Serita Mendelson Stevens

Lightning and Fire

By Serita Stevens

Chapter One

The golden fire of the sun was just climbing the cracked hills that had once been green as Deborah bat Moshe trudged upward, slowly and with a weariness in her bones.  Surveying the valley before her‑its vineyards and orchards, its grass and trees, all slowly dying, like her own people who were slowly being suffocated and drained of the dew of life‑Deborah felt a loneliness invade her like one of the spirit that were said to walk in the twilight time.  

The night's chill lingering still in the air.

She pulled her goat‑hair Cape about her more tightly, and listened to the chirping of the early birds as they gathered what little moisture they could find.  No, she was not worried about the twilight spirits. She never had been. In fact, this was her favorite time of day because so few people were about. Often, if she sat silent, the spirits would talk to her. She inhaled deeply of the jasmine and oleander as the flowers opened their blooms to compete for the droplets from the moisture of the night. Deborah looked at them sadly, knowing that because of the heat, by dusk they would probably be dead.

This night the birthing of Naomi's child had required almost all of Deborah's skills and had drained her energies. The old priest, Absalom, would be proud of her work.

Deborah brushed the dark bangs from her sun kissed brow as her hood fell forward.  It was customary for the women of her tribe to cover their hair from the sight of men, since the hair was the sensual sign of a maiden waiting to be wed, b unless the sun was particularly hot, Deborah preferred her hair to flow freely, unfettered by the headdress.

In fact, Deborah seldom did as she was told. From early years she had known she was different, blessed, or perhaps cursed, by the visions that came to her. First they had occurred only when she was at prayer; then they came as she walked in the wooded hills of Ramah; but now they came as she willed them.

Sighing, Deborah bent and picked up a smooth stone. She ran her thumb over the edge. It was a bad omen to be born in the dead of night, when evil spirits lurked about. Even had the babe been born in the brightest hour, however, Deborah had known from his cry that the child would not live past his ninth day.

Sometimes she wished she did not know as much as she did. Often the knowledge God gave her did not seem like a blessing.

With the sleeve of her coarse robe she wiped the sweat from her brow and sank to the ground in the shade of her favorite palm. A breeze from the sea stroked her slender young body and caressed her face into a false sense of calm It would probably be the only breeze that day. Leaning against the coolness of the rocky cave where she often went to meditate and seek moments of solace, Deborah rested.

She turned her eyes to the east. The sun was now climbing in the sky. Already the day promised to be scorching, with little water and much worry. She wet her lips and felt their dryness still. For two months there had been a drought; two months without rain, two months with the fruit only half ripened and now rotting on the vine, unable to be picked. Two months of painful suffering for her people.

Things would have to change soon. Deborah did not know how much longer her father could push aside Jabin's desire for more taxes. Already, this month, the soldiers had been here twice. The king in Hazor wanted his due.

She squeezed the stone she still had in her hand. Deborah didn't understand why they had to pay tribute to Jabin; why they as a people could not rule themselves.

Deborah thought of the idols that many of Ramah worshiped, of how so many people had fallen away from the ways of their forefathers, Abraham and Moses, and from the customs and traditions that had brought them to this land. Their history was a long one‑longer than that of any other people in the civilized world‑and yet Deborah knew, as surely as she knew her name, that if action were not taken, if the people were not turned away from the false gods and made to worship the One Name as they were told to, her people would die.

Furious, she squeezed the stone harder. Had Jabin or his men been there at that moment, she would surely have smitten them with her murderous glance.

Thinking she heard a noise, Deborah glanced up toward the roads behind her and the path that seemed to climb upward to the heavens. Then she looked to the south. The dry road was dusty and empty, as most roads were these days. People feared traveling, if not for the roving bands of Hebrews and Canaanites, then for the soldiers of Jabin who indiscriminately attacked and captured men for the work force.

The sea breeze continued to blow, gently swirling her dark hair about her long narrow face. Though she was not uncomely, her thick, coarse hair often refused to fall into proper place. Her limbs were long and slender, like the rest of her body, which was browned from the sun like a ripened olive. Her voice, which carried over the hills, could be irritating at times.

Nevertheless, she had a presence about her and an intensity that even at her young age caught people's attention when she spoke. And her dark eyes glowed with a burning passion for truth, knowledge, and the love of the one God.

It was her eyes, illuminating her face that caused even male heads to turn.

She picked up her blue linen head‑covering, embroidered with silver pomegranates and vine leaves, a gift from Absalom, and toyed with the sewing, running her fingers over the rough thread. But after this night's work, she didn't wish to bother, and besides, no one was there to see her.

Pulling her knees to her chest in a childlike position that made her look like a newborn goat, bony and unfed, Deborah wondered again why Ha‑Shem had granted her this extraordinary knowledge. It was true that her knowledge brought her the respect of the village people, that even as a youngster she had been recognized as a special student and had been allowed to assist the old Kohen with festive ceremonies, rituals, and sacrifices, some of which no other female had been allowed to see.

Yet what good did this do if, because of taxes and King Jabin, her father was forced to sell her for the large bridal price that their ungainly cousin, Lappidoth ben Nun, the spice merchant, was offering?

She looked at her house on a distant hill. Because of her, the family's lodgings were on the highest terrace next to the place of Absalom, the priest. They were respected and looked up to. Because of her, the family had what prosperity it did. Her! A woman. And yet even the respect she had won could not delay her fate.

Deborah grimaced, feeling nausea in her stomach. Faith, if she had to wed that man‑and do the intimate things with him that her mother had done with her father‑she would rather die. But how else would her father pay the taxes? For all of the Lord's blessings, for all of Deborah's knowledge, she had not yet learned to produce gold from iron. She could read the scriptures, perform the ceremonies, and recite all the customs‑but she could not produce gold.

Her unbound hair rode the dawning breeze like the gently flapping wings of an angel.

She tasted the bitter flavor of despair. Even as a child, Deborah had known that their wealthy cousin lusted after her in the way of men, and she wanted no part of it. There were things to be done of which she knew not yet. Things, which she was sure, did not include marriage to a heathen‑loving man fatter than a pig. She was sure Lappidoth sacrificed to Baal, and perhaps Astarte, too. Though she questioned the sanity of any goddess who wanted to be fertile with his seed!

Her stomach revolted at the thought of the man smothering her with his sloppy wet kisses. He had made no attempt to hide his desire. This surprised her since she knew she was no great beauty.

Deborah, in return, had made no effort to hide her distaste for him. She had hoped‑nay, had desperately prayed‑that somehow, Ha‑Shem would spare her the indignity of being this man's wife and handmaiden. But nothing had come forth.

Surely, the Lord could not have wanted her taught and then deny her the freedom to work? She sighed. By harvest time, she would be wed‑nay, shackled in her prison, and led like Isaac, their forefather, to the sacrifice. If only she could be assured that the ram would come to be slaughtered instead.

Deborah knew that, to her mother's thinking, it should have been done long ago, when the other females were married off. Thank the Lord that her father and brother were of a liberated and understanding mind. But understanding did not pay taxes.

With a heavy heart, she stared out toward the parched road and felt the dust in her throat. Particles of sand rose with the slight breeze and the dusty haze refused to settle. The air around her seemed to vibrate with a force more malevolent than the weather.

If only somehow Jabin could be brought down; if only somehow the taxes didn't have to be paid; then the people could be free. She knew it could happen, if only the men would organize, if only the men would listen to her.

Deborah's eyes searched the rocky path and the once green road that led upward to the highest point of Ramah where her mentor, Absalom, the priestly Kohen, lived and guarded the papyrus on which their sacred laws were written and the ark of balsam wood which protected it. The true copy, which Moses had carved, remained at Beth‑El, one of the sanctuary cities, but soon when the time came to do battle, they would be with her, as would Absalom. She vowed it.

Though he was a descendant of Moses' brother, Aaron, who had guarded the temple, Absalom dressed simply in modest smocks. Only on the holy days celebrating the New Year, or celebrating the redemption from Egypt, did the old priest wear the costume prescribed by the Lord. He looked magnificent then in his white linen tunic, the robe embroidered with pomegranates of blue, purple, and scarlet, the bells made of pure gold, the girded belt of the same sacred symbols, the breastplate with the weaver's work, like the ephod, bearing all manner of yarns and colors, and twisted linen. And the stones he wore: the sardius, topaz, and emeralds, the carbuncle, sapphire, and amethyst, the fitted into the gold diamonds, the opal, turquoise, chrysalides, onyx, and jasper. All casings according to the names of the children of Israel, the twelve tribes of Israel. All as prescribed and all as it should be.

But on the days when they did not feast, Absalom wore the same humble goat‑haired robe and tunic with a simple linen girdle as did the other men of the village.

The old man was a treasure to Deborah. His face was wrinkled as a dried fig, and his limbs were thin as dry sticks, but within him was a fountain of knowledge that welled up only for her. Absalom had taught Deborah all she knew; still she felt ignorant, like a new child feeling its way in the world. Newly experiencing the glory of her powers, Deborah felt the frustration of imperfection, perhaps even more so because she had been born a female.

Had Moshe, when he had brought the Israelites forth from Egypt, been forced to deal with such trivial matters as marriage to a person he despised? No, of course not. The anger tasted sour in Deborah's mouth. Moshe was a man. For all her insight and ability, for all her way with herbs and gems, and for all her knowledge, Deborah knew that she was still very much a woman and therefore to some male eyes a source of property.

She grasped at a ripe pomegranate and squeezed the hard fruit. It was smaller than it should be‑the drought, of course‑but it was ripe. Cracking the ripe red ball on the rock, she sucked out the juice, nibbling at the tart seeds while trying to keep the juice from dripping.

Once more brushing her unruly curls away from her brown eyes, she sighed. Yes, she was a woman and she had to admit that despite what she said, she had a woman's desire for fine jewels and gold, for the smooth linen and ointments of luxury. All of this would be brought to her by marriage to the fat Lappidoth.   But she would easily give it all up in favor of the contentment and feeling of peace, which she lacked.

Deborah's sense as a seer and as a woman told her that there was yet an aching in her that had to be fulfilled. Maybe a passion yet untapped. But what it was for certain and how she would find it, she did not know‑only that it was there waiting for her.

She stared out toward the lonely road again. Maybe the Lord had other plans for her. She knew she had to trust in Ha‑Shem, but sometimes it was just so hard.

A sound from behind startled her. A rock had moved, tumbling down the incline, increasing speed as it went.

Deborah glanced up but saw nothing amiss and no one about. Even so, her back straightened. Someone was near; she sensed it. Those who had been involved with the birthing were still in the village below and others had not yet risen. Her heart pounded. No, she did not believe the night spirits would do that. Besides, the sun was already breaking, so whoever had moved that rock was human.

She heard a rock slide again, and her mouth grew dry. The entire village knew that this mountain, this cave, was Deborah's place. No one came up here without her consent: therefore, anyone who trod here was a stranger.

With the walking stick to assist her, she rose and pulled the cape about her. Deborah searched the countryside‑brown, barren, and sparse as it now was‑for some clue to the cause of the noise. It could only be a soldier or a wanderer. Had he seen her coming? Did he mean her harm?

Many of Jabin's men had deserted the army. Traveling the road, they took what they could. She glanced below toward the village. She could go and warn them that a problem was near, or she could first determine what nature the menace was. Not one to cower, she stared directly ahead. Her throat was parched.

Pressing her dry lips together in fear, Deborah swallowed hard. Her hands were damp with sweat as she turned toward the entrance of her cave. Yes, the sounds were coming from within. Whoever it was had taken to hiding.

Deborah pulled herself up to the entrance. Standing stately and slender like the limb of a young tree ready to bear fruit, she stood searching the grounds with the eagerness of a hunter. She sought out the early movements of the birds, and those creatures of the night now retiring.

Knowing that only fear would keep her back, she advanced toward the cave. It could be only a stray animal in need of help‑but the pounding of her heart told her that it was not.

For a short second she closed her eyes, willing the peace of the Lord to come to her, willing herself to have the ability to face this situation‑whatever it was‑that now faced her. She knew. That some of the village thought her constant call upon divine assistance silly, but to Deborah it made sense.

Her powers of pre‑sight, those flashes of knowledge that came to her‑as this night with Naomi's child‑were all from the Lord. She never knew how they would come upon her or when. It was, she felt, not a crutch but a tool. One that she had yet to learn how to use fully. Alas, if only Deborah could foresee what her own life would be. Did the Lord have some purpose for her to wed Lappidoth, or was she being punished for something she had done? If only she knew that ...and how to satisfy the strange longing within her.

The noise from the cave startled her once more into awareness. With a deep breath to steady her fears, Deborah ducked into the mouth of the cave.

In years gone by she hadn't needed to bend, but her cave entrance had of late become too small for her.

The dampness of the cave felt good, a respite from the gathering heat. Near the opening, she felt along the floor for her box.

The sounds were louder here, echoing within the cave walls. Deborah shivered. The moans were like arrows at her heart; someone was in pain. She had been right to come, to see what could be done. It would have been foolish to alarm the village over someone who couldn't harm them.

Deborah withdrew her lamp from the cedar compartment and struck the flint. There was still enough oil to last for several hours, but she made a mental note to bring more the next time she came up. Her mother, she knew, would object to that, but then Emma objected to all of Deborah's pursuits, which left her wifely talents lacking.

With the small glow of light casting eerie shadows on the cave walls, Deborah walked toward the noise. If it was a wounded man‑would he be friend or foe? There was no way for her to know until she saw him. But whoever he was, Deborah knew that if he needed care, she would assist him to the best of her ability. If she could not help him, she would fetch Absalom.

The man would, she reasoned, have been stopped by the stream that ran through the center of the cave, audit was in that direction she headed. The flickering of the flame made her realize just how much her hand was trembling‑but she'd not back down. Only a few more paces, beyond the center rock, and she'd know.

Even with the lamp, her eyes took a moment to grow accustomed to the dark. Yes, someone was nearby. She moved closer, trying to make as little noise as possible, but soon realized she needn't have worried. The man lying near the cooling stream, stretched out before her, was burning with fever. His flushed face nearly matched the flaming color of his hair.

Astonished, Deborah bent down. She had never seen such hair. It was the color of the sun at dawn. He moaned again, oblivious to her presence and the possible danger of discovery. If he had come to the cave for shelter, he probably wished to stay hidden.

Deborah saw then that his arm oozed with infection. Without another thought, she knelt. She had no linens in her chest. Impulsively, she ripped off the hem of her tunic. Mother would be displeased, but Deborah would worry about that later. Dipping the strip in water, she wrung it out and placed it on the man's burning brow.

She judged him to be at least one and twenty -- possibly more. The tunic he wore was torn and dirty, but it appeared to be of Hebrew design. If he was Hebrew, she decided, then it was the result of a Canaanite match! His short hair told her he had recently escaped slavery, yet she had never encountered any of her people with hair the color of flame such as his.

He moaned and his eyes opened for a moment.

"Am I in heaven?" The deep voce was husky with effort. Even by the dim light of the lamp, she could see the green glint of his eyes.

" Nay, sir, you are not in heaven nor in hell. You stein my cave."

"Your cave?" He shrugged to pull himself up, grimacing with the pain of the effort. " And who are you girl, that this whole cave should belong to you?"

Grimacing Deborah flushed. She didn't like being called “girl."  It was true that many thought her younger than her eight and ten years, but she was not a mere girl! She was a woman‑and soon, much to her distaste, to be a wife.

"I am Deborah," she said simply. If he was truly Hebrew, if he lived anywhere hereabouts, he would know of her. Indeed, she was told that acceptance of her unusual knowledge and foretelling powers had spread throughout the northern tribes‑and among many tribes of Judah and the south lands as well Didn't Absalom tell her that people came from throughout the country seeking him so that they might have the benefit of Deborah's second sight?

In some ways, the respect she was given almost frightened her. Faith she did not like always having to make decisions, to give out interpretations of dreams and omens, especially when it concerned a matter of life, even when Absalom assured her that she spoke well within the realm of the laws, even when she knew that the Lord was behind her. Often the words came to her without her knowing what she was saying or the reason behind it.

Glancing at the man lying at her feet, his eyes again closed, Deborah felt a strange trembling. She continued to stare at him. She didn't know what it was, but she knew that there was a bond between them, that she was drawn to him and that he had come to her cave for a reason. She could not question the ways of Ha‑Shem. Silently, she bent and took the folded cloth that had fallen. Dipping it once more into the stream, she again placed it on his forehead.

"Tell me your name, sir," she said, feeling the unusual pounding of her heart as she touched him.

He opened his brilliant green eyes and stared at her once more. He seemed to be studying her narrow face and dark eyes with their long lashes, staring at her olive skin.

" You are . . . Hebrew?" The trembling and fear came through his voice.

Deborah nodded.

"As am 1." He swallowed some of the water she offered. His lips were parched and cracked from illness. "I...thank you... but you must go." His words came widely spaced, apparently with great effort.

" Why? I told you. This is my cave. No one will come."

He closed his eyes once more, as if in breathless pain. "They must not...find me. 'Twould go ill for you."

Once more Deborah repeated, "I am Deborah bat Moshe, student of Absalom, the Kohen. This is my cave."

His feverish eyes seemed to glaze at the mention of the old priest's name. "Yes . . . yes," he said.' " Absalom. I should talk with Absalom."

Seeing that he didn't seem to understand her, and wanting to reach out to him, to envelop him as she had never wished about a man before, Deborah knelt beside him. Gently she urged more water into his parched mouth.

"Tell me, please. What is your name? How were you injured and who are you hiding from?" The words seemed to tumble out.

He stared at her a moment and then glanced anxiously beyond her toward the entrance. "Soldiers," he said. " I have escaped from . . . soldiers."

Deborah needed no more said. "I promise you. They will not come here."

He blinked a moment, still unsure. "Thank you. I...I will pay you back, Deborah." His voice was barely audible due to the strain of effort. " My name is Barak ...ben Abinoam. I come from Kedesh Naphtali."

Deborah nodded. She placed her goat‑hair cloak over him. It was he who was ill. Why then was she trembling?

"Rest then, Barak." She stood, feeling unsure of herself. " I shall return with food and a fresh warm cloak for you." There was a lump in her throat as she prayed he would be safe, as she had promised he would be. "You may stay here until you feel ready to leave."

"You'll not be in danger?" His voice could barely be heard.

Did this stranger understand nothing? Deborah realized she should allow his ignorance, considering his condition. "No," she repeated again, " we shall not be in danger. Even the soldiers of Jabin respect my gift. I have helped many of them."

He stared at her, not understanding. But the effort to question her and speak seemed too much for him.

"I will explain when you're well."

He nodded as if in response, and, satisfied ‑‑ or else too exhausted to say more‑he once again closed his eyes.

Deborah stood a moment more, watching him‑wondering who exactly he was and why he was fleeing the soldiers. More important, why did he have this strange effect on her?

She pressed her lips together in thought as she continued to stare at the lean man before her. She did it need second sight to know that this man would complicate her life . . . maybe more than was worthwhile.

A vision came to her then, and she started like a desert hare. She saw this man, not now, but older and wiser by several years. He led a force of Hebrews against the soldiers, with the cry of the ram's horn, arguing into a battle, glorifying the name of Ha‑Shem. The wound in his arm‑in nearly the same place as this wound ‑‑flowed fresh with blood, but he felt it not as he pursued the enemy, as he pressed forward. Deborah saw m leading the people, and she saw herself at his side as they rose to victory.

Could he be the ram that would save her from Lappidoth?

Confused, she dropped her tinderbox, but the man her feet noticed nothing.

Leaving her flint and lamp near him, she left the cave, but she would return soon ... and when he was better, she would have her answers.

The sun was higher in the sky now, and most of the early dawn's dewy mist from the dawn had already burned off. The air shimmered like a dancer with gold threaded skirts and gold coins on her hips. The burning at began to pound into the land, crushing the people with its own pestle and mortar for yet another day.

Glancing at the cave entrance, Deborah said softly, “Yes, I promise. I will take care of you, Barak ben Abinoam, whoever you are."