Orpah’s Odyssey: The Other Sister’s Saga

By Celia Crotteau

Did Orpah behave that badly?! The Book of Ruth paints a glowing picture of the Moabite widow who sacrificed homeland, faith, and family to accompany her mother-in-law Naomi to Israel. Ruths choice paid off . In Israel, she remarried and eventually became the great-grandmother of the illustrious King David.
But what happened to Naomis other widowed daughter-in-law, Orpah, who decided not to go to Israel? Mentioned briefly in the Book of Ruth, Orpah chose to return to her birth family, an accepted custom. Nevertheless, religious tradition has excoriated Orpah for her decision. She has been labeled a traitor and worse. Why? What difference could that one unexceptional young woman have made? Or was she more remarkable than she has been previously portrayed? What happened to Orpah after she parted from Naomi and Ruth?
What if a recently unearthed ancient scroll revealed those mysteries? Hidden centuries ago to prevent the revelation of shocking truths, the scroll bears Orpahs account of the famous story narrated in the Book of Ruth and more. Specifi cally, it offers secrets which some would prefer remain buried. However, why not allow Orpah to tell her side and defend her name, actions, and reputation?
Here she does just that, looking back on a long, eventful life filled with anguish and joy, adventure and intrigue, and interaction with Biblical characters who may not have behaved as correctly, or, in some cases, as incorrectly, as history would have us believe. Sometimes the choices people make are not for their own reasons, but because a higher power has plans for them other than the obvious. And Jonah was not the only reluctant Old Testament prophet, as you are about to discover.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543479379

Celia Crotteau

A Biblical scholar and educator, Celia Crotteau's fascination with women's roles in ancient civilizations has inspired her to imagine how certain Old Testament heroines might have told their own stories. In earlier novels she gave voices to the prophet Hosea's wife Gomer and Ruth's sister Orpah. Now, in her sixth book of historical fiction, she does so with Jephthah's daughter. Celia has also published award winning essays, poetry, short stories, and textbooks and has taught literature, history, and writing to students from sixth grade through college level.

Book preview

Prologue

The following was unearthed during an archaeological expedition to X and translated by the renowned Dr. X of X University in X. Experts from the X Institution here in the U.S. collaborated on this undertaking. In addition, antiquity scholars from the nations of X, Y, and Z verified the manuscript’s age and authenticity.

However, powerful parties both religious and political frown upon the manuscript’s release in book form. In today’s divided world, they argue, why thrust more confusion and dissent on the public? What would this book’s disturbing challenge of the treasured presentation of certain Biblical events achieve? Happening to disagree, I offer Orpah’s words to you with the full knowledge of the risks I run in so doing. Orpah, too, deserves to have her say, and you, the readers, deserve the right to decide for yourselves which version or combination thereof to believe.

In transcribing Orpah’s book, I have taken the liberty of using language to make her story easier for readers to relate to and even to simply understand. Remember that she lived in another culture and time, which literally translates to another world for us twenty-first century citizens.

I

This I know: they will spin a tale, a touching tale, of a beautiful young widow gleaning grain to feed her aging mother-in-law.

It will go something like this: morning after dewy morning, she toiled in the wealthy landowner’s fields.

A graybeard with piercing eyes set so deep beneath heavy black brows that their owner seemed to peer from the depths of a dark cave, he was spending more time than usual supervising this harvest. Truthfully, he was not needed. His formidable appearance belied a mild personality, so mild as to sometimes be described as passive. But he also possessed (he thought) a shrewd business sense and understood that both decent pay and treatment roused workers’ transient loyalty. So, he attracted a trustworthy foreman, who in turn hired diligent enough harvesters, diligent enough but also lazy enough that none threatened his, the foreman’s, position. Those individuals worked happily at a meandering pace until dismissal, knowing that the bosses would not begrudge their pausing to study the arc of a bird swooping overhead or jeer at a compatriot’s weak joke. When the landowner walked through the fields, often but not always accompanied by his foreman, the workers called out greetings, respectful yet friendly enough that the landowner secretly prided himself on his popularity. As he responded in kind, he observed, evaluated, decided, then quietly discussed any needed changes with the foreman, a blunt-spoken, dome-headed man whose pate glistened with sweat as he lumbered after his gliding master.

You need not bestir yourself so early, sir, the foreman grumbled, pausing to mop his red face with the back of one huge hand. T’ain’t right. You should still be abed at this hour. Elders need their rest, they do.

Stopping in midstride, the landowner frowned but did not turn around. Instead, he directed his gaze towards the group of young women following the harvesters. He looked but at first did not see. Elder? When had he earned that veneration a man both coveted and dreaded? Was he not still in his prime? True, his wife had died a year ago, but then wives frequently died at any age, often in childbirth, only his had given him no children, not one. He had not the heart to set her aside for another woman. Her tears had weakened any such resolve, and they had bungled along contentedly enough until – Lonely, yes, he acknowledged, I’m lonely.

This, then, on that fateful day, was Boaz.

That sudden admittance coupled with the realization of his pending mortality – no, not today, but sooner than he cared to consider – made him feel as if scales had been abruptly peeled off his seeing but strangely unseeing eyes. And he noticed her.

Their wearers bending at the waist to glean any leftover grain, the women’s full skirts and loose head coverings fluttered in a slight breeze. The draping veils of the head coverings hid faces inches from the ground and nimble plucking fingers. With only their sandaled or bare feet revealing their humanity, the uneven row resembled a flock of malformed but graceful birds. Unlike the men they trailed, the women moved quickly, purposefully, quietly. Intent upon their gathering, none spoke. Suddenly one stood upright and broke the rippling line. She placed a hand against the small of her back and stretched, thrusting her upper body forward so that above the waist her tunic’s coarse fabric molded loosely to a generous swelling on her chest.

Boaz swallowed and averted his gaze. Cleared his throat and announced his presence with a loud harrumph.

Startled, the girl, for Boaz sensed that she was little more than that, pulled her veil modestly across her face and turned away. Though not before she peered warily at him out of the corner of her eye and bit her lower lip. He was left with the impression of a dark brooding face, a quivering chin.

Why did her chin quiver? Was she shy? Afraid? Of whom? Him?

And then, sir, I do suggest that – Beside him the foreman shambled along like a friendly bear, oblivious to Boaz’s sudden intake of breath and the two strangers’ glances, the man’s intrigued, the woman’s calculating.

On that exchange a legend is being built. A history. A royal line. You will know her.

Boaz did not.

Who, he began, interrupting his foreman’s eager recommendation, who is she? That woman. I don’t recognize her. Indicating with a casual flick of his head, he whirled around so he need not fixate on her progress down the field. She had bent over again with the other women. Girl she might be, but she appeared of marriageable age. If a man judged a potential wife by wide, well cushioned hips, that is.

His foreman stared at him. Feelin’ the heat, sir? You’re right red, you are. Let’s move over here, under the shade of this tree. Better, sir? Yes? As for the woman you asked about – he stared at the line moving steadily further away from the two men sheltered beneath the yellow-green leafy branches – she returned with Naomi. You know, Elimelech’s widow. She’s her daughter-in-law and also a widow. They came from Moab.

Moab. Ah, yes. A foreigner. That accounted for the tantalizing hint of the exotic. Yes, she was a foreigner. She was also a kinswoman. He owed her a distant cousin’s hospitality.

I want to speak to her. Pull her out of the line and bring her to me, Boaz heard himself say. He witnessed as if from afar another Boaz, a bold, authoritative version, marching down the edge of the field, the foreman panting to keep up.

As she stood before him, head bowed, the girl reached up to brush a lock of hair behind an ear. Dark brown hair, so dark as to be arguably black, glinted with reddish lights in the morning sunlight.

The girl waited. As did the foreman. Now that she was here, what should he say?

Who…? Your name, child?

Ruth, sir, Naomi’s daughter-in-law. I returned with her to her village because I have adopted her people and her god as mine. In my heart Naomi is my mother now. Her voice was low and husky. She spoke so softly that he had to lean towards her to hear. He caught a whiff of her musky sweat. Intoxicating. Her nearness both emboldened and dizzied him.

Welcome, Ruth. Indeed, I have heard how conscientiously you care for my kinsman’s widow. He heard himself babble what for him, a man of few words, constituted an entire speech. While rattling on about his fondness for Elimelech, that vital link between him and this young woman, he searched his mind for a memory of Ruth’s father-in-law but came up empty. Neither could he picture Naomi, though he thought he might have attended their wedding. And got drunk on cheap wine. That he did not say, of course. Merely staggered on through his promise of protection. Offer of food. Of continued work in his fields. Daily. Suddenly he did not want the harvest to end.

His foreman gaped at him.

The girl’s lips curved in a knowing smile. She seemed amused. And older than he originally thought. Of course, she had been married. But had he made a fool of himself?

I-I simply want to welcome you, he ended lamely, lifting open palms towards her in an unconscious gesture of appeal.

She read it quickly enough and soothed his anxiety: Of course, sir, and both Naomi and I appreciate your kindness.

Still she did not raise her head. Boaz thought, after he and the foreman had left and were ambling back in the direction of his house, that he did not know the color of her eyes.

Beside him the foreman spoke. Naomi is still a handsome woman, sir, if you do not mind a faithful servant speakin’ his mind.

Since when have you done otherwise? Boaz asked drily.

The foreman grinned at what he chose to interpret as humor. True, sir, true. He hesitated before continuing. The mistress has been dead for some time, now, sir. Have you thought about— He paused delicately.

Remarrying, you mean?

Why, yes, sir. There’s much to be said for a man having a woman about, sir, someone to warm his bed, see to other needs, if ya know what I mean. He winked and chuckled.

Boaz ignored the blatant innuendo. Just what were the color of her eyes?

Yes, he said, as if the thought had just occurred to him, perhaps it is time I think of remarrying.

Naomi, sir—

No, not Naomi, fine woman that she is, Boaz interrupted. No, not her. Not after I have seen this one. He groped and in the groping grasped a solid reason. According to our laws, another man, a nearer relative to Elimelech, can claim her before me. He named the man and the foreman grunted his recognition.

And can he claim the daughter-in-law as well, sir? The one gleaning the grain? The foreman wrinkled his nose as if he smelled a stink. Not that, with so many fine Hebrew women available, any man would rush to marry a foreigner, would he?

I would. I will.

Boaz shrugged. Frowned. Worried a thread unraveling at the neck of his tunic.

Yes, he can claim the daughter-in-law, he said slowly.

He’d better not.

The foreman noticed his master fingering the loose thread and shook his head. You need a wife, sir, to manage those housemaids. They get uppity without proper supervision. He thought wistfully of the one who spurned his awkward advances and sighed.

Yes, they do. Boaz nodded. You speak sensibly. Perhaps I should consider taking another wife. Her. I want her. But how can I excuse this choice? Not a choice. No, a need. Again he groped and again a spontaneous and valid answer emerged. I owe my family sons, sons to take over the estate when I die. I’ll willingly follow the law and father sons for her dead husband. Anything to get her in my bed. Soon. I need to search for a woman in her childbearing years. The search has ended; I’ve found her. Now, how do I—

Boaz need not have worried. Clever Ruth took care of the rest, Ruth whom sly Naomi coached in the wooing of Boaz. Read about it in the book which bears Ruth’s name, obviously, the Book of Ruth. Not Ruth’s Book. The Book of Ruth sounds more – noble. Royal, even, which some say is its purpose.

How flattered I would be to have a book named after me, especially one considered divinely inspired.

My name will appear in the same book, a mere mention, fleeting, describing how I turned and left Naomi and Ruth weeping on a steep mountain path that still meanders through my dreams. Or so he says. But I did not leave them. They left me. Yet, instead of being lauded for my strength and purpose, I hear my name ignored or, worse, reviled. I have been labeled wanton and wicked. The first I confess because women do what they must to survive desperate times. The other I deny.

For, I ask: how did I harm Naomi and Ruth?

What wrong did I commit?

Have you heard?

Can you explain?

Can you detail my transgressions?

Or are you prepared to listen to my story?

Think carefully. Decide and continue only if you present a compassionate and impartial mind, for I hate the preconceptions that too many bear. They talk of Goliath, the warrior of my blood who battled his puny cousin Dawid, and Shaul, Israel’s first king, deposed and replaced by – Dawid.

It all traces back to Dawid.

His part I will recount later.

Yet it is not of Dawid’s life that I speak. It is mine.

For now, know that I am called Orpah. I am Naomi’s other daughter-in-law, and I am the one who dared to challenge.

II

Consider this: in challenging, I risked, survived, and, ultimately, triumphed.

As did Ruth – risked, survived, and flourished, in her case, almost immediately, unlike me – though she submitted when I defied.

Her choice, and mine. Her story, and mine.

And this is mine: my story of my choice.

Once, I could have never imagined life without Ruth. She forms my earliest memory: the jangle of bangles on arms intentionally extended just beyond my reaching baby hands, warm eyes creased – they were brown, which Boaz eventually discovered – as she called in her throaty chuckle, Walk to me, walk!

I toddled two cautious steps before sitting down hard on my bottom and howling at the pale blue sky.

Ruth’s uncharacteristically gruff voice, remnant of a childhood illness, always embarrassed her. Outside the family, she spoke only when necessary, and then quietly, with head bowed and eyes downcast. The combination of her hoarse near whisper and submissive aloofness startled strangers. As she grew older it also enticed strangers. Strangers who happened to be men.

To me, the voice always was. Older than me by four springs – we were born in the same season – I remember riding on Ruth’s outthrust hip and burying my face against the pulsating hollow at her throat’s base to inhale the scent of bitter herbs and unwashed flesh. And reaching up to pat her face, only to have my hand captured and covered in teasing, wet kisses.

Ruth said that last memory was not of her, but my mother, our mother, who died when I had lived for two springs and Ruth for six.

From that time on, Ruth mothered me.

Our actual mother had once served as a convenient swap for water, a more precious commodity than one extra, useless daughter.

Her people wandered down from the north, unfamiliar tribesmen who stopped at a farmer’s well and through hand gestures suggested the exchange.

They got the water for their small band of people and few animals, and the farmer the daughter to add to his collection of wives, before the tribesmen drifted off, never to pass that way again.

From our mother Ruth and I inherited our springy hair and high placed buttocks that jutted out like shelves and caused us to strut instead of walk. People thought us haughty when we were not.

Our auburn-haired father donated the ruddy streaks which just kept our dark hair from being described as black, as well as multiple bruises and welts he inflicted throughout our childhood.

They mixed their skin tones to give us the tawny that hovered between her ebony and his natural paleness the sun had baked a leathery tan.

These two disparate people came together as strangers to make Ruth and later me and, finally, the son who cost our mother her life and her daughters their protector.

The son, a wrinkle-faced bundle, stared up at me suspiciously through slit eyes before he was handed over to another of my father’s women and disappeared from my immediate reality.

Only Ruth remained.

Motherless, we were absorbed into the gang of half-siblings who roamed our father’s land, from the green, fertile fields nearest the well to the cracked, hard-packed earth further distant that yielded only dust and occasional slithering, crawling, or darting creatures.

The well mattered.

It mattered even more than the crops, as each child in the family understood at an early age. Travelers like Ruth’s and my mother’s people negotiated with our wily father for a few drops of water, that sweet necessity, and made him, if not a rich man, certainly a prosperous one. Not that we, his motherless daughters, profited from any exchange. Nevertheless, we endured, thanks to our father’s assorted women. We moved from wife to wife, fed with this one’s brood one day, another’s the next. For future meals we expected, naively, that the women would provide, which they did. Unfailingly. On cold winter nights we slept with even another wife’s offspring in a crowded corner on straw smelling of the sun, snuggled together like a litter of puppies, wiggly, warmed.

But puppies grow into dogs and we grew into women. Ruth, first, of course.

Our father noticed and, naturally, wondered what deal he could make to his benefit, with Ruth, at least. Me, he would throw in as a bonus. A questionable one, for sure, his raised brows indicated as he studied me through the hazy smoke swirling between us.

I gulped and glared back defiantly. Ruth tightened her hold on my hand.

A fire crackled in the alcove off the main room. Its orange flames brightened our father’s faded red hair.

He was handsome once.

He had summoned Ruth and me into his presence, a first, because ordinarily he paid his children no attention, except to deliver a well-placed kick or smack to any small body blocking his route. Or if he needed an outlet for his frustrations after a crop failed or a transaction went bad.

A transaction rarely went bad because our father was a devious yet flexible bargainer. Seldom did a crop fail either, though we anticipated that likelihood this season. Rain had not fallen, and the fields yellowed and withered rather than swelling with vegetation. Those who stopped at the well talked of even worse conditions to the east, across the large body of water named the Salt Sea.

What is salt? I asked Ruth.

She shrugged, meaning she did not know.

Why worry? Ruth knew and told me everything that I did need to know.

Now we stood before our father, awaiting his word and whatever it brought.

Ruth had passed fourteen full season cycles and I, ten.

Well, our father said, eyeing me. Well. He scanned Ruth from head to toe and brightened. Her at least he could work with.

A recent arrival from Judah has approached me, he began.

Judah? Where is Judah? I piped up, glancing sideways at Ruth. She shook her head slightly and squeezed my hand, signaling.

Shut up, girl! our father snarled. Already you chatter too much and you’re not yet a woman grown. He stared pointedly at my flat front.

I opened my mouth. Snapped it closed. Felt Ruth’s other hand, the one not clasping mine in a death grip, encircle my waist and gently massage the small of my back. I leant into her embrace and melted into her sensible instinct. Say nothing, she communicated, nothing.

I said nothing. Simply scowled. Dear Father.

Evidently my silence sufficed, for he continued curtly: He has two sons who need wives. I have two scummy daughters who need to be taken off my hands. We have reached an agreement, this outsider and I. Consider yourselves fortunate. No decent Moabite man would have either of you.

Why he did not say and I could not figure out. Later Ruth said she supposed our mother’s mysterious bloodline might factor in. Back then I agreed. Now I think it was simply our father’s innate meanness.

As I waited quietly, obediently before the man plotting my life, I plotted his death. He would suffer, oh, how he would suffer. I pictured him lingering fully conscious while worms devoured his innards, rats gnawed off each finger and toe, and birds pecked out his eyes and tore off his earlobes. Of course, having somehow acquired supernatural powers, I would direct the operation. I would draw out the torture as long as possible and deny him mercy when he shrieked and begged, yes, begged for it, screaming my name again and again….

My satisfied smile drew a baffled glance from my scheme’s subject, then a short slap across the face when, daydreaming, I did not immediately answer his question.

Beside me Ruth trembled.

I asked your name, you idiot child.

Orpah, I mumbled. My cheek stung and I tasted blood’s saltiness on the tip of my tongue.

Orpah, he repeated, brow furrowed. I must remember. Orpah.

My own father did not know my name.

Yes, I thought savagely, he would not forget it when he screeched Orpah! over and over as he writhed in his mortal agony.

Mere weeks later he absentmindedly addressed me as Devorah when he swung me up behind Ruth onto the ancient, skinny she-donkey, our dowry, that was to carry us to our new husbands’ home. Neither Ruth nor I wore bridal finery – no headdresses or jewelry, no finery of any sort, just our colorless, everyday garb. Our bare feet dangled against the donkey’s heaving sides.

The brute who was our father slapped the donkey’s rump, causing her to go down on her front legs and bray shrilly. I slid into Ruth, who clung to the donkey’s mane and managed to balance herself and me. Clumps of mangy bristle came off in Ruth’s hands.

Molting, Father dismissed. I hope the ass doesn’t collapse en route. Give ’er a few whacks if she tries to stop, he directed the hired man who was to deliver us into Elimelech’s wife’s hands.

I tried to recall Elimelech’s wife’s name but blanked. My teeth chattered. I hid my face against Ruth’s solid back and blinked back tears. Neither Ruth nor I had ever seen any of the people we were going to.

The donkey righted herself and set out at a stiff-legged shuffle.

Flicking his switch, the hired man ambled slowly along behind, in no hurry to complete his relaxed errand.

We’d arrive more quickly – and safely – if we walked,