If You Dare Enough
Namah watched a spider weave its web in the corner of her home while the sun set in crimson and gold. A conviction that she would never see such a sight again spread through her.
After an uneventful night’s sleep, she stood in the doorway and watched the morning’s sunrise, feeling mildly surprised that she had lived to see a new day. She glanced in the corner. The spider was nowhere in sight, but the web sparkled in a shaft of a sunbeam.
She stepped outside and began her morning routine. Pouring water from a large basin, she washed her hands and face and then stirred the outdoor fire and added kindling to the pink-centered coals, drawing life from the gray heap.
After a simple breakfast of mixed grains and goat’s milk, she called next door for her daughter, Gizah, to attend her. Living with her sister, Bethal, and her brother, Bararam, Gizah fit herself to the role of servant to all. She hurried to her mother with a beaming smile and clasped her hand. “Morning!”
Namah’s heart clenched and then expanded as she smiled back. Squeezing her child’s hand, she peered into the young woman’s laughing eyes. “You are the treasure of the family, child.”
Gizah giggled. “Treasure that some lucky man is just waiting to possess, no doubt!”
“No doubt, indeed. Your line will prosper like no other. I’ve seen it in my mind’s eye.” A return of foreboding clutched at Namah’s chest. “Tell your sister and brother I want to see them. I have things to give them before I go.”
All hint of laughter fled from Gizah’s face. “Why? Where are you going?”
“Not for me to say or you to know just yet. Do as I say, girl. Tell them to come before sunset, or it’ll be too late.”
A frown flittering over her face, Gizah turned and entered her sister’s home.
Namah returned to her own home and poked among the shelves. She found a clay pot with an intricate design fashioned along the sides. She laid it aside and then tugged at her finest cloak until it fell free from a high hook and landed softly in her hands. Caressing the fine fibers, she eyed the bright colors and detailed edging that made it one of the finest wraps in the whole village. She had made it for Aram. He had told her to keep it for her burial.
Shaking her head, she mumbled under her breath, “And you were buried in nothing but your tunic and that old wrap with the torn edging.” She sniffed and chuckled. “I wanted to disobey you, but I didn’t. I loved you that much.”
Rubbing her back, she rifled through her possessions again, fingering toys for the children—and grandchildren—she hoped. She set certain objects to the left and others to the right and only two lay on the ground before her feet.
When the sun had risen to its peak, Bethal and Bararam appeared in her doorway.
Namah beckoned them forward, her gaze darting to Gizah, who shuffled in behind them. Stepping back, she opened her arms to the objects laid before them. “Today you must take what I give you so there will be no confusion after I’m gone.”
Tall and muscled with a head of rich black hair, Bararam towered above the women, but his surprised grin hinted at his mischievous side. “Where are you going, mother, that you offer us such gifts?”
“I go where you cannot follow…at least not yet.” She pointed to the pile on the left. “These are for you two and your families when you have them.”
Bethal gasped and knelt before a decorated pot, a pile of colored beads, and a sharp knife. Picking up the child’s toy, she caressed it in her fingers. “I remember this. It was my favorite.” She glanced up. “Why give us these now? Why not wait until I’m married and settled?”
“I may not be here then. And I want you to know…I offer these with all my love.” She nodded to the right. “And you, Gizah, will take this house and these other things: the pillow, the blanket, and my best rope for your own.”
Opening her mouth but unable to speak, Gizah stepped toward her mother and stopped suddenly at the middle pile. Her eyes widened as she stared at the fine cloak and the carved figure of a man.
Namah lifted the cloak and the wooden figure and pressed them into Gizah’s hands. “Wrap me in this, as was your father’s wish, and lay Tobia’s gift in my hands when you bury my body.” A smile quivered on her lips. “I know well enough that it is not my husband but only a likeness of his figure. But Tobia comforted me during my loss, and I want to comfort him. We will always be together like good friends.”
Voices rose across the village, and mothers called little ones to supper.
Bethal glanced at her brother.
Bararam gathered the objects in his arms and shook his head. “There’s no hurry. You’ll live many long years yet. But we’ll keep them safe in our house—until you wish them back again.”
Namah raised her eyebrows in command to her youngest daughter.
In shy obedience, Gizah bundled her gifts in her arms and followed her sister to the doorway.
Stopping on the threshold, Namah called after them. “Remember, the greatest treasure I have given you—is each other.”
Namah watched them pace to their home next-door and returned to her own abode. Fixing a light supper, she sat outside and enjoyed a cool breeze that rose with the night. A distant bird warbled and two owls hooted back and forth as in their usual evening conversation.
Memories of her first journey to the lake made her gaze shift over the water. Twinkling lights flickered in the last sunbeams as they slanted across the rippling surface.
When her chest tightened, as it usually did at night, Namah pulled herself to her feet and dragged herself to her bed. Laying her weary head on her pillow, she remembered Aram’s face, Barak’s stern countenance, Irad’s last words, her fall from the cliff, meeting Jonas for the first time, her daughters’ births, her son’s laughter, Aram’s hand clasping her own, and her trust in the unseen God. She closed her eyes and sighed in contentment.
Gizah tiptoed into her mother’s house with a bundle in her arms. She laid it aside and knelt at the bedside. She clasped the old woman’s cold hands and pressed them to her cheek. Then she kissed the gnarled fingers and held them against her breast. “Best of mothers, I will miss you forever.”
Namah did not stir.
Bowing her head, Gizah reached back and tugged the cloak free. She unfolded the cloth and laid it gently over her mother’s body. Then she reached deep into a pocket of her tunic and drew forth the wooden figure. She kissed it and laid it on her mother’s breast.
Barak exhaled a long breath and wrapped his arm around his wife as they lay in bed.
Milkan rolled onto her side and peered into Barak’s eyes. “You miss her so very much?”
“I miss many people.”
Milkan snuggled closer, drawing the blanket over her shoulders. “I wonder…is she with Aram now?”
His eyes widening, Barak stared at the thatched ceiling. “I don’t know.”
Milkan laid her head on his chest. “I wonder which of us will die first.”
Spluttering, Barak coughed. “I can’t say.”
“Well, anyway, I’m glad I knew Aram and Namah, and I’ll always miss them, but I can never be too sad when you’re with me.”
As if grief had been shoved to the side, Barak’s heart stirred with overwhelming love. Warmth spread through his body. He wrapped his wife in his arms. “I am blessed among men.” He leaned down to kiss her.
A baby cried out and an older child whined, “Mama!”
With a low groan, Milkan threw the blanket aside, heaved a deep breath, and rose to her feet.
Barak watched her, his heart swelling.
Milkan turned back and laughed. “You’re much too comfortable!”
“I will be—as soon as you return to bed.”
The cry rose a decibel to a high-pitched shriek.
Milkan stumbled away.
The crying stopped abruptly.
Milkan plodded back to bed and plunked the baby on Barak’s chest.
A whimper broke the still air.
Milkan paced away and returned with a whimpering little boy. She tucked the child under Barak’s arm, swung the baby to her chest, and lay down in bed, nudging Barak over a bit. She glanced at him. “Comfortable?”
“Not in the least.”
Milkan stared and opened her mouth.
Barak leaned over and kissed her. “But happy nonetheless.”
Jonas watched Onia saunter out of the village with a heavy bag slung over his shoulder, and her heart soared. No anxiety tugged at her heart as he wandered away to trade among their neighboring clans. He was so well-liked and trusted that Obed said he could trade a sunbeam for a loaf of bread. Jonas didn’t doubt it.
Laughter turned her attention. Mari helped one of Ishtar’s men string the day’s catch of fish on the line. The girl was always laughing—too spirited for her own good. Jonas shrugged. She had her father’s nature.
Her gaze wandered to the edge of the village, to where her first husband’s grave had melted into the earth and could only be seen by the mound of stones on top. “You are not there, love.” She placed her hand on her heart. “You’re right here.”
An arm slid around Jonas’ middle, and she shivered. She peered into Obed’s alert, sober eyes.
Obed glanced from the grave to Onia. “He’s off again?”
Jonas nodded. “He’s taking some of Tobia’s carvings this time. Said there’s a growing market for such things.”
With his shepherd’s staff clutched one hand, Obed led Jonas toward the shady side of their house. “Sit and rest a moment. You rose before the sun.”
Jonas perched on the edge of a bench. “Only to catch up with you.”
His gaze traveled around their neat and prosperous village, Obed sighed as Tobia strode toward him with Kamila walking at his side. “I’m glad that Tobia’s settled into married life and started carving again. He seems too old for one so young.”
Tobia stopped before his mother and nodded respectfully. Kamila did the same but with a smile spreading across her face.
Obed scrunched his brows together. “Where’s that figure of Caleb you made? I want Jonas to see it.”
Tobia shrugged. “I gave it to Ishtar.”
“Oh.” Disappointment washed over Obed’s face as he leaned on his staff.
Her heart bursting with joy, Jonas clasped Obed’s hand. “But I did see it. Ishtar carries it everywhere, and he showed it to Eoban. Eoban told me about it, and when I saw Ishtar, I asked about it.” Pride swelled in Jonas as she nodded at her son. “It’s your finest work yet.”
Obed glanced from his wife to Tobia. “I never saw a man change as much as Ishtar. I thought that once evil had hold, there was no turning back.”
A hot flush worked up Jonas’s cheeks.
Obed pressed her hand playfully. “But I’ve learned.”
Jonas peered into her husband’s eyes. “What have you learned?”
Obed gripped his shepherd’s staff and looked to the hills. “If you dare enough—there’s always hope.”
Lud paced silently through the wheat field, slicing weeds at their roots. As sweat poured down his face, he straightened, wiped his brow, and glanced at Dinah and the children working in their garden patch. He smiled.
The sun blazed with mid-day strength. Thirst stung his throat. Time to go home and rest. Swinging his hoe over his shoulder, he started down the incline.
A flock of birds sailed before him, twisting and turning, and then fluttering high into the sky.
Lud shook his head. The vision of Pele’s face as she peered at the wide blue expanse flashed before his eyes. He never could see what she saw. He stopped and wiped his brow again. He didn’t have to. He had seen her, and that was enough.
Gilbreth called, Dinah grinned, and Lud’s heart soared like the birds.
Eoban perched on the edge of a log as a full moon floated overhead, shrouded in wispy clouds. A fresh breeze rustled the high branches of distant trees. Lud and Gilbreth sat cross-legged on each side, while Deli dangled on his left knee, and Ham nestled contentedly in the crook of his arm.
Dinah bustled before the fire, preparing a dinner of spiced rice and rabbit with vegetables and fresh bread.
Eoban’s mouth watered.
Gilbreth glanced over. “Any stories to tell, Eoban?”
Shifting to keep his blood in circulation, Eoban met the challenge. “Well, once on a night very much like this one, there was a boy about as big as Gilbreth there, named Kilbreth.”
Deli gasped and turned wide-eyes on her brother.
Eoban patted her arm reassuringly. “Yes, similar names. Hadn’t realized. Anyway, this boy was brave and strong, but no one knew it because he never left his parents’ sides. He pined to see the world, so he left home and traveled far and wide. Time passed quickly—as it does in stories—and after many years, Kilbreth returned home much bigger and swaggering with a bounty of knowledge. The whole village welcomed him with a grand feast.”
Deli wiggled. “Like we’re going to have?”
Eoban nodded and pressed on. “But tragically, he’d forgotten everyone. His mother and father tried to pretend it wasn’t so, but he called everyone by the wrong name and, worst of all, he spent the whole night telling his family about all the fine people he met, and he never once asked about his own clan.”
Ham yawned, and Deli kicked her legs.
Lud shook his head in definite admonishment. “Foolish boy.”
Gilbreth peered through the darkness. “What happened to him?
Eoban straightened up. “Well…one dark night, he fell into a hole. He called and screamed, but no one came—remember—he had forgotten all their names.”
Deli smacked her hand against her cheek. “Uh-oh.”
Eoban shifted. “Right. Eventually, his father heard him, got the neighbors, and they hauled him out.”
Gilbreth’s eyes twinkled in the firelight. “Did Kilbreth learn his lesson?”
Eoban laid Deli in her brother’s arm and scooted Ham to the ground. “From then on, Kilbreth traveled the world, telling everyone about his own marvelous clan—and he called them each by name.”
Dinah raised her head and smiled. “Supper is ready.”
Shuffling to his feet and rubbing his back, Eoban glanced at Gilbreth. “Thank the stars above. I’m about worn out. Now let’s do justice to your mother’s cooking. There’s no one who can make a feast as well as she.”
Dinah waved Eoban along. “Come eat then.”
As they crossed the threshold, Lud chuckled. “And no one tells a tale like Eoban!”
As he stepped inside, Eoban grinned. “And later, we’ll all sing!”
Ishtar stripped to the waist and wrapped a cloth tightly around his head, holding his hair away from his face.
In the pre-dawn light, a fire blazed before him with a tripod fixed over the flames. Nearby, perched on a flat rock, sat bowls filled with different colored substances. A cauldron hung from the center of the tripod.
Working methodically, Ishtar sifted the ingredients and poured a little of each into the pot. After it melted, he tugged a mold into place and poured the mixture into it. Then he added another substance, waited for it to melt, and poured the thick liquid into a second mold. After he had several molds lined up beside the fire pit, he sat back and wiped his forehead.
The sounds of the waking village drew his gaze. Two of his men passed and nodded. He nodded back.
When the first mold cooled, he took a hammer and knocked the frame away. Then he peered at the metal piece narrowly, looking for tiny bubbles and weak spots. Satisfied, he laid it on the flat rock and hammered it until it fell apart. He gathered up the pieces and threw them back into the cauldron. As he reached for one of the bowls, Amin shuffled by.
Ishtar sucked in his breath. “Amin, come and help me a moment.”
With his head down and his shoulders drooping, Amin took the necessary steps and halted before Ishtar. “Yes?”
“Help me sift the ore. I’m trying different kinds and amounts…your sharp eyes would—”
“I’m not a metal worker, Father.”
“You could be.”
“I don’t care to be.”
“What do you care to be?”
Amin shifted from one foot to another and glanced aside.
Concerned, Ishtar stood and motioned his son to the fire pit. “Sit with me and watch awhile. You might find it interesting.”
“I won’t find metal work interesting any more than I found trading and traveling interesting.”
Ishtar’s jaw clenched. “Why are you still angry at me?” He swallowed hard and blinked as he stared at the glowing horizon. “He was my son as well as your brother.”
“You’ve found other things to interest you. I’m not so easily amused.”
With a swift motion, Ishtar swept up a handful of the dirty ore. “Do you see this?”
Stiff and unyielding, Amin merely raised an eyebrow.
“It’s what the Creator gives us to work with. Dirt. And with this dirt” —Ishtar snatched up a metal tray behind him and held it out— “we can make beautiful things.” He tossed the dirt and tray aside. “But it’ll never happen without a willing mind and a dedicated heart to shape it.” He peered into Amin’s eyes. “The tray is worth nothing if no one cares for beauty.”
Amin spat his words. “Caleb was worth more than a tray!”
Ishtar leaned in. “But Caleb would’ve seen the beauty and cared.” Ishtar waved a broken piece of metal before Amin’s face. “Impurities must be driven out by fire and hammer.” He turned and peered at the mountains “Like ore, we are shaped by things that burn and beat us, and we think we’ll never recover. But in the end, we’re transformed.”
Amin closed his eyes, his lips trembling. After a moment, he met Ishtar’s gaze. “Without Caleb, I feel so…dead.”
Ishtar gripped Amin’s shoulder. “Hold on—even in the depths of despair. Only then can true faith be born.” Wrapping his arm around his son, Ishtar turned the boy from the mountains and the fire. Together, they faced the rising sun.
“Time heals some wounds, but love heals them all.” ~
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