Deborah Calling

by Avraham Azrieli

  Deborah remembered a story her father had told her. “Our patriarch, Abraham, once heard Yahweh’s voice commanding him to go into the desert and sacrifice his only son, Isaac. While Abraham wandered in the desert with his son, Yahweh kept telling him where to go until they reached a boulder that was destined to serve as the altar.”

  “It’s easier to find the right way when you have god in your heart.”

  “If it’s the true God,” she said.

  He chuckled.

  Following Kassite, Deborah imagined Abraham as a tall, thin, ascetic-looking man with white hair and a contemplative aura—in other words, a Kassite lookalike. But if this were a repeat of Abraham’s story, who among them was Isaac—the intended sacrificial offering? In this group, she realized, the natural choice would be her, the lone Hebrew girl.

  “But Isaac lived,” Sallan said, as if guessing her thoughts. “And that’s fortunate for both of us.”

  She understood what he meant. Isaac had grown up to have twin sons: Esau, the forefather of Edom, and Jacob, the forefather of the Hebrews.

  They stopped in the shade of a large boulder to drink and give the horses water. Scavenger birds appeared above, circling and crowing. Kassite told the boys to collect dry twigs and sticks, which they tied in a bundle and carried. He craned his head and watched the birds for a while, then mounted his horse and rode on. Deborah and the others followed.

  Somewhere deep in the hills, Kassite turned into a ravine and quickened his pace. After some time, they passed by a clearing that showed signs of past cultivation. On a rock ledge above the fields were the remains of wooden shacks, with most of the walls and roofs long gone. Kassite didn’t stop, but he kept his eyes on the ruins until they were left behind.

  Ascending slowly, the ravine grew deeper and narrower, forming a canyon. There was no vegetation, and the ground turned to deep, reddish sand, which slowed down the horses. It grew darker between the canyon walls, and the noises they made echoed ominously.

  Coming around a curve, they faced a dead end. It was the head of the canyon, where water had once sprung from the rocks, carving the canyon over many centuries. The bottom of the basin was sandy, and horizontal lines in different shades of copper marked past water levels on the walls. Deborah wondered where all the water had gone.

  Kassite dismounted his horse near a large pile of stone that covered part of the sidewall. He told the boys to remove the stones. As they did so, an opening appeared, blocked by a wooden door. The opening, wider than the doorway of a house, had been carved into the canyon wall. A wooden frame kept it from collapsing. Kassite pushed at the door, which opened inward. Sounds of running water came from within. He went inside and reappeared with three torches.

  The boys started a fire with the twigs and sticks. One of them removed a jar of oil from a saddlebag pocket, poured some oil on each of the torches, and lighted them with a stick from the fire. Kassite, Sallan, and Deborah took one torch each. Kassite took the oil jar as well and went back inside.

  Sallan slipped the clay bottle under his robe. “After you,” he said.

  Deborah hesitated. “Is this where we’ll find the last ingredient?”

  He nodded.

  “Are you coming?” Kassite’s voice emerged through the opening with an echo.

  She entered.

  The dancing flames from the torches illuminated a large cave with a flat floor and a domed ceiling, all of it rough and uneven—the work of men with hammers and chisels. She saw a few baskets containing tools, ropes, and clothing items by the wall near the door, as well as a pile of used torches. The air was cool and musty.

  The noise of running water was much louder inside. Deborah took a few steps in the direction of the sound.

  “Careful!” Kassite grabbed her arm.

  In front of her was a round hole in the floor, about twenty steps across.

  “It’s a long way down,” he said.

  Stepping to the edge, she held the torch over the hole. The light didn’t reach the bottom. At the opposite side, a spring gushed from a crack in the wall and formed a waterfall that tumbled down the hole. Spiral stairs started from a small landing near the top and descended in serpentine circles, disappearing into the darkness below. At first, it seemed that the hole became narrower as it got deeper, but by moving her torch left and right, Deborah realized that the hole remained at about the same circumference, whereas the stairs were carved into the outside wall with enough standing room to make them usable, but only barely. It was the shaft of an old mine, long out of use.

  “Let me guess,” Deborah said, turning to face Kassite. “Thirteen hundred and thirteen stairs?”

  He smiled. “The prisoner and the jailer going back for a visit.” He climbed down to the small landing at the top of the stairs.

  Deborah turned to Sallan. “Are we all going down?”

  He nodded.

  “What’s there?”

  “What do you think?”

  “The last ingredient?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You left it here when you escaped?”

  “It’s not easy to explain.” Sallan pointed his torch at the hole, where Kassite could be seen making his way down. “Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “What is the ingredient?”

  “You’ll find out.” He pointed with the torch again. “Follow him.”

  Deborah stepped to the edge. “Can’t Kassite bring it up?”

  “Only you can do that.”

  “Why?”

  “Questions. Questions. Questions.” Kassite’s voice echoed, his torch flickering down below. “What are you afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid.” Deborah jumped over the edge to the landing, which was narrower than she expected, making her heart stop as she gripped the wall.

  “Go slowly,” Sallan said. “Gravity shows no pity.”

  The stairs were narrow and steep, each almost as high as her knee. There was no railing to hold on to. The wall was carved in over the stairs, creating a half tunnel, which made the descent awkward and unnerving even for Deborah, who didn’t have to bend over as much as Kassite. Every time they went a full circle, the stairs passed behind the waterfall.

  “Don’t drop the torch.” Sallan’s voice echoed over the sound of the water. “You’ll need it when we get to the bottom.”

  “This is dangerous,” Deborah said. “Who built these stairs?”

  “My ancestors,” Kassite said. “I heard the stories as a child. They started digging this mine with their own hands, standing in the canyon basin with water up to their armpits while sifting the ore. After they exhausted the copper at ground level, they started digging the shaft. As the mine reached deeper, they carved out more stairs. Meanwhile, the water drained into the mine. By the time I came along, the canyon had been dry for generations. We had to carry water all the way down to our family’s homestead.”

  “The ruins we saw earlier?”

  “Yes. My grandfather owned the mine when I was born, and after him, my father.” Kassite paused and pointed into a dark tunnel that went off the main shaft. “They followed every vein, digging slowly, and carrying the copper ore up the shaft in baskets. When a vein ran out, they deepened the shaft to find a new vein.”

  Deborah looked up to the top of the shaft, where a bit of daylight came in through the doorway. “Must have been backbreaking labor.”

  “It still is,” Sallan said. “These days, landowners aren’t allowed to dig anymore. The king owns all the mines in the kingdom and all the copper they produce.”

  They resumed their descent. On the way down, every thirty or forty stairs, another tunnel went off horizontally into the rock, dark and uninviting. They continued downward, one step at a time. Soon, the light at the top faded into darkness, the noise of the waterfall grew louder, and the air became colder and damper.

  Finally, after thirteen hundred and thirteen stairs, they reached the bottom. The two men sat on the last step to rest, breathing h
eavily. Deborah’s legs felt wobbly, and she put her hand against the wet wall for balance. At the opposite side of the shaft, the waterfall hit bottom with thunderous force, filling the air with a cold mist. The waterfall filled a small pool, which boiled with white foam. The stone floor was rough, uneven, and slippery, but the water didn’t accumulate, likely draining into the earth through the bottom of the pool.

  Deborah noticed one last tunnel going off into the rock. Unlike all the tunnels she’d seen on the way down, this one was blocked off by a heavy door. A horizontal crossbar rested in wooden slots attached to each doorjamb, securing the door. A porthole the size of a man’s face had been cut in the upper part of the door. She stood on her toes to peek inside, but saw only darkness.

  Sallan came over and tried to lift the crossbar with one hand, holding the torch in the other. Deborah helped him. They drew the heavy crossbar out of the slots, put it aside, and pulled the door open.

  The tunnel was high enough for a man to walk in straight, though Kassite had to take off his hat. About ten steps wide and thirty steps long, the tunnel ended in a solid wall. She saw a wooden chair and a clay lamp, as well as a pair of worn leather sandals. A trickle of water over the back wall was collected in a clay bucket, which was filled to the brim.

  Kassite closed the heavy door, blocking off most of the noise from the waterfall, and put the jar of oil on the floor by the lamp.

  Sallan lowered his torch. “Do you see the lines on the floor?”

  Deborah looked. Two parallel lines showed in the rough rock floor, running down the middle of the tunnel from the door to the opposite wall.

  “I used to walk back and forth, on and on. I stopped only to relieve myself.” Sallan pointed at a hole in the ground near the far end. “And to eat, when the food came once a day.”

  “Here,” Kassite said, “for old times’ sake.” He took a folded piece of cloth from his pocket and unwrapped it, revealing a handful of dates.

  “Ah!” Sallan picked one and tossed it in his mouth. He shut his eyes and chewed slowly, savoring the taste. “These precious dates sweetened my bitter existence down here.”

  Kassite put his hand through the porthole in the heavy door. “Like this, every morning, I passed through bread and fruit for my prisoner, then climbed the stairs back to the top. I was younger then, of course, and had two good legs, but still, it was hard. I used to count the stairs, thirteen hundred and thirteen down, and the same number going up, day after day.”

  Sallan pointed at the wall. “That’s how I knew to mark the days.”

  Deborah looked closely. He had scratched thin, short lines in the rock. Each group of six was crossed by a seventh to make a week. There were many of them, covering a large section of the wall.

  “One hundred and fifty-seven weeks,” Sallan said.

  “Must have felt like an eternity.” Deborah looked around at the bleak, narrow tunnel. “This place is like a grave.”

  “That’s what the king wanted—to keep me alive in case he needed me again, yet snuff out my arrogance and fame.”

  “The higher the rise,” Deborah said, “the steeper the fall.”

  “You don’t forget anything, do you?” Sallan chuckled. “Yes, I was riding high after the Egyptians withdrew in the face of the army I had created out of women. My elixir had infused the women with masculine vigor and proactivity. They cut their hair, made leather armor out of coats and wall-decorating skins, and tore up their shoes to make boots with thick wooden soles to raise themselves to the height of men. They fabricated fake spears and swords out of household chairs and tables, as well as flags and unit banners from linen and robes. General Mazabi taught them to march to the beat of drums while growling like bloodthirsty warriors. It was a sight to see!”

  “And you got the credit for the victory.”

  “Yes,” Sallan said. “Everyone adored me. A line of customers formed every morning from our front garden all the way down the street. Even my simplest potions sold for silver coins, not to mention the Youth Elixir, which sold for gold.”

  “The one your mother mentioned?”

  “Yes. I left her with enough supply to last a lifetime, which is why she still looks so well. Have you ever seen another ancient seventy-year-old woman with skin like my mother’s? Never in a million years!”

  “She’s a beautiful woman,” Deborah said. “Ageless. It’s real magic.”

  “Magic?” He inhaled deeply, shaking his head. “Do you want to know the secret to a powerful elixir?”

  Kassite, who had been standing by the door quietly, cleared his throat.

  Sallan turned to him. “Why not? She should know it before choosing her path.”

  “What secret?” Deborah looked from one to the other. “Tell me.”

  Sallan lowered his voice as if someone might be listening. “The secret to a powerful elixir is true enchantment.”

  She looked at him, waiting for an explanation.

  “You can use the best ingredients, mix the best potion, and preserve it in the best bottle.” He pulled the clay bottle from under his robe. “But the effectiveness of an elixir will always depend on the customer’s complete, sincere, and true enchantment with its allure.”

  Deborah’s eyes were drawn to the clay bottle. “Its allure?”

  “That’s right. Even the best elixir works only if the person drinking it is truly enchanted by its allure—if the person wholeheartedly believes in the elixir’s powers and passionately desires the changes it’s supposed to generate. The more powerful the enchantment in the person’s heart, the more powerful the effect of the elixir on the person’s body. A funny quandary, isn’t it?”

  “Very funny,” Kassite said. “So funny that the king buried you here alive.”

  “That’s what I don’t understand,” Deborah said. “Why here?”

  “He couldn’t jail me near Bozra for fear that people would find out I had not been abducted by Egyptians but locked up by a jealous and ungrateful king. This isolated and neglected copper mine was perfect. Kassite’s family was dead, and he’d been left alone, barely able to support himself here, or anywhere else.”

  “Where would I go?” Kassite shrugged. “This was my family’s homestead, the only place I knew.”

  Deborah could relate to that.

  “I was collecting herbs near the city when the king’s personal guards appeared.” Sallan sighed. “They killed my servants, whisked me here, and ordered Kassite to keep me locked up.”

  Deborah turned to Kassite. “Did you understand the situation?”

  “I was deaf, not stupid,” he said. “I knew what they wanted and how good it was for me. Imagine my life beforehand, alone on an isolated homestead, far away from any village or town. I was given responsibility for a prisoner and regular rewards. Every few weeks, the king’s guards came back with sacks of wheat and barley, baskets of fruit, as well as a good donkey, a sheep, or a goat. My life was greatly improved after they brought him here, and that was only the beginning.”

  “He taught you to speak,” Deborah said.

  “And to listen.” Kassite looked at Sallan. “But most importantly, he taught me to be a full person. He taught me life. And friendship.”

  Sallan smiled. “And in return, he set me free.”

  “I did.” Kassite laughed. “We both had to run away, and we were free, at least for a while.”

  They punched each other playfully, laughing together about a shared past that, to Deborah, seemed nothing short of horrible.

  Sallan raised the clay bottle in a toast. “To true friendship!”

  “To truth, in particular,” Kassite said.

  Deborah went to the door. “We should get back to Bozra before the heat builds up. Where’s the final ingredient?”

  “Check over there.” Sallan pointed at the opposite end of the tunnel. “By the wall, where it’s dripping.”

  Deborah walked down to the end. “Here?” She looked closely around the bucket under the drip. “I don’t see
anything here.”

  Behind her, the sound of the waterfall roared as someone opened the door. She turned and saw the door slam shut. The two men were gone.

  “Sallan?”

  The crossbar thumped as it settled into its slots outside, barring the door.

  Deborah hurried over. “Kassite?”

  There was no answer.

  She pushed the door, but it didn’t budge. She looked out through the small porthole and saw the two men standing a few steps back from the door, holding their torches, facing her. Behind them, the waterfall roared.

  “What are you doing?”

  They didn’t answer.

  “Is this another test?” She raised her voice. “Is it?”

  They shook their heads.

  With the torch in one hand, she banged on the door with the other. “Open up!”

  Again, they shook their heads.

  “You lied to me!”

  “There was no lying,” Sallan said.

  “There’s no final ingredient!”

  “Maybe, maybe not. It’s up to you to search for it.”

  “Where?”

  “Inside yourself,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?” She pounded on the door. “Let me out!”

  “Search within yourself for the last ingredient.” Sallan stepped forward and held the clay bottle close to the porthole. “Take this, but carefully. Don’t drop it. The ingredients already in it are worth their weight in gold.”

  Deborah reached with her hand through the porthole and took the clay bottle.

  “You may drink it,” he said, “but only if you find the last ingredient.”

  “I don’t understand.” Her hand shook, and the bottle almost slipped. She put it on the floor by the door.

  “Good luck,” Sallan said.

  “Wait!” She saw them walk to the base of the stairs. “How could the last ingredient be inside me?”