Return to Me (34 page)

“Now you can watch her die,” the man said.

Rafi. The Samaritan.

He was holding Yael against his chest. Iddo saw the glint of a knife.

“Don’t hurt her, Rafi.” Zechariah’s voice. “Take your revenge on me, but don’t hurt Yael. She loves you.”

For a moment Iddo couldn’t move, frozen in horror just as he’d always been in his dream. He had to save his family! Then he forced himself to move, glancing around the courtyard for a weapon. Dinah’s heavy clay water jar stood near his feet. He picked it up and crept to the opened door, then smashed it into the back of Rafi’s head with all his strength. Rafi tottered but didn’t fall, momentarily stunned. And in that instant, Zechariah lunged toward Yael and snatched her from Rafi’s grasp. Zaki stood in front of her, shielding her as she screamed and screamed.

Rafi whirled to attack Iddo, a short, double-edged knife in his hand. He was young and strong, but Iddo was strong, too. He had killed and skinned hundreds of bulls and rams for the sacrifices. Now he wrestled for his life and for Zechariah and Yael’s lives—gripping Rafi’s arms to keep away the knife.

“Stay back, Zaki,” Iddo shouted. “He’ll kill you.” But Zaki attacked Rafi from behind, punching and beating him, then wrapping one arm around Rafi’s throat as he tried to pull him away.

Yael continued to scream for help as the three men struggled, loudly enough to awaken the others. Besai and Mattaniah came to help, but they moved too slowly, still groggy with sleep and
with wine from the wedding. In one swift, deadly strike, Rafi managed to free one hand and stab Iddo in the stomach. Iddo felt the force of the thrust, the warm, wet rush of blood. Iddo staggered backward as Rafi pulled out the knife and whirled to attack Zechariah, the knife raised.

“No!” Iddo roared. He fought for balance and hurled himself at Rafi, pushing him sideways with all his strength, away from his grandson. The other men piled on Rafi then, knocking him to the ground, kicking the knife from his hand. Iddo snatched up the dagger and plunged it into Rafi’s chest. A moment later, Rafi went still.

Iddo had used up all his strength. A fire burned in his gut where he’d been stabbed. He leaned against the wall, then slowly slid to the ground.

“Iddo’s hurt! He’s bleeding!” someone shouted.

They helped him lie down, and Dinah bent over him, tearing open his robe to tend to his wound. The room whirled, dreamlike. It was hard to breathe. “Lie still, Iddo,” she begged. “Please don’t move . . . Please be all right. . . .”

“I’m fine, Dinah. Don’t worry. It was just a dream . . . But I saved them this time. . . . I killed the Babylonian soldier . . . and I saved them. . . .”

Iddo closed his eyes and let the darkness take him.

Z
echariah ran home from the evening sacrifice, desperate to be with his grandfather, unwilling to miss a single moment with him, knowing each one might be his last. Three long, agonizing days had passed since Rafi had stabbed Saba, and no one was able to say if he would survive or not. Zechariah raced into the courtyard, then into his grandfather’s room and saw Safta sitting beside his bed. “He’s asleep,” she whispered. “There’s been no change.” She was trying so hard to be brave, staying by Saba’s side, encouraging him to get well, never letting anyone see her cry. Zechariah had also remained beside his bed all night and had heard her murmuring to Saba in the darkness, “I love you, Iddo. . . . You must get well. . . . You must.”

“I’ll stay with him for a while,” he said as he sat down beside the bed.

“Do you want something to eat, Zaki?”

“Maybe later.” Worry had stolen his appetite.

Safta nodded and released Saba’s hand as she stood. “I’ll warm some broth in case he’s hungry when he wakes up.”

Zechariah closed his eyes after she left, silently pleading with
the Almighty One to spare his grandfather’s life. Why should Saba pay the price for Zechariah’s decision to marry Yael?

As time passed, his mind began to wander, circling back to the events of that terrible night. No one in his household could comprehend the violence and hatred that had entered their gate. Rafi had tried to kill Yael. And him. And Saba. Who knew how many others he would have killed if Saba hadn’t stopped him?

But Rafi was dead. At dawn, Mattaniah had sent for the elders from Rafi’s village, asking them to come and see for themselves what Rafi had tried to do. The elders had carried his body home. And now all of Jerusalem held its breath, waiting to see if more blood vengeance and killing would follow.

In all the grief and confusion, Zechariah had barely spoken with Yael—his wife. Hodaya had been much better at comforting her than he was. What a terrible way to begin their marriage. If it ever truly would be a marriage.

Zechariah opened his eyes again when he heard his grandfather stirring. “Is the sacrifice finished, Zaki?” he asked in his whispery-soft voice.

“Yes. And everyone prayed for you. All of the priests and the people . . . How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m still dreaming. Like I’m half in this world and half in the next.”

Lines of pain creased Saba’s face. The wound had been deep, and so much blood had drained from his body that he was as weak as an infant, as pale and cold as snow. But Zechariah refused to allow his grandfather to give in to the pain and die. “Please stay in this world a little longer, Saba. We need you.”

“That’s up to the Holy One, not me. . . . In the meantime, tell me about today’s Torah portion.”

Zechariah swallowed his grief. “It’s one of your favorites, the passage where the Holy One says to Abraham, ‘Look up at the
heavens and count the stars—if indeed you can count them. So shall your offspring be.’”

“Tell me—” He began to cough and Zechariah tensed, fearing the exertion would reopen his wound.

“Just rest, Saba. Don’t try to talk until you’re stronger. It takes too much of your strength.”

“You know how we become stronger?” he asked, smiling faintly. “By studying the Torah.”

Zechariah bit his lip. He longed to hear just one more of his grandfather’s Torah lessons. Why hadn’t he appreciated the wealth of wisdom and knowledge that Saba possessed? Who could ever take the place of this man of God when he was gone? Zechariah couldn’t bear to think about it. “Then we’ll study this passage together so you’ll grow strong.” He sat up straight, waiting for his grandfather to begin with a question. The room grew dimmer now that the sun had set, but Zechariah didn’t want to light a lamp.

Saba drew a shallow breath. “What is the plain meaning of the passage?”

“The Holy One is telling Abraham that one day his descendants will be so numerous that we’ll be like the stars in the heavens. Too many to count.”

“And He always keeps His promises. . . . Don’t let our tiny population fool you. Or our disobedience in failing to finish His temple. God keeps His promises even when we don’t keep ours.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “Do you see a deeper meaning?”

Zechariah smiled. Of course. There was always a deeper meaning. Saba had taught him this passage years before and was checking to see if he remembered. “The Holy One was not only telling Abraham that his offspring would be numerous, but also that we would shine like the stars. We would be a source of light in the darkness. The Holy One entrusted us with His
Word, and the world is enlightened by the Torah’s wisdom and moral teachings when we live in obedience to it.”

“Good. . . . Is there still another meaning?”

Zechariah thought for a moment but none came to mind. “If so, I’m certain that you know what it is, Saba.” He bent closer as his grandfather cleared his throat.

“The Holy One asked Abraham to count the stars. An impossible task. But He knew that if Abraham attempted the impossible, his offspring would follow his example. We would also attempt the impossible if God asked us to. Because with His help, nothing is impossible. Do you believe that, Zaki?”

“Yes. Of course.” This wasn’t the time to share his doubts with his grandfather.

“We all believed it when we first came here,” Saba continued. “We were going to rebuild Jerusalem and the temple and our nation even if the rubble and the weeds and the hatred of our enemies made it seem impossible. We started off so well and now . . . now for the past decade we’ve decided it was impossible. There were too many obstacles in our way, too many stars to count.”

“The obstacles aren’t imagined, Saba. We had to stop building, remember? The Persian king reversed his decree.”

“Did the Almighty One reverse His decree?”

“No, but our enemies came with soldiers and threats and ordered us to stop. We had no choice.” Zechariah tried to be gentle and not argue, even though he had once agreed with Saba when he’d argued with the priest, Jakin. “We’re still under Persian control. We have to obey the king.”

“Is he mightier than God?”

Before Zechariah could reply, Safta came into the room with a bowl of warm broth. “Are you tiring him, Zaki? He needs to eat something and then rest.”

Zechariah stood to give her his place beside the bed. “I’ll come back in a little while.”

“No, Zechariah . . . wait . . . I’m not finished.” Iddo motioned for him to kneel beside the bed again. “Nothing is impossible with God,” he said. “Do you believe that or don’t you?”

“I believe it.” But he had wrestled with doubt and fear for so long that they had exhausted his certainty, just like they had exhausted the high priest and their nation’s leaders and so many other people.

“Try to eat some broth,” Safta said.

Saba shook his head. “God has His hand on you, Zechariah, for a very special task. I’ve always known that was true. . . . Tell me why you decided to come here.”

“Because I felt God’s presence. I heard Him telling me to come. I thought . . . I thought if we rebuilt the temple, then God’s presence would dwell with us all the time, but then . . .”

“You haven’t found Him?”

“No. Not yet.” It shamed Zechariah to admit it.

“Are you certain about that? I think you’ve been searching for God in the wrong place when all this time He has been as close to you as I am.”

“How? . . . Where?”

“We all want to meet God in a dramatic way like you did on the day of your bar mitzvah. But instead, the Almighty One quietly reveals himself to us in His Word. As you study it every day, you hear His voice and you see Him. You learn to know Him.”

“Saba, I—”

“Don’t wait for a new temple to be built or for another mystical experience like the first one. Listen to God now, son. Pay attention to His voice in the Scriptures.” Saba closed his eyes. “And then when He tells you to do the impossible, go do it.”

Zechariah left the room and went outside to the courtyard as his emotions overwhelmed him. Do the impossible? The others had sat down to eat the evening meal and they invited him to join them, but he wasn’t hungry. Could Saba be right? Was God’s
presence truly as close as the pages of the Torah, the writings of the prophets? Zechariah’s pain was so raw, his dread so great, that he could scarcely think, barely function. He fled to his new room—his marriage chamber—as he tried to pull his fraying emotions back together. He was still sitting there on the floor in the dark with his back against the wall when he heard the door open. He looked up. Yael came inside with a lamp and closed the door behind her. He waited while she set the lamp in its niche, not trusting himself to speak.

“We haven’t had a chance to talk since that night,” she said. “Since your grandfather . . .” He saw her swallow. “But I need to tell you how sorry I am for everything that happened. Can you ever forgive me?”

“For what? For loving the wrong person?” he asked with a shrug. “You couldn’t have known what Rafi would do.”

“I should have known. I ignored the signs because I didn’t want to see them. Rafi would have killed both of us. And anyone else who tried to interfere.” She walked forward a few more steps as if afraid to approach him. “Zaki, I know that what happened to your grandfather was my fault.”

“It wasn’t. I don’t blame you. I shouldn’t have interfered with your life by offering to marry you.”

She moved closer and knelt in front of him. Tears streamed down her beautiful face. “If you hadn’t interfered, I would have foolishly married Rafi. I would have married a man capable of murdering me. I should have listened to you and to everyone else. Please, please forgive me.”

“Of course, Yael. Of course I forgive you.” She was so distraught that he reached for her and pulled her into his arms, letting her sit beside him and weep against his shoulder. But in spite of his assurances, part of him did blame her for what had happened. And if his grandfather died . . . Zechariah wasn’t sure he could ever look at Yael without thinking that she was partly to blame.

“I burned up my star charts . . . I threw them all on the hearth and watched them burn.” Her voice sounded muffled against his robe. “I’ll never look at the stars for guidance again. I’ll worship your God from now on.”

He didn’t reply. She had spoken the words he’d waited to hear all these years. But at what price? His grandfather’s life?

“Will you give me a second chance, Zaki?” she whispered.

“Of course.”

Yael released him and leaned away to look at him. She took his face in her hands, touching his beard, stroking his hair. “When Rafi said he was going to kill you, he was a man I didn’t know. A stranger. I could never have loved a man who would kill you. But in that terrible moment, I saw you, I knew you. You were Zaki, my friend. The man I’ve shared a lifetime with, the man I know so well. I love you, and I can’t imagine a future without you. I’m so sorry for what I’ve put your family through. For what happened to your grandfather—”

“Shh . . . shh . . . Don’t cry, Yael.” He pulled her close again, desperate to stop her flow of words. He had promised to forgive her, the same way he had assured Saba that he believed in a God who could do the impossible—and Zechariah wasn’t sure if any of it was true. He didn’t know what he believed or if he could ever forgive. He needed to get away somewhere alone so he could think.

“I want to truly be your wife,” she said, “if you haven’t changed your mind.”

“You are my wife, Yael. We’re already married. I won’t change my mind.” But his heart, not his mind, needed to change. Especially if his grandfather died.

Her arms tightened around him. “I’m yours, Zaki. From now on. I’m yours.”

“Yael, right now I . . . I need to go pray for Saba.” He unwrapped her arms from around him and struggled to his feet. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

He left the house and walked through the dark streets, dodging the rubble still piled everywhere after so many years. Dim lamplight lit a few of the scattered houses, but not many. The inhabitants of Jerusalem were too poor to waste precious oil. Wanting to avoid the temple mount, he walked downhill to the reservoir that held the runoff from the Gihon Spring. The pool used to be inside the city walls, but they had all been destroyed by the Babylonians. Zechariah climbed onto a half-broken section of wall and sat down.

Across the valley, thin plumes of gray smoke curled into the night sky from Rafi’s village. Zaki turned away from that view and gazed up the hill at the cluster of houses where he and the other settlers lived. Farther up the slope was the house of assembly and Governor Sheshbazzar’s residence, and on the highest point above this mound of land where King David’s city had once stood, Zechariah could see smoke rising from the Holy One’s altar. It was the mountain where the temple should be.

He closed his eyes, lowering his face in his hands so he could think. Yael had given up her idolatry. She was ready to be his wife. But he knew she acted out of guilt and obligation and fear, knowing Saba might die. Zaki wanted her love. It had taken the crisis of nearly losing her, seeing that knife pressed to her throat, for him to realize how much he did love her. He had offered to trade his life for hers. As he opened his eyes again and gazed up at the place where the temple should be, he wondered if living with a wife without her love was like serving as God’s priest without loving Him. Was this how God felt about Zechariah’s halfhearted faith? Did He also want all or nothing, a relationship of mutual love, not mere guilt or obligation?

All or nothing. That’s what his grandfather was trying to teach him. Did Zechariah believe all of the stories in the Torah, all of the impossible deeds that the Almighty One had done in the past, or didn’t he?

He realized that he did. Because Saba was right—he had learned to know God through studying the Scriptures. What he saw was a God of love and miracles and laws, and he knew that a life without Him wasn’t worth living. He would be no better than the dumb beasts of the earth. No better than the Samaritans.

Zechariah truly had experienced God’s presence back in Babylon. The Almighty One had commanded him to return to Jerusalem and to Him. Zechariah had been longing for His presence ever since, searching for Him, waiting for God to tell him why he was here and what He wanted him to do. And as Zechariah gazed up the sloping hill, at the ruins, at the half-built city, at the empty place on the top of the hill where Abraham had offered up Isaac, the place where the temple should be, he suddenly knew exactly what God wanted him to do.