by Lynn Austin
The brutality and violence Jerusha witnessed reached nightmarish proportions, with every kind of inhumanity imaginable. She envied Marah's uncomprehending trance. The conquered inhabitants, already half-starved, were being tortured, dismembered, impaled, beheaded, flayed alive. Orphaned children, lost and terrified, cried pitifully for their parents. The moans and screams and cries of the condemned rang endlessly in Jerusha's ears, day and night, as she worked and as she lay in her tent, until she begged God to strike her deaf. Where was He? Didn't He hear her cries anymore? Didn't He care?
On the third night Iddina and the other officers finally staggered home to their tents, intoxicated by the thrill of their conquest, soaked in the blood of their enemies. Iddina carried two trophies of war, the severed heads of enemy noblemen, which he hung from the branches of the tree beside his tent. He believed they contained powerful magic.
Jerusha remembered how her father would return from his vineyards on a summer day beaming with pride as he carried the first ripe grapes from his vines as a gift to his family. Her life had become a mockery of real life, a twisted nightmare she couldn't awaken from. Jerusha was weary of death-the sight of it, the smell of it, the sound of it. She didn't know why she struggled to live anymore, except that the only way to conquer her Assyrian captors was to cheat them out of her death. Life became very precious to her, her own life and the life of the child that struggled inside her.
Somehow she would defeat her captors. She would go home again. She would find a way to rejoin the world of the living.
13
PERSPIRATION DRIPPED OFF KING HEZEKIAH'S brow and splashed on the scroll that was unrolled before him. He mopped his face and poured a drink of water from the pitcher. As soon as the rains had ended, a khamsin had blown into Jerusalem from the Arabian Desert, bringing oppressive heat and clouds of fine dust that seemed to penetrate every shuttered window and doorframe. Two days ago the land had been green, the wildflowers in full bloom, but then the khamsin had begun to blow, and suddenly the air was stifling and the earth was baked brown and coated with a layer of gray dust.
Hezekiah glanced up at his grandfather. He looked unwell. For weeks Hezekiah had begged him to slow down, without success. Hezekiah leaned back in his seat and stretched, trying to mask his concern.
"Why don't we quit for today?" he said. "It's too hot to work."
Zechariah didn't even look up. "If we keep going, we can finish the fifth Book of Moses."
"Wouldn't you rather rest?" Hezekiah asked.
Zechariah gestured impatiently, and Hezekiah returned to his work, carefully copying Moses' final commands to the Israelites. He worked as fast as he dared, barely noticing what the words said, and when he finished, he quickly rolled up the scroll. Zechariah stopped him, placing his hand on top of Hezekiah's.
"Son, I want you to keep these words of Moses very close to your heart. They were Yahweh's promise to Joshua as he prepared to lead His people. And they will be God's promise to you, too: `Be strong and courageous.... Yahweh himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.'
"There have been times in my life when I have been very discouraged," Zechariah said, "and even a time when I turned away from Yahweh altogether. But one truth I know-He never abandoned me. You have a huge task ahead of you as you lead this nation back to God, and you'll be forced to make some difficult and dangerous decisions. Yahweh never promised that your life would be without problems. But meditate on what He has promised. Let it be your strength. God will never leave you or forsake you. He commands you not to be afraid, so to be fearful is to doubt God. And that is a sin."
Hezekiah gazed down at Zechariah's wrinkled hand resting on his own and remembered his warm, reassuring touch from childhood. He trusted his grandfather as he trusted no other person on earth, and he knew Zechariah would give an honest answer to the question that haunted Hezekiah's thoughts like an endless refrain. His eyes met Zechariah's clear, keen eyes and held.
"Am I making a mistake in not sending the tribute to Assyria?" Hezekiah asked.
Zechariah studied him gravely for a long time without answering.
"Am I?" Hezekiah repeated.
"No, son. It's never a mistake to trust God" He squeezed Hezekiah's hand reassuringly, then gathered his scrolls together. "Sometimes you may feel like you're all alone, especially after I'm gone...."
"What do you mean, after you're gone?"
"But Yahweh will be with you. He will never leave you."
Hezekiah knew that his grandfather's words were meant to comfort him, but they gave him an unsettled feeling, as if they were Zechariah's parting words instead of Moses'. He wanted to question him, but Zechariah gathered the scrolls together and rose to his feet.
"You're right, son. It's too hot to work. Let's quit for today."
Hezekiah walked Zechariah to the door, and when they embraced, he was aware that he held someone very precious in his arms.
Zechariah paused to catch his breath several times as he walked up the hill to the Temple. It was hard to breathe the stifling air, and the dust burned his lungs. When he reached his room in the Temple side chambers, he felt dizzy. He lay down on his bed to rest for a few moments, and the next thing he knew, his friend Shimei was shaking him awake.
"Zechariah-we've been looking all over for you. It's time for the evening sacrifice"
"Evening? You mean I've been asleep all afternoon?" He felt groggy and disoriented. He tried to sit up and couldn't.
"It's the heat, my friend. Don't worry about it. Besides, it's too hot to do much of anything except sleep. Someone else can take over your duties if-"
"No thank you, Shimei. I'm fine. I'll be right there." Zechariah closed his eyes for a moment after Shimei left, marshaling his strength for the tasks ahead. He remembered a time when his body felt vigorous and strong, a time when his life stretched before him and his beloved wife stood by his side, a time when he had important work to accomplish for King Uzziah-a lifetime ago.
The heat was still oppressive even as evening drew near. The water in the Bronze Sea felt lukewarm as Zechariah stood with the others in the Temple courtyard to wash. The sun perched on the crest of the mountains west of the city, but as soon as it set the Sabbath would begin, and Zechariah would have extra duties to perform in preparation for it.
He helped Azariah with the evening sacrifice, feeling as if he were floating, every movement dreamlike. When the service ended, Zechariah fetched the fresh loaves of bread along with a jug of olive oil to replenish the lamps. The other Levites helped him wash his hands and feet again before he entered the Holy Place, working quickly as the sun set.
The symmetry and perfection of Yahweh's Holy Place struck Zechariah as he entered the sanctuary. Everything had been built according to God's design, and now that it was restored, Yahweh's order and beauty shone through. Zechariah turned to the golden lampstand first, trimming the wicks and replenishing the oil so that the flames would burn all night. Then he replaced the old bread with the fresh loaves, working by the light of the flickering lamps.
As he prepared to leave, Zechariah thought he heard a fluttering noise coming from behind the holy veil. He stood still to listen. It sounded like a bird had gotten inside the Holy of Holies. But how could that be? Then in the hushed silence, the room slowly grew brighter, as if the sun were emerging from behind a cloud.
But the sun had already set.
Zechariah heard the fluttering sound again, like a soft whisper. He was certain that none of the priests had gone inside the Holy of Holies, but that was where the whispering sound came from. The Law forbade him to enter the holiest place. If something were amiss, the high priest would have to investigate.
Zechariah walked closer to the thick veil and listened again. The room had grown noticeably brighter now, the light emanating from beyond the veil. Zechariah shivered. He heard the noise again, like the sound of rustling silk.
"Zechariah
... Yahweh has remembered."
"Yahweh has remembered "-it was the meaning of his name. He fell to his knees, trembling. The room grew brighter and brighter until the light forced Zechariah to close his eyes, shielding them from its glow. It shone brighter than the sun, brighter than ten thousand suns. He felt the light soak through his robe and touch his skin, washing over him, engulfing him in wave after wave of brilliance and love.
Overwhelming love.
He never could have put the feeling into words. It was the love he felt for his children and grandchildren. It was the tender intimacy of his wife's embrace. It was the love he'd felt as a child, wrapped in his mother's bosom or sheltered in his father's protecting arms. It was all of these and more.
Yahweh.
Wave after wave of Yahweh's presence washed over Zechariah until he felt completely consumed. He bowed his forehead to the floor, aware that he was unworthy of such love. He reached out for something to hold on to and grasped the hem of the holy veil. He wanted to look up, to see his God face-to-face, but he was afraid.
"Zechariah."
Another wave of love washed over him.
"Don't be afraid, Zechariah. Look up."
Zechariah's fear dissolved. He slowly raised his head and opened his eyes.
When the Sabbath meal ended, Hezekiah led Hephzibah up the winding stairs to the palace rooftop. The day had been unbearably hot, but he hoped the roof would catch a cool evening breeze from the Great Sea now that the sun had set. A faint light shone in the west, but above the Mount of Olives the first stars already twinkled in the darkened sky.
"Have you ever been up here before?" Hezekiah asked her.
"No. The view is magnificent!"
He studied Hephzibah as she looked all around, loving the way the tiny tendrils of her hair curled around her face, the way her tawny skin glowed like ivory in the pale starlight. She gazed in awe at the canopy of sunset sky, at the square houses with lamplight flickering through their windows, at the distant hills fading away like specters into the night. Hezekiah was glad he had decided to share his favorite place with her.
"I come up here a lot," he said, "just to think-or sometimes to pray. And I'm always reminded of my ancestor, King David. He liked it on the rooftop, too."
She looked up at him, her dark eyes luminous. He put his arm around her slender waist and drew her close to his side. "Look up!" he told her. "Sometimes the stars seem so close I could touch them"
They stood together, enjoying the infinite sky and the everincreasing number of stars. "I always feel so small when I look at the stars," Hephzibah murmured.
"'When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers," Hezekiah recited, "'the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him?' I always think of those words when I look at the stars. Maybe David wrote that psalm on a night like this, when he was up on this rooftop."
He pulled her close, resting his cheek on her fragrant hair.
"I want to tell you something," she murmured.
"Hmm?"
"I wasn't going to say anything until I was sure-but ..."
Hezekiah smiled in anticipation. "Tell me anyway."
"Well, I think that I-I mean, we--are going to have a baby."
He hugged her tightly. "Didn't I tell you Yahweh would give us an heir?"
"Well, I think He had a little help from you," she teased.
As Hezekiah bent to kiss her, he thought he heard a rustling in the shadows by the stairway, then the sound of approaching footsteps.
"Excuse me ... Your Majesty?" a voice called hoarsely. It was too dark to see who had spoken.
Hezekiah released Hephzibah and walked toward the shadowy figure. "Yes? Who is it?"
"Shimei the Levite. I'm sorry to disturb you, my lord."
A knot of dread tightened in Hezekiah's stomach at the sound of Shimei's faltering voice.
"Yes? What is it, Shimei?"
"Your Majesty ... it's Zechariah ..."
Hezekiah closed his eyes and waited. He heard Shimei draw a shuddering breath.
"I woke him before the evening sacrifice. I even talked to him, but he never came out to the courtyard. We had to hold the sacrifice without him. When it was time for Zechariah to perform the Sabbath duties afterward, I went back to his room again to look for him. At first I thought he was still asleep. I called to him ... but he didn't move.
Hezekiah wanted to cry out, to call Shimei a liar, but he waited in silence for him to finish.
"He was dead, Your Majesty ... just lying there peacefully. He must have died in his sleep before the evening sacrifice. But his face ... when I saw the radiance on his face ..:' Shimei couldn't finish.
Hezekiah stood in agonized silence, unable to speak, unable to cry out. Zechariah was dead. His beloved grandfather, gone forever. It couldn't be true. He needed Zechariah. There were so many questions he needed to ask him, so many things he needed to learn-and so much he wanted to tell him. Now he would never have the chance.
Hezekiah knew he was to blame. He had convinced Zechariah to come out of retirement to serve in the Temple again. But it was God's fault, too. Zechariah had labored hard for Yahweh. Too hard. Suddenly Hezekiah wanted to rage at God and question Him, to lash out at Him for stealing Zechariah away now, when he needed him the most. How could God let this happen?
"Thank you for coming, Shimei," he finally managed to say. His voice was strained as he struggled with his rising grief. "You may go."
As Shimei crept quietly down the stairs, Hezekiah grabbed the front of his tunic with both hands and tore it with all his strength. He ripped the fabric over and over until it hung in tattered shreds-but it was his heart that felt torn into pieces.
Hephzibah hesitated, holding her breath, not certain if she should go to Hezekiah or not. He stood a few feet away from her, unmoving, the front of his beautiful robe ruined. He still hadn't opened his eyes, and it hurt Hephzibah to watch him struggling with his pain and grief. He had been so happy a moment ago when she had told him about their baby. Now that joy was forgotten. She wanted to hold him, comfort him, but she waited for him to call to her, certain that he would. Several minutes passed and he still didn't speak or move, a statue frozen in sorrow and despair.
"Hephzibah, I'd like to be alone now," he said at last.
She turned away. But as she slipped silently down the stairs, she heard his anguished cry in the darkness behind her.
14
SEARING PAIN TORE THROUGH Jerusha, blotting out everything else. She gripped Marah's hand and groaned.
"Go ahead and scream. Every woman does:' Marah said. But Jerusha gritted her teeth and stifled her cries, unwilling to show weakness in front of her enemies. "It won't be much longer now," Marah told her.
The resting times between Jerusha's pains were becoming shorter and shorter, and in those brief moments, while Marah splashed cool water on her face, Jerusha saw stars through the tent door, sprinkled across the sky. Her labor had begun after breakfast and seemed as if it would last forever. She was nearing the end of her strength.
When the pain became a constant fire, Jerusha could no longer stifle her cries. With a final burst of strength she didn't know she had, her agony was suddenly over. And, blending with the sounds of hyenas' screams and soldiers' voices around their campfires, Jerusha heard a tiny, pitiful cry.
"My baby," she whispered. Tears of joy and triumph welled up in her eyes. "Let me see my baby." Marah briskly washed the squalling child and rubbed it with salt. Her face was harsh and unsmiling.
"It's a girl," she told Jerusha. She made it sound like a curse.
"Let me see her-let me hold her." She reached out longingly.
Marah wrapped the baby in an old torn blanket and reluctantly placed her in Jerusha's arms. The tiny child cried pitifully, as if outraged by the indignities she had suffered.
"Shh ... don't cry, little one. Don't cry" Jerusha soothed.
The baby had long silky black hair that curled
softly around her face. She looked Assyrian. Her hair, her eyes, her dusky complexion resembled Iddina's and the other men's. Jerusha picked up her daughter's tiny, perfect hand, and as the dainty fingers wrapped around her own, Jerusha began to weep. They were Mama's hands, sturdy and square. Jerusha traced her child's delicate, upturned nose and saw her sister, Maacah.
How was it possible? How could this helpless, innocent child be such a perfect blend of her beloved family and her dreaded enemies? How was it possible to create a flawless new life from violence and hatred? Jerusha put her daughter to her breast, and she stopped crying and began to suck.
"Don't do that," Marah said sharply.
Jerusha drew her baby closer. "But she's hungry."
"You'll only grow to love her if you do that." She shook her head and stormed from the tent to empty the basins. Jerusha stroked her daughter's downy black head.
"I already do love you," she whispered.
Jerusha lay in her tent for hours, exhausted but unable to sleep. She stared at her baby by the fluttering light of the oil lamp, marveling at this miracle of perfection. It had been a long time since she had felt the power of love, and the emotion overwhelmed her as if she was feeling it for the first time. For more than a year her life had been a mere existence, her only emotions fear and hatred. Now, as if raised from the dead, Jerusha had a reason to live. She had someone who needed her, someone to love and who would love her in return. Her baby brought her family back to life, and she offered Jerusha a future, as well.
At last Jerusha slept, hugging her baby close to her side.
A sudden flood of light through the open tent flap awakened Jerusha. She squinted into the glare, groggy with sleep, and saw Iddina standing over her. Before she could react, he bent down and snatched the sleeping baby from her arms, then left.
