J: The Woman Who Wrote the Bible

by Mary Burns

  I went to visit my mother one day early in the fourth month of my pregnancy. I had been feeling much better; in fact, I was feeling remarkably well and strong. My mother had fallen ill when Amnon had been killed and became worse with the news of Absalom’s death; although Maacah was his mother, he had been a general favorite, and particularly beloved by all the wives. Her old maid, Aloheth, had died while I was away, and she had a new woman to attend her, in addition to Ahinoam, whom she loved.

  My mother’s room was in a small tower at one end of the house, and her bed was raised on a platform, so she could see out the window from where she lay. There was a fine view of the hills and groves of olive trees—a peaceful sight, the harmony of earth and tree and sky.

  “Dear Mother,” I said, kissing her forehead. “How are you feeling today?”

  Her soft brown eyes regarded me lovingly, then a sharper focus came into them.

  “I am well enough, Janaia,” she said. She looked at me a long time, as if memorizing my face, then she raised a thin hand and touched my cheek. “How is it with you, daughter?”

  The question was ordinary enough, but my intuition told me it was barbed. I chose to ignore it for the time being.

  “I want you to cast the stones for me, Mother,” I said abruptly, but in a low voice. Her eyes widened. I had never asked her this before; she knew my own powers were such I never required any one else’s seeing for me.

  She looked at me searchingly but did not question me. She motioned for her woman to leave us alone, and then bade me go to the small chest on a table nearby. I opened it and found the little silken bag of stones, the cloth worn thin over the years, and the stones inside feeling smooth and slightly heavy in my hand. I brought them to her and helped her to sit up a little straighter on the pillows.

  She cast the stones on the blanket, and I watched her face as she contemplated their arrangement. This form of seeing was not one I had pursued, so I did not understand how to read the disposition of the stones or their colors and relation to each other. There were five in all, one white, one black, one rusty red, one dull gray, and one a smooth, shining silver, teardrop-shaped and cool to the touch.

  After a little while, my mother drew a deep breath, and sat back against the pillows. Her eyes were closed now, and she spoke softly, without opening her eyes.

  “Four lives are in the balance now, and one death. A child of mystery will be born and will rule the people with strength and justice. God’s will works through all, in their choosing and their not-choosing, in their knowing and their ignorance.”

  Her words were chilling to me, and as I watched her, she fell into a deep sleep. I gathered up the stones and put the bag back into the box on the table. Then I sat by my mother’s side until she woke up again.

  She greeted me as if for the first time that day.

  She remembered nothing of what had just happened.

  Chapter 33

  “It happened towards evening when David had risen from

  his couch and was strolling on the palace roof, that he saw

  from the roof a woman bathing; the woman was very

  beautiful.” 2 Samuel 11:2

  Ihad yet to meet Bathsheba, and I wanted to, very much. I felt our lives were linked, and the similarity of our situations—both in our passion and in its results—made me feel there was something greater here at work than I could yet grasp. My mother’s cryptic prophecy strengthened this sense in me. Not only our lives, but perhaps more importantly, the babes we carried in our wombs seemed to be inextricably linked.

  Bathsheba kept to herself a great deal, not mixing with the other women, and since I was seldom in their quarters, there had not been an opportunity to even see her. But with a little determination and the help of the maids, I had arranged to “accidentally” meet her in a small garden she frequented, inside the women’s enclave, but one the other women did not visit often. As I approached the archway that led to this garden, I paused a moment to look for her, and I saw her sitting on a bench, her hands idle in her lap, simply gazing into an array of autumn flowers.

  She was indeed beautiful. I had never seen any woman so graceful, even sitting perfectly still as she was. Her skin was caramel and roses, her hair dark and lustrous. She sat in profile, and the lashes on her cheek were long and full. She was very young, I thought, more than ten years younger than I. No wonder my father fell hard for her.

  I stepped inside the garden and she turned immediately. A look of uncertainty clouded her face. Well, she had never seen me, so why would she know who I was?

  “Forgive me,” I said, trying to sound easy and calm. “I have never been in this garden before; I hope I am not intruding.”

  She rose from the bench, as graceful as I had expected, and bowed her head slightly. She started to walk toward a doorway on the other side.

  “Oh, please don’t go!” I cried. “I didn’t mean to make you leave, and I—” I sought words that might make her stay. “I have so long wanted to meet you.”

  She turned back. She had not yet said a word.

  I walked toward her, slowly, as one might approach a baby deer or kid that might bound away at a sudden movement. I could see the swelling of her belly, so much more prominent than mine, but she stood straight, her elegant neck rising like a lily from its leaves.

  “I am Janaia, David’s eldest daughter,” I said.

  Her eyes grew wide, and she immediately bowed to me.

  “No, no, no,” I said. “No need for that, my dear.” She made me feel so old!

  I took her hand and led her back to the bench.

  “I know who you are,” I said. “But won’t you speak, and tell me your name yourself?”

  She smiled then, a sad smile I thought.

  “I am Bathsheba,” she said. There were tears in her eyes. “I am the cause of all the trouble the King has suffered.”

  This startled me. I had not expected her to feel the weight of my father’s sin so personally.

  “You are quite wrong, child,” I said firmly, authority in my voice. “The King brought his troubles on his own head, and the Lord has seen fit to send a punishment to him.”

  She looked at me in cautious wonder. I could read her so easily; everything she thought or felt was immediately on her face.

  “But I am not sinless,” she said. “I could not resist him. I fell in love with him as soon as he walked into the room.”

  So she was no simpleton, either. She knew herself and was not afraid to see into the depths. I liked her more and more.

  “Very well,” I said. “Then your sorrow is your punishment. One must live with one’s choices and be responsible for them, regardless of what we think the Lord’s will might be.”

  She looked at me evenly, and I could see hope in her face. Her eyes were dry now.

  “What you say gives me great comfort,” she said. “I have not heard this from any other person, and yet, you have said what I think myself.”

  “Great minds think alike,” I said, smiling at her. “I know we shall be good friends.”

  She smiled back, and leaning close enough so I could smell the rose scent of her fresh youthfulness, I kissed her on her soft cheek.

  We sat and talked for some time, and walked back into the house together arm in arm.

  Chapter 34

  “Then David comforted his wife Bathsheba, and he went

  to her and lay with her. She gave birth to a son, and they

  named him Solomon, the Beloved of the Lord.”

  2 Samuel 12:24

  As winter came on, Bathsheba’s time drew near. It was still nearly a month shy of what I had calculated would be the birth date of my own child. As if by divine blindness, no one seemed to notice I was pregnant. Even my maid, faithful Alaya, seemed fooled by the chicken's blood I smeared on cloths every month, as if my courses still ran. I kept to my rooms and stayed away from my mother, as she was somewhat recovered now, and more like her old self. I was convinced she knew my secret, but I als
o knew she would tell no one.

  Late one afternoon on a dreary day in mid-winter, Alaya told me that Bathsheba had gone into labor earlier that day. I wanted to go to her but feared I would not be able to conceal my own condition while watching the birth of her child. I knew she would be well cared for.

  Soon after dinner, when I had sent Alaya away for the night, my water broke, and labor pains began. I panicked—what was I to do? Whom could I call upon for help? Would the child be born here, so early in its term, with no one but myself to care for it? I had not been conscious during the still-born birth of my first child, and had been delirious for so long after, that no memory of what occurred had remained with me. I tried to remember what I had learned during the births I had witnessed over the years, but I had spent so much of my time studying, they were not many.

  I had no sooner laid down upon my bed, the pains thrusting inside me, when the door opened and my mother walked in silently, accompanied by Ahinoam. They brought with them towels and linens, oils and medicine. Ahinoam built up the fire against the cold, and set a pot of water to steaming on the hearth.

  My heart leaped with joy! She did know, after all, and somehow, she knew to come to me tonight. I thanked God over and over, in between the sharp pains, and clutched my mother’s hand as she stood over me, cooling my face with a lavender-scented cloth. After seeing to the preparations, Ahinoam left the room. She, I learned later, was chiefly attending Bathsheba that night.

  My trial was intense but brief. A few hours after it began, a small, perfect baby boy came into my world. My mother’s face reflected my own joy and gratitude as she handed me the newly washed child to lay upon my breast.

  Ahinoam now returned, a grim, sad look on her face. She and my mother held a whispered conference away from me, and distracted as I was by the child in my arms, I felt a wave of fear. My mother walked slowly to my side.

  “My darling child,” she said. “The Lord has presented us with a way to give your boy a path in this world, untouched by the misfortune of not knowing his own father.” It was delicately said, but I knew in my heart she was right—he would be an unnamed bastard, shadowed all his life by my passionate sin, unless—

  “What do you mean?” I whispered, holding the babe close.

  “Bathsheba’s child did not survive the birth. A male child, a beautiful boy, but she does not yet know, as she is presently asleep from a potion Ahinoam mixed for her.”

  Tears started in my eyes, and I closed them tight. I didn’t want to give up my child, but I knew it was destined to happen. He was the “one” who was to be made from the “two”—me and Ishmael, my people and his; he was the one who would build the Temple that my mother saw at my birth, and that Nathan’s dream had revealed to my father when we first came to Jerusalem.

  And I heard again my own voice speaking to my father, the day he repented of his sin. “And a son of yours will die, in place of the son this woman will give to you. But this new son will be beloved by me, and I will make him king after you, when you depart to be with your fathers.”

  I opened my eyes, kissed the child on his moist, warm, fuzzy head, and held him in my arms for a last moment.

  “You will see him every day,” my mother urged, tears in her voice. “You will be able to be with him as he grows.”

  I nodded silently, raised my arms, and handed her my child. It was the hardest thing I have ever had to do.

  She left immediately, and Ahinoam stayed with me, helping me to be comfortable, and then she cleaned up my room, whisking away all evidence that anything unusual had happened there that night.

  At midnight, I heard the clamor of chimes and the sound of trumpets, as the heralds proclaimed the news: a son is born to David and Bathsheba, a son they named Solomon Jedediah, Beloved of the Lord.

  Chapter 35

  “Now Adonijah, Haggith’s son, was ambitious; he thought

  he might be king.” 1 Kings 1:5

  Thanks be to God, I did see my son nearly every day. Bathsheba and I were fast friends, and she welcomed my presence and love for her son. I don’t think she ever had the slightest suspicion of the truth. Luckily, the boy looked enough like me to also look like David—especially his eyes, which already had the same miracle of changing color to match his moods.

  But I saw Ishmael in him as well. Even as a child, there was a subtlety, a canniness that my father completely lacked. His intuition was strong, and I watched for signs of prophecy or the Sight as he grew. Solomon learned to read and write at a very early age, which David never had done, but the child was also gifted in composing songs and playing music. I was allowed to be one of his teachers, and that to me was a joy and a delight that grew greater everyday.

  But the happiness I felt in teaching and loving my child was tempered by a loss I soon realized might be permanent: while I still had the gift of Sight, the Lord no longer chose me as His prophetic vessel. I spent many anxious hours pondering this: Was it some kind of punishment? Was I no longer worthy? Or was it simply that I could not have both—my child and the power? I remembered the voice that had come to me in the night at Hebron: “The gifts of the Lord come at a great cost. You can only have one, and someday you will have to choose.”

  When David asked me, as he occasionally did, to help him in the great affairs of his reign, I had only my own intelligence, my own observations of his people and their ways, and the sharpening of my intellect from my studies with Ishmael to offer him— no small contribution, it’s true, but it was not prophecy. Eventually, he turned to the high priests for divination and oracles, although he and I would frequently talk over his councils, as in the old days at Ziklag and Hebron.

  * * *

  Solomon was beyond a doubt my father’s favorite—the beloved son of his old age, for David was in his fifties when Solomon was born, and he never took another wife after Bathsheba. It was soon whispered throughout the court, then in the town, that David had sworn an oath to Bathsheba that Solomon would be king after him. What they didn’t know was that I had urged Bathsheba to make him swear, and I was there when it happened, reminding him of the prophecy I had spoken about the child to be born that the Lord would mark as His favorite.

  And that’s precisely where the trouble with the succession began anew: this youngest son, this prodigy, was apparently to take place of all the sons before him, beginning with my half-brother Adonijah, the third-born son, Ahinoam’s son, and now the eldest after the deaths of Amnon and Absalom. I didn’t need the Sight to foresee the plots, the unrest, the subversion that would begin, as soon as Solomon was old enough to be considered a rival. And I knew I had to prepare to strike when the right moment came.

  * * *

  When Solomon was five years old, my mother died, and my father held an enormous ceremony for her; the funeral procession stretched for miles. Abiathar, as high priest, officiated at the Exposition of the Ark. There seemed to be no trace of his former enmity towards me. It was an old story, I thought, and after Nathan’s death, he had been careful to stay in the King’s good graces. Still, I did not trust him.

  All the people walked in a circle around the Ark, and it took nearly all day, as many people came in from the countryside for so great an occasion. At the end of the day, I stood at my mother’s tomb when they laid her in it, and I felt in my heart that whatever was left of my childhood, my innocence, was now gone with her. As I stood there, dreary, a small hand took hold of mine, and I looked down to see my dear little boy. He looked up at me with eyes that reflected a wisdom older than time, and he patted my hand and kissed it, then stayed by me all the way back to the city.

  * * *

  “Janaia, my dear,” said Solomon, one day when he was nearly eleven, as we studied together in my room. “I think I know why my eyes change color, just like the eyes of the King.” After his baby days, Solomon always referred to David as “the King” and nothing, apparently, could induce him to call him “Father.” He was always indulged in this, and I believe everyone found it char
ming, even my father. “A sign of respect,” he would say, smiling at the boy.

  I had learned not to be surprised by anything that came out of his mouth—he was the most original person I had ever met.

  “Do you indeed?” I said. I put down my pen and gave him my full attention. “And why does it happen, O wise man of Jerusalem?”

  His face was thoughtful as he gazed into space.

  “I believe that the Lord is speaking to us at those moments, those exact moments when our eyes are changing color,” he said. “It is He looking through our own eyes, as if He were inside us. I’ve been paying attention, and with the King, it’s always at a moment of great feeling, when he bursts out in anger or indignation at some injustice, or again, when he looks at someone he loves most dearly.” His eyes were on me. “Like you, for instance.”

  And in that moment, his eyes changed from their usual mild brown to a heavenly sky-blue.

  * * *

  As a youth, Solomon was trained in the art of war, and was a formidable archer and swordsman. He could ride a horse as if it were an extension of his own body, and he seemed to be able to stay strong and vigorous for days without food or drink. Beloved of God indeed!

  The day Solomon turned eighteen, David celebrated with a huge feast for all the family. The wives, sons and daughters, and in some cases, grandchildren too, filled the entire great hall of the king’s house. Among the noisy crowd, I saw my half-brother Adonijah, who was a good ten years senior to Solomon, hanging back along the edges of the room with several of his brothers and cousins. I had heard rumors of their discontent for some time now, and I could see it in their faces.

  And why not? Adonijah had the most legitimate expectation of succeeding his father: he was now the eldest son, and he had proved himself in war and in peace. He had a fine family of his own, sons and daughters, all strong, all spirited, likeable children. But there was no set rule at that time—it was not given that the eldest would naturally be next in line. David himself was proof of that—the youngest of his seven brothers!