Providence (16 page)

“I can carry on through the night.” Gil motioned to Susa. “Light a torch. The cool air will hasten our steps.”

“I give the orders, slave.” Konath rounded on Gil. “The women must rest.”

Reumah held a vigil beside her husband's body. “I prefer the cover of darkness to the burning sun.”

“Why don't we ask your husband or the Jew who took your venom?”

Hannah was not about to bed down for the night. The faster they traveled, the sooner they would catch the prophet, the sooner this perilous journey would end.

“I am fit to go on.” She echoed Gil's and Reumah's decision.

Mereb grunted his approval and adjusted his grip on Naabak's bed.

“Shall we continue, Commander?” Konath's question held an air of hubris.

Hannah gripped the donkey's reins and pictured a lash to Konath's cheek. He acted like Naabak's position, Naabak's wife, and Naabak's riches were already his own.

No answer came from the bed.

Reumah gasped. She covered her face with trembling hands.

“Master?” Hannah's voice squeaked like a rusted flute.

No reply came.

She darted to Naabak's side.

Do not leave me. You cannot leave me. Not here. Not when we are so close. You saved my life. Now let my God save yours.

Gil and Mereb laid the skin flat on the ground.

Holding one hand in front of where Naabak's nose had been, she waited for a wisp of breath. Her other hand rested on Naabak's forehead. Fire raged under his skin.

A breath puffed against her fingers. Slight, but there. He was alive. Barely.

She fought the sting of tears behind her eyes. “We must go.” Her stare, sharp as a lance, swept from Gil to Reumah to Susa. “The prophet cannot be too far ahead.” The haunting chant of an owl agreed with her assessment.

Konath's cackle silenced the bird. “You drag us up a mountain in search of a holy man and now you expect us to march all night.”

“We are wasting time.” She matched Konath's fervor. “This is what Naabak wanted. We have letters from your King.”

“What good are letters without your prophet?” Mereb sided with Konath. “Where is he anyway? Are we to trust a Hebrew seer? It may all be lies.”

“You are well versed in lies,” she spat back. “Admit your feebleness, you old Moabite.”

Mereb sliced the air with his fist and sputtered foreign gibberish.

Konath and Susa laughed. Mereb's indignant huffing caused more raucous laughter.

A fiery rage heated Hannah's skin from foot to head.

“Fine. Laugh.” She dismissed them with a flip of her wrist. “You are weaving Naabak's burial clothes.” She looked to Reumah for support. Too weary to carry this burden on her own, she needed Naabak's wife to favor the scales.

“Pick up my husband.” Reumah pointed at Mereb and then turned toward Konath. “And do not tell me the soldiers of Aram need a rest like nursing babes.”

“Of course not.” Konath's expression sobered. “We do not nurse at the breast.” He thrust Susa forward. “Light a torch and carry on.”

“I will serve water,” Hannah offered. She feared for Gil's health.

“You do not need to serve me.” Gil lifted Naabak with ease. “I am accustomed to the heat in the fields. I am kin to a camel.”

Mereb struggled to grip the pole. “I can think of other animals you are kin to,” he mumbled.

Hannah walked toward the waiting donkey. “I do not mind.” Loosening the waterskin, she sought God's wisdom.

Why do you let us tarry? I have seen your prophet heal a boy with worse disfigurement than Naabak. Have mercy on us. If you need only heal one, then heal my master. Not me. Heal Naabak. If I am not worthy to appeal to you, remember the dedication of my father and my brother.

All through the night, with every carefully placed step on the path, pain radiated through her legs to her knees and down to her feet. When she rested her eyes, the stain of the yellow-orange glow of the torch was all she saw. How much longer could Naabak last?

An eternity later, the sun prowled behind distant mountaintops. Another day of dry winds and cracked lips. The relentless march continued.

Gil's stride shortened. The starvation and beatings had weakened his flesh. But not his determination.

Mereb's sandals scraped the path, leaving a wake for her to follow.

“Halt,” Susa yelled. He darted up an embankment.

Her heart beat wildly as if a whip had cracked near Gil's flesh. She dropped the donkey's lead.

At Reumah's urging, Hannah climbed a wall of rocks. She spied a lone tent stitched of blackened skins pitched in a clearing.

Praise be to God!

“Look to an ambush,” Konath shouted.

“He is here,” she informed the rest of the party. It had to be the prophet. If it was anyone else, she would berate them for being on this mountain.

“Call to him.” Gil's voice sounded winded, but he stood tall, his strength appearing renewed by the prophet's presence.

Stepping rock to rock, down into the clearing, onto a surface that appeared to be made by the fist of an angry god, she recalled her meeting with the prophet. Would he remember her affliction? Her lineage? Or punish her for disturbing his solitude? He had not been harsh with her that day. He had not been harsh with her brother for questioning his actions and demanding her healing.

She hesitated to barge into the tent. What if the prophet was in prayer? What if she offended him? What if he refused her request? Again.

Konath scaled the rocks. “Wake him.”

The pounding in her chest rose to her throat and fluttered there like a pigeon before a blazing altar. She coughed out the prophet's name. The name she had heard her father speak on the day of her humiliation.

Susa joined her in front of the tent.

The flap vibrated in the breeze.

“Blessed One,” she beckoned. “It is Hannah
bat
Zebula.”

She swayed as she waited for the prophet to answer. Was he recovering from his travels? Time was not Naabak's ally.

“Forgive my boldness.” Her voice strengthened on the last word. “My master is near death.” She tried to peek inside the prophet's dwelling.

Konath stomped into the clearing.

“Arise, prophet. We have toiled long enough.” Konath whipped the tent flap open.

She gasped at his insult.

A horse hair blanket lay on the ground.

Flat.

Empty.

Was this the house of the prophet or another pilgrim?

Konath seized her arm. Her head flung backward. “Where is your priest? Is this a trick? To plot against me and my men?”

Tremors quaked her arm. “You have my word. He is here upon the mountain. The men of Mannaseh would not lie.”

“Unhand her, you fool.” The prophet's voice warbled with indignation.

Hannah turned her head. The prophet, wrapped in a cloak, stood a few feet from Konath. The holy man's hair was damp and his clothes dripped. He wielded his staff like a sword. The wooden rod slammed into Konath's shoulder. No armor spared the collarbone near Konath's neck from the blow. The gut-tightening crack ricocheted through the clearing.

Konath dropped to his knees and howled curses in Aramean.

In awe of the prophet's boldness, she jumped backward, away from Konath's retribution.

The prophet raised his staff as if to take another swipe at Konath or a new swipe at Susa. “Remove your boots of war, heathen. You are defiling the tabernacle of Jehovah.”

22

“Remove yourself.” The prophet's voice shook. He prodded Konath's chest with the end of his staff like Konath was a rutting boar. The bronze discs on Konath's armor vibrated with each ram of the rod.

“This is your holy one?” Konath grasped at the knotted wood.

Susa came to his commander's side. His hand hovered over his sword.

“Yes,” she said forcefully, hoping Konath and Susa would not retaliate against the prophet's assault. An assault brought on by a man who looked different than that day in Jerusalem. The prophet's hair and beard were grayer and longer than she remembered. But in the city, she hadn't interrupted the prophet's private bath. “Step back and give him room.” She gestured to where Naabak lay.

Konath and Susa retreated.

The man of God stilled his staff and held it shoulder height. He barred entrance to his tent.

She dropped to her knees in reverence. “Anointed One. We have sought you out for we are in great need. I am a Levite. The daughter of Zebula. Do you remember your servant from Jerusalem?”

The prophet shuffled toward her.

Keeping her face low in the dirt, she prayed the staff would not accost her back. Drops of water dampened the ground in front of her face.

“Arise, daughter.”

She stood and beheld the prophet's lofty gaze. It had been weeks since she came before him with her father and brother at her side. She had been the daughter of the chief priest, not the servant of a foreigner.

“You have traveled with the enemies of Israel? These idol worshippers?” His staff quivered as it indicated the group on the path. His chastisement sounded like her father.

“I have—”

“I am no foreigner.” Gil bowed briefly. “I am a man of Judah. An escort to this daughter of the tribe of Levi.”

She welcomed Gil's presence at her side.

The prophet lowered his staff and squinted at Gil. “You have journeyed far from your people.” Doubt echoed in his tone. “What is your tie to this woman?”

She did not meet the prophet's stare. She looked to Gil. His ruddy face had lost its exuberance. They had no blessed bond. No betrothal. Their coupling consisted of hasty words spoken to a wagon master, lustful men, and an enemy commander. The lie had spared their lives.

The sigh from Gil's chest sounded like a storm wind off the Jordan River. “I have no formal ties to this woman.”

Reumah gasped. Mutterings began between Mereb and his mistress. Would the prophet have known the truth? Was this a test? She and Gil had traveled to question the prophet's wisdom. Would he dismiss them because of this lie?

“Gilead has taken the place of a kinsman. For my safety.”

“Has he now? Looked out for your innocence as any upstanding relative would?” The prophet moved closer in earnest.

She pushed the image of Gil's kiss in the pit from her mind. Sweat trickled from her head covering down the side of her face.
Woe to me if the prophet knows my thoughts.

“Yes, Gil…uh…Gilead has accompanied my master as well. Naabak has an urgent need.” She indicated the commander. She wanted to avoid questions about Gil. Questions she did not know how to answer. What if Gil brought up her own need of healing before they dealt with Naabak's illness? “My master is sick and dying.” She swiped the wetness from her face and pretended to be smoothing her hair.

“Master?” the prophet echoed. “Who is your Master but the God of Israel?”

“No one is greater. Forgive me.” Her apology sputtered from her lips.

Konath stomped forward and used Gil's body as a shield from the prophet's rod.

“This girl,” Konath said with contempt, “has spirited the commander of the Aramean forces unto this mountain in search of you. She has spoken of your power to heal the sick.”

The prophet paced in front of the tent opening. His eyes narrowed. His forehead buckled. The man of God surveyed Konath, his armor, and his weapons.

“I do not act upon my own accord. It is God who chooses to act through me.” The prophet gripped his beard with such angst, she thought it might rip free from his chin. “What are my powers as a man?”

“Then call on God to act.” Gil threw up his hands as if he was petitioning the One True God himself. “You refused this woman once. She sought you out. Now, she is in peril. Surely God will take on her burden and spare her a life of disgrace.”

“Silence, slave.” Konath yanked Gil backward. “We are here for the King's anointed.”

Gil lunged at Konath but the prophet's staff separated the two men. The pointed rod caught Gil under the chin. He stepped back, rubbing his neck.

The prophet's head shook from side to side as though he were a parent embarrassed by the conduct of his children. His gray hair, almost dry from the morning heat, obscured his face. “Oh woman,” he sighed with a haughty click of his tongue. “Why do you disturb me with a pagan's illness?”

Her mouth parched. She flexed her fingers. Her palms burned from the indentations of her fingernails. How foolish she was to think she could persuade the prophet to rescue Naabak. Rescue Gil. And rescue her. Her heart raced like a shepherd boy running after a prized sheep.
Speak the truth.

“He saved my life. More than once. He spared me rape at the hands of his men.” Shame shivered through her chest and arms, pimpling her skin. “He spared Gilead from a brutal end.”

She turned toward Gil. His death would disintegrate her soul. Konath had promised that end if he assumed power over Aram's armies. Desperation emboldened her spirit.

“I saw you grow flesh on a crippled boy's leg. I believe you can heal Naabak. Heal the sores that plague a good man. Even though he is a foreigner. I can accept that it may not be my time. That you have foresight into the future.” Her voice rose. “But Naabak does not have time to spare.”

The prophet did not speak or call on the name of the Most High God.

Her ears rang with the hum of clashing cymbals. Tears pressed against her eyes. The wind whipped through her bones. She had seen the prophet heal the decayed and the dying. She prayed he would do it here on the mountain, one more time, for Naabak, for Gil.
For me.

“We have come so far.” Her voice squeaked. “We have nowhere to go but here. To you. To our God.”

“Show the heathens that the Living God walks with Israel.” Gil boasted loudly even though no sword hung on his hip.