Daughter of Lachish. Tim Frank
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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 thought of the burning city. Its flames had lit the night sky. Now the rain would quench the embers. The night of the battle, Ishtar had kept him safe and given him her spoils. In the end he had killed the woman. Her body had carried him to excitement and ecstasy, had made his blood boil within him. But when it was over, he had not felt fulfillment, only emptiness. Ishtar had bestowed her gifts and yet they were hollow. He had walked back to the camp feeling weak and strangely sad. He tried to rekindle the excitement by recalling the shape of her body. He thought back to his experiences in the temple of Nineveh. But it did not work: there was no excitement, only a desperate restlessness.
Itur-Ea turned onto his other side, touching the soldier to his left. The festivities of the day had overshadowed his desperation, but now in the night it returned. A great loneliness overcame him. How had it come to this? Had Ishtar played him a cruel trick? She had given him his wish and it had turned out to be false comfort.
* * *
A green shimmer covered the land after the rain. The dust had been washed off the plants and the moisture allowed fresh shoots to appear. Among the dry, brown grass, new blades pushed out of the ground and slender leaves sprouted on the bushes. The parched earth had her fill and, ever so gently, bore fruit again. It wasn’t the strong exuberant growth of spring, but the hesitant signs of life after the long dry of summer.
“That rain was heaven-sent,” Ayalah remarked to Rivkah as they slowly walked down the hill. “We may not be able to plow fields and sow seeds, but at least the plants grow again. We should find some fresh herbs today.”
Ayalah had asked Rivkah to accompany her. The old woman was not comfortable venturing far from the cave on her own. Rivkah didn’t mind. She always enjoyed the time with Ayalah.
“You really don’t know anything about gathering greens?”
“No, sorry. We didn’t eat a lot of green plants from the field. Only now and then did we buy some on the market. And I didn’t always like them.”
“Ah, another of those spoiled townspeople,” Ayalah laughed, “but greens are good for you, they really are good for you. Besides, if you want to eat you have to find something. We don’t exactly have barns full of wheat.”
“No, not really. We are lucky we still have bread. Where did you get the grain from, mother Ayalah?”
“We were able to get the barley harvest in before the Assyrians entered the country. I insisted we take some jars when we fled from the village across to the cave here. Amnon wasn’t so sure. There was so much else he wanted to take. ‘First we have to eat,’ I said, ‘and then you can worry about your clothes and tools!’”
Ayalah stopped and leaned closer to Rivkah whispering, “You know, I got him to bury his plow. What would he do with that on our flight? It’s still there. He has checked on it after the Assyrians came and destroyed the village.”
She started walking again and continued in a louder voice, “And I believe we will return to our village and build houses again. These armies flood the lands, but they will pass on. Thousands will be swept away by this war. The land remains. Bare and forlorn it may be, fallow and devastated, but it will bear fruit again. It needs people to till the soil, sow the crop, plant the trees and gather the harvest. I pray that my family will return to their heritage, to work the land once more. The LORD may have deserted his people for a while, but he will not root them out completely. Rulers may change and kingdoms may falter, but his faithfulness endures.”
“And my family?” Rivkah asked.
“They suffered with their people. I cannot comprehend it. I do not know why some share the fate of their nation and others remain. But were you not plucked like a brand from a burning fire? Rivkah, I believe there’s hope for you. Maybe your family, your city will continue through you.”
The two walked on in silence. Suddenly Ayalah stopped and bent over, looking at the ground.
“Do you see these shoots of wild cress, Rivkah? Just what we are looking for. Nice and tender. They should make an excellent salad. Come, dear can you pick them for me?”
“Which ones?” Rivkah wasn’t quite sure what she meant.
“These ones here.” Ayalah pointed to some crinkly leaves barely sprouting out of the hard ground. “It’s hard for an old woman to bend down and pick them. I’m no longer that fit. That’s where you come in. Prick them off just below the leaves. That’s it . . . Now put them in the cloth bag we brought along.”
Rivkah plucked the shoots, gathering them in a bundle.
“Give me one of those leaves, Rivkah.”
When she chewed it Ayalah smiled satisfied. “Very nice. I didn’t know it grew so well around here.”
They found more plants at other spots as they moved over the hill. Wild, prickly lettuce and shoots of shrubs and pines were added to the bundle.
After they had walked through a small grove of trees they came out into the open again.
“Take a few leaves of that,” Ayalah pointed at some sorrel that had sprouted a few green leaves again.
“Can you eat that?” Rivkah had often seen it outside the city walls and along some of the roads.
“Yes, you can eat it. It may be a bit bitter, especially as the leaves grow bigger, but we can’t be picky, can we? You know, in these times you eat food you would otherwise just walk by or leave to the animals.”
Rivkah took the leaves.
“I think we should have enough now. These greens don’t keep long.