The Esther Paradigm (A Contemporary Christian Romance) Page 3

  Mom and Dad shared a look that caused my belly to harden.

  “Truth be told, sweetie, we’ve been a little worried about your timing in coming back.” Dad’s bushy brows narrowed into a V over his eyes.

  My throat convulsed as I swallowed, intuition yelling a warning.

  “The flocks have been hit with a mysterious illness. Some in the clan are stirring up trouble, trying to lay the blame for the disease at our feet.”

  My Americanized thought was that a few sick sheep didn’t seem like much to worry about. But my Bedouin mind understood the seriousness. “How could they blame you? You didn’t make the sheep sick.”

  Mom traced the pattern in her pillow with a finger. “They’re saying Allah is punishing them for allowing us, Christians, to sojourn with them.” Her eyes connected with Dad’s again before resting back on me. “Which is why maybe now isn’t a good time to start your school.”

  Breath knocked from my lungs. “You guys are leaving?”

  “No. No, of course not,” Dad said. “The burden for this tribe hasn’t lifted from our hearts. If anything, the demonstrations have advanced the Lord’s work.”

  “What demonstrations?” Were my parents really in that much danger? We knew the stories. Those about missionaries who’d sacrificed their lives to reach the unreached. The ones who’d yet to hear about Jesus and His loving sacrifice and redemption. Just south of us, believers smuggled Bibles among the underground churches by hiding them beneath decomposing bodies in coffins during transit across borders. Others had been shot point blank for refusing to convert to Islam or pay an exorbitant tax that no one could afford.

  Those stories had never hit so close to home. For the most part, the Bedouins had accepted us, as we respected their culture and religion. We’d made friends over time, allowing them to come to us when their curiosity piqued from our peculiar differences and worship of Isa, Jesus.

  “A few warnings,” Mom hedged.

  “But from them, two more men have come to me with questions about Jesus, and I’ve been able to share the Gospel with them,” Dad said.

  “Do you…” My throat worked against the dryness that had nothing to do with the sand I’d inhaled earlier. “Do you think it’ll get bad enough that we’ll have to leave?”

  Dad’s gray eyes softened. “This is our calling, your mother’s and mine. Our cross that we carry to advance the kingdom. Jesus warned His followers that they’d have sufferings.”

  “And He promised to always be with us in them,” Mom finished.

  “But you…” Dad started but didn’t finish.

  Didn’t need to. I knew where he was going.

  “I’m staying.”

  They weren’t the only ones who had a passion for the Bedouin people. The spark within me for this tribe, boys and girls I grew up among as brothers and sisters, burned hotter each day. If I left, that flame inside me would be snuffed out. My soul would be devoid of its light. No, I needed to kindle that spark until it grew into a flame and eventually, with God’s help, a fire that would spread throughout the entire desert.

  “Hannah.” Mom’s voice held a pleading tone.

  I knew where they were coming from. They wanted to keep me safe, just like I wanted them to be safe. But if everyone only did what was safe, nothing would change. Eventually the rocks would cry out because the followers who were instructed to speak had shut their mouths.

  “I’m staying.” I looked them both in the eye, let them see my conviction and commitment. “I’m going to teach the children.”

  A shadow darkened the tent’s opening, and my dad rose to greet the visitor. A few minutes later he reentered the large one-room dwelling, the corners of his lips pulled down in confusion.

  “What is it?” Mom asked.

  “The sheikh has ordered a feast prepared in honor of Hannah’s return.”

  “Karim’s father?” The old sheikh had always been kind, but not demonstrative.

  Dad looked at me. “Karim has been leader these past two years. Ever since his father’s death.” His mustache twitched as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. A tell that something ran through his mind.

  “Ethan?” Mom asked.

  She saw the sign too.

  Dad gave his head a little shake. “Maybe nothing.”

  “But?” Mom pressed.

  Dad’s gaze lighted on me again. “It seems, perhaps, the sheikh is making a public stand in our favor.”

  Did that surprise them? Karim, the most caring and generous boy I’d known, was like a mother hen but with the power of a lion. He gently gathered his chicks under his wing while snapping any intruder in half who threatened his family.

  Dad’s face scrunched, his mind busy. Analyzing. Organizing. Ever the scientist, categorizing the data and sifting through the evidence. Creating hypotheses.

  Seemed pretty obvious to me. Karim considered us part of his people.

  “Do you think it will sway social opinion?” Mom asked.

  Dad’s shoulders lifted. “Only time will tell.”

  “It’s good, I think.” Mom looked at me. Her eyes got a bit sad. “Although I was hoping to have you all to ourselves tonight. Especially since we have to leave tomorrow.”

  They were leaving? But I just got there! “Where are you going?” I left off asking why and begging them to stay, even though the little girl in me was screaming it from every corner of my heart.

  Dad tapped my nose. “To pick you up from the airport.”

  I swatted at his hand. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m already here.”

  “Right. But the plan had been to pick you up and drop off some blood and other samples from the sheep to a local veterinarian in the city. Maybe he can help us figure out what is making the livestock sick and give us some medicine that will eradicate the problem.”

  “Why don’t you come with us?” Mom asked.

  It would be nice to spend a whole day with my parents. “I wish I could, but I need to meet with Yara. Karim mentioned she would know of a tent I could use for the school. She’d also volunteered to go with me to speak with the mothers about their children attending. Karim said he’d put a word in among the fathers.”

  My parents shared that look again. The one they’d developed over the years of their marriage. Communication without any words. I’d tried to figure out their secret messages, how they could know what the other was thinking just by a lift of a brow or a twitch of the lips. It had always been outside my reach, a graze of my fingertips where I thought I’d deciphered it, but then…not.

  “Come on.” Mom stood and held out her hand. “Let’s wash off the desert and sweat from you and get you presentable for this celebration.”

  I let her lead me to the back of the tent, where she lit a number of lanterns. Dad left and closed the front flap, blocking out the natural light and casting the inside into flickering shadows from the lantern’s small flames. Mom heated water and poured it into a large metal washbasin, which I stared at with a smirk. Far from pampered, after having to adjust to the wasteful way of life in the West, I had to admit soaking my whole body in a deep tub would be one of the things I’d miss from my time in the States.

  I climbed into the water, my knees to my chest, and used a dipper to pour the water over my hair. Even though it had been covered in the sandstorm, quite a bit of the desert still clung among the strands. The bottom of the tub turned grainy as sand slid from my body into the water. I scrubbed and rinsed and promptly got out, no desire to linger in my own filth. Accepting the towel Mom offered, I dried quickly, partly from the terry cloth and partly from the dry air that sucked all the moisture out of everything.

  Mom pulled out a pale-blue abaya with intricately embroidered white flowers lining the hem, sleeves, neckline, and running vertically down the middle. Gorgeous. And so different from the traditional loose-fitting gowns that both the men and women wore. Although the cut was the same, the color and patterns were not. I was used to seeing bright, striking colors—red,
royal blue—embellished with geometric designs and tassels. The clothes reflected the people who wore them, with their vibrancy and love of life.

  “We are all the same,” Mom said as she handed me the dress. “And all unique.”

  Mom’s object lesson in the form of an outfit. It was a message she’d repeated many times in different ways. Once she’d shown me a picture of a tulip field. Row after row of beautiful red tulips, symmetrically planted, creating a stunning picture. And right in the middle, all by itself in a sea of sameness, stood one lone yellow flower.

  At first I’d believed she’d wanted to reinforce in my young mind that even though I looked different from all the other children with my light skin, compared to their darker complexion, beneath the surface we were the same. We all had joys and sorrows and dreams.

  But as I grew older, I learned to acknowledge that everyone was created in God’s image. Same beating heart, same lungs taking in oxygen, same blood coursing through our veins. And while we needed to embrace our sameness, there was also something completely unique and special about each person. One had to balance the similarities without losing the spark that set individuals apart.

  I’d taken those little nuggets of wisdom with me wherever I went, often pulling them out. While Mom’s lessons about equality had rooted in my mind—never once had I thought I was better than another because of my outward appearance—I couldn’t help but think the field of red flowers looked so much more beautiful than that single yellow one. That they shone brighter and stood taller.

  I took the dress in my hand, fingered the flowers stitched there. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

  She helped me pull it over my head and wrapped a loose, pale-blue scarf over my hair. I rubbed my hand down the side of the smooth material. A tinkling sound clinked behind me. A bit like a wind chime made of coins. Before I could turn, something circled my head and rested like a crown. I reached my hand up and felt the head chain, the small gold circles that dripped down over my forehead. I turned to my mom, my brows raised. The women of the tribe often wore jewelry, some pieces having been inherited for several hundreds of years, but my mother and I had little adornment.

  She shrugged. “It finishes the outfit.” Then she turned and changed her own gown, effectively cutting off any response I might have had.

  Dad reentered the tent, also changed. He escorted us to the center of the clanswomen, then left to join the men. Exotic smells already thickened the air and teased my appetite. Musicians strummed their instruments to the cadence of my heartbeat.

  Mom and I greeted a group of women before finding a seat around the perimeter. In the middle of the gathering, five young ladies danced in a choreographed circle. The jeweled belts with gold tassels as well as the bangles on their wrists clicked and clanged with their movements. Hips rotated in fluid motion, arms raised as they spun. The added pieces of wispy material they’d laid over their heads flowed out in an arc as they twirled. Their ankle-length dresses in bold colors of red, blue, and purple were ornate versions of their everyday dresses. Each step they took was perfectly timed to the beat, and the women who didn’t dance clapped along.

  Mom looked at me and smiled as she clapped. Bedouin celebrations stirred a joy within. The music. The dancing. It was impossible not to get caught up in the atmosphere of revelry.

  The dancers broke from their circle and formed two rows, one in front of the other. Their shoulders shimmied as their hips continued to sway. Down they went on their knees. Left shoulder shimmy. Right. Up again.

  One line turned in a half circle until their backs faced us, while the other row marked the beat with the repeated forward then back step. They joined to form one long line now, the left half of woman with backs toward us, the right half facing us. They joined palm to palm. Two beats. Spin. Palm to palm. Two beats. All the while their hips never stopped their languid circle motion.

  Six years since I’d heard this music, immersed myself in this culture. Belonging snuggled into my chest and rested there. I’d missed it. Missed the familiarity of my childhood.

  Learning and experiencing new things had been exciting. The bluegrass bands with their fiddles and banjos had made my toe tap a beat. But there was nothing like coming home.

  Yara dropped to the pillow at my side, leaned toward me. “You should join in on the next one.”

  I laughed. “I’m out of practice. They dance a little differently in the States.” The Electric Slide, the only dance I’d learned one night when I’d been dragged out for karaoke, wouldn’t work too well in this setting.

  “Once you get moving, I’m sure it would come back to you.”

  Should I? I felt caught up in the moment, pulled out of myself by the rhythm and laughter around me. The music itself danced in the air, hypnotizing me to join in.

  I turned toward Yara, agreement poised on my lips until my gaze snagged on two women behind her shoulder. They huddled together, their arms brushing, heads bent toward the other. Hatred shot from their eyes fixed on me. The jubilant, carefree wave that I’d been caught up in dropped me, dumping a surge like cold water on top of my head.

  Yara noticed my stare behind her and twisted to follow my line of sight. She turned back around, her face sober. “Ignore them.”

  “Why are they looking at me like that? What have I done to them?”

  Yara laid a hand on my forearm. “Nothing. They are ignorant, superstitious women.”

  I searched her gaze. “It’s because of the sheep, isn’t it? My parents said they blame us.”

  “Yes, but none of that is your fault or theirs. The people will come to see that soon enough.”

  Would they? My gaze flicked back to the women. One looked right at me and spit on the ground before she stormed away. The other held her ground, her abhorrence seething from her body. If given the choice, she’d happily rally the women here and turn this welcome back celebration into a mob that would drive my parents and me from the face of the earth.

  All the anticipation that had driven me the last half decade withered. How was I supposed to teach and spread the Good News if the people wanted to purge themselves of my very presence?

  Chapter 4

  Karim

  “Are you even listening to me, Karim?” Samlil asked, disgust in his voice. He huffed his frustration, turning to the other men in the tent, his hands outstretched, palms up.

  I’d tuned him and every other man surrounding me out months ago. They always said the same thing.

  Karim, you need a wife.

  Karim, you need sons.

  Karim, you need an heir.

  As if those expectations hadn’t already burrowed into my mind like an adder in the loose sand, waiting to strike and sink its deadly fangs into me. I had been married before, my sense of duty propelling me to make vows to a woman arranged for me by my father before his death. Maleka had come to me a blushing virgin, the match equally beneficial to our families. Hers for the power of marrying into the sheikh’s lineage, ours for the money her father had presented mine as a gift.

  Duty bound us, but love had never grown. I couldn’t understand why. In everything, she was the perfect wife. Obedient. Modest. Gentle. She never raised her voice in anger. She rarely used her voice at all. Meek and…boring. Our tent had become overwhelmingly silent until I thought I’d go deaf by the sheer lack of conversation. There was no zest. Like a meal that had been prepared to perfection but not a dash of salt or a hint of seasoning had been used. Completely bland.

  Maybe it was selfish, but I had no wish to tie myself to such a woman again. I wanted the bright slashes against the sky when the sun edged the horizon, flinging out arms of fire in a morning welcome. I wanted a wife who could awaken the same feeling of relief and joy as when, after too long in the desert, a weary traveler stumbled upon a hidden oasis. A wife who sustained life, drank from it, and replenished, not one that merely lived, a drift in the wind.

  The image of Hannah the night before danced across my memory the way the light
from the camp’s flames had waltzed across her fresh, pale face. A dear friend, I’d always admired her spunk, even when the clan elders had frowned and clucked their tongue at the scrapes she’d gotten into growing up. They had wanted to curb her, mold her like the women do clay at the potter’s wheel. But Hannah couldn’t be fashioned into the same shape as every other woman. Though she held her tongue most of the time, presented an acceptable picture, I could read her thoughts as easily as the scrolling signs in the nearby city.

  “I might as well be talking to the camels,” Samlil grumbled.

  “Should I oblige you with a spit, my friend?” My lips tipped in a grin, but mirth didn’t reach my eyes. How could it? A smile must first originate in the heart and take root before the harvest of joy in the windows to the soul.

  Light chuckles sounded from the other leaders, but Samlil’s frown only deepened.

  “Karim.”

  My mother stepped from the shadows, her presence not surprising. While others of my country might not respect the women in their lives, not so with most of the males among our tribe. My father and his father had led by example, loving their wives and daughters and not being ashamed for allowing others to see their respect and affection. Instead of making my father and grandfather smaller in the eyes of the people, their openness had increased the clans’ trust in them.

  “Mother.” I turned to face her and opened my ears to her words. While other men, Samlil too, even though he was my friend, had the good of the clan in their minds, my mother’s scope was broad enough to include me as a man and not just me the sheikh.

  She placed her weathered hands on my shoulders and pivoted until my back was toward the rest gathered. She alone held my attention. “It is time, my son. For our people, yes.” Her warm palm rested over my heart. “But for you as well.” She leaned in and whispered into my ear. “How can you be a great leader if you do not know love?”

  In this instance she missed the mark, though she looked at me knowingly.

  I did know love. The love of a son. A friend. A leader.