A Garden Locked

by Naomi Ruppin

  The people’s more trivial disputes were handled by councils of elders in their own villages. The cases that came before the king tended to be the knottier ones, requiring an elusive truth to be uncovered or a fine ethical point to be determined. These spanned a wide range of subjects—anything from a dispute over water rights of a well serving two villages, to the just division of a man’s legacy among his married and unmarried daughters. I attended countless court sessions, but I relate here the story of one unusual trial, whose legend has since taken on a life of its own and has been given many exaggerated flourishes in the retelling. This is the true account.

  On this court day, I waited outside the Hall as usual. The palace gates were still closed, but I could hear the noise of the crowd gathering outside. People from the city and its surroundings did sometimes attend the court, but rarely, as few could afford to miss a day’s work. Local visitors tended to be old men who no longer worked in the fields or pastures. But by far the largest share of the audience was made up of travelers who had come to see Jerusalem. The king’s court was considered as big a draw for foreigners as the great temple itself. This had spawned a lively industry of translators, who loitered outside the palace gates and offered their services to anyone whose language they could even vaguely attempt to speak.

  Two guards tugged simultaneously on the leather handles of the two wooden gates. The eager crowd began to stream in even before the gates were entirely open. In the lead was a large group of foreigners. The women’s dresses were longer than local custom dictated, while the men’s tunics were shorter, with baggy trousers worn underneath. They were conversing in a language that seemed related to my own—I could catch a word here or there, but no more. They were accompanied by a man in local dress, who I assumed was a translator. He was making sweeping gestures at the palace, the Hall and the temple, and speaking animatedly. I followed them as they moved into the Hall. They chattered excitedly as they looked around at the room’s exquisite carvings and the gold-plated pillars. But the object that inspired the most wonder was the king’s fabled throne.

  The first time I saw the throne I too was awestruck, in spite of growing up in a palace filled with ornate objects. It was of the king’s own design, and it was said to be magical. Its seat and back were cushioned and covered in royal purple silk. Its arms were two curved elephant tusks, supported by two carved ivory lions. Rising over the back was a large, golden half-circle, and standing on top of its arc was a golden dove. Six steps led up to the throne covered by twelve gold crouching lions, one on either side of each step, each lion facing its partner. The eyes of the lions and the dove were glittering rubies, emeralds and sapphires.

  I sat in one of the middle rows as the Hall filled rapidly. Even when all the seats were taken, more people pushed in and stood in the back and along the walls. It was an early summer morning and the air was heavy with the smell and heat of many bodies. Some people were fanning themselves with palm leaves. The windows were open and a wind was blowing, but it was a warm desert wind, sweet with the perfume of the nearby jasmine bushes and laden with fine dust, which did little to relieve the heat. When the Hall could contain no more spectators, the guards closed the heavy cedar doors with a boom that echoed off the high ceiling, and the crowd’s hubbub died down to a rustle of expectant whispers.

  Between the audience and the stage was an expanse of floor with two long benches facing each other on either side. A guard walked to the center of this space and announced, “The people will rise for King Solomon, son of King David.” The audience rose and became completely silent as the king walked out onto the stage.

  His physical appearance couldn’t have been more different from my own. Whereas I am short and rounded, he was very tall and slim. His body reminded me of a young tree, looking as if the flesh that makes up an ordinary man had been stretched out to half-again its original length. His skin was several shades lighter than my own. His hair and beard were light brown and curly, and his eyes were a darker brown. He was not quite handsome, but there was a quality to his face more fascinating than mere beauty—a perfect harmony among unusual features. His face was long and narrow, his cheekbones high, his nose a delicate arch in profile, and his eyelids drooped slightly at their outer corners, making his eyes appear melancholy. The right arch of his upper lip was fuller than the left, giving him a slight, permanent sneer. He wore a white robe striped in blue, of a material lighter and more supple than linen, and a blue headband embroidered with gold thread. He strode to the center of the stage, carrying his whippy body with grace and speed. He surveyed the audience in silence, then turned and stepped onto the throne’s platform.

  When I first saw the throne I wondered how it was possible to climb up the knobby backs of the recumbent gold lions. But the instant the king stepped onto the platform, the lions on the first step each raised a paw, so that the two paws met. The king stepped onto the paired paws, and as he did so, the lions on the second step did the same, and so on up the six steps. The audience gasped and murmured in amazement. When I was younger I thought this was proof of the throne’s magical powers. Now I think it more likely that there was some device inside the throne, set off by the king’s weight, perhaps involving wheels, the same way carriage wheels’ revolutions are translated into forward motion, or the way the force of my hands on the clay and my foot on the treadle makes a vase rise on a pottery wheel. When the king reached the final step, he turned and sat, prompting yet another wonder. A golden hawk rose on a thin rod behind his head and circled above the golden dove. The dove caught the hawk in its beak and the throne was still. I’d seen this combination of birds used in mosaics and tapestries; they symbolized the triumph of peace over war.

  The king nodded to the guard on the floor below him, who went to open a door to the right of the stage. Two women entered. One was young and cradled a baby in her arms. Her face was pale and flawless as a bowl of milk, her dark eyes wide as a child’s. The other woman’s face was age-lined and the hair visible outside her kerchief was streaked with gray. Her lips were pursed and the tilt of her nostrils implied disdain, as if she could still taste the onion she’d eaten that morning.

  Usually when there was a dispute between two parties, each side would take a different bench of the two placed below the stage. The younger woman walked over to the bench on the right and seated herself, settling the baby on her lap. The older woman hesitated a moment, then joined her on the same bench. At first she sat some distance away, but when the baby cooed, the older woman’s expression softened and she slid closer to gaze at the infant. There was a slight murmur in the audience. The king waited for it to abate before speaking.

  “We will begin. Let it be known that all who appear before me in my court must accept my judgment and abide by it. Do you so swear?”

  Both women answered affirmatively. He turned to the older woman.

  “Madam, state your name and your place of residence.”

  “I am Ayala, widow of Zvi son of Daniel, blessed be his memory. I live half a day’s journey from the village of Kedma.”

  “And your companions?”

  Ayala’s expression turned bitter again and she said, “This is my daughter-in-law Ruth, widow of my son Amnon, blessed be his memory. She’s carrying my son Regev.”

  The younger woman gave a little gasp and shook her head.

  “No,” she said softly.

  “Madam? You have an objection?” The king turned to the younger woman.

  “I am Ruth, daughter of Eliah,” she said. “I am the widow of Amnon, son of Zvi. But the child I carry is my own son Ya’ir.”

  A buzz of conversation swelled up from the audience, partly the furious whispering of the translators, and partly the spectators’ reactions to what they’d heard. The guard silenced the crowd with a gesture.

  “Is this the source of dispute between you?” the king asked.

  “Yes,” Ruth answered.

  “I will hear your mother-in-law first.” He turned to Ayala. �
�Explain what we’ve just heard.”

  Ayala cast her daughter-in-law a narrow-eyed, sidelong glance and spoke.

  “We live on a small property outside Kedma. My husband and son grow wheat…used to grow wheat, and tend to a flock of sheep. Ruth married my son Amnon about two years ago and came to live with us. She’s an idle, selfish girl, but my son was always blind to her faults.”

  Ruth clicked her tongue and shook her head at Ayala, not angrily but sorrowfully, as one might lament over a child who tells a lie because she knows no better.

  “I had not borne children for many years after Amnon,” Ayala continued. “But God saw fit to bless my autumn years with another child. Three months ago, both Ruth and I gave birth within days of each other, both to sons. About a month ago, my husband and son returned from a trip to Kedma, feeling poorly. One by one we were stricken with a burning fever and a wheezing cough that made it nearly impossible to breathe. Among us all, Ruth was back on her feet first. She may have made some attempt to tend to the rest of us, but…”

  Here Ayala had to stop as her eyes filled with tears and her voice failed her. She remained silent for a long moment, taking deep breaths, then resumed her story.

  “My husband died two weeks ago. My older son and grandson were taken a day later.”

  I gasped in dismay, along with the rest of the audience, at the thought of three generations struck down in two days.

  “We buried them on our land. Ruth dug the graves, for I lacked the strength. While I was recovering, she cared for my son. But when I was well enough I wanted him close to me. He’s all I have left. It was then that Ruth started calling him by her own son’s name, Ya’ir, my grandson who died. She insisted that I was confused and that he was hers. She’s repeated this lie ever since. I believe she’s trying to take possession of my home and lands, as the child is my husband’s only remaining heir.”

  The king stood, spurring his throne into action again. The hawk rose from the dove’s beak, circled it and flew behind the throne. The lions offered their paws for the king to tread upon, this time starting from the top step. The king walked to the edge of the stage and addressed Ruth.

  “You claim this child is yours?”

  “Yes.” Ruth fixed her large eyes on the king’s face.

  “Then your mother-in-law is lying?”

  Ruth hesitated before answering.

  “Her illness has weakened her and grief has put a great strain on her mind. She may truly believe the child is hers.”

  “So hers is the dead child?”

  “No. There never was a second child. You can see yourself that she’s too old to conceive. I believe her recent memory of giving birth arose from the delirium of her illness.”

  Ayala turned to her and hissed, “If you were not holding my child, I would pull your hair out and strike you to the ground for your evil lies.”

  Now it was Ruth’s turn to weep. She clutched the baby tightly and said to Ayala, “You may continue to hate me, but I have nothing but compassion for you.”

  Ayala sneered at this.

  “Let us confine ourselves to the facts, please,” the king interjected. “Are there no witnesses who can testify to the relationships in your household?”

  “There were only my husband and son,” Ayala said. “We lived alone, far from the village. The men sometimes made the trip to Kedma on market day, but we women rarely left our land, and we haven’t had recent visitors.”

  The king began pacing the stage from side to side, which was a frequent habit of his when holding court. He stopped and faced the two women.

  “There is one person we might ask,” he said. “The child himself.”

  There were puzzled whispers from the spectators. The king was rumored to possess the ability to speak to animals. Could he also somehow communicate with infants who had yet to utter a single word? I myself was already used to the king’s odd pronouncements at court. It was my impression that he enjoyed their dramatic effect. But there was always a solid logic behind them. I waited for him to elucidate.

  “The child’s mother will be able to feed him,” the king said. “A woman who hasn’t given birth will not. The examination shall be conducted in private. I’ll summon one of the midwives.”

  “Don’t do that,” Ayala said quickly.

  He’s found her out! I thought, leaning forward and stretching to see around the maddeningly tall woman sitting in front of me.

  “Why not?” the king asked.

  “There’s no point. My milk dried up during the time of my sickness and Ruth has been feeding my child. But he’s still mine!”

  The king’s expression remained impassive as he resumed his pacing, but there was much whispered speculation among the audience.

  “She’s lying, the old crone,” the tall woman said to her neighbor. “She can’t possibly be the mother. You can just see that she’s wicked. Or mad.”

  “No, I suspect the young one, making those big eyes. She’s faking,” the neighbor answered. “Any figs left?”

  The rustling in the audience grew louder the longer the king remained silent. Finally he spoke again, addressing himself to Ayala.

  “Describe your feelings for this child.”

  Ayala’s expression, which had been like to a clenched fist, relaxed into surprise. She spoke haltingly.

  “He’s my baby. When I hold him I feel nothing but joy. Love for a child is different from love for a husband. A mother receives it full-blown from the instant of his birth. He’s…he’s my baby. That’s all.”

  “And you?” The king turned to Ruth.

  “He’s my son. He’s all I have left of my husband. I feed him with my body. And were a spear flying towards him, I would stop it with my body.”

  Both women spoke with blazing sincerity and I believed each of them utterly. How could the truth possibly be determined? What would the king do? And what would I have done in his place, if I were the one to judge?

  The king looked from Ruth’s face to Ayala’s and back again.

  “Ruth, daughter of Eliah. You say there’s no second child. If I were to send a steward to examine the graves at your home, what would he find?”

  “Two graves only,” Ruth said, gazing steadily into the king’s eyes. “Those of my husband and my father-in-law. The graves are still unmarked. But as I said, no child is buried there.”

  “Reason would dictate that I verify this,” the king said.

  Gasps were heard from the audience. Disturbing the remains of the dead was an egregious sin. Ruth and Ayala looked equally horrified.

  “However,” the king continued, “I will only do so if you both agree to it.”

  There was silence for a long moment. Ruth was the first to speak.

  “You have my consent. I have nothing to hide. I’ll do anything for my son.”

  All eyes were now on Ayala, who gave a poisonous glance to Ruth, and an anguished one to the baby.

  “I must refuse,” she said. “I cannot bring such dishonor on my husband and my firstborn son.”

  The king paced the edge of the stage like a sentry walking the city wall and turned to the women again.

  “You present me with a great difficulty. I have no resource but your own words. I must admit defeat; I cannot perceive the truth.”

  I was astounded. Over the course of many court sessions, I had never heard the king show anything less than perfect confidence, nor had he ever been forced to admit defeat. From the rumbling in the audience I could tell that others were similarly astonished.

  “However, there is still a judgment to be passed. We can hardly cleave the child with a sword and give you each half.”

  Ruth and Ayala, and many spectators, flinched at the violent figure of speech.

  “You have both been left widows, with no means but your land and your flock. I’m sure your husbands would have wanted to provide you with a living. Since you both profess to love this child, you may each have a share in his care. I decree that you shall both liv
e in the family home as long as you remain unmarried. You will work your land and bring up the child together. When he comes of age, he’ll inherit the land. His true maternity remains a matter for your own conscience.”

  Ruth made a sound as if gasping for breath. Ayala closed her eyes tightly and shook her head.

  “Have you something to say?” the king asked.

  Ayala opened her eyes and replied, “She doesn’t deserve this as a reward for her treachery to me. But I believe she may have some love for my son. And he depends on her to feed him. I will abide by your decision, as I vowed.”

  “And you?” the king asked Ruth.

  Ruth looked neither at the king nor at Ayala. She wrapped the blanket tighter about the baby and smoothed the down on his head. She kissed him, then handed him to Ayala. Ayala looked stunned for a moment, then pressed the child close to her.

  “I cannot abide by this ruling,” Ruth said. “The child is hers. I lied.”

  The audience roared until the king raised his hand to silence them. Ruth raised her head to look at Ayala. It was extraordinary to behold the transformation in Ruth’s features. The expression of bewildered innocence she had been carefully maintaining withered into bitterness and desperation.

  “You’ve always hated me,” Ruth said. “Even after I nursed you back to life. Even after I buried both our husbands. When Ya’ir died, all my ties to you were severed. I had no wish to live with you, but I was afraid you would put me out and I’d remain destitute. And I was afraid of being bound for years by the law of redemption, until no man would want me.”

  I’d heard of this law. If a man died leaving his wife childless, his brother was required to marry the widow. Her children were then considered a continuation of the deceased brother’s bloodline. The redeeming brother was given the right of refusal, though it was much frowned upon if he exercised it. But I’d never heard of a case where that brother was an infant, and I didn’t know if the law referred to it.