Yet everything seemed so different. Abba appeared older, thinner, and his broad shoulders were hunched as if he carried a heavy burden. She saw the jagged scar on his forehead, too white against his tanned face. Strands of gray streaked Mama's mahogany hair, and she looked shrunken and small. Maacah was no longer a wispy eleven-year-old but had grown into a handsome young woman. Jerusha recognized her by the freckles sprinkled across her upturned nose. How she loved her family! She would never let them out of her sight again.
"Look at you!" Jerimoth said as he stroked her swollen, blistered feet. "Look at your poor feet! Did you walk all the way from Nineveh?"
"No, Abba. I never went as far away as that. I've been living with the army, and they've been fighting just north of here all this time. I walked part of the way home, over the mountains, until a stranger let me ride in his cart."
"An angel-God sent His angel," Jerimoth murmured. "I knew you were alive. When we didn't find your body with the others ..."
Jerusha turned away, ashamed. What would her family think of her if they knew how she had survived? She could never tell them what she had become. Jerusha shivered, but it wasn't the damp air inside the house that chilled her. The coldness crept out from her soul as she lied to her parents.
"They let me live so that I could cook for them-for their officers.
"And now you escaped?" Jerimoth asked.
"No, Abba. They let me go. This is a game for them, a sport. They set me free so they could track me down again"
"They would hunt my daughter like an animal?"
Jerusha knew Abba could never comprehend how evil they were, how brutal and vicious. She shivered again as she remembered her pursuers. Home was not the end of her journey; it was only the beginning. She scrambled to her feet, tugging on Jerimoth's hands.
"Abba, we've got to get out of here! They're coming!"
Jerimoth clasped her tightly to his chest. "I will never let them have you again. Never!"
"But they're right behind me-chasing me! I can't stop running!" She struggled out of his embrace. "We all have to get out of here, Abba. I don't want to go back with them! I'd rather die!"
"The Assyrians are still tracking you?"
"Yes, Abba! Please, we can't stay here! We've got to hurry!"
But Jerimoth stood paralyzed, as if he didn't believe her. Why didn't he move? Why didn't he run?
"You'll be safe here," he said at last. "There's a hiding place under the house." He kicked the rug aside and lifted the flagstone to show her the empty cistern. "When the Assyrians come you can all hide in there. They won't find you-you'll be safe."
"You don't understand!" she cried. "When the Assyrians came all those other times, they were only idle soldiers on a binge for fun. This time their entire army is invading us! They won't leave us here, Abba. They'll kill us all, or worse-they'll make us their slaves! Nothing will be left of Israel when they're through with it!"
"I won't leave my land," Jerimoth said quietly. "If what you say is true, then there is no safe place to go. IT die here, on the land of my fathers."
Despair overwhelmed Jerusha until she felt as if she was drowning. She struggled to breathe as she turned to her mother, gripping her hands. "Mama, please talk to him, make him listen to me! We can't stay here!"
Hodesh nodded toward Jerimoth, who stood in the doorway, gazing at the fields and vineyards he had tended all his life. "I could never persuade him to leave. Where could he go? This is his land. He is rooted here, like his vines and olive trees"
Jerusha fought the urge to scream. "How can I make you understand? I've struggled for so long to survive, to come home and see you again! We can't let them'win now-we can't!"
Suddenly Jerimoth stiffened. "It's too late," he said, staring at the horizon. "They're coming. I can see the dust cloud on the horizon and a few riders out in front"
"NO!" she screamed. The Assyrians had caught up with her! They had found her! Jerusha bolted for the door, desperate to escape, but Jerimoth blocked her path. "Move out of my way! Let me go!" she screamed, beating her father's chest, struggling to push past him and flee from the house. She wanted to run and run forever. It took all three of them to subdue her and keep her inside the house.
At last Jerusha collapsed to the floor, trembling and weeping with fear. Then she drew her knees to her chest as her mind began to splinter into madness. Dimly, she heard her father's voice trying to call her back.
"I'll hide you from them, Jerusha. I'll keep you safe. I won't let them find you again. Yahweh is merciful. He'll let me die on my land, and He'll keep the rest of you safe underground."
Jerusha looked up, slowly comprehending what he was telling her. She saw the open cistern and clutched him desperately. "You have to hide, too, Abba."
"There isn't enough room. Besides, I don't want to live to see what they do to my land."
"Abba, please," Maacah begged.
"No, we have Jerusha back," he said. "Yahweh answered our prayers; that is enough for me. Yahweh will protect all three of you."
Hodesh shook her head. "I'm staying with you, Jerimoth. I'm your wife, and my place is with you."
"Don't be foolish. Who will take care of our girls?"
"Look," Hodesh said, pointing to the cistern. "There isn't enough room for me, either. Please, let me stay with you."
Jerimoth pulled her into his arms. "All right, Hodesh. All right."
Jerusha could barely comprehend what was happening. She was losing Mama and Abba all over again! She fell into their arms, clinging to them in sorrow, memorizing their faces for eternity. The life they had shared in this ancient stone house was coming to an end ... this time forever. They clung to each other for the last few moments that remained.
At last Jerimoth wiped his eyes. "Enough. It's time. God has helped you survive, Jerusha. Promise me that you'll take care of your sister now"
The room seemed to whirl. "I promise, Abbas"
While Hodesh lowered dried fruit, cheese, and bread into the cistern, Jerimoth tenderly laid his hands on Jerusha and Maacah and prayed for them. "Ah, Sovereign Lord, keep them in the hollow of your hand. Take care of my precious girls for me. You saved Jerusha for a reason, Lord. May she find that reason and be a living testimony to your goodness and grace"
Then he wrapped his arms around them, crushing them to his heart. "My beloved daughters! I wanted to recite the blessing for each of you on your wedding day, but it can never be. Somehow-someday-God will turn your tears of sorrow into joy again. In faith that such a day will come-in faith that one day you will laugh and sing and hold my grandchildren in your arms-yes, in faith I will bless you now...
"May Yahweh bless you and keep you. May Yahweh cause His face to shine upon you and be gracious to you. May He make you as Sarah and Rebecca. May He bless you with His love and grant you His peace. Amen."
He kissed Jerusha, then pushed her away. Mama helped her climb into the cistern, then Maacah slid in beside her.
"I love you both," Abba whispered. "Shalom."
A moment later he moved the stone into place, covering the hole and plunging Jerusha into total darkness.
Jerimoth wiped his eyes and peered out the door again. The dust cloud on the horizon loomed larger than before, and he heard a rumbling sound, like summer thunder. Four Assyrian soldiers had stopped beside his vineyard and were dismounting. Jerimoth ducked inside the adjoining stable and unlatched the outside gate, then slapped his oxen on their rumps, setting them free to fend for themselves.
When he returned, he drew his wife into his arms, clinging to her in silence. Finally he tilted her face up and looked into her eyes, gently wiping her tears with his callused hand.
"I love you, Hodesh. Don't be afraid. Yahweh is with us."
"I know," she nodded.
"Our girls will live. Yahweh will keep them safe."
Then, holding his wife by the hand, Jerimoth walked outside into the sunlight and down through his vineyard, silently praising God as he faced the approa
ching holocaust.
Iddina dismounted beside the vineyard and stooped to examine the footprints he had been following. The trail halted abruptly in the middle of the road as if the girl had floated away. But then he saw a larger set of prints leading up the path through the vineyard. Of course-someone had carried her.
As Iddina stood, he heard the soft whoosh of an arrow and a dull thud as it struck flesh, followed by a startled, agonized cry. In quick succession another arrow swished from a bow, another thump sounded as it hit its mark, and another victim moaned in pain and surprise. Iddina whirled around and saw two bodies sprawled in the vineyard. He turned to his men in time to see one of them sliding his bow back into its quiver.
"Why did you shoot them?" he asked angrily.
"They were coming toward us, sir. I was afraid they might be armed."
Iddina lifted the soldier by his tunic and hurled him to the ground, then pushed his face into the dirt. "Look at that trail, you fool! She's here! Those two people probably know where she is. And now you've killed them!"
Iddina kicked the soldier onto his back, drew a dagger from his belt and slit his throat. As the soldier lay dying, Iddina turned to his other two men.
"No more stupid mistakes! Spread out and search every inch of this place until you find her."
Iddina followed a well-worn path through the vineyard, which led to the stone house on the rise. He paused beside the two bodies-a man's and a woman's-sprawled side by side in a spreading puddle of blood. He rolled them over, then braced his foot on each chest in turn, jerking the arrows out and placing them in his own quiver. He felt a momentary, grudging respect for the soldier he had just killedthe warrior had shot his arrows straight through their hearts, killing them instantly.
From the doorway of the house Iddina saw the infantry advancing down the road. He would have to hurry before hordes of tramping soldiers wiped out every trace of the girl's trail. He stormed into the house and began ripping it apart, smashing cooking pots and storage jars, kicking at piles of hay and manure in the stable, slashing through straw pallets and bedding with his dagger. The fire on the hearth was warm, the food fresh, the house recently inhabited, unlike the hundreds of other houses they had searched along the way. Again he cursed the foolish soldier for killing the two occupants.
Suddenly Iddina froze. Two occupants. Yet he had just ripped open three sleeping pallets, two down here and one in the loft. All three had been rolled out on the floor, recently used. With deliberate patience, Iddina searched every inch of the house, examining every crack, testing every stone, looking for a missed clue or secret hiding place. He would find her. The game had become challenging to him again, and he sniffed the air for her scent, smiling with anticipation and delight.
Jerusha huddled in the cramped hole beside her sister and sobbed. Not even a pinhole of light penetrated around the edges of the stone lid or through the plastered walls of the cistern. She couldn't tell if her eyes were open or shut, and the darkness and confining space terrified her. She whimpered, trying not to scream. She was buried alive!
Maacah squeezed Jerusha's hand as if sensing her fear. "It's all right," she whispered. "No one will find you here."
But it wasn't true. Iddina would find her. He never lost his prey. Jerusha wanted to give up and die with her parents, but she knew what Iddina would do to Maacah. For her sister's sake, Jerusha had to survive. She had promised Abba.
Exhaustion numbed her. Dazed by grief and shock, surrounded by inky darkness, Jerusha longed to sleep. But then she heard the rumbling sound and felt the earth trembling beneath her. "They're here," she whispered. "The Assyrians are here." The noise grew louder and louder until the ground shook like an earthquake.
"There must be hundreds of them!" Maacah said.
"Not hundreds-thousands. Tens of thousands."
She remembered the numberless hordes of Assyrians-foot soldiers and cavalry, chariots and war machines, stretching across the horizon as far as the eye could see-and Jerusha trembled along with the earth. The noise grew louder still, until it seemed as if the earth would shake apart. She heard the distant whinny of horses above the din and an occasional shout.
"Please, God ... please, God," Maacah sobbed.
Sticky with sweat and tears, Jerusha clung to her sister, weeping for their parents. And as they huddled together in the darkness, buried alive, she tried not to envision the horrifying scene above her head.
23
IDDINA KNELT TO EXAMINE the flagstone floor of the house, his eyes patiently scanning the stones, searching for the lid to an underground cistern or root cellar. They had hidden her well. The ground shook from thousands of trampling feet as his army approached, but Iddina barely noticed. Clamping his dagger between his teeth, he continued to study the stones.
He hadn't gotten very far when something heavy struck the roof, and he heard a whoosh of flames as the ceiling beams caught fire above his head. Another torch flew through the open window and landed at his feet. The straw pallet he had ripped apart burst into flames, singeing the hair on his legs. A third torch ignited the hay on the stable floor, and within seconds, flames engulfed the house.
Iddina staggered backward through clouds of choking smoke, groping for the door as flaming beams crashed to the floor. He stumbled from the burning house, his eyes watering, his lungs heaving from the suffocating smoke.
"What fool set fire to this house?" he bellowed. But no one heard him above the thunder of horses and troops.
Iddina's two trackers hurried up the hill toward him. "Are you all right, sir?"
He nodded, coughing smoke from his lungs. "Did you find any trace of the girl?"
"Nothing, sir."
Iddina cursed. "She was here-I know she was!"
Heat from the flaming house warmed his back, and he moved down the hill away from the inferno. The storehouses had ignited, too, and flames from the burning olive press spread to the ancient olive trees. Smoke swirled around him as he stalked down the path through the vineyard, walking over the bodies in the path. He couldn't wait around until the fire died out; he was supposed to stay in front of the advancing troops. He'd have to come back later and complete his search.
He remounted his horse, furious with the stupid fool who had killed the two witnesses and with the incompetent archers who had set fire to the house before he finished his search. He spurred his horse, signaling impatiently to his two men.
"Let's go. Maybe we'll pick up her trail down the road."
The noise surrounding Jerusha thundered on and on, and it seemed as if the sun should have set by now. But the rumbling grew no fainter and the ground continued to shake.
Suddenly Maacah stiffened. "Jerusha, I smell smoke! Will they burn the house?"
"Yes! They'll burn everything!"
"But we'll die in here if they burn the house!"
Jerusha groped for the waterskin, then felt in the dark for the skirt of Maacah's dress and soaked the front of it. "Hold the wet part over your face, and breathe through it," she ordered. She did the same with her own skirt.
The sound of crackling flames and the scent of smoke grew stronger. At first Jerusha tried to stifle her coughs, but as the cistern filled with smoke it became impossible. She could scarcely breathe. The heat was unbearable.
Maacah struggled to stand up. "We've got to get out of here! We're going to die-we've got to get out!"
"No, Maacah. Stay here. We can't escape if the house is on fire. We have to stay here."
Jerusha held her sister down, fighting her own terror as the dark, airless hole filled with smoke. Fire raged above them, turning the cistern into an oven, slowly roasting them alive. But she knew it was better to die in this stifling pit than to be recaptured.
"Please help us, God. Don't let us die," Maacah whispered.
Her sister's useless prayers made Jerusha angry. "There is no God:' she said. "Save your breath." But Maacah didn't seem to hear her.
"Please, God ... I don't want to die ... Please .
.."
Jerusha held her sister in her arms, rocking her gently, waiting to die.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the noise and the heat and the rumbling of the earth began to fade. Jerusha was still alive, but she felt groggy and listless as her lungs strained to breathe. She had to let fresh air into the cistern soon. Suddenly she realized that Maacah hadn't moved for a long time, and Jerusha panicked. She had promised Abba that she would take care of her.
"Maacah! Don't die!" she begged, shaking her. "Please don't die!"
Maacah stirred and coughed weakly. Jerusha laid her sister down and groped above her head for the stone lid to the cistern. She would have to gamble that the Assyrians were gone. But no matter how hard she pushed, the stone lid wouldn't budge. It was too heavy for her to move alone, and she couldn't gain leverage from her cramped position. She shook her sister again.
"Maacah, you have to help me. We have to get this lid open."
"Abba-" she mumbled. "Abba will let us out."
Tears sprang to Jerusha's eyes. "Abba can't come this time," she said gently. "You have to help me. Please try?"
- Jerusha helped her sister up, and they groped above their heads until they felt the stone. "Now, push!"
The stone shifted slightly, and a shower of dirt and soot rained down on them. Pale, smoky sunlight streamed in through a crack, and Jerusha saw her sister's dirt-streaked face. She appeared too exhausted to push again.
"That's good enough for now," Jerusha said. "At least we'll get air and a little light." She found the waterskin and made Maacah take a drink, then she broke off two pieces of bread for them to eat. "We'll wait until night. It'll be safer after dark. Let's try to get some sleep." She gathered her sister in her arms, and they soon slept, clinging to each other and to life.
Jerusha awoke to total darkness and to the suffocating panic of being buried alive. She felt her eyes to see if they were sealed shut and saw the dim outline of her hands. It must be night. She moved closer to the faint crack of light and peered out. The roof of their house was gone, and stars shone through a haze of lingering smoke. She listened, but the night seemed eerily silent. The stone lid still wouldn't budge. She shook her sister awake.