Providence
Providence:
Hannah's Journey
Barbara M. Britton
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Providence
COPYRIGHT 2015 by Barbara M. Britton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Contact Information: [email protected]
All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version
(R),
NIV
(R),
Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.⢠Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
Cover Art by
Nicola Martinez
Harbourlight Books, a division of Pelican Ventures, LLC
www.pelicanbookgroup.com
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Harbourlight Books sail and mast logo is a trademark of Pelican Ventures, LLC
Publishing History
First Harbourlight Edition, 2016
Paperback Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-844-0
Electronic Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-842-6
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my family who inspires me each and every day.
Acknowledgements
This book would not have been possible without the help of so many people. My first and foremost thank you goes to my family. They have been my cheering section throughout my publishing journey and they never doubted that someday one of my books would be in print.
To everyone at Pelican Book Group who took a chance on a debut author writing Biblical Romantic Adventures. Thank you Nicola Martinez and Sarah Grimm for championing Hannah's story.
I have a marvelous critique partner, Betsy Norman, who pushes me to make my writing better and who has a big crush on Gilead. And to the Barnes & Noble Brainstormers who keep my word counts up and share hot chocolate with me, thank you Jill Bevers, Liz Czukas, Karen Miller, Betsy Norman, Liz Steiner, and Sandee Turriff. I have a huge support system within the WisRWA community and too many friends who have encouraged me weekly or monthly to name. I am grateful.
To my Pitch Wars mentor Molly Lee who happened to be looking for Bible-themed YA. She gave her time and talent to help me make this story better. And to Brenda Drake who makes Pitch Wars possible. The Pitch Wars name sounds menacing but it is an awesome mentoring program for unpublished writers.
My church family has encouraged me through all the ups and downs of publishing. I am blessed to have their support.
And last, but definitely not least, to the Lord God Almighty, for giving me the gift of creativity and breath each day to write these stories.
1
Jerusalem, 849 B.C.
Hannah waited mere feet from the prophet of Israel, shaded from the Jerusalem sun by the sprawling branches of a tamarisk tree. Sweat beaded beneath her head covering, a result of the mid-summer heat, her nerves, or both. A crowd hung back, blocking the Horse Gate and lining the city's massive stone walls. They had come to see the man of God heal the lame and the cursed.
Hannah bore a curse since birth. For seventeen years, she had been unable to taste or smell. Her ears were but a flap of skin with no slope, no lobe. Her father said it was a punishment from God for an ancestor's crime. As the chief priest, he should know.
She grasped her father's velvet robe as the prophet's hands slid over a young boy's leg. The boy had lain in his father's arms not two feet from Hannah and her father and brother, his limb nothing but a boiled bone with skin. She shook with anticipation as she witnessed sun-toasted flesh, fat as a baby's cheek, grow on top of the boy's decomposed leg.
What will it feel like when the prophet touches my nose, my lips, my ears?
“Will it hurt?” she asked, looking to her father.
Shimron, her brother, bent low. “Not as much as our humiliation. Will not everyone hear that the chief priest's daughter is in need of healing?” Shimron scanned the mass of people. “To think the prophet refused us a private ceremony.”
“Hush,” her father warned, glancing to see if the holy one listened.
She fought to keep her composure.
I am a disgrace.
Shrieks of “
Jehovah Jireh
”
sliced the arid breeze.
“God has healed me,” the boy shouted. He jumped on his re-birthed leg, arms flapping as if to fly away and leave the hardened ground behind.
Hannah stifled a gleeful laugh. She delighted in the boy's ecstatic dance.
The man of God turned toward her. He reached out the same hand that had healed the boy and pointed at her chest. “Come.”
She stiffened. Her heart fluttered faster than a startled sparrow. As she shuffled forward, Shimron took hold of her tunic and yanked her nearer to the prophet. “It has been seventeen years,” he whispered. “Do not make him wait for the likes of you.”
Trembling, she dropped to her knees before the prophet and beheld his weathered face.
His hands rested on her shoulders with a firm, yet gentle press. “What is your given name?”
“Hannah,” she whispered, struggling to speak, her tongue dry as linen. “Daughter of Zebula, a Leviteâ”
“I know of your lineage.” The prophet grinned and looked to her father and brother. “Not of your condition.”
Hannah hesitated. Her father had forbidden her to speak of the curse. Her hair and head covering had hidden her deformed ears. She glanced up for her father's permission. He gave her a reassuring nod.
Lifting her veil, she revealed the nub of an ear. “My tongue does not taste food,” she began, meeting the holy man's gaze. “My nose breathes, but I cannot smell the world aroundâ”
“She has burned her hem to ashes many times in the cooking fires,” Shimron cut in. “She does not eat. Wheat chaff weighs more than my sister.”
Her back straightened, but she continued to concentrate on the prophet's aged face.
The man of God ignored Shimron and cupped her jaw. His thumbs caressed her cheekbones, her ears, and stroked to the bridge of her nose.
Hannah closed her eyes. Her body went weightless under the prophet's touch, almost free from her burden. She dreamed of things the warm breeze would blow her wayâa woman's perfume, the stench of the unwashed. Things she had only heard of before. But nothing came.
The prophet's fingers stilled. He drew back from her.
Surely she should feel something? A burning on her tongue? A tingling in her nose? A tickling in her ears? She prayed for pain.
“It is not her time,” the man of God said, his voice steady, yet quiet.
Stunned, she sat back, bracing herself so she would not collapse further into the dirt.
“But she has been without her senses since birth. And that skin.” Her father tried to display the side of her face as he pulled her to her feet and pushed her closer to the prophet. “Surely it is not of her doing. What sin could a child commit to cause this punishment?”
Hannah drew to her full height at her father's declaration of innocence. The attention of the people centered on her and on her family. Sweat trickled down her arm.
“Please,” Hannah said as the holy one started to leave. “I have asked forgiveness.”
Shimron grabbed the prophet's arm. “Heal her,” he demanded. “My family has sacrificed for her sins.”
“And so you should,” the prophet answered. He glanced at Hannah.
She clutched her brother's hand and withdrew it from the man of God.
“You healed the boy,” she said with rushed breaths. The prophet's anointed-one stare twisted her stomach into a weaver's knot.
“The power and timing do not belong to me.” The righteous man turned from her. His regal gait parted the crowd. Trailed by a servant, he headed away from Jerusalem.
The muttering of the crowd grew louder. Hannah's cheeks warmed as if she were bending over a cooking fire. She noticed all the curious people studying her.
They know something's wrong with me
. How could her mother deny the gossip with all these witnesses? Hannah turned to find her father and brother discussing her, their faces close, their words terse.
The crowd shifted forward to hear the conversation between the angry, insulted priests. Their glances condemned her. Their judgments slandered her mother. Her composure crumbled. She lifted the hem of her tunic and raced toward the city gate.
“Do not touch her,” a man yelled. “She is unclean.”
“Leave me be,” Hannah cried. She pushed a woman out of the way and fled down the nearest street.
Her sandals thudded against the dirt lane as she dodged oxen and carts and merchants. Her chest burned as if the dust particles she breathed were embers from a blacksmith's fire. Her father should not have taken her to the prophet. He should have accepted her fate. She was cursed. A vessel of sin birthed from the past.
She looked over her shoulder to see if anyone pursued her.
Selah!
No one did.
Linens hung by the side of the road, drying in the heat. She slipped behind a cotton shield strung between two buildings, creating a small alcove. She hid by a fat rain barrel and tried to calm her breathing, but the pressure behind her eyes caused her chest to cave even deeper. Supported by the wall of a stranger's home, she buried her face in her knees. What would her mother say to the holy man's refusal?
Footsteps crunched against the ground, coming closer to the linen wall. Was it her father? She wrapped her arms around her knees and pulled her legs tight to her body. The curtain whipped back. Sunlight blinded her. Blinking, she focused on a young man, his turban barely able to contain his wild, curly black hair. His eyes widened and he rubbed his bearded jaw line, giving himself an imaginary shave with his finger.
Hannah leaned backward into the clay bricks of the wall. “Don't touch me,” she warned. Her throat tightened from the run and the erratic beat of her heart.
He squatted down in front of her. His height and muscular body dwarfed her tiny hide-out. “Why? Are you sick? Hurt?”
“No.” She shifted further from the man, not wanting to explain about the prophet. “Can't you leave me be?”
“A young woman sits where I lieâ”
Hannah shot to her feet. “This is not a bed.” Her gaze darted around the alcove. Her heart wrestled with her ribs. “You do not expect me to believe you sleep here?”
“Mostly here.” The man rose slowly and pointed to an area between the barrel and some crates stacked in the corner.
“Not inside?” She glanced up the stone wall to a window above them.
“Only when my fathâ¦my mother's husband is away.”
Hannah's spine flattened against the wall. She surveyed the dark-haired intruder's face in case she would need to recall him later. He looked not much older than she. Dark brown mischievous eyes stared back at her, sparkling as if he had captured the glow of the moon he slept under. Did he think she had money to steal? Or worse, would he take her virginity? She glanced at the sheet billowing in the breeze, hiding them from sight. Could she race fast enough back to the street? She slid a ruby bracelet under her sleeve. It was to have been a gift for the prophet when he had healed her. There was no need to tempt this man with gold and gems.
“Are you hungry?”
“What?” The hospitable offer of food shattered her thoughts of escape.
