Adah’s heartbeat drummed a pulse through her ears. Her beloved Nehemiah waited, eyes closed, for his enemies to accept his challenge. How could he be certain of their restraint? Adah fingered and counted each sandalwood and chrysolite bead around her neck.
God of Abraham, spare your servant, Nehemiah.
Othniel stilled her methodic numbering. “God is with us. Not with our enemies.” His breath breezed by her cheek.
She let her arm fall to her side. “I believe you speak the truth. God is with us.”
Nehemiah dropped his arms and folded his hands in his lap, taking the reins of his mount in hand.
Sword half-raised, Sanballat trotted his horse forward until its nose almost touched the muzzle of Nehemiah’s mount.
“You are not the king’s only governor. This deception will not stand. Build if you dare.” Sanballat strung out his admonition for everyone to hear. “Do not blame your fellow governors if these rocks crush your bones.”
Sanballat sheathed his weapon and pranced his horse in front of his troops. He strutted north toward the main road to Samaria.
“Are dry bones worth the burying of new ones?” Tobiah fixed his narrow-eyed stare on Nehemiah. “Heed our wisdom and stop this offense.”
The governor of Rabbath-Ammon retreated to the east with his band of men breaking ranks and roaming ahead of their leader’s mount.
Praise be to God! Her father and Nehemiah were safe. “Can we trust their retreat?” she whispered to Othniel.
“I do not believe this is just a warning. They could have sent a messenger for that.” His hand rested upon her outer garment, near the lower part of her hip. His touch was not substantial enough for a public rebuke, but it let her know he prepared to fight for her lest their enemy turn and charge the wall. Othniel’s gaze followed the path of Tobiah and his mounted men. “Why are some heading south away from their governors?”
Adah strained to see where the riders had gone. Tobiah’s lands were to the east. Did his men seek a faster route through the fields? A tickle irritated her nose. She breathed deep, but her nostrils began to burn. Was someone heating pitch? She drew her veil over her cheeks and turned toward Othniel. Tears pooled in her eyes. “I need to get down.”
Othniel bent low. “Are you ill?”
She shook her head and glanced beyond his shoulder over the rooftops of the city. Thin trails of white smoke rose above the distant rooftops. Her eyes flared.
“Speak, Adah. What is it?” Othniel asked.
Pointing to the east, she rasped, “Our fields are on fire. They’ve distracted us from protecting our lands.”
11
Othniel leapt from his stone perch and disappeared into the crowd of battle-ready men. With her sight blurry from stinging tears, Adah was unable to navigate a descent fast enough to follow in her friend’s path. O’ Lord do not let the fire be in Othniel’s groves. But even as she prayed protection on Othniel’s ancestral land, her stomach hollowed. A wide haze of smoke billowed over what lay beyond the city wall. Hadn’t the drought punished the farmers enough? Curse Sanballat and Tobiah for putting flame to groves of tinder.
She left her father in the care of Nehemiah and the king’s cavalry and darted through the farmers shouting for aid. The chaos of cries in the streets sounded like wounded prey wailing in the night for comfort. How many more had to suffer?
A mumbled prayer escaped her lips as she raced toward a wall of black air, rising and overwhelming the wind. “Rescue us, O’ Lord, from evil men.” The remembrance of Sanballat’s crooked-nose rebuke of Nehemiah sent her sandals slapping the ground faster and faster. “Protect us from men of violence.” Rescue Your people like You rescued our forefather David. Hadn’t the landowners suffered enough from rainless days?
Men jostled her near the Water Gate. Some carried large jars sloshing water into the dust. Others, hands on sheathed blades, followed the crumbling wall north. No doubt in search of spies. The fresh planks of wood framing the gate and the resurrected stones abutting it, testified to the labors of her people. No wonder Sanballat and Tobiah were scared of a fortified Jerusalem.
After a few paces, she bent at the waist gasping to breathe. Heat and a shadowy haze taunted her lungs, daring her to continue into the outskirts of the city.
Around and around her face, she wrapped the length of her head covering so only her eyes peered past the cloth. Praise be that she knew the paths and terraced fields, for every tree limb and every laborer was shrouded in a ghostly fog.
Running north through lengths of raised beds, she slipped from her cloak and beat at the air as if it were her enemy. Tears streamed from her eyes of their own accord. Her lungs rebelled at her procession, burning with an ache that seeped into every rib. I will not falter.
As she neared Othniel’s groves, her confidence became like the ash being swept away in the breeze, twisting every which way on its descent to the hardened soil below. Olive trees glowed like scarlet torches while their flames mingled with the blackest of smoke. Over the crackle of the boisterous fire she heard the whack of an ax. Male voices shouted warnings of falling trees. Her chest sunk to her belly as she viewed the devastation. Othniel had been faithful to assist her family and now he needed the debt repaid. And she would embrace her obligation.
In the terraced field below, a woman’s wailing haunted Adah’s soul. Through tear-filled eyes, she spied Othniel’s mother and young brother battering grape vines with threadbare rugs. Flames devoured the shoots tied to parched wood. Adah raced down the main path to halt the fire’s progress. She whipped her cloak at the fiery embers and joined in the attack.
“We need to break the trellis.” Adah sputtered and coughed, trying to catch her breath. “Have an ax? Shovel?” Her mind devised words she could not speak.
Zipporah shook her head. “My husband—” She bent at the waist before slumping to the ground. Micaiah, her son, beat the sparks, defying their advance.
Kneeling near Zipporah, Adah inspected the woman’s tunic for burns. “Are you hurt?”
“It is of no use.” Zipporah wiped her cheeks. “The fire will not be smothered.”
Adah scanned the vineyard. Her heart resounded a warning in her ears. Do something. Her mind spun, but her feet remained planted. Oh, where was a rock or tool when she had need of it?
Swirling ash stung her skin, but inside her belly an emboldened warmth blazed hotter than an ignited tree. Woe to the enemies of Judah. How dare they cause just people to suffer? She stalked toward Micaiah.
“Stand back.” She charged the wooden planks on which the helpless plants stood impaled. Ramming her sandal into the trellis, she kicked with the force of a wild donkey. “Break,” she demanded.
Cedar splintered under her barrage. On she went, attacking the length of wood, the length below, and the length above the stems of the plants. With every blow, energy burst forth from her body. She pointed to the next row at the edge of the field. “Micaiah. Break it. Let this drought be good for something.”
The boy obeyed and smashed the trellis with renewed abandon.
Micaiah kicked. She kicked. She stopped to gather the pieces of battered wood, piling them away from any flame. As she lifted the broken rods, her back stiffened, reminding her of her jarring assault. Her hands ached from the scrape of the trellis.
Zipporah came to Adah’s side. The emboldened mother stomped on the bottom rung, breaking the defiant fire’s path. She raised her arms high, turned, and swept Adah into a hug. “Toda raba, my daughter.”
“Slih’a,” Adah muttered. “I am sorry our enemies targeted your land.” How could she console Zipporah in the midst of so much loss?
Adah unwrapped herself from Zipporah’s grief. Keeping the remaining vineyard safe was her foremost task. At least some of Othniel’s lands would not see destruction. She glanced in the distance where a cut swath of land spared some olive trees from the advancing fire. Othniel, his brothers, and their wives had been successful in their labors. She closed her eyes an
d praised God. Be strong and courageous and God will act.
Landowners appeared from the smoky haze of distant fires and raced through an ash heap that was once a neighboring vineyard. “Riders,” one shouted on his way to the city.
Mounts in Jerusalem were scarce. Adah picked up a stick and scanned the horizon. No Israelite would race through this commotion. Truly, not a friend of Jerusalem’s governor.
Horse hooves drummed against the packed soil. A shiver cooled her heated skin. She reached for Zipporah. “We must return to the safety of our dwellings.”
A stranger emerged from the east, sword raised, horse at a gallop. His weapon did not proclaim victory. He meant to slay the enemy, and she was what he sought. His stare bore into her like a well-aimed spear. I am his enemy.
Shoving Zipporah to the ground, Adah reached for a splintered trellis. Micaiah, still as a sculpted idol, held his ground. “Get your brothers,” she yelled. Her mouth tasted like sour goat’s milk. The boy did not move. “Now!”
Adah gripped the wood. Her hand sizzled with the slice of sharp bark. She would tend the splinters later if God spared her from this warrior, for now she would fight the pagan who intended to strike down the daughter of a ruler, a daughter of Jerusalem. She focused on the intruder’s wild-eyed stare, and hurled the broken trellis at his face. The thrust of her arm caused it to ache as if it had dislodged from her shoulder.
End over end, her trellis sailed toward the horse and rider. Balking at the incoming object, the rider’s mount spooked. Every muscle bulged on the grand animal as it sidestepped and turned to retreat. The wooden rod struck the rider in the chest. Falling, it grazed the belly of his mount. Back and forth, the horse’s head jerked, tugging on the reins, and urging its rider to set it free. The raider cursed.
Adah launched another plank of wood.
With all the lurching and panic of his horse, her enemy did not duck, and the solid rod did not miss. Crunck. Trellis struck temple. The raider’s head snapped backward. He slumped to the side and off his saddle. His mount bucked to be gone. The warrior’s weapon slipped from his hand and crashed to the dirt between her and its owner. Her foe smacked the ground hard and began scurrying out of the path of his horse’s hooves. He rushed toward his blade.
Rage simmered inside of Adah. How dare this foreigner threaten her life and the lives of her friends? Head throbbing as if it would burst, she unsheathed the knife in her belt and lunged to obtain the sword. Woe to the raider if he retrieved his weapon before she did, as she was ready to sink her small blade into his flesh. No enemy of Judah would claim victory this day.
A short distance from his weapon, the rider froze. Eyes as wide as plums, he stepped away from his possession, and sprinted to his horse. He leapt onto his mount while shouts berated his retreat.
She turned to see Othniel and his brothers racing toward her. Blowing out a breath, she let her shoulders slump to her breast. Selah!
Othniel marched her direction, brows furrowed, with lips ribbon-thin. “Can’t you stay inside the city?” His voice was loud enough to draw another attacker. Hands on hips, he halted too close to her. “You could have been slaughtered.” His family gawked at his outburst.
Heat sprawled from her neck into her cheeks. How dare he berate her after she saved his mother and his vineyard? “I can protect myself.” She held up her blade.
“With that?” He pointed at her knife. “One lunge from that pagan and you would have been killed.”
“God gave me the victory. That coward ran from my wrath.” She sheathed her weapon. “I came to help your family save some of their lands, and save some I did.”
“We can save our own land.” Othniel slapped the side of his ax into his palm. “You have no stake in these fields.”
A lash would have hurt less. Hadn’t she and her mother scouted these lands with Othniel for years? What of her efforts to keep Zipporah from being beheaded? Her face blazed from his reprimand. His family gathered a few feet away, dumbstruck.
“We all have a stake in these lands,” she shouted.
A few of Othniel’s brothers nodded their agreement, but no one berated their brother.
Othniel brushed a soot-black hand through his ash-covered hair. He shook his head as if her answer held no merit. “Come, I will escort you back inside the city. I want to make sure no harm befalls you.”
“No.” Her response came out too harsh for her liking. She turned her back on her friend and picked up the fallen sword, grasping it with two hands to keep it from wobbling and betraying her crushed spirit. “It is not necessary. Your father may have need of you.” She held up the long blade. “With this, I do not require an escort. I am my own guard.”
Whirling around, she traipsed toward the city with her hand throbbing and her dignity shattered like a trellis.
12
Adah shuffled through the streets of Jerusalem, hiding the raider’s sword in her outer garment and ignoring the glances of passersby. With her veil still wrapped around her face, and a scorched hem and tattered cloak, she resembled a desert traveler. A haze of smoke hovered above the city’s rooftops. A testament to the hatred of Sanballat and Tobiah.
Forcing an all-is-well smile onto her face, she entered her home. Her mother sat in the living area, alone, with a mortar balanced in her lap and a basket of wheat kernels nearby. A sash the color of muted rose petals hung across the crisp folds of her robe. Fortunately for Adah, her mother could not behold the soot-stained rags from the grove.
“Shalom, mother.” Adah bent and kissed her mother’s forehead. “Where’s Judith?”
Elisheba set the pestle in the mortar. “Your sister is taking a meal to your father. But you my child were not near a simple cooking fire, for the scent of smoke has filled this room.”
Adah tensed. Should she confess about the peril? No rebuke could rival Othniel’s. “Zipporah’s fields were set ablaze by a band of Samaritans. I went to beat at the flames.”
“With Othniel?” Her mother’s question rang out as a statement.
Why did her mother always assume she was with Othniel? “After Othniel. He fled from the wall so fast I could not keep up with him.”
Her mother gestured for Adah to sit near her chair. “Did God grant us favor? I have been offering prayers for our fighting men.” Hope and hesitation rang in her mother’s words.
“Some favor.” Adah unwrapped the veil from her head and rested at her mother’s side. She balanced on a pillow embroidered with scarlet, indigo, and purple threads. Her mother’s elaborate handiwork was but a memory now. “The governors did not attack Nehemiah and our men at the gate, but their scouts started fires in the fields. Half of Othniel’s main grove is gone. We saved most of the vineyard. Some plants are damaged. I pray they will recover.”
“I’m sure Zipporah and Othniel are grateful for your labors.”
Othniel’s rebuke echoed in Adah’s mind. “I believe so.”
“I know so.” Her mother stroked Adah’s veil and stretched out a few tight curls freed by the burnt linen. “You have a compassionate spirit.”
“Do I?” Tears pulsed behind Adah’s eyes. She would not let them out and trouble her mother. “Since your illness, I have been trying to learn how to spice the myrrh for the temple. I’ve had to travel farther in search of useful scents. Now, with a wall to build, I am scarcely home to attend to your needs.”
“Foolishness.” Cupping Adah’s chin, her mother lifted her daughter’s face so their eyes almost met. Adah adjusted her gaze. “You have taken over my duties without a complaint and worked in the heat to honor your father’s name. Because of you, his name will be recorded for future generations. And if I had to guess, you were too close to the flames sparing the lands around the city.”
I’ve learned mercy from you. Adah gripped the carved oak armrest of her mother’s chair. Elisheba, wife of Shallum, was more just and upright than any queen in Susa. “I couldn’t stand idle and let the fields burn.”
Her mother caress
ed Adah’s cheek and then fumbled for her waiting pestle. “I know you want to be there for everyone, but it is impossible. Your heart beats for too many people. And some circumstances are beyond our control. We must wait on God to act.”
“Where is God?” Adah poked at a frayed indigo thread on the pillow and smoothed a finger over the pattern. “Why does He withhold the rain from our crops? Couldn’t He have stopped Sanballat’s schemes?”
“He sent us Nehemiah.” Dropping a few more kernels into the mortar, her mother felt for the height of her flour. “Our God will never turn His face from us. We must be patient.”
“But while we wait, others struggle to eat. We are not in debt. We have provisions for our table. Taxes do not burden us.” Adah wrapped her arms around her knees and inhaled the aroma of a campfire. “Why call Nehemiah into service and allow Sanballat and Tobiah to threaten the city? Am I wrong to seek an answer from God for all this turmoil?”
“You may ask, humbly. You may not demand.” Muscles tensed on her mother’s arm as she ground the wheat. “Answers do not always come. Not in our time.”
Adah’s chest ached with every breath. Was it from the fires, or watching a simple task become a chore for the blind? “I never received an answer about your sight.”
“Oh, Daughter.” Elisheba placed her stone instruments on the floor and held out her hands for Adah to take hold. “How long did I pray for a child? When I thought my time had passed, God blessed me with two babies. Our people wandered in the desert for forty years. Did they not ask when it would end? Build the wall one stone upon another. God will finish it in His time. His way.”
“My tasks would be easier if I were a man.” Adah sighed. She doubted Othniel would have berated her if she were six feet tall and muscled like a laborer. He shouldn’t have raised his voice at all. Did he expect her to do nothing after all the years of friendship they had shared? He knew her too well to watch her sit idle.
Her mother squeezed Adah’s hands and held tight. “My tasks would not be easier if I had birthed an heir. If I had a son, he would be with his father, and not at home. You and Judith bring me joy each and every day. You make me proud, and I know your father feels the same. Who else can boast of a daughter raising the city wall?”
Jerusalem Rising Page 8