The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  “Those two crazy men who stopped the sacrifice ruined everything.”

  “Now wait just a minute,” Hilkiah said. “Those two men did the right thing. They should have stopped the sacrifice. What the king was about to do was wrong. He’s not supposed to offer his own sacrifice. According to the Torah, only the priests can do that.”

  Eliakim looked skeptical. “Well, none of the other priests tried to stop him—not even the high priest.”

  “Grown-ups don’t always do the right thing, Eliakim—even when they know what the Torah says.” Hilkiah recalled his own indecision a few moments ago and winced. “Anyway, I was going to tell you in the morning, but I may as well tell you now. We won’t be going to the sacrifices at the Temple anymore.”

  “Abba, no! Why not?”

  “I’m sorry, Eliakim. I know how much you looked forward to being old enough to go, but they’ve brought idols into the Temple and we won’t take part in idolatry.”

  “But aren’t the sacrifices important? Aren’t we supposed to go?”

  “Of course they’re important. But we’re supposed to go out of love for the Eternal One—blessed be His name—and to worship Him as the one true God. Otherwise, it’s just an empty ritual. When they put that pagan altar in His Temple, the Holy One of Israel had to withdraw His presence from that place. It’s a heathen ritual now, a meaningless ceremony to false gods. We have no reason to go anymore.”

  “But I want to go! It’s not fair!”

  Hilkiah knew how much his son longed to be a man, but at the moment he was acting like a disappointed child. “We will continue to say our morning and evening prayers,” Hilkiah soothed, “but we’ll say them at home from now on—just you and me.”

  “It’s not the same thing. Can’t we please go once in a while? Just so I can see what it’s like?”

  “No, son. We can’t,” Hilkiah said sternly. “Don’t even ask such a thing.” Eliakim’s reaction crushed him. He had tried to teach him what the Torah said, had tried to instill in him a love for God, but Eliakim seemed interested only in the outward rituals at the Temple. Hilkiah wondered where he had failed.

  “Eliakim, listen to me. It takes more than a birthday to make you a man. If you always go along with the crowd, even when they’re wrong, then you’re a coward, not a man, no matter how old you are. But if you really believe that something is wrong, that it goes against God’s teachings, then you must have the courage to stand up for what you believe. That’s what those two men did yesterday, and that’s what I’m trying to do. Do you understand?”

  Eliakim didn’t reply. He kicked at the packed clay rooftop with his toe. Hilkiah tried again to explain.

  “Listen, son, the Levite who spoke out yesterday is my friend Zechariah. Do you know what happened to him after the sacrifice? He’s being held under arrest at the Temple, and they’re telling everyone he’s crazy. Zechariah could probably promise to keep quiet about his beliefs and maybe they’d let him go free. But I know my friend and he won’t do it. That takes courage, son. That’s being a man.”

  Eliakim looked up at him. “Are you going to start protesting, too, Abba?” he asked. His voice trembled.

  “No. I don’t have the authority and influence that Zechariah has. It would do no good at all for me to protest.” Hilkiah felt ashamed of himself, even though he could justify his reasoning. “But there is something else that I can do to help,” he said, remembering.

  “What, Abba?”

  “The other man who spoke out yesterday is Isaiah. He was born to the house of David, but I believe he is also an anointed prophet of the Eternal One. His prophecies have been a thorn in the king’s flesh for a long time, but today Ahaz reached the end of his patience. They’re going to arrest him the next time he prophesies. Zechariah begged me to warn Isaiah. He must leave Jerusalem immediately.”

  “Let me warn him, Abba.”

  “Absolutely not! It’s too dangerous.”

  “Then it’s dangerous for you, too.”

  “Yes, but I’m an adult—”

  “So am I!” Eliakim shouted.

  Hilkiah felt trapped. If he convinced his son of the risk involved, the boy might beg him not to go. But he couldn’t let Eliakim take such a risk, either. “I’m the one who promised to go,” Hilkiah said at last.

  “Abba, I’m not afraid. Please, let me show you that I’m a man. Let me do something as an adult. You said I should have courage, right? Let me warn Isaiah.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I’m smaller than you, and I can run faster and hide in the shadows better. Besides, they wouldn’t arrest a boy, would they?”

  Hilkiah knew that his son had a point. And he knew how badly Eliakim longed to prove he was a man. He hesitated until his son made his final, decisive argument.

  “Abba, you taught me that the God of Abraham would always protect me if I did His will. Won’t He protect me now?”

  Hilkiah drew his son into his arms. Maybe he hadn’t failed after all. Maybe Eliakim had learned about faith instead of ritual.

  Eliakim walked at a brisk pace, afraid that his courage would melt away if he didn’t hurry. He had never walked alone through the city at night, and every strange sound startled him, every familiar landmark looked eerily unfamiliar. He jumped when a dog barked in a nearby courtyard, certain that his pounding heart could be heard. But once he grew used to the sound of his sandals slapping against the paving stones, a sense of pride filled him. He was finally proving that he was a man.

  The moon lit the narrow, twisting streets as he followed his father’s directions to the quiet alley where the prophet lived. It didn’t look at all like a street where royalty should live. Eliakim wondered why Isaiah didn’t live in the palace or at least among the noblemen’s houses high on the hill if he was born into the house of King David. Instead, Isaiah lived in a neighborhood where the stone houses were stuffed so tightly against each other that they couldn’t even catch a cool breeze.

  Eliakim paused in the shadows to catch his breath, then crept up to Isaiah’s house, the last one on the street. He saw the faint glow of an oil lamp inside and wondered why it had been left to burn all night. He rapped lightly on the gate and waited, hoping someone would answer before his knocking awakened the neighbors. A moment later the door opened, and Eliakim recognized the man who had read from the scroll at the sacrifice.

  “I’m Eliakim, son of Hilkiah, the merchant,” he said breathlessly. “And I have a message for you from Zechariah the Levite.”

  Isaiah didn’t seem surprised to see Eliakim. He nodded in greeting and led the way through the gate, crossing a tiny courtyard and entering the one-room house.

  A small cooking hearth stood on one side of the room, cluttered with clay pots. Beside it was a homemade table littered with scrolls and the dimly burning oil lamp. Isaiah’s wife slept on a straw mat across the room with a baby nestled close to her. Another child slept on a mat by her feet. Eliakim thought of his own mother and two younger brothers who had all died, and he swallowed hard.

  “Please sit down,” Isaiah said. He motioned to a wooden stool beside the table and Eliakim sat. “Can I offer you anything?” He gazed so intently at him that Eliakim felt naked.

  “N-no, thank you, Rabbi. I’ve only come to bring you a message from Zechariah.” He felt breathless and tongue-tied, awed by the presence that seemed to surround the prophet. He swallowed again, hoping that his words would sound coherent. “Zechariah is under arrest at the Temple because of what happened yesterday at the sacrifice.”

  Isaiah frowned slightly but said nothing.

  “Zechariah says that you’re in danger, too, and that you shouldn’t prophesy anymore. He said you should leave Jerusalem right away.”

  Isaiah nodded slowly. “Yes, I believe he’s right. I think my work here is finished for now.”

  Isaiah’s reaction puzzled Eliakim. After his father’s speech about standing up for what you believed in, he’d expected Isaiah to reject the warning
. He was disappointed that the prophet had given in so easily.

  Isaiah rested his hand on Eliakim’s shoulder. “You were sent by Yahweh, and I thank you for coming. I heard the voice of God warning me to leave tonight, but I’ve been sitting here arguing with Him. I’m not afraid of King Ahaz. And I’m willing to face imprisonment like Zechariah for Yahweh’s sake.”

  Eliakim glanced at Isaiah’s sleeping family.

  “Yahweh knows every breath they take,” the prophet said, as if reading his thoughts. “If I left now, I would appear to be a coward, wouldn’t I? Afraid that God couldn’t protect my family or me? But I’m not afraid. That’s why I’ve been wrestling with God all night. A few minutes ago I asked Him to show me that leaving Jerusalem was His will. And then you came.”

  Eliakim stared, amazed at Isaiah’s intimacy with Yahweh. Hilkiah talked to the God of Abraham all the time, but as far as Eliakim knew, God had never talked back. Isaiah made it sound as if he had regular conversations with the Holy One, and Eliakim wondered how he’d attained such a relationship with Him. He remembered pouting about not being allowed to go to the Temple to see the heathen rituals, and he felt ashamed.

  “So I guess I’ll be leaving Jerusalem,” Isaiah said with a sigh. He glanced around the room as if mentally starting to pack. “But it isn’t fear that makes me leave. Yahweh has other plans for me. I know that I’ll be starting a community of prophets to teach some of the younger ones, but beyond that . . . well, Yahweh will show me.”

  Eliakim stood and edged toward the door. It seemed as though hours had passed since he’d left home. “Rabbi, I should go now. Abba will be worried.”

  “I understand.”

  Isaiah led him through the door and across the small courtyard again. Eliakim felt certain that the next time Yahweh talked to Isaiah, He would tell the prophet exactly what kind of a boy he really was. He longed to apologize for wanting to go to the Temple for the wrong reasons, but he couldn’t find the right words to say.

  When they reached the street, Isaiah rested his hand on Eliakim’s shoulder and fixed his searching gaze on him once again. “Eliakim . . .” He pronounced the name slowly, respectfully. “Your name means ‘Yahweh will establish.’” Then the tone of Isaiah’s voice changed to one of authority and power, and Eliakim’s heart began to pound.

  “In that day I will summon my servant, Eliakim son of Hilkiah. He will be a father to those who live in Jerusalem and to the house of Judah. I will place on his shoulder the key to the house of David; what he opens no one can shut, and what he shuts no one can open. I will drive him like a peg into a firm place; he will be a seat of honor for the house of his father. All the glory of his family will hang on him.”

  Then, much to Eliakim’s surprise, the prophet embraced him. “Shalom, Eliakim. May Yahweh’s peace go with you.”

  “And with you, Rabbi,” he breathed.

  12

  Hezekiah sat cross-legged on the carpet, gazing out of his window at the new Babylonian clock tower in the palace courtyard. He idly counted the steps that spiraled up the side until they disappeared from view behind the tower, then counted them as they spiraled down the other side again. He had been waiting here for his grandfather to come back for his lessons and had watched as the shadow inched its way up to where it now stood on the top step. Another lonely morning had come and gone, and still his grandfather hadn’t returned.

  How long had it been, now? Hezekiah’s baby brother, Gedaliah, had been born on the day that their grandfather went away, and the servants said that the baby was forty days old today. The servants had been keeping Hezekiah away from his mother’s room, telling him he was a big boy who no longer needed his mama. Hezekiah was lonely, especially at night when he saw the empty bed beside his own. First his brother had gone—and now his grandfather.

  He was trying to picture his grandfather’s face when he heard a knock on his door. Hezekiah jumped up and ran to open it, certain that Zechariah had returned at last. Instead, a tall, lanky stranger stood gazing down at him.

  “Hello there. Are you Hezekiah?” he asked, smiling pleasantly.

  The man had wavy black hair and dark skin, and his clothes were in a style Hezekiah had never seen before. He appeared to be in his early thirties, yet he had no beard or mustache. He carried an untidy pile of scrolls that threatened to topple from his arms any minute, and Hezekiah remembered all the scrolls in the Temple library. Maybe his grandfather had sent this stranger.

  “Yes, I’m Hezekiah,” he answered hopefully.

  “My name is Shebna, and I am very glad to meet you,” he said with a strange accent. “I have been hired by King Ahaz to be your tutor.” He smiled broadly, showing a straight, even row of white teeth. Hezekiah was too disappointed to return his smile. Shebna had been sent by King Ahaz, not by his grandfather after all.

  “I already have a teacher,” he said at last.

  “You do? But the king assured me that I was your very first tutor.”

  “No, my grandpa is teaching me. I’m waiting here for him to come back.” He turned away and went to sit on the floor by the window again. Shebna followed him across the room.

  “Oh? The king never mentioned anything about your grandfather. What is it that your grandfather teaches you?”

  “About Yahweh and His Torah. I learned to recite the Shema. Do you want to hear it?” Hezekiah wanted to impress this stranger with what a good job his grandfather was already doing.

  “All right,” Shebna replied, nodding slightly.

  Hezekiah sat up very straight, concentrating on the words. “‘Hear, O Israel. Yahweh is our God—Yahweh alone. Love Yahweh your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength.’”

  “Your grandfather taught you that?”

  “He’s a Levite,” Hezekiah said proudly. “He wears a special robe and a turban when he helps the priests in Yahweh’s Temple.”

  He had worn them on that last day—the day his grandfather had gone to tell the king that the new altar shouldn’t be in Yahweh’s Temple. Zechariah had hugged Hezekiah good-bye, saying, “I’ll be back. I may be a little bit late, but I’ll be back.” Hezekiah had promised to wait here for him, and he had kept his promise. Why hadn’t his grandfather kept his?

  “So has your grandfather taught you about anything else besides Yahweh and the Torah?” Shebna asked, interrupting his thoughts.

  The question puzzled him. “Well, no . . .” Those were the most important things to learn, weren’t they?

  “Good. I like to teach my students in my own way, from the very beginning. And from now on, I am going to be your teacher.”

  “Will we learn about Yahweh?”

  The tutor looked uncomfortable. “No. I am not a Jew, I am Egyptian. I do not believe in Yahweh.”

  Hezekiah stared up at him in fear. “Do you worship Molech?”

  “No, I do not worship Molech, either. How did we ever get into this?” he muttered under his breath. “Look, I am going to be very honest with you right from the start. I do not believe in any gods at all, even the gods of my own nation, Egypt. I think they are all up here,” he said, tapping his high forehead. “In the minds of men. People make up gods to explain all the things they cannot understand. For example, if there is a drought, they say, ‘The gods must be angry.’ But I believe that there are droughts simply because it has not rained. That is all. I do not believe in the supernatural. I seek knowledge, not myths.”

  Hezekiah turned away from him to stare out of the window. He didn’t like Shebna. He wanted his grandfather.

  “What is the matter?” Shebna asked him. “Why did you make that face?”

  “Yahweh is real!” he replied angrily. “He’s like the wind—that’s why you can’t see Him. My grandpa didn’t make him up!”

  “Very well. We will not talk of Yahweh anymore. King Ahaz knows all about my views on religion, but I am not here to teach you about that.” He smiled his broad, even smile again. “Would you like to start you
r lessons today? I am eager to see what kind of a student you will be. Can you read?” Hezekiah shook his head. “Would you like to learn how?”

  “I want my grandpa.” He felt tears stinging his eyes, and he quickly rubbed them away.

  Shebna gave a forced smile and sprawled on the floor beside him, dumping his scrolls in a heap. “I will make you a bargain, Hezekiah. We will take turns—first, you answer a question for me, and then I will answer one for you. Is that fair enough?”

  Before Hezekiah could reply, Shebna pulled a scroll from the pile and unrolled it. “This scroll tells a story. Once I teach you to read, you will know what that story is about.” He produced a small clay tablet and began carving on it with a stylus. “This is the word for house. See? Now, why don’t you look at this story and see if you can find house anywhere on the scroll.” Shebna pushed the scroll and the tablet across the floor in front of Hezekiah.

  For a moment he wasn’t sure if he should read it or not, afraid of being disloyal to his grandfather. But the Temple library had been his grandfather’s favorite place, and its rows of scrolls had captured Hezekiah’s imagination. He longed to unlock their mysteries and read about all his favorite heroes. In the end his curiosity won, and he began to study Shebna’s scroll. It was a jumble of strange markings, and he nearly pushed it away when suddenly he spotted the word Shebna had drawn on the tablet. Then he saw it again and again, and he felt the power of unlocking a secret. He could read!

  “There . . . there . . . there and there,” he replied, pointing to several places on the scroll.

  Shebna smiled broadly. “That was very good. You found all of them. You have learned to read one word already. Soon you will be able to read the entire story. Now, what about numbers? Do you know your numbers?”

  “I can count. And I can name the twelve tribes of Israel. Want to hear them?”

  “Not now.” Shebna scraped the tablet clean and began drawing circles in the soft clay. “Suppose you had six figs and you ate two. How many would—”