Love Amid the Ashes

by Mesu Andrews

  The little Edomite stood, his tears for Job’s misfortune dried amid the bitter wind of accusation. Bela’s expression changed from concern to outright fear. “What do you mean, ‘further retribution,’ Sayyid? Do you think the gods would exact their vengeance on Job by striking others in Uz?”

  Sayyid offered a meager shrug. “Perhaps if others in Uz will distance themselves from the man, they may be safe from the gods’ vengeance.” A sorrowful sigh punctuated his performance. “But who could be sure? Perhaps the gods will turn on Job’s kinsman next.” Sayyid glanced at Bela to be sure the short, squat Edomite grasped his insinuation.

  “I will speak to the city elders in the morning,” Bela said, a determined set to his jowls. “Job should be revoked as chief judge, and another respected citizen should be named elder in his place.”

  “Very wise, Bela.” Sayyid wrapped the man’s shoulders with a friendly embrace and walked him toward the courtyard gate. “I believe you should go home to your lovely wife and consider who should replace Job on the city council.”

  Bela smiled slyly. “Of course you know who I’ll suggest.” The Edomite clasped Sayyid’s shoulders and pressed his bristly, bearded right cheek against Sayyid’s trimmed and oiled beard. “Peace and prosperity to you, my friend.”

  Taking a deep breath, Sayyid suffered through the scratchy farewell. “And to you, Bela.” He watched the gem merchant’s guards escort the man’s donkey out of the canyon. Bela would no doubt return to his home in the northern plain of the second sector, sleeping little and eating much, impatiently awaiting the dawn.

  When the Edomite’s escort was well out of sight, Sayyid turned to Aban, who stood beaming with unspoken satisfaction. “Wipe that silly grin off your face!” Sayyid said. “Our work has just begun.” He marched through the courtyard, the pebbles of red rock crunching beneath his feet. He had planned only the Chaldean raid, but it seemed the gods had truly been at work to ruin Job. Finally, Sitis, in her poverty and grief, would run willingly into Sayyid’s arms. “Dismiss your men and follow me to my chamber,” he called out over his shoulder, making his way to the grand hall and toward the winding stairs. “Grab a torch on your way!”

  He could hear Aban’s hurried commands and scuffling sandals on the tiles behind him. Soon torchlight illumined the curving stairway. Sayyid smiled. He had trained his captain well.

  When the two reached Sayyid’s fourth-story bedchamber, a serving girl waited in the sitting area with a pitcher of wine and two cups. She stood beside the bed, an ostrich plume fan in her hand to stir the night breeze. Sayyid eyed her briefly but walked beyond the main chamber onto his balcony, his sanctuary of rest and peace. Aban holstered the torch on the bedchamber wall and followed Sayyid to the balcony.

  “Aban, my boy, we must move quickly,” he said, squinting through the settling dust on the canyon floor.

  Aban’s bushy, black brows knit together. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, my lord.”

  “We must strike Job while he is at his weakest, totally destroy any resources he could use to rebuild his wealth. And we must do it before he requests help from Esau or Sitis’s brother, Bildad.”

  “What do you ask of me, my lord?” Aban said, focused so intently on Sayyid’s words that he missed the lithe, slender form on the balcony across the canyon.

  “Go back into my chamber and snuff out every lamp and torch,” Sayyid said calmly.

  The big man followed Sayyid’s gaze across the canyon, finally noticing the woman’s figure on her balcony. “Yes, my lord.” He bowed and retreated into the chamber. Darkness came slowly, in stages, with each snuffing out of lights. Sayyid wondered if Job felt the same tonight when each loss was reported—a little more darkness, a little more death, until finally the blackness consumed the night.

  Gazing across the canyon at Sitis’s shadowy form, Sayyid thanked Al-Uzza that Sitis had maintained her nightly ritual. He feared the tragedies would have thrown her household into such turmoil that she might have neglected her visit to the balcony, their nightly hideaway.

  After snuffing the last of the lamps, Aban rejoined his master on the balcony but kept his gaze respectfully lowered. “Do you ever tire of watching her, master?” Aban spoke in barely a whisper.

  Sayyid would have cut the throat of any other man who asked such a question, but—he chuckled at the thought—no one else knew of his nightly perch. “I’ll answer with a question for you, Aban. Do you ever tire of seeing the sunset or a desert flower growing between two rocks?”

  “I suppose that kind of beauty is tireless.” Aban’s reply seemed hesitant. Perhaps he was simply cautious commenting on the master’s most prized treasure. And rightly so.

  Sayyid squeezed the captain’s strong shoulder, a stiff but amiable show of camaraderie. His captain understood him well. Sayyid had settled for the second best location in Uz—the cliffs directly across from Job’s great palace. A fair arrangement, since the mountain city of Uz was Sitis’s dowry from her brother. Considering Sayyid’s heart twisted each time he saw Sitis in Job’s arms, he had earned every moment’s pleasure of his fourth-story view of her third-story balcony.

  “Why aren’t you in Job’s arms tonight, Sitis-girl?” Wicked satisfaction creased his lips. “Perhaps Princess Sitis has already decided a poor man with no property isn’t worth her time.”

  All too quickly, the old hag Nada wrapped a blanket around her mistress and hurried her inside. Sayyid’s heart plummeted, his mood darkening like clouds obscuring the moon. Glancing at Aban, he spoke in measured tones. “As I said, we need to be sure Job has no way to rebuild his wealth. Send some men into the desert to find the Nameless Ones.”

  The moonlight revealed streaks of dread on Aban’s features. “Master, I don’t trust them. I don’t even know if we can find them. They live in dry streambeds, underbrush, and holes in the ground. Most of them are more animal than human.”

  “You will find them, Aban,” he said as if speaking to a child, “because you’ll carry with you the cook’s choice lamb and quail, and they’ll find you. Then you will trade them food for folly. They’ll enjoy stripping clean the rest of Job’s possessions. And tell their leader someone will pay handsomely for it.”

  “What is their leader’s name?”

  Sayyid squinted, working hard to remember if he’d ever heard a name given to any of the desert dwellers. They were like apparitions, ghosts, waiting for night to enter the city to steal, kill, and destroy. “The leader is known only as the Nameless One, but his authority is tenuous at best, and he leads with reins no sturdier than a spider’s web.”

  Aban’s intense dark eyes were hooded by his black garments, his voice like the low rumble of a storm. “I will find this Nameless One, master, but they may not stop at thievery. They take women for sport and kill men for pleasure.”

  His captain had never been so talkative, and Sayyid’s patience grew thin. “You will stop them, Aban!” he said, letting his frustration show. “I will become Sitis’s protector, and Job will remain unharmed.” He turned away, examining the empty balcony across the canyon. “I want Job to suffer when Sitis runs into my arms.”

  The sound of Job’s worship mingled with Dinah’s hushed whispers as she spoke the names of Yahweh she’d learned from Grandfather Isaac: El Shaddai, God Almighty; El Elyon, God Most High; El Roi, the God who sees; Jehovah Jireh, the God who provides. Time had no meaning. Sound became a distant echo. She was aware only of an unfamiliar warmth and peace.

  “Dinah.”

  Her breath caught, and she was afraid to open her eyes. Had Yahweh spoken her name?

  “Dinah,” the voice said, this time louder, more urgent. Her heart was racing. She gathered her courage and slowly opened one eye. A man stood before her, barely recognizable, his head and face shaven, streaked with blood and ashes. Was she disappointed or relieved?

  “Dinah, come,” Job said. “I’ll take you and Nogahla to a room where you can get some rest.” Nogahla was curled up beside her, sound asle
ep, and the other men were gone. Dinah realized it must be quite late. All but one of the torches was completely burned out.

  “Nogahla and I can sleep here in the courtyard,” she said, amazed and humbled that Job would consider their comfort in the midst of his grief.

  “Please, Dinah, follow me.”

  She woke Nogahla from exhausted slumber, and Job lifted the torch from its mounting and began the long winding walk through the dimly lit stone palace. Gathering golden lamps from wall niches, Job handed one to Dinah and another to Nogahla, blowing out the remaining lamps as he walked past. Their silent march wound through lovely mint-scented corridors and reception halls, servants’ stark dwellings, and musky work spaces.

  Climbing a maze of stairs, they finally reached their destination on the third floor. Job drew back beautiful azure drapes fluttering in the breeze. Dinah’s dim flame revealed a lovely anteroom furnished with an elegantly cushioned couch, tapestries, and rugs.

  Job led them directly to a finely carved door but stopped before entering. “Please forgive me,” he said, his expression lifeless. “I’ll let you and Nogahla find your way from here.” Job bowed and was gone.

  “Is he mad at us?” Nogahla’s voice was gravelly from sleep, and she rubbed her face.

  “No, my friend,” Dinah said. “Though Master Job is a strong and faithful man, he’s still human. He’s tired, and he needs time to reflect on all he’s lost today.” She reached for the bronze handle and opened the heavy oaken door.

  “Oh, mistress!” Nogahla was suddenly wide-awake in view of the splendor that awaited them. An ornate, canopied bed stood in the center of the room, and an attached balcony revealed a cluster of moonlit clouds just beyond a curtained door frame.

  Nogahla ran to the balcony and gazed over the railing. “It’s a long way down!” Her voice echoed into the dark, still night.

  Dinah chuckled despite her weariness. “Shh, Nogahla. I’m sure at least part of the town is trying to sleep.” Dinah joined her on the balcony for a few moments, taking in the majestic sandstone cliffs of Uz, wishing she and Nogahla could stay. “Come, we must try to sleep. We have no idea what tomorrow brings.”

  With heavy hearts, the two walked back into the chamber and shed their outer robes. Nogahla shuffled toward the door. “I’ll be in the anteroom on the couch if you need me, mistress.”

  “You will not.” Dinah smiled at the girl. Nogahla glanced back, arched eyebrows coupled with a hopeful grin. “Come on.” Dinah climbed onto the mattress, sinking down in its wool-stuffed softness. “I’m not sleeping in this big bed all by myself.”

  8

  ~Job 1:22~

  In all this, Job did not sin by charging God with wrongdoing.

  Job walked through the dimly lit hallway, considering each doorway he passed. The third floor had been reserved for the women in his home. Once a lively haven for his wife, his daughters, and their guests, the red-hewn walls now mocked his solitude. On the way to his fourth-floor bedchamber, Job paused at the door marked by fourteen sheer linen curtains. Sitis loved fine linen, and he loved Sitis.

  Each time Job traveled or his merchant cousin Zophar visited Uz, Job bought more linen for his wife. He remembered the first linen scarf he’d presented her at their wedding, its color reflected in her glistening ebony eyes. His grieving bride had learned to love him with each new scarf, and each day her heart grew more tender toward him. She had learned to let go of whatever—or whoever—bound her to the Ishmaelite village of her youth, and soon the scarves became the emblem of their love.

  As he rubbed the gauzy fabric between his fingers, Job thrilled at the memory of the night she gave her heart and body willingly. The years that followed had been the happiest of Job’s life. His chest tightened, ached, remembering the day he’d destroyed the Chaldean temple. Something between them had died that day, something linen scarves couldn’t revive.

  Pulling aside the drapes, he reached for the silver handles on the first set of double doors leading to Sitis’s antechamber. He paused. Perhaps he should wait until morning. No. I’ve waited long enough, he thought. He pushed open the doors, and Nada rose from an elaborate couch, eyes bleary from sleep. She must have decided to stay in Sitis’s guest foyer for the night.

  “Master Job,” she said, “what are you doing here?”

  “Go back to sleep, Nada. I’ve come to talk to my wife.”

  The old woman was on her feet, hands on hips, a formidable barrier to the second set of doors to Sitis’s bedchamber. “The mistress is asleep, my lord. Come back in the morning.”

  Job normally dismissed Nada’s protective nature as endearing; however, tonight his tolerance was spent. “You will move aside, old woman, or find yourself in the stable with the camels.” Shock showed only briefly before obedience overtook her. The woman stepped aside, issuing a loathing glance as Job passed.

  Walking into his wife’s chamber was like swimming in a sea of fine linen. Long ribbons of sheer cloth hung like willows, catching the slightest breeze, diffusing light. A silent testimony of the love they once shared.

  Job could see her empty bed. She was on the balcony, her sanctuary. He paused for a moment by the bed in the exact spot where they’d parted with such bitter words before he left for Hebron. They’d quarreled about Sayyid. She’d broken her promise and allowed him into their home again. To his knowledge, it was the first time in nine years. On that day, he’d left his responsibilities at the city gate early and found Sayyid and Sitis in the scroll room. Sayyid’s arms were coiled around her, and Sitis was struggling to escape his embrace. But would she have remained in his arms had I not intruded? The lingering doubt ate at his heart like maggots feasting on carrion.

  Sitis’s quick gasp interrupted his thoughts. “Oh, Job. Your face.” She stood in the doorway of her balcony, the soft glow of moonlight revealing the lovely curves beneath her linen gown. She covered her mouth to stifle more cries.

  Moving closer, Job saw in the dim lamplight that her grieving had been ceaseless, her eyes swollen, cheeks mottled pink. He moved to embrace her, but she stepped back, signaling the hesitation they both felt. He wondered again about the wisdom of seeing her tonight. Should he turn and go?

  Their long years of marriage permitted the silence. Searching the windows of their souls, neither one flinched at the other’s probing gaze. It’s why I love you so, Job thought, your strength, your fire, your will. But it also infuriates me. He felt his anger rise at the memory of her outburst—and then he smiled slightly at the resurgence of ever-present love. He would stay.

  She tilted her head with a frustrated, puzzled expression. “What can you possibly smile about tonight?” she asked, her words clipped, her voice tight.

  “You.” He stepped forward again and traced her jawline with one finger. She didn’t pull away this time. It was a start. But what now? She tried to appear strong, but instead she looked vulnerable and frightened. He wanted to hold her, but her defenses built an impenetrable wall. He wanted to resolve their anger, but as long as she defended Sayyid and condemned El Shaddai, they remained at an impasse. El Shaddai, show me how to begin.

  Perhaps tonight, if he was cautious, Sitis would welcome her husband’s comforting embrace. Job took a step closer, and his wife did not retreat. He held her gaze before trying to hold her hand. Offering a weak smile, he rubbed his bald head and said, “I suppose I don’t look like myself with no hair and all this dirt on my face?” He tried to use his sleeve to wipe the ashen streaks away but suddenly felt her hands and a linen scarf on his skin.

  Mopping the ashes from his face, Sitis said, “No, you don’t look like my husband at all right now.” She took his hand and led him to her bed, gently pressing his shoulders down so that he sat on the edge. She moistened her scarf in the copper water basin on the bedside table and reached up to wipe his forehead.

  But he grasped her arm, halting her ministrations. “Close your eyes,” he whispered. Never one to submit blindly, she hesitated—but obeyed after playful
ly lifting an eyebrow.

  “Is this your husband’s voice?” he asked softly.

  “Yes,” she said, relaxing as Job placed her arm at her side.

  “Keep your eyes closed,” he said. Then he stood, pressing his body against hers, steadying her. He could see tears starting to form beneath her thick, dark lashes. Job leaned down to kiss her gently. “Was that your husband’s kiss?”

  A tenuous smile formed where his lips had been. “Yes.”

  “And precious wife of my youth,” he said, sliding his hands around her waist, “is this your husband’s embrace?”

  “Oh, Job.” Her defenses crumbled, and Sitis abandoned herself into his arms.

  He held her tightly and buried his face in that tender spot of her neck that knew his kisses well. Thank You, El Shaddai, Job cried inwardly, for this respite from cold indifference and heated anger. Tonight’s loss of wealth had been difficult. The loss of his children, beyond what he thought he could bear. But when his precious wife cursed El Shaddai, he feared the loss of himself—for he believed God’s teaching that he and Sitis were one flesh. He breathed in her scent, brushed her soft curves, heard her quiet weeping, and was suddenly overcome by gratitude for this most precious gift from Yahweh.

  Job began to sway rhythmically from side to side, and his wife’s tension fled. When she lifted her head, tears flowed into the small channels of fine creases made by years of smiles. “Job, I love you.” She had said the words a thousand times before, but tonight a new urgency swelled their meaning. Her eyes were pleading, digging deeply into his soul.

  “Sitis,” he whispered, “I love you too.” She seemed desperate to hear him say it. Why? He studied her gaze. Perhaps the words were purer tonight, truer after so much of their lives had been stripped away. But as he examined her angled brow, full lips, and almond-shaped eyes, he saw fear in his beloved’s expression. “What is it, Sitis? What makes you question my love?”