“But,” I forced out the confession, “I killed Zeev and Yared. I’d picked up that oleander blossom earlier in the day, and then, when distracted, dropped it in my basket. When Zeev and Yared came to my home, they were unkind to a young boy I care for deeply. I lost my temper. I yelled at them—threatened them. And then when I was overcome by tears and guilt for my overreaction, I must have cut up the leaves and placed them in that stew. I do not remember it, but I certainly did not plan it. I did not wish any harm on them.”
I fastened my eyes on Eleazer and Yehoshua, knowing that their responsibility before Yahweh was more weighty, more sacred than any of the men assembled here to determine justice. “But those poor boys are dead by my hand, and I deserve the punishment due me. My life, and my death, is in your hands.” I dropped my shoulders, spent by my confession, as my final words—directed more to Yahweh than the men before me—echoed off the terraced hills around us and then were carried away on the valley-born breeze.
“No!” A small voice called out. “No!”
In confusion I tried to search out the direction of the shout, as did the rest of the people assembled near the Mishkan.
“No!” The voice shouted again, this time closer. And then the crowd began to part, as if someone were pushing through.
Eitan burst out of the swarm of people, bowing low as if he’d been dodging elbows, and rushed toward me, his dark tangled hair streaming out behind him. Then, with tears tracking down his grimy face, he cried out, “It was me! Please don’t hurt her! It was me!”
CHAPTER
Thirty-Seven
Eitan’s small body trembled against me. His hiccupping breaths came in short bursts as he explained that he’d not meant to kill the twins, that he only thought the oleander would make them feel sick and hoped they would leave me alone if their bellies hurt. Sweet, protective Eitan had been trying to scare away the crows with the only weapon he had.
“Leave that one alone, it can make you sick.” My words from our herb-hunting excursion surged into my mind. I’d not explained the deadliness of the poison to Eitan in my rush to comfort his lonely, frightened heart. Such a tiny mistake—such overwhelming consequences.
He turned his chin up to me, his hazel eyes full of remorse. “I saw that you had accidentally cut up the oleander and instead of telling you, I put it in the stew instead. I’m sorry! I didn’t know they would die.” He pressed his face against my stomach, his arms locking around my middle, his wrenching cry muffled against my tunic. “I didn’t know they would die!”
I held the terrified child close to me, rubbing his back and smoothing his tangled hair as he sobbed. Such guilt this boy had carried all this time. No wonder he’d been so quiet since I’d returned from Kedesh. He’d probably not understood all that was happening, perhaps only overhearing snatches of conversation from the adults around him. And what courage he’d had here today, a boy of nine, to come forward with the truth on his lips in front of this crowd, in front of the elders, priests, and Yehoshua—whom I knew he held up as nearly divine.
Reluctantly, I looked over at Raviv. Shock and confusion was stark in his features. Would he now call for this child’s life to be snuffed out, as he had mine?
The elders were already conferring between themselves. Heads shaking or nodding, fingers stroking beards, eyes glancing at Eitan as he clung to me.
The moments stretched long, but finally the head elder turned around and lifted his hands, addressing the crowd with loud, authoritative tones. “We have determined that the death of these boys was not intentional. There will be no blood shed by the go’el haddam today. You are all to go back to your homes.”
The crowd began to disperse, chattering among themselves. Some tossed dark looks at the council, as if disappointed that my execution was not forthcoming. Some glanced at me with scorn, but most of the people had surprising looks of relief on their faces, as if they’d been hopeful that I would survive the outcome of this trial. I even registered a number of shy, encouraging smiles from some of the younger girls, including the two who had come to my home when Rimona had been burned. Perhaps in hiding myself away I’d judged the majority by the hurtful acts of a few. The thought brought a surge of regret for my lack of faith in the people of Yahweh.
Raviv took three steps toward me, fury in his stone-set jaw. “So these killers will get off now? My sons are dead, and they will go free? Where is the justice for my boys? Where is the justice for my generations that will never be?” His voice cracked.
Pity rushed in where the fear had been, and I opened my mouth to tell him, once again, that I was sorry for causing him such anguish, but Yehoshua stepped forward instead.
“The words of Mosheh are clear,” the old man said, his voice graveled by time. “A manslayer shall be exiled to the city of refuge where he, or she”—he nodded toward me—“fled to. Upon such time as the High Priest dies, the manslayer will be set free, the death-debt satisfied.”
And with the words of this man who had walked with Mosheh since Egypt and then inherited authority over Israel upon our leader’s death, my sentence was declared.
Raviv spun and strode a few paces away, then turned back around, hatred darkening his eyes to black. “I know the law, too, I know it very well. And if you”—he dropped his merciless gaze to the small boy in my embrace—“either of you, step foot outside of Kedesh, I will hunt you down and I will take what should have been mine today. And I will do it fully within the law.” A cruel smile curled upward. “And you can tell your lover that he will not be able to do a thing about it next time.” He walked away, his men falling in behind him like a pack of wolves slinking back to their cave in temporary defeat.
Suddenly my father and Ora were on either side of me, Ora with her hand tucked inside my elbow and my father with his long arm slung about my shoulder. Tears of relief swam in my eyes. I would not die today. Yahweh had granted mercy to me, and to Eitan.
I realized, too, that Rimona was still standing in the place from where her father had fired accusations at me, her head down. She squeezed her eyes tight and then lifted her gaze to meet mine. She squared her shoulders and walked up to face me.
“I am sorry, Moriyah. About what my father said. And for not speaking out today when I should have.” She turned to the head elder. “None of it was true. She did nothing that night but help me when I’d foolishly fallen into the fire. And I repaid her with gossip and slander.” Her chin trembled. “You gave me mercy that night and I don’t know why. I did not deserve it.”
“Mercy is not earned,” I said, pulling the words from the center of my soul, where I knew Yahweh had placed them. “It is gifted.”
With a rueful smile and nod that told me she accepted the offering, she turned and walked away, my prayers for her safety and peace following behind.
When she’d gone, Yehoshua smiled widely at my father. “You have a brave and generous daughter, my friend. A woman who has survived Jericho. A woman who I have heard has seen the inside of Megiddo and lived to tell the tale.” He lifted his brows toward me with a piercing gaze that reminded me of Darek’s assessment of his otherworldly demeanor. “I expect to be briefed of your visit there, young lady, before you return to Kedesh.”
I nodded my head, reeling from the idea that I might have some information of worth to this great leader and warrior. If only Darek were here to help me tell the story . . .
And where was Darek? Although I’d feared he would swoop in and testify against me out of loyalty to his brother, my love-stricken heart had also drawn hopeful images in my head of him coming to defend me instead, insisting upon my innocence. But his absence said more than anything. He’d abandoned me. The lovely things he’d said about seeing beyond my scar, the sweetness of his kisses, the way he’d vowed to protect me . . . all of it was washed away by his unwillingness to stand up for me when it mattered most.
With me out of the way, Darek could return to his beautiful valley. Perhaps he would build a home near his ailing fathe
r, make amends with his brother, and work to repair the damage I had caused. I curled the promise of such hopes inside my heart and determined to cling to them whenever the memory of his touch or his animated smile came to mind.
Yehoshua reached out to pat Eitan on the head. “And you, young man. What you did today for this woman, that was true courage. Bravery even in the face of fear. You, son, are a warrior.”
Eitan’s eyes could not stretch any wider and his mouth gaped like a fish on the riverbank. Dumbstruck by such compliments from Yehoshua, he simply stared.
Yehoshua looked up at me with a conspiratorial smirk before turning and striding away, the picture of a warrior of perfect health and strength, even though he must be nearing his ninetieth year. With a start, I realized that the rest of the elder council had disappeared while I’d been focused on Yehoshua. All that was left of the once-teeming crowd of people was my family, Eitan, and the High Priest.
Eleazar took a look around the empty gathering area, as if he was also just noticing that the assembly had melted away. “Moriyah,” he said, “the elders have determined that you are guilty of manslaughter. It was you who placed the oleander in the basket, you who cut the oleander with your knife, and you who directed Eitan to place it in the stew. You will be escorted back to Kedesh tomorrow—under guard, of course. But there is also this young man to consider, for he, too, took part in this tragedy.” His glanced around the empty area. “Where are his parents?”
“His parents both died four years ago. He has lived with his mother’s relations since that time.”
“And why are they not here now?”
I paused, not knowing how to answer without hurting Eitan. “Perhaps they do not know he is here . . .”
“They don’t want me,” Eitan said, his small voice flat. “They never wanted me, and my uncle hates me. It is only Moriyah and her father who care about me at all. They are my family.”
Eleazar’s brows pressed together in concern, and he glanced up at me. Allowing my expression to confirm Eitan’s assertion, I hoped he would understand.
“All right. If that is true, then I believe the best thing to do would be to send you with Moriyah to Kedesh. You will be safest there.”
Eitan’s smile rose like the sun reborn. “Truly? I get to live with Moriyah?”
“You do. If that is agreeable with her.”
I clutched Eitan even closer. “Of course it is.” Oh, what mercy—what grace!
“But it is as Raviv said.” Eleazar dropped his brow, warning clear in his eyes. “The law states that if you set foot outside the boundary of the refuge city, your life will be in danger. The go’el haddam will legally have the right to exact retribution.”
“I understand.” I brushed my hand over Eitan’s brow. “I will make sure neither of us leaves.”
“As Yehoshua stated, when my life ends, you will be set free from the city of refuge. You may return to your home and your family. The blood avenger will no longer legally have the right to your life. Your blood-debt will be atoned for by my death. Washed away, as if it never happened.”
The picture of Eleazer bowing before that little brown goat, his hands placed over the animal’s head surged into my mind. How could such a thing be, that another’s life could take my place, when it was me who deserved the punishment?
“I am an old man, Moriyah,” said Eleazar, his kind eyes fastened on me. “And perhaps, for your sake, I will not live that much longer . . .”
Guilt assailed me, how could I ever wish this man’s death, whether it freed me or not? I opened my mouth—
“But,” he interrupted my protest. “Remember, my father lived to be a hundred and twenty-three years old. I may have many more years on this earth. Only Yahweh knows. But no matter how long you spend in Kedesh, I hope that you will continue to be a woman of courage, as you were here today and have been in the past. You will be the first of the manslayers who take refuge in that city, but you will certainly not be the last. And as you have given comfort to your father after the losses of your mother and your brother, I know that you will give comfort to those who flee to that city for safety.”
His voice rang out with the iron-edged tone of a prophetic blessing as he continued with a gesture toward the Mishkan behind me. “Just as the menorah shines within that Holy Place—not as a testament to its own beauty, but as a reminder of the Source of the eternal flame—you too will be a light in a dark place to those who are weary and in need of rest. You will grow to be an ishah chakmah, a wise woman, one who will offer solace to those who mourn, hope to the downtrodden, and who will speak Yahweh’s truth in times of trouble.”
I could not fathom the depth and width of the words he spoke, could not reconcile them with the multitude of glaring failings that suddenly vied for attention. But how could one argue with the divinely appointed High Priest of Israel? I squashed the foolish notion and bowed my head instead, letting the blessing pour over me like fragrant oil.
Peace filled the corners and cracks and crevices where all my doubts had been taking cover, filling my heart with certainty. Just as the vineyard had been reborn after being burned by the Canaanites and made to flourish again beneath my father’s tender care, my own charred years would be redeemed by the graceful hand of the One who created me. I would not hide behind the veil again, but instead use the brand as a reminder of the God who’d rescued me and display it proudly, to encourage others desperately in need of compassion.
As if he had not just spoken such a life-changing declaration over me, Eleazar looked up at my father, eyes narrowed in jest. “Do not forget to include my wine with that next delivery to the Mishkan.” A little smile ticked on his lips. “I have only one jar left.”
And then the High Priest of Israel strode away, precious mercy streaming behind him like fresh water from a boundless well.
CHAPTER
Thirty-Eight
22 Tishri
Seventh Day of the Feast of Sukkot
Kedesh
Tipping the pitcher nearly on end, I poured the last of the wine into Dov’s cup. “I’ll go open another jug,” I said. “My father sent at least six more with us.”
“Truly, this wine is the best I’ve tasted,” said the priest, brushing the back of his hand across his mouth. “I am grateful to your father. This last night of Sukkot will be even sweeter with such delicious fruit of the vine.”
“He would have sent more had the wagon space enough, but with all the extra supplies donated by our neighbors, there was barely room for Eitan and me—although I think Eitan jogged most of the way from Shiloh alongside the wagon anyhow.”
I’d been astounded at the many people who’d come with offerings of food, clothing, and well-wishes before I was sent away the morning after the trial, many of them with thanks on their lips for meals I’d sent along with Yuval during times of illness or grief. I had not even known how many people had been blessed by my small efforts from the confines of my home, nor how many of them had been supporting me during the trial. I vowed once again to never assume the worst of those around me and to guard against the seeds of bitterness and self-pity ever taking root in my heart.
Eitan had been thrilled to leave the misery of his uncle’s home, embracing the sentence of a life in Kedesh with me. He’d spent the entire journey pelting me with questions about the Land and everything I’d seen and exclaiming loudly at every new sight and sound along the way. I’d had the pleasure of seeing the Land of Promise through the eyes of a child, but traveling without Darek by my side seemed wrong, and I’d longed to hear his voice telling me of the battles fought along the way or pointing out the places our forefathers had walked long ago. Remembering my vow, however, to avoid wallowing in my losses, I’d concentrated on Eitan’s joyful discoveries and multitude of questions along the road.
The last of the six annual festivals had already commenced by the time we arrived in the city of refuge, and I’d been grateful to be swept into the swirl of meal preparations by Rachel,
Dov’s wife, along with the other Levite women who’d come with their husbands to settle here.
Determined to never hide behind a veil again, I’d been prepared to answer many questions about the brand or endure a few suspicious looks, but to my surprise Rachel must have already laid out my situation to the women, and they were nothing but welcoming to me, seeming delighted to include me in the enormous job of preparing enough food to last to the very end of this seven-day festival of Sukkot.
Gathering each night atop Dov and Rachel’s roof, we’d celebrated the bountiful harvest in this new Land and remembered the days of wandering in the wilderness beneath a temporary shelter constructed from tamarisk, terebinth, and sweet-smelling pine branches, with a full canopy of palm boughs. Each morning we’d tucked fresh flowers into the gaps, making the Sukkah a colorful memorial to the tents our people had lived in for forty years.
“Before you retrieve more wine,” Dov said, as he took the empty pitcher from my hands and set it on the low table, “I’d like to speak with you a moment.” Although the priest’s expression was nothing but kind, his words seemed weighted with solemnity. Were there more questions about my past? The women had seemed so hospitable, but perhaps one of them raised concerns.
After excusing the two of us from the gathering of guests who were enjoying the meal I’d help prepare, Dov stood, gesturing for me to follow. He led me across the flat rooftop of his home, which was built into the city wall. It was from his window that flickering lamp had renewed the last of my strength the night I’d run here for refuge.
A Light on the Hill Page 27