by Amos Oz
One day Jephthah’s three brothers, Jamin, Jemuel, and Azur, came to the desert to the Land of Tob, to the place where Jephthah dwelt. They were fleeing from the Ammonites and they had come here because Jephthah’s fame had spread all over the land, as he and his nomad band, the Jephthahites, snapped at the heels of the Ammonite army, robbing the caravans and flouting the king’s guards like a bird playing with a bear.
Jephthah did not conceal his identity from his brothers. But neither did he fall on their necks and weep. With the passage of the years his two eldest brothers had become even coarser. Jamin, the eldest, was now a heavily built, corpulent man who resembled neither his father nor his mother but looked more like the household priest. Jemuel could not rid his face of an obsequious smile accompanied by a lecherous wink, which seemed to be saying, Come over to my house, my friend, and let’s have an orgy. Only the youngest brother, Azur, had developed the speed and sharpness of an arrow in flight; he resembled his half-brother the son of the Ammonite woman, rather than the two sons of Nehushtah daughter of Zebulun.
When the three brothers had bowed down and prostrated themselves before the nomad chief, Jephthah said:
“Rise, fugitives. Do not bow down to me. I am not Joseph and you are not the sons of Jacob. Stand up. At once.”
Jamin, the eldest, spoke as though reading from a written text:
“My lord, we have come to tell you that the Ammonite foe has conquered your father’s estate. And now our father is an old man and cannot fight against them. We, your servants, say to you: Arise, Jephthah, rescue your father’s house and your father’s land, for only you and no other can defeat the Ammonite serpent.”
They pleaded with Jephthah and Jephthah said nothing. He merely ordered that they be accepted into his band. Day by day they said to him: How long will our lord tarry. He did not answer them and he did not rebuke them. In his heart he said, O God, grant me a sign.
The Jephthahites harried the armies of Ammon. Fear and panic seized the city of Abel-Keramim at night because of the Jephthahites who raided the caravans. Jephthah’s men were as swift and cunning as their lord. His footsteps at night were like a breeze or a caress. He sent silent-knived assassins by night to the Ammonite captains. Gatel’s soldiers were seized by terror whenever they heard at night the sound of a breeze or a wolf or a bird of prey, lest it be Jephthah’s nomads in the night making the sound of bird or wolf or breeze. The Jephthahites penetrated the walls of Rabbat-Ammon and infiltrated the squares of Abel-Keramim and its temples: they entered the city by day with the caravans, disguised as merchants, by night they sowed panic, and in the morning they were borne away by the wind and were no more, and time and again Gatel sent forth his army to pursue the wind. In the book of his wars King Gatel wrote:
“Surely this is the way of the fainthearted, to strike and to flee. Let them come by the light of day, let us meet face to face, and I shall crush them and have peace.”
But the Jephthahites did not choose to come by daylight. Day by day the lord of the nomads went out and stood alone on the hill, with his back toward the camp and his face toward the wilderness, as though waiting for some sound or scent.
Then King Gatel sent word to Jephthah:
“You are an Ammonite, Jephthah. We are brothers. Why are we fighting each other? If you choose, come and I shall place you in my second chariot, and none shall lift up hand or foot without your word in all the cities of Ammon and of Israel.”
By the hand of his adjutant Azur the nomad chieftain sent back word to Gatel king of Ammon saying:
“Gatel, I am not your brother or your father’s son. You know that I am a stranger. I do not fight for the Israelites, I fight for one you do not know. In his honor I shall put you to the sword and your enemies, too, for I have been a stranger all the days of my life.”
7
PITDAH DREAMED a dream one night in her tent in the Land of Tob. In her dream she was a bride in a bridal gown. The maidens were dancing around her with lyres and timbrels, and there were bracelets on her arms.
When she told her father about this dream he flew into a panic. He shook her by the shoulders and whispered frantically: Tell me who was your bridegroom. As he pleaded with her his hands twisted her shoulders violently, and she suddenly started to laugh, as she often laughed, without cause. Then he slapped her face wildly with the back of his hand and shouted: Who was your bridegroom.
Pitdah said:
“You are looking at me like a murderer.”
“Who was it, tell me who it was.”
“I couldn’t see his face in the dream, I could only feel his hot breath on me. Look at you, you’ve got foam on your lips, leave me alone, go and wash your face in the brook.”
“Who was it.”
“Don’t you hit me again or I’ll laugh aloud and the whole camp will hear.”
“Who was it.”
“But you know who my bridegroom is. Why did you shout at me, why are you trembling so.”
She stood laughing and he stood facing her wearing a dazed look. His eyes were closed and his lips said to him: Of course I knew, why was I so startled. They were still standing there when the elders of Israel rode down to prostrate themselves at Jephthah’s feet.
He opened his eyes and saw them coming, and he also saw his father Gilead riding with them. He was just as broad and heavy and ugly as in the old days, only his beard had turned gray.
The elders of Israel raised the hems of their cloaks because of the dust of the desert. They fell flat on their faces before the chief of the nomads. Gilead alone did not bow or prostrate himself before his son. Then a delicious bubbling joy began to course through Jephthah’s veins, such a joy as he had never known before and would never know again.
With an effort he controlled his voice as he addressed the elders:
“Arise, elders of Israel. The man to whom you are bowing down is a harlot’s son.”
But they remained on their knees and would not stand up; they merely looked at one another, not knowing what. At the end of the silence Gilead the Gileadite said:
“You are my son, who will save Israel from the Ammonites.”
Jephthah contemplated their broken pride distantly as though it were a wound. Then he was touched by sorrow, not the sorrow of the elders, perhaps not sorrow at all, but something that was not far removed from gentleness, a taste of scorched earth. Gently he said to them:
“I am a stranger, O elders of Israel. No stranger should go before you in your wars, lest the camp be unclean.”
At this the elders rose. They said:
“You are our brother, Jephthah, you are our brother. See, today we have made your father Gilead judge of Israel and you, our brother, shall be the captain of our army, you shall fight for us against the Ammonite; as captain of your father’s army you shall be our commander, you shall have power over all your brothers, Jephthah, because from your earliest youth you have known the skills of war. To this day the story is told around the shepherds’ campfires how you tore a wolf with your bare hands.”
“But surely you hate me, elders, and when I have crushed the Ammonite for you you will chase after me like a rebellious slave and my father here will put me in irons because he is the judge of Israel and I am a stranger, a nomad and a harlot’s son.”
“You are my son, Jephthah. You are my boy who put his hand into the fire without crying out and who tore a wolf with his bare hands. If you come back and fight the Ammonites for us I shall bless you before all your brothers, and you shall be the one who leads the people out and brings them in all the days of my life.”
“Why do you not leave me alone, elders. And you, too, judge of Israel: stop pleading with me. You are not children: why are you playing these games. Go while you can and save your hoarheads, and take your priests and all your scribes with you. Only leave me alone. I can see through your plot. Jephthah will not be the warhorse of Israel, and this old man will not ride on my back.”
Then Gilead the Gileadite spoke, wi
th lips pressed tight together as though he were straining to break an iron chain.
“Your father will not judge Israel. You shall fight and you shall judge.”
The elders were silent; their tongues failed them at the sound of these words.
Jephthah spoke quietly, like a fox, and as he spoke the yellow spark glimmered in his eye.
“If you are really and truly appointing me to be judge of Israel this day, then swear to me now in the name of our God.”
“As God hears and witnesses: you shall be judge.”
“A whore’s son shall be your leader,” Jephthah said, and he laughed so loudly that the horses were alarmed.
And the elders soundlessly repeated:
“Our leader.”
“Then clap this old man in irons at once. The judge of Israel commands you.”
“Jephthah, my son—”
“And cast him into the pit. I have spoken.”
The following day Jephthah inspected his army and appointed captains and commanders. He dispatched his brothers Jamin and Jemuel to assemble speedily all the fighting men among the tribes of Israel. And he sent his adjutant Azur the Gileadite with a message to Gatel king of Ammon:
“Get out of my land.”
At nightfall on the following day, the judge of Israel commanded a large tent of honor to be pitched in the middle of the camp, and he ordered his father Gilead to be brought up from the pit and installed in this tent and furnished with wine and servant girls. To his daughter Pitdah he said: If the old man dashes the wine pitcher to the ground and smashes it, tell the servants to hurry and bring him a fresh one quickly. If he breaks the second let them fetch him another, because this old man sometimes takes a fancy to the sound of breaking glass. Let him smash to his heart’s content. Only do not dare to enter the tent yourself; stop laughing now. Go.”
Gatel king of Ammon was driven to distraction by the Jephthahites who picked off his soldiers by day, and by night seemed to be swallowed up by the earth. He sent his army after them, but it was like chasing the wind. He became a laughing stock in Moab and in Edom a byword: the fly bites and the bear dances.
Gatel sent Jephthah a message by the hand of Azur his adjutant: Leave me alone, Jephthah. You are an Ammonite; why should you harm me; surely I loved you deeply. But Jephthah knew Gatel’s mind, he knew that he had set his heart on being like one of the mighty kings of old but that even the smell of horses in the distance was enough to make him feel giddy. Calmly the judge of Israel waged a war of words with the king of Ammon by means of envoys who passed to and fro: to whom did the land really belong, whose forefathers had settled it first, what was written in all the chronicles, who was in the right and who had justice on his side. Eventually Gatel came to imagine that it was a war of scrolls that he had to wage, and he multiplied scroll upon scroll.
The elders of Israel came to the judge’s tent saying: In God’s name, go, the time is passing, the Ammonite is devouring all the land, if you delay longer what will there be left to save for us. Jephthah listened and said nothing. The elders spoke further to the judge: Send word to the Edomite and to the Arab, send to Egypt and to Damascus, we cannot manage alone, for Ammon is too strong for us. And still Jephthah said nothing.
But to himself he said:
“Grant me but one sign more, O God, and I will offer you their carcasses strewn upon the field as you love, O Lord of the wolves in the night in the desert.”
One night Pitdah saw another dream. Her bridegroom came in the darkness and said to her in a still small voice: Come, my bride, arise, for the time has come.
In the morning Jephthah listened to her dream, and this time he was silent but his face grew very dark. He had been stalked by dreams all the days of his life. And like his father Gilead before him he believed that dreams come from that place from which man comes and to which he returns through his death. To himself he said: Now is the time. And the girl laughed aloud.
One hour later the trumpet sounded.
All the camps assembled on the rocky slope, and the sun played on the lances and shields. The elders of the tribes were in a panic, searching for the right words to prevent him from launching their whole force against the walls of Ammon in one swoop, for great was the strength of Ammon, and Israel might never recover from this disaster; surely the wild man had resolved to dash the head of Israel against the stone walls of Ammon. But the judge of Israel rose and left the tent in the midst of their entreaties and stood at the entrance facing the troops, and this time his daughter Pitdah was standing at his side. He placed his hand on her shoulder and the voice of his dead mother seemed to ring in his voice as he said: O God, if you will surely deliver the children of Ammon into my hand, then it shall be that whatever comes forth from the doors of my house to meet me when I return in peace from the children of Ammon shall surely belong to God, and I will offer it up as a burnt offering—
“He will deliver the children of Ammon into your hands. Now, you, my maidens, make ready my bridal gown,” said the darkly beautiful girl. The people cheered and the horses neighed, and she laughed and laughed and never stopped.
Jephthah the Gileadite emerged from his hiding place in the Land of Tob and pounced on Ammon to raze its walls to the ground, for great was the strength of Ammon. Sweeping through the villages, he toppled the towers and fired the temples, flattened the turrets and shattered the golden domes and gave the wives, concubines, and harlots as food to the fowls of the air.
By the time the day reached its heat Gatel had been put to the sword and Ammon had been smitten from Aroer until you come to Minnith, even twenty cities, and as far as Abel-Keramim, with a very great slaughter, and by nightfall Ammon was defeated and Gatel was slain and still Jephthah was silent.
8
THE DAYS of a man’s life are like water seeping into the sands; he perishes from the face of the earth unknown at his coming and unrecognized at his passing. He fades away like a shadow that cannot be brought back. But sometimes dreams come to us in the night and we know in the dreams that nothing truly passes away and nothing is forgotten, everything is always present as it was before.
Even the dead return home in the dreams. Even days that are lost and forgotten come back whole and shining in dreams at night, not a drop is lost, not a jot passes away. The smell of wet dust on an autumn morning from long ago, the sight of burned houses whose ashes have long since been scattered by the wind, the arched hips of dead women, the barking at the moon, on a distant night, of remote ancestors of the dogs that are with us now: everything comes back living and breathing in our dreams.
As if in a dream Jephthah the Gileadite stood at the entrance to his father’s estate, within the fences of which he was born, in the shadows of whose orchards he had first felt the touch of a hand, and from which he had fled for his life many years before: not a drop was lost, not a jot had passed away. The fences and orchards stood before him as of old, and the vine still covered all the walls of the house so that the black volcanic stones could not be seen through its embrace. And the water ran in the channels and beneath the trees there was cool dark longing.
Like a man possessed by a dream Jephthah stood looking up to the house, only half-seeing the darkly beautiful one coming out to meet him with songs. And after her came the maidens with timbrels and the shepherds with pipes and his father Gilead, a broad, bitter man. And Jamin, Jemuel, and Azur were also on the path, and their mother Nehushtah daughter of Zebulun could be seen all white in a white dress through the window with pale laughter on her lips. And all the dogs were barking and the cows were lowing and the household scribe and the household priest and the bald-headed steward, all as in a dream, nothing was left out.
And the maidens followed after her, dressed in white and playing their timbrels and singing: Jephthah has slain, Jephthah has slain; and the people cheered and the torches blazed over all of Mizpeh of Gilead.
As she came out she seemed to be floating, as if her feet disdained to touch the dust of the path. As
a gazelle comes down to water so Pitdah came down to her father. Her bridal gown gleamed white, her eyelashes shaded her eyes, and when she looked up at him and he heard her laughter he saw fire and ice burning with a green flame in her pupils. And the maidens sang: Jephthah has slain slain slain, and Pitdah’s hips moved restlessly as though to the rhythm of a secret dance and she was slender and barefoot—
Drowsily the judge of Israel stood facing the entrance to his father’s estate. His face was parched and weatherbeaten, and his eyes were turned inward. As though he were deathly tired. As though in a dream.
The cheering of the people grew louder as Gilead was carried out on a litter by Jamin, Jemuel, and Azur, and the troops shouted: Happy is the father, happy is the father. The whole of Mizpeh of Gilead was lit up by torches, and the noise of the timbrels was a riot of joy.
Beautiful and dark was Pitdah as she placed the victor’s wreath on her father’s head. Then she put her hands silently over his eyes and said:
“Father.”
As his daughter’s fingers touched his eyelids, Jephthah felt like a sunbaked boulder in the desert that is suddenly splashed with cold water. But he did not want to wake from his slumber.
He was tired and thirsty, and his unwashed body was still smeared with blood and ashes. For a moment he missed the city he had burned that day, Abel-Keramim, reaching up to heaven with its many towers topped with golden domes, the sun touching the gold in the mornings, and the sickly boy king pleading with him: Jephthah, don’t leave me, tell me a story because of the dark, and the caravans coming in through the gates of the city in the evening twilight with the music of camel bells, and women’s lips fluttering on the hair of his chest and whispering: Stranger, and the lights at night and the music, and his sword piercing the throat of the ailing king and emerging steaming from the back of his neck, and Gatel saying with dying lips: What an ugly story, and the city in flames and burning women throwing themselves off the rooftops and the smell of roasting flesh and the screaming—