Providence (18 page)

“You.”

Her head jerked toward the shout.

The scrape of iron against metal chilled her teeth.

Konath's blade stood ready to strike. Rage, not love or loyalty, quaked the bronze rounds on Konath's breastplate.

She stepped backward into the wall of the basin and lost her balance. Gil grasped her shoulder and shoved her nearer to Naabak. She fell from the force of the push.

Konath's sword gleamed in the vicious sun. He aimed the tip at her heart. “I should have killed you in that stable.”

Naabak boomed a command in Aramean.

Konath lunged in her direction with his weapon extended. The jab of the sword came swift.

Her vision blurred. She scrambled to her feet and tried to scream, to draw a defender, but all that came forth was a high-pitched whine.

Gil vaulted in front of her, blocking the sun.

“Run,” she cried. Her throat burned, but she had to save Gil.

A dull slicing sound split the air. Her body shook. She knew the sound. Oh, the strange sound of knife on flesh. Of her father and brother butchering livestock in the temple. Of Konath's sword impaling her love. Her stomach heaved.

Oh God, no!

The tip of Konath's blade protruded from Gil's back. Gil pitched forward, slumping over the length of the sword.

“Han—” He never finished her name.

Shrill wails wracked her body. She couldn't stop them. She didn't know how.

The blade rotated and retreated. Blood seeped from the wound. Blood splattered the air, her tunic, her face. Blood. More blood. Gil's precious blood.

“Gi…Gil…lead.” Her words stuttered as she wrapped an arm around his waist.

A gurgle reached her ears. Gil stared straight ahead, his eyes hollow and haunting.

Konath had taken her Gil from her.

Along with her future.

25

Gil slumped to his knees, teetering as if the slightest breeze could topple him.

This couldn't be happening. Was it a warning, a vision, a test? Not murder on holy ground. An eerie hum like a swarm of locusts buzzed in her ears.

She dropped to her knees beside Gil. Ripping off her head covering, she pressed the cloth against his belly. Her hand dampened and turned scarlet with the rising swell of blood.

Gil grasped her hand, anchoring her at his side.

“We will get the prophet,” she said.

His words broke into pieces, unrecognizable whispers.

She tried to lower Gil to the ground gently, but the weight of his body pulled her over. “Do not leave me,” she urged. “The prophet is near.”

A shadow fell over Gil's face.

Konath's laugh sent a shudder through her spine. “That slave was a fool to think he could spare you.”

“The girl is my servant,” Reumah said, hysterics raising her pitch. “A gift.”

“Sheath your weapon,” Naabak ordered.

Hannah squinted up at Gil's murderer. Her frame shook. “God curse you, you worthless pagan.” The threat of Konath's weapon did not deter her condemnation. “How dare you kill one of God's own?”

Konath's sword rose higher.

Her shoulders flinched, but she remained defiant. “You are a foul stench.”

“Halt.” Naabak unsheathed Susa's sword. He sprang toward Konath, his diseased flesh a distant nightmare. He moved with the strength of a bear and the grace of a skilled swordsman.

She braced for a clank of blades.

Konath's eyes bore down on her but only for a moment.

Polished bronze flashed across his neck.

A wild victory-grin froze on his face as his head was severed from his body.

The
thunk
of Konath's skull upon the unforgiving ground marred the silence.

Her stomach rallied for another emptying.

Gil's hold on her hand slipped away.

“Gil,” she beckoned. “Gil.” He did not answer. She patted his cheeks. He did not respond. His eyes closed, shutting her out.

She turned to Naabak. “Master, I beg of you. Seek the prophet.” Tears flooded her cheeks like storm rains flooded the Jordan.

“It is done, Hannah.” Naabak said her name as soft as her mother at bedtime.

“I know.” She cradled Gil in her arms. “The prophet of God will pronounce you clean. You can return to Aram. Then he can heal Gil.” She pressed her nose to Gil's rough, unshaven jaw. He was still warm. A curl of his hair tickled her nostrils. If only she could breathe in his scent.

Reumah clung to her husband and wept.

Naabak reached out and tugged at Hannah's shoulder. “Israel, he is no more.”

What was Naabak babbling about? Had he not received a miracle of God? “The prophet can restore his breath.” Her mumbled words lost their force.

“Gil,” she whispered. Framing his cheekbones in her hands, she shrieked his name. Her fingers trembled. The ground beneath her seemed to quake.

No laughter rang out. No tease. No taunt.

“Does your prophet heal the dead?” Naabak asked, his tone soft, yet serious.

Stunned, she stared at Naabak, tears veiling her vision. “The prophet healed your skin. He will mend Gilead's.” She looked to Gil. He couldn't be gone. He was her escort. They had started this journey together. Together they were supposed to finish it. He would not leave her here on this jagged mountain.

Wrapping her fingers in his lush curls, she bent over his body. The warmth of his skin gave her comfort.

“You promised to take me to your banquet. To lay in the shade side by side. You have never lied to me.” Her lungs gulped for air. “You cannot begin now. Not now. Not ever.”

Drips of water assaulted her skin, crawling over the back of her arms and neck like worms slithering over the dewed ground. Naabak's hair splattered her again and again as he rocked her gently, trying to break her hold on Gil. His hair, like sopping yarn, rested against her skin. She would not let go, not now, not until the prophet came to save Gil.

The stomp of footsteps rallied a hope inside her heart. Had the prophet come at last? The Blessed One had restored a foreign commander, yet how much more would it take to heal a man of Judah born on Promised Land.

“The tent is empty,” Susa reported, his voice filled with disbelief.

Surely the prophet did not leave.
Her sobs joined with Naabak's droplets, wetting Gil's face. This wasn't supposed to be--Naabak standing solid and strong while Gil lay lifeless, his blood muddying the dust of Mahanaim.

“Let us take the body to him,” Naabak offered.

She shook her head defiantly.

“His lifeblood was spilled by this pool. This place renewed your flesh. Do not take him from this spot, from here, from me. We must wait. The prophet will come for him. He is a Hebrew. A man of Judah.”
My man of Judah.

She sat by the pool and waited, Gil cradled in her arms. Naabak comforted his wife as Susa and Mereb removed Konath's remains. Even with the sun overhead, and the caress of her hands, Gil's body could not hold warmth.

She settled on top of Gil matching him hand to hand, arm to arm, chest to chest, leg to leg. Her feet met his calves. “He has a mother,” she said, catching her breath. “He takes care of her.” Remembering the pride in Gil's mother's eyes caused her chest to collapse in grief.

“She has gone mad,” Mereb declared in his head-of-household tone.

A hand patted her back. “Israel, let us wrap his body before the cold sets in. The prophet has not come.”

Turning her head to the side, she saw Reumah, Susa, and Mereb standing in an awkward line, watching the Lord of the Aramean armies comfort a servant girl.

“I am cursed,” she said glancing at Naabak. “Cursed from birth. Why do I live and Gil not? As a punishment?” Looking skyward, she called out, “Punish me, Jehovah. Not Gilead.”

A cackle of a breath left her lungs. What would her father say if he heard her challenge God? But why had God sent her Gilead and then taken him away? Why save a heathen and let a Hebrew die?

“Did Gil not follow your laws, Jehovah?” she shouted, lifting her chin to the sun. “Did he not love you with his soul?”

Pressing her lips firmly to Gil's, she murmured, “How do I say
Shalom
to you?” She nestled her cheek into the crook of Gil's neck. “Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One. And you Gilead of Judah, you and I are one.”

“Come to me, Hannah.” Reumah beckoned with outstretched arms. “Perhaps, Mereb can find some honey to soothe your stomach.”

She gazed upon Gil until her heart was too large for her body.

Naabak knelt beside Gil. A few wayward drips from his hair trickled down Gil's skin. “Let us clean the blood from you. The prophet will return to this place. I am certain.”

The stained and soaked cloth she wore clung to her body. How many commandments had she broken bathing in blood and touching a corpse? She didn't care. The Law was useless to her. Gil was dead. Inside, she felt as if her lifeblood had drained into the dirt.

It should have been me, Gil.
Licking her lips, she kissed him hard and sweet and with spirit, for it would be the last time. When she lifted her mouth, sorrow weighed her down like an anvil.
They want me to leave you now.
But how could she? He had given her everything, and what had she given him in return? His ruin.

She lifted her chest.

A puff of air bathed her nose.

Had Naabak pressed down on Gil's body? Had she?

She rolled off of Gil.

His arm twitched.

Was it a trick of the eyes? Was it because she moved?

Gil's body began to jerk and shiver like it was demon possessed.

“Naabak,” she gasped, “what is happening?” Surely in all his battles he had seen the slain settling into death.

Naabak pointed at Susa. “Find the prophet. Hurry.”

Gil's forehead creased. His lips pursed into a thin line of pain.

“Oh, God, what is happening?” Tremors wracked her body. Was God pronouncing judgment? “Gil,” she rasped, her mouth dry as dust.

Gil's eyes flew open. His gaze found her.

She wailed like a widow. Was this demon possession? Another miracle? Was God himself going to speak?

Naabak wrapped his arms around her and tried to draw her away from the corpse.

And then she saw it. She saw it in Gilead's eyes.

The mischievous moonlight she loved.

26

Gil's brows furrowed as he scanned his surroundings. She tried to say his name, but her voice vanished like it had been snatched by a ghost. She swept tears from her eyes. New tears. Not tears of bitter mourning. Tears of joy.

Struggling to rise to his elbows, Gil slumped to the ground.

“Bring him figs, roasted grain,” she shouted at Mereb, her voice squeaking like a worn wheel.

Reumah fell to her knees. “Truly this is a mountain of the gods.”

Gil's gaze swept to Naabak. “You are fit, Commander.” His hand rose then fell away. “A beautiful woman weeps at my side. Did we celebrate with too much wine?”

Naabak crouched next to Gil. He grasped the hand that held him aloft in the pool. “Konath impaled you on his sword. It is a miracle of your God that you live.”

“And you live,” Gil mumbled, taking a cake from Mereb.

Hannah began to lift Gil's tunic. “I could not stop the blood. Is the wound healed?”

Gil grasped her arm. “I do not believe I'm bound under my tunic.” She could have sworn he tried to laugh at her folly. “I dreamed my bowels were on fire. I called for water but there was not enough to relieve the torment.” He tapped his stomach and struggled to sit. “There is no burning or pain. Did you pray for me, Hannah?”

Happiness and pride pulsed through her body. Her words rushed out. “I tended to the blood with a rag and rebuked our God.”

Mereb placed a bowl of grain next to Gil. “She smothered your bones and squeezed your blood from your wound.”

“I can see that.” Gil's eyes narrowed as he took in her blood-drenched tunic.

“I called out to the Lord,” she said, chastising Mereb and trying to explain her boldness. “I pled for your life. Our God had spared a foreigner's life, why not one of his own?”

“You are a blessed woman, daughter of Zebula,” Naabak said. “I would not have thought as much when you hid in my tent.” Naabak turned toward Mereb. “And you. Do not invoke the wrath of a woman. We shall not test her God a third time to raise you, Moabite.”

Laughter erupted, but she heard nothing after the commander of Aram proclaimed her blessed. Her curse remained. But Gil was alive. God had heard her prayer. Wasn't Gil's life worth more than her healing? She had lived seventeen years without licking salt or breathing in blossoms. She could live a hundred more knowing that her love lived.

“You do not laugh, Hannah.” Gil offered her a bite of his fig cake.

“I will need a dozen fig cakes to take away my weariness.”

“Or a pomegranate.” His reminder made her chuckle.

She stroked his hand, oblivious to the dried blood.

“Repent!”

Everyone turned toward the shout.

The prophet stood, staff extended, jabbing his whittled branch at their celebration. “Repent, you defiler of this nation.”

Hannah sat tall. How could the prophet chastise Naabak for killing Konath? The commander spared her life. He avenged Gil's blood.

The staff raised and pointed in her direction. The smooth end of the rod stopped inches from her nose.

“You harlot!”

27

“What?” She crawled backward. Warmth like fire flushed her skin. The prophet knew of her family's reputation. Knew of her innocence. She had knelt in his presence. Prayed at his feet.

“I have not known a man,” she said, aghast at his insult.

“Did you not lay on this one?” The prophet pointed his staff at Gil. “Did you not lay your lips on his?” He accused her with his rod, poking it in her direction. Poke. Poke. Poke.