Vicky Scholtz

The wrong woman

Vicky Scholtz

Rachel, silly ewe, stupid child, you took your goats to the well and met our cousin Ya-kub fleeing east from his brother, whose birthright he had stolen. Ya-kub, the Supplanter, saw your child’s beauty, kissed you full upon the lips and followed you home to our father Laban. Laban saw the lust in his eyes and had him work for seven years for the promise of your soft flesh, full of favour. Your beauty grew, and with it Ya-kub’s lust.

When the seven years had passed, Ya-kub went to collect his wages, his wife, that he might come in unto her. Remembering your public kiss, Laban looked upon your childish face and felt his insides tear. The bridal feast was prepared, the bridegroom ate his fill and retired to the bridal tent, drunk. His vinous snores shook the sheets and echoed outside, where trembling with eagerness, little ewe, you waited.

But it was not to be. Drawing me aside, Laban spoke to me, made me pull on your bridal garments, wear your veil. Into the tent to lie with the Supplanter I was sent, to protect your virtue and your youth. He went in unto me, our cousin Ya-kub, drunk and expectant. Bleary-eyed I lay there, now a wife, my carefree youth now past.

When he awoke it was not just the wine that made his temper foul. Railing against our father, he accused, demanded, the sweet saltiness of his seed’s sowing of the eve before forgotten. Reminded of his own cheating, he calmed, agreed to labour seven more years to harvest the crop he planned to plant within your body. A little time was bought, but soon you, too, lay crushed beneath the sweating, hairless weight that made you wife.

My body bore — fine sons, and strong. Yet my woman’s body was spurned — by me he did his weekly mitzvah only, it was you he wanted. Hairless as himself, your bony hips and flat nipples gave him grist for his mill as he ground, ground, ground, but yet produced no flour. You cried out in your pain, give me children or I die, but none were born. You were, little ewe, but a child yourself, whose playthings should be goats and sticks, and not the cries of babies. Ya-kub was angry with you, thinking that you cast aspersions on his manhood — he, who had no hair, whose frame was weak beside his brother, and he raged.

Bilhah, your maid, was asked to serve in your place, that you might have a child to dandle on your knee, and serve she did. Ya-kub went in unto her, and made of her a concubine, and a mother. The son, when born, was yours. Her emptied womb, her aching breasts, Bilhah did not begrudge you. She is a generous soul, and knew she could have more — and more she got. That son too you took, and claimed for yourself a victory over me. Oh little ewe — if you knew only of the sacrifice I made for you — my youth upon your bridal altar, my children for your youth. You spurned my gifts, as Ya-kub spurned my body.

My maid Zilpah was the next to fall. He went in unto her and made her wife, and mother. Two sons she bore, whose noses I wiped, whose cries I stopped, whose hurts I healed. What are two more when the boys run fast and thick like a river? The river ran, spilling into the wheat fields, and Reuben my first-born brought me mandrake he had found. Mindful of your infertility, you begged for some, as Esau begged Ya-kub for lentil stew. My price was less than his — a night with Ya-kub, to wean him from your body. This too I did for you — not yet mature, you wore your body out with trying to conceive. You needed rest, little ewe, for you were yet a child.

I fetched him to my tent, and lay with him that night. I tried my best to love him, seduce him, win his lust. My body, firm though fruitful, I anointed with oils and herbs, sweet smelling as the blossoms and the dew. I bound my bountiful bosom back with cloth to make it flatter, shaved off my pubic hair and wore my hair long, loose and flowing, like a child. I chattered gaily, brightened my eyes and smiled with wonder not with sorrow, becoming as you are, little ewe, a picture of innocence and youth. And thus he came in unto me, the Supplanter, lying with me that night.

Two more sons I bore him, and a daughter, Dinah.

And then the Lord remembered you, and brought your womanhood. With joy you spread your legs and took your husband in, and conceived in turn a son.

All the while, our father watched. He watched as Ya-kub’s offspring flowed like rivers through the fields; he watched as you became a woman, and a mother. He knew his time of fathering was over, as mine of raising children was but just begun. And so we took our leave.

You stole the household gods, for their protection. Without our father near, perhaps you feared … You’d seen Ya-kub’s rough temper, felt his rage, and somehow wanted something near, to keep you safe. Laban followed, caught us up, demanding the return of the gods, which you kept hidden. Feigning menstruation, you stayed seated on the gods, and Laban, reading your distress, let you be. Before departing, he exacted from Ya-kub a promise not to hurt the daughters of Laban — thus, little ewe, your gods had done their work.

And so you conceived again, along the road, a second son. Your body, worn from trying and the road, was not up to the task. Ya-kub buried you there beside the road, and each of his children placed a stone upon your grave. After your death, he cared no more for women, spending all his time with his two youngest sons — your issue.

So much has happened since those years, little ewe, that I can’t start to tell: about your first-born Joseph, the favourite, and his slavery, and how we all went off to Egypt as a result. My first-born Reuben, who went in unto your maid Bilhah, his father’s concubine. Ya-kub — who wrestled with an angel, and became Israel — learned of this, and then he died. Perhaps it was this knowledge that killed him — the supplanting of the Supplanter. His body lies buried in Chanaan, where he awaits me.

Before I join him, little ewe, allow me one last confession. I never loved your husband, though I tried. I thought that tempting him from you would keep you safe. You envied me, hated me, resented me. My cold hearth, my empty bed, my stretched womb were not my choosing — I loved another, but you knew not that. You, the little sister, were engaged in so bitter a rivalry that you saw not how my head bowed, my cheeks paled, my eyes bleared, when he approached. You saw only your husband entering my tent.

When we were small, our father Laban wrote often to his sister, Rebekah, of the dreams we were to become. Her sons, Esau and Ya-kub, were ours to wed — Ya-kub to you; Esau the elder, stronger, handsome one, to me. Yet this I sacrificed for you, little ewe, to buy your youth. The sacrifice was too mean, the worth not high enough, it was in vain. My life has been lived with a husband who loved not me, and whom I loved not, but that he was his brother’s brother. Had I the choice to do it all again, your husband would be your own, and I’d have mine.

But now you lie alone beside the road, with neither husband nor sons to wipe your dusty brow. And I, little ewe, anoint myself once more with oils and herbs, sweet as blossoms and the dew, to lie down one final time, for ever, at our husband’s side. I was the wrong woman, yes; and he, the wrong man.

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