Jonadab grunted. “The choice is their affair.”
“No, Jonadab. It is my affair, too. Israel is my affair.” Elijah picked up his mantle and stood face to face with his friend. He stared imploringly at the tribal leader for a moment, then said softly, “Good-bye, Jonadab.”
“Wait, Elijah.” He spoke softly, pleading. “Elijah, you can teach us the ways of Yahweh. When you joined our camp my father was convinced that Yahweh had sent you. He taught you to read the Law and to think the ways of Yahweh in a manner I never could learn. You had insights. Yahweh speaks to you. We need you.” Jonadab placed a hand lightly on Elijah’s shoulder. “Stay with us, my friend.”
Elijah’s muscles grew tense under the feel of Jonadab’s hand. He spoke nervously, as though the words brought pain. “You truly have been a friend, Jonadab, and your father more than a teacher.” He paused. “I have learned much from Rechab, but Yahweh has spoken to me also. My heart has stirred for a long time for a duty I should someday perform. Who can say what the outcome of my life will be? All I know is that I must go.”
Elijah tenderly grasped the arms of his friend, squeezed them tightly, and without another word walked away.
At the top of the crest overlooking the circle of tents, Elijah looked back. Jonadab had gone to his tent. The dawn was new and a mist rose from the sparse pastureland to meet it. Through the haze Elijah watched the animals. Camels, Sheep, and cattle mingled together around the mass of black, square-rigged tents. Black sheep and dirty white ones, all with huge, fat tails, grazed contentedly in small groups. He hated to leave the traveling sanctuary. The Rechabites lived austere but happy lives, hidden from the world halfway between the Dead Sea on the west and the Great Desert on the east—the first hidden from their camp by a high rocky mountain ridge that once had known the trudging footsteps of the great Exodus, the latter by low, rolling plains.
The procession wound through the narrow streets of Aphek. Hundreds of villagers filed past Obadiah, following the woman. She carried a dummy dressed in women’s clothes and ornamented heavily with jewelry. Her chant told Obadiah what he had come to find out. The villagers did not know where Elijah was in hiding. The people chanted with the woman leader in monotonous tones:
O Mother of the Rain, O Immortal, moisten our sleeping seeds.
Moisten the sleeping seeds of Asherah, who is ever generous.
She is gone, the Mother of the Rain, to bring the storm.
When she comes back, the crops are as high as the walls.
She is gone, the Mother of the Rain, to bring the winds.
When she comes back, the vines have attained the height of houses.
She is gone, the Mother of the Rain, to bring the thunders.
When she comes back, the crops are as high as camels.
Obadiah watched the procession without dismounting. When the last of the throng passed by he remained unmoving until the chants could be heard only dimly from other streets out of sight.
He had seen the people resort to superstition often since Elijah pronounced Yahweh’s curse. In the drought people grasped at every childhood story and every dim belief that promised relief. The people of Aphek were desperate. Their River Kanah was only a trickling stream now, and one day soon it would be dry.
He had seen other villagers try to placate Asherah and beg her mercy. In their desperation they combined their old and tenacious beliefs in local baals with their new awareness of the Great Baals, Melkart, and Asherah.
In Socoh, near Samaria and toward the Great Sea, naked women pulled plows in the parched earth, believing their nakedness would entice the Goddess of Fertility to send rain. The villagers of Jokmeam, toward the Jordan, had sent all the virgins of the village into the seeded fields at dawn for the ritual of water pouring. The virgins poured water over their naked, fertile bodies in hope that the water would carry their fertility to the soil, to prime the soil to bring forth its yield again—in hopes, too, that Asherah would understand their need for rain. The people of Hazor recalled an old belief that if the bodies of lepers were not burned the rain god would be angry, so they dug up the bones from every leper’s grave they knew of and burned the remains, amid screams and chants for Asherah’s mercy.
Throughout the farmlands of Israel, Obadiah had seen bits of dried dung hanging from the branches of carob trees, in the belief that any slight breeze would move the dung to call their needs to the attention of the gods of the wind and rain. Occasionally he had seen a frog or large black beetle hanging from a limb, put there by farmers in the belief that the struggles of the animal or insect would create a tiny stir of breeze to remind Asherah that she forgot to send the rain by the wings of the wind.
In a low, tired voice the governor told the captain to turn the contingent of troops and begin their return journey.
They left the village gates and started moving up the sloping hills toward the east. Obadiah rode at the head of the column with the captain, but the captain left him to his thoughts.
The captain was a Melkart man, but he was puzzled that Elijah, in the name of a god so much weaker than Baal, could control the rain this long. Why had not Jezebel’s priests and prophets been able to bring rain? There were so many of them to counteract the curse of the prophet. But the captain’s nagging doubts would not divert him from Melkart. Had not Melkart conquered more nations than Yahweh? Had not even the king of Syria acknowledged Melkart as his God?
Obadiah was troubled at the superstitions of the people, but he was even more concerned about how the famine attacked their morality. Many of them openly engaged in orgies in their fields and in sacred groves of trees, hoping to bring fertility back to the land by paying such homage to Asherah, hoping that the act of procreation in their own fields would entice new growth from the barren land. He could not but believe that the religious significance became an excuse for further indulgence, desperation forgotten momentarily in passion.
Upon his arrival in Samaria Obadiah informed Ahab of the village scene.
“And you deduce from the procession that the villagers do not know where Elijah hides?”
“If they were faithful enough to Elijah to hide or protect him, they would not perform an ancient rain goddess ritual. Indeed, they would be your ally in seeking Elijah.”
“Yes, of course.” Ahab sat thoughtfully, his hands clasped in his lap. He did not beckon Obadiah to sit, and the governor stood patiently. Finally, the king spoke. “According to your reports, Obadiah, you had had Israel searched thoroughly for the hairy one. Where have you not looked?”
“Searchers have been in every village, town, and city in Israel, and the countryside has been searched. I have sent cadres into the Bedouin areas across the Jordan, but there are wildernesses that are impossible to search, though reports satisfy me that the captains made extensive effort. Tribesmen and villagers alike know of the search and they, too, pray for an end to the drought, but no information has come from any of them.”
“Perhaps he is not in Israel.”
“That is possible.”
“Draw up papers to be sent to the kings of Sidon, Moab, Syria, Edom, Midian, Ammon, Judah, and the leaders of the Philistines. Solicit the aid of each king to find Elijah. They know the drought, too, and will be anxious to help. Elijah especially must have many friends in Judah. Give special attention to the draft to King Jehoshaphat. Send the papers by teams of runners. Tend to the matter immediately.”
“Yes, King Ahab. I shall do it promptly.”
As Obadiah left the throne room for his own quarters he had the feeling that he was only going through the motions, his body functioning apart from his mind. The search effort was wasted, he was certain, on a prophet so obviously protected by Yahweh, but Ahab must not develop doubts about his governor. The prophets hidden in the limestone caves below the city had not been found, and they must be kept safe against that day when Elijah might be successful, and Yahweh again become the God of his people.
Miriam heard the door and watched Rejab ent
er. Neither greeted the other. Rejab sank his heavy weight onto a stool and leaned tiredly against the wall. She walked to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, looking down at him with eyes that wanted to ask but feared the answer. Slowly, he raised an arm across his chest and covered her hand in his. Still he did not look up.
“Rejab.”
His eyes grew red at the edges, eyes she could not see as his head drooped, but she saw the slight hollow form beneath the flesh of his cheek and the gristle of his jaw tighten hard as he clenched his teeth.
“Rejab, I’m your wife.” She spoke evenly, without tremor. As he was strong beyond the walls of his home, she must be strong within them now, in his despair.
“Elijah . . .” Rejab felt his voice try to break, and he paused. When he continued, he threw out the words all together, impulsively. “Elijah is pretty effective, isn’t he?” His laugh caught in his throat and broke. The tears came from deep inside him, below his lungs, as the spasm of grief shook his shoulders. Miriam grasped his head and pulled him to her bosom. She ran one hand through his hair, above the ear, saying nothing. He pulled her to him and pressed his head into her stout body.
The spasm lasted but a moment. Slowly, he pulled her hands into his and stood. He was only a bit taller than she, and she tilted her head slightly to meet his eyes. She studied them quickly, expertly, measuring the depth and duration of his despair, to plumb before the moment of honesty passed the strength still left in this man who had protected and provided for her for so long. She caught a glimpse of the fight still left in him, but she caught, too, a fleeting shadow deep in his eyes she never had seen before. Then the moment of openness passed, and the mask slipped back into place.
Miriam pushed her face into Rejab’s breast, trying to quiet the fear that was throwing off its bedclothes deep inside her.
Rejab placed his arm around her and silently walked her to the two wide, well-cushioned stools they had sat in together through years of evenings. He propped other cushions against the wall, and they both sank into their places. They looked at each other. Their lips met, as though a thousand signals built over the years announced the time to kiss. The kiss was not passionate or lingering, but the brief moment of touching released forces from one to the other, as though courage and hope were physical.
Miriam looked at him and touched his smooth cheek. “Rejab,” she said softly. “I want to know.”
Rejab clasped his hands across his large belly. He watched his hands as though he had not studied them for a long time, and turned them up to stare at his flesh-puffed knuckles, then over to gaze at his soft palms.
“Rejab.”
“Yes, Miriam, all right.” He stared at her for a moment. “Miriam, the elders ruled against me.”
The woman heard the words, but her mind would not accept them. For generations the venerated elders of Bethshean, as at villages and town and cities all over Israel, had sat in their special places at the main gate to the city to judge cases of dispute. Wise men they were, and honored among all the people. “And the reprover,” she asked slowly, “did you appeal to him?”
“Yes. He heard the evidence and sided with me. He called for an investigation. But the elders did not so much as look at him. I saw him shake his head in despair.”
“Rejab,” she asked carefully, “what does it mean?”
He glanced at her, then fixed his eyes on his hands again. How could he explain to his wife the world he occupied outside their home? The competition, the buying and selling of foodstuffs, the weights and measures, the tricks of bargaining she knew. But the aggressive viciousness of recent months, how could he explain that?
“Miriam,” he began, fumbling for an explanation he never had put into words before, “Miriam, there is a new spirit among the wealthy. You remember Jaala?”
She nodded, and Rejab saw a muscle twitch in her eye.
“Jaala has given himself and his family to Akkub.” He spoke with somber finality.
“But they will be slaves only for a few months,” Miriam responded. “Then comes the fiftieth year, the Jubilee Year. Then they will be free again, and free of debt. Is that so bad?”
Rejab did not look at her.
“Rejab,” Miriam pressed, “why does Jaala’s bad luck concern you so? The law is clear. His decision may prove to be wise in the long run.”
“Akkub and his merchant friends do not observe the spirit of the old laws of freeing slaves.”
“But the elders . . .” She stared at Rejab, her mouth still open, her eyes wide, and she remembered the unfamiliar shadow she had seen earlier in his eyes.
“Yes,” Rejab said bitterly, “the elders.” But he could not let the conversation end there, to leave his wife with the horror of her shocked imagination. He took her hand. “Miriam, the drought is making people more vicious. They are fighting for their lives, the wealthy and the poor alike. But Elijah is right. The new spirit that has swept the merchants is the work of Baal.” He shook his head, arguing with himself. “Who can explain why men act as they do? Is it because they follow another god or because they simply forget Yahweh? Who can know? Perhaps both. Perhaps men are born to evil. Perhaps they are cruel by nature, or perhaps they simply do not see the hurt they cause. Perhaps Akkub and his friends do not know that their reasonings are the reasonings of Melkart, that God of Power.”
Miriam spoke flatly. “Does it matter? That they know or don’t know the source of their evil, does it matter?”
“It matters that Elijah knows. Miriam, there had to be an empty place for Baal to enter to make his home. Who knows when the emptiness started? Perhaps fathers taught our rituals but not their meanings. Perhaps grandfathers taught evil without knowing it.” He paused and looked at Miriam. “Sometimes I think there should be no rituals. Men should know when their faith is dead. They should know. Sometimes I think there should be no motions that make men think they have faith. Perhaps that would be better.”
Miriam answered evenly. “But the rituals teach faith. They teach of Yahweh.”
Rejab looked away and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Rejab. That is another subject. I want to know about the elders’ ruling.”
“They say I have no proof. It is my word against Akkub’s.”
“But you are not the first one to complain that Akkub uses heavy shekels to weight his purchases.”
“No, others have complained, but the elders say that every case must be considered on its own.”
“Rejab.” The tone of Miriam’s voice made Rejab turn to his wife. “The wives have said things, Rejab. I don’t know if they are true.”
“Things?”
“Leah works in Pashur’s house. She overheard Pashur tell his wife that he gives gifts to the elders.”
“Yes, I suppose many of us have suspected it. Pashur and Akkub are only two of those who do such things.” Rejab stood and walked to the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back. He stood erect, his eyes straight ahead. “Miriam, I should have been more careful. A merchant, even a small one, should know of such practices. I had heard of it in Damascus and other places, but in Israel? I did not expect it in Israel.”
“You should be able to trust your countrymen.” Miriam spoke in the tone of confidence, naively, edged with a touch of a wife’s bitterness at her husband’s misfortune.
“A man is a fool to trust and a coward not to,” Rejab answered softly. He laughed, a grating, short laugh from the top of his throat. “Some choice, Miriam. To be a fool or a coward.”
For a moment, silence enveloped both of them. It momentarily built a cage around them, and neither husband nor wife spoke. Rejab stood still, his eyes straight ahead, studying the swirls and lines in the plaster that covered the rock wall of their home. Miriam sat where she was, her hands playing with the folds in her dress. She studied the threads, some of them coarse, others fine. She made creases with her fingers. Finally, when she spoke, her words broke the cage and it shriveled away. “Rejab, what now?”
“What do you mean? What decision?”
He looked at Miriam now, and a chill ran down the wife’s spine when she saw again the shadow behind his eyes. “Miriam, the loss hurt badly. I have little left with which to buy produce from the farmers. I must borrow money.”
“You have borrowed before, many times.”
“But now I am afraid. I never was afraid before.” Rejab returned to the stool and slumped onto it. Miriam reached to place a hand on his arm.
“Why are you afraid? The interest rates?”
“The interest rates are usurious. They make it hard to make a profit. But that I can cope with. It is impersonal, a fact to deal with. No, I’m angry because of the interest rates, but I don’t fear them. It is the future I fear. I fear the direction business practice is going. I fear what I am too little to change.”
Miriam squeezed Rejab’s arm more tightly, but remained silent.
Rejab continued. “I cannot sell at a profit for the price Akkub and Pashur and others like them will offer for my produce. Either I must cheat the farmers by weighing with heavy shekels, as Akkub did to me, or by mixing bad barley with good to sell—and then I run the danger of being caught.”
Miriam spoke sharply. “Rejab, you wouldn’t do business like that!”
“That is the decision I must make.”
“Then there is no decision. Would you follow Melkart or Yahweh? Right is right, and wrong is wrong.”
He answered her indignation bitterly. “And bankruptcy is unpleasant.”
“God will provide.” The shadow behind Rejab’s eyes moved again. Miriam gripped his forearm with both hands. “Rejab, we must have faith. Yahweh will provide.”
Elijah Page 10