The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

  “Tell all the men to take a break,” he said. “Send them out here so they’ll be out of my way. I need space to measure properly.”

  “Even the laborer at the end, my lord?”

  “Yes. And bring all the torches out to conserve air; it’s getting stuffy in there. I’ll need only one lamp.”

  The foreman shrugged. “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”

  Eliakim sat down to wait, wishing in vain that he wasn’t the boss. When the workmen had all cleared out, Eliakim slowly crawled through the tunnel, re-measuring carefully, comparing the results with the figures in his diagrams. The twisting path of the fissure probably caused all his problems in this tunnel. And the huge curve he had dug to avoid the kings’ graves had thrown him off course in the other one. He wished for the hundredth time that he had dug the tunnel straight instead of following the fault line.

  But as Eliakim crouched in the cramped, suffocating darkness, he knew that he wouldn’t find a mistake in his calculations. His mistake had been pride—reckless overconfidence fueled by hatred. Arrogance had convinced him that he could tunnel from opposite ends and meet in the middle. Revenge had induced him to attempt this impossible feat. He had been a conceited fool.

  With rising despair, Eliakim inched through the dark, stuffy tunnel, measuring carefully, pulling his lamp and his drawings along with him. When the ceiling lowered, he ducked his head and crawled on his hands and knees for the last few cubits until the tunnel ended abruptly in a wall of rock. He crouched in a space barely three feet high and as wide as his shoulders, surrounded on three sides by solid rock. Unyielding, impenetrable, immovable rock. He hadn’t dug a tunnel after all, but a tomb—twin grave pits in which to bury the people of Jerusalem. He had failed.

  “NO!” he shouted. The gloomy walls absorbed the sound of his voice as they closed in around him. “NO! NO! NO!” He pounded his fists against the silent, jagged wall until his flesh was bruised and raw.

  “Where are you, you cursed tunnel?” he cried as he clawed at the stone, trying to dig it away with his hands. “Do you want them to win? Those heathens are going to win again! Where are you?” Jagged rock tore at Eliakim’s skin until his hands bled, but he never noticed the pain as he beat against the wall again and again. At last he slumped to the ground, exhausted and defeated. His chest heaved from exertion, and he tasted the bitterness of failure. He was lying inside his own grave.

  As Eliakim stared up at the ceiling, it seemed as though the black, uncaring walls were slowly closing in on him. The place where he lay seemed to gradually grow smaller and smaller. In just a few more minutes the walls would crush him to death.

  His heart pounded savagely as his panic soared. His lungs strained for air. He couldn’t catch his breath.

  He had to get out! The walls were closing in! The tunnel was out of air!

  He grabbed his oil lamp and snuffed out the flame. The moment he did, Eliakim realized his mistake. He cried out in horror as he was plunged into total, impenetrable darkness.

  “Help me!”

  The walls absorbed the sound of his screams. He tried to scramble to his feet, but cold, hard rock smashed into him on every side. He groped in the dark like a blind man, striking his head against the ceiling, feeling along the walls for the way out. He couldn’t find it. He’d been buried alive.

  “Oh, God—help me!”

  Somehow Eliakim found the opening and clawed his way forward on his face. Dirt filled his mouth and throat as his lungs screamed for air. Then the tunnel widened, and he could stand. He pulled himself to his feet, but his trembling legs barely supported him. He gasped for each breath of air. The ceiling was pressing down on him, the walls were still closing in. At any moment he would be crushed to death beneath millions of tons of rock.

  Eliakim began stumbling forward through the blackness, his arms outstretched. But the sharp twists and right-angle turns of the tunnel continually blocked his escape as he smashed into barriers of stone, again and again.

  “Somebody help me!”

  On and on in maddening blindness, searching for a way out, finding none. It wasn’t a tunnel, but an endless maze, a hopeless labyrinth. He couldn’t breathe. He was going to die. He had dug his own tomb.

  “Oh, God!” he screamed. “NO!”

  Suddenly Eliakim tripped and fell headfirst. Cold, black water slapped his face, then surrounded and engulfed him. The icy shock brought him to his senses. He struggled to his knees, coughing and choking for air. He knew where he was now—he had tripped over the dam that held back the spring water and he’d fallen headlong into the old Jebusite holding pool. He pulled himself out of the water, leaned against the wall, and vomited. When his stomach finished heaving, Eliakim knelt beside the water for a long time, gulping air, waiting for his panic to subside. He made a shaky attempt to wash off the vomit and blood, then slowly rose, staggering into the blinding sunlight.

  The foreman and work crew standing nearby suddenly fell silent as Eliakim emerged, dripping wet, from the tunnel. He saw them staring at him and realized that he hadn’t marked where they should dig. He didn’t even have his drawings with the measurements. He turned around and staggered back toward the tunnel, but when he recalled the suffocating panic that had engulfed him, he knew he could never crawl back inside. Eliakim turned back to the waiting men. Bile burned his throat, and his bloodied hands throbbed painfully. The men were watching him curiously, staring at him. He cleared his throat, not certain if he could speak, and thrust his hands behind his back to hide the blood that still oozed from his raw flesh.

  “There’s . . . uh . . . no need to change direction. Just . . . uh . . . just keep going straight until . . . uh . . . until we try the signals again.”

  The foreman took a tentative step toward him. “Are you all right, my lord?”

  “Yes,” Eliakim replied too quickly. “I . . . uh . . . I fell.” He edged away from them.

  “But, sir, you’re—”

  “I’ll be down at the other tunnel if you need me.” Eliakim continued to back away. No one moved. Why were they staring at him?

  “Quit standing around!” he shouted. “Get back to work!”

  Eliakim fled down the valley, through the lower gate, and into the new section of the city where the empty Pool of Siloam marked the entrance to the other tunnel. But he stayed inside the foreman’s tent all day and into the evening, eating nothing, barely speaking, totally incapacitated by his failure and guilt. It took a long time for his legs to stop shaking, and he refused to crawl inside either tunnel to listen for the signals.

  “Your ears are just as good as mine!” he growled when the foreman questioned him about it. He waited to return home until after the supper hour in order to avoid Jerusha. How could he face her knowing that the Assyrians were going to win? She was going to become their slave again. They all were.

  When he finally trudged through the door, his father bustled around him, worrying over him, insisting that the servants fix him something to eat. Eliakim’s stomach turned queasy at the thought.

  “I don’t want any food,” he mumbled.

  “What’s all over your tunic? What did you do to your hands? Is that blood?” Hilkiah wanted to know.

  “Yeah, I . . . uh . . . slipped and fell on some loose rocks.” He no longer cared if he lied.

  “Well, sit down. Let the servants rub some balm on your hands.” Hilkiah tried to coax Eliakim to a couch, but he pushed him away. He couldn’t stand his father hovering over him.

  “Leave me alone. I don’t need anything.”

  “Son—?”

  “Just leave me alone!” A servant entered with a tray of food and held it out to Eliakim. “I said I don’t want it!” he shouted, and he knocked it out of the servant’s hands, sending the plates crashing to the floor, spilling food everywhere. Then Eliakim turned and fled to his room, slamming the door behind him.

  To Hezekiah the long, dreary day filled with distressing news seemed as if it would never end. Samar
ia had fallen. The tunnel remained unfinished. No one knew for certain where the Assyrians would attack next. And the prophet Isaiah still hadn’t been found. Hezekiah’s troubles piled one upon another, threatening to topple over and crush him beneath their weight. He had gone to the top of the wall at sunset and stood with the watchmen, waiting for the signal fire. When the message finally came it told him nothing new. The Assyrians were still camped at Samaria. They hadn’t begun to march.

  Tonight Hezekiah needed his wife more than ever before. She ran to his arms, but he lacked the strength to return her kisses.

  “My lord, I’ve never seen you this discouraged. Is there anything I can do?” He didn’t answer. He didn’t know the answer. “Shall I sing for you?” she asked.

  “Only if you know a funeral dirge.”

  Her lovely smile vanished.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling her close. “But I can’t help mourning for Israel. They were our brothers, and now they’re gone.”

  Her hair brushed against his face with a lovely floral fragrance. He tried to determine what the scent was, but it eluded him.

  “Have you ever been up north, to Israel?” he asked her.

  “No . . . What’s it like?”

  “I’ve only been there once, and that was a long time ago, when my father was still king. It was a beautiful land back then, much richer than ours and not nearly as rocky. They have a lake, shaped like your little harp, and it’s full of good-tasting fish.”

  “Come. Sit down and tell me more, my love.” She led him over to a couch near the window and sat down beside him with her head on his chest.

  “Farther north is snow-covered Mount Hermon, and the air there is fragrant with the scent of cedar. The Jordan River is born on that mountain, and as it winds south toward our land it passes through rich, fertile farmland.”

  “You make it sound so beautiful,” she murmured.

  “Mmm . . . it was.” Thinking of Israel in the past tense seemed strange to Hezekiah, and profoundly sad. “Have you ever been down to the Jordan River, Hephzibah?”

  “No, I’ve never traveled that far from Jerusalem.”

  “Then you have no idea what a beautiful land you live in?”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “All right, but first I promise you that someday—in better times—we’ll travel to all these places and see them together.”

  She held his hand to her cheek and kissed his fingers. “I would love that.”

  “First, we’ll go down to Jericho. And I do mean down, because it rests in the deepest valley I’ve ever seen. It’s an oasis, right in the middle of a barren desert. We’ll sit on top of the city walls, and I’ll read you the story of how Yahweh worked a miracle to help Joshua conquer Jericho.

  “Then we’ll go down even farther to the Dead Sea. It’s as blue as the sky on a cloudless day, but its waters are bitter and dead. There’s no life in it at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “It was poisoned by God’s judgment on Sodom and Gomorrah. The Judean wilderness surrounds the Dead Sea, but even though it looks barren and lifeless, it has a beauty I can scarcely describe.”

  “How could something dead and barren seem beautiful?”

  “I don’t know,” he shrugged, “but I think it’s very beautiful. Maybe because it’s part of God’s creation or maybe because it belongs to me—I don’t know. But I’ll show it to you, and you can tell me what you think.

  “Then we’ll go through the Arabah and down to Elath on the Red Sea. Ships from all over the world sail there, bringing ivory and exotic spices from faraway places. We’ll sit for a while beside the warm, clear water and watch the ships come and go.” When Hezekiah closed his eyes he could almost hear the sound of the waves lapping gently against the shore.

  “Then we’ll go north again and visit the Negev, and I’ll show you the rolling prairies where the grain ripples in the breeze like a golden sea.”

  He paused, and when he looked into Hephzibah’s shining eyes, her long, dark lashes were moist. “You really love your nation, don’t you,” she said.

  “With all my heart.” He swallowed back the sadness he suddenly felt and stroked her soft cheek. “Last of all, before we return to the rock-strewn Judean hills, we’ll go through the Shephelah, where there are sycamore groves and almond orchards, pomegranates and olives and grapes. We’ll stand in the Valley of Elah together and look out over the plain where a small boy named David once challenged the giant who had paralyzed armies and kings.

  “‘You come against me with sword and spear . . .’” Hezekiah quoted softly. “‘But I come against you in the name of the Lord Almighty. . . . And the whole world will know that there is a God in Israel.’”

  Shebna would say it was only a myth, the exaggerated exploits of a departed king. Hezekiah fell silent for a long time; then his arms tightened around Hephzibah.

  “You are so precious to me, Hephzibah. I love you. No matter what happens, I want you to know that.”

  He wanted to tell her that he was sorry, that if his nation came to an end the way Israel had, the fault was his alone. But instead, he held her close and silently wondered what would happen to both of them.

  After Hezekiah left, Hephzibah sat for a long time, weeping for all she might lose. She loved Hezekiah deeply, and she feared for his life more than she feared the horrors of siege warfare. If the nation fell to the Assyrians, his punishment would be the most severe. She would do anything, sacrifice everything, if it would allow him to continue as king of the nation he loved. But she was powerless to help him. Hephzibah thought she understood a little of the helplessness he felt.

  Finally she knelt in front of the small, carved chest beside her bed and removed its contents, reverently lighting the lamps and incense burners and laying them before the smiling statue of Asherah. Then Hephzibah bowed with her forehead pressed to the floor.

  “Oh, Lady Asherah, please forgive my husband’s unbelief,” she prayed. “Please, save him from invasion and make his kingdom secure. May he live to reign a long time—”

  Suddenly Hephzibah stopped. She had nothing to offer the goddess in return. She needed to make a sacrifice in order to guarantee that Asherah would answer her prayer. Only one sacrifice would be suitable, the highest gift of love and devotion.

  Hephzibah ran to the adjoining room, where her maid slept. “Get up, Merab. I need your help.”

  Merab gazed at her sleepily. “Now? In the middle of the night?”

  “I need an unused urn. Find me one quickly.”

  Merab pulled on her outer robe and smoothed down her hair before hurrying off. She returned a while later with one of the king’s storage jars, bearing his royal seal. “This is all I could find, my lady.”

  “It’s perfect.”

  Hephzibah removed a lump of charred wood from the grate. Clutching the urn, she knelt before Asherah again. Her hands trembled at the enormity of what she was about to do, the great risk she was taking.

  “Oh, Lady Asherah, if only you would allow my husband to rule over his land, I pledge to you—I solemnly vow—that I will sacrifice the first child you give me, the firstborn of my womb.”

  She opened her eyes and drew the symbols in black on the urn that would hold her baby’s remains: the symbol for Asherah, the symbol for sacred vow, the symbol for firstborn, the symbol for death. Then Hephzibah covered her face with sooty hands and wept.

  35

  Hilkiah’s distress deepened as he watched his son disappear into his room. Eliakim hovered on the verge of collapse, and Hilkiah guessed that his hands, which trembled uncontrollably, were not bruised and bloody from a fall. The anxiety his tunnels produced, coupled with his grief over Jerusha, had finally brought Eliakim to the breaking point.

  The household was settling down for the night, but Hilkiah knew he would never be able to sleep. Instead of going to his room, he walked through the darkened house and outside to the courtyard. It was a perfect night, quiet and clear, with a gent
le breeze that cooled the air. Millions of stars sparkled in the cloudless sky. But instead of looking up, he sank down on the stone bench and buried his face in his hands.

  “God of Abraham, what am I going to do? You see how my son suffers. You know how I suffer with him and how much it hurts me to see him like this. But how do I help him? If I could spare him this pain or take his pain on myself somehow, I would gladly do it. How I wish I suffered instead of my beloved son!”

  Hilkiah wiped his tears with the back of his hand, then looked up into the sky again, gazing at the rippling white curtain of stars. Suddenly God drew near to Hilkiah. The breeze was His breath, the silence His voice, the stars the light of His wisdom. And as the Spirit of God soothed Hilkiah’s grieving heart, He provided understanding, as well.

  “God of Abraham . . .” he whispered. “My son hasn’t called on you, has he? He hasn’t sought your wisdom and help.” The stars twinkled in silent reply. “Yes, yes—that’s it. Eliakim wanted to do everything himself so he would get all the glory. But now he needs your help, Lord, and he’s too proud to ask.”

  Once again Hilkiah covered his face. “I’m sorry, Lord. I tried to raise him to have faith in you. I don’t know where I went wrong. . . . Show me what to do, Lord.”

  His shoulders shook as he wept for Eliakim’s pain and now for his own, at having failed God. He longed to go to his son, to beg him to turn to God and pray, but he knew that he couldn’t. Eliakim was a grown man, and no matter how great Hilkiah’s faith in God, no matter how much Hilkiah loved his son, Eliakim would have to stand face-to-face with God by himself.

  Hilkiah was so deep in prayer he never noticed that Jerusha had joined him in the courtyard until he felt her comforting hand on his shoulder. He looked up.

  “What’s wrong, Uncle Hilkiah? Can I do anything to help you?”

  “No, my child, no. I’m not weeping for myself, but for my son. You’ve seen how he is—how he looks. He’s a broken man.”