Love Amid the Ashes (18 page)

A tear slid from the corner of Job’s eye, the salty drop like lava on his tender flesh. Unconsciousness threatened to claim him again, but he heard Sitis’s wailing intensify and Elihu’s frustrated sigh. “Dinah, stay here with Abba Job,” the boy was saying. “I must keep Ima quiet. We still don’t know what Sayyid’s men are doing in the house or if they’ll try to attack us up here.”

Job’s eyebrows rose at the mention of his enemy. “What? Sayyid?” More words wouldn’t come. His tongue moved painfully over open wounds. 
El Shaddai, what is happening to my life? Why have You allowed this? What sin have I committed? What sacrifice have I neglected?

Dinah’s face appeared before him, her golden hair pulled over one shoulder, the sun aglow around her. “Try not to talk, Job. I know you’re frightened. We all are.” She smiled and reached out to touch his face but stopped short. Was it because of his wounds or because he was a married man? Both were good reasons. “It seems you have sores in your throat. Blink if that’s true.”

Job blinked and marveled at the simple but effective communication she devised.

“All right,” she said, “I’ll brew mint tea as soon as possible. It should help.”

She moved away to sit down, and Job grunted. The only sound he could make. He needed to know what had happened, but he couldn’t ask. He couldn’t reach out for her—the pain of touching another human being would blind him. So he grunted. Like a baby. Like an animal.

“What is it, Job?” The pity in Dinah’s expression shamed him. He had promised this poor young woman a new life, but what did she have now? What did 
he
 have now?

“Sayyid?” he croaked again.

Dinah cast a hesitant glance in Sitis’s direction. Job tried to glimpse the spot, only a stone’s throw away, where Elihu was working to quiet Sitis and Nada. “Elihu saw Sayyid’s captain leading a raid on your house this morning,” Dinah began. “They’ve broken down the courtyard wall near the ash pile, where we worshiped on the night of the tragedies. We escaped up the tower stairs before the bandits arrived on the fourth story. We’re praying they don’t come up to the altar.” Dinah covered her trembling lips, and for the first time, Job realized they were still in very real danger.

“Send Sitis.”

Dinah snapped to attention. “What? Do you mean send her to speak with Sayyid?”

Job blinked hard, deliberately.

“Elihu!” Dinah called out in a shouted whisper. “Bring Sitis over here.”

Job heard the scuffle of feet and a mournful cry. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sitis’s reticence, and then Dinah approached her with some sort of pouch and mask. Sitis calmed as Elihu led her to Job’s side, her face covered by the linen mask, the pouch of herbs held tightly under her nose. Job smiled, though the action caused searing pain through his cheeks and lips. His Ishmaelite princess could never suffer a stench, and his seeping wounds would sorely test her senses.

“By the gods, Job, there you are smiling again,” she said, frustration and relief mingling in the fine lines around her eyes. “I know I look ridiculous, but—”

“I love—” Job swallowed with difficulty. “You.”

Sitis’s tears wet the mask she wore. “I love you too, my husband.”

“Sayyid?” Job watched his wife’s features turn to stone at the mention of his name.

Glaring accusingly at Dinah, she asked, “What lies did you tell my husband?”

“Mistress Sitis,” Dinah said calmly, “I said only what Elihu told us all.”

“Go.” Though Job’s voice was barely a whisper, the single word resounded like a shout.

Nada and Elihu leaned in closer, while Sitis stared in disbelief. “Job, you want me to go to Sayyid?” Her eyes were wary, like a mouse stealing cheese from a trap. “And ask for help?”

Job blinked, and Dinah explained his silent sign of assent. A sudden flush overtook his wife, her eyes questioning those around her. She looked frightened, unsure. And in that moment, Job knew. If Sitis thought Sayyid innocent, she would have leapt at the chance to redeem him, but her reaction spoke louder than a thousand denials. Even Sitis believed Sayyid had initiated the raid.

“Don’t go,” he croaked, a tear sliding down his face again. “Stay.”

In the same instant, Sitis glanced away, and Job watched horror dawn on her features. “Nooo!” she cried, suddenly on her feet and running toward the mountaintop entry. Elihu jumped up, reaching for Sitis’s arm, and Nada clutched at her garments.

Job’s breaths came in gasps, fear and confusion wrestling for dominion. “What?” he asked Dinah. She and Nogahla had remained at his side, both shaking their heads, tears flowing down their cheeks like rain.

Covering her mouth, Dinah refused to explain. Job felt helpless, completely at the mercy of this young woman who now watched his family suffer unknown agony.

“What?” he roared, tearing the raw flesh of his throat until the pain almost sent him into oblivion.

Dinah released the words through her sobs. “Smoke, Job. Black smoke is rolling out of the tower stairway and rising from the balconies and windows of your home.”

~Job 18:12–15~

Calamity is hungry for him. . . . It eats away parts of his skin. . . . He is torn from the security of his tent and marched off to the king of terrors. Fire resides in his tent; burning sulfur is scattered over his dwelling.

Sayyid watched from the safety of his balcony while the Nameless Ones fled Job’s blazing home and pack animals escaped the canyon with the stolen household treasures. As flames licked the sandstone shell of Job’s grand palace, Sayyid envisioned every shred of fine linen, every bauble the bandits left behind, swallowed up in the destruction.

Through the rising plumes of smoke, faint shadows of Job and his newly made beggars huddled together on the ridgetop of his home. Without wealth, food, or shelter, Sitis would have no other choice. Tonight the object of Sayyid’s obsession would finally rest in his arms.

A slow, wry smile creased his lips. “Or perhaps I will teach you a lesson, Sitis-girl,” he whispered to no one. “Perhaps the lovely Dinah will share my bed on the first night of my victory, while Job sleeps in the ashes of his charred home.”

“Master Sayyid.” Aban’s voice broke into his reverie, startling him.

“What is it, Aban?” He turned, staring daggers at the captain. “Is there a problem with the bounty? Are the Nameless Ones demanding more than their agreed portion?” In Sayyid’s experience, beggars were an unscrupulous lot, without even the honor common among thieves.

“No, my lord.” Aban had stopped at the balcony threshold and appeared pale as a ghost. “Mistress Sitis is in your courtyard and demands an audience with you.” He pressed his lips together tightly as if more words were like wild horses pawing at the gate.

Hmm. Stops short in his approach and his report. Something is terribly wrong.
 His captain hadn’t demurred like this since his childhood training, when Sayyid was honing this strong and disciplined warrior. “Tell me now what you’ve done, and perhaps it will go better for you.” Sayyid placed his hand on his leather belt and watched Aban note the action. His captain hadn’t felt the sting of his strap for years, but the familiar movement evoked the intended obedience.

The big man squared his shoulders and raised his chin. “Mistress Sitis has accused me of leading the raid. She said Job’s student Elihu reported seeing me in the canyon at dawn, placing the bandits at the exits of their home.” The corner of Aban’s mouth twitched nervously.

Sayyid allowed silence to torture his young captain. Removing his hand from his belt, Sayyid clasped his hands behind his back and began a slow, reflective stroll around the anxious captain. After completing two rounds, Aban’s muscles looked as tight as lyre strings.

Sayyid rose to his toes but still stood a head shorter than this giant man. “Go now and tell Sitis I require her presence in my chamber.” He watched a bead of sweat roll down the captain’s forehead and into his eye. Still the well-trained soldier didn’t flinch. “You will say nothing in your own defense, Aban. Nothing.”

The captain’s face was plagued with questions, but his intelligence silenced him. “Yes, master,” he said, offering a curt bow. Aban strode from the room, his black robes fluttering in the wind of his hurried retreat.

Sayyid chuckled. He could think of no better punishment for Aban than to face Sitis’s wrath. A full-fledged belly laugh escaped at the thought of Aban herding Sitis up four flights of stairs and into Sayyid’s bedchamber while enduring her threats and accusations. If Elihu saw Aban in the canyon, Sitis would certainly know that Sayyid had plotted her husband’s latest demise. Considering the likelihood that Elihu would accuse Aban publicly before the elders, Sayyid would have Aban deal with Job’s young student promptly. But he would handle his Sitis-girl personally.

“Mistress, please sit down.” Nada’s consoling arms guided Sitis to a bejeweled bench under an olive tree in Sayyid’s courtyard. Sitis offered a weak smile, but standing, sitting, or lying flat on her back wouldn’t change her true position. She was destitute, and Sayyid had arranged it.

“How could I have been blind for so long?” she asked Nada, not really seeking an answer. Job had tried to warn her of Sayyid’s deceitfulness.

Even moments ago, when she and Nada had left the sacred altar, Job’s eyes begged her to be cautious. “Shobal, Lotan.” He had croaked the names of the herdsmen who had arrived at the altar frightened but unharmed. Elihu asked to accompany her and take the herdsmen along as an escort, but she knew her best chance at success lay in meeting Sayyid alone.

The nursemaid hugged Sitis’s head to her shoulder and stroked her hair. “We don’t know why Sayyid’s captain was in the canyon this morning. Save your judgment until you talk with him, my Sitis.”

Serving maids passed by, a few at first, and then as the wait grew longer, more servants walked casually through the courtyard. No doubt they were awed that the first time the great lady of Uz visited Sayyid’s home, she would arrive in such a disheveled state.

An older maid shyly approached and knelt before Sitis. “Mistress, may I bring you some sweet wine?”

Sitis looked into the woman’s face, and it was as though she had raised a bronze mirror. Her stomach lurched. The startling truth of Sayyid’s obsession knelt before her. Panicked, Sitis stood, running to each serving maid, studying her hair, her eyes, her lips. “Nada, they are me!” she cried, fresh horror gripping her.

Nada dropped her gaze, seemingly unable to reply.

“You knew?” Sitis said. “In forty years I’ve never visited Sayyid’s home, but you have come many times at my bidding. You’ve seen these women, Nada.” She let her unspoken betrayal linger in the silence.

Finally, Nada looked up, lips quivering with emotion. “Sayyid has loved you since you were children, my girl. I thought his love was pure, incapable of harm. Please, just listen to what he has to say.”

“Mistress Sitis.” Sayyid’s captain stood on the bottom stair. How long had he been there? How much had he heard? “My master requests your presence in his chamber.” The young man she knew as Aban bowed slightly, keeping his gaze averted.

“Nada, come,” Sitis said, motioning the old woman to her feet. By the gods, she would not go to Sayyid’s bedchamber by herself.

“I’m sorry, mistress, but Master Sayyid requests your presence alone.” Aban’s imposing form blocked the stairway as the women approached.

Sitis grasped Nada’s hand and thrust out her chin, her resolve as unyielding as the captain’s Hittite sword. “I know you are mighty enough to force my obedience, Aban,” she said, using the young man’s name to prompt recollections of the times he’d accompanied Sayyid to her home. “You may guide me up those stairs, alive and 
with
 my maid, or carry my dead carcass 
without
 my maid to your master’s bedchamber. You decide which Sayyid would prefer.”

The young captain shifted nervously, eyeing Nada’s wide stance and clenched jaw. “All right, but she remains silent,” he said, casting a menacing glance at Nada before turning to ascend the stairs.

Sitis sighed with relief and began the long climb. Aban snatched a wall lamp from a niche and handed it to her. “You’ll need this.” Their eyes met for just a moment, and she caught just a hint of . . . was it compassion? Remorse? Guilt? Just as suddenly, he turned and continued his march up the stairs.

Sitis’s anger reignited. “How dare you raid and pillage my home.”

Silence. He continued the march.

“And then burn everything we own!” Her voice disintegrated into a whine, her legs burning from the climb, her throat burning with emotion.

The giant, black-robed figure stalked up the stairs in front of her without comment.

“Stop!”

He continued to ignore her.

Desperate for a response, she lunged at his foot and pulled hard, sending the hulking man to his hands and knees. A rush of dread choked Sitis. She sat back against the wall, bracing herself for his heated retaliation.

Aban’s smooth, brown face turned slowly, but the anger Sitis expected was absent. His hand came toward her, and she flinched, thinking he would strike her. The blow didn’t come.

She looked up and found his outstretched hand waiting to help her stand. “Please come, Mistress Sitis.” His voice was gentle. “My master will answer your questions.”

The mountaintop altar had proven a clever escape from the bandits and a safe harbor from the fire, but as the sun brightened, their future dimmed. The rejoicing when Shobal and Lotan returned changed to mourning at their departure.

“We smeared ourselves with mud and soot and escaped on Master Job’s camels among the Nameless Ones,” Shobal had reported when they arrived earlier. “When the filthy bandits began arguing over their share of bounty, we slipped away. We knew you would come to the altar, Master Job.” Shobal hesitated, making his next words resound like a trumpet. “But none of us have anything left to sacrifice.”

Lotan nodded and then stepped forward. “If Sayyid is involved in all this, Master Job, we must consider the safety of our families.” His voice was choked. “Shobal and me—well, we’re sorry to leave you like this . . .” He trailed off like a breathless flute player.

Now Dinah watched the silhouettes of Job’s herdsmen fade through the waves of heat. 
Will we all fade away, El Shaddai—like words, like silhouettes, like breath?
 She felt the oppressive rays beating down on her head and felt the stone bench warming beneath her.

Lifting a linen sheet from the pile beside her, she handed Nogahla a coverlet from the pile of bed linens they’d brought out of their chamber. “We must tear this cloth into bandages a handbreadth in width.”

Elihu was pacing nearby, and Dinah tilted her head, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Do you have a job, or would you like me to give you one?” She half smiled, but Elihu’s brow furrowed as if considering a troublesome child.

He rushed over, and his thin frame cast a slender shadow. “My job, if you must know—and it seems you must—is to challenge the most conniving, deceitful man in Uz. I need to prove Sayyid’s guilt to the city elders, but I have no witnesses, no resources, and no support from Abba Job’s friends or family.” His face had grown redder as he’d ticked off the impossibilities, but Dinah refused to be cowed.

“Well, while you’re at it,” she said, standing to match his fervor, “you can also find us shelter. And soon.” She punctuated the last two words with a nod and returned to her seat beside Job. “He can’t withstand this sun much longer, and I need your help dressing his wounds.”

She began lifting Job’s robe from his chest, thinking he was unconscious. He moaned, as some of the weeping sores had already started to adhere to the cloth under the sun’s scorching heat. “I’m sorry, Job.” Emotion strangled her throat. Prayer was her only hope. 
El Shaddai, please carry Job into sweet unconsciousness, where he’ll feel no pain, while we tend these wounds.

“Why?” Job’s labored voice broke through her silent petition.

Elihu hurriedly knelt beside Job. “What do you mean, Abba? Why what?”

“Sores because I sin . . . sinned?” Job’s words seemed more pained than his deepest wounds. Dinah knew that kind of heartache. She had asked herself the same question a thousand times, when her life had turned to dust after Shechem.

“No, Abba. Your sores aren’t because of your sins.” Elihu’s eyes welled with tears. “Remember, we offered the sacrifice yesterday morning. You are forgiven.”

Job opened his eyes, and Elihu leaned close to meet his gaze. The teacher seemed to be searching, testing, begging his student. “Certain? No offering . . . today.” Tears began cascading from Job’s eyes, following the deep, uneven patterns of freshly opened flesh.

“Abba, remember the teachings of Shem. While they were on the ark, Noah couldn’t offer burnt sacrifices, but he was obedient in his heart and gathered clean animals for the offerings he would make when the journey ended.” Elihu’s voice broke, and he wiped his face. “Abba, you will offer sacrifices again someday. El Shaddai knows your heart.” Sobs overtook him, and he buried his face in his hands.

“Tears burn.” Job’s tortured expression revealed more than mere physical pain. He was devastated to have nothing to offer the God he loved and served wholeheartedly.