Isaiah's Daughter

by Mesu Andrews

  I curled into a ball, trying to make myself smaller. Yaira leaned over and covered me, like an ima bird covering her babies with its wings. Some of the soldiers began throwing stones at the watchtower. A sudden rumble of thunder boomed from a clear sky and shook the ground. Yaira and I trembled even after the rumbling stopped. I peeked up to the sky from beneath Yaira’s arms and wondered, Was that Yahweh’s voice?

  Very slowly, she lowered her arms, knelt beside me, and grinned a little. “Yahweh fought for us, Ishma.”

  All around us soldiers dropped their rocks. Some guards even fell to their knees. Others backed away from the captives as if touching us might hurt them.

  I tapped Yaira’s arm and pointed at the man in the watchtower, shrugging my shoulders.

  “His name is Oded,” she whispered. “He’s a prophet of Yahweh in Israel. He said the soldiers treated us shamefully and must free us or face Yahweh’s wrath. The city elders will lead us to Jericho where we’ll reunite with our families.” She kissed the top of my head. “We must pray the soldiers listen to Yahweh and that Micah finds us in Jericho.”

  Soldiers rose from their knees. Some still looked angry, but many stumbled like newborn calves on unsteady legs. They slashed ropes from the captives’ waists and unlocked shackles from their necks and feet. When the soldiers freed Yaira and me, she pulled me to my feet and hugged me gently, careful not to break open our wounds or sun blisters.

  “We’re free,” she said, glancing around us. “I think we’re really going to be free.”

  All the captives moved away from the guards—slowly, like they were drinking a bowl of hot soup, testing each sip. Could we really be released at the word of a single prophet and a rumble of thunder?

  The soldiers unpacked clothing, food, and bandages they’d stolen from Judean towns, and they began passing it out to all us captives. Even the sad woman who had lost her children smiled. Celebration spread, and one word floated on the evening breeze. “Free…free…free.”

  I’d heard that word many times before, but I understood it better now. A bird flew over, and I watched it circle and play in the sky. The bird was free—like us. No ropes or chains to bind it. No soldiers to burn or beat it. But when the bird settled into its peaceful nest at the fork of two branches, I knew we weren’t the same at all. My peace died in Bethlehem, and my home had been burned.

  “Ishma, what is it?” Yaira tilted my chin and dried my tears. “There’s no need to cry, little one. I’m sure Micah will find us in Jericho.”

  I stared into her sparkly dark eyes. She was so happy about being free, but didn’t she know? Freedom didn’t matter if we had no nest to call home. She pulled me back into a hug.

  I closed my eyes and pretended to be a bird.

  2

  So the soldiers gave up the prisoners and plunder in the presence of the officials….All those who were weak they put on donkeys. So they took them back to their fellow Israelites at Jericho, the City of Palms.

  —2 Chronicles 28:14–15

  I was tired of being brave, and I hated donkeys. This was the third day I’d ridden on one of the stinky, stubborn animals on our way to Jericho. Yaira tugged on his lead rope, and the old woman riding with me kicked his sides to make him keep moving in the long line of returning captives. The old woman breathed on the back of my neck and smelled like yesterday’s onions. She kept trying to comb her fingers through my tangled hair. I shoved her hand away, but it was like trying to dig water out of a mud hole; she just kept coming back. I’d rather walk with the woman who thought I was her child. No. I’d rather walk with Yaira.

  Again the old woman’s fingers found my tangles, and I couldn’t stand it. “Aaahhh!” My words were still lost, but I’d found my voice.

  Yaira glanced over her shoulder. “Ishma, you’re too weak to walk.” She winced as she returned her eyes forward. Our wounds were still raw, and though the robes we wore from the burned-up villages were softer than our normal robes, they still felt like broken pottery scraping our wounds.

  I looked down at my new robe and wondered what little girl had worn it before me. Was she still alive? Or did she die with her ima and abba? The old woman began combing my hair again. I needed to get off this donkey!

  “Uh-uh!” Rocking and kicking, I nearly knocked myself and the old woman to the ground.

  “Ishma, enough!” Yaira stopped, hands on her hips, eyes blazing.

  I stared back, pressing my lips together. She looked angry. Yaira almost never got angry. I looked at the sky, refusing to cry.

  “We’re trying to protect you, little one.” The onion-breathing woman squeezed me, breaking open my whipping wounds.

  “Aah!” I cried out.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, dear.”

  I shook my head and pooched out my bottom lip. Abba always said a bird might fly over and poop on it, but I didn’t care.

  Yaira stood beside us, her eyebrows drawn together. “Ishma, I won’t speak to you until you put away your pouty lip.” Yaira never lied. I knew she meant what she said. People were passing us on the road. Jericho might be full when we got there. I sucked in my lip.

  Yaira and the old woman shared a smile, but I didn’t see anything to smile about. The old woman pointed at a hill ahead. “Jericho is just over that ridge, little one. It’s full of palm trees, and the streets are lined with all kinds of merchants’ stalls: food, pottery, rugs, and…well, anything you can imagine. Perhaps you’ll find your family waiting there.”

  Family. My only family was Yaira.

  Yaira patted my leg. “Consider Yahweh’s great mercy, Ishma. You have been saved twice over—once from death in Bethlehem and again from captivity in Samaria.” She tugged at the donkey and started walking again, calling over her shoulder. “What big plans might Yahweh have for you that He has gone to such trouble to save you?”

  The onion woman chuckled. “A good question for us all.” She combed her fingers through my tangles again, and I pushed her hand away. Why couldn’t she leave me alone?

  Whatever plans Yahweh had for me, I wanted only Yaira included. We could live together, just the two of us. I crossed my arms and closed my eyes, thinking of the little sukkah we could build with palm branches when we arrived in Jericho. It was the only shelter we would need, and I never ate much. I yawned and leaned back against the old woman. Yaira and I could take good care of each other.

  “Ishma? Ishma, wake up now.” Yaira was standing beside the donkey—with Micah. Was I dreaming? Yaira smiled through her tears. “I told you Yahweh would send him to find us.”

  Micah lifted me off the donkey, and a man about my abba’s age set another little girl in my place. “Savta!” The little girl hugged her tight.

  The old woman began combing her crooked fingers through the girl’s hair. “Oh, Savta, I’ve missed you.” The girl leaned into her savta’s chest. I looked away, feeling ashamed I hadn’t been nicer to the woman.

  The man took our donkey’s lead rope. “Are you sure you don’t need the donkey, Micah?”

  “No, my friend. Your journey is farther than ours. We’ll be in Jerusalem before nightfall.”

  Jerusalem? I didn’t want to keep going. We’d gone from Bethlehem to Samaria to Jericho—and now Jerusalem?

  Micah and Yaira waved good-bye. The old woman waved, but I couldn’t wave back. Everyone looked so happy. The little girl. The abba. Like a family.

  Yaira hugged Micah again. “I knew you’d be here.”

  My face felt prickly again, and my heart pounded hard in my chest. Micah and Yaira had each other. I had no family. Would they go to Jerusalem without me?

  I lunged for Yaira, wrapped my arms around her waist, and closed my eyes. Please, don’t leave me! I shouldn’t have made her angry on the road to Jericho. I’ll do whatever you say. I’ll find Yahweh’s plan for me if that’s what you want.

  “Ishma, calm down. I’m right here,” Yaira soothed. “Micah is here to take us both to Master Isaiah, another Yahweh prophet, who has agreed to let
us serve in his household.”

  I didn’t want to keep going, but I needed to be with Yaira. Why couldn’t we be like the birds with a peaceful nest?

  “Ishma.” Micah’s deep voice startled me. I opened my eyes and found him kneeling beside me, holding out his hand. “You don’t have to walk. I can carry you on my shoulders.”

  I looked up at Yaira. She nodded, so I knew Micah was telling the truth. If she trusted him, maybe I could. I released Yaira and put my hand in Micah’s. Abba used to carry me on his shoulders. I liked that. When Micah lifted me onto his shoulders, I bit my lip to keep from whimpering. My whole body hurt. Would it ever stop?

  “Hold under my chin,” he said, “so you won’t fall.” Micah laid one arm across my knees and offered his other hand to Yaira. “I know the sun is already at midday, but if we leave now and eat our evening meal while walking, we can make it to Jerusalem by sunset.”

  Yaira nodded and took his hand. She was trying to be brave like me. Couldn’t Micah see how tired she was? How tired we both were? I looked at the other people—freed captives like Yaira and me—and they looked tired too. But everyone kept walking. We were people, not birds.

  Micah led us through Jericho’s market, and I remembered the old woman’s description. Palm trees and market booths lined both sides of the busy street. Many hungry Judeans like us were in need of food and supplies for their journeys home. Animals ran from young shepherds, adding to the confusion. The smell of cooking meat and mounds of fresh fruit made my tummy growl as we passed the last of the shouting merchants.

  More palm trees made swaying shadows all the way to the city gate where we joined a caravan of freed captives on their way to Jerusalem.

  Once outside the city’s walls, Yaira looked up at her brother, trying too hard to smile. “How did you know we would be in Jericho?”

  He said something about the prophet we saw in Samaria sending a message to the camp where he lived in Tekoa. But Micah wasn’t in the prophets’ camp when the soldiers came. He was in Jerusalem—behind its high walls—when it was attacked last week.

  Yaira stopped walking. “Why were you in Jerusalem?”

  Of all the important things Yaira could have asked, why that? Why not ask if we would be safe there now?

  “I was in Jerusalem because I have been appointed as a royal prophet.” Yaira’s eyes went wide, but Micah waved away her excitement. “King Ahaz selected me to join his royal counsel because I have no royal connections and little influence.”

  Yaira snapped off a small twig from a broom tree and began breaking it apart as she walked. “Why put someone with no influence on the counsel. Isn’t the prophet Isaiah also on the counsel? He’s got royal blood.”

  “He was on the counsel but is no more because he has too much influence. King Ahaz demoted Isaiah to royal tutor because he openly criticized the king’s two newest advisors—a Philistine medium and a Judean witch.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. A witch and a medium? I squeezed Micah’s chin, staring upside down into his eyes.

  He chuckled. “Don’t worry, little one. Although King Ahaz has fallen far from Yahweh’s will in the past months, my place on his council meant I was safely hidden with the other advisors in the tunnels under the city when the Israel-Aram coalition attacked both Jerusalem and Bethlehem at the same time.”

  Yaira’s hands stilled on the twig. “What did they do to Jerusalem?”

  “The enemy troops destroyed most of southern Jerusalem, but Judean soldiers were able to stop their advance before they entered the Upper City.” Micah shifted me on his shoulders. “Yahweh’s Temple and the palace are safe, but many of the buildings in the Lower City—where the poorest people live—were nearly leveled. Our surrounding crops, orchards, and vineyards were also completely destroyed.”

  My body went rigid and began to shake. I didn’t want to go to Jerusalem where there were mediums and witches and more soldiers attacking.

  Micah lifted me from his shoulders, holding me against his chest, wrapping his strong arms around me. “It’s all right, little Ishma. The Israelite soldiers are gone now. You’ll be safe in Master Isaiah’s household.”

  Yaira had crouched at the side of the road, retching. Micah hurried to her and tried to set me on my feet. I stumbled, my legs shaking too much to hold me. He scooped me up and guided Yaira farther down the road to rest. Sitting between us, he unwrapped a square of goat cheese and loaf of bread. We ate in silence, staring across the brown rolling wasteland. I wasn’t hungry, but Yaira had given me a crust of bread with cheese on it. She nudged my hand toward my mouth. I knew she wouldn’t eat until I did.

  Micah didn’t eat anything at all. “While we hid in the tunnels under the palace,” he said, still staring at the desert hills, “with the king, his wives and children, the advisors, and their families, all I could think of was you, Yaira. I couldn’t protect you.” He bowed his head and pressed his thumbs against his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  Yaira set aside her food and laid her head on his shoulder. I realized Micah had been as scared as Yaira and I when the soldiers came. I patted Micah’s arm and laid my head against him too. No wonder Yaira loved him.

  “What happened to the people of the Lower City?” Yaira reached for her food again and took a bite. “Were they taken captive or…?”

  I didn’t understand all of his answer, but his deep voice shook, telling of people dying, homes burning, and the poor getting poorer. What did that mean for Yaira and me? Nudging him, I pointed to Yaira and myself, lifting my eyebrows. Surely, a prophet who heard an invisible God speak could understand a girl who’d lost her words.

  He looked at me and then back at Yaira. “She used to talk, didn’t she?”

  Yaira gave Micah that “mean sister” look she saved only for him. “She hasn’t spoken since we were taken from Bethlehem. No child should witness what Ishma saw.”

  Micah wrapped his arm around Yaira. “You’re a child too, sister.”

  Yaira shoved him away, her eyes filling with tears.

  My chest felt like a big rock had fallen on it. Yaira never cried. Micah reached for her, but she stood and started walking again. Silent. Swiping tears.

  Micah wrapped the food, shoved it into his shoulder bag, and then lifted me onto his shoulders again. We hurried to catch up with Yaira but didn’t talk anymore. Sometimes bad things made everyone lose their words.

  The sun beat down. I could hardly keep my eyes open when I heard Yaira whisper, “Let us stay with you, Micah. Don’t leave me again.”

  “You know I can’t, Yaira.” He blew out a heavy breath. “I have no home to offer you. The prophets’ camp in Tekoa was nearly destroyed, and I must help them rebuild. You and Ishma will be well cared for with Master Isaiah in Jerusalem.”

  Yaira’s steps never slowed. Her eyes never left the path in front of us. “I understand.” I knew her heart hurt like mine, maybe more. I didn’t have a family. Yaira did. But he wouldn’t keep her.

  “I will visit you and Ishma as often as I can.” Micah reached for her hand and patted my knee. “Ishma is our family now too—the little sister you always wanted.”

  Yaira looked at me, and I saw sadness in her eyes—but only for a moment. She patted my knee too. “Perhaps when Ishma and I get older, we can come to Tekoa and work the fields or—”

  “No, Yaira.” Micah kissed the back of her hand. “Serving in Master Isaiah’s household is the best chance you both have for a good marriage and a normal life.”

  She looked at us both, sadness shoving away her smile. “I’ll never marry, Micah, but perhaps Ishma can find a normal life in Jerusalem.”

  Yaira hurried her steps and blended into the caravan of freed captives. I looked to the sky and saw birds again, each flying alone. Did birds ever marry? Come to think of it, I’d only seen ima birds, never abba birds, with their babes in a nest. I squeezed my eyes shut and covered my head.

  I didn’t want to be a bird anymore. I didn’t want to be alone.
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  3

  Ahaz was twenty years old when he became king, and he reigned in Jerusalem sixteen years…He…sacrificed his son in the fire, engaging in the detestable practices of the nations the LORD had driven out before the Israelites.

  —2 Kings 16:2–3

  A deep sigh betrayed Isaiah’s discouragement at the end of another day as royal tutor. His duties in the northwest corner of the palace were as bleak as this first-floor, windowless room. Trapped at the end of a hallway in one of the forgotten chambers of Solomon’s overlarge harem complex, Isaiah attempted to instill wisdom and discipline in Judah’s dawning generation.

  “Prince Hezekiah, you will kindly return Eliakim’s wax tablet.” Isaiah spent most of his day redirecting the boundless energy of twenty boys, ages five to twelve. “Prince Bocheru, please name the capital cities of the armies that have breached Judah’s borders in the past weeks: Aram, Israel, Edom, and Philistia.”

  King Ahaz’s twelve-year-old firstborn stood; he was nearly the same height as his short, broad abba. “The capital of Israel is Damascus. Um…” All color drained from Prince Bocheru’s cheeks when Isaiah began shaking his head and rubbing his temples.

  “No, Prince Bocheru.” Isaiah pretended to search for another question on the scroll before him. Was he doomed to teach the king’s and advisors’ sons forever, or had impetuous King Ahaz removed him from the royal council for only a season?

  “I know the answer, Master Isaiah.” Eight-year-old Prince Hezekiah stood and sneered at his older brother. “The capital of Aram is Damascus, and the capital of Israel is Samaria. The cap—”

  “He didn’t ask you!” Crown Prince Bocheru balled his fist and slugged Hezekiah squarely in the nose.

  Ten-year-old Eliakim—skinny as a broom-tree branch, quick as a cat—rushed to Hezekiah’s aid, landing a solid punch to Prince Bocheru’s gut. Eliakim and Hezekiah had been pairing up against Bocheru since Hezekiah learned to walk. Prince Mattaniah, King Ahaz’s third-born of Queen Abijah, sat in the corner and cried. The queen had won her crown by bearing three sons to Ahaz: Bocheru, Hezekiah, and Mattaniah—all entirely different in temperament and character.