Rachel and Leah (Women of Genesis) Read online

  But it meant the opposite to Bilhah, for now she, having been recognized as Noam’s “daughter,” was responsible for his debt to Laban.

  She prostrated herself before him and wept the most sincere and bitter tears of her life, for now at last she truly was alone, and at the mercy of strangers.

  “I know that I owe the value of my cousin’s servitude,” she said. “But I’m small and weak and have no money, either, and I don’t know how to do any of the work of this camp.”

  “Your cousin Noam is a thief,” said Laban mildly. “And I don’t hold a child responsible for the debts of the man who robbed her. You are a free girl; I won’t take you as a slave to pay for a slave’s debt.”

  “Then where will I go?” she said, weeping and hiccuping because truly her life was without hope now.

  “You will go nowhere,” said Laban. “I will be your cousin now.”

  Oh, it was a fine moment, as her heart leapt within her to hear such a gracious saying.

  But within a few months, it was as if the words had never been said. She did not think that Laban ever decided not to honor his word. She supposed that he meant them at the time, but they had come too easily to his lips to last for long in his memory. Soon she was just one of the servant girls in Padan-aram, and if she got special treatment now and then, she knew it was more because she was pretty like her mother had been than because Laban remembered that she alone of the girls in her little stone house was free.

  The end of my father’s life was the end of my freedom after all, she thought, then and many times afterward.

  And as years went by, when the pain of Noam’s betrayal and Laban’s forgetfulness had worn away, the thing that stung her most was her own ungrateful heart. For she remembered Cousin Noam’s name, though he had robbed her and left her to take his place in servitude. But the name of Papa’s friend, the harness maker who had refused to take even the flakes of dust that clung to the cloth, his name was lost in the darkness of memory, and though twice she had dreams in which she thought she remembered it, the name always slipped away upon waking.

  CHAPTER 2

  At first Bilhah was trained like any of the other girls. Learning to water the animals, to card wool, to gather dung for drying and burning, to hoe the garden and tell weeds from food, to sew, to cook, to wash whatever needed washing, and above all, to keep the distaff ever spinning in her hand.

  It was weary work, and none of it drew upon her mind the way her father’s work had, with the need to learn the fine gradations of color, what was a match and what was not, and how to imagine a shape to continue a line. Nor was she called upon to remember clients’ names and all the things they asked for, or where they lived, or which shops provided the goods that were needed, and which shopkeepers were prone to try to cheat her when she came alone. Her mind was still full of all this information, which made her work here in Laban’s household seem tedious and empty.

  But the other girls thought that the things she knew from Byblos were useless. They asked about the city at first, hoping for tales of marvels and wonders from the sea. At first Bilhah was shy to talk about it, because the city brought back memories that made her cry. After a few weeks, though, she ventured a few comments about how things were in Byblos—only now the other girls weren’t interested, and it wasn’t long before one of the older ones said, “You’re not in Byblos any more, so shut up about it.”

  The truth was that the things Bilhah knew from Byblos were useless here, and it wasn’t many months before she found that she could remember the streets of the city only in her dreams, and then they never led where they were supposed to, and in her dreams she could never find anything, or if she did, the wrong people were there, or they didn’t have what she needed in the dream, and more than once she woke up in tears, thinking, It’s not my city, this isn’t where I live. In the dream she was thinking it was Byblos, only changed; but when she woke, the words she found herself murmuring meant something else: that this sprawling camp in the grassy hills of Padan-aram was not her city, was not a place where she belonged at all.

  And it was true. She did not belong. Oh, the tasks that took mere manual dexterity she mastered well enough. Spinning thread might drive her half mad, doing it hour after hour, but her work was as good as anyone’s after a very short time. And she could clean and sew and cook as well as the other girls her age.

  But the animals were impossible. She didn’t have the feel for it, even with the small ones. She saw the other girls cuddle with lambs and frolic with kids, and watched the little boys roll and play with the dogs of the camp. But when she came near even the most docile animal, the stink offended her and made her want to shy away, and when the animal moved she leapt back instinctively.

  She heard one of the old women say to another, “It’s because her father was crushed by a donkey,” and maybe there was something to that. She hadn’t been afraid of the donkey she had ridden all the way here, but that was because she was on top of it; when she was down among the animals’ feet, then it was true, their stamping and shuffling in the dirt made her uneasy. And maybe to her the smell of animals was the smell of death, because it had been so strongly in her nostrils as she breathed along with her father’s last labored breaths.

  What difference did it make, though, why she didn’t like being with the animals? This was a herdkeeper’s household, and everyone had to help with animals all the time.

  Everyone, that is, except Laban’s oldest daughter, Leah. But that wasn’t because she was shy of them. She’d hug a lamb like any of the servant girls, and there were a couple of dogs that everyone regarded as hers, because they ate from her hand and when she went out in the camp, they trotted along with her, sometimes running ahead, but always returning, as if she were queen and they were her guards and servants.

  Leah didn’t have to help with the animals like everyone else because she was tender-eyed. In bright sunlight she squinted, even though she wore a fine black cloth over her face to fend off the worst of the dazzle. And she couldn’t see anything at all that was far off. Bilhah had noticed it almost at once, because when she first encountered Leah, she walked right up to Bilhah and peered at her closely, her face only inches away, her head moving up and down as if she could see no more than a palm-size patch of Bilhah at a time.

  But Leah was not blind. Bilhah had made the mistake of calling her “the blind girl” to one of the older servant women, and to Bilhah’s shock, the woman slapped her, and not lightly, either. “The lady Leah is not blind,” the woman said harshly. “Her eyes are tender, and this causes her great danger, for she cannot see things that might be approaching from far away. But she can see well enough to know who she’s talking to, and to go wherever she wants in the camp, and to tend the garden. And she can hear words that are uttered half the camp away, including the words of stupid servant girls who call her blind, which makes her cry. And only the worst sort of person would ever make Leah cry.”

  The woman’s lecture did the job—and to avoid the chance of giving offense to Leah, who could apparently hear like the gods, Bilhah didn’t mention Leah at all after that, to anyone. She also avoided her, because it was so strange to know that Leah could see her and not see her at the same time. Once, though, when Bilhah was alone out at the women’s private booth, she tied a scarf across her eyes and tried to do everything just by the feel of it. She found she made a tangle of her clothing and kept fearing that she’d step in something awful and after only a few minutes she took off the scarf and looked around gratefully and vowed never to be envious of Leah, even if she was the daughter of Lord Laban, and a lady.

  Big as the camp was, however, there was no way to avoid someone forever, and on a particular day in the rainy season, almost half a year after Bilhah arrived, she was in the garden plucking beans when Leah started up another row, pulling weeds from the pepper plants.

  Even though she wore her veil and was far at the other side of the field, Leah waved to her. “I know you,” she said. “
You’re the mysterious cousin.”

  Cousin? Not Leah’s cousin. And there was nothing mysterious about Bilhah.

  “Noam used to talk about how his cousin was a great artist in colored tiles,” said Leah loudly.

  Bilhah did not know what to say to this, especially with Leah shouting it over such a distance. Well, not shouting, really, but her voice was pitched so that it carried, and Bilhah was sure that she could not answer without her words being heard all over the Padan-aram.

  “It’s all right that you don’t want to talk about it,” said Leah. Then she rose up and walked down the row until she was parallel with Bilhah, and only a few steps away. “I can weed beside you as easily as I can weed across the field from you.”

  “Yes, Lady,” said Bilhah.

  “Please call me Leah.”

  “I’m Bilhah.”

  “I know,” said Leah. “And you’re a free girl, not a servant.”

  “I can’t tell that it makes any difference,” said Bilhah. “Without money, there’s no freedom anyway.”

  “God will punish Noam for what he did,” said Leah matter-of-factly. “So you don’t have to worry about that.”

  “I don’t care about punishing him,” said Bilhah. “I just wish I had my papa’s money back. He didn’t save it all those years to give it to Uncle No.”

  “Well, if it’s any comfort, you can be sure that Uncle No doesn’t have it any more, either,” said Leah. “The reason he had to sell himself to my father was because he’s the worst gambler who ever lived, and what he doesn’t lose at gaming he gives to bad women.” Then Leah giggled. “I’ve never met a bad woman, so I don’t know why men give them money.”

  “I saw a lot of them,” said Bilhah. “They paint their faces and call out rudely to farmers and travelers.”

  “What do they say?” asked Leah.

  Bilhah blushed and said nothing.

  “You’re blushing,” said Leah.

  “I thought you couldn’t see,” Bilhah blurted. And then, mortified, she said, “I’m sorry, Lady.”

  “I can’t see very well,” said Leah. “But I know that when people blush, they hold still and sort of dip their heads in a certain way, and you did that, even though you’re plucking beans.”

  “So you didn’t see me blush,” said Bilhah.

  “I see more than I see, if you know what I mean,” said Leah. “Most people don’t see the things I see, because they don’t have to. And call me Leah, please.”

  “Nobody calls you by name, Lady,” said Bilhah.

  “I know, and that’s why I wish you would.”

  “But if one of the older women hears me, she’ll slap my face, and if one of the girls hears me, she’ll tell.”

  “Then call me Leah when nobody else can hear.”

  “Yes, Lady.”

  Leah giggled. Bilhah realized that Leah’s giggle was more about embarrassment or frustration than about amusement. So she decided not to be offended, because Leah wasn’t actually laughing at her.

  “I came out here to see if I would like you,” said Leah, “and I do.”

  “Thank you … Leah.”

  “Because I was talking to Father and I said, If the tilesetter’s daughter can’t work with the animals, then let me have her, and he said, Be sure you like her well enough to have her with you day after day.”

  Bilhah had nothing to say. The whole idea of this girl saying to her father, “Let me have her,” as if Bilhah were a puppy or a lamb—no one would have spoken of her that way in Byblos. And even here, that’s how they talked about servants, not about free women. So even though Leah remembered that Bilhah was free, she still thought of her as someone she could ask her father for.

  “You don’t want to stay with me,” said Leah.

  “I didn’t say anything,” said Bilhah.

  “I know,” said Leah. “You caught your breath and held very still, and now your heart is beating fast and I think you’re angry with me, but I don’t know why.”

  “I’m not angry, Mistress,” said Bilhah.

  “I’m not your mistress,” said Leah. “You’re free.”

  “But you can ask your father to let you ‘have’ me.” The words escaped before she could stop them.

  Leah was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think. I meant only that I need help, and since you aren’t good with animals, you’d be the best choice to help me, since I can’t work with them either.”

  “What do you need help with?” asked Bilhah.

  “My eyes aren’t getting better. It hurts to read. If you could read aloud to me.”

  Bilhah laughed. “I can’t read,” she said.

  “But I thought you kept the counts for your father.”

  “I kept them, yes,” said Bilhah. “In my head. It’s not as if we had all that many customers.”

  “Well, then,” said Leah, “we’ll begin with me teaching you how to read.”

  “But that’s for priests and priestesses, and scribes in the market,” said Bilhah.

  “And it’s for the girl who stays beside me all the time, reading for me, and being my helper for any task that needs good eyes.”

  “If that’s what Lord Laban wants me to do,” said Bilhah, “then I’ll do it, because I want to earn my place here, and it’s shameful that I can’t help with the animals as the other girls do.”

  “Everyone knows you’re not lazy,” said Leah. “You can’t help it that you never feel sure around the beasts. They do keep moving and when they step on you, it isn’t funny.”

  “I’ll work hard at learning to read,” said Bilhah.

  “I want you to learn very quickly, because it’s almost time for my sister to come home.”

  “Your sister?”

  “Rachel,” said Leah with a sigh.

  “I didn’t know you had a sister.” But then Bilhah realized that she did know, without realizing it. Because there had been comments one time about how beautiful Laban’s daughter was. Leah didn’t seem particularly beautiful to Bilhah, but she had assumed that was just the way people talked about the daughter of the lord of Padan-aram. But if there was a sister, then …

  “Oh, she must be the beautiful one,” said Bilhah.

  And now, because it had been pointed out to her, Bilhah noticed how Leah didn’t just blush, she also froze and her head sank down a bit into her shoulders.

  “Not that you aren’t pretty,” said Bilhah.

  “Oh, Bilhah,” said Leah. “That’s what everyone always says. ‘Not that you aren’t pretty.’”

  “You are pretty,” said Bilhah. “You have a nice face. And you smile very sweetly, and your teeth are good.”

  “But Rachel is beautiful,” said Leah.

  “I don’t know,” said Bilhah. “I heard them talking one time about how beautiful Laban’s daughter was, and it was only when you mentioned having a sister that I realized …”

  She realized there was no good way to finish that sentence.

  “You only heard about my sister and you knew that I couldn’t possibly be the beautiful one.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Bilhah. “I keep giving offense but I don’t mean to. I just …”

  “You just can’t help seeing what you see.”

  “It’s your eyes,” said Bilhah. “You squint when the veil is off, and even when it’s on, you cock your head oddly to see, and you lean in close to look, and it doesn’t make you pretty, it makes you …”

  “Strange,” said Leah.

  “Tender-eyed,” said Bilhah.

  “And my nose is too big,” said Leah.

  “No it’s not,” said Bilhah.

  “Everyone always talks about how perfect and tiny Rachel’s nose is. And when they praise something about Rachel, they always mean ‘compared to Leah.’ So my nose must be big or misshapen. Or both.”

  “Your nose isn’t unusually big,” said Bilhah. “I mean, nobody would stand you on your head to catch rain with it.”

  “Tell me the truth,” sai
d Leah.

  “You look like your father,” said Bilhah. “He’s a handsome man. And you’re a handsome girl. And he has a nose that is as strong as his face.”

  Leah covered her face with her hands. “Oh why did God have to make me so ugly!”

  “I swear, Lady, you aren’t. You really are pretty, and strong, and good, and you can’t help it that you have to squint.”

  “You’re the first person who ever admitted to me that my nose was big.”

  “I didn’t!” cried Bilhah. “I said it was strong.”

  “You said I looked like my father and he has a beak.”

  “It doesn’t hook under his chin, if that’s what you mean!” said Bilhah. “And yours isn’t as big as his. Yours is proportioned to your face. Noses aren’t beautiful on anybody. They always stick out in front no matter what you do. Oh, Lady, I didn’t mean to make you unhappy.”

  “I know. I told you to tell the truth.”

  “But I always say things too …”

  “Clearly.”

  “Rudely,” said Bilhah. “I’m too blunt.”

  “Blunt as my nose,” said Leah.

  “I like your nose,” said Bilhah. “It’s the same size as mine, and I think I’m as cute as can be.”

  “Well, you aren’t, you know,” said Leah.

  “My papa always said so, and so did his customers and the shopkeepers.”

  “But not recently,” said Leah.

  “So now you’re getting even with me for what I said to you.”

  Leah laughed—only it wasn’t that nervous giggle this time. “No, I’m just telling the truth! Because that’s how it is with all of us. When we’re little, we’re all as cute as can be. Especially if we talk very well and we’re clever beyond our years when we’re still small. Oh, you’re the cutest little girl! Oh, aren’t you the smartest little child!”

  It was a perfect imitation of the way older people had always talked to Bilhah, so she couldn’t help but laugh.

  “But then we turn ten,” said Leah. “You’re ten, aren’t you?”