The Red Tent

Picador USA

Prologue

We have been lost to each other for so long.

My name means nothing to you. My memory is dust.

This is not your fault, or mine. The chain connecting mother to daughter wasbroken and the word passed to the keeping of men, who had no way of knowing.That is why I became a footnote, my story a brief detour between the well-knownhistory of my father, Jacob, and the celebrated chronicle of Joseph, mybrother. On those rare occasions when I was remembered, it was as a victim.Near the beginning of your holy book, there is a passage that seems to say Iwas raped and continues with the bloody tale of how my honor was avenged.

It's a wonder that any mother ever called a daughter Dinah again. But some did.Maybe you guessed that there was more to me than the voiceless cipher in thetext. Maybe you heard it in the music of my name: the first vowel high andclear, as when a mother calls to her child at dusk; the second sound soft, forwhispering secrets on pillows. Dee-nah.

No one recalled my skill as a midwife, or the songs I sang, or the bread Ibaked for my insatiable brothers. Nothing remained except a few mangled detailsabout those weeks in Shechem.

There was far more to tell. Had I been asked to speak of it, I would have begunwith the story of the generation that raised me, which is the only place tobegin. If you want to understand any woman you must first ask about her motherand then listen carefully. Stories about food show a strong connection. Wistfulsilences demonstrate unfinished business. The more a daughter knows the detailsof her mother's life-without flinching or whining-the stronger the daughter.

Of course, this is more complicated for me because I had four mothers, each ofthem scolding, teaching, and cherishing something different about me, giving medifferent gifts, cursing me with different fears. Leah gave me birth and hersplendid arrogance. Rachel showed me where to place the midwife's bricks andhow to fix my hair. Zilpah made me think. Bilhah listened. No two of my mothersseasoned her stew the same way. No two of them spoke to my father in the sametone of voice-nor he to them. And you should know that my mothers were sistersas well, Laban's daughters by different wives, though my grandfather neveracknowledged Zilpah and Bilhah; that would have cost him two more dowries, andhe was a stingy pig.

Like any sisters who live together and share a husband, my mother and auntiesspun a sticky web of loyalties and grudges. They traded secrets like bracelets,and these were handed down to me, the only surviving girl. They told me thingsI was too young to hear. They held my face between their hands and made meswear to remember.

My mothers were proud to give my father so many sons. Sons were a woman's prideand her measure. But the birth of one boy after another was not an unalloyedsource of joy in the women's tents. My father boasted about his noisy tribe,and the women loved my brothers, but they longed for daughters, too, andcomplained among themselves about the maleness of Jacob's seed.

Daughters eased their mothers' burdens-helping with the spinning, the grindingof grain, and the endless task of looking after baby boys, who were foreverpeeing into the corners of the tents, no matter what you told them.

But the other reason women wanted daughters was to keep their memories alive.Sons did not hear their mothers' stories after weaning. So I was the one. Mymother and my mother-aunties told me endless stories about themselves. Nomatter what their hands were doing-holding babies, cooking, spinning,weaving-they filled my ears.

In the ruddy shade of the red tent, the menstrual tent, they ran their fingersthrough my curls, repeating the escapades of their youths, the sagas of theirchildbitths. Their stories were like offerings of hope and strength poured outbefore the Queen of Heaven, only these gifts were not for any god orgoddess-but for me.

I can still feel how my mothers loved me. I have cherished their love always.It sustained me. It kept me alive. Even after I left them, and even now, solong after their deaths, I am comforted by their memory.

I carried my mothers' tales into the next generation, but the stories of mylife were forbidden to me, and that silence nearly killed the heart in me. Idid not die but lived long enough for other stories to fill up my days andnights. I watched babies open their eyes upon a new world. I found cause forlaughter and gratitude. I was loved.

And now you come to me-women with hands and feet as soft as a queen's, withmore cooking pots than you need, so safe in child-bed and so free with yourtongues. You come hungry for the story that was lost. You crave words to fillthe great silence that swallowed me, and my mothers, and my grandmothers beforethem.

I wish I had more to tell of my grandmothers. It is terrible how much has beenforgotten, which is why, I suppose, remembering seems a holy thing.

I am so grateful that you have come. I will pour out everything inside me soyou may leave this table satisfied and fortified. Blessings on your eyes.Blessings on your children. Blessings on the ground beneath you. My heart is aladle of sweet water, brimming over.

Selah.

Chapter One

Part One: My Mothers' Stories

Their stories began with the day that my father appeared. Rachel came runninginto camp, knees flying, bellowing like a calf separated from. its mother. Butbefore anyone could scold her for acting like a wild boy, she launched into abreathless yarn about a stranger at the well, her words spilling out like waterinto sand.

A wild man without sandals. Matted hair. Dirty face. He kissed her on themouth, a cousin, son of their aunt, who had watered sheep and goats for her andtold off the ruffians at the well.

"What are you babbling?" demanded her father, Laban. "Who is come to the well?Who attends him? How many bags does he carry?"

"He is going to marry me," said Rachel matter-of-factly, once she had caughther breath. "He says I am for him and that he would marry me tomorrow, if hecould. He's coming to ask you."

Leah scowled at this announcement. "Marry you?" she said, crossing her arms andthrowing back her shoulders. "You won't be marriageable for another year," saidthe older girl, who, though only a few years older than Rachel, already actedas head woman of her father's small holdings. The fourteen-year-old mistress ofLaban's house liked to take a haughty, maternal tone with her sister. "What'sall this? And how did he come to kiss you?" This was a terrible breach ofcustom-even if he was a cousin and even though Rachel was young enough to betreated as a child.

Rachel stuck out her lower lip in a pout that would have been childlike only afew hours earlier. Something had happened since she opened her eyes thatmorning, when the most pressing matter on her mind had been to find the placewhere Leah hid her honey. Leah, that donkey, would never share it with her, buthoarded it for guests, giving tastes to pathetic little Bilhah and no one else.

All Rachel could think of now was the shaggy stranger whose eyes had met herswith a shock of recognition that had rattled her to the bone.

Rachel knew what Leah meant, but the fact that she had not yet begun to bleedmeant nothing to her now. And her cheeks burned.

"WTiat's this?" said Leah, suddenly amused. "She is smitten. Look at her," shesaid. "Have you ever seen the girl blush before?"

"What did he do to you?" asked Laban, growling like a dog who senses anintruder near his herd. He clenched his fists and beetled his brow and turnedhis full attention to Rachel, the daughter he had never once hit, the daughterwhom he rarely looked at full in the face. She had frightened him from herbirth-a tearing, violent entry that had killed her mother. When the babyfinally emerged, the women were shocked to see that it was such a small one-agirl at that-who had caused so many days of trouble, costing her mother so muchblood and finally her life.

Rachel's presence was powerful as the moon, and just as beautiful. Nobody coulddeny her beauty. Even as a child who worshiped my own mother's face, I knewthat Leah's beauty paled before her younger sister's, a knowledge that alwaysmade me feel like a traitor. Still, denying it would have been like denying thesun's warmth.

Rachel's beauty was rare and arresting. Her brown hair shaded to bronze, andher skin was golden, honeyed, perfect. In that amber setting, her eyes weresurprisingly dark, not merely dark brown but black as polished obsidian or thedepth of a well. Although she was small-boned and, even when she was withchild, small-breasted, she had muscular hands and a husky voice that seemed tobelong to a much larger woman.

I once heard two shepherds arguing over which was Rachel's best feature, a gameI, too, had played. For me, the most wonderful detail of Rachel's perfectionwas her cheeks, which were high and tight on her face, like figs. WTien I was ababy, I used to reach for them, trying to pluck the fruit that appeared whenshe smiled. When I realized there was no—having them, I licked her instead,hoping for a taste. This made my beautiful aunt laugh, from deep in her belly.She loved me better than all her nephews put together-or so she said as she wovemy hair into the elaborate braids for which my own mother's hands lackedpatience or time.

It is almost impossible to exaggerate the dimensions of Rachel's beauty. Evenas a baby, she was a jewel upon whatever hip bore her from place to place, anornament, a rare pleasure-the black-eyed child with golden hair. Her nicknamewas Tuki, which means "sweetness.

All the woman shared in Rachel's care after her mother, Huna, died. Huna was askilled midwife known for her throaty laugh and much mourned by the women. Noone grumbled about tending to Huna's motherless daughter, and even the men, forwhom babies held as little fascination as cooking stones, would stoop to run acallused hand across her remarkable cheek. They would rise, smelling theirfingers and shaking their heads.

Rachel smelled like water. Really! Wherever my aunt walked, here was the scentof fresh water. It was an impossible smell, green and delightful and in thosedusty hills the smell of life and wealth. Indeed, for many years Laban's wellwas the only reason his family hadn't starved.

There were hopes, early on, that Rachel would be a water witch, one who couldfind hidden wells and underground streams. She did not fulfill that hope, butsomehow the aroma of sweet water clung to her skin and lodged in her robes.Whenever one of the babies went missing, more often than not the little stinkerwould be found fast asleep on her blankets, sucking his thumb.

No wonder Jacob was enchanted at the well. The other men had grown accustomedto Rachel's looks and even to her startling perfume, but to Jacob she must haveseemed an apparition. He looked directly into her eyes and was overcome. AVhenhe kissed her, Jacob cried out with a voice of a man who lies with his wife.The sound woke Rachel out of her childhood.

There was barely time to hear Rachel describe their meeting before Jacobhimself appeared. He walked up to Laban, and Rachel watched her father take hismeasure.

Laban noticed his empty hands first, but he also saw that the stranger's tunicand cloak were made of fine stuff, his water skin was well crafted, his knifehilt was carved of polished bone. Jacob stood directly before Laban and,dropping his head, proclaimed himself. "Uncle, I am the son of Rebecca, yoursister, the daughter of Nahor and Milcah, as you are their son. My mother hassent me to you, my brother has chased me to you, my father has banished me toyou. I will tell you the whole story when I am not so dirty and weary. I seekyour hospitality, which is famous in the land."

Rachel opened her mouth to speak, but Leah yanked her sister's arm and shot hera warning glance; not even Rachel's youth would excuse a girl speaking out whenmen were addressing one another. Rachel kicked at the ground and thoughtpoisonous thoughts about her sister, the bossy old crow, the cross-eyed goat.

Jacob's words about Laban's famous hospitality were a courteous lie, forLaban was anything but pleased by the appearance of this nephew. Not muchcaused the old man pleasure, and hungry strangers were unwanted surprises.Still, there was nothing to be done; he had to honor the claim of a kinsman,and there was no denying the connection between them. Jacob knew the names andLaban recognized his sister's face on the man standing before him.

"You are welcome," Laban said, without smiling or returning his nephew'ssalute. As he turned to walk away, Laban pointed his thumb at Leah, assigningher the task of seeing to this nuisance. My mother nodded and turned to facethe first grown man who did not look away when confronted by the sight of hereyes.

Leah's vision was perfect. According to one of the more ridiculous fablesembroidered around my family's history, she ruined her eyes by crying a riverof tears over the prospect of marrying my uncle Esau. If you believe t-hat, youmight also be interested in purchasing a magical toad that will make all wholook upon you swoon with love.

But my mother's eyes were not weak, or sick, or rheumy. The truth is, her eyesmade others weak and most people looked away rather than face them-one blue aslapis, the other green as Egyptian grass.

When she was born, the midwife cried out that a witch had been brought forthand should be drowned before she could bring a curse on the family. But mygrandmother Adah slapped the stupid woman and cursed her tongue. "Show me mydaughter," said Adah, in a voice so loud and proud even the men outside couldhear her. Adah named her beloved last-born Leah, which means "mistress," andshe wept a prayer that this child would live, for she had buried seven sons anddaughters.

There were plenty who remained convinced that the baby was a devil. For somereason, Laban, who was the most superstitious soul you can imagine (spittingand bowing whenever he turned to the left, howling at every lunar eclipse),refused to hear suggestions that Leah be left outside to die in the night air.He swore some mild oath about the femaleness of this child, but apart fromthat, Laban ignored his daughter and never mentioned her distinction. Thenagain, the women suspected the old man could not see color at all.

Leah's eyes never faded in color-as some of the women predicted and hoped-butbecame brighter in their difference and even more pronounced in theirstrangeness when her lashes failed to grow. Although she blinked like everyoneelse, the reflex was nearly invisible, so it seemed that Leah never closed hereyes. Even her most loving glance felt a bit like the stare of a snake, and fewcould stand to look her straight in the eye. Those who could were rewarded withkisses and laughter and bread wet with honey.

Jacob met Leah's eyes straight on, and for this she warmed to him instantly. Infact, Leah had already taken note of Jacob on account of his height. She washalf a head taller than most of the men she had ever seen, and she dismissedthem 'all because of it. She knew this was not fair. Surely there were good menamong those whose heads reached only to her nose. But the thought of lying withanyone whose legs were shorter and weaker than her own disgusted her. Not thatanyone had asked for her. She knew they all called her Lizard and Evil-Eye, andworse.

Her distaste for short men had been confirmed by a dream in which a tall manhad whispered to her. She couldn't recall his words, but they had warmed herthighs and woken her. When she saw Jacob, she remembered the dream and herstrange eyes widened.

Jacob noticed Leah with favor, too. Although he was still ringing from hisencounter with Rachel, he could not ignore the sight of Leah.

She was not only tall but shapely and strong. She was blessed with full, highbreasts and muscular calves that showed to good advantage in robes that somehownever stayed closed at the hem. She had forearms like a young man's, but herwalk was that of a woman with promising hips.

Leah had dreamed once of a pomegranate split open to reveal eight red seeds.Zilpah said the dream meant she would have eight healthy children, and mymother knew those words to be true the way she knew how to make bread and beer.

Leah's scent was no mystery. She smelled of the yeast she handled daily,brewing and baking. She reeked of bread and comfort, and-it seemed to Jacob-ofsex. He stared at this giantess, and his mouth watered. As far as I know, henever said a word about her eyes.

My aunt Zilpah, Laban's second-born, said that she remembered everything thatever happened to her. She laid claim to memories of her own birth, and even ofdays in her mother's womb. She swore she could remember her mother's death inthe red tent, where she sickened within days after Zilpah arrived in the world,feet first. Leah scoffed at these claims, though not to her sister's face, forZilpah was the only one who could cause my mother to hold her tongue aboutanything.

Zilpah's memory of Jacob's arrival is nothing like Rachel's or Leah's, but thenZilpah had little use for men, whom she described as hairy, crude, and halfhuman. Women needed men to make babies and to move heavy objects, but otherwiseshe didn't understand their purpose, much less appreciate their charms. Sheloved her sons passionately until they grew beards, but after that could barelybring herself to look at them.

When I was old enough to ask what it was like on the day that my fatherarrived, she said that the presence of El hovered over him, which is why he wasworthy of notice. Zilpah told me that El was the god of thunder, high places,and awful sacrifice. El could demand that a father cut off his son-cast him outinto the desert, or slaughter him outright. This was a hard, strange god, alienand cold, but, she conceded, a consort powerful enough for the Queen of Heaven,whom she loved in every shape and name.

Zilpah talked about gods and goddesses almost more than she spoke about people.I found this tiresome at times, but she used words in the most wonderful ways,and I loved her stories about Ninhursag, the great mother, and Enlil, the firstfather. She made up grandiose hymns in which real people met with the deitiesand together they danced to the sound of flutes and cymbals, singing them in ahigh, thin voice to the accompaniment of a small clay drum.

From the age of her first blood, Zilpah thought of herself as a kind ofpriestess, the keeper of the mysteries of the red tent, the daughter ofAsherah, the sister-Siduri who counsels women. It was a foolish idea, as onlypriests served the goddesses of the great city temples, while the priestessesserved gods. Besides, Zilpah had none of the oracle's gifts. She lacked thetalent for herbs, and could not prophesy or conjure or read goat entrails.Leah's eight-seeded pomegranate was the only dream she ever interpretedcorrectly.

Zilpah was Laban's daughter by a slave named Mer-Nefat, who had been purchasedfrom an Egyptian trader in the days when Laban still had means. Accordingto Adah, Zilpah's mother was slender, raven-haired, and so quiet it waseasy to forget she had the power of speech, a trait her daughter did notinherit.

Zilpah was only a few months younger than Leah, and after Zilpah's mother died,Adah gave them suck together. They were playmates as babies, close and lovingfriends as children, tending the flocks together, gathering berries, making upsongs, laughing. Apart from Adah, they needed no one else in the world.

Zilpah was almost as tall as Leah, but thinner and less robust in the chest andlegs. Dark-haired and olive-skinned, Leah and Zilpah resembled their father andshared the family nose, not unlike Jacob's-a regal hawk's beak that seemed togrow longer when they smiled. Leah and Zilpah both talked with their hands,thumb and forefinger pressed together in emphatic ovals. When the sun made themsquint, identical lines appeared around the corners of their eyes.

But where Leah's hair was curly, Zilpah's black mane was straight, and she woreit to her waist. It was her best feature, and my aunt hated to cover it.Headdresses caused her head to pound, she said, putting a hand to her cheekwith silly drama. Even as a child I was permitted to laugh at her. Theseheadaches were the reason she gave for keeping so much inside the women'stents. She did not join the rest of us to bask in the springtime sun or findthe breeze on a hot night. But when the moon was young-slender and shy, barelymaking herself known in the sky-Zilpah walked around the camp, swinging herlong hair, clapping her hands, offering songs to encourage the moon's return.

When Jacob arrived, Bilhah was a child of eight, and she remembered nothing ofthe day. "She was probably up in a tree somewhere, sucking on her fingers andcounting the clouds," said Leah, repeating the only thing that was rememberedof Bilhah's early years.

Bilhah was the family orphan. The last daughter born of Laban's seed, she wasthe child of a slave named Tefnut-a tiny black woman who ran off one night whenBilhah was old enough to know she had been abandoned. "She never got over thathurt," said Zilpah with great gentleness, for Zilpah respected pain.

Bilhah was alone among them. It's not just that she was the youngest and thatthere were three other sisters to share the work. Bilhah was a sad child and itwas easier to leave her alone. She rarely smiled and hardly spoke. Not even mygrandmother Adah, who adored little girls and gathered motherless Zilpah to herinner circle and doted upon Rachel, could warm to this strange, lonely bird,who never grew taller than a boy of ten years, and whose skin was the color ofdark amber.

Bilhah was not beautiful like Rachel, or capable like Leah, or quick likeZilpah. She was tiny, dark, and silent. Adah was exasperated by her hair, whichwas springy as moss and refused to obey her hands. Compared to the two othermotherless girls, Bilhah was neglected dreadfully.

Left to herself, she climbed trees and seemed to dream. From her perch, shestudied the world, the patterns in the sky, the habits of animals and birds.She came to know the flocks as individuals, giving each animal a secret name tomatch its personality. One evening, she came in from the fields and whisperedto Adah that a black dwarf she-goat was ready to give birth to twins. It wasnowhere near the season for goats to bear, and that particular animal had beenbarren for four seasons. Adah shook her head at Bilhah's nonsense and shooedher away.

The next day, Laban brought news of a strange event in the flocks, with aprecise retelling of the little girl's prediction. Adah turned to the girl andapologized. "Bilhah sees clearly," said Adah to the other daughters, who turnedto stare at this unseen sister and noticed, for the first time, the kindness inher black eyes.

If you took the time to look, you could see right away that Bilhah was good.She was good the way milk is good, the way rain is good. Bilhah watched theskies and the animals, and she watched her family, too. From the dark cornersof the tents, she saw Leah hide her mortification when people stared. Bilhahnoticed Rachel's fear of the dark and Zilpah's insomnia. Bilhah knew that Labanwas every bit as mean-spirited as he was stupid.

Bilhah says her first clear memory of Jacob is from the day his first child wasborn. It was a boy-Reuben-and of course Jacob was delighted. He took his newson in his arms and danced the baby around and around outside the red tent.

"He was so gentle with the boy," Bilhah said. "He would not let Adah takeReuben away from him, even when the little one began to wail.

"He called his son perfect and a miracle in the world. I stood beside him andtogether Jacob and I worshiped the baby. We counted his fingers and stroked thesoft crown of his head. We delighted in him and in each other's joy," Bilhahsaid. "That is when I met Jacob, your father."

Jacob arrived late in the afternoon in the week of a full moon, ate a simplemeal of barley bread and olives, and fell into an exhausted sleep that lastedthrough most of the next day. Leah was mortified by the simplicity of the foodthey had offered him at first, so the next day she set out to produce a feastseen only at the great festivals.

"I suffered over that meal like nothing else I had ever cooked," said Leah,telling me the story during dull, hot afternoons while we rocked thenarrow-necked jars, straining the water from goat curd.

"The father of my children was in the house, I was sure of it. I could see hewas smitten by Rachel, whose beauty I saw as if for the first time. Still, helooked at me without flinching, and so I hoped.

"I slaughtered a kid, an unblemished male, as though it were a sacrifice to thegods. I beat the millet until it was as soft as a cloud. I reached deep intothe pouches where I kept my most precious spices and used the last of my driedpomegranate. I pounded, chopped, and scraped in a frenzy, believing that hewould understand what I was offering him.

"Nobody helped me with the cooking, not that I would have permitted anyone elseto touch the lamb or the bread, or even the barley water. I wouldn't let my ownmother pour water into a pot," she said and giggled.

I loved this story and asked to hear it again and again. Leah was alwaysreliable and deliberate, and far too steady to be giddy. And yet as sherecounted her first meal for Jacob, she was a foolish, weepy girl.

"I was an idiot," she said. "I burned the first bread and burst into tears. Ieven sacrificed a bit of the next loaf so that Jacob might fancy me. Just as wedo when we bake the cakes for the Queen of Heaven on the seventh day, I brokeoff a piece of dough, kissed it, and offered it to the fire as an offering ofhope that the man would claim me.

"Don't ever tell Zilpah about this or I'll never hear the end of it," saidLeah, in a mock-conspiratorial whisper. "And of course, if Laban, yourgrandfather, had any idea of how much food I put together for a beggar whoshowed up without so much as a jug of oil as a gift, he would have flogged me.But I gave the old man enough strong beer that he made no comment.

"Or maybe he made no mention of my extravagance because he knew he'd be luckywith this kinsman. Maybe he guessed he had discovered a son-in-law who wouldrequire little by way of a dowry. It was hard to know what the old man knew ordidn't know. He was like an ox, your grandfather."

"Like a post," I said.

"Like a cooking stone," said my mother.

"Like a goat turd," I said.

My mother shook her finger at me as though I were a naughty child, but then shelaughed out loud, for raking Laban over the coals was great sport among hisdaughters.

I can still recite her menu. Lamb flavored with coriander, marinated in sourgoat milk and a pomegranate sauce for dipping. Two kinds of bread: flat barleyand raised wheat. Quince compote, and figs stewed with mulberries, fresh dates.Olives, of course. And to drink, a choice of sweet wine, three different beers,and barley water.

Jacob was so exhausted he nearly missed the meal that Leah brought forth withso much passion. Zilpah had a terrible time waking him and finally had to pourwater on his neck, which startled him so badly that he swung out with his armsand knocked her to the ground, where she hissed like a cat.

Zilpah was not at all happy about this Jacob. She could see that his presencehad changed things between the sisters and would weaken her bond to Leah. Heoffended her because he was so much more attractive than the other men theysaw, foul-mouthed shepherds and the occasional trader who looked at the sistersas though they were a pack of ewes.

Jacob was well spoken and fair of face. And when he met Leah's gaze, Zilpahunderstood that their lives would never be the same. She was heartsick andangry and helpless to stop the change, though she tried.

When Jacob finally awoke and came to sit at Laban's right outside his tent, heate well. Leah remembered his every bite. "He dipped into the lamb stew overand over again, and had three helpings of bread. I saw that he liked sweets,and that he preferred the honeyed brew to the bitter-flavored drink that Labangulped down. I knew how to please his mouth, I thought. I will know how toplease the rest of him."

This line would always get my other mothers shrieking and slapping theirthighs, for although she was a practical woman, Leah was also the lewdest ofher sisters.

"And then, after all that work, after all that eating, what do you thinkhappened?" Leah asked, as though I didn't know the answer as well as I knew thelittle crescent-shaped scar above the Joint on her right thumb.

"Jacob grew ill, that's what happened. He vomited every morsel. He threw upuntil he was weak and whimpering. He cried out to El, and Ishtar, and Marduk,and his blessed mother, to save him from his agonies or let him die.

"Zilpah, the brat, she sneaked into his tent to see how he fared and reportedback to me, making it sound even worse than it was. She told me that he waswhiter than the full moon, that he barked like a dog and spewed up frogs andsnakes.

"I was mortified-and terrified, too. What if he died from my cooking? Or, justas bad, what if he recovered and blamed me for his misery?

"When no one else showed any ill effect from the meal, I knew it wasn't thefood. But then, fool that I was, I started worrying that my touch was hatefulto him. Or maybe I had done wrong with the bread offering, given not in homageto a god or goddess, but as an attempt at magic.

"I got religious again and poured the last of the good wine out in the name ofAnath the healer. That was on the third night of his suffering, and he washealed by the next morning." At this she always shook her head and sighed. "Nota very auspicious beginning for such fruitful lovers, was it?"

Jacob made a quick recovery and stayed on, week after week, until it seemed hehad always been there. He took charge of the scrawny herds so Rachel no longerhad to follow the animals, a job that had fallen to her in the absence ofbrothers.

My grandfather laid the blame for the state of his herds and his dwindlingwealth upon the fact that all his sons had died at birth or in infancy, leavinghim nothing but daughters. He gave no thought to his own sloth, believing thatonly a son would turn his luck around. He consulted the local priests, who toldhim to sacrifice his best rams and a bull so that the gods might give him aboy-child. He had lain with his wives and concubines in the fields, as an oldmidwife suggested, and all he had gotten for that effort was an itchy backsideand bruises on his knees. By the time Jacob arrived, Laban had given up hishope of a son-or of any improvement in his life.

He expected nothing from Adah, who was past childbearing and sick. His otherthree women had died or run off, and he couldn't afford the few coins for ahomely slave girl, much less the price of a new bride. So he slept alone,except for the nights he found his way up the hills to bother the flocks, likesome horny little boy. Rachel said that among the shepherds, my grandfather'slust was legendary. "The ewes run like gazelles when Laban walks up the hill,"they hooted.

His daughters despised him for a hundred reasons, and I knew them all. Zilpahtold me that when she was a few months away from her first blood and the taskfell to her of taking my grandfather his midday meal, he reached up and put histhumb and forefinger around her nipple, squeezing it as though she were ashe-goat.

Leah, too, said Laban had put his hand under her robes, but when she told Adah,my grandmother had beaten Laban with a pestle until he bled. She broke thehorns off his favorite household god, and when she threatened to curse him withboils and impotence, he swore never to touch his daughters again and maderestitution. He bought gold bangles for Adah and all of his daughters-evenZilpah and Bilhah, which was the only time he acknowledged them as kin. And hebrought home a beautiful asherah-a tall pillar, nearly as big as Bilhah-made bythe finest potter he could find. The women placed her up on the barnah, thehigh place, where sacrifices were offered. The goddess's face was especiallylovely, with almond eyes and an open smile. When we poured wine over her in thedark of each new moon, it seemed to us her mouth broadened even farther inpleasure.

But that was some years before Jacob came, when Laban still had a few bondsmenworking for him, and their wives and children filled the camp with cookingsmells and laughter. By the time my father arrived, there was only one sickwife and four daughters.

While Laban was glad enough of Jacob's presence, the two men disliked eachother heartily. Although different as a raven and a donkey, they were bound byblood and soon by business.

Jacob, it turned out, was a willing worker with a talent for animals-especiallydogs. He turned Laban's three useless mongrels into fine shepherds. He whistledand the dogs raced to his side. He clapped and they would run in circles andget the sheep to move after him. He yodeled and they stood guard with suchferocity that Laban's flocks never again saw harm from a fox or jackal. And ifthere were poachers, they ran off rather than face the bared teeth of thatfierce little pack.

Jacob's dogs were soon the envy of other men, who offered to buy them. Instead,he traded a day's work for the stud of the male cur with cunning wolfish eyes.When the smallest of our bitches bore the wolf-dog's litter, Jacob trained herpuppies and traded four of the five for what seemed a mountain of treasure,which he quickly converted to gifts that proved how well he had come tounderstand Laban's daughters.

He took Rachel to the well where they had met and gave her the blue lapis ringshe wore until her death. He sought out Leah where she was combing wool and,without a word, handed her three finely hammered gold bangles. To Zilpah hegave a small votive vessel in the shape of Anath, which poured libationsthrough the nipples. He laid a bag of salt at Adah's swollen feet. He evenremembered Bilhah with a tiny amphora of honey.

Laban complained that his nephew should have turned over the profit from thepuppies directly to him., since the mother was his goods. But the old man wasmollified by a bag of coins, with which he ran to the village and brought backRuti. Poor thing.

Within a year, Jacob became the overseer of Laban's domain. With his dogs,Jacob led the flocks so the lambs fed on the gentle grass, the sheep grazed onpatches of juicy herbs, and the full-grown rams rummaged through the toughweeds. The flocks did so well that at the next shearing Jacob had to hire twoboys to finish the work before the rains came. Rachel joined Leah, Zilpah, andBilhah in the garden, where they enlarged the wheat patch.

Jacob made Laban agree to sacrifice two fat lambs and a kid to the god of hisfather, as thanks for the bounty. Leah baked raised cakes from the preciousstock of wheat for the sacrifice, too, which was carried out as Jacob directed.In the manner of his fathers, he burned entire loaves and all the choice partsof the animals rather than a few portions. The women muttered among themselvesat the waste.

It was a year of change for my family. The flocks multiplied, and the grainflourished, and there was a marriage in the offing. For within a month of hisarrival, Jacob asked Laban about Rachel's bride price, as she had said he wouldthat very first day. Since it was clear that his nephew had no means orproperty, Laban thought he could get the man cheap, and made a magnanimous showof offering his daughter for a mere seven years' service.

Jacob laughed at the idea. "Seven years? We are talking about a girl here, nota throne. In seven years' time, she might be dead. I might be dead. And mostlikely of all, you could be dead, old man.

"I will give you seven months," Jacob said. "And for the dowry, I'll take halfyour miserable herd."

Laban jumped to his feet and called Jacob a thief. "You are your mother's son,all right," he raged. "You think the world owes you anything? Don't get tooproud with me, you afterbirth, or I'll send you back to your brother's longknife."

Zilpah, the best spy among them, reported on the argument, telling how theyhaggled back and forth over my aunt's value, about how Laban stormed out andJacob spat. Finally, they agreed on a year's service for a bride price. As todowry, Laban pleaded poverty. "I have so little, my son," he said, suddenly theloving patriarch. "And she is such a treasure."

Jacob could not accept a bride without a dowry. That would have made Rachel aconcubine and him a fool for paying with a year of his life for a girl who hadonly a grindstone, a spindle, and the clothes on her back to her name. So Labanthrew Bilhah into the bargain, giving Rachel status as a dowered wife, andJacob the possibility of a concubine in time.

"Also you must give me a tenth of the lambs and kids born to the flocks while Istand guard over them for you during my year of service," Jacob said.

At that, Laban cursed Jacob's seed and stormed away. It was a week before themen finished their negotiations, a week in which Rachel wept and carried onlike a baby, while Leah said little and served nothing but cold milletporridge, food for mourners.

When they worked out the final terms, Laban went to Adah, so she could startplanning the wedding. But Adah said no-"We are not barbarians who give childrento wed."

Rachel could not even be promised, she told her husband. The girl might lookready to marry, but she was still unripe, having not yet bled. My grandmotherclaimed that Anath would curse the garden if Laban dared break this law andthat she herself would find the strength to take a pestle to her husband's headagain.

But threats were unnecessary. Laban saw the advantage in this delay and wentimmediately to Jacob with the news he would have to wait until the girl wasready before they could plan a date for the marriage.

Jacob accepted the situation. What else could he do? Furious, Rachel yelled atAdah, who cuffed her and told her to take her temper elsewhere. Rachel, inturn, slapped Bilhah, cursed at Zilpah, and snarled at Leah. She even kickeddust at Jacob's feet, calling him a liar and a coward before bursting intopretty tears on his neck.

She began to nurse dark fears about the future. She would never bleed, nevermarry Jacob, never bear sons. Suddenly, the small, high breasts of which shehad been so proud seemed puny to her. Perhaps she was a freak, a hermaphroditelike the gross idol in her father's tent, the one with a tree stalk between itslegs and teats like a cow.

So Rachel tried to rush her season. Before the next new moon, she baked cakesof offering to the Queen of Heaven, something she had never done before, andslept a whole night with her belly pressed up against the base of the asherah.But the moon waned and grew round again, while Rachel's thighs remained dry.She walked into the village by herself to ask the midwife, Inna, for help andwas given an infusion of ugly nettles that grew in a nearby wadi. But again thenew moon came and again Rachel remained a child.

As the following moon waned, Rachel crushed bitter berries and called her oldersisters to see the stain on her blanket. But the juice was purple, and Leah andZilpah laughed at the seeds on her thighs.

The next month, Rachel hid in her tent, and did not even slip away once to findJacob.

Finally, in the ninth month after Jacob's arrival, Rachel bled her first blood,and cried with relief. Adah, Leah, and Zilpah sang the piercing, throaty songthat announces births, deaths, and women's ripening. As the sun set on the newmoon when all the women commenced bleeding, they rubbed henna on Rachel'sfingernails and on the soles of her feet. Her eyelids were painted yellow, andthey slid every bangle, gem, and jewel that could be found onto her fingers,toes, ankles, and wrists. They covered her head with the finest embroidery andled her into the red tent. They sang songs for the goddesses; for Innana andthe Lady Asherah of the Sea. They spoke of Elath, the mother of the seventygods, including Anath in that number, Anath the nursemaid, defender of mothers.

They sang:

"Whose fairness is like Anath's fairness
Whose beauty like Astarte's beauty?
"Astarte is now in your womb,
You bear the power of Elati. "

The women sang all the welcoming songs to her while Rachel ate date honey andfine wheat-flour cake, made in the three-cornered shape of woman's sex. Shedrank as much sweet wine as she could hold. Adah rubbed Rachel's arms and legs,back and abdomen with aromatic oils until she was nearly asleep. By the timethey carried her out into the field where she married the earth, Rachel wasstupid with pleasure and wine. She did not remember how her legs came to becaked with earth and crusted with blood and smiled in her sleep.

She was full of Joy and anticipation, lazing in the tent for the three days,collecting the precious fluid in a bronze bowl-for the first-moon blood of avirgin was a powerful libation for the garden. During those hours, she was morerelaxed and generous than anyone could remember her.

As soon as the women rose from their monthly rites, Rachel demanded that thewedding date be set. None of her foot-stamping could move Adah to change thecustom of waiting seven months from first blood. So it was arranged, andalthough Jacob had already worked a year for Laban, the contract was sealed andthe next seven months were Laban's too.

Continues...
Excerpted from The Red Tentby Anita Diamant Copyright © 2007 by Anita Diamant. Excerpted by permission.
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