This Scarlet Cord

by Joan Wolf

  Sala looked up at the beautiful, mysterious sky and prayed with everything in him that Rahab would be saved from this unclean act, saved for herself, and saved so she could know the One True God, Elohim, the God of Israel.

  Alone in her room at Asherah’s Shrine, Rahab’s thoughts were on Elohim as well. The priestesses had explained to her what would happen at the festival and how she must conduct herself. As she listened, everything in her mind and heart and body had recoiled from the picture they were painting. She did not feel like an empowered goddess; she felt like a sacrifice. She wanted to fight. She wanted to scream at these white-clad priestesses that they were wrong, that there was no holiness in what they were doing, but the thought of her family and their vulnerability held her back. The priestesses believed in this ritual. That was the difference between them and her. They believed and she did not.

  Rahab arose from the carved wooden bedstead she had been given for the night and walked over to the wooden statue of Asherah that was the room’s only decoration. As was usual with statues of Asherah, she was nude, with her hands tucked under her breasts. Instead of a torso and legs, her lower body consisted of a straight cylindrical column decorated with snakes, symbolic of the goddess’s power of renewal.

  All of Rahab’s life she had revered and prayed to Asherah. The statue she was looking at now was the same as dozens of other statues of the goddess that Rahab had seen. She shut her eyes and felt with her mind for some connection to the goddess she had grown up with.

  There was nothing.

  “I am not going to become you tonight,” she said out loud. “I am going to be me, and whatever the king does with me is not going to cause the grain to grow or the beasts to bear.”

  The empty eyes of the statue looked straight ahead, not seeing Rahab at all. The girl took one step back and then another. She had nothing in common with this blind wooden replica. It was not Asherah; it was just something that had been carved by men.

  Rahab shivered in her thin white gown and wrapped her arms around herself to stop shaking. Once again she thought of Sala’s God, Elohim. There were no statues of Elohim because His greatness could not be captured in wood or stone. He did not even have a name. He was the Creator. Did that mean He had created her? If He had, if He had really created her, then wouldn’t that mean He cared about her?

  She didn’t know. All she knew was that she was in the worst trouble of her life and she didn’t know where to go or what to do. Sala had said his God had done miracles for his people. He had sent plagues on the Egyptians so the Israelites would be freed from slavery. He had parted the waters of the sea so that they could escape from the pursuing Egyptian army. He had fed the Israelites in the desert. Surely, if this God could do all of these things, He could save her from the sacred marriage.

  Rahab shut her eyes and whispered to Elohim that she would become His faithful follower and do whatever He asked of her, if only He would send a miracle to save her from the king.

  Prince Tamur was furious when he learned about his father’s ploy to get rid of Arsay. He, his friend Farut, and Arsay’s brother Bari met in the prince’s apartment in the palace early that evening to discuss what they might do to rescue their plan.

  “It’s too late. The news is all over Jericho,” Farut said grimly. “Makamaron had messengers go to every gathering spot in the city. No one is talking about anything else and everyone is agog to see this Rahab who has taken Arsay’s place.”

  Bari said, “I have tried to speak to Arsay, but she is being kept somewhere here in the palace. I know she is not at Asherah’s Shrine; the new hierodule is there, being instructed on how to behave in my sister’s place.”

  The prince cursed loudly and jumped to his feet. The two other men watched him as he prowled restlessly around the luxurious room like a giant cat, his stride long, his feet quiet on the carpet. Finally he swung around to look at them, his dark eyes flashing with barely contained fury.

  “We had it planned perfectly. At the banquet the morning after the ritual, all Arsay had to do was stand up and announce that the king had been unable to consummate the marriage. It would have been the ideal moment for me to step in and demand that he come down from his throne so that I may take his place. An impotent king is not fit to rule. Everyone understands that.”

  Farut said, “Makamaron has outmaneuvered us.”

  “We can still protest that this sacred marriage is not lawful,” Bari argued. “No one has ever heard of this girl. She is not noble—someone told me she was the daughter of a shepherd! The spirit of Asherah will not enter into the body of such a low-born creature. We have every reason in the world to call this supposed sacred marriage a sham.”

  Farut took a long drink of the wine in his cup before he turned to his friend. “Have you seen the girl, Bari?”

  “No. I hear she is beautiful, but so is Arsay.” The young man slammed his hand down on a table in his rage. “Jericho is filled with beautiful women who are not the daughters of a shepherd! Why did this happen?”

  “Her father is not a shepherd,” Farut said. “He owns large vineyards near the village of Ugaru. It’s true he is not noble, but he is a man of some substance.”

  “He’s still just a farmer,” Bari protested. “My sister comes from one of the noblest families in Jericho. And I’m quite sure she is just as beautiful as this shep—farmer’s daughter the king has chosen.”

  The prince said, “You are the one who saw her up close, Farut. How do you answer Bari?”

  Farut smiled wryly. “Her beauty is not in question. The king chose her because he knew he could not trust Arsay. Is there any possibility of us getting to her so we can convince her to denounce the king at the banquet?”

  The prince shook his head. “No. My father will have her tightly guarded at the shrine. We won’t be able to get near her.”

  Farut put his wine cup down on the table. “Then we must hope Makamaron does indeed fail and that this new hierodule will say something.” His lips curled cynically. “Perhaps her farmer father has brought her up to tell the truth.”

  It was the prince’s turn to slam his hand down on the precious inlaid table next to him, causing his wine cup to tip and the remaining wine to drip onto the luxurious rug on the floor.

  “We were so close!” Tamur said furiously. “So very close!”

  “Do not give up, my prince,” Farut said, getting up and walking toward the door. “Things may still resolve themselves in our favor.” He opened the door and called for a servant to come mop up the wine.

  The three young men sat in silence while this chore was performed. After the door had closed behind the servant, Farut said to the prince, “Soon the Israelites will be coming against us. Many misfortunes may happen to the king if Jericho becomes a city under siege.”

  Prince Tamur nodded slowly. “That is so, Farut. For certain, I will be better able to direct the defense against the Israelites than that old man will.”

  “A true word,” Bari said.

  Farut said, “Larger numbers of people are starting to come into the city from the surrounding villages. I’ve been told that many of the people who came in for the festival are planning to remain until after the Israelite threat is gone. We are now facing overcrowding and everything it entails, and Makamaron has done nothing to prepare for it.”

  “He must be disposed of,” Tamur said forcefully. “The welfare of Jericho depends upon it.”

  His two friends agreed, and they poured more wine into their cups.

  Nineteen

  THE DAY OF THE NEW YEAR FESTIVAL DAWNED AS bright and hot as if it were already high summer. The king had sent guards to escort Mepu and his family into the temple courtyard, where the great altar of Baal stood before the steps that led up to the sanctuary. The courtyard was packed with most of the aristocracy of Jericho, and it was so hot and airless that Atene felt as if she might faint. Of all the family, she was the only one who was not jubilant about Rahab’s honored place in the coming ceremonies
.

  “Look at all these people,” Shemu said to her in a low voice. “To think it is my little sister who is to be the goddess on such a day as this.”

  Atene glanced up into her husband’s face. There was nothing she could say. Everything in his upbringing told him this was a great honor for Rahab. Everything in Atene’s upbringing told her that too. But since she and Rahab had prayed to Elohim, Atene had begun to wonder. The idea of one god being in charge of all the world . . . Atene liked that idea. Somewhere deep inside herself she thought it made sense.

  The city streets outside the walls of the temple were jammed with people by the time the door to the temple sanctuary opened and Makamaron made his appearance. This yearly festival was the most important religious and political occasion for Jericho’s king. This was the day when he was reinvested with his authority as the representative of Baal on earth. This was the day that he reasserted his kingship.

  Makamaron proceeded with slow dignity to the high-backed, carved wooden chair that was set before the temple doors at the top of the stairs. His tunic had been dyed with the precious purple that came from Tyre and was only worn by kings. A circle of gold sat upon his bald head, and the wide bracelets on his arms and the rings on his fingers glittered gold in the hot sun.

  “He doesn’t look well,” Atene murmured to Shemu. “His face is gray.”

  Shemu said, “Well, he’s not young anymore. He’s been king here for twenty years.”

  Poor Rahab, Atene thought. The glory of the king’s clothing could not disguise his age or his unhealthy bulkiness to Atene, and she shuddered at the thought of having to lie with so repulsive a man. She reached out to grasp Shemu’s hand. He looked at her in surprise, then smiled and closed his fingers around hers.

  Atene watched with the rest of the crowd as a magnificent bull was led into the courtyard. The animal walked quietly and Atene thought it must have been given some kind of herb to make it so docile.

  The bull only roared once when the high priest brought the ax down on its neck. Then it slumped down on the altar, twitched once or twice, and was quiet. Atene felt sick as she watched the sacrifice. She had seen animal sacrifices before, as they were a part of the village rites of Baal and Asherah, but the blood from this large animal seemed torrential. She closed her eyes so she didn’t see the high priest fill a cup with the blood of the sacrifice and climb the stairs to the king’s chair to anoint Makamaron on the forehead with the mark of Baal’s thunderbolt.

  Once the sacrifice and anointing were finished, the part of the festival the crowds most enjoyed began. For several hours the high priest stood on a platform that was raised higher than the temple walls so the people gathered in the city streets could see and hear him. From this perch he recited the extensive collection of holy stories that told about Baal and the various other gods who made up the Canaanite religion.

  Other platforms had been set up in different places outside the walls, and lesser priests recited the stories to those who were not close enough to the temple to hear. As the stories progressed, the adventures being described were enacted by mimes to the delight of the populace. The people threw themselves into the stories, weeping and lamenting when Baal was hurt or defeated, and shouting and rejoicing at his victories.

  Sala and his father were in the crowd watching these proceedings along with the believers. Lord Nahshon had not wanted to come, feeling that to do so would make him unclean, but Sala had threatened to go alone, so his father had reluctantly accompanied him. The two of them listened to the priest nearest to them with a mixture of incredulity and horror. How could these people believe that the wonders of this earth had come into being because of these brainless, power-hungry gods they had created out of their own imaginations?

  The first story the high priest recited had been about Baal and his conflict with Yam, the god of the seas and rivers. After Baal’s victory over Yam, there came the long story of the building of Baal’s palace in the mountains. Then the priest went on to tell about Baal’s summons to Mot, the god of death. When Mot refused to come to Baal’s palace, Baal went searching for him. All of the other gods took sides and there was extensive fighting among them until Mot apparently devoured Baal and killed him.

  This particular part of the story called for shrieks of mourning from the women in the crowds and much beating of the breast from the men. The crowd surrounding Nahshon and Sala quieted a little when they heard of how Asherah, who was both Baal’s wife and his sister, went searching for Mot and killed him with a sword.

  This provoked many cheers for the redoubtable Asherah and snarls for the hated Mot. Then, to the crowd’s delight, Asherah learned from the sun goddess, Shapash, that Baal was not dead. The goddess sought out her brother and her mate and finally found him, still alive.

  This evoked huge rejoicing among the crowd. The priest had to wait a long time until the noise died down before he could finish his tale. It ended with the happy news that Asherah and Baal then retired together to his mountain so he could take his rightful seat upon his throne.

  When the storytelling was over, the crowd was in a highly emotional state. There was shouting and laughing and dancing, much of it fueled by the wine that had been going around.

  Sala had not been prepared for this kind of display. Among his people, worship was serious. The Israelite religion was concerned with the behavior of Elohim’s people, about following the laws of the Creator, about being upright and just and open to the word of God. This display . . . this was outrageous. Disgusting. Offensive in every way to Elohim, who had commanded that Joshua crush these polluted worshippers under his feet like the dirt that they were.

  And Rahab. His beautiful, brave Rahab was trapped in the net of this filthy ritual. It made Sala sick to his soul to think about it.

  Save her, Elohim. I beg this of You. Save Rahab from this degradation. She has turned to You for help. Save her, Elohim . . .

  A sudden roar came from the crowd, distracting Sala from his prayer. He heard someone cry, “The hierodule is coming!”

  Sala’s stomach turned over. They were parading her in front of this drunken crowd. How could this be happening? How had things come to this?

  But it was happening. They were bringing Rahab from Asherah’s Shrine to the Temple of Baal for the culmination of the festival, the sacred marriage. The noise of the crowd had grown so great that it was impossible for Sala to hear what his father was saying to him. He saw the king’s guards using their spears to push back the crowd to make a pathway for the raised chair carrying the hierodule.

  Sala and Nahshon were shoved back with the crowd, but Sala was tall enough to see over the heads of those before him. He looked at the opened path and wondered if he could bear to watch this. It would tear his heart out. But even if he wanted to, he could not move, he was so hemmed in by the mass of people around him.

  Then he saw it, moving at a measured pace along the path cleared by the guards. Sala could not look away. The chair was anchored to two long poles and four priests were carrying the poles on their shoulders. And sitting in the chair was Rahab. The hierodule.

  She did not see him as she passed by. She sat straight-backed in the painted cedar chair, her great brown eyes staring straight ahead. Her glorious black hair was loose and flowing over her shoulders and down her back. The pure white tunic she wore brought out the warmth of her skin and the heavy gold necklace, the slender delicacy of her neck. The lineaments of her face were utterly without expression. She actually looked like a goddess, so remote did the shouting people appear to her in her aloof and transcendent beauty.

  Such fury filled Sala that he thought he would explode with it. “They can’t do this to her!” he shouted to his father. “I won’t let them do this!” He shoved the man in front of him hard, trying to get past, and kicked the next one in the legs in a frantic effort to reach Rahab.

  “Sala!” Nahshon caught the edge of his son’s tunic to haul him back, but Sala pulled away. He was so filled with rage that
the air in front of him looked stained with red. He wanted to pummel, to smash, to destroy, to kill; he wanted to murder every person in the world who had done this to Rahab.

  Several men came to the aid of Sala’s victims and he went after them as well. He fought like a demon, but he was only one man and they managed to hold him long enough for a guard to reach them. When Sala tried to kick the guard, the king’s man used his spear to administer a blow to the head and Sala went down.

  By now Rahab’s chair had passed and the attention of the crowd turned to the maniac who had begun the fight. Sala was sprawled on the ground, unconscious, with blood running from the wound the spear had opened. Nahshon knelt beside him and, when he saw that his son was still breathing, tears of relief and thanksgiving filled his eyes.

  “What was the matter with him?” the guard growled. “Too much to drink?”

  “Yes.” Lord Nahshon leaped at the excuse. He stood up to address the guard. “I apologize that my son put you to so much trouble. If you will allow it, I will take him home and sober him up. He is not usually so aggressive, but . . .”

  The guard nodded and looked for a long moment at Sala’s recumbent figure. Lying still on the ground, the slender young man looked completely harmless. It was hard to believe he had caused so much damage.

  “Don’t let him out of the house until tomorrow,” the guard warned Nahshon. “If he makes any more trouble, he’ll be for the prison.”

  “I will take care of him, I promise,” Lord Nahshon said. “Thank you.”

  The guard moved away and Lord Nahshon once more knelt beside Sala. He felt his son’s heart, which was beating normally. But the wound on his head was still bleeding. Lord Nahshon looked up, almost frantic with worry. How was he to get Sala away from here?