A Little Death by Anne Brooke

                                                                                                   

 The wind was warm from the west the day my husband was to come for me, and the sands of Paran shimmered and swirled to monstrous shapes in the sunlight. I had prepared myself for him, bathing in perfumed waters and eating only wild bees' honey and the flatbreads of our region, but even though I looked across the horizon until my eyes throbbed with pain, he did not come.

He was rich, a landowner with many possessions, his crops stretching as far as the mind could dream, from Carmel to Maon and beyond. The match was a good one but as an hour went by, then another, even my mother's smile began to fade. One or two of the slaves slipped out of sight to pursue more urgent tasks and I wondered why he delayed when so much of what I thought was my happiness rested on his arrival. If he did not come or if, with the privilege of his riches, he had chosen another, then my future would be one of poverty and a hurried marriage to take away the shame of rejection.

He had to come.

But all day the wind blew and the sound of it amongst our dwellings mocked the hopes of my heart. And still I smiled and talked and worked at my tapestries, as if nothing was wrong.

When at last he appeared, the sun was soothing the land with its last ochre rays and I was ready to believe the meaning of his name. Worthless one.

The swirl of dust heralded his arrival, framing the figures of his slaves cowering behind him. As he approached the courtyard where I still worked, I could see the horses were white with sweat, nostrils flared and flanks heaving.

And I waited.

I waited for the muffled sounds of hooves on dust to cease. I waited for the customary greeting which the breeze took to the drifting desert. I waited for the heavy tread of a man alighting after a long journey and the rhythm of his footsteps on bare ground.

When the shadow he cast over me overpowered the dying light, I at last stood up. Looking at his rounded, sweat-marked face, I realised the breadth of my parents' deceit.

Nabal bowed, "Greetings, fair Abigail. Your beauty is surpassed by none. It is … it is …" He paused as if searching for a word and frowned when he couldn't find it.

"… grown weary waiting for your arrival, my lord?" I finished his sentence with the freedom gained from my father's temporary absence.

Nabal stepped back and his face grew even redder, his rich robes and fine linens unable to conceal the lack of man underneath.

"Well, my wife, well. I …" he began.

But I never found out what he might have said as my father was beside me now, bowing and smiling.

"Welcome, great Nabal, to my house," he said. "I hope my daughter pleases you?"

---

That question did not need to be answered. For the deal between the worthless one and my father was forged on the anvil of lust on one side and greed on the other. Such bargains are unbreakable.

So, after just a few days, I left the only life I'd known and rode with my new husband across the pale and unforgiving desert. He made no effort to talk to me, a lack which I did not regret; I would find other friends in my strange new home. But the silence between us stretched like old wineskins and was only broken when the sand's texture altered as we rode from barren rocks to fertile pastures and farmland.

Despite myself, I gazed in wonder at such a rich land.

"Do you like what you see?" Nabal spoke, making me jump and face him at last.

I nodded.

"Good," he said, waving one fat, bejewelled hand at all the abundant fields and rivers, sheep and goats. "Because all you see is mine."

He laughed, almost unseating himself and making his slaves grin behind their hands. For his sake I blushed, but he did not notice.

"Yes," he went on. "All mine, in spite of that upstart from the north who dares to threaten me."

"My lord?"

"The renegade, David, betrayer of our great king, dares to think he can share what is mine. But he is wrong. We will deal with him, cunning though he is. Oh yes, Abigail, you need not fear. That traitor will bring no harm to you."

I had not thought he would, and was surprised that such outlaws were tolerated. If my father had known, perhaps he would not have allowed this marriage. But money conquers all, and now I had no choice but to follow Nabal to whatever lay ahead.

Soon the small town of Carmel could be seen surrounded by a shimmer of blue where the river flowed.

"I own all this too," Nabal boasted, his eyes as small and hard as pebbles in his puffed-up face. "All the houses are mine, all the buildings, even the people. They all owe their lives to me."

When I said nothing, he laughed, a cruel sound, and we rode on. Our arrival brought no shout of welcome onto the dusty streets, although here and there a child or a woman carrying water glanced at us and hurried away. This did not deter my husband who waved as if in the middle of a noisy crowd of well-wishers.

At last our entourage stopped outside the largest, most colourful house I had ever seen. Purple mosaics lined with gold leaf decorated every surface, almost blinding the eye with excess. I wanted to laugh out loud but something told me not to.

"Welcome, my love," Nabal said with a flourish of his hand. "Welcome to my home."

Dismounting, I ignored my husband's outstretched arm, averted my eyes and walked into his gold-spun dwelling. The hall was as large as two rooms, containing a long side table on which stood bowls and vases, red and purple and silver. Each one all but overflowed with rose petals and lavender, which filled the air with dreaming. Such richness gave an impression of warmth, but the fire was unlit and I shivered.

"Where are my servants? Come, come, what welcome is this to your returning lord?" Nabal strode past me, shouting and clapping his hands as if he could magic his household from his sudden anger.

And he did. From emptiness, the hall was filled with people, bringing with them the acrid smell of fear.

Nabal lashed out at the nearest man, missed and spun round, the back of his jewelled hand slapping the cheek of a young woman holding brushwood, drawing blood. Her black hair swung round her face and she gave a small cry, like a cat, before dropping her load. I caught a glimpse of a trembling mouth and wild, frightened eyes before she lowered her head. Something about her reminded me of home.

"Stop it, please," I clutched my husband's cloak. "It doesn't matter. We will soon be warm."

"And have my honour shamed in the eyes of my wife? No."

"But, my lord …"

"I have spoken. Do not gainsay me."

I took a step back and watched as Nabal shouted more directions at the terrified servants, spreading panic amongst them. The task of lighting the fire was done in twice the time it should have taken the cowering men and women if he had let them alone.

After they'd scurried out like foxes chased from the vineyard, I let the fire's warmth ease my chilled skin. As the young woman he'd struck earlier tried to creep away too, Nabal growled at her and snatched at her arm.

"You, Anna, will be beaten for your laziness," he said.

"No," I swung round to object but it was no use.

"My steward will see to it. Do you understand?"

The woman nodded, the oil lamp emphasising the streak of blood across her face. It would leave a scar.

Later that night, I heard her cries as I prepared myself for Nabal. Every whimper, every thud of birchwood striking soft flesh made me shudder. Why was this happening? Why was my husband so violent on such a night? I heard her cries in my heart as Nabal's cold skin quivered against mine, and shut my eyes against his groaning as it mingled with distant sobs of pain. I heard her cries again as Nabal slept beside me during the long and loveless night, and then at last in my brief, bitter dreams.

---

The sun woke me into a kaleidoscope of strangeness. I did not recognise the tapestries on the walls with their scenes of grape harvesting and revelry, or the smell of wine and spices hanging in the air. Then I remembered. Next to me, Nabal snored away his drunkenness, his fingers still clutching the flagon he'd drained last night before he slept. I wanted to be outside in the pure air, away from the memory of his cruelty. But first there was something I needed to do.

Slipping away from the bed, my body aching and slow, I half-stumbled and had to steady myself against the wooden frame. Nabal's snoring ceased and I held myself still, my heartbeat as loud as hill thunder. Would he wake now I was no longer beside him? I did not dare to draw breath. One moment went by, then another. Then he grunted, mumbling words I could not hear, moved his vast bulk across the bed, and the rhythmic snoring began again.

I gathered my cloak around me and padded out through the dark hall. The household was beginning to stir but outside I could see sheep and goats scattered over the nearby hills. Soon, I promised myself, I would explore these lands I was wife to, but now my more urgent task called me. I breathed in the scent of vines and lavender and then turned back and spoke to the first servant I recognised, the older man of the previous night.

"Tell me," I said, "Where is Anna?"

He took me to her, although he was trembling, and then vanished into darkness. She was lying in a room little more than a goat hovel next to the kitchen, her small form hardly making an impression on the mound of straw and weeds. When she saw me, she tried to rise, but cried out and I shook my head.

"No, please," I said and, crouching down, gasped at the welts on her shoulders. "I am sorry."

"It is nothing." Her voice was as gentle as a stream in summer, not as a servant's should be.

"No, it is bad. Let me help you."

"Please, you must not. I …"

"Hush, let me fetch water, bathe your wounds. This is not right."

When I turned, my exit was blocked by a vast shadow which swayed against the door-frame.

"What are you doing, woman?" Nabal spat out the words. "Why are you not at my side when I wake?"

Behind me, Anna whimpered, but I stood in front of her, shielding her from her tormentor.

"Finishing your good work, husband," I said. "Do you not think this servant needs to learn her duties better? So, with your blessing, she will be my special companion. I will teach her all you want her to know."

---

Nabal grumbled at my choice but in the end he did not refuse me. Perhaps he thought it was wiser to be tolerant of a new wife, or perhaps he saw benefit in the bargain. I did not know.

Neither did I care. Because a few days later, as soon as my husband's grumbles died away, I sent for Anna. She slipped into my chamber like an eager young dog and flung herself at my feet. With her came the scent of herbs, something bitter I was unable to name.

"Get up, Anna," I said, blushing at her enthusiasm. "You must not kneel to me."

"But I do not deserve your kindness."

Before I could reply, she broke into low, guttural sobs, holding her hand to her mouth as if to stop the sound escaping. Stooping down, I carried her to the nearest chair and waited.

"Do not say such things," I whispered, stroking her long, black hair. "Do not say them."

At last there were a few gulps and then silence.

I touched her arm.

"Tell me," I said. "What brought you to Nabal's house? Your voice does not belong here."

Sitting back, I watched her face as she began to talk, slowly at first and then with increasing confidence. She told me everything. Born into a well-off farming tribe, her family's life had been torn to nothing by the skirmishes between King Saul and the renegade David. Now both her parents were dead and she had fled south, hunger forcing her into service for my husband. Of course, such tales could be heard all over the land, and this had been so for years.

"Nabal told me David has been raiding his lands," I said. "Such men are troublesome."

"No." Anna's eyes glowed. "It is a lie. Lord David steals nothing. Saul's men spread lies and rumour, nothing more. But forgive me, I did not mean to offend."

Was Nabal one of Saul's men? If it were so, even then I could not find it in my heart to take offence at her words, so I laughed, "You do not offend me. A woman does not live or die by the beliefs of her husband. Though, bearing in mind my husband's temper, it might be best not to let him know it."

Anna's face became still and she twisted her hand from my grasp. "Yes, I have learnt that."

Something in her tone drew the laughter from me as salt draws a wound's poison. "What do you mean?"

But she shook her head and refused to speak so openly again.

---

So the early days of my married life were spent with my new companion rather than with my husband. In the weeks that followed and after I had chosen a better room for her, Anna and I would walk through the vineyards and sit together in the cedar's shade by the river at midday. We talked about our lives and our wishes, but our words would vanish into the water's flow, taking them far away on their journey to the sea.

We did not dream away all the time. I taught her my skills at tapestry and weaving, and for my husband's delight we created bright scenes of gold and crimson for his house. At the same time, she shared with me some of her skills with herbs, both in cooking and in bathing the skin so it was smooth to the touch. She told me that her mother's tribe had been nomads, well used to the healing and flavouring properties of plants.

My husband, of course, continued to strut and stride across his lands, sometimes taking me with him to admire his corn and sheep and pastures. And at nightfall, Anna would serve us dishes scented with mint and dill and cumin. Then, one night, after Nabal had left us, weary he said of coping with the destruction caused by David's men, I asked her a question I had not dared to ask before.

"Tell me, Anna, some herbs are not as good for the body as those you use, are they?"

Her skin grew pale and she touched the scar on her face. "No, mistress, not all plants are kind."

Of course I knew that for myself. There were plants you gathered and those you did not. But there was something in her voice that made me wonder.

"Have you ever taken herbs to do someone harm, my friend?"

She jumped up as if struck. "Please, please don't ask me, I cannot … I …"

And then she was gone, running through the hallway and out into the dark street as a young deer runs from the fox. I heard my husband cry out and leapt up to follow her just as Nabal strode into our dining area, his face lined with ill-temper.

"Abigail! That servant of yours almost knocked me over. What in Yahweh's name is going on? We cannot have such scenes in the house."

I did not say that such scenes were often caused by his frequent drunkenness; I had learnt to keep quiet or feel the strength of his rage. Instead I tried to slip past him in the doorway.

"Where do you think you're going, woman?" he grabbed my arm, rough fingernails digging into flesh.

"Please, husband, forgive me, but it is Anna. She is troubled, I must go to her."

"Anna, always Anna," Nabal spat the words out from foam-flecked lips. "When will you stop thinking of her and begin to think of me?"

With his free hand he hit me across my face and pushed me to the floor. There he kicked at my mouth and I felt my teeth crack, the taste of blood making me retch.

"It was a bad day when I gave that woman to you," he said. "And I will end it now. For you both."

With that he kicked me again until I cried out, and then he left, taking with him the scent of anger and wine. I heard the sound of his boots on the street outside and then silence. For a while I lay winded, feeling the bruises swell and darken my flesh. No-one came to help me. None were brave, or foolish, enough. When I felt able to, I struggled to a standing position, every movement sending jolts of crimson pain through my body.

What had he meant about ending it? What would he do? Would he hurt Anna again? I had to find her.

I limped outside, the cold air making me gasp.

"Anna," I shouted. "Anna?"

Silence.

Stumbling round the house, I wondered if she might be lying somewhere in the street, beaten and unconscious, but there was nothing. Where was she? My frantic search brought me to the nearest paddock, the one Nabal used for weaning the younger animals.

"Anna! Where are you?"

Then I heard it, a low moan on my left. I froze. Swinging round, the clouds over the moon must have drifted away for a moment because in a gully next to the fence I saw them as clearly as if it were day.

Nabal was straddling her, pinning her body down with his. Her thighs gleamed in moonlight and her teeth were gritted together, head thrown back as if stifling a scream. She was shaking with the rhythm of my husband's efforts and I wanted to run but could not.

As I stood, caught in time, Anna turned to look at me, her eyes blank. On her scarred cheek, I could see the glint of a tear.

---

Nabal came to my bed that night, his skin still bearing a hint of lavender. I did not turn away from him, though I shuddered with pain and kept my eyes shut. In the morning, I waited until he was gone and then eased on my thickest cloak and walked as tall as I could through the house.

Few servants were about and those who were lowered their heads at my approach or flitted like bats away from danger.

I stopped only when I was outside Anna's chamber. Hesitating for a moment, I stepped inside, saw her stretched out on the bed and went to her, holding her close and feeling the warmth of her breath on my cheek.

"Anna," I whispered, and she clung to me like a young lamb to its mother.

After a while I eased myself away from her and, holding her face with my hands, murmured, "This is not the first time Nabal has done this, is it?"

"No."

And then I understood it all.

That morning, we held each other and talked, easing the upward flight of the sun with honesty and love. The wind outside whirled the dust to a shimmering gold along the horizon, deepening the friendship between Anna and me and strengthening the rift with my husband.

Only when the light bathed our pastures and vineyards with dying glory, outlining Nabal's returning horses and men did I turn to her and tell her all my thought.

"We will kill him," I said. "We will kill him, using the plants you spoke of."

---

While my husband drunk himself into another fury that night, I sat in my chambers thinking. All the time I could hear Nabal's shouting, the thud of his boots as he tramped through the house, smashing all he could find, bowls, pots, even common utensils. I could not make out the sense of his words but was glad he did not send for me or question my lack of greeting. Even though I heard no cries of pain, I feared for Anna and all our servants, and trembled until silence at last quivered in the air.

Then I got up and crept through the rooms, picking up broken shards of pottery and ruined wool until I found her.

"What troubles that fool tonight?" I asked.

Her eyes glowed when she saw me, but her frown remained, "It is the lord David. Your husband says he has evidence of stealing, goats and sheep gone from his pastures to swell David's livestock, though I know it cannot be true. He insults David's messengers sent to greet Nabal in kindness and sends them away empty-handed with threats and cursing. Such an action must bring disaster on us all."

"Do not fear it. We have defences and troops enough to guard all our great possessions."

"Please, my lady," Anna clutched at my hand, her skin pale. "All the armies of Israel will not stand against David's might."

"Why not? Is this David so unconquerable?"

I began to laugh, but Anna's next words scattered my laughter to nothing.

"Lady Abigail, please, by the love we bear each other, believe what I say. David will win any battle he fights; Yahweh is with him. I beg you, you must leave this place. David will not rest until he has taken revenge for this shame."

---

Anna's appeal to my heart was enough and I made my decision. But it was not for flight, though now I wish it had been so.

I gathered what provisions I could find, giving thanks that Nabal was drunk enough to sleep through the household's secret preparations. Then taking only my friend and two of the other servants I set out on my journey. The night was cold and there was no moon, the one flare we took barely lighting our path. We must find the man David, I thought, and then … then, whatever happens, it will happen tonight.

Two hours passed, two long hours of searching and finding nothing but foxes and owls. I had almost despaired of the success of my recklessness when at last I heard it: the rumble of horses' hooves in numbers that signified no casual traveller. This was a warrior band.

"Stop," I said. "It is time."

Spurring on the donkey I had chosen to ride, I passed Anna who reached out for me. I shook my head once and her hand fell back. Then the horsemen were upon us.

Casting myself upon the ground like a slave, I cried out, "Great lord, forgive those who dare to insult your goodness. Forgive and do not add the blood of worthless men to your name. Surely Yahweh himself will punish all your enemies. He will hurl them away as a man hurls stones from his catapult. Here, lord, here are all the gifts you could desire; wine, roasted lamb, raisins, fig cakes and grain, together with the everlasting loyalty of your servant, Abigail, and all who belong to her."

Silence followed, broken only by the snorting of horses and the metallic clink of armour. I thought we would indeed die and that all my wild courage was useless. Then at last came a low voice, gentle but one accustomed to receiving obedience.

"Yahweh be praised," he said. "For he has kept me from taking my own revenge. I accept your gifts with gratitude, lady. And as for you and your companions …"

"Yes, lord?" Daring to raise my eyes to his, I saw in the flickering torchlight the shadow of his smile.

"Return to your homes. There will be no needless murder done by my hand this night."

So we left, Anna holding me safe as I rode because the trembling borne of the knowledge of what I had done would not leave me.

"We are safe, my mistress," she whispered, but I could not take in her words.

At home, the dawn was just beginning and the house was silent except for Nabal's drunken snores. Anna lit the way to my rooms and I longed for her to stay. But there was no time.

"Anna," I touched her arm.

"Mistress?"

"There is something else which, if it is to be done, must also be done now."

I saw her swallow. "Anything. I will do anything for you, Lady Abigail."

"Then listen," I said, closing my eyes to all but the echoes of my own will. "When he wakes after his drunken rage, my husband will feast well. When he does, let there be such cruel herbs in his food as will mean he will never feast again."

Anna gasped and I spoke quickly to allay her fears. "No suspicion will fall on us, my friend. It is simply Yahweh taking revenge on the insult to his chosen one. Do you understand?"

---

It was a slow dying. After Nabal had eaten the food from my hand for the last time, he lingered for ten days. I had thought it would be quicker, but it was not. So Anna and I lived through ten days of burgeoning hope and dancing delight. Each day my husband grew weaker and more emaciated and each day the love between Anna and me grew stronger. Such a love as he had never shown me. It was worth a little death.

When the moment came and Nabal took his longed-for journey to the place from where no-one returns, I held Anna in my arms, felt her warmth against my skin and the beating of our two hearts in rhythm. Now, I thought, there will be no end to our happiness.

I was wrong.

For soon the north wind brought rumours as quiet and as abrasive as dust into our house. At first I did not heed them, and just smiled at the echoes of the servants' eager talk as they blushed at my approach.

Then just a month after Nabal's death, Anna came to my room after we had finished the evening meal. I welcomed her with a hug but received no answering smile.

"Please," I said, "sit with me for a while, I would be glad of your company."

"Forgive me, but tonight I can bring you no joy. The news I have is not … is not …"

But she could go no further. Her whole body shook with sobs and all I could do once again was stroke her black hair and wait.

When at last there was silence, I wiped the last of her tears away, "Come, Anna, no news can be worth such a grieving. We are free. Nabal is dead and we have each other. Whatever it is, we are strong enough to face it."

"But, lady Abigail, it is David."

"David?" I laughed. "There is no threat there. He will not attack women and servants. I have no quarrel with him now. His reputation grows, of course, but …"

"People say he will be king soon. Yahweh himself kills all his enemies and ..."

"Such as Nabal? I am glad for it. Let David's power increase, blessed by our deeds, Anna. It can only protect us. Do you not see?"

"No, it will not. It will not."

"But, my friend …"

"No!" she shouted the word as if it were a spear to wound me and I flinched, unable to take my eyes from hers. "Because David's power is great and nothing can stand against him. And now … now …"

"What?"

"Now he has seen your beauty. Now he has chosen you to be his wife."

---

I can see the sense in it, Yahweh help me, but I can. For if David takes Nabal's death as a sign of his blessing, then what better to crown his success than by taking the dead man's wife? With the love of the people and the lands which had been my husband's, how can David lose if he should desire to rule over us all? And no-one doubts he will, one day.

Nothing I can do will stop his onward advance. He comes for me and I wait for him, all cunning destroyed. He comes for me; his servants have already entered the borders of our town, bearing gifts of sweet wine and gold cloth, offerings fit for a wedding. I have sent Anna away where she will be safe, for I cannot bear the sight of her beloved face and the grief etched on her skin, echoing my own.

I wait for him. All my reckless daring vanishes in the power of the sun and I wait for him.

Let him come now.

Let him come.