Like Flames in the Night Read online

  Since we’d been forced to leave the city of refuge, we could no longer rely on the Levites to provide food for our family, as we had when my mother was imprisoned there. Therefore we had adapted to the lifestyle of the rest of the tribes of Israel: plowing, planting, and praying for rain and a bountiful yield. The additional burden of tribute to the Arameans made the task more difficult, but this land, allotted to my grandfather by Yehoshua himself as a reward for his service during the conquest of Canaan, had continued to sustain us despite our being forced to give up half the yield to our enemies.

  All day, as I’d been tending my duties, I’d been mulling over the problem of how to plead my case to Malakhi. When I was a girl he had indulged my affinity for carrying a sling about town and challenging the boys to shooting matches or footraces, even going so far as to allow me to take part in daily exercises with his trainees. But it was an altogether different matter to ask him to prepare me for battle.

  For a few moments I considered how my older sisters, Abra and Chana, might react to the outrageous thoughts I’d been harboring. I suspected Abra might be supportive of me, as brash and outspoken as she was, but Chana would be full of concerns for my safety. With Abra living up near Merom with her husband’s family since we’d been driven from Kedesh and Chana traveling with her husband’s trading caravan, it had been far too long since I’d seen either of them, and I missed their sisterly counsel. They both had a number of children who I’d never even met. Even more reason to take part in this struggle, so those in our clan who’d not been able to travel to Shiloh for festivals would be reunited with us again soon.

  “Where is your mind, Tirzah?” my mother asked as she lifted the lid off my stewpot and inhaled the fragrant steam.

  Blinking at her sudden appearance, I stammered, “Nothing. That is . . . I was thinking of yesterday.”

  Surely she would not approve of the path my thoughts had taken. Although she’d had her own share of adventures as a young woman, now she longed for nothing more than to return to her beloved inn in Kedesh. Even after she’d been freed from her manslaughter sentence by the death of the High Priest of Israel, she’d chosen to stay in the city of refuge, in hopes of ministering to others in need of shelter. Being forced to leave the place she’d poured her heart into for over thirty years had been devastating for her.

  Her lips pursed as she stirred the stew and hummed her contentment with my effort, which made pride surge in my chest. I may not enjoy cooking as much as she did, thinking of it more of an obligation than a joy, but she’d taught me well. She turned her piercing silver gaze on me. “I shudder to think what might have happened, had you been alone on that road. Or had Malakhi not had the foresight to stop the other children and follow after you and Imri.”

  As do I, I thought, restraining a shiver as I remembered the menace in Alek’s gaze as he slid his knuckles down my cheek.

  “I’ve apologized to Malakhi and Rivkah,” I said, thinking of the desperate way my brother had held Imri to himself once he’d finished dealing with the Arameans. “I wish I hadn’t put their son is such horrible danger.”

  “I know, my girl. The consequences of our foolish decisions are always made clearer when we look backward on the path we’ve traveled.”

  My mother always had a way of cutting down to the bone with such gentleness that I could not help but welcome the incision, no matter how much it stung. She spoke only the truth, as always. I had been foolish, and my nephew had almost paid the price for my recklessness.

  “You are so much like her,” my mother murmured, head tilted curiously as if she were inspecting something new on my face.

  “Like who?”

  “Alanah. If I did not know that you came from my own body, at times I would guess that you were born of my dear friend.”

  A gently reminiscent smile curved her lips as she spoke of the woman she’d not seen in over thirty years, but who I knew she considered as much a sister as those who shared her own blood. I also knew that she still mourned Alanah’s absence, since she’d left Shiloh with her family to make a home far to the south before my parents even met.

  For as long as I could remember, stories of the Canaanite woman who’d been captured on the battlefield in the year before our people entered the Land had enthralled me. As fierce as she was loyal, flame-haired Alanah had been changed by her time with those she once called enemies and had not only embraced worship of Yahweh but married Tobiah, the Hebrew warrior who’d discovered her on the battlefield. And she had saved my mother’s life shortly after the brand that forever marred my mother’s cheek had seared her flesh while she stood tied to a pole before the temple in Jericho.

  “If only I had her courage,” I said. “I emptied my stomach on the ground as soon as the men dragged off those Arameans.”

  “Oh, believe me, Alanah was just as terrified as I was when we were kidnapped together, and even as she stood up to the priestess who scarred me.” She touched the blasphemous crescent moon and sun-wheel on her cheek. “Besides, although she is brave without question, and I am still in awe of how she sacrificed herself to set me free, I think it was her surrender to Yahweh that displayed the true depths of her courage.”

  Before I could ask her to explain her statement, my father arrived in the courtyard, head wet from washing in one of the rain-fed cisterns behind my grandparents’ house.

  “How goes the harvest?” my mother asked.

  “We have plenty of hands, so we should be finished within the next couple of weeks,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I wish the Arameans would allow us to celebrate the harvest the way we used to.”

  My parents exchanged a meaningful glance. The two of them had found each other during one such festival decades before, and I’d seen them many times sneaking off into the fields, hand in hand, to walk among the vines when the moon was bright. A pang of longing struck me hard as I watched their silent but affectionate interaction, so I averted my eyes, turning my attention back to my stew. Even living with my large family in this ever-expanding collection of tents gathered about my grandfather’s home, two years of widowhood had been lonely. But I was determined to cling to the new purpose I’d set my mind to, not regret for what should have been. And besides, once I swayed Malakhi to go along with my plans, the hollow places would be plenty full again.

  “I’d like to speak with you, Tirzah,” said my father, drawing my attention upward again. A strange expression was on his face, something unreadable that caused a ripple of apprehension in my gut. “Come. Walk with me.”

  My mother took over my pot-stirring duties, giving me a smile that was no doubt meant to be reassuring, but that only made me more suspicious.

  My father led me to one of the paths between vines, the sweet smell of ripened grapes enveloping us as we entered the field. “I’ve been meaning to talk with you about what happened on the road yesterday.”

  “I know,” I said, brushing aside one of the long, unruly vines that had escaped its moorings. “I was foolish to run ahead with Imri. If I could do it all over again I would have—”

  He lifted a palm to halt my explanations. “I have no doubt you learned a lesson. What I meant to say is that I am proud of you.”

  I blinked at him, stunned speechless.

  “Your quick thinking and level head protected Imri, Tirzah. You did not panic. You did not fold under the pressure or give in to fear. And not only that, somehow you kept my little grandson fairly calm as well. There are a few men I know who might learn a thing or two from you.” He grinned, pride in the brown eyes that matched mine, and I felt the compliment all the way to the tips of my fingers. That, coupled with my mother’s comparison of me to a woman of strength and tenacity like Alanah, fanned my new yearnings into an even more fervent passion.

  For as much as I adored my mother, it was my abba to whom I felt most connected over the years. Certainly he would understand my need to do something more than stir pots, bake bread, and tend to my siblings’ children day
after day, wouldn’t he? He’d trained some of the most skilled spies in the Land, so his opinion was not a thing to be taken lightly. But just as I opened my mouth to beg his help in persuading Malakhi to let me be among those privileged few, his next words crushed my hopes.

  “However . . .” He stopped and turned to face me, all levity washed away. “The incident yesterday also made me realize that a conversation between you and me is long overdue. It has been two years since Eliya’s passing, and I think it time that we discuss your future.”

  I felt my blood drain into my feet. Although I’d been under my husband’s authority during the two years I lived with his family just across the valley, they had wanted nothing to do with his childless widow. As Eliya had been the only son, there’d been no option of levirate marriage, so within days of his death, I’d returned to my father’s house and willingly ceded to his authority and protection again. So far he’d not insisted I remarry, but it was certainly within his rights to do so.

  “Your nieces and nephews are enthralled with you,” he said, with a sweep of his arm back toward our tents. “And I know how much Rivkah, especially, appreciates your help when Malakhi has need of her pen.”

  Even as the mother of five and carrying the sixth, Rivkah still used her scribing skills to aid her husband’s clandestine efforts, crafting missives to be sent to other circles of resistance among the tribes and translating those captured from foreigners. No matter how I tried to avoid it, I could not help but envy her, both for the precious voices that called her Ima and for her valuable contributions to the struggle against the Arameans.

  “But perhaps,” said my father, his mouth a determined line, “it is time that we entertain the idea of a husband for you.”

  A hundred excuses warred for supremacy on my tongue. How could I possibly make him understand my discontent, while at the same time avoiding the true reason I had no desire to ever remarry? My mother knew of the first two times I’d lost a baby, but the last one I’d kept even from Eliya, not wanting to see the disappointment on his face when I revealed that, yet again, I’d failed him.

  Rightly determining that I was too stunned to speak, my father put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close. “I have no desire to force this on you. After what happened with Rivkah and Malakhi, and even your mother and my brother, I would never push you to marry someone you do not approve of, nor someone you do not trust. But these are perilous times, daughter, as you witnessed firsthand yesterday. With the tribes of Yehudah and Simeon now making sure strides in the south, it is a matter of time before Shiloh becomes a center of conflict. The Arameans will only become more hostile in the coming months. It would do much to ease my mind if I knew you were cared for and protected in case anything were to happen to me or your brothers.”

  “Nothing will happen to any of you,” I said, firm conviction in my voice. “There are no finer warriors among the tribes.”

  He laughed, the rich sound sparking memories of being tossed into the air and falling safely into his waiting arms. “That may be true of your brothers. But I’m an old man now.”

  I frowned playfully. “You are nothing of the sort, Abba. I saw you take down that Aramean on the road. That young fool didn’t know what hit him.”

  He released me to massage his shoulder with a wince. “Maybe so, but your mother had to practically roll me out of bed this morning. These bones have seen more than their fair share of battle.”

  Although my father had ceded his command to Malakhi a couple of years after we’d settled in Shiloh, I’d avoided thinking of him as getting older. But now I took stock of the way his hair was more silver than brown and thinning a bit on the top, and the deep grooves that fanned out from his eyes. His body was covered with scars from his years of faithful service to the tribes of Israel, and I’d recently noticed that the limp he acquired during the war with the Arameans had become even more pronounced.

  When he’d stepped down from leadership, I’d thought he might be restless here on the vineyard, but he truly seemed to be content tending my grandfather’s vines alongside Yuval and entertaining his own grandchildren with tales of spying and warfare. As yesterday proved, he would not hesitate to take up a sword to protect his family when necessary, and he was always willing to give Malakhi counsel when asked, but otherwise he seemed more than happy—relieved, even—to leave the decisions in the hands of the younger generation.

  He lifted his hands to cradle my face in his palms, his expression an earnest plea for understanding. “I know that it was difficult to lose Eliya, especially in such a senseless fashion, but it is time to move forward, daughter.”

  Although his words were meant to be encouraging, to make me accepting of the idea of another husband, they had the opposite effect. Instead they caused me to remember exactly how senseless Eliya’s death had been. Instead of searching out the men who’d clumsily waylaid a caravan of provisions destined for Aramean soldiers, our enemies had rounded up fifty random Hebrews, Eliya included, and forced them into heavy labor with insufficient food or drink and plentiful lashings. Only ten survived, and my husband was not one of them. We’d not even been allowed to retrieve his body, buried as it was in a mass grave somewhere to the east.

  I’d met Eliya soon after our arrival in Shiloh; he’d been kind to me and seemingly tolerant of my out-of-step ways, which is why I’d consented to the match when he approached my father for a betrothal. Even though my inability to provide him with a child gradually eroded much of the common ground between us, making our last year together one fraught with tension and disappointment, he did not deserve to die in such a way.

  For as calm as my father had been as he’d asked me to consider marriage, the fear lurking in his eyes made it clear that yesterday’s confrontation had shaken him. Darek was extremely protective of all of his children, but especially of me, his youngest daughter. Any notion I’d had of sharing my newfound convictions with him withered away.

  “I’ll think on it, Abba,” I lied.

  “Thank you,” said my father, then kissed my forehead with a relieved sigh that made my gut twist with guilt. “That truly puts my mind at ease.”

  I could only pray that someday he might forgive my deceit. I’d already decided what my next step must be, and it had nothing to do with another marriage. Malakhi had to be persuaded, and soon, because I refused to molder away in useless, dependent monotony for the rest of my days.

  Once the children were shuffled off into the tents to begin their Shabbat rest, tucked into dreams with full bellies, the men gathered around the fire. Knowing that their nightly conversations usually included whatever information they’d recently gleaned about both our enemies and our allies, I fetched a full skin of wine—the perfect excuse to intrude upon their conversation unnoticed. Although Malakhi now led the group of spies my father had once commanded, he and Eitan never neglected to keep my father and Baz informed of their activities, continuing to lean on their wisdom and experience.

  “Will he strike again?” Baz asked Malakhi as I filled his cup to the brim. The big man grunted something at me that resembled gratitude but otherwise ignored my presence. Although I was frustrated that I’d missed to whom he was referring, I said nothing, hoping they would all forget I was there and loosen their tongues. I stepped over his faithful canine companion, Toki, who panted at his side while staring into the flickering flames. Her graying muzzle matched her owner’s perfectly, as did her enormous personality.

  “The success that the men of Yehudah have had in the past few months is very encouraging,” said Malakhi. “I’ve been in contact with one of their leaders. He assures me that Othniel is determined to clear the Arameans completely out of their territory. They’ve already recaptured Hebron and are rumored to have their sights on Be’er Sheva and Arad as well. It will not be too much longer before he turns his face northward.”

  A murmur of satisfaction went up among the group. Hebron was indeed a large prize. As the city in which our patriarch Avraham was
buried, and one of the designated cities of refuge, Hebron back in Hebrew hands was not just a victory, it was the strike of flint against iron.

  Othniel, the nephew of the great warrior Calev, was already famous among us for his exploits under Yehoshua’s command when he was just a young man. I’d heard the stories from my own father, who’d fought beside Othniel in many a battle and said his valor was nearly unmatched.

  Could it be that Yahweh was finally raising up someone who could fill the void left behind by Yehoshua? Had the pleas from those of us who remained faithful to him finally been heard? Perhaps, in the same way Mosheh had delivered us from Egypt, Othniel would deliver us from the Arameans. The thought made me even more determined to take part in whatever lie ahead.

  “And Shechem? What word have you heard from your men there?” asked my father.

  “None lately,” said Malakhi with a sigh. “They simply cannot get close enough. They’ve embedded themselves among the laborers working on the high commander’s home, but other than reporting shift changes and some of the movement of troops, they’ve gleaned little.”

  “The soldiers we encountered yesterday did give up some important information,” said Eitan, then lifted a sardonic brow. “After a fair amount of persuasion, of course.”

  Once Imri and I had been secured, he and the others had dragged the Arameans off past the tree line to interrogate them. Our family waited only an hour before our men returned, faces finally uncovered and carrying the soldiers’ clothes and weapons. Eitan was famous for extracting information from the most tight-lipped of enemies, so I was certain they’d been stripped of any knowledge they carried, along with their dignity. I felt not one shred of regret or compassion at the thought. Alek would have done far worse to me and my nephew had he gotten the chance, and he’d escaped with his life, a mercy we most assuredly would not have been afforded.