Song of Redemption (14 page)

“Ah, I see. Are you traveling alone?”

“No, I came with my wife and daughter.” He pointed to his cart standing on the corner by the square. Maacah sat on top of the load, looking tired and forlorn.

“Ah, yes,” Hilkiah said gently. “What’s your name, my friend?” “Jerimoth.”

“Well, then, Jerimoth, I’m celebrating Passover with my son, and we’d be honored to have you and your family as our guests.” He grinned so warmly that Jerimoth managed a tired smile. “Then you accept?” Hilkiah asked.

“Yes, thank you. I’ve brought a lamb with me from my flock. I’d like to share it with you.”

“Then it’s settled. I don’t live far from here. Give me a moment to finish closing my shop, and we’ll be on our way.”

Jerimoth hurried back to where Hodesh and Maacah waited with the cart. “I’ve found a place to stay,” he told them. “Come on.”

“Where? At an inn?”

“We’ll be guests of Hilkiah the merchant and his son.”

“Who?”

“He owns a shop. Over there. See?”

“A stranger?” Hodesh asked. “You accepted an invitation from a stranger?”

“Just come, Hodesh. You’ll see.”

“I don’t like the idea… .”

Jerimoth gestured to the caravan drivers in the square around him. “It’s better than this, isn’t it? It’s nearly sunset. Where else can we go?”

Hodesh followed nervously as Jerimoth led the way to Hilkiah’s lavish shop. They both bowed low in respect. “My wife, Hodesh, and I are so very grateful, my lord.”

“Now, now. None of that,” Hilkiah interrupted. “I’m pleased to meet you, Hodesh, but you must call me Hilkiah. Shall we go? I hope dinner’s ready, because I’m starved.” He patted his round belly and led the way up the hill to his house.

King Hezekiah sat on the palace rooftop with his grandfather after the evening sacrifice, watching the steady stream of pilgrims flowing into the city for the feast. A pang of hunger rumbled through his stomach, and he thought of his older brother, Eliab. Hezekiah hadn’t eaten anything since dawn, fulfilling the traditional Fast of the Firstborn in his brother’s memory.

“I had hoped that this many people would come,” he told Zechariah as another caravan passed through the gate below them. “But I still can’t believe it’s happening.”

“Yes, it’s a wonderful sight, isn’t it?”

Hezekiah thought he detected a note of hesitancy in his grandfather’s voice. “Is something wrong?”

“Well—it’s just that the people are required to consecrate themselves before celebrating the feast.”

“Meaning what?”

“Among other things, all the men must be circumcised.”

“And you think some of them aren’t?”

“I’m sure many of them aren’t,” Zechariah said, “especially the younger ones who were born during your father’s reign, after the Temple was closed. And if any of them have come from Israel, they’re probably ignorant of the Law. It’s not their fault, of course. They were never taught, but …”

“So which is the greater sin—coming to Passover unprepared or not coming at all?”

Zechariah shrugged. “If their hearts are longing to return to Yahweh, surely He is merciful even if the Law isn’t fulfilled… .”

Zechariah’s answer sounded more like a question, and it disturbed Hezekiah. He wanted clear answers from God, precise rules that he could follow with confidence. If Zechariah didn’t know the answers, how could Hezekiah know them?

The sun sank halfway below the horizon, and still the pilgrims streamed through the city gates. How many were there? How far had they come? Hezekiah thought of the long, arduous journey many of them had made, and it worried him that Yahweh might reject them because of their ignorance of the Law.

“Isn’t there anything we can do for them?” he asked. Zechariah sat in silence for a moment, then stood and lifted his prayer shawl over his head.

“We can pray for them.”

Hezekiah followed his grandfather’s example, and they stood together on the palace roof. Prayer was still new to Hezekiah, so he was unsure how to begin. But he thought of all the people who had journeyed this far, and the problem he had created because of his ignorance, and the words came to him.

“Lord, I pray that you’ll pardon everyone who determines to follow you, even if he isn’t properly sanctified for the ceremony.”

Hezekiah prayed until long after the sun had set and his time of fasting had ended. By the time he and Zechariah finished, the first stars shone brightly in the heavens.

Hezekiah looked at his grandfather hopefully. “Yahweh hears?”

“Yes, He hears. It says in His Word that when we return to the Lord and obey Him with all our heart and with all our soul, He’ll have compassion on us.”

Hezekiah looked out over the darkened hills that surrounded his city and murmured, “Please, Lord … have compassion on us.”

Eliakim frowned as he stood beside Hilkiah, performing the ritual hand-washing before the evening meal. He didn’t share his father’s enthusiasm for inviting strangers into their house, and he was annoyed with Hilkiah for not consulting him first.

“Where did you say these people are from, Abba?”

“They’re from Israel, son—northern Israel.” He tossed Eliakim the towel as if that ended the conversation.

Eliakim grabbed his father by the sleeve and drew him back. “You don’t even know them, do you, Abba?”

“Certainly I do. They’re followers of Yahweh, blessed be He.”

“Abba, you know what I mean. You’ve invited strangers into our home again.”

“They’re followers of Yahweh. Why should you need more information than that?”

“Because Micah was a follower of Yahweh, and I remember all the trouble it caused when you invited him into our home.”

“Hasn’t God paid us back for all our trouble—a double portion?”

“Yes, and I grew to admire Micah, so I suppose it was good that we helped him, but—”

“And I’m sure you’ll grow fond of Jerimoth and Hodesh and their little daughter, as well.”

“Listen, you have to admit that the soldiers made a terrible mess of our house that night, not to mention nearly slitting my throat.” He rubbed the long scar on his throat protectively.

“Eliakim, I give you my pledge. Our guests will not slit your throat. Okay? Let’s eat.”

“Abba, will you listen to me?”

“The Torah says that it’s a great blessing to extend hospitality to strangers at Passover. Amen.”

Eliakim looked at his father skeptically. “The Torah says that?”

“You don’t believe me? Didn’t the Eternal One heap blessings on us for helping Micah? Aren’t you working for the king himself?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Amen. And you’ll see how greatly Yahweh will bless us in return this time, too. You can never out-give God. Don’t ever forget that.” Hilkiah punctuated each word by poking Eliakim’s chest with his forefinger. He smiled, and Eliakim knew the discussion had ended. He followed his father into the house, wondering if the Torah really said it was a blessing to help strangers or if Hilkiah had conveniently made it up.

Their guests were already seated on cushions around the low dining table, and Eliakim struggled to conceal his shock when he saw how poor they looked, how exhausted and frightened. Where had his father found them?

Hilkiah gestured expansively as he made the introductions. “My friends, I’d like you to meet my son, Eliakim. And this is Jerimoth, his wife, Hodesh, and their daughter Maacah.”

“I’m happy to meet you,” Eliakim said. The strangers lowered their heads in his presence as if he were royalty. He felt uneasy.

Hilkiah recited the blessing and they began to eat. Eliakim didn’t want to stare at the strangers, so he stole quick glances at them between bites of food. He noticed that they were ill at ease with the elegant table settings, silken floor cushions, and rich food. Jerimoth reminded him of Micah, tanned and muscular with work-callused hands. He had thick, bushy black hair, mottled with gray, and mournful green eyes. His short, squat wife seemed built for hard work—and she looked out of place in Hilkiah’s elegant home attended by servants. Their daughter was little more than a shadow, so thin that only her thick braids seemed real to Eliakim, the rest of her a mere ghost. Wherever they had come from, Eliakim decided to make peace with them.

“My father tells me you’re from Israel,” he said as he passed Jerimoth the bread. “Are you close to the border of Aram?”

Jerimoth nodded. “It isn’t too far.”

“I hear that the Assyrians control all of that territory now. Have their armies ever come as far south as your village?”

Jerimoth flinched as if he’d been struck. The bread slipped from his fingers as his hand touched the jagged scar on his forehead. Eliakim saw the pain in his guest’s eyes and wished he had never asked the question.

“Yes, we’ve seen their armies,” Jerimoth finally replied. His voice faltered as he struggled for composure. “A few months ago they raided our village. They destroyed most of my crops and … and they carried our daughter Jerusha away.”

“I’m so sorry, my friend,” Hilkiah said. He rose to go to Jerimoth’s side, resting his hand on his shoulder “I’m so sorry… .” But Jerimoth didn’t seem to hear him. He gazed straight ahead as if looking into the past, at scenes only he could see.

“The Assyrians have no hearts as we do,” he said in a hollow voice. “They can’t be moved to pity or touched by pleas for mercy. They flowed over our borders like a flood, and the earth was red with blood when they left. They’re deaf to pain and blind to human suffering. If you beg for mercy, they will cut out your tongue. If you lift your hands to plead with them, they will cut your hands off. I’ve seen them rip babies from their mother’s arms and toss them beneath their horses’ hooves to be trampled. They will torture your loved ones in front of you, then put out your eyes, leaving you to remember the sight forever.

“The more valiantly a village resists them, the greater the punishment that town receives. The more you plead for mercy, the heavier the torture they inflict. They know a hundred ways to prolong death—slowly, horribly—and there are more Assyrian soldiers than there are grains of sand in the desert. No city walls are strong enough to keep them out, no army is mighty enough to defeat them. They’ll carry away entire villages full of people, and those who are carried away are never heard from again.”

The room was still when Jerimoth finished. Eliakim was afraid to speak again. Even Hilkiah seemed at a loss for words to ease Jerimoth’s pain.

But at last Jerimoth sighed, then looked at Hilkiah, who still knelt by his side. “King Hezekiah promised that if I celebrate Passover Yahweh will show compassion, and my daughter will return home to me.”

Jerimoth’s unrealistic hopes alarmed Eliakim. He didn’t believe in such an oversimplified faith. God wouldn’t make all your wishes come true if you prayed. His own father was a man of prayer and had enormous faith in God, yet Eliakim had watched as his mother and two younger brothers died of a fever, one after the other, while his father’s useless prayers ascended into the silent heavens. He remembered kneeling beside his father, praying with all his heart that his mother would live—yet she died. Eliakim knew God couldn’t answer Jerimoth’s prayer. He would never see his daughter again. It would be better if he faced the truth.

“Listen, I don’t think it’s realistic to expect—” Eliakim began, but Hilkiah cut him off.

“We will join with you in prayer, my friend. Yahweh is merciful and compassionate. And I know that He answers prayer.”

“But, Abba—”

Hilkiah silenced Eliakim with a warning look, then turned to Jerimoth. “My dear friend, tomorrow we will take your Passover lamb to the Temple, and my son and I will pray with you. Yahweh will answer you. I know He will.”

Eliakim was furious with his father for making such a rash promise—worse, for involving him. God couldn’t answer a prayer as impossible as this one. The Assyrians never returned their slaves from captivity. The girl was probably dead already.

Eliakim stared down at his plate, picking silently at his food while everyone else ate—everyone but little Maacah. While Jerimoth had been speaking she had sat as still as a stone, her eyes wide, as if she saw the same things her father did. Eliakim realized that she had probably witnessed everything Jerimoth had described, and he was moved with pity for this haunted child. Hilkiah had been right to invite them home—even though he was wrong to encourage their false hopes.

When they finished the meal, Hilkiah turned to the little girl, speaking gently to her. “Maacah, I have a very important job to do right now. Do you think you could help me?” She didn’t move or respond but stared silently at her hands, folded in her lap.

“It’s the children of the household who are supposed to perform this job,” Hilkiah said, “but as you can see, my child is all grown up.” He gestured toward Eliakim. “I could use your help, Maacah. This is the very first part of the Passover celebration and—”

At the mention of Passover, she looked up. “I’ll help you,” she said softly. “For Jerusha.”

Eliakim started to his feet, angry with Hilkiah for dragging this wounded child into his fantasies. She had obviously suffered enough already. “Abba, wait a minute. May I have a word with you, please?”