To Dwell among Cedars Read online

  Seated about fifteen paces away from the fire, Arisa and her brother had devoured every bite of food set before them, and now she was quietly answering questions from the old Levite and his son, Elazar, no doubt expanding on the scant details she’d offered back at the sheepfold. She seemed no more settled speaking with them than with me, her gaze anywhere but upon the men, but her lips were moving and the stiff set of her shoulders had relaxed just enough that I knew Abinidab had persuaded her that there was little cause to fear us.

  Both children began yawning, the long day of cowering behind the stone wall and whatever horrors they’d endured the night before catching up with their small bodies. Elazar prepared them a place to lie down, far enough from the fire that they might sleep undisturbed, but close enough that we could watch over them.

  Elazar had five children of his own, some near Arisa and Lukio’s ages. I wondered if he might be thinking of his own young ones in such a situation, alone in enemy territory and surrounded by strange men. Once he’d settled Arisa and Lukio, he returned to fold himself down beside his elderly father, his eyes locked on the flames nearby as the two of them murmured together. After a time, they rose and joined our circle on the other side of the fire, settling down among us with serious expressions.

  “They do indeed come from Ashdod,” said Abinidab without preamble. “And they were there the day their soldiers returned after the battle of Afek.”

  Briefly, he told us the story Arisa had related to them: of the Ark being brought in on a cart, dumped in front of their heathen temple, and then the unbelievable account of the image of Dagon falling before the golden chest. When the story of the morning after the earthquake was told, and Abinidab revealed that not only had the statue fallen without cause but that the hands and the head of the idol were cleanly severed, more than a few awed gasps and exclamations of praise went up.

  I had no doubt Arisa believed these stories, and perhaps the idol had indeed fallen, but it was plain to me that the earthquake had caused it to topple both times, not some divine action. Trembles underground were not that uncommon in this land, after all, and some places were more prone than others to violent rumblings. Unseen cracks must have formed within the stone and the base made unsteady from the shaking the day before.

  But whatever had happened to make the Philistines return our sacred object, I was glad they’d found cause to fear. With the Ark back in our hands, the holy sanctuary could now be reassembled and restored with even greater glory and richer materials, and by more skilled artisans than a horde of former slaves out in the wilderness.

  Perhaps the Mishkan at Shiloh had once been a sight to behold, but the last time I’d seen it standing, the curtains were near to disintegrating and the mudbrick walls built around the once moveable Tent of Meeting were crumbling like week-old bread. Under the leadership of Eli and his sons, little had been done to return it to its once laudable state—a point of contention that my uncle and many of his friends frequently brought up in their discussions over the future of Shiloh. What remained of the original structure, the altar, and the other consecrated objects had been spirited away to some unknown location by the priests before the Philistines desecrated the holy hill upon which it once stood.

  Without the Ark, it was inevitable that the Mishkan would have remained hidden away for generations, or perhaps for good. For what use was a sanctuary without its most revered relic? But now, for the first time in months, the people of Yahweh could finally hope for its restoration. Because in my estimation, the true power in the golden box lie not with flashes of fire, but in its ability to resurrect the spirits of the people who would again offer the tribute necessary both to sustain the Levite tribe and to reestablish the holy places.

  “Arisa said that soon after Dagon fell, an epidemic hit the city. Black boils covered the people, killing many. Rodents swarmed the fields, stripping the crops, and then when the fields were bare, they moved into the city and devoured the granaries. Those not struck by the sickness were in danger of starvation, and many, especially children and the elderly succumbed quickly.”

  “Fitting justice for stealing our holy implements,” snarled Bezor, one of my uncle’s closest friends. “It’s unfortunate they all did not perish.”

  A few nods of agreement bobbed around the circle.

  “None of us dispute that the Philistines are the enemy, Bezor, nor that they have oppressed, slaughtered, and enslaved many of us,” responded Abinidab. “But let us find a touch of mercy within our hearts, shall we?” He waved a hand toward the sleeping children, reminding us all that they were survivors of such happenings.

  A scowl was Bezor’s only response.

  “How did the Ark end up here?” asked another man, whose name I did not know.

  “From what Arisa says, Ashdod sent it away, their priests making clear that it was the appearance of the Ark that had caused the plagues. It was sent to Gath, where the same thing happened. And when Gath was struck with the same terrors, it was sent to Ekron. But Ekron rejected it outright, the people having heard the rumors of the tragedies in the other cities and revolting before it even reached the gates.”

  “What did the girl say about the kings?” asked Abiram.

  “The children awoke outside of Ekron to the sound of calves crying out. They emerged to find the cart, hitched to untrained milk cows who’d been separated from their young, plodding along the road without a driver. And all five Philistine kings were following a long stretch behind, their chariots escorted by soldiers. The children had been told by their nursemaid, a Hebrew slave named Azuvah, that they should follow the Ark, and so they did, all the way here.”

  “What if this is nothing more than a ruse?” said Bezor. “Sending in our sacred object and a couple of children to distract us? There could be an army lying in wait just beyond the hills.”

  “Then why did they not attack Beth Shemesh after the Levites were struck down? Or even when they were celebrating with all their women and children out in the field earlier in the day?” asked Elazar. “It would have been the perfect opportunity for an ambush. And we know they are not above such atrocities.”

  “Agreed,” said Abinidab. “It seems that the kings of Philistia were much more concerned with getting rid of the Ark than using it as part of some plot.”

  “And the gold?” asked one of the others.

  “She knows nothing of what was inside the cart,” said Abinidab. “But Elazar and I believe the five golden rats inside are an offering. One for each of the Philistine capital cities.”

  “It’s no small amount of gold,” said Bezor, a satisfied grin curling his lips. “They must be quite desperate to assuage Yahweh’s wrath.”

  Abinidab nodded, his wizened eyes full of contemplation. “Indeed.”

  “And so,” asked another man, “what comes next? Shiloh is in ruins.”

  Abinidab stroked his beard, looking into the flames as if the answer flickered in the orange glow. “I do not believe it is a coincidence that we were in the midst of gathering to discuss that very thing when the Ark found its way back to us. Yahweh directed its path, leading the cows here to Beth Shemesh, a Levitical community.”

  “Much good that did,” said Bezor. “Apparently the Levites in this city have forgotten the stories of the Ark’s power.”

  “I would venture to guess that we all have been remiss in our treatment of holy things,” said Abinidab. “There was little outcry when Eli’s sons removed the Ark from Shiloh in the first place.”

  An uneasy silence followed, and I wondered how many of the men in this circle had held their tongues when the High Priest’s contemptible sons ordered the Ark to be carried into battle. My tortured imagination spun with conjured images of my father’s and brothers’ final moments. Had they believed until their last breaths that the Ark would save them? Or had they watched from their bloody deathbeds on the field as the chest of gold they’d put such faith in was carted off by the enemy? My only consolation was that the sons of Eli ha
d been killed that day as well and their father had broken his worthless neck falling from his judgment seat near the city gates when he heard of their deaths.

  “The Ark should return to Shiloh without delay,” said Bezor. “There is no question.”

  “And where would it be housed?” asked Elazar. “The city is a ruin and what remains of the Mishkan in pieces, stored away in Nob, where it is safe from further desecration. Who knows how long it will take to restore the sanctuary? And where it should be done?”

  “That can be determined when we arrive,” said Abiram. “The priests will have a solution.”

  “And how do we know that it would even be safe there? The Philistines already swept in and took it once,” said another man.

  “From what Arisa says, I believe they’ve quite learned their lesson,” said Abinidab, his gaze again sliding toward the two children in the shadows. “But it does need to be protected from the elements until a suitable sanctuary can be reconstructed.”

  “Returning the Ark and rebuilding the Mishkan will send the message to the Philistines that we do not fear them,” said my uncle, pounding a fist into his palm. “Also, it will make clear to our own people that we are not twigs to be crushed beneath our foes’ chariot wheels. With Eli and his sons gone, it is time to rebuild—and past time to restore the office of High Priest to the sons of Eleazar ben Aharon, as it should be.”

  A flurry of overlapping arguments erupted at this idea. The seat of the High Priest had been filled by men who descended from Eleazar, the son of Aharon and nephew of Mosheh, since our people had come into the Land of Promise. Eli, however, had been a descendant of Itamar, another son of Aharon. And even before he’d been installed as the High Priest decades ago, a deep divide formed between those who felt the blessing had been permanently passed to the line of Itamar and those who insisted that the honor belonged to Eleazar’s descendants alone. My uncle was firmly of the opinion that Eli and his sons were an abomination, corrupt to the bone, and should be replaced with a man of the correct—and divinely appointed—lineage.

  Abinidab attempted to rein in the conversation. “We must not harbor such antipathy toward each other as we await Yahweh’s direction—”

  Undeterred by the older man’s admonition, my uncle spoke over him. “You’ve been down here in Kiryat-Yearim these last two decades, Abinidab, you did not see just how despicable those two were and how impotent Eli was in reining them in. Bribery. Extortion. Thievery. Taking female worshipers to their beds. There was no honor among those men, nor those who consorted with them. My brother and sons were slaughtered because of their arrogance and contempt for the Torah.” His flinty eyes glinted in the firelight. “The High Priesthood should return to the line designated by Yahweh at the Holy Mountain.”

  It was a bold statement, and one that was loudly refuted by a number of the other Levites, a few who sprang to their feet to make their points known. One thing was very clear: The divide between the two opinions was deep and each side was passionate in their beliefs.

  “If anything is plain,” said Bezor, raising his voice over the melee, “it is that we must no longer suffer corrupt leadership. Samson, and the disaster that was his time as judge over this region, made that all too apparent.”

  “Samson was a hero,” shouted one of the younger men from across the fire.

  “He was a drunkard with no respect for the Nazirite vow he was supposed to have taken,” snarled Bezor. “And more interested in Philistine whores than in bringing Israel together against our enemies.”

  “He killed thousands of Philistines!” said the young man. “With his own hands! And took many more with him as he sacrificed his own life. He wasn’t content to sit around with his companions, clucking over the state of the tribes like a bunch of toothless old women.”

  “How dare you disrespect—”

  Elazar spoke over Bezor. “While Samson was not the wisest of men and not the most discerning of leaders Yahweh has raised up over these past centuries, at least his intervention awoke many of us from our complacent attitudes toward the Philistines. We must separate from them, body and soul, or they will swallow us up. Perhaps the next shofet raised by Yahweh will build upon Samson’s victories—and his failures—and call the people back to pure worship.”

  “We need no more shoftim,” said Bezor. “The tribes need to come together and install a king, one who will ensure the Philistines have no thought of returning. We are made fools by our constant discord. A king would have kept Eli and his sons in line. Held them to account.”

  “The priesthood should not be subject to a human king,” said Elazar, with a sharp edge of frustration I’d not yet heard from the stoic man. “It is under the authority of Yahweh alone.”

  “And what has Yahweh done to direct the priests? Has he lifted a finger to write on more stones?” challenged my uncle with a scoff. “We are at the mercy of the foreigners around us, ones who grow more powerful every day. And without a king, we look even weaker than we are. We fight more among each other than we do the true enemy.”

  “These matters will not be settled tonight, my friends,” said Abinidab, his tone deliberately soothing as he looked over the group. “We’ve been discussing them for days now and have come to little conclusion. And with the Ark returned to us, the stakes are even greater. For now, we will return to my home in Kiryat-Yearim. I’ve already sent a message to Samuel. We will wait for his direction before we decide anything further.”

  Chaos erupted around the fire again.

  “Samuel has no authority here!”

  “A pretender . . . !”

  “. . . as corrupt as Eli’s sons were!”

  “His prophecy was proven by Eli’s death!”

  My uncle’s face was flushed in the light of the fire, his voice louder than all the rest. “The Ark belongs in the holy Mishkan, not your house.”

  Abinidab lifted both palms, his expression expectant. Although nearly half the men seemed to side with my uncle, they hushed, giving respectful deference to a man whose years were far beyond their own. “I know that some of you are unsure of Samuel’s divine appointment. But I was there when, as a boy, he delivered the words of Yahweh to Eli, instructing him to take his sons in hand or suffer the consequences.”

  No one interrupted, since none of them would have been old enough to witness such an event, nearly thirty years ago. Abinidab let his gaze travel over the men, challenging them to defy his testimony. “Young as he was, he spoke with a clarity of mind and an authority that shocked us all. And since that time, I have carefully watched him. He possesses a wisdom that belies all reason. A steadfast heart that is firmly set upon Yahweh. And he is a lifelong Nazirite with unparalleled dedication. So yes, we will wait for Samuel, and we will trust his judgment.”

  My uncle muttered beneath his breath. If there was anything I’d come to understand during these past couple of weeks we’d been at Kiryat-Yearim, it was that, like the division over the High Priesthood, there was a stark delineation between those who looked to Samuel as a prophet and those who did not. Abiram was firmly within the camp of those who did not.

  “All of you will have a chance to voice your opinion when Samuel arrives, along with elders of the kohanim. And the children have agreed to stay with us for a few more days, so everyone can hear their story. But for now, we will sleep. I’d like to arrive in Esthaol before the sun is too high so we can reach Kiryat-Yearim before nightfall tomorrow.” The definitive authority in the old man’s voice seemed to close the mouths of those around the circle who disagreed. But from the way my uncle shifted in his seat, his jaw working back and forth, I knew he had much more to say on the subject. He and Bezor would not be satisfied until we were on our way back north with the Ark, headed for Shiloh.

  Silently, I found a spot nearby to lay down my mantle, although I could not calm the storm of questions that tonight’s argument had provoked in my mind. Although my father and brothers had been resolute that Yahweh had given Eli authority for a
purpose, I could not dispute Abiram’s reasoning. I knew that many Hebrews had been clamoring for a king for a long while now, but the priests had blocked every attempt to raise up a man to govern the tribes as a whole. Perhaps now, with the priesthood fluttering about in the wind, someone would step forward to accept the call. Someone who would bring us back together, rebuild the Mishkan, restore our prosperity, and push the Philistines from our lands once and for all. The thought made my heart swell with hope for the first time since the travesty at Afek. Perhaps within the next few years, I would be singing one of my own compositions in the holy sanctuary, using the lyre I’d inherited from my father to worship alongside my fellow Levites.

  Inspired by the idea, a new line of notes fluttered through my mind, and I hummed the tune as I settled onto the ground, but just as I moved to lay my head on my folded mantle, movement beneath the oak tree caught my eye.

  Arisa, whom I’d thought long asleep, was sitting up. The gleam in her large eyes made it clear that she’d been disturbed by the raised voices and vehement outbursts around the fire. She shivered, her slender figure illuminated by moonlight, and for the briefest of moments met my gaze. Then she lifted her chin to the sky, perhaps beseeching the stars for comfort, but likely just avoiding my stare. I wondered what sort of stories she might have to tell her people when she returned to Ashdod. Through her, would word of the cracks and splinters among us reach the lords of Philistia? Or would the two children fade into the masses, their strange encounter with us Hebrews long forgotten in their relief at being back among their own?

  I shrugged off the thoughts and laid my head down, determined to fill my mind with the song I’d been weaving together instead of things that were far beyond my control. I’d leave the power struggles to my uncle and his friends and bide my time in training until I could become the Levitical musician I was born to be.