by Cliff Graham
“Uncle, we can be done. There is nothing more for it today. You need your rest.”
Caleb shook his head. “You must be wondering when Moses will come into my story.”
Othniel said nothing. It was precisely what he had been wondering, but he did not wish to appear overly eager.
Caleb stared ahead now, his eyes vacant. “What do you remember of Moses?”
“Not much, Uncle. Vague glimpses in my mind’s eye of him. I remember his beard and how white it was. White like the ice on a northern lake.”
Caleb chuckled. “You are the poet, aren’t you?”
“I do not presume.”
“You are too modest. Moses was that way as well. Never thought he could weave his words to move men.”
“You can do the same, Uncle.”
“Not like him. Although he did not say much when I first saw him.”
Othniel waited patiently. It was true that he only knew Moses from a distance, glimpses of the white beard as he stood before the assembly, his rich voice resonating across the rocks and bramble of the wilderness. Born of the generation that came after the departure from Egypt, Othniel knew he was a different breed than that of his parents—a fickle, heartless, spineless puddle of humanity that saw the wonders of Yahweh with their own eyes and yet turned from them.
“Let’s go for a walk along the perimeter.”
“Uncle, we checked the perimeter a couple of hours ago. The officers have it in hand.”
“We shall check the perimeter anyway. There should never be an hour of your life where you are not checking your perimeters.”
“Will you always speak in riddles and lessons?”
“Yes.”
Leaving the tent, Othniel fell in behind Caleb as he made his way through the thicket. A path had finally been worn down from soldiers walking from one location in the camp to another, and Othniel was grateful that Caleb was not going to have to force his legs through the undergrowth. The old man did not cry out in pain, but his face was a constant grimace whenever he had to walk through thickets. The motion of it was brutal to his knees.
Caleb scowled as they passed troops moving along the same path as them. In the light of day, his men could easily tell that it was him. He was the only one in the army with a walking stick. They gave him a wide berth. One soldier pitched himself off the path into the bushes when he caught Caleb’s eye. It made Othniel think of something the training masters always shouted on the drilling fields. “Generals should not know your name for any reason other than your being a hero. If they know you from anything else, go ahead and throw yourself at the enemy and pray he kills you before the general does.”
Ahead was the clearing with the cooking tents. The wood being soaking wet, the smoke was thick and billowing through the forest, creating a heavy fog. The smell of roasting meat made Othniel’s stomach tighten.
“I am hungry,” Caleb said, and Othniel could have rejoiced. Caleb turned aside from the path and strode into the nearest cook tent. Women made the meals for the army, and they bowed low to the ground as he approached.
“Who is your husband?” he asked an older woman.
“I am the widow of Shamez the Miridite, my lord.”
“I knew him. A good man. You are cared for?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“What is the best thing that you make?”
“Fig cakes, my lord. They are the best in the land.”
“I desire for you to prove that to me.”
Caleb sat down and crossed his legs with effort. Othniel sat beside him while the old widow frantically summoned her maids to help her prepare the cakes.
“I do so love a fig cake,” Caleb said with a sigh.
“You were going to tell me about Moses, Uncle.”
Caleb scowled. “You have worn me out already, boy. I will get to Moses in my time.”
It was not long before the rumor that the great general was in this part of the camp spread around the mountainside, and already the line was beginning to form outside of the tent. Commanders were coming for instructions, bringing him disputes to resolve, punishments to hand out, scouting reports, the overwhelming problems that faced any army of this size, especially one caught in the highlands of an unknown land during a storm that would be written about for decades to come.
A few voices called out for Caleb, and the old man shook his head. “Tell them I will do absolutely nothing until I have eaten the best fig cakes in the land. Tell them to remove their mouths from their mothers’ breasts and use them to order their men to their proper courses. I will not be around forever to be their handmaiden.”
“You wish for me to tell them exactly that, Uncle?” Othniel asked, suppressing his grin.
“Exactly that.”
Othniel walked over and poked his head out of the tent. He blinked against the rain and made out over a dozen figures huddled under their cloaks. “The general said to remove your mouths from your mothers’ breasts and use them to give orders to your men instead. Solve your problems on your own. He will not be around forever to be your handmaiden.”
From inside the tent, Caleb said, “Never mind. Tell them I will live forever and bury all of them and their sons.”
Othniel had to smile at this. So the old man had heard the rumors in the camp that he had struck a deal with Yahweh to live forever to torment his soldiers. This generation had never seen a truly old man, one who had reached his ninth decade, apart from Moses, Joshua, and Caleb. Moses had gone on to Yahweh in glory. Joshua still presided over their lands. Caleb still attacked walled cities. Every single one of their parents and grandparents had perished in the wilderness. It was not unreasonable for them to believe that Caleb might live forever.
Othniel relayed the message, and the men walked away grumbling.
Caleb’s voice, sudden and piercingly loud, resonated through the storm. “If I look through that tent flap and see any of you, I will decide that those are my volunteers to be the first troops through the breach.”
There were some stouthearted men in that group. Othniel recognized a few of them. But no one ever wanted to be the first ones through a breach. The sound of their sandals scuffling through the forest receded.
Othniel returned to Caleb’s side. The cooking fire had produced its coals when they had arrived, so the widow’s fig cakes, mashed and cut, were already roasting. Othniel could not prevent himself from staring at them with raw desire.
Soon the old woman scooped them up with her cooking blade and flipped one of them to the goatskin eating mat spread before Caleb.
He eyed it skeptically. “It does not look like the greatest fig cake in the land, old mother.”
The woman’s wrinkled face twisted in a scowl at first; then her eye twinkled. “You have judged the beauty of the bride by her veil. Peer under it and discover her delights.”
Caleb chuckled. “I enjoy your company, old mother. However your fig cake tastes, I desire for you to become my cook.”
“It would be my pleasure to serve you, my lord. I would bring my maidens.”
“You may.”
Caleb prodded at the cake with his finger before raising it to his lips. He sucked on it with his eyes closed. He did not move for a while, and then he opened his eyes and looked at the old woman. “It is the second greatest fig cake in the land. Only my wife made them better.”
The widow’s expression softened. “If that is my only comparison, my lord, I will accept it. Her gentleness and kindness was known everywhere. I can only assume that her cooking matched it.”
Caleb’s own face fell a bit as he heard this. He paused before taking another bite of the cake. The old woman brought one to Othniel, and although he had never known his aunt’s cooking, it was hard to imagine anything better than this.
The two of them ate in silence. The tent they sat in had a large gap between the main post and the lashing, allowing spurts of rain inside with every strong gust of wind.
“Your tent was not tied down prop
erly,” Caleb said.
“We had to do it on our own and lacked the strength to tie it securely, my lord.”
Caleb stopped eating and grew very still. “You built your own tent? In my army a widow never builds her own tent. I will run these men so hard that they will want to die!” He beat his fist savagely on the ground and glared at Othniel. “Assemble every man in this camp! Every one of them!”
“Uncle, the storm—”
“Assemble them! Now!”
Othniel did not argue further but walked outside and shouted, “Assemble on me, every man and officer! Orders of the general!”
It took half an hour for everyone to believe that this was not some sort of jest and to emerge from their various tents and shelters. Othniel counted a battalion’s worth of men, not anywhere near their entire army. But it would have been a fool’s errand to assemble all the camps on the mountain during a siege when the enemy was looking for an opportunity for a counterattack.
No, this camp would do. Each battalion had its own encampment. Word would spread from this one to the others quickly. Caleb could make his point here.
When they were assembled, Caleb, who had been standing in the rain watching them, raised his voice.
“It has come to my attention that this widow, the wife of a brave man who was killing pagans before all of you were able to feed yourselves, had to tie down her own cooking tent. A hundred strong men all around her, and a feeble old woman and her handmaids pitched their own tent in this storm.” Caleb spat at the feet of one of the men, and without anyone seeing it coming, his walking stick lashed out and struck the man on the side of the head, splitting open his flesh and sending a spurt of blood across the face of the man next to him. The gashed man staggered backward and collapsed, groaning.
Caleb spun and struck the next man in his line of sight, sending him reeling with a blow to the shoulder. Everyone watched, stunned. No one rendered aid to the wounded men.
“I am Caleb, the son of Jephunneh the Kenazzite! I saw the hand of Yahweh heavy against the Egyptians! I saw his hand strike the oceans and toss them onto dry land. I was there when the Nile turned to blood. I was there when fire fell from heaven and consumed the desert. And after decades of walking his warpath, I know that there are few things he hates more than the widow neglected!”
He moved into a fighting position and beckoned to Othniel, “Nephew, bring me my sword, for I will strike down every one of these men, and may the adversary devour them in Sheol.”
Othniel forced himself to move to obey the orders. The men were soaking wet from the rain, but their shivering and gasping was not caused by the weather.
Caleb hobbled forward with his sword and staff to the next man in the line. The soldier, an officer, immediately broke.
“War chief, forgive us! We did not know!”
“You are an officer in my army! You need to know the fate of every locust that makes its home among us; how much more the widows who cook your meals?”
Caleb swung the staff even as he spoke, and the man’s jaw shattered with a sickening crack. His screams of pain were like a dog with a broken leg. No one knew whether to try to move to stop the old man, who had become a raging bull. As he moved to the next one in line, the cries for mercy rose up. They were afraid to break ranks and risk angering him further, yet were too frightened for their lives not to speak up.
Caleb paused as he stared at the next officer. It finally occurred to Othniel that Caleb was targeting officers. The leaders of the men who should have known better.
Caleb’s expression was flooded with cold fury, enhanced by the streaks of water running from his mangy white hair. His voice rose again above the rain. “Do you all wish to live?”
“Yes! In the name of Yahweh, yes!” came the cries.
“Will you have mercy on the widow from this day forward?” Caleb roared again.
“For the love of our land, we will! In Yahweh’s name, have mercy!”
Caleb cut them off with his upraised staff. “I want every man to run to the bottom of this hill as fast as his legs can carry him and pick up the heaviest rock he can carry. Then I want him to bring that rock to me, and to keep doing it until he has vomited out his last three meals and I feel as though he has sufficiently apologized to this widow! The rocks will be made into a memorial for her husband, Shamez the Miridite, who was more of a man in his smallest finger than all of you and your generations before you!”
The soldiers let that settle in their spirits. No one made a sound.
Caleb continued. “You will then take down all your own shelters and stack them in the forest, and for the rest of this campaign you will see no covering for your heads and will sleep no peaceful night.”
This was devastating enough, but Caleb saved the worst for last. His anger had not yet abated; his eyes flashed with deadly rage.
“Your battalion will fight no longer in this siege. You will now be the women of my army! You will cook for your husbands who will be fighting. You will also cook for the women who normally cook for you. You will have the duties of women but suffer the hardships of men. May the Lord strike me down if by this time tomorrow you are not all crying for death in your shame!”
It was the ultimate punishment, and Othniel shuddered as he considered it. Doing the tasks of women when there was a battle raging? Not being a part of the plunder of a city? The songs sung and tales told of the cowardice of a battalion would live forever. The legacy would be eternally tainted. Generations from now, men would hang their heads in shame when they were assigned to such a unit, to be taunted by their fellows assigned to nobler stock. The tribes of every man would be noted and shamed as well. Fathers would wear sackcloth and mourn the lost manhood of their sons.
All of these thoughts descended upon the battalion. Better to have all died in battle against the enemy than this.
Caleb let them ponder it all in their own time. He said nothing for a while, then in a softer tone said, “If you can build this widow her memorial before the sun sets, and every stone is no less than one cubit—and reaches the height of ten cubits—I will consider letting you fight in the siege.”
Every back stiffened with resolve. They looked to Othniel like eager boys desperate to gain back their manhood.
“Begin!” Caleb said, dismissing them.
There was a mass scramble of bodies down the mountainside, until eventually they all disappeared into the forest.
Othniel moved next to Caleb. “I have never seen you so angry, Uncle,” he said quietly.
“I have rarely been so. It is as though they have learned nothing of the ways of Yahweh.”
“You must continue to be their teacher.”
Caleb sighed, returned to the tent and sat down facing his now-cold fig cakes. The elderly widow approached cautiously.
“You do me too much honor, my lord. A worthless old woman like myself should not be responsible for sullying the reputations of a thousand men for generations.”
Caleb paused in his eating and gazed at her. His eyes softened, and he leaned forward and clasped her hands in his own. “Good lady, the reputations of a million men are worth nothing when compared to a single command from Yahweh. Many of the songs of victory that we sing are about the Lord our protector. None need his protection like the widow, and he joyfully defends her.”
The woman lowered her face, and a tear trickled down her cheek. Her maids could be heard sniffling as well.
Caleb finished his fig cake, then gestured for Othniel to follow him back outside. Othniel thought about protesting this for the sake of the old man’s health, so that the continued walks in the weather did not give him the coughing sickness that so frequently killed the elderly, but he knew it was of no use.
As they departed, the first of the soldiers, lugging a stone on his back that weighed as much as he did, was making his way to the spot Caleb had designated for the memorial. The man dropped the rock, and it sank a handbreadth into the mud. It seemed to occur to him anew just how
long and arduous this task would be. But he nodded to Caleb, his eyes respectfully downcast, and trotted back down the hillside.
“Bring him to me,” Caleb said, and Othniel caught up with the man and summoned him. When he was standing before his general, he kept his eyes locked down at his feet and his hands clasped behind his back.
“Your name, soldier?” Caleb asked.
“Heliphet, son of Japhtha, my lord. But I have shamed that name and will no longer bear it.”
“How have you shamed it?”
“By ignoring the widow’s plight. By eating her food and not thinking to care for her. I desire to die with honor in the building of this memorial, my lord, if you would grant me even that small attempt to spare my son my fate.”
The young soldier was clearly strong, being the first one back with his rock, and he had a sincerity in his appearance that Othniel found impressive.
“You have a wife and son?”
“A wife of four years. One son, another child on the way.”
“Where is she?”
“She keeps my tent farther down the ridge.”
“You bring a pregnant woman on campaign?”
“My lord . . . she is no ordinary pregnant woman. She would have been harder on my indiscretion than even you have been.”
Caleb smiled. “That is good. A man can rally from his fate with the help of a strong woman. Continue your task, and your honor will be restored.”
Heliphet could not hide his grin as he bowed and ran back down the mountain.
Caleb walked through the forest until they came to a ledge of rock that stood above the treetops banking down the hillside. Just visible through the low-hanging clouds was the streambed at the base of the hill where the battalion was gathering rocks. They could make them out as they worked, struggling to carry the weight, slipping on the wet undergrowth.
“Watching labor like this reminds me of those days,” Caleb said.
“Which days, Uncle?”
“Egypt. Our people under the yoke of Pharaoh. They are nothing alike, of course. The training and instructing of soldiers is not the same as our people in bondage. Being worked to death in the quarries to build idols. Having the flesh torn from our backs and the backs of our children by the spiked whips of their overseers. None of that is comparable to a bunch of troops needing their thick skulls cracked.”