Temper The Wind (Ancient Israel)

by Boyd, Mary Ellen

  “My name is Micah. I forgot your name.” He tugged on Javan’s sleeve. “I forgot your name.”

  “Javan.” He looked at Obed, the back down to Micah. “Would you like to run ahead and tell the village elders we come?” Micah nodded with little boy importance, and scurried off, giving Obed a wide birth. Javan felt vaguely guilty for setting the boy an impossible task. Who would listen to the wild stories of such a young child? But it was necessary. Obed wanted to speak his mind, something he could not do in front of Micah.

  Obed stopped and whirled on Javan. “What a foolish thing to do! Have you taken leave of your senses?”

  Javan did not have to ask what he meant. “Have you not wanted to do the same to Merab?”

  “Of course, but I have no wish to violate the Law. We still have a month to go, in case you have forgotten. A month!” His voice raised until it was nearly a shriek. “Or is your control so complete that you can take liberties and not pay for them? Do you think you can ignore the parts of the Law that chafe? We are to leave the women alone!”

  “I have not forgotten the words of the Law, Obed.” He kept his voice quiet, hoping to moderate his friend’s temper with his own calm, thin as it was. “I wanted her to remember that, even though she is without guard, she is still mine. It was a reminder, that is all.”

  A reluctant smile softened Obed’s face. “It was quite a reminder. But how to you intend to explain to her that she will have to wait a month for what your kiss promised?”

  Javan muttered, “I never told her about the month. I only told her she would be given time to mourn. And adjust.”

  After a shocked moment, Obed burst out, “She does not know?” He fixed Javan a piercing look and then he laughed, loud and raucous. Javan glared at him, but he refused to give in.

  “You think it funny?”

  Obed nodded. “Oh, yes. To have the upper hand for once on this journey is a pleasure, one I intend to savor. Javan, afraid of a young woman? Indeed, yes. I think it funny.”

  It was pointless to argue.

  As they passed through the posts, they noticed signs of the fire, blackened stone that no amount of scrubbing could clean. The original gates still stood. Javan paused only a moment to examine the repair work, new pieces carefully placed and mortared in with the old. The gates seemed to be not as high as he remembered, but then, he had been younger and a bit shorter.

  Just inside the city, long benches ran beside the walls, enjoying the coolness the protective shade provided. Men sat there, as they had all the years of Javan’s memories, engaging in friendly debate. Talking stopped when they noticed Javan and Obed. The oldest man among them, white-haired and long-bearded, was the first to speak. “Welcome to our city. Do you come in peace?”

  “We come in peace,” Javan answered for them both. “We come from the war with Ammon, and from the armies of Jephthah. We were soldiers and now that the war is done, we have come to reclaim our hereditary possessions.”

  The men along the wall exchanged surprised glances. Again, the oldest one spoke. “What are your names, that you should have hereditary possessions among those of us who have survived?”

  “I am Javan, son of Gideon. You must remember my father, who grazed his flocks on the other side of this valley. He sat among you on your council when the need arose. His wisdom was well spoken of in this city.” Javan watched the faces before him closely, trying to find their names hiding in his memory, hoping they would remember him.

  He saw the remembrance come, saw their eyes widen in wonder. His throat clogged. Their faces blurred.

  “Can it really be you?” “Is this Javan?” “You did come back! We were afraid to hope.” One by one, the men rose to embrace him, kissing his cheeks in welcome.

  The tears, finally loosed, ran down his face. He was home, and they remembered him. The terrible loss of his family, so sharply repressed these many years, rose to overwhelm him with horrible pain. These knew his story, they knew what he had endured, for they shared it with him. Who would he find still alive besides these men at the gates? What further grief awaited him today?

  The men at the gate gave their own names. Javan struggled to connect these old men with the much younger images he had carried inside all this time. The difficult years showed on all of them. Faces once smooth and unlined were now creased by worry and hardship. Hair that had been brown or black was streaked with gray, and thin on top.

  He was pleased to see one sign of better times. The men wore new robes of fine wool and linen. The Ammonites had not been here recently. There had been time to shear sheep, to harvest flax and spin and weave. The endless months he spent at war gave his people a time of rest.

  The old men next turned their attention to Obed, weeping openly himself. “I am Obed,” he managed to say. “Son of Nathan, the leather-worker. I, too, have returned.”

  One of the men turned to Micah, standing wide-eyed nearby, and ordered, “Go to your father’s shop and tell him that Obed son of Nathan has returned.”

  This time, no one wept. The men at the gate just smiled.

  Javan looked at him and shrugged, then turned back to the older men. “I have other business to attend to this day. I have brought back a wife from Ammon, and I wish to have my marriage registered.”

  The smiles disappeared in that instant. He knew what was coming. He could not blame them, but what did they expect? Where else could he have found a wife?

  The spokesman, Eli by name, was the first to scold. “You would bring our enemies into our village? What happened to you while you were gone? Did you forget what they did to us? You would defile the memories of your parents by bringing one of their murderers into their home?”

  Javan struggled to speak respectfully. Eli, however cutting his words, was still an elder in the village, entitled to courtesy. “My wife had nothing to do with the deaths in my family. And when last I saw it, there was no home left standing. The house into which I bring my wife will be my own. And I ask you, would you have me live alone? Have I not done enough of that? What honor would I bring to my family if I let my name die off the land? Who would inherit, who would get all that was mine? How should I get heirs to carry my name?”

  Eli was not impressed, Javan could see. “There are plenty of widows left after their last attack.”

  Javan held his temper with effort. “How was I to know that? I left before I had reached an age to marry. Even if I were to have stayed, how could I have rebuilt my home without crops to sell? Where would I have lived while I tried to begin again? How could I have brought a wife into that?”

  “How did any of us?” Amos spoke sharply from the wall where he stood, listening until now without speaking. “We had no more than you did when you left.”

  “You tell me I should have stayed? Is that what you would have had me do? Twenty cities of Ammon are gone, the area is uninhabited, the flocks have been brought back as repayment. I had to do what I did. If none had gone with Jephthah, who would have fought this war, who would have put an end to their persecution for you? For that, I have brought home a bride captured from them. The Law states that I may do so, I have obeyed all the rules. I have taken enough lives, spilled enough blood, for all of you! I will be responsible for my wife before all, just as the Law requires. Obed will do likewise for his wife. Two Ammonite women will hardly be more than you can endure, will they?”

  Javan’s tirade was cut short with a sudden cry from Obed, a shout of surprise and joy. He turned to see Obed hurl himself, arms outstretched, into the disbelieving embrace of a man so like him they could only be brothers. The two men wept loud sobs, of pain and gladness, of sorrow so deep and abiding the scars would never fade. Little Micah of the well, big-eyed, startled at so much emotion flowing so wildly, stood fascinated.

  Pangs of jealousy ripped through Javan, searing his heart. Why could that not be him, welcoming flesh and blood? Why did he stand alone while Obed had so much given back to him? Holding himself rigid against the rage sweeping through his
body, he cursed himself for his selfishness.

  Someone must have seen something on his face, for an arm came around his shoulder. Turning, he saw Eli, putting their disagreements aside, offering what consolation he could. But Javan could not summon a smile to thank him, even while he appreciated the kind gesture. The hurt was too deep.

  Obed finally pulled himself away, looking at his brother now full grown. “You lived. You still live,” he said, his voice warm with wonder.

  “Yes, I lived. I wondered, all through the years, what became of you. No one could find you. We thought you dead, even though some swore they had seen you leaving the city. Who could believe it?” Obed’s brother smiled, and smiled again. “There is even better news than me, older brother. Can you bear it?”

  “You are alive. I can bear anything,” Obed assured him with a laugh.

  “This boy who brought you into the city is your nephew. Micah is my own son, my firstborn.”

  Obed looked down at little Micah, then knelt. “I am your uncle,” he said after a silent moment. “What do you think of that?”

  “What is an uncle?” Micah asked.

  “Your father is my brother, that is what an uncle is. We are family.”

  That pleased Micah. His face glowed. “We are? Good!”

  The villagers gathering to witness the event laughed at Micah’s innocent pleasure. Javan had to get away from the happy crowd. Why would not his legs walk away? Why was he standing here, putting himself through this torture? He had no brothers living. He knew that, for he had buried their bodies. He would have no nephews, no nieces. No family would come out of the crowd to surprise him, no one would laugh at his pleasure. His chest grew tighter and tighter. His heart was desolate, emptied of anything but grief. It tore at his insides with bitter claws until each breath was a burden. Vengeance was over, the war that had given his life purpose, and what did he have now? His heart felt emptied of everything he had believed in, abandoned by the God he had trusted.

  From the dark recesses of his mind, Taleh’s face formed. The weight crushing him lifted just enough to allow a pain-free heartbeat. He had a wife, waiting outside the city walls in the hot sun. Whatever family he would have in the years to come, she would provide him. He would never have nieces or nephews, but he would have children. It would have to be enough.

  A tiny light burned inside him, trust trembling to live again. He accepted what comfort his thoughts could give, grateful that the doubt had been so brief.

  Then Obed’s brother spoke. “That is not my only surprise, Obed,” he said. “I have an even greater one.” He paused for effect, and Javan braced himself instinctively for more pain. Obed’s brother’s next words were a sword, piercing straight to Javan’s heart. “Our father still lives.”

  Bitter anger rose, and his faith trembled. Javan could no longer bear to witness all that he had lost. He pushed his way through the crowd and walked like one mortally wounded out of the city.

  C H A P T E R 13

  The sun beat hot from the cloudless sky. Taleh did not know how long they had been waiting. Sweat trickled down her back, just out of reach. Her long hair stuck to her neck, and the tendrils that escaped her braid slid along her skin, joining the drops of sweat in their itchy torment. The slave boys lay stretched out on the ground, even though the sun had long since baked heat into it. The grass was brown after the long summer, waiting like the people for the cool wetness of the rainy season to come.

  “I am tired of waiting,” Merab sulked. “I do not see why we have to stay out here. I am going in.”

  “You cannot do that!” Taleh had to protest, to provide the voice of reason, even though part of her agreed with Merab. “They said they would come back for us, and they will.”

  “I wonder what is going on in there.”

  Taleh echoed her feelings. Since it was really too hot to talk, she and Merab resumed their watch of the gate, as if they could make someone appear just by willing it. From time to time, they heard empty stomachs complaining in the heavy stillness.

  Something finally shifted by the gate. Taleh blinked, half afraid it would disappear.

  Javan stood, open palms pressed against the pillars, his shoulders bowed under some unseen weight. He made no move to come toward them, did not even seem to see them. As she watched, he slowly lowered his head to the stone, as if appealing to some unhearing god.

  Taleh’s welcoming smile wavered. Even at a distance the pain and anger reached her. Whatever had happened behind the walls of his city, it had hurt him deeply. She wished she knew what to do. Did she go to meet him, or would it be better to leave him alone, to come to terms with his burden in his own way?

  Would he even accept comfort from his enemy wife?

  Without warning, Javan began to pound his fist against the stone. The stone absorbed his blows, not even a whisper reaching her ears. Nothing else moved, only his fist, beating an irregular pattern on the gate of his city. He stopped as abruptly as he began, and slumped against the pillar as though his mighty strength failed him. Taleh watched in horror as he wiped his eyes. Did he weep? She felt sick with worry. What had done this to him?

  Shoving himself away from the pillar, he turned and walked with eerie calm toward the group at the well. Taleh quickly averted her eyes, not wanting him to know she had seen.

  No one else had noticed, Taleh saw with relief as she glanced quickly around. Merab still sat as before, head resting on her bent knees, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun.

  When Javan reached them, his normal compassion had vanished. The stern army leader was back. “Keep watch on the flocks! They are straggling all over the valley!” The slave boys sat up, surprised at this new Javan. “Taleh, Merab, gather your things and come with me. The elders of the city wait for us inside. The rest of you will have to stay here. Do try not to lose everything before I come back for you.”

  There was no patience in his tone. Taleh and Merab hurried to obey, collecting their small store of possessions. Taleh watched him warily. This callous sarcasm was not what she expected after his display of grief.

  The boys scurried to gather the sheep and goats into a semblance of a flock, watching Javan anxiously. Javan must have realized what he had done. He took a deep breath, pulling his control together, and continued more calmly, “I will have food brought out to you if we are going to be gone longer than I expect. I know it is hot. I must make arrangements to pasture the animals and find lodgings for all of us. I will be back soon.”

  Herding the women ahead of him, very much like he expected them to flee without his watchful eye to guard them, the trio walked toward the gates. Taleh tried to see everything of her new home, and slowed her steps as they passed the gates. The signs of the Ammonite attacks were very clear. The white stone was scarred with black, the mark of fire. Someone must have tried to scrub the burns off, but it had only rubbed away some of the detail in the carved limestone. The pomegranates and palms were still visible even through the charring, with lilies winding up the corners of the heavy stone pillars. It looked to her like pillars and gates had been knocked down at one time and reset. Here and there chunks had broken off, interrupting the flowing pattern that should have extended the entire length. Near the ground, where a base should have been, carvings sprouted out of the dirt. How tall had the gates been before the attack?

  She tried to get a closer look, but Javan took her arm and moved her through the wall’s opening. On the other side of the thick stone barrier, benches pressed against the coolness. With a flurry of robes, a small group of men standing around seated themselves on the dark worn wood. Unsure of the rules, painfully aware of the hostile eyes on every side, Taleh dropped her gaze to the ground. She was grateful for Javan’s solid presence behind her. The crowd parted to let them through, backing away as though they were lepers. Javan placed his hand against her back, marking her as his and urging her along at the same time. Despite that, her steps lagged as they neared the benches and the men seated there.
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  The eyes across from her were angry. Forcing herself to look beyond that, she saw older men, gray-haired and heavily bearded. Nothing about their robes indicated their right to sit in authority, but she knew the authority was there.

  One of them spoke. “Did you bring two wives for yourself, or can we assume one of them belongs to Obed?” His voice was abrupt and harsh.

  “Only one is mine,” Javan responded with surprising courtesy. Taleh stared at him. Why did he permit the man to speak so? He was a commander! Was it simply the other man’s age? What power did the old man wield over Javan to command such respect?

  Obed appeared without warning, his face tear-streaked and blotched with red. Taleh’s mouth dropped open. What had gone on here?

  When Obed reached for Merab’s hand, Taleh held her breath, hoping her friend would feel, as she did, how precarious their position and behave accordingly. Merab, after a shocked look at Obed’s damp face, stood submissively, or at least quietly. Something of the tension surrounding her must have penetrated.

  The old men nodded unhappily, then turned aside, whispering together, ignoring the group before them. Taleh tried not to frown.

  Surely there was a better way to be greeted. However much their nation was hated, how much of a threat could they be, two tired, dusty, hungry young women?

  Javan rubbed the back of his neck and tried not to let his frustration grow. If he had been alone with the elders, he would not hesitate to speak up. But he had to impress Taleh and Merab with the position of authority these men held, and for that reason he would stand quietly.

  Finally the council was done. “We will register your marriages. Old Sarah, widow of Geber, lives alone. Her house can provide you with lodging while you build your own houses.”

  “I have slaves who will need lodging.” Javan knew this would not go over well. Wives, and now slaves from Ammon. “Is there a place near Sarah’s where they can stay?”