Song of Redemption (24 page)

Shortly before dark she stumbled upon a shallow stream trickling down the rocky slopes of the mountain, and she sank down beside it to drink. With her thirst quenched, she refilled her waterskin, then sat for several minutes soaking her tired feet, searching for a way to carry more water. Her exhausted mind found no solution. Her eyes burned with the need to sleep, her legs trembled with fatigue, but she thought of Iddina and scrambled to her feet. She glanced behind her, half expecting to see him, and saw her own trail of crushed weeds winding through the thick brush. Iddina could follow her tracks effortlessly.

“Oh no!” Her voice seemed to echo like a thunderclap through the silent woods.

An inner voice of fear and despair urged Jerusha to quit. She could never escape from Iddina. She may as well give up. But another voice, just as clear, urged her to go on. She had given in to fear before, choosing to live as a slave, but now something more powerful than fear motivated her: hatred. She would rather die than help Iddina win his evil wager, rather collapse from hunger and exhaustion than live with him for the rest of her life.

Jerusha sloshed into the frigid water. It would hide her tracks, and if she waded ashore carefully, she might lose him. She made slow progress in the knee-deep water. The rocky stream bed bruised the soles of her feet.

Near midnight, when her feet were numb with cold, Jerusha began shivering uncontrollably. She stopped to rest on a large boulder, swaddling her icy feet in her blanket, hugging her knees to her chest. Bears and lions probably roamed these mountain heights, but Jerusha felt strangely unafraid. No savage animal seemed as fierce and brutal as Iddina. At least she would die free.

As the need for sleep bore down on her, Jerusha stood and trudged on. She had to reach the top of the mountain before dawn. They might spot her on the barren upper slopes once daylight came. She waded into the icy water again, following the stream until the current grew too swift. Then, choosing a rocky bank to hide her trail, she abandoned the stream to climb the craggy slope to the summit. As the eastern sky grew light, she struggled over the jagged rocks, her hands and feet bloody and aching. She reached the summit just as the pale stars began to fade, and scrambled over the top, out of sight. She had done it!

Weeping with joy and pain, Jerusha collapsed among the rocks. She had accomplished much more than scaling a mountain. She had conquered a private mountain, as well, climbing out of the emotionless wasteland she had inhabited so long, feeling joy and victory for the first time since giving birth to her daughter. Even Jerusha’s pain told her she was alive again, not one of Iddina’s lifeless possessions.

But as the sun burned away the morning haze, Jerusha glimpsed the terrain that lay ahead and her triumph evaporated in defeat. She had merely scaled one of the foothills. A huge ridge of mountains loomed ahead, directly south. She couldn’t possibly climb them.

Tears blurred her vision as she gazed at the cruel peaks blocking the path to freedom. If she returned to the road in order to find a mountain pass, she would never escape the horse patrols. But how else could she navigate such forbidding terrain? Despair engulfed her as she counted the rows of mountains she would have to traverse. It was impossible.

Then, on the farthest peak, Jerusha spotted a patch of white. She leaped to her feet, squinting at the horizon, then cried for joy. It was Mount Hermon!

Back home she could see the snowy peak on a clear day. Abba said Mount Hermon was the only mountain in Israel with snow. Fear argued that she was wrong. It wasn’t Mount Hermon—and she could never walk that far. But glimpsing the familiar landmark had renewed her hope. Jerusha clambered down the rocky slope toward home.

Descending seemed almost harder than ascending as Jerusha’s aching legs continually buckled on the steep gradient, but she persevered, yearning to remain free, to go home. Three times the pitiless sun sank beneath the horizon on her right, and three times it quickly rose to become her enemy again, blazing in a cloudless sky, sucking moisture from her body until her tongue swelled and her lips cracked. She rested or slept only minutes at a time, then struggled to her feet to push on, never looking back.

On the fifth day she spotted a road, threading out of the foothills, crossing a broad valley, then disappearing into the steep mountain range ahead of her. She sat down to eat her last bite of food and to decide what to do. Traveling would be easier on the road, but what if it was the same road she had left five days ago? Then her exhausting journey through the wilderness would have been in vain. The Assyrians would find her again. Fatigue turned her limbs to lead, and she had crossed only the first ridge. Rows of steep mountains still stood between her and Mount Hermon’s snowy peak—if it
was
Mount Hermon.

Suddenly a flicker of movement on the distant road caught Jerusha’s eye.
The Assyrians!
Somehow they had overtaken her, even though she had walked nonstop. She sat motionless, straining to watch the tiny figures, and saw splashes of color instead of black. Then she noticed the slowly plodding camels. A caravan!

Tears of relief sprang to her eyes, and without thinking, Jerusha ran down the slope toward the road, tripping and stumbling, exhausting her last reserve of strength. She had to reach the caravan. They would help her get home.

But by the time Jerusha staggered onto the road, the caravan had disappeared. The flaming sun, now at its zenith, made her nauseated. Disappointment and fatigue left her defeated. Her food and water were gone. She couldn’t will her quivering legs to take another step. Jerusha crawled beneath a clump of bushes along the side of the road to rest, to think, to escape the blinding sun for a moment before going on. But her eyes drifted closed in total exhaustion, and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

She awoke hours later to the sound of breathing. She focused on a dark figure bending over her and saw a face, a bushy beard, a pair of dark eyes.

Jerusha screamed.

Jerimoth watched as Hodesh folded their bedding and tied it to the loaded cart outside their door. The family had eaten breakfast in silence, and when Maacah finished washing the dishes she added them to the cart, as well. Jerimoth gazed up the deserted road again, then reluctantly led his team of oxen from the stable and hitched them to the cart. His agonized wait for Jerusha had been unbearable. He couldn’t sleep or eat, and his eyes ached from the strain of watching for her. Day and night he had never stopped pleading with God for her safe return. But when she still hadn’t returned, he knew his brother wouldn’t wait any longer.

Jerimoth looked north one final time. The pale dawn sky was clear, and he saw the snowy peak of Mount Hermon perched on the horizon. It was time to go. They had to flee Israel. Yet how could he abandon Jerusha? Jerimoth knew he could never leave.

Tears slowly coursed down his face as he turned to his wife. “Hodesh, listen to me. I’m taking you and Maacah into Dabbasheth so you can go with Saul. But I can’t leave without Jerusha.”

“Jerimoth, no!”

“Saul will take you to Jerusalem, where you’ll both be safe. Hilkiah will look after you until Jerusha and I come.”

Hodesh reached up to touch Jerimoth’s cheek. “I’m not going anywhere without you,” she said softly. “Saul can take Maacah to Jerusalem, but I’m staying here with you.”

Jerimoth looked at his wife’s determined face and knew it was useless to argue with her. He drew her into his arms. “All right, Hodesh. All right.” His voice was thick with emotion. “I’ll take Maacah into town so she can go with Saul.”

“Abba, no!” Maacah’s voice came from behind Jerimoth. “Don’t make me go with Uncle Saul—please!”

“Your mother and I will come later, with Jerusha.”

“But I want to wait for her, too! Please don’t break our family apart again. Please, Abba!”

Jerimoth groaned and leaned against the cart. If only Jerusha would miraculously appear and end this agonizing dilemma he faced. Jerimoth understood the danger of remaining in Israel as the Assyrians marched closer and closer. He longed to send his wife and daughter to safety, but he didn’t know how he could force them to go against their will. Nor could he leave without Jerusha.

As Jerimoth wrestled over what to do, Maacah quietly unloaded her bedding and an armload of cooking pots from the cart and carried them back into the house. Hodesh watched her disappear through the door, then picked up the bedroll she and Jerimoth shared and followed her inside.

On the horizon another caravan of refugees rumbled down the road from the north, and Jerimoth watched in mournful silence as they streamed past his land—six wagons—seven—eight. He counted nineteen children perched on towering loads, carried on shoulders, or walking wearily alongside. Then, as the caravan disappeared into the trailing cloud of dust, Jerimoth unhitched his team of oxen and led them out to pasture.

Jerusha scrambled backward through the bushes, scratching her arms on the branches in a desperate attempt to escape from the man who was bending over her. But instead of pursuing her, the man held out his hand, offering her a cup of water. It took her a moment to realize that he wasn’t an Assyrian.

He was her father’s age, dressed in a homespun tunic and sandals. His brown eyes looked kind, and he spoke soothingly, as if to a frightened animal, but Jerusha couldn’t understand what he said. Her mouth and throat felt parched, and suddenly she didn’t care what he did to her. She reached for the water and gulped it greedily, then glanced up at the man again. He extended his palm, offering a handful of dates. Jerusha’s stomach ached from hunger; she snatched them from him and devoured the sweet fruit.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He looked surprised. “Israel?” he asked, pointing to her.

“Yes, I’m from Israel.”

He beckoned to her, then turned and walked toward the road. Jerusha slowly rose to her feet and saw that he was traveling alone with a cart and a team of oxen. He turned and beckoned again, then pointed to the cart. What did he want with her?

Jerusha considered all the possibilities from slavery to rape, then realized that he couldn’t do anything to her that hadn’t already been done. Even if he killed her, she would still escape from the Assyrians. Besides, his cart was headed south. With nothing to lose, Jerusha walked toward the road.

But the sun felt so hot, her legs so weary, that the earth began to sway, and she collapsed a few feet from the road. The stranger hurried over and gently lifted her into the cart. He flicked his short whip over the oxen, and the cart jolted down the road with Jerusha’s new captor walking alongside it. Before long, the warm sun and slowly swaying cart rocked her into an exhausted sleep.

The sun hung low in the afternoon sky when she awoke. Furrowed fields and vineyards dotted the rolling hills beside the road, but the country appeared deserted and strangely quiet. The Assyrians were coming. Everyone had fled. As the oxen plodded sluggishly down the road, Jerusha silently begged them to move faster.

Fully awake now, she studied the stranger as he walked patiently beside his oxen. His clothing and features were not of an Israelite, and Jerusha guessed from his deep tan and brawny shoulders that he was a farmer or a laborer. She thought of him as her captor even though he hadn’t taken her by force. Why had he helped her? What did he want with her? And what would happen if she tried to run away from him now? But Jerusha was much too exhausted to run, much too grateful for a chance to ride, even if the pace was maddeningly slow.

The snow-capped mountain loomed closer now, and although she couldn’t be certain, it did resemble the familiar peak of Mount Hermon. Once, when the man turned around, Jerusha pointed to it, asking, “Is that Mount Hermon?” But he shrugged and shook his head, muttering in a language she didn’t understand. She tried saying a few words in the Assyrian tongue, but he didn’t understand that either. Who was he? Why was he traveling this road all alone when everyone else had obviously fled before the approaching Assyrians?

As the sun set, the stranger led the oxen down a side road to a tiny village tucked between the shadowy hills. Jerusha knew what the Assyrians would do to this village. The town’s thin walls would be pitifully inadequate against Assyrian battering rams. She wanted to run through the streets and warn the remaining inhabitants to flee for their lives, but they spoke a language she didn’t understand, nor did they understand hers. As she passed through the gate she saw that the streets were nearly deserted. No oil lamps glowed through the shutters of the houses, no smoke rose from the hearths. Then the huge iron gates swung shut behind her for the night, and Jerusha felt trapped.