Song of Redemption

by Lynn Austin

  Hephzibah knew that Hezekiah loved her. In the three years since their baby died she had felt his love grow stronger and deeper and had heard him say it many times over. Hezekiah was hers. But she also knew the strength of his devotion to Yahweh's laws.

  "He'll have to divorce me, Merab, because I'm barren. I can't give him an heir."

  "You're not barren! Don't even think such a thing!"

  "Then why can't I get pregnant? After all this time?"

  Merab wrapped her arms around Hephzibah, comforting her like a child. "Shh ... never mind, honey. You'll get pregnant again-I know it. And King Hezekiah loves you too much to divorce you."

  "But if I don't give him a son he'll have to divorce me. It's a terrible disgrace if the king has no heir to the throne."

  "He can always take another wife or a concubine-"

  "But he won't do that. Yahweh's Law allows him to have only one wife. And the royal line of David must continue."

  "You mean more to him than a silly old law," Merab said as she dabbed at Hephzibah's eyes. But Hephzibah remembered how he had refused to hold her on the night her baby died, and she knew that it wasn't true. "It's time to stop all this nonsense," Merab said. "Your husband is coming. Your face will be a mess."

  Hephzibah tried to compose herself, fighting back her terrible fears. She splashed cold water on her face, then let Merab comb her long, thick hair. A few minutes later she heard Hezekiah's familiar knock and looked up to see his tall frame and broad shoulders filling her doorway. He looked so regal in his gold and purple robe, so hand some as he stood smiling down at her that she longed to run to him, to feel his strong arms surrounding her, comforting her.

  Instead, she turned away. "It is unlawful to touch me, my lord." She hated Yahweh's Law for making her feel like a leper, for forbidding the very thing she needed the most. The Law caused a separation from her husband, and Hephzibah feared that someday it would be permanent.

  "It's not unlawful to talk," Hezekiah said quietly.

  Hephzibah looked up at him and saw the love in his eyes just as Merab had said. "I'm sorry for failing you, my lord."

  "I've told you before, Hephzibah-it doesn't matter to me. We have the rest of our lives to bear children. Yahweh has promised us a son.

  Hephzibah cringed. She had never brought Yahweh the required sin offering, blaming Him for her baby's death. She worried that her barrenness was His punishment for breaking the Law, but she stubbornly refused to offer more blood. Yahweh had taken her baby; that was enough.

  Hezekiah sat down beside the charcoal brazier and spread his hands before the coals to warm them. When he looked up, his expression was strained with worry. In an instant Hephzibah forgot all his reassurances, certain that he was contemplating divorce.

  "What's wrong, my lord?"

  "I'm worried about a report I received from Israel this afternoon. The Assyrians may be on the march again. Every year their empire expands, and it looks like they won't be content until they've conquered every nation, all the way to Egypt. The problem is, our nation straddles the road to Egypt"

  "What will you do if they invade us?"

  "Well, I'll have two choices. I can try to fight them off, or I can appease them by joining their empire as a vassal nation again."

  "Which will you do?"

  "I don't know-neither one until I have to. They haven't begun to march yet, but the rumors say it's inevitable." His hands knotted into fists as he talked.

  Hephzibah saw the deep creases in his face and knew the threat must be serious, but she was incapable of worrying about a vague, future invasion from a distant enemy. Her thoughts focused only on her empty, aching arms.

  "I'm sorry, Hephzibah," he said, looking up at her. "I didn't mean to burden you with all my problems. Maybe the rumors are wrong. Maybe the Assyrians will turn around and march home again."

  "You didn't burden me, my lord. I wasn't worried about that."

  "What is it, love? Why are you so sad tonight?"

  Her eyes glistened with tears. "I'm just ... disappointed, that's all. I thought maybe this time ... this month ..."

  Hezekiah moved as if to go to her, and she thought for a moment that he would take her in his arms and willingly become unclean for her sake. But he stopped before he reached her. His arms hung limply by his sides.

  "Isn't there anything I can do?" he asked helplessly.

  She would not ask to be held, knowing that if she forced him to choose between his God and her, she would never win. She hastily wiped her tears. "No, my lord."

  "Are you sure?" He looked as if the burden of his reign weighed heavily on him, and she was stung by guilt. Hezekiah came to her for comfort, not the other way around. She tried to smile.

  "Shall I sing for you, my lord?"

  "Yes, I'd like that"

  She picked up her lyre and began to sing one of his favorite songs. But as she lost herself in the words and the melody, a flood of grief and disappointment suddenly overwhelmed her. She stopped, unable to finish, and covered her face.

  "Hephzibah ... would it be easier for you if I left?" he asked softly.

  She longed to cry out, "No, don't go! Hold me in your arms!" But she didn't.

  "Yes, my lord," she said instead. She heard him get up and quietly leave, closing the door behind him.

  Jerusha knelt before the hearth, slowly grinding grain into flour between the stones. On the horizon the rising sun was painting the sky with delicate shades of pink and mauve, but Jerusha barely noticed as she ground out her sorrow and hatred along with the grain. Today would be her last day in this camp. The city that the Assyrians had besieged for more than two years had finally fallen. As if in a dream, Jerusha had again witnessed thousands of helpless men, women, and children being clubbed to death, beheaded, tortured, impaled, flayed alive, or carried away into slavery.

  Jerusha knew she couldn't live with this brutality much longer and stay sane. The first signs of madness had already appeared as her soul splintered and disintegrated like a rotted log. She hadn't smiled or laughed or felt any emotion besides fear and hatred since Iddina killed her baby. She thought of Marah's icy bitterness, her harsh, unsmiling features, and knew that she was becoming just like her. Jerusha wasn't a human being to the Assyrians-she was their possession, a plaything to use and discard. More than anything else, she feared becoming pregnant again. She couldn't kill her child in the womb, like Marah did, nor could she bear the agony of having her baby snatched from her arms again. It was only a matter of time before she would be forced to choose, but both options horrified her.

  She poured the finished flour into the kneading trough, scooped another handful of grain between the grinding stones, and continued to grind. Tomorrow the tents would come down, and the army would march relentlessly forward to destroy another nation, enslave another helpless population. And Jerusha's life would also grind hopelessly on, with no choice but to submit to her captors or die. She could no longer remember why she had wanted to live, and she often recalled Marah's words that first day in camp: "Die, little fool! Die while you still have the chance to die quickly!" Why hadn't she listened to her?

  Jerusha finished the second batch of flour and poured it into the trough. She had enough to make the dough as soon as Marah returned with the water. But as Marah hurried back from the spring with the water jug, she appeared upset.

  "What's the matter?" Jerusha asked her.

  "I found out where the Assyrian army is marching next" Marah set the jug down and sank to her knees, pausing as if unable to speak the words. "They're going to invade Israel. And it won't be small raiding parties this time, either. They're sending the entire army."

  Jerusha didn't respond. The news that she would witness the brutal destruction of her own homeland and people came as a blow to a soul too numb to feel more pain. For a moment she could almost picture the rolling green hills of Israel, the beautiful Jordan Valley, the shimmering Sea of Galilee; then she quickly closed her eyes against the vision of what the
Assyrians would do.

  All these years, against all reason, Jerusha had nurtured hope in her heart like a fragile seed-hope that someday she would go home, that she would see her family again. That hope had fueled her overwhelming drive to survive. But now the Assyrians had pronounced a death sentence on Israel. Her home and her family would no longer exist. Jerusha's delicate sprout of hope withered and died, and her will to live died along with it. She had managed to exist without love, but she could never survive without hope. They had finally destroyed the only thing she had left.

  Silently, Jerusha made a well in the center of the flour, mixed in water and olive oil, and began to knead. As the dough took shape beneath her fingers, a firm resolve took shape in Jerusha's heart. She wouldn't live to witness the destruction of Israel, the enslavement of her people. She wouldn't endure another day of hopeless existence.

  As the sun climbed higher in the sky, Jerusha moved through her routine on instinct, unaware of her surroundings. As she packed dishes and food supplies, then swept out her tent, she tried to decide how and when she would end her own life.

  By evening, when she had loaded everything onto the carts except her tent and bedding, Jerusha had made up her mind. She would die tonight when one of the officers came to her tent. They always brought their weapons with them and kept them close at hand, as if not even trusting one another's treachery. If she acted swiftly, she could grab one of their knives and kill herself before they had time to stop her.

  She helped Marah prepare the evening meal, but she couldn't eat any of it. Waves of terror washed over her as she faced the unknown. She had witnessed thousands of deaths, but now that it was her turn she wondered what it would be like. At last she decided that dying couldn't possibly be worse than living.

  Her hands shook uncontrollably as she helped Marah wash up after the meal and pack away the cooking pots. Then Jerusha went into her tent and sat alone to wait. For the first time since Iddina had captured her, she hoped that one of the officers would come to her tent tonight. The long wait felt like hours, and the dark canopy of the tent hovered over her like a shroud. She held her baby's blanket against her cheek for courage, knowing that soon she would join her daughter in death.

  Finally Jerusha heard footsteps approaching. She held her breath. The flap opened, sending a gust of cool air into the suffocating tent. Iddina stood in her doorway, his powerful, muscular stance unmistakable.

  She thought it fitting that Iddina would be the one to watch her die, since he was the one who had captured her so long ago. She only wished she had let him end her life that first day instead of needlessly prolonging it all these years. He ducked inside the tent and staggered toward her. She could tell by his wavering, uncertain movements that he had been drinking, and she was glad. The alcohol would slow his reflexes, making it difficult for him to stop her in time.

  Jerusha gazed longingly at the dagger strapped to his belt. Every morning Iddina honed it on his whetstone to keep it razor sharp. She hated the dull, rasping sound the metal made against the stone, but now she was grateful for his diligence. She wished he would hurry up and take it off. She was ready. Her courage had reached its peak. If only he would lay it within her reach.

  She reminded herself not to hesitate, but to plunge the knife hard and deep. Her suicide would make Iddina furious, and if she didn't die immediately he would prolong her death to torture her. Jerusha had no right to kill herself-that privilege belonged to him.

  But Iddina was in no hurry tonight. His black eyes had a malicious gleam as if he were laughing at a secret joke. He sank down beside her, moving so close she felt his breath on her face and smelled the fruity wine he had drunk. Jerusha felt as if she were suffocating. Determination pounded through her veins until her ears rang, but she forced herself to be patient. She could never get her hands on the dagger unless he laid it down. Why didn't he take it off? She was afraid to look at him, afraid he would peer into her eyes and read the contract she had signed with death.

  "I have a surprise for you, my little dog," he said at last.

  Jerusha thought of his bloody trophies hanging outside on the tree branches, and she shuddered. He seized her face in his rough hands, forcing her to look at him.

  "I don't know if I should tell you about my surprise tonight or make you wait until tomorrow."

  Jerusha knew she would never see tomorrow. She looked into his pitiless black eyes, and when she spoke, the defiance in her own voice surprised her. "Tell me now"

  Iddina smiled. His teeth were pointed, like a wolf's. "You'd better enjoy your last night with me ..."

  Last night? He knows! Somehow Iddina had read her thoughts! That's why he still wore his weapon!

  " ... because tomorrow I'm setting you free."

  For a long moment Jerusha's heart seemed to stop beating. She must have misunderstood. She didn't speak his language very well. It had to be a mistake.

  "What did you say?" she managed to whisper.

  "You heard me-you're going free tomorrow. Free-like a birdie-to fly away to your nest."

  Jerusha stifled a scream. He was lying. It was a trick-a horrible, cruel joke. Iddina would never set her free. Somehow he had discovered her plan and he'd invented this deception to stop her from doing it. The ringing in her ears grew so loud she could hardly stand it. Then slowly, with almost deliberate boredom, Iddina removed his belt and laid the dagger next to the sleeping mat. The polished handle gleamed. It was within her reach. All she had to do was grab it.

  But what if Iddina was telling the truth? What if tomorrow morning, for whatever reason, he would really set her free?

  Jerusha jumped when Iddina stroked her cheek with his rough hand. "Why are you looking so serious, my pretty dog? Doesn't my news make you happy?" She shook her head. "Why not? Would you rather stay here with me?"

  Jerusha's stomach rolled over in revulsion. She glanced at the dagger, assuring herself that it was still there. "I don't believe that you'd really set me free," she said.

  Without warning, Iddina's fist slammed into her jaw, and she turn bled backward against the side of the tent. She lay stunned, her face throbbing with pain.

  "How dare you call me a liar?" He raised his fist again.

  "No! I-I'm sorry-" She could barely force her aching jaw to move. "I didn't mean it that way-I only wondered why. Why are you setting me free?"

  Iddina lowered his arm and studied her as if debating whether or not to tell her. "Because you're going to help me earn a promotion, you stupid little dog" He offered no further explanation as he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her toward him.

  Hours later, Jerusha lay in the darkness thinking about his words, wondering what he had meant by them, wondering what to do. Iddina finally slept beside her. His knife lay beyond him ready for her to use. It was time to carry out her plan.

  But what if he was telling her the truth? What if she really would be free again in a few short hours? Jerusha lay awake throughout most of the long night, wondering what Iddina had meant-and wondering what she should do.

  Then, as the eastern sky began to grow light and the jackals crawled away to their lairs, Jerusha realized that the slim thread of hope Iddina had dangled before her had been enough to hold on to. Her will to survive had come tentatively to life again. She would live for one more day.

  Jerimoth paused in his labors and leaned against his hoe, watching another caravan of refugees rumble down the road past his land. He counted four-five-mix carts loaded with tools and children and household goods, and six weary farmers and their wives, trudging alongside.

  Then Jerimoth gripped his hoe once again and attacked the weeds sprouting in his garden plot. He no longer bothered to cross his fields to the roadside to talk to the passing travelers. He would hear the same story from these refugees that he had heard from all the others during the past few weeks: the Assyrians were mobilizing to invade Israel. Everyone was fleeing to escape; some to the fortified capital of Samaria, others leaving Israel altogether, go
ing south to the nation of Judah. If he spoke to them, they would urge him to join them, to escape while he still had a chance.

  As his nation writhed in a state of upheaval, Jerimoth watched the quiet days of planting and reaping on his ancient plot of land draw to a close. Like a tremor before the earthquake, the masses of refugees would soon be followed by an even greater horde. No hope remained for Israel. Jerimoth would have to decide what to do. He was born on this land, and if he stayed he would probably die here, as well.

  Eventually the caravan passed, but then in the trailing wake of dust Jerimoth spotted a solitary figure walking slowly up the road from the south. He watched as the figure drew near, then recognized his younger brother Saul. He hurried over to the well to meet him and drew a fresh bucket of water.

  "Ah, thank you," Saul said wearily. He held the drinking gourd awkwardly between his right hand and the ugly stump of his left. With his thirst quenched, he tilted his head back and poured water over it. Jerimoth guessed why Saul had come. They stood in silence, neither of them in a hurry to begin this conversation.

  Finally Saul gulped more water, then wiped his lips. "We can't wait any longer, Jerimoth. We have to leave before it's too late."

  "Just one more week"

  "You said that last week and the week before. We can't wait any longer." He rubbed the stump of his hand nervously as he talked.

  "But what about Jerusha? Maybe she will-"

  "Jerusha is dead. Don't you realize that yet?"

  He didn't reply. It was what Eliakim insisted, as well, but Jerimoth didn't believe it. He knew she was alive. He knew it.

  Saul sighed heavily, as if tired of repeating a useless conversation. "Listen, Jerimoth-the Assyrians will kill us, too, if we don't get out soon and go someplace safe."

  "But how will Jerusha ever find me again if-"

  Saul didn't wait for Jerimoth to finish. He groaned and walked up the rise to Jerimoth's house. Hodesh came to the door to meet him.