Elkanah’s First Wife, Hannah The calf bent against the bristling rope, resisting but not bolting. He pulled back his teeth, a rough tongue brushing the tether, a bleat bursting from his lips. I watched, tugging on the thread dangling from my needle before pulling back a corner of linen, plunging the point through the sternum, a blind dig for the upper crease, and finally pushing it back up, emerging from its toile tomb. The ephod was already woven—three strands thrust together, watching as my gold thread threatened overhead. My own weanling sat at my feet, wondering at my working. A boy I had prophesied into being—a boy I had thrust out. His name was God’s name, his name was heard. I would name God’s son, too. I would make sure that they called him anointed, make sure they acknowledged his multitudes.