Song of Redemption (43 page)

“Go back and keep digging,” Hezekiah said at last. “I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”

Shebna stormed back to his chambers, angry and frustrated. King Hezekiah was making a terrible mistake. It would take the workmen days to hide every trace of the unfinished tunnels, but instead of ordering them to begin immediately, Hezekiah had allowed them to continue their useless digging. What a tragic waste of valuable time! The tunnels would never meet. The king should have listened to Shebna’s advice and reopened the water shaft. At least that project would have been finished by now. It seemed to Shebna that the king was faltering in this crisis, unable or unwilling to make a decision. He was deeply disappointed in Hezekiah, and for the first time ever, Shebna wanted to distance himself from the king and be alone. But when he opened the door to his private chambers, Prince Gedaliah and the elders of Lachish were waiting for him.

“Give us an audience with the king,” Gedaliah said abruptly.

Shebna folded his arms across his chest. “What for?”

“Surely you’ve heard the news, Shebna. Samaria has fallen, and we’re probably going to be next.” He slapped a document into Shebna’s hands. “This petition asks the king to send tribute before we’re wiped out like our brothers to the north.”

“How did you get to Jerusalem so fast?”

“The news is all over Judah that Assyrian scouts were seen in our territory. We didn’t wait for the ax to fall. We decided to come with our petition right away. We just happened to arrive in time to hear the news. Now, do we get our audience or not?”

“It would be a waste of time. Your petition will not matter one way or the other.” Shebna handed it back to Gedaliah.

“Haven’t you had enough of him yet?” Gedaliah shouted. “Can’t you see that my brother isn’t fit to rule?”

The elders’ angry faces told Shebna that they agreed with the prince. And after Hezekiah’s wavering indecision this morning, Shebna wondered if perhaps they were right. But if Gedaliah wanted to plot a rebellion, Shebna didn’t want any witnesses to his part in the conspiracy.

“I will see that the king gets your petition. Now, if you have anything more to discuss with me, Gedaliah, you will have to do it privately.” “Oh, stop playing your stupid games. We all know you’re as disgusted with Hezekiah as we are.”

“You are mistaken.”

“Oh, really? Then why have you been working until midnight every night on tax proposals and petitions for alliances?”

The knowledge that he was being watched made Shebna shudder. “I drew up those documents in case the king decides to use them. I have no intention of implementing them myself.”

Gedaliah turned to the city elders. “You’d better leave and let me talk to him in private. He can be pretty stubborn.” The men muttered their discontent as they filed from the room.

“Now then,” Gedaliah said when they were alone. “Can we cut out all the loyalty garbage and talk seriously?”

“That depends. What exactly do you want from me?”

“I thought you were smart, Shebna. But if you want me to spell it out for you, I will.” His voice rose to a shout, and Shebna backed away from him. “We’re about to be invaded by the most powerful nation on earth—all because Hezekiah became a religious fanatic and stopped sending tribute! There’s only one thing left for any king to do—either send the tribute with his humble apologies or find some very strong allies, fast!”

“That is what I have been advising—no, begging—him to do.”

“But he isn’t listening, is he? Even his military advisors are telling him to marshal the troops, but is he listening? I’m telling you, he’s incompetent!”

“If you make that accusation again, I swear I will—”

“Then what is he waiting for? Does he
want
to be wiped out?”

Shebna hesitated, reluctant to disclose the reason for Hezekiah’s inaction. Shebna knew that the king was a very competent ruler, even if he didn’t always agree with his decisions. He could no longer bear to hear the prince’s criticism.

“King Hezekiah consults his god in every decision he makes. He is waiting for Isaiah to tell him what Yahweh wants him to do.”

Even as he spoke the words, Shebna realized the foolishness of what Hezekiah was doing. There was no god to answer him or to come to his rescue. The king had no right to risk his nation’s future on the basis of a myth.

Gedaliah spat out a string of angry curses. “Just who is running this nation—Hezekiah or Isaiah? And if you’re supposed to be his chief advisor, why is he ignoring your advice and going to someone else?”

This time Gedaliah’s words hit their mark. Hezekiah had been ignoring Shebna’s advice for weeks, and no amount of pleading had changed his mind. Even this morning the king had asked for Shebna’s advice on the tunnel, then promptly disregarded it. But Hezekiah wouldn’t ignore Isaiah’s advice. Shebna’s anger and frustration finally reached their limit.

“What do you propose, Gedaliah?”

“It isn’t just my proposal. All the city elders agree—some of the army commanders, too. If King Hezekiah won’t listen to reason, then we need a different king.”

Shebna turned his back on Gedaliah and stared through the open window at Ahaz’s clock tower. Disappointment and resentment consumed him, and for the first time in his life he couldn’t seem to think clearly.

“Will there be an assassination?” he finally asked.

“I could never kill my own brother.” Gedaliah’s voice was as smooth as olive oil. Shebna knew he was lying.

“Who do these elders have in mind as their new king?” he asked bitterly.

“My first action as King of Judah would be to do exactly what you’ve advised, Shebna—send tribute to Assyria in order to avert this disaster that’s hanging over us. Unlike my brother, I would take your advice very seriously. I’m asking you to serve as my palace administrator.”

Shebna didn’t reply. He hated Gedaliah. The prince was a powerhungry traitor, but he was also right. The nation faced certain annihilation if Hezekiah refused to act. Shebna’s friendship and loyalty to Hezekiah spanned more than twenty years. He greatly admired the king for his integrity and courage, qualities that Gedaliah certainly lacked. But the frustration of having his own advice ignored for the past several months had strained their relationship. The fact that Hezekiah turned to Isaiah in a crisis instead of him angered him the most.

Shebna understood the consequences of supporting Gedaliah if the takeover failed. But he also understood the consequences of remaining loyal to Hezekiah if the plot succeeded. It was simply a matter of betting on which brother would win—or deciding which brother he was willing to die for. He felt trapped.

“Are you with us or not?” Gedaliah asked.

“When is this going to take place?”

“I’m not stupid enough to tell you everything until I know where you stand.”

“I need time to decide.” The only way for Shebna to escape this trap was to find Isaiah and hope that the prophet’s advice would finally cause Hezekiah to take action.

“You’re stalling!” Gedaliah said.

“No! You are asking me to put my life in jeopardy. I will give you my decision tomorrow. Not before.”

“We can’t wait that long.”

“If you want my support, you will have to. Now get out!”

34

E
LIAKIM LEFT THE PALACE
and walked down the hill in a daze of guilt and failure. He had seen the anxiety and disappointment on King Hezekiah’s face, and he knew he was to blame. He had been so sure he could do the impossible. Now he had failed. The king had told him to keep digging, but what was the use? Eliakim knew that his two tunnels were never going to meet.

As he walked through the Water Gate and down the steep ramp to the spring, he saw the beautiful Kidron Valley spread out before him. But instead of the green patchwork of gardens and olive groves, Eliakim saw thousands of Assyrian troops trampling the earth beneath their chariots, staining the brook red with blood. With a gnawing ache in the pit of his stomach, he made his way to the tunnel entrance and found his foreman.

“I need to measure the tunnel again,” Eliakim told him. “We must have strayed off course somehow, and we need to get back on track.”

Eliakim tried to sound confident, but anything he tried would be a stab in the dark. It seemed useless to continue digging, but he didn’t know what else to do except obey the king’s orders.

“Tell all the men to take a break,” he said. “Send them out here so they’ll be out of my way. I need space to measure properly.”

“Even the laborer at the end, my lord?”

“Yes. And bring all the torches out to conserve air; it’s getting stuffy in there. I’ll need only one lamp.”

The foreman shrugged. “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”

Eliakim sat down to wait, wishing in vain that he wasn’t the boss. When the workmen had all cleared out, Eliakim slowly crawled through the tunnel, re-measuring carefully, comparing the results with the figures in his diagrams. The twisting path of the fissure probably caused all his problems in this tunnel. And the huge curve he had dug to avoid the kings’ graves had thrown him off course in the other one. He wished for the hundredth time that he had dug the tunnel straight instead of following the fault line.

But as Eliakim crouched in the cramped, suffocating darkness, he knew that he wouldn’t find a mistake in his calculations. His mistake had been pride—reckless overconfidence fueled by hatred. Arrogance had convinced him that he could tunnel from opposite ends and meet in the middle. Revenge had induced him to attempt this impossible feat. He had been a conceited fool.

With rising despair, Eliakim inched through the dark, stuffy tunnel, measuring carefully, pulling his lamp and his drawings along with him. When the ceiling lowered, he ducked his head and crawled on his hands and knees for the last few cubits until the tunnel ended abruptly in a wall of rock. He crouched in a space barely three feet high and as wide as his shoulders, surrounded on three sides by solid rock. Unyielding, impenetrable, immovable rock. He hadn’t dug a tunnel after all, but a tomb—twin grave pits in which to bury the people of Jerusalem. He had failed.

“NO!” he shouted. The gloomy walls absorbed the sound of his voice as they closed in around him. “NO! NO! NO!” He pounded his fists against the silent, jagged wall until his flesh was bruised and raw.

“Where are you, you cursed tunnel?” he cried as he clawed at the stone, trying to dig it away with his hands. “Do you want them to win? Those heathens are going to win again! Where are you?” Jagged rock tore at Eliakim’s skin until his hands bled, but he never noticed the pain as he beat against the wall again and again. At last he slumped to the ground, exhausted and defeated. His chest heaved from exertion, and he tasted the bitterness of failure. He was lying inside his own grave.

As Eliakim stared up at the ceiling, it seemed as though the black, uncaring walls were slowly closing in on him. The place where he lay seemed to gradually grow smaller and smaller. In just a few more minutes the walls would crush him to death.

His heart pounded savagely as his panic soared. His lungs strained for air. He couldn’t catch his breath.

He had to get out! The walls were closing in! The tunnel was out of air!

He grabbed his oil lamp and snuffed out the flame. The moment he did, Eliakim realized his mistake. He cried out in horror as he was plunged into total, impenetrable darkness.

“Help me!”

The walls absorbed the sound of his screams. He tried to scramble to his feet, but cold, hard rock smashed into him on every side. He groped in the dark like a blind man, striking his head against the ceiling, feeling along the walls for the way out. He couldn’t find it. He’d been buried alive.

“Oh, God—help me!”

Somehow Eliakim found the opening and clawed his way forward on his face. Dirt filled his mouth and throat as his lungs screamed for air. Then the tunnel widened, and he could stand. He pulled himself to his feet, but his trembling legs barely supported him. He gasped for each breath of air. The ceiling was pressing down on him, the walls were still closing in. At any moment he would be crushed to death beneath millions of tons of rock.

Eliakim began stumbling forward through the blackness, his arms outstretched. But the sharp twists and right-angle turns of the tunnel continually blocked his escape as he smashed into barriers of stone, again and again.

“Somebody help me!”

On and on in maddening blindness, searching for a way out, finding none. It wasn’t a tunnel, but an endless maze, a hopeless labyrinth. He couldn’t breathe. He was going to die. He had dug his own tomb.

“Oh, God!” he screamed. “NO!”

Suddenly Eliakim tripped and fell headfirst. Cold, black water slapped his face, then surrounded and engulfed him. The icy shock brought him to his senses. He struggled to his knees, coughing and choking for air. He knew where he was now—he had tripped over the dam that held back the spring water and he’d fallen headlong into the old Jebusite holding pool. He pulled himself out of the water, leaned against the wall, and vomited. When his stomach finished heaving, Eliakim knelt beside the water for a long time, gulping air, waiting for his panic to subside. He made a shaky attempt to wash off the vomit and blood, then slowly rose, staggering into the blinding sunlight.