Providence (24 page)

Naabak squeezed her hands. “It is much easier to show kindness to you.” He pursed his lips. The gratitude in his eyes shone brighter than any gems she had brought back from Damascus.

“I carried you up the mountain.” Gil clapped a hand on the commander's shoulder.

“And you enjoyed drowning me in the cistern.” Naabak looked to the prophet resting on the window sill for allegiance.

Gil released Naabak's arm and flailed his hand in jest.

“But I didn't let go.” Gil's carefree laughter filled the room.

Hannah relished the teasing. She stepped back into a pile of ropes and caught her balance. Her relationship with Naabak had changed since the mountain. Fear did not seize her, nor did despair. Friendship had found a way into her heart, and it would seem after this journey, that friendship had found its way into Naabak's heart as well.

Gil stepped to her side. “I agree with my wife's blessing. You have traveled from your home and we are in your debt.”

“Ah, but my task is not finished.” Naabak glanced out the window toward the foothills.

The prophet rose from the sill. “If we are to go to the temple, we will need drapes for your swords. I do not want a riot.”

“I will see to it.” The burly man headed for the stairs.

“How about a rag for Judah's mouth,” Naabak called after the innkeeper.

The prophet pointed his staff at Uzzah and directed him to assist the host.

Hannah smoothed a hand over her hair. She did not want to face her brother bare-headed. “I will need a covering as well.” Her joy tempered. She still wore the brand of adulteress.

Shimron, her brother, her accuser, and her judge had been wounded by the sling of her rescuer. She had to get to the temple before Shimron rallied a crowd to stone her. She would not watch Gil die trying to save her. Not again. Never again.

The prophet prodded her shoulder with his staff. “The house of Zebula must be set straight. Are you fearful, Daughter?”

She shook her head. “The God of Israel has spared me from worse than this. How can I be afraid with two warriors at my side and God's messenger to speak on my behalf?

The prophet stiffened. “Who said I would be doing the speaking?”

37

She trailed Gil and Naabak as they made their way through the marketplace. The prophet plodded on ahead. His staff kept pace with his steps. Staff-foot, staff-foot, staff-foot.

The square buzzed with more bickering than bartering. Few tambourines rattled to gain a buyer's attention. The beat of the timbrel thudded like a death march. Soldiers camped in the hills, worried merchant, tradesman, priest, and parent alike.

A line of people waited in the outer courts of the temple. Heads turned her direction. Whispers began. Worshippers stepped backward, either because of her lineage or because of the generous swing of the prophet's staff. If they only knew who her cloaked companions were, they would have fallen prostrate.

“Where is her offering?” a man asked.

Her father had brought her to the temple day after day, month after month, year after year. She hiccupped with sorrow as she remembered how her father held fast to the belief that one day she would be made whole. She longed to scream, “Look. At my ears. My mouth. My nose. I can smell your ram, your incense, your roasted grain. The house of Zebula is downcast no more.” For now, it was for naught.

“Hannah.”

She found the prophet staring at her. Had he heard her thoughts of vindication?

“Let us go up to the altar. Your father awaits.”

Hannah cast a glance at the stairs leading to the upper courtyard. The stone steps loomed like the jaws of a lion waiting to devour the cursed who dared approach the sacred sanctuary where God tabernacled with His priests. Testing every step, thinking it might disintegrate under her sandal, she ascended through the smoke from burnt offerings. Fire flashed from the altar perched above the flight of stairs. The clouded air caused her to cough. Gil braced one of her arms. Naabak braced the other.

“Zebula,” the prophet shouted from the top of the stairs. Her family name echoed to the top of the bronzed columns of the temple building.

The priest in the linen ephod turned around. His three-pronged altar fork clattered to the ground.

“Azor,” she gasped. Her heart sped. Heat flooded her body. She clamped onto Gil's arm.

“You seem surprised, daughter of Zebula.” Azor spoke in a loud, chastising voice. “Is your father not grieved? Your brother not unclean due to the blood you drew from him? Have these men brought you to honor your father's vow?”

Worshippers gathered near their priest and bombarded Hannah with the hiss of their insults.

She had carried the threat of a union with Azor to Aram and back. A public outcry would not sway her decision. Her patience with her elderly suitor strained.

“I am bound to this man of Judah.”

Gil pulled off his hood and gave the crowd a stern-faced warning.

“I have brought witnesses to our union,” she said. “I spoke this truth to my family, but it was treated as foolishness.” Her throat burned as she defended her marriage.
Oh, if I could have the prophet's staff to hold me upright
.

The prophet whipped off his head covering and flung it on the altar. A whoosh of flame engulfed the grate.

People screamed. Some scattered. Others prayed.

“Blessed One.” Azor fell to his knees and bowed in reverence. “I did not see…” His apology evaporated into his ephod.

“Seize her.” The command echoed through the upper courtyard.

Hannah shook at the harshness of her brother's order. Did he not care that the prophet was in her midst? She glanced at the stairs. They tempted her to flee. Fire raged from the altar, but she held fast to her husband. She held fast to Naabak. She held fast to the truth.

Shimron ushered two temple guards forward. His bow to the prophet was as brief as a horse's head buck.

Gil widened his stance. She could not see his hand but there was no doubt in her mind that it rested on his dagger.

Naabak's drape flew to the side and settled to the ground like a dying moth. He unsheathed his sword.

The crowd gasped, but they were too astonished to flee.

Naabak threatened Shimron and the guards with the blade. “I owe a debt to this woman. I left land and love to speak on her behalf.” His polished breastplate shimmered in the sun as he stalked closer to her brother. “Don't you want to hear what I have to say?”

“I do.” Her father shuffled from the court of the holy places and bowed low to the prophet.

Hannah bit her lip to keep from sobbing. She kept silent and let Naabak have his say.

“I was a corpse when this woman first beheld me.” Naabak displayed his build and armor for all the onlookers to see. “Disease ate at my limbs. This woman did not shy away from my ugliness. She touched me with herbs. Remedies from God. She did not fear my disease. She told me of your prophet and his powers. I stand here today because what she said was true. Your prophet healed my leprosy. The strength of your God saved me.” Naabak paced in front of her father and brother daring them to challenge his word. “I gave this woman to this man as the prophet willed. They wed under the eyes of our God.”

The prophet stood in front of her father, steadying himself with his staff. “It seems I caused confusion binding your daughter to the Judahite on the mountain and allowing this foreigner”—the prophet jabbed his staff at Naabak—“to take your place.”

“Then it is true. My daughter cannot eat at the table of the Levites.” The hem of her father's ephod pooled in the dirt. The disappointment in his eyes saddened her soul.

“I cannot eat the fatty portions.” She stepped away from Gil and joined the prophet. “But my husband is a good man. One who honors God. I have seen God work miracles through him. The Most High God answered my prayers, and spared Gilead's life, and the commander's life. He even spared my own life. Is life not more precious than the choice fat from burnt animals?”

The prophet stamped his rod. “Hear O Israel.”

Her father's wrinkled face filled with tears. “I should have pursued the prophet that day. I tried, my daughter. I truly did. It seems I gave up too soon.”

Naabak lowered his sword. “If you had pursued the prophet,” he said to her father, “I would have died. My line cut off. Your daughter brought me new life. She gave hope to Aram.”

“She gave comfort to an enemy of Israel.” Shimron's outrage returned once Naabak's splendid sword was sheathed. “This pagan is nothing more than a spy.”

“He saved my life and the life of my husband.” Her rebuke rose high as if on seraph wings.

Naabak gripped her brother's arm. He jerked Shimron into an embrace, nose to breastplate. “Greetings to the House of Zebula.”

“Aagh.” Her brother drew back and covered his nose.

The temple guards retreated.

“You are bleeding, Shimron.” Her father did not face his son. “Remove yourself from the temple at once and wash your scrape. Furthermore, you are unclean.”

“And, brother,” Gil called out, “those bracelets you kept were a gift from the commander's wife. See that
my
wife receives them in haste.”

“In haste,” Naabak echoed. “That is an order from a brother in Aram.”

“It is not too late, Zebula.” The prophet urged the chief priest forward. “You can still seek the healing of your daughter. Is it not your duty to call on God for our people?”

Her father reached out and stroked a lock of her loose hair. His hand trembled as if he had caught a chill. His gentle touch caused her throat to constrict. Her legs became like satchels of grain, heavy and awkward. She closed her eyes, unable to behold the anticipation in her father's gaze.

Her father kissed her forehead. Not a quick kiss. His kiss lingered like all the years of anguish. “Receive God's blessing, daughter of mine.” His breath wisped upon her skin. “Be healed in His sight, and mine.”

The darkness behind her eyelids flashed with light as luminous as a freshly oiled lamp. No pain sizzled on her skin, only a spring-day warmth that touched her flesh, but caused no burn. Her head covering lifted from her hair. She stilled.

When she opened her eyes, her father's hands shot skyward. He sobbed the
Shema.
The crowd joined in to cover his crying.

“I am clean?” Tears welled in her eyes and spilled freely as if they too were released from a burden. She licked her lips and her tongue tingled, front to back, side to side. Threading her fingers into her hair, her touch rose up hills, over cliffs, and dipped into valleys as she caressed her ears. She giggled at the strange sensation of being the same as everyone else. “I am whole.”

Gil stroked her ears. “I believe you will be needing jewels for those lobes. I will set a fair price.”

She giggled through tears as he imitated the daring merchant that had sought her in the street.

“But hear me, Wife.” His voice lowered to a rumble. “I always thought you beautiful. From your dark eyes and stern nose, to your lips the color of celebratory wine. When we met, you were brave and did not run from me. You cared about my hunger.”

Hugging Gil's neck, she breathed him in for the first time. The scent of his skin bolstered her boldness and spiked a tingle to her toes. “I am glad I did not run from you.” Before she released her husband, she whispered, “We will be together tonight.”

The prophet raised his staff. The people quieted. “Behold the daughter of Zebula. Our God has answered her prayer.” The prophet turned to her father. “And your prayer, Zebula.”

Turning from Gil, she embraced her father. She embraced him as tight as the first day he brought her into the temple. “You healed me.”

“The Lord healed you. Not I.” Her father's chest vibrated as he wept. “Why he did not do it sooner, I do not understand.”

“I may speak for God, but even I do not know His mind,” the prophet said. “If I was allowed to heal her on the first day, would she have dwelled in Aram? Called out to God, not for herself, but for others? She would not have left Jerusalem.” The prophet poked Gil in the chest with his staff. “Woe that she left it with him.”

Naabak laughed so loud he sounded like a stubborn donkey.

Gil winked at her and elbowed Naabak.

Azor strolled forward from the altar and touched the sleeve of her father's robe. “I went to my kinsman because your son cast doubt on the testimony of my intended. I have no doubts now. She belongs to another.”

“I did not mean to cause you hardship.” Hannah looked to Azor, and then to her father. “The house of Zebula will make it right with you.”

Her father nodded.

Azor bowed to her family before returning to his duties.

Gil stepped to her side and cleared his throat. She had never seen Gil so serious. Not even when he spoke about his mother.

“Our first introduction did not go so well, Father. I assure you I will take care of your daughter and the children God grants us. We have land and a modest home not far from the city.”

Her father's head bobbed as he dried his eyes. “You may not be a Levite, but you are a fine Hebrew. You brought my daughter home.”

“Speaking of home,” Naabak interrupted. “My men are waiting.”

The prophet picked up Naabak's cloak. “Come and follow me.” He prodded Hannah in the back and then turned his staff on Gil. “We have time for a meal in the upper room before you lower Naabak and me to the ground.”

“You are leaving Jerusalem?” The question flew off her tongue.

“Our God is not limited by borders. I have work to do in Aram.” The prophet turned toward her father. “Trust that I will return.”

“Join us, Father.” She held out her hand. “Send a servant for Mother.”

Her father hesitated and looked to the doors of the temple. “Yes. We will sing praises. We have much to be thankful for. The house of Zebula is cursed no more.”