Love in a Broken Vessel

by Mesu Andrews

  She stumbled in the street, and a dusty young boy steadied her. “Mistress, are you all right? Do you need water from the spring?”

  His wide eyes were so innocent. He didn’t know he’d touched a filthy harlot. “A spring?”

  “Yes, mistress.” He pointed south, down a sloping street. “Do you want me to show you?”

  “No, no,” she said, backing away from him, fearing her vileness might somehow corrupt his goodness. “Thank you.”

  The sun was past midday. The spring would be deserted, a good time to draw water without facing the righteous women of Jerusalem. She’d refresh herself and then find a merchant who might help her leave the city.

  Or perhaps I could wait until tonight, find Hananiah, and remind him of all we’ve meant to each other? How could he have been so cruel? He’d seemed like another person, someone she didn’t even recognize. Perhaps he’d been put off by her appearance. Her figure hadn’t returned to normal yet, but she’d regain her shape once she bound her breasts and skipped a few meals.

  “Shalom, lovely lady.” A smooth bass voice sent a chill up her spine, and a finger traced a line from her wrist to shoulder.

  Without thinking, she turned and slapped the stranger who’d crept up behind her.

  His reflexes were equally quick. He grabbed her wrists, shoved her out of the street, and pinned her against a wall behind the booths, covering her mouth. “You aren’t being very friendly.” She glanced in every direction but saw no means of escape. “If I remove my hand, can I trust you not to scream?”

  She nodded, buying a few more moments to think of an escape. “What’s your name?” she asked, desperate to slow his attack.

  “Does it matter? It seems to me you’ve done this before.” He placed his hand at her throat, squeezed, and then kissed her roughly.

  She couldn’t breathe and began to fight. “Please. Please!” His hand remained on her throat but loosened enough that she could speak. If she could distract him . . . “Tell me why you think I’ve done this before,” she said, trying to keep the shame from her voice. He laughed and waved her off, as if the answer was too obvious to dignify by voicing it. When he moved in for another kiss, she turned her head. “Tell me. Tell me why you picked me.”

  His hand held her face like a vice, and he leaned closer, his leering eyes now unavoidable. “Everything about you screams ‘harlot.’ You’re alone, visiting the spring at midday without a water jug. The way you walk. The way you—”

  Suddenly, the man was gone, lying on the ground. Stunned, Gomer stood shaking, staring into Hananiah’s eyes. His guards were pummeling her attacker while Judah’s hulking commander towered over her.

  “You came for me!” She threw her arms around his neck, but he pushed her away. Stumbling back, she felt as if he’d struck her. The hatred in his eyes lingered.

  He stepped closer, letting his hands roam the length of her, and then ripped away the pouch of silver she’d been saving for years. “I want my silver back,” he said, disgust lacing his tone. “You can find your own way out of Jerusalem.” He threw the bag to his guards, and they celebrated like children with a new toy. “Consider that payment for rescuing you.”

  “But that’s all I have. How can I—”

  “I don’t care how you get out of Jerusalem, but your husband has already left. He’s on his way back to Tekoa with that child.”

  Her heart skipped a beat at the mention of Ammi. “You didn’t hurt him, did you? Ammi’s all right?”

  “Don’t even act like you care.” Hananiah began to tremble, his fists clenching and unclenching. She could see his rage boiling.

  “Please. Let me explain. I—”

  He lifted his hand, and she winced, expecting the blow—usually a white-hot burst of pain on the cheekbone. Instead, she heard a low, seething growl. “I need no explanation. You have shown what kind of woman you are.” He spit in her face and then stepped aside, pointing at the man who’d attacked her, lying unconscious.

  Gomer’s fear settled into resignation, like the final few olives falling from a tree shaken bare of its fruit. She thought her dance meant freedom—but it was her final folly.

  “Get out of Jerusalem, harlot. Your husband has left the city and is returning to Tekoa tonight. I doubt that he’ll have you—I wouldn’t—but you could try to catch up with him. Or I can recommend a brothel to house you overnight.”

  Gomer swallowed hard and glanced at the guards, hoping for a glimmer of mercy. They turned their backs, folding their arms across Judean breastplates.

  “My guards are loyal to me alone, Gomer. How do you think I found you so quickly? I’ll take you to a brothel if you like. Otherwise . . .” He kicked the man on the ground. “Otherwise, you’ll run into more like this one.”

  She nodded, staring at her sandals.

  “Hurry up. My wife is expecting me home for the evening meal.” Hananiah shared a laugh with his friends, and Gomer’s humiliation was forged into white-hot rage.

  She bit back a reply that would question his wife’s intelligence and earn the black eye she’d anticipated. Instead, she followed him obediently, noticing that the merchants’ observations held true. All refuse drains downhill. They passed drunkards and brothels, proving the theory accurate of people as well as waste.

  At the end of the street stood two multileveled structures. One was undoubtedly their destination, where women leaned against the door frames and called to passersby. The second looked to be a warehouse, and a gentle breeze revealed the perfumer’s shop. Even in her misery, she smiled at the irony. She’d wished for perfume while in Tekoa, having to settle instead for the pathetic scent of cloves—until Hananiah had given her a small vial of nard. She’d left it behind with the rest of her belongings. Perhaps someday she’d wear perfume again—if she could get back the hard-earned silver Hananiah had stolen.

  “Miriam! I’ve brought a harlot for your herd—but she stays only one night.” Hananiah pressed his way through the fawning women blocking the door.

  They eyed Gomer but were distracted by the guards, who waited outside for their commander. One of the girls teased, “Come in, boys. We can light twice the flame she stirs in you. She’s old enough to be our ima.”

  “Ha!” Unbelievable that this child would call her old.

  “Here she is.” Hananiah reappeared at the door with a curvaceous woman a bit older than Gomer. “She stays tonight only. Do you understand?”

  Miriam appeared annoyed, and Gomer wondered if she’d kick her out as soon as the commander left. A man’s interference in a harlot’s world was a breach of unwritten law.

  “Come on,” the woman said flatly. “I’ll show you to our common room. Private chambers are reserved for business. You’ll have a mattress of your own in a roomful of girls.”

  “She’d be more comfortable in a roomful of men.” Hananiah laughed and elbowed one of his guards. Without a parting glance or a coarse good-bye, Judah’s commander walked away.

  If Gomer had been a warrior, she would have sunk a dagger between his shoulder blades. But she was a woman. Powerless. Friendless. Worthless.

  “Did you love him?”

  She gasped, startled as much by the intimate question as by the woman who asked it. Every harlot knew love wasn’t part of their business.

  Miriam’s lips were pressed into a seething, thin line. “He’s played most of us in Jerusalem. Gives us gifts, makes us feel like we’re the love of his life. But at the end of the day, he goes home to his wealthy wife in their mansion on the hill.”

  “Why doesn’t someone stop him?”

  “Stop him?” Miriam choked out a mirthless laugh. “Who can stop him?”

  “Get me a bottle of perfume, and tell me where his wealthy wife waits in this mansion.” Gomer had nothing left to lose. “I’ll show you who can stop him.”

  “What if I’ve been wrong all this time, Isaiah?” Hosea sat huddled in his friend’s home, trembling on a late summer night, exhausted after his grueling journe
y home alone with Ammi. “What if I heard Yahweh’s prophecies and interpreted them the way I wanted to hear them—that our family would one day be united? What if Yahweh’s intention was for me to literally stop loving Gomer, to stop forgiving her?”

  Aya offered him a cup of watered wine, and he thanked her with a nod. She squeezed his shoulder, tears streaming down her face. “I’ll take Jezzy and Rahmy for a walk. Ammi’s finally asleep.” Hosea had hired a wet nurse in Jerusalem at the recommendation of the high priest, but the baby had gone hungry for the remainder of the half-day journey and then required a Tekoan wet nurse and Aya’s comfort to rest.

  Isaiah grabbed his wife’s hand and kissed it before she walked away. “Don’t wear yourself out.” She smiled at his concern.

  Hosea’s heart shattered into smaller pieces. Why, Yahweh? Why couldn’t Gomer receive and give that kind of love?

  “I don’t know if you’ve interpreted Yahweh’s message correctly,” Isaiah said, touching his shoulder, drawing him back. “But I know you’ve been faithful, my friend, and that’s what Yahweh asks of us. He doesn’t ask us to understand.”

  “But I want to understand!” The frustration emerged with a sob.

  Isaiah’s eyes closed tight. “And I want to be a prophet.” A sigh, and then he opened his eyes, focusing again on his friend. “But we don’t always know the Lord’s plan.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hosea said, dragging his hands through his hair, “but how can it be the Lord’s plan for an ima to turn her back on her children—on a nursing child? You saw her love them, Isaiah. Can she really forget them? Forget us?”

  “I don’t know the answers, Hosea, but I know Yahweh never turns His back on us, never forgets us. I’ve watched Abba Amoz open his heart when Aya speaks of Yahweh’s love. He wouldn’t hear it from Uzziah—or from me—but Yahweh keeps placing people in Abba’s life to speak the truth.” His eyes welled with tears. “Yahweh will not forget Gomer, even if Gomer forgets her friends, her husband—and her children.”

  35

  • HOSEA 2:5 •

  Their mother acted like a prostitute . . . [and] did shameful things. She said, “I’ll chase after my lovers.”

  Gomer covered her head with the drab, brown sackcloth she’d borrowed from Miriam and approached the guard at Hananiah’s mansion gate. Dusk cast long shadows across Jerusalem’s northern streets, and she prayed none of the guards would recognize her from today’s palace visit.

  “You there, what do you want?” A large soldier with full armor stood on the opposite side of iron bars, holding his spear at the ready.

  “I’ve come with Lord Hananiah’s gift for his wife. I’m sorry I’m late, but the perfumer mixed this blend for the commander’s lady.” She sensed his hesitation but then heard the click of an iron latch and the door creak open.

  He thrust out his grimy hand. “I’ll take it to the commander. He and his wife are eating their evening meal and do not wish to be disturbed.”

  She lifted her eyes, offering her most beguiling smile. “The perfumer asked that I deliver the gift myself. I won’t linger, but I believe the commander would be pleased to have this aroma grace his lady’s wrist.” She lifted the sleeve of her robe, exposing her wrist for the soldier to sniff. “Perhaps I can find a way to show my gratitude after I complete my task. Can you tell me where the commander and his wife are enjoying their evening meal?”

  He gazed, starry-eyed and speechless, proving her ploy’s success, then pointed toward a two-story home at the top of a winding, uphill path.

  Gomer’s heart thudded like a herd of horses while her feet kept a slow, silent pace. She rounded the corner and ascended the structure’s outer stairs to the roof. Hearing raised voices, she realized Hananiah and his wife weren’t “enjoying” their private meal after all. She crouched on the top step, hidden by an enormous clay planter, and listened to the lovers’ quarrel.

  “How dare you lie to me!” The woman’s hysterical sob was followed by the crashing sound of broken pottery. “Amalya saw you in the market today and followed you to a brothel. You said you’d never visit a brothel again, Hananiah. You promised!”

  “Shoshana, I wasn’t visiting the brothel. I rescued a harlot from an abusive customer today, and my guards and I escorted her home. Did Amalya include that in her busybody report?”

  “Don’t you dare blame Amalya. She’s a good friend, trying to protect me from your lies. As surely as the Lord lives, Hananiah, if you hurt me again, my abba will go to King Jotham and have you stripped of your duties. You are Judah’s commander because Uncle Zechariah—blessed be his soul by the Judge of the earth—was King Uzziah’s best friend, and Abba bought your position.”

  “I’m Judah’s commander because I’ve earned it, Shoshana!”

  “Excuse me.” Gomer rose from her hiding place and faced the couple in awkward silence. “I tried to interrupt earlier but wasn’t heard.”

  Hananiah ground out his words between clenched teeth. “What are you doing in my home?”

  “I’ve come to thank you and bring your wife this perfume.”

  She stepped toward Shoshana, but Hananiah stepped between them. “Get out.”

  “Hananiah, don’t be rude.” His wife nudged him out of the way and accepted the alabaster flask. “Thank you. Would you like to sit down?”

  “No, she doesn’t want to sit down. Shoshana, do you know who this is?”

  Before his wife could guess, Gomer accepted the lady’s invitation, resting on a cushioned couch beside her. “I’m the harlot your husband rescued today. A man took advantage of me, thinking that because I’m a harlot, I have no feelings. Some think they can take what they want without asking.” She turned to Hananiah, her smile so warm it could’ve melted the snow on Mount Hermon. “But your husband took me home to my brothel madam—her name is Miriam. When Miriam saw that I was safe under Commander Hananiah’s protection, we both agreed there’s no need to ever leave Jerusalem.”

  “Oh, were you thinking of leaving?”

  Gomer mustered a few tears and turned away. She mustn’t overact, but Shoshana seemed to be convinced so far. “My family abandoned me some time ago, and I wasn’t certain what to do or where to go.” She glanced at Shoshana, smiling through tears. “It’s nice to see Commander Hananiah has your love and your abba’s support. A family can make or break a man.”

  Feeling vindicated, Gomer rose from the cushioned bench and dried her eyes. “I don’t want to intrude any further on your evening.”

  “Well, thank you for the perfume, um . . . ,” Shoshana stuttered, lifting a questioning brow. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  Hananiah stood between them, creating a visual barrier between his two worlds. “Her name isn’t important, my love. It’s not as if you two will ever meet at a social gathering.” He turned Gomer toward the stairs and placed a firm hand at the small of her back, encouraging a quick exit. “I’m going to walk the harlot to our gate to be sure a guard escorts her home. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “Good-bye, Shoshana,” Gomer called over her shoulder. “Enjoy your perfume.”

  When they reached the last step, the commander spun her around. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m surviving, Hananiah. It’s what I do. You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood, or Shoshana’s abba would be visiting King Jotham as we speak.”

  His fingers dug into her arm. “Don’t cross swords with me, woman. You will die.”

  “I’ll stay on my side of Jerusalem. You stay on yours.” She twisted out of his grasp and walked toward the anxious guard at the gate.

  He was watching for her return and stepped into her path. “Have you considered how you’ll thank me for helping you?”

  She stepped around him and smiled at his disappointment, relishing the singular power she held over men. “Wait one moon cycle, and then find me at Miriam’s brothel.” She waved without looking back. “Bring your friends. And bring your silver.”

  Gomer
inhaled the cool night air, her mind spinning with the preparations necessary by the next moon cycle if she hoped to accept customers. Binding her breasts would dry up her milk, and she’d eat once a day to get rid of the extra bulges. The brothel owner would be relieved at her meager portions.

  The reality of Gomer’s poverty overwhelmed her. With nothing but the clothes on her back, how could she compete with the youthful harlots half her age? Perhaps Gomer’s little visit to the commander would win enough favor with Miriam to garner an advance on wages. Gomer would need some tools for her trade—cosmetics, perfume, jewelry, a new robe. But all that was window dressing.

  She cradled her breasts to relieve the pressure of Ammi’s absence and allowed her emotions a controlled escape. Just into her twenty-second year now, she’d born two children before she left Samaria and three more in Tekoa. Her body wasn’t the lithe, firm treasure it had once been. Though she knew her beauty remained, she was equally certain the younger harlots held greater appeal. I will find other ways to distinguish myself.

  Jezzy’s dark curls and Rahmy’s sweet smile flashed in her mind. “No!” she sobbed, quickening her pace. She wouldn’t—she couldn’t—dwell on the past. Her life had changed today, for better or worse, and she couldn’t change what she’d done. From this moment on, she was Gomer, harlot of Jerusalem.

  Hosea sat on his goatskin rug, leaning against the wall beside the oven, trying to chase away winter’s dampness—and the chilling memories that assaulted him. It had been over a year, and Gomer still stared back at him from every corner of their home. He’d asked Aya to dispose of his wife’s robes, combs, and personal items—many of which must have been gifts from her lovers—as soon as he returned from Jerusalem.

  But what about the daily reminders of their lives?

  How could he replace the window that had cast dawn’s glow on her copper curls? Should he break every bowl she’d touched, every plate on which she’d served their meals? And what about the most painful reminders of all—the three precious jewels that lay beside him each night and greeted him with smiles each morning?