In the Field of Grace (48 page)

Was there anyone who could set her free from so much bondage? Her thoughts turned again to the god of the Hebrews. If he were truly the one god over everything as the Hebrews claimed, did it not follow that everyone who lived on earth belonged to him in some way? If he were the one real god—a stretch to believe such an outlandish claim—but if he were, could not even Rahab the harlot, Rahab the Canaanite, Rahab the nobody make a request of him?

Rahab sat up straighter. What would she have to lose by it?

“God of the Hebrews,” she began, before lapsing into silence. She had no idea how to speak to a god after so many years of enmity with them. “God of the Hebrews,” she began again with determination. “I have heard of your power. Your people say you are the one true god in heaven and on earth. They say you hear their cries and have compassion on their suffering.

“If these are not the wild tales of desperate men, and if you are truly what they proclaim you to be, then I wish you would show yourself to me. I wish you would give me life.”

The pale rays of dawn woke her from a deep sleep. She still sat where she had collapsed the previous night, against the wall, in a heap. Rahab was amazed that she had slept soundly through the
night. Not for months had she known slumber so uninterrupted. The words of her prayer to the god of the Hebrews suddenly rose to the forefront of her mind. An unseen god. A god with no form or image. A god no one could touch. The god of her enemies. And yet on this early morning she sensed a peace beyond anything she had known these many years. Was this the doing of the unseen god? Or was she losing her mind? Would her mother be saddened or cheered to know about her madness? What was worse—having a mad woman or a harlot for a daughter?

She rose with a grunt. Her day servant would not arrive for several hours, yet Rahab could not wait to wash. She stank of dried sweat and farm soil.
She stank of honest work
. Filling a large basin with tepid water, she added a few drops of rose water and oil and began to cleanse her skin of its dirt. The peace lingered. If this was madness, she accepted it gladly. If this was the doing of the Hebrew god, then he was everything his people claimed him to be. If this god was the enemy, she belonged to the wrong side.

A glance out the window showed a cloudless blue sky, and Rahab decided to go for a walk. She chose a winding path lined with young sycamore trees, a beautiful road that led toward the marketplace. Without warning, the stench of charred flesh and the pounding of drums assailed her senses. Looking up, she examined her surroundings and found herself near the temple of Baal. Not ten paces away stood a prostitute, waiting, and half tumbling out of a dress that no longer looked fresh. Their eyes met. This was someone’s daughter, Rahab thought. Someone’s sister. But her life had been sacrificed, exchanged for the promise of prosperity.

Abundance, fertility, health—Canaanites sacrificed their children in hopes of greater gain and satisfaction of every kind. Next to money, they worshiped lust with wild abandon. In satisfying one desire, they hoped the gods would satisfy all their other desires as well. Financial security and sensual pleasure mattered more than life in Jericho.

It had been years since Rahab parted company with the gods of
her people. Now she saw that it wasn’t merely their gods. It was her people. They chose these standards. They chose this order and abided by it. Canaan had turned into the very pit of the world, and Jericho was the pit of Canaan.

Was this why the god of the Hebrews sought to annihilate them? Did he see no hope for them? No redemption? The answer welled up within her like nausea she could not ignore. They had gone too far. And they were arrogant about it. Defiant. The weak, the helpless, the nameless babies, sickly beggars, and young girls forced to serve in the temples—like this girl, staring at her through vacant eyes—had no recourse. No justice and no hope of salvation. They either perished, or died a slow death of agony by growing bitter and refusing to forgive. While the powerful pawed and pillaged and used and violated as they pleased. This was her home. This was her heritage.

Unsettled, Rahab instinctively made her way to her family’s house. In the small garden, she found Joa, tending vegetables.

“Rahab!” he called out and straightened.

“I was planning to buy some food in the market, but lost heart before I arrived.”

“All of Jericho has lost heart. Come and pick vegetables with me.”

Rahab knelt in the dirt, careless of her fine tunic. “Joa, do you think the god of the Hebrews is real?”

“Mayhap you should ask Og or Sihon that question. Oh, wait. I recall now. They are dead.”

“Or mayhap I could ask the Hebrews themselves. Oh, wait. I recall now. They are alive, in spite of years of wandering the wilderness, and being chased by Pharaoh’s army, and being attacked by Canaan’s finest kings.”

“First you doubt him, now you defend him. You should make up your mind, sister.”

Rahab shrugged. “It’s our gods I don’t like, and I’m not too fond of our people either.”

“Rahab!”

“Think on it, Joa. Where is the goodness of Jericho? Where is its compassion?”

Joa lowered dark eyebrows. “We’re no different from anyone else. Everyone is the same.”

“Everyone is
not
the same. The Hebrews don’t live by our standards.”

“The Hebrews!”
Joa spat the word with such venom Rahab quickly changed the subject. His mood remained dark, however, so after lingering with him for a short while longer, she grew restless again and left for home.

Once there, she found she could neither sit nor eat. Pacing from room to room, she eventually climbed the narrow ladder to the roof where the flax was drying. Sinking down on the bundles, she stared into the distance, over the boundaries of Jericho’s farmlands. Somewhere beyond the horizon the Hebrews prepared for war.

“Am I seeing what you see when you look at Canaan?” she asked her invisible enemy. “Have I seen us through your eyes today?” A small groan escaped her. “God of the Hebrews, I know little of your ways and naught of your thoughts. But if you are a god of compassion, then surely my people displease you. I ask your pardon.”

The day had turned hot, and Rahab grabbed at the diaphanous veil on her head and yanked it off with an impatient move. A soft breeze lifted the heavy weight of her hair from her neck. She raised her face to its caress. The peace that had rested on her in the morning—a peace that brooked no explanation or dissection—returned again and settled over her with a new force.

“God of the Hebrews, is that you?” An unreasonable conviction filled her mind—the conviction that this god was true, genuine, and present to her at this moment. “You are real,” Rahab said and expelled her breath.

Peace deepened, thickening and surrounding her like a fog. “I believe in you. You are the God of all heaven and all earth. Perhaps I’m mad, but I believe it.”

She lay down on the flax bundles and stuck her arms straight up into the air. “I believe!” she shouted.

The sound of her own voice caught her attention. For the first time in years she felt anchored to something secure. Something good. That thought made her bolt up. “Like my people, I am a woman of wickedness.” In her mind’s eye she saw her bed and remembered what it represented. Every fiber held the memory of her iniquities. Her insincerities. Her lies. Her lust. She had always blamed others for her life. Her father’s betrayal. Her mother’s self-absorption. Her family’s needs. The perfidy of men. The faithlessness of the gods.

She had been wronged many times, there could be no doubt of that. But she had also made her own choices. Would not God hold her accountable for them? “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I am sorry for it. I promise I will set that life aside. For as long as I live, I will set that life aside.”

* * *

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Pearl in the Sand
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For more biblical fiction by Tessa, please check out the following excerpt from her novel
Harvest of Rubies
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Harvest of Rubies
is a wonderful story with a totally captivating heroine. Readers won’t be able to tear themselves away. —Joan Wolf, author

To view a video trailer for
Harvest of Rubies
, go
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O
n my twelfth birthday, my father discovered that I could read.

He came home long before the supper hour that night, an occurrence so rare that in my shock I forgot to greet him. Instead, I sat stupefied, clutching a forbidden clay tablet.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his gaze arrested by the sight of the tablet clasped to my chest.

My father, a royal scribe in the Persian court, treated his writing tools as if they were the holy objects from the Ark of the Covenant. Before I had learned to walk or speak, I had learned never to go near his scrolls and tablets for fear I might damage them.

“You know better than to touch this,” he said, when I didn’t respond right away.

I swallowed the ball of gathering dread in my throat, knowing myself caught. Truth seemed my only option. “I was reading,” I said, as I replaced the tablet on the floor with extravagant care.

He studied me from beneath lowered brows. “Even if you could read—which you cannot—you should not be anywhere near my scribal supplies. It is very wrong of you to lie, Sarah.”

“I am not lying, Father.”

He heaved a sigh. Spreading his hand in mock invitation toward the tablet, he said, “Demonstrate.”

The tablet was in Persian, one of the most complicated languages of the world. I could have chosen to teach myself Aramaic, a simpler language for a beginner and more appropriate for a Jew. But most Aramaic documents were recorded on parchment, and I had decided that there would be fewer chances of accidentally damaging clay or stone tablets than fragile parchment scrolls.

Licking my lips, I concentrated on the complex alphabet before me. The symbols looked like a series of delicate nails standing upright or lying sideways, an occasional incomplete triangle thrown in for confusion. With halting accuracy I began to read the first line from left to right. Then the second and the third.

My father sank to the carpet next to me, his movements slow. He was silent for a long moment. Then he asked, “Who taught you to read Persian?”

“Nobody. I learned by myself. I’ve been studying for five months.”

He seemed speechless. Then, with jerky movements, he fetched three small clay cylinders and placed them before me.

“What’s this word? And this? Can you make out this sentence?”

We must have sat there for hours as he tested my knowledge, corrected my pronunciation, and demonstrated grammatical rules. He forgot about my months-long transgression of secretly handling his scribal supplies. He forgot to remonstrate with me for having taught myself to read without his permission.

But then he also forgot to ask me
why
I had wanted to learn. Although I was surprised by his lack of anger at my behavior, his lack of interest was all too familiar. In the years since my mother’s death when I was seven, my father had rarely spoken to me of anything save mundane household matters, and even that was rare. My desires, my motives, my hopes, held no appeal to him.

Late that night, after so many hours of his company, when I crawled onto my thin cotton-filled mattress, my mouth spread in a wide smile. I had finally found a way to hold my father’s attention. He had spent more time with me on this one night than he was wont to do in a fortnight. Months of hard work had won me the desire of my heart; he had found something in me worth his while.

After we lost my mother, Aunt Leah, my mother’s only sister, began coming once a week to our home to help us with the housework. She tried to show me how to sew and clean and cook. Our conversations around these topics tended toward frustration—for her—and pain for me.