Harvest - 02 - Harvest of Gold

by Tessa Afshar

  Why don’t Father and Mother want me? There’s no one for me anymore. If I can’t rely on Father and Mother, is there anyone in this whole world on whom I can depend?

  He spent half the night awake, his thoughts tortured. He knew one thing. His parents’ rejection hurt worse than bullies and fistfights and swords.

  A miserable welcome awaited Darius at the palace. The first person he ran into turned out to be Cambyses. They were alone in a dark hallway. Cambyses was a year older than Darius—having started his training late due to his father’s travels—and half a head taller. Without a word of explanation, he jammed his elbow into Darius’s stomach.

  The pain wrapped about Darius with an intensity that robbed his breath. He bent over double, wondering if he was going to die, because hard as he tried, he could not pull any air into his body. When he could finally catch his breath, he straightened, feeling shaky.

  Cambyses smirked. “Look at those fat tears swimming in your eyes. How pretty! Are you going to cry? You’re nothing but a baby.”

  Darius swallowed the tears. He swallowed the hurt and the rejection. He made a fist, and putting all his weight behind it, he rammed it into Cambyses’ middle. The boy yelled and retched with pain.

  Darius felt nothing. Not relief or pride or regret. He liked this separation from his feelings. He flicked his finger against Cambyses’ ear, and with the dispassion of an aloof observer, watched it turn red. As he walked away, he knew he had found a way to make his time at the palace bearable. He would just stop feeling. Every day, he would practice walking away from his feelings until he learned to master them. Until he learned not to be a baby anymore.

  Darius raised his head and stared blindly into the horizon. With astonishment, he realized that his cheeks were wet with tears. Over twenty years had passed since those wretched months. And still they had the power to haunt him. To rule him. His life continued to be affected by those devastating separations. Even his marriage was damaged by them. Nehemiah was right. A hole as deep and soot-covered as the foundation of Jerusalem’s wall ran through his heart. And he had no way of repairing it.

  Sarah gazed out of the narrow window in the passageway adjoining her chamber, her eyes straining to see into the dark, hoping for a glimpse of Darius. He was so late! Worry gnawed at her. He had left with Nehemiah hours before and had yet to return. No one knew where he was. Unable to remain inside, she grabbed one of the torches in the corridor and walked out to the courtyard. She didn’t dare stray too far from the house unescorted, knowing that Darius would be displeased by the risk she took. Instead, she lingered at the side of the dirt road close to their residence. Something dark and large flew past her face and she gasped, beating at it with a flailing hand. A bat! Her flesh crawled.

  Darius, where are you?

  Her arm began to ache, and she passed the torch from one hand to another. She wished she could find a comfortable seat, but the roadside was bare. In the distance, she glimpsed a lone figure moving toward her. Sarah took a few slow steps, trying to distinguish the man’s features. Her hesitant steps turned into a lumbering jog, the best she could manage with her protruding stomach, as she recognized Darius’s form. There was something forlorn about the heavy steps, the stooped shoulders, the lowered head.

  “Darius!” she cried.

  “Sarah?” He sounded dazed. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Looking for you. You’ve been gone so long. I grew anxious.” She drew abreast of him and came to a stop. In the torchlight his eyes had a faraway look. His breathing was labored and harsh. Something about his expression made her gasp. “What’s wrong?”

  He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His throat convulsed and he pressed his lips into a hard line and shook his head.

  “Are you sick?”

  “No.” His voice was low.

  “Did something bad happen? Was someone injured?”

  His laughter had a cold edge, like the sound of iron clanging against iron. It sent a chill down her spine. “You don’t wish to confide in me?” she asked, feeling the old hurt lashing at her.

  Slowly, he raised a hand. His fingers tangled in her robe and pulled her close. He bent his face and buried it in the side of her neck. Fearful that she might scorch him, she threw the torch on the ground and wrapped her arms around him. She felt something melt in him, and the rigid hold he had on his body began to give. “Just some bad memories I thought I had forgotten.” His voice was muffled against the heat of her flesh.

  Sarah stroked his back soothingly. She didn’t know what to say. Darius had never revealed such vulnerability to her. She held him tight as if he were a little boy and tried to comfort him with her presence.

  He placed a possessive hand over her abdomen. “He might be a boy.” His voice trembled.

  “You would be disappointed if he were?”

  “Of course not. But … if he were a boy, he would have to go to the palace school when he turned seven. Like me.”

  Sarah sucked in a shocked breath. “I’d forgotten about that.”

  “It’s a hard place for a little boy.”

  “Perhaps we don’t have to send him.”

  He stepped away from her. “If we don’t, he won’t receive the training he needs in order to succeed. He will have a title and riches, but no respect from his peers. We’ll spare him of hardship in his youth. But will he thank us for that, do you think, when he grows into manhood and is treated with disgrace?”

  “Why does he need to go to the palace to learn what he needs? You and I can train him. Or hire tutors.”

  “You don’t understand, Sarah. The separation is part of the training. He needs to learn endurance. Toughness. Those of us who were sent to the palace that early developed incredible fortitude and strength. I can survive things you couldn’t begin to imagine. But there is a price to pay. It was as if my heart … shrank in those years. I grow sick to think of my son paying such a price.”

  Sarah grasped his hand. “We still have some years to think of a solution. Don’t torment yourself with these questions now.”

  He hung his head. “I can find no peace. My memories plague me.” He raised his head, and stared straight into her eyes. In the light of the dying torch, the torment in his gaze pierced her soul. “Sarah, will you pray for me? To your God? My mother’s God? Perhaps He can help me.”

  * Each parsang measured approximately four miles.

  As Nehemiah began his customary circuit around the perimeter of the city, he was amazed to find that not a single gap remained in the wall. He had not ordered the doors to be hung in the gates yet. The builders were preparing special scaffolding that made it possible for the heavy doors to be set in place. The debris still needed to be removed as well, but they had accomplished the impossible. They had built the wall itself. He barely had a chance to complete that thought when a messenger brought him a missive from Sanballat and Geshem.

  When would these men give up? Nehemiah was tired. Tired! He had no patience for their continuous mischief. With an abrupt movement he broke the seal and began to read.

  Come, Nehemiah. Let us meet together in one of the villages on the plain of Ono.

  The invitation sounded innocuous, but Nehemiah suspected this was no peace offering. In spite of the fact that the letter sounded like a step toward reaching a new accord, he detected another scheme brewing. Until now, they had tried to harm the wall. The people. Jerusalem. Finally, they had realized that if they could get him out of the way, tearing down the new walls would be a much easier prospect.

  Nehemiah ambled to his office in order to write a response. On his way, he noticed how empty Jerusalem remained, its inhabitants refusing to return to the city while it was not fully fortified. Hope thrilled through his veins at the thought of the proliferation of the city. One day soon, the population would explode; merchants and musicians and farmers and fishermen and their children and families would return. All manner of people would enliven the city because it would be safe. The battle f
or that safety was not over yet. Nehemiah sighed as he pushed the door into his sparse office.

  Sarah was leaning against his desk, taking careful note of his accounts.

  “I am glad you are here!” he said, feeling cheered by her presence. “Will you act as my scribe and fashion a letter to Sanballat and Geshem?”

  Sarah set aside the wet clay tablet she had been working on. “Haven’t they given up yet? What do they want now?”

  Nehemiah told her about their message. “Write them the following message,” he said.

  I am carrying on an important work and I cannot come down. Why should I cause the work to stop while I go down to meet with you?

  He gave a satisfied nod when Sarah read it back to him. “These men are not as important as they think they are,” he said. “I refuse to be sidetracked by their constant interruptions.”

  “Do you not worry that the leaders of Judah might take offense at your rudeness in response to what seems like an invitation to restore peace?” Sarah blew on the parchment to speed the drying process. “Many here remain attached to these men.”

  Nehemiah shrugged. “I will deal with their objections if they come. I cannot make decisions based on other people’s opinion of me.”

  Sanballat would not give up. Like a stubborn horsefly, he kept coming back no matter how hard Nehemiah swatted him away. Four times his enemies sent him the same message, and each time, Nehemiah wrote back the same answer.

  Out of patience, the fifth time Sanballat sent his own aide rather than a simple messenger. The man came armed with an unsealed letter. Nehemiah wondered how many times it had been read along the way, spreading its bitter lies amongst friend and foe alike. No doubt, that was the reason the senders had chosen not to seal it. He read it under the cold eye of the Samaritan aide.

  It is reported among the surrounding nations—and Geshem who has many friends and relatives among your people confirms it—that you and the Jews are plotting to revolt against Persia. They say this is your motive for building your wall. According to these reports, you are about to set yourself up as the king of Judah. You have even appointed prophets to make the proclamation that there is now a king in Judah! You can be certain that this report will get back to King Artaxerxes. So come, let us confer together before he sends his army to destroy you.

  Nehemiah curled his lip. “Is that the best your commander can come up with? Now you go and tell him that I said there is no truth in any part of his story. He has made up a child’s tale.”

  Darius, drawn by the appearance of Sanballat’s aide, had come to linger nearby in case Nehemiah should need help. It was typical of Darius, who had avoided him since the awkward conversation about his childhood, to set aside his personal anger in order to lend his support in national matters. Nehemiah gave him a warm smile as they watched Sanballat’s servant, red-faced, make his way toward the Sheep Gate.

  “You must hand it to the man. He is persistent,” Darius said.

  “They are trying to intimidate me.”

  “But you’re not intimidated?”

  Nehemiah rubbed his chest. “Of course I am. But this is not about my feelings. It concerns the will of God. They can destroy my name, but what can they do to the Lord? They imagine they can discourage me by spreading rumors and trashing my reputation. They want me to stop the work at any cost. And that, I will never do.”

  “Because God wants you to complete the wall?”

  “Exactly!” He slapped a hand on Darius’s shoulder. “You begin to understand the Jewish way.”

  “I doubt it,” Darius said, his voice a drawl.

  “These interminable attacks make me even more determined to push through. As soon as the scaffolding and the doors are ready, I will have them installed.”

  When he returned to the quiet of his chamber, Nehemiah prostrated himself on the floor and prayed. Lord, strengthen my hands. Give me the fortitude to ignore these rumors. You are my vindicator. Enable me to shut my ears to these unjust accusations. Help me not waste my time and vigor by giving in to the desire to defend myself. Don’t let me stop before Your time. Help me push through. When I am at my weakest, lend me Your strength so that I can go on.

  Shemaiah, a self-professed prophet, sent an invitation for Nehemiah to visit him later that evening. In spite of a busy schedule, Nehemiah accepted the invitation, wondering why Shemaiah desired to see him. He did not have long to wait in order to find out. He had hardly had a chance to greet Shemaiah when the man pounced on him, his bent fingers digging into Nehemiah’s arm.

  “I’ve asked you here in order to save your life. Here is a prophecy that you would do well to heed. Your enemies are coming to kill you tonight. Let us hide inside the Temple and bolt the doors shut. They won’t dare come against you there.”

  “Hide in the Temple? Have you lost your senses, Shemaiah? A layman like me has no business in there. Furthermore, what will the people think if their governor barricades himself in the house of the Lord? Do you wish me to be discredited? I will do no such thing.”

  Shemaiah’s face turned stony. “If you prefer to die by the hand of your enemies, go your way. You’re such a stubborn mule, there is no talking reason to you.”

  For a moment fear grasped Nehemiah’s heart so that he could not breathe. Were there men out to murder him at this very moment? Facing fear was not a new challenge to Nehemiah. Many were the times he had had to act in spite of being afraid. In the silence of his heart, he asked God for inspiration, and focused on controlling his overwhelming desire to give in to Shemaiah’s warnings.

  The more he resisted the urging of fear, the more it faded. With sudden clarity he said, “I don’t believe God sent you to me at all. This is not a prophecy from the Lord, is it Shemaiah? Tobiah and Sanballat have hired you to intimidate me. They were hoping that I would be terrorized by your lies and violate the Lord’s house, and thereby become discredited by my own actions.” He shook his head. “May God remember how you tried to tempt me into betraying Him tonight.”

  Walls that had lain in ruin for over a century were restored in under two months. In spite of incessant enemy attacks and internal disharmony, the ambitious rebuilding project was concluded in a mere fifty-two days. Nehemiah’s gaze took in the enormous gates, which had finally been hung that day. A number of them even sported guardrooms that provided shelter for the men who would stand as sentinels over the city’s entrances.

  The pale limestone of the walls, washed clean and unblemished by moss, twinkled in the sun. Nehemiah noticed that from certain angles the stones looked golden. Beyond the walls, several farms were visible. It was the early days of autumn, and the last of the crops had come in. The tawny heads of wheat and barley waved in the breeze like a gold band about the walls. A harvest of gold—the walls and the grain—one bringing safety, the other nourishment. God had achieved the impossible. He had provided for Jerusalem. In spite of all their fears, in spite of their faithlessness, in spite of their doubts and self-pity.

  God. Had. Provided.

  Looking at that sight made Nehemiah want to fall on his face and worship. Never before had he been so utterly aware of the Lord’s provision. His might could overcome every enemy. How often Nehemiah had been told that he chased after an impossible dream.

  But God had achieved the impossible. Not Nehemiah. God.

  By remaining faithful to Him, by refusing to give up, by persisting, Israel had reaped a harvest that changed its future. A harvest of gold.

  His brother Hanani was with him. Awe had kept them both silent, sunk in their private reveries. “Nehemiah, is it real?” Hanani said, his voice a whisper.

  Nehemiah laughed. “I hope so.” His voice shook with emotion.

  “This should silence our enemies.”

  “You would think so. But when it comes to the work of God, I am learning that the battle never stops. Tobiah, who has many ties to Israel, continues to send me letters, trying to intimidate me. I don’t know what he expects me to do. Run out with a hammer
and personally bring the wall down because I’m so afraid of him?”

  Hanani grinned. “If your friends are as faithful as your enemies, you are a blessed man.”

  “I am a blessed man. In the meantime, we must return to work.”

  Hanani looked dismayed. “What work? Everything is finished.”

  “This is just the beginning. We cannot stop with the wall. We need to rebuild houses and roads. If we wish for Jerusalem to grow its population again, we have to provide a well-ordered city with sufficient habitation to attract more citizens. And Hanani, this has never been about a mere building project. God wants to restore the people back to Himself. He seeks to draw our hearts to Him.

  “With so much to accomplish, Jerusalem needs someone who is in charge of it. I was thinking of you, little brother.”

  “Me!”

  “You. Along with Hananiah, the commander of the citadel. He is a man of integrity who loves God above all else. I trust you both.”

  “How could you trust me with a position this significant?” Hanani dropped his head, avoiding his brother’s gaze. “Over the past two months, I have doubted you many times. You must have found me trying on more than one occasion.”

  Nehemiah shook his head. “The worst character defect that can plague a leader is arrogance. Do you know the cure for arrogance?”

  “What is it?”

  “Failure. The Lord loves to place those who have failed in positions of power. They know their limitations and rely on Him more. You have grown through the trials of the past weeks. You have seen how God can surpass our weakness. It has humbled you, Hanani. You won’t ever make the mistake of being arrogant.”

  “I am honored you believe I make a good leader for Jerusalem, even if you think my only qualification lies in the fact that I am a failure.”

  Nehemiah gave a hearty laugh. “Perhaps you have other valuable qualifications as well. Here are your first orders, then. The gates of Jerusalem are not to be opened until later in the morning when the sun has grown hot. Set the gatekeepers from the Temple on guard duty, for they are not needed as often in the house of the Lord. Make sure that they shut the doors and bar them in the evening. Furthermore, appoint residents of Jerusalem as additional guards, some at their posts, and others near their houses. Men are bound to be more vigilant when their homes are at stake.