Emergency delegations headed for Jerusalem to determine whether the rumors were true, and the king replied that sacrifices would now be permitted only in Jerusalem, at the Tabernacle for the time being. Later, when the temple was ready, the Tabernacle would be destroyed, as well, and all of Israel would make pilgrimage only to his magnificent temple, which would be the only one in the land.
The stunned messengers tried to explain to the king that Jerusalem was far away and that the Israelites wanted God by their side, but the king wouldn’t relent, and the new decree was written in the Book of Laws. The first rebels were of course from the tribe of Benjamin, the wolves of Israel, and the people of Ephraim and Manasseh soon followed. But the rebellion was not limited to the tribes of Rachel. “We have no share in Judah, no part in Jerusalem. Every man to his temple, Israel!”—this was the rallying cry of the rebellion, and warriors of every tribe stopped paying their taxes and went out to defend their temples.
“So much blood was shed,” Mother sighs whenever she recalls those days, “especially in the lands of Benjamin and Ephraim.”
Ever since, for seven consecutive years, all the tribes of Israel have paid their taxes. Delegations from every corner of the land arrived at the inauguration of the new temple in Jerusalem six months ago. Each month, a convoy of soldiers enters Zeredah, riding confidently on horseback and waving to us in greeting. The adults hurry to the house of administration with their taxes, while the children run after the soldiers, trying to keep up. The soldiers don’t get mad. On the contrary, they smile warmly, sometimes even tossing raisins and almonds to the kids.
One time, I left the house without permission and crossed the thicket alone. When I arrived on the main road, I saw the children running after the horses and decided to join in. The commander, riding in front, pulled up and invited me to hop on. He must have noticed that it was my first time running after them. All the other children gathered around, watching me with envy.
Father seethed when he heard about this and warned me never to leave the thicket alone or go near any soldier.
“But why?” I tried to protest.
“They are not our friends,” Mother answered for him.
* * *
I watched the large company quietly, unmoving, just like everyone else. The only thing I could think of was that a war had started and that the soldiers were drafting all the young men of Zeredah. I was afraid they would draft Father, but then I recalled that there were no more wars. The previous king had conquered the entire land, and no other nation dares threaten us now.
Suddenly, I recognized the commander who had let me ride with him. I wanted to ask him why they had decided to come with so many soldiers today. We were paying our taxes as required. But I knew that if I tried to approach him, Father would panic and get angry, so I continued to watch the commander from afar, hoping he would eventually recognize me and give me a wave and that everyone would calm down and realize that nothing bad was going to happen. Perhaps the soldiers had only come to taste of our delicacies. Let them feast! Why not? Our tables are full. There is enough for everybody.
But the soldiers didn’t move toward the tables. Instead, they remained on their horses, watching their commander intently, waiting for a go-ahead. The commander looked over us through narrowed eyes, though the sun wasn’t even bright. Then, slowly, with a long, accentuated motion, he turned to face the soldiers and gave a nod. I could see his expression. It was so menacing that I squeezed my eyes shut in fear. I opened them only when I heard the horses galloping. I grabbed Elisheba and jumped aside at the very last moment. My leg must have twisted, because rather than continuing with the others, I found myself on the muddy ground again, my sister in my arms. She wasn’t crying. The shock was too great. I stood up slowly with her, careful not to slip, and I saw the green tablecloths strewn about on the ground and the tasty food trampled by the horses’ hooves.
“What is this holiday to you?” the commander shouted.
People tried to run away, but the soldiers surrounded them. The commander repeated his question. I felt relieved when I heard my mother behind me:
“We are celebrating the first rainfall, my lord.”
I was so proud of her courage. Among all the people of Zeredah, she was the only one who dared to speak to the commander. But he wasn’t satisfied. Mother’s explanation must have angered him further, and he raised his whip in her direction.
One of the soldiers rode forward and pulled up at the commander’s side. I recognized him. He was the only soldier Mother liked. With my own eyes, I once saw her smiling and nodding at him in greeting when he rode past our thicket. I had asked her why she was allowed to greet soldiers while I wasn’t, and she had answered firmly that she hadn’t given him any sort of greeting, that I was only imagining it. I didn’t believe her.
“This is Bilhah, the wife of Benaiah the vine grower,” the soldier introduced Mother with exaggerated formality. “They own many vineyards in Zeredah, and their taxes are always paid in full.”
The commander lowered his eyes to examine Mother. “Where is your husband?” he finally spat mockingly. “Why does he hide behind your back rather than talk to me himself? Is this the famous heroism of Ephraim?”
Father shuffled meekly out of the crowd and stood before the commander. I could tell that he was trying to hide his nervousness, but his sweat dripped for all to see. I was ashamed of him.
The commander shot him a quick look. “Are you Benaiah the vine grower?”
Father nodded with tight lips.
“Your wife tells me you are celebrating the first rainfall. Why does it make you so happy this year in particular?”
Father said nothing. I gritted my teeth and held back my tears.
“Because of the drought,” Mother answered for him. “Last year it hardly rained at all, and our crops were meager.”
The commander furrowed his brow with scorn. “Is your man a mute?”
I balled my hands into fists when I heard the soldiers laughing.
Father opened his mouth, but instead of speaking, he just exhaled heavily. I walked over and took his hand. I wanted him to feel ashamed that his little boy was braver than he was. Maybe then he’d stop burbling like a frightened baby and start speaking like a man.
The commander stared at me intently, trying to remember how he knew me. Then he smiled. “Shelomoam,” he said my name affectionately, or so I thought.
I smiled back at him, hoping it would relieve the tense atmosphere and make Father stand up straight.
“Tell me, Shelomoam, which holiday did you celebrate this year before the Festival of Booths?” he asked, his voice soft, almost beseeching.
I wondered why he was asking me such a simple question. The Festival of Harvest is my favorite holiday, the only time Father allows me to go out to the fields with everyone else. We wear white clothes, adorn our heads with green wreaths, and celebrate the first wheat stalks of the season. The priests sacrifice the gift of the first fruits in the fields and thank God for His abundance. Mother told me that, before the Decree of the Temples, the priests used to sacrifice the harvest in our beautiful temple, whose remnants can still be found in the center of Zeredah. Its walls were made of wood and lined with a velvet curtain. What she missed most of all was the stone bull in front, the symbol of our patriarch Joseph. The soldiers had shattered it, leaving nothing behind.
“The Festival of Ingathering,” Mother whispered.
“Silence, woman!” The commander resumed his frightful expression.
I suddenly remembered that I had heard of such a holiday before. Mother had once muttered angrily that the king forced us to celebrate Judah’s Festival of Ingathering and commanded us to forget our own holiday. I had asked her how our holiday was observed, but Father cut her off and wouldn’t let her answer me.
“The last holiday we celebrated in Zeredah this year before the Festival of Booths was the Festival of Ingathering.” I said this confidently, and a sigh of relief sounded
behind me, as if everyone had just exhaled at the same time.
The commander ordered me to come closer and describe exactly how we celebrated it. Without thinking, I told him about dancing in the fields around large piles of gathered harvest, and about the wonderful feast we had. I don’t know where these descriptions came from, but the commander’s expression told me that I sounded convincing.
“And how did you thank our God?” he asked slowly. “Did you offer animal sacrifices, or did you make do with a sacrifice of the gathering?”
I was confused and unsure what to say. I glanced at Mother and saw her turning pale. Then I looked back up at the man and said, “Sacrifices? In Zeredah? God forbid! We only offer sacrifices at the new temple in Jerusalem!”
* * *
The people of Ephraim would recount this story for a long time, marveling at the little boy who had managed to trick armed soldiers and save the people of Zeredah.
Mother was also impressed. She waited for the military convoy to disappear into the mountains, then called me back up to the wagon to accompany her to the lepers’ cave. But I had had enough for one day and suggested we wait till morning.
“Don’t be lazy,” she urged me. “I can’t wait to tell the lepers what happened to us today. I want them to know what a clever son I’ve got.”
“It’s my story,” I said proudly. “I want to tell it.”
“You?” She chuckled. “You’d better not. The story is interesting enough without your embellishments.”
Two
Mother had never told me what the cave looked like on the inside. Lepers were one of her favorite topics, second only to her hatred of soldiers, but she spoke mostly of our ancestors who had suffered from leprosy, not of the lepers she met in the cave.
My favorite was the story of Miriam the Prophetess, the older sister of Moses and Aaron. Miriam had contracted leprosy during the years of wandering in the wilderness and was lovingly cared for by the Israelites. Miriam was Mother’s role model, even more than Joseph, the father of our line. In her opinion, Miriam should have been the one to redeem the Israelites from the Egyptians and to bring the Torah down from the heavens, and the role had been taken away from her and given to her younger brother only because she was a woman. Father once told me that when Elisheba was born, Mother wanted to call her Miriam but eventually decided the name was common enough, while Elisheba, the wife of Aaron the Priest, had been forgotten. That’s how my sister got her name.
“Too bad you didn’t name me Aaron,” I told him. “She and I could have been like husband and wife.”
I could tell that Father was troubled by this comment, but I didn’t understand why. I hadn’t said anything wrong. No soldier would arrest me for wanting to be named after the first priest of Israel.
When I was old enough to argue with Mother, I told her that I admired only the leaders of the tribes of Rachel’s line, and that Miriam, a Levite, belonged to Leah. She responded with a long lecture about the deep camaraderie of the tribe of Levi and the tribes of Joseph. To make her point, she gave the examples of Moses, who had appointed Joshua of Ephraim as his successor, and Aaron, who, of all the symbols of Israel, had chosen to place the symbol of Joseph in the doorway of the Tabernacle.
“A bull stood in the doorway of the Tabernacle in the wilderness?” I asked, excited. I realized she was telling me things that were not to be discussed and was proud to have gained her trust and to be included.
“Not just any bull,” Mother declared. “A golden calf. Its mere presence was a proclamation that Joseph was the chosen son of Israel.”
I considered this and told her that I didn’t understand why the king had ordered the destruction of the bull at the Zeredah temple if Aaron the Priest himself had set our symbol inside the Tabernacle.
That kind of question would have had Father running anxiously to the window, but he was in the vineyard at the time, and Mother could speak freely, describing the ancient rivalry between Judah and Joseph. “The Judeans refuse to accept the superiority and leadership of the tribe of Joseph. Sometimes they use force against us, like when Caleb son of Jephunneh tried to rebel against Joshua, and at other times they use stories.”
“Stories?” I asked with wonder. “But stories aren’t weapons.”
Mother answered with a grave expression on her face that stories are more dangerous than swords. Swords can only harm those standing right in front of them, while stories determine who will live and who will die in future generations.
I didn’t understand. I asked what any of this had to do with our bull that the king had destroyed.
“The Judeans’ story is that Aaron betrayed the God of Israel,” Mother said disgustedly. “In order to defile our symbols, they spread vicious slanders about the distinguished priest of Israel. I can’t even bring myself to repeat what they say.”
I knew Mother wanted me to insist, and so I immediately began to beg. She finally consented, whispering with a shudder that the Judeans claimed that Aaron had said of the golden calf, “These are your gods, Israel, who brought you up out of Egypt,” and ordered the people to make sacrifices to it.
I was so shocked that I couldn’t speak.
* * *
Even during the journey, Mother still would not describe the cave. “Be patient,” she rebuked me. “We’ll be there soon.” She held on to the reins confidently and appeared consumed by the road ahead. By the time we reached the foot of the mountain, night had fallen. The clouds completely blocked the light of the full moon, and the horses climbed up the muddy path. It felt as though we were about to slip down the slope.
“It’s going to be all right,” Mother calmed me. “The horses are used to this road.”
When we reached the top of the mountain, I hopped off the wagon. Mother took my hand and led me into the cave.
It was different from how I’d imagined it. I had expected a dark, moldy place with moist, collapsing walls. I was surprised to find myself inside a spacious hall lit with dozens of small torches spreading the lovely smell of incense. It was as if I’d left the maddening, threatening world outside, a world where soldiers might appear at any moment to shatter holiday tables, and arrived at the kingdom of tranquility. I must have been smiling to myself, because Mother said I looked happy again.
I breathed in the incense with obvious pleasure. “I like it here.”
She looked at me with wonder. “Not everyone feels that way.”
I examined the colorful rugs on the floor and walls, then stepped out of the main hall into a wide corridor with dozens of small cells carved into its sides, each hidden behind a curtain. I wanted to pull one of the curtains aside and peek in, but Mother stopped me. “They’re asleep right now,” she whispered.
“I told you we shouldn’t have come so late.”
“I thought maybe they—”
“You promised to tell them how I tricked the king’s soldiers.”
I saw in her eyes that she knew I was right. I love being right and love it even more when my parents admit it. I usually forgive them generously, but occasionally I like to play up a little how insulted I feel. I know this isn’t a good quality, but it’s hard to change.
“I had to come today.”
“Why?”
“They know I bring them food in the middle of every month.”
Her answer angered me. “They’ll only see the food tomorrow anyway.”
“You’re right, Shelomoam.” She said the words I’d been waiting for with an effort. “I’m sorry, but…,” she trailed off.
I looked at her intently. “But what?”
“There’s a woman here who wants to meet you. She’s been expecting you. I promised I’d bring you to her today.”
“Why does she care so much about me?”
“She’s a good friend of mine and is curious to meet my children.”
“Then why didn’t you bring Elisheba?”
“I’ll bring her when she’s older.”
I made a quick calcul
ation. I was eight and a half, but Father would let Elisheba come to the cave far earlier than that, when she would be only five or six. I’m the only one he watches over so anxiously, as if I were made of glass and could shatter at any moment. When I get annoyed at his excessive protectiveness, he explains with tears in his eyes that I am both his eldest and his only son, and that he won’t let me end up like Joseph, who grew tired of Jacob’s overprotectiveness and persuaded him to let him go out on the road alone. I try to explain to Father that it isn’t the same—Joseph was hated by his brothers, but no one hates me—but he refuses to hear it.
Mother took my hand and led me into one of the cells. In the torchlight, I could see a figure sitting on a bed. Her body was wrapped from head to toe in a gray cloak, her face covered by a rough fabric that resembled a mask, with two small eyeholes and one large hole at the mouth. I knew that the lepers covered their bodies—Mother had told me this—but I couldn’t have imagined how terrifying their masks were. I didn’t want this woman, who had been so looking forward to meeting me, to notice my revulsion, so I let go of Mother’s hand and walked over to her.
“Hello, my lady.” I tried to speak loud and clear. “I’ve come to visit you.”
I looked at her directly and could see her eyes watching me from behind the mask. Suddenly she began to shake. I could see her entire body trembling under her cloak. Everything shook—her arms, her legs, even her face.
“Hello, Zeruah,” Mother said, trying to sound chipper. “I’ve kept my promise.”
Her name startled me even more than the mask and the shaking. Zeruah—a leper.
“Shelomoam.” She said my name in a whisper. I could barely hear her. Before I knew what was happening, I felt her covered hands trembling along my cheeks. Her fingers explored my face thoroughly, studying my every feature. Had I not seen her alert eyes, I might have thought she was blind. I tried to stay put.
The Secret Book of Kings Page 2
