The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

  Another wave of love washed over him.

  “Don’t be afraid, Zechariah. Look up.”

  Zechariah’s fear dissolved. He slowly raised his head and opened his eyes.

  When the Sabbath meal ended, Hezekiah led Hephzibah up the winding stairs to the palace rooftop. The day had been unbearably hot, but he hoped the roof would catch a cool evening breeze from the Great Sea now that the sun had set. A faint light shone in the west, but above the Mount of Olives the first stars already twinkled in the darkened sky.

  “Have you ever been up here before?” Hezekiah asked her.

  “No. The view is magnificent!”

  He studied Hephzibah as she looked all around, loving the way the tiny tendrils of her hair curled around her face, the way her tawny skin glowed like ivory in the pale starlight. She gazed in awe at the canopy of sunset sky, at the square houses with lamplight flickering through their windows, at the distant hills fading away like specters into the night. Hezekiah was glad he had decided to share his favorite place with her.

  “I come up here a lot,” he said, “just to think—or sometimes to pray. And I’m always reminded of my ancestor, King David. He liked it on the rooftop, too.”

  She looked up at him, her dark eyes luminous. He put his arm around her slender waist and drew her close to his side. “Look up!” he told her. “Sometimes the stars seem so close I could touch them.”

  They stood together, enjoying the infinite sky and the ever-increasing number of stars. “I always feel so small when I look at the stars,” Hephzibah murmured.

  “‘When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers,’” Hezekiah recited, “‘the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him?’ I always think of those words when I look at the stars. Maybe David wrote that psalm on a night like this, when he was up on this rooftop.”

  He pulled her close, resting his cheek on her fragrant hair.

  “I want to tell you something,” she murmured.

  “Hmm?”

  “I wasn’t going to say anything until I was sure—but . . .”

  Hezekiah smiled in anticipation. “Tell me anyway.”

  “Well, I think that I—I mean, we—are going to have a baby.”

  He hugged her tightly. “Didn’t I tell you Yahweh would give us an heir?”

  “Well, I think He had a little help from you,” she teased.

  As Hezekiah bent to kiss her, he thought he heard a rustling in the shadows by the stairway, then the sound of approaching footsteps.

  “Excuse me . . . Your Majesty?” a voice called hoarsely. It was too dark to see who had spoken.

  Hezekiah released Hephzibah and walked toward the shadowy figure. “Yes? Who is it?”

  “Shimei the Levite. I’m sorry to disturb you, my lord.”

  A knot of dread tightened in Hezekiah’s stomach at the sound of Shimei’s faltering voice.

  “Yes? What is it, Shimei?”

  “Your Majesty . . . it’s Zechariah . . .”

  Hezekiah closed his eyes and waited. He heard Shimei draw a shuddering breath.

  “I woke him before the evening sacrifice. I even talked to him, but he never came out to the courtyard. We had to hold the sacrifice without him. When it was time for Zechariah to perform the Sabbath duties afterward, I went back to his room again to look for him. At first I thought he was still asleep. I called to him . . . but he didn’t move.”

  Hezekiah wanted to cry out, to call Shimei a liar, but he waited in silence for him to finish.

  “He was dead, Your Majesty . . . just lying there peacefully. He must have died in his sleep before the evening sacrifice. But his face . . . when I saw the radiance on his face . . .” Shimei couldn’t finish.

  Hezekiah stood in agonized silence, unable to speak, unable to cry out. Zechariah was dead. His beloved grandfather, gone forever. It couldn’t be true. He needed Zechariah. There were so many questions he needed to ask him, so many things he needed to learn—and so much he wanted to tell him. Now he would never have the chance.

  Hezekiah knew he was to blame. He had convinced Zechariah to come out of retirement to serve in the Temple again. But it was God’s fault, too. Zechariah had labored hard for Yahweh. Too hard. Suddenly Hezekiah wanted to rage at God and question Him, to lash out at Him for stealing Zechariah away now, when he needed him the most. How could God let this happen?

  “Thank you for coming, Shimei,” he finally managed to say. His voice was strained as he struggled with his rising grief. “You may go.”

  As Shimei crept quietly down the stairs, Hezekiah grabbed the front of his tunic with both hands and tore it with all his strength. He ripped the fabric over and over until it hung in tattered shreds—but it was his heart that felt torn into pieces.

  Hephzibah hesitated, holding her breath, not certain if she should go to Hezekiah or not. He stood a few feet away from her, unmoving, the front of his beautiful robe ruined. He still hadn’t opened his eyes, and it hurt Hephzibah to watch him struggling with his pain and grief. He had been so happy a moment ago when she had told him about their baby. Now that joy was forgotten. She wanted to hold him, comfort him, but she waited for him to call to her, certain that he would. Several minutes passed and he still didn’t speak or move, a statue frozen in sorrow and despair.

  “Hephzibah, I’d like to be alone now,” he said at last.

  She turned away. But as she slipped silently down the stairs, she heard his anguished cry in the darkness behind her.

  14

  Searing pain tore through Jerusha, blotting out everything else. She gripped Marah’s hand and groaned.

  “Go ahead and scream. Every woman does,” Marah said. But Jerusha gritted her teeth and stifled her cries, unwilling to show weakness in front of her enemies. “It won’t be much longer now,” Marah told her.

  The resting times between Jerusha’s pains were becoming shorter and shorter, and in those brief moments, while Marah splashed cool water on her face, Jerusha saw stars through the tent door, sprinkled across the sky. Her labor had begun after breakfast and seemed as if it would last forever. She was nearing the end of her strength.

  When the pain became a constant fire, Jerusha could no longer stifle her cries. With a final burst of strength she didn’t know she had, her agony was suddenly over. And, blending with the sounds of hyenas’ screams and soldiers’ voices around their campfires, Jerusha heard a tiny, pitiful cry.

  “My baby,” she whispered. Tears of joy and triumph welled up in her eyes. “Let me see my baby.” Marah briskly washed the squalling child and rubbed it with salt. Her face was harsh and unsmiling.

  “It’s a girl,” she told Jerusha. She made it sound like a curse.

  “Let me see her—let me hold her.” She reached out longingly.

  Marah wrapped the baby in an old torn blanket and reluctantly placed her in Jerusha’s arms. The tiny child cried pitifully, as if outraged by the indignities she had suffered.

  “Shh . . . don’t cry, little one. Don’t cry,” Jerusha soothed.

  The baby had long silky black hair that curled softly around her face. She looked Assyrian. Her hair, her eyes, her dusky complexion resembled Iddina’s and the other men’s. Jerusha picked up her daughter’s tiny, perfect hand, and as the dainty fingers wrapped around her own, Jerusha began to weep. They were Mama’s hands, sturdy and square. Jerusha traced her child’s delicate, upturned nose and saw her sister, Maacah.

  How was it possible? How could this helpless, innocent child be such a perfect blend of her beloved family and her dreaded enemies? How was it possible to create a flawless new life from violence and hatred? Jerusha put her daughter to her breast, and she stopped crying and began to suck.

  “Don’t do that,” Marah said sharply.

  Jerusha drew her baby closer. “But she’s hungry.”

  “You’ll only grow to love her if you do that.” She shook her head and stormed from the tent to empty the basins. Jerusha strok
ed her daughter’s downy black head.

  “I already do love you,” she whispered.

  Jerusha lay in her tent for hours, exhausted but unable to sleep. She stared at her baby by the fluttering light of the oil lamp, marveling at this miracle of perfection. It had been a long time since she had felt the power of love, and the emotion overwhelmed her as if she was feeling it for the first time. For more than a year her life had been a mere existence, her only emotions fear and hatred. Now, as if raised from the dead, Jerusha had a reason to live. She had someone who needed her, someone to love and who would love her in return. Her baby brought her family back to life, and she offered Jerusha a future, as well.

  At last Jerusha slept, hugging her baby close to her side.

  A sudden flood of light through the open tent flap awakened Jerusha. She squinted into the glare, groggy with sleep, and saw Iddina standing over her. Before she could react, he bent down and snatched the sleeping baby from her arms, then left.

  “No!” she screamed. “Oh, please, God—no!”

  She tried to scramble off her pallet, tried to run after him, but Marah stood in the doorway of the tent, blocking her path.

  “Get out of my way!” Jerusha screamed. She beat Marah with her fists, trying to push past her and save her baby, but Marah was as immovable as stone. “My baby! He took my baby! Make him bring her back!”

  Marah slapped Jerusha’s face as they struggled. “Stop it! If you don’t shut up he’ll come back and give you a beating to remember.”

  “I don’t care! My baby—he took my baby!” Marah struck Jerusha again, and Jerusha slumped to her knees, trembling from exhaustion and shock.

  Iddina and her baby were gone.

  “Oh, dear God . . . where did he take her? What’s he going to do with her?”

  “Don’t ask. You don’t want to know.” Marah’s harsh face betrayed no sympathy as she gripped Jerusha beneath her arms, dragging her toward her bed.

  “O God, please—don’t let him kill her! Make him bring my baby back!”

  “Shut up!” Marah shouted. “Your baby is gone!”

  “No . . . no . . .” Jerusha found the baby’s blanket, which Iddina had left behind, and buried her face in it. It still carried her daughter’s soft, sweet scent. “My little girl . . . my baby . . .”

  Jerusha wept in anguish, pouring out all her grief and hatred. For one brief night she had felt love again, only to have it snatched away. God hadn’t come to her baby’s rescue, and now Jerusha knew that there was no God. She would never pray again.

  Hours later Jerusha had no tears left to shed. It seemed as if her heart had stopped beating, leaving only a dull ache in her chest. Gradually she became aware of Marah sitting beside her, stroking her hair. Jerusha turned to look at her, and the harsh lines of Marah’s face seemed softer, her eyes moist.

  “Little fool,” Marah whispered. “Did you really think they’d let you keep her? Look around you. Do you see any children in this place? Any love or compassion? Any joy or happiness? No, only hatred and killing, brutality and death. That’s all they know. That’s why I destroy my babies before they’re born into this godforsaken place. I tried to tell you. I offered to spare you from this, but you wouldn’t listen.”

  Marah swiped impatiently at her tears, as if sorry for showing emotion. She rose to leave, then paused at the tent door. “We’d better start their noon meal. They’ll be wanting it soon.”

  Jerusha watched Marah go. She didn’t care about their noon meal. She didn’t care about anything. In the stifling semidarkness, Jerusha crawled like a beaten animal into the farthest corner of the tent and crouched into a tight ball. She hugged her knees to her chest and clutched the tattered blanket to her face, then rocked slowly back and forth, staring through vacant, unseeing eyes.

  15

  King Hezekiah mourned deeply for his grandfather, dressing in sackcloth day after day, trudging up to the Temple in a daze of grief to recite prayers for the dead. The daily sacrifices became a painful ordeal for him. Zechariah had played such a visible role in them that Hezekiah expected to see his grandfather there, standing beside the sacrificial altar or the Bronze Sea. His absence was conspicuous; the void he left could not be filled. Zechariah’s deep love for God had been the spark that had set the Temple worship ablaze, and without him the ritual seemed empty and flat.

  Hezekiah knew he was angry with God. Why hadn’t God given him more time with Zechariah after separating them for so many years? He needed his grandfather’s strong, reassuring faith more than ever now that he had made the dangerous decision to rebel against Assyria. He felt as if God had cut him adrift, condemning him to sink helplessly below the rising tide of doubt. He had relied on Zechariah’s support in order to govern. Now he had no one. Even Isaiah was too busy doing Yahweh’s work.

  Yahweh’s work. First it had caused his grandfather’s long imprisonment, and now it had killed him. Zechariah had labored too hard for a man his age, restoring Yahweh’s Temple, organizing all the sacrifices and feasts. Now God hadn’t even allowed him to enjoy the fruit of his labors. Death seemed an unjust reward. Hezekiah raged at God, asking, Why?

  More than a week passed before Hezekiah returned to see Hephzibah. When he did, he was unable to share his staggering burden of grief with her. Even her singing couldn’t comfort him. As he plodded through his daily routine, he knew his leadership was faltering, but there was little he could do except hand the burden of government to Shebna. The Egyptian quietly took over, covering for Hezekiah and helping him hide the truth of how serious his depression really was.

  Several weeks after Passover, Hezekiah stood in his private chambers, staring sadly through an open window as streams of pilgrims flowed into Jerusalem for the Feast of Pentecost. He knew he would never be able to take a leading role in this joyful feast of thanksgiving. He had no reason to be thankful. He glanced over his shoulder as Shebna entered, then gazed out the window again.

  “What is it, Shebna?” he asked dully.

  “There seem to be even more pilgrims for this feast than for Passover.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “That should please you, my lord.”

  “I wish my grandfather could have lived to see it.”

  Shebna sighed, then drew a deep breath. “Your Majesty, at the risk of angering you, I have something I need to say.”

  Hezekiah turned to his friend and saw the concern in Shebna’s dark eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “You have brought this nation a long way in a short time, but now I am afraid it will all be in vain. All your reforms may be lost unless you begin to put your grief aside.”

  “The government is functioning smoothly enough. What’s your point?”

  “I have taken over many of your duties these past few weeks, but I cannot take your place at the festival. You know that I am forbidden to go beyond the Court of the Gentiles. Your Majesty, you must lead these pilgrims in thanksgiving.”

  Hezekiah turned away from Shebna to stare out of the window again. Shebna’s tone had been that of a tutor admonishing his pupil, and it irritated Hezekiah. Yet in his heart he knew that Shebna spoke as a friend.

  “I’m not sure I can do that,” Hezekiah said at last.

  “But you must. You’ve led these people to discard their idols and renew their covenant with Yahweh. You reminded them of their history at Passover and urged them to follow the laws of your God. Now they have come in obedience to those laws, bringing their tithes and offerings. You have led them this far, Your Majesty. You have brought them to this day, a day of great rejoicing for your people. If you do not lead them and encourage them in what they are doing, then all that your grandfather worked for will be lost.”

  Hezekiah knew Zechariah would want him to continue leading the spiritual revival. But how could anyone expect him to lead a feast of joy and thanksgiving when there was anger and bitterness toward God in his heart? Hezekiah had the overpowering conviction that he didn’t owe God a thank offering
. Instead, God owed him a debt for taking away his grandfather a second time.

  “I can’t do it, Shebna. It would be a lie.”

  “Very well,” Shebna said quietly. “But will you come for a short walk with me, please? There is something I need to show you at the Temple.”

  “At the Temple?” Hezekiah recognized the bitterness in his voice. “Is this really necessary?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  Neither of them spoke as they climbed the steps of the royal walkway to the Temple Mount. When they reached the Court of the Gentiles, Shebna stopped. “I can go no farther, but look . . .”

  He pointed beyond the Temple to the side chambers and storehouses. Hezekiah shaded his eyes in the brilliant sunlight and saw several huge piles of sand, heaped in mounds near the storehouses.

  “What is all that?”

  “Please—I urge you to go look, Your Majesty. I cannot go with you.”

  Hezekiah strode impatiently across the courtyard toward the mounds, leaving Shebna behind. As he drew closer, he saw a huge layered pile of clay storage jars and more golden piles of sand behind the first ones. He was astonished to realize that it wasn’t sand, but grain. Azariah and several other Levites stood near the mounds, taking inventory.

  “Where did all this come from?” Hezekiah asked the high priest.

  “These are the tithes, Your Majesty.” Azariah seemed equally amazed. “We have been eating from these stores of food for many weeks, and still they grow bigger. God has blessed our land with a bountiful harvest, and He has moved the people’s hearts to give Him the tenth portion in gratitude.”

  “And this isn’t all of it, Your Majesty,” Conaniah added. “Not only have the people given a tenth of their grain, but also their new wine, olive oil, cattle, sheep, silver, and gold. We can’t keep track of it all.”

  “And since it isn’t going to Assyria anymore, the people are giving more than their tithes,” Azariah said. “They’re giving freewill offerings, too. I’ve never seen anything like it—certainly not during your father’s reign, or King Jotham’s reign, either. This is just like the golden age of King Uzziah.”