Daughter of Lachish. Tim Frank

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СКАЧАТЬ Nestled in her arms lay Tilon, her son. He had fallen asleep, snuggling against his mother.

      The others sat across the room on either side of the door to the southern chamber. There was old Joab. Rivkah understood he was a farmer, too. She had met him only when he came back in the afternoon. Together with Achan, the young boy, he had foraged for food. Not that they had found much. A few grains of wild barley and a quail was all they brought back. Still, Naarah had managed to cook a filling meal.

      Joab was carving a wooden spoon while he listened to Amnon’s voice. He worked slowly, his mind wandering to times long past. How often had he greeted the coming of the fall rains? Each new year, he had waited for the rain in its season. And today it had come in its due time. But today was different. Today there was no home, there were no fields.

      Engrossed in thought Joab’s hands stopped working. Then he lifted his head, looked at the group assembled in the dim light of the cave and said, “In my village the children always greeted the new rain with a short song. It’s not solemn at all, but . . . ”

      Joab smiled and started to sing:

      “O bull of my father

      don’t stuff yourself on green.

      Fresh grass do not gobble

      for death is in its leaves.

      O bull of my father

      be sturdy and be strong.

      The yoke you shall carry

      and wheat shall crown our fields.”

      It can’t have been one of the better renditions of the song. The tune was hardly discernable and the mood of the ditty entirely lost to the listeners. Nevertheless, Naarah seemed to have liked it.

      “That’s good! Tell the old bull what to do.” She sighed. “Our bulls were beautiful animals, were they not, Amnon?”

      Her husband just made an unidentifiable sound, apparently in assent. He didn’t seem too enthused about the whimsical song. Or maybe he did not want to be reminded about what they had lost. Not getting the expected response, Naarah mumbled something quietly and concentrated on her son sleeping in her arms. Tilon had not been disturbed by the singing and slumbered peacefully.

      Outside it was completely dark now. The occupants of the tomb could hardly make each other out. Ayalah got up and felt her way to the western chamber.

      “Time to lie down. Tomorrow is another day.” She encouraged the others to follow her lead. Amnon helped his wife to carry Tilon into the adjacent room.

      Rivkah had been allotted a place in the southern room with Joab and Achan. She curled up on a bench there and wrapped the woolen blanket tightly round herself. Her first night in the grave! Fear crept up inside her. She shuddered. Hardly daring to breath she stared into the dark. The walls seemed to threaten to fall in on her and bury her alive in this grave. Or was this just a dream and she was already with the dead?

      She closed her eyes. But now she saw images of the burning city, the flames licking the buildings, the horror of destruction. The oppressive dark seemed welcome when she opened her eyes again. Careful not to make a sound, she turned over. Reaching out she touched the cold walls of the tomb. Somehow she was sure she shared this fate with her family, her city: they had descended to the shades of the earth, a place of darkness and emptiness, where there was no light or food and the dreaded Lord Mot controlled the weary captives. Rivkah shook. She felt goose bumps on her skin. But with the horror came sadness. Death had taken them and Rivkah would see them no more. The separation hurt. She could feel her throat tighten and her chest ache as she thought about the loved ones she had lost, the family that would never be together again. Tears stole into her eyes. She let them flow freely in the dark. Trying to keep quiet she suppressed her crying. Only once did a sob escape her lips.

      She didn’t know how long she had lain there, lost in her misery, but she slowly became aware of another sound. It was the snoring and rattled breathing of her companions; or, rather, of one of them—Joab, the old man, made plenty of noise in his sleep. It brought her back to the present. It was both annoying and comforting.

      She still had not fully fathomed what had happened this day. She had been so thankful after the simple meal of bread and herbs that Naarah had prepared for her. The woman had told her their own story of woe, of leaving behind all that they cherished. And she described their present situation in desperate terms. The long walk to get water from a stream bed, the arduous task of collecting firewood. The constant search for food in a land swarming with the enemy, where any day could mean discovery, any step might lead to captivity.

      Naarah complained about the few implements with which she was expected to manage the household. She showed obvious disdain for their current accommodation. Naarah had confided to Rivkah that she had buried a dove in the ground outside, just opposite the entrance. Hopefully it would ward off demons and keep the inhabitants safe. In places like these you just had to be careful.

      Rivkah had looked with apprehension towards the cave entrance. The place had seemed so unwelcoming, so strange. Naarah’s chatter certainly didn’t ease her mind. It was Ayalah, Amnon’s mother, who made Rivkah welcome. She had shown her round their living quarters, made sure Rivkah was comfortable with her bed and given her the blanket. And then they had talked. Ayalah had explained how the little group of refugees had organized themselves, how they survived and how they made the best of their situation. Ayalah was thankful for this refuge. It may be just a cave, but it was a place to stay. She had told Rivkah how glad she was that she had joined them. Rivkah would fit in so well. She could contribute to the group by helping with little things. She had not suggested any arduous tasks; no, Rivkah had felt welcome just for who she was and hoped she could prove herself useful in some way.

      Later on the men had returned—if you could call little Achan a man. Dinner had been a quiet affair, though the first drops of rain had been greeted loudly. When Amnon sang the solemn hymn she even felt thankful, gained hope, even if it was only for a fleeting moment. That had been her first day in the grave.

      * * *

      The heavy goat-hair tent-canvas muffled the sound of the raindrops that pelted against it. But outside drops fell into the puddles that had formed throughout the camp and drummed an arbitrary rhythm through the night. Water dripped inside the tent. The dew, which some nights had drenched ground and canvas, had never really tested the tent. But the heavy rain and wind drove the water through slits and small holes. Itur-Ea had moved his bed to a dry place. Now the narrow bedstead was wedged between two of his fellow soldiers.

      The beer had done its part and Itur-Ea had slept soundly after the festivities. But now something had woken him and he just couldn’t get back to sleep. The closeness of the others irritated him. He hardly dared to move, even though he couldn’t find a comfortable position. He had gotten used to cramped quarters, but not this close.

      Pictures of today’s killings came to him: the lifeless forms of the Judahites mutilated by the frenzied mob of Assyrian soldiers; the triumph on the faces of the officers as they dealt blows to the enemies; the delight in the eyes of his comrades pouring out their hatred. Those prisoners had been dealt a lesson, but . . . somehow the question rose within him whether killing these pitiful, vanquished people brought any glory. It needed no courage to attack the defenseless. He suppressed the thought. After all, that was what victorious armies did. They did not show any mercy, they exacted the wrath of the victorious god on his foes. The leaders of the losers always suffered the wrath. Most of the prisoners were kept alive. They were needed for the empire.

      Itur-Ea СКАЧАТЬ