Othniel brushed a hand through his dark hair. “I wish I had your faith that helping Nehemiah would lift the hardship from our people and end the drought and strife.” Even under a black sky, his eyes caught the starlight and brightened as though tiny torches flamed inside each brown orb. The embers from his eyes warmed her soul. “I will assist you, Adah, as much as I can for as long as I can.”
Her belly fluttered as if someone had released a pent up dove.
He stepped closer. Too close. But then who would notice? “I should never have doubted you in the vineyard.” His hand caressed the top of hers, but he did not inspect her wound. “We sang about strength and courage, and when you faced…” his words swept into the night. He lifted her hand, all the while stroking her skin with the softest touch she’d ever experienced. “Please forgive me.”
Acceptance caught in her throat. She threw back her shoulders and stood a little straighter, trying to look more girl than guard. The sensations created by the stroke of his hand ricocheted from her arm to her toes. “There were times I believed God had forgotten us. But I don’t believe that now.” She met his piercing gaze. “I forgive you, Othniel.”
His face lit up as though he had found a pouch of gold coins. “Toda raba.” He stepped backward, but his hand stayed wrapped around hers. “I’d better return before Telem notices I have been gone too long for one drink. Stay alert this night, my brave Adah.”
Her feet begged to follow him back inside the city, but she stood her post. “I will.”
Hesitating, he closed the gap between them and branded her temple with a kiss.
She would have sworn legions of armies shook the ground beneath her feet. Mouth gaping, she was unable to fumble a response.
Without another word, Othniel turned, ran, and then leapt over a low section of the wall.
Her pulse pounded a deafening rhythm between her ears. A raider could have galloped a horse straight toward her and she would have been none the wiser.
She whirled and beheld the outskirts, scanning the closest bushes, boulders, and trees. One thing was for certain. On this night, she gave the illusion of being a man, a fierce guard of the city, but inside her body, from her feet rooted to the ground to the tips of her curls touching the hood of Jehu’s cloak, a sensation awakened—an inner-knowledge that whether guarding, fighting, or building, she wanted Othniel at her side.
15
Three days passed.
Sanballat and his army of Samaritans stayed north in their own lands. Tobiah and his Ammonite followers did not show their treasonous faces. Had Nehemiah convinced the governors that his intentions were to rebuild the city of his fathers and not wage a blood battle or trade war? Or did fear of retribution from King Artaxerxes shackle their greedy hearts?
Telem, Othniel, and the brothers stacked stone upon stone, laboring vigorously and more hours than she cared to count. Her father relieved the men one by one, so they could rest and progress on their section of the wall continued uninterrupted. If every family worked as hard as hers, Nehemiah’s vision for Jerusalem would come to pass very soon.
With the sun not yet risen, she and Judith hurried to take a brief nap—the darkness still a shroud to their identity.
The light revealed who truly guarded Shallum’s area: his daughters.
Adah stepped through an opening in the wall near the next party of workers. Hanun and his kin were rebuilding the Valley Gate and the walls around the wooden frame. Her father’s section was already more than waist high and too much of a climb in a dress. A burst of pride buoyed her weary bones at the progress her friends had made.
In the distance, Othniel and Jehu layered cut stones. As she neared their campfire, Othniel glanced her direction. The flicker of firelight revealed sunken half-moons under his eyes. Dark bristles of a beard shadowed his jaw. When had he last slept? With all the urgency of building the wall, they had barely spoken of his kiss. Perhaps he only thought it an apology. Her stomach cinched. She did not need another apology, but she desired another kiss.
Hurrying toward the water jars, she filled cups, and sipped some refreshment for herself. She carried drinks to Othniel and Jehu, and ignored remarks about thirst from Telem and Jehuliel. She shook her head. Why was it men liked to be served? She would see to them in a moment.
“When can you rest?” She handed a drink to Othniel. His breaths came out in short pants after heaving a rock into place.
He tipped his head back as if to soak in the last of the starlight. “We need to secure another level.” The sling of his garment underneath his arm revealed an indentation of ribs.
Did Zipporah have enough coin saved to feed her sons and daughters-in-law? She squeezed the cup in her hand, grateful it would not shatter. “When did you last eat?”
He chugged the water she offered. “You may have enough vigor to ask, but I am too tired to answer.”
“Then I will spur my mother and the servants on to bring us some stew and bread. I may even bake the bread myself.”
“That would be an accomplishment grander than this wall.” He smiled briefly, but somehow his eyes stayed somber as if the weight of the rocks had crushed his spirit.
“Wait and see.” She took the cup from him. “You will find I am a guard with hidden talents.”
“I already know how talented you are.” A slight grin erased the weariness from his face.
Was he referring to their kiss? Her belly fluttered. Couldn’t be. He meant her perfumes. “I have help finding the freshest buds.” She avoided his gaze. “Toda raba.”
He leaned in, his eyes finally meeting hers. “I meant you are the only woman building this wall, save your sister. And whatever scented oils you have put together are making our labor in the sun bearable. Your mother would be proud.” His eyes glimmered. “I am not bold enough to speak of other talents.”
Her eyes widened. “You shall not,” she whispered.
“Never.” Growing serious, he stepped away. “Remember what I have said.”
Blossoms sprouted from her heart. She wanted to sing, come back, come back, don’t stray very far, your bread will be in the oven. Her head was in the stars. But this was not the time to discuss their kiss, or its intentions, for too many men lingered nearby. They had plenty of time to talk later. “Don’t I always heed your wisdom?” Save, maybe once.
Othniel hesitated before dipping his trowel into the mortar. “Bring me that meal.” His dark-eyed focus on her was like a welcome caress.
“I will bring the best.” Well, the best she could make. And the sooner she returned home, the sooner her laborers would eat. She remembered Telem and Jehuliel, offering them water before racing around the crumbling corner and down an alley toward home.
Little more than an hour later, Adah carried bread to the worksite. The warmth of the loaf seeped through the linen, and into her hands. Stew would be served later, but she managed to add a few raisin cakes from her father’s provisions to the basket she carried. With the dew of the morning snatched away, all she heard was the scritch of Telem’s cutting blade, a sound that had grown as soothing to her as a gracefully strummed harp.
She searched for Othniel. He was not in sight.
“Where is Othniel?” she asked her master mason.
Telem halted his shaping. His eyes grew wide as melons as he beheld her basket. He bent forward and sniffed the air. “Surely, that is not all for the boy.” He called for Jehu and Jehuliel to join him.
“Of course you may have some, but I promised Othniel I would bring bread.” On tip-toe, she peeked over Telem’s shoulder for her friend.
“You made this?” Telem’s eyebrows arched as he lifted the cloth.
“Judith helped.”
The brothers charged her. “I do not care who made it. I would sneak it from the enemy.” Jehu lined up behind Telem.
The men jostled her arm as they helped themselves to her bread.
Adah glanced beyond the wall. “Did he take the mule to fetch another rock?”
“Othniel,” she huffed. Give a man some food to fill his belly and his mind empties.
Telem shrugged. “I have not seen him for a while. Maybe he sleeps.”
She offered the first raisin cake to Jehu since his cloak was her disguise, but her worry centered on Othniel. “We talked earlier and he did not mention taking a break.”
“I saw him head east shortly after you left.” Jehu bit into a sweet cake and swallowed hard. “I thought you sent him on an errand.”
“He lives that direction.” She secured the remaining food. “I will bring his meal to his house.” Giddiness drained from her body. During her baking, she’d envisioned her friend’s face alive with surprise. “Maybe his mother needs him to help barter in the markets this morning.”
“Tell the boy to hurry back. We have not seen the last of our enemies. A higher wall will give us cover.” Telem patted his stomach and smacked his lips. “Tell your sister I am thankful for her food.”
“Not mine?” She smirked at her mason and gave the pitch pot a one-armed stir. “I will be back soon.”
Telem held up a bucket of limestone. “I hope with the boy.”
She hoped so too. She turned and headed toward Othniel’s house.
Avoiding scaffolding, strewn tools, and laborers toiling on the wall, she headed north, and up a hill before crossing the straight street to the Horse Gate. She scanned the merchant booths but didn’t see Othniel or his mother. Oh, how she wanted Othniel to taste her bread. He could eat his fill for his faithfulness. He had paid for the price of her pearled perfume jar tenfold. All without a complaint. He rarely returned home, preferring to sleep with Telem and the brothers near the fire and washing vessels.
As she neared Zipporah’s house, a haunting wail, long and grief-stricken erupted from the home. With a hand over her basket, Adah sprinted toward the door. Did Othniel hurt himself this morning? Is that why he’d left his labors? Surely no raiders had returned to the fields. If they had, the city would be in an uproar.
Without a single knock, she burst through the door. No mat or woven rug stopped her slide. The inside of Othniel’s home felt as withered as his grape vines.
Zipporah sat slumped on the floor, two daughters-in-law at her side. The women smoothed their mother-in-law’s hair and wiped her tears with their veils. Othniel’s younger brother, Micaiah, huddled in the corner, hands over his ears.
Adah flung her basket on the dining table and knelt before Zipporah. The mother had not been this distraught facing a sword-wielding enemy.
“What has happened? Tell me your troubles.” Adah clasped one of Zipporah’s hands between her own. Only a throb from her injury greeted her compassion.
Tears streamed down the older woman’s cheeks. “My son is gone.”
A chill swept over Adah’s skin. Oh, Lord, not Othniel. She wouldn’t entertain such a thought. Zipporah had many sons. Many who worked far out in the fields. “Who is gone?”
Zipporah’s chest heaved. She sniffled and tried to cover her face with her free hand. No name came forth.
“My brother, Othniel.” The weak and hesitant reply came from the corner.
Adah released Zipporah’s hand and whipped around, settling onto the floor while balancing her weight with one hand. Micaiah rocked forward, his arms wrapped tight around his knees. Unspent tears glistened in his eyes. “My brother is gone and he isn’t coming home.”
She flinched. It wasn’t true. Her arms trembled as she tried to brace herself from falling flat onto the barren floor. She had seen Othniel a few hours ago. How could he be gone without a single word, a single goodbye, a single kiss? Othniel had been with her since the beginning, believing she could fulfill her vow when others mocked her labors. She wouldn’t let him slip away without sharing her gratitude and her love. They had begun this project together, and they would finish it side by side.
Adah rounded on Zipporah. “Where has he gone?”
Zipporah’s chest shuddered with pent up grief. “My Othniel,” she sobbed.
He’s my Othniel.
In her most official sounding voice, Adah commanded, “Tell me now.”
16
“I tried, Adah. Truly, I tried to keep my son.” Zipporah rocked back and forth. Her daughters-in-law did little to still her movements. “Without the rain, there were no grapes to make into wine and no olives to press into oil. What can I sell? My storeroom is empty of wares.”
Adah perched on her knees, willing Zipporah to answer her question. “Where is he now?” Faster and faster her heart raced. She desired to know more, needed to know more. With every delay, Othniel traveled farther from the city.
The tearful mother reached out and grasped Adah’s hands. “We had no more money to give. My husband waited as long as he could.”
“For what?” Pressure in Adah’s chest felt as though it would burst her lungs.
“Othniel is to labor so we have silver to pay our taxes.” Zipporah’s fervent grip pained Adah’s injured palm. “We have to keep our land.”
“The deal has been struck,” a daughter-in-law confirmed.
“No!” Adah’s denial came out harsh as a lash. She drew back. Othniel was gone to settle a debt? “This cannot be. He is building with my family. Here in Jerusalem.” Her gaze swiveled from mother to daughters-in-law, but their expressions remained steadfast. “I must go to him. Tell me where he is.”
“He is gone. He cannot return.” Zipporah’s countenance sobered. Her marketplace prowess overshadowed her mourning. “My husband arranged for an early payment so Rephaiah cannot threaten our lands. Our taxes are paid for the time being.”
Would Zipporah sell another son? There had to be a better way. Nehemiah came to rebuild the city and call her people home. Not send them away. Reasoning raced through Adah’s mind. “Your son escorted my mother and I all over these lands. Why didn’t you seek out me or my father?”
“Who has your father helped?” Zipporah’s face wrinkled with accusation. “Has Shallum forgiven payments?”
Heat flashed from Adah’s chest into her cheeks. “My father is a righteous man.”
Zipporah wiggled free from her daughters-in-law. “So is my husband. We have the same number of sons and daughters to feed with half our land and a meager harvest. The officials are not blind to our struggles, but their hearts are as hard as the soil.”
“May it not be so?” Adah’s knees became like chaff. She had witnessed the distress of the landowners, but only God could send rain—not an official. “This drought has caused many good people to suffer.”
“Some more than others.” Whether she meant them to or not, Zipporah’s words cast judgment.
Adah’s temples throbbed. Had her own mother’s blindness distracted her family? When she met Zipporah’s stare, Adah’s heart pinched. “Please forgive me if I have caused you pain. But tell me where your son has gone, for I did not say my Shalom and I have brought him food I had promised for his labors. May he not go hungry again.”
Shaking her head, Zipporah pressed her lips together. “You are an official’s daughter. I will not be responsible for sending you out of the city after the encounter we had with the rider.”
“I am going with or without your assistance.” She did not turn her face from Zipporah but inwardly willed the mother’s heart to soften. “Do not make me search in vain. For I will not stop until I find him.”
“Girl, there is nothing you can do.” Tears threatened to spill anew from Zipporah’s eyes. “The money is gone. My son must repay it with the labor of his hands.”
“I can show him I care. That I am not blind to his hardship.” She met his mother’s swollen-eyed gaze. “Or yours.”
Zipporah nodded. “My son…” a sob swallowed her response. “He traveled through the east gate, into the valley.”
Blowing out a gale-wind breath, Adah leaned forward and kissed the grieving woman’s veil. She recognized a familiar yet faint aroma of dust and as
h. “Toda raba, my friend.”
“Take our mule.” The offer was uttered like a final plea. Zipporah struggled to rise. “He has been fed.”
But not your son? Adah remembered the indentations under Othniel’s ribs. She rallied compassion for Zipporah, but every muscle tensed. Othniel’s parents had sold him like a slave. Could she forgive them? Could she forgive herself for standing around and watching his undoing? God give me wisdom. How do I make this right? Her stomach soured. What if she couldn’t?
Micaiah marched to Adah’s side. “I will harness the mule and go with you.”
She cast a glance at his mother for approval.
“He may go. He was asleep when his brother left.” Zipporah wiped the wetness from her face. “At least I can say I provided an escort if your father challenges my discretion.”
Basket grabbed and two feet from the door, Adah said, “I will pray for you and your household. You have suffered more than most. Now pray Othniel is weary of foot and my mule is fleet of hoof.”
17
Micaiah pressed the basket against Adah’s back as she guided the mule eastward, out of the city, through the valley, and in the direction of Hebron. Zipporah did not reveal Othniel’s final destination, or if he would complete his journey in one day or many. Adah prayed he would stop in the border city before leaving the land promised to their forefathers.
She clenched the reins and did not flinch at the slight burn beneath her bandaged hand. How could Othniel’s father agree to years of servitude for his son? If Othniel had shared his plight, she would have petitioned the rulers for a lighter tax burden. Why did men have to be so proud?
“Look for any lone travelers,” she said to Micaiah. Lord, help me find my friend.
While the mule clopped onward, she willed Othniel to appear. He had to be found. She scanned the people on the road, searching for the confident, easy gait she had grown accustomed to having at her side.
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