16
Barak moved into the courtyard of his empty house, his steps tentative. He had stayed away so long. Even when he had returned to Kedesh-naphtali and stayed with his parents instead of his own house, he had been unable to bear being so near the memories of this place. Perhaps this determination to face them now was foolish.
He glanced about the decaying court. The clay bowl Nessa had placed his feet in to wash after his work in the fields lay covered in dust, and a nest of cobwebs filled the dry hole now. The stones of the court held a thick layer of road dust as well, and Nessa’s broom stood silent, as forgotten as all that used to be normal about his life. All that used to give his life meaning.
A weary sigh escaped. Three years. How was it possible? Only yesterday she stood laughing as he twirled her in his arms and kissed her in the center of this court. Only yesterday she had stroked his beard and whispered sweet words in his ear. But now, all that remained of this place was dry earth and stale memories.
He swallowed. Hard. There was so little hope left—especially after the news of Endor’s shame and decimation had reached them. Sisera had killed Endor’s men and maimed their youths, and eventually he would find and destroy Kedesh-naphtali, the prophetess’s village, and every other small town left standing in Israel.
The defeat should have sparked greater determination, but Barak had lost the strength for the fight. He’d had no choice but to send his men home—even Keshet—for there was nothing more to do. Before long Barak would lie in Sheol with Nessa.
He raked a hand through his hair.
His grip tightened on a lamp he had borrowed from his mother, and he walked about the rooms, trying to see them without imagining Nessa weaving in one corner or spinning in another. He closed his eyes and took in a long, slow breath. Nessa. His throat thickened. He moved to another room. Their bedchamber.
He stopped, staring into the semi-darkness. The room was musty from disuse, the mats in dire need of beating, which his mother would have done if he had allowed it. He couldn’t bear to change a thing even now. A painful ache filled his chest. He took one step. Another. Stopped again and looked slowly from one edge of the room to another. He had laid her here when the women of the village tried to save her. The scent of her blood and the foreign smells that had clung to her were gone now. Nothing but dust remained.
For you are dust, and to dust you shall return. The Creator’s words to his ancestor Adam on that long-ago day when beauty was broken.
Nessa had been beautiful. So beautiful.
He set the lamp on a low table and knelt beside the mat. She was there again in his mind’s eye, her eyes closed . . . peaceful.
“Please, Nessa . . .” His voice had cracked, and he wasn’t sure he could say more. But he must. He must convince her to stay. “Don’t leave me.” He gripped her pale, lifeless hand, and her strength ebbed even as he held tighter.
Her eyes fluttered open for the briefest moment. “Barak.”
She attempted to lift her hand to touch his cheek, but she could not raise it high enough to reach him. Just as he could not reach her now.
Memories of that day blurred—shouts to the women to do something! Curses at Sisera as Barak had stomped the fields near the burial cave. And tears. They came in the wilds where he had wandered for weeks once darkness fell, and outside the tomb where Nessa’s bones lay. She had gone to a place he could not follow, and he needed her. Desperately.
How could he live without her? Even now the question brought pain, and yet somehow he had managed to still breathe. His own body had betrayed him and refused to follow her to the nether world, despite his constant prayers to do so. Revenge and hatred had grown strong, pushed him forward. He would avenge her death. He would live long enough to destroy the man who had done this to his only love. Then he would stop caring what happened to him.
And yet, he had made no dent in Sisera’s terror and was no closer to catching and killing the man. He had only proved his own failure by watching Sisera grow stronger with each passing year. And Israel grow weaker.
He sank to his knees, his thoughts as deflated as his anger, like a cloud dissipating into air too thin to hold it. How bitter the taste of defeat.
I wish these days had never come. Hadn’t he walked with God? While his neighbors and fellow Israelites had followed other gods, hadn’t he clung to his faith? Hadn’t he done all he could?
His self-defense did not comfort.
The fronds of the palm branches swayed above Deborah’s head as afternoon waned. The line of people who had come seeking her judgment had at last dwindled. She shaded her eyes against the sun’s slight glare and drank greedily from the flask of water at her side. In the distance, she caught sight of two men and three women coming from the city gates, walking along the main street as though looking for something.
Looking for her, no doubt.
She sighed, suddenly weary of the weight she carried. Why, Lord? Why her? If she hadn’t been so outspoken, if she hadn’t listened to Lappidoth’s coaxing when he insisted God intended her to lead, if she hadn’t been called by the visions and dreams . . . Why, Adonai? If she could have chosen, she would have picked a different way of life.
As the group drew closer, one woman older than the rest hurried forward. She was not of Israel, Deborah immediately noted. She sat straighter. Not Canaanite either. She tilted her head, studying the unusual markings on the woman’s robe. Kenite. Deborah breathed easier.
“Are you Deborah, the prophetess of Israel?” the woman asked, coming to kneel before her.
“I am Deborah. And you are of the Kenite clan.” She glanced at the rest of the people in the small group.
The woman looked at her strangely for a moment, her eyes wide with a hint of wonder.
“The markings on your robe give you away,” Deborah said, pointing to a small emblem of something metal, a dagger or a tent peg perhaps.
“Ah yes,” the woman said, smiling. “My husband is a metalworker. I am Jael, wife of Heber the Kenite.”
Deborah gave a slight nod. “What do you seek?” She should offer the woman hospitality, but she waited, wanting first to hear why they had come.
The woman backed slightly away and motioned for another, younger woman to come forward. “My husband had dealings with Jabin, king of the Canaanites. While he was in Hazor, he saw that they had female slaves . . . for sale.” She halted briefly as though choosing her words. “This woman was among them.” She glanced from the woman to Deborah. “She claims she is related to you.”
Deborah squinted, searching the other woman’s face, trying to deny the recognition that had pierced her heart the moment she drew close. It couldn’t be. But her heart told her otherwise.
“Yiskah,” she said, her voice a gentle command, “look at me.”
The woman seemed to find fascination with her sandals, but at last she lifted her head. “It is I, Prophetess.” She lowered her gaze again, no longer the defiant woman who had cast a rebellious eye toward her when confronted with her false gods.
“What happened to you after Shet sent you away?” Months had passed since that long-ago moment, and there had been no word. More troubling to Deborah was Shet’s lack of concern or any obvious desire to seek out his lost wife.
Yiskah did not respond for many breaths. “I went to Hazor. I thought I could find refuge there.” The girl would not meet Deborah’s gaze, and her cheeks grew pink beneath Deborah’s lengthy stare.
“And did you?” Deborah asked. “Find refuge?”
Yiskah slowly shook her head. “No, Prophetess.”
Deborah shifted in her seat, praying for wisdom. She looked at Jael. “Why have you brought her to me?”
Jael took a step back, one brow lifted in surprise. “I thought . . . that is, my husband thought that if she belonged to your family, it would be best to return her to you.” She lifted her chin, but no defiance warmed her gaze. “If she is not pleasing to you, Prophetess, I will keep her as my servant.”
Deborah clasped her hands in front of her. She looked beyond Jael. “These people belong to you. Your guards?”
“My sons. And my daughter.”
Deborah nodded and rose slowly. “This situation is not entirely mine to decide,” she said, holding Jael’s gaze. “Yiskah’s husband sent her away for worshiping Asherah. She was to stay in the hills seven days to pray and repent of her sin. Since she had not attempted to cause others to follow her rebellious ways, her husband thought it the prudent thing to do. Had she caused others to follow Asherah, he would have been forced by law to stone her.”
Deborah stepped from beneath the palm and pointed to the grassy knoll around it. “Wait for me here. Since Yiskah did not return to Shet as she was supposed to do, it is up to her husband to decide what to do with her now.” She walked off, but Jael’s words stopped her.
“If her husband would put her to death, I will not wait for him. I will take her back with me at once.” Her tone held a fierce edge.
Deborah turned to face her. “He will not seek her death,” she said quietly. “But he may not wish to keep her.” She motioned again to the grasses. “Wait here.”
She walked to the city gate, her mind whirling. Shet’s response was not one she could foresee. But Yiskah’s return had also been hidden from her, as were so many things. The dreams came often, but they normally hinted of war. What had happened to Yiskah during her stay at Hazor? Deborah was not sure she wanted to know.
She climbed the steps of the gate where Shet’s grandfather sat with the elders. She came and knelt before him. “Uncle Chayim, I need you, Amichai, and Shet to come to my house when they return from the fields.”
Her uncle squeezed her hands. “Ah, my Deborah. But of course we will come.” He looked deeply into her eyes. “Something troubles you, my daughter.”
She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Visitors have come bringing Yiskah. I will not send her away until I know what Shet would do. Will he cover her shame and embrace her once more, or write her a writ of divorcement? She has abandoned him, and he must decide.”
Her uncle sat up straight, his eyes wide. “Yiskah has returned?”
“Yes, Uncle.” Deborah waited, patient while the shocking news took hold.
“Shet will accept her, of course. He must.” He still seemed taken aback, but his eyes lit with a determined gleam she had not seen in him since Yiskah was sent away. Yiskah was her uncle’s only granddaughter-in-law, as Shet was his only grandson. Her loss had been a blow to the entire family.
“I will send someone to find him now. There is no sense in keeping your guests waiting.”
“Thank you, Uncle.” Deborah rose and hurried down the steps.
The courtyard buzzed with the usual pleasantries and an underlying awkwardness. Deborah’s aunt and uncle and Ilana had come to welcome the Kenite clan before Amichai, Shet, and the rest of the men returned from the fields. The women offered almonds and cheeses and watered wine to the guests, but Deborah could not eat. She glanced continually toward the street that led to the city gate for her men.
At last she spotted them. She jumped up and hurried out to meet them, accepting Lappidoth’s kiss on her cheek. “Your grandfather is here,” she said to Shet, waiting until he fully met her gaze. “I asked him to come.”
“I am sure he was pleased to visit,” Shet said, his bearing stiff. “But what purpose is this that needs both me and my father to come home before the day’s work is over?”
Deborah studied him, then glanced at his father Amichai. “Your wife has returned,” she said. “There is no sense entering our courtyard until you tell me what you will do with her.”
Shet’s surprise surpassed that of his father’s. He rubbed a hand along his bearded jaw, his dark eyes rimmed with sleepless shadows. Yiskah’s disappearance had not been handled well by any in Chayim’s household. “At last she returns? Where has she been these many months?”
Deborah touched his arm and gentled her tone. “She did not stay in the hills. She followed the roads until she came to Hazor. She sought refuge with the Canaanites.”
“They did not treat her well,” Deborah said, trying to appease the heat of anger in his eyes.
“She deserved whatever she got.” He cursed and spat in the dirt. “Let her rot in Sheol.” He turned on his heel and stalked off.
“Do not leave yet, cousin.” Deborah’s tone halted him, and she knew he would listen out of respect. “Your grandfather is waiting for your decision. You know they love Yiskah. You owe it to him, to them, to hear your wife’s tale. Before you would cast her out, hear what she has to say.”
Shet’s back remained to her, but he slowly turned to his father, who simply shrugged. How could he act so indifferently? Deborah realized yet again how glad she was that she had never married the man.
“I do not wish to hear her tale,” Shet said. “She betrayed me with other gods. She betrayed our marriage and my trust.”
“You have every right to think so, Shet,” Deborah said softly. “She is as guilty as you say.”
“Then why do you care what becomes of her?”
Deborah sighed deeply and glanced quickly at Lappidoth and each of her sons before facing her young cousin once more. “She was brought here by Kenites who purchased her freedom from Jabin. When they learned she was related to me, they brought her here.”
“Then forgive me, cousin Deborah, but you keep her.”
“I will decide her fate, but only after you have heard all. Then if you would still cast her aside, you must give her a writ of divorcement so that she will be free.”
“No other man would have her.”
“Probably not.” Deborah looked beyond him a moment, and in a flash she saw a vision of what Yiskah had endured. Energy seeped from her, causing her to stumble.
“What is it?” Lappidoth caught her arm. He knew the look that took her away to places she did not want to visit.
“She has endured much.” She took a steadying breath. “Come,” she commanded Shet, turning to walk back to the house.
Shet obeyed, though he was the last to enter the courtyard.
“Yiskah,” Deborah said sharply, bringing silence to the gathering. “Come here.”
The girl stood and came trembling, hands clasped tightly in front of her, head bowed.
“Tell your husband what was done to you in Hazor.” Deborah paused a moment. “In private,” she amended, the vision still too vivid in her mind. She pointed beyond them. “Take her to the palm tree, Shet. I will come in a few moments. Then you can give me your decision.”
Shet stared at his wife. His dark eyes held no warmth.
“Be merciful, son,” his grandfather said, pleading.
Shet glanced up but did not reply. He whirled about and walked quickly toward the palm. Yiskah hurried to catch up.
Deborah looked the group over. “The images are not seemly to repeat to you.” She caught Jael’s gaze. The woman nodded. She knew. “I will give you Shet’s decision in a few moments. For now, rest and eat. You are welcome to stay with us as long as you are able.”
“We will be leaving at dawn,” Jael said.