Song of Redemption (22 page)

Finally Jerusha heard footsteps approaching. She held her breath. The flap opened, sending a gust of cool air into the suffocating tent. Iddina stood in her doorway, his powerful, muscular stance unmistakable.

She thought it fitting that Iddina would be the one to watch her die, since he was the one who had captured her so long ago. She only wished she had let him end her life that first day instead of needlessly prolonging it all these years. He ducked inside the tent and staggered toward her. She could tell by his wavering, uncertain movements that he had been drinking, and she was glad. The alcohol would slow his reflexes, making it difficult for him to stop her in time.

Jerusha gazed longingly at the dagger strapped to his belt. Every morning Iddina honed it on his whetstone to keep it razor sharp. She hated the dull, rasping sound the metal made against the stone, but now she was grateful for his diligence. She wished he would hurry up and take it off. She was ready. Her courage had reached its peak. If only he would lay it within her reach.

She reminded herself not to hesitate, but to plunge the knife hard and deep. Her suicide would make Iddina furious, and if she didn’t die immediately he would prolong her death to torture her. Jerusha had no right to kill herself—that privilege belonged to him.

But Iddina was in no hurry tonight. His black eyes had a malicious gleam as if he were laughing at a secret joke. He sank down beside her, moving so close she felt his breath on her face and smelled the fruity wine he had drunk. Jerusha felt as if she were suffocating. Determination pounded through her veins until her ears rang, but she forced herself to be patient. She could never get her hands on the dagger unless he laid it down. Why didn’t he take it off? She was afraid to look at him, afraid he would peer into her eyes and read the contract she had signed with death.

“I have a surprise for you, my little dog,” he said at last.

Jerusha thought of his bloody trophies hanging outside on the tree branches, and she shuddered. He seized her face in his rough hands, forcing her to look at him.

“I don’t know if I should tell you about my surprise tonight or make you wait until tomorrow.”

Jerusha knew she would never see tomorrow. She looked into his pitiless black eyes, and when she spoke, the defiance in her own voice surprised her. “Tell me now.”

Iddina smiled. His teeth were pointed, like a wolf ’s. “You’d better enjoy your last night with me …”

Last night? He knows!
Somehow Iddina had read her thoughts! That’s why he still wore his weapon!

“ … because tomorrow I’m setting you free.”

For a long moment Jerusha’s heart seemed to stop beating. She must have misunderstood. She didn’t speak his language very well. It had to be a mistake.

“What did you say?” she managed to whisper.

“You heard me—you’re going free tomorrow. Free—like a birdie—to fly away to your nest.”

Jerusha stifled a scream. He was lying. It was a trick—a horrible, cruel joke. Iddina would never set her free. Somehow he had discovered her plan and he’d invented this deception to stop her from doing it. The ringing in her ears grew so loud she could hardly stand it. Then slowly, with almost deliberate boredom, Iddina removed his belt and laid the dagger next to the sleeping mat. The polished handle gleamed. It was within her reach. All she had to do was grab it.

But what if Iddina was telling the truth? What if tomorrow morning, for whatever reason, he would really set her free?

Jerusha jumped when Iddina stroked her cheek with his rough hand. “Why are you looking so serious, my pretty dog? Doesn’t my news make you happy?” She shook her head. “Why not? Would you rather stay here with me?”

Jerusha’s stomach rolled over in revulsion. She glanced at the dagger, assuring herself that it was still there. “I don’t believe that you’d really set me free,” she said.

Without warning, Iddina’s fist slammed into her jaw, and she tumbled backward against the side of the tent. She lay stunned, her face throbbing with pain.

“How dare you call me a liar?” He raised his fist again.

“No! I—I’m sorry—” She could barely force her aching jaw to move. “I didn’t mean it that way—I only wondered why. Why are you setting me free?”

Iddina lowered his arm and studied her as if debating whether or not to tell her. “Because you’re going to help me earn a promotion, you stupid little dog.” He offered no further explanation as he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her toward him.

Hours later, Jerusha lay in the darkness thinking about his words, wondering what he had meant by them, wondering what to do. Iddina finally slept beside her. His knife lay beyond him ready for her to use. It was time to carry out her plan.

But what if he was telling her the truth? What if she really would be free again in a few short hours? Jerusha lay awake throughout most of the long night, wondering what Iddina had meant—and wondering what she should do.

Then, as the eastern sky began to grow light and the jackals crawled away to their lairs, Jerusha realized that the slim thread of hope Iddina had dangled before her had been enough to hold on to. Her will to survive had come tentatively to life again. She would live for one more day.

Jerimoth paused in his labors and leaned against his hoe, watching another caravan of refugees rumble down the road past his land. He counted four—five—six carts loaded with tools and children and household goods, and six weary farmers and their wives, trudging alongside.

Then Jerimoth gripped his hoe once again and attacked the weeds sprouting in his garden plot. He no longer bothered to cross his fields to the roadside to talk to the passing travelers. He would hear the same story from these refugees that he had heard from all the others during the past few weeks: the Assyrians were mobilizing to invade Israel. Everyone was fleeing to escape; some to the fortified capital of Samaria, others leaving Israel altogether, going south to the nation of Judah. If he spoke to them, they would urge him to join them, to escape while he still had a chance.

As his nation writhed in a state of upheaval, Jerimoth watched the quiet days of planting and reaping on his ancient plot of land draw to a close. Like a tremor before the earthquake, the masses of refugees would soon be followed by an even greater horde. No hope remained for Israel. Jerimoth would have to decide what to do. He was born on this land, and if he stayed he would probably die here, as well.

Eventually the caravan passed, but then in the trailing wake of dust Jerimoth spotted a solitary figure walking slowly up the road from the south. He watched as the figure drew near, then recognized his younger brother Saul. He hurried over to the well to meet him and drew a fresh bucket of water.

“Ah, thank you,” Saul said wearily. He held the drinking gourd awkwardly between his right hand and the ugly stump of his left. With his thirst quenched, he tilted his head back and poured water over it. Jerimoth guessed why Saul had come. They stood in silence, neither of them in a hurry to begin this conversation.

Finally Saul gulped more water, then wiped his lips. “We can’t wait any longer, Jerimoth. We have to leave before it’s too late.”

“Just one more week.”

“You said that last week and the week before. We can’t wait any longer.” He rubbed the stump of his hand nervously as he talked.

“But what about Jerusha? Maybe she will—”

“Jerusha is dead. Don’t you realize that yet?”

He didn’t reply. It was what Eliakim insisted, as well, but Jerimoth didn’t believe it. He knew she was alive. He knew it.

Saul sighed heavily, as if tired of repeating a useless conversation. “Listen, Jerimoth—the Assyrians will kill us, too, if we don’t get out soon and go someplace safe.”

“But how will Jerusha ever find me again if—”

Saul didn’t wait for Jerimoth to finish. He groaned and walked up the rise to Jerimoth’s house. Hodesh came to the door to meet him.

“We can’t wait any longer,” Saul told her. “Please make him listen to reason.”

“Take my wife and daughter with you, then,” Jerimoth said, following Saul up to the house. “I’ve decided to wait here for Jerusha.”

“Even if the Assyrians have Jerusha, even if she’s still alive, how could you possibly rescue her? Be reasonable, will you? Think about it. There are thousands and thousands of them.”

“God has promised—”

“Enough! I’ve heard it all before. Now it’s time to flee to safety. Come with me, Jerimoth, and save what’s left of your family!”

Jerimoth didn’t reply. He was torn between his concern for Hodesh and Maacah and his fear that Jerusha would return to an empty house.

“Yes or no?” Saul said. “For heaven’s sake, don’t you know enough to give up?”

“How can I give up on my daughter?”

“I lost both of my daughters! You still have one left! Don’t you want to save her?”

Maacah suddenly appeared out of the shadows of the darkened house and wrapped her thin arms around Jerimoth’s waist. She was almost fifteen and rapidly approaching womanhood, but she remained slender and wraithlike.

“We can’t go yet, Abba. We have to wait for Jerusha.”

Saul groaned and gestured in defeat. “I’ll wait two more days, Jerimoth. Two days, but that’s all. Whether Jerusha comes home or not, we must leave on the third day. That’ll give you plenty of time to load everything and meet me in Dabbasheth.”

“Yes. Yes. All right.” Jerimoth tugged on his beard as he looked into his brother’s sorrowful eyes. “Have you thought about where we should go?”

“We have to get out of Israel,” Saul said. “Even Samaria won’t be safe if the Assyrians attack it. I think we should go south to Judah.”

Jerimoth nodded. “I have friends there—Hilkiah the merchant and his son. Maybe they can help us resettle somewhere—out in the countryside.”

“Yes, you’ve spoken of Hilkiah before. It’s a good plan.” Saul reached out to stroke Maacah’s cheek as she stood with her arms around her father. “I miss my girls,” he said. Then his eyes met Jerimoth’s as he pleaded with him: “Two days, Jerimoth. If you don’t come to Dabbasheth by then, I’ll have to leave without you.”

18

A
S THE FIRST RAYS OF DAYLIGHT
seeped through the seams of the tent, Iddina stirred in his sleep, then sat up. In one swift movement he reached for his dagger and strapped it to his waist, and Jerusha knew that her chance to die quickly had passed. Exhaustion numbed her. She had stayed awake most of the night, wondering what Iddina’s words meant, trying to imagine why he would set her free.

Now she rose from her pallet and began preparing the morning meal, grinding grain into flour and kneading the sticky dough. She felt dazed, and her bruised jaw ached from where he had struck her. A great flurry of activity swept through the camp as the army prepared to march toward Israel, but Jerusha barely noticed. The tantalizing prospect of freedom danced through her mind as she watched the round, flat loaves of bread bake on the firestones. Perhaps Iddina had invented this lie as more of the warfare that the Assyrians loved to wage in their victims’ minds. It was their cruelest form of torture. Jerusha steeled herself for disappointment, vowing not to let Iddina see her suffer because of his lies.

When the meal was ready, Jerusha helped Marah spread the mat on the ground beneath the tree and lay out the officers’ food. Then she squatted beside it, fanning away the black flies that hovered everywhere. As Iddina and the other officers approached, Jerusha saw them laughing and whispering behind their hands, casting odd glances at her.

Marah stopped swatting flies, her hand frozen in midair. “They’re plotting something,” she said. “Something evil.”

Jerusha’s heart pounded as if trying to escape from her chest, but she made up her mind not to let them see her fear—or her hope. The officers sat down, and as Jerusha placed Iddina’s food in front of him, he grabbed her roughly by the wrist.

“Are you ready to fly away, my little bird?” he grinned.

Jerusha nearly cried aloud. Abba had always called her his happy little bird. How dare Iddina use those words? She swallowed back her hatred and stared down at her bare feet. “Yes, my lord—I’m ready,” she said.

Iddina and the others burst into loud, mocking laughter, and Jerusha felt a sob rising in her chest. Iddina had lied. They would never set her free. She should have died last night while she had the chance. She looked up at him.

“Go pack your things, then, little bird.” Iddina gestured toward her tent. “Soon it will be time to fly.” One of the officers muttered something, and they all laughed again. Why were they tormenting her like this? Why tantalize her with the hope of freedom if they had no intention of granting it? They were masters of torture, delighting in their game.

Jerusha fled into her tent to avoid their mocking stares, then looked around, wondering what to pack. This must be part of their game, to force her to get ready and then laugh at her again. Besides, what did she have to pack? She owned only the coarse, shapeless dress she wore and the tattered blanket that had once swaddled her daughter. But she knew they would force her to play their sadistic game to the end.

She carefully unfolded the blanket and wrapped some food inside it: yesterday’s bread, a chunk of cheese, a cake of dates, some dried smoked meat, a handful of figs. She filled a small skin with water. It was enough to last three or four days, a week if she rationed it. Then she stepped outside again to face her tormentors. They were no longer laughing. They were arguing fiercely.