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 15 here.

“Raphah, you are not to go to the water alone. Take your brother with you.” Caleb admonished, for what felt like the thousandth time. He was painfully aware of how beautiful his eldest daughter was, could not ignore how much like her mother she appeared. Anger turned his stomach at the thought that their captors would certainly see the green eyes and glossy black locks through predatory eyes. 

.

Raphah nodded obediently, catching up the pot and weaving away through the slowly rising sea of tents, followed by David, nearly as tall as she was now. Caleb watched them go even after they had disappeared from view, as though they would not be lost to him if he could just keep watch. Through sheer force of will, he made himself turn toward their own tent, more like a rag to be stretched over sticks now. Silently he gestured for his youngest son to secure one end of the rope. A moment later the rope gave way with a solid tug from Caleb that brought the whole thing collapsing in on itself. It was too much and he wheeled round on the boy snapping in frustration. Samuel’s eyes, far too haunted for a boy of barely seven, stared solemnly back. He did not flinch, and only a faint redness around the rims of his eyes betrayed the hurt he felt.

.

Caleb stared hard at the young man before him as if he was waiting. Inwardly he cringed. He was waiting for her to step in and gently turn her son back to the task at hand, taking the sting from his father’s reproach. Of course she would not. Could not. 

.

For the thousandth time on this God-forsaken journey across the desert, he replayed that day: the last time he had seen her. 

.

The glow on the horizon had harkened the near arrival of dawn. Hannah was dressed already, her hair tied back in a pale blue head scarf. She wrapped two small loaves of bread in linen before stuffing them into her dress. Food was scarce and that amount was worth killing to some. It was best not to tempt the starving citizens of their capital. The army beyond the walls had become a fixture in their lives, a constant, looming presence that cast a shadow over everything. The shadow had grown long as food stores dwindled and rumors whispered of desperate people resorting to more and more desperate measures. Leather–belts, shoes, whips–had begun to disappear as people sought nutrition from whatever source they could find. Others turned to the corpses of those who fell before them. Their own children were thinner, their cheeks sunken. A part of him regretted the bread she was taking now, but the part of him Hannah occupied was better. That part trusted the LORD to provide, believed that they must care for the least of these, until there was nothing left to give. 

.

To quell his frustration and apply sense to his pride, he repeated the reasons she was going and not he. His injured leg, a token of battle not long past, made him an easy target for any frenzied soul driven mad by hunger. She would be more unassuming, and quicker on her feet. The widow might be frightened of him and not let him in. He reached for her, kissed her soft lips, her forehead, held her slimming body to his a moment longer than normal. Then he stepped away to watch her go, stealing into the predawn shadows. Smuggling food to a nursing widow was precisely the sort of generosity he expected and loved in her, but he could not suppress the disquiet in his soul. 

.

Not an hour later, a great roar rippled across the Babylonian horde. They were charging the walls. Hannah had still not returned. 

.

Caleb looked at his son, bravely refusing to cry. “Samuel,” he breathed and knelt to fold the boy into his arms. His youngest daughter, who had eyed the exchange uneasily, was beside them in an instant, throwing her tiny, toddler arms around them both. Caleb brought her in with a gentle squeeze and blinked back the traitorous tears stinging at his eyes. Clearing his throat, he stood and spoke with a husky voice, “Let’s get this tent up, boy.”

.

“Abba?” 

.

Caleb looked down at the tiny girl with tangled curls framing her cherub face. “Yes?”

.

“Abba, can we look for Mama some more after supper? Please?” A foundless hope nearly oozed from her expression.

.

Caleb smiled hollowly, but nodded. “After supper, we can look, Abigail.”

.

Abby squealed and clapped her hands in excitement. She scampered off to play while they finished raising the tent. His eldest returned to finish a supper of the meager, weevil-filled rations doled out by their miserly captors. Their dinner conversation was subdued. It always was now. Their regular voices seemed too loud, as if they echoed across a great, gaping chasm. In a way they did. The emptiness that was Hannah’s absence was palpable, and they all felt it. So they spoke in hushed tones, in the murmurs of the defeated. 

.

Abby was nearly bouncing on her toes as they cleaned up the fire pit, as if she knew some secret they did not. Her impatience was barely contained, and, when Caleb finally instructed them to stay together, she had snatched David’s hand and practically dragged him away. Caleb followed at a distance, refusing to let them out of his sight. They ranged out in front of him speaking with other captives, looking in every tent. He greeted what familiar faces he saw, trying to encourage those who suffered, which was, effectively, all of them. Hannah would be disappointed if he let his grief overcome his generosity so he spoke kindly, prayed earnestly, mourned with them. He was engaged in soft conversation with an older couple whose sons had been killed in battle. He bowed his head to offer yet another anguished prayer when David’s breathless, frantic cries reached his ears. 

.

He felt as if a boulder had been dropped in his stomach. Caleb raised his head and looked around in dread. Had something happened to one of the others? The elation on David’s demeanor was unmistakable even before his churning legs carried him near enough to distinguish his shouts. 

.

“Abba! Abba!” He gulped air. Grabbing Caleb’s arm with a tug that did not actually produce motion, he breathed, “We found her.” He looked into the stony, uncomprehending face of his father and grinned, “She’s alive!”

.

Caleb ran on his son’s heels without even knowing where his feet fell, not feeling the painful injury that plagued him for hundreds of miles. Downcast heads raised at their passing but he scarcely noticed. He saw the tent ahead, its flaps pulled back to reveal the shapes of his children. Outside the drab construct stood the widow whom his wife had visited that day so long ago. 

.

“Is she…” his voice failed.

.

The widow’s eyes were gleaming with joy so out of place in the gloom of the encampment, and she nodded, unable to speak.

.

Caleb looked into the tent at the thin figure stretched out on a mat. He could not see her face; Abigail had her arms wrapped around the woman, crooning softly, “Shhhh. It’s okay, Mama. I’ve got you now.”

.

Raphah gently caught Abigail and dragged her back. They all stepped back to give him room. Without even realizing he had moved, he was kneeling beside her. He reached out his rough hands. They hovered on either side of her face. Angry red and purple stained her cheeks, her eyes. Her cheek was split and, despite diligent care and cleaning by the widow, was bleeding again. Her eyes were swollen, though she still managed to appear delicate and feminine. A lamp was brought into the tent, throwing her wounds into even sharper relief. Finally he closed the last gap between them, his fingertips framing her temples, the heels of his palms supporting her chin. He felt a tear seep from the corner of her eye, wetting his hand. He slid a hand down to her shoulder, rage rising in him. He was nearly shaking with fury, nearly weeping with joy.

.

Through clenched teeth, he spoke, “What have they done to you?” He could nearly feel the ache of her bruises on his own face.

.

A sweet, lopsided smile ghosted across her split, distended lip. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.” Painstakingly, he watched her force her swollen eyes open.

To continue reading Chapter 17, click here.

If you enjoyed this, wish to own a copy for your collection, and enjoy exclusive content, you can purchase the book here.

©2025 Noell, LLC