Providence (12 page)

“But the meat is forbidden. The pig does not chew its cud. We cannot eat of it.” Warmth flushed her face.

She rinsed her hands and broke off a piece of bread for herself. Wrapping it in clean linen, she placed it in her lap.

“You must eat,” Gil warned.

“Bread is enough.” Her stomach gurgled painfully as the stew broth seeped into the bread she fed to Naabak. She would not defile herself by consuming an animal God had forbidden His people to eat.

“Bread alone will be like chewing papyrus.” Gil gave her a knowing glance.

“If it pokes my mouth like your mutton, all is well.”

“Have some,” Naabak said. “It is good.” His tongue moistened what was left of his lips.

Her shoulders slumped, submerging Naabak's bread deeper into the stew. Should she turn from the laws of God for a savory stew? Had she not incurred judgment already? The list of her sins weighed on her conscience. In one day, she had entered the temple of a foreign god, kissed a man's lips in lust—a man who was not her husband—lied about her relationship with Gil, burned with anger, touched a pagan's open wounds, and even now, her fingers wetted in the juices of a filthy animal. Why would the prophet hear her plea on behalf of Naabak? He wouldn't hear her plea on behalf of herself.

“Daughter of Zebula, do you not have any thoughts for me?” Gil eased down beside her. One would not know his bowl had ever held pork. He reached across and tore off the heel of bread. “I washed,” he said, indicating the tall jars. “My hands are clean.” The brush of his confession was upon her ear. “Do not judge me harshly for my body is weak.”

Gil retreated to the far corner. His absence left her skin chilled.

Her chest tightened as if the bread had caught in her windpipe. She pressed Naabak's palms against a wine goblet and helped him drink with as much dignity as a decaying man could possess. She stacked the dishes by the water jars. A small cedar-carved idol rested near the base. It was Hadad. Was this one of Mereb's schemes? She had asked for cedar, not a graven image. She flung the flaming-eyed false god into the hallway. “It is unclean.”

As her voice rang in her ears, she remembered the crowd in Jerusalem proclaiming her defilement. If they only knew how far she had fallen.

The guard glared in her direction.

“Strips or blocks of cedar are best. An idol is of no use to me. Or your commander.” She nodded reverently at the soldier.

After Naabak drained his goblet, she knelt in front of Gil.

Tears flooded her eyes. “Never will I judge you. When you left Jerusalem with me, I did not mean for you to be afflicted. Struck by the enemy. I am responsible for your wounds and your hunger. And if the prophet does not heal Naabak, or if God takes his life in the desert…” Her vowels broke like shattered pottery. “Will your death not be because of me?”

“Hannah.” He spoke her name in a melody that washed over her soul. “You could not have kept me from this venture.” He stroked her arms. “You did not hide in my bedroom by accident. On that day, the providence of God brought you into my life. He brought you to me. You, a girl in need of mercy and healing. How could I sit and do nothing?” His caress rose to her cheek. “I do not regret it.”

A thin creek of tears streamed down her face. She brushed them aside in awe of this man. Gil did not care about his surroundings, her curse, not even death.

Lifting his hand from her face, she kissed his scarred palm and cradled it like it was a most treasured possession. “It was not wholly your bedroom,” she said, carefully poking his chest. “And it is my duty as the daughter of a priest to uphold our laws. My father and brother make atonement for our people.”

“We have no tabernacle here to make atonement.” Gil grabbed her hands. “I promise. We will atone when we return to Jerusalem.”

“If we return,” she said.

“Where is your faith? Our return to Jerusalem will be met with the harp and lyre and singing.” He drew closer. “We will bring gold and silver from Aram.”

“Now you jest.” She pulled away.

“Do I, Commander?”

Gil and Naabak assessed each other as soldiers meeting on the battlefield.

“If our God were to heal you, are we not free from your bondage? Free to go back to our city? Our families?”

Naabak adjusted his legs in the bed. “If,” he stressed with a huffing sound, “I am restored, you may return to your city.”

“And we would have coin for our return?” Gil's cadence quickened as if he were closing a deal in trade.

Hannah shivered at Gil's boldness.

“Enough.” Naabak batted a sponge from the bed.

She retrieved the sponge, wetted it, and replaced it on Naabak's forehead. Fever still plagued him. Was his promise a delusion?

Gil struggled to his feet. “Come and wash.” He held out his hand. “Cleanse yourself and you will be settled.”

Her gaze darted to Gil, to Naabak, and then to the door.

“I cannot wash in the flesh, naked to men's eyes.” The guard in the threshold looked in her direction.

Gil unfurled a clean sheet. His arms stayed shoulder height. He stood with his back to Naabak and the guard. “The weave is tight. I will not see you.”

“Are you able to hold the cloth without pain? I do not want it falling when I am bare. Or you to bleed.” Her heart raced as she thought of removing her dress with men just a few feet away.

“Trust your husband.” The tease in his voice tugged at her mouth. “I will not let strangers gaze upon the nakedness that is meant for me.”

She strolled to the nearest jar. One step. Two steps. Three steps. Gil followed.

Did she have the boldness to strip off her clothes? She had requested the water from Reumah. Enough was brought for both drinking and purification. In order to be right with Hebrew law, she would have to bathe.

Gil raised the linen. He looked amused at her predicament. “They can only gaze upon your feet.”

“You use too many words,” Naabak said with groggy agitation.

Slipping out of the once-fine tunic Reumah had provided to entice the pagan priest, Hannah washed off the day's defilement, sweat, mud, and blood. She dipped her hair in the water and wrung it out, letting a few drops drain down her back.

Oh, Adonai, may Reumah come to this cave in the morning. Revive her husband this night.

The bed sheet quaked near the top where Gil had hold. She remembered his wounded arm.

“I am hurrying.” Slipping into her new tunic was like a bath in oil of myrrh. She ran her hand over the cloth and admired the flow of the skirt.

“My turn.” Gil dropped the sheet.

“How did you know I was ready?” Her eyes questioned him.

“The lamp creates an outline. You will see the shadows when it is your turn.” He handed her the bed sheet.

What would she see? More importantly, what had he seen?

The sheet dampened where she held it.

“I am smaller than you. I should turn around?”

Gil steadied himself on the lip of the tall vessel. “Hold it in front of your face. My scars need not be on display. Again.” The displeasure of the pit could be heard in his voice.

She pulled the cloth taut in front of her eyes and shut her eyelids tight, concentrating on the darkness.

Minutes passed. Her arms burned from their sculpted pose. Her thumb cramped. She wiggled her fingers.

The sheet dipped.

Her eyes flew open.

She saw.

She righted the sheet.

“I felt a draft,” Gil said, amused.

No answer came. No way would she confess to seeing his backside. His very clean, muscular backside.

If she and Gil ever got out of this mountain and made it to Mahanaim, not only would she have to convince the prophet to heal an enemy army commander, she would have to confess to a lengthy list of transgressions.

But, she thought, with a lick of her lips, what was one more transgression? After all, she had proclaimed to men in authority that Gil was her husband. She had to make the lie seem truthful. She had to act as if gazing upon him was commonplace.

So, quickly and quietly, she sneaked another peek.

Gil's head whipped around. His eyebrows shot upward. She hid her face in the sheet and tried to block out his amused chuckle.

16

Hours later, Gil still wore the grin of a lone child rewarded with a cup of sweet milk. Hannah had been tending Naabak's fever. His forehead was warm now. Not scalding.

“How is he?” Reumah crossed the threshold, but hesitated to approach the bed.

Hannah scrambled to her feet. She looked to the hall for Konath. No surge of anger rallied her body. She was too tired to hate this early in the morning.

“You're alone?” The words came forth before she could temper their insinuation.

“Mereb is at the house.” Reumah sounded surprised. “My servants and I have offered prayers for my husband. I have come for Naabak's ring. To send for letters from the King of Aram. Do we not need royal decree to cross into your holy land?” Reumah jutted her chin in queenly fashion. Wetness glistened on her cheeks. She stepped cautiously toward her husband. Her gown swept the floor. She was draped and jeweled like the perfect temptress. “Surely the king owes us one last favor.”

Naabak clutched at a pouch hanging from his neck. If he had been whole, it would have been ripped from his chest for all his eagerness.

Hannah dropped to her knees and untied the leather-stringed knot for her master. Her fingers trembled. Her whole body shivered, overcome with delight at the possibility of returning to her homeland. Did Naabak finally believe her? Believe the prophet in Israel could heal his disease?
As well as mine.

“Susa is loyal.” Naabak rasped. “Send him with my ring and authority to Damascus.”

Not Konath?

Loosening the drawstring, she let the gold signet ring fall onto a clean bandage. The cloth hung like a sling from her fingers. She offered the gold band, a sign of her last hope, to Reumah. Reumah clutched it to her breast. Perhaps, the ring was her last hope, too.

~*~

Two days passed. Hannah uncovered Naabak's sores. Fewer gnats came. Fewer appendages reddened. Supporting her master's neck, she forced him to drink clean water.

Gil paced like a corralled lion. The small room couldn't compare to vast open fields or winding city alleys.

She prayed for freedom at the designated hours for temple prayer. At times, her strength faltered. She feared being lost to her family and Gil. Gil joined her on bended knee, in the morning, in the afternoon, and in the dark of night.

Letters finally came for passage across the border into Israel. God had answered her request. Her petition had not failed. At least not this time.

After two days, she emerged from the shadows of the mountain. Breaths of wind-swept air emboldened her spirit. Her head covering shielded her eyes from the blaze of the unspent sun. She walked through the arena. Tears wetted her cheeks, but not from sorrow. In a day's time, she and Gil would set foot in Israel, in the Promised Land.

She would make good on her word to Naabak to seek the prophet and witness a miracle. First, the healing of Naabak. Then, a healing for herself. Naabak had saved her life not once, but twice. She was indebted to her master for sparing Gil's life, too.

Gil, Benjamin, and two pit dwellers carried Naabak from his stone prison. Each gripped a corner of a mat and shuffled toward a bed, set high on a wheeled cart with cloth walls and a cloth ceiling. Soldiers parted as the withered commander neared.

“How many more days must I suffer this humiliation?” Naabak asked as Gil and Benjamin lifted him onto the sheets.

She beheld his bandaged face. “These two days have made you stronger for the journey. Your flesh is not scarlet. And these walls”—she tugged on the linen—“Will keep the dirt and maggots at bay.”

“What good is a man who cannot hold a cup or produce an heir?” Naabak said.

Gil bent at the waist. “If he commands advancing armies, it is a blessing.”

Naabak huffed. His wounds and his imprisonment had drained his strength, but not his allegiance.

“Does your mouth ever stay shut, Hebrew?” Naabak used his elbows to rise up in the bed.

“It will be over soon enough.” She rolled up the soiled mat.

“You do not comfort me, Israel, unless you refer to your prophet's power.” Naabak shot her an accusatory stare.

“I do,” she added quickly.

“As do I,” Reumah said. She sat in a similarly extravagant cart with grand wheels and whitewashed emblems. Her silk gown and veils, the color of powdered malachite, billowed in the hint of a breeze. Her traveling throne bathed in the shade of the lone fig tree growing a few feet from the idol-embedded archway. Mereb secured supplies in the back of her wagon.

Hannah waved at Reumah and Mereb. A satisfied smile graced her lips. Mereb's extra chores were fitting for his betrayals.

Konath emerged from behind a formation of foot soldiers.

“Throw the slaves back in the pit.”

Panic jarred her heart like a dice roll. “Not all? Not my husband? I need him to find the city.”

Gil clung to Naabak's cart. He searched for a path of escape. Every alley led to a soldier of Aram or a manned chariot.

Konath unsheathed his sword. He let the sun glimmer off his blade.

“We already know our way across the border. You dogs will die before your first leprous sore.”

“Your men speak Aramaic not Hebrew.” Her words were meant for Konath, but she looked directly into Naabak's crusted eyes. She gripped Gil's arm to keep her knees steady.

“You speak Hebrew.” Konath rotated the tip of his weapon closer to Gil's chest.

“But no foreign dialects. The men of Manasseh have Egyptian blood.” Sweat pooled above her lip. “Will they listen to a woman who babbles?” She would not cast off Gil and sentence him to a slow slaughter.