by Daron Fraley
“Nate,” Pekah began very abruptly. “I was there on the day my people attacked Hasor. I wanted so badly to stop them, but I could not find the strength to try. I witnessed the murder of innocents. A little boy was killed for no reason.”
Pekah hesitated, and then without regard to what he was saying, he spat out, “I saw other things. The man you killed yesterday, Captain Sachar—I saw him kill the judge. He threw his dagger into the judge’s back, like a coward. That is the knife.” Pekah stiffened, fully expecting some sort of retribution.
How incredibly stupid. I’m alone in the woods with these two, and either one of them could kill me without a second thought.
Nate’s face went pale as he leaned forward to stare at the gilded sheath on the ground. Surprised at himself for what he had confessed, Pekah remained fixed and motionless, pointing at the weapon. Nate was still.
Should he not be angry? The leader of his people was murdered! Why doesn’t he threaten me?
Pekah saw the tears well up in Nate’s eyes, then pour down his cheeks.
“Please excuse me,” was all Nate said. He got up after placing his breakfast on top of his shoulder sack, and left the camp to go sit where he had the previous evening.
Pekah lowered his arm to his side, his eyes once again finding the ground. Grieving, he wiped tears from his face as the stresses of the night began to release.
What was I thinking?
He peeked over to where Eli sat, but did not make eye contact with the Uzzahite.
Eli rose like he was about to get up and follow Nate, perhaps to comfort him, but he did not leave, sitting down again instead.
Pekah set his bread aside. “I don’t understand, Eli. Why was he not angry?”
Eli did not answer, but moved closer. “Pekah,” he said as he sat down, “Nate was not the only person in his family defending Hasor when your army arrived. He has not mentioned it yet, but Nate’s father was killed during the fight. Last evening when Nate and I talked about the fall of Hasor, we shared information with each other about the events of that day. I feel terrible about what has happened to Nate’s father. I have always felt like one of Nate’s family, and I feel his loss as if it were my own.”
Pekah’s chest tightened. Once again, a feeling of intense guilt for his part in the skirmish made him tremble. He folded his arms, his hands squeezed into tight fists.
“And I’m actually quite surprised that you shared the information about the knife and the death of the judge. Pekah, why did you tell him?”
Pekah did not stir, but raised his brows and blinked the water from his eyes.
“Pekah, I need to tell you something. I know of your army’s mission. We had been told by a Danielite spy that the armies of Manasseh were marching, and of the emperor’s intent to capture the judge so they might find his son and either bring him into captivity or kill him. I also know they were searching for the king’s scepter. Is this true?”
Pekah found the strength to speak again. “Yes. Our orders were to find the judge’s son.”
“You didn’t find him, did you?”
“No, we did not. And after what happened in Hasor, I’m glad he was not found.”
Eli smiled. “I, too, am glad.”
They both looked toward the old log in the distance where Nate sat with his bowed head resting in his hands.
“Pekah,” Eli continued in a calm and reassuring voice. “Nate is not just any ordinary Danielite. Nate is, in reality, Jonathan, son of Samuel the Judge of Daniel, true heir to the throne, and now the only living member of his family.”
Pekah’s heart skipped, shocked by Eli’s revelation. He again glanced over to see Nate in the distance. By telling Nate about the blade he had taken from Captain Sachar, Pekah realized he had just thrown a javelin of pain into his new friend’s heart. The old man was Nate’s father?
“Why did I ever pick up Sachar’s weapon?” Pekah moaned.
“War is a terrible thing. Those who started this attempt at conquest are the ones to carry the blame, not you. Try not to let yourself take this burden upon yourself, for the burden is not yours to bear.”
Pekah felt the wisdom of Eli’s words, yet couldn’t accept them. He had personally participated in the battle. The guilt still lingered in his chest.
“Why did you tell Jonathan about the dagger? You could have kept that knowledge to yourself, and not a soul would ever have known what you saw that day.”
Pekah scratched the back of his head. “I couldn’t sleep,” he explained. “I was up all night long with images of death, suffering, and injustice plaguing my mind until I nearly burned with fever. When my detachment attacked Hasor with the rest of the Gideonite army, I immediately felt I did not want to be there. I volunteered to serve the emperor because I believed our peoples would be better served if we were united under one king. I had been told the Danielites were foolishly preparing themselves for war.”
“That is absolutely false!” Eli thundered as he shot to his feet.
Pekah interjected with raised hands. “I know, Eli. It was obvious to me upon entering the village that the Danielite judge had prepared his people for a defense, not for a march on Gideon. I am so sorry my people have caused this great and horrible conflict. Please forgive me. Forgive my people.”
Eli calmed, sighing as he returned to sit on the log. “I, too, am sorry. I’m sorry for all the misunderstandings which have been between our peoples for so long.”
“I don’t think Uzzah and Daniel have the same misunderstandings, do they?”
“No, Uzzah serves all peoples in the temples of our God. Our work is to carry the burdens of many, and we honor the responsibilities of Daniel, our brother. Our hearts are fixed on the same purposes. For the most part, those ‘misunderstandings’ don’t exist.”
Pekah bowed his head and stared at the ground between his brown boots. Then he muttered, “I need to fix this.” He stirred the dirt with a stick, making lines and intersecting circles.
“You are the first . . .” Eli started. He shook his head in disbelief.
“The first?”
“Yes, Pekah. You are the first Gideonite I have met in a long, long time who felt any remorse for the occasional wars which break out between our peoples. I want you to know that I am sorry for the people of Gideon who have suffered all of these years with the choices of your leaders. Perhaps, someday, your people and my people will both find peace.”
Pekah said nothing. Instead, he stared up into the dark blue sky visible between the branches above, wondering about the turn of events. Just yesterday he had been leading this Uzzahite in chains. Yet today, Eli felt sympathy for the plight of the Gideonite people, after being led by a rope like a dumb ox? He shook his head.
As he stared heavenward, he noticed a brightly colored bird in the trees, singing as if in a duet with the bubbly stream nearby. A pop from the campfire sent the bird on its way. Pekah turned to see Eli watching Nate . . . Jonathan, who still sat on the log away from the camp.
He wondered what Jonathan would do when he returned. Memories of the short skirmish the previous evening made a lump rise in his throat. There would be no possible way for him to win a match or duel with Jonathan if it came to blows. The very thought of having to defend himself against the Danielite made his heart race. He turned back to the fire, picked up a twig, and played with a dying coal.
When Jonathan finally wandered back to the camp, Pekah prepared himself for a stinging rebuke from the Danielite. But the rebuke did not come. Jonathan went straight to where he had slept the previous night, stooping to retrieve the dagger. Pekah was shocked that he touched it.
“Would you come with me?” Jonathan said with kindness, offering his other hand.
Pekah peered at him in disbelief, but took his hand and was lifted. Jonathan patted Pekah’s shoulder firmly. He felt fear course through him like a gust of wind, but gazed into Jonathan’s eyes and saw no malice there. Still, he shuddered as he followed the Danielite toward the stream,
leaving Eli at the campfire. Jonathan glanced back once, but did not invite the Uzzahite to join them. Arriving at the water’s edge, Jonathan turned to face him. Pekah was sure Eli wouldn’t be able to hear them above the bubble of the stream, and for a fleeting instant, wondered if his own safety was in jeopardy.
“Pekah, thank you for telling me about the dagger.” Jonathan’s calm demeanor was unnerving.
How can this be possible? If I were him, wouldn’t I be furious?
“I want you to know,” Jonathan continued, “I’m sorry for the contention between our peoples. If there is anything I can do to repair the brotherhood between Gideon and Daniel, I will do it.” Jonathan’s hand hung loose at his side, holding the dagger more like it was a string of glass beads than a weapon.
“You are interested in repairing? How can you be . . . I mean, why are you not angry?”
“Angry? Yes, at first, I admit I was. But then I remembered how my father was always able to remain calm.”
“How would he have felt if you had been the one killed? Surely he would have been incensed.”
“I know he would have grieved. But my father was one of the kindest men I ever knew, Pekah. Quick to forgive, never held a grudge. Certainly not perfect, but he was not an angry man. He was always able to let go of those types of feelings.”
“So you just decided not to let hate and rage take over?” Pekah said, incredulous. He laughed as he picked up a small rock and tossed it into the nearby stream.
“Yes, it’s a choice. Out of revenge, I could kill you . . .”
Pekah flinched, stepped back, and eyed the dagger.
“ . . . or, I could repair the breach. This dagger,” Jonathan said as he lifted it higher, “was a tool used to separate and destroy. It separated me from the love and companionship of my father. It killed him.” He paused. “The chief judge was my father.”
“I know,” Pekah blurted out, regretting it immediately.
“You know?”
“Yes. Eli just told me.”
Jonathan glanced at his friend by the fire and half-smiled. “Perhaps this dagger can also be a tool to unite and repair,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
Jonathan had a faraway look in his eyes. The stress and tension of the situation seemed to dissipate into the cool morning air, joining the thin fog rising from the morning dew. Pekah wondered what Jonathan was thinking.
“This weapon brought us together. We now have an opportunity to turn a tragedy into something better. You and me. We can end this war.”
Pekah almost snickered. “You’re crazy. What can I do to end a war? These things are above me.” He cannot be serious. Yet the grave expression on Jonathan’s face told Pekah he truly believed it.
“It has to stop somewhere, does it not? A war doesn’t end all at once. It ends when every participant decides to stop fighting. But the end starts with the decision of just one.” Jonathan knelt down in front of Pekah, unsheathed the blade, and used it to dig in the sandy dirt near the stream. “The covenant you made with me last evening . . .” he said while digging. “Are you prepared to make another?” He did not look up, but continued to scoop out dirt.
“What manner of covenant?” Pekah asked.
“An oath of peace,” Jonathan said with a smile on his face. “I am Jonathan, son of Samuel, a descendant of Daniel. I will never attack or provoke the people of Gideon, unless I am attacked first. I will only defend. You have my promise that I will do all I can to end this war. Will you do the same?”
Pekah’s chest tightened at Jonathan’s request. Yet, for the first time in many hours, he felt hope replacing his fear and guilt. Gideon could live in peace with Daniel and Uzzah. And he could decide for himself.
“You have my promise. I will do no less.”
“Thank you, Pekah.” Jonathan returned to digging.
When Pekah fell to his knees in order to assist, Jonathan sheathed the blade and set it aside, and with bare hands, the two of them worked together to enlarge the hole. The pit was now about a foot deep. Jonathan picked up the dagger, held the covered blade in his left hand, the hilt with his right, and with a swift, powerful pull, broke it into two pieces across his knee. He handed the sheathed blade to Pekah and tossed the handle into the hole. Pekah threw in his part. The joy in doing so thrilled him down to the marrow in his bones.
The two men then pushed the dirt piles into the hole. After standing and stomping the mound flat, Jonathan reached for a large rock. He dropped it directly on top of the burial site.
“And that is where it will stay, never to be mentioned again!”
Pekah glanced over to where Eli stood near their camp and saw that he had heard the unmistakable declaration. Eli appeared to be surprised. As for Pekah, the moment was exhilarating. Stirring within the depths of his own soul, he felt the healing balm of forgiveness. Jonathan had released him from all responsibility for his association with the tragic death of the old judge.
Pekah beamed with joy, and saw that Jonathan’s demeanor had also changed. Lines of sorrow were softer upon Jonathan’s face, seemingly replaced by peace. The sudden change of mood surprised Pekah. Once enemies, and now friends? He almost smirked at the idea.
Eli walked from the camp to join Jonathan and Pekah at the water’s edge. “I’m glad you two did not attempt to decide this war between you!” Eli rumbled as he reached them and scooped Jonathan into his arms. Jonathan coughed, and Eli let him go.
“I’ve been hugged by a bear!” Jonathan teased, still gasping.
Eli showed all his teeth in a menacing growl, and the three of them laughed.
“I think it’s time we go feed our bear,” Jonathan advised Pekah with a childlike twinkle in his eye. “He looks hungry.”
With that, the three of them returned to the camp and ate. As they talked, the weight of the war briefly lifted from their tired shoulders. Pekah felt as if he had been reunited with long-lost brothers. He noticed every detail of the beautiful morning. Never before had a simple meal of bread and fruit tasted so good.
Chapter 9
Pekah
Jonathan enjoyed their early-morning breakfast, which went on for the better part of an hour. Their conversation was full of reminiscing, much of it centered on the mischievous exploits of Eli and Jonathan as they grew up together in Hasor. The occasional laughter helped to ease some of the heavy emotional burden Jonathan had been carrying. He was glad for the diversion.
At one point, Pekah took the opportunity to thank Eli for telling him the story of the raven. “I’ve never been told why the raven is a symbol to my people. I had always assumed it was chosen because there are so many of the birds in the mountainous areas around our cities. Jonathan, what is the history behind the Serpent of Daniel? Now that I think of it, I don’t know the story of the Ox of Uzzah, either.”
Jonathan scratched his beard thoughtfully. “There isn’t really a story to go along with the serpent . . . it’s rather just a symbol of qualities my people feel are important. The creature is wise because it is always careful of the path it takes, lest it be trodden. It always knows the way back home to its hole in the ground, and it will not harm another unless harmed itself. Our symbol includes a white circle to remind us that a serpent can also be deadly, and unless wisdom and knowledge are kept within the bounds of truth, we can be led into deadly paths. A serpent should always be treated with respect.
“As for the ox,” Jonathan continued, “it’s a symbol of work and strength. It can bear many burdens, and does not tire easily. Uzzah is blessed with the strength of God as he serves all of Noah’s children in God’s temples. What do you know of temples, Pekah?”
Pekah’s brow lifted with interest, but quickly furrowed. “I know only of the sacrifices.”
Jonathan paused, his forming thoughts interrupted by the sound of the bubbling stream nearby. He felt a strong desire to teach Pekah more about the purpose of temples, but the chatter-like sputters of the water reminded him of their current loca
tion in the woods. He thought it might be best to discuss a plan for the day while they were still at leisure to do so.
“Pekah, do you mind if we talk of temples later?” Jonathan asked. “Right now, I would like opinions about our travel plans. For one thing, I have never been this far down the trail toward Ain. Father and I always traveled through Saron. I don’t know exactly how long it will take us to reach Ain, and I’m reconsidering my desire to stay here for the day, even if it is the Sabbath.” He smiled and watched both Pekah and Eli, waiting for their response.
Eli took a deep breath and let it out loudly. He kicked a twig toward the fire. “For some reason, while we have been talking, I too have been getting the itch to move on. I realize it is the Sabbath, however . . .”
Jonathan shook his head, and prodded him to finish with a drawn out “Yes . . . ?”
“Well,” Eli stammered, “I just get the feeling we’re supposed to leave. It’s almost as if we’ll be late for something important if we don’t leave soon.”
Jonathan stood up slowly, as if rising from a relaxing afternoon nap. A slight breeze picked up, and he turned toward it and smelled the air. Earlier, he had been quite content to stay where they were, but now that Eli pointed it out, he too felt as if something had changed.
“You know, Eli, I think you are right. Pekah?”
Pekah shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose that would be fine.”
All in agreement, they packed their belongings. Jonathan used a chunk of wood to push dirt over the cooled ashes of their night fire. It let off very little smoke, as most of the coals had gone gray and cold already. Eli toppled the logs previously used for seats into the surrounding undergrowth, and Pekah used a cut branch to mask whatever footprints he could find.
One last inspection proved their work to be satisfactory, so Jonathan waved them on. The three men left the hidden alcove of tangled brush behind them to follow the worn forest path which meandered under the more open parts of the canopy. Littering the trail were the occasional broken remnants of wind-stripped branches and fallen leaves, peppered by acorns from stately oak trees and cones from the pines scattered among them. Now much drier than the previous evening, the path showed little evidence of their footsteps as they hiked together westward. Although the light through the trees had not entirely burned off every patch of ground fog—remnants of moisture from the rains two days before—it was still a beautiful morning.