Isaiah's Daughter

by Mesu Andrews

  There it was. The insecurity that made King Ahaz the ineffective leader he was. “I have business in Jerusalem tonight, but I will leave at dawn. And won’t return…until your burial.”

  King Ahaz nodded once. His only response.

  “Good-bye, Abba.”

  Nothing.

  Hezi stood, walked toward the dividing curtain, and looked back at the physician. “When you’re finished tending Abba’s wound, I’ll send new guards to help move his chamber downstairs. But please stay here. Queen Abijah will return, and she has wounds that have too long been neglected.”

  “Yes, my king.” The physician bowed his head but continued working.

  King Hezekiah drew the curtain and paused on the other side, listening, as his abba cursed the man trying to help him. It would be his last memory of Ahaz ben Jotham.

  25

  Those who hope in the LORD

  will renew their strength.

  They will soar on wings like eagles;

  they will run and not grow weary,

  they will walk and not be faint.

  —Isaiah 40:31

  I set the plates around the table as usual but noticed Ima had added one too many to the stack.

  Starting toward the shelves to return it, I halted at her voice. “Go ahead and set that extra plate, dear. We’ve invited a guest tonight.”

  I turned and heaved a weary sigh. I couldn’t face a guest tonight. We’d only just returned from delivering baskets to the southern city. Ima was trying to keep me distracted, but I still felt King Ahaz’s hands on me, smelled his breath, saw his face. I closed my eyes and pressed a hand to my forehead, wishing I could erase the memories.

  A deep voice shot through me. “I had hoped we could talk after the meal.”

  I opened my eyes, and Hezi stood before me. Was I dreaming? He’d never been invited this far into the house.

  He knows!

  I saw it on his face—the pity, the sorrow. The plate slipped from my hand, shattering into a thousand pieces, and I ran.

  My eyes blurred by tears, I ran down the long hallway to my bedchamber and closed the door behind me. I crawled under my cover, crying, shaking, trying not to scream. I couldn’t face him. Never again. How could he ever love me, knowing I’d been pawed like meat in the market, and not by just anyone but by his abba. I was dirty, shamed. I couldn’t be a queen. I could never belong to the anointed Son of David.

  “Zibah?” Yaira’s voice was as soft as her knock on our door. “We’re coming in.”

  “No!” I sat in the corner, rocking, trembling, hiding my face. I heard the door open. “Noo! I can’t face Hezi.” Sandals shuffled, and a hand touched my shoulder. I flinched and cried out.

  “It’s all right, Zibah.” Yaira’s voice. “Hezi’s gone now.”

  I lifted my head. She sat beside me. My trembling turned to convulsive shakes, and my breaths came in gulps. “I’m stained, Yaira. Groped by evil. God’s anointed king can’t marry me now.”

  She gathered me into her arms. Rocked me. Stroked my hair. “Go to sleep, Zibah. You need rest.”

  I closed my eyes, but panic rose. “When I sleep, I see King Ahaz.”

  “Shh, Zibah.” Yaira held me tighter. “You’re safe here. I’ll stay with you while you sleep.”

  She loosened my braid, and I tried to relax as she combed her fingers through my hair. Would I ever feel safe again?

  Slowly, I became aware of the darkened chamber and my waking. Why was I still dressed and lying next to someone leaning against the wall? Memories came flooding back, and I jerked upright, startling Hezi, who sat next to me.

  Yaira sat beside him.

  “Am I dreaming?” I asked them.

  “No.” Hezi smiled tenderly. “But I have been dreaming of our lives together as I watched you sleep.”

  “Stop, Hezi. You don’t know.”

  “I do know,” he said, tears twisting his handsome face. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to protect you. I’m sorry my abba is pure evil and my ima is so broken.” He hung his head, sobbing.

  My hands lay in my lap, unable to console him. Here we were again, deeply wounded, but this time we were not children who would laugh and play tomorrow. Yahweh, how can You heal what’s broken between us now? I turned my face away, unable to watch Hezi suffer on my account.

  Yaira began to whisper prayers like a song lifted on our behalf, when we had no prayers of our own. There, in the silence, our healing began.

  Hezi sat near but didn’t try to touch me. Finally he said softly, “I love you, Hephzibah bat Isaiah.” He lifted his hand to my cheek, hesitating before touching, asking silent permission.

  I intercepted his hand, pressing mine against his, and studied the way they fit together. Our hands had played games, written on scrolls, and even tenderly laced together during our betrothal week. I could trust his touch. “My love for you hasn’t changed, but I can never call you son of Ahaz again. To me, you will now be Hezekiah ben David—son of David—King of Judah.”

  He nodded his approval. “I promise you, Zibah. I will be as great a king as my ancestor David.” He paused, the returning peace quickly draining from his features. “I don’t want any secrets between us, Zibah. Something happened with my parents this afternoon at the palace, but what I say must not leave this room.” He looked at Yaira and waited for her assent before he continued. “Ima tried to take Abba’s life.”

  Yaira gasped, but I lowered my eyes. I wasn’t surprised. It seemed Queen Abijah had tired of her needlework more quickly than I imagined.

  “Thankfully, I was there to intervene. Abba has agreed to stay Ima’s execution. She will remain under house arrest in her chamber and gardens.” He brushed my cheek. “Abba has promised he will never attempt to contact you again, but I’d like you to stay away from the palace.”

  “I don’t want you to leave.” The words were out before I could stop them, and fear loosed all restraint. “How can you be sure King Ahaz won’t try to hurt me again? Your ima said he would be even more determined now—”

  Hezi pulled me into his arms, whispering against my ear. “Abba is dying, Zibah. I made a vow to him that secured both Ima’s safety and yours. I must leave Jerusalem by dawn and will not return until his burial.”

  “How long?” I could barely squeak out the words.

  “The royal physician has given him only five years to live.”

  “Five years? You will leave me alone for five years to honor the wish of a man who beats your ima and attacks your bride?”

  “It is obedience to the Lord, Zibah. I will honor my abba and ima so that I may live long in the land Yahweh gives me to rule. It is a choice I made to obey Yahweh, not because my abba is honorable, but because I am.”

  He lifted my hands to his lips, and my eyes followed. “I tell you again,” he said. “I will be faithful to you, Zibah. You are my one wife, forever. I will use our time apart to win the hearts of the people Yahweh has called me to rule and to draw Judah back to Him.”

  I jerked my hands away. “What am I supposed to do for five years while you win the hearts of Judah?”

  He smiled with that crooked grin. “Perhaps you should win the hearts of Jerusalem so when I return to sit on the throne, they’ll welcome the king because they already love their new queen.”

  The thought of it overwhelmed me. “I’m not like your ima, Hezi. I haven’t the strength. I can’t flit from house to house, chasing gossip and putting out political fires.”

  “Ima is a canary, all chirping and brightly colored.” He drew me close, and I let him, resting against his muscled chest. Yaira gave us a chaperone’s stern look, but I ignored it for the moment. “Unlike her, you must be an eagle, Hephzibah.”

  “Why an eagle?” I closed my eyes and concentrated on his voice, replacing the horrible images of King Ahaz with the reality of my Hezi.

  “When the regiment is on a long hike through the mountains, I watch for eagles. They’re fascinating.” His finger traced a flight pattern
on my arm. “The eagle waits in its high nest on a cliff for an updraft, and then it merely spreads its wings, catching the draft beneath and soaring with hardly any effort at all.” He kissed the top of my head. “We must both find strength in the waiting, Zibah. Trust that it’s from Yahweh—for our good—and then soar like the eagles when He breathes wind under our wings.”

  “So you have your eagles, and I have my doves.” The thought pleased me.

  “Yes, my love, but the difference is a dove must be coaxed from its nest to make human connections. You’ll have to leave your nest willingly to make friends with noblemen’s daughters and rely on Yahweh’s strength to overcome their sharp edges.”

  He had no idea how very sharp noblewomen’s edges could be. I sat up and faced him. “I’d rather go with you and build city walls.”

  He traced my jawline. “The next time we see each other, you will become my wife. We must let that truth strengthen us in these difficult days.” He leaned forward and brushed a gentle kiss over my lips. “You are now and will always be my delight, Hephzibah bat Isaiah.”

  26

  People of Zion, who live in Jerusalem, you will weep no more. How gracious he will be when you cry for help! As soon as he hears, he will answer you. Although the Lord gives you the bread of adversity and the water of affliction, your teachers will be hidden no more; with your own eyes you will see them.

  —Isaiah 30:19–20

  “Please, Abba, don’t go.” Zibah blocked his path at the courtyard gate, refusing to budge. “The last time you prophesied to King Ahaz, he threatened to kill Yahweh’s prophets. What if he’s done threatening and takes action—beginning with you?”

  “The king summoned me this time. I’m not going to prophesy.”

  “Even worse! It’s almost certainly a trap.”

  He grabbed her shoulders and kissed her forehead. “I am going, Daughter. Out of my way.” Scooting her aside, he opened the squeaky gate and set off for the palace.

  During the three years since King Ahaz attacked Zibah, their household had been relatively settled. Zibah had stayed away from the palace, working with the other women of Isaiah’s household to prepare and deliver meals for the family, the poor, and the prophets. Zibah also began mingling in the Upper City market with young women from royal families. Relationships among royals were slow to develop since family alliances and suspicion ran deep. Political grappling among the men meant social intrigue among the women. But Zibah was gentle, wise, and persistent. Most importantly, she trusted Yahweh to guide her. His favor opened doors for Zibah to attend many sewing circles and social events in noblewomen’s homes. She wasn’t idle while she waited, but her waiting had grown long.

  When Hezekiah’s correspondence arrived regularly, she seemed content. Lately his messages had become less frequent, and Zibah had grown anxious. Aya’s contact with Queen Abijah had been cut off when the queen was placed under house arrest. No one in the palace commented openly, but rumors circulated that Aya’s banishment had something to do with King Ahaz’s temper.

  Isaiah hurried through the Great Court, through the Middle Court, and down the private hall to the king’s chamber. Isaiah showed his summons to the royal guards at King Ahaz’s door and was ushered in immediately. No grudging looks or sneers. He was welcomed as he had been while serving kings Jotham and Uzziah.

  King Ahaz’s antechamber was empty and dark. Only three small lamps offered a flickering glow.

  “Isaiah?” King Ahaz’s voice, gravelly and weak, called to him from behind a floor-to-ceiling purple curtain.

  “Yes, my king. How may I serve?”

  A guard nudged him forward, keeping his voice low. “Go in. He isn’t strong enough to shout.”

  Caught between disbelief and concern, Isaiah hurried into the king’s bedchamber and barely recognized the man propped on pillows. His stomach was swollen, his cheeks gaunt, and sores covered his arms and cheeks. When King Ahaz saw Isaiah, his eyes opened wide—the white portions a sickly yellow. “Did you bring the treaty? We must sign the treaty.”

  Three physicians and two maids scurried around his chamber, rolling bandages, crushing herbs, and avoiding Isaiah’s questioning looks.

  The guard spoke softly. “He moves in and out of reason. The physicians say not to upset him. Just agree and keep him calm.”

  “The treaty!” King Ahaz scratched his arms, digging at already raw wounds. A maid stroked his brow and spoke soothingly. He calmed and focused on Isaiah again. “What are you doing here, Prophet?”

  Mercy stirred in Isaiah’s belly. He showed him the scroll with the king’s seal. “I received your summons this morning.” Isaiah approached the bed, pulling a stool close to speak face to face. “I had no idea you were ill, King Ahaz. What can the physicians do to heal you?”

  The king choked on a laugh with no humor. “They told me years ago to give up wine, but I thought Abijah paid them to nag me.” His smile died. “I summoned her last night for comfort. It’s the first time I’ve broken my agreement with Hezekiah and called Abbi from her chamber since she tried to kill me.”

  “King Ahaz! Abijah would never try to—”

  “Yes, Isaiah, she would, and she almost succeeded.” He glanced at Isaiah. “I thought my son would have told you. Perhaps you’re losing your control over him after all these years.”

  “I’ve never controlled your son, Ahaz. Only loved him. You should try it.” Isaiah glared at the king until he looked away. “Tell me more about what happened between you and Abijah.” King Ahaz coughed, leaving specks of blood on the back of his hand. Pity softened Isaiah’s anger as the king began the recounting. “After the unfortunate incident with your daughter, I executed the guard who intervened. He was Abbi’s favorite, so she stabbed me. Hezekiah sequestered her to her chamber and the gardens—for both her safety and mine. I didn’t see her again until I invited her to my chamber last night so I could apologize for the way I’ve treated her. I’m trying to make amends before the end.”

  Isaiah shook his head, stomach roiling. “Abijah has been imprisoned in her chamber for three years?”

  He turned and held Isaiah’s gaze. “Don’t ever pity Queen Abijah. She laughed when she saw me and then spit in my face. She said I was already dead to her—the night I burned our son Bocheru in the fire.” A cynical smile lifted the corners of his lips. “She’s had her vengeance.”

  Isaiah dropped his face into his hands. Yahweh, what do I say to a man whose heart is twisted beyond recognition?

  Mercy. Forgiveness. Atonement. The words came as if on a breeze, and Isaiah presented to King Ahaz the only true consolation. “Have you asked Uriah to present a sin offering for you on Yahweh’s altar?”

  “Now you sound like the one who’s drunk too much wine.” King Ahaz turned his face toward the wall. “I’m sure my illness is Yahweh’s judgment. Why poke an angry lion after he’s mauled you and walked away?”

  God’s holy fire washed over Isaiah. “Yahweh has said, ‘In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength, but you would have none of it. You said, “No, we will ride off on swift horses.” Therefore, your pursuers will be swift!’ ”

  King Ahaz’s yellow eyes stared back, blank. “I never understand your word pictures. Why can’t you speak plainly?”

  Isaiah sighed. At least he was willing to listen. “Here is the meaning, King Ahaz. Yahweh offered you peace, forgiveness, and love your whole life, but every time He offered it, you slapped away His hand and chose to do things your own way. So He finally allowed your life choices to catch up with you.” Isaiah leaned to within a handbreadth. “Is that plain enough?”

  “Was that an attempt to make me feel better?”

  Isaiah sat back and produced the king’s summons. “Did you command my presence to make you feel better or speak truth? Because the truth is, Yahweh longs to be gracious to you, Ahaz. He will rise up to show you compassion because He is a God of justice.”

  “If He was a God of justice,
He would have killed me years ago.”

  Hope surged through Isaiah. That sounded gloriously close to a confession on its way to repentance. “If He was only a God of justice, perhaps. But He is also a God of mercy. As soon as He hears your cry for help, He will be gracious. Though He has given you the bread of adversity and the water of affliction, He has also given you teachers and prophets who can lead you back to Him.”

  At the mention of the prophets, King Ahaz snapped to attention, his eyes narrowing. “You know where they are, don’t you?”

  “They will be hidden no more if only you will throw away your idols, my king. Trust in Yahweh, and then—whatever decisions you make, whether you turn right or left—your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’ ”

  Isaiah fell silent, realizing he’d likely overwhelmed his king. Ahaz’s blank stare disclosed nothing of the thoughts behind his yellowed eyes.

  “I’ll stop the New Moon sacrifices to Molek,” he finally said. “Though you must admit we’ve regained many of our cities from the Edomites and Philistines since the sacrifices began.”

  “I’ll admit nothing. You’ve regained those cities because of soldiers like Hezekiah and Mattaniah—your living sons, King Ahaz. It had nothing to do with a bronze statue and children’s deaths.”

  “Ah, yes. Hezekiah.” Bitterness laced the king’s tone. “The whole nation will rejoice when I die and my handsome, brilliant son takes my throne.”

  “He is an honorable man, King Ahaz. You should be proud.”

  “He is a leech and has sucked life from me ever since I threw his brother into the fire.” King Ahaz suddenly arched his back, his head tossing back and forth. His eyes searched the room and then focused on something in the distance. “Abijah, where is Bocheru? He must dress for the ceremony.”

  One of the physicians laid his hand on Isaiah’s shoulder. “The king should rest now.” Two maids now took their places beside the king, pressing his hands down when he tried to scratch his wounds again.