Song of Redemption

by Lynn Austin

  "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 afooP"

  "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. "Ali, 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 her 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.

  "Your Majesty! Please wait!" He turned and saw Eliakim hurrying toward him with his robes flapping in the wind. Then the engineer leaped over the barrier that separated the royal dais from the courtyard. "Your Majesty-may I have a word with you, please?"

  "This is neither the time nor the place, Eliakim. You may petition me at the palace through Shebna." He walked away, irritated at Eliakim's presumption, but Eliakim hurried to keep pace alongside him.

  "Please, Your Majesty. I've tried to go through the proper channels, but Shebna refused my request."

  "Shebna has the authority to speak on my behalf. If he refused your request, then I can't help you." Hezekiah continued walking, hoping Eliakim would have the sense to retreat.

  "But, Your Majesty, Shebna doesn't understand God's Law"

  Hezekiah glanced at Shebna waiting in the Court of the Gentiles. He was watching them from behind the barrier he was forbidden to cross, and his dark face smoldered with rage.

  "Is this matter worth risking my anger?" Hezekiah asked.

  "Yes, my lord-that's why I did it this way. I'm sorry."

  "Come with me, then." He led Eliakim down the royal walkway until they reached the Court of the Gentiles, then held up his hand, cautioning Shebna to remain silent while he spoke. "I'm going to hear your petition, Eliakim, only because you've worked hard and served me faithfully. D
on't use this as an excuse to bypass Shebna in the future. I've already warned you that he has the authority to speak for me.

  "I understand" Eliakim drew a deep breath and pushed his hair off his forehead. "Your Majesty, I would like to request more funds for the refugees. The money you've allotted for housing has run out. I submitted the request formally, but-"

  "I refused," Shebna said. "And I will continue to refuse it."

  "But the flood of immigrants hasn't even begun to crest!" Eliakim said. "People are pouring in by the thousands every day, and they need housing and food and-"

  "It is not in the economic interests of our nation to spend any more funds on the refugees," Shebna said.

  "But it is! These people will become assets to our economy!"

  Shebna gestured to the outer court, where a ragged group of refugees was begging alms from the Judeans as they filed through the Temple gates. "They are not assets," Shebna said. "They are worthless beggars looking for a free handout."

  "They wouldn't have to beg if you'd give me the funds to help them!" Eliakim turned to plead with Hezekiah. "Your Majesty, they're forced to beg because they're desperate. But most of them were once farmers or potters or tanners or other craftsmen. They'd be willing to work if we gave them a chance."

  Hezekiah watched as the refugees continued to beg, ignored by the wealthier Judeans. "What are you proposing, Eliakim?"

  "Give me the funds to feed them and help them get a new start in our nation. I promise you they'll work to pay it back."

  Shebna exhaled angrily. "I have offered him government loans, Your Majesty, but he refused them. He wants a free handout. I did everything I could short of making these people a huge financial drain on our nation, but it was not enough for him. That is why I refused to pass his request on to you."

  "Wait a minute," Hezekiah said. "Let me get this straight. If you requested funds, Eliakim, why did you refuse the loans?"

  "Because they violate the Torah."

  "And I suppose you are also an expert on the Law, as well as an engineer?" Shebna asked.

  Eliakim grinned sheepishly. "I should be an expert-my father has been quoting it to me all my life."

  Shebna crossed his arms. "Then how does accepting a loan violate the Law?"

  "In the third book of Moses it says that if one of our countrymen becomes poor and is not able to support himself, we should help him so he can continue to live among us. We're not to take interest of any kind from him, but-"

  "They are not our countrymen," Shebna interrupted.

  "We're all sons of Abraham. And it also says that if you lend money to one of God's people who is needy, charge him no interest-"

  "That is absurd!"

  "No, he's right," Hezekiah said. "The Torah explains that we were all slaves before the Lord redeemed us, and so we shouldn't exact usury from one another"

  "But an interest-free loan is the same as a free handout!" Shebna said. "You know we will never see that money again."

  "Yes, we will," Eliakim insisted. "The Torah says, `If you fully obey the Lord your God and carefully follow all his commands ... you will be blessed in the city and blessed in the country. However, if you do not obey the Lord your God ... all these curses will come upon you and overtake you-"'

  "Enough," Hezekiah said. "I know the rest: `You will be cursed in the city and cursed in the country. Your basket and your kneading trough will be cursed' . . . and so on. I'm sorry to overrule your deci sion, Shebna, but he's right." Eliakim exhaled in relief, but Shebna's anger and humiliation smoldered dangerously.

  "Continue your work with the refugees, Eliakim, and I'll see that arrangements are made for some interest-free loans."

  "Thank you, Your Majesty. You won't regret it-I promise." Eliakim bowed and quickly disappeared.

  All that day and late into the night, one question continued to nag at Hezekiah. What if Eliakim hadn't been willing to speak up for the refugees? What if he had given up after Shebna's refusal? By not helping his brethren, Hezekiah would have violated God's Law-and that worried him deeply. Shebna's decision seemed logical, and Hezekiah had agreed with it at first, but God's Law often disagreed with human reasoning. By ignoring that Law, Shebna could have triggered a disaster-and Hezekiah's confidence in him had been seriously shaken. As much as he hated to do it, Hezekiah would have to monitor Shebna's decisions to make sure this never happened again.

  Eliakim had risked a lot for the refugees' sake and had earned Hezekiah's respect. As he lay awake that night, Hezekiah found that he envied Eliakim. The engineer's integrity and compassion sprang from a source that Hezekiah had never known-the loving discipline of a godly father.

  Iddina crouched by the fork in the road and studied the footprints lightly etched in the dust. "It's her. I know it's her." Three of Iddina's best trackers stood around him, observing him with cautious respect.

  "Do you want one of us to keep following the oxcart, sir?"

  "No. She turned south. A little birdie, flying home to her nest." He stood up, brushing the dust from his hands, and studied the rutted road until it disappeared behind a small rise. "An excellent hunt," he said. "She provided a good chase. But she's close to home now, and she's growing careless. This is almost too easy." He twisted his sandal in the dirt, erasing the delicate footprint.

  As the sun bore down with relentless heat, Iddina strode over to his horse and untied a skin of water. He gulped noisily, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

  "She made it farther than I thought she would, sir," one of the trackers said. "The way she started out that day, I figured we would have her back by nightfall."

  "She didn't surprise me. She has a strong will to live-though only the gods know why. I wonder if my fellow officers have captured their pitiful village yet. They can sift through the rubble with a sieve:' Iddina said, laughing, "but they won't find her."

  "Sir, with all those wagon tracks going in and out, how did you know she'd left the village?"

  Iddina removed his dagger from his belt while he unwound his long, fringed sash and used it to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He glanced at the soldier who had asked the question. "Because I know her." He refastened his belt and tucked the weapon in place. "That's the first rule of any hunt: know your prey-what they would do, how they would think."

  He stroked his lower lip as he studied his three trackers, pleased with their admiring gazes. "I know her," he repeated, "and she wouldn't like to be locked behind city walls."

  Iddina mounted his horse in one swift, muscular leap, and the other men hurried to follow him. "We're close now-very close," he said. "Search inside every house and barn, under every rock and bush, until we get her back-understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "She's mine. She belongs to me. But when we find her, you will all have a share."

  Jerimoth awoke before dawn and lay on his mat, listening. Something had jolted him awake. He raised up on his elbows and cocked his head, straining to listen. He did hear something! He tossed the covers aside and leaped to his feet, startling Hodesh.

  "What is it?"

  "Shh! Listen!" He ran to the window overlooking the road and flung open the shutter, but it was too dark to see anything.

  "You were dreaming, Jerimoth. There's nothing-"

  But before Hodesh could finish, Jerimoth bolted from the house and ran down through his vineyard toward the road. He had waited for so many years to hear Jerusha's soft footsteps on the dusty road that he had imagined them many times before. Was he imagining them now? He stood in the semidarkness behind the leafy vines, his eyes straining for his first glimpse of her.

  At last a lone figure came into view, a pale specter, a shade darker than the gloom around her. But even in the dim light before dawn Jerimoth knew her at once.

  "Jerusha! Oh, thank God-my Jerusha!" He raced toward her, stumbling down the rutted road. The figure froze, startled by Jerimoth's sudden appearance. Then she began running toward him, arms outstretched.

  "Abba!
Abba!"

  Jerimoth clasped his beloved daughter fiercely. He would never let her go. "Praise God! Oh, praise God!" He wanted to dance and leap and shout for joy. Yahweh had brought her home again. "Oh, thank you, God! Thank you for my Jerusha!"

  She was alive! He leaned back to gaze at her beloved face and saw how thin she was. He held a mere skeleton in his arms instead of his vibrant, healthy daughter. And she looked old, as old as the trees that had shaded his land for centuries-not in appearance, but in her spirit. He saw death in her vacant eyes and in her tattered soul.

  "Dear God, what have they done to you?" he moaned. "What have they done to my little girl?" He lifted her into his arms and carried her up to the house, stumbling over vines in the path, his vision blinded by tears.

  "Hodesh, look! She's home! Jerusha is home!"

  Hodesh cried out with joy and clung to her daughter, too overwhelmed to speak.

  A moment later Maacah scrambled down the ladder from the loft. "Jerusha, is it really you? Oh, thank God-it is! It really is you!" She threw her arms around her sister and wept.

  "I never thought I'd see any of you again," Jerusha sobbed. "I never thought I'd come home again!"

  "But you're here! Oh, God, thank you! Thank you!" Jerimoth murmured the words over and over as he rocked her in his arms. Yahweh had answered his prayers. He had done the impossible. God had brought his beloved daughter back from the dead.

  22

  JERUSHA HAD DREAMED OF THIS moment for so long that she could scarcely believe it was real. But she felt Abba's strong arms crushing her to his chest, smelled the sweet outdoors smell on his clothes, felt the soft brush of his beard. Mama's sturdy hands stroked her hair, caressed her face, dried her tears. It wasn't a dream.

  "Mama ... Abba ... I never thought I'd see you again!" Jerusha sobbed.

  She was home. She had made it home again. Everything seemed unchanged-the simple, handmade furnishings, the oxen in their stall opposite the living quarters, the soot-smudged cooking pots, even the clumps of fragrant herbs hanging from the ceiling beams seemed the same.