Corpses—bloated, stinking corpses so numerous that they would never all be buried. Jerusha and Maacah had wandered the countryside for days, scavenging for food, sleeping in gutted ruins and in caves, searching for signs of life, for someone who had survived the destruction along with them. But all they found were smoldering ruins, desolate, blackened land, and the eerie silence of death. They were the sole survivors. With every step Jerusha took, with every dead body she saw, her guilt deepened. She didn’t deserve to be alive. Why had she survived when so many, many others had perished?
Eventually she and Maacah wandered into Dabbasheth, where Jerusha’s long nightmare had first begun. The village lay flattened and burned as if crushed beneath God’s heel. As the wind blew soot through the rubble-strewn streets, even the birds were silent. Jerusha sat on the foundation of Uncle Saul’s house, trying not to stare at the pitiful bodies impaled on stakes around the village, trying not to look into any of the faces in search of a familiar one. Her cousin’s wedding seemed a lifetime ago, part of another world of laughter and song, a world forever lost.
“I don’t know where else we can go,” she told Maacah. “We’ve tried all of our relatives’ houses . . . all of our friends . . .”
Maacah didn’t reply. It seemed she had also run out of tears to shed at the horror all around them. Instead she bowed her head and closed her eyes to pray. The futility of her prayers angered Jerusha.
“Are you out of your mind?” she asked. “How can you still believe in God? Was He deaf to the cries of all these people? Is He blind to what’s happening to His promised land? Doesn’t He care about any of this?”
“Jerusha, don’t talk that way. You—”
“Have you gone insane, or have I? How can you pray to God after seeing all of this?”
“But Abba believed, and—”
“Abba didn’t have to see dead bodies piled up like cordwood! He didn’t have to smell the stench of death and decay, day after day, or cry out to God to deliver him from this hell! Go ahead and pray if you want to, but believe me—it won’t do any good!”
Jerusha jumped down and stalked away from Maacah, then stooped to sift through the debris of her uncle’s house until her hands were black and gritty with soot. She found the blade of a flint knife and a clay storage jar of grain. Most of the wheat kernels were too charred to eat, but she sorted out a few edible grains.
Maacah came over and squatted beside her a few minutes later. “Jerusha, I know where we can go.”
“Where?”
“To Jerusalem. We’ll be safe there. I know the way, and—”
“Maacah, you do not!”
“—and we can stay with Hilkiah and Eliakim.”
Jerusha stared at her sister as if she had spoken gibberish. “Who?”
“Abba took us to Jerusalem for all the festivals, so we could pray for you. I know the way. We have friends there who will help us.”
Jerusha felt a crushing weariness, not only from the thought of another long journey, but also from the hopelessness of it all. How could they travel that far? How could they avoid the Assyrians who were camped between here and Jerusalem? It seemed useless to try. It would be better to die here and get it over with. If only she hadn’t promised.
“Is that what you want to do?” she asked wearily.
“I know we can make it.”
“All right, then. We’ll go to Jerusalem. But don’t ask me how.” She stared down at the kernels of grain in her hand, then held them out to her sister. “Here. You need to eat.”
“So do you.”
“Then we’ll share them.” They divided the kernels between them; they tasted burnt and bitter.
“What else did you find?” Maacah asked. Jerusha gave her the broken knife blade, and Maacah knelt to draw in the dirt with it, twirling her thick braid around her finger as she worked. “I’ll show you how to get to Jerusalem. First we follow the road to the Sea of Galilee—”
“Maacah,” Jerusha interrupted. “We have to cut our hair.”
Her sister stopped drawing and stared at her. “Why?”
“We have to look like boys. We’ll be safer that way.” She took the knife from her. “Do you want me to cut yours first?”
“No! I don’t want to cut my hair at all!” She clutched her braids protectively.
“You have to,” Jerusha said gently. “It’s for your own good. It’ll grow back. Here—cut mine first, then.” She handed her the blade, then drew her hair into a loose bunch and held it out for Maacah.
“Are you sure, Jerusha?”
“Yes.”
Maacah sighed and reluctantly started cutting. Jerusha watched her long, brown hair drop in thick clumps at her feet, and some of it blew away with the breeze. She felt relieved, unburdened, as she reached up to feel her head. “Make it shorter, like a man’s.”
“But, Jerusha—”
“We’ll wear men’s clothing, too. Maybe from one of those corpses.”
“I can’t!” Maacah shuddered.
“Just do it. Then you can show me how to get to Jerusalem.”
Sunlight glared off the white stones as King Hezekiah climbed the narrow stairs to the top of the city wall. General Jonadab sprinted up the steps ahead of him, familiar with their sloping unevenness and the dizzying, unguarded view of rooftops below. Shebna and Eliakim followed behind him, mindful of their footing and hugging the wall to avoid the forty-foot drop.
When he reached the top, Hezekiah shaded his eyes to gaze at the sprawling new city under construction for the refugees. The area crawled with activity as men labored to lay foundations, plaster mud-brick walls, or tamp earthen roofs with heavy rollers.
“I had no idea we would take in this many refugees,” Hezekiah said. “You’ve built an entire city down there.”
“And twice as many refugees have relocated in the Negev,” Eliakim told him. “They wanted farmland and seemed grateful to get it, even though they’ll have to struggle to raise crops.”
General Jonadab wiped the sweat off his forehead. “But these houses are outside the walls. They have no protection.”
“We ran out of room inside the walls,” Eliakim told him.
“These people are working so hard to rebuild new lives in our nation,” Hezekiah said. “Couldn’t we extend the city walls to surround this new section of the city?”
“It would be very expensive,” Shebna answered quickly, “and accomplish very little. These people are transients who might pack up and leave Jerusalem as quickly as they came.”
“They’d be more likely to stay if we offered them some protection,” Eliakim said.
“What do you think, General Jonadab?” Hezekiah asked.
“Well, I don’t care much about defending the refugees, but from a military standpoint, double walls would be an excellent defense. And this northwest approach to Jerusalem has always been the most vulnerable to an attack.”
Hezekiah quickly grasped Jonadab’s strategy. “When the enemy breaches the first wall, we retreat behind the second.”
“That’s right, Your Majesty. Then they have to start all over again on the second wall, adding years to their campaign.”
Hezekiah turned to his engineer. “Can it be done, Eliakim?”
“Sure. See the contour of that western ridge? That’s where I’d build the wall—around the end of that valley. It would join the old wall there—on the northern side of the Temple Mount.”
Hezekiah followed Eliakim’s finger as he drew a wide arc. “That would double the size of Jerusalem!”
“That’s right, leaving us plenty of room for growth.”
Jonadab frowned. “Wait a minute. I think we should repair the old walls first. There are some places where—”
“Why can’t we do both?” Eliakim asked.
“Because we do not have unlimited resources,” Shebna said. “You are talking about thousands of hours of work.”
“Well, there’s your manpower!” Eliakim said, gesturing to the ref
ugees in the valley. “I’m sure they’d be motivated to protect their new homes.”
“And it has to be done,” Hezekiah sighed. “These old walls couldn’t possibly withstand an Assyrian siege. The sooner we start, the better prepared we’ll be if they decide to invade us next. I think we should start on both projects as soon as we can.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Shebna said. “I will look for an engineer to assign to each project.”
“But two engineers will have to compete with each other for manpower and materials,” Eliakim said.
The constant bickering between Shebna and Eliakim frustrated Hezekiah. He wondered what lay at its source and how he could resolve it. “I want you to work together on this,” he told them. “Shebna, prepare a reasonable budget and allot funds. Eliakim, you’ll be in charge of both projects. How soon can you finish your work with the refugees?”
“Immigration has dropped off, now that the Assyrians have overrun Israel. But we can probably expect a few hundred more.”
“Do you have someone who can take over for you?”
“Yes, my assistant knows what to do.”
“Good. Then draw up plans for the new walls as well as for repairing and reinforcing the old ones. Inspect the entire perimeter. General Jonadab will work with you and advise you from a military standpoint. Have you two worked together before?”
The two men exchanged glances. Hezekiah saw a look of recognition pass between them—and something more: wariness on Eliakim’s part, discomfort on Jonadab’s.
“You do know each other, then?” Hezekiah asked.
Jonadab wiped his forehead again. “Yes, we’ve met. I’m responsible for that scar across his throat.”
“No hard feelings,” Eliakim assured him. “You were following orders.”
“Uriah’s orders,” Jonadab explained. “I didn’t know any better.”
“Just keep it in the past, all right?” Hezekiah said. “I need you to work together.”
Eliakim extended his hand to the general. “I have no problem with that.” He managed a faint smile as Jonadab grasped it.
“The three of you must work together on our nation’s defenses,” Hezekiah told them. “We must be prepared to withstand an Assyrian attack. Any other suggestions?”
“We should build fortified cities and army outposts throughout Judah to defend the borders and the main routes to Jerusalem,” Jonadab said.
“I agree.” His nation’s weakened condition angered Hezekiah, and he was determined to remedy it, regardless of the cost. “Finish surveying Jerusalem’s defenses, then you and Eliakim can do the same thing throughout the nation.”
“We’ll also need a communication network,” Eliakim said. “I’d like to build watchtowers with signal fires to relay information from outpost to outpost.”
“Excellent idea. Let’s get to work.”
Hezekiah knew he had found three outstanding men, and he greatly admired each of them for their unique strengths. But as he glanced at the scar on Eliakim’s neck and at the silently brooding Shebna, he wished he could be sure they felt the same respect for one another.
25
It took Eliakim more than a month to inspect Jerusalem’s walls and supporting terraces with General Jonadab. Before they had completed their circuit, the Assyrians laid siege to the northern capital of Samaria. Eliakim knew he would have to hurry if he hoped to make Judah secure before Samaria fell.
He sat at his worktable late into the night, searching for ways to save time and improve efficiency. He worked by lamplight, barely able to see what he was doing, with clay tablets and scrolls scattered everywhere. As he bent over his drawings, he heard footsteps and looked up to see Hilkiah dressed in his nightclothes, carrying an oil lamp.
“Such an hour to be working!” his father scolded. “How can you see what you’re doing? Must you finish it tonight?”
Eliakim leaned back and rubbed his eyes. “I’m almost finished, Abba. And yes, this has to be ready by tomorrow. General Jonadab and I are presenting our plans for the city walls to the king’s advisory council. Have a look.” Hilkiah leaned over his shoulder as Eliakim pointed to his drawings. “See? These are the city walls as they currently stand. But the king wants me to expand them like this. . . .”
“Around the new city?”
“Right. Ever since the Assyrians laid siege to Samaria, King Hezekiah has been anxious to start working on these double walls.” Neither of them mentioned Jerimoth and his family, but Eliakim knew that their friends filled his father’s thoughts and prayers. “So now you know what keeps me up so late.”
“My son—such an important man. Working for the king’s advisory council, no less! Who would have ever believed it? You should thank God every day for such a blessing as this!”
Eliakim frowned. “I’ve worked hard to get where I am.”
“I know, son. I know you have. But remember what the psalmist has written: ‘No one from the east or the west or from the desert can exalt a man. But it is God who judges: He brings one down, he exalts another.’”
Eliakim wasn’t persuaded. He believed God could do a lot of things, but he also believed in himself. The fact that his father gave God all the credit irritated Eliakim. But before he could argue further, a sleepy servant appeared in the doorway.
“Master Hilkiah, two young boys just came to your back gate. They look like beggars, sir, but they asked for you by name.”
Eliakim rolled his eyes. “Another charity case. You are hopeless, Abba—trying to feed the whole world.” He tried to scowl but finally broke into a grin. “You’re a pushover!”
“‘Whoever is kind to the needy honors God,’ you know. But I honestly can’t imagine who this could be. I don’t remember any beggar boys.” He shuffled through the door behind the servant.
Eliakim returned to his work. Then, worried that his father might invite the strangers to stay, he picked up a lamp and hurried after him. Two ragged youths stood in the shadows, their hair matted and dirty, their filthy bodies as thin as cadavers.
“You poor children!” Hilkiah murmured.
One of the youths began to cry. “Oh, Uncle Hilkiah! Eliakim! It’s me—Maacah!”
“God of Abraham!” Hilkiah’s lamp slipped from his hand and crashed to the floor. He swayed and nearly fell over before Eliakim caught him.
Eliakim recognized Maacah now, even without her thick braids, but she looked haggard and exhausted. She motioned to the taller youth standing beside her.
“This is my sister, Jerusha.”
“What?” Eliakim cried out. “That’s not possible!”
This couldn’t be Jerusha. No one ever escaped from the Assyrians. It was impossible! He couldn’t be more stunned if someone told him his dead mother had returned to life and was standing in his doorway.
“This . . . this must be a . . . a joke,” he stammered. “It . . . it can’t be. . . .”
He fought the urge to laugh out loud. He had argued with his father over the impossibility of Jerusha’s return. He had insisted that Yahweh would never answer Jerimoth’s prayers. He had begged Hilkiah to accept the fact that Jerusha was dead. Yet here she stood in his doorway, gazing at him with haunting green eyes—Jerimoth’s eyes. It simply couldn’t be true.
But it was.
Hilkiah recovered his balance first and pulled Maacah into his arms. “Oh, my sweet child! Praise God—you’re alive! Come in, come in!” He bustled her into the house, shouting, “Wake all the servants! Fix these poor girls some food! They’re half starved!”
Eliakim stared at Jerusha as she trailed after Hilkiah into the sitting room. She had an inhuman wildness about her—not the fierceness of the hunter, but the pursued look of the prey, wary and alert. She walked hesitantly, gazing uneasily at the thick carpets and bronze lampstands, the scented incense burners and lavish ivory furnishings. She seemed reluctant to sit down on any of the cushions in her filthy condition and chose a place on the cold stone floor, not quite on the carpet. Eliakim to
ok a seat near her. He was aware that he was staring at her, but he couldn’t stop himself.
The servants scurried around the room, lighting all the lamps, stoking the fires in the charcoal braziers, carrying in trays of fruit while Hilkiah called for more food and warm broth. Eliakim felt light-headed, unable to comprehend why his father called for food. Ghosts didn’t need to eat—and these two skeletons had to be ghosts.
“You’re really Jerusha?” he asked. She nodded. He had the urge to touch her to see if she was real. “Where’s Jerimoth? And your mother?”
“My parents are dead.” She closed her eyes, and Eliakim saw how utterly exhausted she was.
“No!” Hilkiah cried. “My dear friends? Oh, Maacah! I’m so sorry!” He pulled her into his arms again and wept, heartbroken. “God of Abraham, hold them close to your bosom,” he prayed. “Jerimoth was such a good man. Thank you for rewarding his faith.”
Eliakim swallowed the lump of grief in his throat. “I . . . I’m sorry, Jerusha.”
But she showed no emotion as she stared silently at the floor. He wanted to hold her and comfort her the way his father was comforting Maacah, but he hesitated, remembering that he was a stranger to her.
“How did you get here?” he finally asked.
She raised her head proudly, almost defiantly. “We walked.”
“But . . . how did you escape from the Assyrians?”
She met his gaze, and her haunting, lifeless eyes startled him. “They let me go.”
“But that’s impossible—they never let anyone go!”
“Well, they did—so they could hunt me down again, like an animal.” Her eyes glittered with hatred. “My mother and father died hiding us from them.”
“But how—”
“Not now, son,” Hilkiah said, wiping his tears. “Let her eat something first—and rest. Ah, here’s some warm broth.”
Eliakim forced himself to keep quiet as he watched Jerusha eat, but he longed to barrage her with the hundreds of questions that were collecting in his brain. She sat tensed and alert as if ready to flee, but in spite of her hunger, she ate slowly, her long limbs moving gracefully as she reached for the food, like a palm tree swaying in a gentle wind. Her slender hands were callused but still elegant, and when she held her head high and lifted her chin as she had done a moment ago, her long, graceful neck was stunning. Eliakim saw rounded curves beneath her shapeless clothes. In spite of the short hair and man’s clothing, she was indeed a woman.