Abigail's Story by Ann Burton

here permit this? Had our shofet discovered such filth anywhere within the walls of our town, he would have sent out the shamar to whip our citizens until they cleared it away.
    From what little my father had said of Maon, I understood it to be a rough place, a man’s town. I saw no women or girls about, and only male slaves at the communal wells. Odors seemed to hang in the air, particularly around the waste pits. Outside that stench, there was the strong smell of dung left behindby countless herds driven, judging by the innumerable hoof marks, straight through the very streets.
    â€œDoes Nabal live here?” I asked Amri.
    â€œThere, at the top of that hill.” He pointed to the largest building in sight.
    My heart sank. Nabal must be very wealthy, to afford so much. His house offered a commanding view of the surrounding countryside, but a man who owned the largest herds in Judah would be expected to occupy such a lofty place.
    How could this Maon be so rich and yet unmarried?
    As we passed a man who lay unconscious and snoring by the side of the road, a flask of wine still clenched in his hand, the spice merchant glanced at me. “You have but to say, Abigail, and I shall turn the cart around and take you home.”
    I thought of my mother being brought here, to be sold on the auction block like one of his sheep. It would steal the rest of her mind and drive my father out of his. “No, Amri. I must see this man and do this thing.”
    â€œAs you wish.” He sighed and slapped the mule’s haunch with the reins.
    Nabal’s property was extensive, and it took some minutes for the cart to reach the front of the house. I wondered if he was one of Maon’s shofetim, for his home was built on a very large, grand scale, with hewn stone columns and plastered brick, almost like a small palace. The walls were painted with colorfulstripes, and fine screens of woven flax covered the windows. Carved wooden boxes hung suspended on either side of the door, the bright green fern and vivid flowers growing in them spilling over the sides.
    Yet as Amri helped me down from the cart, I saw many signs of neglect to the outer properties, which appeared to belong to Nabal’s farm workers. Weeds surrounded what were little more than shacks and tents, with only a few scrawny olive and fig trees. In contrast to the dense greenery around Nabal’s house, the outer properties were obviously starved for water. As in town, mounds of dead leaves clogged the ditches providing drainage for the farmers, rendering them useless. Some water flowed in trickles here and there, but these only fed several stagnant pools fouled with green scum and tiny, writhing worms.
    Nabal’s animals, sleek and healthy-looking, occupied a pen to the side of the house. It looked as if he kept fifty sheep and as many goats for their milk and wool.
    On the farmers’ side of the fence, a few animals wandered. One lone, spindly-legged ewe came to the fence to peer at us. Dirt had turned her white wool gray, and her fat tail twitched listlessly against the cloud of black, stinging gnats following her. I thought her muzzle caked with mud, until I saw the dark blotches were actually dozens of ticks, hanging bloated with blood.
    I had never seen such conditions. Not even thepoorest of the gerum by the beggars’ gate lived like this. That anyone, even slaves, would be made to dwell in such squalor sickened me.
    â€œStay here by the cart,” Amri said, his disgust plain. “I shall see if we may be permitted an audience.” He straightened his turban as he strode up to the front of the house.
    While I waited, I tried not to fiddle with my head cloth or mantle. I had only this first meeting to make a good impression, and I needed to be calm and collected.
    Several minutes passed before the door to Nabal’s house opened. After a short conversation with a servant, Amri nodded and returned to the cart.
    â€œThe master has