The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  King Ahaz shouted a curse. “Do I have to take a sword and guard every cistern in this city myself? Doesn’t anyone ever listen to me? I told you from the start of this cursed siege to post guards at all the cisterns and to ration the water!”

  The defense minister spread his hands. “But, Your Majesty, every available soldier is needed to defend the walls.”

  Ahaz shouted another curse. “No wonder we’re in such a sorry state! I give orders that nobody bothers to follow!” He turned on his defense minister in a rage. “Get out! Get out of my sight right now!”

  The atmosphere was tense as the minister gathered up his things and hastily left the room. Uriah knew it was his job to appease Ahaz. And for the good of the country, he shouldn’t allow the king to make any decisions when he was this drunk.

  “Your Majesty,” he said soothingly, “you shouldn’t have to listen to this. It’s upsetting you. I’ll finish hearing the reports for you, and we can decide what measures need to be taken in the morning, after you’ve rested. A weary king will be no help to his nation, my lord.” He took Ahaz’s arm and pulled him to his feet, then led him to the door as if he were a child. It didn’t take much to convince Ahaz. He stumbled from the room, allowing Uriah to steer him to his chambers. Too late, Uriah remembered that Abijah was waiting inside.

  “Send my servants in here with some more wine,” Ahaz said, slurring his words. “You have no idea what unbearable pressure I’m under.”

  “Get some rest, Your Majesty. I’ll take care of everything.” But as Uriah turned to leave, Ahaz suddenly clutched his arm.

  “Are sacrifices being offered night and day?” he asked. “To Baal . . . Asherah . . . Molech? All the gods?”

  Uriah felt his patience being strained to its limits. He drew a deep breath. “Listen, Your Majesty. There is very little wood, and we can’t spare many animals because of the siege—”

  “Check on it!” Ahaz ordered. “I want sacrifices! Make sure none of the gods is being offended!”

  “I’ll see to it, Your Majesty. Rest well.”

  Uriah hurried away, wondering what he would do if Ahaz ordered another sacrifice to Molech. It was impossible at the moment with enemy troops camped in the Hinnom Valley. But what about when the siege ended? He remembered how Ahaz’s sons had cowered in fear, and his revulsion for the king was so great that Uriah wanted to keep walking, past the council chamber, out of the palace, back to the Temple of Yahweh on the hill above the city. But the king’s advisors were waiting for him in the council room. Uriah was second in command of the nation.

  He passed a trembling hand over his face and straightened his shoulders, then strode into the council chamber to take his place as head of Judah’s royal court.

  When Ahaz opened his eyes, slivers of sunlight were streaming through his shutters, intensifying the pain that throbbed behind his eyes. He could remember nothing of the night before, but he found himself on the couch in his sitting room. His body ached from sleeping in such a cramped position. He groaned, and when he tried to sit up, his stomach churned as the room spun.

  “Your Majesty?”

  The voice startled him, echoing loudly through his head. He tried to focus on a blurred figure standing in his doorway.

  “Who is it? What do you want?”

  “It’s Uriah, Your Majesty.”

  Ahaz groaned and covered his eyes to stop the pain. “More bad news of the siege, no doubt,” he mumbled, remembering the unfinished reports from the night before. “Just go away. I can’t take this anymore.”

  But as Uriah approached the couch, his stony features, usually unreadable, were curiously cheerful. “Your Majesty, they’re leaving!”

  “Who’s leaving? What are you talking about?” Ahaz’s mouth tasted sour and dry. He searched for a drink of wine and spied a half-empty goblet on the table beside his couch.

  “The armies outside the walls have broken camp. They’re retreating.”

  “What?” Ahaz forgot about the wine and struggled to his feet, trying to comprehend Uriah’s words. As they slowly penetrated his foggy mind, he wondered if this were a cruel joke designed to send him over the brink of sanity. “Are you telling the truth?” He grabbed the front of Uriah’s tunic with both hands and tried to shake him, but the brawny priest didn’t budge. “Are they really leaving?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” he replied calmly. “It’s the truth. Come to the wall and see for yourself.”

  Ahaz released his grip and eased down onto the edge of his couch. “So. They’ve come at last. My plan worked. The Assyrians came to our defense.”

  “Yes—they’re probably attacking Aram from the north. The Arameans obviously received word of an invasion and have gone back to defend their own land. It’s over.”

  Ahaz breathed a sigh of relief as he felt some of the strain lift from him for the first time in months. It was over. He had survived. Now he could return to his accustomed lifestyle and leave all the day-to-day decisions to Uriah.

  “No one will dare attack my country now that Assyria is our ally,” he said. “Molech answered my prayers, Uriah. I paid a great price for Molech’s favor, but it was worth it, wasn’t it?”

  Uriah remained silent. Ahaz never could decipher the high priest’s thoughts, and his stony silences made Ahaz nervous. He waved his hand, dismissing Uriah. “Thank you for the news. You may go.”

  When he was alone again, Ahaz slumped back on his couch, silently planning the feast of celebration he would hold. He smiled as tantalizing visions of revelry danced before him. But his smile faded as he recalled his cousin Isaiah’s words: “Your hands are full of blood . . . you will be devoured by the sword.”

  Ahaz’s mood darkened. He glanced at his hands as he reached for his wine goblet, as if expecting to see blood on them. He took a gulp, but the warm wine tasted like vinegar, and he spewed it out in disgust, cursing Isaiah for intruding on his thoughts like an unwanted guest.

  Gradually, Ahaz became aware of shouts coming from the courtyard below his window. He crossed the room and cautiously peered between the wooden slats. News of the retreat seemed to be spreading like a grass fire throughout Jerusalem, and the relieved citizens emerged from their homes into the streets to celebrate.

  The siege was over. Nothing was going to spoil his mood today, least of all Isaiah, whose prophecies of doom had obviously proved worthless. He rang for his servants. It was time to get dressed. He must lead his nation in a celebration of victory.

  The shofar sounded, announcing the morning sacrifice as Abijah left the palace and hurried up the hill to the Temple. The long siege of Jerusalem was finally over, and she was eager to attend the daily worship services again. This morning her heart overflowed with praise to God for answering all of her prayers. Her nation’s crisis had ended and Ahaz wouldn’t need to offer any more sacrifices to Molech. But more than that, Abijah wanted to thank Yahweh for healing her son.

  Hezekiah was fully recovered—his fears forgotten, his nightmares a thing of the past. He had grown very close to Zechariah over the past few months, almost as if he imagined that his grandfather was Yahweh and would protect him from any danger. Zechariah still lived in the palace, still slept in Eliab’s bed every night. Abijah didn’t know how Ahaz would respond if he ever found out, but she had taken care to keep her father’s presence a secret.

  As Abijah made her way to the women’s courtyard to watch the sacrifice, she was surprised to see that the Temple grounds looked nearly deserted. The invading armies had just retreated, the city had been spared—why hadn’t more people come to offer their thanks to God? In fact, why hadn’t her husband, the king of Judah, come?

  It seemed to Abijah that worship at Yahweh’s Temple had declined very rapidly since she was a child coming to watch with her mother—and that idolatry had flourished since Ahaz had reigned. She felt a stab of guilt, knowing that she had also neglected to worship God after her marriage. But that would change from now on. Yahweh had answered her prayers, saving Hezeki
ah from Molech and restoring him to normal again. Abijah would praise God for that as long as she lived.

  She heard a lamb bleating and saw one of the Levites leading the animal toward the altar where the priest stood waiting. But she had to close her eyes as the priest slit the lamb’s throat, her stomach too queasy to witness the bloodshed. Years ago, her father had recited the story of Abraham offering his son, Isaac, to Yahweh—and how Yahweh had provided a ram in Isaac’s place. “Every time you hear the sound of the ram’s horn,” Zechariah had told her, “remember that God himself will provide a sacrifice for our sins.”

  She opened her eyes in time to watch the priest sprinkle the blood on the altar, and she remembered Moses and the story of the first Passover. The lambs had died in place of Israel’s firstborn sons, the blood marking the doorposts so that the Angel of Death would pass over those houses. Abijah wondered how her nation could have forgotten the stories of Abraham and Isaac and Moses so quickly. How could they offer their sons to Molech in order to save themselves?

  “Give thanks to the Lord for He is good,” the priest chanted, and Abijah murmured the response out loud: “His love endures forever.”

  “Give thanks to Him who struck down the firstborn of Egypt and freed us from our enemies.”

  “His love endures forever.” This morning Abijah felt God’s love shining down on her as warmly as the sun, blessing her and her son.

  The priest ascended the ramp and placed the sacrifice on the altar. The aroma of roasting meat reached Abijah a few moments later, and she recalled yet another reason to give thanks to God: She was going to have another baby. The child could never take Eliab’s place, but he would be someone for Abijah to hold and love, offering her a new reason to hope.

  “Thank you, Lord, for this new life,” she whispered as the priest lifted his hands in prayer. “May all of my children live to serve you.”

  7

  Zechariah pulled the heavy curtains into place over the window of Hezekiah’s bedchamber and lit the oil lamp. It sputtered to life, casting flickering light in the darkened room. He watched Hezekiah settle into bed and pull up the covers.

  “Grandpa, will you sing for me?” he asked sleepily. Hezekiah gazed up at him with solemn brown eyes, and Zechariah felt his heart constrict. How he had grown to love this child in the past few months!

  At first they had clung to each other, each one needy in his own way. But in time, with the siege over and the threat of Molech a mere memory, bonds of love had replaced the cords of need. Zechariah bent to smooth the covers into place around him.

  “Yes, of course. Close your eyes now, and I’ll sing until you fall asleep.”

  “Okay,” Hezekiah yawned.

  Zechariah sat on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes. He hummed softly for a moment, his body swaying slightly in rhythm, then he began to sing the slow, haunting melody.

  “‘I love you, O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge—’”

  “Grandpa?”

  Zechariah stopped short when Hezekiah interrupted. “What is it, son?”

  “Can Yahweh close His mouth?”

  “What? Why do you ask about Yahweh’s mouth, child?”

  Hezekiah sat up in bed, peering intently at Zechariah. “Because Molech never closes his mouth. I think he must get tired of holding it open all the time.” Hezekiah spread his mouth wide and made a menacing face in an imitation of the fire god. “Is Yahweh’s mouth like that, too? Can Yahweh close His mouth?”

  Zechariah couldn’t help smiling. His delight in his grandson and his deep love for him welled up inside until it burst forth in laughter. Zechariah’s life had been arid for so long that he couldn’t recall the last time he had laughed. He only knew that it felt good, like the first cup of cold water from the Gihon Spring after the long siege had ended.

  “No, son,” Zechariah replied at last, “Yahweh’s mouth isn’t open all the time like Molech’s.”

  “Well, what does Yahweh look like? Can you show me His statue sometime?”

  Zechariah stroked Hezekiah’s curly hair. It felt thick and silky beneath his hand. “There is no statue, son. One of Yahweh’s commandments is that we must never try to make an image of Him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, because Yahweh is so . . . so . . .” He gestured helplessly as he searched for the right words to describe God. “We could never put all of Yahweh’s greatness into a mere statue. Besides, no one has seen God. No one knows what He looks like. We only know that we are made in His image.”

  Hezekiah fidgeted, as if struggling to comprehend. “But, Grandpa, how do you know that Yahweh is real if you can’t see Him?”

  The simple question struck Zechariah like a hammer blow. He was speechless. The joy he had felt a moment ago vanished, replaced by fear. He was a Levite. He had once instructed priests and counseled the king. Now he couldn’t even answer a child’s simple question. He was terrified to try.

  “Hezekiah,” he said softly, “you need to go to sleep now. You would like to keep me up all night with your questions, wouldn’t you?”

  Hezekiah tugged on Zechariah’s sleeve. “But, Grandpa—”

  “No, son. Go to sleep, and I promise . . . I promise we’ll talk about Yahweh in the morning.” He motioned for Hezekiah to lie down, then smoothed the covers into place around him again. Zechariah turned away to avoid his grandson’s probing eyes, ashamed of his cowardice. “Good night,” he mumbled.

  “Good night, Grandpa.”

  Zechariah cleared his throat to continue singing, but suddenly Yahweh seemed very far away again, the gulf between them unbridgeable. His voice trembled slightly as he began.

  “‘Yahweh is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my . . . my—’” He stumbled over the words, momentarily confused. Hezekiah’s question still haunted him. How could he prove the existence of a God he couldn’t see? “‘My stronghold. I call to the Lord, who is worthy of praise, and I am saved from my enemies.’”

  He continued singing in the darkness, his body rocking gently in rhythm with the verse. Because it was a nightly ritual he knew the words, but they were empty words to him. He no longer knew the answers. His inadequacy and failure shamed him.

  Before long he became aware that the pattern of Hezekiah’s breathing had changed as he’d fallen asleep.

  “‘In my distress I called to the Lord; I cried to my God for help. . . .’” Zechariah sang.

  O Yahweh, I’m calling to you for help now, Zechariah prayed silently. Hezekiah asks how I know you are there. What shall I tell him? O Yahweh, help me!

  “‘ . . . From his temple he heard my voice; my cry came before him, into his ears . . .’”

  God? Do you really hear my cry? Please help me, he prayed.

  In the fading lamplight, Hezekiah’s dark hair had a coppery cast. As Zechariah tenderly brushed a curl away from his face, he felt his love for Hezekiah like a deep ache in his heart. The boy’s soul had been healed, his nightmares forgotten. But he had never asked questions about Yahweh before.

  As he sat in the silent darkness, Zechariah’s love for Hezekiah twisted into a knot of pain inside him, and he fell on his face to the floor in desperation.

  “Almighty God, have mercy on this small boy. Send someone to teach him about you. Please don’t let him walk in the ways of Ahaz. Don’t punish him for the sins of his father—and grandfather. Mold him into your servant, Lord. Hear me, I pray.”

  The stars moved silently across the heavens as the city slept. A breeze rustled past the curtain, and the oil lamp sputtered, then died. Zechariah never noticed. With his forehead pressed to the floor, he cried out to God throughout the night, praying as he hadn’t prayed for many years.

  “Please send someone to teach him, Lord. I can’t do it. You had mercy on me before and answered my prayer. I asked for forgiveness, and you gave it to me. Now I ask for your help again, even though I’m not worthy to call on you. Pl
ease, please, teach him your laws. Let him grow up to serve you, I pray.”

  At dawn, as the sun inched from behind the Mount of Olives in the east, Zechariah lay exhausted and still. He had no words left to pray. The knotted burden in his heart had been unbound. In the darkened room he could barely see Hezekiah’s bed a few feet in front of him, but he heard him breathing softly.

  Then in the silence, from somewhere deep inside Zechariah’s soul, Yahweh spoke.

  “You will teach him, Zechariah.”

  “No, I can’t, Lord, I can’t! I failed with Uzziah, and I don’t want to fail again. Not with Hezekiah. Not with him. I love him, God. I love him, and I can’t . . . I can’t.”

  But the voice of Yahweh spoke in his heart once again to still his protests.

  “Sing the rest of the psalm.”

  That was all.

  Zechariah began to tremble. His heart raced as he struggled to recall which psalm he had sung to Hezekiah earlier that night.

  “‘My God turns my darkness into light,’” he whispered, remembering. “‘With your help I can advance against a troop; with my God I can scale a wall. . . . It is God who arms me with strength and makes my way perfect.’”

  Tears slipped down Zechariah’s cheeks. Yahweh had spoken to him again! Zechariah tried to remember the last time he had heard that powerful, tender voice speaking to his heart. It seemed like a lifetime ago. He, like Uriah, had been newly appointed to be palace administrator. Zechariah’s first love had been the Law—God’s holy, precious Torah. But through the years another mistress slowly took its place: his pride—pride in his own achievements and in the recognition he received before the entire nation.

  Suddenly he understood why he had failed with King Uzziah. He had relied on his own knowledge, his own strength, and it hadn’t been enough. He had stopped seeking God’s strength and wisdom. Zechariah covered his face in shame.