30

The top of Mount Tabor buzzed with voices as more men, women, and children—many of those who had been rescued from Sisera’s and Jabin’s enslavement—stood dressed and washed clean in new white linen tunics and fine robes, spoils from their enemies. Barak looked on, searching the faces of the battered, abused women, wishing he could wipe the hollow expressions from their sunken gazes. It would take time, he told himself, for the women Sisera had used for his sexual pleasures to heal, to feel deep down that they were finally safe.

He sighed, the weight still heavy in his chest. This was not a day to mourn, and yet . . . how he wished he could have stopped Sisera even once before this day. For all his efforts, the best he and his men had been able to do had not been enough. A few arrows had been shot against a handful of charioteers, but where one enemy fell, another had arisen. Sisera had laughed at them behind his shield, while two helpless virgins cowered, tied together at the back of his chariot.

Barak shuddered at the memory.

“Strong thoughts trouble you, my lord.” Talya’s voice jolted him.

He spun to face her and searched her gaze, her dark eyes probing back at him. “Yes,” he said, recalling how relieved Deborah and Lappidoth had been the day he had seen the girl safely home to them. She could have been like one of the victims standing in the group, clean yet broken, wondering what life held for her now.

“I did not expect to find you at such a loss for words, my lord.” Talya glanced beyond him to the freed captives. “Ah, I see,” she said, her gaze too observant.

They shared a look. “What becomes of them?” she asked. The very question he struggled to answer.

“I don’t know.” He glanced toward the rescued slaves once more, then turned to walk Talya away from the group. “I suppose they will return to their families. Those whose families are gone will live with their closest relations. If there are any truly destitute among them, they will become the servants of the wealthiest in the communities.” They strode slowly toward Deborah’s tent, where a large crowd had begun to gather.

“Will none of them marry then?” Sadness tinged her voice, and he tilted his head to better look into her eyes.

“This worries you?” He hadn’t expected so much compassion to fill those large round eyes.

She nodded. “For all they have endured . . . they should be allowed to live in homes as the happy mother of children.” Her declaration made him look at her more closely.

“It will take a strong man to accept a blemished bride.” Barak swallowed. Could he do such a thing? When an unblemished one stood before him now, her gaze so earnest, so innocent?

“Are we not all blemished in God’s sight?” She tucked a strand of wayward dark hair beneath her headscarf, the very hair that had caused him to declare her a distraction to his men. To him. Though he could not tell her so.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Of course. But God is more forgiving than most men.” It would take a feat of giants to overcome the images he would see every time he held a woman whom Sisera had used. A better man might not think so, but he knew his own weakness.

Talya lowered her eyes, an action that nearly caused him to gently grip her chin and draw her face close to his. But he stopped himself before making such a grave mistake. She did not belong to him, and he had no promise that she had not already been given to Ghalib or some other man since he had refused her. He groaned inwardly as the dusk cast her form in soft shadows. They were only a short distance now from the milling crowd, and Deborah had emerged from her tent.

He glanced toward her, saw her searching, most likely for him. “I must go,” he said abruptly. “Your mother is looking for me.”

Talya lifted her gaze to him at that moment, and he nearly stumbled at the look of openness in her eyes. But she said nothing, merely nodded.

He tried once, twice, to pull away from all that he read in that one look, finding it nearly impossible, but at last he mumbled something inane about talking later, and hurried off to meet Deborah. The girl would surely be his undoing.

“There you are,” Deborah said, catching sight of Barak at last. “It was hard to find you among so many.”

“I was speaking to Talya,” he said, his tone curt and irritated.

“Now what has she done?” Deborah shook her head. That girl would find a way to stir up trouble even on a day of victory. She met Barak’s gaze, but the look he gave her did not match his tone. Perhaps she had not done anything. “Never mind,” she said, motioning him into her tent where Lappidoth and her sons waited. She would sort out the details of Barak and her daughter on a later day.

“I have written a song you must sing with me.” Deborah looked at Barak, then pointed to Lappidoth. “My husband has written the parts out for us on some of the soft clay here.” She picked up a small rug that held the clay spread over it.

Barak leaned over the words while Lavi held the lamp closer for him to see.

“I have called to the trumpeters and those who have brought anything with which to make music—drums, tambourines, and there are a few reed flutes among us—to accompany us while we sing our praise and thanksgiving to El Yeshuatenu, the God of our salvation, our deliverer.” Her heart filled with a sense of sheer joy at the memory of the words that had come to her during her wait with Talya. Adonai, the Lord, deserved the glory and honor for this victory, and Deborah intended to make sure the men of these tribes knew that, lest they be tempted to forsake their God again. They dare not fall into the same traps they had succumbed to before.

“I added to it after I heard Jael’s story,” she said at Barak’s quizzical look. “You are pleased?”

“It is a good song,” he said, admiration in his voice.

He stepped back and allowed her to lead them out of the tent. She moved ahead to the center of the camp, Barak on her heels. She raised her arms to quiet the crowd. Silence fell like gentle rain, each man’s face eager, even humbled, to hear from their prophetess. Oh Adonai, I am not worthy. But the respect in their faces remained.

She cleared her throat and glanced at each one, then lifted her face to the heavens, her heart suddenly beating with the rhythm of a fresh tune. God had delivered them from Sisera! No more would the people of Israel cower behind barred doors or stay off the main roads.

“Freedom has come to Israel this day,” she said, her voice carrying over the quieted crowd. “Freedom only El Elyon, the Most High God, our El Echad, the only God, could give to us. He showed us His power over the gods of Canaan, as He once did over the gods of Egypt. So join me now as we worship His Name, as we sing praises to our great King.”

The people cheered, and she waited for them to quiet. Barak drew closer and held the clay tablets before her, but she had already committed the words to memory. They took turns singing the verses.

“That the leaders took the lead in Israel”—her voice grew throaty with sudden emotion—“that the people offered themselves willingly, bless the Lord!”

She swallowed, catching her breath as the people shouted, “Bless the Lord!” A trumpet sounded once long and loud. Silence fell again as all looked to her.

“Hear, O kings. Give ear, O princes.” Barak’s baritone was both soothing and sweet. “To the Lord I will sing. I will make melody to the Lord, the God of Israel.”

Deborah chose another verse and Barak followed her lead.

“In the days of Shamgar, son of Anath, in the days of Jael, the highways were abandoned, and travelers kept to the byways.”

“The villagers ceased in Israel, they ceased to be until I arose—I, Deborah, arose as a mother in Israel.” Deborah paused, looking out over the crowd, searching their faces, lest they think she spoke in pride. “When new gods were chosen”—her voice fell to a near whisper, holding the note long, ominous—“then war was in the gates.”

Another pause. The people bowed their heads as though in shame. The flutist played a haunting, sorrowful tune. Deborah waited, letting it play out, allowing the words to sink deep into the hearts of her people. For had new gods not been chosen, they would not be here today. Ruined women would not stand frightened among them, and war would not have come to the gates of their cities.

Barak’s voice, still carrying that haunting tone, continued her words. “Was shield or spear to be seen among forty thousand in Israel? My heart goes out to the commanders of Israel who offered themselves willingly among the people. Bless the Lord.”

“Bless the Lord,” the people said.

“Tell of it, you who ride on white donkeys, you who sit on rich carpets, and you who walk by the way.” Deborah’s voice rose in pitch. “To the sound of musicians at the watering places, there they repeat the righteous triumphs of the Lord, the righteous triumphs of his villagers in Israel. Then down to the gates marched the people of the Lord.”

“Awake, awake, Deborah!” Barak’s voice jolted her. “Awake, awake, break out in a song!”

“Arise, Barak, lead away your captives,” she joined in again, “O son of Abinoam.”

The sounds of trumpets and flutes filled the air, and drums beat to the harmony of the dance. Men moved their feet in time to the music, but the captive women stood still, watching.

“Zebulun is a people who risked their lives to the death,” Deborah sang. “Naphtali, too, on the heights of the field. The kings came, they fought, then fought the kings of Canaan at Taanach, by the waters of Megiddo. They got no spoils of silver.”

Barak took up again where she left off. “From heaven the stars fought, from their courses they fought against Sisera. The deluge of Kishon swept them away, the ancient torrent, the flood Kishon. March on, my soul, with might!”

“March on, my soul, with might!” The men shouted the response to them both.

Deborah’s pulse quickened, and as she looked out over the sea of men, saw the broken women huddled together, her eyes misted. How much her people had suffered. Please, Adonai, keep us ever faithful to You from this day forward.

She waited a breath until she was certain her voice would not waver, then glanced at Barak and Jael, who was standing not far from their inner circle.

“Most blessed of women be Jael,” she said, meeting the woman’s gaze, “the wife of Heber the Kenite, of tent-dwelling women most blessed. He asked for water and she gave him milk—she brought him curds in a noble’s bowl. She sent her hand to the tent peg and her right hand to the workmen’s mallet. She struck Sisera, she crushed his head, she shattered and pierced his temple. Between her feet he sank, he fell, he lay still. Where he sank, there he fell—dead.”

A shout of victory followed that nearly shook the earth beneath Deborah’s feet. She held steady, waiting for the men to quiet once more, until at last she raised a hand so they would allow her to complete the song God had given her.

“Through the window peered Sisera’s mother,” Deborah sang, her tone mocking now. “Behind the lattice she cried out, ‘Why is his chariot so long in coming? Why is the clatter of his chariots delayed?’ The wisest of her ladies answer her; indeed, she keeps saying to herself, ‘Are they not finding and dividing the spoils: a woman or two for each man, colorful garments as plunder for Sisera, colorful garments embroidered, highly embroidered garments for my neck—all this as plunder?’”

She looked toward the group of captive women, those whom Sisera’s mother would have had no pity on. She motioned them closer, and the men parted, allowing them to come. They came slowly, timidly, and the men surrounded them as if to protect them from ever being hurt again.

“So may all Your enemies perish, O Lord! But Your friends be like the sun as he rises in his might.” Deborah raised her arms overhead.

“So may all Your enemies perish, O Lord!” Both the men and some of the captive women joined in that final phrase. Musicians spontaneously continued to play, and the women were given tambourines and coaxed by Talya, who had joined their group, until even the most timid among them rejoiced in the Lord. And danced.