The desert in which the Hebrews had lived for so many generations consisted of three parts. There were sandy wastes where nothing grew, and these the nomads avoided, for no man dependent upon donkeys could traverse them; in later years, when camels had been tamed, it would be possible to travel these wastes, but not now. There were also vast expanses of rock and arid land with occasional oases of reliable water, and here men with donkeys could just barely live; “the wilderness,” this desert was called. And, finally, there were long stretches of semi-arid land lying next to settled farms, with not enough water for the regular planting of wheat or olive trees but enough to nourish sheep and goats, and it was in these lands that Zadok and his clan had been living for the past forty years. The wiser Hebrews felt certain that sooner or later El-Shaddai would command them to move on, but what they did not know was that three times the god had ordered Zadok to do just this, but the patriarch had been afraid and had temporized.
El-Shaddai, having at last become impatient, had delivered his latest command not to old Zadok but to the red-headed Epher. As a result of this message Epher had come to Zadok some weeks ago, saying, “Father, we ought to move into the good lands of the west.”
“El-Shaddai will instruct us when to move.”
“But he did instruct us. Last night. He came to me and said, ‘Go to the west and spy out the land.’ ”
Zadok had taken Epher by the shoulders and had asked directly, “Did El-Shaddai himself speak to you?” And Epher, a hot-headed young man of twenty-two, had insisted that the god had come to him. “What kind of voice did he use?” Zadok had probed, but his son could not explain, and that night Epher and Ibsha had run off to spy out the west. During their absence Zadok had worried as to whether Epher had spoken the truth. Why would El-Shaddai deliver a message of such importance to a youth? It seemed most unlikely, but now the god had indirectly confirmed Epher’s story, saying that tomorrow the young men would return with instructions for the move west; and when Zadok reflected on the matter he had to admit that it was not so strange if El-Shaddai had spoken to Epher directly, for Zadok himself had been only seven when the mysterious god had first spoken to him, saying, “In the rocks on which your father Zebul sits, there lurks a serpent.” He had stood transfixed, for the voice came from nowhere and he could not believe it. “Go,” the voice continued, “and warn your father, lest he be bitten by that serpent.” And he had run to the rocks and caused his father to leave just as the snake unwound itself from an inner crevice. From that day he was a child apart.
His name, Zadok, meant righteous, and he had continued to serve as the agency whereby El-Shaddai kept his chosen people informed. They were never many, the Hebrews of the desert. When Lot and Esau journeyed south they took with them less than a thousand people each. The clan of Zadok, as it waited for its culminating drive to the west, contained only seven hundred persons, for the great Hebrew tribes had not yet been formed. Zadok’s group of nomads could not be called a family, because it comprised much more than a single unit; for example, Zadok’s four wives and thirty children, many of whom had families of their own, did not add up to even a quarter of the total. But all in the group were related in some way to the old man, so although they were not a family they were a clan, and in the centuries ahead when several of these clans coalesced, the tribes known to history would emerge.
The clan of Zadok was one of the better-organized units, thanks principally to the righteous character of the man who led it. In all things he relied upon El-Shaddai. In war he was not overzealous, for he loved peace and sought it whenever possible—even at the displeasure of his sons, who were willing fighters. In trading he was honest and in charity generous. Among his wives he kept peace and among his children gentleness. He loved animals and initiated the practice of never slaughtering one member of a family in the presence of others, of never killing a kid and a dam on the same day, lest the creatures be offended by injustice as well as by death. In his clan women who had borne children could not work until five months had passed, except for kitchen duties that were not onerous. Yet he was a stern judge who had sentenced numerous persons to death, because infractions of divine law, such as adultery, filial insubordination, any profanation of El-Shaddai, were punishable by death. But when sentence was passed, with the old man warning that no appeal was possible, he usually allowed the victim a chance to escape, and it was understood that any condemned man might take with him one donkey and three water bags. But return to the clan of Zadok was forbidden.
The most intimate details of life were regulated by the old man. It was he who instituted the rule that unmarried men might not tend sheep alone: “lest it lead to an abomination.” Two young unmarried men were not to occupy a booth alone when they hired themselves out to settled farmers at the harvest: “lest there be an abomination.” Nor could men dress as women or women as men: “lest it lead to an abomination.” From centuries of experience in the desert the Hebrews had built up a body of sensible law which Zadok had memorized and which he transmitted to his older sons, who would serve as judges when he was gone: “A man may not marry two sisters, lest there be an abomination, nor may he marry a mother and daughter, lest it lead to an abomination.” And because it was essential that the great life of the family and of the clan continue uninterrupted, he enforced the ancient law that if a husband died before his wife had children, it was obligatory for one of the dead man’s brothers to take the widow immediately and get her with child so that the life of the clan could go forward with children to replenish it. If the surviving brothers were already married, no matter; if they despised their sister-in-law, no matter; so long as she had no children it was their responsibility to lie with her until she conceived—in the name of her dead husband, that his name might continue.
If Zadok was insistent upon carefully organized sexual behavior, this did not mean that he was contemptuous of this function of life: two years ago, at sixty-two, with his children grown and his wives occupied with many matters, he had looked one day upon a group of slaves which his sons had captured in a minor skirmish with a settled village and had seen one girl of sixteen who was particularly appealing. Claiming her for himself, he had found much joy in having her in his tent in the long nights. She was a Canaanite who worshiped Baal the omnipotent, but as Zadok lay with her, feeling her warmth against his tired body, he spoke with her against the Canaanite god and convinced himself that he was winning her away from Baal and to an acceptance of the true god.
His principal joy, however, was his thirty children. His oldest offspring were now the secondary heads of the clan, men and women with children of their own and several with grandchildren, so that Zadok could boast, “A hunter is happy when he has a quiver full of arrows to shoot into the future.” But it was his younger children—the offspring of his fourth wife—who interested him most: Epher the daring one, who had organized the scouting expedition to the west and who was always eager to engage an enemy; Ibsha, younger and quieter, but perhaps more seriously dedicated to understanding the world; and above all Leah, a girl of seventeen, not yet married but studying with alert eyes the various men her father suggested as possible husbands. If a man had produced only these three children he could feel proud, and to have them arrive in his later days was a serene pleasure.
For many years it had been Zadok’s custom to spend his late afternoons sitting with Leah and any other children who cared to join him, recalling the traditions of the Hebrews. Recently the young slave girl had begun to appear each day, sitting at the right hand of her master and listening with delight as he told of his ancestor Noah, who had escaped the great flood, or of Nimrod the hunter, whose exploits were renowned, or of Jubal, who invented the harp. For hours he would speak of these men, telling this story and that, but each day he came to some episode in the life of Abraham, who had been the first to travel in this desert—“He passed by these very rocks on which we sit this day”—and it was his pleasure to expatiate on the matter of Abraham and his son Isaac
, contending that on the day that El-Shaddai outlawed human sacrifice he proved himself to be a god of mercy, a god so superior to all others that comparison was meaningless. “There are other gods, of course, and Baal is not one to laugh at,” he said approvingly to the slave girl, “and in the lands my fathers passed through, it was always our custom to respect the gods we met. El-Shaddai demands this of us, but there can be no question as to which god is superior, reigning above all others.”
On this last afternoon during which Zadok awaited the return of his sons from their scouting trip, he did not appear for his restful conversation with the children, so Leah and the slave girl went about their tasks, and from her tent the latter could see the old man standing apart from the camp, looking at it critically, like a judge. At last we are ready, he said to himself. Our cattle were never more numerous and our donkeys are fat. We have nearly two hundred warriors and our tents are mended. We are like a mighty bow drawn taut, ready to shoot arrows westward with force, and if it is the will of El-Shaddai that we move, he has brought us to superb condition. Approving what he saw of the equipment, the old man next studied his clan. It was well organized, faithful to one unifying god, disciplined, vigorous. It was as cohesive a unit as could then have been found in the desert regions—less educated, perhaps, since no member was able to read or write or cast bronze—but unified as no other similar group could be, for it had been Zadok’s stern command that no strangers be allowed to enter his clan without a period of indoctrination so rigorous as to repel most applicants. A Canaanite man could live beside the Hebrews for years without their trying to convert him away from his belief in Baal, but once he asked permission to marry one of the Hebrew women—and they were beautiful women who attracted men—he had to present himself to Zadok, forswear his former gods, undergo circumcision if that rite had not already been performed, abandon his former associates, and then spend eleven days with Zadok, trying to penetrate the mystery of El-Shaddai. Afterward, allegiance to any other god meant death, and few men were willing to submit themselves to such treatment merely to wed a Hebrew girl, no matter how attractive, so where men were concerned Zadok had kept his clan homogeneous.
The Hebrews insisted upon the circumcision of their men for a logical reason: it not only formed a covenant between the man and El-Shaddai, an unbreakable allegiance whose mark remained forever, but it also had the practical value of indicating without question or quibble the fact that the man so marked was a Hebrew. In war against the uncircumcised the coward might want to run away and later on deny that he had been a Hebrew. His captors had only to inspect him to prove he was a liar, so the circumcised man had better fight to the death because for him there was no masking his identity. The Hebrews were therefore strong warriors who were sometimes defeated but rarely demoralized, and for much of this cohesive spirit the desert rite of circumcision was responsible.
With women the problems were different. In their constant wars with settled tribes Zadok’s men often took prisoners and they were apt to be enticing creatures. Not even Zadok could keep his sons from lying with the strangers, and he was smart enough to realize his impotence in this matter. But he did insist upon precautions. When a slave girl was captured she was put into sackcloth of the meanest sort, her head was shaved and she was allowed nothing with which to clean or cut her fingernails, no oil for her face and little water for washing. After one month of such treatment she was led forth to stand beside the man who had captured her, while Zadok asked, “Do you still want this woman?” If the man said yes, she was tested as to her willingness to accept El-Shaddai; she was not required to surrender her old gods completely, for she was a woman, but she must acknowledge that El-Shaddai was superior, and if she did this she was delivered by Zadok to her captor, with the admonition, “Have many children.” With his own slave girl Zadok had followed this regimen and was gratified to see that she was becoming a true child of El-Shaddai.
Next day, as El-Shaddai had said, the young men Epher and Ibsha returned from the west with exhilarating news. “It’s a land of oil and honey,” Ibsha reported.
“It’s a land with armies,” his red-headed brother added, “but not too great to conquer.”
“It’s a land with fields covered with grass,” Ibsha continued.
“It has cities surrounded by walls,” Epher reported, “but they can be scaled.”
“It’s a land with more trees than I have ever seen before,” Ibsha said. “Mountains and valleys to delight the eye.”
“It has roads that we can march along,” Epher told those around him, “and rocks behind which we can take cover.”
“It’s a land which I cannot describe to satisfaction,” Ibsha said. “Where that bush grows over there, a dozen olive trees are standing. When you shake the limbs the fruit comes down like dark rain.”
“They have metal spears,” Epher went on, “and we have stone.” He showed his brothers some metal weapons he had acquired along the way.
Then Zadok spoke to the clan, on the last evening that they would reside in the desert. “El-Shaddai has spoken. We are to occupy the land. The olive trees are to be ours and the walls of the city will open for us.”
The Hebrews began to cheer but Zadok silenced them, for he comprehended the gravity of the step they were about to take, and as dusk fell upon their tents he commanded them to gather, a lean and sinewy group dressed in skins and woven cloth and leather sandals. They formed an intense congregation, kneeling while Zadok prayed: “Mighty El-Shaddai, whom no man has seen face-to-face, into your hands we deliver ourselves. It is your desire that we leave our ancient home for the valleys and the towns. Protect us, protect us from the dangers we cannot foresee.” With their faces upraised, the Hebrews praised their god, each man and woman committing himself to the deity that brooded over the desert, and finally they separated and by the light of flickering rushes packed their tents.
As they worked, Zadok the Righteous went alone into the womb of the desert, for only he appreciated what a terrible thing his children were attempting, this leap from the ancient ways into the modern. He had never been inside a town—not in sixty-four years of life; he had helped besiege several and had sent his sons trading inside their walls, and of course his little slave girl had lived in a Canaanite town to the north, which she delighted in describing as they lay together. But he himself did not fully understand what a town was, except that it was a place so crowded that El-Shaddai seemed not to frequent its narrow alleys. Other gods flourished in towns, but not El-Shaddai. Yet it was apparent to the old man that the moment had come in the life of his people when it was appropriate for them to try the town, uncertain and ominous though it was. El-Shaddai himself had ordained the move, and the eyes of his older sons had glittered with expectation as they listened to Epher and Ibsha describing the towns they had seen; but he looked back to the desert.
How far the horizons were this starry night, how sweeping the rocks as they fell sculptured by the hand of El-Shaddai. How sweet the waters were when they were found, how cruel the scorpions in the midday sun. It was the desert that tested a man, that issued the dreadful challenge, “Come upon me and see if you have courage.” It was this desert of illimitable magnitude that encouraged a man to consider the ultimate questions: not the matter of food tomorrow, nor the child to be born next week, nor the battle in the offing, but the questions beyond that and then far, far beyond that, too. Why, in the infinity of the desert, does this small speck called man have the confidence to move from this unknown point to that, finding his water and his food as he goes along? What divine assistance guides him and how is that assistance governed? Above all, how can man ascertain the divine will and then live in harmony with it?
The old man walked across the sand until he could look back and see his entire encampment, all the flickering lights and the shepherds guarding their flocks, and he remembered that night so very long ago when his people had been lost far east of Damascus in the worst desert they had ever traveled, and all were at
the point where they must perish, but his father, Zebul, had said, “In the cool of the night we must push on.” The stricken Hebrews had protested, “We can go no farther,” but he had struck the tents and they had moved on till the next dawn, finding nothing. Through that day they had rested, parched and dying, and at night Zebul again said, “In the cool of the night we must march on,” and again they had protested that they were perishing, but they marched and they did this for three nights—wholly incapable of moving another step yet moving nevertheless—and on that last night when they refused to march, saying that they were finished, he went through the tents lashing out at them and shouting in rage, “Do you think, men of faltering faith, that El-Shaddai has brought us to this spot to perish without purpose? Does he not have an enemy waiting at the well to kill us in battle? Or a king to carry us off in slavery? Have we come so far to die inconsequentially? Up! Up! Let us see what terrible thing El-Shaddai has waiting for us.” And he drove his Hebrews, dying as they had threatened, but dying on the way to the well, not in some surrendered heap. And as the last sun rose—the one that none could have survived—Zebul found the well, and there they rested for three years.
Tonight Zadok did not intend to pray. No further communication between him and El-Shaddai was needed, but he did look with an aching hunger at the desert which he had known for all but seven years of his life, and he wondered if he would ever again find the peace, the consolation he had known amidst its sweep and challenge. He sensed that henceforth his vision would be diminished and his nearness to the stars removed. A way of life was being lost beyond the point of recovery and he was apprehensive about the future, but he felt certain that wherever his Hebrews went they would carry with them memorials of these desert years when they had lived close to their god.
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