Where the Jackals Howl (30 page)

The elders of Israel came to the judge's tent saying: In God's name, go, the time is passing, the Ammonite is devouring all the land, if you delay longer what will there be left to save for us. Jephthah listened and said nothing. The elders spoke further to the judge: Send word to the Edomite and to the Arab, send to Egypt and to Damascus, we cannot manage alone, for Ammon is too strong for us. And still Jephthah said nothing.

But to himself he said:

“Grant me but one sign more, O God, and I will offer you their carcasses strewn upon the field as you love, O Lord of the wolves in the night in the desert.”

 

One night Pitdah saw another dream. Her bridegroom came in the darkness and said to her in a still small voice: Come, my bride, arise, for the time has come.

In the morning Jephthah listened to her dream, and this time he was silent but his face grew very dark. He had been stalked by dreams all the days of his life. And like his father Gilead before him he believed that dreams come from that place from which man comes and to which he returns through his death. To himself he said: Now is the time. And the girl laughed aloud.

One hour later the trumpet sounded.

All the camps assembled on the rocky slope, and the sun played on the lances and shields. The elders of the tribes were in a panic, searching for the right words to prevent him from launching their whole force against the walls of Ammon in one swoop, for great was the strength of Ammon, and Israel might never recover from this disaster; surely the wild man had resolved to dash the head of Israel against the stone walls of Ammon. But the judge of Israel rose and left the tent in the midst of their entreaties and stood at the entrance facing the troops, and this time his daughter Pitdah was standing at his side. He placed his hand on her shoulder and the voice of his dead mother seemed to ring in his voice as he said: O God, if you will surely deliver the children of Ammon into my hand, then it shall be that whatever comes forth from the doors of my house to meet me when I return in peace from the children of Ammon shall surely belong to God, and I will offer it up as a burnt offering—

“He will deliver the children of Ammon into your hands. Now, you, my maidens, make ready my bridal gown,” said the darkly beautiful girl. The people cheered and the horses neighed, and she laughed and laughed and never stopped.

 

Jephthah the Gileadite emerged from his hiding place in the Land of Tob and pounced on Ammon to raze its walls to the ground, for great was the strength of Ammon. Sweeping through the villages, he toppled the towers and fired the temples, flattened the turrets and shattered the golden domes and gave the wives, concubines, and harlots as food to the fowls of the air.

By the time the day reached its heat Gatel had been put to the sword and Ammon had been smitten from Aroer until you come to Minnith, even twenty cities, and as far as Abel-Keramim, with a very great slaughter, and by nightfall Ammon was defeated and Gatel was slain and still Jephthah was silent.

T
HE DAYS
of a man's life are like water seeping into the sands; he perishes from the face of the earth unknown at his coming and unrecognized at his passing. He fades away like a shadow that cannot be brought back. But sometimes dreams come to us in the night and we know in the dreams that nothing truly passes away and nothing is forgotten, everything is always present as it was before.

Even the dead return home in the dreams. Even days that are lost and forgotten come back whole and shining in dreams at night, not a drop is lost, not a jot passes away. The smell of wet dust on an autumn morning from long ago, the sight of burned houses whose ashes have long since been scattered by the wind, the arched hips of dead women, the barking at the moon, on a distant night, of remote ancestors of the dogs that are with us now: everything comes back living and breathing in our dreams.

As if in a dream Jephthah the Gileadite stood at the entrance to his father's estate, within the fences of which he was born, in the shadows of whose orchards he had first felt the touch of a hand, and from which he had fled for his life many years before: not a drop was lost, not a jot had passed away. The fences and orchards stood before him as of old, and the vine still covered all the walls of the house so that the black volcanic stones could not be seen through its embrace. And the water ran in the channels and beneath the trees there was cool dark longing.

Like a man possessed by a dream Jephthah stood looking up to the house, only half-seeing the darkly beautiful one coming out to meet him with songs. And after her came the maidens with timbrels and the shepherds with pipes and his father Gilead, a broad, bitter man. And Jamin, Jemuel, and Azur were also on the path, and their mother Nehushtah daughter of Zebulun could be seen all white in a white dress through the window with pale laughter on her lips. And all the dogs were barking and the cows were lowing and the household scribe and the household priest and the bald-headed steward, all as in a dream, nothing was left out.

 

And the maidens followed after her, dressed in white and playing their timbrels and singing: Jephthah has slain, Jephthah has slain; and the people cheered and the torches blazed over all of Mizpeh of Gilead.

As she came out she seemed to be floating, as if her feet disdained to touch the dust of the path. As a gazelle comes down to water so Pitdah came down to her father. Her bridal gown gleamed white, her eyelashes shaded her eyes, and when she looked up at him and he heard her laughter he saw fire and ice burning with a green flame in her pupils. And the maidens sang: Jephthah has slain slain slain, and Pitdah's hips moved restlessly as though to the rhythm of a secret dance and she was slender and barefoot—

Drowsily the judge of Israel stood facing the entrance to his father's estate. His face was parched and weatherbeaten, and his eyes were turned inward. As though he were deathly tired. As though in a dream.

The cheering of the people grew louder as Gilead was carried out on a litter by Jamin, Jemuel, and Azur, and the troops shouted: Happy is the father, happy is the father. The whole of Mizpeh of Gilead was lit up by torches, and the noise of the timbrels was a riot of joy.

Beautiful and dark was Pitdah as she placed the victor's wreath on her father's head. Then she put her hands silently over his eyes and said:

“Father.”

As his daughter's fingers touched his eyelids, Jephthah felt like a sunbaked boulder in the desert that is suddenly splashed with cold water. But he did not want to wake from his slumber.

He was tired and thirsty, and his unwashed body was still smeared with blood and ashes. For a moment he missed the city he had burned that day, Abel-Keramim, reaching up to heaven with its many towers topped with golden domes, the sun touching the gold in the mornings, and the sickly boy king pleading with him: Jephthah, don't leave me, tell me a story because of the dark, and the caravans coming in through the gates of the city in the evening twilight with the music of camel bells, and women's lips fluttering on the hair of his chest and whispering: Stranger, and the lights at night and the music, and his sword piercing the throat of the ailing king and emerging steaming from the back of his neck, and Gatel saying with dying lips: What an ugly story, and the city in flames and burning women throwing themselves off the rooftops and the smell of roasting flesh and the screaming—

Silently he stood without moving at the entrance to his father's estate, and his eyes were closed.

Then the old man Gilead raised his hand to silence the singers and players, and the cheering crowds so that the judge of Israel could speak to the people.

All the people stopped to listen. Only the torchlight trembled in the silent breeze.

The judge of Israel opened his mouth to speak to the people, and suddenly he collapsed on the ground, howling like a wolf that has been pierced by an arrow.

My lady mother, his lips said. And one of the elders of the tribe who was present thought in his heart: This man is deceptive; he is not one of us.

S
HE ASKED
him for two months, and he, as though he had forgotten everything, said to her:

“Leave this place, go to another country and never come back to me.”

The girl laughed and answered:

“Put this cloak over your head and eyes and moo, and we'll watch you and laugh.”

And he, lost among his longings, said:

“Look, Pitdah, on the fence, there's a lizard. Now it's gone.”

 

For two months she wandered in the mountains and her maidens followed after her. The shepherds fled at their approach. If she passed through one of the villages, the villagers hid indoors. Silently they went clad in white along moonswept ravines. What was the message of this ghostly pallor, dead silver light on dead hilltops. No wild beast touched them. Olive trees twisted with age did not dare to scratch their skin. Their footfall was muffled by the dust like the rustling of leaves in the breeze. With what sense must one listen to the many sounds, and with what sense listen to stillness. Man and woman, father, mother, and son, father and mother and daughter, a pair of brothers, winter, autumn, spring, and summer, water and wind, all are merely distance upon distance, and whether you scream or laugh or remain silent, everything without exception will be absorbed into the stillness of the stars and the sadness of those hills.

Pitdah was dark and beautiful as she walked and laughed in her bridal wreath, and wretched nomads who saw her from a distance said: She is a stranger, the daughter of a stranger, no man may approach her and live.

When two months had passed she returned. Jephthah had set up an altar on one of the mountains, and the fire and the knife were in his hand. In later times the wandering tribesmen would speak around their campfires at night of the great joy they had both shown, she a bride on her marriage couch and he a youthful lover stretching out his fingers to the first touch. And they were both laughing as wild beasts laugh in the dark of night, and they did not speak, only Jephthah said to her, Sea, sea.

You have chosen me out of all my brothers and dedicated me to your service. You shall have no other servant before me. Here is the dark beauty under my knife; I have not withheld my only daughter from you. Grant me a sign, for surely you are tempting your servant.

Afterward the night beasts shrieked among the rocks and the barren desert stretched to the tops of the distant hills.

S
IX YEARS
did Jephthah the Gileadite judge Israel. He sank up to his neck in blood, and he provoked Gilead against Ephraim to destroy Israel, just as he had spoken in his youth to Gatel king of Ammon saying: I have no part in Israel nor any inheritance among the children of Ammon; I shall put both you and your enemies to the sword, for I have been a stranger all the days of my life.

And after six years he tired of judging and returned alone to the desert. No man approached him, for there was a deathly fear upon all the nomads of the Land of Tob. Only his half-brother Azur would come down and leave him bread and water at a distance. And the lean hounds always came down with him.

For a whole year Jephthah dwelt alone in a cave in the Land of Tob. He studied all the night sounds which came up from the wilderness when the desert bristled, until he could utter them all himself, and then he decided: Enough.

In the chronicle of the household the household scribe wrote:

And after him Ibzan of Beth-lehem judged Israel. And he had thirty sons and thirty daughters.

1966
   1974–75

* [The Hebrew word
ruah
has multiple meanings: wind, spirit, intellect, ghost, to mention only a few. In this story it also refers to the ideological convictions of the old man. The title is borrowed from Ecclesiastes 11:5.—
TRANS
.]

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