Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Yael sat before Devorah in the majlise. She’d come as did nearly 150 others, men, women and children to seek answers to the oppression and lack of safety they’d been experiencing. But she did not have high expectations. She knew Devorah to be an exceptional woman, and a good and fair judge, but a woman, none-the-less. She also knew of Devorah’s reputation as a prophetess, but was unsure of how this ‘ability,’ if that was the right word, worked. Did God take over her body? Did she writhe and twist, yell or speak softly? Or did God just take hold of her mind and mouth?
Yael was curious, not only about Devorah’s relationship to God, but about her own. Her recent few experiences, suggested ‘taken over’ might not be too far from the truth. Though she hadn’t writhed or yelled, she’d seen things, real things just as in life..
The people milled around in the grove. Now there were perhaps two hundred men, women and children. Haber moved a few feet ahead of Yael to the front and center of the throng. He stopped a few cubits from the slight elevation Devorah would sit upon and spread his blanket. Yael joined him and they sat down. A few men in what passed for military uniforms were on either side of Devorah’s place. Seeing them made Yael think of Jereboam, her captured cousin. She closed her eyes and prayed silently for his safe return. I will ask Devorah about this harassment from the Canaanites, she thought. Something had to be done.
Lappodoth, Devorah’s husband came forward, spread a carpet on the rise and sat down. The murmuring from the multitude grew louder. Yael had seen him before, but not this close. He was bigger and younger than she’d thought, with rough features but a gentle demeanor. No fighter there, either, she thought. Then she caught herself. How fierce you’ve become, daughter! Her cheeks flamed. It’s so; but the times demand fierceness, she thought. We’re naked here; we have NO protection; and they’re deliberately provoking us!
Lappodoth stood as Devorah came forward. The crowd quieted down. She too, seemed younger than Yael remembered. Her jaw was chiseled and set and her green eyes blazed with banked fire. No lack of fierceness there, Yael thought. She has enough for us all. She has to.
Devorah gestured for the multitude to rise.
“The Lord God, Yahweh, is the One God,” she prayed, arms outstretched, palms up, head tilted back, eyes closed. “His love brought us forth from Egypt. We are his chosen ones, made in his image and likeness. What can befall us?”
“The Canaanites.” It was a man’s voice deep and rich, without anger or fear. It came from behind the multitude. Devorah’s guards stood taller, hands tightening on swords, necks craning.
“Indeed, brother,” Devorah said, opening her eyes and looking around. “Would you stand that we may see you?” Her voice was deep and soft.
A man with one leg pushed himself up leaning on a rough-hewn crutch. Yael thought he was in his mid-thirties. A jagged scar ran across his clean shaven face from where his left ear should have been to his jaw. He wore a clean, short, white woolen tunic that ended at his knees.
“The Canaanites took your ear and cut off your leg?” Devorah asked.
The man nodded. “I am Dovid ben Ami of the Nephtali.”
Devorah smiled warmly. “A fine and stalwart tribe.”
“Indeed,” Dovid said, smiling back as warmly. “Those at your left side are Nephtali and on the right, Zebulon.” Devorah bowed her head in acknowledgement. “Two tribes that will forever put the People of the Covenant before their own smaller interests.”
“Oo’s” and “Ah’s” from the crowd as some agreed; grumbles and coughs from those of Asher and Benjamin and the other tribes who disagreed.
“Yet you seem in good spirits, Dovid ben Ami of the Nephtali; even grateful,” Devorah said.
“I am, Devorah, Sar of Israel.”
“But when I prayed acknowledging God’s power, you spoke of the Canaanites.”
“I did.”
“Are they,” Devorah asked, “separate from God’s power?”
He smiled more deeply, held out his right hand to her, the hand not holding the crutch, palm up and cocked his head to the left. “Devorah, you of all our people.” He shook his head. “How can you ask that?” Dovid paused. “Of course they are not separate from God’s power. They are the instruments of God’s power, chosen as we are chosen.”
A gasp erupted from the multitude, punctuated by muffled shouts of, “shame” and “blasphemy!”
Devorah raised her arms for silence. The voices died away.
“Go on, Dovid. Complete your thought.”
“It is said that all things, good and bad, are echoes of the voice for God.” Devorah dipped her head in agreement. Yael did also. Though she hadn’t heard that phrase before, it resonated deeply in her and Yael thought there was a great truth in it. Dovid continued: “The Canaanites befall us, because it is God’s will that they befall us. And when we are ready to return to God’s will, they will cease to be a problem. It is not God who makes the Canaanites a plague in our lives, but our own imagined separation from God. When we no longer feel separate from the all encompassing power It is, but accept responsibility for our actions and the uses we make of It, then we shall be victorious.
“So long as we feel like a divided petty people,” he gestured to the men of Asher and Benjamin, “we will think and act and so become a divided petty people. The power does not need us to be great or petty. The power is indifferent to us; It is ours to use.”
Dovid sat down and Devorah continued. “But the Covenant is a commitment to greatness, not pettiness. The Covenant calls us to greatness. The Covenant says, ‘do ye thus, and thus shall be done unto you.’ It is a promise. If we honor our part, the all-power we call God, will honor Its part.” She paused, looked at the hundreds of faces before her and saw doubt, confusion, fear and emptiness in most, and comprehension and acceptance in only a few. I will speak to those, she thought, but for those who do not understand.
“My people, my family,” she said, voice eager and enthusiastic, “brothers and sisters, wise ones, mothers and fathers, soldiers, shepherds, farmers, merchants, artisans, children,” Devorah extended a hand and the young people stood and cheered.
“All things are echoes of the voice for God. Dovid, our brave warrior, is proof of this great truth. Is Dovid, happy, content and productive?” Many nodded. “Did God punish him?” A chorus of “no!” echoed around the crowd. “Did God allow the Canaanites to take his ear and his leg?” Hesitation. “Who made the decision to defend his people?” “Dovid!” “Who knew what could happen in war?” “Dovid.” “So, who made the decision to risk his leg and ear, Dovid or God?” “Dovid.”
“God allows everything and nothing. God allows the rain to fall on the just and the unjust man alike. My people,” Devorah reached up and out in a wide, inclusive gesture, “God is the ever-present power within and around us; you, me and everyone, even the Canaanites.” Angry shouts of “no!” “they worship Baal!” “they blaspheme!’
“Justice is mine, sayeth the Lord,” Devorah said. “This means the deed itself, carries with it it’s own reward or punishment. It is not for us to punish. How can it be, if God Itself shuns it? Dovid lost an ear and a leg. Is that punishment or reward? Judge for yourselves. Look at him and judge! He chose with divine guidance to defend his people and though he seems punished, he is not.
“What we take to be real and true are only temporary conditions, appearances. The greatest reality is here,” Devorah touched her heart, “and here,” she touched a finger to her head. “These are the places we comprehend and experience God’s eternal reality. The Covenant lives here, in everyone, whether they know it or not; even in the Canaanites. It is here, not in the Ark, or temple. It is for this that we have been chosen; to awaken ourselves and all human kind to the truth of our being and our relationship to God.
“And what is that truth? All things are echoes of the voice for God. We are to love first; we are to honor the divine within and around us; we are to be mindful and responsible for our thoughts, feelings and actions, first, and then respect and enable every person’s power to do and be likewise. The Covenant tells us, as ye sow, so shall ye reap. This is God’s will for us and in this way do we best honor and use the power that God is.
“Once there were people who experienced the fierce power of the Covenant directly. They were our ancestors. They witnessed the parting of the Red Sea, saw the Pillar of Fire, ate Mana. Now we have only the law and the tales to tell us what it was like. We have no experience of the Lord’s fierce power of our own.
“Now we have only It’s gentleness and the still small voice within. But this is enough! If we honor and attend to It. The Law and the tales are helpful and we use them, but they are not the thing Itself. They are reminders, mile markers; the finger pointing to the moon, and once we see the moon, we need no longer point our finger.
“The power that is God is always responsive to us; returning what we put into it, what we sow. Use the Power that is God consciously, instead of unconsciously. Always present and receptive, It receives the impression of our everyday, habitual thoughts and feelings and returns to us what we dwell upon. Therefore, raise your hearts and minds, lest you attract what you do not want. True worship is awareness of how Spirit works and acceptance of our responsibility for how we use It, not empty ritual and slavish obedience to the Law and the tales.”
But their faces told Devorah that the Law and the tales were their meat, their bread and honey; all they wanted. Oh, Abba, she prayed, if only I can waken them. But really, what chance did she have, a mere woman, when even Moses with all God’s miracles, could not bring them to an awareness of their divinity, and they bowed down before the Golden Calf and wandered in the desert for forty years?
She had reached a few though, Devorah saw awareness in a few more faces as she looked around. All I can do is be a clear channel for, You, Abba, she prayed again. To keep myself mindful, open and aware and share what You give me to share.
Then, as it had many times before, time stopped and Devorah heard His voice. Not a voice, actually, and certainly not a male voice. She called it “Abba”, the masculine form, because she was comfortable with the tradition of her people. But really, and she’d thought about this often and deeply, if one were to reflect seriously about it, how could the One God be masculine? If it was ‘one’ wouldn’t that have to be both feminine and masculine? The masculine without the feminine was bereft, out of balance, lacking wholeness, and hardly ‘one.’
There was no voice, really, for the power was not human. It was beyond everything human at all. The ideas simply filled her, her head and heart, and she knew with every fiber of her being that this was good and right and healthy and should be acted upon or shared.
I am well pleased, daughter. To keep yourself mindful, open and aware is all I ask. You cannot behave appropriately unless you perceive correctly. Since you and your neighbor are equal members of one family, as you perceive both so you will do to both. Look out from the perception of your own holiness to the holiness of others. You are the work of God, and Its work is wholly lovable and wholly loving. This is how you must think of yourself in your heart for this is what you are.
Devorah blinked. The ideas were hers now. The Majlise continued. A family of shepherds wanted a better price for its wool. The merchant resisted any change, then, as they dialogued, he agreed to an adjustment. Devorah had done nothing. A question of boundary stones was also amicably settled in the same way. A young woman rose. Devorah nodded to her.
“I am Yael, wife of Haber the Kenite, descendant of Jethro.”
“Speak, Yael.”
“I have a cousin very dear to me, Jereboam, who guarding a caravan, was wounded and taken in a raid. I would like him restored to us.”
“That would be my wish as well,” Devorah said.
“What you said earlier,” Yael continued, “about all things being the echoes of the voice for God and the Canaanites being chosen as we have been chosen to share the power of God.” She paused.
“Please continue, Yael.”
“I have prayed and Jereboam has not returned. Must I pray to Baal to send my cousin to me? Is Baal the equal of Yahweh?”
“Baal is an idol empty of power.” Devorah looked hard at Yael. “But you know that don’t you Yael?” Yael nodded. “Then why….”
“I am tired of pious words,” Yael said bitterly, long black hair swirling around her head and full breasts shifting as she gestured aggressively. “Actions; deeds are called for! We have prayed for 20 years and now, each year, the Canaanites become bolder and bolder. I say, enough! When will we fight, Devorah?”
Dovid stood. “I am ready!” he said. “Who will stand with me?” The guards around Devorah stepped forward; here and there in the crowd a man stood, altogether perhaps 16 or 17 in a multitude of 500. Yael looked around her and spat.
“Our people are not yet ready, Yael,” Devorah said, gesturing for those standing to be seated.
“Will they ever be?” Yael said, staring down at her husband who looked away.
“They will, Yael,” Devorah said. “Some of us will; you and I,” she gestured, “those standing. We will feel the guidance and act upon it. Not everyone, and not a great many. But enough will be called and heed the call as our good Dovid has done and then, the Lord God of Hosts will be with us. To act before we feel the power, without being called, to act from an empty, heathen space will destroy us.”
“And in the mean time?” Yael’s voice was sarcastic, her pretty face pinched.
“Make yourself and yours ready. Open to guidance. Help others be guided. Feel your love and compassion for Jereboam; live from your heart out and know the truth of your own divinity; as you sow, so shall you reap.”
Haber was pulling on Yael’s hand trying to get her to sit. Yael, who’d been staring deeply into Devorah’s eyes, nodded and sat. Perhaps, she thought, she would accept her anger and frustration; if all things were echoes of the voice for God, then these too, were of Him. Not accept them and do nothing, not feel guilty and suppress them, but accept them as part of her guidance; to embrace them and move to include them productively in her life. She glanced at Haber, squeezed his hand; he squeezed back without looking at her. Perhaps her sexual disappointment with Haber, her desire for something more exciting, even glamorous might be embraced also. Yael smiled, could the desires she’d been suppressing and denying most of her life also be echoes of the voice for God?
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Chapter Five
The squadron of five massive chariots reigned in before the brigade stables at full gallop, one after another, in faultless precision. The dust settled on the motionless drivers and spearmen; only the teams of splendid horses moved, stamping and neighing, nostrils flaring. The parade ground, too, though now crowed with uniformed men, was silent. A moment later, as Sisera stepped from the building’s dim interior into the light, a cheer broke from every throat, and the soldiers banged their weapons on their shields. “Baal Hakim!” They shouted. “Baal Hakim! Baal Hakim!”
Sisera raised his arms above his head, fists clenched, and looked smiling into each of the cheering faces. He was tall for a Canaanite, bulky with a reddish-blonde beard and hair. He stood 5’10” and weighed 215 pounds. His size alone inspired confidence. But it was his deeds on the field of battle, his sense of justice, and his compassion for his troops that inspired ardor. Jabin, the Over King himself, was rumored to be jealous of him. But there was none to replace him. For sixteen years, Sisera had fought gloriously.
Yet he was getting tired. His warm brown eyes were tinged with sadness and he felt the corners of his mouth droop and his arms grow heavy. They were splendid soldiers and the drill they just completed had gone flawlessly, yet still I am tired. Their adoration strengthens me. Yet I can not do it all alone. It is necessary to bring forth additional leaders. Should something happen to me, the Canaanite Federation would be at great risk. This is not sound leadership.
He let the sadness drop from him and gestured for his warriors to be still. At first they redoubled their clamor, finally, they fell silent.
“Soldiers!” he said to them. They cheered again. He waited. They fell silent. “This is the anniversary of our great victory at Hazor! The battle was fought by King Jabin’s father’s father to take back our capital from the Haibru invaders. Since that time we have fought again and again to keep these barbarians from destroying our culture. Their desert god knows nothing of the wealth and beauty of our cities; of our justice and the serenity of our fields and orchards. They foul our air and pollute everything with their sheep and burnt offerings. We try to live in harmony with them but they refuse to respect Baal and Astarte. There can be no god but their god and they kill those of their kind who are tolerant, accept our gods and come to live amongst us. How long shall we allow this?”
“No longer!” the multitude shouted back at him. “No longer, Baal Hakim!”
Sisera allowed them to shout and clamor, then resumed. “My mother awaits me!” They cheered. “Your mothers, wives and sweethearts await you. We shall not tarry here much longer. I promise you! Soon there will be an end to drills.” He raised his fists above his head, turned and re-entered the dim recesses of the stables. His soldiers broke ranks noisily.
But in the stable, the sounds were muffled and the heavy, sensual aroma of horse flooded his nostrils. Hay crackled beneath his heavy sandals. Pausing, Sisera inhaled deeply and pulled off his helmet. Sweat dripped, running down his forehead to sting his eyes. In the dim light, the scent of horse mingled with his own body odor, rekindling a memory of fucking in the stables when he was a boy.
Walking quickly, he entered a stair well and climbed three stories to his command room. Sheepskin maps were strewn across the two large tables in the center of the room. On a smaller table next to the window overlooking the parade ground was a decanter of good wine from the Galilee and three golden chalices. Though, not normally one for ostentation, Sisera did appreciate the finer things, and saw no reason to deprive himself of them unless absolutely necessary.
He poured the rich purple liquid, admiring its heavy flow and the contrast of its deep color with the shine of the gold, and drank greedily. Oh, I needed that, he thought. How I ache! He tugged at his heavy leather breast plate. As he poured to fill his cup again; Zeber and Sostrum, his two adjutants entered the room. They too, seemed tired. Though ten years and eight years younger, Sisera, knew the strain they were experiencing was as great as his. They tugged off their copper helmets and set them on the map tables.
“What you said out there about younger leaders,” Sostrum said. “Is correct.”
“But I said nothing about that, Sostrum,” Sisera said.
Sostrum looked confused and Zeber laughed. “It’s true, Sostrum. Sisera said nothing about younger leaders.” He moved to the wine, poured a cup for his colleague, handed it to him, poured one for himself, and raised his chalice in a toast. “Here’s to our companionship,” he said spilling a drop for the gods on the rough hewn planked floor. “We understand one another’s minds so well, we need not speak what we are thinking!”
Laughing, Sisera and Sostrum, spilled and drank deeply.
“But you did speak of our wives, sweethearts and mothers,” Sostrum said, squinting in Sisera’s direction. Sisera stood full in the glare from the large window and it was difficult to see his features. “Did you not, my lord?”
“I did, Sostrum. I did indeed. I know my mother misses me sorely; and again has plans to marry me off.” Sisera shook his head. “I have enough of duty, here, with the Army. I need not have it in my bed, too! As Baal is my witness, when I need a woman, I will have her. I have no need of marriage to fuck.”
“Well spoken, my good lord,” Sostrum said, and Zeber nodded. “But we have been here Charoshet for nearly a year. I know my wife and family….”
“And mine,” Zeber echoed.
“In Hazor are wanting to see me.” Sostrum concluded; then added: “And I believe two thirds of the men feel the same.”
Sisera had his back to them and was starring out the window, nodding. He’d heard and agreed with every word. The city bustling beneath them was a regional center of trade and moderately fortified. Caravans brought finished goods from Charoshet’s many small artisans and factories throughout Canaan. There were temples and palaces, in fact he looked into the courtyard of Astarte’s large temple, but they were not the temples and palaces of Hazor. The women were willing, more than willing; the wine was good and the food acceptable, even delicious at times. But it was not Hazor. There was no royalty here, unless one counted the merchant ‘princess.’
“You are right,” Sisera said, turning to face them and moving away from the window so they could see him more easily. “We have had enough of garrison duty.” He drained the last of the wine and strode to the map table, gesturing the others to join him.
“Our spies tell us that Barak is concentrating a few hundred Haibrus here,” Sisera put his index finger on the map, “at Mt. Tabor.” Sostrum and Zeber leaned forward. “I propose we strike at him decisively, here in the valley before Megiddo.”
“Yes,” Zeber said. “In that flat land we can use our chariots to advantage.”
“We can also bring infantry from Beth Shan and Taanach to form a great human barrier that will stop any escape to the west and south,” Sostrum said.
“We already have the north blocked,” Sisera said. “If Barak chooses not to fight, his only option is over the mountains to the Sea of Galilee and Ammon and the Syrians are not likely to allow that.”
“When will this begin, Lord?” Zeber asked.
“Our success depends on having as many Haibrus in the bag as possible,” Sisera said. “We can not bother with a few hundred. We must have many thousands. All of their fighting strength if possible.” Zeber and Sostrum nodded. “So we must continue our campaign of harassment and intimidation to provoke them to mass and fight.”
Sostrum was not happy. “But this is what we are doing now, Lord,” he said, tugging at his beard. “And here we are, away from our women and families, suffering. Can we not do something more to provoke them?”
“What would you suggest, Sostrum?”
“Maim prisoners, especially the soldiers; sacrifice prisoners to Baal.”
Sisera’s lip curled with distaste and he frowned. “We are soldiers not butchers or fanatics.”
“True, lord. Yet….”
“Yet we go on as we have been, Sostrum. I will, however, give more and longer leaves.”
Sostrum bowed deeply. “Thank you my lord. May I have your permission to withdraw?”
As Sisera waved him away and Sostrum departed, Zeber said, “Think not ill of Sostrum, my lord. His wife is very sick and his children are not being well cared for.”
“Yes, I know. It weighs heavily on me. We have many such amongst us. But we are not butchers or fanatics! I want to destroy the barbarian Haibrus, but not by destroying the very things, the civilization we are fighting for. Surely, you understand that Zeber?”
Zeber looked deeply into Sisera’s eyes. Yes, Sisera thought, he does understand. “Please help Sostrum understand it also, Zeber. Watch over him.”
“I will, my lord.” Zeber turned and left.
Sostrum was waiting for him in the stables below. “We can not continue this futile war of attrition,” he said.
“Indeed,” Zeber agreed. “But you can not commit atrocities. Sisera will surely hang you if he finds out.”
Sostrum leaned forward, touching his beard to Zeber’s. “And who will tell him?” Sostrum’s eyes burned into Zeber’s.
“Not I,” Zeber said.
“Good,” Sostrum said, smiling. “I will visit the new batch of prisoners later. I recall one, a soldier who was wounded, but not too, badly. Perhaps if he is sent back without an ear or eye…. Perhaps then they will hate us enough to fight.”
Chapter Five
The squadron of five massive chariots reigned in before the brigade stables at full gallop, one after another, in faultless precision. The dust settled on the motionless drivers and spearmen; only the teams of splendid horses moved, stamping and neighing, nostrils flaring. The parade ground, too, though now crowed with uniformed men, was silent. A moment later, as Sisera stepped from the building’s dim interior into the light, a cheer broke from every throat, and the soldiers banged their weapons on their shields. “Baal Hakim!” They shouted. “Baal Hakim! Baal Hakim!”
Sisera raised his arms above his head, fists clenched, and looked smiling into each of the cheering faces. He was tall for a Canaanite, bulky with a reddish-blonde beard and hair. He stood 5’10” and weighed 215 pounds. His size alone inspired confidence. But it was his deeds on the field of battle, his sense of justice, and his compassion for his troops that inspired ardor. Jabin, the Over King himself, was rumored to be jealous of him. But there was none to replace him. For sixteen years, Sisera had fought gloriously.
Yet he was getting tired. His warm brown eyes were tinged with sadness and he felt the corners of his mouth droop and his arms grow heavy. They were splendid soldiers and the drill they just completed had gone flawlessly, yet still I am tired. Their adoration strengthens me. Yet I can not do it all alone. It is necessary to bring forth additional leaders. Should something happen to me, the Canaanite Federation would be at great risk. This is not sound leadership.
He let the sadness drop from him and gestured for his warriors to be still. At first they redoubled their clamor, finally, they fell silent.
“Soldiers!” he said to them. They cheered again. He waited. They fell silent. “This is the anniversary of our great victory at Hazor! The battle was fought by King Jabin’s father’s father to take back our capital from the Haibru invaders. Since that time we have fought again and again to keep these barbarians from destroying our culture. Their desert god knows nothing of the wealth and beauty of our cities; of our justice and the serenity of our fields and orchards. They foul our air and pollute everything with their sheep and burnt offerings. We try to live in harmony with them but they refuse to respect Baal and Astarte. There can be no god but their god and they kill those of their kind who are tolerant, accept our gods and come to live amongst us. How long shall we allow this?”
“No longer!” the multitude shouted back at him. “No longer, Baal Hakim!”
Sisera allowed them to shout and clamor, then resumed. “My mother awaits me!” They cheered. “Your mothers, wives and sweethearts await you. We shall not tarry here much longer. I promise you! Soon there will be an end to drills.” He raised his fists above his head, turned and re-entered the dim recesses of the stables. His soldiers broke ranks noisily.
But in the stable, the sounds were muffled and the heavy, sensual aroma of horse flooded his nostrils. Hay crackled beneath his heavy sandals. Pausing, Sisera inhaled deeply and pulled off his helmet. Sweat dripped, running down his forehead to sting his eyes. In the dim light, the scent of horse mingled with his own body odor, rekindling a memory of fucking in the stables when he was a boy.
Walking quickly, he entered a stair well and climbed three stories to his command room. Sheepskin maps were strewn across the two large tables in the center of the room. On a smaller table next to the window overlooking the parade ground was a decanter of good wine from the Galilee and three golden chalices. Though, not normally one for ostentation, Sisera did appreciate the finer things, and saw no reason to deprive himself of them unless absolutely necessary.
He poured the rich purple liquid, admiring its heavy flow and the contrast of its deep color with the shine of the gold, and drank greedily. Oh, I needed that, he thought. How I ache! He tugged at his heavy leather breast plate. As he poured to fill his cup again; Zeber and Sostrum, his two adjutants entered the room. They too, seemed tired. Though ten years and eight years younger, Sisera, knew the strain they were experiencing was as great as his. They tugged off their copper helmets and set them on the map tables.
“What you said out there about younger leaders,” Sostrum said. “Is correct.”
“But I said nothing about that, Sostrum,” Sisera said.
Sostrum looked confused and Zeber laughed. “It’s true, Sostrum. Sisera said nothing about younger leaders.” He moved to the wine, poured a cup for his colleague, handed it to him, poured one for himself, and raised his chalice in a toast. “Here’s to our companionship,” he said spilling a drop for the gods on the rough hewn planked floor. “We understand one another’s minds so well, we need not speak what we are thinking!”
Laughing, Sisera and Sostrum, spilled and drank deeply.
“But you did speak of our wives, sweethearts and mothers,” Sostrum said, squinting in Sisera’s direction. Sisera stood full in the glare from the large window and it was difficult to see his features. “Did you not, my lord?”
“I did, Sostrum. I did indeed. I know my mother misses me sorely; and again has plans to marry me off.” Sisera shook his head. “I have enough of duty, here, with the Army. I need not have it in my bed, too! As Baal is my witness, when I need a woman, I will have her. I have no need of marriage to fuck.”
“Well spoken, my good lord,” Sostrum said, and Zeber nodded. “But we have been here Charoshet for nearly a year. I know my wife and family….”
“And mine,” Zeber echoed.
“In Hazor are wanting to see me.” Sostrum concluded; then added: “And I believe two thirds of the men feel the same.”
Sisera had his back to them and was starring out the window, nodding. He’d heard and agreed with every word. The city bustling beneath them was a regional center of trade and moderately fortified. Caravans brought finished goods from Charoshet’s many small artisans and factories throughout Canaan. There were temples and palaces, in fact he looked into the courtyard of Astarte’s large temple, but they were not the temples and palaces of Hazor. The women were willing, more than willing; the wine was good and the food acceptable, even delicious at times. But it was not Hazor. There was no royalty here, unless one counted the merchant ‘princess.’
“You are right,” Sisera said, turning to face them and moving away from the window so they could see him more easily. “We have had enough of garrison duty.” He drained the last of the wine and strode to the map table, gesturing the others to join him.
“Our spies tell us that Barak is concentrating a few hundred Haibrus here,” Sisera put his index finger on the map, “at Mt. Tabor.” Sostrum and Zeber leaned forward. “I propose we strike at him decisively, here in the valley before Megiddo.”
“Yes,” Zeber said. “In that flat land we can use our chariots to advantage.”
“We can also bring infantry from Beth Shan and Taanach to form a great human barrier that will stop any escape to the west and south,” Sostrum said.
“We already have the north blocked,” Sisera said. “If Barak chooses not to fight, his only option is over the mountains to the Sea of Galilee and Ammon and the Syrians are not likely to allow that.”
“When will this begin, Lord?” Zeber asked.
“Our success depends on having as many Haibrus in the bag as possible,” Sisera said. “We can not bother with a few hundred. We must have many thousands. All of their fighting strength if possible.” Zeber and Sostrum nodded. “So we must continue our campaign of harassment and intimidation to provoke them to mass and fight.”
Sostrum was not happy. “But this is what we are doing now, Lord,” he said, tugging at his beard. “And here we are, away from our women and families, suffering. Can we not do something more to provoke them?”
“What would you suggest, Sostrum?”
“Maim prisoners, especially the soldiers; sacrifice prisoners to Baal.”
Sisera’s lip curled with distaste and he frowned. “We are soldiers not butchers or fanatics.”
“True, lord. Yet….”
“Yet we go on as we have been, Sostrum. I will, however, give more and longer leaves.”
Sostrum bowed deeply. “Thank you my lord. May I have your permission to withdraw?”
As Sisera waved him away and Sostrum departed, Zeber said, “Think not ill of Sostrum, my lord. His wife is very sick and his children are not being well cared for.”
“Yes, I know. It weighs heavily on me. We have many such amongst us. But we are not butchers or fanatics! I want to destroy the barbarian Haibrus, but not by destroying the very things, the civilization we are fighting for. Surely, you understand that Zeber?”
Zeber looked deeply into Sisera’s eyes. Yes, Sisera thought, he does understand. “Please help Sostrum understand it also, Zeber. Watch over him.”
“I will, my lord.” Zeber turned and left.
Sostrum was waiting for him in the stables below. “We can not continue this futile war of attrition,” he said.
“Indeed,” Zeber agreed. “But you can not commit atrocities. Sisera will surely hang you if he finds out.”
Sostrum leaned forward, touching his beard to Zeber’s. “And who will tell him?” Sostrum’s eyes burned into Zeber’s.
“Not I,” Zeber said.
“Good,” Sostrum said, smiling. “I will visit the new batch of prisoners later. I recall one, a soldier who was wounded, but not too, badly. Perhaps if he is sent back without an ear or eye…. Perhaps then they will hate us enough to fight.”
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Yael followed her husband to the edge of the oasis. She was tired to the depths of her bones. The trip to Hazor had been profitable, but tiring. She preferred their tents in the open wind-swept spaces to the tight jumble and noise of the city. Especially Jabin’s city. The Canaanites were fine merchants and artisans, good designers and engineers, too. But, Yael wondered, to what end? She shuddered, closed her eyes yet could not escape the mental images of the Festival. The smell of burning human flesh, then, only hours later, the scent of sensual abandon from the writhing sexuality of Astarte’s worship.
Her flesh crawled, yet tingled, too. Yael couldn’t help comparing herself to the lithe temple maidens who danced so seductively and dared to make love out in the open, in public. Her body was as good as theirs. She too could dance and sway hypnotically. Her face too, was as attractive, yet without the kohl and rouge and other tricks they used, not nearly as wanton and seductive. She pursed her lips and slid her tongue out to moisten them, to make them shine.
Oh, but what was all this about? Yael wondered. She had no need of such things here with her husband. Haber, though eight years older than her twenty-two, was still vigorous and a fine figure of a man, who knew how to make love to her. But it was plain, unadorned procreation without much allure or passion that left Yael with a sense of lack. Haber was a righteous Kenite artisan, a tinsmith, a trade much in demand; passed down in his clan from the time of his forebear, Jethro, and from even as far back as the exodus. I have no need of kohl, rouge and passion, she thought. But something in me burns for it. I am still young and without children. She shuddered at the thought of children, the pain of childbirth, the drudgery of caring for them. The elegant, regal ladies of the Canaanites if they bore children, had slaves to care for them. Ah, to be as they were….
Haber released the pack mule’s lead and the animal wandered a few feet, then bent its head to nibble the succulent grass. As he loosened the carefully arranged packs, Arak came and asked about the cooking pot Haber was making for him. They wandered off and it fell to Yael to finish unpacking. The last and longest bundle was the tent. She unrolled the stitched-together skins and removed the mallet and the sharp tent pegs stored at its center. Yael’s movements were deft and rapid. She enjoyed this work and was good at it.
She paused and starred at the mallet, as if seeing it for the first time. She picked up a wooden spike, touched its sharp point with her thumb. The tent pegs started out much longer, but after each use, Yael sharpened them. Her eyes clouded over and her heart beat more rapidly. She felt frozen in time, tense, waiting. An image of a handsome man in armor, Canaanite armor, drifted before her. She looked down; he was lying at her feet in a fetal position. Yael felt a thrill and her nipples grew taught. She felt out of control yet guided by an inexorable power. It was hard to breath. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears. She gripped the tent peg, pointed it down and reached for the mallet.
“Yael,” Haber was calling her. She shook her head to clear it. The vision lingered, then was gone. Her body returned to normal and she sighed.
“Yes, husband,” she answered.
“Arak tells me of another Canaanite raid.” Haber gestured to the older man and he came nearer smiling at Yael. She nodded, acknowledging his presence.
“It has been the second time in two weeks,” Arak said. The older man had been a Haibru soldier and had a long, white scar from his left ear to his chin. Yael always cringed when she saw it. “We do not give our traders enough protection,” he said.
“And our weapons are inferior,” Haber added. “We need the iron of the Canaanites.”
Yael’s mind wandered to the sensation in her hand as she’d held the tent peg. She’d heard this talk of protection and weapons her whole life. The palm of her hand seemed to tingle.
“Your cousin, Jereboam, was taken prisoner,” Arak said.
Yael’s heart stopped. She looked to Haber to be sure she’d heard correctly. He nodded then wrapped her in his arms. She sobbed. Jereboam was her mother’s sister’s first born and her favorite cousin. “Did he resist?” Her voice was hoarse and strangled. It was well known what the Canaanites did to Haibru soldiers who resisted them.
Arak nodded.
“Was he wounded?” Haber asked.
Arak nodded.
“Where?” Yael asked. “Where, was he wounded?” Arak didn’t seem to understand. “On what part of his body? How badly was he wounded?”
“I was not there, Yael,” Arak said, his voice soft with sympathy and grief. “They say it was Sisera’s men, not bandits. They wore uniforms. Perhaps they will make a prisoner exchange….”
Haber laughed. “Exchange? Who have we to exchange?”
Arak looked down and shook his head.
Yael stepped from her husband’s embrace, bent and retrieved a tent peg. She stabbed downwards and brandished it. “Maybe we will capture one of them to exchange for my cousin.” Her voice was matter of fact, as if she were talking about a trade of wheat for barely. But her eyes blazed fiercely and her voice was tinged with anger.
“We will talk with Devorah,” Haber said. Arak, nodded.
Yael looked sharply at him. “She has done nothing yet. Nor has our brave general, Barak,” she said this last sarcastically. “Why would you think now would be any different? We - you, me, and Arak here, are the ones who must act.” Her voice shook and she sobbed. “You can at least learn the secret of iron, Haber. Then at least our weapons will be a match for theirs.” Yael threw the tent peg to the ground and stepped into her husband’s open arms; her body convulsed with sobs and despair.
“I have begun, Yael,” Haber said, stroking her flowing black hair. “I know some of it. I will learn the rest. For you, Yael.” She leaned back and looked into his face. “And for our people.”
Yael kissed him on the mouth. He pulled her close and she felt him stiffen. “Help me with the tent, husband,” she said, voice full of promise. We can tell Devorah later.”
Yael followed her husband to the edge of the oasis. She was tired to the depths of her bones. The trip to Hazor had been profitable, but tiring. She preferred their tents in the open wind-swept spaces to the tight jumble and noise of the city. Especially Jabin’s city. The Canaanites were fine merchants and artisans, good designers and engineers, too. But, Yael wondered, to what end? She shuddered, closed her eyes yet could not escape the mental images of the Festival. The smell of burning human flesh, then, only hours later, the scent of sensual abandon from the writhing sexuality of Astarte’s worship.
Her flesh crawled, yet tingled, too. Yael couldn’t help comparing herself to the lithe temple maidens who danced so seductively and dared to make love out in the open, in public. Her body was as good as theirs. She too could dance and sway hypnotically. Her face too, was as attractive, yet without the kohl and rouge and other tricks they used, not nearly as wanton and seductive. She pursed her lips and slid her tongue out to moisten them, to make them shine.
Oh, but what was all this about? Yael wondered. She had no need of such things here with her husband. Haber, though eight years older than her twenty-two, was still vigorous and a fine figure of a man, who knew how to make love to her. But it was plain, unadorned procreation without much allure or passion that left Yael with a sense of lack. Haber was a righteous Kenite artisan, a tinsmith, a trade much in demand; passed down in his clan from the time of his forebear, Jethro, and from even as far back as the exodus. I have no need of kohl, rouge and passion, she thought. But something in me burns for it. I am still young and without children. She shuddered at the thought of children, the pain of childbirth, the drudgery of caring for them. The elegant, regal ladies of the Canaanites if they bore children, had slaves to care for them. Ah, to be as they were….
Haber released the pack mule’s lead and the animal wandered a few feet, then bent its head to nibble the succulent grass. As he loosened the carefully arranged packs, Arak came and asked about the cooking pot Haber was making for him. They wandered off and it fell to Yael to finish unpacking. The last and longest bundle was the tent. She unrolled the stitched-together skins and removed the mallet and the sharp tent pegs stored at its center. Yael’s movements were deft and rapid. She enjoyed this work and was good at it.
She paused and starred at the mallet, as if seeing it for the first time. She picked up a wooden spike, touched its sharp point with her thumb. The tent pegs started out much longer, but after each use, Yael sharpened them. Her eyes clouded over and her heart beat more rapidly. She felt frozen in time, tense, waiting. An image of a handsome man in armor, Canaanite armor, drifted before her. She looked down; he was lying at her feet in a fetal position. Yael felt a thrill and her nipples grew taught. She felt out of control yet guided by an inexorable power. It was hard to breath. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears. She gripped the tent peg, pointed it down and reached for the mallet.
“Yael,” Haber was calling her. She shook her head to clear it. The vision lingered, then was gone. Her body returned to normal and she sighed.
“Yes, husband,” she answered.
“Arak tells me of another Canaanite raid.” Haber gestured to the older man and he came nearer smiling at Yael. She nodded, acknowledging his presence.
“It has been the second time in two weeks,” Arak said. The older man had been a Haibru soldier and had a long, white scar from his left ear to his chin. Yael always cringed when she saw it. “We do not give our traders enough protection,” he said.
“And our weapons are inferior,” Haber added. “We need the iron of the Canaanites.”
Yael’s mind wandered to the sensation in her hand as she’d held the tent peg. She’d heard this talk of protection and weapons her whole life. The palm of her hand seemed to tingle.
“Your cousin, Jereboam, was taken prisoner,” Arak said.
Yael’s heart stopped. She looked to Haber to be sure she’d heard correctly. He nodded then wrapped her in his arms. She sobbed. Jereboam was her mother’s sister’s first born and her favorite cousin. “Did he resist?” Her voice was hoarse and strangled. It was well known what the Canaanites did to Haibru soldiers who resisted them.
Arak nodded.
“Was he wounded?” Haber asked.
Arak nodded.
“Where?” Yael asked. “Where, was he wounded?” Arak didn’t seem to understand. “On what part of his body? How badly was he wounded?”
“I was not there, Yael,” Arak said, his voice soft with sympathy and grief. “They say it was Sisera’s men, not bandits. They wore uniforms. Perhaps they will make a prisoner exchange….”
Haber laughed. “Exchange? Who have we to exchange?”
Arak looked down and shook his head.
Yael stepped from her husband’s embrace, bent and retrieved a tent peg. She stabbed downwards and brandished it. “Maybe we will capture one of them to exchange for my cousin.” Her voice was matter of fact, as if she were talking about a trade of wheat for barely. But her eyes blazed fiercely and her voice was tinged with anger.
“We will talk with Devorah,” Haber said. Arak, nodded.
Yael looked sharply at him. “She has done nothing yet. Nor has our brave general, Barak,” she said this last sarcastically. “Why would you think now would be any different? We - you, me, and Arak here, are the ones who must act.” Her voice shook and she sobbed. “You can at least learn the secret of iron, Haber. Then at least our weapons will be a match for theirs.” Yael threw the tent peg to the ground and stepped into her husband’s open arms; her body convulsed with sobs and despair.
“I have begun, Yael,” Haber said, stroking her flowing black hair. “I know some of it. I will learn the rest. For you, Yael.” She leaned back and looked into his face. “And for our people.”
Yael kissed him on the mouth. He pulled her close and she felt him stiffen. “Help me with the tent, husband,” she said, voice full of promise. We can tell Devorah later.”
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Chapter Three, Part 3
Vermin, Bethena, isn’t that a bit strong?
Lately, whenever she worked herself into a frenzy of hate, another voice, softer, deeply serene and gentle, came to her. It was something from her life before the initiation in the Temple of Astarte, a voice that sounded the way she remembered feeling when she was eleven wandering bare foot in the lush fields and playing with the lambs. Bethena stopped pacing and stood still, listening.
Aren’t they human, as you are? Do they not long for love, as you do; and worry for their sons and daughters? She nodded and felt suddenly drained. Walking back to the chair, she sat heavily.
“But are we – Jabin, Sisera and myself closer to the gods? Are we not the special and divine children of Baal and Astarte, with a mission ordained by them?’
Do you really believe Baal and Astarte are gods? Do you feel their presence?
“In the Temple, when I bow down before them. When we have the services to them, the rituals music, dancing; when I inhale the sacred incense…” Her eyes closed and she touched a hand to her genitals. “Yes. I feel them, then.”
But outside the temple, when you see a sunrise, taste the warmth of fresh bread, inhale the fragrance of the breeze from the sea; look at your child – do you feel Astarte’s presence then?
“I feel something, but it is not what I feel in the Temple. Perhaps what I feel is just the life force itself.”
Which is greater?
“The life force.”
And Baal? Is he a god of life or of death.
Clearly, he was a god of death. Bethena shuddered, remembering the sacrifice of her first born son. Because she had conceived as a temple maiden and was unmarried, there was no question that her son would be sacrificed to Baal-Malek at the next harvest festival.
Bethena had gone back to the country after her month in the temple. Amah and Melka had accompanied her. As her belly grew full, she ate and relaxed and gave herself over to life growing within her. The days passed in a gentle haze of sleeping, chatting and long slow walks beneath the dry blue skies. Then, a month before the baby came, Atrim, her Sire and her son’s Sire, the great over-king sent for her. Melka went back to Hazor with the messenger and explained Bethena’s condition to the king and begged his leave to attend him after the child was born. Atrim agreed.
The baby was a marvelous red-headed boy! A lucky child. Bethena nursed him herself. He was a sweet, good natured child, with big solemn black eyes. As they prepared to bring him to the city, the dread that she had been feeling throughout her pregnancy, threatened to overwhelm Bethena. She could no longer deny that he was to be sacrificed to Baal. That she had borne this sweet child to honor the god was one thing, but to have him be murdered before her eyes?
Melka tried to console Bethena, reminding her that this was the sacrifice of her first born male, for the good of the community and after this, all her sons would live; and surely, she would have many sons. Atrim would see to that. The festival and sacrifice were ten weeks hence, why not enjoy the child ‘till that time?
Atrim, though married, had taken Bethena as a concubine and came often to her suite of rooms in the palace. He too, tried to sooth her, and Bethena, though deeply troubled and oblivious to the royal attention and lavish surroundings, had done her best to do what was expected of her.
Now was the moment of truth, the day of the Festival. Bethena had barely slept and when Amah awakened her, she had cramps in her calves and an ache in her head she thought would split her skull open. She could not keep any food down, but rushed to be with her son. She held him and cooed and rocked him in her arms, sobbing and would not be comforted. Melka tried to apply make-up, but Bethena laughed at the absurd idea.
“You are royalty. Your sacrifice carries more weight. You must look the part,” Melka said.
Again the absurdity of the idea of her sacrifice being any more important or meaningful than any mother’s, twisted Bethena’s mouth into a humorless smile. Surely if this god she was giving her first born to was truly all powerful, he would only give life, not take it. He is a god of death, not of life! She knew it and the insight settled her.
“You have a position to maintain,” Melka said.
Bethena’s eyes burned into Melka’s. “You know all about that, of course, don’t you, Melka?”
“I have had only girl children,” Melka said, softly and looked away.
“I know that. But you know all about making other sacrifices to maintain your position. Love and friendship – mine, for example.”
“I have always been loyal to you, Bethena!”
“A strange loyalty, Melka. Strange, indeed.” Bethena’s eyes were moist from her tears but she stared haughtily ahead, her heart cold and steady. “Apply the kohl and rouge, then. I shall maintain our position.”
Silent crowds lined the twisting streets, hung from the balconies and craned dangerously from the roofs as Bethena walked, cradling her son, beneath a royal indigo canopy borne by four male slaves. Melka and Amah walked a few paces behind her. Bethena walked the two hundred cubits from the palace to the Festival alter, looking straight ahead, feeling nothing. The smell of burning human flesh already adrift on the air. It was a distinctive, sweetish aroma, quite different from lamb or fish. Other women had gone before her. Later she found that thirty-seven women had given their sons to the god that day. She was to be the last.
As she entered the square, a sigh rose from the multitude. Atrim sat on a raised dais made of grey stone slabs with eyes that saw, but looked through her. How many of his children had he already sacrificed in this way? Indeed, she herself had been to the Festival sacrifices every year of her life in the city, and until this day, never experienced the pain of the mothers and the empty futility of the deed.
Sharing the platform with Atrim, was the god. He stood fifteen feet tall, wide mouth gaping, fire roaring in his wide belly; out-stretched arms tilting down to receive his beloveds and propel them into the flames. Four priests stood, naked, but for white linen loin cloths and gleaming gold bejeweled wrist and head bands, two on either side of the idol.
As Bethena reached the base of the platform, the two, to her right descended the ramp to meet her. One was carrying a chalice of drugged wine, the other took the child from her and held him up. The multitude cheered enthusiastically. They gave Bethena’s son a drink, rocked him, gently, then ascended the ramp. Bethena followed. The two priests already on the platform led her to a place near the King where she stood and watched. They gave the boy another drink, lifted him again for the crowd and took their places before the great god Baal. The one holding the child aloft maintained his position while the others prostrated themselves at the god’s massive feet.
Then, it was done. The priest lowered the child, took a step forward, laid the baby on the outstretched downward tilting arms and the child rolled into Baal’s flaming belly. Bethena never once looked away but did choke a moment later when the wind wafted the scent of her son’s burning flesh in her direction.
Two years later, Bethena had borne Atrim her second son, Sisera.
Lately, whenever she worked herself into a frenzy of hate, another voice, softer, deeply serene and gentle, came to her. It was something from her life before the initiation in the Temple of Astarte, a voice that sounded the way she remembered feeling when she was eleven wandering bare foot in the lush fields and playing with the lambs. Bethena stopped pacing and stood still, listening.
Aren’t they human, as you are? Do they not long for love, as you do; and worry for their sons and daughters? She nodded and felt suddenly drained. Walking back to the chair, she sat heavily.
“But are we – Jabin, Sisera and myself closer to the gods? Are we not the special and divine children of Baal and Astarte, with a mission ordained by them?’
Do you really believe Baal and Astarte are gods? Do you feel their presence?
“In the Temple, when I bow down before them. When we have the services to them, the rituals music, dancing; when I inhale the sacred incense…” Her eyes closed and she touched a hand to her genitals. “Yes. I feel them, then.”
But outside the temple, when you see a sunrise, taste the warmth of fresh bread, inhale the fragrance of the breeze from the sea; look at your child – do you feel Astarte’s presence then?
“I feel something, but it is not what I feel in the Temple. Perhaps what I feel is just the life force itself.”
Which is greater?
“The life force.”
And Baal? Is he a god of life or of death.
Clearly, he was a god of death. Bethena shuddered, remembering the sacrifice of her first born son. Because she had conceived as a temple maiden and was unmarried, there was no question that her son would be sacrificed to Baal-Malek at the next harvest festival.
Bethena had gone back to the country after her month in the temple. Amah and Melka had accompanied her. As her belly grew full, she ate and relaxed and gave herself over to life growing within her. The days passed in a gentle haze of sleeping, chatting and long slow walks beneath the dry blue skies. Then, a month before the baby came, Atrim, her Sire and her son’s Sire, the great over-king sent for her. Melka went back to Hazor with the messenger and explained Bethena’s condition to the king and begged his leave to attend him after the child was born. Atrim agreed.
The baby was a marvelous red-headed boy! A lucky child. Bethena nursed him herself. He was a sweet, good natured child, with big solemn black eyes. As they prepared to bring him to the city, the dread that she had been feeling throughout her pregnancy, threatened to overwhelm Bethena. She could no longer deny that he was to be sacrificed to Baal. That she had borne this sweet child to honor the god was one thing, but to have him be murdered before her eyes?
Melka tried to console Bethena, reminding her that this was the sacrifice of her first born male, for the good of the community and after this, all her sons would live; and surely, she would have many sons. Atrim would see to that. The festival and sacrifice were ten weeks hence, why not enjoy the child ‘till that time?
Atrim, though married, had taken Bethena as a concubine and came often to her suite of rooms in the palace. He too, tried to sooth her, and Bethena, though deeply troubled and oblivious to the royal attention and lavish surroundings, had done her best to do what was expected of her.
Now was the moment of truth, the day of the Festival. Bethena had barely slept and when Amah awakened her, she had cramps in her calves and an ache in her head she thought would split her skull open. She could not keep any food down, but rushed to be with her son. She held him and cooed and rocked him in her arms, sobbing and would not be comforted. Melka tried to apply make-up, but Bethena laughed at the absurd idea.
“You are royalty. Your sacrifice carries more weight. You must look the part,” Melka said.
Again the absurdity of the idea of her sacrifice being any more important or meaningful than any mother’s, twisted Bethena’s mouth into a humorless smile. Surely if this god she was giving her first born to was truly all powerful, he would only give life, not take it. He is a god of death, not of life! She knew it and the insight settled her.
“You have a position to maintain,” Melka said.
Bethena’s eyes burned into Melka’s. “You know all about that, of course, don’t you, Melka?”
“I have had only girl children,” Melka said, softly and looked away.
“I know that. But you know all about making other sacrifices to maintain your position. Love and friendship – mine, for example.”
“I have always been loyal to you, Bethena!”
“A strange loyalty, Melka. Strange, indeed.” Bethena’s eyes were moist from her tears but she stared haughtily ahead, her heart cold and steady. “Apply the kohl and rouge, then. I shall maintain our position.”
Silent crowds lined the twisting streets, hung from the balconies and craned dangerously from the roofs as Bethena walked, cradling her son, beneath a royal indigo canopy borne by four male slaves. Melka and Amah walked a few paces behind her. Bethena walked the two hundred cubits from the palace to the Festival alter, looking straight ahead, feeling nothing. The smell of burning human flesh already adrift on the air. It was a distinctive, sweetish aroma, quite different from lamb or fish. Other women had gone before her. Later she found that thirty-seven women had given their sons to the god that day. She was to be the last.
As she entered the square, a sigh rose from the multitude. Atrim sat on a raised dais made of grey stone slabs with eyes that saw, but looked through her. How many of his children had he already sacrificed in this way? Indeed, she herself had been to the Festival sacrifices every year of her life in the city, and until this day, never experienced the pain of the mothers and the empty futility of the deed.
Sharing the platform with Atrim, was the god. He stood fifteen feet tall, wide mouth gaping, fire roaring in his wide belly; out-stretched arms tilting down to receive his beloveds and propel them into the flames. Four priests stood, naked, but for white linen loin cloths and gleaming gold bejeweled wrist and head bands, two on either side of the idol.
As Bethena reached the base of the platform, the two, to her right descended the ramp to meet her. One was carrying a chalice of drugged wine, the other took the child from her and held him up. The multitude cheered enthusiastically. They gave Bethena’s son a drink, rocked him, gently, then ascended the ramp. Bethena followed. The two priests already on the platform led her to a place near the King where she stood and watched. They gave the boy another drink, lifted him again for the crowd and took their places before the great god Baal. The one holding the child aloft maintained his position while the others prostrated themselves at the god’s massive feet.
Then, it was done. The priest lowered the child, took a step forward, laid the baby on the outstretched downward tilting arms and the child rolled into Baal’s flaming belly. Bethena never once looked away but did choke a moment later when the wind wafted the scent of her son’s burning flesh in her direction.
Two years later, Bethena had borne Atrim her second son, Sisera.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Chapter Three, Part Two
But outside the temple, when you see a sunrise, taste the warmth of fresh bread, inhale the fragrance of the breeze from the sea; look at your child – do you feel Astarte’s presence then?
“I feel something, but it is not what I feel in the Temple. Perhaps what I feel is just the life force itself.”
Which is greater?
“The life force.”
And Baal? Is he a god of life or of death.
Clearly, he was a god of death. Bethena shuddered, remembering the sacrifice of her first born son. Because she had conceived as a temple maiden and was unmarried, there was no question that her son would be sacrificed to Baal-Malek at the next harvest festival.
Bethena had gone back to the country after her month in the temple. Amah and Melka had accompanied her. As her belly grew full, she ate and relaxed and gave herself over to life growing within her. The days passed in a gentle haze of sleeping, chatting and long slow walks beneath the dry blue skies. Then, a month before the baby came, Atrim, her Sire and her son’s Sire, the great over-king sent for her. Melka went back to Hazor with the messenger and explained Bethena’s condition to the king and begged his leave to attend him after the child was born. Atrim agreed.
The baby was a marvelous red-headed boy! A lucky child. Bethena nursed him herself. He was a sweet, good natured child, with big solemn black eyes. As they prepared to bring him to the city, the dread that she had been feeling throughout her pregnancy, threatened to overwhelm Bethena. She could no longer deny that he was to be sacrificed to Baal. That she had borne this sweet child to honor the god was one thing, but to have him be murdered before her eyes?
Melka tried to console Bethena, reminding her that this was the sacrifice of her first born male, for the good of the community and after this, all her sons would live; and surely, she would have many sons. Atrim would see to that. The festival and sacrifice were ten weeks hence, why not enjoy the child ‘till that time?
Atrim, though married, had taken Bethena as a concubine and came often to her suite of rooms in the palace. He too, tried to sooth her, and Bethena, though deeply troubled and oblivious to the royal attention and lavish surroundings, had done her best to do what was expected of her.
Now was the moment of truth, the day of the Festival. Bethena had barely slept and when Amah awakened her, she had cramps in her calves and an ache in her head she thought would split her skull open. She could not keep any food down, but rushed to be with her son. She held him and cooed and rocked him in her arms, sobbing and would not be comforted. Melka tried to apply make-up, but Bethena laughed at the absurd idea.
“You are royalty. Your sacrifice carries more weight. You must look the part,” Melka said.
Again the absurdity of the idea of her sacrifice being any more important or meaningful than any mother’s, twisted Bethena’s mouth into a humorless smile. Surely if this god she was giving her first born to was truly all powerful, he would only give life, not take it. He is a god of death, not of life! She knew it and the insight settled her.
“You have a position to maintain,” Melka said.
Bethena’s eyes burned into Melka’s. “You know all about that, of course, don’t you, Melka?”
“I have had only girl children,” Melka said, softly and looked away.
“I know that. But you know all about making other sacrifices to maintain your position. Love and friendship – mine, for example.”
“I have always been loyal to you, Bethena!”
“A strange loyalty, Melka. Strange, indeed.” Bethena’s eyes were moist from her tears but she stared haughtily ahead, her heart cold and steady. “Apply the kohl and rouge, then. I shall maintain our position.”
Silent crowds lined the twisting streets, hung from the balconies and craned dangerously from the roofs as Bethena walked, cradling her son, beneath a royal indigo canopy borne by four male slaves. Melka and Amah walked a few paces behind her. Bethena walked the two hundred cubits from the palace to the Festival alter, looking straight ahead, feeling nothing. The smell of burning human flesh already adrift on the air. It was a distinctive, sweetish aroma, quite different from lamb or fish. Other women had gone before her. Later she found that thirty-seven women had given their sons to the god that day. She was to be the last.
As she entered the square, a sigh rose from the multitude. Atrim sat on a raised dais made of grey stone slabs with eyes that saw, but looked through her. How many of his children had he already sacrificed in this way? Indeed, she herself had been to the Festival sacrifices every year of her life in the city, and until this day, never experienced the pain of the mothers and the empty futility of the deed.
Sharing the platform with Atrim, was the god. He stood fifteen feet tall, wide mouth gaping, fire roaring in his wide belly; out-stretched arms tilting down to receive his beloveds and propel them into the flames. Four priests stood, naked, but for white linen loin cloths and gleaming gold bejeweled wrist and head bands, two on either side of the idol.
As Bethena reached the base of the platform, the two, to her right descended the ramp to meet her. One was carrying a chalice of drugged wine, the other took the child from her and held him up. The multitude cheered enthusiastically. They gave Bethena’s son a drink, rocked him, gently, then ascended the ramp. Bethena followed. The two priests already on the platform led her to a place near the King where she stood and watched. They gave the boy another drink, lifted him again for the crowd and took their places before the great god Baal. The one holding the child aloft maintained his position while the others prostrated themselves at the god’s massive feet.
Then, it was done. The priest lowered the child, took a step forward, laid the baby on the outstretched downward tilting arms and the child rolled into Baal’s flaming belly. Bethena never once looked away but did choke a moment later when the wind wafted the scent of her son’s burning flesh in her direction.
Two years later, Bethena had borne Atrim her second son, Sisera.
“I feel something, but it is not what I feel in the Temple. Perhaps what I feel is just the life force itself.”
Which is greater?
“The life force.”
And Baal? Is he a god of life or of death.
Clearly, he was a god of death. Bethena shuddered, remembering the sacrifice of her first born son. Because she had conceived as a temple maiden and was unmarried, there was no question that her son would be sacrificed to Baal-Malek at the next harvest festival.
Bethena had gone back to the country after her month in the temple. Amah and Melka had accompanied her. As her belly grew full, she ate and relaxed and gave herself over to life growing within her. The days passed in a gentle haze of sleeping, chatting and long slow walks beneath the dry blue skies. Then, a month before the baby came, Atrim, her Sire and her son’s Sire, the great over-king sent for her. Melka went back to Hazor with the messenger and explained Bethena’s condition to the king and begged his leave to attend him after the child was born. Atrim agreed.
The baby was a marvelous red-headed boy! A lucky child. Bethena nursed him herself. He was a sweet, good natured child, with big solemn black eyes. As they prepared to bring him to the city, the dread that she had been feeling throughout her pregnancy, threatened to overwhelm Bethena. She could no longer deny that he was to be sacrificed to Baal. That she had borne this sweet child to honor the god was one thing, but to have him be murdered before her eyes?
Melka tried to console Bethena, reminding her that this was the sacrifice of her first born male, for the good of the community and after this, all her sons would live; and surely, she would have many sons. Atrim would see to that. The festival and sacrifice were ten weeks hence, why not enjoy the child ‘till that time?
Atrim, though married, had taken Bethena as a concubine and came often to her suite of rooms in the palace. He too, tried to sooth her, and Bethena, though deeply troubled and oblivious to the royal attention and lavish surroundings, had done her best to do what was expected of her.
Now was the moment of truth, the day of the Festival. Bethena had barely slept and when Amah awakened her, she had cramps in her calves and an ache in her head she thought would split her skull open. She could not keep any food down, but rushed to be with her son. She held him and cooed and rocked him in her arms, sobbing and would not be comforted. Melka tried to apply make-up, but Bethena laughed at the absurd idea.
“You are royalty. Your sacrifice carries more weight. You must look the part,” Melka said.
Again the absurdity of the idea of her sacrifice being any more important or meaningful than any mother’s, twisted Bethena’s mouth into a humorless smile. Surely if this god she was giving her first born to was truly all powerful, he would only give life, not take it. He is a god of death, not of life! She knew it and the insight settled her.
“You have a position to maintain,” Melka said.
Bethena’s eyes burned into Melka’s. “You know all about that, of course, don’t you, Melka?”
“I have had only girl children,” Melka said, softly and looked away.
“I know that. But you know all about making other sacrifices to maintain your position. Love and friendship – mine, for example.”
“I have always been loyal to you, Bethena!”
“A strange loyalty, Melka. Strange, indeed.” Bethena’s eyes were moist from her tears but she stared haughtily ahead, her heart cold and steady. “Apply the kohl and rouge, then. I shall maintain our position.”
Silent crowds lined the twisting streets, hung from the balconies and craned dangerously from the roofs as Bethena walked, cradling her son, beneath a royal indigo canopy borne by four male slaves. Melka and Amah walked a few paces behind her. Bethena walked the two hundred cubits from the palace to the Festival alter, looking straight ahead, feeling nothing. The smell of burning human flesh already adrift on the air. It was a distinctive, sweetish aroma, quite different from lamb or fish. Other women had gone before her. Later she found that thirty-seven women had given their sons to the god that day. She was to be the last.
As she entered the square, a sigh rose from the multitude. Atrim sat on a raised dais made of grey stone slabs with eyes that saw, but looked through her. How many of his children had he already sacrificed in this way? Indeed, she herself had been to the Festival sacrifices every year of her life in the city, and until this day, never experienced the pain of the mothers and the empty futility of the deed.
Sharing the platform with Atrim, was the god. He stood fifteen feet tall, wide mouth gaping, fire roaring in his wide belly; out-stretched arms tilting down to receive his beloveds and propel them into the flames. Four priests stood, naked, but for white linen loin cloths and gleaming gold bejeweled wrist and head bands, two on either side of the idol.
As Bethena reached the base of the platform, the two, to her right descended the ramp to meet her. One was carrying a chalice of drugged wine, the other took the child from her and held him up. The multitude cheered enthusiastically. They gave Bethena’s son a drink, rocked him, gently, then ascended the ramp. Bethena followed. The two priests already on the platform led her to a place near the King where she stood and watched. They gave the boy another drink, lifted him again for the crowd and took their places before the great god Baal. The one holding the child aloft maintained his position while the others prostrated themselves at the god’s massive feet.
Then, it was done. The priest lowered the child, took a step forward, laid the baby on the outstretched downward tilting arms and the child rolled into Baal’s flaming belly. Bethena never once looked away but did choke a moment later when the wind wafted the scent of her son’s burning flesh in her direction.
Two years later, Bethena had borne Atrim her second son, Sisera.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Chapter Three, Part 1
Chapter Three
A slave came to light the torches. Bethena tried to pull herself from the memories and focus on her son. He had not been her first born. Her first born had been sacrificed to Baal. She went to the table and poured wine into a beautifully wrought silver goblet, added water and drank deeply. In a moment, warmth suffused her chest. Downstairs, she heard the slaves preparing the evening meal.
Melka, two years older and wise in the ways of the city, temple and palace had watched over her in the weeks and months that followed. Bethena drank again. It had been good with Melka. Later, in the days following her initiation, a few men had come to her and she’d learned to please and enjoy them in Astarte’s name, but it had never been as good as that first time with Melka. Melka knew all the men allowed to visit the inner-most court of Astarte’s Temple. She had lain with them herself. Four of them, all of the royal household had lain with Bethena. Atrim, father of Jabin, had been with Bethena most often; Melka counted 17 times. When Bethena conceived, Melka told her she was sure it was Atrim’s seed that had quickened in her.
Had Atrim, the over-king of all the Canaanite city-states, known she was his daughter? At the time, Bethena had been shocked by the idea, now, as she seated herself in the stiff-backed throne-like chair, she realized it had been an honor to be impregnated by her own father. After all, Baal and Astarte had been brother and sister, as had been Toth and Isis. It was the exception for the great mass of everyday people. But for the great ones, it was the rule.
They were at the very pinnacle of civilization, the intersection of the human and divine; far above the many others swarming in the streets around her suite in the palace. Bethena sighed, nodded knowingly and clapped her hands. Immediately, a handsome young male slave appeared and bowed deeply before her.
“Bring me a footstool and a table.”
“Yes, Mistress.” The slave obeyed, bowed low, and backed from her presence.
Bethena could have simply moved the furniture herself, but she hadn’t wanted to. Awash in the glow of power as she contemplated her divine heritage, Bethena had wanted to be waited on. She could even have made the slave be her footstool. He would have eagerly complied, she had used him as furniture before, but she was not in the mood tonight.
She admired the workmanship of the finely wrought silver on her goblet. It was a scene depicting an olive grove and oil press. We have a higher standard to adhere to, she thought. It is our mission to keep and extend civilization; to honor our God and his Goddess consort; to protect them from the ravages of the desert nomads and their One God.
What could they know of God? They had no temples, lived in tents, had no iron. While we have beautiful temples, fleets of trading vessels, caravans that travel to Cathay and the Indies and a system of justice sophisticated law resting on the will of the gods and on the divine power they have given to our priests and great ones.
The Haibrus were barbarians, nomads, threatening the roots of civilization. Bethena was proud of her general son’s service to her half brother the King. Together, they were waging a relentless war of attrition against the nomad invaders, the desert aliens and jealous god who challenged their way of life and the greatness of the gods.
Yet there were alternatives to force and violence and the Haibrus were not so stiff-necked and un-educatable as every one said. The handsome slave, for instance. He was a Haibru but under her tutelage had taken well enough to the worship of Astarte. Now he basked in his service to Bethena and devoted himself fully to her needs and pleasure, because she was of royal blood and a priestess of Astarte and to serve and worship her, was to serve and worship the Goddess.
But until they were tamed and trained, the Haibrus were fierce. Bethena feared for the life of her son and the lives of the brave Canaanites who fought with them. But it seemed that they had no alternative, no choice but to make war. Hadn’t they tried to live in peace? Generations ago, when the Haibrus had first come among them, the Canaanites had welcomed them; encouraged them to camp beside their cities, water at their wells, live in the city walls, even join them in worshiping Baal and Astarte in their beautiful temples. They were tolerant of the Haibru god. And what had happened?
Bethena shifted in her chair, removed her feet from the footstool and returned them to the floor. Some, quite a few at first, had adapted to the life of the city and gloried in the sensual worship of Baal and Astarte, though, Bethena swallowed hard, the sacrifice of the first born male had been hard for them. Still, many of the Haibrus became as their Canaanite neighbors.
But their One God - One God - Bethena laughed aloud, how silly, grew jealous of Baal and Astarte and caused his more zealous worshippers to attack those that had fallen away; and forcibly return them to His worship, or kill them. Now there was little commerce between the worshipers of the One God and those of Baal and Astarte. In places they tolerated one another, but for the most part, they lived in separate enclaves.
Bethena stood and paced. Shadows from the torches danced along the frescoed walls. Even this we tolerated, she thought. But they breed like locusts. Now there are so many of them they are pressing our most fertile territories in the Jezreel and in Samaria. It was only a matter of when Sisera would fight the great battle to rid their land of these vermin.
Vermin, Bethena, isn’t that a bit strong?
Lately, whenever she worked herself into a frenzy of hate, another voice, softer, deeply serene and gentle, came to her. It was something from her life before the initiation in the Temple of Astarte, a voice that sounded the way she remembered feeling when she was eleven wandering bare foot in the lush fields and playing with the lambs. Bethena stopped pacing and stood still, listening.
Aren’t they human, as you are? Do they not long for love, as you do; and worry for their sons and daughters? She nodded and felt suddenly drained. Walking back to the chair, she sat heavily.
“But are we – Jabin, Sisera and myself closer to the gods? Are we not the special and divine children of Baal and Astarte, with a mission ordained by them?’
Do you really believe Baal and Astarte are gods? Do you feel their presence?
“In the Temple, when I bow down before them. When we have the services to them, the rituals music, dancing; when I inhale the sacred incense…” Her eyes closed and she touched a hand to her genitals. “Yes. I feel them, then.”
A slave came to light the torches. Bethena tried to pull herself from the memories and focus on her son. He had not been her first born. Her first born had been sacrificed to Baal. She went to the table and poured wine into a beautifully wrought silver goblet, added water and drank deeply. In a moment, warmth suffused her chest. Downstairs, she heard the slaves preparing the evening meal.
Melka, two years older and wise in the ways of the city, temple and palace had watched over her in the weeks and months that followed. Bethena drank again. It had been good with Melka. Later, in the days following her initiation, a few men had come to her and she’d learned to please and enjoy them in Astarte’s name, but it had never been as good as that first time with Melka. Melka knew all the men allowed to visit the inner-most court of Astarte’s Temple. She had lain with them herself. Four of them, all of the royal household had lain with Bethena. Atrim, father of Jabin, had been with Bethena most often; Melka counted 17 times. When Bethena conceived, Melka told her she was sure it was Atrim’s seed that had quickened in her.
Had Atrim, the over-king of all the Canaanite city-states, known she was his daughter? At the time, Bethena had been shocked by the idea, now, as she seated herself in the stiff-backed throne-like chair, she realized it had been an honor to be impregnated by her own father. After all, Baal and Astarte had been brother and sister, as had been Toth and Isis. It was the exception for the great mass of everyday people. But for the great ones, it was the rule.
They were at the very pinnacle of civilization, the intersection of the human and divine; far above the many others swarming in the streets around her suite in the palace. Bethena sighed, nodded knowingly and clapped her hands. Immediately, a handsome young male slave appeared and bowed deeply before her.
“Bring me a footstool and a table.”
“Yes, Mistress.” The slave obeyed, bowed low, and backed from her presence.
Bethena could have simply moved the furniture herself, but she hadn’t wanted to. Awash in the glow of power as she contemplated her divine heritage, Bethena had wanted to be waited on. She could even have made the slave be her footstool. He would have eagerly complied, she had used him as furniture before, but she was not in the mood tonight.
She admired the workmanship of the finely wrought silver on her goblet. It was a scene depicting an olive grove and oil press. We have a higher standard to adhere to, she thought. It is our mission to keep and extend civilization; to honor our God and his Goddess consort; to protect them from the ravages of the desert nomads and their One God.
What could they know of God? They had no temples, lived in tents, had no iron. While we have beautiful temples, fleets of trading vessels, caravans that travel to Cathay and the Indies and a system of justice sophisticated law resting on the will of the gods and on the divine power they have given to our priests and great ones.
The Haibrus were barbarians, nomads, threatening the roots of civilization. Bethena was proud of her general son’s service to her half brother the King. Together, they were waging a relentless war of attrition against the nomad invaders, the desert aliens and jealous god who challenged their way of life and the greatness of the gods.
Yet there were alternatives to force and violence and the Haibrus were not so stiff-necked and un-educatable as every one said. The handsome slave, for instance. He was a Haibru but under her tutelage had taken well enough to the worship of Astarte. Now he basked in his service to Bethena and devoted himself fully to her needs and pleasure, because she was of royal blood and a priestess of Astarte and to serve and worship her, was to serve and worship the Goddess.
But until they were tamed and trained, the Haibrus were fierce. Bethena feared for the life of her son and the lives of the brave Canaanites who fought with them. But it seemed that they had no alternative, no choice but to make war. Hadn’t they tried to live in peace? Generations ago, when the Haibrus had first come among them, the Canaanites had welcomed them; encouraged them to camp beside their cities, water at their wells, live in the city walls, even join them in worshiping Baal and Astarte in their beautiful temples. They were tolerant of the Haibru god. And what had happened?
Bethena shifted in her chair, removed her feet from the footstool and returned them to the floor. Some, quite a few at first, had adapted to the life of the city and gloried in the sensual worship of Baal and Astarte, though, Bethena swallowed hard, the sacrifice of the first born male had been hard for them. Still, many of the Haibrus became as their Canaanite neighbors.
But their One God - One God - Bethena laughed aloud, how silly, grew jealous of Baal and Astarte and caused his more zealous worshippers to attack those that had fallen away; and forcibly return them to His worship, or kill them. Now there was little commerce between the worshipers of the One God and those of Baal and Astarte. In places they tolerated one another, but for the most part, they lived in separate enclaves.
Bethena stood and paced. Shadows from the torches danced along the frescoed walls. Even this we tolerated, she thought. But they breed like locusts. Now there are so many of them they are pressing our most fertile territories in the Jezreel and in Samaria. It was only a matter of when Sisera would fight the great battle to rid their land of these vermin.
Vermin, Bethena, isn’t that a bit strong?
Lately, whenever she worked herself into a frenzy of hate, another voice, softer, deeply serene and gentle, came to her. It was something from her life before the initiation in the Temple of Astarte, a voice that sounded the way she remembered feeling when she was eleven wandering bare foot in the lush fields and playing with the lambs. Bethena stopped pacing and stood still, listening.
Aren’t they human, as you are? Do they not long for love, as you do; and worry for their sons and daughters? She nodded and felt suddenly drained. Walking back to the chair, she sat heavily.
“But are we – Jabin, Sisera and myself closer to the gods? Are we not the special and divine children of Baal and Astarte, with a mission ordained by them?’
Do you really believe Baal and Astarte are gods? Do you feel their presence?
“In the Temple, when I bow down before them. When we have the services to them, the rituals music, dancing; when I inhale the sacred incense…” Her eyes closed and she touched a hand to her genitals. “Yes. I feel them, then.”
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Chapter Two, Part 2
After the bath, they gave Bethena a jeweled loin cloth like theirs and lead her into the presence of the Goddess. Already in an altered state of sensual over-load, when Bethena smelled the hypnotic incense, and saw the bejeweled larger than life idol before her in the dimly lit sanctuary, she fainted, flopped to the floor. When she awoke, it was to a vision of the bare backs and buttocks of her sister temple maidens as they prostrated themselves before the Goddess. In a few moments, when her head cleared, Bethena joined them, prostrating herself as they did, in deep gratitude to the One who had granted her this blessing.
After a time, as Bethena’s heart ceased its racing, Melka came and led her to a dimly lit alcove with a divan and a smoking brazier from which floated the same hypnotic incense. They sat on the floor.
“You are of royal blood, Bethena,” Melka said. “A princess of Canaan. It is your duty to serve Astarte, Goddess of Fertility. The welfare of our people depends upon the Goddess’ favor. If She finds favor in your service to Her, She will bless us with a good harvest and many children. Do you understand?” Bethena nodded. “You will now dedicate yourself to Her service. From this day forth and for the rest of your life, you will come here, to Her temple for one month each year and offer your body. You are Her slave, Bethena, Her willing and obedient slave. Do you understand?”
“I am Her slave,” Bethena said dreamily and sensually, her body tingling and undulating slightly.
“Yes.” Melka stroked Bethena’s cheek, longing to take the comely virgin for herself. “Her slave.” She stood reached down her hands to Bethena and when she grasped them, pulled the new temple slave to her feet. “You will sit on this divan and wait, breathing in the incense of service, with every breath, reminding yourself that you are only a slave, here to serve whoever comes and commands you in the Goddess’ name. Do you understand?”
“I hear and obey,” Bethena said dreamily.
“Good, my little slave girl. I am pleased!”
Bethena’s heart raced with joy.
“You will give yourself fully to what is asked of you,” Melka said. “Trust the Goddess. She will guide you. Trust your body; your senses and feelings will guide you. Let your mind be asleep.” She caressed Bethena’s budding breast. Bethena moaned. Melka bent and kissed her nipple. Bethena moaned from the center of her being. Oh, what sacred sweetness, Melka thought. Surely initiating this girl could not be a sin?
“This is love, Bethena,” Melka whispered in the child’s ear; “sacred love. This is how you and I shall serve Astarte. This; what we are feeling now is how we are meant to feel and how She wants us to worship Her. You shall never know a greater, more fulfilling love, Bethena. You are mine in the Goddess’ name!”
“Yours….”
After a time, as Bethena’s heart ceased its racing, Melka came and led her to a dimly lit alcove with a divan and a smoking brazier from which floated the same hypnotic incense. They sat on the floor.
“You are of royal blood, Bethena,” Melka said. “A princess of Canaan. It is your duty to serve Astarte, Goddess of Fertility. The welfare of our people depends upon the Goddess’ favor. If She finds favor in your service to Her, She will bless us with a good harvest and many children. Do you understand?” Bethena nodded. “You will now dedicate yourself to Her service. From this day forth and for the rest of your life, you will come here, to Her temple for one month each year and offer your body. You are Her slave, Bethena, Her willing and obedient slave. Do you understand?”
“I am Her slave,” Bethena said dreamily and sensually, her body tingling and undulating slightly.
“Yes.” Melka stroked Bethena’s cheek, longing to take the comely virgin for herself. “Her slave.” She stood reached down her hands to Bethena and when she grasped them, pulled the new temple slave to her feet. “You will sit on this divan and wait, breathing in the incense of service, with every breath, reminding yourself that you are only a slave, here to serve whoever comes and commands you in the Goddess’ name. Do you understand?”
“I hear and obey,” Bethena said dreamily.
“Good, my little slave girl. I am pleased!”
Bethena’s heart raced with joy.
“You will give yourself fully to what is asked of you,” Melka said. “Trust the Goddess. She will guide you. Trust your body; your senses and feelings will guide you. Let your mind be asleep.” She caressed Bethena’s budding breast. Bethena moaned. Melka bent and kissed her nipple. Bethena moaned from the center of her being. Oh, what sacred sweetness, Melka thought. Surely initiating this girl could not be a sin?
“This is love, Bethena,” Melka whispered in the child’s ear; “sacred love. This is how you and I shall serve Astarte. This; what we are feeling now is how we are meant to feel and how She wants us to worship Her. You shall never know a greater, more fulfilling love, Bethena. You are mine in the Goddess’ name!”
“Yours….”
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