by Mary Burns
That was his last mistake.
I saw Nathan’s face contorted in horror as he shouted, “No!” but I could not hear the word. It was as if all sound, all breath, all movement had been sucked into a void. We watched in helpless terror, unable to move. The blue cloth that covered the Ark and the badger skins beneath slipped off as Uzzah pulled at them, trying to regain his balance. The sunlight hit the golden wings of the cherubim with a blinding flash, and the gleaming Ark was so bright I had to close my eyes, though I longed to see it.
We heard a tremendous crack and a bolt of blue flame descended upon the spot, as if a star had fallen from the sky. Uzzah fell upon the ground, a dead man.
No one moved. No one breathed. We were a tableau of stone figures, rooted to the ground. Around us the countryside was silent as the wave of power swept across the land.
From the far end of the procession, behind the Ark, we heard shouting. I turned toward the sound and saw my father leap upon his horse and ride to where we stood, stunned and unbelieving. He took in the scene at a glance, slid off his horse, and grabbing hold of the nearest man, set him bodily into the position Uzzah had fallen from, placing the golden pole on the man’s shoulder, all without a word spoken. Without touching the Ark, he threw the blue cloth and the badgers’ skins across it, concealing its brilliant, deadly glory.
Then he knelt by Uzzah’s body and tenderly gathered him in his arms. He stood, holding my cousin like a sacrifice, tears streaming down his cheeks. It made me think of Father Abraham, offering his son Isaac to the Lord, only this time no angel’s hand had stretched forth to hold back the instrument of death.
Other people started coming to their senses and stepped forward to take the body from my father’s arms. Some of the women began to weep and wail, lamenting and pulling their hair. I wanted to shout aloud, “Do not weep! Do not grieve! Justly has he been punished for his wickedness!” But I held my tongue. This was neither the time nor the place.
“My lord, what shall we do?” Abiathar came running up to David, his eyes huge. “What shall we do? Shall we continue with the procession?”
David looked around at the frightened people, the burned spot on the ground where Uzzah’s body had fallen, and then at Nathan, still standing in position at the front corner of the Ark. I saw Nathan shake his head, his eyes closed for a moment. Then my father turned to me.
“Janaia, what should we do? Surely we cannot bring the Ark into the City after this dreadful event. The Lord HaShem has punished Uzzah for daring to touch the Holy Ark. But is it safe to harbor the Ark of the Lord after this? There is some great mystery here. How can we reconcile the Lord to us?”
I looked into my father’s bewitching eyes, anguished now and lost. A wild joy at the vengeance taken on my behalf filled me, and I spoke to him, low so no one but he could hear, but with a voice of power that I drew from deep within me. “Three times thirty days must pass before the Ark is moved again. Erect the tent of the Ark here, on this spot, and bury Uzzah here, along the road, with a marker of Perez-Uzzah—the Outbreak Upon Uzzah—so all will know and remember the terrible wrath of the Lord when His Ark is dishonored. After the ninety days, we will return and carry the Ark into Jerusalem, and all will be well.”
My father looked at me with a strange wonder in his face. Then he inclined his head slightly, acquiescing—to me! Nay, I thought, suddenly humbled, to the power of the Lord working through me that brought us all to this moment, this intersection of truth and justice, of good and evil, of power and weakness. I was ashamed of the joy I felt when Uzzah was killed, for it made me no better than any of the men I always blamed for striking out in passion or vengeance. The death of Uzzah was a sign to us all, and an epiphany to me, of the power of the One who holds each of us in His hand.
Chapter 24
“And to the day of her death Michal, the daughter of Saul,
had no children.” 2 Samuel 6:23
The return journey was somber, even desolate, but I hid well within my heart the turmoil into which I had been thrown. My old friend Didymos’ whispered words, so long ago, about the power of life and death that dwelt in the writing of words—in the very letters themselves—had become manifest this terrible, awful, triumphant day! I felt stricken with guilt, even though Uzzah had deserved his coward’s death—but that death had come, in a very direct way, from my hands. I shuddered as I began to grasp what it might mean to wield such power consciously, knowingly—and then to bear the responsibility for its consequences.
I wasn’t at all sure I was ready for that, or that I even wanted it.
My heart was heavy as we rode in silence back to Jerusalem; there was no one to whom I could speak a word of what was on my mind.
Messengers had gone on ahead to announce the incredible news to the people who had remained in town, and who then lined the roads to see if there was anything to be seen. But as we had left the Ark in a tent at Kirjath-Jearim, and buried Uzzah on the spot where he fell, there was nothing but we weary ones returning. Nonetheless, the storytellers were already making a fine profit, as people throughout the city flocked to the marketplace to hear the tale, and enhance it with gossip and speculation.
I immediately went to my own room, telling Alaya, who had accompanied me on the journey, to leave me in peace. All I wanted was silence, and time alone.
But I was greeted with chaos and dismay instead: someone had turned the room upside down while I was gone. Baskets had been upended, clothes were strewn everywhere, and the little vials of perfume that decorated my dressing table were smashed on the stone flags of the garden. I saw my beautiful red silk dress, a recent present from my father, torn to shreds on the floor. Someone had not only searched, but destroyed my things with venomous hatred. My first thought was Uzzah, but that was impossible, of course. Then, Michal. She had stayed behind with no good excuse, and the viciousness of the destruction seemed to fit.
Panic seized me as I rushed to the great wooden chest where my writing instruments were hidden in the tray beneath the blankets. The lid was closed, but when I opened it and shoved the blankets aside, I saw that the false bottom had been removed, and all my implements and scrolls were gone.
I sank to the floor in a sudden slump, the breath gone out of me. Uzzah had seen everything last night when he came to my room, though he hadn’t known where they were hidden. He must have told someone, though, and that someone had to be Michal. I remembered how I had seen the looks exchanged between them, and watched them talking together that day in the marketplace. There was an intimacy there, I could see that now, beyond a simple acquaintance. And she was set on ruining my reputation to enhance hers, in the eyes of my father and the people.
What was she planning to do now? Would she try to blackmail me too, or simply expose me to the fear and superstitions of the townspeople, who would demand that David … what? Have me banished? Or killed? I wasn’t able to think straight, and so sat staring into the dark spaces of my destroyed room, rocking myself in my arms, and keening softly.
When Alaya came to my room later that night, with a timid knock on the door, she found me just attempting to rise from the floor, where I had fallen into a trance-like sleep. I swore her to secrecy, and she promised with trembling lips. She was a woman of Judah, and I trusted her. Her dismay and concern for me, overcoming her fright, gave me comfort as she led me to my bed and helped me undress. She warmed some wine and made me drink it as I burrowed deeper into the covers, and I fell asleep at last to the quiet sounds of her moving about the room, setting all to rights. By the morning, except for the lingering smell of the spilled perfume, everything was as it had been.
Except that I knew what was missing, and there was dread in my heart at what I must face. As soon as I could, I would go to my father, and tell him everything.
But first, I wanted to speak with Nathan. I sent Alaya to him with a message at first light, and he came almost immediately.
* * *
“He came here, to your room, and tried to r
ape you?”
Nathan’s face was a mirror of the horror in my own as I tried to put into words the ordeal I had endured two nights before.
We were sitting side-by-side on the low bench in the alcove in my room, where the windows overlooked the courtyard far below. The morning was fine and warm, and the events of the last few days were already beginning to fade like a nightmare that slowly disperses upon awakening.
“This is my fault,” he said abruptly. “I should have seen this was going to happen.” He looked at me sorrowfully. “I could have prevented this! I should have listened more carefully to Abiathar’s interpretation of the stones!”
“What are you talking about?” I was really puzzled; then it struck me. The white jewel—purity and innocence betrayed! And the black stone—the death of a wicked man. Nathan saw that I comprehended his speech and nodded tersely. I countered his self-blame quickly.
“Neither Abiathar nor I understood that prophecy,” I protested. “You cannot blame yourself.”
He began to speak again, but I cut him off.
“But you do not know how truly evil Uzzah was,” I said.
“What do you mean? How could he do worse than offer such harm to you?” Nathan, for once, was more inclined to talk than listen. “The wonder is that he didn’t go through with his attack on you.” He looked at me more closely. “Or did he exact some other payment?”
I nodded, looking down.
“He said he knew that I had learned the skill and magic of writing, and that he would tell everyone about it, tell them I was a witch, if I didn’t do what he asked.” It suddenly occurred to me that I did not know how, exactly, he had gained this knowledge about me; but I put the thought aside for the moment.
Nathan was silent now, waiting.
“He said he had heard there was great power in”—my voice dropped to a whisper—“The Name. And he wanted me to write it down so he could use it.”
Tears came to my eyes. “I was weak, because he hit me, and I felt . . . confused and overwhelmed.” Tears flowed down my cheeks. “I wrote the four letters of The Name for him, and he went away, threatening to come back soon to finish what he’d started.”
I was crying in earnest now, the terror of that night coming back to me in stark relief—his smell, his breath, the weight of him upon me, my fear and anger. “I knew I could not write down the Name—I would die on the instant—so I made one little change to the last letter, but still, it was wrong, and weak, to even give Uzzah anything at all!” I took a deep, shuddering breath. “But I wanted, I hoped, somehow, they would bring him to grief, and they did!”
Nathan took me in his arms and held me while I wept, soothing me with words and kisses.
“There, there, it doesn’t matter, you only did what you could do,” he murmured. “My brave girl, such courage!” I felt the comfort of his words and gradually ceased weeping. He held me at arm’s length and looked at me seriously.
“Writing the four letters is not completely forbidden, it’s just not very advisable,” he said. “You didn’t write the actual Name anyway, so you have done nothing wrong.” Smiling slightly, he added, “And as you see, HaShem can take care of Himself, eh?”
I smiled faintly, glad that I had told him all, and wondered anew at the prophecy of the stones. I remembered Abiathar’s words at the time.
“But what about the red jewel, that Abiathar said would be ‘blood shed in violation of God’s will’?” I thought about it. “There was no blood shed when Uzzah died, so it must be something else.”
Just then there came a knock on the door, and before we could do more than look up, the door opened and my father walked into the room.
* * *
“You’re telling me he attacked you, here, in your own room, here, in my very house?”
With words echoing Nathan’s own, my father strode about the room in a fury, flinging the odd chair into a corner and hitting his fist against the pillars. “By God, if he were not already dead, he would die a thousand deaths, and at my hand!” He stopped suddenly, struck. “And I wept for him, I actually wept for him, the traitor! That he should offer such an insult to his King!”
Nathan and I exchanged glances, and watched the King as he paced around the high-ceilinged chamber. I had never seen him so angry, and frankly, though I found it a bit gratifying, I was, indeed, weary of violence and anger. There is a sense of exhilaration in such feelings in the moment, as I well knew, but what I longed for was a quiet haven of peace and tranquility, not the heady rush of power, nor the transports of revenge. Nathan pressed my hand in silent sympathy. A sudden thought seemed to come to my father.
“How did he gain entrance to your room? Surely he could not think to just walk in, unseen by anyone?” He narrowed his gaze momentarily at me.
This was the question I dreaded, and yet, he must know the truth.
“This room,” I said, “has a hidden door and a secret staircase, that leads from the store rooms below.”
“How could Uzzah have discovered this secret?”
I answered him with another question.
“Whose room was this before it was given to me?”
My father frowned at my indirect response, then he glanced around the room as if seeing it for the first time. I could almost see his thoughts scanning the vast knowledge he held of people and places, and then light upon the truth.
“Michal.” His tone was ominously quiet, and he passed a hand over his face, as if to erase all remnant of her in his mind.
“The whole city, the whole nation, shall know of their treachery,” my father vowed, renewing his furious pacing, and then coming to a halt in front of us. “I shall banish her to the country, and Uzzah shall be dishonored as he deserves. Everyone will know that the Lord struck him down justly.”
I heard him with alarm. I didn’t want anyone else to know that Uzzah had attacked me, or that I had written down the four letters of the Name for him. It was still of the utmost importance that my ability to write should remain a secret. And his attack on me—people would not understand, and they would blame me, I knew. As for Michal’s punishment, well, that was her own doing. Before half these thoughts ran through my head, Nathan spoke.
“My King, the people do not need an explanation of God’s justice,” he said. His voice was even but firm. “The Lord does what He does, and people do not question His reasons. They will assume, and rightly so, that Uzzah was justly punished because he did what is forbidden—he touched the Ark. And besides,” he added, pressing my hand again, “we cannot put Janaia in danger of such exposure to the ignorance and prejudices of the common people. There will always be those who would consider her dishonored, though she is blameless.”
His measured statement seemed to give my father pause, and he looked steadily at Nathan, then at me. He appeared struck with a new thought, and the mere glimmer of a smile touched his lips. I felt a flush rise to my neck and face.
“So be it, then,” my father said, his voice gracious, a full smile on his face now. He leaned forward and placed his hand on top of ours, still clasped together, as if giving us a blessing. “I shall be guided by my two wise prophets.” He paused a moment, then said with a return of severity, “I shall deal with Michal myself.”
“But she is pregnant!” The words burst from me before I could stop myself. I held my breath when I saw the look on my father’s face.
“Then it is not my child,” he said, his voice like ice. “For I have never yet lain with her since her arrival in Hebron.”
I was astonished, and it took a few moments for this to sink in. “So, she has been lying all this time,” I said, half to myself. I remembered what Ahinoam had told me, and the last link fell into place. “It must have been Uzzah.”
“All the more reason for him to be dead,” my father said.
The three of us were quiet for the space of several breaths.
“There is one more thing for you to hear, father,” I said. I told him then about my room having
been searched, and then forced myself to say the hardest part. Although I knew my father was aware of my reading and writing, we had rarely talked about it openly.
“I believe Michal is responsible for this, and now, if she actually has my writing instruments and scrolls in her possession, I fear she has plans to discredit me, and bring dishonor to you.” I looked him full in the eyes as I said this; I wanted to know the worst.
My father was silent, his eyes intent on mine.
“She is fully capable of such a deed,” he said at last. He began to pace the room again with the lion’s prowl that showed how dangerous a man he could be.
“She shall choose her own fate,” he said abruptly. “She can be tried and convicted of adultery, in which case she will be cast out into the desert, or she can surrender what she stole from you, and swear silence, and I will allow her to live in comfort.” He smiled grimly. “In Ziklag.”
With that, he turned and left the room. His dynamic presence had seemed to enlarge the space itself, and with his sudden exit, the very air trembled as the room shrank back to normal proportions.
Feeling suddenly awkward and self-conscious, I gently pulled my hand away from Nathan’s, and shifted in my seat a little to be further from him, turning my gaze out the window.
“Janaia.” Nathan spoke my name softly. When I did not answer, he took my hand. “Dear Janaia, what is it?”
“I—I don’t know,” I said, still not looking at him. “Everything that has happened … it’s overwhelming. I don’t know what I want, I don’t know what God wants me to do!” I put my face in my hands, and I could no longer hold back the tears. With great, wrenching sobs, I collapsed into his arms. He soothed me with kisses and gentle caresses until the storm inside me had passed.
“Janaia,” he said again. He turned my face to look at him. “Do you love me?”
His was a beloved face to me, there was no question, and so I said, “Yes, Nathan.”