Eli’ezer
A step of faith takes you miles…
The Syrian coughed and hawked into the burning sand. He squinted, studying the slanting shadow from a roofed well, and concluded it was late afternoon. Dismounting from his camel into the current of heat and sand, he stretched his limbs and heard them pop.
He licked his lips, feeling the cracks and loose bits of dead skin, and limped to the well before signaling his men to dismount. His thighs and tailbone ached. Journeying east from Hebron had been a fortnight, give or take. He had passed by Damascus his native city, nearly getting sucked in. Nearly. He didn’t know much about his nativity because he was born in Haran. His abba, on leaving Damascus as an adventurous, scraggly-bearded youth, had joined the bandwagon of a Sumerian many years ago.
Abba had told him how he had met the Sumerian and had been drawn to him because of his unusual ways. Sumerians were of proud stock, and they did not fail to impress this on foreigners. People drifted to Sumer not the other way round. So, it sounded crazy when the Sumerian let on that he had left his city and teraphim for good. Abba said he had wondered why the man would treat his teraphim like trash. They were household gods, valuable as a man’s soul and it was even a deathly crime to steal one. He had tried not to laugh because the Sumerian had been casual about it.
The Syrian hadn’t felt anything cool for a while, even whilst drinking from his water sac en route. He placed his palms on the lip of the well, eyelids drooping, resisting the silly urge to rub his cheek like a kneading stone over it.
His throat had become a wild, ravaging thing. He could trade his camel for a full sac of water. Sitting by the well, a thought flitted in as he regarded Aram-Naharaim a short distance away in the gathering dusk. He looked to the heavens and muttered to himself, sweat beads soaking into his beard.
It was a sweaty affair heading a caravan of ten camels, some loaded with spices and ornaments. Yes, a caravan. He was a merchant who had arrived to trade for a bride, a bride for Ishak, son of Avraham the Sumerian. His mission wasn’t about the oath Avraham had made him swear, it was about the family of which he was an integral, organic member. The Syrian loved his master and this was more tangible than blood or oath.
As he slouched by the well, he heard melodic voices and saw three young women approaching. They were in the depths of their melody afar off and hadn’t noticed him, his men milling about, or camels squatting in the ocherous sand.
He watched as they approached with jars on their shoulders. And they had stopped singing.
The women slowly dropped their jars and adjusted their clothing. One of them made for the well and nodded at the Syrian, which he thought a trick of the eye.
“Peace,” he said. She straightened, cocking her head.
The Syrian cleared his throat and greeted again. She nodded, knotting a sac with the flaxen rope wound around the winch. When she gripped the handle of the winch, he said, “I need some water, please.”
The woman looked at her friends, her face unreadable. She fidgeted then turned the handle. After filling her jar, she asked for his water sac. As she was about to fill it, the Syrian said, “Could you also help my friends?”
She locked eyes with the Syrian and looked away. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have the time.” She turned to see that one of her friends had filled hers and was waiting; the other stood by her empty jar, observing the exchange. “Aren’t you filling yours, why are you standing there? It’s getting dark, you know.” She shouldered her jar and joined the waiting woman.
The two women walked away from the well and waited for the third woman. She stood by her jar, like a piece of masonry, her eyes the only thing that seemed alive, magical, bright.
The spell broke when a hen and her chicks marched past, looking like tired, ruffled travelers. Slightly embarrassed, the woman picked up her jar and filled it. Amid protests from her friends, she went about filling the Syrian’s sac, who wasted no time taking a long, hard swig, water spilling down his beard to his neck scarf.
He clocked her as she worked unreservedly, his men drinking and slushing water on their heads and face. This was liquid heaven. He heard her speak for the first time after the woman who refused him water called her a “rose among thorns”. She replied but the women rebuffed her as they turned and headed for the city.
She watched her friends leave and then asked, “Where are their troughs?”
The Syrian looked surprised, “What? Who?”
“The camels, their troughs.”
Guilt slashed through him. The woman had done enough. Wasn’t he taking this too far? Shortly before their arrival, he had muttered to Elyon for a sign. This was it. His men had sprung into action, lining up troughs for the camels.
As the camels lapped water from the troughs, she filled her jar.
“Sir, you look like lightning.” With a half smile, she released the sac from the flaxen rope, folding it neatly.
His mouth, agape, slammed shut. “Whose daughter are you?”
“I am Rivqah bat Bet’uel of the house of Nahor,” she said, stopping the mouth of her jar with the sac.
Again, the Syrian’s eyes widened. Before she could utter a sound, he was gripping her hands, blinking back tears. He stepped back and bowed, his hand to his chest. “Eli’ezer of the house of Avraham, your great-uncle.” Then he knelt, head to the ground thanking Elyon under his breath. Getting up and dashing for the camels, he turned mid-way. “Come, come! Leave that, my men will carry your jar.”
Rivqah hesitated. It struck her that she was among strangers, and that it was past sunset. Perhaps, right now, her friends were telling her abba their version of the evening’s event. She sensed her brother was well on his way, fired up by her abba’s rebuke.
“Have no fear, Rivqah. Come, take us to your family. We’ve come a long way from Hebron to see them.”
She was tired and welcomed the thought of riding. Eli’ezer seemed easily given to excitement; he was limber for his age, quick as a swooping hawk, especially as he searched among his sacks, bringing out two wristbands and a nose ring. She felt awkward, fazed by his kindness; it watered her eyes and warmed her heart. Kindness was a rarity in Aram-Naharaim. Maybe it was all around her, but it felt measured, given in doses, just enough to keep going.
“Your friend called you a ‘rose among thorns’, why?” Eli’ezer asked as they mounted the camels.
Rivqah sighed. She disliked the alias. She didn’t know whether to shout in the faces of her scorners, laugh it off or simply walk away. Folks thought her naïve, too fluffy for the streets, and then they expected her to be polite and homely.
“My father is city ruler and a very practical man, considered hard even. Anyone associated with him is sort of expected to behave that way. It’s a dog-eat-dog society where kindness is exploited.” She glanced at Eli’ezer, barely registering his face in the wavering torches handled by two men afoot. “People say I am an outlier, a rose among thorns. Kind. Soft. These are inedible terms in my city.”
Eli’ezer nibbled at his lower lip. “Rose among thorns,” he murmured. “Now that is a thing of beauty. Red splatter here, yellow and green sprinkles there, amid woody brown.”
Rivqah scoffed, shaking her head.
They hadn’t moved too far from the well when Eli’ezer noticed a man walking toward them, three men in the rear. He struggled to make them out in the gloom.
“A thing of beauty? What good is beauty if it is not practical?” Rivqah asked. “Thorns have their uses. I mean, they can serve as hedges around goat pens to keep thieves at bay. But flowers, despite some being medicinal, are seldom considered in the rush of daily life.”
The man came swaying a torch, firelight conjuring distortions of the camels and everything bared to it. Rivqah recognized that swagger, the deft yet relaxed poise of his wiry body. He had fooled many with that easygoing stride and dreamy face.
“That’s my brother, Lavan,” Rivqah said.
“Look how you sit high and lofty, Rose of Padan Aram,” Lavan said, slowly skirting Rivqah’s camel.
She rolled her eyes, bridling the rush to jump down and pull his mouth. Asides from tugging her hair and other annoying japes that warranted a whack on his back when no one was looking, he was her buffer against a no-nonsense father, her sounding board, her big brother.
Lavan approached Eli’ezer as he was dismounting from his camel. “So, who are you people?” Before Eli’ezer could speak, Lavan walked on, inspecting the camels burdened with sacs. He gripped one sac, chuckling at the heft of it. “Merchants pay a steep price to trade in my city. We’d have to take stock of your goods and agree on a fair fraction. Deal?”
“They are not merchants,” Rivqah said.
Lavan eyed his sister, saying nothing. He approached Eli’ezer, the burning torch close enough to make the old man’s eyes water. “Speak sir.”
Eli’ezer’s mouth twitched. “Your sister is correct. I am no merchant, but a servant of your great-uncle, Avraham. I have come to see your father, Bet’uel. Is he alive and well?”
Lavan shrugged.
The air felt tight like a burial shroud. It did not result from the exchange, the heat, or the smell of camel dung, but from the weariness sucking at Rivqah’s bones. Her thoughts were homeward, to have a cool bath and to sleep. “I think he is honest, Lavan,” she said, slightly edgy. Adjusting the cuffs of her sleeves, she held out her arms, “See the wristbands he gave to me. Have you ever seen a merchant this generous? There is a nose ring too.”
Her brother scrutinized the wristbands, slowly nodding at the soft, golden shine in the firelight. Then he flashed his teeth at Eli’ezer, and said, “Blessed be your god, for he favours you greatly.”
Eli’ezer bowed and, again, inquired about Bet’uel.
Lavan sighed and said, “Come and see for yourself.”
***
Bet’uel looked like a weathered caveman, with bulging veins in his arms that seemed on the verge of bursting and spilling a lifetime of experiences. Judging from his eyes, Eli’ezer could tell that Bet’uel had waded across the excesses of life, from the glamorous to the gory. And if Bet’uel stood next to Avraham who was over a hundred, they would appear to be of similar years.
“I see the years have been kind to my uncle,” Bet’uel said, his voice deep and surprisingly smooth. He had his back against a wall and was supported by pillows stuffed with sheep wool. “I mean, it takes a generous master to yield a robust servant.”
Eli’ezer smiled.
They had between them a short, stout table, on which sat a clayey oil lamp with flames swaying from twin spouts. Eli’ezer reclined on a pillow, as did his men. The air was scented with the aromatic oil massaged into their feet, after having been washed.
“Elyon has been most gracious, master,” Eli’ezer said, bowing his head.
Bet’uel nodded slowly, his thick mustache obscuring his mouth and nostrils. Eli’ezer couldn’t help but wonder how he managed to breathe or speak with such an impressive amount of facial hair. And that mane of a beard…
“Is that your master’s new god?”
Eli’ezer dipped his head. “It is his only god.”
“How strange?” Bet’uel said. He waited for the maidservants who had come in with dishes, gourds, and a jug of wine to leave. “When my father told me about your master forsaking his gods and his land, I didn’t believe it. And then I hear of Sarai and the promise of this god to give her a child. A woman who…”
“Which Elyon did, master,” Eli’ezer said.
Bet’uel leaned into his pillows and stared at Eli’ezer. The Syrian could tell Bet’uel was displeased, but he knew where his host was headed. He could not stomach unkind words about the matriarch even while she no longer lived.
“Pardon my rudeness, master. I also doubted the promise at one time, but I turned believer 40 years ago.”
Bet’uel closed his eyes, saying nothing for a while. “I have heard stories of your master from merchants and sojourners. My legs may be weak, but my ears travel far. Tell me, were you at the Battle of Siddim?”
Eli’ezer rarely talked about that. It was a miracle that they had all survived that night; 318 men had fought with Avraham to rescue his nephew from the Elamite king and his allies. The long, unbroken clanging of axes and swords, and the threat of fire as kings and men fought, were fossilized in his mind. He could not knock out from memory a burning man’s heat as he ran past and headlong into a comrade, a whooshing arrow eventually nailing them both.
“We weren’t at the battle, but the aftermath. It was madness.”
“The aftermath?” Bet’uel asked.
“Yes, master. Lot had been captured by one of the victors. We had to rescue him.”
The door opened and Lavan stepped in. He had the look of a man who didn’t get a joke. Bet’uel, undistracted by the intrusion, was laughing so hard that Eli’ezer finally got a glimpse of his mouth. “Ah, Lot,” Bet’uel laughed again.
Still awash in mirth, Bet’uel said, “Cousin Lot…I recall when we were boys.” He rubbed an eyelid. “We used to skip Akkadian lessons to peek at temple maidens. He always wanted the sweetest morsel and fell hard, very hard, for the temple priestess. Stunning woman then!” He chuckled. “One day, we ran into her at the market square, and his feet did the talking, big toes canoodling the sands. He just couldn’t look her in the eyes.”
“Didn’t know that, Abba,” Lavan said, having not seen Bet’uel this sociable in a long time.
Eli’ezer, laughing all the while, wiped his eyes. The tension had lifted and he wondered at the swerve from recollected horror to humour. “You know, we took a lot for Lot. I wielded my axe till my shoulder joint ached. I am not a man of war, so couldn’t tell left from right in the melee. Men charged and I screamed hoarse, slashing air left, right, center.” He dramatized with his hands as he spoke and the men chuckled.
Bet’uel had a lopsided smile. “I haven’t gotten to the juicy part. The temple priestess stooped and ruffled his hair saying he was cherubic. What transpired after cannot be lost.” He tapped the floor with his staff, “Even if I lose every tablet of memory.
“Lot’s cheeks bloomed and he said, ‘I love you, marry me.’ Those within earshot turned, including his mother who froze with a bag of salt. Lot was very shy and quiet as a boy, so no one saw that coming.”
“Temple priestesses, by Akkadian law, are forbidden to marry,” Lavan interjected when the laughter died down.
Eli’ezer nodded, “He is a quiet and good man, loved dearly by Master Avraham.”
“Good thing he followed your master. He wouldn’t have done well here. See, you have to be hard and street smart to navigate life in Padan Aram,” Bet’uel said, pointing the hook of his staff at Eli’ezer.
Eli’ezer, wanting to say something, thought better of it. What was it like for Lot to have lived on the outskirts of Sodom? He knew life had been hard enough there, but there was no point arguing with his host. Anyway, Sodom was history and Lot had relocated. He didn’t know where. The conversation had burrowed deep into the night, and he hadn’t talked about his mission. If he succeeded, he would leave for Hebron the next day, even though he dreaded it. Time was of the essence; he had struck gold and couldn’t spare one more day for his master’s sake. Avraham had said he’d be free of the oath with or without presenting a bride. But he would stay till Rivqah went home with him.
Lavan eyed the dishes, “I hope you know food don’t eat themselves? And there’s enough wine to get thoroughly soaked in, head to foot.”
“Thank you for the hospitality, Master Lavan. But we won’t eat till after I tell you why we’ve come.”
Lavan’s eyes glinted with merriment as he turned to his father, “They came loaded with gifts, Abba, enough to secure your rule. The stable is bursting with camels.”
Eli’ezer watched father and son with a curious eye. It was obvious there was no love lost between both men. Their relationship was of a transactional quality as if they were simply playing a role, regarding each other like a farmer who remembers his sickle only at harvest time. Had Bet’uel ever looked at his son with a twinkle in his eye? It seemed unlikely.
Bet’uel acknowledged Lavan’s remark without averting his gaze from Eli’ezer. “I see that you’re in a hurry to get back to your master. Tell me why you have come.”
“Rivqah. I have come on behalf of Master Avraham and Master Ishak to ask for her hand in marriage. I asked Elyon for a sign and he did. I know the custom, but I humbly ask that she be wed in Hebron. We’ll leave tomorrow if you approve, master.”
The old man nodded, thinking, “Okay. But why the hurry? Let me provide you with hospitality one more day. We could talk business tomorrow. I have a proposal for your master that could make him twice as rich. There’d be something for you besides.”
“We are delighted by your hospitality, master. Would have loved to stay longer, but time is not a friend to Master Avraham. Please grant us this request.”
Bet’uel stared into space, his staff gently tapping the floor. “Hmm. Tell me about this miracle child of your master.”
A lot had happened to bring Eli’ezer to this moment. When Ishak was 13, he had confided in Eli’ezer, telling him of a Canaanite girl he’d love to betroth. Knowing how wary Avraham was of the Kenaanites, though cordial with many of them, he was torn between telling his master and spoiling the boy’s first chance at love.
When he met the girl, he understood why Ishak was smitten. She had such large, beautiful eyes that it just seemed wrong to ignore them or report on the boy. So, his tacit approval encouraged a relationship between Ishak and the girl that blossomed for a couple of years. But Ishak did not fully recover long after the breakup, not until Avraham took him on a secretive trip to Moriyah.
No doubt, the trip turned out to be life-changing for Ishak. The boy who had gone up Mount Moriyah came down a man who, ever since, exuded a quiet confidence. No longer was he a rock worn away by the waters of time, but a fish in its currents, fluid and adaptable. And even in the face of Sarai’s death, Ishak did not crumple under the weight of grief.
Eli’ezer was convinced Ishak was ready to take a wife. Grateful for the audience, he began to speak.
***
Rivqah, as a little girl, was fascinated by birds. She especially liked the smaller species, their feistiness, their keen gaze, the way their bodies trembled as they tweeted. She liked that the expanse of the sky was their range of freedom, and was far removed from the choked, smelly alleyways of Padan Aram.
Once, she was reprimanded for feeding them grains of wheat. “You are wasting your time with them; they do not need you,” her imma said. And her abba echoed a similar sentiment, “Birds mind their business and so should you.” In turn, she had kept her fascination to herself, among other things that had captivated her over the coming years.
She had washed off the day’s filth and felt airy as a bird. As she walked to her room, tousling her wet hair with a shawl, she heard Abba’s muffled voice and crept closer, watching the lamplight shimmering underneath the door. The smell of ointment, roasted lamb, lentil soup, and bread claimed where she stood. Normally, she relaxed in the nutty aroma of lentil soup, but gagged at the smell this time. Was this because she had gorged on it tonight or was this anxiety hopping in her gut?
This time, the Syrian was speaking. He talked about a god, a promise and a pregnant old woman. How this god, who was called Elyon, visited his master and made his old wife laugh in disbelief, the year before the birth of their son, Ishak.
Rivqah’s heart raced. She hadn’t heard such stories in a long while. Her mind buzzed like a hummingbird’s wings, a mad dash of images tripping over each other. Imagine a god in the form of man; did this god have the head of a hawk and was he coated in gold? Imagine an old woman whose belly swelled up; did her belly wrinkles smoothen out like a garment stretched tight?
Her abba was not a very religious man. He observed the rituals common to the people of Padan Aram, and was steadfast. However, she knew that religion was just a tool he exploited for political gain. She remembered one of those few nights Abba told her stories about deities like Enlil, the wind god and Inanna, the love/fertility goddess; how the world was formed from violence involving a battle of the gods. Abba told her these stories, not because he believed in them but to pass on morals such as, “Taking things by force has always been the way of the world. Kingdoms rise and kingdoms fall by force of arms. You can’t leave footprints without the sands giving way…”
As the Syrian went on, she imagined the glint in Abba’s eyes which could be mistaken for wonder instead of condescension. Abba was a master at diplomacy and could mask his feelings well, and even when he showed his feelings, it was to his profit.
Well, the story kept her rooted to the spot. Although Abba had taught her how to reason, that did not rule out her yearning for the supernatural. There were days when she wished to be entu, revered temple priestesses who walked the grand halls of Inanna in singsong incantations, their days swaddled in incense and burnt offering. Her wish was morphing into possibility: the liberation from living life on other people’s terms.
If she told Abba about this, he would chuckle as he was doing now. Though, in her case, he wouldn’t reply cheerily with, “In our land, the gods are believed to do as they please bending men to their will, and through a host of mediums and priests. This your god comes down to speak with your master as a friend? That is fascinating.”
Rivqah rolled her eyes. If some other visitor had told this story, Abba would have grunted or something. He dealt with visitors a lot and they exaggerated stories to their benefit. The Syrian’s story was woven in such a way that it surprisingly held water; she inferred that Abba knew about this relative, his wife and their childlessness.
She believed the Syrian. Somewhere distant a man named Ishak embodied that story.
“Go call your sister, Lavan,” she heard Abba say.
Rivqah clasped her mouth. A shadow disturbed the shimmering light escaping from beneath the door.
She fled to her room.
***
“Eat,” Bet’uel said, tapping the table with his staff.
Eli’ezer reached out for bread in a raffia tray, cue enough for his men who emptied the tray quickly. He was dipping the bread in lentil soup when Lavan returned with Rivqah.
Lavan resumed sitting position right next to Bet’uel who had eyes trained on his daughter. She stood by the door, eyes darting from their meal to the lamp to the cushions to the leathery mat. “Do you need something, Abba?” she asked.
“Come child, sit,” Bet’uel gestured with his left hand.
It seemed like she was counting steps when she obeyed. Eli’ezer turned to look as she walked past him and knelt before her father.
“Sit child,” Bet’uel murmured. She did, tugging at the hem of her dress to cover her feet. The old man leaned on his staff and looked intently at her. “You are my child,” he said and cleared his throat to halt the quivering in his voice.
Eli’ezer concealed his smile behind the soup bowl he had raised to his lips.
***
Feathery.
That was the word Rivqah would later ascribe to the sensation of warmth enveloping her face. Never before had Abba locked eyes with her and uttered those words or anything remotely close. And certainly not in the presence of strangers.
You are my child.
She was puzzled, curious.
Abba looked over her shoulder and said, “These men have travelled from distant Kenaan where your great-uncle now lives. Your great-uncle left Padan Aram childless, but they have come because of his child, because of you.”
Rivqah briefly turned to look at the Syrian.
“The child’s name is Ishak, and these men are requesting your hand in marriage on his behalf.”
Her ears tingled.
“They’re in great haste and would like to set out first light tomorrow.” Then Abba placed a hand on her shoulder, “I’ll respect your decision to stay or go with them.”
Her eyes misted. This all felt surreal. Her decision? Why was he saying this? Was this one way he sniffed out a person’s thoughts? She searched his eyes imploringly.
Abba smiled. “It is alright, Rivqah. I have raised you well and trust your judgment. If it helps, your great-uncle, Avram―he goes by the name Avraham now―is a man of honor. You’d be in good hands. And if anyone so much as nips a hair on your head,” he glanced behind her, “Heads will roll.”
“Thank you, Abba,” Rivqah said. She looked at her brother who offered a faint smile and nodded.
Rivqah had previous love interests and suitors came knocking regularly. Despite the tide of suitors, Abba had never inquired about her preference. She believed being grafted into a noble family through matchmaking was the norm. Her previous relationships had been shallow and merely fleeting diversions. She also noticed a pattern where men, initially drawn to her meekness, faded away when they couldn’t fully embrace her strong reasoning and ideals.
Could she say yes to a faceless man even though she was intrigued? Would he fade out like the ones before? Nonetheless, she could not deny the anxiety coating her gut, the building excitement of meeting a miracle and perchance seeing a god.
The Syrian’s story had sealed the deal.
“I’ll go with them, Abba,” she said.
***
Their torches crackled when they passed by the well. Dawn was a few steps away.
“I hate farewells too, Mistress Rivqah,” Eli’ezer said, riding alongside Rivqah. His men had positioned themselves in front and behind.
He eyed Rivqah, “But they are not without beginnings.”
“What of death?” she asked.
Eli’ezer held a torch aloft before giving a footman who snuffed it out in the sands. “Death is a flame that cannot burn without the fuel of life beginning, mistress. You bid your family and city farewell because of the life ahead.”
“My imma…I wish she had lived to see me go,” Rivqah said.
“She’s now a rose blooming in Elyon’s water jar,” he winked. “I’m sure she’d be proud.”
Rivqah smiled. They rode awhile in silence.
“Yesterday you asked a question about beauty…would you consider giving us water a practical or beautiful thing?” Eli’ezer asked.
“Practical,” Rivqah replied. “I saw a need and offered help. It was like…,” she gesticulated, “I couldn’t rest until your needs were met.”
“And how did you feel when we expressed gratitude, sprinkling water on our grimy faces and drinking to our heart’s content?”
She grinned, “Hmm. I was delighted and felt light as a sparrow in spite of my weariness.”
“There’s your answer, mistress. Delighted. Light as a sparrow. These are expressions of beauty. Even thorns that keep out thieves do beautiful work.”
***
Almost fourteen: The number of times they had raised up and flattened tents in the course of their journey. Almost because it was dusk and Rivqah badly wanted to stretch her spine and legs. She liked that she had a tent to herself, though she had disagreed with Eli’ezer about her maidservants on the first night of their camping.
“They can stay with your belongings in another tent, mistress,” he had said. She had retorted, “They are practically sisters. I do as many chores as they do.” He had replied with a ring of finality, “I’ll assign two of my men to stand watch outside your tent.”
Anyway, she was exhausted. When were they camping for the night?
“We are almost home,” Eli’ezer said, breaking into her thoughts.
In the warm embrace of the setting sun, she looked up and saw a veiled man sitting on a boulder beneath an oak tree. She couldn’t make out his face because his head was bowed and they were a short distance away. A gentle breeze rustled through the swaying crops along the pathway, and she heard the distant chirping of birds and the bleating of sheep.
The air was alive with the earthy scent of soil. Rivqah called to one of the men who helped her dismount. She stretched, removed her sandals and dug her soles into warmth.
The veiled man had seen them. He stood up, dusting off his hands.
“Who is that man?” She looked up at Eli’ezer who was dismounting.
“That is my master, Ishak bar Avraham.”
Ishak removed his veil as he approached. His eyes held onto the waning radiance of the sun as a smile began to lift his cheeks.
Rivqah blushed. She hurriedly adjusted her veil to cover herself completely.
