Word Fulfilled, The (9 page)

“It’s not good to stare, boy.”

The man’s voice filtered through the deafening pulse in Jamin’s ears. A stranger stood before him with the dropped basket in his hands. Jamin didn’t respond.

The man pushed the basket against Jamin’s chest and took him by the arm. “Come. It’ll pass.”

Jamin tottered forward as the man guided him toward the Tabiltu River bridge. He looked back over his shoulder, but she was gone.

Eleven

Aram, near Mt. Hermon

Twenty-fifth Day of Ajaru

he sun slipped behind the ridgeline of Mt. Hermon and left behind a sky ablaze with red and the cap of last season’s snow tinged with magenta. The great mountain’s shadow provided blessed relief from the heat of the desert floor, and Jonah paused to take in a deep lungful of the evening air.

He started early that morning after a lean breakfast of figs and a strip of dried goat meat. The road became more hospitable after he mounted the rise from the northern shore of the Sea of Chinnereth, and it leveled out on its trek toward Damascus. His achy joints welcomed the even terrain, another blessed relief from the hilly paths of northern Galilee. To the east, the Arabian Desert spread to the horizon, mottled brown and barren against the deep blue of a cloudless sky. Jonah knew he would soon enter this wilderness on his journey to Nineveh, but he hoped to delay the ordeal as long as possible. He hugged the lower slopes of the western mountains as he picked his way along the rock-strewn road. The heights gave him comfort born of familiarity from a life spent on the slopes around Gath-hepher. He knew when he lost sight of the highlands he would feel very much on his own.

Tonight, though, he would rest in the protection of Mt. Hermon’s cool shadows. He stretched out beneath an acacia tree and massaged his legs. Travelers passing through Gath-hepher’s valley from the north were few, and his knowledge of the territories outside Israel was limited, but he believed another day’s journey should put him within sight of Damascus’s gates. He pulled his cloak to his chin, and his mind worried over the road ahead. After Damascus came the open desert. Tadmor would provide the next oasis. Then what? Perhaps, as Ehud had suggested, he might meet up with a caravan.

The staccato bark of a jackal from the hills behind him pricked a nerve on the back of his neck. He pulled his staff closer to his side and slinked down into his travel cloak. Yes, he decided, it would be good to meet up with a caravan.

Lll

Jonah jolted awake at the sudden onslaught of sunlight early the next morning. The daystar cleared the eastern horizon over the barren flatlands with a vengeance. The blazing orb drenched the slopes of Mt. Hermon with radiance, cascading its luminescence down the mountainside and into the niche where he had snuggled for the night. He blinked into the glare and struggled to sit up. His stiff back advised him against any sudden moves, so he paused to orient himself.

The main road lay a short distance to the east. From his vantage point, Jonah could see the ancient trade route pull away from the mountain, then veer into the desert on its course toward Damascus. Tonight there would be no cool place to rest if he did not reach the city gates before they closed. That worrisome thought prompted his decision to munch breakfast while he walked.

Jonah hobbled off on cramped leg muscles toward the main road. When he reached the beaten path, he looked back toward the south. He hunched his shoulders against one more urge to return to the comfort and familiarity of Israel, drew a deep breath, and turned his face north. Then he took the first steps into the hostile wasteland that would become his home for the next—well, who knew how long?

Lll

“The prophet leaves his homeland, Mistress.”

“It is to his destruction.”

“Your wish, my Mistress?”

“Watch and wait.”

Twelve

Damascus

Twenty-seventh Day of Ajaru

onah slipped through Damascus’s southern gate just as the night watch began preparations to secure the city. Jeroboam’s raid, although several weeks past, still loomed fresh in the minds of the Arameans, and they went about their tasks in a terse mood. Elihu ben Barak, Jeroboam’s senior commander and Jonah’s lifelong friend, had gloated over how the Damascenes had been forced to watch camel loads and oxcarts of booty exit by this same gate. He believed, though, that the sting of defeat at the hands of a people Aram had oppressed not so long ago was worse than the loss of their treasure. He said Jeroboam accented the sting when he chose not to leave a contingent of soldiers behind. The surrounding nations would know for certain of Israel’s resurgent power, and Jeroboam’s decision to leave no military presence in the city enhanced the impression of Israel’s confidence.

Elihu was certain the people of Damascus actually wished Jeroboam had left an encampment. Then there would at least have been someone to harass in retaliation. Jeroboam denied Israel’s former tormentors even that small measure of revenge. The tense mood of the city was palpable from the moment Jonah walked through the gate, and it left him in a quandary.

He dithered whether to lodge at an inn. His speech would surely identify him as an Israelite, and he didn’t want to invite another brawl like the one in Megiddo’s backstreet tavern those weeks ago—especially since this time he would be involved rather than observing. He paused at the entrance of the marketplace to ponder his next move.

“You journey alone.” The gruff voice came from his left.

He spun toward the voice.

“You travel beyond Damascus.” The voice grew coarser.

Jonah stepped back and squinted into the deepening shadows. The voice addressed him in excellent Hebrew, but that accent . . . where had he heard that accent?

“Who . . . where are you?”

A shadow shifted and stepped away from the wall. In the dim light, it formed a massive figure easily a head and a half taller than Jonah and twice as wide. The stranger’s face was all but lost behind a bushy salt-and-pepper beard. His brow supported a keffiyeh that was once probably white but now wore a crust of grime, as did the striped brown robe that swept the ground around his feet. A wide cloth sash girded his waist, from which hung a curved sword free of any scabbard.

“I say you travel beyond the city.”

“I’m . . . not sure,” Jonah stammered, his eyes glued to the weapon.

“Not sure? You do not know where you go?” The behemoth’s guttural tone suddenly reminded the prophet of his friend, Moshe ben Gideon, who had died saving the lives of Jonah and his friends only a few short weeks back. It summoned a wave of sorrow, but the emotion broke over his sudden recognition at the stranger’s accent. It was the accent of the young foreigner who had killed Moshe in his attempt to kidnap the young Leah. Jonah narrowed his eyes and took another step back. He glanced into the market square. It was now empty. The two of them were alone.

The stranger cocked his head and rested a casual hand on the grip of his sword.

Jonah tried to steel his voice. “I . . . I haven’t decided yet. You haven’t answered my question. Who are you?”

“I am Akhyeshah of Tadmor. A provisioner of caravans. I travel to my home from Moab, where I have found a wife.” The man kept his eyes glued to Jonah’s.

Jonah looked around. “Wife?”

Akhyeshah nodded. “I return when her bride price is complete. In three full passages of the moon. Not before.”

Akhyeshah stepped toward him, and his bulk filled Jonah’s view of the dusky sky. “We travel together.”

“But . . . I haven’t decided where I’m going yet,” Jonah stammered as he shrank back from the towering man.

“You go beyond Damascus. You are of Israel. You should not stay in Damascus. They do not like you here.” The whites of Akhyeshah’s eyes were now all Jonah could make out in the failing light.

“But—”

“We stay at the inn tonight. I talk. You stay quiet. We leave in the morning.” Akhyeshah turned and took two long strides into the marketplace. He stopped and looked back.

Jonah stood rooted in place, petrified at the thought of traveling with the giant. His size was fearsome enough, but the heavy weapon at his belt unraveled what was left of Jonah’s nerves.

“Come. Now.” Akhyeshah waited for Jonah to follow, then turned and strode across the open square.

Jonah picked up his pace, although he wasn’t sure why.

Lll

The early morning sun threw an intense yellow beam across the room through a small window near the door. Jonah’s eyelids twitched when the ray hit him full in the face. He groaned and turned on his side.

The inn was small, dirty, and crowded. There were no side rooms, so everyone slept in a common area on dusty straw mats that offered little protection against the stone-hard dirt floor. Jonah and Akhyeshah were the last boarders to arrive. The prime traveling season was underway, and the city was full. They had tried two other inns before this one, and now Jonah realized why Akhyeshah came here last. The two men took the only spaces left on the floor. When the first light of the morning splashed over Jonah’s face, he also realized why this was the last spot claimed.

He squinted and struggled to sit. The previous night in the gulley at the foot of Mt. Hermon, as primitive as it was, was more restful than on the floor of this inn. He muttered and twisted around to look for Akhyeshah, who had settled a short distance away. He was gone.

Jonah scanned the bodies sprawled across the floor. Throaty snorts and serrated snoring, punctuated by an occasional hacking cough, filled the room. An invisible fog of garlic, rancid wine, and other less pleasant odors permeated the air. He covered his nose, wondering how he’d ever been able to sleep through the noise and the stench.

He groped behind himself for his staff but felt only the cool dirt floor. He spun around and scoured the small space against the wall for his pouch of provisions. They were gone, too.

He muttered under his breath and cursed his timidity. Why had he let the stranger bully him? He was never going to make it to Nineveh at this rate. What little silver he brought with him was gone, along with his food. He struggled to his feet, intent to escape the stifling air and to find the man who stole his belongings, although he had no idea what he could do against that sword even if he did find the man.

Jonah tiptoed around and over men. Several lodgers stirred, and Jonah nearly stumbled over a bulky figure who flipped onto his back just as Jonah stepped over his outstretched legs. When he reached the door and yanked it open, the hinges squealed on their rusty pins and a brilliant swath of light flooded in. A chorus of shouts and curses from those nearest the door propelled him through the doorway. He slammed the door shut.

The side street in front of the lowly inn opened into the marketplace a short distance away. Jonah saw a flurry of activity between the low buildings. He looked both ways along the alley, but there was still no sign of Akhyeshah. Jonah set his jaw and made his way toward the market square. When he reached the end of the street, he stepped into the open plaza and paused, unsure of his next move.

“You sleep late. Time to leave.”

Jonah jumped at the deep voice over his shoulder. He pivoted and saw Akhyeshah leaning against a shadowed wall. Two dates lay in the palm of his open hand, which he promptly flipped into his mouth. He stepped out of the shadow and the intense morning sun flashed from the blade of the sword at his hip. Jonah retreated a step. Akhyeshah was even more imposing in the daylight than he was in the dusk, if that were possible.

The huge man retrieved Jonah’s staff and travel parcels from where they lay against the wall. He tossed them to Jonah, who fumbled his attempt to catch them. When he lifted the fallen parcels, he noticed the food sack felt bulkier than he remembered it being the day before. He glanced at Akhyeshah.

“I get more food. Tadmor is a four-day walk.” With that, the big man grasped his own staff from against the wall.

“I can pay—”

Akhyeshah dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

“But—”

“Follow.” Akhyeshah set a brisk pace toward the north entrance of the marketplace.

Jonah stooped to pick up his staff. He grumbled to himself, then hurried to catch up with the hulk, who had already reached the end of the square. His mind wavered between puzzlement and irritation at the unexpected turn of events and particularly at why he felt compelled to comply with the man’s every word.

He jutted out his jaw.
I wonder what he would do if I said “no.”

Akhyeshah led the way along the ancient thoroughfare that bisected the city from north to south. Low buildings lined both sides of the narrow street, many in serious disrepair. They reminded Jonah of the derelict buildings he encountered in Megiddo’s low quarter. He almost expected to see Ari, the crooked keeper of the tavern in which he had taken refuge during his flight to Joppa, emerge from one of the hovels. As they made their way toward the north gate, their surroundings improved. Newer and sturdier buildings, some with modern construction of stone and even occasional woodwork, replaced the teetering mud-brick structures of the inner city. Jonah’s struggle to keep up with his companion’s pace, though, gave him little time to admire the architecture.

The two men finally reached the gate. Akhyeshah diverted his path toward a well near the city wall. He lifted a water skin suspended across his chest on a leather thong.

“Nothing but desert to Tadmor. We need full water.”

Jonah groped at his waist, but realized that the wine skin he left home with was gone. “I had a wine skin. I don’t know what—”

“Wine skin? You need water.” Akhyeshah shook his head.

Jonah reddened. “Perhaps back at the market I can buy a—”

“No time. We use mine.” The big man turned and pulled at a rope lying on the edge of the well.

Jonah clenched his jaw. The abrupt dismissals were beginning to aggravate him.

Can’t he even let me finish a sent—

“Pull.” Akhyeshah thrust the end of the rope toward Jonah without looking back.

Jonah rolled his eyes but took the rope and looped it around his waist. As he walked backward, he felt the earthenware container grate against the inside wall of the cistern as it rose from the water level far below.

“Stop.” Akhyeshah reached down and pulled the vessel over the lip of the well. Jonah returned and dropped the rope in a heap on the dirt.

Akhyeshah lifted the heavy clay container by the brim with one hand and poured its clear contents into the narrow mouth of the skin bladder. Jonah didn’t see a single drop splash down its side, so steady was the man’s hand. The flask filled, the giant tossed the earthenware container onto the pile of rope and plugged his water skin. In one movement, it was back over his head and resting under his arm.

“Come.” The staff was back in Akhyeshah’s hand, and he strode off toward the gate.

Jonah huffed, retrieved his staff, and set off after the hulk. “Can you slow down just a little?”

“He leaves Damascus.”