Free Abigail's Story by Ann Burton

a hand over my reddened lips, trying to remove the stain. “It was wrong of me to act on my own, and I beg your forgiveness for my disrespectful behavior.” I swallowed against the lump in my throat and held out my hand. “Please, Father, do not let this come between us. I am to be married. Be happy for me.”
    â€œHappy?” He stared at the red stain my mouth had left on my fingers. “Happy to know my daughter behaved like a veiled woman? To endure suchdisgrace to our family name? To turn a blind eye to this unlawful betrothal?” He closed his eyes and shook his head.
    I had to select my words carefully when it came to describing my betrothed. “Nabal is a very wealthy man. He has an enormous house in Maon, and owns the largest flocks in all of Judah.” I waited, hopeful for a glimmer of approval. When none was shown, I added, “It is a good match. Far better than any I might have made here in Carmel.”
    â€œThis match was not yours to make.” Outrage burned in his filmy eyes, and for a moment, he was again the father of my childhood, tall and strong, and something he had never been before—terrifying. “I would rather see you dead than married to a Maon. You will send word of your refusal.”
    If I did not marry Nabal, much more than his love and regard for me would die. Now I had to do what I had never done: openly defy my father. “Forgive me, but I cannot do that.”
    He gave me a wide-eyed, shocked look. “You dare speak to me like this?” He lifted his crutch an inch, as if to strike me with the end of it.
    â€œYes, Father.” I did not flinch away. “In this, I must.”
    â€œTell him the truth, Abigail.” My brother stepped into the room. He was pale and trembling, and the swelling in his face was still dreadful. But there was something else—something in his eyes—that made him seem different. “What she does, she does for you, and Mother, and me. Abigail acts as go’el.”
    â€œNonsense. Women cannot be go’el, and no one marries but for . . .” My father’s eyes became slits. “What have you to do with this, Rivai?” he asked in a very soft, dangerous voice.
    â€œNothing that cannot be mended,” I rushed to say, but my brother cut me off.
    â€œI gambled and lost to Nabal.” Rivai glanced at me. “Abigail marries him to satisfy the debt. I tried to persuade her not, but she insisted she be my go’el.”
    If news of my betrothal had outraged Oren, my brother’s confession shook him from his crown to his heels. He sagged and propped himself against the table with one hand. “How much is this debt of yours, my son?”
    â€œFather, you do not understand, Rivai was cheated,” I said quickly. “He was plied with wine and allowed to win so that he would become reckless. It is not his fault—”
    â€œSilence, girl,” my father said. His quiet voice was like a shout. “How much, Rivai?”
    â€œEight maneh of gold,” my brother said quietly.
    All the strength seemed to leave my father’s body, and he sank down on the table bench. A dreadful moan died in his throat, and he covered his face with his hands.
    â€œWhy are you weeping, Oren?” My mother wandered into the room. “What is the matter? Did the goats knock over the oven shroud again?”
    â€œNo, all is well.” I put an arm around her shoulders. “Come, Mother. We need to work in the garden.”
    I left Rivai to talk to our father and walked with Chemda out to where I grew my little patches of household herbs. I asked my mother to strip the seeds from the black cumin plants, which were so overgrown that she could not hurt them, while I thinned out the more delicate coriander.
    I brought my hands to my face and breathed in deeply. The curly green leaves left their sweet-sharp scent on my fingers, a perfume I would likely not find in