The Journey Begun (29 page)

“No, no, please. Here.” He whisked a bushel basket up from behind the counter and shoveled two heaping double-handfuls of baby figs into it and then poured half the bin of plums in beside them. Leaning over the front of the booth around the quivering woman, he gathered a half-dozen pomegranates into his arms and laid them gently alongside the rest of the fruit in the basket.

Abigail looked at the basket, sniffled, and stole a moist glance at the decimated display of figs on the shelf. He followed her look and, after just a moment’s hesitation, scooped another double-handful of fruit into the basket.

“Oh, no, this is too much. You’re being too kind.” She raised her hands to her cheeks and looked into his worried face. “Really, I couldn’t—”

Levi drew himself up and raised a hand. “I insist. It’s only fair. I just hope the pomegranates haven’t gone too bad. You will let me know how they are with the lamb, won’t you?”

“The lamb?”

“Yes, your new recipe.”

“Oh, of course, the lamb. My recipe.” She smiled. “I’ll be sure to let you know how everything turns out.” The innkeeper’s wife hoisted the bushel basket from the shelf and turned to the boy standing behind her. She thrust the bushel basket toward him and he rushed forward to grasp it, struggling for balance with the bushel he already held.

“Thank you so much, Levi. You’re an honorable man.” She gathered her dress up, turned on her heel, and strode off toward the edge of the market with the servant boy in tow.

Levi leaned over the shelf and watched her disappear around a pottery booth. A satisfied smile spread over his face, having avoided what could have been an embarrassing scene. It wasn’t until he leaned back into his booth that he thought to assess the transaction. He looked at the few baby figs left scattered on the shelf, a half-empty basket of fresh plums at his feet, and the small layer of pomegranates lying at the bottom of their bin.

His smile faded. He was also short one bushel basket.

He frowned. No silver had been exchanged.

Lll

Moshe grinned from his perch on a low bench by Hiram’s vegetable stand, watching as the victor exited the arena of battle. Abigail’s path took her directly in front of him—as he knew it would. As she passed, he chuckled his congratulations. A perfectly timed swing of his staff tapped her on the backside in midstride. Abigail cocked her head imperiously over her shoulder and regarded the slouched old figure through the corners of narrowed eyes. After an indignant snort, her eyes disappeared into crow’s feet as she sneaked an impish smile at the man who should have become her husband so many years ago.

Moshe ben Gideon was the flame of her youth and the father of an only child she was forced to give up under the pressure of family and the convention of society. Her betrothal to Hosea—a man five years her junior, but the son of a prominent family—demanded a quiet disposition of the scandal the rebellious young woman inflicted upon her family.

Moshe accepted charge of their infant daughter through an intermediary and brought her to live with his sister and her husband in the big valley. The terms laid out for the baby’s survival were simple: The two lovers were never to see each other again. Moshe retreated to the countryside and Abigail into marriage. But there were opportunities—a chance passing in the marketplace, a stolen look when Moshe dared to take a meal at the inn—but the two held to the letter, if not the intent, of the terms for the sake of their child. Hosea honored his wife and his marriage, but he was not a fool. He knew he had won her hand, but Moshe, who had instead married the army, would always hold her heart.

Abigail resumed her march past the kiosks lining the edge of the square, her eyes still flitting left and right for promises of easy pickings. She found none, but no matter. The day was complete and she was content. All was well. The natural order had been preserved, and the sun could now set as it pleased.

As she disappeared from sight, Moshe turned and squinted into the bright yellow-orange of the daystar’s aura now touching the tops of Solomon’s stables as it slid to the horizon. The warrior in him tensed as a dark silhouette loomed into view and halted before his seat. The glare of the western sky obscured the shadowed face hidden beneath the hood of a loose-fitting cloak. Instinctively he tightened his grip on his staff and dipped his head for a better angle to identify the stranger.

“Moshe?”

The veteran went still, his face hardening at the familiar voice. A wave of heat pulsed through his forehead.

Jonah stepped out of the sun’s glare and lowered his hood. Moshe studied him with an unblinking stare. Dried perspiration glued thin wisps of white hair against the tanner’s forehead. His skin was pale and mottled, much older than Moshe remembered in the first moments after recognizing the man who denied him at Ari’s tavern.

Moshe ground his jaw. It took only an instant for his previous encounter with this “prophet” to flood back…the sourness of Ari’s tavern, where he suffered the betrayal of a “friend.”

Jonah watched as Moshe’s eyes narrowed to slits and his knuckles whitened on his staff. He said nothing.

Jonah met the old warrior’s stare for a moment, but only a moment before dropping his gaze to the ground at Moshe’s feet. He shifted his weight and cast a fleeting look at the empty space on the bench beside Moshe. The rod lying across the old man’s lap spanned the length of the bench, blocking access. The rod didn’t move.

Jonah glanced back at the stony face. “I…er, wanted to—”

The ice in Moshe’s eyes froze his words in midair and they fell to the ground in a jumble.
[B47]
 

When Jonah finally spoke, the words tumbled out over each other. “I know you have every right to hate me. I have no defense to offer that means anything at all. I let you down. Pure and simple.” He raised his eyes back to Moshe’s face. “They could’ve killed you. I think I would’ve let them.”

No response.

“Moshe, does that sound like me to you?”

The old warrior lifted his head a degree. His eyebrow twitched and he stifled a short cough, but still said nothing.

Jonah sighed. “Moshe, there’s more to this, much more. I’m not sure what I can tell you. I’m not sure what’ll matter. I betrayed your friendship and you owe me nothing. Nothing at all. I just hoped…I mean, I just had to tell you I’m sorry. Sorry for a lot of things, but especially for what I did to you in that tavern. It was unforgivable. But I thought I’d try…at least…” He let out a slow breath
[B48]
 
.

Moshe shifted on his seat and kept his glare on Jonah’ face. The remorseful prophet held the old soldier’s gaze. Moshe lifted his staff and propped it against the bench. Jonah studied the grizzled face for a moment longer, then stepped over and eased himself onto the seat.

A few moments of silence passed. Jonah rested his chin on the top of his gnarled walking stick and stared absently at the irregular paving blocks of the marketplace. He remained silent, intent on letting Moshe have the next word, whatever it might be. The crunch of a reed basket dropped by the kiosk across the way alerted him that the merchants were packing up their wares and dismantling their booths in preparation for their trip back to the valley. A slight breeze picked up with the waning of the afternoon heat, sending small eddies of dust swirling down the path between the vendors’ stands. He chanced a sidelong glance at Moshe, who remained motionless.

It seemed like an eternity before his companion shifted and stretched his legs into the path in front of him. He grasped his staff and planted it between his feet. With a grunt, the old man pulled himself up. He wobbled for a moment on stiff legs, clinging to his rod for balance. Once steadied, he barked two short coughs and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

“Buy me supper.” With that, Moshe stumped off in the direction of the inn.

Jonah rose and watched his friend weave around the bins and baskets now cluttering the pathway. He shifted his cloak higher onto his shoulder and smiled.

Lll

 
“Joppa? Why Joppa?” Moshe tore off another mouthful of bread with his few remaining teeth and munched slowly.

“No particular reason.” Jonah decided not to detail his adventure at sea, as it would seem too fantastic for a worldly soul like Moshe’s to digest. Besides, it didn’t matter anymore, and it was something he’d just as soon forget anyway. “I was headed south and it was on the way.”

“But ya still haven’t told me why ya left home in the first place.” The old soldier drained his wine cup in two gulps and reached for the carafe. Finding it empty, he twisted around in his chair and waved it over his head to the innkeeper’s servant boy.

Jonah grew quiet. “Moshe, I know this won’t help much, but I’m not sure I understand all the reasons myself.” He stared at the table as he swirled a sodden crust of bread in a saucer of goat’s milk.

“Ya headed back home?” A fresh carafe arrived and Moshe topped off Jonah’s cup before sloshing a measure into his own.

“Yes.” Jonah hesitated, then dropped his morsel into the saucer and leaned back in his chair. He swung his head toward Moshe with a resolute look.

Moshe, who had stabbed a sliver of roast lamb, paused in midbite. “Wha?”

“Moshe, I need your help.”

Thirty-one

ollow voices of unseen spirits echoed down the low narrow passageway, swelling and ebbing in an uneven cadence through Edil’s throbbing head. He hated his corporeal form and the strange feelings it always brought, but the physical presence was required when summoned to the Great Court. The demon squinted into the darkness, his path illuminated by the dim glow of sulfurous embers spangling the curved walls of stone and clay. As he neared the great door at the end of the passage, the voices subsided to a hum
[B49]
 
and pulsated at an increasing frequency. He fancied them aware of the purpose for his mysterious summons before the Mistress. As Jonah’s demonic tormentor reached for the iron ring on the enchanted portal, all went silent. His scrawny hand quivered on the hot metal, and his ears ached in the deafening silence. He pulled on the ring and the door dissolved before him.

“Enter.”

Edil stepped into the Grand Court and shrank back as countless yellow eyes crowding the walls of the cavernous room bore into him from all sides. The vastness of the domed room and the awesome presence of his Mistress clashed with the stifling closeness of the entry passage from which he had just emerged. He stood quaking, naked and vulnerable. He cast a forbidden look over his shoulder toward the portal, fighting the urge to duck back through the opening. He knew any such move would be pointless, though, as he would be cast into oblivion before he took his second step. As he watched, the massive iron-bound barrier rematerialized behind him, rendering moot any thought of escape.

The nether-spirit knew this setting. Many times in the past, he and his partner, Nebo, had been among the thousands of eyes circling the room, watching other hapless victims of the Mistress’ wrath stand trembling where he now stood. He, too, had witnessed in gleeful anticipation the fate of the fools who had displeased the Mistress, those who had dared disappoint her in the performance of their missions. But why him? Why now? His task was not complete. The prophet had returned, yes, but there were many more miles between Megiddo and Nineveh. He still had plenty of opportunity to prevent Yah’s messenger from reaching Assyria.

He cursed the name of Yah. He had no dominion over Assyria; it was the Mistress’ realm! And now he was the cause of Edil’s summons before the court. He faltered as confusion melted into despondency—but wait! A thought, a hope, lifted him. Perhaps this was merely a summons to report his progress before the High Court. Of course, that was it! His mission was still intact, the prophet was still vulnerable. In fact, Edil had formulated a new idea for thwarting the miserable puppet of Yah. This would surely please the Mistress. Yes, perhaps she would even reward him for his diligence and ingenuity.

A dull thud pounded through the hall and reverberated from the high ceiling, shattering his thoughts. He froze, his mind wedged between the false hope of clemency and the denied reality of his summons. The thud sounded again. Keeping his head bowed, he permitted his eyes a glance at the massive platform on which the Mistress sat. She leaned forward, her face set in stone, her eyes burning—burning at him. The crystalline orb-capped staff clenched in her pale fingers was raised high over her head. She brought it down just short of impacting the floor and the dull thump echoed once again around the room. He knew this part of the protocol, too. This was the signal for the one summoned to approach the dais. His eyes grew wide. That was the third beat. If she reached the fifth, and the subject had not yet prostrated himself at the foot of the platform, oblivion would be instantaneous.

Fear broke his paralysis and he set off at a quick pace across the uneven bedrock floor, taking care not to break into a run. Abandoning decorum in the presence of the Mistress was almost as bad as failing in one’s task. The scepter sounded the fourth summons. He stepped up his pace, but as the scepter rose one last time, he shot forward and threw himself onto his face, skidding to a stop against the base of the dais. He would go no farther. The massive platform was exclusive domain denied by High Edict to anyone but the Mistress.

The scepter remained suspended above her head, and he closed his eyes against what might come next. Slowly, she lowered the rod and laid it across her lap. Her voice flowed like honey but cut like ice.

“Rise, but only to your knees.”

Edil’s heart sank. Shattered obsidian and broken bedrock littered the base of the platform, evidence of countless tantrums the Mistress’ rage inflicted on those who displeased her. A subject kneeling on the shards of volcanic glass during an inquiry suffered excruciating pain that would nag him well beyond the inquest—assuming he survived the inquest. He knew this was why it was necessary for one appearing before the Grand Court to assume the physical being, as the corporeal form was more vulnerable to whatever discomfort she chose to employ. He lifted himself slowly and knelt shaking before the immense bastion of his Mistress’ power. His eyes remained fixed on the floor in front of him, his knees screaming as the black glass splinters embedded themselves in his manifested skin.

“The prophet returns.”

It was more than a simple statement. It was an accusation and it demanded a response. He wasn’t sure whether he should speak right away. He had always been a witness to inquisitions, never the fool. But his experience in this room assured him that it would take only one wrong word and he would suffer the depths of oblivion.

“Why?”

At last, a clear question, but he was still at a loss. He knew he was to speak, but he had no satisfactory answer. He saw Yah’s disgusting minion board the ship, and watched as the ship sailed the next morning. Satisfied his victim was well on his way to the other side of the world, Edil relaxed his guard and amused himself harassing mortals down the coast in Ashdod to reward himself for a job well done. Engaged elsewhere, he didn’t notice the wave of tension Yah’s supernatural storm at sea sent shuddering through the spirit world. It wasn’t until the cursed prophet was back ashore and on the road to Megiddo that his senses were aroused.

Aghast at the unexpected turn of events, he was already at a great disadvantage in countering the prophet’s movements. Yah’s underling angel hung close to his charge and shielded him from direct demonic attack. Edil alone was not equipped to deal with this angelic protector and the host of angels watching over Israel, any number of whom could be summoned in an instant. But still he had a plan, he had an idea. He just needed the opportunity to gain the Mistress’ ear long enough to reveal it. He needed to bide for time, but her question disallowed quibbling.

“He is still far from your domain, Mistress.”

“Don’t tell me where he is! I know where he is! I want to know how he got there. Where were you?”

Edil’s voice stuck in his throat. She knew very well where he had been. She knew everything that went on in her domain.

“I…I was still there, my Mistress. At the sea. I…he didn’t…he was shielded! Yah’s messenger—”

“NEVER utter that name in my presence again!”

Her shriek split the odiferous weight of the room, and the narrow yellow slits staring at Edil widened and shrank back.
The embattled demon flinched as large chunks of black glass broke loose from the platform and rained down, shattering into razor-sharp splinters.

“The prophet had sailed, Mistress! I was not instructed to follow him to sea. I had no way of knowing—”

“Excuses! You were complacent!”

Edil was desperate.
“He is still vulnerable, my Mistress. I have a plan.”

“A plan? A PLAN? It is not yours to PLAN! The prophet walked away right under your nose while you were ‘planning’ instead of watching. You do not ‘plan,’ you do my bidding and nothing more!”

“But Mistress—”

Edil dared a beseeching look at his livid mentor and choked at the detached resoluteness that suddenly spread over her face. She almost seemed to smile, her countenance reflecting a cold serenity. There was silence. It was as though time had suspended itself into a neutral void. Nothing moved. Finally, she violated the calm with a simple statement. Her voice dropped to a deathly still tone, devoid of the fury that had absorbed it only a moment ago. She uttered the words almost casually, as though an afterthought.

“You have failed.”

The words paralyzed Edil. That was the judgment. It allowed no further discussion. To argue was pointless; his fate was sealed. He went stiff, the pain in his abused knees forgotten. No one responded after judgment. No one. Still…a sudden flash of inspiration, born of absolute hopelessness, pervaded his mind. If he was finished, if all was indeed lost, what could one more word possibly hurt?

“Mistress, my mission is not ended.”

He was surprised at the strength in his own voice, given the circumstances. Absolute silence fell over the mass of demons crowding the sides of the room. Never had a condemned spirit spoken after judgment was pronounced.

“I can still stop him.”

Shocked eyes shifted from the accused to the accuser. The Mistress stood motionless at the top of the stairs. Her gleaming red eyes bore into the groveling demon.

“I have not lost yet…”

After what seemed an eternity, her glowing scarlet pupils went to mere pinholes and a smile appeared on her thin dark lips.
“All right. So you have a ‘plan.’ See what you can do. You’re free to go.”

Edil couldn’t believe his ears. This was unprecedented. No one ever survived a judgment of failure. But neither had anyone ever dared to speak after judgment was pronounced. He risked everything—and nothing—by speaking. And he won! A murmur rippled through the company of spirits around the room.
[B50]
 

Edil pushed himself to his feet, bolts of pain shooting through his legs as he once again became aware of his tortured knees. Backing away from the platform, he limped toward the far door and the passageway to freedom.

“I won’t disappoint you, my Mistress.”

There was no response. She remained still, her eyes pulsing shafts of scarlet light, following his progress across the room.

As Edil reached what he judged to be the final few paces to the portal, he turned to find the massive door once again dissolved and the dim tunnel beckoning beyond the archway. A smile stretched lips now hidden from his Mistress, and he shifted his eyes sideways at the demons standing nearest the portal, a smirk of victory overtaking his face. He straightened his back and stepped through the doorway.

Then he exploded.

The Mistress stood on the platform with her scepter extended at length toward the slimy remains of her former minion now dripping from the sides of the curved doorway. The viscous residue disintegrated into charcoal powder as it pooled onto the floor. It swirled and whisked out of sight down the tunnel, caught up in an icy gust from the pursed lips of the Mistress. She lowered her scepter to her side and the hexed barrier once again materialized over the threshold of the doorway.