The Journey Begun (15 page)

The big man swung, but not fast enough. Moshe ducked as the hammy fist grazed his ear. At the same time he scooped up the small table and heaved it at his adversary’s chest. The table caught the man at midriff and knocked him back two steps. The deserter howled and lunged at the old veteran, but too much drink robbed him of his balance. In a single move, Moshe grabbed his staff from against the wall and tipped it toward his attacker with its butt braced on the floor against his foot. The big man’s weight worked against him as his chest connected with the head of the staff. A sharp crack split the air as his breastbone snapped. He hit the floor, cracking his head against the stone surface. As he lay shuddering, shallow breaths wheezing through gritted teeth frothed bubbles in a puddle of spittle darkening the stone.

Moshe rose from his crouch, and two pairs of arms grabbed him from behind. They slammed his shoulders against the wall and pinned them there. The grizzled warrior struggled to regain his balance, but his feet were blocked by a stool wedged between his legs and the wall.

“Leggo, ya stinkin’ cowards!” He struggled, but the advantage belonged to his captors.

A third man approached the enraged old soldier and spat in his face. “You took down the wrong man, you old jackass. My brother’s right—Israel is history. And so are you.” He buried his fist into Moshe’s midsection, snapping the old soldier’s head forward in spite of his shoulders being pinned against the wall. The ruffian grunted at the two men holding Moshe. “Let him go!”

The men pushed Moshe forward and he collapsed onto the table next to Jonah, who couldn’t tear his eyes from the horrific scene. Moshe’s attacker pressed the old soldier’s face against the table. “Out with it, old man! I want to hear you say Jeroboam and Samaria aren’t worth all the dung their donkeys can drop. Say it!”

Moshe’s jaw ground against the table, but he spat out his defiance between gritted teeth. “Not a chance! God says we’re comin’ back!”

His assailant paused. He leaned close to Moshe’s ear. “What was that? Who says Israel’s coming back?”

“God does!”

A wave of laughter swelled across the room, starting with those standing closest to the action.

“What did he say?”

“Some god says Israel’s coming back!”

“God? Which god?”

“He didn’t say.”

As the pronouncement made its way through the crowd, the guffaws increased until the whole room roared. Jonah could only stare in horror.

“So, you know a god, do you, old man?” His tormentor snickered. “He tell you this over supper last night, did he?”

Another wave of laughter filled the room.

“Elihu ben Barak told me.” Moshe tried to push up, but his assailant slammed his face back down.

“
Hoi
, Elihu ben Barak told you, did he?” He turned to the crowded room. “Did you hear that? He knows a god
and
Elihu ben Barak, eh?” He leaned back over Moshe, pressing more weight on his head. “That’s some serious company you keep, for a busted-up old goat, eh? Eh?”

The brigand yanked the old soldier’s head off the table by the hair, and Jonah found himself face to face with his old friend.

Moshe’s eyes widened. “You!”

His attacker followed Moshe’s gaze to Jonah. “Who?” The thug narrowed his eyes at Jonah, who stared speechless, his mouth wide open. “Who’s this, then?” He lifted Moshe off the table, but kept his hand tangled in the old man’s hair and his arm pinned behind his back.

“He’s the prophet! The one who told Elihu ben Barak about God and Israel.” Moshe’s bloodshot eyes beseeched Jonah. “You know! Tell ‘em!”

“A
prophet?
” Another smirk broadened the man’s face. “You hear that? We have a
prophet!
Imagine that, a prophet comes to Ari’s tavern, and we never knew! Ya hear that, Ari? You’re coming up in the world!” He chortled at the tavern keeper, but fewer men joined him this time.

He turned back toward Jonah and the grin disappeared. “That right,
prophet?
You know this old son of a jackass?”

Jonah paled as every eye in the room turned toward him. Panic struck him dumb. He could only stare at Moshe’s bruised face.

“Well?” The bully bore his gaze into Jonah.

Jonah broke his stare and hunched his shoulders. “I…don’t know him. I don’t know what he’s talking about.” His voice trailed off and he turned away.

“I thought so.” The ruffian jerked Moshe toward the door and Jonah chanced a look back. The old warrior hadn’t taken his eyes off Jonah.

“Time to go home, you sick old coot.” His attacker shoved Moshe backward out the door and heaved his staff into the street.

Jonah jolted as the door slammed shut.

After Moshe’s ejection, with the scraping of stool legs on stone and a sporadic guffaw or cough, the room settled to a low hum as though nothing had happened. Jonah huddled over his table, desperately wishing he could melt into the wall. He dared not lift his eyes, as he imagined everyone in the room still staring at him. A quick toss drained his cup into his mouth, but he lacked the nerve to signal for more from the owner. The liquid burned his dry mouth and he stifled a gag as it pooled against the lump in his throat. Forcing a swallow, he convulsed a cough and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

The look on Moshe’s face at Jonah’s denial burned itself in his memory. Disbelief—disappointment—dismissal. He squeezed his eyes closed and massaged his temples to rub the image away, but it was there to stay. None of this was supposed to happen. He had taken such great pains to avoid anyone he knew, to escape recognition. How could he know Moshe would be here?

“Crazy old mule, eh?”

Jonah jerked his head at a hand pushing another cup of wine across the table. He glanced up to see a short-cloaked stranger straddling the chair that supported the other side of the broken-down table. A gummy grin stretched the man’s pudgy face. “Saw you were empty. Ari’s a friend of mine. He said you’re good for another.” The stranger nodded at the cup.

Jonah dropped his eyes again and, after a moment’s hesitation, accepted the drink. “Thanks.”

“Sure, sure. A man shouldn’t have an empty cup in a place like this. Just isn’t right.” The toothless grin widened.

Jonah’s hand shook as he raised the cup and took a deep swallow. This wine was worse than the first cup had been—if that were possible—leaving a bitter aftertaste as the liquid seared his throat. He grimaced.

“First time I’ve seen you here. New in the city?”

“Just passing through.” The dark fluid rippled as he bumped the cup onto the table.

The grin arced a crooked path from one ear to the other. “Traveling alone? I can help you out with some company tonight, if you like.”

Jonah creased his brow and raised a quizzical look at the stranger. A dull throb rose behind his eyes.

“You like young, I think. Or maybe a little more experienced for you, eh?”

Jonah stared as the grin outgrew the stranger’s warped face. He closed his eyes and massaged his forehead with his fingertips.

“Feeling all right?”

Jonah opened his eyes and squinted at the cup. The wine had gone black. The cup’s rim lost its roundness. He tried to lift his hand, but it turned to lead. Dizziness rounded the throbbing in his head and the cup upended, spilling its contents onto his lap.

“There you go, my friend. Let me help.”

The stranger’s voice faded into the ringing in Jonah’s ears. He forced his eyes up and the blur of a brown cloak filled his view.

That was the last thing he remembered.

Lll

The tavern door creaked opened, smearing oily yellow lamplight over the paving stones and onto the cracked wall across the alley. A burst of guttural laughter broke the stillness of the night and faded away as quickly. Two silhouettes filled the doorway, one supporting the other with an arm around his back. The stocky man helped his comrade stumble over the threshold. He pivoted his disabled companion and kicked the door closed behind him. The scraping and shuffling of leather sandals against stone echoed down the backstreet and faded around the corner.

Sixteen

onah
[B23]
 
lay still, unable to move. Any disjointed energy his muddled brain could generate dedicated itself to battle the foreign substance paralyzing his body.

The first sensation to penetrate the chaos was an odor, a curious mixture of stale hay and pungent spice. His befuddled mind welcomed the familiarity, but his stomach was less enthusiastic, and it dispatched a wave of nausea to repel the intrusion.

The second sensation was the itch of prickly cloth and cold air biting bare skin. His wits sank into this new feeling and tore loose from the mire of his subconscious, catapulting him into the bleakness of an inert dream.

The dream was a jumble of fragmented images that sifted through his mind like fine ethereal sand, teasing him with false tangibility. Gradually, he detected a sound, a noise that resonated the fluttering bits of nothing reverberating through his skull. The sound gelled into shuffling, or perhaps a scratching. Yes, a scratching.

His left eyelid shifted, revealing only a gray haze. His right eye followed, opening wide enough to identify the haze as a coagulation of tears and mucus. Jonah blinked, his eyelids tearing loose from the viscous seal. They squinted into focus rough-hewn wooden rafters supporting a low slanted ceiling.

He inhaled the dust of crumbling plaster and the mildew of last year’s hay, mingling with the syrupy aroma of balsamic-myrrh perfume. Jonah crinkled his nose at the heady aroma and stifled a shallow cough.

His right hand was the first to break its paralysis. Stiff fingers curled around a ball of rough cloth. His cloak? The fingers on his other hand followed, scraping across fragments that pierced the soft under-flesh of his fingernails and fired tiny darts of pain into his fingers. A sudden shiver alerted him to the fact that he was cold. He lowered his eyes, startled to discover his chest uncovered against the night air. His cloak lay over his hips, leaving his bare back against a hard-pressed earthen floor. His sandals lay at his feet, the leather thongs snaking across his ankles.
What’s this? What happened?

He craned his neck, straining his eyes in the gloom. A single oil lamp sputtered in a niche halfway up the far wall. Its weak aura revealed a broken stool littering the corner beneath the niche. Beside the stool hunched a diminutive figure shivering in the gloom. The figure clawed at an object stretched across the floor. He rubbed his eyes with a half-numbed hand. The scene sharpened to a frail young girl in a tattered red dress. Tendrils of auburn hair dangled over her pale forehead, obscuring her face. Unaware of her observer, she sat back on bare ankles and struggled with the knotted thongs binding the end of a cloth parcel. He squinted at the parcel.

It was his treasure belt.

Jonah jerked himself up at the waist and his head exploded in pain. In spite of the agony, he reached across for the girl.

“
Hoi!
What…are you
doing
with that?” The hoarse words burst from his swollen lips, breaking the stillness like a crash of thunder.

The girl screamed and jumped back, flinging the belt away from her. She scrambled backward and huddled in the corner, her chest heaving. Three loose pieces of silver spilled from the partially opened belt and clinked across the
[B24]
 
floor. The girl stared at Jonah but couldn’t keep her eyes from flashing to the scattered silver discs glinting in the smudgy lamplight.

Jonah fell onto his chest as he lunged for the belt. He yanked it toward himself by the thongs. Dragging himself to his knees, he pulled his treasure belt onto his lap. He never took his eyes off the juvenile shuddering against the wall as his stiff fingers fumbled to retie the thongs. Her wide eyes locked onto his glassy stare, and she pulled her knees to her chest. Jonah broke the silence.

“What is this? Who are you? What am I doing here?” He lisped the words through a cotton mouth as a flood of questions rattled in his numb mind. The pounding in his head threatened to push him to the floor, and he gritted through the pain.

The girl said nothing. She glanced again at the silver lying
[B25]
 
near the wall.

“How did—” Jonah stopped. He stared at her wispy gown, the smudgy kohl lining the girl’s eyes, and the red powder streaking her cheeks. The realization of what must have happened overtook him like a flash flood. He looked down at his naked torso and then at the perfumed harlot cringing against the wall. His face went white.
No! How could—? No!

“You didn’t…we didn’t…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. The white was replaced by scarlet as a wave of heat seared his forehead.
Oh, no! By the mercy of Adonai…Oh, no!

The mortified prophet’s jaw quivered. Dizziness rocked him on his knees and he leaned back to steady himself. His hand fell against his cloak lying in a heap on the filthy straw. Jonah clenched the garment and drew it and the treasure belt up to his chest. He groped for his sandals and stumbled to his feet, swaying with weakness and dizzy from the pounding in his head. The child shrank closer to the wall as the strange man towered above her.

Jonah whirled around, looking for a way out. He spotted a short wooden door in the wall opposite where the girl huddled. As he turned toward the door, she dove for the loose shekels lying against the wall. Fumbling them into her grimy hands, she clasped them to her chest and scrambled back to her corner.

Jonah reached the door in two paces and pushed, but it was blocked from the outside. He pushed harder. The half-rotten wood groaned on its pins, but didn’t budge. He retreated two steps and hurled himself against the wood planking. With a crash, the door gave way and he burst into the alleyway, sprawling headlong onto the pavement. Jonah struggled to his feet and stumbled down the dark street…which way he didn’t care.

Lll

Shrill laughter echoed through dark corridors. Shadows blacker than the inky depths they inhabited flitted through a formless maze of tunnels and blind alleys, colliding with the night and each other. Venomous curses and empty threats filled the dank air. A weight—heavy beyond measure, although without substance—crushed the heaving chests of condemned men and the confused minds of half-empty souls that writhed and pitched, pining for the blessed relief of Sheol. From her throne in the fabled void that lies between man’s final breath and his death, she smirked and swore and spat. Her minions hovered and vied to be the next to do their Mistress’ bidding, knowing their fortunes rested solely upon her whim and command.

“He is finished.”

“Yes, Mistress, he runs farther and farther. Soon there will be no returning!”

“He cannot return! Assyria is mine. Yah has no influence there—he has no dominion over Nineveh! You understand this.”

“Most certainly, Mistress. The toad will never set foot in your glorious realm.”

“You are staying on him.”

“Of course, Mistress. There will be no relief.”

“Good! You must see to it. You will want to see to it, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress…but you know he has protection. There is— “

“Enough! That is of no consequence. There will be no excuse for failure!”

“But I…yes, Mistress.”

Lll

Jonah stumbled into a small open-faced shed and collapsed amid scattered shards of a long-forgotten water urn, coils of rotted jute rope, and broken handles of a stonemason’s cast-off tools. How far he had lurched through the back alleyways, he didn’t know. It seemed like an eternity, yet he remembered very little. His chest heaved, but exertion and confusion denied his starving lungs a full breath. Suffocation competed for his attention with the driving pain that squeezed his brain and forced his eyes shut. Angry red scrapes on his arms and shoulders witnessed to collisions with stone walls and wooden beams as he stumbled in the darkness.

Mental agony and physical fatigue pushed him to the floor, where he fell against a wall, his face buried in his bundled cloak. He hugged his sandals and treasure belt to his chest as he fought to control his tortured breathing. The sting of cold stone against his bare back sent a shudder through him, reawakening him to the fact that he was still only half covered against the night air. He released the bundle and struggled to disentangle the cloak from the rest of his belongings. Finally the belt and sandals fell away and he jammed the cloak over his shoulders. The lightweight mantel afforded little protection, and it took several minutes of hugging his knees to his chest for the shivering to subside.

Jonah tried to piece together the last several hours, but there were too many gaps in his memory. The first image to arise was Moshe’s expression at the tavern, his face frozen at Jonah’s denial. The horrific image burned in his head and he tried to push it aside, but to no avail. Another face came into focus, someone else’s—a stranger. That’s right, he had refilled Jonah’s wine cup, or brought him a new one, or something. That’s when things went fuzzy. The next memory was the visage of a young girl huddling in the corner of a filthy holding stall. Jonah’s fingers curled and he squeezed his eyes shut as though to crush the mental picture, but it was not to be. Although his encounter with the child lasted only a few moments, her terror-stricken eyes, sallow cheeks, and pale lips left an indelible impression on his consciousness and his conscience.
How could this have happened?
Everything was going so wrong, so wrong.

The tormented prophet lost all sense of time tucked inside his thin cloak.

Gradually, the pain in his head ebbed to a dull ache, but he didn’t remember when. Reawakening, he lifted his head and peered through swollen eyelids. Sometime during his stupor, the darkness around him gave way to smoky gray. A slice of sky visible over the building across the alley wore stringy remnants of clouds that scuttled away from the sunlight of a clear spring morning. He loosened the grip on his legs, grimacing at the stiffness in his shoulders and back. He groped on the floor for his sandals and fumbled the leather thongs loosely around his ankles. As he stretched his legs to relieve his cramped muscles, he spied the end of his treasure belt protruding from under his cloak. He dragged the makeshift sash onto his lap. A few pieces of silver dribbled from the end where the juvenile harlot loosened the binding. He stuffed them into the pouch, retied the thong, and slipped the belt under his cloak.

Jonah hoisted himself to his feet and stepped out of the shed. As he peered up and down the alley, he recognized the cleft in the low wall beyond which lay the avenue leading through the business district. He was relieved that he would not have to navigate the back streets again to find his way out. Sucking in a deep breath, he stepped into the light.