THE CHOSEN : The Youth: Historical Fiction (The Chosen Trilogy Book 1)

by Shlomo Kalo

  The name of the older man was Gershon. He was a calligrapher of scrolls by trade, whom the Chaldeans in their haste, as he explained it, had mistaken for a tanner, and therefore suitable for inclusion in the convoy of the exiles. The youths dressed his wounds and assured him that no harm would befall him, and he could travel all the way with them in the wagon, which while not an outstanding exemplar of comfort and luxury, would at least give some respite to his bare feet, which were not the feet of a peasant nor the calloused feet of a tanner.

  Gershon did not know how to thank them. He blessed them, and blessed them again, with tears in his eyes, until the youths were so moved that they almost wept with him, while some of them had uneasy consciences, having not been as quick as Daniel to intervene in the episode.

  Only a few moments had passed when at the command of the Chaldean officer their wagon was stopped. His stern face, framed by a wavy black beard, peered in through a gap in the canopy.

  “You need to get rid of this man!” he declared, his voice deep and imperious. “The wagon can’t carry all of you!”

  “I don’t mind lightening the load and walking alongside!” he retorted, in a calm but resolute tone of voice, no less authoritative than that of the Chaldean.

  “I can’t agree to that!” the Chaldean, adding by way of explanation: “It’s my duty to deliver you, all of you, to Babylon, safe and sound and unharmed.”

  “Walking won’t do me any harm,” he insisted, and at this point Mishael and Azariah spoke up in his support, volunteering to ease the burden on the wagon themselves by walking alongside. And then Hananiah said:

  “We can take turns walking, so no one will suffer any harm, no one will be over tired, and our esteemed commander can accomplish his mission and bring us to Babylon safe and sound – and refreshed as well since the atmosphere in the wagon is stifling and unhealthy, and it will do us all good to breathe a little fresh air outside it.

  The senior officer had to admit that here too the Jewish youths had made a valid point. Whatever anger had arisen in his heart soon melted away and its place was taken by curiosity: How astute these young men are! – it was partly a question to himself, partly a statement. His lower lip twitched a little, in what was supposed to be a smile, faint and fleeting – yet expressing something that could be cautiously defined as sympathy.

  “Who will be the first?” demanded the Chaldean in an even tone of voice. All four of the youths sitting in the forepart of the wagon sprang to their feet and made for the way out. Daniel stopped them.

  “Please, good friends – let me the first to do this service!” – and without waiting for their response, he took advantage of the moment of indecision and jumped from the wagon. To the driver he shouted “Go!” – and began walking at a brisk pace.

  The wide open space cleared, swallowing up, in a strange and inexplicable way, all the sounds emanating from the convoy; the creaking of wagons, the neighing of horses, the lowing of the livestock – oxen for slaughter and milch-cows, the orders given by Chaldean officers to their subordinates in peremptory tones, the gallop of horsemen patrolling the line of the convoy, the sighs and murmurs of those on foot.

  The darkness thickened without impairing in any way the transparency of the air. The evening came down without a sound, stars glimmered. Suddenly, the sounds returned, to the relief of the ear. The transfer of watches between day and night was complete.

  The convoy commander ordered the lighting of oil lamps and lanterns, and the torches carried by his horsemen. And the velveteen expanse was lit up by an infinite chain of points of glittering fire, responding to the greetings of the stars above, in their flickering radiance.

  My Father in Heaven, my God, how can I be worthy of You, worthy of the abundance of Your grace that You have bestowed upon me? My Father in Heaven, my God, make me an instrument of humility in Your hand, for only in humility can I draw close to You, only out of humility can I serve You and do Your holy will!

  He did not feel the ground under his feet, and it seemed to him at times he was hovering above it. The world melted around him and vanished, with all its shapes and marvels, as if it had never been, a world in which he had no interest. Within, the light broke through, shining on the surface of a sea of peace. He had no desire other than to live at all times and forever in this limpid light, to be, at all times and forever, a sea of peace.

  When Abraham sensed that Isaac, his son, had captivated his heart, and his love for him was identical to his love for the source of all love, he decided at once to “sacrifice” Isaac – to put an end to this misunderstanding of love. For it was clear to him that any love not directed towards his Father in Heaven and his God, is a lie and a fraud, hypocrisy and pretence, which in the end will be shown to be the opposite of love. And when Abraham wields the “cleaver” of his love for his Creator, to put an end to the illusion of his love for his son, flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood and bone of his bone – then love personified, his Father in Heaven and his God – stays his hand, prevents the beloved one from putting an end to that which love personified has bestowed upon him – his son Isaac, who is flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood and bone of his bone. Falsehood will collapse on the spot, fall by its own agency, for this is its nature and its yardstick. Love will stand for ever, for this is its nature and its yardstick.

  And once again the sign was given, and the convoy came to a halt, and the brief, vigorous, sometimes brusque orders were passed by liveried messengers, galloping on horseback on either side of the broad, dusty road. The air was cool but not too heavy to breathe, and as such was widely welcomed.

  The column wheeled to form a circle – wagons in the middle, the exiles beside them and on the perimeter – the battle-hardened Chaldean cavalry.

  The horses were tethered between the exiles and the low tents of the Chaldeans, and with them the milch-cows and the oxen destined for slaughter.

  Camp-fires were quickly ablaze, and one of the oxen was butchered, its flesh roasted and distributed among the Chaldean soldiers. For a while there was heard the murmuring of people exchanging words about this or that, negotiating the loan of a bootlace or a kerchief. All were tired, including the livestock.

  By order of the convoy commander, a large tent has been set up for the eight youths, who have brought their mats with them to be laid on the bare ground. Gershon has been left in the wagon, at his own earnest request, for fear of disruption and the chill of the night. The youths have left him a cloak and a goatskin rug, and he is more than satisfied with these, constantly thanking them and blessing them effusively for their generosity and nobility of spirit.

  Inside the tent with its cattle-hide awning, the cold was not felt, and the air was gentle and pleasant. Hananiah lit one of the small lamps.

  “Tomorrow we shall have more walking to do,” commented Adoniah, hinting that the light was superfluous and they should take this opportunity to rest, thus rising in the morning alert and refreshed, ready to travel onward.

  “Tomorrow it’s my turn to march,” Hananiah intoned in Daniel’s ear, and put out the light. The white and radiant light of the stars was enough to distinguish between the shapes of the various figures.

  “As you wish,” the other replied.

  They lay down on their mats and covered themselves with blankets of wool or goatskin. The four close friends bedded down in the innermost recesses of the tent, the others near the entrance. Hananiah lay beside Daniel, and at his feet Azariah stretched out. Mishael was curled up at Daniel’s feet.

  Hananiah was restless, and even the rigours and the upsets of the journey were not enough to bring sleep to his eyelids. He was pondering all kinds of strange and peculiar things, and in the process, stole a glance at his friend. Daniel lay supine, arms folded under his head, eyes open and staring into the dark void above him.

  “Aren’t you asleep?” Hananiah whispered

  “No,” the answer came.

  “Have you noticed how closely we are being watche
d?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are we being summoned by King Nebuchadnezzar?”

  “Ashpenaz the chief eunuch told us – we’re to serve in his palace.”

  “Do you believe him?

  “I do.”

  “I’m not inclined to believe him.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You know – this is a pagan king, and I’ve heard about some weird practices.”

  “Such as?”

  “Human sacrifices to Moloch, especially – boys!”

  He grinned faintly, noting the emphatic supplement, so indicative of Hananiah’s fears and misgivings.

  “And I’ve heard rumours about women, especially – virgins!” he teased his friend.

  Hananiah seemed offended. He was silent for a long moment and then whispered:

  “The essential thing is to be prepared for this! I’m talking about sacrifice or anything of that kind.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Not bringing disgrace on the people of God, but sanctifying His name as is proper and fitting.”

  Slowly he turned his head towards his whispering friend. His face, sketched in the darkness with a few sharp lines, looked serious.

  “There’s no point discussing this,” he remarked softly.

  “Why is that?” Hananiah persisted.

  “Because,” – he turned and faced Hananiah again – “it’s obvious.”

  Another prolonged silence. Hananiah replied with a sigh:

  “It doesn’t seem that obvious – to everyone, I mean,” he corrected himself.

  “If it isn’t obvious to someone – explanations and sermons will do him no good.”

  “And what about someone to whom it is obvious?”

  “He doesn’t need them,” he declared.

  The muscles of Hananiah’s body relaxed. He seemed relieved. He too lay on his back with arms under his head, but wasn’t yet asleep.

  A long moment passed and again Hananiah turned towards him and whispered:

  “Asleep?”

  “No.”

  “I looked at this Gershon and I felt a pang of compassion for him – over the beating he took and the deep wound in his leg and the whole thing – all the suffering that he’s been through. I looked into his eyes, and saw nothing there but innocence. The innocence of a baby! Surely you can’t say of such a man that he’s a sinner or a criminal. He’s one of our people. An artist. A calligrapher. And I suppose there must be many like him and yet – this dreadful scourge has fallen on him!”

  “It wasn’t the innocence reflected in the eyes of an artist like Gershon that dealt the people of God such a cruel blow.”

  “What then?”

  “Lack of faith.”

  “Gershon was lacking in faith?”

  “His teachers were.”

  “What have his teachers to do with it?

  “He was swept along with them, believed in their teaching.”

  “What could he have done?”

  “Turned to the source and asked Him.”

  “Turned to God and asked Him?”

  He nodded in the darkness without turning to face his inquisitor.

  “Perhaps his teachers didn’t let him.”

  “No man can come between God and another man.”

  “He believed his teachers?”

  “And didn’t believe in God.”

  “They didn’t teach him to turn to God.”

  “The thirsty man doesn’t need to be taught to drink water.”

  “So why didn’t he turn to God?”

  “He wasn’t thirsty for Him. It was convenient for him to listen to those who set themselves up as His envoys and His interpreters.”

  “Did they not set themselves up in obedience to the Torah?”

  “The Torah which they neglected and perverted.”

  “A great blight on our people!”

  “And the root of it – is pride.”

  “And yet – He chose us out of all the peoples!”

  “It wasn’t us that He chose, but a people that would follow Him and cleave to His truth. For as long as we followed Him and cleaved to His truth – we were His people, the people of God! When we stopped following Him and cleaving to His truth – we stopped being His people, stopped being the people of God.”

  “Scholars and teachers of the Torah don’t share your interpretation!”

  “That is why we have got to the state that we are in.”

  “What are we to do to set things right, as far as is possible?”

  “Repent, cleave to Him, the Holy One, and live His truth!”

  Hananiah pondered these words, pondered them at length and finally exclaimed:

  “You are so right!” He felt his mind was now at ease, and deep, sweet slumber descended on him and closed his eyes.

  The order to rise was given while it was still dark outside, and a few stars that had waxed and waned, and exchanged their brilliance for a dull red hue, were still suspended in the firmament. The moon had not yet withdrawn its lustre, and the chill was everywhere.

  The exiles woke to the sound of the shouts of the soldiers, spurring their horses among the huddled forms on the bare ground.

  A movement began towards the wagons and the livestock. Some had time to put on shawls and pray the dawn prayer, and some washed in the icy water, some paced vigorously back and forth, to shake the sleep from their limbs, while some lit small fires and tried to warm themselves with the meagre flames.

  Meanwhile the draught-horses had been fetched and harnessed to the wagons, and the cattle were led to their position in the rear and hitched behind the open carts, and as the night retreated, and the distant pallor of morning rose to take its place, clouds of vapour rose from the mouths of the people and the bodies of the beasts.

  And before sunrise, the convoy was marshalled into one long column, tensed for departure and ready to move on the giving of the order. The order was given, and three burning arrows pierced the silvery mists of the rising dawn.

  The horses moved forward, people riding them, driving them or walking beside them. Somewhere, to the east, the point of a white-hot sword cleft the narrow line of the horizon above the heads of the silent mountains. The dark column of people, beasts and wagons shrank and dwindled to a mere shadow of itself. And in the wake of the gleaming sword there appeared a regal crown of gold on the head of the sun, and then the sun itself, and the people began the daily exchanges of opinions and speculations.

  “Are those the heights of Gilead over there?”

  “No. The heights of Gilead we’ve left far behind us!”

  “On this side there’s a fortress from the days of King Solomon, his august majesty!

  “I can’t see it!”

  “Somewhere over there, at the foot of that hill, there’s a peasant’s cottage.”

  “You’re right!” – another agreed, shielding his eyes to take a better view of the hill that they were approaching. “You’re right!” he insisted and added: “Cottages… and all of them burnt out!”

  “The handiwork of these friends of ours,” – someone gestured with a raised shoulder towards the Chaldeans, and someone else nodded. A Chaldean officer yelled at a group of exiles who were milling around, making desperate efforts to work out where they were – and in the process lagging behind. At the sound of this cry the group of exiles dispersed and put on speed, catching up with the rest of the convoy and picking up the pace dictated by the Chaldeans, in their eyes – bitterness and repressed resentment. The convoy moved on in silence towards the distant, bright horizons.

  Hananiah was walking beside the wagon, his hand on one of the struts to which the crude canopy was fastened – made of ox-hide that had not been adequately treated.

  The youths crowded into the forward section of the wagon as it jolted along the way that had suddenly become rough, exposing sharp stones that had been hidden beneath the cover of grey dust.

  He attended to Gershon’s wound. The latter gave
him a long, tormented and compassionate look.

  “So, you are the son of the minister Naimel!” he said, dragging his body into a position intended to alleviate the pain caused to his injured leg by the jolting of the wagon. He helped him, putting a pair of cloaks under the leg for support, smearing the wound with oil and binding it in a clean cotton bandage.

  “How did you know?” he asked, placing a folded kerchief under the knee.

  “I asked,” – Gershon sighed in pain or in sorrow, or both of them together – “and the lads told me, not all of them… there are some among them who are talkative, and some who are less talkative. The less talkative ones will do well in the court of the Chaldean king, Nebuchadnezzar. Those friends of yours, Hananiah the compassionate and Azariah the wise, and Mishael the humble. I know people and I take an interest in them. I used to have dealings with so many of them in my line of business, in the pursuit of my art. I even did a commission for the king, transcribing the sayings of the ancients on clean parchment. He wanted them read to him too, and he listened, heard and paid attention, but he did not uphold them. Even the word of the living God that the prophet from Anathoth preached before him – he would not accept!”

  “And you?” he asked, helping him to sit in the corner of the wagon, close to him, and eyeing him calmly.

  “I?.. Oh yes, I!” – he understood the question and replied: “To tell the truth, I myself did not heed or pay attention. A kind of thoughtlessness, an obtuseness of the heart that is beyond the strength of man to control.”

  “Such things are well within the strength of man to control,” the young man declared calmly.

  “Not always,” the other replied. His denial was faint, hesitant. “How could it be believed that the people of God must bow down before these pagan Chaldeans?” And the older man went on to say: “I didn’t believe it! I couldn’t believe it”