Love Amid the Ashes (29 page)

“Listen, Job,” Bildad said, his voice showing a measure of remorse, “if you will look to the Most High and plead with Him, if you are pure and upright, He will restore you to your rightful place. Eliphaz and I have lived a long time, and the older generations have much to teach you. Tradition is a valuable guide, and we can assure you that God does not reject a blameless man or strengthen the hands of evildoers.”

Job looked at the line of his once dear friends—Elihu, Zophar, Eliphaz, and Bildad—and then noted the smug grin on Sayyid’s face. Job released a deep sigh. He was spent. Weary and miserable, he longed for death.

As he glanced beyond the relatives’ tents to the canyon’s entry, the sun’s rays illumined the approach of three silhouettes. The sight of them was like cool water to a thirsty soul. Aban, Nogahla, and . . . yes, even Dinah, were marching toward him. He suddenly recalled Sitis’s promise. “I’ll return tonight,” she had said. He must be able to tell her he fought well.

Job met Bildad’s commanding stare. “I have witnessed the truth of your statement, ‘God does not reject the blameless or strengthen the hands of evildoers.’ However, what of Eliphaz’s miraculous revelation? How can a man be blameless before God? By that argument, isn’t every man evil?” Job delighted in the consternation on Bildad’s face as he caught the old man in Eliphaz’s web of logic. “You say, ‘Plead with El Shaddai,’ but how can I? He is too powerful, invisible, and has set His purpose that will not be moved. If the Most High granted me a hearing and found all my actions to be right and good, I’m sure my words would condemn me, Bildad. So it seems to me that God toys with us, mocking when tragedy befalls the poor and lowly. If God does not harm the lowly, who does? Is there another force at work in the universe?”

Job watched Sayyid’s smile widen and the veins in Bildad’s neck bulge. Eliphaz placed a calming hand on Bildad’s leg and cowed him with a subtle nod. No doubt they would let Job condemn himself, but his next line of argument was for Sayyid’s benefit.

“Of course there are other forces in the universe,” Job continued, answering his own question. “The Ishmaelites in Uz believe in the power of their three goddesses, and many of my own Edomite clan accept the mountain god, Kaus. What about you, Sayyid? Don’t you worship idols?” Sayyid glanced at the hardened expressions on his guests’ faces, and Job felt a moment of triumph. “And yet the idolater Sayyid seems to be quite prosperous. Wouldn’t you say, Uncle Eliphaz?” Job leaned forward and spoke quietly to the most sympathetic of his visitors.

Turning his face toward heaven, Job cried out again to El Shaddai. “Does it please You to hurt me, while You smile on the schemes of the wicked? Do You have eyes of flesh? Do You see like a mortal man? Do You enjoy probing me for sin—though You know I am not guilty and that no one else can rescue me from Your hand?”

“Job!” Eliphaz tried to silence him, but Job would not be stilled.

“Your hands shaped me and made me. You knit me together and gave me life, showed me kindness. Will You now destroy me? I can’t understand it. I’ve tried to smile and pretend that everything will turn out for my good, but I cannot mask my despair any longer. Please, Yahweh, I am just a man! I need an arbitrator. Otherwise, just let me go down to the grave in peace.” At these words, Job fell silent and allowed his tears to flow.

He felt a gentle hand touch his bandaged shoulder, and when he looked up, Dinah held out a warm cup of mint tea. She and Nogahla had slipped through the charred shell of his home and discreetly ascended his ash heap. With their quiet presence behind him, he felt empowered, warmed by their friendship. Aban stood like a sentry at the front edge of the courtyard wall, a safe distance from both sides of the battle. Job noticed a shared glance between Sayyid and his captain, but Job also received a smile and wink from Aban.
Can you be trusted, my young friend?

Job’s momentary distraction was interrupted by a low, feral growl. Zophar had spotted Dinah.

Every time Dinah saw him, the hate in Zophar’s eyes startled her. She tried to steady her shaking hand so as not to spill Job’s tea.
I stand innocent before El Shaddai. No man can shame me. Innocent before El Shaddai. No shame.
She played the words over and over in her mind, trying to knead the truth into her heart like yeast into bread dough. So far it wasn’t working.

“Are all Job’s words to go unanswered?” Zophar shouted, and Dinah jumped like a spooked donkey, spilling tea on Job’s bandaged hands.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. He indicated with a nod that she should sit behind him, and she gladly tucked herself behind his shoulder.

“You imply that your beliefs are flawless and you are pure in God’s sight. I wish God would speak against you and disclose the secrets of His wisdom, for true wisdom has two sides. Know this, Job: God has even forgotten some of your sins.”

Job shook his head and threw his hands in the air. “What does that mean, Zophar? When you don’t know what to say, you spew forth this intellectual gibberish with many words and little meaning.”

Zophar’s lips pressed tight, his face red and trembling like a rumbling cooking pot ready to explode. “Can you fathom the mysteries of God?” he said. “If God has put you in prison, who can oppose Him? No one! God recognized a deceitful man and acted appropriately. If you put away the sin that you clutch in your hand . . .” Zophar pointed his chubby finger directly at Dinah, and she wished she could dig a hole in the dung pile and crawl into it. “If you put this evil away, then you’ll be able to show your face without shame and stand firm in your rightful place without fear.” He moved his accusing finger to Job. “But the wicked man fails, and escape eludes him. His hope becomes a dying gasp.”

Dinah peered over Job’s right shoulder and noticed his whole body beginning to tremble. “I’m sure you three are the keepers of all God’s wisdom and perfect understanding will die with you!” Job’s shout resulted in a coughing fit, and the clean cloth Nogahla offered was quickly smeared with blood.

Job’s pompous relatives stared, horrified.

“You live in your finery and ease,” he said through coughs, “and you show contempt for my misfortune. It’s easier to convince yourselves it’s my fault than to believe this could happen to you.” Job raised his hand in Sayyid’s direction. “But how do you explain the prosperity of those who provoke God—those who carry their gods in their hands?” Sayyid shifted uneasily on his mat, and Dinah felt an immense sense of pride at the case Job was making.

The poor man barely paused for breath. “To God belong wisdom and power. Counsel and understanding are His. He makes nations great and destroys them. All the things you have learned, I have also been taught. I am not inferior in knowledge.”

Job wiped his mouth, his coughing settling some, and he held up his hand when Eliphaz tried to interrupt. “Would it turn out well if God examined you as you are examining me? Would not His splendor terrify you as His arrows have terrified me? All your maxims are ashes and your proverbs shatter like clay. I speak to God plainly as I would speak if He stood here before me. Why? Because though He might slay me, He is still my God, my only hope of deliverance.”

He wiped his mouth again and handed the dirty rag to Dinah. “Consider this. Would a godless man dare speak so boldly? Would a godless man ask these two things of God—that He would withdraw these frightening terrors and that He would meet me face-to-face? Do these sound like requests from a godless man?”

Dinah wanted to clap, to rejoice, to cheer for this man who had suffered so violently and yet held so firmly to his faith. But no one cheered. The lengthening silence throbbed with tension until eerie laughter rose from behind the dung heap. Dinah’s eyes darted to the shadowy, burned-out remains of Job’s home, where she spotted the Nameless One cavorting with some of his men. She glanced at Elihu. He too had noticed the ominous presence. Foreboding crept up her neck, raised the fine hairs on her arms.

Sayyid cleared his throat, drawing attention to his satisfied smile. “Job appears to need a rest, and all this talk has made me hungry. I’ll instruct my cooks to serve the midday meal, and we can reconvene when the heat of the day has passed.” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together as if trying to start a fire with two sticks. Standing on Bildad’s left, he was able to appear as though he was speaking to Job, but his eyes shot cunning arrows in Dinah’s direction. “Our dessert will be a special fruit gruel that will be especially pleasing to Job and Bildad.”

When Sitis’s brother tilted his head in silent question, Sayyid laughed melodiously. “Bildad, do you remember Nada, Sitis’s old nursemaid? She has prepared a honeyed fruit gruel.” He paused and then stared at Dinah. “It was Sitis’s favorite.”

Dinah thought it strange that Sayyid rehearsed Nada’s menu, and even stranger that he spoke of Sitis as though she had gone away . . .

The Nameless One released another eerie chuckle that wriggled up her spine, and as she turned to issue a scathing glance, her blood turned to ice in her veins. Standing next to the leader, enjoying his lecherous pawing, was the one-eyed old woman who had delivered Sitis’s fruit gruel to the cave earlier that morning.

“Nooo!” Dinah was instantly on her feet but was paralyzed with indecision.

Every upturned face questioned her silently, but it was Job who whispered, “Dinah?”

“Job, I must go.” She motioned to Nogahla to follow, and the girl obeyed without question.

“Dinah, won’t you stay and try some of Sitis’s favorite dish?” Sayyid’s singsong voice called after her as she slid down the ash heap toward the courtyard wall, where Aban had been standing. He would know what to do.

“Mistress, why can’t we stay for the meal?” Nogahla asked, trying to catch up with Dinah’s quick pace.

Tears began to cascade down Dinah’s cheeks. No one else had pieced together the awful truth yet, and she couldn’t bring herself to say the words aloud.
They’ve poisoned Sitis with Nada’s gruel.
She had to get to Aban. But as she rounded the jagged corner of broken red bricks, Sayyid’s captain was already halfway across the canyon, presumably to deliver instructions for the midday meal.

Dinah broke into a run and Nogahla followed. “Aban, wait! I must speak with you!”

He turned, his features showing his annoyance at first, but Dinah’s tears stopped him in mid-stride. “Dinah, what is it? What happened up there?”

“It’s Sitis, Aban,” she whispered, careful not to let the echo of the canyon carry the news to Job or betray Aban’s allegiance. “They’ve poisoned her with Nada’s fruit gruel.” Dinah saw the horrified realization on Nogahla’s face.

Aban grabbed Dinah’s shoulders. “How do you know this?”

“Did you hear the Nameless One laughing?” Aban nodded, and Dinah continued, breathless, tears now blurring her vision and slurring her words. “The one-eyed old woman who stood beside him delivered a pot of Nada’s fruit gruel this morning before you returned to the cave with Sitis. The old woman was adamant that Sitis eat the concoction alone—as a gift from Nada.” Dinah gasped at a new horror. “El Shaddai, no! Widow Orma ate it too!” She glanced at Nogahla, and the girl darted away before Dinah could stop her.

Aban panicked. “She can’t go by herself.” He started to chase Nogahla, but Dinah clutched at his massive arm to stop him.

“Aban, stop! Think about who is watching,” she whispered. “Be wise.” Dinah tugged at his robe with all her might. “You must finish your responsibilities for Sayyid, Aban. You cannot risk further your tentative position with your master.”

Aban relented, his expression like granite. Turning abruptly, he held Dinah’s face between his hands and drew her close enough to kiss her. He whispered violently, urgently, “You get to the cave! Get there before Nogahla finds two lifeless bodies and has to remember that image for the rest of her life. I care too much for her to let that happen.” He bent and kissed Dinah roughly. “Sayyid believes I want you. That should convince him and create an excuse for me to slip away to the cave later. Now go!”

~Job 14:13~

If only you would hide me in the grave and conceal me till your anger has passed! If only you would set me a time and then remember me!

The afternoon sun burned through Sayyid’s black robe, but he lingered outside the courtyard entry to his kitchen. He found Nada precisely where he’d left her earlier—standing over a steaming pot of fruit gruel, weeping. She’d been understandably distraught when one of the serving maids told her of Sitis’s death. Nada’s whole life had been devoted to her mistress. She needed Sitis like a fire needs dung chips.

The left side of his lips turned up in a wicked grin.
I’ve cleaned out the dung from both our lives, Nada.

Quietly studying the maid, Sayyid wondered,
Will she try to return to Bildad’s camp now that Sitis is gone?
Sayyid clenched his teeth, working his jaw muscles.
I will never allow Bildad to take anyone from me again.

Nada glanced in his direction but quickly returned her attention to the pot. Could he trust her? Before he ate confidently from her hands, he must be certain she believed him innocent of any involvement in Sitis’s death. She was no fool and knew his love for Sitis had skidded into dark hatred.

“Still crying, Nada?” he said, stepping into the doorway. “Surely you realize that Sitis is in paradise with her goddesses, and you need not feel guilty.” He kept his distance, realizing that the old girl could turn her boiling pot of stew into a weapon. “How could you know our new cook would put Apple of Sodom in your fruit gruel? She was a bad woman who used your helpful purgative remedy to poison our friend.”

“But I shouldn’t have left the Sodom gourds anywhere in the kitchen, Sayyid.” Nada wiped her nose across the sleeve of her robe from elbow to wrist, and Sayyid felt a fleeting disgust at what else might have dripped into the fruit stew. “I didn’t know the woman, and I shouldn’t have trusted her.”

“Nada, as I explained this morning, no one could have anticipated her hatred for Sitis. She kept it a well-guarded secret all these years.” Sayyid took two careful steps toward the old woman, but Nada raised her wooden spoon in warning. He halted and spoke soothingly. “When one of my guards saw the old crone coming from Widow Orma’s cave this morning, he questioned her and found out she’d held a grudge against Mistress Sitis all these years for the loss of her eye.”

While Nada used her already dampened sleeve to wipe her tears, Sayyid wiped perspiration from his own brow, hoping the story had fooled her. Nada need not know the betraying cook was the Nameless One’s wife, who had lost her eye twenty years ago in a drunken clash with a woman from her own tribe.

Nada finally looked up from her cooking pot. “Sayyid, you look hungry. Would you like some of my special gruel?”

Something in the woman’s eyes gave him pause. Could she know he had ordered the Nameless Ones to find Sitis and kill her? “I had a fine meal with our guests, Nada. I don’t think I need any gruel.”

“All right,” she said, “but I know how you loved Sitis’s favorite dish when you were a scruffy farm boy visiting Master Bildad’s camp. It’s a shame to let this gruel fill your maids’ stomachs when you could enjoy it yourself.”

The woman removed the pot from the fire and started ladling it into bowls. Sayyid watched her work, the aroma of cinnamon and saffron breaking down his resolve.
She seems convinced that the old hag alone poisoned the gruel. Even if Nada suspected I was involved, she wouldn’t dare try to poison me.

As a final effort to safeguard his stomach, he said, “Nada, if you’ll join me in a bowl of stew, I’ll have some.”

She hesitated, and again Sayyid wondered if perhaps she was conniving. “Master Sayyid, I feel awkward eating alone with the master of the house. Should I call some of the other servants to join us?”

Sayyid chafed at the idea of allowing his servants to lounge at midday. “Why should you feel awkward, Nada? We’re old friends. Let’s pretend this is Bildad’s kitchen and I’m that scruffy young farm boy.”

Motioning to the reed mat beside the low table, he sat down. The woman carried over two bowls of the aromatic gruel, placing one in front of Sayyid and the other before herself. Sayyid studied his portion and then switched the bowls. “Ladies first,” he said, lifting the curved and hollowed wooden spoon she offered.

A flicker of understanding registered in the old woman’s expression. “Oh, Sayyid, I would never do such a thing.” She scooped the first taste into her mouth. “Now eat! Eat!”

No further encouragement was needed, and Sayyid shoveled in mouthful after mouthful of the sweet and savory mix. “Nada, this is heavenly!” He was so busy enjoying his portion that he overlooked the fact that Nada’s bowl remained untouched after her initial bite.

“Nooo!” The sickening realization was followed almost immediately by a ripping pain in his bowels.

The poisonous Apple of Sodom served in small doses was a mild purgative. But as Sayyid curled into a tight ball on his side, he realized Nada had most likely used enough to purge his bowels from his body. Delirium set in quickly, and Sayyid could only recall the rags stuffed in his mouth to silence his cries and the wrinkled brown face of a woman he’d once thought kind.

Job awakened to the sound of a hoopoe bird’s
oop-oop-oop
, and watched its preening dust bath at the edge of his dung pile. The sun was well past midday, and the canyon remained eerily quiet after his relatives’ feast on Sayyid’s provisions. The aroma of cinnamon and saffron lingered, bringing a wave of grief. Bildad and Elihu had taken second portions of Sitis’s favorite dish, the fruit gruel his children had savored as little ones bouncing on his knee. Zophar had even joined the reminiscing, telling stories of Ennon’s boyhood schemes to steal his sister’s special dessert.

Job’s stomach twisted now as it had at midday. He couldn’t endure their conversation or the fruit gruel that reminded him of happier days. How could his friends laugh and pretend all was well when his whole life was dust? How could these men, who called themselves family, go on living when Job died more every day?

Movement at the far end of the canyon arrested his attention, and he recognized Aban’s mountainous physique winding through the tents of the visiting army. Two willowy figures walked beside him, and Job sighed, relieved that his friends would soon return to offer their silent support. He wished Sitis could join them too, but Job had agreed it best she not hear their relatives’ detailed accusations. Forgiveness was hard for Sitis, and words once spoken were not easily forgotten. It was best she not come until after the relatives returned to their tents for the evening. Perhaps tonight Job and his wife could enjoy a few moments alone. Sitis still thrilled him, even when all else was heartbreak.

Aban and Dinah drew nearer with Nogahla close behind. Job sensed a heaviness in their countenance. Their shoulders sagged, faces drawn and gray. A terrible sense of foreboding crept into his bones. The hoopoe bird flew away, taking its bright feathers and lovely song with it. The canyon was quiet—too quiet. Where was Sayyid, and why hadn’t he roused his guests to begin the afternoon meeting? It wasn’t like him to wait patiently to see Job tortured further by his friends.

Dinah spoke momentarily to Aban and then left him in front of Bildad’s tent while she and Nogahla continued toward Job. Dinah’s odd behavior and quick departure before the midday meal had been cause for concern, and Aban’s shocking kiss seemed completely out of character for both of them.
I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.

As Dinah and Nogahla slogged through the ash and dung, Job saw that their eyes were swollen and their cheeks streaked with tears. Dinah wrung her hands, a habit she acted out unwittingly when she was nervous or afraid.
Why would she be afraid now? I’m the only one here.
But when he looked into her eyes, he became afraid too.

“Job, I need you to listen to everything I say before you ask me any questions. Please.” Dinah’s voice broke, and she nearly wrung her hands off her wrists. “Sayyid is dead.”

Job didn’t know how to respond. His lifelong enemy was gone. He wanted to rejoice.
But the Most High says I mustn’t gloat over my enemy’s misfortune.

Before he could form another thought, Dinah continued. “Nada killed him in retribution.”

What?
Job’s head spun at Dinah’s stream of words.

“An old woman took Nada’s fruit gruel to Sitis at the cave this morning, but the woman was working with Sayyid and had poisoned the gruel. Sitis and Widow Orma ate it while we were here at the meeting.” She reached out to hold his bandaged hands, but he couldn’t feel anything. “Job, can you hear me?” He nodded. “Sitis and Orma are dead too.”

Dinah’s face twisted into a tortured mask of grief, and something inside Job splintered. He thrust himself backward into the muck and clawed at his wounds, wailing and keening. “No, Yahweh! Nooo!”

Could one die of pain? Of grief? He would try. Let the agony of his sores drown him in sweet blackness.

“Ahh! Yahweh, You have destroyed all hope! All I am is gone. I am nothing.”

Hands were on him. “Job, please. You’re tearing open your wounds.”

“Master Job, you must listen to me now. You must believe. Master Job, it’s Nogahla. Remember to trust.”

Hands tried to restrain him, tried to hold and comfort the tempest raging inside and out. He ripped at his flesh. The searing fire that consumed his body gave relief to the mortal wound of his soul. He fought with all his might, blinded by rage and grief and doubt, until strong hands restrained him, held him, carried him back to his place at the pinnacle of the mire.

“Job.”

At first he refused to respond, refused to acknowledge that life and breath still held him. When he finally opened his eyes, Aban’s face met him, and the big man’s tears revealed his heart.

“I’m so sorry. I failed you.” The simple words soothed Job more than herbs. “You must let Dinah and Nogahla tend your wounds. Your relatives will come to you in a few moments to make plans for Sitis’s burial.”

Job realized that he was lying in Aban’s arms like a child. How long had it been since he’d been held in a caring embrace? “Thank you,” he whispered. Tears still falling, he was spent.

Aban laid him on the visitors’ reed mats. “Your so-called friends can find their own mats.” The guard’s face clouded. “Dinah, when you and Nogahla are finished, I’ll go to the relatives’ tents and tell them they cannot talk to Job until I return from the city gate.”

Job heard Dinah speak as if she were at the bottom of a pit. “Why must you be the one to speak in Nada’s defense, Aban?”

“Because I was the one who found her and my father’s serving maids wrapping his body for burial.”

Job closed his eyes, wishing he could join Sitis. When would the madness of this world end?
El Shaddai, if only You would hide me in the grave until Your anger has passed.

A troubling thought crossed his mind as Dinah began the arduous process of tending his broken body.
If a man dies, will he live again?
The question had never been answered in his days at the House of Shem, and now that his children and Sitis were gone—would he ever see them again? He heard himself cry out. And then the darkness he yearned for overtook him.

The moment Aban entered Bildad’s tent and reported Ima Sitis’s death, Elihu wanted to run to Abba Job, to hold him and comfort him. When he heard Job’s wailing and saw Aban dart away, he had no idea the guard would treat Job so gently. Elihu followed at a distance and watched the guard cradle Job in his arms and speak soft words of encouragement.
I should be caring for Abba Job
, he thought.

Elihu realized he should never have left Uz. He’d been so certain that by gathering the influential Edomite and powerful Ishmaelite prince, Sayyid’s treachery would be exposed. Instead, Elihu’s departure left Abba and Ima more vulnerable to Sayyid’s torture and brought nothing but condemnation from the visiting elders.

He walked the last two steps into the mire and sat on a reed mat atop a nearby mound, five paces from his unconscious Abba Job. Working feverishly to rebandage Job’s wounds and stop the bleeding, Dinah and Nogahla were like a perfectly fitted jar and lid, two pieces of one unit. Dinah breathed in, Nogahla breathed out. Even Aban worked well with the women.