Faith of My Fathers (Chronicles of the Kings #4)

  But the prophet continued to shout, undaunted by the approaching soldiers. “‘... I will wipe out Jerusalem as one wipes a dish, wiping it and turning it upside down. I will forsake the remnant of my inheritance and hand them over to their enemies. They will be looted and plundered by all their foes, because they have done evil in my eyes and have provoked me to anger from the day their forefathers came out of Egypt until this day.’”

  Before Joshua’s startled eyes, one of the guards drew his sword and ran it through the prophet’s body. The remaining crowd fled in fear as the man lay dying. His blood flowed, unavenged, in the dusty street.

  Joshua took a final look at the dark funnel of smoke, curling toward heaven. Then he turned and ran up the hill to rejoin his caravan, determined to leave this godforsaken city forever.

  16

  MANASSEH STARED AT THE CEILING beams above his bed and remembered his son’s cries—helpless, pitiful cries. He had almost called out to Zerah to stop the sacrifice. But then the drums had drowned out the sound, and in that emotional moment he had thought of Abraham, raising the knife high above his son Isaac, unwavering, unhesitant. Manasseh had renewed his resolve, watching in fatherly pride as Zerah approached the flaming altar with Manasseh’s firstborn son in his hands. God would honor Manasseh’s faith. God would intercede.

  But no ram had miraculously appeared in the thicket. No divine hand had snatched his son from the altar. Manasseh had watched, paralyzed with horror, as the flames licked his son’s small body, reducing him to ashes and smoke.

  Now Manasseh lay alone in his room, too stunned by what he had done to move from his bed. He couldn’t remember walking up the hill to his palace afterward. He didn’t know if anyone had spoken to him or if he had answered them. He had locked himself in his chambers, alone, giving orders not to be disturbed.

  He thought of his father.

  A year before he died, Hezekiah had walked with Manasseh and Amariah down to the Valley of Hinnom. The boys had sat on the grass together while Hezekiah told them in a quiet voice how his brothers had died there. Then he’d told them how King Ahaz had plotted to kill him, as well. Manasseh remembered the tremor in his father’s hushed voice as he’d spoken. He had seen tears in Hezekiah’s eyes as he had placed his strong hands on Manasseh’s shoulders and gazed steadfastly into his eyes. “You are my firstborn, Manasseh. You belong to Yahweh. But by His grace He allowed me to redeem your life with silver. You will live to serve Him and to take my place one day.”

  Manasseh had tried to ask his father questions about Molech’s sacrifices, but Hezekiah shook his head. “I can’t speak of it, son. I ... I have no words. There are no words in any language.”

  Now Manasseh understood. The sacrifice today had penetrated his soul, becoming a visceral experience of sight and sound and smell beyond human description. Manasseh couldn’t talk about what he had done, couldn’t deal with it or rationalize it because he lacked the words. Yet the scene replayed endlessly in his mind.

  He needed to get out of bed and go downstairs. He needed to take his place on his throne and run his kingdom. Guilt was merely a device of the priests, invented to control him. Sin was an illusion. He had earned power and favor with God through this act of faith. But Manasseh couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He had no words.

  “You are my firstborn, Manasseh.... You will live ...”

  Why had he allowed his firstborn son to die?

  “Where are you going, Lady Dinah?”

  “To the nursery to see my baby. If I waited for him to be brought to me, I would never see him.”

  Dinah was tired of begging to see her son, tired of being told that the servants were busy feeding him or bathing him, or that he was asleep. As her breasts ached with the milk her baby should be drinking, Dinah hated Manasseh more than ever for denying her the role she was meant to play. But when she reached the nursery, Naphtali’s s crib was empty.

  “Where’s my son?” she asked the nurse.

  “King Manasseh sent for him this morning, my lady.”

  Dinah went cold with fear. She imagined little Naphtali, so tiny and vulnerable, being placed in Manasseh’s cruel hands. “He sent for him? Why?”

  “He didn’t say, my lady.”

  Then Dinah remembered. Today was the eighth day. Naphtali would be taken to the Temple to be circumcised and dedicated to God. It was the covenant ritual of her people.

  “Please tell the nurse to bring him to me as soon as he gets back.” He would need his mother to comfort him, to soothe away his pain and his tears.

  The morning passed slowly, like a heavily laden cart rolling up a steep hill. “Have they brought my baby back, yet?” Dinah asked the servant who brought her noon meal.

  “No, my lady.”

  Maybe Manasseh was holding a feast or a celebration for him. Even so, Naphtali was only an infant. He would need to be fed and to be put to sleep in his own bed.

  Late in the afternoon, Dinah returned to the nursery. Surely they must have brought him back by now. They had neglected to tell her. But not only was Naphtali’s crib still empty, but the blankets and linens had been stripped off of it, as well. And the shelves with his swaddling clothes were all bare. Was Manasseh hiding him from her?

  Dinah ran through the corridors to the servants’ quarters to find the nurse. The woman sat on her bed, her eyes red and swollen from weeping. Dinah knelt in front of her.

  “My son ... Where is my son?”

  The nurse closed her eyes. “He’s gone.”

  Dinah grabbed the woman’s arms, shaking her. “What do you mean he’s gone? Where did Manasseh take him?”

  “To ... to the Valley of Hinnom.”

  “No!” Dinah screamed. Her fingers dug into the woman’s arms. “Why did you let him take my son? How could you give my baby to that monster? How could you let Manasseh kill my beautiful, perfect baby?” She wasn’t asking the nurse—she was asking God.

  “He ... he’s the king, my lady. How could we refuse him?”

  The horrible impact of what Manasseh had done struck Dinah with brute force. She collapsed to the floor, screaming, tearing at her clothes and her hair. More servants rushed into the room, lifting her from the ground, carrying her to her room, laying her on the bed. Someone held a cup of wine to her lips. It tasted bitter with drugs.

  “Drink it all, my lady. You’ve had a terrible shock.” The wine made Dinah numb and dizzy, but it couldn’t erase the image of Manasseh hurling their helpless child into the flames.

  “0 God, why didn’t you save him?” she cried. “Why didn’t you help him?”

  “Don’t leave her alone,” she heard someone whisper. “Stay with her all night.”

  Dinah knew it was her own fault. She’d known how evil Manasseh was and what he was capable of doing. She should have protected her baby from him. She should have run away before Naphtali was born.

  “I want to die,” she moaned as she beat her breast. “Please let me die.”

  “Don’t say such things, my lady.” Her maidservant was weeping, as well.

  “I have nothing to live for.”

  “You’ll give King Manasseh more children.”

  Manasseh. She would have to spend the rest of her life with Manasseh.

  “No. Oh, God, no. Please let me die.”

  “It’s wrong for you to want to die, my lady.”

  Yes, the maid was right. It was wrong for Dinah to die now. First she had to kill Manasseh. He was a murderer. An eye for an eye, the Torah said. Don’t allow a murderer to live. It was too late to bring Naphtali back, but Manasseh would be back. As soon as Dinah’s forty days of purification ended, he would return to her.

  The least she could do for her son was to avenge his murder.

  “I think I’ll lie down and rest for a while,” Jerusha said, but Miriam knew that she was going to her room to pray for her son. Joshua had been gone almost two weeks. They had expected him to return days ago. Unable to disguise his concern, Jerimoth had finally t
old his mother the truth—that Joshua had returned to Jerusalem for Yael. Now, as each day passed with no word from him, Miriam watched Jerusha grow pale and thin with worry.

  ‘Joshua is so much like his father,“ Jerusha had often told her. ”The way he stands and walks—even the way he runs his fingers through his hair.

  I look at him and I remember Eliakim.“ Miriam knew that if Jerusha lost him, it would be like losing her husband all over again.

  Miriam, too, feared for Joshua’s safety. She wished she knew how to pray, wished she could believe that God would listen to her. Her anxiety for Joshua lay like a heavy stone in her stomach. In spite of the way he had hurt her, Miriam hadn’t been able to stop loving him. If they didn’t hear from him soon, she would go back to Jerusalem herself to look for him.

  Outside, the rain poured steadily down, making the house dreary and damp. Like the children, Miriam hated staying indoors all day. They had to use the indoor hearth for cooking, and it made the house stuffy with smoke. The afternoon seemed three days long.

  Sara and Tirza napped along with their children, but Miriam couldn’t rest. Instead, she tried to fill the endless hours of waiting with work—hauling water, grinding grain, washing or mending clothes. Tomorrow was the Sabbath. They would prepare all their food today so they wouldn’t have to work tomorrow. She laid out the dishes on their best linen cloth. Then she began to knead the dough for the Sabbath loaf.

  Suddenly she stopped and covered her face with floury hands. 0 God of Abraham... Jerusha’s God ... I know that I’m not from a good family. I know I have no right to ask you for anything. But please help Joshua. Please bring him home safely. I don’t even care if he brings Yael with him. I’ll work for her. I’ll cook and do her wash. But, please ... for Jerusha’s sake—

  Miriam stopped when she heard the front door slam. She wiped the flour off her hands and went to see who it was. Jerimoth stood in the entryway, twisting a roll of parchment in his hands. His face was pale.

  “Where’s my mother?” he asked.

  “In her room, resting.” Miriam followed Jerimoth down the hall, not caring if she was invited or not, her fear for Joshua swelling inside her.

  “Mama, look. It’s a letter from Joshua,” Jerimoth said, waving the parchment. “He’s all right. He’s safe.”

  The swiftness of God’s answer to her prayer stunned Miriam. He really had heard! God had answered!

  Jerusha closed her eyes as a tear rolled down her face. “Thank God, thank God,” she whispered. Miriam pushed past Jerimoth to sit on the bed beside her. When Miriam looked up at Jerimoth again, his face was still grim with worry.

  “What’s wrong?” Jerusha asked him.

  “Yael is married to another man. I can only imagine how devastated Joshua must be.”

  Miriam didn’t have to imagine. She knew Joshua’s pain firsthand. But what was devastating news for Joshua was the answer to her unspoken prayers.

  “When is he coming home?” Jerusha asked.

  Jerimoth exhaled. “The caravan he’s with is traveling to Egypt and Cush. He said he’s going with them. He needs some time alone.”

  Jerusha wiped her eyes. “Will he be safe, Jerimoth?”

  “Yes, Mama. He was only in danger in Jerusalem. He’ll be fine once he’s out of Judah. In fact, it took some time for his letter to reach us, so he’s probably in Egypt by now.”

  “May God go with him,” Jerusha whispered. She took Miriam’s hand in her own, then looked up at Jerimoth. “I pray that neither of you ever knows the helplessness of watching your children suffer.”

  Joshua plodded down the Egyptian road beside the camels, the sun beating down on his back from high above the metallic sky. The heat and humidity wilted his limbs as if they were new shoots. The leather bag with Isaiah’s scroll grew heavier by the mile, and his back was soaked with sweat beneath it. As he walked, the carved finials on the end of the scroll staves rattled against each other, clattering endlessly, making his head throb. His blood pounded in his ears like the slow, deadly beating of the sacrificial drums. Joshua wished he had never gone to Gershom’s house that night or seen what Manasseh had done at dawn.

  In the distance on his left, the sky was growing dark with storm clouds. Jagged flashes of lightning speared the horizon as billowing thunderheads soared higher and higher like smoke from a furnace. The camels lifted their noses to the wind and whimpered as the thunder rumbled toward them.

  “Move it! Let’s go!” the lead driver shouted. “Maybe we can beat the storm to the next oasis.”

  Joshua prodded his two camels’ flanks with his sticks, jogging to keep pace with them. But when he looked into the darkening sky and felt the first drops of rain, he knew they would never make it to shelter. There was no sign of the oasis on the horizon.

  Suddenly a rain of pebbles, hard and sharp, struck Joshua’s face and arms. “Hail!” the lead driver shouted. “Get the camels down before they panic!”

  The frozen pellets, as large as date pits, stung as they hammered Joshua’s skin. He yanked hard on the loping camels’ reins, finally dragging them to a halt. The older of his two animals quickly dropped to its knees on Joshua’s signal, but the biting hail had spooked the younger female. She backed up, twisting away from him, bellowing with fright. Just as he struck her legs with his staff to make her kneel, a loud thunderclap boomed above them. The camel reared. When she came down, her front leg struck a rut in the road and she fell on her side, her leg twisting beneath her. Joshua’s stomach twisted with it as he heard the bone snap like a dry tree branch.

  For a moment it seemed as if he stood apart, lifted outside himself, viewing the scene from far away. He saw the writhing camel, struggling in vain to stand, and the other drivers staring at him in silent disdain. The thick-necked Moabites, filthy with sweat and dust, seemed like little more than brute beasts to him, standing among their shaggy, foul-smelling animals. What was he doing here dressed like one of them, wandering aimlessly through foreign lands, ferrying goods that would be highly prized today, used up and tossed aside tomorrow? “Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless. What does man gain from all his labor at which he toils under the sun?”

  “You fool!” the lead driver suddenly shouted. “You’ve killed her!” He gripped his staff like a bat and lunged at Joshua, cracking it against his forehead with all his strength.

  The unexpected blow felled Joshua. For a moment everything went black. He lay sprawled in the dirt, stunned, his head ringing with pain, while hail stung him like a thousand angry bees. Then his vision cleared and he looked up in time to see the man coming at him a second time. Joshua quickly rolled out of the way and scrambled to his feet.

  All at once, the helpless rage and fury that had been billowing inside Joshua for days burst forth, out of control. The Moabite’s face blurred. He was no longer the lead driver, but King Manasseh, the man who was responsible for all of Joshua’s sorrow and loss, a man who was capable of killing his own son. Joshua lowered his head and charged his enemy, knocking him to the ground. Then he pummeled him again and again with his fists, lashing out in hatred, expelling his pent-up anger and need for revenge. His fury raged like the thunder and hail around him.

  By the time the other drivers managed to pull Joshua off, the Moabite was bloody and unconscious. When Joshua saw what he had done to the man, he nearly vomited. He would have killed him if the others hadn’t intervened.

  Someone untied Joshua’s belongings from the injured camel and handed them to him. “Here, take your things and go. Hurry! Before he wakes up.”

  Trembling all over, Joshua bent to retrieve the bag with Isaiah’s scroll. It had fallen from his shoulder during the fight. He used the hem of his tunic to wipe away the blood that streamed from his forehead into his eyes, then he started walking down the road in the direction they had just come, his feet sliding on slippery pellets of hail. He climbed a small rise but didn’t look back when he reached the top. As he started down the other side, the hail changed to
rain. Joshua lowered his head and walked into the wind, soaked and shivering.

  He had left Jerusalem ten days ago, his home in Moab more than two weeks ago. If Joshua wasn’t mistaken, tonight was the spring equinox, the beginning of a new year. But it wouldn’t be a new beginning for him. He hadn’t left his grief behind, he had merely shouldered it with the rest of his burdens, hauling it from Moab to Judah and now to Egypt. He might as well carry it home again.

  Joshua planned his route back to Heshbon as he walked; he would follow The Way of the Sea north until he was out of Egypt, then cut across southern Judah below Beersheba, following The Way of the Arabah. That road intersected with The King’s Highway in Edom, and he could follow it north for the last sixty miles to Moab. The trip would probably take two weeks. That would give him plenty of time to decide what he would do with his life once he was back in Heshbon.

  He thought about his mother as he slogged through the rain, how she had escaped from the Assyrians and traveled alone for hundreds of miles through rugged terrain. Now, cold and alone in a strange land, Joshua recognized the fullness of her courage. “My father’s prayers were the only reason I made it home.” Whenever Jerusha told her story she always finished with those words. “My father’s prayers...”

  Joshua walked all afternoon without stopping. Eventually the rain ended and the sun blazed again from behind hazy clouds, steaming his clothes dry. The gash on his forehead had crusted shut, and he fingered the welt gingerly. His bruised knuckles had swollen, and they throbbed painfully as he walked, reminding him that he had nearly killed a man—reminding him that in his anger, he had already killed two others. Yet his rage still wasn’t satisfied. Joshua knew it continued to smolder inside him, its deadly force building, preparing to explode once again. He wanted to be free from it before it took control of him, before he killed someone else. He wanted the dark clouds of depression that covered his soul to lift, but they seemed to grow heavier with each step he took.