Abigail's Story by Ann Burton

not know how to respond to that. I had never slept past the sun’s rising in my life.
    â€œIt needs must be done now. Has the priest been summoned, and the contract writ?” Amri asked.
    â€œNot yet.” Nabal didn’t seem overly concerned with the matter.
    â€œI shall go to the bamot and bring the priest back.” Amri gave him a hard look. “It will not take long.”
    â€œWhatever you wish.” After the spice merchant had left, Nabal regarded me. “Why do you wear no jewels or ornaments?”
    I did not wish to admit that I owned none. “I am not to have a wedding feast, so I dressed for a journey. You are sending me to the hill country today, are you not?” As beautiful as the house of Nabal was, I wanted nothing more than to be far away from this place.
    He looked me over with a strange greediness in his eyes. “Perhaps I shall keep you here a day or two.”
    Before she had left last night, Cetura had taken me aside and in hushed tones told me of the intimate duties of a wife to her husband. The widow assured me that the pain I would feel at first would pass, and that in time it would grow to be a pleasant thing.
    I looked at Nabal and tried to imagine part of his body inside my own in that bizarre fashion that Cetura had described in detail to me. It seemed a very unclean business, given the exact parts involved. I surely could not imagine my own parents doing such a thing. According to the widow, however, it was the only way to get children, and so I would submit.
    I bowed my head. “As my husband wishes.”
    Nabal grunted and ordered one of the servants to bring wine. He then washed his hands and ordered the older woman to bathe his feet. Nothing was offered to me, not even a place where I might sit.
    I turned to his steward. “Why has food not been brought? The priest will be here soon.”
    The steward blinked, confused.
    â€œThe priest comes to marry us, not to stuff his gullet,” Nabal said. “He can feast when he returns to the bamot. The Adonai knows every year I am forced to donate enough food to that temple to choke ten mules.”
    I tried not to gape at him. Even as poor as my family was, we gave a portion of our food to the holy priests each winter. “Giving food to the bamot is to invite the Adonai’s blessings upon your house, Master Nabal.”
    He gave me an unpleasant smile. “I have all the blessings I need.”
    Amri and the priest were ushered in by the steward a short time later.
    â€œYou are the daughter of Oren?” the priest asked. He was a tall, thin man whose imperious expression matched the grandeur of his finely embroidered linen simla.
    â€œI am.” I bowed over my open hands, the proper sign of respect for one who served the Adonai.
    â€œThis man had my scribe make up a contract, giving you to Master Nabal in marriage.” The priest made this sound as if I was poised to run off a high cliff. “Do you agree to this willingly?”
    I answered yes, and responded politely to the rest of his questions. It seemed as if the priest wished to persuade me out of the idea, but at last he sighed and made the sign of blessing over me.
    â€œLet us see to this business, then, Abigail of Carmel.”
    Nabal did not take kindly to being rushed into themarriage ceremony, and demanded that it wait until herbs could be brought for a sudden headache he was suffering. He also objected to the priest’s suggestion that we stand together before him and instead had me come to the side of his chair so that he did not have to rise.
    â€œSay your words over us, and bring me that contract, Priest,” Nabal said, and gave me another of his oddly keen looks before drinking from the cup of herbs his steward had prepared.
    I had only attended a few weddings, but they had been happy occasions in rooms crowded with the family and friends of the betrothed. Marriage was blessed by the Adonai, and brought