by Mesu Andrews
“So you’ve been in camp less than a day and already have found a friend?”
She squealed and pounced on him. They rolled over and over, wrapping themselves in the blanket. “Yes! And she’s the owner’s wife!” Gomer settled atop her husband, resting her chin on his chest.
“We care very little about status and wealth here on Amos’s farm. Yuval is one of the most caring women you’ll ever meet. She may be the owner’s wife, but she works harder than the poorest serving maid.”
After the slight reprimand, Gomer treaded lightly on the next subject. “While we were in Samaria, we never discussed my wifely duties.” She paused, not sure how to proceed.
Unexpectedly, Hosea tumbled her onto her back and hovered above her, smiling. “I don’t think we need to discuss anything. You do very well without any discussion.”
She giggled. “I was talking about cooking.” His smile disappeared, and she laughed aloud. “Didn’t you notice that I never cooked a meal in Samaria?”
“I thought it was because you hated me.” They laughed together at this.
“Well, I suppose that was part of it,” she said, “but the complete truth is that I’ve always had servant girls cook for me. So Yuval is going to teach me to cook!”
The tenderness in his eyes staggered her. “I’m so proud of you.”
Her throat constricted. No words could describe a man who was proud of his harlot wife who didn’t cook. She pulled him into her arms and wept. “I know I love you.”
Hosea basked in his wife’s delight during their morning exploration of Amos’s farm. He remembered the fascination he’d felt when arriving with Abba Beeri twelve years ago. Seeing Tekoa’s rugged beauty through Gomer’s eyes was like gazing out a window through a silken sash.
“Look at the endless fig trees! And those sheep—they’re tiny!”
Hosea laughed, watching his wife scatter the shepherds’ carefully herded sheep. “Yes, they’re a special breed of desert sheep. Amos travels to markets and festivals from Beersheba to Damascus to sell their wool and the cloth our women weave.” One of the shepherds rose from his shady resting spot, a scowl on his weathered face, while his whole flock broke into a bleating frenzy.
“Hello, little sheep! Come here and let me see how soft you are.”
Hosea captured her hand. “Come, Wife. Let’s get to the pottery workshop and meet the king’s uncle Amoz.” He glanced over his shoulder, noting two shepherds whispering and pointing. He hoped they were simply angry about Gomer’s lack of animal husbandry.
“But I saw a lamb over there . . .” She pouted as he pulled her away.
“The shepherds are a bit protective of their flocks. Have you spent much time around animals?”
“No, in fact, I was a little frightened when we were traveling through the wilderness. I’d heard there were lions between here and Samaria, but I’ve never really been around animals since I’ve lived in cities.”
Hosea watched his wife wander and chatter as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
“Of course, I’ve seen smelly old donkeys, and I know goats are a nuisance and will eat anything you put in front of them.”
Hosea laughed out loud, thoroughly entertained. “Well, we own a smelly donkey and two bothersome goats. We also have several chickens, but the rooster you hear crowing each morning belongs to Yuval and Amos next door.”
“I have chickens?” Her voice was filled with wonder. Then she raised her arms and shouted, “I have chickens!” They passed two women who stared at Gomer as if she’d grown two heads. They’d been busy weaving an intricately designed fabric on a large loom but stopped when the couple passed by. One whispered to the other behind her hand, and then both scowled in Gomer’s direction.
Hosea glanced at his wife, relieved to find her taking in the lush canopy of sycamore figs above them. Another distraction was in order. “And because we have chickens, my wife, we also have snakes.”
“What?” All mirth disappeared. “Snakes?”
He reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips. “But Amos bought a useful gift for Yuval on his last market run to Beersheba.”
“We have snakes?” Gomer couldn’t seem to get beyond that news.
“Amos discovered a new kind of animal called a cat—from Egypt. He bought two of them for Yuval, and, well . . . they multiply quickly because now we have fifteen.”
She wrapped her arms around her waist, searching the path before her. “Are there snakes everywhere? Are they just after the chickens, or are they out here with people too?”
Hosea stopped walking and held her at arm’s length. “Listen. Tekoa is southern Israel, and we have snakes. And yes, there were lions in the wilderness through which we traveled, but they remain outside Amos’s gates. Most wild animals are more afraid of you than you are of them.”
“I doubt that.” Then almost pleading, she said, “I know the larger beasts won’t come into the compound and they prowl at night, but snakes frighten me, Hosea.”
He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Our chickens eat small snakes, and the cats prey on the larger vipers. Snakes sleep between rocks most of the day, so just stay on the main path and you’ll be fine.”
“What about the house? Are they in the house?”
“How about if we ask Yuval to borrow one of her cats?”
His wife’s quick and emphatic nod told him she approved.
“All right, as soon as I introduce you to Amoz, I’ll have Yuval introduce you to a new cat.”
Her smile returned, and they resumed their walk, ambling along the farm’s main path. They passed homes, stables, storage barns, and the prophets’ hall, where students gathered for Jonah’s lessons. They veered off the main path that circled north and continued south toward the pottery workshop. The large, two-story building stood a stone’s throw away, belching smoke from two chimneys.
Gomer inspected the shop from foundation to rooftop. “Why is it so far from the rest of the camp?”
Hosea directed her gaze to the smoke rising above them. “When Amos agreed to let the king build his uncle’s workshop, they knew the kilns would produce significant smoke and fire hazards. So they situated it in the farthest southern corner of the property, away from our homes, the livestock, and the wool and fig operations. They also built a southern gate to make transporting the raw clay and drying pottery more convenient.”
He placed his hand at the small of her back, nudging her forward. She seemed hesitant, a little nervous to embrace this new adventure. The woman he married wasn’t so different from the little girl in Bethel. She still blustered of big adventures but needed his reassurance to take the first step. He held open the curtain on the workshop doorway, and they stepped inside.
“Hosea!” Amoz’s cheerful voice greeted them from the potter’s loft. One word and a lifted hand would suffice from the man of frugal speech.
Hosea saw Isaiah’s betrothed rushing down the loft stairs. “Aya!”
“Hosea, welcome home. It’s good to see you.”
He felt Gomer tense, and she leaned close to whisper, “Who’s the lovely maiden that blushes at the sight of you?”
He chuckled quietly. “That’s Isaiah’s beloved Aya. The one to whom he compares every other woman on earth.”
Aya arrived with an empty basket dangling from her arm. Amoz wasn’t far behind, his beard littered with crumbs, presumably from the contents of Aya’s basket. The potter reached out his hand, and Hosea locked his forearm in a friendly embrace.
“It’s good to be home,” Hosea said. Stepping aside, he placed his hand at Gomer’s back and felt her trembling. “Amoz, this is my wife, Gomer. She thinks she might enjoy learning to work clay. Would you be interested in an apprentice?”
The kind eyes of the quiet man sparkled. “Isaiah mentioned it this morning.” He turned to Gomer and offered a slight bow. “Come tomorrow, after you break your fast.”
A small gasp betrayed Gomer’s excitement. “Thank you, Master
Amoz.”
He nodded, acknowledging her respect, his cheeks pinking at the attention.
“And this is Aya.”
The girl stepped forward like an eager playmate. “I saw Isaiah when I brought Amoz’s midday meal. He told me you were beautiful.” She perused Gomer like a trinket in the market. “I had no idea a harlot would be so beautiful.”
Hosea couldn’t breathe. Gomer went rigid.
Aya continued chattering, seemingly oblivious to the pain she’d just inflicted. “Isaiah and I are to be married in a year. Perhaps we’ll raise our children together. We’ll cook and weave toge—”
“What fun we’ll have,” Gomer interrupted, venom dripping from her voice.
“Gomer, stop.” Hosea wrapped his arm around her trembling shoulders and tried to guide her toward the door. “Come, we’ll talk about this at home.” He kept his voice low, though every sound in the workshop had fallen silent and all busy hands had stilled.
She shrugged off his arm and stood regally, addressing her audience. “You can teach me to cook and weave, and I’ll teach you how to please a man in ways a wife cannot fathom.”
A collective gasp sucked all air from the shop, and Hosea squeezed his eyes shut.
Gomer turned to Amoz with the grace of a leopard on the hunt. “I will understand if you don’t wish to train a harlot in the art of pottery.” She offered a cursory nod and took a step to leave.
“I am not training a harlot,” Amoz said softly. “I am training my friend’s wife.”
Gomer met his gaze, expressionless. “As you wish.” She reached for Hosea’s arm with a trembling hand, glancing at the women workers who now stared openly. “We must go for now. Yuval is teaching me to cook. A harlot has so little time for such mundane tasks before becoming a wife.”
Hosea tucked her hand into the bend of his elbow and led her out of the workshop. The moment the late morning sun kissed their faces, she jerked her hand away as if he’d contracted Uzziah’s leprosy. Without a word, she started walking, her posture stiff as a rod, her chin lifted in defiance.
And Hosea knew. All the trust he’d built since leaving Samaria had been shattered, left in a heap like the shard pile at the pottery shop.
They passed the women at the loom, but Gomer’s focus never wavered, her eyes fixed on some distant point straight ahead, jaw set. They were a few cubits from the first row of houses when she finally stopped and challenged him. “How many people know?”
He took a deep breath. “Everyone.”
She staggered to the edge of the path and collapsed to one knee, hiding her face. When he tried to comfort her, she pushed him away.
Patient. He must be patient. He sat next to her there. Waiting. She rocked. No sound. No words. He lost track of time. People passed by, but he ignored them. Someone offered water, but Hosea waved him away.
Finally, Gomer looked at him, eyes swollen but with no other remnant of tears. “If I am to be your whore, I expect to be paid.”
The words sliced him, as they had undoubtedly been intended to. “You are my wife, Gomer. Almost two full moons have passed since I heard Yahweh’s voice telling me to take a wife. It was the first prophetic mission the Lord had given since Amos’s journey to Israel twelve years ago.”
“Congratulations.” The hatred in her voice chilled him.
“No, listen!” Frustration overtook him, but he shook his head, calming his voice. “Please, just listen. After the Lord spoke on the wind, I told Jonah that I was to go to Israel and marry a prostitute. The whole camp rejoiced that Yahweh had spoken to His people.” She turned away, and he was tempted to embrace her, make her listen. But he continued talking to her back. “I assumed I’d marry some nameless harlot out of obedience to Yahweh—an arrangement.”
He paused, waiting for a reply. None came.
“Don’t you see, Gomer? We prophets talked about God’s command, and the whole camp celebrated the event. Even the nation of Judah celebrated Yahweh’s message.”
She turned, horror on her features. “King Uzziah knows? He knew I was a harlot when I approached him in the street?” He watched her draw the linen veil over her face, hiding her humiliation.
He ached for her.
“Please, my wife. Hear and know that you are a miracle in my eyes. The camp sent me to Israel to be obedient, but when I found you, I understood that Yahweh wanted more than my obedience. He wants me to help Israel understand His love. Until I fell in love with you, I had no idea how deeply Yahweh’s heart is moved by His people. Others know our marriage began as a command, but now it’s up to us to show them the miracle of love it’s become.”
She removed the veil from her face, her expression once again void of emotion. “There is no miracle, Hosea. There is only a prophet married to a prostitute.” She stood and sneered. “And prostitutes don’t cook.”
15
• HOSEA 5:5–6 •
The people of Israel’s arrogance testifies against them . . . and Judah stumbles with them. They go . . . to search for Yahweh, but they can’t find him. He has left them.
Gomer couldn’t stop shaking. Hosea had tried to distract her with idle chatter as they walked home from the pottery workshop, but she’d seen every sideways glance and huddled whisper. How had she missed it before? You’re a fool, Gomer. She’d become complacent, forgotten the first rule of the streets. Always be aware of your surroundings. Why had she allowed herself to trust him? Men always betrayed.
“Shalom, Gomer.” Yuval’s voice accompanied a gentle knock on her front door.
Why had Hosea sent her? When they’d arrived home, Jonah had been waiting and said Uzziah wanted to meet with both prophets immediately. Hosea had looked at her as if she were a helpless cripple and promised to send Yuval. She’d told him not to bother. He was evidently deaf and stubborn.
“Gomer?” Another knock.
“Yes, yes. Coming.” She stomped to the door, any pain from Eitan’s beating numbed by Hosea’s betrayal. With a deep breath, she tried to calm herself, adopting a pleasant air. I must be hospitable to the owner’s wife. She opened the door—and Merav’s ghost smiled back.
“Oh, there you are, dear,” Yuval said. “I wondered if you’d gone out for a walk this morning.”
A wave of grief washed over her. She stepped back. “Please, come in.” Then she saw the creature in the old woman’s arms. “What is that?”
Yuval chuckled and stepped over the threshold, stirring the air with the fresh scent of coriander. “Hosea said you might be interested in meeting Sampson. These Egyptian cats may not look ferocious, but you should see them go after the little snakes that crawl under the bed.”
Gomer shivered at the thought—then considered asking if the cat would go after the big snake who slept in her bed. She refreshed her practiced smile. “Perhaps you should tell me more about living in Judah, Yuval. We never had to worry about snakes and wild beasts in Samaria.” At the mention of her old life, Gomer was stricken with renewed humiliation.
“You knew last night,” she whispered, “yet you were still kind to me.” Yuval held her gaze, and Gomer measured the old woman in silence, suspicion coiling around her heart like the deadly vipers she feared. “Why did you bring me food when you knew who—what I was? And why are you being nice to me now?” A slight pause, and then she understood. “You wanted to see for yourself what Israel’s filthy harlot looked like. Now you’ll have plenty of details to share with your friends in camp, is that it?”
The old woman swallowed hard, and her eyes grew damp. “I’m being nice because—well, because you’re like a newly planted fig tree, Gomer. You need a little extra care or you’ll runt out and die in this climate.” She transferred the cat into Gomer’s arms and stepped toward the worktable and oven. “Everything in life can be learned from fig farming, child. Now pull out one of those rugs and sit down while I put on a pot of lentils to soak.”
Gomer held the furry creature at arm’s length, a little stunned that Yuval stayed. She studie
d the cat, inspecting its hypnotic green eyes, black stripes, and speckled, light-gray coat. “Will it bite me? What’s that sound he’s making?”
“That means he likes you. He won’t bite you, but his tongue is rough, so the first time he licks you, it may feel like a little bite.”
Gomer was smitten. She held him under her chin and stroked his silky fur. She danced with him toward the stack of goatskin rugs and reached for the one on top. “So, tell me, Yuval, does Sampson scare the snakes or does he—” An iron pot clanged, and panic shot through her. “Yuval, no!”
Gomer’s shout startled the old woman, and a wooden spoon clattered to the floor. “Blooming fig trees, child! What’s the matter? I was just going to soak the lentils.”
Gomer dropped the cat, her mind whirring for any excuse to move Yuval away from the shelf where her Asherah lay hidden. “I refuse to cook for Hosea. He told everyone I’m a harlot, so I told him harlots don’t cook.” Her cheeks flamed. It sounded so childish when she heard herself say it. Perhaps it would have been less embarrassing to let Yuval find the goddess.
The old woman set aside the cooking pot and joined Gomer on a rug while Sampson curled up at their feet. “I know it’s hard to live with a past you’re not proud of. I felt unworthy to be Amos’s wife—an orphaned servant girl marrying the son of a wealthy landowner. Many of the women were unkind to me at first, and even more when our betrothal became widely known. But what matters most is the way our husbands treat us, not the opinions of a few jealous gossips on the farm.”
Gomer felt tears burn. She didn’t want to cry in front of the owner’s wife, but the compassionate face looking back at her seemed so familiar, the voice so much like the woman who had raised her. She fell into Yuval’s arms and wept. Tired. Confused. Angry.
“Why do the gods hate me? Why won’t they leave me alone and let me live in peace?”
