Elijah (15 page)

“Rejab.”

His eyes grew red at the edges, eyes she could not see as his head drooped, but she saw the slight hollow form beneath the flesh of his cheek and the gristle of his jaw tighten hard as he clenched his teeth.

“Rejab, I’m your wife.” She spoke evenly, without tremor. As he was strong beyond the walls of his home, she must be strong within them now, in his despair.

“Elijah . . .” Rejab felt his voice try to break, and he paused. When he continued, he threw out the words all together, impulsively. “Elijah is pretty effective, isn’t he?” His laugh caught in his throat and broke. The tears came from deep inside him, below his lungs, as the spasm of grief shook his shoulders. Miriam grasped his head and pulled him to her bosom. She ran one hand through his hair, above the ear, saying nothing. He pulled her to him and pressed his head into her stout body.

The spasm lasted but a moment. Slowly, he pulled her hands into his and stood. He was only a bit taller than she, and she tilted her head slightly to meet his eyes. She studied them quickly, expertly, measuring the depth and duration of his despair, to plumb before the moment of honesty passed the strength still left in this man who had protected and provided for her for so long. She caught a glimpse of the fight still left in him, but she caught, too, a fleeting shadow deep in his eyes she never had seen before. Then the moment of openness passed, and the mask slipped back into place.

Miriam pushed her face into Rejab’s breast, trying to quiet the fear that was throwing off its bedclothes deep inside her.

Rejab placed his arm around her and silently walked her to the two wide, well-cushioned stools they had sat in together through years of evenings. He propped other cushions against the wall, and they both sank into their places. They looked at each other. Their lips met, as though a thousand signals built over the years announced the time to kiss. The kiss was not passionate or lingering, but the brief moment of touching released forces from one to the other, as though courage and hope were physical.

Miriam looked at him and touched his smooth cheek. “Rejab,” she said softly. “I want to know.”

Rejab clasped his hands across his large belly. He watched his hands as though he had not studied them for a long time, and turned them up to stare at his flesh-puffed knuckles, then over to gaze at his soft palms.

“Rejab.”

“Yes, Miriam, all right.” He stared at her for a moment. “Miriam, the elders ruled against me.”

The woman heard the words, but her mind would not accept them. For generations the venerated elders of Bethshean, as at villages and town and cities all over Israel, had sat in their special places at the main gate to the city to judge cases of dispute. Wise men they were, and honored among all the people. “And the reprover,” she asked slowly, “did you appeal to him?”

“Yes. He heard the evidence and sided with me. He called for an investigation. But the elders did not so much as look at him. I saw him shake his head in despair.”

“Rejab,” she asked carefully, “what does it mean?”

He glanced at her, then fixed his eyes on his hands again. How could he explain to his wife the world he occupied outside their home? The competition, the buying and selling of foodstuffs, the weights and measures, the tricks of bargaining she knew. But the aggressive viciousness of recent months, how could he explain that?

“Miriam,” he began, fumbling for an explanation he never had put into words before, “Miriam, there is a new spirit among the wealthy. You remember Jaala?”

She nodded, and Rejab saw a muscle twitch in her eye.

“Jaala has given himself and his family to Akkub.” He spoke with somber finality.

“But they will be slaves only for a few months,” Miriam responded. “Then comes the fiftieth year, the Jubilee Year. Then they will be free again, and free of debt. Is that so bad?”

Rejab did not look at her.

“Rejab,” Miriam pressed, “why does Jaala’s bad luck concern you so? The law is clear. His decision may prove to be wise in the long run.”

“Akkub and his merchant friends do not observe the spirit of the old laws of freeing slaves.”

“But the elders . . .” She stared at Rejab, her mouth still open, her eyes wide, and she remembered the unfamiliar shadow she had seen earlier in his eyes.

“Yes,” Rejab said bitterly, “the elders.” But he could not let the conversation end there, to leave his wife with the horror of her shocked imagination. He took her hand. “Miriam, the drought is making people more vicious. They are fighting for their lives, the wealthy and the poor alike. But Elijah is right. The new spirit that has swept the merchants is the work of Baal.” He shook his head, arguing with himself. “Who can explain why men act as they do? Is it because they follow another god or because they simply forget Yahweh? Who can know? Perhaps both. Perhaps men are born to evil. Perhaps they are cruel by nature, or perhaps they simply do not see the hurt they cause. Perhaps Akkub and his friends do not know that their reasonings are the reasonings of Melkart, that God of Power.”

Miriam spoke flatly. “Does it matter? That they know or don’t know the source of their evil, does it matter?”

“It matters that Elijah knows. Miriam, there had to be an empty place for Baal to enter to make his home. Who knows when the emptiness started? Perhaps fathers taught our rituals but not their meanings. Perhaps grandfathers taught evil without knowing it.” He paused and looked at Miriam. “Sometimes I think there should be no rituals. Men should know when their faith is dead. They should know. Sometimes I think there should be no motions that make men think they have faith. Perhaps that would be better.”

Miriam answered evenly. “But the rituals teach faith. They teach of Yahweh.”

Rejab looked away and shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Rejab. That is another subject. I want to know about the elders’ ruling.”

“They say I have no proof. It is my word against Akkub’s.”

“But you are not the first one to complain that Akkub uses heavy shekels to weight his purchases.”

“No, others have complained, but the elders say that every case must be considered on its own.”

“Rejab.” The tone of Miriam’s voice made Rejab turn to his wife. “The wives have said things, Rejab. I don’t know if they are true.”

“Things?”
“Leah works in Pashur’s house. She overheard Pashur tell his wife that he gives gifts to the elders.”

“Yes, I suppose many of us have suspected it. Pashur and Akkub are only two of those who do such things.” Rejab stood and walked to the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back. He stood erect, his eyes straight ahead. “Miriam, I should have been more careful. A merchant, even a small one, should know of such practices. I had heard of it in Damascus and other places, but in Israel? I did not expect it in Israel.”

“You should be able to trust your countrymen.” Miriam spoke in the tone of confidence, naively, edged with a touch of a wife’s bitterness at her husband’s misfortune.

“A man is a fool to trust and a coward not to,” Rejab answered softly. He laughed, a grating, short laugh from the top of his throat. “Some choice, Miriam. To be a fool or a coward.”

For a moment, silence enveloped both of them. It momentarily built a cage around them, and neither husband nor wife spoke. Rejab stood still, his eyes straight ahead, studying the swirls and lines in the plaster that covered the rock wall of their home. Miriam sat where she was, her hands playing with the folds in her dress. She studied the threads, some of them coarse, others fine. She made creases with her fingers. Finally, when she spoke, her words broke the cage and it shriveled away. “Rejab, what now?”

Rejab looked harder at the wall, trying to avoid saying what he must say. He did not look at her, and he did not answer immediately. Miriam was about to repeat her question when he said, simply and without emotion, “Now I have a decision to make about how to conduct my business.”

“What do you mean? What decision?”

He looked at Miriam now, and a chill ran down the wife’s spine when she saw again the shadow behind his eyes. “Miriam, the loss hurt badly. I have little left with which to buy produce from the farmers. I must borrow money.”

“You have borrowed before, many times.”

“But now I am afraid. I never was afraid before.” Rejab returned to the stool and slumped onto it. Miriam reached to place a hand on his arm.

“Why are you afraid? The interest rates?”

“The interest rates are usurious. They make it hard to make a profit. But that I can cope with. It is impersonal, a fact to deal with. No, I’m angry because of the interest rates, but I don’t fear them. It is the future I fear. I fear the direction business practice is going. I fear what I am too little to change.”

Miriam squeezed Rejab’s arm more tightly, but remained silent.

Rejab continued. “I cannot sell at a profit for the price Akkub and Pashur and others like them will offer for my produce. Either I must cheat the farmers by weighing with heavy shekels, as Akkub did to me, or by mixing bad barley with good to sell—and then I run the danger of being caught.”

Miriam spoke sharply. “Rejab, you wouldn’t do business like that!”

“That is the decision I must make.”

“Then there is no decision. Would you follow Melkart or Yahweh? Right is right, and wrong is wrong.”

He answered her indignation bitterly. “And bankruptcy is unpleasant.”

“God will provide.” The shadow behind Rejab’s eyes moved again. Miriam gripped his forearm with both hands. “Rejab, we must have faith. Yahweh will provide.”

He sighed. “Miriam. My dear Miriam.” He shook his head. “Miriam, there are times when God will provide. We have known those times. But there are times when Yahweh’s people must suffer like all men. This is one of those times. If we obey the laws of God, we must obey them even though we know the results will mean disaster. There are times we must suffer in doing right. Mirian . . .” He placed his hand over her two and turned to face her. “I am telling you that I cannot survive in my business and observe God’s laws. In a short time my funds will run out. If I borrow, the creditors will take my business and it eventually will be absorbed by Akkub or someone like him.”

“But you have a reputation for honesty. Won’t merchants buy from you because of that? Won’t they stay with you?”

“No.” His tone was more resigned than ever. “No, Miriam, farmers are selling to me from the last of their harvest. They should be planting now, but the drought has made many of them hold their seed. They fear Elijah’s curse and fear there will be no harvest this season. Fear is everywhere. Even Akkub and Pasher are afraid of the drought. My friends are afraid. I am afraid. No, Miriam. Everyone in Bethshean, everyone in Israel, fights for survival. They will buy from the one who gives them the best price.”

“But won’t they be cheated?”

“Every man believes he can deal with such practices.”

Miriam looked at her husband, her eyes wide. “Rejab, what will you do?”

Rejab stroked her hand, then pressed it firmly under his palm. “I don’t know, Miriam. I don’t know.”

Chapter Eight

Elijah brushed the red dirt from his leg, then looked back up toward the tangled debris. It had been a good home all through the dry summer and into the time when normally the winter rains come.

He sat down in the mouth of the little wadi and looked out through the mimosa-like branches of a shittah tree at the Jordan. The broad ribbon of green jungle across the narrow plain hid the river from view. The rough road that ran along the plain between his hiding place and the Pride of Jordan was deserted, so far as he could tell. The plain, which should be plowed after the early rains of winter, was dry and hard, the grass sparse and brown.

He felt a tinge of sorrow for his people. The grain had been gathered months ago, in the spring. The drought began before the time of the late ripening rains, so the crop was minimal. Perhaps, with cautious use, the grain would last them through the year.

The grape harvest would have been a bright spot, Elijah surmised, for the roots of the vine reach deep into the hillside to find water. He recalled the comradeship that develops between a father and his sons as they live in tents and little huts set up in the vineyards so they can protect the grapes from wild animals. Once the crop is gathered, the Feast of Tabernacles begins. Special prayers are offered during the event to petition Yahweh to send the winter rains early. Elijah frowned as he recalled the scene in the Jerusalem Temple, when water drawn from the Pool of Siloam is poured onto the altar to symbolize the need for rain. The Day of Atonement, ten days later, surely came this year under a cloud of fear.

Elijah was lost in his musings, oblivious to the occasional caw of ravens and the chirping of locusts. He watched without really noticing the rare flock of stork or cormorant flying low over the Pride of the Jordan on the migration to Africa.

He shook his head. Even now, he knew, with the rains two months late, his people would pray to Yahweh in their homes, then turn to their baals in the fields. They would recite the Yahweh rituals over their meals, then the men would visit Asherah’s groves and have intercourse with her holy prostitutes. In their scramble to influence the heavens for rain the people would placate every go they knew of in every way they could.