The Journey Begun (17 page)

“Moshe!”

Moshe squinted into the morning sky. “Eh? That you, Eli?”

“It is.” Elihu dismounted and fell into step beside his old friend. His eyes narrowed at the raw scrape marring Moshe’s cheek. “What happened to you?”

“Argument,” Moshe muttered.

 
“I hope the other guy looks worse than you do.” Elihu risked a half-smile.

The old warrior shrugged. “Last I saw, he was still on the floor.”

The pair reached the stone bench, and Moshe settled himself onto it with a grunt.

Elihu cleared his throat. “Moshe, I’d like to sit with you, but I’m here looking for someone.”

Moshe leaned his staff against the wall and looked up.

“You haven’t seen Jonah in the last day or so, have you?”

Moshe’s face went to stone.

Lll

Jonah slipped through the narrow gate that topped the western stairway. He wound down the incline, pausing only long enough to let a woman balancing a small bundle of cordwood on her head pass. The sun had not yet conquered enough of the morning sky to warm the western stairs. He tightened his cloak around his neck, chilled in spite of the exertion.

At the bottom, the stairway spilled onto the road that marked the northern end of Megiddo Pass, connecting the Jezreel Valley to the coastal Plain of Sharon to the south. Jonah paused again to assess his situation and try to determine which direction to go.

Which direction he wanted to go…

Jonah sputtered a sardonic laugh, as an old saying of his father’s tumbled through his mind.
If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will do.

The thought of his father beckoned a sheen to his eyes. He shook the image away and wiped his face with a sleeve. Turning his gaze northward, he took in the familiar vista of the Jezreel Valley stretching toward Mt. Gilboa and beyond to the Jordan River. He forced his mind shut against the memories that crowded his consciousness—memories of good days, days of promise, days of hope. Only one memory, though, was strong enough to break the barrier and it caught his breath short.

Jerusalem! He whirled and stared into the dazzling corona of the sun poised to break Megiddo’s skyline, as the realization crowded out everything else. He should be preparing for the family’s annual pilgrimage for the Passover celebration in Jerusalem. He had never missed the event—not one year—even when the weight of the family’s welfare fell to him following his father’s death.

Jerusalem! His mind could not shut out memories of the years of gaiety and solemnity, hopefulness and holiness, of the Passover feast in Jerusalem. He should be leading his family on the most poignant, meaningful, and obedient journey a child of Abraham could make. Instead, he was alone, running directionless from the God of his fathers and avoiding anyone who may recognize him and bring him to account.

Bring him to account.

That’s what the Passover was all about. To remember
Adonai’s
deliverance of His people from bondage in Egypt. That bondage was a result of Jacob’s family fleeing the Promised Land in the face of famine. God gave Canaan to Abraham, and his descendents now forsook that gift at the first hardship. Jonah was fleeing the Promised Land in the face of a distasteful calling. The same God had given him his commission, a commission he now forsook at the first adversity. Would this also be into bondage?

“No! This isn’t the same thing! You’re not fleeing the Promised Land. You’ve been thrown out of it!”

The silky voice stabbed his mind with pain and doubt.

“‘Get out!’ Isn’t that what they said?”

Jonah clutched his head. He tried to shake off the notion, to recapture the thought of what he was doing. But the voice was persistent.

“You won’t survive. You’ll be cast away from your own people and fall victim to an enemy. Yes, a victim.”

The voice was right.
Go to Nineveh and preach?
God intended to fling him into the jaws of Israel’s worst enemy, who would at best ignore him and at worst kill him. And what of his family? They wanted nothing more to do with him. They had made that clear. No, this wasn’t his fault. He was indeed a victim. He wasn’t fleeing. He was doing what any man would do. He was trying to preserve his own life in the face of an unreasonable God and an unreasonable world. It’s what any man would do. Any man.

Jonah raised his head and squinted at where the road rose into Megiddo Pass. He weighed the road south in his mind. It met the first important criterion—it was the opposite direction from Assyria. He had settled that argument with himself two nights ago. Beyond the pass lie Philistia, the Great Sea, Egypt…wait—the Great Sea! That’s it! The possibilities were limitless over the Great Sea. Maybe west to Crete, or even beyond to lands unknown.

Yes, that was it. He would sail. Where? Who knew? Who cared? It was away from all of this. He remembered hearing of cities along the coast of Philistia where he could book passage. Acco and Phoenicia were too far to the north, which meant he would have to backtrack into the Jezreel Valley. That was no good. To the south, though, lie Joppa, Ashkelon, Ashdod, a number of port cities where he could find passage away from Israel, away from Assyria.

That was the plan, then. He felt relieved that he was no longer without direction. South it would be, to Joppa maybe, or beyond. Yes, far beyond. Jonah surveyed the road once more and rubbed his hands on his cloak. Through the coarse material, he fingered the contours of the treasure belt slung over his shoulder and felt reassured. He had silver. He was actually rich, self-reliant. He didn’t need anything. Or anybody.

With a glance back at what once was his favorite city, the wayward prophet took the first step of what he tried to convince himself was an adventure. Yes, an adventure. That was what it was.

An adventure…

Lll

“He flees, Mistress.”

“Yes. You have done well.”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

“The guard at the gate. That was clever.”

“He will lose the arm?”

“He will die. Only a human. A small price to keep the prophet from the warrior.”

“The prophet is still protected.”

“It is to no avail! He rebels and he flees. He will not return. He must not return.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Nineteen

hem planted his foot onto a weathered basalt boulder near the end of the quay. His arms propped across his knee, the captain of the
Ba’al Hayam
studied his charge still listing off beam across the harbor’s choppy waters. He cursed under his breath. There was no way the
Ba’al
would be ready to sail in two days—or twenty days, for that matter. Too much remained to be done. The damp salt air prevented the sealing resin on the sail from curing as quickly as he hoped. Hairline splits in the grain of the mast worried him that the iron strapping would not be enough to hold it even in a modest gale. And it was a fool’s tale to believe cheating the cargo to port would offset that list to starboard

Carpenters and loading crew intermingled on deck, and even at this distance he could hear shouts of frustration as their tasks collided. Too much, too fast. Not only would the final repairs be shoddy, but the confusion would hinder the careful attention needed to distribute the overweight cargo. He shook his head and spat over the edge of the rock.

“Hoi!”
A mop of dark brown hair appeared from the rock ledge just beyond Shem’s boulder. Simon’s face appeared. He squinted into the morning sky, wiping the insult from the back of his neck with a sleeve.

Shem grinned. “Eh, Simon? What are you doing down there?”

“Getting wet!” Simon frowned at his captain and pulled his collar up.

The captain snorted a laugh and reached down to help his helmsman clamber over the boulder to the top of the quay. Simon shook the dust from his clothing. “What brings you out here?”

“She does.” Shem nodded toward the
Ba’al
.

Simon traced Shem’s frown to the ship. He shook his head at the tilted mast probing the morning sky.

“Will she be ready?”

“I don’t know.” Shem looked at Simon. “Are you signing on for this one? It’s a long haul, you know. Crete to Malta and from there, who knows? Tarshish, probably, judging by the Omer’s cargo manifest. We won’t know for sure until we reach Malta.”

Simon avoided his captain’s eyes. “I haven’t decided. That last trip was pretty rough.” He shot a quick look at the feathery clouds drifting above the western horizon. “It’s getting late in the season for a long haul, isn’t it?”

Shem shrugged. “Wouldn’t want to wait much longer, but we should be all right. Won’t have to wait anyway. Omer won’t budge on getting her under sail at the next spring tide. That’s two days from now.”

“That soon? I figured it would have to be within the next two weeks, but two days? Have they found the reason for her list to starboard?” The helmsman tilted his head to match the angle of the mast.

Shem shook his head. “No, and they probably won’t find it. We need a sea trial, but there’s no time. They’re overloading the port side to try to bring her to true.” He raised an eyebrow at his helmsman. “But you and I both know how well that works.”

Simon pursed his lips. “If we keep to smooth seas, we’d probably be all right, but you can never count on that.”

“‘We’?” Shem smiled. “That mean you’re signing on, then?”

The crewman jerked his head. “Did I say we?”

“You said we.”

Simon rubbed his head and stared at the ground. He sighed. “I could use the pay, I guess. I was thinking one more long haul could bring enough silver to make it my last one.”

Shem’s voice showed surprise. “Last one? You’re young to be packing it in so soon, aren’t you? You’ve got a lot of sea years left in you. Why quit now?”

“She’s never been a love of mine, the sea.” Simon set an absent gaze on the waves slapping the bottom of the quay. “I sail to eat. I’ve been able to save most of my earnings over the years. I was thinking of maybe going back to Tyre. My family’s there. At least, I think they’re still there.” He looked up at Shem. “I haven’t been back home since I left.”

Shem shrugged. “Your decision.” With one more frown at the
Ba’al
he turned to go.

Simon’s voice wafted over his shoulder. “So, what
do
you think? Will she be ready?”

Shem paused, but did not look back. “Sure. She’ll be ready.”

Lll

Simon watched his captain navigate the twisting path leading to the mouth of the jetty and the road that scaled Joppa’s hill. He turned back toward the open sea, scanned the sky one more time, and drew a deep lungful of salt air before turning around and heading back to town. His heart sagged in his chest, and he couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut that this would be the
Ba’al’s
last voyage. He just didn’t know why.

Back at the inn, Simon decided he needed a break from the smell and sound of the surf. The road from Joppa to the main coastal land route was not long. He decided a walk inland would do him good. No need to travel far, just enough to smell the aroma of a cedar tree instead of the musky sea air. It would be nice for once to look around without seeing water. He collected his cloak and headed toward the door. As he stepped into the bright sunlight of a cloudless midday, he decided to notify the purser he would be signing onto the
Ba’al’s
next voyage. For now, though, he was up for a walk—after a pass through the marketplace for some bread, dried figs, and perhaps a small skin of wine. Yes, this is just what he needed. Something restful. Something to take his mind off this next haul.

Anything to take his mind off this next haul.