LITMIR.BIZ

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went to their tents where they celebrated the fall of Lachish with streams of beer. The beer had been distributed for the occasion, to celebrate the victory of Ashur.

      * * *

      Outside, the raindrops were pounding on the parched ground. The fall rains had arrived. From the safety of the cave Rivkah was staring at the showers outside. How cold it had become! Rivkah shivered. Drawing her knees up to her body she hugged them tightly. Her clothes just weren’t warm enough. Not on a day like this.

      Amnon sat opposite the entrance and greeted the arrival of the first rain:

      “Blessed are you LORD

      for you have remembered your people.

      You send the rain in its season,

      both the early and the late rains.

      The ground is thirsty and dry,

      the fields are withered and parched

      and you bless them with showers of gentle rain,

      you moisten them with downpours of water.

      O LORD, you ride on the clouds,

      like a warrior you pass through the heavens.

      Listen, listen to the thunder of his voice

      and the rumbling that comes from his mouth.

      He thunders with his majestic voice

      and he does not restrain the lightnings when his voice is heard.

      From heaven’s chamber comes the whirlwind,

      and cold from the scattering winds.

      God loads the thick cloud with moisture,

      the clouds scatter his lightning.

      God thunders wondrously with his voice,

      he does great things that we cannot comprehend.”

      The hymn had built up to a climax as Amnon’s voice grew louder. Now he suddenly broke off and continued in a gentler voice.

      “O LORD, pour your strength into the earth,

      make the ground fruitful, oh God,

      that the dust may bring forth fruit

      and the fields stand heavy with grain.

      May the ears of wheat stand like rows of soldiers,

      sons of the mighty one.

      Blessed are you LORD

      for you have remembered your people.

      You send the rain in its season,

      both the early and the late rains.”

      Amnon gazed out into the rain. His old mother Ayalah sat beside the smoldering embers of the cooking fire. Head down, eyes closed, she had listened intently to the old hymn. Beside her sat Naarah, Amnon’s wife. With a rapturous expression she looked at her husband. Nestled in her arms lay Tilon, her son. He had fallen asleep, snuggling against his mother.

      The others sat across the room on either side of the door to the southern chamber. There was old Joab. Rivkah understood he was a farmer, too. She had met him only when he came back in the afternoon. Together with Achan, the young boy, he had foraged for food. Not that they had found much. A few grains of wild barley and a quail was all they brought back. Still, Naarah had managed to cook a filling meal.

      Joab was carving a wooden spoon while he listened to Amnon’s voice. He worked slowly, his mind wandering to times long past. How often had he greeted the coming of the fall rains? Each new year, he had waited for the rain in its season. And today it had come in its due time. But today was different. Today there was no home, there were no fields.

      Engrossed in thought Joab’s hands stopped working. Then he lifted his head, looked at the group assembled in the dim light of the cave and said, “In my village the children always greeted the new rain with a short song. It’s not solemn at all, but . . . ”

      Joab smiled and started to sing:

      “O bull of my father

      don’t stuff yourself on green.

      Fresh grass do not gobble

      for death is in its leaves.

      O bull of my father

      be sturdy and be strong.

      The yoke you shall carry

      and wheat shall crown our fields.”

      It can’t have been one of the better renditions of the song. The tune was hardly discernable and the mood of the ditty entirely lost to the listeners. Nevertheless, Naarah seemed to have liked it.

      “That’s good! Tell the old bull what to do.” She sighed. “Our bulls were beautiful animals, were they not, Amnon?”

      Her husband just made an unidentifiable sound, apparently in assent. He didn’t seem too enthused about the whimsical song. Or maybe he did not want to be reminded about what they had lost. Not getting the expected response, Naarah mumbled something quietly and concentrated on her son sleeping in her arms. Tilon had not been disturbed by the singing and slumbered peacefully.

      Outside it was completely dark now. The occupants of the tomb could hardly make each other out. Ayalah got up and felt her way to the western chamber.

      “Time to lie down. Tomorrow is another day.” She encouraged the others to follow her lead. Amnon helped his wife to carry Tilon into the adjacent room.

      Rivkah had been allotted a place in the southern room with Joab and Achan. She curled up on a bench there and wrapped the woolen blanket tightly round herself. Her first night in the grave! Fear crept up inside her. She shuddered. Hardly daring to breath she stared into the dark. The walls seemed to threaten to fall in on her and bury her alive in this grave. Or was this just a dream and she was already with the dead?

      She closed her eyes. But now she saw images of the burning city, the flames licking the buildings, the horror of destruction. The oppressive dark seemed welcome when she opened her eyes again. Careful not to make a sound, she turned over. Reaching out she touched the cold walls of the tomb. Somehow she was sure she shared this fate with her family, her city: they had descended to the shades of the earth, a place of darkness and emptiness, where there was no light or food and the dreaded Lord Mot controlled the weary captives. Rivkah shook. She felt goose bumps on her skin. But with the horror came sadness. Death had taken them and Rivkah would see them no more. The separation hurt. She could feel her throat tighten and her chest ache as she thought about the loved ones she had lost, the family that would never be together again. Tears stole into her eyes. She let them flow freely in the dark. Trying to keep quiet she suppressed her crying. Only once did a sob escape her lips.

      She didn’t know how long she had lain there, lost in her misery, but she slowly became aware of another sound. It was the snoring and rattled breathing of her companions; or, rather, of one of them—Joab, the old man, made plenty of noise in his sleep. It brought her back to the present. It was both annoying and comforting.

      She still had not fully fathomed what had happened this day. She had been so thankful after the simple meal of bread and herbs that Naarah had prepared for her. The woman had told her their own story of woe, of leaving behind all that they cherished. And she described their present situation in desperate terms. The long walk to get water from a stream bed, the arduous task of collecting firewood. The constant search for food in a land swarming with the enemy, where any day could mean discovery, any step might lead to captivity.

      Naarah complained about the few implements with which she was expected to manage the household. She showed obvious disdain for their current accommodation. Naarah had confided to Rivkah that she had buried a dove in the ground outside, just opposite the entrance. Hopefully it would ward off demons and keep the inhabitants safe. In places like these you just had to be careful.

      Rivkah had looked with apprehension towards

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