Elijah (20 page)

Shammah had been the last witness to leave. He could hardly keep his knees from melting under him as he watched the slave ring slip through his friend’s earlobe. What was he to say now, after the argument of last night?

Their eyes met several times, twice since all had left save the two of them and the priest. In the end, he decided not to speak. Baana’s eyes were far away, seeing visions known only to him. There would be time later to talk.

Shammah left through the city gates and turned to walk around the walls toward his home, one of a cluster of houses located beyond Dor’s walls, on the fertile plain that rose slowly into the hills of Sharon.

His mind could not grasp the unnatural change occurring at Dor. Should one man own so much, and so many own so little? Had not Yahweh given laws through Moses that provided every family with its own land forever? Did not the land itself belong to Yahweh, to be held in solemn trust by his people? Were not the wealthy ordered by divine law to lend money compassionately?

Where was Yahweh? Was he now the god of the drought? Was Baal indeed the stronger god, as Meor-baal and the prophet had claimed? And should poor men serve the stronger?

Shammah walked along the roadway by the field that he soon would lose. The wind played among the now-dead leaves and vines, its whispering sound speaking a language of the earth. The language had been learned by his ancestors during the days of Joshua, and the language was taught from generation to generation. The whispering wind said the field was Yahweh’s and should not leave the family to whom God lent it. It said no man should have more than he needed at the cost of his brother man’s insufficiency. But that could he do? He will lose the field. Already he had protested to the elders, but they said nothing could be done. He had agreed to pay the money from the harvest and he could not. No matter that he would have paid it if he could. He did not pay. That was all that mattered.

He entered the house and closed the door behind him, already determined to do what he had sworn he would not do. He would not fight Baal. The God of Power was too strong, perhaps even too strong for Yahweh. But his daughters would not become slaves. No, he could do something about that.

The daughters rose to greet him, but stopped when they saw the unfamiliar look on his face.

“Father?” Maachah, the older one, called. “What’s wrong?”

Shammah pulled a stool to the table and beckoned to the girls. “Sit down, my daughters, I must talk with you.”

The daughters were only a year apart. The oldest one was seventeen now and already would have been married, probably, if it were not for the drought. Both of them had the attractiveness of youth, though they tended toward the plumpness of their mother. It was good that she was three years dead. It was good that she could not see what the family had come to. What Dor had come to.

Maachah and Zelophed took their accustomed places at the table, across from each other. Shammah looked at both of them. They were more inquisitive than frightened, though their knowledge of Baana’s ceremony raised their concern about the coming discussion.

“Baana and his wife will be slaves for the rest of their lives,” he began, “and their children will be slaves, too, if they have any more.”

“But the Year of Jubilee,” Maachah interrupted. “Won’t they be freed then and their field returned to their family?”

Shammah answered quickly. “I know of no Israelite who has been freed this year, and this is the Year of Jubilee. Why should any slave hope for better fifty years from now?”

The girls were silent.

“I am about to lose our field to Abinadab. You both are aware of that. Baana gave himself to Abinadab because he couldn’t make a living even for himself, much less sufficient to repurchase his field.”

“And so you will sell us into slavery,” Zelophed stated simply. “What you say we will do. Other girls have gone.” She reached across the table to catch her sister’s hand.

“No,” the father said. “I will not sell you into slavery.”

“Then what?” Maachah asked.

“I will take you to the sacred grove of Asherah.”

The girls gripped each other’s hands more tightly. Both of them looked at this man who spoke so firmly yet with trembling chin.

“Father, you don’t mean that,” Maachah protested.

“I do.”

“Israel’s laws forbid a father to give his daughter to zonahs.”

“Baal is stronger than Yahweh. He has shown that.”

“But . . .”

Shammah interrupted his daughter. “Better a free zonah than a slavegirl.”

“A zonah is not free,” Zelophed protested.

“Freer than a slave,” Shammah answered, “and you will have a future, perhaps even in a temple. You will be comfortable and perhaps live in a degree of luxury. You may even bear a king.”

“That’s a dream, father,” Maachah argued. “The temple zonahs are raised from young girls.”

“You are young, and both of you are intelligent. There is no other alternative. At least you will have hope. Life is worth little without hope. Gather what you will and we will go.”

“Now?” Zelophed asked.

“Now. Before I weaken. By nightfall your futures will be secure.”

“And what of you, father?” the older one asked.

Shammah shook his head. “By nightfall I shall be a slave to Abinadab. Perhaps by the next Sabbatic Year I shall be free, if I’m still alive, perhaps not.”

“Father,” Maachah asked, “is there nowhere we can go and stay together? To Samaria, or to Jerusalem?”

“No. There is nowhere to go.”

“Why? Why don’t we try?”

“Because I have watched others try and fail. Baana failed, and he is a good man. The spirit in Israel has changed. There is no hope any more for the poor. The city holds a worse slavery for us than Abinadab does. Now go. Gather your things.”

The girls rose slowly and walked from the table. They slipped their arms around each other, then turned and embraced. Zelophed began to cry. Shammah turned his back and fought his own tears. The girls would not resist. They were obedient, as daughters should be.

The sacred grove was not far, only two miles east up the gradually rising hills. They ate their last lunch together in silence under a lone tamarisk tree by the roadside. Then they walked slowly, still without speaking, to the sacred grove.

Abinadab, seated in his carriage chair, watched the crowd disperse. He never had seen Baana so silent, so passive. The man was known in Dor for his liveliness, his cheerfulness at the festivals and feast days. The master shook away the nagging thought that his new slave would run away. There was no need for that. After all, he had chosen slavery on his own.

He snapped his fingers, then pulled the heavy woven curtains across the openings on each side. Four large, finely-muscled men lifted the carriage chair and broke into a trot, their legs moving in synchronized rhythm. Abinadab relaxed into the soft pillowed back of his set. He sighed happily. In two years he had become the wealthiest man in Dor, one of the wealthiest in Israel in holdings.
And when the drought is over,
he thought,
those holdings will mean coins and treasure.

The drought was unexpected. The prophet Elijah claimed credit, and perhaps even proclaimed it, but he was not the one who sent it. No, Asherah sent it, to hasten the acquisitions of those few men such as he who with determination left Yahweh and his weak teachings for Melkart and power.

Abinadab’s carriage chair arrived at his home, the home he had acquired but a year ago. It was the largest in Dor, with every room of white limestone, the floors and walls covered and draped with Persian rugs.

The strong men lowered the chair and Abinadab climbed out. His wife greeted him at the door. “It is done,” he said.

She clasped her hands to her bosom. “Baana is a good man to own, “ she answered. “He will do well in the fields.”

“
And I will do him well, too. He will live better as my slave than he ever did as a free farmer carving a precarious existence out of the soil.”

“
Asherah is good to all, isn’t she?” the wife cooed.

Baana arrived at his master’s house in due time and was greeted by his new master with apparent joy. The conversation that followed challenged Baana to his best effort, yet left no room for doubt that he was a slave now. Even though his master would not be cruel, he would require unquestioning obedience. Then Abinadab told Baana to spend the remainder of the day with his wife.

That night, the guests hardly had arrived for Abinadab’s banquet when the host was beckoned by his chief steward. The master listened to the message, then gave instructions to keep his guests well supplied with wine.

An hour later two bare-chested, burly servants pulled open the huge Cyprus doors that opened from a smaller meeting room and Abinadab entered, smiling widely. The guests turned to greet the return of their host. He mingled with them quickly and easily.

“
What took you away from your own party?” one asked. It was Dekar who spoke, the chief of the elders who sat at the entrance to the city.

Abinadab smiled. “I just gained another field and another slave.”

“
Who was it?”

“
Shammah, Baana’s good friend. I loaned him money on his field sometime ago, when so many small farmers were convinced that Asherah would increase their crops.”

“
Shammah? Doesn’t he have two marriageable daughters?”

“
Yes, but they will not be my slaves. Shammah said he has made other arrangements for them. He probably made zonahs of them. It’s not a rare solution these days to avoid slavery.”

Dekar grasped and squeezed his friend’s arm. “Then we must visit the shrine soon,” he laughed. “Abinadab, Asherah has been good to you. Or is it Yahweh?”

“
Who knows?” Abinadab laughed. “I try to keep all the gods happy.”

“
Ah, here comes Beriah to get us,” Dekar interrupted. “Machir has a matter to discuss with all of us.”

Beriah greeted the wealthy host and the judge. “It is a fine party, Abinadab. Who would know we are in the midst of a drought? Machir says that I such a time the wise man will build for the future.”

“
I believe he heard that from me.” Abinadab laughed again, an easy, comfortable laugh that put people at ease. “And I must admit that it sounds pretty good.”

“
At any rate,” Beriah continued, “Machir has an idea. Will it be an imposition on your party if several of us meet together for a few moments? We are here, and the time is convenient.”

“
What are parties for, if not to make life better? If Machir has a good idea, I want to hear it speedily. We will meet in the next room, over there.” Abinadab gestured toward the Cyprus doors through which he had come.

The group gathered quickly. Nine couches of highly polished dark red cedar, trimmed simply but tastefully in ivory, lined the room in a semi-circle, their upcurved heads toward the center. Abinadab, as host, lay on the center couch. An apparently casual but quite aggressive maneuvering began for the couches nearest the center, for proximity to the host indicated relative honor.

The wily Dekar managed to gain the right-hand seat next to the host. The left-hand couch was taken by a newcomer to the emerging aristocracy, a young man whose father was the officiating priest at the earlier ear-piercing ceremony. Short, bandy-legged Beriah was next, and next to him, two brothers, both of them with severely-trimmed, pointed beards. Machir gained the couch next to Dekar, and next to him, leaving the end couch empty, was Abinadab’s son, Hesed.