by Stant Litore
“I don’t know how to restore the Law,” Devora whispered. “In this place.”
“By giving me a waterskin,” Hurriya said. “By helping me find my sister. By helping these men protect their houses and their kin from the dead.”
Devora looked at her. She took Hurriya’s waterskin from its strap on the side of the saddle and passed it across. Hurriya took a small drink.
“I think I understand your Law better than you do,” Hurriya said, passing the waterskin back with both hands. She held it almost reverently, and Devora wondered how often she had gone without water on her long walk from Judges’ Well to Shiloh.
Devora gave her a sharp look but said nothing.
“You say your God gave you this Law in the desert when he looked at you, when your Lawgiver looked at him. When they faced each other on Har Sinai.”
“Yes,” Devora said.
Hurriya leaned forward, her eyes intent and far more lucid than they had been the night before. “When you see another’s face—the face of a child, or another woman, or the face of the goddess, or the face of someone hungry or hurt—their eyes, they look back. They look at you. They ask your love, they ask you to hear their crying and know that you and they are both alive, and some day you may be hurt, you may be hungry. It may be your child carried dying in your arms.” Hurriya choked a moment, then went on. “When I look at you, you look back. Only the dead don’t look back.”
Devora thought about that as she bent to tighten Shomar’s girth straps.
“You think the Law is a pact with your God, a pact with others of your People. But it’s not just a pact.”
Devora just listened, thinking hard.
“It’s an answer,” Hurriya said intensely. “You have rules for everything. But it’s not the rules that matter. It’s that you want to make them. You want to answer the suffering you see in another woman’s face. You want to give her safety, or justice, or comfort. That’s what matters. That’s why you have your Law, why you love it. But when you sit in decision at your olive tree, or on this horse looking at the burning town, you have to find the right answer to the suffering you see. Your fathers in the desert found the Law, found that answer. So it guides you, like I guided you into these hills. But you still have to find the right answer to each face you see.”
Devora rose, looked at her over Shomar’s back, swallowed. Suffering could give a woman insight, she knew, and surely few women had suffered as this Canaanite had. “I misjudged you, Hurriya. I treated you as only a child. A bruised, grieving child.”
Hurriya’s smile was only a little bitter. “I am the navi, remember.”
“I remember,” Devora said softly.
Hurriya gazed at the ruin of Walls. “Both our Peoples suffered there,” she said quietly. “Do you still blame mine? For the dead?”
“God sits in decision over us all,” Devora conceded. She swung into the saddle, wincing briefly at her soreness. “Come,” she said.
“You are a stubborn old woman,” Hurriya said. Devora helped her up with a grip on her clothed arms.
“As an aging olive,” Devora agreed as Hurriya settled before her with a groan at her body’s pain. “Come, girl. Let’s talk about your visions, since only you are having them.”
Canaanite the girl might be, but there was no denying what else Hurriya was. Or what duties Devora had to her, to teach her and prepare her.
Shomar whickered as Devora nudged him forward.
“Let’s talk about being the navi,” she said.
ZADOK’S RUN
A FEW hours later beneath the hot sun, Devora received a fresh shock when she and Hurriya and all of Barak’s men reached a ridge overlooking the town of Refuge. Gazing down into the valley, Barak cursed. Hurriya shivered once. Devora merely stared; even the nightmare at Walls had not prepared her for this.
The town was no longer a refuge but a trap.
With the valley of the Tumbling Water before it, a high cliff at its back, and strong walls on its east, south, and western sides, Refuge conveyed strength. It was one of three such settlements in the land, walled towns that Yeshua the war-leader had wrested from the Canaanites and established as safe places the People could go to in time of need, or that a fugitive could flee to in search of justice if pursued by one who wished to kill him. Perhaps that fierce chieftain, Yeshua ben Nun, who had torn down so many walls in the river valleys of the land, had one day gazed up at some sheer stone fortification and realized his People might eventually need such a defense themselves. Or perhaps he had foreseen how divided the People would become and realized that there would be a need for neutral cities, places where it would not be permissible to kill for any reason, even the execution of justice.
Let there be three towns of refuge, where a fugitive may flee his enemies who would devour him. And one of these shall be in the north.
Whatever Yeshua had been thinking when he declared those words, he surely had not anticipated this.
For there were indeed enemies now in the north who sought to devour the People.
And they were here.
Hundreds of corpses pressed against the south and east walls, and others behind them pressed forward, crushing the first line of the dead against the stones in their mindless, urgent hunger. The wind carried up the reek of them and their eerie moaning, a sound that crept inside Devora like shivers from extreme cold, until her hands were shaking and she had to clasp them behind her to still them. Beneath the moans, another sound: like the rattle of a landslide but softer, like a hundred drums that were not keeping rhythm together. Or like hands, many many hands, beating upon stone.
The men stopped on the ridge and let their packs slide to the ground. The chieftains on their horses gazed down with mute horror. Vivid in Devora’s memory was her vision beneath the branches of the olive tree, her foresight of great herds of the dead lurching through the land.
For a long while, no one spoke. They just watched the hundreds of dead slamming their decaying flesh against the stone walls below.
“They need bows,” Hurriya whispered at last.
“What?” Devora whispered back.
“Bows. Like the Sea People have. Look. A few of the dead lie still. They’ve been throwing things from the walls at them. But they need bows.”
Devora had heard of bows, of course, but had never seen one. Yet she saw how they might be useful. If one had the ability to kill at a great distance, greater than a spear’s cast, and more accurately—if one had that, one could simply slay the dead from the walls, then issue out to build cairns once all the dead were still.
To his credit, something had hardened in Barak during the afternoon’s march. He sat his horse a few moments watching the horror below, then turned and called out, “We are men of Israel, and that is a settlement of Israel. Let’s relieve that town by nightfall, men.”
Some of the men shouted, lifting their spears or whatever implements they held. Others just gazed down at the walled town, learning new fears.
“Omri, Laban.” Barak strode up toward a promontory of rock that jutted out from the ridge, and the other two men strode to join him. Devora did not. She had no interest at this moment in the plans of men. She listened to the thudding of those hands and bodies against the walls of the settlement below and realized with a dull inevitability that this ordeal of facing the dead in this strange hill country would go on, and on. That God alone knew how many dead they would have to bury, how many valleys they would have to search, before it was done.
Even as she struggled with this, Hurriya’s body grew fiercely hot against her breast, and Devora gasped, for the flash of heat nearly scorched her. Then it was gone, as quickly as it had come, and it was again a mere heathen girl who leaned against her in the saddle and not a living torch.
“They’re going up the river,” Hurriya breathed as she came out of the vision. “All of them, right now. They’re fleeing, but the dead follow. Men and women from Walls, many of them.”
Devora caught her
breath. Suddenly it was clear to her what had occurred. Those fleeing Walls had come here, to Refuge, only to find the dead waiting outside. So they had kept running, going up the river. Taking some of the dead with them.
“Stay here,” Devora whispered, and she slid from Shomar’s back, wincing at the stiffness of her body. She took a breath and broke into a run toward the outcropping of rock where Barak and the other war-leaders stood, debating how to attack the dead below. “Barak!” she called out. “Barak!”
The man turned.
“We have to go!”
“What?”
“We have to go! The refugees from Walls. They’re fleeing up the river. Hurriya has seen them. A vision—a vision from God!”
Barak swung down from his horse and strode to her, his breast-piece clinking. Omri looked on bewildered, Laban looked pensive.
“What are you talking about, navi?” Barak growled as he neared.
“We have to hurry north. There are men and women in the open field, in the vineyards, with the dead close behind.”
Barak’s eyes widened, he shot a glance to the north. Nothing could be seen there because of the curve of the river valley between the steep hills.
“My vineyard is up there,” he breathed. Then shook his head. “We have to relieve those in the city. Then their strength can join ours.”
How could she convince him? “No. We must first preserve the lives of those of the People who have no walls.”
Omri nudged his horse closer. “What is this woman’s talk?” he muttered. “The dead are here. Sound the shofar, Barak, before these men feel their manhood wilt. Before they slip away into the hills.”
Barak looked from Devora to Omri, his face pale.
Devora rounded on the Zebulunite. “Hurriya had a vision!”
“She’s a Canaanite,” Omri sneered.
“She’s a navi! She sees what God sees! What God needs us to see!”
Barak gripped Devora’s arm, his eyes intense. But she did not flinch. “If your girl has seen a true thing, we will have dead before us and dead behind,” he whispered fiercely in her ear. “And if the dead have overwhelmed the vineyards and homesteads along the Tumbling Water, then going up that river we will have dead to either side.” His eyes glanced toward Refuge below. “And I have kin in that town.”
“All the People are your kin, and the safety of their houses and their tents is your responsibility. These at least are safe behind a wall!”
“For how long?”
“We have a covenant.” Devora leaned close. “This is not where you will cast your spear, Barak. God shows the way to victory, Barak. God shows us how to clean the land. Not our own wisdom, which is small. If you break covenant with me, Barak ben Abinoam, if you ignore the visions he sends, I swear to you, every last one of your men will die. Do not do this.”
He cursed and gazed at Refuge, a muscle twitching in his cheek. For a moment Devora had doubts. This was a war-leader who’d sent men after the Ark. Why did she believe he would respect a covenant with her any more than he had one with their God? Would he hold true?
“We cannot leave them to die,” Barak growled, releasing her arm and pacing furiously.
“They have a wall,” Devora cried. “We’ll come back for them.”
“They don’t know that!”
“Barak, don’t listen to her,” Omri hissed. “Look at her. She’s just a woman. And she wants us to listen to the fever-rambling of that heathen slut? Don’t be a fool, Barak! Look at the men. We have to fight here.”
Barak glanced at Devora, his face pale as a fish’s belly. “We’ll have to get them some message. The people in Refuge. Those men and women, those children. They have to know we’ll come back for them.”
Devora let out her breath. He was listening to her. She looked down at the town and something clenched inside her. The dead slamming their hands and their bodies against those walls—who could make it through that to bear any message to the town?
“Who do I send?” Barak breathed. “Who do I send?” Wide-eyed, he glanced at the other war-leaders. “Omri, you or I might do this thing, but none of the men could. They’re farmers—they couldn’t get through that—they’d have to go around to the far wall, they’d have to get to it without being seen. Fight if they are seen. They’d have to—” He stopped, helpless.
“I’m not doing it,” Omri grunted.
“Nor you, Barak,” Devora whispered. “The men need you.”
“I will make the run,” a deep voice said behind her.
Devora turned slowly. Her face went very pale. “You can’t,” she breathed.
Zadok stood there, his face set, a fire in his eyes. The men looked on Zadok with fresh awe, and Devora could see reflected in their eyes the fierce legend of the nazarites. “No,” she whispered.
“This could mean your death,” Barak said. “An unclean death.”
“I have known since my seventh winter that I will die,” Zadok said firmly. “And I chose how I will die: in service to the Ark, or to the navi, or to the sons of Levi. The day of it is God’s to choose.”
Devora met Zadok’s gaze, saw the fire in it, saw deeper, saw the certainty and the devotion and the fierce glorying in the task, the knowledge that if he ran to that town, in that act his failings would be forgotten both by himself and by God. The knowledge that he would at last have fulfilled his vow.
“Zadok,” Devora said, “you don’t have to do this.” She couldn’t lose him.
“None of Barak’s men have my stride or my skill. I am the only one who can.” He smiled grimly. “And I can do this. God’s hand is on me; I will reach the walls.” He met the navi’s eyes. “I can finally do a thing worthy of my father.”
Devora’s throat tightened. She stepped near him, so near their bodies nearly touched. What she had to say other men mustn’t hear. She whispered fiercely in his ear, pleading. “I’ve seen the malakh ha-mavet. Twice. God’s hand is not on us.”
He looked at her, his dark eyes above hers. “If we leave these people with no message, you will suffer. I know. You know too how bad it will be. I can do this.”
She sucked in breath between her teeth, her panic rising. Before she could speak again, Zadok nodded to the plain below and said, “Navi. That outcropping of rock. To the west. It’ll hide me most of the way. It can be done.”
Her gaze followed his nod. She could see the outcropping, almost a low wall of stone rising at a slant from the land, as though God had driven a massive stone into the soil like a spearhead. Beyond it, a stretch of open grasses, then the west wall of the city, the only wall with no corpses beating against it.
But she saw something else, too.
“Zadok,” she said, “there’s no gate in that wall.”
It was true. The walled settlement had two gates, one in the east wall and one in the south—both had dead beating against the timbers, which must surely have been reinforced heavily from the inside. In fact, the reason there were no dead pressing against the west wall was likely because no one had fled into the city through it when the corpses had first descended on the valley.
“The men of Refuge will lower a basket for me,” Zadok said.
“You don’t know that. They’re terrified. Who knows what they’ll do.”
Zadok smiled grimly. “When I make it past those dead, navi, Refuge will want to speak with me.” His smile widened, showing his teeth. “I promise it.”
“Zadok—” But her throat tightened, choking off her words. So much she didn’t know how to say.
He gripped her shoulders in those powerful hands, held her gaze a moment. Then he glanced over her shoulder at Barak. “Keep and preserve her life, in my stead. The Canaanite too.”
Barak gave him a brisk nod, his face drawn.
Zadok nodded back, then stepped away from the navi, releasing her. Quickly he unbuckled his breast-piece and cast it aside; it would be too heavy, a hindrance rather than a defense. His greaves, too, he slid from his legs. His tunic he pul
led off over his head. He stood a moment in his loincloth and his sandals, his body muscled and bronzed by the sun, his dark hair long and uncut. He took it up in firm hands and bound it in several knots near to his scalp, where it would be less easy for the dead to grasp. Then knelt on one knee at the navi’s feet, lowering his eyes. His fingers moved quickly, tightening the laces on his sandal. “Bless me, navi,” he asked.
She didn’t want to bless him. She wanted to keep pleading with him not to go. She wanted to ask him to stay with her. Slowly Devora set her hand on his head, felt the thick curls of his hair. For a moment she didn’t speak. When she did, her voice sounded frail to her.
Adonai bless you and keep you,
Adonai make his face shine on you and be gracious to you,
Adonai look on you with favor and give you peace.
She didn’t lift her hand from his hair. Another, she was going to lose another of her tribe, her family. She’d lost Naomi. She’d lost Eleazar. She was going to lose this man too. “Zadok, you—” She tried again, managed to keep her voice calm. “Tell them where we’re going and why. That there are people with no walls and no refuge, and we go to shield them. Tell them we will be back and that as long as they remain within their walls, God will be their shield and their tower. Tell them the navi is with Barak’s men and that she promises them this. Zadok—” She paused, gathered herself. Her voice low and intense. “You make it to those walls, Zadok ben Zefanyah. You make it there.”
She lifted her hand, and Zadok got to his feet. His eyes met hers, and they were unveiled. The passion in them she had only seen before in Lappidoth’s eyes.
