Isaiah's Daughter

by Mesu Andrews

  In a loud voice, he cried, “O LORD, God of Israel, enthroned above the cherubim, You are the only True God. Do You hear and see how the king of Assyria mocks the Creator of heaven and earth? Yes, he has laid waste every nation and land and cast their gods into the fire—but they were not gods. You alone are God. So now, save us from his hand so that all the earth will know that You alone are God.”

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  In those days Hezekiah became ill and was at the point of death.

  —2 Kings 20:1

  Yaira and I had been cooped up in my chamber for two days, peering out between the balcony tapestries to watch the Rabshakeh’s troops returning. Their disciplined arrival arranged their camp into the same perfect lines they’d formed outside Jerusalem’s gates nearly two weeks ago.

  My initial terror had given way to doom as Hezi spent long hours with his advisors and the commander, creating a plan to stave off a siege that would inevitably come. But the Assyrians had done nothing more than loiter outside the gates. Nothing. The Rabshakeh and his troops barely left their tents, and the rest of the army milled around like ants on a hill.

  My sense of doom was then swallowed up by anger. I was tired of living in a state of indecision—so I made a decision.

  I stopped Yaira’s busy hands from clearing our morning dishes and gently pulled her down to sit on a cushion beside me. “You and Jashub should marry.” She looked at me as if I’d asked her to milk a camel.

  “Perhaps, Zibah, but I refuse to discuss this when thousands of Assyrians are waiting to torture and kill us.” She tried to stand, but I tugged at her sleeve.

  “Now is exactly the time to discuss it. If you were married to Jashub, you could be cleaning up the dishes from his table, a meal you prepared for him, Jacob, and Ellah.”

  The longing on Yaira’s face was palpable. “Perhaps someday, but my place is here with you right now.”

  There it was. Just as I’d suspected. “I’ve talked with Hezi, and we feel it’s time for you to live your own—”

  “What did you tell the king?” Her cheeks flamed.

  “He asked why you were so upset by Jashub’s absence, so I told him a bit about yours and Jashub’s history.”

  “We do have a history.” Jashub’s voice held a hint of merriment, startling Yaira from her anger—or rather redirecting it.

  “Why are you here, Jashub?” She stood, fussing with her light blue robe, refusing to look at him.

  I cast an I’m sorry glance at my brother. I was supposed to have prepared my friend for his arrival, but he didn’t seem disturbed. He walked directly to the woman he’d loved his whole adult life and cradled Yaira’s hand. “Tell me why you’re upset, my friend.”

  “Why are you here?” she repeated more gently this time.

  “Zibah asked me to come. She had hoped we could decide on a date for our wedding.”

  I cringed at his honesty. Couldn’t he have softened the truth just a little?

  Yaira dropped her eyes, avoiding us both, but Jashub tipped up her chin. “Are you upset because I’m here or is something else troubling you?”

  Yaira’s chin began to quiver, threatening her armor of control. I had done this. I’d placed her in this impossible position. “Jashub, I’m sorry,” I said, walking toward them. “Perhaps you should go.”

  “No.” He turned to me, voice firm. “You should go, little sister.”

  Stunned, I halted three steps from them and exchanged a glance with Yaira. She appeared as surprised as I—and then a little grin appeared. My heart leapt. “Of course, Jashub. I’ll wait in Yaira’s chamber to give you some privacy.”

  An awkward silence filled the room until I disappeared into the adjoining chamber. I left the door ajar so I could hear, refusing to forgo the conversation I’d waited almost thirty years to witness.

  Jashub’s voice was low and intimate, but I could make out a few words. “…simple man…love you…my children…marry me now.”

  “…Assyrians outside…take away…must wait…can’t lose…break my heart.”

  Yaira’s words were clear enough to be heartrending.

  A lingering silence made me ache to peek out the door, but I waited. Jashub’s voice was softer and husky. Then I heard Yaira say, “All right, Jashub. Yes.”

  Really? I wanted to squeal, but I cleared my throat, coughed, and knocked before reentering, hoping to cut short a prebetrothal kiss before anyone was embarrassed.

  “Well, I hope you’ve made a decision we can celebrate.” My timing and tone undoubtedly betrayed my eavesdropping.

  The couple stood side by side, Jashub’s arm possessively around his bride-to-be. “She’s agreed to be my wife, Zibah. Thank you.”

  Tamping down that stubborn squeal, I tried to act as queenly as possible. “Will you wait the prescribed betrothal period?” If they said yes, I’d have Hezi arrest them both immediately and witness their wedding in the dungeon.

  Yaira’s cheeks pinked like the dawn. “Why wait? We’ve waited long enough.”

  “I think today is the perfect time for a wedding,” Jashub added. “There’s been very little activity in the soldiers’ camp, and our family needs to celebrate something!”

  The familiar red-hot iron of fear poked through my belly. “Hezi says the Assyrians could be weak and wounded, or resting and planning their attack.”

  Jashub’s playful spark dimmed, concern knitting his brow. “I could sneak into their camp to gain that information.”

  “No!” Yaira and I shouted in unison. “Sending you to follow the Rabshakeh was another sin on the list Abba Isaiah is keeping against Hezi. I’d hate to hear his rant if Hezi sent you into their camp.”

  Jashub’s features softened. “Abba loves Hezi. It’s tearing him apart to—”

  The chamber doors banged open. Samuel and another guard appeared, Hezi’s limp form draped between them. “Get him into the bed.” Samuel made no attempt at formalities, which terrified me.

  “What happened?” I shouted, following them. Hezi shook violently between them.

  “He collapsed during the council meeting.” Samuel and the other guard placed him on the bed.

  I knelt before my husband, his eyes dark ringed, shoulders slumped and shaking. “You left this morning with a headache. What happened, my love?”

  “It c-c-came on s-s-so quickly.” He toppled onto his side, aiming his face at the lamb’s wool headpiece and pulling his knees to his chest. “B-b-blankets. I n-n-need blankets.”

  I looked over my shoulder to find Yaira already waiting with an armload of woolen warmth. When I reached for them, she squeezed my hand, infusing me with her strength. I shook out the first blanket and let it fall over my trembling husband. Heat radiated from his body as if a fire burned from within.

  “Call the physician, Samuel.” I could barely croak the command.

  “Already done, my queen.”

  We waited moments that seemed like days. Finally, the physician ran into the chamber. Glancing around the crowded room, he raised a crooked finger toward the door. “Out. Everyone out.” I ignored him as did Samuel. The other guard escorted Jashub and Yaira from the chamber.

  Gently placing his hand on my shoulder, the physician whispered, “My queen, I must examine King Hezekiah. If his ailment is as I fear, you will not wish to be present.”

  My head snapped to attention, and I met his eyes for the first time. “What ailment?”

  “I’ve observed and recorded the activity—or should I say lack of activity—in the Assyrian troops. After returning two days ago, few have left their tents. This morning, those under the Rabshakeh’s red standard began digging a large ditch behind their camp.” He paused, raising one eyebrow as if I should understand what that meant.

  “What does that have to do with Hezi?” Frustration sharpened my words. I took a calming breath.

  Hezi groaned. “Zibah, you should go.”

  “No, tell me what that means.” I pinned the physician with a stare.

  “They�
��re preparing for mass deaths.” Samuel’s voice was barely audible, his eyes kind. “Since the Rabshakeh’s troops have been confined to their tents, it’s likely they’re ill.”

  “Is it a plague?” The words escaped my lips on a whisper. Yahweh had used plagues to destroy the wicked in many stories I’d taught my students. I understood judgment on the Assyrians, but…I looked at my husband’s quaking body and then back at the physician. “King Hezekiah can’t have the same illness.” My husband had done nothing to be judged by a plague from God.

  “As I said, my queen, perhaps you should step out of the room.”

  Samuel cupped my elbow, gently lifting me to my feet. “I’ll stay with him. Come, my queen. I’m sure Yaira is just outsi—”

  “No! I’m staying.” I yanked my arm from his grasp and addressed the doctor. “Tell me how to help.”

  “We must undress him.”

  Hezi’s shivering increased as we removed his blankets and outer robe, leaving him in his tunic alone. His arms and legs were covered with small blisters.

  “Flea bites,” the doctor said. “Now, for the tunic.”

  My cheeks warmed at the thought of exposing my husband’s nakedness in the presence of two men, but I couldn’t leave now. When we removed his tunic, a hideous boil on the left groin area stared back like a festering black eye. I turned away before Hezi could see my revulsion, my fear.

  “What is it?” Hezi’s voice trembled still, but I heard fear now, not just the chill.

  “Let’s put these blankets back on.” The doctor unmistakably avoided the hard question.

  With my back still turned, I assumed the shuffling behind me meant Samuel and the doctor were dressing their king. My hands trembled wildly, and I suddenly realized my cheeks were wet with tears. This must be a nightmare. Surely, I would wake and find comfort in Hezi’s arms—my strong, brave, healthy husband’s arms.

  “I saw this in Egypt during my studies,” the physician began.

  “Saw what?” I asked.

  The physician ignored me. “When did you begin feeling poorly, my king?”

  “This morning.”

  The sound of Hezi’s timid voice pierced my heart and beckoned me to his side. I couldn’t let him face the hard truth alone. “He woke with a headache,” I said, sitting on the bed beside him again. I took his hand and smiled into his terrified eyes. “He complained of general fatigue and body soreness, but we’ve both slept poorly because…” Bitterness choked off the words I really wanted to say. Because of the filthy Assyrians outside our balcony.

  Hezi squeezed my hand. He seemed calmer now. “The sickness that you saw in Egypt—was it contagious?” He paused. “Fatal?”

  Choking on a sob, I pulled his hand to my lips and closed my eyes, bracing for the answer my heart already knew.

  “We called it Black Death. I saw only one person survive it—out of hundreds.”

  Four heartbeats passed in silence. “Leave us,” Hezi said. “Both of you.”

  The physician and Samuel protested, each listing their reasons and rights to remain, but my sweet husband knew we needed the nourishment of each other in that moment—the darkest valley of our lives.

  The door clicked shut, and we were finally alone. I crawled into bed beside him, and we released the torrent of emotion held in check while others were present. “I can’t lose you.” The words erupted from the depths of my soul. “You are my light, my breath, my words.”

  He kissed the tears from my cheeks; deep, racking sobs shaking him at the same time.

  I don’t know how long we wept, but my next realization was of waking in his arms. The sky outside our balcony was dark. For just a moment, hope flitted across my clouded mind that this had all been a bad dream, but heat from my husband’s trembling body reminded me of our ugly reality.

  I kissed Hezi’s cheek, and he turned sad eyes in my direction. “I’m sorry, Zibah.”

  I stared at him, puzzled and heartbroken. “What could you be sorry about, my love?”

  “I’m sorry that I’ll die without giving you a son of David.” He raised his hand to touch my face, and I screamed for the physician. My husband’s fingers had turned black.

  56

  Isaiah son of Amoz went to [King Hezekiah] and said, “This is what the LORD says: Put your house in order, because you are going to die; you will not recover.”

  —2 Kings 20:1

  Jashub snatched Isaiah’s walking stick from the corner of the kitchen as if stealing it could keep Yahweh’s prophet from delivering the message. “Please, Abba. I heard you and Ima talking. Surely, you misunderstood Yahweh’s words.”

  How Isaiah wished he hadn’t heard Yahweh clearly. As he did during the days he’d been called to prophesy naked and barefoot, Isaiah had begged God to send someone else. “I’ll go without the stick if I must, Jashub. Yahweh was clear. I’m to pronounce judgment on Judah’s king at dawn.”

  His eldest son stood his ground, rebellion screaming in his silence. Aya walked into the room, glanced at her two men, and marched over to their son. “Give me that walking stick right now.” He obeyed, and she brushed his cheek with the gentleness of a dove’s wing. “Your abba is heartbroken. Don’t make it worse.”

  She placed the stick in Isaiah’s hands and nudged him toward the door. “Go. The sun is peeking over the hills.” He turned and kissed her before hurrying out the door.

  What would he do without Aya? What will Zibah do without Hezekiah? They’d loved each other since they were children. Yahweh, I know the boy has sinned, but…He shook his head, trying to dislodge the faithless thought. He’d been taught by the great prophets at Tekoa—Jonah, Amos, and Hosea—a prophet must deliver God’s message without question. “And sometimes without understanding,” he whispered to himself. I trust You, Yahweh, but sometimes it’s easier than others to trust You wholeheartedly.

  Too soon, he arrived at the palace, and curious eyes followed him down the king’s hallway. Not a single guard tried to stop him even though he hadn’t visited the palace in years. As he approached the king’s chamber, he recognized Samuel at the door.

  The big guard looked as if he hadn’t slept in days, but he perked immediately when he spotted Isaiah. “Your presence is either extremely good news or extremely bad.”

  Isaiah’s silence was answer enough.

  Samuel planted his feet and crossed his arms over his chest. “I will not allow you to enter this chamber and cause more suffering, Prophet.”

  Relief surged through Isaiah. “I would rather you cut me down with your sword than deliver this message to our king.” Tears robbed his dignity, and he pressed his fingers against his eyes. Breathing deeply, he regained control. “If I don’t speak, the Lord will raise up another to deliver His message to Hezekiah.” Samuel’s eyes registered understanding, and he stepped back, opening the door for Isaiah.

  The room smelled of putrid flesh. Tapestries were drawn across the balcony and over every window. Only two lamps lit the physician’s table in the audience chamber. The rest of the room was utter darkness.

  “Abba?” Zibah emerged from the darkened area, disheveled and dismayed. “Why have you come?” Fear marred her lovely features. She knew.

  “I must speak the word of the Lord to King Hezekiah.”

  Tears gathered on her lashes. “Do you want to see him first? Talk with him?”

  Emotion strangled Isaiah and opened the floodgates. Zibah clung to him, and they wept, hearts broken over the boy, the man, the king they loved. “I can’t, Zibah. I’m afraid if I talk with Hezekiah, if I see his suffering, I won’t be faithful to God’s command. I must be faithful, Zibah. I must.”

  She shoved him away, her eyes accusing. “Why, Abba? Why be faithful to a God who speaks in mysteries we can’t understand and then tortures us by almost giving us our dreams?”

  “Hephzibah…”

  “No!” she shouted. “I am Ishma! Desolate and barren.”

  Yaira appeared from the shadows and cradled Hephzibah
in her arms. “Go, Master Isaiah. Do what you must.”

  Isaiah met the physician’s disdain and borrowed one of the lamps from his table. A slow march to the king’s bed didn’t prepare him for the sight. Hezekiah’s nose had turned black, his hands as well. Two large lumps had risen under his right armpit with black veins reaching like a spider’s web in all directions. The strong and handsome second-born of King Ahaz was quickly wasting away.

  Hezekiah lifted his hand to shield his eyes. “Get that light out of here.”

  Weeping, Isaiah blew out the small flame, hoping the young man he loved wouldn’t recognize the prophet speaking judgment. “Hear the word of the Lord, Hezekiah ben Ahaz: Put your house in order for you are going to die. You will not recover.”

  Isaiah turned to go, but a weak voice stopped him. “Is that all? No imagery or list of woes? Surely, you won’t waste the last lesson Yahweh is teaching your prized student.”

  The words cut like a dagger into Isaiah’s belly. He didn’t understand the lesson himself. How could he explain it? Yet he turned and found his way back to speak his last words to Judah’s king. “I have only one lesson left to teach you, Hezekiah. Pride is a man’s worst enemy. You were right when you said I offered too many opinions to accompany God’s revealed word. That, Hezekiah, was my prideful heart.” He paused, but Judah’s king had no quick reply. “We have both made mistakes while leading God’s people, my son. It breaks my heart that you bear the wrath in your body.”

  Isaiah rose, kissed Hezekiah’s forehead, and left the room to the sound of the king’s weeping. He rushed down the hall and toward the Middle Court, aching for Aya’s comforting arms.

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