Abigail's Story by Ann Burton Page B

You have brought what he owes me?”
    â€œI am the sister of Rivai, Master Nabal,” I said, stepping forward and sinking to my knees before him.
    Nabal looked me over with a scathing eye. “He does not owe me a woman.”
    Had he no mother, to teach him not to be so unmannerly to strangers? I had never been so insulted, yet I could not afford to offend him. “It is my brother’s hope that I might please you.”
    â€œSo that I shall say the debt satisfied?” He chuckled and threw out an arm, nearly hitting one of his slaves. “Were you ten herdsmen, or twenty comely maidens, I might be persuaded. But one slave is not worth eight maneh of gold.”
    â€œWere I a slave, that would be true, Master Nabal,” I agreed as I rose. “But my brother does not wish to sell me. He offers me to be your wife.”
    It took some time for Nabal to stop laughing. As I stood in the face of his mirth, I thought of turning and running on foot all the way back to Carmel. I could not do this. I could not convince him to make Rivai’s debt of eight gold maneh my bride price. Who would pay such an outrageous sum but shofetim expecting the loveliest of women in return?
    I was not that. I was the unexceptional, the commonplace. Possessing neither name nor dowry, I was the daughter of a landless potter.
    Truly I had never felt more worthless.
    Amri came to stand beside me. “He seems the type to bargain,” he said, only for my ears. “Make the most of it.”
    I did not want to take advantage of this unmannerly swindler, nor did I wish to pledge myself to him to erase Rivai’s debt. I wanted to go home. I wanted my mother and my father. I was tired of being the strong one, the useful one. It was not fair to expect this of me.
    No one demands this of you, the sharp voice of my conscience snapped. You thought of this brilliant plan, and you made Amri bring you here. No one dragged you into it; no one even knows about it, do they? So cease your whining, and do your duty by your family.
    To save those I loved, I had no other choice.
    In a sense, Amri was right: Arranging a marriage was no different than selling a pot. All I need do was convince Nabal of the bargain I was giving him. With steady hands I removed my veil and head cloth.
    For once I had taken great pains with my appearance. I had brushed and anointed my hair, braiding the heavy length and coiling it atop my head, pinning it in place with two long picks Rivai had carved for me out of bone. There was little I could do to enhance the unremarkable set of my countenance—face paints were rare and expensive and, to some, a sign of questionable morals—but I had discreetly reddened my lips with pomegranate juice and used a bit of charcoal dust to darken my lashes and the rims of my eyelids.
    I held my head high, as I imagined a queen would.
    The beguiling scent of Amri’s lotion still enveloped me, for Nabal stopped laughing and sniffed the air.
    â€œThat is a sweet smell.” He examined my countenance. “I suppose you must wear it, for you are not beautiful, are you?”
    So much for my homemade cosmetics.
    â€œYoung girls do not have the experience to run a household,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “Beautiful women are too busy attending to their looks.”
    â€œI do not need a wife or a housekeeper,” Nabal said, “but you may beg me spare your brother.” He made an expansive gesture. “Go ahead. I am in the mood to be entertained.”
    What did he expect me to do? Throw myself at his feet and cover them with kisses? My stomach clenched as I realized as his wife, I would be obliged to do just that, and anything else he commanded of me. I would have no respect or affection from this man.
    Unless I demanded it.
    â€œI would not deny you your pleasure, Master Nabal,” I said, making my tone as sweet as honey, “but it is apparent that a match between us would