by Mesu Andrews
Her dove-gray eyes spoke a language he couldn’t yet understand. “What are you doing here, my king? Why now? Where is your escort?”
He wasn’t prepared for a conversation. Shiphrah and Sherah said any woman would be captivated by a moonlight visit. I should have realized, Arielah isn’t any woman. “My escort is waiting for us on the other side of the valley,” he said, trying to remember the other questions she asked. But the sadness in her eyes silenced him.
“I have longed to hear from you, my king.” He heard the implied reproach.
“I know I should have sent a message with Benaiah, but I’m here now.” He didn’t want to admit that he and Benaiah had spoken very few kind words since returning from Shunem. Their relationship had waned to polite exchanges and official business. Solomon’s chest ached again.
“Solomon,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. Her smile, her eyes embraced him, and he was captured by the sound of her voice. “I won’t break the treaty agreement we’ve made to unify Israel,” she whispered, “and I won’t break my abba’s heart by sneaking away in the middle of the night.”
“What?” The incongruity of her warm expression and cold words seeped slowly into his understanding. Solomon stood motionless. He had considered the danger of the northern districts but never the real possibility of Arielah’s refusal. Disbelief turned to anger, warming his neck and cheeks. “You won’t?” he asked incredulously. “You accuse the king of Israel of breaking a treaty?” His voice rose like a spoiled child. Remember your emptiness without her, the desolation of the past nine moons. The nameless wives. The empty stares.
“Solomon, please speak to Abba when the day breaks and honor him with your request.”
“My request? A king does not request!” he said.
She grew quiet but didn’t recoil. He wanted to reach through that window, throw her over his shoulder, and ride back to Jerusalem tonight. But I must speak with wisdom. He tried to calm himself, remembering that part of wisdom included using phrases that the Daughters of Jerusalem assured him would woo a shepherd girl’s heart.
Gathering his patience, he spoke in even tones. “My request is that you come to Jerusalem, Arielah. The winter has passed. The rains are over and flowers are budding. Doves are cooing. My city is a grand blanket of color awaiting your arrival. The fig tree forms its early fruit; the blossoming vines spread their fragrance. Come with me to my golden city, beautiful one.” He bounced his eyebrows, hoping his carefully worded shepherd’s verse would win her heart.
She reached out to push a strand of hair off his forehead, her eyes searching every detail of his face. “Exquisite words, my king,” she said, cupping his cheek in her hand. “But many challenges await me in Jerusalem, more vivid to me than the beauty you describe.”
So she’s afraid. His chest ached, a passion so deep he could barely breathe. “But, my dove, my beautiful one,” he whispered, “your mountain haunts and rugged hills are much more dangerous than my well-guarded palace.”
Her eyes welled with tears, and she caressed his cheek, the tenderness of her touch different from any woman he’d known. Suddenly his planned speech was a filthy rag—exposed by her untainted honesty.
Before he could say more, her face vanished from the window, and she was gone.
Panic choked him. “Arielah!” She couldn’t leave him! “My dove,” he whispered, “please come back! Tell me what you fear in Jerusalem, or what makes you feel secure here in the clefts of Mount Moreh.” When she did not reappear, he pleaded, “Say something, beloved. I need to hear your sweet voice and see your lovely face.”
An excruciating moment passed. Finally she returned. “May I ask you a question, my lord?”
Solomon’s heart pounded. He didn’t want to talk anymore. Her questions probed too deeply. But it seemed talking was the only way to be near her right now. “Ask it,” he said, reaching up to grasp the hand she had laid on the sill.
“When Jehovah hid Moses in the cleft of the rock, he placed limits on their relationship, didn’t he?”
Solomon nodded.
“Was it because He loved Moses or hated him,” she asked cautiously, “that God placed limits on him, allowing the man to see only His back?” She waited in silence. He could see her trembling.
Solomon too began trembling when her intention became clear. “How dare you presume to instruct me on love?” His voice rose. He expected her to cower in submission. Instead, she lifted her chin and gazed into his soul with those eyes, those dove’s eyes. “Oh!” he cried. “You will come to Jerusalem with me, woman, willingly or not!”
She stood in the moonlight, looking almost—well, regal. Tears flowed down her angelic face and dripped onto the window ledge, her voice so soft Solomon had to lean in to hear it. “Indeed, my love, I will go to Jerusalem as your bride, but not tonight. I cannot face what awaits me there without my abba’s blessing before we leave.”
Her words assaulted his heart. Softening it. Squeezing it. Shaping it. The ache in his chest was now unbearable.
Solomon felt his shoulders slump, utterly surrendered. “Honestly, Arielah, I don’t understand why you’re so frightened to go to Jerusalem.” Seeing the pain in her eyes, he ventured another shepherd’s verse to please her. “Catch for us the foxes that would ruin our vineyard that’s in bloom.”
An approving smile graced her features, and Solomon’s heart soared. She lifted her hand to his cheek, and his hope was reborn. Perhaps she will come with me yet.
“I look forward to the day I become your bride in Jerusalem,” she whispered. Spinning the gold betrothal ring on her hand, she added, “Even now, I am already yours and you are mine, but . . .”
“But what, beloved?”
Lifting tear-filled eyes, she whispered, “Foxes ruin our vineyard because you browse among the lilies in your garden. Your heart and hands are full of other flowers.”
Her words settled on his heart like a bit and bridle. “You fear Jerusalem because of my other women?” He pushed away her hand. “I thought I made myself clear in the meadow!” He stepped off his shaky perch, kicking the crate.
“Please, my king, let me speak!”
“No!” He caught his horse’s reins and started to mount, but where would he go?
“Wait,” Arielah half sobbed, half whispered from her window.
Solomon stopped and retraced his steps toward her. “No, you will wait, treaty bride.” His words were a threat, not a promise. “I am the king of Israel, and I will build our nation with alliances and trade agreements! Would you have me refuse those women, Arielah? What about their love? Their desires? You demand too much of me, woman, and I’ll not come begging at your window again!” He turned and led his horse toward the northern gate.
“Please, Solomon, listen to me!” Arielah now leaned out the window, her voice still a strained whisper. “Come and talk to my abba in the light of day. Do the honorable thing, Solomon. When the day breaks and the shadows flee, show your strength of character like a noble stag on the rugged mountains.”
“Enough!” he shouted. “Your high-sounding words are like a thistle flower—beautiful but painful to grasp. I’ll not return in the morning, shepherdess! I may never return.”
A sob escaped Arielah’s throat as the distance between them grew. “Please, Solomon, return for me at dawn. Talk to my abba.” Her words dwindled as he approached the northern gate.
Arielah turned, letting her back slide down the wall, and crumpled to the floor. She glanced up and saw her parents standing by the cooking stones, offering their quiet comfort. “How much did you hear?” she asked as fresh tears came.
“Enough,” Ima said.
“Abba, what should I do?”
Jehoshaphat entered her little sanctuary and knelt, kissing her hand before he spoke. “I believe you’ve already done what you should do, my lamb.” Gazing into her eyes, he studied her for a long moment. “Do you want me to go find him? Tell him that he can take you to Jerusalem now, despite the treaty ag
reement?”
Another wave of sobs robbed her of her voice. Both Abba and Ima held her until she could speak again. Wiping her face with the skirt of her tunic, she said, “No, Abba. Solomon’s visit at my window seems utterly foolish, but I have to believe Jehovah’s wisdom is at work.”
She watched approval light Abba Jehoshaphat’s features. Brushing her cheek, he said, “Love grows like a dance, my lamb. It is a series of steps, a string of decisions both you and Solomon will make. Sometimes, when Solomon withdraws, you must pursue him, while other times you must step back and let him return to you.” His tears glistened in the moonlight. “Remember, a man’s character is defined by more than a single decision, and love is made of more than a single step. Keep listening to Jehovah. He will set the tempo of your dance.”
23
• SONG OF SOLOMON 3:1–2 •
[Beloved] All night long on my bed . . . I looked for him but did not find him. I will get up now and . . . search for the one my heart loves.
Small stones and twigs crunched underfoot as Solomon marched around Shunem’s western wall. Arielah’s faint cries faded behind him.
“Guard at Shunem’s gate,” he shouted, not caring who he awakened, “I am King Solomon. Let me in!” He approached a dilapidated double-cedar northern gate. “I will stay in this village tonight!” He pounded the rotting panels, nearly shaking them from rusty hinges.
Instead of the polite welcome he expected, a grousing voice sounded from the other side. “If you’re King Solomon, I’m the queen mother! Bathsheba’s my na—” The gate opened slightly. “Ohhh, royal master!” said a gritty old man with teeth the color of camel’s hair. “How can I hhhelllp you?” He blew wine-saturated breath into Solomon’s face, shoving the gate open wide and falling to his knees. “Please accept my hhhummmblest-est apologies. I hhhaaad no idea—”
Solomon stomped past, in no mood to be assaulted by a blithering watchman. “Where can I find lodging for the night?”
Beads of sweat made muddy rivers down the man’s forehead. “I’m sure Prince Jehoshaphat would be happy to offer lodging, my lord.” Confusion—or was it hostility?—furrowed his brow. “His home is by the southern gate.”
“Never mind! I’ll find my own lodging, old man!” Leaving the man sputtering apologies, Solomon traipsed into the city, fairly dragging his stallion behind him. He’d bed down in the marketplace if he had to, find an empty merchant’s stall.
The horse jerked its head, nearly lifting Solomon off his feet. “What is it, old friend?” Looking more closely at the creature, he noticed the heavy lather around its mouth and riding blanket. “All right. To the well first. I think we could both use a little cooling off before we go any further.”
Shunem was a dark and lonely place at night. Not at all as he’d remembered it on his betrothal visit. Tonight the dusty streets and small stone houses looked menacing, the silence deafening. Surely his tirade had awakened most of the village, but no one stirred. In the eerie silence, he followed a narrow path toward the well at the center of town. In the marketplace, he heard footsteps approaching from behind. He whirled about, pulled the dagger from his belt, and braced for an attack.
The old guard from the northern gate wobbled and waved. “There’s lodging and entertainment in the southeastern wall of the city—if you’re interested, my lord.”
The man turned abruptly and kicked a stone, wineskin in hand. Solomon watched him disappear into the darkness. How does a man fall to such depths? He sneered at the absurdity of a king in the bed of a filthy village harlot. He’d rather sleep with the rats in the market. Had his plan worked, he’d be sleeping with Arielah by now!
The silence nearly swallowed him. Shadows hid countless demons waiting to snatch Israel from his grasp. Nothing was simple. Arielah had said she was simple, but the “simple” thing she required was simply impossible! How could he be faithful to only one wife when the very currency of national politics was women?
Continuing toward the well, Solomon confided in his horse. “You’re a lucky beast. You can have as many mares as you like and no one thinks the lesser of you.” He chuckled at his own cleverness and then realized he was talking aloud to a horse in the middle of the night, unguarded, in hostile northern Israel. “Yes, Solomon, you’re clever all right,” he said aloud, wishing he’d asked the old man for a wineskin of his own. The well water would have to suffice.
Filling the trough twice for his horse, he curried the animal’s coat with the wooden comb and checked his legs and hooves. All the while, he spoke to the stallion as though the beast was his best friend. “What would it be like to be a common Shulammite, to care for a flock and work the soil? Perhaps then I could take Arielah as my only wife and give her the life she desires. But I am a king, and I have a responsibility to lead God’s people, to build this nation into a kingdom. Why can’t she understand that?”
A hand touched his right shoulder.
Solomon dropped the currycomb and grabbed his dagger again. He swung around, crouched at the ready as Benaiah had taught him.
Standing there was a dainty maiden, one of the most alluring women he’d ever encountered. A lavender veil draped her head. Glossy black hair hung in soft waves over her shoulders. She wore a sheer garment with a purple sash fitted at the waist, the moonlight behind her illuminating soft curves.
“My name is Marah,” she said, staring back at him with hungry eyes. “Were you the man asking for lodging at the gate?”
Solomon stood like a child, unable to form a sentence.
Marah held his gaze, moved his dagger aside, and bent down to retrieve his currycomb. “I’d like to help you stable your horse, my lord.” She began brushing the horse’s coat, one hand combing as the other followed, traveling over the stallion’s neck, back, and sides. Her hands gliding, veils flowing, hair shining in the moon’s light.
Solomon watched as if witnessing a dream. Before he realized it, she was leading his horse away from the well. “Wait!” he said, breathless. “Where are you going?”
She turned, cradling the horse’s neck to her cheek. “I’m leading your horse to my barn,” she said, her eyes inviting him to follow.
“Your barn?” Solomon tried not to sound condescending, but how could a village prostitute afford her own barn? “You own a barn?”
A soft chuckle. “I have many friends in Shunem and the surrounding villages, my king.” Marah stepped toward him. “There are many influential men—wealthy men—who offer me gifts and provide for my needs. They appreciate my soft bed and warm arms, and they need a barn to stable their animals during their visits.” She paused, lifted an eyebrow. “Much like you are in need of a bed and a stable tonight, King Solomon.”
His cheeks burned. He felt as awkward as he had at his first wedding chamber yichud. “I’m sorry, but I don’t need your . . . um . . . services.” She began a low chuckle, and anger fueled his candor. “The king of Israel will not indulge in a common prostitute!”
With two quick steps, she pressed her body against his frame. “I’m happy to hear it, my king, because I’m in no way common.” She lingered there, allowing her warm breath and alluring fragrance to do their work. “My bed is covered with colored linens from Egypt and perfumed with aloes, cinnamon, and myrrh. The men who enjoy my companionship pay well for my pleasures.”
Solomon was awed by her candor, stirred by her brazenness.
“Your stallion will pay for tonight’s lodging,” she whispered. Before he could reply, she kissed him deeply.
His passion soared, every conscious thought lost to delight. “Marah.” Her name rolled off his lips. His eyes remained closed after the lingering kiss. She tasted sweet, not bitter as her name implied or her profession might warrant.
Marah took his hand, coaxed him, still tempting. “Come, great king, let’s drink deeply of love until morning.”
Drink deeply of love until morning . . . The words stopped him. Arielah had begged him to return for her in the morning, to speak with Jeh
oshaphat. If I partake of Marah’s pleasure tonight, I can never return to Arielah’s purity.
Marah was sensitive to his hesitancy. “Am I unworthy because I’m not a prince’s daughter?” When Solomon looked surprised at her perception, she grinned. “All of Israel knows you’re betrothed to Jehoshaphat’s precious Arielah, and I would guess you’re here instead of in her arms because of her righteousness.”
Solomon turned away, ashamed.
Marah’s eyes found him, a sinister smile creasing her lips. She chased his gaze. He looked down. She found it. Away. She sought his eyes again and laughed each time their eyes met. A silly game, but Solomon finally smiled.
Her gaze lingered, and the sparkle in her eyes dimmed. “There’s no need for shame, my king. I once ate at Jehoshaphat’s table, shared childhood secrets with Arielah. But I could not follow their rules or meet their expectations, so I was judged by the city elders and cast aside. I have learned to survive on my own.”
Solomon turned away, uncomfortable with the woman’s self-disclosure.
Drawing his chin up with a henna-dyed fingernail, she lightened her tone. “Now I live by my rules, and the same elders who once judged me now seek my favor with spices, wine, and perfumes.” Her voice became as sharp as a Hittite sword. “Tell me, King Solomon. Who is more wicked—those who created the harlot or the one who must live as the harlot?”
Silence lingered while darkness seeped into Solomon’s soul.
Leaning close, Marah whispered, “Let me love you without rules, without a treaty, without a wedding.”
Solomon received her kiss, felt her tears on his cheek. This woman was not a harlot—at least, not like any harlot he’d imagined. She had a heart and a soul that had been broken by unreasonable people making unbearable demands. The same people who expected him to act like a Shulammite husband though he was a king. He could never be the man Arielah longed for—the man she deserved.
