Abigail's Story by Ann Burton Read Free Book Online Page A

Rivai chimed in. “Look.”
    He removed a small sack from his belt and opened it, revealing all the tiny carvings in bone and wood he had kept hoarded in his room. They were special to him, and I had only ever seen one or two.
    â€œYou see?” He closed the sack. “I shall go and sell these today at market.”
    My brother had never wished to sell his carvings, so it was apparent that he felt as desperate as I. But even if Rivai sold everything he possessed for three times its worth, it would not be enough.
    â€œLet me see those, boy.” When Rivai opened the sack again, the spice merchant inspected the collection of toggle pins, hair sticks, and ornaments. “They are pretty, but not worth more than one maneh of silver,” he said, confirming my suspicions.
    Rivai’s eyes turned dull. “Then I shall go to the slavers. I am young, and strong.”
    â€œSelling yourself will only bring thirty sheqels.” I looked at my feet, shod in my best sandals. “I must go to him.”
    â€œAnd what if this Nabal agrees to your bargain?Do you think your brother will cease his drinking and gambling, and become a dutiful son?” Amri made it sound impossible.
    I had not thought of that, and looked at Rivai. Tired and defeated, he was hanging his head. “If I can no longer live with our parents, will you care for them as I have, Brother?”
    â€œYes.” He lifted his head. “I swear to you, I shall. And I shall never drink or gamble again.” His eyes shifted to the horizon. “The sun will be up soon.”
    â€œSo will our parents.” I reached up and squeezed my brother’s shoulder. “Go now. Say nothing of this to them until I have returned.”
    Rivai caught me in a tight embrace before he trudged away.
    I had tried to sound brave, but I did not feel it. Indeed, I had to fight the urge to call him back.
    â€œI shall see that he keeps that vow,” Amri told me as he took the smallest pack from his cart. “Come inside, child. You will need more than that maiden’s garb to make this scheme of yours work.”
    I followed Amri into his dwelling, which despite the rainwater damage to one wall, was larger and better built than my parents’ house. Intricately woven reed mats covered the floor, while bunches of drying flowers and herbs hung from a wooden rack above my head. Stacks of filled baskets occupied each corner, except where part of the damaged wall had crumbled.
    â€œYou see?” Amri gestured toward the woodplanks covering one large, irregular hole in the wall. “Three sacks of millet the mason demands of me, and he works as a snail runs.”
    If only I had such troubles, I thought sadly. “Better grain than gold, my friend.”
    The spice merchant cleared his throat. “I complain too much.” He placed the sack on his table and began sorting through it.
    The spicy aromas of Amri’s wares filled the room, particularly around another, narrow wooden table with an assortment of small querns and grinding stones. It was where he did his work, I saw, noting the traces of seeds and stalks on the saddle-shaped surface of the querns, and the jugs of oil and other liquids sitting to one side. There were also flat clay squares covered with triangular marks that I did not recognize at first.
    â€œYou can read and write?” I asked, astonished. I could not, nor could anyone in my family. Hardly anyone could but town scribes and high priests. Rivai had always wished to learn, but there was no money for a tutor or schooling.
    â€œMy father was a healer; he wished me to be the same and so taught me before he discovered the sight of blood made me ill. Here.” Amri handed me a small goatskin vial, tightly bound with cord at the opening, and pointed to an open doorway. “Go in there and work this into the skin of your hands and face.”
    I loosened the cord and sniffed. Thecreamy-looking liquid inside