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

smelled of herbs and flowers, and something I couldn’t identify. “What is this?”
    â€œAn old family recipe. Rub it in well.” He walked to the entry door. “I shall return shortly.”
    Amri left before I could ask where he was going, and for a moment I feared he intended to go to speak to my father about my intention. There was a small but shameful part of me that almost wished he would. But through the front window, I saw him walk in the opposite direction of my parents’ home. Wherever he was headed, it was not to expose me to my family.
    I went into the small room, which was simply furnished as a bedchamber, and carefully applied the soft liquid to my face. The smell of the stuff was sweet and pungent, like a costly perfume, but it was too thin to be a proper ointment. It felt wonderful on my skin, however, and when I touched my cheek it seemed smoother and softer. I was startled to see that the rough, dry skin on my hands and fingers disappeared, too. It must have been a beauty lotion, like those used by wealthy women to keep their skin young and supple.
    I had never been able to afford such a thing. When my skin became unbearably dry, I made do with a little goat’s milk mixed with olive oil.
    Amri had meant to help, but the fact was that I was not very young, or supple, or at all a wealthy woman. No beauty lotion in the world could change that, or make Nabal of Maon believe that.
    What if I go all the way to Maon for nothing? My hands trembled as I adjusted the folds of my head cloth. What if Nabal summons the shamar and has us driven out?
    In the wall above the sleeping mat on the floor, a section of brick had been chipped out to create a recess. There Amri had placed a small oil lamp, a libation saucer, and a polished bronze disk with edge notches that suggested the sun. Although idolatry was forbidden, such small shrines were common among Hebrews and gave comfort during the long dark hours of the night. The lamp’s steady flame made the bronze gleam.
    I knelt before it and bowed my head. “Adonai, since the days of Abraham, You have protected me and my people. You removed Egypt’s yoke from our shoulders and brought us to this, the Promised Land. I beg You guide me now, so that I shall not lose my way, or my family.” My throat hurt and my eyes stung. “What happens to me is not important. If You will only protect and deliver them, I shall gladly sing Your praises for all the days of my life.”
    â€œAbigail?” Amri called from the front room. “We should go now, before the sun rises.”
    A sense of peace filled me as I stood and wiped the tears from my face. “I am ready.”
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    We rode in Amri’s cart over the well-worn dirt road from Carmel to Maon. The journey took only a few minutes, but the spice merchant insisted I wear my head cloth with the end folds concealing the bottom half of my face.
    â€œDo not show your features at any time while we are out-of-doors,” he warned. “There are all manner of men here, and some cannot control their, ah, impulses.”
    I had never been to Maon, but sometimes on my walks I had seen the outside walls of the town from a respectable distance. More often I had spotted great flocks of sheep, during shearing time, being brought down from the mountains and driven to the gates.
    Maon was larger than Carmel, but surely size was its only advantage, for it did not present itself as an attractive place in the least. The buildings and houses of the town had been built seemingly without order or plan, sprawled as they were around narrow, unkempt roads. Instead of building sewage gutters to carry away the refuse and animal waste from the streets, there were sanitary pits, which lay open to the air. Most were filled to overflowing with waste, and the troughs meant to drain them were cluttered with filth, providing an odorous fount for hordes of flies and other pests.
    Why did the ruling men