Cities of Refuge
A Light on the Hill
A
Light
on the
Hill
Connilyn Cossette
5
_Cossette_LightHill_JV_wo.indd 3 9/28/17 3:05 PM
ess,
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Scripture quotations are from the New American Standard Bible®, copyright © 1960, 1962,
1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by
permission. (www.Lockman.org)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the
author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events
or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
18 19 20 21 22 23 24 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Jericho
1406 BC
The priest’s kohl-lined eyes glazed over as he held the iron brand
in the center of cedar-fueled flames. Pressing my back against the
column I was tied to, I clawed my nails into the wood.
“It will be over soon, little Hebrew,” said the man with painted
lips, blood-red and curving with false tenderness. “And then you
will belong to our Great Goddess, Ashtoreth.” He gestured to the
crescent moon hovering low in the black sky. “There is no greater
mistress. No higher calling than to be one with the Divine Lady of
the Night. The Queen of Heaven. The Consort of Our Lord Ba’al.”
From the moment my friend Alanah and I had been kidnapped
by Midianite traders from the Hebrew camp, I’d determined to cling
to Yahweh—to the hope that somehow my people would rescue us
from Jericho before they invaded. But after being stolen from the
home of Alanah’s sister Rahab, where we’d taken refuge for the past
few months, and tied to this Asherah pole in the courtyard of the
temple, I’d been forced to acknowledge that Yahweh may not have
heard my pleas, or deigned to answer.
“Stop toying with the girl, Reshbal. Finish it.” The ancient High
Priestess looked on from the bottom step of the temple porch, dis-
dain slathered across her face as thick as her overdone cosmetics.
She flicked hennaed talons at me. “The king wants her first thing
in the morning.”
The triumphant gleam in the woman’s black-rimmed eyes made
my skin prickle. What would they do to me after they branded me
like a beast? And why would the king of Jericho want to speak to a
thirteen-year-old girl?
The priest tipped his head to his mistress, lifted the rod from the
fire built upon a tall bronze brazier, and held it aloft as he sauntered
toward me, bare-chested and tattoos swirling down his arms and up
the sides of his shaved head. The branding iron glowed red-orange,
outlining the symbols of Ba’al and Ashtoreth that would forever
mark my flesh. I whimpered and slammed the back of my head
against the wood, gripping the carved surface with desperation.
If only there were something else to cling to instead of a towering
cedar pole engraved with hideous gods.
The man’s kohl-blackened brows, stark against his pale skin, lifted
as he dragged his dark eyes up and down my body. My shoulders
jerked forward, as if by curving inward I could shield myself from
his leering. Nausea flamed in my chest as my mind caught up with
their earlier conversation. Now I knew. I knew what their plans
were for me.
Yahweh! Yahweh!
“Now. My lovely. I would advise holding still. We wouldn’t want
those fascinating silver eyes to be blinded, would we? Turn your face
to the side now, like a good little girl.”
I could not have turned my head if I wanted to, convulsions
paralyzed me. Yahweh . . . Yahweh . . .
“Please . . .” The silent entreaty formed on my lips, and I tasted
the salt of my terror as tears slipped into my mouth. “No.”
The flames of the enormous brazier framed the priest on either
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11
ONE
7 Av
1399 BC
Shiloh, Israel
With one finger I followed the rippled path of shame down my
face. The scarred ridge of the crescent moon of Ashtoreth cupped
my cheekbone in a cruel embrace. One ray of the sun-wheel of Ba’al
above it slashed across the corner of my eyelid, a constant reminder
of how easily I could have been blinded when the High Priestess
ordered me branded as a temple slave seven years ago. The fact that
she’d been buried beneath the rubble of Jericho the next morning
was no consolation. It did not erase the false accusation permanently
burned into my skin—prostitute.
Shaking the word from my head, along with the memories of
my time of captivity in Jericho before it fell, I knelt in front of the
open-mouthed tannur oven. The flames that had sparked the horrific
memory had died down, the coals now pulsing a steady glow within.
After a wave of my hand over the embers to ensure the temperature
was even, I slapped a few circles of dough around the walls of the
oven and waited for them to begin to curl away from the blackened
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surface. The smell of acrid smoke tinged with yeasty bread was a
comfort, completing the work of bringing me back to the present.
Built for some Canaanite woman and situated beneath a small
hole in the ceiling to release smoke, this round, clay oven was the
centerpiece of the house. Although I was grateful to no longer cook
our daily bread on a flat rock next to a campfire in the wilderness,
whenever I used the oven I wondered about the enemy woman whose
hands used to press dough to its sides. Had she too looked out the
same window, longing to be free of these four walls?
A sudden knock at the door halted my musings. I placed the
last round of warm bread into a basket, my heart tapping out a
tremulous beat as I called out “a moment please.” Then layering
my linen headscarf over my hair, I twisted, tucked, and tied until
most of my face was hidden behind a swath of sky blue. The ritual,
accomplished every day for the last seven years without a mirror,
was as familiar as it was frustrating. Only my eyes would be visible.
Nothing left to judge.
I unlatched the door and pulled it open a handspan, enough to
see that it was merely Yuval, my father’s steward. Relief steadied
my runaway pulse.
“Shalom.” He dipped his head with his usual deference, a few
threads of early silver hair glinting among his dark brown curls.
Although Yuval rarely smiled, his narrow-set brown eyes commu-
nicated kindness and patience with my reluctance to open the door
wider. “Your father asked that you come find him. He would like
to speak with you.”
“In the vineyard? Why?” For the past few weeks my father had
spent every waking moment among his vines, checking and recheck-
ing for the precise moment the grapes would be ready for harvest.
“He is not feeling poorly again, is he?”
My father’s most trusted servant shrugged without revealing his
thoughts, although his relaxed manner assured me the summons
was not overly urgent. Yuval would no more discuss my father’s
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secrets than cut off his own hand, even with me. With a gesture
toward where I would find my father among the vines, he turned
and walked away, his loyalty intact. I longed to run after him and
beg for more information, but I could not chance coming across one
of the new field hands who had not seen me before. I’d had enough
of the staring and the pointing and the disparaging looks. These
walls were as much a refuge as they were a prison.
Stalling, I placed a few pieces of bread into a small basket for
my father, alongside a handful of briny olives and the herb-infused
goat cheese he loved wrapped in a square of linen. Then I scooped
the still-warm ashes from the oven into a large pot and tidied the
room until I had nothing else to prevent me from venturing outside.
With a white-knuckled grip on the door handle, I took a few slow,
deep breaths before stepping over the threshold into the blinding
sunlight, basket in hand. Only after scanning the field for move-
ment and listening for any nearby voices did I head for the place
Yuval had indicated, counting each step to keep my mind occupied.
Long lines of vines trailed past our home, drenched in sunlight
and heavy with fruit, sloping down the hillside. Just below the
boundaries of our land, the Mishkan perched atop a small rise,
the white linen fences of the Tent of Meeting undulating in the
ever-present breeze that whispered through this valley. Squinting,
I could still envision the shekinah presence of Yahweh that used to
hover over its black covering until we’d entered Canaan and now
resided only above the ark within the holiest place, hidden from view.
After searching row after row, I found my father with his back
toward me, his knowing hands surveying the fruit of his tireless
work of rebuilding the vineyard since the Amorites fled this valley
nearly four years ago, leaving many charred and burning fields in
their wake. Seeing the abundance possible after such deliberate
destruction by our enemies gave me hope that our people might
eventually flourish in this new land, yielding fruit for countless
generations to come.
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16
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“Your duties? There is no one that works harder than you in this
vineyard. Are you sure Yuval has enough men lined up to begin the
harvest? You must not overexert—”
“Moriyah,” he interrupted. “I am not speaking of my vineyard.
I am speaking of you.”
“Me?”
He curved a callused palm over my veiled cheek. “I must ensure
you are provided for, should I not recover next time.”
My limbs went slack, and I nearly dropped the food basket. “There
won’t be a next time. You said you are feeling stronger.”
“Daughter.” Censure lowered his voice. “I will not live forever.
Your brother is gone. Your younger sisters are all married. When
I am gathered to my fathers, you will have no one to care for you.”
The reminder of my older brother Shimon, killed in battle before
even setting foot in Canaan, pierced me through. If only he’d lived,
he would no doubt have protected and provided for his castoff sister.
Shimon had been a warrior, unwavering in his fierce defense of his
family and his God. The space he’d left behind still vibrated with
emptiness.
“I have Yahweh to care for me,” I said, feigning confidence. “And
perhaps one of the cousin’s families will allow me to live with them.
Elisheva in particular enjoys my cooking, and his wife is kind—”
My father shook his head, halting my arguments. “You need a
husband. This land is too perilous, my daughter. You must have
someone to protect you. I would be remiss as a father if I did not
ensure that you were safe. Cared for. You will be a wonderful mother.
At twenty years of age you should already be a mother.” His lips
flattened. “It is my fault that you are not.”
“It is not your fault that no one will have me, Abba. Nor your
fault that this happened.” I gestured to my veil. “You have tried
your best to find a match.” I shrugged the thought away. “It is no
use. This brand will forever mark me as a temple harlot. What man
would choose to bind himself to such?”
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20
TWO
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22
grown into his sparse beard, darted through the crowd to reach us.
“I was sent to find you. The largest of the treading vats cracked. Juice
is seeping into the ground. We need you!”
Yuval glanced at me with concern but I waved a hand. “Go! My
father is likely beside himself. He’ll need your expertise. I have only
a few more things to purchase. I’ll be fine.”
“Your father instructed me to ensure your safe return.”
Still raw from thoughts of my father’s decision to send me away,
I held back a loud sigh. “I will be fine. Go. Save the wine.”
“You will come straight back when you are finished?”
“I am a grown woman, Yuval.” I put a hand on my hip, frustration
building. “I made it out of Jericho alive, I am certain I can walk up
the hill on my own.”
Yuval scanned the market, his gaze wandering over the crowd
and whatever threat he perceived to be among them. But he nod-
ded his head and followed after the young man, the blue and white
tassels at the corners of his garment swaying with his long stride.
Since the day my father had spared his life during the invasion
of Shiloh, Yuval had been a loyal servant, even so far as abiding by
every Torah regulation—from wearing the tzitzit on his clothes in
reminder of the laws he’d vowed to follow, to circumcision, to wor-
shipping Yahweh alongside his master. He’d thrown off everything
of his former life to become an Israelite and was now four years into
a voluntary six-year indenture period. I wondered where he would
go when set free, once his time was fulfilled.
I turned to search the nearest stall for some scallions and pep-
percorns for the surprise I was preparing for my blind friend Ora.
“ . . . must be hideous.” The hissed words sliced into my meal
planning, and against my will, my eyes traveled to their origin. Two
girls, possibly three or four years younger than me, stood near a
pottery stand, scrutinizing me.
Seeing they’d captured my attention, the taller one leaned toward
her companion, without taking her eyes off of me, her golden-brown
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hair shimmering in the bright sun. “I heard they carved her face like
they carve one of those idolatrous Asherah poles.”
The story of my rescue from Jericho was a popular one, told
around campfires for the last seven years. There were many varia-
tions of the story, each one more exaggerated than the next. None
of them the entire truth. Although there were many who regarded
Alanah and me as heroines for surviving Jericho and all its perils,
some assumed that a girl taken prisoner, hidden away in the home
of a prostitute for months, and then marked as a temple harlot by
the High Priestess of Jericho could in no way remain a maiden. In
their minds I’d been sullied over and over by depraved worshipers
in the temple of Ba’al, even though in truth I’d never even stepped
foot inside.
White-hot flashes of shame pulsed through my body, through
every extremity. This was why I loathed venturing away from
the vineyard, away from the safety of our home, the comforting
smell of my spice pots, and the distraction of baking and cooking
for my family and friends. Although most people ignored me,
content to let their eyes slide past the girl in the veil, there were
a few who took it upon themselves to trumpet their opinions,
regardless of fact.
The chatter in the marketplace dissolved into awkward silence;
even the few children who had been playing chase among the stalls
stopped to stare. Stomach swirling with dread, I turned to head
home, wishing that my veil could block me completely from sight—
as if I’d never even existed. Why had I not left with Yuval?
The girl behind me delivered one last lash, her tone arched with
derision. “That’s right. Go back and hide among your ill-gotten
vines, zonah. Your Egyptian whore-bred father didn’t deserve that
land in the first place.”
By sheer force of will I held my tongue, restrained the hot tears
that threatened to expose my weakness, and placed one foot after
another until I was free of the market. I trudged up the steep path
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that led to the vineyard, feeling as though I was dragging that girl
and her vicious words behind me in the dirt. Just as I neared the
top of the ridge and the boundary stone that marked my father’s
land, something slammed into the back of my head.
Disoriented, I spun around, and two rocks thwacked into my
chest. With a sharp cry, I lifted my arms, hoping to block the assault
as more rocks hurtled toward me. The high-pitched insults of two
boys followed the missiles. With cackling laughter, they repeated
the accusation they’d obviously heard the girl toss over her shoulder
in the market and added in a few of their own.
A roar of juvenile anger echoed behind me as a small boy raced
by, wielding a long leaf-laden branch that he wielded like a giant’s
sword. “Get away from her!” he screamed, shaking his weapon at
the boys. “Leave her alone!”
Although Eitan was smaller than both of my assailants, he’d
surprised them with his ferocity. They dropped their handfuls of
stones and ran down the hillside, dodging tree stumps and tripping
over their sandals as they fled.
“Don’t ever come near her again!” my rescuer hollered after the
little cowards, before turning to offer me his usual freckle-cheeked
grin. “Told you I would protect you.”
I could not restrain the laugh that escaped, a mixed product of
relief, release of my tumultuous emotions after the market, and the
hilarity of a scrawny nine-year-old boy with shoulder-length tangles
of dark hair chasing off two older boys with a tree branch.
When I finally reined in my outburst, Eitan’s face was screwed
into a scowl. “Are you laughing at me?”
The question washed the humor from my face. “Oh. No, Eitan.
You rescued me. I am laughing at those two field mice, scuttling
away as if a wildcat were on the prowl. You terrified them with
your big stick!”
His lips quirked. “I’ve been using this to scare the birds away
from the grapes. It works better than just flapping my arms. Your
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abba said I was a smart young man to think of such a thing.” Pride
lifted his nearly concave chest.
“And he is correct.” I stepped closer and knelt to put my arms
around his bony body, wincing at the fragility of his build. “You are
smart and very courageous to come to my aid. Thank you, Eitan.”
He leaned his head on my shoulder and returned my hug, ex-
posing the tortuously curled earlobe that normally stayed hidden
beneath his wild, overlong hair. The underdeveloped ear had kept
him from hearing anything on his right side since birth.
“You’d better return to the fields. My father will wonder what
happened to you. He relies on you to keep those birds out of his
grapes.”
His shoulders straightened with pride. “He promised I could
help tread grapes tonight, if I work hard today.” His hazel eyes
sparkled with anticipation.
“I’m not sure if I’d enjoy grape juice oozing through my toes.” I
wrinkled my nose. “And you’d best wash those feet before you step
in the vat.” I pointed at his grimy toes. “Dirt-infused wine does not
sound appetizing.”
With a grin he turned away to return to his bird-scattering job
among the vines, which was no more than an excuse for my father
and me to feed him extra food every day, since his uncle seemed
unconcerned whether his half-sister’s orphan wasted to nothing.
When my father had caught Eitan pilfering grapes one morning last
year, he’d chosen to give the scruffy boy an occupation instead of
running him off. There had not been one day since that Eitan did not
appear, eager to please. At the time I’d wondered if his uncle would
forbid his constant presence in the vineyard, but since the man had
not uttered one word of complaint, I assumed he preferred to keep
the boy, his deformity, and his myriad questions out in the fields.
Just before Eitan reached the top of the ridge, I remembered the
items in my market basket. I called out his name and he swung back
around, his leafy branch swaying.
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“I am making chickpea stew for Ora. I’ll need your help this
afternoon.”
His lips rounded in surprise. “Truly?”
“You said you wanted to learn. Tonight is as good a night as any
to begin our cooking lessons.”
Dropping his stick, he ran back and hugged me around the waist.
“Thank you, Moriyah. I promise to listen and be a good helper.”
“I know you will.” I bent to kiss his disheveled head. “Now, go,
scare some birds! Or there will not be one grape left to tread tonight.”
After a wave of his retrieved weapon, he disappeared into the
green sea of vines, ready to plunge into battle with the crows and
grackles that were the bane of my father’s existence.
Although I wished I could offer the sweet boy a home, my father
had insisted Eitan’s uncle would learn to care for the boy in time.
The fraying tunic Eitan wore contradicted that assessment. As I
made my way to our little house, I plotted how to alter one of my
father’s old tunics as payment, of course, for his “invaluable” help
treading wine with feet that would do little more than bruise the
top layer of grapes.
I paused, my hand on the wooden door handle. Oh, how I wish I
could see Eitan hopping about in the vat tonight, trying to keep up
with the men! But as soon as the juice-soaked image came to mind,
the words of the market girl and the two rock throwers clashed
against the humor, layered atop my anxiety over whomever it was
that my father had selected for me to marry. No. I would not chance
another public encounter today, even to drink in the sight of Eitan
enjoying his reward.
I entered the house and closed the door, ensuring the latch was
secure on this morning’s ill-fated excursion. My stew pot, my spices,
and my bread oven silently awaited me in the shadows. I had cooking
to do, and a new spice to experiment with. I would be content with
such things for now. For all too soon, a stranger would lift my veil
and I’d have nowhere to hide and no Eitan to rescue me.
27
THREE
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“Hold on to me?”
“You need a family, Moriyah. A good husband to bless you with
children. Your father adores you of course, but he has gripped you
tightly for far too long.”
“Regardless, I am content the way things are. I want to help my
father; he has no one else. Besides,” I shook my head. “I have no
need of a husband. You never married.”
“Moriyah. You know it is not the same. No one would have mar-
ried a blind woman with an illegitimate child. You are a vibrant
young woman with an extraordinary talent for cooking.”
“Have you forgotten that I have a hideous brand seared into my
skin? One that tells the world I am sullied and a slave to those foul
Canaanite gods?”
Her brows bunched. “No, dear, I have not forgotten. But neither
has Yahweh.”
I did not respond to that assertion—Yahweh had absolutely for-
gotten me. His silence reverberated deep within my soul.
“Who is this man? What is he like?”
I lifted a shrug she could not see. “I know very little, other than
he is marrying me for this vineyard, which my father offered as a
dowry, and that he traveled with the surveyors. When they are
finished meeting with Yehoshua to discuss tribal boundaries, I will
be introduced to him. Most likely after the festival on Tu B’Av.”
“Oh, yes! I heard about the festival. Tevel says there is to be danc-
ing!” She clasped her hands to her chest and then swung them back
and forth by her sides. “Oh how I wish I could dance all night long!
You will have such a wonderful time.”
The rapture on her face fueled my own desire for such a thing,
but just as quickly the memory of the girl in the market who’d
vocalized what people thought of me drowned out the spark. “I’m
not going.”
“Not going?” She jerked me to a stop. “You must go, Moriyah.
And even more so now that you are to be married.”
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purchasing your goods. And I would have some scallions and pepper
corns in my stew.”
I tilted my head back and laughed, and Ora joined me.
She lifted my hand and kissed my palm. “You are a joy, sweet
Moriyah. A young woman with a heart that is loyal and strong
and a talent for cooking beyond anything I’ve ever known. I know
your mother meant to protect you, as any mother would when she
sees her precious child suffering. . . . But you must not keep that
sweetness, that vibrance, or that brilliance hidden, my dear. I’d like
nothing more than to keep you all for myself, but I fear that unless
you stop hiding yourself away, in body and mind, Yahweh will not
be able to use such gifts for his glory.”
9 Av
Drawing my knees to my chest, I leaned back into the hidden curve
of my fig tree. This spot, overlooking the entire valley, was my refuge
whenever the urge to escape the confines of our house drove me
outside. And today thoughts of my father’s choice to marry me to
a stranger combined with the challenge Ora had tossed at my feet
drew me to this secret place, desperate for air and answers. Only
here could I breathe easy.
The tree behind me was bent to one side, its trunk twisted into
a strange angle. The wide spread of leaves shaded me well, and its
enormous gnarled roots hid me on either side, giving me a private
place to look northwest, toward the Mishkan.
Surrounded by a vast assortment of Hebrew tents—the leftover
tribes that had not yet received their portion of this land of Avra-
ham’s promise—the black-topped sanctuary stood enclosed by the
white linen fences, a number of priests and Levitical workers moving
about its courtyard as they fulfilled their daily duties. Smoke lifted
from the four-horned altar and sunlight flashed against the bronze
35
laver where the men washed their hands and feet in preparation
for worship.
As a young girl I’d been fascinated by how quickly the Levites
raised the sanctuary at each long-term encampment in the wilder-
ness, each one performing their assigned job with efficient precision
that enabled the entire project to be completed in a matter of hours.
Although the Cloud did not hover over the Mishkan anymore,
there were times when I could almost feel its presence. I’d been
drawn to it throughout my childhood, begging my brother Shimon
to take me closer for a better look. Would I hear the Voice, I’d
wondered, if I could get as close as Mosheh had?
Even during the times when the Cloud had rumbled and sparked
and caused the earth to shake, I’d always been comforted by its pro-
tective presence. After our people had crossed the river into Canaan,
the Cloud had disappeared, hidden from sight. I missed it, even more
than I missed my brother, if that were possible. Lowering my veil, I
slowed my breathing to a crawl and whispered the name “Yahweh”
with reverence. Concentrating on the breeze against my face and
the faint smell of incense from the Mishkan, I repeated the Name.
From the time I’d been a little girl I’d been convinced that Yahweh
was so near to me that, like a father on bended knee, he’d heard
my simple prayers. Over the years there’d been times when I’d sat
in silence, listening to songs of the birds and feeling the soft wind
caress my cheeks, allowing the magnificence of creation to permeate
every heartbeat—that I’d felt the weight, the glory of his presence all
around me. And even more shocking were the moments when such
strong impressions of truth built within my soul or echoed within
my dreams that I could not deny it was the Creator speaking to me.
But now there was nothing but awful, empty silence.
The scar on my cheek seemed to flare, hot and angry, and in-
stinctively I laid my palm there. I’d seen Jericho fall with my own
eyes, felt the otherworldly shaking as it tumbled down—I knew
Yahweh was there, but the gap between myself and his presence
36
seemed even larger today than it had before. Perhaps, like the girl
in the marketplace, Yahweh had no tolerance for a woman branded
with the symbols of false gods.
All the years between Jericho and now seemed to be charred
beyond redemption, as though the brand had sunk deep into my
soul, burning away even the roots of hope I’d once clung to, and
leaving behind only a barren patch of ashy dust.
The only path laid out before me was obedience to my father,
even though the thought of leaving him made me bereft. He’d lost
Shimon nearly eight years ago, and my mother shortly after we’d
arrived in Shiloh. Why was he so determined to live out the rest
of his life alone?
Down below, the sound of the Shema prayer arose from the lips
of Eleazar, the High Priest, the words somehow amplified by the
close embrace of the hills. “Shema Israel, Adonai Elohenu, Adonai
Echad . . . Hear, O Israel, the Lord your God, the Lord is One . . .”
As the daily reminder of Yahweh’s commandments continued,
I tilted my face toward the dappled light filtering through the fig
leaves, soaking up the warmth on my skin, reciting the familiar words
along with the priest. Yet somehow the words seemed only vapor
today, not the drenching rain they’d once been for my thirsty soul.
Closing my eyes, I imagined the brand, too, dissolving in the sun,
dissipating into the blue sky, leaving my face whole again, reveal-
ing the girl behind the wound, whoever that was. Would Yahweh
speak to me then?
Perhaps Ora was right. I should go to the festival, seize upon
these last few days of freedom, and maybe, for just a moment, I
could remember who I’d been before that fiery brand touched my
cheek and even my God had turned his face away.
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