The Journey Begun (19 page)

“Not much. A little.” Elihu rubbed his hands slowly at the memory of his confrontation at the tavern. “You’re right, of course. Jonah was there. They wouldn’t say when he left. Maybe they really didn’t know.” He glanced at the red skin puffing around the tear in his friend’s cheek. “You keep rough company.”

Moshe frowned but said nothing.

“That a regular spot of yours?” Elihu raised an eyebrow.

“It’s a place.” The frown deepened and Moshe shifted on the bench, his eyes locked on the pavement.

 
“From what I could see, it draws a pretty lousy lot. Not your class, I think—”

“You tellin’ me where ta drink?” Moshe went stock still, but still did not make eye contact with his old friend.

“No, of course not, but—”

“Then don’t.”

Elihu leaned back. He shifted himself toward his comrade and narrowed his eyes at the tense muscles in the bent man’s jaw and the purple veins straining against the skin of his neck.

Moshe didn’t move.

“Sorry.” Elihu paused. “Just doesn’t seem like you to rub elbows with drunks and army deserters.”

“Maybe that’s all that’s left. Thought o’ that?” The gravel in Moshe’s voice deepened. He hacked a raspy cough and spat phlegm onto the stone pavement.

Elihu cocked his head. “I don’t get—”

“No, ya don’t get it, do ya?” Moshe lifted his head, his watery eyes drilling into Elihu’s. “Yer too busy rubbin’ elbows with royalty to figure it out, aren’t ya?”

Elihu’s mouth tightened. “You have no call to—”

“Jeroboam got ya runnin’ everything yet, or are ya still only commandin’ half the army? No matter, won’t be long.”

“Moshe— “

“You an’ yer sorry excuse for a—what didja call him? Oh yeah, a ‘prophet’! Ya get the whole country stirred up, get yerself made a commander, get him in favor with the king so’s he can sell more goat hides at the palace.” Moshe rose and faced Elihu down. “An’, ya know, even the trash at Ari’s don’t look ya in the eye an’ say they don’t even know ya! Them you call deserters got a better reason for bein’ where they are than the coward you call a friend!” He jabbed a finger toward his inflamed cheek. “Even this was from a fair fight.”

Elihu bristled. “Fair fight? Not according to what you told me this morning. You got jumped, remember?”

“Bah!” Moshe waved him off and grabbed his staff from against the wall. Elihu’s mount shied back at the sudden movement. “Go back ta yer troops, Eli. Ya aren’t needed here.”

Moshe suddenly bent double, racked by a fit of coughing. He clung to his staff to keep balance and half spat, half wretched a wad onto the road. It was tinged with blood.

Elihu stood and took a step toward his old friend. He stopped, not sure what to do. Moshe grasped his rod and hung on, his dead arm swinging at his side and his body weaving around the pivot point where his rod gouged the surface of the road. His thick throat wheezed for precious air.

“Not fair.” The hollow words squeezed out between convulsions.

Elihu straightened, his eyes rounding. He went lightheaded, as a wave of understanding welled up and pricked his brain. Moshe was right. The declining warrior was fighting two enemies, neither of whom he could beat. The army was his life, and his life had rejected him. Elihu appeared to shed years in the company of arms, while his friend drifted into oblivion, driven to seeking the companionship of drunken vermin and, yes, even army deserters. The very lot that once elicited from both men nothing but utter contempt Moshe now defended. He pardoned cowards and deserters, the lowest form of life, to his closest friend and companion—a companion who could afford the luxury of honorable company. The realization that the wound killing Moshe physically and emotionally was the same one that enabled Elihu’s new life pierced the veteran’s conscience like the Aramean sword that inflicted the injury.

The second enemy was a more grievous wound—that of breached loyalty. To soldiers like Elihu and Moshe, it was the supreme virtue. Inviolable. Sacrosanct. The unspoken, yet unquestionable pledge between two men of honor even the threat of death could not sway. Elihu knew it was loyalty that threw Moshe’s shoulder into the path of the sword. He also knew Moshe never once regretted that act, that he would do it all over again. That’s what you do for comrades in arms. That’s what you do for friends. Elihu imagined Jonah looking Moshe in the face and denying knowing him didn’t anger his friend as much as it confused him. Such an act was so foreign to Moshe’s ethic that he had not yet even fully comprehended it. In a way, that was worse.

The two enemies melded into a single monster, against which Moshe could not prevail. No man of honor could. So he broke. And he cursed. And he spat venom at his closest friend.

Elihu’s brow burned with the realization that he was the single connection between Moshe and both of these enemies. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He had been so enmeshed in Jeroboam’s service that he’d forgotten the comradeship of the common soldiers who made up his command. He’d lost his compassion for the man in his passion for the cause—much like he had with Jonah at the vineyard two nights ago. The scene rushed back to his mind’s eye and Hadassah’s words echoed through his head.
“We, and people just like us, are what make up Israel. You seem to have forgotten that.”
Yes, he was back in Israel’s service—the realization of a dream, he had told Jeroboam those years ago—and the army had welcomed him with open arms. But he had indeed forgotten the people who made up Israel and the men who filled the ranks of his army. People like Jonah. Men like Moshe.

Moshe hacked and spat again. His breath came in muffled rasps as he fought to calm his breathing.

“No, it isn’t fair.” Elihu moved around to face his old friend. “I’d give anything to have you back in camp, Moshe.” He reached out and grasped high on the staff, steadying it, but he didn’t touch the struggling veteran. He knew Moshe needed to stand back up on his own. No other way would do.

“Don’t need yer pity.” Moshe pulled himself up a hand’s breadth higher on the staff.

“Not pity. Truth. There’s no one on my command staff with the experience and tactical sense you have. No one.” Elihu told the truth, although he knew what the response would be.

“I’d die in the command tent.” Moshe raised his eyes to meet Elihu’s. “I was born fer the field.”

“I know.”

“I can’t do the field anymore.”

“I know that, too. That’s why I didn’t back you when you responded to the call to arms.”

Moshe creased his brow. “Ya knew I was there?”

“Yes.”

Moshe stooped and groped for the bench. Elihu tipped the staff back enough to ease his friend onto the seat. Grimacing through one more cough, the old soldier heaved a sigh.

Elihu released the staff and remained standing out of respect to his friend and from the guilt of his deserved chastisement.

“They came to me when you showed up. They knew we were friends.” He paused and looked Moshe in the face. “I told them to let you go.”

They locked eyes. Elihu saw his friend’s mind racing. He wasn’t sure what would come next, but it didn’t matter. Now was the time for honesty. Complete honesty.

Moshe sniffed. “Maybe I coulda…” He faltered.

Elihu shook his head.

Moshe went silent and stared at the pavement.

Elihu broke the silence. “I would’ve considered it an honor to stand in battle with you again. But I’d have been killing you, same as if I’d run my own sword into your gut.” He looked down. “I couldn’t do that.”

Moshe grunted. “There’s worse ways ta die.”

“You forget, though, that no man stands alone on the battlefield.” Elihu’s tone was soft. “Every time a soldier drops, he leaves at least two others at greater risk.”

His friend nodded. “‘A line’s only as strong as its weakest warrior.’ I know.”

Elihu sat down beside his comrade and absently fingered the scar on his neck. “It was a hard decision.”

“S’pose I’d ’a made the same one.”

“Glad you didn’t have to.”

Moshe drew himself up and rasped a heavy breath. After a pause, he grunted a change to the subject. “So, what about…yer friend.”
[B30]
 

Elihu shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m due to meet back up with the king in Samaria in three days. I don’t know what I can do in that amount of time. If Jonah doesn’t want to be found, there are a lot of places he can hide.”

“So, ya think he knows yer after him?” Moshe cocked his head at his comrade. “Think he’s runnin’ from you?”

“He’s running from everyone, I think. That would explain why he was at the tavern last night.” Elihu stood and moved to retrieve the reins of his horse. “Any ideas?”

Moshe rubbed the stubble of his beard. “I can put the word out. Folks know him here. Chances are he’ll be spotted.”

Elihu swung onto his mount. “Thanks. For now, though, I’d better keep looking. I’ll check the marketplace one more time. From there, well, I don’t know what from there.”

Moshe nodded.

Elihu turned his steed up the incline toward the gate. Before rounding the turn into the city, he glanced back over his shoulder. Moshe remained motionless on the bench, leaning forward against his staff. Elihu sighed.
Yes. It really would’ve been an honor.

Twenty-one

imon propped his back against the smooth curve of a limestone boulder and stretched his legs out at a lazy angle. A half-empty wineskin straddled his lap, and all that remained of his dried figs and cheese was a pleasant memory. He closed his eyes and basked in the warmth of the midafternoon sun. A breeze swirled the lingering aroma of an ancient cedar stump that roiled to life distant memories of boyhood days spent in the Lebanese hills.

He discovered a tiny inlet of mossy rocks and loamy soil amid the trees bordering the coastal road that passed by Joppa. The ancient trade route wound along the ridgeline above the marshy Plain of Sharon, the plain too soft to traverse. The lowlands captured Simon’s imagination as he hiked up the gentle incline from the port city to the inland passageway. What could be done with such verdant land if the myriad of rivulets draining the hills could be bridged and the rich bogs of the plain tamed by the blade of the plow? He envisioned an endless carpet of vineyards draping the slopes that led down to thriving fields of grain and orderly rows of olive and fig orchards adorning the threshold to the sea. His musings brought the sailor up short and piqued a curious thought. He wondered whether he had missed his calling behind a team of oxen plowing the land rather than at the stern of a ship plowing the waves. Well, perhaps there was still time.

His vantage point on a gentle slope above the beaten path gave Simon a clear view in both directions. A full stomach and a warm sun sedated his interest in anything but a nice nap, though, and he soon slipped into a light slumber. The corners of his mouth, upturned by the serenity of a gentle afternoon, began to twitch. Then they fell.

Dark clouds raced across the sky, obscuring the perfect day he had just left behind. He was once again behind the helm, struggling to keep his balance on a deck that tossed and pitched with increasing vehemence at the mercy of an irate sea. The ship—was it the
Ba’al?
he couldn’t tell—slid into a trough between waves towering above the tip of the mast. When it seemed the sea would swallow the vessel whole, it launched the craft toward the summit of the next billow like a twig of driftwood. A sudden jerk wrenched the tiller free of the helmsman’s grasp. The rudder flailed out of the water, the tiller bar slicing wildly through the air. A blast of wind bent the mast and whipped the sail into shreds. The deck tipped sharply to port, and Simon teetered into the path of the steering bar. It slammed into his chest and lifted him off his feet. He braced himself against the impact with the deck. The impact never came.

He found himself suspended in air, looking up at the ship as it disappeared over the crest of a monstrous wave. He spun downward into the trough, his back skimming the green-black surface of a massive wall of water. His eyes dimmed in the darkness of a rift in the sea so deep it subdued what little light managed to filter through the black sky. The terrified sailor clutched his head against the inevitable crash at the bottom of the trench. But there was no crash. As he hurtled through the abyss, he twisted his body and stared downward. The trough deepened and deepened into inky darkness, its floor staying just beyond reach of his plummeting body. As he threw one more panicked look up, the walls of water closed above him. The crushing water muffled his anguished scream, shattering his nightmare and his sleep.

“Hoi?”
A hand grabbed the writhing sailor by the wrist. He kicked blindly toward the voice, his convulsion flinging the wineskin into the air. Simon jerked his eyes open. He froze in mid-gasp at an old man stooping over him with a quizzical, burgundy-splattered look on his face. The old man released his grip, straightened, and wiped the splashes from his cheek. “Bad dream, eh?”

Simon gulped against his heaving chest and tried to speak, but no words came. He pushed away from the boulder and tried to stand, but his quivering muscles failed him, and he fell back.

“Slow down. Catch your breath.” The old man retrieved the wineskin from a widening pool of red-tinged mud and offered it to Simon. He drained the dregs in one swallow. After a moment, the old man extended a hand to the shaken sailor. Simon grasped it and pulled himself to his feet.

“Th-thanks.” He flashed an embarrassed glance at the stranger as he brushed the dirt from his legs.

The man leaned on his walking stick and cocked his head. “What are you doing sleeping out here?”

“I just dozed off, I guess. Took a walk up from Joppa this morning and had a few bites to eat. Got sleepy.”

“Joppa?” The man looked back at the road behind him.

The sailor nodded. “My name’s Simon. I’m a helmsman on a cargo ship at anchor in Joppa’s harbor.” He offered his hand. “And you?”

The man turned back and held Simon with deep hazel eyes. “I’m—my name is Jonah.”

Lll

The corner of the inn lay deep in shadow. A splay of sunlight shimmered and drew a thin line high on the wall. Below, a lone figure slouched in a chair, his feet propped up on a table and his head dipped forward. Gleaming motes of dust suspended in the air gave form to the weakening ray and then abruptly disappeared as the sun slipped below the level of the window. Shem’s head lolled on his chest, heavy after emptying a wine carafe now lying on the table. His elbows hung by his sides, held tenuously by long fingers loosely interlocked over his chest. The innkeeper’s wife wiped down a long serving table and frowned at the staccato snoring pervading the far corner of the room. She exchanged glances with her husband as he set about trimming an oil lamp to rescue the room from the encroaching darkness.

The front door creaked on its hinges and two men entered the inn. They paused and squinted into the deepening twilight. Shem’s snoring turned their heads his direction. The taller man nudged his comrade with his elbow and the two began marking a careful path toward the corner. A second oil lamp sprang to life, chasing the darkness farther into the recesses of the room and casting a flickering glow around the drowsing seaman. The taller stranger looked back at his companion and nodded. The two stopped in front of the corner table and looked down at the slumbering mariner. A third lamp sparked and flared an orange glow, casting two shimmering silhouettes onto the lime-plastered wall behind the seaman. The
Ba’al’s
captain snorted and rolled his head to the side. The tall man reached toward Shem’s neck. A sudden flash from a fourth oil lamp penetrated the corner and jerked the seaman from sleep just as the stranger’s hand closed on his shoulder.

“Hoi!”
 
Shem’s hand shot out and grabbed the stranger’s arm. In one motion he pulled the intruder off balance and locked an arm around his neck. The shorter silhouette jumped back against an adjoining table.

“Shem! Captain! It’s me!” Simon yelled, his voice muffled against the coarse fabric of Shem’s shirt.

“Simon? What in the name of the gods are you doing?” Shem released his helmsman and pushed him back. Simon plopped onto a stool, just catching himself from tumbling backward onto the floor.

Jonah slipped to the far side of the table. He gaped at the two men.

The younger sailor grumped as he stretched his neck from side to side and rubbed the ear that had been smashed against the burly captain’s chest. “Sorry. Didn’t know you were so jumpy.”

“Don’t have to be jumpy not to like being grabbed out of a nap.” Shem yawned and retrieved the wine carafe from the table. He craned his neck and shook the upturned vessel over his wide-open mouth. A single drop was his only reward.

Simon glanced back at Jonah. “Captain, are we
taking on any passengers for this next haul?”

Shem raised an eyebrow. “No. Why?”

“This is Jonah.” Simon inclined his head toward the white-haired stranger standing behind the table. “He’s from up north, not too far from where I grew up, really. He wants to book passage on a long hauler.”

Shem sized up Jonah. “Where are you headed?”

Jonah hesitated. “I’m not sure, really.”

The captain’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not sure. You in trouble? Running from someone maybe? I don’t like troublemakers.”

“N-no.” The fleeing prophet started to think this was a bad idea. “Why would you think that?”

“A man usually knows where he’s going. Takes a ship to get there.” Shem frowned. “If you don’t know where you’re going, why pay for passage on a ship?”

Jonah fidgeted with his walking stick. “I’m just traveling. I thought I’d try a voyage because I’ve never sailed before. It sounded…interesting.”

“You’ve never been to sea.” It was a statement of the obvious rather than a question.

“No.” Jonah glanced at Simon
[B31]
 
, but the seaman offered no help.

“This ship is a long-distance hauler. We won’t be back to Joppa until next year. You’d be better to take a port-hopper that stays close to land if you just want to see what it’s like.” The captain shook his head. “Besides, we’re going to be riding low this trip, and I can’t afford to add more dead weight. If you could crew with us, that might be different. But you can’t. Sorry. Take another ship.”

“But I didn’t see any others in the harbor.”

“Wait for one.”

“I
can’t!”
Jonah choked back the urgency in his voice as suspicion returned to the captain’s glare. “I mean, I’d really like to leave in the next day or two. I’m ready to go now and I just don’t want to wait.”

Shem looked at Simon, who shrugged. He fixed his stare back on Jonah.

“I can pay—” Jonah began to reach under his cloak for his treasure belt.

“No. That’s it.” The captain stood and stretched. The discussion was over.

Jonah’s heart fell. He looked again at Simon, but there was still no help there. He opened his mouth for another plea, but thought better of it and pressed his lips closed. Without another word, he turned and trudged to the door. Glancing back at the two men in the corner, he stepped into the night.

Simon raised an eyebrow. “You sure about this? You didn’t even ask him how much he’s willing to pay.”

There was always some silver for the captain’s pocket when a man wanted a ship this badly, whether for cargo or passage. The owner would never know anything beyond the fee he would charge up front. Shem was passing up a good chance for a hefty bribe.

The veteran seaman shook his head. “Every bit of weight means something afloat. You know that. The
Ba’al
is already too low in the water and struggling just to sit up straight. Little good a pocket full of silver will do me at the bottom of the sea.” He leveled narrow eyes at his helmsman. “Besides, there’s something wrong with your friend. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t trust him. He’s one distraction I don’t need on a trip like this one may turn out to be.”

Simon shrugged again and rose from his chair. “I just wondered. I’ll see you tomorrow for final loading.” He had no such ill feelings about his new acquaintance, and it seemed a shame to forgo the chance for a little extra money. If Shem didn’t want it, that’s fine. Nowhere was it written that it had to go to the captain.