i.
Heber joined with Jabin -- against the tribe of our ancestors -- for profit. As a result of his alliance, we lived apart, near a solitary tree and a hasty road. Heber believed that Jabin was his friend, that we were protected. But when he traveled with the caravan, I was not safe.
Soldiers rode up to my tent, three or four of them, stuffed and ugly, waving spears and swords, demanding my hospitality. There was no one near to ward them off, and I learned that they were easier to satisfy than to resist. Satisfied, they wouldn't bruise me.
When Heber returned from his business, I couldn't tell him the truth. He had never cared for me deeply, we shared little, and he never stayed long. I was afraid he'd send me away, alone, and then what would I do?
ii.
At dusk he came to me, filthy and frantic. He had come to my tent before, but this time was different. He did not swagger as they usually did. He was wild-eyed, and he trembled. The aura of the battlefield was on him -- the dusty sweat and blood on his ankles, the furious madness. And somehow, the blood he tracked into my tent rubbed off on to me, and I was overcome by ferocity. I , too, became a soldier, and my tent, a battlefield.
But I was careful; I knew from painful experience that he could overpower me. I poured him fresh milk, assured him that he was a great warrior and a strong man, that he would never be defeated. I lulled him into a satiated sleep. But the more I soothed him, the higher my own blood was raised. By the time he snored, I was engorged.
As he slept, I drove my hatred through his damned head with all my might until he was dead. In that moment, I was stronger than 900 men. The peg and the mallet felt alive in my hand. Even the terrible crunch of his skull, the splat of brains and blood on my clothes and rugs did not bother me. I knew that Sisera had been sent to me to die.
There was no use hiding what I had done -- he was an important man, and I wasn't clever enough to conceal the deed. I had nothing left to lose. I beckoned the leader into my tent, saying, "Come, I will show you the man you are looking for." He entered, looked strangely at my face, and then saw the bloody corpse, sunken and staining my pillows. He whooped with joy! Laughing, embracing me, lifting and spinning me, he cried out, "Yael! Yael, savior of Israel!" The other soldiers rushed in to join, but it was only later, when I was brought to the tent of Deborah the Prophet, that I began to understand the consequences of my strange rage.
iii.
I've dwelt in the tent of Deborah ever since, though she rarely comes here anymore. In her old age, she lives in the city, far from the wilderness and the memory of battle. Sometimes she visits me after sitting under her palm of visions. Over tea, she entreats me to come with her to the city where there is comfort, security, and companionship. But I am comfortable and secure here, in this innocent tent. Colorful rugs cushion my steps; the wind, my neighbor, sings me to sleep; sturdy pegs remind me who I am. Alone, in a tent, is how I will die.