On This Foundation

  She reached the terraced vineyard at last, and her father paused from tending one of the spindly plants to point out the next vine that needed water. “Is this the last row?” she asked him.

  “The upper terrace still needs watering.”

  Nava lowered the jug and carefully poured out the contents, making sure every precious drop went into the thirsty ground and down to the roots of the plant. It would be six more months before the grape harvest, six more months of watering. She straightened again, stretching her back.

  In the enclosure below, one of her goats began bleating, setting off a chorus of hoarse cries. “They’re thirsty, too,” she told her father. “I’d better take care of them before I water the vegetables.” Her father simply nodded as if too weary to reply. Discouragement had withered him along with his plants. She’d heard him telling Mama last night that the barley plants were all stunted and shriveled from the drought and the harvest would be small.

  “I needed that crop in order to pay back what I owe,” he’d said. “Now I don’t know what I’m going to do.” It had been impossible to water an entire barley field. Nava hated to add to his worries, but her goats were almost out of grain, their bins all but empty. And the field where they usually grazed had dried up long ago. Parched and brittle, the grass had been chewed down to the roots.

  “There’s barely any grain left for the goats, Abba,” she said, wincing as she told him. “Should I take them up into the hills tomorrow to graze?”

  “There’s no grass up there, either. I already asked the others. The grazing lands are as dead and dry as the rest of the countryside.”

  “We can’t let the goats starve.”

  “No. That would be cruel.”

  She waited before asking, “Well, what are we going to do, then?” Nava held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t decide to slaughter them before what little flesh still clinging to their ribs was gone, too. Farming families like hers couldn’t afford to be sentimental about their animals, but Nava had raised her little herd of milking goats since they were kids.

  “We may have to sell them,” Abba finally replied.

  She swallowed her tears. It was better than slaughtering them, she supposed. “But then we won’t have any milk or yogurt or cheese.”

  “I know. And if I had any other choice . . . But I had to mortgage our land and borrow money to pay the king’s taxes and feed our family, and there’s no other way to pay back what I owe.” He gestured to the barley field a stone’s throw away where Nava’s two brothers worked. “There’s not even enough barley growing out there for our family to eat, let alone to sell and pay my debts. And Malkijah ben Recab is coming today to collect what I owe him.”

  “What does it mean to mortgage your land? It still belongs to us, doesn’t it?”

  “Not if I don’t pay my debt. It will belong to Malkijah.”

  Nava walked the few steps to where Abba stood and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly before letting go. She loved his familiar scent of earth and sweat and fresh air. Neither of them spoke as he hugged her in return. Then she lifted her jug again and set off for the well.

  From the sloping rise of the terraced vineyard, Abba’s fields of wheat and barley stretched out below Nava. She saw Mama in the distance, returning from the well, balancing a full jug on her head. A small grove of ancient olive trees stood behind their fieldstone house and animal pens. Most of the trees had been planted by Abba’s ancestors before the exile. Nava loved this beautiful, pitiful patch of farmland and knew Abba loved it even more. He had moved here to the Promised Land from Babylon to fulfill his dream of working his ancestral land, harvesting olives and grapes to make oil and wine from his own trees and vines. He had left everything behind to make the journey with Rebbe Ezra’s caravan thirteen years ago when Nava was only three years old, arriving to find a pile of rubble where their ancestors’ home once stood. Weeds and thistles overran all the fields. The vines and olive trees had needed pruning so badly that they no longer bore fruit. Nava’s parents and two older brothers had worked hard to restore their land—and now? Now her father’s dream had dried up and blown away like dust when, for the second year in a row, the winter rains had failed to come.

  Nava made several more trips to the well and was pouring water on the last of the grapevines when she heard a distant shout. She looked up and even from far away, she recognized the tall, lanky figure striding up the footpath that led from his family’s fields to hers. Her heart beat faster at the sight of their neighbor’s son, Dan, as if she had just run all the way up the hill to meet him. She dribbled a little of the precious water on her hands and used it to splash the dust and sweat from her face.

  Dan was two years older than Nava and had been her best friend for as long as she could remember. Their families had traveled in the caravan together from Babylon, sharing all the joys and sorrows of the journey and their new life in the Promised Land. But Nava had never been concerned about her appearance until a year ago when her friendship with Dan had warmed into something much more. On a trip to Jerusalem with their families for Passover, Nava and Dan had talked as they walked all the way there and back together—and everything had changed. They would be married one day, Dan promised. He would ask Abba for her hand as soon as he could afford to support her. But for now, neither family could afford the dowry or the bride price. Dan’s father, Yonah, was as poor as Abba and couldn’t afford another mouth to feed if his only son married.

  Nava smiled as she watched Dan approach, walking with a spring in his step and carrying a sack slung over his shoulder. His beaming face seemed brighter than the sun. “What did you bring?” she called out to him.

  “You’ll see!” he shouted back. His grin broadened.

  Nava quickly emptied her water jug and hurried down the stepped slope to meet him, jumping over the low stone walls of the supporting terraces. Her tattered, broken sandals slowed her down, so she slipped them off and carried them the rest of the way, even though the dry, stony soil bit into her feet. They were both laughing and out of breath when they finally met up. Dan held up the bulging sack. “I brought a present for my beautiful little Nava.”

  “For me? What is it?” It could have been filled with stones and Nava still would have loved him for bringing it. But he opened the sack with a flourish, and she looked inside to see a limp mound of brown and tan feathers. “Are those quails?” she asked in surprise and delight.

  “Three of them. For you and your family.”

  “What about your family? We could all share them.”

  “Don’t worry, I caught enough for my family, too. I chased a whole flock of them right into my net.”

  She wanted to hug him but modesty forbade it until they were married. “These are wonderful, Dan. I can’t believe it! It must have taken so much time and hard work to catch them.”

  “And patience. But I’m learning to be a patient man. I’m going to marry you someday, Nava, and in the meantime, I can’t have you starving to death, can I?”

  “You’re wonderful!”

  He slung the bag over his shoulder again, and they walked along the footpath together toward Nava’s house. “Mama and I will pluck the feathers and gut the birds and cook them for dinner tonight.” Quails didn’t have much meat on their tiny frames, but added to soup or stew they would stretch to make a satisfying meal for her family. And the broth would be delicious. They were almost to the house when they saw a man approaching from the opposite direction, riding sidesaddle on a donkey. Only a wealthy man could afford to ride such a fine, well-fed beast. Abba had seen him, too, and he left his work to walk down the hill from the vineyard to meet him. It pained Nava to see her father walk with his head bowed and his shoulders slumped, as if carrying a heavy load on his back. The stranger must be the man who was coming to collect Abba’s debt—a debt he couldn’t repay. The joy Nava had felt a moment ago when Dan had shown her his present vanished.

  “Oh no,” she moaned.

  “The vu
lture is circling,” Dan said under his breath. “And I’m sure he’ll visit my father next.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Malkijah ben Recab holds the mortgage on my father’s farm.” They headed down the hill, reaching the stranger the same time Nava’s father did.

  “Good afternoon, my lord,” Abba said in greeting.

  Malkijah ben Recab slid from the donkey’s back before replying. “Good afternoon. It’s very warm for springtime, isn’t it?” He wore a robe of fine, white linen with a scarlet band around the hem and neck and sleeves. The turban on his dark head of hair was also of the finest linen.

  “Yes, my lord. Yes, it’s very warm.” Abba barely looked up, staring down at his dust-covered feet. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I can’t pay back what I owe you today. It looks as though my barley crop will fail from lack of rain. I’ll give you everything I do harvest when the time comes, but I already know it won’t be enough to cover the debt.”

  Nava ached for him. She was sorry now for complaining about hauling water. Malkijah stepped closer, his dark brows knit in a frown, and for a horrible moment Nava feared he would confront her father, demand what was due him. But he shook his head sadly as he rested his hand on Abba’s shoulder. “I understand, my friend. Everyone in this district is suffering. We’ve prayed and prayed for rain, haven’t we? But the Holy One must have His reasons for not answering us.”

  Abba finally dared to meet his gaze. “Perhaps when I harvest my grapes I can repay you.”

  “Yes . . . perhaps.” Malkijah appraised the terraced hillside as if assessing the vines with the eyes of an expert. “Because of the extreme circumstances, I normally would be willing to wait until the grape harvest—but I have to pay the king’s tribute, as well as my provincial taxes. And my crops have also suffered from the drought.”

  Abba scratched his beard. “I have a small flock of goats. Would you take them to help repay my debt?” he asked.

  Nava covered her mouth as tears sprang to her eyes. Dan moved closer and rested his hand on the small of her back. He knew how much she loved her little flock. If she looked at him, she would burst into tears.

  “Don’t you need your goats for milk?” Malkijah asked. “I don’t want your family to starve.”

  “I have nothing else to give you, my lord. Besides, we have no grain left to feed them. The goats will die if you don’t take them.”

  “In that case, of course I’ll take them. I’ll send one of my sons or my manager over for them tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Abba said. “I’m very grateful to you.”

  There was nothing more any of them could say. Malkijah looked around for a way to boost himself onto his donkey again and led his animal over to a large stone. He bid them all good day after he’d mounted, then rode up the footpath to Dan’s farm.

  “My father can’t pay him back, either,” Dan said. “Our land is mortgaged to him, too.”

  Abba heaved a tired sigh. “At least Malkijah ben Recab is being kind and understanding about it.”

  “I don’t like him,” Dan said. “He says he cares about us, but he certainly doesn’t show it. He doesn’t help any of us. He just keeps taking more and more, raising our debts higher and higher.”

  “He has to pay taxes, too,” Abba said.

  “Have you seen where he lives?” Dan asked. “I have. And I don’t feel a bit sorry for him. But I am sorry for my father and for you and for all of the other farmers in our district who are suffering. He took Nava’s goats, just like that,” he said, snapping his fingers.

  “What else could he do?” Nava asked, trying to soothe him. She had rarely seen Dan this angry.

  “What else?” he repeated. “He could have offered to give you some grain to feed your flock so you’d still have milk and cheese to eat. He owns a huge flock of his own. But, no. When he took your goats, he took the food right out of your mouth!”

  There was nothing Nava could say in reply. Even Abba silently watched the figure on the donkey grow smaller and smaller as he climbed the rise to Dan’s farm. “I need to go home,” Dan said. “I need to be there when our noble ‘rescuer’ talks to my father.” He handed the sack with the quails to Nava. She had forgotten all about them.

  “Thank you again for the birds, Dan. It was so kind of you.”

  He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “I don’t want your family to starve,” he said, mimicking Malkijah. “But unlike him, I decided to do something about it.” He turned and strode away. Abba turned away as well and trudged up the rise to his vineyard.

  Nava lifted her jug for the trip back to the well. Why didn’t God answer their prayers?

  Chapter

  4

  THE CITADEL OF SUSA

  APRIL

  Nehemiah’s workday was nearly over, and the sun hung low in the sky when he was called to the citadel’s Gate House. Once again, it surprised him to see his brother Hanani. “I’ve come to tell you good-bye,” Hanani said. “We’re leaving tomorrow morning, early.”

  Nehemiah’s heart squeezed. He hadn’t realized how lonely he’d been before Hanani had arrived or how much he’d missed both of his brothers. The time spent with Hanani these past four months had been an unexpected and welcome gift. “Why are you leaving?” Nehemiah asked. “Your petition still hasn’t reached the king.”

  “It looks like it never will. The king’s advisors have made it clear that we must pay every cent of the taxes we owe, regardless of the drought back home in Judah.”

  “That’s too bad.” His brother would leave tomorrow; they would likely never see each other again. “Listen,” Nehemiah said, “stay here at the palace and dine with me tonight so we’ll have one last chance to visit before you go.”

  “I would like that,” Hanani said.

  “I’m done working for today. Come with me, and I’ll show you around.” Nehemiah led the way out of the Gate House and across the open area to the royal palace. Soaring walls and crenelated watchtowers loomed above them as they entered the citadel. “Do you remember coming to Mordecai’s quarters when we were children?” he asked.

  “Not very well. It was nighttime, wasn’t it? And even if I did remember, I’m sure everything has changed.”

  “True. Security increased tenfold after the king’s father was murdered. They made sure the royal palace was constructed with walls within walls. It’s impregnable.” He led Hanani through some of the vast public spaces—the large outer courtyard, the smaller central courtyard, then the inner courtyard. “The king’s throne room and living quarters are isolated from these public spaces,” he explained. “Access is very limited.” Nehemiah showed his brother the largest courtyard of all, the huge, open-air terrace called the apadna, covering more than 108,000 square feet. Six rows with six pillars in each row held up the soaring roof, each pillar more than sixty-five feet tall and topped with twin pairs of carved bulls.

  “What in the world is this space used for?” Hanani asked.

  “Formal ceremonies and state banquets. At the New Year Festival, representatives from every province come to greet the king and deliver their annual taxes. He sits on that raised platform.”

  “Well, if the king’s goal is to make his subjects feel small and insignificant, I’d say he achieved it with this space!”

  The tour ended in Nehemiah’s private quarters, where they ate dinner and sipped wine and talked until late into the night. Hanani agreed to stay overnight so he wouldn’t have to walk back to the Jewish section of Susa in the dark. The awareness that they would never have this chance to talk again made their time together bittersweet.

  Nehemiah didn’t sleep well and awakened before dawn. He rose as quietly as he could and went to the window that overlooked the steep valley on the south side of the royal citadel. Spring had arrived, and he could open the shutters to let in the mild air. For weeks he had fasted and prayed as he’d grieved over the situation in the Promised Land, and last nigh
t’s dinner with his brother was the first full meal he’d eaten since Hanani came to Susa. Jerusalem’s lack of safety or protection, and the resulting blight and disgrace on God’s reputation, had caused Nehemiah to mourn as if a loved one had died. Now he closed his eyes in prayer.

  “O Lord, God of heaven, the great and awesome God, who keeps His covenant of love with those who love Him and obey His commands, let your ear be attentive and your eyes open to hear the prayer your servant is praying before you day and night for your servants, the people of Israel. I confess the sins we have committed against you, including myself and my father’s house. We have acted wickedly toward you. We have not obeyed the commands, decrees, and laws you gave your servant Moses. . . .”

  Nehemiah paused and opened his eyes, aware that even though everything he’d just confessed was true, he had no way to make atonement for himself or for his family. The Almighty One would be justified in ignoring his prayer. But Nehemiah also knew that the God of his fathers was a compassionate and gracious God, forgiving wickedness, rebellion, and sin. He closed his eyes again and continued.

  “Remember the instruction you gave your servant Moses, saying, ‘If you are unfaithful, I will scatter you among the nations, but if you return to me and obey my commands, then even if your exiled people are at the farthest horizon, I will gather them from there and bring them to the place I have chosen as a dwelling for my Name. . . .’”

  He paused again. The faint rim of pink light on the eastern horizon appeared hazy through his tears. The sun would rise soon, and Hanani would go home to his wife and little ones, where they would be in danger from their enemies, just as Nehemiah’s parents had been. Jerusalem needed walls and ramparts and gates like the ones here in Susa. If only he could find a way to make Jerusalem—and his brothers—safe and secure. God had redeemed His people from exile, just as He had redeemed them from Egypt by His powerful hand. Yet the restoration seemed incomplete if they remained in danger. He closed his eyes again and continued to pray.