Abigail's Story Read Free

difficult to spot the bent-over old woman at first, until she dodged the fruit seller’s cart and changed direction to run our way. Dressed in rags she was, stick-thin and bareheaded as a poor beggar, but she moved with a thief’s agility and cunning, head turning with quick jerks as if she were searching for better avenues, limbs tucked in to prevent collisions.
    Behind her came three of the town’s shamar on foot, their swords drawn and flashing in the brimming sunlight. Like all the men who guarded Carmel, they were large, muscular, and not concernedabout what they broke in pursuit of justice, whether stall fronts, melons, or heads.
    Amri jumped over the side slat of his stall and huddled over as many jars, skins, and packets as he could to protect his investment. “Adonai yireh.”
    Our Lord might protect the spice merchant’s soul, but from the way the shamar were crashing through the market, all of our wares were definitely at risk.
    â€œCetura,” I said as I watched one guardsman knock over the fruit merchant’s cart, creating a slippery flood of ripened dates, “move your barrow over there before it is tipped.” I nodded toward the space behind a booth two places from mine.
    My neighbor followed my advice, and so I stood alone when the old fugitive tried to run around me. When confronted by the sight of the green and white hills beyond the town, the thief came to a dead stop and staggered back as if aghast. Her right side collided with my strings and made two pots fall. I caught one in time, but the other hit the sun-baked ground and smashed into pieces.
    The sound seemed to make everyone around us freeze, for it was very bad luck to smash a new pot. Some believed that if you inscribed the name of an enemy on an unused pot and then deliberately broke it, it was as a curse upon the one named.
    I did not believe in such things, but I did not rejoice in the loss of my wares. We were not rich, my family and I, and selling pottery kept bread on our table and the roof over our heads. This old one obviously could not pay for her carelessness.
    â€œBe still,” I scolded her. My warning was not an idle one, for she was as barefoot as I, and sharp potsherds glittered on the ground for a yard around us. “Your feet shall be torn to ribbons if you try to flee now.”
    â€œThey mean to kill me.” Her voice held no terror, only the rasp of exhaustion.
    â€œWe do not put criminals to death here.” But the shamar were within their rights to cut off her right hand, and the shock and indignity of that often did away with the older ones. I peered into her face, but her unkempt, filthy white hair masked it. I had no love of thieves, but something about her made me ask, “What have you done?”
    â€œOffered truth where only lies were welcome.” Burning eyes, like those of a mad dog, glittered from beneath the veil of hair. A gnarled hand seized my wrist, bruising it as she jerked me close. The smell of her was as fevered and unpleasant as her gaze. “You work the clay.”
    â€œNo, I but sell the pots .” I took a step back, but she kept hold of my arm. “Please release me.” Why was I being so polite to a thief? My father, were he well enough to come to market these days, would have beaten her away with his crutch.
    â€œThe hand that works the clay shapes the world,” she whispered, and flipped my wrist so that my palm faced up. She stared at it, jerked once, and peered into my eyes with something like outrage. “Wife you shall soon be. But whose?”
    How could the thief have guessed I wasunmarried? My khiton, which was one of my mother’s and plainly colored, marked me as a married woman. Since I had begun selling at market, I never wore a striped samla, the robe of a betulah, a young Hebrew maiden. The other merchants understood my home situation, and had never rebuked me for my small pretense.
    Besides my garb, I was