The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

  “Yes, of course I promise, but where should I take them?”

  Eliakim stood and paced in front of his father. “I’ve thought it all through. I’m going to instruct the servants to have food and clothing packed so you’ll be ready to leave on an hour’s notice. I think the safest place to stay would be with your cousins near Beth Shemesh. We’ll send word for them to expect you, and—”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m the highest-ranking official to oppose Gedaliah’s reign. He’ll probably want my resignation and—”

  “Will he have you killed?”

  Eliakim couldn’t look in his father’s eyes. “Everyone who supported King Hezekiah’s religious reforms will be opposed to Gedaliah. Rather than take a chance that we’ll rally behind another heir, he’ll probably use any excuse he can find to have us all arrested . . . maybe even executed as traitors.”

  “Eliakim! Don’t wait for King Hezekiah to die! If he’s really dying as you say, take your family and get out now! Why wait for Gedaliah to kill you?”

  Eliakim shook his head. “I can’t run, Abba.”

  “Why not?”

  Eliakim saw his father’s fear and anger mounting, and he groped for words to convince him. “Because . . . because King Hezekiah is relying on me to keep the kingdom running while he’s sick. Besides, I knew when I accepted this position that I’d have to accept the responsibilities and dangers that came with it, and—”

  “That’s very noble, son—and very stupid!”

  “Abba, don’t you understand?”

  “No! I most certainly do not! If your life is in danger, you should get out of here!”

  “Abba . . . shh . . .”

  “Jerusha and your children need you.”

  “Please listen to me.” He looked into his father’s distraught face and swallowed hard. “I know too much, Abba. I know our military capabilities, treasury accounts, the locations of all the weapons and supplies. I know exactly where the Gihon Spring and the entrance to the tunnel are. I built and supplied every fortified city in Judah—remember? Including Jerusalem. I know the strengths and weaknesses of our entire defensive system. Jonadab and I designed it. If I fled, Gedaliah would assume that I was plotting against him. He would pursue me to the ends of the earth rather than take a chance that I’d go to an enemy nation with what I know.” Hilkiah let out a low moan. “And Abba, if I took Jerusha and the children with me, I’d be endangering them, too. Besides, where could we go? What other nation would shelter a fleeing secretary of state? Harboring me would be an act of warfare toward the new king.”

  “Can’t you fight him? Surely General Jonadab—”

  “They’ve already gotten Jonadab out of the way. Gedaliah has been waiting for this opportunity all his life, and he’s prepared for a fight. He’s too strong, Abba. He has Shebna and all the nation’s resources under his control. I have the support of the prophets and the priesthood. It’s hopeless, don’t you see? Gedaliah will be the next king, and there’s . . . there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  He was caught in a web of political intrigue with no way to escape. As Hilkiah began to comprehend how hopelessly trapped Eliakim was, he groaned and stumbled from his seat to embrace him fiercely.

  “Oh, Eliakim, my son. I can’t accept this. I can’t!”

  Eliakim could barely speak. “I’m not afraid for myself, Abba, but I’m worried about my family. Promise me you’ll take care of them.”

  “Yes—yes, of course I promise.”

  Eliakim held his father a moment longer, then released him.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “Now I’d better go say prayers with my son.”

  Later that night Jerusha lay beside her husband with her head on his chest, listening to the steady pounding of his heartbeat. She could feel the tension in every muscle of his body, and she knew that his eyes remained open, staring blindly into the darkness. He had come home that evening deeply distressed and had silently brooded all through supper. She put her hand to his face and gently stroked his beard, longing to help carry whatever burden rested on his shoulders.

  “Eliakim?” she whispered. “Can’t you talk about what’s upsetting you?”

  He sighed and his arms tightened around her. When he spoke, his voice sounded choked. “He’s dying, Jerusha. King Hezekiah is dying.”

  “Oh, Eliakim. Are you sure?”

  “Even the physicians say so.”

  “What will happen to you? Will you still be secretary of state?”

  “I don’t know—but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s such a great man, such an outstanding king. And he’s too young to die. Do you realize he’s a few years younger than I am? And he’s done so much good during his reign. I don’t understand why he has to die.”

  Her hand still rested on his face, and she felt his jaw tighten with anxiety. “He’s suffering so much, Jerusha. You can’t even imagine how much.”

  “Who else knows that he’s dying?”

  “Not many people—only the servants, a few other officials he’s called for. But anyone who sees him can tell that he’s dying. And he knows it, too.” His voice trailed off, and he was silent for a long time. Finally he spoke again. “Jerusha, I haven’t told you how the fire started. When the king went to Hephzibah’s chambers, she was worshiping a graven image of Asherah.”

  “No! Why would she do such a thing?”

  “Who knows? But the fire started when he tried to destroy the shrine she’d made.”

  “That’s horrible! Then this is all Hephzibah’s fault?”

  “What’s horrible is that he loved her so much. You’ve seen them together. He loved her like I love you. The only thing that meant more to him than Hephzibah was his faith in God. What she did must have devastated him.”

  “Oh, Eliakim. How could you hold all this inside?”

  He paused, and she knew by the way he sighed, then drew her closer, that he wasn’t finished.

  “Hephzibah came to me a few days ago. She begged me to take her to see him.”

  “I hope you didn’t do it.”

  “No. But after she left I started thinking that she might try to go see him on her own, and sure enough, I found her in his room.”

  “Did the king see her?”

  “He’s so sick he thought he dreamt it. But I’m ashamed to admit that I was glad she saw him.”

  “Eliakim, why? It’s all her fault.”

  “I know, and maybe that’s part of it. Maybe I wanted her to see what she’s done to him, how he’s suffering because of her.”

  “What will happen to her now?”

  “I suppose she’ll be banished to the king’s villa with his concubines. She’s in bad shape, Jerusha. I feel sorry for her in a way. She has no children, and the king has divorced her. What does she have to live for? But she’d probably rather be banished than become the property of Prince Gedaliah, like she’s supposed to. If Shebna gets his way, she’ll be executed.”

  For a moment Jerusha almost said “good.” Hephzibah deserved the severest punishment. But for the first time in more than four years, Jerusha recalled her own past, her own sin and unbelief and bitterness toward God. She knew that if God could forgive her, then He could forgive Hephzibah, as well.

  “Eliakim, hold me,” she whispered. As Eliakim’s arms tightened around her, she tried to put herself in Hephzibah’s place—to imagine hurting her husband so deeply that he would divorce her, to imagine the horror of knowing that her own sin had caused his death. She shuddered.

  “What’s wrong, love?” Eliakim asked.

  “Oh, Eliakim, I love you so much! If anything ever happened to you . . .” She began to cry.

  “Shh . . . don’t cry, love. It’s all right. I’m right here.”

  But as Eliakim kissed her, Jerusha felt his tears flowing together with her own.

  7

  Isaiah pushed through the enormous crowd that overflowed the Temple gates to join Eliakim and the city officials for th
e special sacrifice. Like the other solemn-faced men who jammed the courtyards to pray, Isaiah had been shocked by the news that King Hezekiah was critically ill. The immense crowd reminded Isaiah just how popular Hezekiah was, how much the people loved this king who had brought renewed prosperity to their nation. How could he be near death? Isaiah stared up at the dazzling, cloudless sky and wished for a bleak, icy day, gloomy and gray to match the heaviness in his heart.

  The high priest unsheathed his knife, ready to slay the sacrifice as the Levites began to sing:

  O Lord, do not rebuke me in your anger

  or discipline me in your wrath.

  Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am faint;

  O Lord, heal me, for my bones are in agony.

  The high priest slit the animal’s throat, draining the blood. Then the other priests helped prepare it for the altar. Isaiah closed his eyes, pleading silently with God in prayer.

  “O Yahweh, you are merciful and gracious and compassionate. You abound in love and faithfulness. Have mercy on your servant Hezekiah. He has been faithful to you, Lord, and he has brought your people back to you, too. I pray that you will heal him, Father, according to your loving-kindness. Spare his life, just as you once spared it when he was a child. Let him live to serve you, O God!”

  The high priest ascended the ramp to place the offering on the fire. With one voice, the congregation shouted, “O Lord, hear our cry for mercy; O Lord, accept our prayer.”

  Then, in the same instant that the pillar of flame soared toward heaven, Isaiah heard Yahweh’s voice. God seemed to wrap His arms tightly around him, speaking tenderly, as a loving Father to His frightened child. But His words pierced Isaiah’s heart.

  No, my son. It is not my will to heal Hezekiah. Today I will take him to be with me.

  Isaiah sank to his knees. As the congregation fell prostrate in worship before God, Isaiah wept in despair. Yahweh had answered: King Hezekiah was going to die.

  Isaiah threw himself prostrate with the others, but he responded in sorrow, not worship. He pleaded with God to change His mind, to have mercy on Hezekiah, but God’s answer never wavered.

  No, my son.

  God’s reply was as solid and massive as the great altar above Isaiah’s head. He couldn’t plead his way around it. He covered his face and wept bitterly, for not only had Yahweh refused to answer his prayers, but Isaiah knew that he must go to the palace and tell the king he would die.

  When the others stood to join in the song of praise, Isaiah remained prostrate. “Why, Yahweh?” he asked. “Hezekiah has sought to please you in everything he has done. Why must he die?”

  But God didn’t reply.

  When the service ended, Isaiah didn’t move. Eliakim crouched beside him and helped him to his feet, anxiously searching his face.

  “Rabbi? Has Yahweh told you what will happen?”

  “Yes . . . King Hezekiah is going to die.”

  “No!” Eliakim cried.

  Isaiah rested his hand on his shoulder. “I must go and tell him.”

  Eliakim took a shuddering breath, struggling to compose himself. “Rabbi, your life is in danger, and so is mine. Prince Gedaliah—”

  “I know,” he said quietly. “I know.”

  He looked into Eliakim’s sorrowful face and remembered another time, years before, when Eliakim had given him a similar warning. Isaiah had fled then, to escape King Ahaz. But this time he wouldn’t flee.

  “May I ask a favor, Rabbi?” Eliakim said. “I need time to get my family out of Jerusalem. Can you wait a few hours to tell him?”

  Isaiah closed his eyes and nodded, grateful for an excuse to delay this terrible task. “Go on, Eliakim. Do what you need to do. There’s time.” Eliakim nodded mutely and hurried away.

  Isaiah remained behind as the other worshipers left, watching the dancing flames slowly consume the offering on the altar. He remembered the day Yahweh had snatched Hezekiah from Molech’s flames, saying, “I have summoned you by name; you are mine.” Had God’s purposes for Hezekiah’s life already been fulfilled?

  “I don’t understand, Yahweh,” he whispered. “Why . . . why does he have to die?”

  Eliakim left the royal dais and forced his way through the crowded courtyard, pushing people aside as he searched for his father. When he spotted him in the outer courtyard, he called to him above the noise.

  “Abba! Abba, wait!”

  Hilkiah stood aside and waited for him to catch up. “What is it, son?”

  “Abba, it’s time. You’ve got to take Jerusha and the children out of Jerusalem. Today. Now.”

  “What will we tell her?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll think of something. Come on.”

  As Eliakim hurried down the hill with his father, frantically making plans to save his family, the truth about his own life gradually began to penetrate his thoughts. The closer King Hezekiah edged toward death, the nearer Eliakim’s own death sentence loomed.

  Suddenly he understood how the king felt—knowing he would die, wanting desperately to live. But Eliakim didn’t know how he could escape. God had spoken to Isaiah; Hezekiah would die. And the new king would surely order Eliakim’s execution.

  All of Eliakim’s emotions clashed inside him at once: grief at the death of his king; sorrow at the loss of his wife and children; bewilderment at God’s refusal to answer their prayers; anger that the godless Gedaliah would inherit the throne; terror as he stood face-to-face with death. The warfare left him dazed.

  Swirling around his warring emotions was the urgent need to find the right words to say to Jerusha to convince her to leave Jerusalem without him. And then he had to gather the courage to say good-bye to her forever.

  O God, please help me.

  When they reached their front door, Eliakim and Hilkiah both halted. “Abba, take them to your cousin’s house in Beth Shemesh as we’ve planned. I’ll instruct Joah the Levite to stay in touch with you. Don’t try to come back until it’s safe. He’ll let you know when . . . when the bloodshed is over.”

  Hilkiah nodded grimly, and Eliakim took another deep breath. “Jerusha has already suffered so much sorrow in her lifetime—losing her parents and her baby daughter, enduring rape and slavery. She’s going to need you, Abba. Don’t let her become bitter against God again. Tell her . . . tell her that everything happens for a reason, according to God’s will. And tell my children—” Eliakim couldn’t finish.

  Suddenly Hilkiah reached for him, hugging him fiercely. “My son—oh, my precious son! I can’t accept this. I can’t!”

  Eliakim gripped him tightly in return, then gently separated himself from Hilkiah’s embrace. “Come on, Abba. It will be a long journey to Beth Shemesh with the two children.”

  “Yes, yes—you’re right. I’m sorry.”

  They both kissed their fingertips and touched the little box on the doorpost—God’s holy Law. No matter what happened to him, Eliakim vowed never to compromise with Gedaliah or to renounce his faith in God.

  “I’ll go get my things,” Hilkiah mumbled and hurried upstairs.

  Eliakim wandered through the house searching for Jerusha, praying desperately for strength. He found her outside in the garden. The baby napped in a reed basket, and little Jerimoth sat on a mat in the sunshine with Jerusha, learning to count as he shelled dried beans.

  “One . . . two . . . three . . . four. Mama, that one had four in it.”

  “Yes,” she smiled. Then she looked up and saw Eliakim watching them from the doorway. Her smile vanished. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, love,” he answered, attempting a smile he didn’t feel. How he hated to lie to her. “I have a surprise for you.”

  Little Jerimoth scrambled to his feet and ran to Eliakim, scattering beans and pods all over the mat. “Me too, Abba? Do you have a surprise for me, too?”

  “Yes, son. For you, too.” He bent to lift him in his arms, certain that any moment his heart would break and his sorrow at leaving his wife and children would spi
ll over as Hilkiah’s had. Jerusha came to him, gently brushing the tears from his beard.

  “They’re tears of joy,” he said, trying to smile again. “The king is much better today. He’s going to live after all.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “In fact, that’s my surprise. He’s sending me to Beth Shemesh on court business, and I’m taking all of you with me.”

  “Really?” Jerusha cocked her head, gazing at him as if trying to read behind his words. Eliakim knew he wasn’t a very convincing liar. He hadn’t had much practice.

  “Yes. In fact, I’ve known that this trip was a possibility for some time, and I’ve already made all the arrangements. Abba has relatives in Beth Shemesh, so it will be a combination of business and pleasure.”

  “Do you think we should travel that far with the baby?”

  “Why not? That child has bounced so many miles on Abba’s knee she’ll probably outride all of us.” He looked down at his beautiful, chubby daughter sleeping peacefully, and he had to turn away into the house. Jerusha followed him.

  “When will we leave?”

  “That’s the best surprise of all. We’re leaving today. Right away, in fact.”

  “Now? I wish you had warned me, Eliakim. This is so sudden.”

  “I had Abba and the servants pack everything for you so it would truly be a surprise. You won’t have to do a thing.”

  “Your father’s going, too?”

  “Yes, I even talked Abba into going. Can you believe it?”

  “No, I can’t—”

  “Of course, he’s only going because he knows he’ll miss his grandchildren if he doesn’t.” Eliakim’s stomach churned from the strain of his lies. He avoided looking at Jerusha, aware that she would probably see through him. As he ran out of words, his false cheer sounded forced.

  At that moment Hilkiah bounded down the stairs, his face washed and shiny with oil, a beaming smile spread bravely across it. He circled his arm around Jerusha and drew her away.

  “Come, come, my dear. Don’t look so worried. Think of this as an adventure. You’ll love the countryside. And everything’s arranged already. We’re traveling with one of my caravans. You should like that—eh, little Jerimoth?”