The Chronicles of Gan: The Thorn (29 page)

Jonathan lifted the blade skyward. A pale
blue glow that continued to brighten gently rested on the scene. In
the near dark, the light of the large glow-stone sword was of great
benefit to those who worked feverishly to save Jasher’s life.
Within moments, the sword nearly blazed like the suns. Jonathan
ignored the few Gideonites who gaped at it.

Amon barked orders to the troops. Runners
were sent with all speed to the main body of Jasher’s army,
secreted around the bend of the road. Other soldiers prepared a
stretcher, on which the general was laid. Several of the captured
Gideonites shared information about their camp and directed Captain
Mehida to Izri’s tent. There, Mehida’s men found bedding, unlit
torches, and some glow-stone lanterns. They lit up torches and
charged lanterns, then passed them down a line so the pathway to
the tent was easier to see.

Jonathan, Pekah, and Eli followed the litter
bearers, encouraging Jasher to stay awake and talk to them. They
arrived at the tent to find the inside fully ablaze from the many
lanterns and torches held by the soldiers. Several men carefully
transferred the general from the stretcher to the more comfortable
bedding at the center of the tent.

“I am trained in healing,” a soldier
hollered, pushing his way through the crowd.

The healer arrived at Jasher’s side, paused
briefly, then checked the wounds.

Looking on, Jonathan could see that Jasher’s
skin was pale as moons-light. His breathing strained, he drifted in
and out of consciousness. His body trembled intermittently from
shock.

The healer placed a few
nearby blankets over Jasher to keep him warm. Only the general’s
right leg and left side remained
uncovered
so the wounds could be treated. Jasher still bled through his
temporary bandages, and those attending his wounds could barely
keep up with making more cloth strips. The healer ordered the
assisting soldiers to apply more pressure, then searched the
crowd.

“Where is Captain Amon?” he asked.

Amon stepped up from the back and identified
himself.

“My name is Serug. I need to speak to you
alone.”

Amon barked orders that the tent was to be
cleared except for those attending the general or holding lights.
Jonathan paused and wondered if the captain meant for him to leave
with the others. He caught Amon’s gaze, and the captain motioned
for him to stay.

Jasher’s weak voice was heard, but not
understood right away. Amon went to his side, and Jasher repeated
his request.

“I want to speak . . . with Pekah. His
companions should stay. Where . . . is Abigail?” The wheezing
general coughed, and Serug wiped blood from his lips, then called
for a small sip of water to be provided for Jasher’s comfort.

Abigail burst into the
tent with an escort. She rushed to Jasher’s side and shook her
head, saying, “No, no,
no,
no
!” Tears poured down her cheeks as she
took Jasher’s right hand in hers.

Managing a smile, Jasher gazed lovingly upon
his distraught wife. His shoulders shook with another cough.
Turning white, he winced. His eyes fluttered shut, but then opened
wide.

“Amon?” Jasher called out.

Amon leaned down. “Yes, sir?”

“I did not know it . . . before tonight . .
.” he paused to cough, then continued. “Sodi . . . part of Rezon’s
covenant. Izri, too.” The general coughed again, but it was shallow
and labored. “There may be others. Find them.”

“We will. I promise,” Amon replied.

“Pekah?”

Pekah moved up to where Jasher lay. “Yes,
General?”

“Amon . . . is my most loyal friend. I can
always . . .”

Jasher shook. The veil of death seemed to be
drawing over him. But once again, he became very alert.

“I trust him like none other. But he is
married and can’t help me. You are not. I trust you.”

Pekah didn’t seem to have any idea what the
general was trying to say. He looked quizzically at Amon, at Eli,
and then at Tavor who were all nearby, but they could not explain.
Pekah cast his questioning gaze toward Jonathan. All Jonathan could
do was shake his head and shrug.

With great effort, Jasher tried to lift his
head to see Abigail. A soldier rolled a spare blanket and placed it
behind the general’s neck.

Tears welled up in Jasher’s eyes. “My only
love . . . my dear Abigail.”

Abigail nearly sobbed. She clung to his
shoulder.

“Pekah, give me your hand,” Jasher choked
out.

Pekah slowly brought his hand near that of
the general. Jasher reached for it and drew Pekah closer. The
general then placed Abigail’s palm in Pekah’s. At first, Pekah
recoiled, but Jasher’s grip tightened. Pekah relaxed. He did not
move, and neither did Abigail.

“Abigail. Marry this man. He is good. He
will care for you as I would.”

Jasher coughed again, and his eyes began to
close. Abigail wept openly now, and she started to pull away from
Pekah, but Jasher’s eyes opened. He squeezed her hand into Pekah’s
again.

“I love you . . . my dear, sweet
Abigail.”

With that final declaration, Jasher’s breath
sighed out of him.

Abigail fell forward, burying her face in
Jasher’s arm. There she stayed for many minutes, grieving. With
Pekah’s hand released, he stepped back, looking bewildered.
Jonathan sheathed his sword and stepped forward to grasp the
Gideonite’s shoulder, giving him support. Pekah stared at the dead
general and hardly seemed to notice.

Jonathan let go. Abigail sobbed into her
husband’s neck, her frail frame shaking uncontrollably. Jonathan’s
chest tightened, the sorrowful scene causing him to gulp as he
fought away tears. He turned back to his Gideonite friend and saw
that the young soldier appeared to be overcome with emotion, his
head low.

Pekah wept.

Chapter 27

Abigail

T
he smell of freshly turned soil filled Abigail’s nostrils as
she stood at the gravesite, clinging to Rachel’s arm for support.
Everything around her appeared drab, washed out by the moons-light
falling from above. The scrapes and thumps of a shovel endlessly
throwing dirt into a hillside depression that was now nearly full,
and the chirp of a single cricket hiding somewhere in the trees
nearby, were the only sounds disturbing the night air. Standing on
the gentle rise where Jasher’s body had been laid to rest, Abigail
was forlorn, affected by every detail of the dismal
place.

She trembled with each vibration of the
ground as the gravesite grew before her— becoming a haunting mound
of dark memories. Her head throbbing from the incessant pounding of
the thrown dirt, she tried to watch the soldiers who wielded the
tools, but found it nearly impossible to make out their faces. At
last the grave was filled, and the soldiers rested, leaning on the
shovels.

Fresh tears welled in her eyes and mixed
with the reflections from the moons above. Her bleary vision
prevented her from seeing anybody but those who stood closest to
her—Rachel, Eli, Jonathan, Amon, Tavor, and Pekah. In every face,
she recognized deep concern. She wiped her eyes with her sleeves,
grateful for her friends’ silent support.

One by one, every person around the grave
approached her, offering their sympathy. She listened to each of
them, but remembered none of their words. After they had all come
to her, they stood quietly nearby, waiting for her to say her
goodbyes. With yearning for the husband she had lost, she fell to
her knees and leaned into the mound, her hands clawing at the
soil.

Abigail could feel Rachel kneeling by her,
patting her back, rubbing her shoulder. The attention only made her
sob harder. Her strength gone, she collapsed into the dirt. The men
around her whispered, and she felt herself be lifted. Cradled in
Eli’s arms, she looked up into his moist eyes. He only stared
forward and carried her down the hill without a word.

Overwhelmed, Abigail buried her face in his
shoulder.

* * *

Sitting on the back steps of the Council
Hall, Abigail propped her chin up, an elbow on her knee. Her mind
numb, she watched as the rising sister suns caused scattered clouds
above the hills west of Hasor to blush. Nearby, one hundred and
fifty of General Amon’s company stirred in the courtyards of Hasor,
their tents pitched close to the hall. After getting some
much-needed rest, Abigail felt better, but solemn. The first rays
of daylight fell upon the ground in front of her. Rachel, who had
shared her guest room on the upper floors of the palace, sat beside
her, watching the breaking morning lights.

“You should eat something, Abigail,” Rachel
kindly suggested, a hand on Abigail’s arm.

“I do feel better this morning. I think I
will.”

Rachel appeared to be relieved. “That would
be good. You’ll need strength today if you wish to ride with
us.”

Abigail felt foggy, even exhausted. She
recalled being carried into the village the night before. Although
the bed in the palace had been comfortable, she remembered she had
felt cold. She shook her head. “It seems like a dream, Rachel,” she
muttered. She pulled her knees up to her chest and held them.

Rachel’s gaze fell, and she put a hand on
Abigail’s crossed arms. She gave Abigail a squeeze, but said
nothing.

Abigail appreciated the unspoken show of
support. She yearned for Rachel’s friendship, and felt strength
flow into her from Rachel’s touch. But the grief she felt was
overwhelming. She sighed and stood up to look across the way toward
beautiful stone houses, all in neat lines and close together. She
could see that several of the homes had been re-inhabited, as smoke
rose from their chimneys.

Bordering the first row of houses ran a
chest-high stone fence, north to south, ending at the small village
courtyard before the Council Hall. Soldiers dismantled tents in the
court, while others packed everything up. Horses were also being
readied. The noise of the scene intensified.

“Rachel . . .”

“Yes?” Rachel said, standing.

“Thank you for caring for me last
night.”

“You are most welcome.”

“I must have cried myself to sleep.”

“You did.”

Abigail crossed her arms, warming herself
from the morning chill. She wondered at the small group of soldiers
before her.

“What happened to the rest of the army?
There aren’t many here.”

“After you fell asleep, most of the army
left. Captain Amon . . . I mean, General Amon, sent Captain Mehida
north with the army.”

“General?” The word stung. A tear rolled
down Abigail’s cheek.

“Yes. By the voice of all captains present,
Amon was made General of the Host of Gideon.” Rachel hesitated.
“They said it was done according to custom.”

Abigail wiped the tear away and sniffed.
“Yes. That is the custom. It just surprised me. Jasher . . .” She
didn’t finish.

“I know it hurts. I’m so sorry. If I could
share the burden with you, I would.”

They embraced. Abigail
felt the sincerity of her new friend’s words. Feeling horribly
alone in a land far from home, Rachel’s kind words calmed her
fears.
I don’t know what I would do
without Rachel here
, she thought. Pulling
away, Abigail thanked her.

“Abigail, I should also tell you . . . well,
I don’t want you to be surprised later. Jonathan and Eli were asked
to be General Amon’s special advisors. Tavor was made a captain to
take Eli’s place, and Mehida now occupies Amon’s former position.
They also made Pekah a captain of fifty.”

Abigail turned away. Somehow the news about
Pekah’s promotion didn’t bother her, but she wanted to be upset
about it. Bewildered by her husband’s last request, she searched
her soul for anger toward Pekah, for disgust—anything to justify
not heeding Jasher’s dying wish. She tried to understand his
motivation, hoping to find some reason to reject his desire. All
she found was love. Jasher loved her. She cried.

Rachel patted her on the back. “Abigail,
will you come with me?” Rachel asked with a gentle hand on her
shoulder.

Abigail wiped her eyes, then pulled her
straight black hair behind her ears. A lump still in her throat,
she only nodded. Rachel led the way.

Previously, they had come out of the western
door and hallway that connected the Council Hall to the palace.
Rachel explained that this time she wanted to go back into the
palace by way of the eastern door so she could show Abigail the
Temple of Hasor.

They followed the graceful curve of a
flagstone path winding between mature oak trees on the south side
of the hall. As they rounded the south-east corner of the edifice,
the Temple of Hasor loomed before them. The sight of the white
granite walls and the tall central spire filled with glow-stone
windows nearly took Abigail’s breath away.

“It’s almost identical to the Temple of
Sacrifice in Ramathaim—smaller, but just as beautiful,” Rachel
explained.

“It is magnificent,” Abigail said, admiring
the spire.

Rachel touched her arm. She saw Jonathan,
Pekah, and Eli walking toward them from the temple. Jonathan found
his way to Rachel and fell to one knee as he kissed the hand of his
betrothed.

“You rested well, I hope?”

“Yes, thank you,” Rachel replied, watching
Abigail.

Unprepared to face the man she had been told
to marry, Abigail awkwardly avoided Pekah’s eyes. Both Jonathan and
Eli greeted her warmly.

“Peace and comfort to you, Lady Abigail,”
Jonathan said.

“And rest from your sorrows,” Eli added.

“And to you—and thank you, Eli. I am very
grateful,” she said, her voice muted. She studied the boots of the
men. They were scuffed and worn. Feeling Pekah’s gaze, she forced
herself to look up. He looked at her steadily, his face calm.