by Lynn Austin
Eliakim rose to follow his foreman—then froze. The mere thought of crawling inside the suffocating tunnel again made him feel sick. He couldn’t do it. Someone else would have to listen for the signals. Eliakim could never go back inside. He emerged from the tent to tell the foreman to go ahead without him and was startled to see King Hezekiah standing outside.
“Your Majesty!”
“I decided to come see what you’ve accomplished, Eliakim. Then we can decide together how to proceed.” His voice was kind, not accusing, but he looked as though the burden of his reign weighed heavily on him. “Is this a good time to show me?”
Yesterday the king’s unexpected arrival would have thrown Eliakim into a panic, but today he felt strangely numb.
“Certainly, Your Majesty, but the work has stopped so we can try the signals again.”
“Then I’d like to go inside and listen with you.”
Eliakim’s heart galloped with fear. He couldn’t go inside. But how could he explain that to the king? “You’re welcome to listen, Your Majesty, but it’s very cramped down at the end. Maybe we should wait out here and let the foreman—”
“I don’t mind tight spaces.” Hezekiah removed his outer robe and handed it to his servant. “Lead the way, Eliakim.”
“You’ll need a lamp.”
Eliakim’s hands shook as he picked up one of the lamps and lit it for the king. He lit another for himself, grabbed a hammer to signal with, then plunged into the darkness. His heart pounded uncontrollably as soon as he entered the shaft. After a few yards, Eliakim knew he couldn’t go on. He had to get out. He turned around but Hezekiah was following right behind him. The shaft was too narrow, the king too tall and broad-shouldered for Eliakim to squeeze past him. Unless Eliakim knocked him down and trampled over him, he couldn’t get out.
“What’s wrong, Eliakim?”
“Uh . . . nothing.”
Eliakim turned around and continued walking, embarrassed to confess his fear. Waves of terror overwhelmed him as he forced himself to creep deeper and deeper into the winding labyrinth. He felt the weight of the mountain above his head, pressing down on him, closing in on him again. He was gasping for air and perspiring so heavily that the oil lamp threatened to slip from his sweating palms. Still, he plunged on, with the king following closely.
When the ceiling lowered for the final few yards, Eliakim hesitated again. He would have to drop to his hands and knees and crawl, and he knew he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t go into that coffinlike shaft—but he couldn’t get out, either. He felt trapped. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out and told himself over and over that the rock walls were not closing in on him. Then he crouched down and crawled the last few yards. By the time he reached the wall at the end of the tunnel, Eliakim felt dizzy and nauseated.
“I see what you mean about cramped quarters.” Hezekiah’s deep voice boomed like thunder. Eliakim’s breath was coming in rapid gasps, but if the king noticed, he didn’t say anything.
“What happens next?” Hezekiah asked.
Eliakim struggled through waves of terror to remember. “Uh . . . the shofar will sound, and . . . uh . . . they’ll signal ten times in the other tunnel, and . . . we’ll listen.”
Eliakim hands trembled so badly as he set his oil lamp on the floor that he nearly dropped it. He wanted desperately to run out, but he forced himself to stay. Finally they heard the sound of the shofar. Eliakim squeezed to one side as far as he could and pressed his ear against the wall to listen. He wanted to get it over with and get out. Hezekiah crowded beside him, and they lay side by side, holding their breath, listening. But the only thing Eliakim heard was the sound of his own heart, hammering in his ears. Nothing else. The silent wall of stone refused to reveal the other tunnel’s secret.
Minutes passed as every muscle and fiber in his body tensed with the strain of listening. The signaling must be finished by now. He had heard nothing. Then in the distance the shofar announced that it had ended.
Hezekiah sat up beside him. “Could you hear anything, Eliakim?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“Me neither. Now what?”
“They’ll sound the shofar again and it’ll be our turn to signal.”
Eliakim had to grip the hammer with two hands to control it, pounding the rhythm on the wall in front of him with jerky motions. He repeated the signal ten times, then crawled out to the higher part of the tunnel to wait with the king. His ears rang and his arms ached from the exertion. Sweat poured from his brow, but Eliakim’s breathing was almost normal again, and except for his lingering nausea, the anxiety attack had nearly subsided. Before long he heard footsteps coming toward them.
“Your Majesty—my lord,” the foreman said, “I’m sorry, but the men on the other side couldn’t hear your signal.”
“And we didn’t hear theirs, either,” Eliakim said.
Bitter disappointment overwhelmed him. He had been so sure that God would answer his prayers. Now he didn’t know what to do. Should the men keep digging anyway? Should he measure everything again? What did it matter if the Assyrians were marching toward them? Eliakim’s hopelessness edged toward despair. He wanted to get out of this claustrophobic tunnel before it closed in on him again. He picked up his lamp.
“Would you like to go down to the other tunnel now, Your Majesty?”
In the flickering lamplight, Eliakim saw Hezekiah’s expression change. The king froze, staring intently at him.
“Say that again, Eliakim!”
“Uh . . . do you want to go down to—?”
“Down!” Hezekiah cried. “You said down to the other tunnel!”
Eliakim had no idea what the king was talking about. “Yes, Your Majesty, I—”
Hezekiah grabbed him by the shoulders. His fingers dug painfully into Eliakim’s arms. “Eliakim, listen! Is it possible that this tunnel is higher in elevation than the other one—that the reason they haven’t met is because the other one is underneath us somewhere? Down there?” He pointed to the floor.
“Yes,” Eliakim murmured. “Yes—of course! That’s it!”
It was so simple. Eliakim had been too distraught to think of it, but traveling between the two tunnels day after day he had intuitively felt that the valley tunnel was lower.
“That has to be the answer, Your Majesty!” Eliakim turned to his foreman. “Tell them to repeat the signaling process again. But this time, tell them to hammer on the ceiling! Hurry!”
Eliakim dropped to his hands and knees and crawled to the end of the tunnel again with the king following behind. He set his lamp on the floor and crouched beside Hezekiah to wait. He imagined the messenger running through the streets to the lower gate, then down the Kidron Valley to the spring. The men would go back inside the other tunnel. They would probably think that Eliakim was crazy, but they would pound on the ceiling this time.
The shofar sounded, and Eliakim and Hezekiah pressed their ears to the floor of the tunnel to listen. God of Abraham, please . . .
Then dimly, faintly, Eliakim heard a sound. He held his breath. Almost imperceptibly at first, he heard a distant ringing. Clang-clang. Then again, clang-clang. He moved his ear to another spot and heard the rhythmical tapping more clearly now. Eight times, nine times, ten times. Then silence. He raised his head from the floor and looked at the king, almost afraid that he had imagined it.
“Did you hear it, Your Majesty?”
“Yes, Eliakim! Praise God!”
Hezekiah grabbed him in a bear hug and slapped his back. Then the king hurried down the tunnel ahead of Eliakim, shouting the good news. Outside, the shofar began to blow, and a cheer went up from the workers that could probably be heard throughout the city.
But Eliakim sat slumped inside the tunnel, weeping and praising God.
Jerusha sat on Hilkiah’s rooftop that same morning and watched the sunrise as if seeing it for the first time. Eliakim’s humility and brokenness the night before had moved her deeply, and she was aware tha
t she also had much to confess before God.
After Hilkiah and Eliakim left for work, Jerusha descended the outside stairs from the rooftop and walked slowly through the streets, up the hill to the Temple. She had never been there before, and she felt like a stranger as she wandered past the people who were milling around in the Court of the Gentiles. A Levite stood in a corner of the courtyard teaching his students. Men passed through the gates with their offerings, and she envisioned her father coming with a lamb from his flock to pray for her.
She slipped through one of the gates that led into the Women’s Court and found it deserted. She crossed to the low wall that separated the women’s from the men’s courtyard. Beyond that wall the morning sacrifice lay on the huge altar, its aroma slowly drifting toward heaven. The smell of the roasting meat reminded Jerusha of weddings and festivals when her family and their neighbors would roast a whole calf or lamb.
Jerusha gazed at the lamb lying on the altar, and it seemed too small to cover her sins. She sank to her knees and closed her eyes, silently confessing her guilt, her hatred and bitterness, her harlotry and unbelief. One by one she offered up her sins to God, and like the day Maacah chopped off her hair, she felt lighter, freer, as the weight of them fell away.
“Do you wish to make an offering?”
Jerusha opened her eyes and looked up. A tall, white-robed priest stood on the other side of the wall. She hastily swiped at her tears.
“What did you say?”
“I asked if you’d like to make an offering.” His face, creased with fine wrinkles, looked kind.
“Yes—yes, I’ve sinned. How . . . what should I do?”
“You’ll need to bring a goat or a lamb for a sin offering.”
“But I don’t have anything. I . . . I have no money.”
“The poor may bring a dove or a pigeon.”
She shook her head. “I can’t . . . I don’t even have . . .”
“If you’re very poor, you may bring a tenth of an ephah of fine flour.”
Jerusha knew that Hilkiah would gladly give her money for an offering, yet she didn’t want to ask him. An offering that didn’t cost her anything wasn’t a true sacrifice at all. God had given everything to Jerusha. What could she possibly sacrifice to Him in return?
The priest smiled. “I’ll come back later, when you decide.”
As Jerusha watched him walk away, her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, God. But this is the only thing I really own.” She reached into the fold of her dress and pulled out the torn fragment of blanket that had once swaddled her baby. It was her only link to her daughter—and to her past. Tears rolled down Jerusha’s face as she held it out to God.
“It’s all I have, Lord. But I’ll offer it to you. Please accept my sacrifice. Please forgive me and make me whole again.” She held the blanket to her face and wiped her tears with it, smelling its woolly fragrance for the last time. Then Jerusha folded it up and tenderly stuffed it between the stones of the Temple wall.
When she returned home, Jerusha sat in the garden courtyard for a long time, listening to the sound of the birds, feeling the gentle breeze caress her face, savoring the sticky fragrance of Hilkiah’s fig tree. She remembered the feeling of being reborn after the Assyrians had set her free, but this was a thousand times better. This time she was really free. God had forgiven her, and now she could begin to forgive herself.
Suddenly Jerusha heard a door slam. She jumped up, and a moment later Eliakim burst into the courtyard. His clothes were dusty, his face streaked and smudged with dirt, but his smile was radiant. He swept her off her feet and into his arms.
“Jerusha! God answered our prayers! They’re going to meet! The two tunnels are going to meet!”
Jerusha began to laugh and cry at the same time. “Oh, thank God!”
“We finally heard the signals through the rock! One tunnel is higher than the other, but they’re going to meet! It will only take another day or so.” He danced in circles with her, clutching her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. “God answered our prayers, Jerusha!”
“I’m so happy for you, Eliakim! I’m so happy!”
Suddenly Eliakim stiffened and practically dropped Jerusha to the ground, shrinking away from her in horror. “Oh, Jerusha, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize what I was doing! I’m sorry!”
She looked at his tired, dirt-streaked face and saw the fear and guilt in his eyes. “It’s okay, Eliakim.” She reached for his hand and held it between both of hers. He was trembling.
“Jerusha, you were wrong,” he said quietly. “It isn’t you who’s unworthy—it’s me. I’m a sinner. I put pride and ambition and revenge before the God of the universe. I’m not worthy of you.”
She held his rough, bruised hand to her cheek, letting her tears flow over it. Eliakim gazed at her tenderly, and his eyes filled with tears.
“You’re not a harlot, Jerusha. And you never chose to be one. You chose to live. There isn’t a person in the world who wouldn’t have done the same thing, including your cousins. But they never had a choice. If you had died, Jerusha . . .” He swallowed hard as a tear slipped down his face. “If you had died, I never would have seen the power of God. But you’re God’s gift to me, to show me that He has the power to answer prayer. That’s why you lived. It was God’s choice, Jerusha. Not yours.”
His warm brown eyes searched hers for a moment; then he took her face in his hands and kissed her. The touch of his lips on hers was the most beautiful feeling she had ever known. How she loved Eliakim, this gentle man who had tunneled through a mountain of solid rock for her.
Finally Eliakim drew back. “I love you, Jerusha. I can’t imagine living the rest of my life without you. Please marry me.”
His arms encircled her, pulling her close. As she rested her cheek against his dusty chest, Jerusha couldn’t imagine living without him, either.
“I love you, Eliakim,” she whispered. “And yes—I will marry you.”
38
The day seemed endless to Hezekiah as he tried to govern his nation as if a crisis didn’t exist. Shebna’s seat beside his throne stood empty, and the dozens of noblemen who usually hovered around the throne room had all disappeared, leaving the palace courtyards strangely silent. Hezekiah had never felt so utterly alone and abandoned in his life.
After the evening sacrifice, he ordered his supper served in his private chambers. He ate alone, toying with his food, wishing Isaiah had told him how long he would have to wait. When a servant announced that Shebna wanted to see him, Hezekiah felt a range of emotions from relief to rage. “Send him in,” he said.
Shebna approached Hezekiah haltingly, unable to meet his gaze, then bowed low. “I have come to resign,” he said quietly. “As you know, I do not support your decision or your faith in Yahweh. I am sorry.”
Hezekiah bit his lip, fighting back his anger at Shebna for not supporting him at the meeting, for deserting him now. His closest friend had let him down, and he wanted to lash out at him.
“Why, Shebna? Why are you abandoning me now, when I need you the most?”
Shebna didn’t look up. His voice was a low mumble. “Because I think you are wrong. I think you are making a disastrous mistake. And my position should be filled by someone who agrees with your decision.”
“Who?” Hezekiah asked bitterly. “Is there anyone left who does agree with me?”
“Rabbi Isaiah does.”
“Well, he’s the only one, then. And he doesn’t want the job. I asked him seven years ago, remember?” He pushed his plate aside.
Shebna cleared his throat, then spoke haltingly, as if forcing out the words against his will. “Eliakim shares your faith. Now that his tunnel is a success, I am sure he would be pleased to have my job.”
Hezekiah had seen the enormous stress the tunnel had placed on Eliakim and the heavy toll it had taken on his health. Eliakim needed a long rest before he would be ready for the pressures of Shebna’s job. Hezekiah couldn’t deny the resentment
he felt toward Shebna, but he needed him. There was no one else.
“I can’t stop you from resigning if that’s what you want to do, but I won’t accept your resignation tonight. I’ll give you three days to reconsider. Maybe by that time . . .” He paused, admitting only to himself the tremendous fear he felt. “Maybe by that time, this crisis will have passed.”
Shebna didn’t reply. He continued to stare miserably at the floor. In spite of his anger, Hezekiah wanted to do something to heal the breach between them. There was no one he trusted as much as Shebna, except Hephzibah. Hezekiah pushed his chair back and stood up. He saw the first few stars shining in the sky through the open window.
“I’m going up to the north wall to watch for the signal fires. Come with me, Shebna.”
Hezekiah saw sorrow in Shebna’s eyes. “Very well, Your Majesty.”
Neither of them spoke as they left the palace and walked up the hill to the Temple Mount. Below them, the city seemed unusually quiet and still. Instead of entering the Temple enclosure, they climbed the steep steps to the top of the city wall and followed it along the eastern side of the Temple grounds. They turned at the northeast corner of the wall and continued until they came to the watchtower that Eliakim had constructed. The sheer drop to the Kidron Valley was dizzying, but from the top of it, they would have an unobstructed view of the signal fire on the next watchtower to the north. Three young Judean soldiers, posted at the watch, halted their lively banter and bowed nervously as Hezekiah and Shebna approached.
“Has there been a signal yet?” Hezekiah asked.
“No, Your Majesty. It’s still too light.”
“Good. We’ll wait for it.”
Although the stars hung brightly above the Mount of Olives to the east, Hezekiah could still see the faint glow of the sun behind the mountains to the west.
“According to the message we received last night, the Assyrians still haven’t broken camp,” he told Shebna. “But I expect that the first few divisions will begin marching any day now.”