Until the Mountains Fall

by Connilyn Cossette

  “Since your husband is the next of kin to your victim and is therefore a Blood Avenger,” said Amitai, “he will not be allowed to remain. May Yahweh have mercy on you both.” Echoes of his own losses were heavy in his tone.

  Unable to contain herself any longer, my tenderhearted ima strode up to the young mother, tears streaming down her own face, and wrapped her strong arm around her waist. Blindly, the girl leaned heavily on my mother as she led her toward the inn. As she did so, the young father crumpled at the knees and would have landed in the dirt, had the two representatives from his town not caught him about the waist. Faces lined with compassion, they led the man away between them, holding him upright as he stumbled out of the gates, away from the woman he so obviously loved and would likely not see again for years—if ever. He’d lost his only child and his wife in one horrid blow. My wounds paled in comparison.

  In near silence, the congregation began to dissipate. Growing up in this city, I’d seen many manslayers beg for asylum at the gates. I’d watched a few of them be hauled away to be tried for murder, and once, as a twelve-year-old, had watched in horror from the walls as a Blood Avenger broke the law and slew a man only one hundred paces from the gates in full daylight. But I doubted that any of us would ever forget the sorrow of this day.

  “A sad circumstance,” said Hakim from beside me, his low voice rumbling. “I have never seen the like.”

  “Is this the first time you’ve witnessed the arrival of a manslayer?” I asked.

  “It is. And I would prefer to never see it again,” he answered, unapologetically honest but seemingly unruffled, as always.

  “I wish the same, my friend. But as long as these walls stand, they will come,” I said. “I am just glad my mother was here for that poor girl. And that young man. I cannot imagine . . .” I let the thought trail away, too affected to continue. But Hakim was the sort of friend who felt no need to fill the void with meaningless chatter, so we stood silent and watched Amitai converse with the two traveling Levites who’d arrived with the devastated couple.

  Rivkah’s father had aged significantly in the past five years. His once-black hair and beard were both threaded densely with silver, and his shoulders bowed ever so slightly, as if invisible weights sat heavily on each side. The man had lost too much: a five-year-old son before I was born, his wife and newborn when I was nine, and then, of course, his daughter.

  Still, Amitai bore the mantle of leadership as he tended to the administration of the town: mediation and implementation of the law; Torah instruction for its inhabitants; record-keeping of yearly tithes and their distribution among the Levites; and the responsibility of protecting and providing for the manslayers who had no means to support themselves. I did not know how the man even remained upright, especially with the burden of grief he carried.

  I’d barely spoken to him since the day he tried to give back the bride price I’d offered for Rivkah, and I’d never asked for its return, even once I’d accepted that she was never coming back. If I did eventually give in to my family’s persuasion and marry Ayala, or someone else, I still never wanted to see those items again. And yet being in proximity to Rivkah’s father again nicked at the resolve I’d made to forge a new path instead of retracing the old one.

  “Let’s go,” I said to Hakim, looking forward to making my way to my quiet chamber on the second floor of the inn and succumbing to the oblivion of sleep, but just before I turned away, I saw one of the Levites reach into his pack and pull out a small roll of papyrus, which he then handed to Amitai.

  The priest unrolled the scrap, tilting it to catch the waning sunlight behind him as he read whatever words had been written inside. Even from twenty paces away, I watched the color drain from his face and his jaw go slack. When his chin jerked up and his eyes met mine with piercing intensity, I knew.

  Somehow, after all this time, word of Rivkah had reached her father.

  CHAPTER

  eighteen

  8 Av

  “The tribes of Yehudah and Simeon have marched on Jebus and plan to move on to Hebron and Debir in the coming weeks,” said my father. “Apparently, Yehoshua’s death inspired them to finally obey his directive to clear the land of heathen influence.”

  Somehow, over the past few years, the foundry had become the place for him to debrief Baz and Eitan, and occasionally the other men in his company, after meeting with the tribal elders of Naftali. Although I no longer counted myself among their number, I listened attentively as I ran a sanding stone back and forth along the sickle handle I’d crafted from acacia wood. Zekai, Eitan’s oldest boy, sat on one of the low stone walls that surrounded the foundry with Toki, Baz’s little brown-and-white dog, beside him.

  “Where is this Jebus? I’ve never heard of it,” said Eitan.

  “A city up in the hills.” My father waved a hand dismissively. “A Canaanite one. It’s largely destroyed now, though. Judah and Simeon set it aflame. The Jebusites surrendered quickly after that.”

  “What do you mean surrender?” asked Baz. “They left survivors in that debauched place? The stories I’ve heard of those people would curdle your stomach.”

  My father ran his hand through his graying hair. “Just like Asher and Manasseh have done in Tyre and Megiddo, Judah and Simeon agreed to allow the Jebusites to pay tribute, instead of obeying the full will of Yahweh.”

  Baz shook his head in disbelief. “The tribes are doing half the job and calling it obedience. Where is the outcry?”

  “Our people are too busy farming their land, building homes, and settling into complacency,” said my father. “Collecting tribute from the enemy among us is much less effort than battle and significantly more prosperous, especially in light of the foreign trade that continues to thrive in the Canaanite cities.”

  Laish, the Sidonian-allied city to our north, where Rivkah had disappeared, was just such a place. My father was one of the most vocal opponents to the arrangement, but somehow the inhabitants of Laish had convinced Naftali’s elders that they were peaceful. They even went so far as to feign acceptance of Yahweh—although that acceptance took the form of dragging our Holy One into their collection of foreign gods. The day we’d looked for Rivkah and Nessa I’d been horrified to see graven images near the temple that included references to Yahweh and his “wife” Astarte. How could the elders stomach such overt blasphemy not a day’s walk from Kedesh?

  The reminder of my formerly betrothed resurrected the mystery of what news Amitai had received of her. It had been four days since I’d watched him unroll that missive and blanch at whatever had been contained within it. He’d seen me watching and yet I’d heard nothing from him. Had someone sent confirmation of her death? Is that why he’d reacted the way he had? I was too much of a coward to knock on his door and ask—and too much of a fool to force myself not to care.

  “Also, the Danites are making preparations to move,” said my father, interrupting my thoughts. He leaned against the soot-stained cedar post, arms crossed and brows drawn low. “They are abandoning their inheritance and seeking new land.”

  Eitan lowered the sharpened blade he’d been examining for nicks to stare at our father in shock. “The entire tribe?”

  “Possibly, or at least a majority of them. The sons of Dan have been successful in establishing cities in the Ayalon Valley, but they’ve made little to no headway with the cities by the coast. The enemy tribes there are simply too strong, too well armed, and much better organized than the roaming bands of Amorites we’ve been dealing with around here.”

  “Cowards,” muttered Baz scornfully, and his entire body went taut, as if preparing to march south and knock their collective heads together all on his own. Years ago he likely would have been happy to do so, but after he’d married Sarai, one of the convicted manslayers my mother had harbored in the inn years ago, his tendency to swing first and ask later had waned. And since the birth of his two girls, now ten and twelve, even more so.

  “Where do the Danites have to
go?” asked Eitan.

  “All I know is they sent out spies months ago, before Yehoshua died,” my father said. “And they’ve begun quietly preparing for a large-scale move. And for battle.”

  “Will they attempt to steal land from one of our brethren?”

  My father shook his head. “I sincerely hope not. But Ephraim, Benjamin, and Yehudah are all concerned. Their cities are closest to Dan’s and therefore at risk.”

  “They would fight their own brothers yet they are too frightened to take on the Canaanites?” Baz snarled in frustration, a string of foul and emasculating names for the Danites exploding from his lips. Toki launched herself off the wall, startling Zekai into nearly falling off too. With her back stiff, the hair on the back of the dog’s neck rose in defense against whatever invisible enemy was threatening her master. The ferocity in her growl was a reminder that although she was tame now, she’d come to Baz out of the wilderness, where she’d survived on her own for who knew how long.

  Baz squatted his large bulk down and laid a calming hand on her hackles, his palm nearly dwarfing her head. “It’s all right, girl. We won’t let them succeed.”

  “A breakdown between tribes would be disastrous,” my father said. “What is even more concerning, however, is the news from the northeast.”

  “The Arameans?” asked Eitan.

  “Indeed,” said my father. “Kushan of Aram-Naharim has amassed an army. He has vowed to retake the Land, inviting the Amorites, the Hittites, and any remaining Canaanites to join with him.”

  “But we still have the Ark of the Covenant,” said Eitan. “Does he not know what happened to Pharaoh?”

  “The tribes have done so little to drive our enemies from our midst. I think perhaps the kingdoms around us have lost any fear they ever had over the Ark—or our God.” The sorrow in my father’s voice echoed that of my mother, who’d been warning of this very thing for years. Her dreams were full of visions of creeping blackness and retreating, guttering points of light. And she was not the only one exhorting the tribes to repent. During the ingathering festivals in Shiloh, the priests continued to rail against the deterioration of respect for the Law among our people, a clarion call that went largely ignored.

  “Have the Arameans begun to march toward us?” asked Baz.

  “We are being sent to find out,” my father replied. “We must determine if their army is as well organized as the rumors suggest and find out what their weaknesses might be. Once we determine how large the army actually is, we can figure out how long it will be until they are knocking at our gates. It could be months or it could be weeks. But they are coming.”

  “Finally,” said Baz. “A real assignment. I’m tired of spying on other Israelites.”

  “Yes, and it may very well be one of our most treacherous,” said my father. “If the failed attempts by the tribes over the past few weeks are any indication, Yahweh may well have removed the protective covering we fought under when Yehoshua was alive. Instead of enjoying victory, we are hitting our heads against walls and losing more ground than we gain. This mission, and the intelligence we gather, may be the only stopgap between us and eventual annihilation. Kushan seems to be a master of manipulation, using Canaanite resentment as his first line of offense. I’ve been saying for years that he’s been using them to test us, weaken us, and distract us from his ultimate aim. We all saw the way he’s armed the Amorites with weapons and chariots.”

  We had indeed. It was one of those iron-wheeled chariots that had plowed over me, nearly ripping my arm from its socket and destroying any chance I’d had at military glory—or even something as simple as defending myself and my fellow soldiers.

  “Are you coming?” my father asked, and when no one else answered I looked up to find his eyes on me.

  I suddenly felt the weight of everyone’s gaze. “Are you asking me?”

  “It is time, son.”

  My muscles went stony. Why was he bringing this up now, in front of Eitan and Baz? Not to mention Zekai, who sat wide-eyed on the stone wall, waiting for me to respond to my father’s challenge.

  I shook my head and cast a gaze around the foundry. “There is plenty of work for me here. Especially if Eitan goes with you.”

  The demand for newly crafted weapons had significantly declined in past years, since our people had largely set aside warfare for farming, and now the harvest season was in full bloom. Eitan’s reputation for being the most skilled metalsmith in the territory of Naftali, and to a lesser degree my own reputation for carpentry, had brought us more than enough broken tools and plows to mend.

  “I need you,” said my father.

  I scoffed. “Your men are widely known as the most well-trained band of spies among our people. You have no need for a one-armed blind man.”

  “Sulking around Kedesh is not going to bring you back to full strength, Malakhi.”

  The glare I leveled at my father was dangerously close to violating the fifth commandment. “I’m not sulking. I am healing.”

  “Doesn’t matter what you call it. You are shirking your duty.”

  “I. Nearly. Died,” I gritted out.

  “But you didn’t,” he said with infuriating calm. “Stop acting as if you did.”

  I had spent my entire life worshiping at the feet of my father, and while under his command I had not once questioned an order. But I was no longer the soldier I’d wanted to be. For now I was merely a carpenter. A keeper of bees and fruit trees. And I was exhausted by my family’s well-intentioned meddling. Between my sisters, my mother, Eitan, and now my father, I had not a moment’s peace.

  With my blood pounding and a thousand wrongful responses begging to pour from my mouth, I tossed the sickle away from me, ignoring the dull clatter of the wood against the stone anvil. Then I turned my back and walked out of the foundry, suddenly desperate to be out in the orchard. Even though the fragrant smell of the glossy leaves and honey still flooded me with unbidden memories of Rivkah, I’d found peace within its embrace. But I hadn’t gone far when the unmistakable thunder of Baz’s sandals on the cobblestones caught up to me.

  “It’s just as I told your father,” he said blithely, as if I’d not just stormed out and he was merely continuing a pleasant conversation we’d begun earlier. “I’ve not seen many with passion like yours, boy.”

  “What are you talking about, Baz?”

  The renowned warrior had been somewhat immortal in my mind when I was a child, but somehow over time my perspective of him had shifted from hero to equal. My flippant question, and the snide way I delivered it, made it clear that although he was still older and wiser, I no longer deferred to him in all things.

  “You were a reckless child. Everyone in Kedesh remembers your brainless antics and sneaky pranks. Goodness knows you persuaded Gidal into trouble he never would have conceived on his own. But what we all considered reckless in a boy has somehow translated to a man who fights with his whole heart. A man who charges into battle with courage the likes of which could rival Yehoshua and Calev themselves.”

  I flinched at the comparison, my mouth gaping slightly. Baz had actually fought alongside those renowned warriors as a young man over thirty years ago. I could not reconcile such an astounding statement, especially when I’d only seen true combat twice before I was wounded.

  “So many of our young people don’t care enough to defend this Land, Malakhi. They’ve given in to compromise, like your father said. It’s all too easy to sit back and take tribute from the Canaanites, profiting off our disobedience instead of finishing what Yehoshua and Calev started. We need men who will stand and fight with courageous abandon. If your generation does not take heed, we would do better to strap on our sandals and walk right back to Egypt, because the enemies who surround us here have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

  A shiver went through me at the image of Kedesh burning, and a ruthless army spilling through the gates, toward my family.

  “The Canaanites want this land back,” sa
id Baz. “And Aram is salivating over the abundant fertility we’ve cultivated here over the past twenty-five years, the wealth it would garner, and the important trade routes that cross our territories. If we don’t stand now, we will be doomed. Tending bees and trimming trees is surely not going to prevent any of that from happening.”

  “But Gidal—”

  “Your brother was not made to be a warrior.” He huffed a chuckle and shook his head. “Sometimes I wondered if he was even made for this world. There was so much of your mother in him, some mysterious thing that I cannot begin to understand . . .” His brows furrowed. “But you, Malakhi, you are your father’s son through and through. You are meant to take his place when he eventually retires from service. Don’t misunderstand me, he is still the best there is, but he is slowing down. He needs to come home and enjoy his later years. Be with his woman. Enjoy his grandchildren. And when he steps down, so will I.”

  I could not begin to imagine life when these two men stepped aside for the younger generation to take the reins, but the deepening creases around Baz’s eyes and the way gray had overtaken his beard gave testament to the truth of his words.

  “But Eitan is older, more experienced,” I said.

  “Eitan’s focus is his metalwork, as it should be. For as talented as he is with a sling, he is not a leader of men. Nor does he have the ambition to be one. He does not possess the single-minded drive, the passion, or the way with people that you do.”

  I looked into the distance, struggling against the instinct to be flattered by such praise. “I may have wanted that before, but I don’t think I am that man anymore.”

  “Of course you are. You just need to find your fire again, boy. You spent five years learning the how. Now you need to learn the why.”

  “My shoulder is destroyed. And someone could attack my blind side and I wouldn’t know it until my throat was slit.”