could count.

“I know how, Ima.” Just because she had no child of her own did not mean she was incompetent!

“Yes, well, it’s just that with a newborn we must hurry. The longer his wet skin is exposed to the air, the more chance he could take a chill.” Her mother looked at her, then handed the wrapped baby into Rachel’s arms. “You did fine, dear one.”

Rachel looked down at the baby, avoiding her mother’s gaze, not caring that she had snapped at her. How beautiful the child was! He had Jacob’s nose and chin, and Jacob’s eyes, though glazed and new, looked back at her. Her heart twisted at the sight. Leah had borne another perfect son.

She looked at her sister, hovered over by the other women as they cleaned her and dressed her in fresh clothing. Why do You withhold such blessing from me? The bitter cry had flown from her heart straight to the heavens too many times since the day Leah had announced a second pregnancy. And still God was silent.

“Where is my son?” Leah’s cracked voice broke into her thoughts. She looked to see that Leah now sat up in bed. “Bring him to me.” The words were a command, not a request.

Irritated, Rachel bit back an angry retort and walked slowly toward her. She placed the baby in Leah’s outstretched arms without a word, instantly aware of the emptiness of her own. She stepped back, smoothing her features.

“What will you name him?” Farah moved to take the place where Rachel had stood and peered down for a glimpse of her grandson. The older woman’s movements were not as quick as they once were, and Rachel wondered if Farah was ailing or simply aging. But she did not ask.

“Because Yahweh heard that I am not loved,” Leah said, her gaze fixed solely on her son, “He gave me this one too.” Her cheeks flushed as she spoke, matching the heat in Rachel’s middle. Jacob would hear of this. Every woman standing witness would tell him, whether Rachel spoke a word or not. “Therefore, his name is Simeon.” One who hears.

How dare Leah flaunt her children, tossing their names like barbs against her!

“Surely my husband will love me now.” Leah’s words jolted her, and Rachel met her sister’s defiant, challenging gaze.

“A child is no way to earn his love,” Rachel snapped, her anger rising higher like a bright flame within her.

“What better way do you suggest? Since you do your best to keep him from me.”

Rachel turned at the touch of her mother’s hand on her arm, and another angry retort stopped on her tongue. She gave Leah an indulgent smile, however false. “I am sure Jacob will be pleased with your son.” The words wounded her already bleeding heart.

She turned away, suddenly unable to take the stifling heated room, and pushed through the small crowd of women to the tent door, dragging in air once she stepped into the afternoon light. The sun had dipped to the point where Jacob would soon return, except she knew he would not be home this night. He would spend the night with the sheep in the fields, in a cave or out under the stars.

She could not bear to be without him now. Helping Leah with the birth had been a huge mistake. She could not abide her sister’s taunts or the underlying longing in her pale eyes. A longing Rachel could ease with a few well-placed words to Jacob. But a longing she did not wish to grant as long as it was within her power to deny it. She could not, would not . . . not as long as Adonai remained silent.

If Rachel could not have her heart’s desire, Leah would not have hers either.

The sun dipped precariously close to the earth’s edge as darkness spread its garment over the last vestiges of daylight. Rachel tucked the headscarf securely over her face and double-checked to be sure she had her pouch of stones, her sling, and her staff, along with food and a skin of water for the journey. Jacob would surely reprimand her for attempting to find him in the dark, but Rachel had been in the fields with the sheep on many a night. She was not afraid of the dark.

She was afraid of being alone. Especially now.

A runner could be sent to announce Simeon’s birth, but Jacob would not hurry back. He had known Leah’s time was near, and still he did not send the sheep off with one of her brothers. She understood his desire to get away. But he could not possibly have known how much Rachel would need him. Hadn’t she assured him she would be fine? She had chosen to go to the birthing tent, had chosen to hold the child. And had suffered her sister’s bitter tongue for it.

She slipped from her tent, looking this way and that, then ducked behind it and made her way along the tree line, over the ridge, taking the path Jacob normally took on his way to the fields. A torch would be helpful, and she had thought to bring one more than once but discarded the idea. She would let the moon guide her, lest she become a target for bandits.

The thought made her shiver, but she stiffened her resolve. Jacob would forgive her, even welcome her, once she safely arrived. He had told her he planned to head south and west, and she knew there were only two oases in that direction where he could be. She crouched low and hurried onward, glancing back now and then to be sure she had not been followed. When at last the moon replaced the sun at its position high in the sky, she had gotten far enough away to stop worrying.

Night sounds of crickets and the soft whoosh of bats’ wings above her head caught her ears. She tilted her head, listening for any predatory animals—the cry of a wolf or the low growl of a lion. She touched the pouch, felt for a stone, and fitted it in her sling just in case. She had practiced long hours in the dark on nights when sleep would not come, and the fire alone did not keep such animals away from her flock. She knew how to defend herself and them. But she breathed a sigh of relief just the same when she at last came to one of the oases and spotted a flock of sheep sleeping near a fire.

She crept close, staying to the shadows, searching the area. If she came upon a different shepherd, she did not wish to make herself known. Though she knew many of the shepherds in the area, she did not trust them all, especially at nightfall. Men would do as men did, whether they feared consequences from her husband or not. She couldn’t take that risk.

A single man rested before the fire, its light flickering over his robe and now and then revealing a portion of his face. She would recognize the robe and turban anywhere, but when she at last glimpsed his face, she moved closer.

He whirled about, hand on his sling. “Who goes there?”

“It’s me. Don’t fear.” She spoke loud enough so that he could hear her voice, yet softly enough so as not to startle the sheep. She hurried forward into the light.

“Rachel?” His voice held surprise, but his brows drew together and she glimpsed fear in his eyes. “Did you come here alone? At night?” He looked beyond her as if searching for a guard or some man to have joined her.

“I came alone.” She placed a hand on his chest. “Please, Jacob. Do not be angry with me. I know these hills, and I took great care getting here.” She lifted her sling, revealing the stone in its folds. “See? I was ready to defend myself in an instant.”

He looked at her askance. “You should not have taken such a risk.” He frowned down at her, but she lifted both arms and placed them about his neck, leaned on tiptoe, and kissed him.

“I had to come. I needed you so badly, Jacob.” She glanced beyond him but a moment, then met his gaze full on. “You were right. I should not have helped Leah with the birth. I cannot bear the way she flaunts her children at me.” She lowered her arms and turned slightly away from him. “Nor could I bear to hold her son without thinking of what a failure I have been to you.” Her shoulders sagged as defeat settled over her. She had carried the burden all afternoon, and now at last she could be free of it.

“You are not a failure.” He stepped closer and placed a hand on her shoulder. “You could never be so in my eyes, beloved.” He turned her to face him and cupped his hands around her face. “What did she say to you?”

Emotion swelled with the memory, and she would not meet his gaze. “She accused me of the same old things, of keeping you from her, and said that with another son surely you would love her now. As if producing a child was worthy of something far more than I have given you.” Tears came then, and he pulled her close. “Please tell me you will not give her what she asks. Please do not let her come between us. She has already stolen too much!”

“There, there. It’s all right, Rachel. You know that I love you. I could not bear to lose you! And I will never love Leah as I do you.” He kissed the top of her head and rubbed circles along her back. “Never doubt that.”

“I don’t.” She wrapped her arms around him and held him close, relieved at the feel of his strong arms encasing her. Fire crackled and night breezes fanned the air around them. “I know you love me.” She pulled back and looked into his earnest gaze. “It is just that she makes me so angry. She gives her children names that feel like arrows shot at me, and she says things to purposely make you feel guilty for neglecting her and me for asking you to.”

His look turned thoughtful as he stroked her cheek. “What did she name this one?”

“Simeon.” The word sounded bitter on her tongue.

“One who hears.”

“Yes. She said God had heard that she was not loved, so He gave her this one too. Then she blamed me for keeping you from her. How can she say that when it was she who snuck her way into your bed on my wedding day? She is not loved for a reason!” Her voice rose in pitch as she spoke, until she realized she could wake the sheep and dropped to a whisper. He looked almost startled by her outburst, and she knew she should have held her tongue. She backed away from him and hugged her arms to herself to still her trembling. “Forgive me. I am tired and overwrought.”

“Come here, Rachel.” His quiet voice held no reprimand, though she surely deserved it.

She turned and went to him again. He took her hand and pulled her down to lie beside him in front of the fire. His arm came around her, and she nestled her head into the crook of it, gazing up at the stars.

“Can you count them?” he asked, one hand pointing heavenward.

“I couldn’t begin to try,” she whispered against his chest.

“On a night like this, I am reminded of the Elohim of Abraham and the Elohim of my father, Isaac. Yahweh promised my grandfather that his offspring would be like the stars of the skies—more than he could count.” His grip tightened slightly on her arm. “That means there must be children, beloved. And God has seen fit to give me sons through Leah.”

He stopped as she stiffened and pulled slightly away.

“Let me finish,” he said, gently tugging her closer again. She relaxed against him. “I know you desperately want a child.” He paused as though he had to carefully choose each word. “But at least I still have you. There is a risk in childbirth, and if something happened to Leah, I could bear it.” He rose on one elbow to look into her face. “But not you, beloved. I cannot lose you.”

She searched the depths of his dark eyes, their gaze so earnest and his words so impassioned they hurt. She touched his bearded cheek. “But a woman is worthless without a child. You yourself would despise me someday if I go through life at your side childless.”

He shook his head. “That is not true. My mother was barren twenty years, my grandmother more than that, and God eventually gave them children. I cannot believe He would deny you.” He kissed her forehead. “But even if He did, I would love you.” He kissed her lips, his touch feather light. “Do you believe me?”

She nodded. “I know you love me, Jacob.” He had never given her any doubt, so why did she fear? “I just wish . . .”

“We cannot change what is past and done, beloved. We can only move on from here and live the life God has given us.” He rolled onto his back again and pulled her against him. “But please, it is late and I am tired. Let us speak of this another day.”

She did not want to put aside her feelings so easily, but she could hardly ask him to give up sleep when dawn would come too soon. She had already asked more than she should in keeping him from her sister.

“When will you return to bless your son?” Despite everything, he should acknowledge the child.

“Tomorrow.” His words were soft, and a few moments later his breathing changed and she knew he had fallen asleep. She curled closer against him, staring up at the stars, attempting in vain to count them.