by Lynn Austin
“Jerimoth, no!”
“Saul will take you to Jerusalem, where you’ll both be safe. Hilkiah will look after you until Jerusha and I come.”
Hodesh reached up to touch Jerimoth’s cheek. “I’m not going anywhere without you,” she said softly. “Saul can take Maacah to Jerusalem, but I’m staying here with you.”
Jerimoth looked at his wife’s determined face and knew it was useless to argue with her. He drew her into his arms. “All right, Hodesh. All right.” His voice was thick with emotion. “I’ll take Maacah into town so she can go with Saul.”
“Abba, no!” Maacah’s voice came from behind Jerimoth. “Don’t make me go with Uncle Saul—please!”
“Your mother and I will come later, with Jerusha.”
“But I want to wait for her, too! Please don’t break our family apart again. Please, Abba!”
Jerimoth groaned and leaned against the cart. If only Jerusha would miraculously appear and end this agonizing dilemma he faced. Jerimoth understood the danger of remaining in Israel as the Assyrians marched closer and closer. He longed to send his wife and daughter to safety, but he didn’t know how he could force them to go against their will. Nor could he leave without Jerusha.
As Jerimoth wrestled over what to do, Maacah quietly unloaded her bedding and an armload of cooking pots from the cart and carried them back into the house. Hodesh watched her disappear through the door, then picked up the bedroll she and Jerimoth shared and followed her inside.
On the horizon another caravan of refugees rumbled down the road from the north, and Jerimoth watched in mournful silence as they streamed past his land—six wagons—seven—eight. He counted nineteen children perched on towering loads, carried on shoulders, or walking wearily alongside. Then, as the caravan disappeared into the trailing cloud of dust, Jerimoth unhitched his team of oxen and led them out to pasture.
Jerusha scrambled backward through the bushes, scratching her arms on the branches in a desperate attempt to escape from the man who was bending over her. But instead of pursuing her, the man held out his hand, offering her a cup of water. It took her a moment to realize that he wasn’t an Assyrian.
He was her father’s age, dressed in a homespun tunic and sandals. His brown eyes looked kind, and he spoke soothingly, as if to a frightened animal, but Jerusha couldn’t understand what he said. Her mouth and throat felt parched, and suddenly she didn’t care what he did to her. She reached for the water and gulped it greedily, then glanced up at the man again. He extended his palm, offering a handful of dates. Jerusha’s stomach ached from hunger; she snatched them from him and devoured the sweet fruit.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
He looked surprised. “Israel?” he asked, pointing to her.
“Yes, I’m from Israel.”
He beckoned to her, then turned and walked toward the road. Jerusha slowly rose to her feet and saw that he was traveling alone with a cart and a team of oxen. He turned and beckoned again, then pointed to the cart. What did he want with her?
Jerusha considered all the possibilities from slavery to rape, then realized that he couldn’t do anything to her that hadn’t already been done. Even if he killed her, she would still escape from the Assyrians. Besides, his cart was headed south. With nothing to lose, Jerusha walked toward the road.
But the sun felt so hot, her legs so weary, that the earth began to sway, and she collapsed a few feet from the road. The stranger hurried over and gently lifted her into the cart. He flicked his short whip over the oxen, and the cart jolted down the road with Jerusha’s new captor walking alongside it. Before long, the warm sun and slowly swaying cart rocked her into an exhausted sleep.
The sun hung low in the afternoon sky when she awoke. Furrowed fields and vineyards dotted the rolling hills beside the road, but the country appeared deserted and strangely quiet. The Assyrians were coming. Everyone had fled. As the oxen plodded sluggishly down the road, Jerusha silently begged them to move faster.
Fully awake now, she studied the stranger as he walked patiently beside his oxen. His clothing and features were not of an Israelite, and Jerusha guessed from his deep tan and brawny shoulders that he was a farmer or a laborer. She thought of him as her captor even though he hadn’t taken her by force. Why had he helped her? What did he want with her? And what would happen if she tried to run away from him now? But Jerusha was much too exhausted to run, much too grateful for a chance to ride, even if the pace was maddeningly slow.
The snow-capped mountain loomed closer now, and although she couldn’t be certain, it did resemble the familiar peak of Mount Hermon. Once, when the man turned around, Jerusha pointed to it, asking, “Is that Mount Hermon?” But he shrugged and shook his head, muttering in a language she didn’t understand. She tried saying a few words in the Assyrian tongue, but he didn’t understand that either. Who was he? Why was he traveling this road all alone when everyone else had obviously fled before the approaching Assyrians?
As the sun set, the stranger led the oxen down a side road to a tiny village tucked between the shadowy hills. Jerusha knew what the Assyrians would do to this village. The town’s thin walls would be pitifully inadequate against Assyrian battering rams. She wanted to run through the streets and warn the remaining inhabitants to flee for their lives, but they spoke a language she didn’t understand, nor did they understand hers. As she passed through the gate she saw that the streets were nearly deserted. No oil lamps glowed through the shutters of the houses, no smoke rose from the hearths. Then the huge iron gates swung shut behind her for the night, and Jerusha felt trapped.
“Wait! Let me out,” she cried, but no one listened to her. She didn’t want to stay locked in this village, even for one night. But they had barred the gates and now she was their prisoner. Jerusha trembled as she followed the stranger through the narrow, twisting streets. She hadn’t been in a town since she had been captured, and it seemed as though the houses and walls were about to tumble in on her, suffocating her. She would never be able to sleep in one of these terrifying buildings.
But her captor led her to the open market square, which was tightly shuttered and deserted except for a few weary travelers like themselves. He unhitched his oxen to feed and water them, then prepared a simple meal, offering half to Jerusha. When she’d eaten, the stranger gave her his cloak and prepared a bed for her in the cart while he slept on the ground nearby, protecting her.
Why was he doing this? What did he want in return? The man reminded Jerusha of her father, and she realized that if Abba had found a hungry stranger, lost and alone, he would help her, too, expecting nothing in return. Could it be that simple?
Jerusha lay awake for a long time, staring at the starry sky until she fell into a fitful sleep.
20
Eliakim touched the mezuzah on the doorpost, absently performing the ritual before entering his house. He found his father pacing the foyer, his head bowed, his hands tightly clasped, his lips moving in silent prayer. As Eliakim entered, Hilkiah looked up.
“There you are at last! Any news?”
Exhaustion numbed Eliakim and slowed his thoughts. He stumbled to the bench and sank down. “News? About Jerimoth, you mean?”
“Yes—have you heard anything?”
“No, Abba. No news. I didn’t see Jerimoth with this latest group of refugees, but there are so many of them. . . .” Eliakim sighed and bent to untie his sandals.
“God of Abraham, keep our friends safe,” Hilkiah murmured. His face looked strained, with no trace of his usual merry humor. He wrung his hands as he paced the length of the room again, then stopped when he glanced at Eliakim. “What happened to you, son?”
“What do you mean?”
“You look like you’ve been run over by a caravan.”
“I feel like it, too.” He slumped against the wall and closed his eyes. “I’ve never worked so hard in my life, Abba. And the refugees still keep pouring in. Israel must be deserted by now. We’re running out of room to ho
use them all.”
“King Hezekiah must know you’re capable, or he wouldn’t have placed you in charge of such a big project.”
“I don’t think he realized it was going to be this big when we started. None of us did. We’re building permanent housing for the refugees as fast as we can, but we still can’t keep up with the demand.”
“You look exhausted. Why don’t you wash up and rest a bit before the evening sacrifice?”
“Sounds wonderful.” He gripped his father’s hand, and Hilkiah helped pull Eliakim to his feet. He went out to their courtyard to bathe in the mikveh, and the cool water rejuvenated him. After changing into clean clothes, he felt refreshed and hungry.
A servant met him as he reentered the house. “Master Eliakim, there’s a stranger at the gate asking for your father.”
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“No, my lord. But he looks like one of those Israeli refugees that have been pouring into the city.”
“Where’s Abba?”
“He’s still resting.”
“Good. Let the stranger in quietly and don’t wake my father, or we’ll probably be stuck with a houseful of strangers for dinner.”
Eliakim stood in front of a bronze mirror and smoothed down his curly wet hair as he waited. The servant returned shortly, followed by a bewildered-looking man in ragged clothing and blistered, dirt-caked feet. Eliakim had labored to resettle and house thousands of refugees over the past weeks, and here stood another one. He was glad that Hilkiah was still sleeping.
“I’m Hilkiah’s son, Eliakim,” he said just above a whisper. “How can I help you?”
The stranger’s mouth opened but no sound came out. He stared at Eliakim, then glanced around the luxurious room and backed up a few steps as if he had made a terrible mistake and come to the wrong house. Eliakim looked him over, then gaped in shock when he saw that the stranger’s left hand had been amputated.
The man thrust his hand behind his back when he saw Eliakim’s reaction. “I . . . I’m sorry.”
“No, forgive me,” Eliakim said. “I was rude to stare. Please, have a seat.”
“I can’t stay. I’m sorry for bothering you, my lord. I . . . I never would have come if I had known—I mean, my brother never told me . . .” He glanced around the room nervously. Eliakim began to lose patience.
“Told you what? Who’s your brother?”
“I saw you today in the refugee camp, my lord. You’re King Hezekiah’s representative, aren’t you?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
The man edged toward the door. “Forgive me for troubling you. Jerimoth never mentioned that you were a man of such importance.”
Eliakim forgot about his sleeping father as he shouted, “Jerimoth! Is he here with you?”
“No, my lord.”
“Well, where is he, then?”
“He’s still in Israel.”
“No! Why hasn’t he left? Doesn’t he realize the danger he’s in?”
“I begged him to leave, my lord. Then I waited for him as long as I possibly could, but he wouldn’t come with me.”
“What about his family—Hodesh and Maacah?”
“I offered to bring them with me, but they wouldn’t leave without him.”
Eliakim saw Jerimoth’s features mirrored in his brother’s mournful face. He remembered Jerimoth’s story of the day the Assyrians captured Jerusha and how his brother had lost his hand attempting to save his daughters. When he imagined Jerimoth and his family enduring another brutal invasion, Eliakim was overwhelmed. He stumbled to the seat he had offered his guest and sank down.
“Go wake my father,” he told the servant, then he looked at the stranger again. “I’m sorry—what’s your name, my friend?”
“Saul. I’m from the village of Dabbasheth. Jerimoth is my older brother.” He massaged his stump nervously as he talked. “Jerimoth inherited our father’s ancestral land, and so I became—I was—a potter by trade.” He hid his hand behind his back again.
“Don’t return to the refugee camp, Saul. You’re welcome to stay here as our guest. We’ll be eating dinner in a little while, and I’m sure my father will want to talk to you. He has been worried sick about Jerimoth and his family. We’re both very fond of them.”
As Eliakim spoke, Hilkiah wandered into the room, blinking sleepily. “What’s going on? Is there news of Jerimoth?”
“Abba, this is Jerimoth’s brother, Saul.”
Hilkiah gripped Saul’s shoulders. “What’s happened to him? Where is he?”
“He’s still in Israel, my lord.”
“But he’s coming soon, isn’t he? Tell me he’s planning to get out of there!”
“I begged him to leave, my lord. I waited as long as I could. He . . . he wouldn’t go.”
“Why not?” Hilkiah asked. “Why won’t he leave?”
Saul stared at the floor. “He’s waiting for his daughter. He still thinks Jerusha is coming home.”
“Oh no,” Eliakim groaned. “How could he be such a fool?”
“Eliakim!” Hilkiah said sharply.
“I warned you, Abba. I tried to tell you not to encourage Jerimoth’s hopes. I begged you to make him see the truth but—”
“Saul, I’m sorry,” Hilkiah said. “My son doesn’t understand.”
“My daughters are already dead,” Saul said, “or maybe I would have stayed, too. But we never found Jerusha, and that makes Jerimoth think she’s still alive.”
“I know, Saul. I know. But please forgive my son. He doesn’t have children of his own. If he did he would understand why Jerimoth—” Hilkiah’s voice broke. “He would understand the strength of a father’s love for his child.”
“I’m sorry,” Eliakim muttered.
“And if he understood that,” Hilkiah continued, “he would understand why Jerimoth has faith in his heavenly Father’s love, as well.” He drew Saul into his embrace. “Ah, my poor friend. How you have suffered! Thank God you made it here. All we can do now is pray for your dear brother and his family.” He released Saul as a shofar sounded from the Temple Mount.
“They’re announcing the evening sacrifice,” Hilkiah said. “Will you come with my son and me? We’ll pray for their safe return.”
Eliakim rose slowly to his feet. “I’m sorry, Abba, but I can’t pray with you.”
“What?”
“I can’t pray that prayer. I don’t believe it’s possible for God to help Jerimoth and his family anymore.”
Thousands of stars sparkled in the sky when the stranger shook Jerusha awake. Terror prickled through her veins, and she bolted out of the cart, ready to run. But the man whispered soothingly to her as he yoked the oxen and got the cart ready, and she realized that he was telling her it was time to leave.
The wagon wheels rumbled like thunder on the deserted cobblestone street. Jerusha saw that the city gates stood open, and she silently wept with relief. Neither of them glanced back at the doomed village as they headed south once again. They traveled for an hour before the sun rose, then stopped to rest and to eat some dry bread and parched grain from the cart.
When they started down the road again, Jerusha felt restless and impatient with the oxen’s lethargic pace. She had regained her strength and yearned to run ahead, aware that the Assyrians could quickly overtake the plodding oxen. Yet she was reluctant to leave this man who had saved her, feeling as if she owed him loyalty in return for his kindness. He had not only provided food and rest, but he had been a bridge between the world of the Assyrians and a world of trust and compassion.
Every time they came to the top of a rise, Jerusha glanced anxiously over her shoulder. They were so close to the snow-capped mountain now that the foothills hid it from view. The road climbed steadily upward, and Jerusha got out of the cart and walked to lighten the load. When the sun stood directly overhead and the roadbed burned beneath her bare feet, they reached a crossroad. The man started heading toward the right fork, but Jerusha stopped, seeking he
r bearings from the sun, scanning the horizon for a glimpse of Mount Hermon.
The stranger halted his oxen and watched her, then tried to convince her to take the right fork with him by pointing and chattering. But his route headed west, toward the setting sun and the Great Sea; Jerusha’s home lay down the other path to the south.
“Israel?” she asked, indicating the left fork.
He studied her gravely, and she saw his concern for her safety. Finally he nodded. But then he gestured to the way they had come and pleaded with her, jabbering urgently. Tears sprang to Jerusha’s eyes as his compassion overwhelmed her.
“I know they’re coming,” she said. “But I want to go home, to Israel.”
He gazed at her, biting his lip, then he turned and rummaged through his cart. Jerusha panicked, fighting the urge to run as she imagined him brandishing a weapon and forcing her to stay with him. But a moment later he handed her a skin of water and her tattered blanket, filled with food.
Tears flowed silently down her face. She wanted to thank him but didn’t know how. She didn’t even know his name. He mumbled something as he pushed the provisions into her hands, and Jerusha felt the tender stirrings of love for the first time since her baby died.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “Shalom.”
“Shalom.” He smiled sadly and raised his hand in a little wave. Then he snapped his whip, and his cart headed west, leaving Jerusha alone in the middle of the road.
21
When the morning sacrifice ended, Hezekiah lingered on the royal platform for a moment, reluctant to leave the atmosphere of worship that permeated the Temple. The stirring music and daily confession of his sins left him with a quiet sense of Yahweh’s presence that he wished would last all day. It seldom did.
The Temple courtyards emptied slowly, crowded with refugees fleeing the Assyrian invasion. Their presence unsettled Hezekiah, making him question his decision to rebel against Assyria. He sighed and started down the royal walkway to the palace, wishing he had his grandfather’s unshakable faith in God.