The Walls of Arad (Journey to Canaan Book 3)

by Carole Towriss

  Arisha stood in front of their tent when he arrived, holding on tightly to Imma’s arm with both hands, her eyes staring straight ahead.

  Imma leaned in toward Arisha, pointing toward Zadok. He could see Arisha relax. A little.

  Arisha left Imma and hurried to Zadok, grabbing his waist, placing her cheek against his chest. He held her close, feeling her relax in his arms. He caught Imma’s gaze over her shoulder.

  Imma smiled. “We’re supposed to meet at the bottom of Mount Hor. That’s all I know.”

  “Maybe Moses has returned.” He grasped Arisha's shoulders and gently pushed her back so he could see her face, placing a finger under her chin. He brushed her lips with his. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded. Barely.

  He turned her so she stood next to him, his arm around her waist.

  Imma flashed a bright smile and grasped Arisha's other hand. “Let’s go.”

  Arisha slipped out of Zadok’s embrace about halfway to the mount, grabbing his hand like it was her last piece of food.

  At the base of Mount Hor, two figures stood on boulders, waiting to address the crowd, which hummed with speculation and gossip.

  Two? Didn’t Joshua say Moses, Aaron, and Eleazar climbed the mountain? Maybe he misheard. Maybe one of them descended earlier.

  Moses raised his hand for quiet. “Aaron has gone to be with our ancestors. He is now with Yahweh. Eleazar is our new High Priest.”

  Such a simple announcement.

  Such monumental repercussions.

  Cries and wails filled the air. Shrieks, screams and the sound of ripped clothing surrounded them. Grief and shock settled over the crowd like a wet, woolen cloak, almost as visible as Yahweh’s cloud.

  Zadok’s mind reeled. Aaron gone? Why hadn’t Moses told everyone about this before? Why the secrecy? Why the surprise? Why—

  Next to him, Arisha collapsed. He dove to catch her before she hit the sand. He gently knelt with her, one knee behind her back, her head in the crook of his arm. “Arisha!” He called softly so as not to create a scene, but his heart raced and he couldn’t catch his breath. “Arisha!”

  He cupped her face, shook her gently. “Arisha, wake up. Show me you’re all right.”

  Her eyes fluttered open, caught his gaze for the briefest moment, then closed again.

  Thank Yahweh.

  He slipped his arm under her knees and stood, cradling her to his chest.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Imma grasped his forearm.

  He shook his head. “Stay and see what’s going on.”

  As he carried her back to camp, he began to put the pieces together. Aaron was dead. Another loss for Arisha. Miriam. Their home. Now Aaron. It was simply more than she could take at once. And he had no idea how many losses she had suffered before he met her.

  He held her closer, resting his cheek on her head. Yahweh, heal her. I don’t know how to help her. I can stay close, but I can’t heal her heart. Only you can do that. If there is more I can do, you have to show me.

  He stepped inside their tent, knelt before their mat, and gently laid her upon it. He slipped her cloak and sandals off, and did the same. He lay next to her and gathered her in his arms, praying over her until he, too, fell asleep.

  Nineteen

  8th day of Av

  ZADOK PUSHED ASIDE the flaps and peeked outside. It promised to be a beautiful, sunny day. One that should be enjoyed, outside, with his bride.

  The last seven days had been some of the most difficult of Zadok’s life. The entire camp was in mourning, with no one to comfort each other. The whole point of the Shiva was that the grieving parties could simply sit, and be taken care of, visited, comforted. But when everyone is bereaved, who comforts whom?

  Of necessity, the rules of the Shiva this time were a little different: people gathered their own manna as usual, since there was no one to bring meals to the mourners. There was little talking, since ordinarily only the bereaved could start a conversation. And since everyone was supposed to remain indoors, the camp was eerily quiet.

  Now that the first seven days were over, the rest of the Shloshim would be more relaxed. Conversation and going outside were now allowed, but no celebrations—no weddings, no music, no exuberant joy—until the thirty days were completed.

  Zadok sat back and reached for Arisha's hand. “Why don’t you come with me to see the sheep?” He’d been able to go outside a few times, since the lives of the animals depended on it. He and his men had taken turns checking them and milking them. Since Arisha was not the shepherd, she, like everyone else, had remained inside for the first seven days of mourning the death of the High Priest of Israel.

  Arisha had barely spoken, even to Zadok. He had to know she would recover from this latest loss. She needed to go outside, come with him.

  “Arisha?”

  She raised her gaze to him, blinking. “What?”

  “Why don’t you come with me to see the sheep?”

  “Why are we mourning for Aaron for thirty days, but we didn’t for Miriam?”

  And there it was. The real source of her pain. “I don’t know, habibti. Maybe because everyone had a chance to say goodbye to her before she died. Aaron’s death was a complete surprise. Or maybe because he was the high priest. I just don’t know.” He shrugged. “Maybe you should ask Moses.”

  She nodded as she rubbed the scar on her palm.

  He pulled her hand closer. “You never told me how you got that scar.”

  She winced.

  He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Tell me,” he whispered.

  “The first family I worked for … One night the mother wasn’t around when it was time to eat, so I tried to make the fire. I got it going but when I tried to put the pot on to boil the water, I dropped it and broke it. When I picked up the pieces I cut myself. It bled so much …”

  Zadok’s chest hurt. “I’m sorry.”

  “I got in trouble for breaking the pot.”

  “Wait—the first family?”

  She nodded.

  “You were a small child.” Why would so young child be expected to handle such tasks?

  She shrugged, as if she didn’t understand his dismay.

  His heart sank. “Why do you rub it when you’re upset?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Doesn’t it remind you of all the bad things that happened to you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  He reached for the pendant hanging around her neck. “Maybe, from now on, when you start to rub your scar, you should rub this instead, and remember how many people love you.”

  She smiled. A little.

  “I’m serious. You have to stop thinking about all the losses and pain and hurt, and remember the blessings Yahweh has given you now.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good. Now come outside with me. You’ve been in here too long.”

  “I just can’t yet. But I’ll gather and cook the morning’s manna for us.”

  Zadok didn’t want to leave her again today, but if she came out of the tent, at least it was a start.

  Danel paced in the stuffy room. A full bowl of stew sat next to an untouched loaf of bread and a bunch of plump, purple grapes on a wooden serving platter. He’d tried to eat. But he couldn’t force the food past his throat, no matter how good it tasted, and he could tell Ishat and Sisa had tried hard to see he received the best the kitchen had to offer.

  One moment he could be calm, rest in Yahweh’s provision, trust that He would ensure that Danel would soon be released. He knew his family would be safe, no one would be harmed. His breathing eased, his chest no longer ached, his muscles relaxed.

  Then without warning, thoughts crept into his mind unbidden. Images of torture, memories of Kamose’s striped back, which soon morphed into his own wounded body, and stole the air from his lungs. Scenes of his family languishing in prison, Aqhat and Banno and the other believers betr
ayed and brutalized, or worse … before he knew it his hands balled into fists, his shoulders hunched, and he could barely catch his breath.

  He wrestled his mind into submission and his body into calm, praying for peace. He tried to think about what he would be doing, should be doing, were he not trapped in this room. What items would be on his agenda for today? Anything to distract him from the disturbing possibilities that lay before him.

  What day was it? How many days had he been in here? Eight? No, nine. That meant the grape harvest festival would be almost over. Danel chuckled dryly. One good thing, the only good thing, about being locked in here—he was spared from witnessing yet again the most decadent of Arad’s festivals. Seven days of celebrating the grape harvest. Seven nights, too, thanks to a full moon. Dancing, wine, food, music, men, women—all the ingredients necessary for an abundance of debauchery. It was traditional for this one week that the girls ask the men to marry them, and for the marriages to take place at the next feast—in one month.

  Needless to say, most of them were not successful. At least he wasn’t out there this year, watching so many young men and women throwing their lives away. That was his first thought two full moons ago, when he saw Lukii, which led to his being in here … which could lead to much worse things … and soon he was breathing hard again, trying to calm himself.

  He shook out his hands and drew in long, slow breaths through his nose. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. If only he could shake the images from his mind as easily as he shook the tension from his fists.

  A rap sounded at the door, shaking him from his reverie. Who would knock? Danel halted in mid-stride, his heartbeat at a standstill as well. The door was locked from the outside. He couldn’t let anyone in if he wanted to. Were soldiers coming for him? Had Keret finally decided to send him down to that cell? Or worse? Was he never to see Yasha again?

  He stared at the enormous, solid cedar door. Metal scraped on metal as a key slipped into the lock and tumblers fell into place, one by one. The door creaked open.

  “Danel?” Aqhat’s deep voice reverberated through the room.

  Danel suppressed a moan as his heart started beating again and air filled his chest. “Aqhat? What are you doing here?”

  Aqhat’s grin lit up his face. “Nice to see you, too.”

  Danel lifted one shoulder. “Sorry. I thought you might be Keret’s guards.”

  “Not a chance. Not this week, anyway. Everyone is far too busy celebrating to be thinking about you.” His smile disappeared. “In fact, that’s why I’ve come.”

  One corner of his mouth tipped up. “You want to celebrate with me?”

  Aqhat winced. “I have some … unfortunate news.”

  “News? About whom?”

  Aqhat sucked in a breath before he answered. “Mika.”

  Mika. The name hit Danel like a kick in the belly. Aqhat would only risk a visit if he had something of great consequence to tell him. Danel squeezed his eyes shut a moment, a myriad of possibilities racing though his mind. “What?”

  “Demna asked Mika to marry her last night.”

  He stretched out an arm and leaned against the wall, his head drooping to his chest. “And he said …?”

  “He said yes.” Aqhat’s usually strong voice was nearly a whisper.

  Danel’s stomach lurched. Mika had succumbed, completely given in to the Canaanite worship of Baal. He was so in love with this girl he’d do anything she asked.

  He blinked back tears and stood tall. “Did you speak to him?”

  “Only for a moment, when he told me his news. He was looking for you.”

  Fear gripped Danel’s heart. “Did you tell him where I was?”

  “No. I wasn’t sure you wanted him to know.” He glanced at the floor. “And I wasn’t sure of what his reaction would be, either.”

  Danel nodded. Probably a good idea.

  “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need? Would you like me to bring Mika to see you?”

  Danel managed a quick shake of his head.

  Aqhat grasped his shoulder and slipped out of the room. “I’ll be back later.”

  Danel’s heart constricted, the pain as sharp as if the knife on Aqhat’s hip had sliced open his chest. He fell back against the wall, and sank to the floor, his head in his hands.

  Did he not want to see his grandson because he was one step removed from prison? Or because he had no idea what he would say to him? He couldn’t say. And he couldn’t face him. Not yet.

  He had lost Mika for good.

  The moon shone brightly over the seemingly unending rows of tents as Zadok neared the edge of camp. His muscles ached and he was exhausted. Micah had been hours late. His sister had a baby and Zadok had given him permission to stay until the babe arrived, which kept Zadok up until the early hours of morning.

  He glanced around as his fingers fumbled with the ties on the tent flaps. Still no one was outside, no men laughing around campfires. Only one week of mourning remained. He moved the flap aside as gently as possible, cringing at any noise. He let it fall back into place and tied the two pieces together again. Breathing out a heavy sigh, he pulled off his tunic and slipped off his sandals. He crept to the mat and knelt, then lay down next to Arisha. Slipping under the blanket, he draped his arm around her waist and tugged her close.

  She moaned and snuggled closer. "Mmm, I missed you," she mumbled.

  "I'm sorry. I had to…” Never mind. She wouldn’t hear him. Or care at this time of night. He kissed her forehead. "I love you."

  "I love you, too."

  Zadok's heart nearly stopped. Did she really just say that? He listened closely. Her breathing was regular and slow. Either she was asleep—or pretending to be. Either way, some part of her must have meant it.

  And maybe regretted it?

  The sun came up much too soon after his late night. He felt like he’d just fallen asleep. Giggles pushed their way into Zadok's mind. He tried to force them back out, but more followed. He opened his eyes and shut them again. It was far too bright—he must have overslept. Opening one eye, he sat up. The tent was empty. He breathed in burning wood and cooking manna. At least he hadn't missed the morning meal completely.

  He opened his other eye and reached for his tunic. As he slipped it over his head he heard Arisha's voice.

  "Finally awake, I see.” She laughed.

  "Why didn't you wake me?"

  "I tried. You must have needed the sleep.” She sat next to him and smoothed his hair with her fingers.

  I love you, too. Did she remember? "Did I wake you when I came in?"

  "I don't think so. I don't remember it, anyway. But it must have been late because I couldn't get you to wake up this morning even when I shook you." She giggled.

  "I'm awake now." He placed his hand behind her neck and drew her to him. He kissed her softly. “I love you."

  As she did every morning, she only smiled. "Come eat.”

  He nodded. She didn't seem at all uncomfortable when he said it, so it was likely she didn't remember saying it herself.

  But she had said it. And even if she didn't remember, he would never forget.

  Arisha cut up the dates into small pieces and stirred them into the hot manna, then poured it into a covered pot. She wrapped the pot in several layers of cloth and carefully placed it into a pouch along with a skin of milk, two cups, and two bowls, then slung the bag over her chest.

  She hadn’t visited Zadok in his new pasture since they had made camp at Mt Hor. The first week she wasn’t allowed to leave the tent, but they were three Sabbaths into the mourning period and she hadn’t gone with him yet. He’d asked her to once, but she couldn’t bring herself to go anywhere near that dreadful summit, the place that had taken Aaron from her. From Israel.

  Today she would surprise him. She would do it.

  Arisha straightened her shoulders and headed northeast. It wasn’t a long walk. They were camped within a stone’s throw of the base of the mounta
in. But the thought of it was still daunting. She tried to picture the beautiful faces of the sheep she had come to love as much as Zadok did. Especially old Leah. And the adorable lambs.

  “May I join you?”

  She started at the voice beside her. Moses. She wasn’t sure what to say. But since he started the conversation… “Sure.”

  “And how are you, daughter?”

  Daughter. Aaron always called her that. She blinked back hot tears as she cast a sideways glance at Moses. His cloak was ripped at the neck—he must have torn it in his grief.

  “I hear you’ve had an especially tough time these last weeks.”

  She nodded.

  “I miss him, too. And Miriam.”

  And Miriam. He had lost both siblings in less than half a year. The pain he must be feeling! She had been so selfish, thinking no one could understand the losses she had been dealt. She stopped short, turned to him. “I’m so sorry. You must miss them even more than I do.” She wiped away a tear. “I’ve been only thinking of myself, and I never thought about you, or … or Eleazar. How is he? He’s not allowed to mourn, is he? As high priest?”

  “He’s doing better. I’m actually surprised at how well he is doing. He and Aaron said their goodbyes up there.” He turned his face to the summit, silent for several moments. “Aaron was so proud, and grateful, to see his son dressed in the High Priest’s robes before he died. And Eleazar did look beautiful in them. Still does. Reminds me of Aaron forty years ago. He has his mother’s eyes, but the rest of him is all Aaron.” He turned his gaze back to Arisha and began moving again.

  “The night before we broke camp, Zadok told me something.”

  Moses nodded. “He can be very wise. What did he say?”

  “I was distraught over leaving Kadesh. He told me I should think of home not as a place, but as people. Like him, my new family.”

  Moses was silent.

  “Do you think he’s right?”

  “I think he’s right that home cannot be a place. I lived in the palace for forty years, in the most beautiful house on earth. But it never felt like home. And then I lived in the desert as a shepherd, always moving with my flock. I felt more at home there than I ever did in Egypt. Zadok had the right idea, but you need to go one step further.”