Rebekah (7 page)

“You are afraid my father will pick a virgin who is not pleasing to look upon, is that it?” Haviv’s right brow lifted, accompanying his smirk.

“I am sure your father’s eyesight is still well and good. Consider the journey further training.” Isaac gave Haviv a sidelong glance. The man had become more friend than servant in recent years, making him a valuable asset. “Besides, if there is more than one cousin to choose from, your father might need some advice.” He took a long drink of the tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I trust you to help guide his choice.”

Haviv chuckled. “Don’t think I do not see the gleam in your eye.”

Isaac hid a smile, wondering what his bride would be like. That is, if one of his cousins would even agree to come to him. It would take a woman with a spirit of adventure to travel so far from her homeland. What would he do if she were unwilling to leave her parents? If no cousin could be found, what then?

He turned at the sound of voices coming closer, men and women emerging from their tents. An infant’s cry came from
across the compound as his father and Eliezer joined them around the fire. Isaac offered his father his seat, which he took with a grateful nod.

“Eliezer has agreed to travel to Harran to seek a wife for you among my kinsmen. He is bound by my oath not to take a wife from among the people who live alongside us. You shall not marry a foreigner but a member of my own flesh and blood.” Abraham drew in a breath and slowly released it.

“What if the young woman refuses to come back with him?” The possibility had turned over in Isaac’s mind more than once in the night, and he could not see a way around it. His father had married two foreigners, Hagar and Keturah, so why was it so important that he not follow in his footsteps?

“Adonai Elohei of heaven and of earth will send his angel ahead of Eliezer to prepare the way for him.” His father’s dark eyes held a look of certainty. “But if the woman refuses to come back with him, Eliezer will be free of the oath he has taken. If that happens, God will make another way.”

Isaac finished the last of his drink and handed the cup back to a servant. “I want Haviv to accompany Eliezer on this journey, Father. With your permission, of course.”

Abraham accepted food from the servant and nodded. “Whatever you wish, my son. Eliezer will take ten camels and six men with him. The woman will likely bring servants with her, so we will reserve three camels for the women. He will also gather household goods, jewels, and fabric to give in payment for the girl.” He fingered a slice of soft goat cheese. “I thought we should look at your mother’s jewels and choose something meaningful—a gift given only if the woman agrees to come.”

Isaac ran a hand along the edge of his beard and nodded. His mother had owned many pieces of fine jewelry, gold and lapis lazuli being among her favorites.

“Take plenty of silver and gold to give as gifts to her family. They must be compensated for the loss of their daughter.”

“It shall be as you say, my lord.” Eliezer quickly finished breaking his fast. “I will get started right away.” He glanced at his son. “If you are to come with me, let us get started in gathering what we need for such a long journey.”

Haviv followed Eliezer toward their tents, and Isaac took the seat beside his father. “Perhaps I will save the most priceless jewels, the ones my mother favored most, to give the woman myself.” He paused, reading his father’s expression. “It would have pleased her, I think.”

Abraham smiled and continued to chew a plump date. “Yes, it would have pleased her.” His father regarded him for a long moment. “But if you truly want to bless your mother’s memory—may she rest in peace—never take another wife. Love only one woman all of your life.” He rubbed his mouth with a square piece of linen. “It is something I should have understood long ago.”

The sound of children’s voices drifted closer. Isaac caught sight of Keturah’s sons making their way toward the campfire. “What did you decide to do about Zimran?”

Abraham glanced up at the flurry of boyish activity and sighed. “I will warn him to obey, to be kind to his brothers. Then I will send him to spend time with the sheep. The boy needs to work, and some time alone with the animals will do him good.”

The children scampered closer, greeting Abraham and settling on logs spaced at various intervals around the fire pit. Isaac bid his father good day and headed off to find Haviv and Eliezer. He would oversee the things they planned to take on their journey, then he would gather his own things and return to the Negev. He had stayed in his father’s camp only one night, but it was long enough.

Isaac led a donkey loaded with his simple provisions south of Hebron later that afternoon. He hated the look of longing in his father’s eyes when he made his excuses to leave, and Jokshan took a lot of convincing that he would return with just the right piece of wood to make a three-stringed lyre. He should have taken the boy to look for the wood and stayed to carve it, to teach him how to craft such an instrument. But a certain restlessness always came upon him when he was near Keturah’s children, an impatience he did not feel among the animals of the desert.

He slowed as he came to an outcropping of rocks, tightening his grip on his staff. Robbers were known to waylay sojourners along this path, though they had never troubled him. Still, one could not be too careful. He urged the donkey to a faster walk and kept his eyes and ears attuned to his surroundings. The path took a bend, and he knew a cave awaited him up ahead.

Adonai Elohim, let the cave be free of bandits.
He glanced at the donkey.
And free of lions and bears
, he silently amended on behalf of the beast. He edged closer, pounding his staff into the clay earth as he walked.

He breathed deeply, tasting the dry, sand-gritty air on his tongue, and glanced up the hill above the cave where the last of the trees stood sentinel against the encroaching desert. The donkey kicked up clods of red clay as it made its way up the incline a short way and settled at the mouth of the cave.

“There you go, girl,” he said as he tied her reins to an acacia tree. He opened a sack and dropped a handful of grain onto the ground near her mouth. While she ate, he moved farther into the cave, checking to see if he was alone.

Satisfied, he returned, drew the donkey farther into the cave, and set about making a fire. He would settle here for
the night and make his progress toward Beer-lahai-roi, where he would meet up with Nadab and see to the state of his father’s newest lambs tomorrow.

He lay in the dirt near the glowing embers, grateful for the fire’s warmth while the animal slept nearby. He closed his eyes, and his thoughts drifted. Sleep came fitfully at first as he fought to keep the dreams from haunting him . . .

His surroundings blurred, his sleep peaceful, but too soon a movement caught his eye, and he startled to see his father standing over him, one hand extended. Haviv and Nadab waited at the entrance of the cave.

“Come, my son. We must go.” Abraham gripped Isaac’s outstretched hand and pulled him to his feet. The donkey stood beside Haviv, its bundles flung over its sides. Haviv held a torch and turned to leave the cave, and Nadab followed, a bundle of thin twigs tied to his back.

“How did you find me here?” Isaac rubbed a hand over his eyes, still groggy, but quickly obeyed. He trudged after his father, whose feet seemed determined to follow his course, yet somehow weighted and plodding. “Where are we going?” It was not like his father to come after him when he set out alone for the Negev. What could he possibly want at this hour, and why were they traveling while it was still night?

“To a place God will show us.” His father’s look was shadowed by darkness, but the firmness in his tone allowed no argument. “Come.”

Isaac fell into step beside his father, who moved ahead of the servants, taking the lead. They traveled in silence, the night sounds giving way to birdsong and the pink light of dawn. A mount rose above them in the distance, dotted with trees, growing ever closer as the sun rose higher in the sky. By midafternoon they reached the summit.

Abraham turned to Eliezer’s sons. “Stay here with the donkey while I and the boy go over there. We will worship and
then we will come back to you.” He motioned to Nadab. “Isaac can carry the wood now.”

Isaac lifted the bundle in his arms while his father took the torch from Haviv. They trudged ahead, Isaac’s arms growing heavier with each step. His heart beat too fast as he blinked against the sun’s glare. If his father planned on building an altar, where was the lamb for slaughter?

They walked a steady pace, the question bounding in and out of his thoughts until he could keep silent no longer. “Father?”

“Yes, my son?”

Isaac cleared his throat, swallowed, and tried again, a sense of foreboding nearly claiming his words. “The fire and the wood are here, but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?” His father had always come prepared for a sacrifice. How could he overlook something so important?

“God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son.” Abraham walked on, saying nothing more. Isaac’s fear rose higher. His father had never been so closemouthed. Or determined.

Sweat broke out on Isaac’s forehead when they reached a place that seemed to please his father. He set the wood on the ground and watched as his father built an altar, all without accepting his help.

What are you doing?
The question begged an answer, but he could not bring himself to voice it.

When the last stone was placed on the altar and the wood put on top, Isaac looked toward the bushes, the trees, straining to see if God had truly sent the lamb his father expected. He turned to face his father, who stood above him now, a flaxen rope in his hands.

“Father?” He choked on the word.

Sorrow filled his father’s dark eyes, and the fear Isaac had known since they left Haviv and Nadab paralyzed him.

“Hold out your hands, my son.” His father’s words came out hoarse. “Please, do as I say.”

Isaac studied his father for a suspended moment. They both knew he could say no, could run off or fight his father’s intentions. But in that moment, Isaac’s fear lifted as clouds might drift from the sky, replaced by unalterable truth and a strange sense of peace.

And yet he also knew he was going to die at his father’s hand.

He slowly lifted his hands, the wrists close together, so his father could bind them, then fell to his knees, allowing his father to bind his feet. Tears coursed down his cheeks. The news of his death would kill his mother. If only for her sake, he would not do this. But a deeper part of him sensed he was born for this moment. His life had been a miracle, and his death would be the ultimate act of sacrificial worship.

But what of the promise to his father? What of the descendants not yet born?

The questions flashed in his thoughts as his father somehow managed to lift him onto the wood, the sharp sticks poking into his skin. The pain would end quickly. His father would not let him suffer. But his humiliation could not be more complete. How could the son of promise be led like a lamb to slaughter? Was this how God provided, by asking a man to kill his own son? Had the Creator ever suffered such indignity, such pain and loss? How could He ask such a thing of a mere man?

Isaac could not meet his father’s gaze, so blinded was he by his own tears, but he caught the glint of the blade as his father’s hand lifted above his neck. He closed his eyes as the blade came down . . .

“Abraham! Abraham!” a voice like booming thunder called from above.

“Here I am!” The knife clattered against the stone as Isaac’s eyes flew open. He blinked, trying to clear his vision.

“Do not lay a hand on the boy,” the voice said. “Do not do anything to him. Now I know that you fear God, because you have not withheld from Me your son, your only son.”

Isaac lay perfectly still as his father hurried to undo the knotted rope and helped Isaac down from the altar, then pulled him into his arms, weeping, their tears mingling.

Isaac rubbed a hand over his damp face. The action jolted him, and suddenly he was sitting beside the campfire in the cave, the donkey still asleep beside him, trying to wake from his stupor. The dream had not changed with the years, the memories as powerful now as they had been twenty years before. Would he never be free of them? And yet he knew it was the binding that defined him. The ram caught in the thicket nearby and offered on the altar in his place had been followed by the words of the Lord Himself, reiterating the promise his father had spoken of so often. And now it belonged to him as well.

He shook himself, wishing the memories were a little less vivid, a little less overpowering. He could still taste the tears that always accompanied the dream. Would the dreams continue when he took a wife? What would his bride say when he woke in the night, sweating and weeping?

He walked to the cave’s opening, into the starlit night.

I will surely bless you and make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and as the sand on the seashore.