by Mesu Andrews
King Ahaz’s five lesser wives had given him a total of six sons, all of whom sat on their cushions with little interest in what happened to the favored sons of Queen Abijah. The remaining students lined the outer walls. Some cheering. Some quaking. All waiting for Isaiah to end the fracas.
If this was the hope of Judah’s next generation, perhaps Jerusalem should throw open the gates and invite its enemies to take the throne now. It would save considerable time and trouble.
“Enough!” Isaiah entered the fray, grabbing Crown Prince Bocheru’s stout arm and pulling him off the royal treasurer’s skinny son. “All of you be seated!”
Hezekiah got in one last shove at his older brother before retreating to his cushion with blood dripping from his nose. Bocheru had been trying to toughen up his little brother since the day Hezekiah was born.
Eliakim, Hezekiah’s self-appointed messiah, rearranged his robe, ignoring his bloody lip. “I could have flattened him.”
The sound of marching sandals in the hallway stilled them all.
“Now you’ve done it.” Bocheru crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at Eliakim. “They’re coming to arrest you for hitting the crown prince.”
Sadly, the prince showed few signs of innate wisdom, and everyone except King Ahaz seemed to realize it. Too bad Hezekiah wasn’t born first. He was as sharp as a Philistine sword. Isaiah assessed the disarray. If anyone would be arrested, it was the tutor standing beside two bloodied students.
Judah’s commander appeared in the doorway, filling it with his broad shoulders and Goliathan height. He sneered at Isaiah before shoving several small white robes at his gut. “Your students are to wear these for tonight’s ceremony. I’ll wait while they put them on and then escort all of you.”
“Ceremony? I’ve not been informed of a cere—”
“You’re a tutor. You have no need to know in advance.” He pressed the robes harder against Isaiah, emphasizing his singular responsibility.
Isaiah received the fine robes like salt in a wound. A few weeks ago, he would have ordered this pompous commander where to march and how fast. Now, he matched robes with the boys’ sizes and pondered the possible reasons for tonight’s ceremony. Perhaps tonight was a memorial for the mass burial of the thousands of soldiers killed in the attack. Or maybe a prayer vigil for the captives taken to Aram, Edom, and Samaria.
The faint sound of drums in the distance felt like the pounding of a stake into Isaiah’s chest. He’d heard the sound before—in Ammon, after Ahaz’s first military victory. When Isaiah served as foreign minister under Ahaz’s abba, King Jotham, Isaiah had been sent to negotiate treaty conditions. While Judah’s army celebrated, the Ammonites sacrificed their children to the god Molek. The beating drums, meant to drown out the cries of children thrown into the fire, mingled with piercing screams in a rhythmic death chant.
Isaiah charged at the commander. “What is that sound?” It was an accusation, not a question.
The big man spoke quietly through gritted teeth. “Only one will honor Molek with his life. Why tell them now and upset them all? We can carry them screaming through the streets or lead them quietly and with dignity.”
Sickened, Isaiah turned away, watching his energetic students. Giggling and shoving, they acted like best friends anticipating a new adventure. Six-year-old Mattaniah showed his big brothers that their robes were identical to his, having no idea it could be his shroud. Yahweh, show me how to stop this!
Silence answered.
An invisible fist twisted Isaiah’s insides. “Please, General, stop this before Judah commits the same abomination that caused Yahweh to drive out the Canaanites from this land.”
The commander lifted a single brow in challenge. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear your treasonous words—this time.” With a nod to his captain, the commander began the night of terror. Utterly helpless, Isaiah watched his students march like condemned prisoners through two columns of Judean soldiers that lined the hallway. Why had King Ahaz sent fifty men to collect less than half that number of boys?
Isaiah followed through the palace halls and entered the Middle Court—to the bone-chilling sound of a woman’s scream.
“No!” Queen Abijah raced down the harem stairs toward her three sons, but guards intercepted her. The double line of soldiers collapsed around the boys, hiding the queen from young, worried eyes.
Isaiah stood paralyzed, torn between comforting the queen and following his students. Yahweh, show me what to do! The decision was made when guards carried Queen Abijah back up the stairs to the second level of the harem, where King Ahaz’s six wives lived and only specified king’s guards gained entry.
Isaiah hurried to catch up with the boys as they walked down the palace stairs onto the cobblestoned streets of Jerusalem’s Upper City. Shoving his way through the ranks, he assumed a protective stance behind his students. Officially, they were in his care until released to their parents at the end of the day. He glanced over their heads at the homes lining the street, hoping a concerned advisor or ima might have heard the drums and come outside to investigate. He saw only neatly manicured courtyards. Not even a servant lingered in the waning daylight.
He looked behind him at his own home, standing alone in the northeast corner of the Upper City where palace property and Temple grounds converged. His courtyard was deserted as well. There was no time to tell his wife, Aya, what was happening. Were their sons safe? Jashub and Kadmiel were older than Isaiah’s students. They were among Jerusalem’s military trainees and would likely be forced to watch the ceremony.
Heart aching, he focused on his class and passed through the gate to the Lower City. Gone were the pristine streets and spacious homes. Human waste mingled with refuse flowing downhill in the middle of the street. Jerusalem’s southern city had resembled a war-torn village even before Israel’s troops attacked. Now many two-story stone buildings lay in rubble. The ones still standing housed multiple families and the poorest of the poor in Judah.
Only days ago Isaiah had worked alongside many of these families to rebuild their homes, the market, and the southern wall. Most of Isaiah’s privileged students had never glimpsed the Lower City, and they stared wide-eyed and silent as the commander marched them through the Dung Gate, Jerusalem’s southernmost entrance.
The drumbeats grew louder, and his stomach tightened as their destination became clear. In the Valley of Ben Hinnom stood Topheth, a pagan altar built in Solomon’s days. As they approached the valley, Isaiah’s knees turned to water. There, beside Topheth, stood a newly built bronze altar surrounded by an endless sea of people.
“Ooh!” The boys pointed and gawked at the altar fashioned in human form with the head of an ox. Seven compartments dotted its chest; six held an offering: a dove, grain, pieces of an ox, a ewe, a ram, and a calf. One compartment remained empty, prepared for the ultimate sacrifice. Molek’s arms extended outward, forming a chute into the belly, an open furnace that glowed red hot. If Isaiah hadn’t known its horrific purpose, he too might have marveled at its magnificence. The last rays of sunset reflected off the bronze beast, casting an eerie glow over the platform where King Ahaz stood among bald-headed, chanting priests. The new royal counsel lined the back of the platform—with the exception of Micah. He’d left for Jericho earlier in the day after hearing from Yahweh’s prophets that Judah’s captives might be returned there. By God’s mercy Micah had been spared from standing on the platform with the king’s other advisors.
The drums beat faster as Isaiah’s royal offerings approached. Musicians accompanied the drums with flutes and lyres. Scantily clad dancers twisted and swayed among the gathered throng, tempting both men and women to the shoddy tents where ritual pleasures waited. Wine flowed freely, rousing the celebration to a frenzy.
Were these the same people who days ago had mourned their lost husbands and daughters? Had they forgotten the captives, the ruined fields and orchards? Why were they squandering supplies on a festival when many Judean families were
sure to starve in months to come? Isaiah scanned the deep ravine of Hinnom extending toward the Kidron Valley along the city’s eastern border. People as far as the eye could see. Yahweh had told him Judah still worshiped idols, but this was beyond anything he’d imagined.
The commander marched the line of boys straight to the platform, knocking aside any who hindered their progress. Isaiah finally understood the fifty-soldier escort. They were a mere drop in an ocean of chaos. Guarding little Mattaniah at the end of the line, Isaiah wished he could hide their eyes and close their ears as they ascended the platform. Yahweh, if the stench of our unfaithfulness is this rancid, why haven’t You destroyed us already?
One of the priests bowed to Prince Bocheru, lifting the boy’s hand to his forehead—a sign of fidelity and honor. The crowd cheered, and King Ahaz placed an approving hand on the boy’s shoulder. Isaiah’s mouth went dry. Had they made their choice?
The other royal students stood shoulder to shoulder, eyes wide, taking in the priests’ blood-stained white robes and bowls full of entrails. Had they guessed what was happening, or were they simply intrigued by the animals being sacrificed?
King Ahaz lifted his arms for silence. Priests and participants stilled. “Mighty Molek, greatest warrior of the fallen ones, receive our offerings. Hear our cries. By your favor I conquered your people in Ammon, and by your favor we will conquer the enemies that surround us now.”
A mighty roar rose from the crowd, and Ahaz nodded to Molek’s seven priests. Each carried a bowl full of blood and a branch of hyssop and stopped directly in front of one of Isaiah’s students. After dipping the hyssop in the bowl, they moved down the line, spattering the boys’ robes. More cheering erupted as the boys looked down at the stains on their beautiful robes, now ruined. Mattaniah began to whimper, but a stern stare from a priest quieted him immediately.
King Ahaz walked down the line of human offerings, listening to each priest whisper some deep secret. He stopped too long in front of Eliakim, and Isaiah’s heart pounded in his ears.
He searched the sea of faces for Eliakim’s abba—friend and royal treasurer, Hilkiah—but didn’t see him. Of course, Hilkiah would never attend a pagan sacrifice. How could he know that the child he’d taught to know and love Yahweh might at any moment become a pagan sacrifice?
Even as the thoughts formed, King Ahaz placed his arm around Eliakim’s shoulder and singled him out, whispering in his ear. Eliakim’s knees gave way, and two bald priests grabbed his arms. Two more swept his legs out from under him. The boy fought. Kicked. Screamed.
The righteous rebellion stifled the celebration, quieting the crowd. The other boys huddled around Isaiah—all but one. “Wait!” Prince Hezekiah ran to his abba, pounding the king’s back.
King Ahaz turned, fire in his eyes, and trapped the boy’s arms at his side. Isaiah freed himself of his students and tried to reach Hezekiah. The commander and two soldiers held him back. The other boys tried to flee the platform. Guards surrounded them.
King Ahaz, seeming unnerved by the crowd’s stillness, shouted at the chief priest. “Pray to Molek!” Then the king knelt beside Hezekiah, whispering.
Frantic, Isaiah strained to hear. He couldn’t. Yahweh, do something!
With a stern look, King Ahaz shoved Hezekiah back to join the royal boys. “Line them up again!” The crowd murmured as the soldiers reconstructed the line. “Release that one.” Ahaz pointed to Eliakim, and Isaiah sighed his relief. Had Hezekiah convinced his abba to forgo the human sacrifice? Perhaps fill the altar’s seventh compartment with another animal portion? Isaiah assessed his students and noted exchanged glances, lifted brows, and smiles. They knew, as did all of Judah, that Hezekiah’s words had spared his friend Eliakim.
King Ahaz spoke in low tones to the priests, who then took their places behind the seven oldest of Isaiah’s students. They chanted a low guttural thrum. The musicians took up the dirge, a slow and hypnotic tune, building in intensity, while the drums beat loud and steady.
The king lifted his voice above the mounting tension. “Molek, the mighty warrior, has spoken through a child to save Judah from grave error this night.” King Ahaz raised his arms, shouting, “We beseech you, great warrior among the gods, return to us those taken as captives and bind us to the greatest power on earth.”
He let his arms fall to his sides—a signal to the priests.
With the speed of lightning, two bald-headed pagans slipped a rope around Prince Bocheru’s arms. Two more swept him off his feet. The four of them carried Bocheru toward the glowing altar and hoisted him into the waiting arms of the blazing bronze altar.
Drums beat frantically, but nothing could drown out the prince’s cries—or mask the smell of burning flesh. Some of the boys retched on the platform. Mattaniah buried his face in Eliakim’s waist. Hezekiah stood like stone, silent, mouth slack. Isaiah shook him. No response. The king’s second-born gazed at nothing in the distance, his limbs stiff. A stream of tears the only sign of life.
Drums kept beating, but the celebration died with Bocheru. King Ahaz panned the now-silent crowd. “If I, your king and sovereign, a descendent of David’s eternal kingdom, have willingly offered my firstborn to Molek, can any among you withhold your sons?” A frantic murmur worked its way across the gathering like a wave rising over the sea, but King Ahaz spoke above the protests. “We will sacrifice a firstborn of Judah at each New Moon festival until our nation regains the cities we’ve lost to Israel, Aram, Edom, and Philistia. Molek will hear and answer our prayers if we give him our best. We must give our firstborns!”
King Ahaz wiped his face. Was it perspiration or tears he wiped away? Pointing to the tents surrounding the platform, King Ahaz raised his voice. “Rejoice, Jerusalem! Our sacrifice pleases Molek. He waits in those tents to offer you pleasure, wisdom, and victory! Partake, Judah! Partake!”
Isaiah lifted Hezekiah into his arms and marched three steps to the visibly shaken commander. “You led these children to Sheol. Now take them home.”
The commander could only nod, his earlier bluster incinerated in the fires of Molek.
Isaiah looked into Hezekiah’s distant stare and cradled the child close to his heart. Please, Yahweh. Remove the sins of the abba from his sons. Protect this dear boy and restore him to Abijah.
4
As a mother comforts her child,
so will I comfort you;
and you will be comforted over Jerusalem.
—Isaiah 66:13
I couldn’t keep my eyes open, so I laid my cheek on top of Micah’s head. I woke, nearly tumbling backward. Micah took me off his shoulders because he said I was dozing. He held me close, his arms wrapped tight around me, while I hugged his neck and wrapped my legs around his waist. I liked that way better. I laid my head against his chest. Now I felt safe.
When he stopped, I opened my eyes, and it was dark. I turned in his arms and saw that we were at the top of a small hill. Yaira was bent over, bracing her hands against her knees, panting.
I patted Micah’s cheek gently and pointed at her. Maybe he should put me down and carry her?
“I know, little one. She’s tired, but see?” He nodded toward a glow above the hills ahead. “We’re almost to Jerusalem.”
“I’m all right,” Yaira said. “Let’s keep going.” She started walking again.
At the top of the next hill, Yaira needed to rest again. “What’s causing such a bright light in Jerusalem?” she asked. I turned again to see one side of the city looked as bright as the sun but the other side only as bright as a candle.
Micah frowned like he was thinking hard. “Probably burning trash from the siege in the Valley of Ben Hinnom. They were cleaning up the damaged buildings in the Lower City when I left a couple of days ago.”
I hid my face against Micah’s chest. Would there be dead bodies staring at nothing like Ima and Abba? I could still see their faces when I closed my eyes.
Yaira rubbed my back, talking quietly. “We should avoid as much of th
e devastation as possible for Ishma’s sake.” Did she think I couldn’t hear just because I’d lost my words?
“We shouldn’t leave the caravan until we reach the city. Too much danger of bandits or jackals.” Micah kissed the top of my head and whispered against my hair, “Ishma, keep your face against my chest until we reach Master Isaiah’s house.”
I gladly obeyed, snuggling into the bend of his neck and closing my eyes again.
Micah’s gasp woke me. How far had we gone? I craned my neck and turned to see. We stood on another hill, this one across a narrow valley from Jerusalem. A huge glowing statue lit the night sky, and the smell of burning garbage made my stomach turn somersaults. Small tents dotted the hillside, and people lay beside them—some dressed only in tunics.
“Yahweh, forgive your people, Judah,” Micah whispered while following the caravan into the valley.
We walked through the garbage until someone cried, “Molek has delivered the captives!” People lit torches and ran toward us. I tightened my arms and legs around Micah. My whole body began to shake. Please don’t let them take me.
“Hide your face, Ishma. Close your eyes.” Micah grabbed Yaira’s arm after only a few steps. “We can’t go any farther into the crowd. Ishma is terrified.” He pointed toward the city. “We’ll head north through the Kidron Valley and enter through the Horse Gate. It’s closer to Isaiah’s home, and we’ll avoid the Lower City.”
Even though I buried my head on his shoulder I could still smell the foul air. Micah and Yaira started running, downhill and then up again. I kept my eyes closed. They slowed, and their sandals slapped on a wooden plank. We stopped.
“I’m Micah, the king’s prophet, to see Master Isaiah.”
