Feminine 101

If you have not already done so, or if you are new, I recommend starting with Chapter 1. This is a linear story and will make a lot more sense read as a whole. Please leave a like, comment, or subscribe to my blog to get notifications when a new chapter is published. If I get 100 views on a single post of One More Life, I will self-publish a digital and printed copy with an exclusive Epilogue. If you only missed the last post, you can read Chapter 7 here.

The camp shimmered in desert heat, the setting sun wavy on the horizon, bathing the dunes in scarlet. Weary, bedraggled captives stumbled to pitch tents and light fires. The army surrounding them made camp in orderly rows achieved only through years of discipline, and months on the march. Finally they were headed home and the relief was palpable. Not so among the captives. Shoulders slumped and heads hung in defeat. Even as they had been driven from her lands, Jerusalem had burned. Those who could bear to look back watched stone after stone being pulled from her walls, the temple plundered, Solomon’s palace a smoke-stained shell, scarcely an echo of the glory and wealth of that great king’s reign. 

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It was a tattered cluster of women who made their way to the waters of Babylon. Across the river, they could see the great city resplendent in lush greenery, a stark contrast to the dusty, barren camp stretching away from the western banks. The women lowered great pots to collect water, a dirge humming from cracked lips. Mocking laughter greeted them before the offending group of soldiers materialized around a bend in the bank. 

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The women all stood, instantly wary. The tune died away. 

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The spearmen in the lead, with a scar on his cheek called out, “Oh, don’t stop on our account! Sing us a song of Zion,” his lip twisted the last word in contempt. Laughter rekindled among his companions. 

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The tallest woman, with black hair and strange green eyes began again the tune in a voice mournful and haunting. Smiles died away as the melody became more insistent, more sorrowful. For the hundredth time, the female captives wept. 

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“Enough!” Scar hissed, unable to bear the anguished refrain any longer. “I said a song, not this yowling whine!” He stepped up until he was almost touching her and sneered down. “You heard me, desert rat. Sing!”

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She squeezed her eyes shut. Like a gaping wound in her chest, she could feel only heartache. Her family was lost to her. She had searched the camps every day for Caleb and her children until she could not ignore the very real possibility that their corpses may be burning in the blackened ruins of their home a million miles away. She thought of home, her beautiful city, the tambourines and dancing of feasts. She could hear the songs of her children, her people, of Zion.

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But when she opened her eyes, she saw the dusty leather breastplate of Scar and all she could think of were the smoke-stained ruins and the walls crushed beneath the weight of the overwhelming Babylonian horde. 

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“How?” It was scarcely a whisper.

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“What?”

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She raised her face to him, emerald eyes glistening. “How? How can I sing in a foreign land? If I forget her, may my right hand forget its skill. May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth if I forget you, Jerusalem.” The last word came out strangled. Then through gritted teeth, “Tear it down.”

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“What?” Scar took an involuntary step back.

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Her eyes narrowed, “‘Tear it down,’ they said.” She stepped forward to close the gap between them. “Oh, Babylon,” she shook her head without looking away, “doomed to destruction. Happy is the one who repays what you have done to us.” She looked past his shoulder at the youngest woman of their party seeing something beyond and her voice suddenly became strange and unearthly, “Happy is the one who seizes your infants, and dashes them against the rocks.”

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A chill ran up Scar’s spine, but he would not be cowed by this defeated slave. He lifted a hand that brought her head around to meet his eyes. She didn’t even flinch as the fist sent her sprawling across the sand. He was on her in a moment, raining down blow after blow. She offered no resistance, no defense. Only when he snatched her garment, and with an angry tug, tore the woven fabric from her shoulder, did his companions drag him off her.

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His screaming obscenities rounded on the men. A larger soldier with a shadowed brow stepped forward. “She’s had enough.” And that was that. Scar glared angrily at Shadow while, one by one, the men turned and slunk off into the gathering dark. Finally Scar spat in the dust and spun to leave. Shadow looked from the women holding pots to the crumpled form of the haunting beauty on the ground, now bloodied and bruised, then turned to walk away. 

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The oldest woman was on her knees in a heartbeat, ordering the others to bring a pot of water. The liquid stained her lips before evaporating. “Oh Hannah,” she murmured. But even as she wished the broken woman before her could be silent, she knew that she could not. The words of the Lord burned in her as surely as any prophet. She comforted herself, knowing that, if God was speaking to Hannah, then He certainly saw their distress, heard their cries. Babylon was doomed to destruction.

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Two of the women hoisted Hannah between them, her feet dragging in the dust. They finally came to their cluster of tents. The youngest woman, who had not so long ago watched in horror with Hannah as soldiers had wrenched her nursing son from her arms laughing as they tossed him against a stone well, began to gently dab at the woman’s split lip and temple. Hannah had been bringing her food so she could keep her strength to feed her babe. Even in a famine when other mothers had been forced to do the unthinkable, her friend had shared precious grain. It was because of her that Hannah had been separated from her own family. The rag was quickly soiled and replaced with a clean one. The young woman gently continued to dab the wounds. 

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Hannah’s eyes fluttered beneath her closed lids. In a dream she had caught up her youngest daughter in her arms. The tiny beauty had her mother’s eyes, her father’s smile, and a skinned knee. Her sobbing soon subsided, but she nestled closer to her mother’s neck, sweaty head content to rest for just a moment.

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“Shhhh, Abby, you’re just fine.” 

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Abigail squirmed to peck a kiss on Hannah’s cheek before wriggling free and to run off again. Samuel, a serious boy of six and his brother, David, stepped aside as the little girl streaked across the room, interest piqued by the lamb on her brother’s shoulders. 

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“Ooh, can I pet him?”

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David let the lamb down. With a sudden kick, it leaped away darting across the room in terror. “Samuel, block the door!” Hannah shouted.

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David shot after the lamb that was now running in panicked circles around the room. Ducking and dodging the wiry arms of her eldest son the animal frantically searched for some escape. Abigail was shrieking with laughter and delight at the pandemonium that had overtaken their home. Hannah finally stepped in the way, forcing the lamb to jaunt left, right into David’s outstretched arms. She had buried her face in her hands, shaking her head. 

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“Mother, forgive me. I’m so sorry. He just got away from me,” He was taking in the mess that was the room where they dined: broken pots, overturned grain, upset bowls. 

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But her shoulders were already shaking with mirth. She began to chuckle, then laughed until tears were streaming down her face and she could barely breathe. 

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“What happened here?” 

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“Abba!” Three voices rang in unison as they all hurtled toward his arms, the lamb squirming desperately to get away from David’s determined grasp. 

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Hannah only shook her head and set about picking up the broken pieces of pottery, breathless and still laughing. “We learned an important lesson about animals in the house.”

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Her husband arched a stern eyebrow at David who looked down, chagrined. The sheep even paused its wiggling. “Put a rope on its neck. Outside,” he added as David hurried past him, capturing a stray hoof in his grip. 

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Caleb surveyed the damage then scooped up an overturned bowl in one hand, and Abigail in the other. The room was tidied in no time, the last grains of wheat painstakingly gathered into its pot. In the meantime their eldest daughter had returned with the water and put the finishing touches on supper. They reclined round bowls on the floor. The deep bass tones of Caleb’s voice spoke a prayer over their meal and then the children dived into the food with great gusto. The chatter around the feast was warm and delightful. Hannah silently sent a prayer of thanks to the God of Abraham for the richness of this moment.

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“Mama?” The voice of Abigail was small and far away. The smell of sweat and dust and blood stung her nostrils. “Mama!”

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Her eyes flickered open, then winced shut in pain. They flickered open again to behold the tiny figure of Abigail silhouetted against the outside firelight. A taller shadow loomed behind her. 

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“Samuel, she’s here! Come quickly!” David’s shadow seemed older. “Stay with her, I’ll get Abba.” Her eyes flickered shut. When they opened again, his shape was gone, but Samuel’s figure had replaced him and Abigail was crouching over her. 

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“Mama?” Her tiny face with mama’s eyes was fraught with uncertainty. “Did you get cut?” 

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“Yes,” Hannah croaked a reply. Then tears blurred her vision. Alive. They were alive. 

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The tiny arms of Abigail wrapped around her mother’s bruised neck. “Don’t cry, mama. I’m here now. You’re just fine,” she crooned just as her mother had always done. Samuel joined her, followed by her eldest who had appeared from she knew not where.

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A large dark shadow fell across the tent door. The older children stood back, Abigail dragged aside by her sister. His shape, his presence, was unmistakable. In a thousand years, she would know him anywhere. He had reared her children. He had fed and provided for them for over a decade, indeed many decades. Steadfast. Humble. Strong. Now he came toward her in steady, unwavering steps. 

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He knelt beside her. His calloused hands, encompassing all the gentleness and strength that she loved about him, tenderly cupped her cheek, her shoulder. She felt the anger in him as he surveyed her battered state. Through her swollen lids, she could tell they had brought a light into the tent. 

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“What have they done to you?” She did not miss the hot fury, mingled with sweet brokenness that mirrored her condition.

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“It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.” Finally she forced her eyes into open slits to peer at his face.

To continue the story, click here for Chapter 9.

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