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Whirlwind

By Dana McNeely

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Chapter One

Now Ben-Hadad king of Aram mustered his entire army.
Accompanied by thirty-two kings with their horses and chariots, he went up and besieged Samaria and attacked it.
~ 1 Kings 20:1

Samaria, capital city of the Northern Kingdom of Israel, around 857 BC
Dov

STANDING ATOP THE CITY WALL, DOV nocked an arrow in his bowstring, grasping several more between his fingers for successive shots. He signaled the men he supervised to rain arrows on the Arameans at his mark. Behind his archers, spearmen pounded their weapon shafts on the wall’s stone cap, a percussive battle song. Slingmen pressed behind them, eager to shoot rocks down on the enemy like hailstones.

The enemy king, Ben-Hadad, shouted harsh insults from below the city wall. Dov translated to Hebrew for King Ahab. “Your situation is hopeless. We comprise the armies of thirty-two kings, well supplied with food and drink we’ve seized from your cities. We can camp in comfort for months—years—eating the harvests of your farms while you starve.”

So many. Dov tried to estimate the enemy’s number. Fifty thousand? A hundred? They had besieged Samaria for three months, devoured crops for miles around, and their ranks kept growing. In the city food supplies were low, and cistern levels fell at a worrisome rate. The city could weather a few more months’ privation, but soon …

Dov caught King Ahab’s gaze and saw the same realization in his grim expression. “Shall I silence him, my lord?”

Giving a swift shake of his head, the king motioned Dov to draw near. He lowered his bow and dropped the arrows back into his quiver.
“Bid them send a negotiator.” The king’s expression was grim as he headed for the palace.

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Dov struck his fist against his breastplate, strode to the wall’s edge, and shouted the instruction in Aramaic, adding a demand for the rest of the army to stay back from the gate.

Dov watched as several well-dressed men conferred with Ben-Hadad. He selected three. If typical, one would be spokesman and the others witnesses to his honesty. Dov ran down the wall’s stone steps to the city entrance, instructing the gatekeepers to open only the small gate, the Eye of the Needle. Aaron, head gatekeeper, muttered under his breath. “Twenty years on the gates, and he tells me how to—”

Dov suppressed a grin but threw his weight into shutting the Eye quickly after the Arameans entered. The tallest, clad in a long-sleeved green tunic, strode forward confidently, stopped in front of Dov, and held out his arms to be checked for weapons. Dov did so, nodded his satisfaction, and motioned for Aaron to check the other two.

When Aaron gave him the nod, Dov spoke in Hebrew. “Come with me.” He repeated the command in Aramaic, but the tall messenger had already stepped out. Dov led them to the palace. They waited in an outer room until Obadiah, the king’s steward, requested they enter the throne room.

Unlike other times Dov had seen Ahab on his throne, the king wore his military armor, rather than robes of Phoenician purple. While standing at attention, Dov observed the three messengers. The spokesmen, as Dov had concluded, took in the throne room through strange gray eyes. Its opulent hangings and ivory carvings intimidated most guests, but the man’s calculating gaze lingered on them as if taking inventory.

Queen Jezebel stood beside the king, looking much the same as when Dov had first laid eyes on the flame-haired, foreign princess. Her slanted eyes were lined with green malachite, and unlike King Ahab, she had donned royal purple. She was still a striking woman, though her three children were nearly grown.

The king stared at the spokesman, waiting. Dov knew the king would not speak first.
This didn’t appear to trouble the Aramean, who dipped his head then spoke Aramaic. At his second demand, Dov glanced at the queen. Only her eyes flickered.

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When the man finished, Dov translated. “This is what Ben-Hadad says. Your silver and gold are mine, and the best of your wives and children are mine.”

King Ahab averted his gaze from the queen and muttered. “Tell him, ‘Just as you say, my lord. I and all I have are yours.’”

At the king’s immediate capitulation, Dov was glad of his military training, which ensured no emotion crossed his face. Likewise, the queen appeared unmoved, except for a tightening of her lips.

The king motioned to Dov to escort them out. It appeared the negotiations were concluded.
He accompanied the men to the gate. Would the Arameans withdraw with such easily won terms? He thought not. Once a tyrant’s demands were met, he usually exacted more. Dov thought about the queen’s stoic expression as the king gave her to the enemy without argument. She wasn’t the kind of woman who’d open her veins with a jeweled dagger rather than face humiliation  or worse. But would she slice open the king’s veins, for giving her up? Yes. Should she find an opportunity.

“What’d he say, up at the palace?” asked Aaron. The old soldier had been badly wounded in battle and was no longer fit to make sweeping treks to protect the Jezreel valley, but despite a bad leg, his ever-present axe made him a good man to keep close in hand-to-hand battle.

In the city square, a crowd of farmers and shepherds milled about, grasping makeshift weapons—sharpened plowshares, cudgels, the occasional ass jaw. Many of these lived outside the city but took refuge within its walls upon spotting the dust of approaching armies. Townsfolk took them in when they could, especially women and children. Others slept in the streets. Fortunately, mild weather favored them. Unfortunately, it also favored the Arameans.

Dov raised his voice to toss a scrap of hope. “They discussed terms for troop withdrawal.”
“Withdraw!” Aaron spat in the dirt. “Why would they?”
Dov shook his head. “I have no details.” None he would tell them, at least. He imagined the people’s reaction should he reveal the enemy’s demands and the king’s response. This

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crowd, who rarely took more than one wife, would be all for Ahab getting rid of his Phoenician queen. Although some still followed the Ba’als, the Yahwists hated her and for good reason. The king did his best to restrain Jezebel’s bloodthirsty tendencies, but during the long drought she had secretly hired assassins to target the school of the prophets, headed by the reclusive prophet Elijah. Jezebel would never forgive him for proving her priests impotent in the contest on Mount Carmel. Many wondered if cutthroats still stalked the prophets.

“Samaria could use that Elijah fellow again.” Aaron leaned back against the gate to take pressure off his bad leg. “Rain down fire on ’em all, I say.”

Jezreel, Northern Kingdom, the same day
Miriam

Gazing across the Jezreel valley from atop the city wall, Miriam clutched Jaedon’s small hand. For several weeks, they’d watched a pair of eagles carry tree branches and trailing reeds to their nest, repairing damages from winter storms. Then the eagles appeared singly for a long while, and she explained to the boy if eggs had been laid, the pair would take turns sitting on them. Bird watching provided relief from the isolation insisted upon by Jaedon’s father … Miriam’s betrothed.

It was still hard to think of her cousin Gershon in that way.

“There!” She pointed at a far-off stand of cypress which provided a convenient marker for the cliff ledge just beyond. “See, she’s heading for the nest.”

“Yes!” Quickly, Jaedon stepped forward. Catching the neck of his tunic, she pulled him back, away from the edge. She stared down at the drop to the terraced vineyards below, the height of at least three men. This boy. He needed to run free in the valley outside the walls, or at least help his father in the vineyard. Since he could do neither until Gershon deemed it safe, she must always be alert, if he were to reach manhood.

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Settling both hands on the boy’s shoulders, she watched a magnificent golden eagle hover above the nest with what looked like a hyrax clutched in its talons.

“Is the mother feeding the chicks?”

“Mmm. Perhaps they’ve hatched by now.”

“I want to see them.” He scuffed his foot, sending pebbles skittering over the wall into his grandfather’s land, the nearest of several terraced vineyards embracing the hill of Jezreel. She heard the pout in his voice and hoped he wouldn’t start crying again. Poor motherless boy.

He lived in a different world than Miriam had. She and her brothers had roamed the fields surrounding their home in Samaria, with only Seth’s sling for protection. But that was then.

Keeping her eyes trained on the eagle, Miriam bent to speak in his ear. “Listen, little one. You must learn to stand motionless and silent to observe wildlife. If you don’t, how can I ever take you hunting? Remember now, this is important.” She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Besides, what do I tell your savta if you fall from the city wall?”

Jaedon tucked his chin and giggled. “Tell her, ‘He went splat in Saba’s vineyard.’”

A chuckle escaped her. The seven-year-old felt more like a little brother to her eighteen summers than the son he would become upon her marriage, although it was hard to imagine herself, at last, a wife and mother.
She’d not been surprised to watch her friends in Samaria, so pretty, petite, and compliant, become betrothed and married before her. Though she’d been small as a young girl, around her twelfth year she shot up past her eldest brother and stood eye-to-eye with most men in Samaria. Her shoulders grew muscled from carrying crates she built, filled with birds snared in Abba’s vineyard or the valley.

Despite her success selling birds in Samaria’s marketplace, no one offered her father a mohar, a bride price for his ungainly daughter. Her mother despaired. When Dohd Naboth wrote that his son’s wife expected a child, Miriam’s parents volunteered her assistance with the couple’s active young son as Rasha neared her time of confinement, hoping Miriam’s stay in Jezreel might throw her into the path of an

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eligible farmer or tradesman. After all, the king had built a winter palace in Jezreel, and the city had prospered.

At first, Miriam hesitated to go. Active boys, she could handle, but as the youngest child in her family, she’d never attended a birth. She agreed, however, when she understood a midwife would supervise the birthing.

Her brothers had helped her uncle harvest his vineyard a few times, but because she was a girl, Miriam was not allowed to go. The boys returned with stories of bountiful crops and lush grasslands in the Jezreel valley.

With her brothers’ stories in mind, Miriam looked forward to exploring the grasslands around Jezreel with her cousin’s young son, though she dreaded the thought of meeting the marriageable young men of the city.

But Miriam found no more admirers in Jezreel than she had in Samaria. To be fair, minding Jaedon had filled her time in the final weeks of Rasha’s pregnancy. Then, tragedy struck. No one could have expected the death of Gershon’s wife and baby son during childbirth. Nor that Miriam would be trapped in Jezreel when the Arameans attacked Samaria.

At least she wasn’t marrying a stranger.

“Can we do it tomorrow?”

Jaedon’s question drew Miriam back from her musing. His eyes widened beseechingly.

“Do what?”

“Find the eagles.”

Her gaze crossed the valley to the cliffs. A breeze carried the earthy scents of new grass and the cluster of sheep that grazed beyond the city walls. A black lamb darted from the herd, leaping and frolicking, but the shepherd’s whistle sent a speckled dog in pursuit. The lamb turned to rejoin the flock, dragging its heels like a truculent child. What she wouldn’t give to trade places with that shepherd.
Cupping Jaedon’s shoulder, she turned him toward the steps leading down to the street. “We’ll see,” she said.

“But for now, let’s play a game.”
“What game?”

She reached for his hand before answering. “A game my brothers taught me. Desert cat.”
He jumped to the next step and shouted his approval.

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Good thing she’d taken hold of him.
“I’ll teach you how to hide in plain sight.”
They played in the alleys of Jezreel, moving stealthily and freezing in place like their game’s namesake, until the sun hid behind the rooftops, one of which was the last place she found him.
“Perfect. I almost didn’t think to look above,” Miriam said. “Silent and still, that’s how the cat hides from its enemies.”
“Or catches its prey!” He bounded down the steps.
She laid her finger across her lips.
He mouthed, “Sorry.”
She grinned. “You need a little more practice.”
“You’ll never find my next spot.”
“Your boast must wait. Your savta needs our help with supper.”
They wound their way through the alleys, as Jaedon discussed the potentials of various hiding spots, evidently not feeling the need to keep his own counsel from a pursuer. The yeasty aroma of bread wafted through windows of neighboring houses as they approached her Uncle Naboth’s three-story structure, its plaster-washed facade the color of sunshine.
The wooden door stood propped open. Miriam ducked through the length of woven cloth fluttering from the header, which allowed cooking smoke to escape while preserving privacy. Jaedon’s grandmother knelt beside the hearth, stirring what smelled like her simple, yet delicious, lentil stew. She glanced over her shoulder and dipped a spoonful from the pot. “Give this a taste, my dear.”
Jaedon hurried to grasp the spoon. “Not sure.” He smacked his lips. “Might need more cumin. Better give me another taste.”
Rolling her eyes, Yaffa refilled the spoon.
“The best you’ve ever made, Savta.”
Miriam felt her face flush. They were late. Supper was ready—without her aid. “Doda Yaffa, how can I help?”
“Bring me the wooden bowls, dear. Jaedon, get your father. He left something at your house.” She studied Miriam for a moment. “Don’t worry. There’s plenty you can help with.

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Arrange the cushions around the mat. No guests tonight, only Gershon and Jaedon. No need to use the upper room.”
Jaedon’s grandfather walked from a back room, drying his face on a cloth. “Waste no time, Grandson,” he called after Jaedon. “I am hungry as a wolf.”
“Sit yourself, husband,” Yaffa said, handing him a small bowl of roasted grain. “Let this slake your appetite. How did it go at the gate today?” Yaffa turned to Miriam, her voice deepening with pleasure. “Your uncle has become a prominent man in the city, child. He sits in consultation at the city gate when important matters must be settled by someone of sense.”
Naboth sighed, hunching his shoulders. “Disagreements between neighbors are … disagreeable. Neither fellow was satisfied by my decision.” He shook his head. “A bad business.”
“I’m sure your decision was right, my love. Sit, sit.” She bustled about settling him on the thickest cushion.
Jaedon flung back the door cloth and ran to plop down beside Naboth. The boy whispered in his grandfather’s ear, throwing Miriam a knowing look she could not interpret. Gershon entered behind him, carefully rolled the hanging cloth, then shut and latched the plank door.
The man she would marry carried a small parchment, loosely rolled and tied with a strip of cloth. He placed it carefully beside his cushion as he sat on the other side of his father. Looking up, he caught her gaze and nodded. “Shalom, Miriam.”
She smiled, though he had not. He seemed a quiet man, unlike his gregarious son. His grief was too near. She bit her lip, searching for a topic, something she never had to do at home. “How did you find the vineyard today? Are the vines beginning to bud?” She carried bowls of lentils to the men, waiting for an answer. The first swellings of spring growth were a topic guaranteed to spur discussion among her father and brothers.
“No, not yet.” He reached for his bowl. She waited a moment, thinking he would expand on his brief reply. Her own mother and father could chat endlessly on the slightest greening of the wood. Finally, she turned away, disappointed.

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So that was to be it?
Outside, fragments of cheerful discussion and laughter floated into the room. Miriam felt her gaze drawn to the window. They needed lighthearted conversation in this room. Guests. If Gershon’s wife had not died, there would be guests. Everyone would have wanted to see the new babe. Then there would be conversation. Of course, the women would eat downstairs while the men reclined in the upper room, but there would be plenty of discourse if women were present. They told stories, true and not, about husbands, children, in-laws, and forays into the marketplace where good bargaining skills could be admired. Sometimes they would speak of the king and queen—especially the queen—always in hushed tones, as if Jezebel might station spies outside their window.
What odd thoughts. If Gershon’s wife had not died, Miriam wouldn’t care if she had conversation with him or not. She felt her mouth tighten and immediately turned her gaze to Jaedon. Again, he whispered in his grandfather’s ear, then giggled and looked her way. Naboth’s responding smile intensified his resemblance to her father. Miriam felt tension fall away, like a cloak tossed aside.
As was his habit, Naboth waited for Yaffa and Miriam to sit, then he prayed. “Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good. His love endures forever. May He keep safe each person under this roof and also Kadesh, my son whose duty has taken him far from us.” Her uncle recited more of the psalm, ending “He gives food to every creature.”
Miriam breathed her own prayer for Gershon’s absent brother, adding a request for her brothers Caleb and Seth. All able-bodied men within her hometown city of Samaria, would have been conscripted into Ahab’s army.
Jaedon piped up, “Give thanks to the God of Heaven! His love endures forever!” Gershon gave his son a stern look when they all opened their eyes, but Naboth laughed aloud, spooned up a mouthful of stew, and the moment passed.
Miriam tore off a piece of bread, folding it to scoop up the stew. It was fragrant and delicious. Her mother made a similar stew, but this tasted of a spice she didn’t recognize. “Yaffa, what is—"

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“I’m going to the cliffs tomorrow to see the eagle chicks,” Jaedon interrupted. “Miriam promised to take me.”
Yaffa, who had turned to listen to Miriam, raised her eyebrows. “What’s this?”
“Oh, well, we’ve been—”
“Why would you promise such a thing?” Gershon turned to Miriam scowling. “You know my feelings on this matter. It’s too dangerous for either of you to venture outside the walls.”
She felt her forehead crease at his sharp tone. Yes, she did know his feelings, though she disagreed. When the Arameans had marched through the Jezreel pass on their way to attack the capitol of Samaria, everyone in the city spotted the cloud of dust, long before the chariots and soldiers had passed by. There’d been ample notice to take shelter behind the walls, and the city’s hilltop perch guaranteed there would be similar warning of the army’s return. Still, her cousin—her betrothed—had reason to be protective of Jaedon. He’d barely had time to mourn the deaths of his wife and infant son in the weeks since their deaths.
“Gershon, we’ve only watched the eagles—from the wall—and he’s understandably excited about the nest, but I told him, we’ll see. Of course, I planned to consult you first.”
He looked down at his hands, drawing her eyes there as well. They were clenched around the scroll he’d carried in.
“Of course. We’ll talk of that later. Right now, I …” He glanced again at the scroll.
“Son,” Naboth began, “perhaps now isn’t the time—”
“When might be the time, Abba? My wife is dead, my baby son”—he cut himself off, shaking his head slowly. “We are at war. If the Arameans return, Abba, if there is a battle … Jaedon is unprotected. Matters must be resolved.”
“Son, surely I—”
“This is the Ketubah, Miriam.” Gershon held it out. “The marriage agreement,” he said, as if she didn’t know the meaning of the word. He shoved it closer.
Belatedly she realized she was meant to take the scroll. She fiddled with the string holding it closed. “Shall I read it?”
“Not yet. I want to say … I’m sorry I am not what you …

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you must have had many …” Gershon glanced at his mother as if asking for help, but Yaffa remained silent.
Miriam cleared her throat. Did he think she’d been overwhelmed with offers? Certainly not. He must understand, with two older brothers, she had no expectation of a share in the family’s vineyard in Samaria. Despite the fact that she had worked in the vineyard, along with her entire family, the men of Samaria had decided Miriam could bring little of worth to a marriage. She was no beauty. Gershon spoke kindly, that was all. “I understand,” she said. “The situation is difficult.”
“There has been no reply to the message I sent to your father. We’ve heard rumors the siege continues. It’s likely a runner can’t get through. If Samaria is overrun …”
She nodded, speechless, when he did not continue. Samaria overrun? No word from her father? Icy fingers grasped her throat.
“Surely, your family is safe, dear,” Yaffa said. “The walls of Samaria are higher even than Jezreel’s. It’s only that, with the besieging army, it must be impossible for a messenger to get through.”
Naboth spoke up. “You are like a daughter to us, Miriam. Gershon is my eldest son. I know your father will be satisfied with the arrangement.”
Miriam fidgeted. Of course, her father would be satisfied with any arrangement his brother proffered. It wasn’t fairness she worried about, it was—
“You’ll be well provided for,” Gershon said. “You and my son. If I die before Jaedon reaches manhood, as his guardian, you will control half the vineyard and receive a portion of the income.”
“But your father and brother—”
“I will control the other half,” Naboth said. “As for Kadesh, his desire was never to farm, but to market the products of the vineyard—a benefit to us all. You will be my co-beneficiary as well as Jaedon’s guardian. If the Lord is willing, we will work together until my grandson can take responsibility.”
Gershon looked intently at her. “It is a good arrangement. As good as I can make it. The king”—he

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glanced at Jaedon uncertainly, then seemed to make up his mind to speak plainly. “The last runner to get through was accompanied by a general of the king’s army. He came to recruit and train soldiers from Jezreel. If Samaria falls to the Arameans, they will pass by Jezreel on their return victory march.”
“You’re concerned about the crop?” The grapes had been mere nubs when the Arameans marched by on their way to Samaria. Now they were too green for wine, but large enough to tempt hungry soldiers.
“What—the crop—no. It’s my son. My son needs a mother. A protector.”
She felt an empty place in her heart she hadn’t expected at the cold practicality of this discussion of marriage. She knew Gershon did not love her, how could he? He still loved his wife.
Her grandmother had spoken often of love, of her Nathaniel, that tall soldier who had stolen her heart when it was almost too late. “It will not be that way for you, my beautiful girl. You will have your choice of the young men.” Miriam scoffed softly under her breath. She could not expect a love match. Savta was blind, after all.
“Gershon, will you walk with me?” She headed for the door, not waiting for his answer. If he did not mind discussing such matters before his impressionable young son, she did. She did not hear his footsteps, but when she unlatched the door, he was at her side to wrest it open.
Night had fallen. Lights from oil lamps and hearths flickered from a few windows. Overhead, a sliver of moon held court over a spill of stars.
“How soon will we wed?” she asked.
“Before the fullness of the moon.”
So, there would be no celebratory feast with friends, no wedding procession through the streets of Jezreel. Not for her, readings from The Song of Songs. ‘Who is this that cometh from the wilderness, like pillars of smoke?’
Why would she want that? Her family could not attend. She waited the space of three deep breaths.
“No. That is too soon.”
“But you haven’t opened the—”

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“I am assured my father’s brother will have been more than fair.” She glanced quickly at the ketubah. “It’s not that.”
“But Jaedon—”
“There is no question. I love Jaedon. The betrothal is settled if I agree to its terms, yes? From that time, he will be my son.” She reached for Gershon’s hand, feeling him withdraw under her touch. Was she that repulsive to him?
“But you … you have not had time to mourn.” She looked pointedly at their hands, hers open, reaching, his closed in a fist, a portrait of their relationship. “Young couples may wait a year before the chuppah. I want to wait the full period of mourning for your beloved wife. For Rasha.”
His hand uncurled when she spoke his wife’s name, and then he slowly lifted it to stroke his beard. His forehead had smoothed, with relief, she was sure. “You will agree to the terms?”
She slid the cord from the rolled parchment and read aloud. “… guardian to my son, Jaedon.” She rolled it loosely and repositioned the cord. “Write ‘mother and guardian’. Then, I agree.”
“You are satisfied with the financial agreements?”
“What do I care for houses and land? Ah, but a son!”
For the first time, Gershon smiled, and he reached for her hand.

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