by Mesu Andrews
“I love—” Job swallowed with difficulty. “You.”
Sitis’s tears wet the mask she wore. “I love you too, my husband.”
“Sayyid?” Job watched his wife’s features turn to stone at the mention of his name.
Glaring accusingly at Dinah, she asked, “What lies did you tell my husband?”
“Mistress Sitis,” Dinah said calmly, “I said only what Elihu told us all.”
“Go.” Though Job’s voice was barely a whisper, the single word resounded like a shout.
Nada and Elihu leaned in closer, while Sitis stared in disbelief. “Job, you want me to go to Sayyid?” Her eyes were wary, like a mouse stealing cheese from a trap. “And ask for help?”
Job blinked, and Dinah explained his silent sign of assent. A sudden flush overtook his wife, her eyes questioning those around her. She looked frightened, unsure. And in that moment, Job knew. If Sitis thought Sayyid innocent, she would have leapt at the chance to redeem him, but her reaction spoke louder than a thousand denials. Even Sitis believed Sayyid had initiated the raid.
“Don’t go,” he croaked, a tear sliding down his face again. “Stay.”
In the same instant, Sitis glanced away, and Job watched horror dawn on her features. “Nooo!” she cried, suddenly on her feet and running toward the mountaintop entry. Elihu jumped up, reaching for Sitis’s arm, and Nada clutched at her garments.
Job’s breaths came in gasps, fear and confusion wrestling for dominion. “What?” he asked Dinah. She and Nogahla had remained at his side, both shaking their heads, tears flowing down their cheeks like rain.
Covering her mouth, Dinah refused to explain. Job felt helpless, completely at the mercy of this young woman who now watched his family suffer unknown agony.
“What?” he roared, tearing the raw flesh of his throat until the pain almost sent him into oblivion.
Dinah released the words through her sobs. “Smoke, Job. Black smoke is rolling out of the tower stairway and rising from the balconies and windows of your home.”
12
~Job 18:12–15~
Calamity is hungry for him. . . . It eats away parts of his skin. . . . He is torn from the security of his tent and marched off to the king of terrors. Fire resides in his tent; burning sulfur is scattered over his dwelling.
Sayyid watched from the safety of his balcony while the Nameless Ones fled Job’s blazing home and pack animals escaped the canyon with the stolen household treasures. As flames licked the sandstone shell of Job’s grand palace, Sayyid envisioned every shred of fine linen, every bauble the bandits left behind, swallowed up in the destruction.
Through the rising plumes of smoke, faint shadows of Job and his newly made beggars huddled together on the ridgetop of his home. Without wealth, food, or shelter, Sitis would have no other choice. Tonight the object of Sayyid’s obsession would finally rest in his arms.
A slow, wry smile creased his lips. “Or perhaps I will teach you a lesson, Sitis-girl,” he whispered to no one. “Perhaps the lovely Dinah will share my bed on the first night of my victory, while Job sleeps in the ashes of his charred home.”
“Master Sayyid.” Aban’s voice broke into his reverie, startling him.
“What is it, Aban?” He turned, staring daggers at the captain. “Is there a problem with the bounty? Are the Nameless Ones demanding more than their agreed portion?” In Sayyid’s experience, beggars were an unscrupulous lot, without even the honor common among thieves.
“No, my lord.” Aban had stopped at the balcony threshold and appeared pale as a ghost. “Mistress Sitis is in your courtyard and demands an audience with you.” He pressed his lips together tightly as if more words were like wild horses pawing at the gate.
Hmm. Stops short in his approach and his report. Something is terribly wrong. His captain hadn’t demurred like this since his childhood training, when Sayyid was honing this strong and disciplined warrior. “Tell me now what you’ve done, and perhaps it will go better for you.” Sayyid placed his hand on his leather belt and watched Aban note the action. His captain hadn’t felt the sting of his strap for years, but the familiar movement evoked the intended obedience.
The big man squared his shoulders and raised his chin. “Mistress Sitis has accused me of leading the raid. She said Job’s student Elihu reported seeing me in the canyon at dawn, placing the bandits at the exits of their home.” The corner of Aban’s mouth twitched nervously.
Sayyid allowed silence to torture his young captain. Removing his hand from his belt, Sayyid clasped his hands behind his back and began a slow, reflective stroll around the anxious captain. After completing two rounds, Aban’s muscles looked as tight as lyre strings.
Sayyid rose to his toes but still stood a head shorter than this giant man. “Go now and tell Sitis I require her presence in my chamber.” He watched a bead of sweat roll down the captain’s forehead and into his eye. Still the well-trained soldier didn’t flinch. “You will say nothing in your own defense, Aban. Nothing.”
The captain’s face was plagued with questions, but his intelligence silenced him. “Yes, master,” he said, offering a curt bow. Aban strode from the room, his black robes fluttering in the wind of his hurried retreat.
Sayyid chuckled. He could think of no better punishment for Aban than to face Sitis’s wrath. A full-fledged belly laugh escaped at the thought of Aban herding Sitis up four flights of stairs and into Sayyid’s bedchamber while enduring her threats and accusations. If Elihu saw Aban in the canyon, Sitis would certainly know that Sayyid had plotted her husband’s latest demise. Considering the likelihood that Elihu would accuse Aban publicly before the elders, Sayyid would have Aban deal with Job’s young student promptly. But he would handle his Sitis-girl personally.
“Mistress, please sit down.” Nada’s consoling arms guided Sitis to a bejeweled bench under an olive tree in Sayyid’s courtyard. Sitis offered a weak smile, but standing, sitting, or lying flat on her back wouldn’t change her true position. She was destitute, and Sayyid had arranged it.
“How could I have been blind for so long?” she asked Nada, not really seeking an answer. Job had tried to warn her of Sayyid’s deceitfulness.
Even moments ago, when she and Nada had left the sacred altar, Job’s eyes begged her to be cautious. “Shobal, Lotan.” He had croaked the names of the herdsmen who had arrived at the altar frightened but unharmed. Elihu asked to accompany her and take the herdsmen along as an escort, but she knew her best chance at success lay in meeting Sayyid alone.
The nursemaid hugged Sitis’s head to her shoulder and stroked her hair. “We don’t know why Sayyid’s captain was in the canyon this morning. Save your judgment until you talk with him, my Sitis.”
Serving maids passed by, a few at first, and then as the wait grew longer, more servants walked casually through the courtyard. No doubt they were awed that the first time the great lady of Uz visited Sayyid’s home, she would arrive in such a disheveled state.
An older maid shyly approached and knelt before Sitis. “Mistress, may I bring you some sweet wine?”
Sitis looked into the woman’s face, and it was as though she had raised a bronze mirror. Her stomach lurched. The startling truth of Sayyid’s obsession knelt before her. Panicked, Sitis stood, running to each serving maid, studying her hair, her eyes, her lips. “Nada, they are me!” she cried, fresh horror gripping her.
Nada dropped her gaze, seemingly unable to reply.
“You knew?” Sitis said. “In forty years I’ve never visited Sayyid’s home, but you have come many times at my bidding. You’ve seen these women, Nada.” She let her unspoken betrayal linger in the silence.
Finally, Nada looked up, lips quivering with emotion. “Sayyid has loved you since you were children, my girl. I thought his love was pure, incapable of harm. Please, just listen to what he has to say.”
“Mistress Sitis.” Sayyid’s captain stood on the bottom stair. How long had he been there? How much had he heard? “My master requests your presence in
his chamber.” The young man she knew as Aban bowed slightly, keeping his gaze averted.
“Nada, come,” Sitis said, motioning the old woman to her feet. By the gods, she would not go to Sayyid’s bedchamber by herself.
“I’m sorry, mistress, but Master Sayyid requests your presence alone.” Aban’s imposing form blocked the stairway as the women approached.
Sitis grasped Nada’s hand and thrust out her chin, her resolve as unyielding as the captain’s Hittite sword. “I know you are mighty enough to force my obedience, Aban,” she said, using the young man’s name to prompt recollections of the times he’d accompanied Sayyid to her home. “You may guide me up those stairs, alive and with my maid, or carry my dead carcass without my maid to your master’s bedchamber. You decide which Sayyid would prefer.”
The young captain shifted nervously, eyeing Nada’s wide stance and clenched jaw. “All right, but she remains silent,” he said, casting a menacing glance at Nada before turning to ascend the stairs.
Sitis sighed with relief and began the long climb. Aban snatched a wall lamp from a niche and handed it to her. “You’ll need this.” Their eyes met for just a moment, and she caught just a hint of . . . was it compassion? Remorse? Guilt? Just as suddenly, he turned and continued his march up the stairs.
Sitis’s anger reignited. “How dare you raid and pillage my home.”
Silence. He continued the march.
“And then burn everything we own!” Her voice disintegrated into a whine, her legs burning from the climb, her throat burning with emotion.
The giant, black-robed figure stalked up the stairs in front of her without comment.
“Stop!”
He continued to ignore her.
Desperate for a response, she lunged at his foot and pulled hard, sending the hulking man to his hands and knees. A rush of dread choked Sitis. She sat back against the wall, bracing herself for his heated retaliation.
Aban’s smooth, brown face turned slowly, but the anger Sitis expected was absent. His hand came toward her, and she flinched, thinking he would strike her. The blow didn’t come.
She looked up and found his outstretched hand waiting to help her stand. “Please come, Mistress Sitis.” His voice was gentle. “My master will answer your questions.”
The mountaintop altar had proven a clever escape from the bandits and a safe harbor from the fire, but as the sun brightened, their future dimmed. The rejoicing when Shobal and Lotan returned changed to mourning at their departure.
“We smeared ourselves with mud and soot and escaped on Master Job’s camels among the Nameless Ones,” Shobal had reported when they arrived earlier. “When the filthy bandits began arguing over their share of bounty, we slipped away. We knew you would come to the altar, Master Job.” Shobal hesitated, making his next words resound like a trumpet. “But none of us have anything left to sacrifice.”
Lotan nodded and then stepped forward. “If Sayyid is involved in all this, Master Job, we must consider the safety of our families.” His voice was choked. “Shobal and me—well, we’re sorry to leave you like this . . .” He trailed off like a breathless flute player.
Now Dinah watched the silhouettes of Job’s herdsmen fade through the waves of heat. Will we all fade away, El Shaddai—like words, like silhouettes, like breath? She felt the oppressive rays beating down on her head and felt the stone bench warming beneath her.
Lifting a linen sheet from the pile beside her, she handed Nogahla a coverlet from the pile of bed linens they’d brought out of their chamber. “We must tear this cloth into bandages a handbreadth in width.”
Elihu was pacing nearby, and Dinah tilted her head, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Do you have a job, or would you like me to give you one?” She half smiled, but Elihu’s brow furrowed as if considering a troublesome child.
He rushed over, and his thin frame cast a slender shadow. “My job, if you must know—and it seems you must—is to challenge the most conniving, deceitful man in Uz. I need to prove Sayyid’s guilt to the city elders, but I have no witnesses, no resources, and no support from Abba Job’s friends or family.” His face had grown redder as he’d ticked off the impossibilities, but Dinah refused to be cowed.
“Well, while you’re at it,” she said, standing to match his fervor, “you can also find us shelter. And soon.” She punctuated the last two words with a nod and returned to her seat beside Job. “He can’t withstand this sun much longer, and I need your help dressing his wounds.”
She began lifting Job’s robe from his chest, thinking he was unconscious. He moaned, as some of the weeping sores had already started to adhere to the cloth under the sun’s scorching heat. “I’m sorry, Job.” Emotion strangled her throat. Prayer was her only hope. El Shaddai, please carry Job into sweet unconsciousness, where he’ll feel no pain, while we tend these wounds.
“Why?” Job’s labored voice broke through her silent petition.
Elihu hurriedly knelt beside Job. “What do you mean, Abba? Why what?”
“Sores because I sin . . . sinned?” Job’s words seemed more pained than his deepest wounds. Dinah knew that kind of heartache. She had asked herself the same question a thousand times, when her life had turned to dust after Shechem.
“No, Abba. Your sores aren’t because of your sins.” Elihu’s eyes welled with tears. “Remember, we offered the sacrifice yesterday morning. You are forgiven.”
Job opened his eyes, and Elihu leaned close to meet his gaze. The teacher seemed to be searching, testing, begging his student. “Certain? No offering . . . today.” Tears began cascading from Job’s eyes, following the deep, uneven patterns of freshly opened flesh.
“Abba, remember the teachings of Shem. While they were on the ark, Noah couldn’t offer burnt sacrifices, but he was obedient in his heart and gathered clean animals for the offerings he would make when the journey ended.” Elihu’s voice broke, and he wiped his face. “Abba, you will offer sacrifices again someday. El Shaddai knows your heart.” Sobs overtook him, and he buried his face in his hands.
“Tears burn.” Job’s tortured expression revealed more than mere physical pain. He was devastated to have nothing to offer the God he loved and served wholeheartedly.
Like a dove settling on its nest, the object of Job’s offering settled into Dinah’s heart. “Your tears are your burnt offering, Job.” She had not learned this teaching as Elihu had learned of Noah’s story in the House of Shem, but El Shaddai had testified to its truth in this moment. The finality in her spirit surprised her, and the relief on Job’s face thrilled her.
Elihu looked up, startled. “What did you say?” His face was an unmarked grave, no trace of his opinion there.
“Job’s tears burn like fire,” Dinah explained, a little less confident now that a learned student might challenge her. “He offers them to El Shaddai in sorrow and repentance. Aren’t his burning tears more costly than the burning of an animal that bears him no personal pain?” She gazed down and watched Job’s eyes close, the faintest smile crease his blistered lips. One of her tears dropped onto his face, mingling with his in a deep wound on his cheek. She cringed, hating the thought of adding to his pain. Wiping her eyes, she said, “I have no doubt that Job will sacrifice a hundred lambs when this journey is ended. But for now, his tears are enough.” Dinah remained focused on Job, suddenly caring nothing about Elihu’s reaction. She knew in her spirit that Yahweh was pleased.
“I think I’d rather face a hundred bandits than contend with you.” Elihu’s quiet voice interrupted her peace. Dinah gazed into his close-set eyes, now compassionate and tenderhearted. His gentle smile unnerved her. “I loved Uzahmah, but you have earned my admiration.” He looked down at Job as if bolstering his courage. “Perhaps El Shaddai has brought us to Abba Job’s household for His greater purpose.”
Job’s brow furrowed, causing him to gasp.
“Job, what is it?” Dinah was thankful for the distraction. If Elihu considered his last remark the prelude to a betro
thal, he needed serious counsel on the ways of men with women.
“Elihu . . . accuse Sayyid . . . now.” Job swallowed with great difficulty.
Nogahla appeared with a mint tea leaf. “Here, Master Job. Put this on your tongue.”
After sucking on the leaf for a few moments, Job’s eyes opened with more clarity, and Nogahla offered a satisfied smile. “Elihu, you must accuse Sayyid at the city gate now.” His words were slurred from the tea leaf, but he grew more adamant. “When Sitis tells Sayyid that you know he’s responsible, he’ll try to kill you.”
Dinah’s mind reeled at the dreadful possibility that their nightmare wasn’t over but merely beginning a new scroll in an ongoing story.
“But what about Ima Sitis?” Elihu’s voice was shrill, panic setting in.
“If you go to the elders now, they’ll summon Sayyid immediately and interrupt whatever he plans for Sitis.” Job swallowed again and focused hard on his would-be son. “Elihu, you must leave Uz immediately after the trial. You cannot return here after you accuse Sayyid. Take one of the camels the herdsmen brought back, and ride quickly to find Sitis’s brother, Bildad, and Uncle Eliphaz. They’re the only people who can help us.”
Sayyid tightened his belt and smoothed his robe. Ridiculous. He was as nervous as a virgin bride. The clicking of sandals on the stone floor outside his chamber left his mouth parched, and just as he reached for his cup of wine, Aban appeared at the door with Sitis and Nada.
“Master Sayyid, Mistress Sitis and her maid have arrived.” His captain bowed, and Sayyid inhaled both wine and breath, causing him to spray and sputter like a disgruntled camel. Not the noble impression he’d envisioned for Sitis’s first visit to his bedchamber. Aban rushed to his side while Sitis and Nada watched wide-eyed from the doorway.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Clearing his throat and wiping the choked tears, Sayyid shoved away his captain’s awkward attempts at concern. Replacing his cup on the tray, he strode toward his beloved and cupped her face in his hands. “By the gods, Sitis, you look like death!”
