Free Rebekah by Jill Eileen Smith

hostility.
    She picked up her pace and stayed to the side of the road as several young boys raced past, shouting and chasing a runaway donkey while men and women darted out of the animal’s way. She should be back at the house working, but grief weighed her down, and for once she would give in to it. She must, or one of these nights Rebekah would hear her weeping upon her sleeping mat and ask too many questions. She had promised Bethuel. Rebekah could not know.
    A deep sigh left her when at last she reached the city gates, and her feet took the road of their own accord as it curved and led to the well where the women would soon gather. Rebekah and Selima would come with the other women of the city to draw water, and she did not wish to be seen. Sheveered off the path toward the copse of trees that ringed the well on one side.
    But as she knelt beneath an oak tree and allowed the tears to release at last, she could not help but berate the foolish choices that had brought her to this place. If she had never been betrothed to Samum . . . if he had not treated her as he did . . . if her father had agreed to Bethuel’s first request . . . But then she would not have Selima or carry Rebekah’s trust.
    She sniffed and dried her tears with the edge of her scarf, then glanced up at the shaft of angled sunlight breaking through the leaves above her, touching her face like a warm caress.
    O God of my master Bethuel, God of Shem and Abraham, what is to become of me?
    She could follow Rebekah to her future husband’s home, or Rebekah could release her and leave her at the mercy of her mother. If the girl knew the truth, she would choose the latter and never speak to Deborah again. Selima could also suffer her fate of rejection, something Deborah could not allow. Nuriah would not speak of it, lest she reveal her own weaknesses. Or would she? With Bethuel’s death, there was nothing, no one, to keep Nuriah from twisting the truth and standing by a lie against Deborah.
    Fear accompanied a sudden shift in the wind, the soft whoosh of the leaves displaced by the angry toss of branches above her head. In the distance, near the well, came the jangling of camels’ bells, and the heavy footfalls of many beasts seemed to shake the earth. She pressed a hand to her cheeks, wiping away the remaining dampness, and covered her face once more, then walked to the edge of the tree line where she could get a better view.
    A line of camels—she did a count and found ten magnificent beasts, each one laden with many sacks—slowly knelt, allowing six men to dismount their backs. She watched,fascinated, and crept closer. She stopped at the sound of male voices coming from the other side of the nearest camel.
    “Paddan-Aram, city of Nahor.”
    At the man’s comment, Deborah looked toward the city gates.
    “We have reached the city where Abraham’s relatives reside?”
    “Assuming they still live here. Our last report indicated as much. Though they could live in one of the cities farther east.”
    “Pray let this be the place. And let us hope Abraham’s relatives have daughters of marriageable age.”
    Deborah’s heartbeat quickened with the words. Should she step forward, introduce herself, and tell the men they had found what they sought? But a moment later, one of the men—the older one by the slight warble in his voice—gave a loud cry, startling her.
    “O Adonai, Elohei of my master Abraham . . .” His voice dropped in pitch on the last word, and she strained to hear the rest. “Give me success today, and show kindness to my master Abraham. See, I am standing beside this spring, and the daughters of the townspeople are coming out to draw water. May it be that when I say to a girl, ‘Please let down your jar that I may have a drink,’ and she says, ‘Drink, and I’ll water your camels too’—let her be the one You have chosen for Your servant Isaac. By this I will know that You have shown kindness to my master.”
    Deborah