by Mesu Andrews
I peeked under my arm and saw a grumpy old guard open a big, heavy gate. We slipped through an opening barely the width of Ima’s grain basket—into a different land. All was still. No one walked the streets, and not a single lamp shone in a window. Big stone houses surrounded us. A huge palace loomed ahead.
Micah released a deep breath. “We’re safe now. Master Isaiah’s home is at the end of the street.”
I propped my chin on his shoulder to see where we’d been, not where we were going. Somehow the future scared me more. The shiny stone streets looked like Ima’s polished bronze mirror in the moonlight. Every home had a garden and a gate. If I didn’t know Jerusalem had been attacked, I wouldn’t have thought people in these houses had any troubles at all.
Micah carried me down a wide street, the grand palace on one side, the perfect houses on the other. Finally, we came to a house separate from all the others, sitting at a corner, where two walls met. The palace was on the other side of one wall and a big, fancy building beyond the other.
I pointed at the golden top of the fancy building.
“That’s Yahweh’s Temple,” Micah whispered, while nudging open the gate of the corner house. It squeaked. Yaira closed it behind us, and Micah led the way to the door.
A beautiful lady opened it before Micah knocked. “Yahweh, help us,” she whispered and then shooed us into the entry. “Leah, put a pot of broth over the fire. Dinah, bring water and bandages for the girls’ wounds. Isaiah, Micah has arrived!”
A tall man with a stern face appeared and offered his hand to Yaira. “Welcome to our home. I’m sorry you’ve come to our beautiful city at such an ugly time.” He looked at Micah. “Ahaz sacrificed the crown prince the night you left for Jericho. There’s been feasting in the valley ever since.”
Micah’s arms tightened around me. “How could he—”
“We’ll talk once the girls are settled.” The man looked at me, his frown turning into a false smile. I hid my face against Micah’s chest.
“Thank you, Master Isaiah, for taking us in as house servants,” I heard Yaira say. “We’ll work hard. We won’t cause any trouble.”
“Nonsense,” said the pretty lady. “We have no servants here. Everyone works, everyone eats, and everyone serves Yahweh. We’re a family, dear.”
When I heard her say family, I turned to face her. The lady stepped closer to Micah and laid her hand on my cheek. “What’s your name, little one?”
I pulled away.
“Shy, are we?”
Micah spoke for me. “She hasn’t said a word since she was taken from Bethlehem. Perhaps you, Dinah, and Leah can coax her to talk again.”
Two older boys entered the large room, one reading a scroll, the other carrying wood for the fire. Yaira’s neck and cheeks turned bright red, and she slipped behind Micah.
“These are my sons, Jashub and Kadmiel.” Master Isaiah fairly beamed with pride. Micah ruffled the oldest boy’s hair. The two shoved playfully while I held tighter to Micah’s neck.
He set me down on a soft cushion. Yaira sat beside me, drawing me close, while the women scurried around the cooking fire.
Master Isaiah, his sons, and Micah withdrew to a corner of the large room, their heads bowed together, whispering. I heard the master say something about a boy who died in a fire and another boy whose body lived though his spirit died. Deep concern wrinkled Micah’s forehead. Or maybe he was confused, like me, by Master Isaiah’s words.
The pretty lady brought two bowls of broth, one for me and one for Yaira. “My name is Aya,” she said. “What are your names?”
“I’m Yaira, Micah’s sister, and this is Ishma.”
The lady frowned. “Ishma? Why would your parents name you Desolation?”
I pushed the broth away and hid my face against Yaira so I didn’t have to look at the mean lady. Yaira stroked my hair and spoke for me. “Ishma was named as a reminder of blessing, Mistress. When my parents were killed in a Philistine attack, Micah found a couple in Bethlehem to care for me. I was despondent, but only days after I arrived, the woman gave birth to a precious daughter and named her Ishma—desolation—to show me that new life can spring from despair.” She nudged me, forcing me to sit up and face Mistress Aya. “It is a beautiful name for this beautiful girl, and I’ve told Ishma that Yahweh can also use our current desolation for a glorious purpose.”
The woman’s eyes were leaking. “I’m sorry, Ishma. It was rude of me to criticize your lovely name. Forgive me.”
I held tight to Yaira and nodded. Maybe Mistress Aya wasn’t so bad.
The two young women, Dinah and Leah, brought warm wet cloths, rolled bandages, and a basket of small pots and jars. Mistress Aya held up a warm cloth. “May I wash away your tear stains, little Ishma?”
I didn’t know tears stained. Ima used to get cross if I stained my robe with stew or mud. But Mistress Aya didn’t seem cross about the tears.
I nodded permission. The warm cloth felt good on my face. Even better was her gentle touch. She was even gentler than when Ima cleaned my scraped knees. Ima…More tears came, and I turned away, clinging to Yaira again. What good purpose could Yahweh have for taking away my ima’s gentle touch?
Mistress Aya rinsed the cloths in a bowl of steaming water and handed one to Yaira. “I have prepared a room for you girls to share.” She unrolled a bandage, smeared honey on it, and reached for my arm.
I pulled away, shaking my head frantically.
Yaira set aside her cloth and offered her arm to the mistress. “Honey doesn’t hurt, Ishma. See?” The servant girls gasped when they saw Yaira’s partly healed brand. I hid my arm behind my back. Yaira smiled and held out her hand. “Honey helps us heal faster. Let’s compare our marks, Ishma. Is yours the same as mine?”
Dinah and Leah wiped away tears and put on false smiles for me. I didn’t want smiles. I wanted Yaira.
“Look at me, Ishma.” Yaira’s voice was stern. Was she angry? When I looked at her, she smiled. “Show me your brand, love.”
I didn’t want to, but I had promised Yaira in Jericho that I would do as she said. So I showed her my brand. They were the same, of course, the image of a bull with lightning bolts as horns.
The mistress nodded to the younger women, who began dressing a bandage with honey. One of them held my hand as she wrapped the bandage around my arm. “My name is Dinah, and this is my sister Leah.” They looked the same—like twins. “We came to work for Mistress Aya when we were about your age, Ishma.” The honey soothed, and my lips curved into a smile without permission. Everyone clapped as if I’d brought in the first harvest by myself.
Mistress Aya turned her attention to Yaira. “Do you have wounds beneath your robe, dear?”
Yaira’s cheeks bloomed crimson as she bowed her head. “Yes, Mistress.”
“We’ll dress them in your chamber. Dinah and Leah sleep in the room beside yours.”
Yaira looked over her shoulder, and her cheeks faded to gray. “I’m sorry to be so bold, Mistress, but”—she swallowed hard—“if we’ve taken your sons’ chamber, Ishma and I would be very comfortable sleeping in a corner of the courtyard or in a stable.”
I’d never slept in a courtyard or stable, but we’d slept in the wilderness for nearly two weeks. I didn’t think a courtyard or stable would be much different—but not nearly as comfortable as the chamber the mistress had prepared. Mistress must have thought the same thing. She reached for Yaira’s hand and her voice became quieter. “My sons share a room on the opposite side of the house.” Yaira relaxed under her touch, and Yaira and the big women talked and talked while I kept peeking over at the men.
They looked sad and angry. I hoped they wouldn’t shout like Micah and Abba on Micah’s last visit. When they bowed their heads and began whispering, I wondered if that was how prophets talked to Yahweh. I looked at the ceiling, waiting to see if God answered, but the only sound was the women’s chatter. Was Yahweh even real? Did He hear our prayers?
“Ishma…Ishm
a.” Mistress Aya’s kind eyes waited for my attention. “I think you and Yaira will feel better after a good night’s rest.” The way she rose from her cushion reminded me of an olive tree swaying in the breeze, gentle and appealing. I couldn’t look away.
She paused, offering her hand.
Yaira kissed my head and whispered, “Go with the mistress. I’m right behind you.”
My heart pounded in my ears as I let go of Yaira and reached for Mistress Aya. Maybe this house could be a peaceful nest for a lonely bird.
5
[Hezekiah’s] mother’s name was Abijah daughter of Zechariah.
—2 Kings 18:2
Isaiah closed the heavy oak door on his private wine cellar, smashing his thumb. “Aah!” He juggled two skins of Egyptian wine and stuck the throbbing appendage in his mouth. The mishap was another in the long list he’d suffered since Ishma and Hezekiah had been heavy on his mind. Why must children pay for adults’ catastrophic decisions?
Aya appeared at his side. “May I take those wineskins before you stub your toe or run into a wall?” She hadn’t always been feisty. Perhaps she’d become that way to survive as the wife of a Yahweh prophet—or perhaps as best friend of the queen.
Isaiah stood by the wine cellar door like a sentry. “We should have taken Ishma to meet Hezekiah at the palace. Why invite Queen Abijah here? What if she wants to tour our home?”
His wife handed the wineskins to the other women and continued preparing a tray of fruit. “Queen Abijah has been here dozens of times since we moved into your family’s home. She’s never asked for a tour.”
Isaiah leaned against the door that hid their long-held secret, a secret revealed only to his household during Israel’s recent attack. “Did she ask you how we arrived in the underground tunnels before the rest of the advisors?”
“No.” Aya placed a few olives in a lovely arc over the dried figs.
“Did she mention any suspicion on King Ahaz’s part?”
His wife looked up, breathing out her frustration. “No, and will you please go check on Ishma. She’s supposed to be setting bowls and goblets on the table.” Aya had decided to entertain their guests outside on this beautiful spring morning.
Isaiah wasn’t sure he wanted to leave the cellar door. Perhaps he’d just stay here while the queen and her royal escort dined in the courtyard with Prince Hezekiah on his litter. In his worst nightmare, he imagined the queen excusing herself from their midday meal, sneaking into the wine cellar, lifting the loosened stone in the southeast corner, and discovering the network of tunnels below.
Over two hundred years ago, Solomon quarried much of the limestone for both Yahweh’s Temple and his palace from the bedrock beneath Mount Zion. The quarry created a network of tunnels that secured safe passage from palace to Temple and out of the city—the purpose of which was to safeguard the Ark of God’s presence. The secret escape was passed down through generations to the reigning king and high priest. During Israel’s recent attack, however, Ahaz had chosen to reveal the tunnels, hiding there with his family and all his advisors’ families. Isaiah had also hidden his household, entering one of the tunnels that extended under his home—positioned at the corner of the walls guarding the palace and Temple. Yahweh had somehow kept their private entrance hidden, and Isaiah was determined to keep it that way.
Little Ishma entered the kitchen, jostling him from his brooding. She headed straight for the lowest shelf to fetch bowls for the meal. Stacking four bowls up to her chin, she turned back toward the courtyard. With a resolute sigh, he walked across the kitchen, kissed his wife, and followed the adorable brown-eyed girl.
Both Ishma and Yaira were preparing the table. They’d healed nicely—body and soul—in the week since coming to Isaiah’s house. Though Ishma still refused to speak or venture far from Yaira, Isaiah had coaxed a smile from her yesterday with a candied fig. Aya was certain Queen Abijah and Hezekiah’s visit would mend the broken spirits of both children.
Isaiah wasn’t so sure. He’d spent most of the morning in his study, waiting on direction from Yahweh that never came. At such times, he listened to his wife. She, too, had an ear for Yahweh’s voice, and Isaiah trusted the one thing he would never have—a woman’s instincts.
Ishma left the courtyard again and soon returned, hands and arms full of silver goblets. She frowned at the challenge of placing them upright on the long, rectangular table.
Isaiah bowed deeply. “May I be of service, Princess Ishma?”
Eyes wide and cheeks the color of roses, she nodded, and his heart turned over in his chest. As he reached for the goblets, he heard the telltale squeak of their courtyard gate. The queen’s escort had arrived.
He’d barely taken a step toward the gate when he heard Ishma screech and saw goblets go flying. Aya, Dinah, and Leah raced from the kitchen to investigate. Ishma had run to Yaira’s arms and was climbing and clawing up her in a panic unlike anything Isaiah had ever seen.
Yaira retreated from the approaching royal guards, stopping only when she’d backed up to the courtyard wall. “I’m sorry; it’s the soldiers,” she said over Ishma’s inconsolable cries. “The queen’s guards. They look like the men who beat us.”
Before Isaiah could reply, Queen Abijah hovered over Prince Hezekiah, who lay silent and still on the litter carried by four guards. “Aya, why would you invite us to visit a traumatized girl whose screaming can only add to my son’s trauma?”
Isaiah gathered Yaira and Ishma and hurried them into the house while Aya spoke quietly to her friend. “Abijah, please, listen…” It was all he heard over Ishma’s whimpers as he guided both girls into his study. He pulled out two plush cushions and invited Yaira to sit.
She lowered the trembling Ishma to the ground, but Ishma refused to release Yaira’s hand. The older girl folded her legs and lowered herself as gracefully as swaying willow-tree branches, all the while soothing and coaxing Ishma onto the cushion beside her. “Shh, little one. These are good soldiers. They help protect the queen and her son. They will protect us too.” Yaira’s hands were trembling as violently as Ishma’s. Was it empathy for her charge, or was she equally affected by the guards’ presence?
As Isaiah was contemplating what to say, Aya appeared in the doorway. “Abijah has agreed to stay. Samuel and the rest of her guards will wait outside the courtyard gate, out of sight.”
Samuel had been one of King Ahaz’s royal guards for over a decade. He was competent and kind, one of the king’s best guards. Offering a favorite guard was likely King Ahaz’s only form of comfort. Queen Abijah adored her son but had made no progress reviving him. Hezekiah’s continued silence did little to encourage Isaiah’s hope that the boy could get better. Aya needed to face the inevitable future of these two broken children.
“You and Abijah have supported each other through many hardships since you were girls,” Isaiah said as gently as possible, “but your deep friendship can’t be imparted to two children who have never met.”
His wife answered through taut lips. “It’s not our friendship that will heal these children, Isaiah ben Amoz. It is their unwinnowed innocence.” She stepped inside and knelt beside the girls, speaking softly to Ishma. “Prince Hezekiah has experienced something awful—like you have—and it’s stolen more than his voice. He can’t walk or play or smile anymore. It’s like his body is alive, but he’s gone inside.”
Ishma’s trembling subsided some, but she kept her face hidden against Yaira’s arm. Yaira began rocking her and asked, “What happened that caused the prince to become silent?”
Aya cast a prodding glance at Isaiah. He gave her a frown in return. He’d been a tutor for less than two months. Did she expect him to now be the expert on children? How does one explain to someone so young the atrocity that Hezekiah witnessed?
“King Ahaz, Hezekiah’s abba, doesn’t worship Yahweh,” he began. “The night before you arrived, he worshiped a statue made of metal. He chose one of Hezekiah’s friends to give as a gift to the statue,
and Prince Hezekiah offered himself to take his friend’s place. King Ahaz chose instead to give Hezekiah’s older brother, Prince Bocheru, to the statue. Bocheru died that night.”
Aya wiped her tears and stuttered through emotions she couldn’t control. “When Hezekiah saw his brother die such a terrible death, Prince Hezekiah died on the inside. I believe he blames both himself and the adults in his life for what happened to his brother, and he needs a child—one who understands his pain—to simply hold his hand, sit with him, and talk to him.” She patted Ishma’s knee. “Could you do that?”
The little girl nodded without lifting her head and then—surprising them all—crawled into Aya’s lap. A smile lit Yaira’s face at the first time Ishma left her side. Aya hugged the little one, then lifted Ishma into her arms and rose to her feet. She carried the girl back to the courtyard, while Isaiah and Yaira followed close behind.
Queen Abijah sat beside her son’s litter and finished her wine as they entered the courtyard. Dinah hurried over to refill her goblet. Leah remained beside the table, a second amphora of spiced wine at the ready. The relief on their faces was palpable when the others returned.
The queen rolled her eyes. “Can the little girl walk, Aya, or must she be carried everywhere?”
Isaiah tamped down an angry response, letting his wife deal with her difficult friend.
“Did your son walk before his heart and mind were wounded, Abbi?” Only Aya called the queen Abbi and only when the royal guards were absent. The two women had shared more years and tears than most married couples.
Queen Abijah raised her goblet to Aya in surrender—a word battle well fought.
Isaiah’s wife settled herself and Ishma on the opposite side of Hezekiah’s litter in the shade of three palm trees. “Let’s introduce the children.”
Isaiah sat at the table less than two camel lengths away and patted a cushion to his left, guiding Yaira to the place of second-highest honor. The place at his right, of course, must be reserved for the queen.
