by Mary Burns
A glow came into his eyes, and raising my hand to his, he touched it to his lips.
“Will you consent to be my wife?”
I could not answer at first.
“But do you love me?” This I had to know, and I searched his fine brown eyes.
In response, he leaned forward and kissed my mouth, tenderly, then as my lips parted to receive his kiss, passionately. I felt myself disappearing into a dream of fog and cloud, and suddenly I put my hands up, and he drew back.
“I—I don’t know,” I said, trying to discern the fear rising in my mind. “I don’t know if I can be a wife, or a mother. But then,” the fear and sorrow rising in me again, “I don’t know if I can any longer be a prophet, or a scribe.”
Nathan shook his head at me, smiling. “All these things are so much of who you are, of what I do love so dearly,” he continued. “Think what we can do together, once you are safe with me.”
His words touched me with hope. He stroked my face and my hair.
“No one will ever try to harm you again,” he said. “For I will always be here.”
My heart beat fast, and I felt elated, confused, anxious, joyful—all these feelings tumbled about in turn.
“Then, yes, Nathan,” I whispered. “Yes, I will be your wife.”
He laughed and kissed me again and we held each other tight until I made him leave me so I could rest and think.
* * *
That afternoon, I went to see my mother. She and all the wives were in the large, sunny room where the looms were set up, and the sewing tables by the tall windows. But no one was working; they were gathered around my mother and Ahinoam, listening intently to the latter. When I entered, she abruptly stopped talking and glanced at my mother, who motioned to me to come forward. She was seated on a low chair, and the others sat on plump cushions.
“I am glad you are here, daughter,” she said, taking me by the hand as I drew near. “I was about to send for you. Ahinoam,” she gestured to her, “tell us again what you have heard.”
“The King has sent Michal away from Jerusalem, indeed, she is already gone from here, and her goods will follow her,” Ahinoam said, looking at me closely. “I have heard she has been sent to live in Ziklag, and will not be allowed to return, ever.”
I was caught; what should I say? Instantly I knew I could not tell the whole story here, before all these women. Ahinoam and my mother, to be sure, I could trust to never repeat a word to anyone, but the other wives? No, it would not do. I tried my best to look surprised.
“What on earth can that mean?” I said, sitting down among the cushions, shielding my face from the women’s curious looks. “I thought she was rather the favored one, no?”
“Pish!” cried one of the trio of younger wives. “She has been pretending that David sent for her, or came to her room, we found that out long ago!”
I was reminded again how nothing escapes women’s notice, and wondered if it would turn out that they, all of them, already knew of my secret knowledge and abilities!
“My dears,” said my mother, calmly, but in a voice of command. “It’s time to wake the little ones from their naps, isn’t it?” All the wives immediately rose to leave the room, but my mother motioned to Ahinoam to stay behind. With my brother Amnon now past the age of ten, he spent afternoons with his teachers and other boys his age, and no longer needed his mother’s care. Ahinoam’s children were young, but there were more than enough nursemaids and younger wives to look after them. With a few curious backward glances, the younger women left the room.
I still sat at my mother’s feet, my head in her lap now, and my arms around her waist. She absently stroked my hair, and waited for silence to settle in the room again.
“My Janaia,” she said at last, kissing the top of my head. “You have gathered a few enemies already in your young life, haven’t you?”
I lifted my head to look into her eyes. Yes, she knew everything, of that I was sure. But this didn’t disturb me, nor that Ahinoam knew as well.
“Michal and Uzzah were lovers,” Ahinoam said. “And together they plotted against you, to thrust you from your father’s side as his prophet, and replace you with Michal.”
I shook my head in disbelief at such audacity. “How could she possibly imagine,” I said, “that she could prophesy, that she— she could be a channel for the Lord’s words to the King!” I looked at Ahinoam with sudden keenness.
“How do you know all this?” I asked. “And how long have you known this?” I was very close to wondering why neither she nor my mother had tried to warn me, but I dismissed the idea as unworthy.
“Very recently,” my mother answered my question, and the unspoken one as well. “If we had known what they were planning, it would not have happened.”
I clasped my mother tighter, and held a hand out to Ahinoam in gratitude for their care.
“But there may be one more enemy you—and we—must be careful of,” my mother continued. I looked at them, puzzled.
“Abiathar, the high priest,” said Ahinoam. Her eyes narrowed as she went on. “We think that Michal would not have come up with this scheme completely on her own, not even with Uzzah’s wicked greediness to help,” she explained. “And there were signs of an understanding between her and Abiathar of late.” She sniffed delicately; in anyone else it would have been a swear word. “She was probably sleeping with him, too.”
My blood ran cold as I remembered his protests at my being allowed into the oracle room, and as I replayed that event in my mind, I realized that I had foolishly made it obvious that I knew how to write! How could he not have seen that? And had he kept it to himself all this time, waiting for the opportunity to turn it to his advantage? That would explain quite clearly how Uzzah knew about my writing—and perhaps, even why he asked for The Name! Abiathar might well conclude that if I wrote The Name, I too would be destroyed by the Lord’s wrath. Uzzah, I saw, had been sacrificed in any event, to Abiathar’s ambition and hatred.
“Surely,” I said, struggling with the enormity of it, “surely after what has happened to Uzzah and Michal, he won’t continue to make trouble?” I looked anxiously at my two dear mothers. “Can we not go to my father and inform him?”
Both women shook their heads at the same time. “Abiathar is powerful, and we have no proof.” My mother smiled grimly. “Just women’s sight, you know, not good enough for a writ of complaint.”
“Never fear,” Ahinoam said, patting my arm. “We’ll keep an eye on him, and make sure he keeps a straight path from now on. Indeed, Uzzah’s death and Michal’s banishment will no doubt create a formidable check on any wicked designs to usurp your place as the King’s prophet.”
I sighed deeply, remembering now why I had come to see my mother, and recalling the fears and doubts I had expressed to Nathan.
“I don’t think Abiathar is going to find anything to say against me in the future, anyway,” I said. I pulled back from my mother’s lap and sat up straight. “And the King has another prophet besides me, a very good one.” I smiled, though sadly, at their evident interest in my words. “I have agreed to be Nathan’s wife, and I rather think that my writing and prophesying days are coming to an end.”
“Oh, my dear, just as I have wished for so long!” cried my mother, and the two of them fell upon me with hugs and kisses. It was hard to resist such delight and happiness, and in their rejoicing and good wishes for me and Nathan, I managed to silence the small, still voice within that tried to pierce my consciousness: “No! Not at an end!”
When I returned to my room later, my writing instruments and scrolls were sitting neatly in their box on my bed, covered with a small rug. As I placed them back in their hidden spot in the great chest, I felt a faint tremor of regret at my decision. But I consoled myself with the thought that they would be there if I ever wanted them again.
Chapter 25
“David ruled over all Israel, administering law and justice
to all his people.” 2 Sa
muel 8:15
Nathan and I were married on an auspicious day, the summer solstice, and consequently had to put up with much teasing about the shortness of the nights. My father was pleased with our marriage; I think he had seen for some time that I was not going to be easily married to one or another of his many allies, whether king or prince or overlord. For who would want to marry a woman as old as I was, past twenty? Most girls were mothers by the time they were fifteen. And then there were the stories about my prophesies and my gift of Sight—not the kind of woman most men felt would be appropriate for a wife and mother. David had many other daughters growing up fast who would be more suitable to help cement alliances.
Our first night together was one of wonder and joy. Nathan was tender and considerate, and though it would take some time before I was able to meet him in equal physical joy and passion, I rejoiced in the warm safety of his love and protection. We both hoped to have a child, and soon, and we grew daily more reliant on our complete openness and candor with each other.
My father had given us the whole suite of rooms that surrounded my own room for our home; Nathan had formerly lodged within the priests’ domicile, so he had no home for us to move into. But this suited both of us very well, as we were fond of the garden and the study where we had spent so many hours reading and playing music. The study was now given over to Nathan’s use entirely. I was happy to see him so delighted with his new surroundings, and tried not to think about what I had given up. It was not that he in any way forbade me to write or study. Rather, I was reluctant to engage in those pursuits again, unsure of the consequences for my new life as a wife and hopefully a mother, as well as fearing the responsibility of wielding such power. But I did not speak of these fears to my new husband.
One other thing I did not share with him, the morning after our first bedding: when I saw the red spots of blood on the sheets from the loss of my maidenhood, I immediately thought of Abiathar’s interpretation of the oracle of Urim and Thummin. Red blood shed in violation of God’s will. I connected it with my marriage and my renunciation of prophecy and writing, and I kept it hidden in my heart. But the memory of Abiathar’s treachery, though not proven, made me resolute in keeping out of harm’s way, and not take up my old pursuits again.
* * *
Although David had been proclaimed king by the elders and all the tribes of Israel and had brought an end at last to the fighting among brothers and cousins, it was a long time before the various surrounding kingdoms of Moab, Edom, Ammon, Aramea, and many others finally accepted him as undisputed king of his land, this Israel of ours. Defeated kings sent baskets of silver, gold, and copper, which David dedicated to the Lord. Great warlords who wanted to be free of Israelite raids or vengeance sent yearly tributes of coins, jewels, animals, and slaves. The treasury filled up seven times over, and peace spread throughout the land, with flocks multiplying in the pastures and grain, barley, olives, and grapes filling the fields and providing immense harvests to gather and celebrate.
In this time of growing peace, the King’s sons were an increasing delight to him, and he spent many hours with them, helping to teach them the skills fit for warriors and princes. I too spent more time with the women and children of the house, and in particular with my own brother Amnon, and my other special favorite, Absalom, the son of the princess Maacah who, alas, had died giving birth to a second child, a girl named Tamar. The two boys were fast friends, and one rarely went anywhere without the other. They tangled and fought like wildcats on occasion, as boys will do, but minutes later would be reconciled and playing a game—usually one that pit the two of them against all the other boys.
Amnon was tall and strong, and not particularly handsome, though his sense of being the King’s eldest son made him glow with confidence and sometimes, arrogance. Absalom, however, even as a child, was strikingly beautiful, with dark, luxuriously curly hair, large black expressive eyes fringed with long lashes, and smooth brown skin. As he grew, he became even more beautiful as his character proved him to be kind and good and modest. But he was a fighter all the same, with high spirits and a clever wit. Everyone who saw him fell in love with him, old or young, man or woman. Even the dogs followed him everywhere, and it was often said of him that he could charm the very birds from the trees to eat from his hand. His little sister Tamar had much of the same physical beauty, but she was a very shy child, and could rarely be brought to speak to anyone for very long— anyone except Absalom, that is. With him, as I often saw, she was open and expressive; like everyone else, she adored him.
I watched them all grow with increasing fondness, but as the first year of my marriage passed, I became anxious and melancholy because I had no child of my own. My mother tried to comfort me by reminding me how late in life she had given birth to me, and then even later, to Amnon.
“Your time will come,” she said to me one day as we sat at the looms, close to each other and farther from the other women. “You will see, the Lord has something very special in mind for you.”
I looked at her sharply. “Are you saying that from knowledge,” I asked her, “or are you just trying to comfort me?”
She cocked her head on one side, and seemed to concentrate on her weaving. Then she spoke softly.
“Just after you were born, when I held you in my arms the first time, I had a vision,” she said. “I have never spoken of this to anyone.” Her hands moved the shuttlecock in its endless journey across and back again, but I could not work and listen to her at the same time. I held my breath, so momentous seemed this telling.
“On the wall of the cave, above the lamp, there appeared a great and glorious temple, with a golden dome, four pillars of marble and floors of polished cedar. A red curtain hung floor to ceiling across a doorway behind which, though I did not see it, I knew the Ark of the Crossing Over resided. Then a voice said, ‘Behold the temple of the God of Abraham, of Isaac and of Jacob. The children of Abraham, more than the stars of the sky or the sands of the sea, were two and are now one.’” My mother ceased speaking for a moment, then leaned toward me and whispered, “And then, a spark of flame leaped from the center of the golden dome, and lighted upon your head as you lay in my arms, a cold flame, a flame that gave light but not heat, and then it disappeared.”
I stared at my mother, my heart in my throat. What did it mean? How would I be connected to this great building of the Temple for the Ark? The oracle of Urim and Thummin was vivid in my mind: the four corners of bright jewels and the glowing Name in the center.
“Why did you never tell me this before?” I asked.
She shrugged slightly and shook her head. “It was not the time.” She glanced at me serenely. “Now is the time, Janaia, and I pass it on to you, to hold in your heart. You will know what it means when the Lord sees fit to reveal it to you.”
I nodded my head in silence, and breathed freely again. I would wait as patiently as I knew how, and hope I would see the signs when they came to me.
Chapter 26
“…each man that stands on earth is only a puff of wind,
every man that walks, only a shadow…” Psalms 39:5
Some months later, I began to feel my body changing, and when my monthly courses did not flow at the usual time, I began to hope. I couldn’t keep this a secret from Nathan, but I begged him not to tell anyone just yet—how often had I seen, among all the women of the household, such a beginning of life snuffed out within a month or two! I didn’t think I could bear the added sorrow of others’ sympathy. He agreed to wait until the third month passed.
But of course my mother knew, and Ahinoam. There was very little that escaped them, and whether it was my changing appetite, or the slight bouts of morning sickness which I sought to hide from them, they knew almost as soon as I did. But they respectfully waited for me to say something first, glancing at me and each other with amusement and indulgence.
The baby in my womb grew quickly, and by the third month I was already showing a sizeable bulge. It couldn�
�t be hidden any longer, and when Nathan and I made the announcement at a celebration in honor of the King's birthday, the already joyous feasting and drinking was given added zest by the coming of the King’s first grandchild.
* * *
It was early evening on a day in high summer. The heat of the day simmered across the housetops and melted the far horizon, and there was no cooling breeze as yet. The sun was still some hours before its setting, but the shadows were lengthening across the town.
I was well into my eighth month, and feeling all the discomfort of an aching back and restless nights. Nathan had taken to sleeping on a cot next to our bed, as my constant shifting kept him awake. But he often wasn’t there, at night, and sometimes not for days at a time.
He had become increasingly responsible for the high priest’s duties for the ceremonies of the Ark, which currently resided in a plain though well-made tent in an open area near the palace. It was surrounded by a high wall and constantly guarded by the King’s best men, but there were olive trees and flowers planted all around the tent, in accordance with that long-ago oracle Nathan had interpreted, giving the Lord’s holy shekinah the beauty of the land as its house.
I learned with some trepidation, and more satisfaction, that Nathan was essentially taking place of Abiathar, whose stubborn ways and intolerance were slowly losing him the favor of his colleagues and his King. Nathan’s prophecies and his interpretations of the oracle were gaining him a reputation as a holy and devoted man of God, favored by Lord and King. But this often required him to accompany David to the courts of other kings, or on journeys to holy places for special ceremonies. In fact, he had now been gone for more than two weeks, both he and Abiathar, supervising the building of a great tomb at the Cave of Machpelah near Hebron, and I was expecting him home any day. I vaguely recalled him telling me that David had become interested lately in where he was going to be buried—a strange preoccupation, I thought.
I was comfortably situated in my room, half sitting, half lying on the pillow-covered bench by the north window, fanning myself to help any breeze that might spring up. Bees hummed, drowsy and stuffed with nectar, at the over-heated, drooping flowers in my little garden. The splash of the fountain sounded the only cool note in the room, and I lay mostly asleep, watching the smallnesses of life through partly closed lids. My baby stirred, and my hand moved to my belly protectively.
