Prologue:

It is the seventh year of Jehoiakim, son of Josiah, king of the land of Judah, and a time of turmoil has fallen upon the lands of Palestine. The independent states of the region are bickering and fighting amongst themselves, the stronger preying upon the weak, and at the same time guarding themselves from the power of the Chaldean military under the command of Nebuchadnezzar II, unopposed leader of the mighty Babylonian Empire. Already, Pharoah Necoh II of Egypt has been defeated at the battle of Carchemish by Nebuchadnezzar, his land now in danger of falling under the Chaldeans’ control. Adding to that the seized lands of the now defunct Assyrian Empire, it seemed as if there were none who matched the size or power of this “Neo” Babylonian Empire.

All the while, the kingdom of Judah has returned to its old ways of idolatry and treachery, even after the reformations and revivals during the time of the good King Josiah nearly seven years earlier. This backsliding, however, has not gone unnoticed. Yahweh God, the Almighty Creator and God of Israel, through His servants the Prophets, has proclaimed judgment against Judah and their leaders and warned the people to turn from their transgressions so that they would not be deposed of their land and their capitol destroyed. King Jehoiakim and the people of the land, their hearts hardened and full of deception and pride, pay the words of the Lord no mind and continue on in their sin.

Though the future looks grim, this is not to say that some men of righteousness did not remain within the land of Judah. Despite the sin of their leaders, the bulk of the citizens of Judah and their neighboring nations, some still persevered and followed the laws of God.

This is the story of one of them.

Sweat droplets beaded on the rolls of his olive-tanned forehead, rolling down across over his flesh and dripping down onto his nose. His arms strained as he reached into the upper branches of the tree, gripping one of the riper pieces of fruit from where it was perched and dropping it into the basket at his feet. The sweet scent of the apples danced luxuriously in the air and gifted each who smelled them with a sense of delight. This was truly a gift given to those who lived in Beth Tappuah.

Wiping his free hand over his sweat-glistened forehead and back through his curly ebony locks, he slumped down against the trunk of the tree at which he had been working.  For hours now, he had been hard at work under the smoldering heat of the midday sun, gathering some of the choicest fruit from his family’s trees amongst those of the community orchard for his wife as she lay at home in anticipation for a blessed delivery.

“Ishmerai!” a desperate voice cried out from down the path that led back down to the village. Seconds later, the voice called out again “Ishmerai!” not long before the man who had been calling out appeared. He looked to be a young man, perhaps his mid-twenties, with skin color very similar to that of Ishmerai’s, with long brown hair grown hanging down over the sides of his bearded face and wearing a loose fitting, tan-colored tunic tied at the waist. Smiling, Ishmerai stood from his resting spot and caught the younger man in his arms as he came stumbling up the road.

“What is it?” he asked, a bit of a chuckle evident in his voice as he helped his friend to his feet. “What has you so excited, Maadai?”

The young man’s shoulders heaved up and down as he gasped, exhausted, desperately trying to fill his burning lungs with air. He mustered his strength and did what he could to calm himself as he shook his head and raised it up to look his friend in his eyes, a giddy smile creasing his face as he began to laugh. “It’s time…It… It’s time, Ishmerai!”

Ishmerai’s own face reflected Maadai’s excitement as he snatched him into his arms and embraced him shortly before setting Maadai back on his feet once more, but keeping both hands on the younger man’s shoulders. Both again started to laugh with joy, tears beginning to stream down their faces.

“Come, we should go back! Quickly!” Maadai grabbed Ishmerai’s arms and lowered them down between them, cheeks reddening as he turned and began to drag the expectant father down the path towards the village proper. “ I’m sure the midwife has come to her by now!”

With joy and excitement elating their souls, the two continued on, each in the other’s grasp as they leapt down the path towards the home of Ishmerai and his wife.

The village of Beth Tappuah was a quiet settlement, located only five miles from the bustling expanse of Hebron. Their village was small and unassuming, sitting nestled on a hillside near a rich orchard of apple trees, a sweet and aromatic blessing in the harsh Palestinian climate. Today, however, shrill screams pierced the fruit-twinged air, alerting all who dwelt there to what was taking place.

Ishmerai paced back and forth in front of the doorway leading into his small adobe home, teeth set on edge and muscles tense as he listened to the panting and ear splitting screams of his wife. The rhythmic coaching of the midwife echoed quicker and quicker as each minute passed. He had prayed for months that the Lord would bless him with the gift of a child… an heir for him, to continue the traditions of both family and tribe handed down from generation to generation. At last, it seemed as though his sincerest prayers would finally be answered, lest the jaws of death claim his beloved wife in the waves of pain that affronted her fragile form and the sudden loss of strength that needed to be used in the child-bearing process.

Inside, a stream of crimson flowed down the lips of Ishmerai’s wife, Penninah, trying to relieve the agony that burned in her loins, and matching the flow of blood that dripped down onto the dust from beneath her skirt. The midwife gripped Penninah’s hand, cooing over her reassuringly as she coached her on in one last push and wiping mattes of sweaty, knotted hair out of her eyes. The expectant mother’s teeth clenched together to the point that they looked almost as if they would break, gums bared to the air under the stress. Once more she cried out, her scream almost animal-like this time as her child was pushed ever closer to being revealed to the world.

Hearing Penninah’s screams of agony, her husband leaned his head on his arm against the walls of their home, eyes pressed shut as he uttered a silent prayer for her safety.

And then there was silence. 

Ishmerai glanced towards door, worried at the sudden absence of any sound.  He took a step backwards, about ready to break tradition and go in to check on his wife, but paused when he heard the cheers and laughter of those within and the shrill cry that pierced the air soon after, the cry of one snatched from safety of its mother’s womb. Sadly, his wife’s voice was not among those celebrating. Emboldened more than ever, he continued to creep over towards the door and began to peek into the shadowy innards of the dwelling, but the older woman who had been serving as midwife for Penninah soon poked her head out and stared him in the eyes, smiling proudly as she revealed the wimpering bundle in her arms to its father.

“Well?” he asked meekly, lifting his hand shakily towards the child in her arms,

“Penninah is merely resting. The strains of child birth have sapped every bit of energy from her body, poor girl, but she is well.” The midwife nodded to herself and chuckled under her breath as she saw the worried father reach for his child. Lifting it forward, she unwrapped the cloth she had covered it in and presented the naked child unto its father. “I should give you my congratulations, Ishmerai. It’s a boy.”

His eyes widened, glowing as the shimmering sun that sat over all of their heads. Crowds of people from within the village began to gather about as Ishmerai took his son into his arms. This little one was small, much smaller than he had expected, only the length of his forearm, and still he glistened with the water from which he emerged. Both of his legs were wrapped together under him, almost looking like some sort of tail, and the small bit of hair on his head was slicked back against his scalp. Raising the boy into the air, he smiled as he looked the boy over, smiling at the minute resemblance he bore to a nearly grown tadpole. It was then that he settled on the matter of the lad’s name. “A new son is born unto the shattered tribe of Asher!” he called out, addressing all those around him, but speaking loud enough that all within the village could hear him. Even if they were unable to see his face, it was obvious in his voice that he was beaming with pride and joy. “And his name shall be Hophni, son of Ishmerai! Praise be to Yahweh, the God of our forefathers, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, for it is by His blessing that unto us this child has been born!”

Led by Maadai at the head of the group, the villagers lifted their arms to the air and let loose great shouts of joy that would echo throughout the countryside. Now was a time of celebration for all those in Beth Tappuah.

Such times of gladness and celebration, especially for an event so pure, and the evocation of the name of Yahweh in praise were rare, and growing more so each and every day.

Judah has changed much since the days in which the Monarchy was founded under the greatest of the Jewish kings, David son of Jesse, and men such as Ishmerai, son of Othniel, and his family are few in number. Once more the Jewish people have backslidden into the sins of their forefathers, and have as well turned away from their trust in the protection of the Lord and entered into international liaisons with their neighbors. Never has this been done more since the reign of Manasseh, son of Hezekiah, than in the reign of the impious, opportunistic Jehoiakim, son of Josiah, the latest of the Davidic line to sit upon Judah’s throne.  Truly, this man was not even meant to be upon the throne, but was placed there in the stead of his brother, Jehoahaz, by Pharoah Necho II, whose own kingdom of Egypt had become the greatest power in the region in those days. Thus, under Jehoiakim, Judah became the servant of Egypt for nearly five years. While this was good for the king in that it stabilized his power and assured his safety in rule, his acts did not take into account the welfare of his people, who were now under heavy taxation by their leaders so that Jehoiakim could pay the demanded tribute to Necho.

Then, in the king’s fourth year, the forces of the Babylonians, under the command of Nebuchadnezzar, made war against the Egyptians, who were marching towards Asia and the Euphrates River, and paid them so heavy a blow at the battle of Carchemish that Egypt would be unable to ever assert itself as a major power within the region again. With this major defeat, Palestine and Syria and all the kingdoms within their borders now belonged to the Babylonian Empire. However, before Nebuchadnezzar could continue his march and strike against the heart of the kingdom of Judah, he received news that his father, King Nabopollassar, had died and needed to hurry back to Babylonia so that he could secure the throne for himself. Once this was achieved, he returned to Palestine and took Jerusalem for himself, taking certain members of the Jewish nobility, including King Jehoiakim, and deporting them to the city of Babylon, along with some of the vessels that were taken from the Temple of Yahweh.

Looking to preserve his own ill-gained power and to keep himself from being imprisoned, perhaps worse, Jehoiakim turned to the newly crowned king of Babylon and looked to convince Nebuchadnezzar of his usefulness upon the throne of Judah and his total loyalty to the empire. Whether his speech had convinced the King, or whether he simply wished to remove his toadish captive from his sight, it is not known, but he conceded to the Jew’s wishes and had him sent back to Jerusalem to serve as vassal king.

And so it was that he served under the Babylonian Empire for three years, imposing ever-increasing amounts of pain and suffering upon his people and pushing upon them continually rising taxes. The pride and arrogance of man, however, can at times prompt one to do impetuous, even foolish things, without regard for his life or the lives of those around him, and no more is this point proven than in the actions of Jehoiakim.

This brings us to current times, the seventh year of King Jehoiakim’s reign, and he has deemed that it was time to remove his kingdom from beneath the Babylonians’ iron fist. Perhaps prompted by the Egyptians’ seeming rise in power once more as they defeated the Chaldean military forces trying to conquer the nation of Egypt, or just led by the king’s own foolish pride, Judah rebelled against Nebuchadnezzar and the Babylonian Empire. In a move that seemed more cruel than simply striking quickly at the Jews with the bulk of his military force, the king of the Babylonians, from his temporary headquarters at the city of Riblah, decided to dispatch only a few garrisons of Babylonian solders, as well as hired soldiers from many of the surrounding nations, to harass the Jews and strike fear into their hearts in the hopes of bringing them into submission. However, the extent of their “harassment” was not defined.

Thus came the fate of Beth Tappuah at the hands of the Moabites…

Plumes of acidic smoke billowed into the air as flames licked at and devoured the wood and straw that were within the homes of the citizenry, accentuated by the screams and howls that floated from the streets. These, though, were not the same screams that echoed out several months earlier, the hallowed cries of life and birth. No, these were the howls and soul-piercing screams of those now claimed by the tendrils of cruel death.

A group of twenty horsemen had appeared in the distant hills hours before sunrise would come, marching forward towards the village. Scouts had probably been sent within the preceding days, coming upon the wall-less town of Beth Tappuah as they explored the countryside surrounding Hebron. While the loss of this little village wouldn’t be a major loss for the Jews, it would make those within Hebron nervous because of an attack so close to their homes. This “place of apples”, the commander knew, would merely be an example of things to be in the times to come.

The thunderous sounds of their horses’ hooves chilled the very soul of the people whom they were hunting, stomping about the village like soulless engines of death. Flaming arrows flew through the air like deadly birds of prey, swooping down upon their targets and consuming them as the swordsmen slayed those who fled from their houses in escape.

“Our lord, Chemosh, shall feed well today, my men!” the commander of the Moabite mercenaries cried, a feral snarl spreading across his worn face as he swooped down upon an elderly woman who was hobbling away slowly down the street. Sliding down the side of his mount, he took his sword from its scabbard, spinning it in an arc as he removed it, and ran it through her chest. He, like his comrades, wore leather armor the color of blood mingled with wet earth, and a tarnished copper helmet, with a cloth mask drawn over his face and a crimson cloak billowing behind him. Their clothing was more for appearance than functionality, knowing they would need little protection against mere farmers, but still armored enough should some sort of recourse be mounted. At their appearance they would flee, and by their blades they would die.

Ishmerai held his infant child close to his breast as he sprinted up the path from the village towards the orchard, his chest heaving up and down from exertion. Worry and anger swept over him in the heat of the moment, adrenaline pumping wildly through his veins and tears welling up in his eyes. Many of the male villagers had regrouped on the far edge of the town nearest the orchard, chanting the call “Beat your plowshares into swords, men! Your Pruning hooks into spears!” hoping to draw up the fighter’s spirit within a group of old farmers, most of whom were now being fueled by the rage in their hearts. A Rage resulting from the cruel murder of their loved ones. The women and children… they had been the first to taste the Moabites’ cold steel.

‘Peninnah’, he sobbed in his mind, trying to keep a straight face in front of his son, though he was only an infant. His darling wife had been stuck down…beheaded… as she went out to gather milk from their goats for breakfast. A part of his heart, a very large part, wanted to gather with those men below and fight the Moabites with them, but he knew deep in his heart that ‘Vengeance belonged to the Lord’.

The bold red fruit of the apple trees glistened with the morning dew as he crested the hill, his nostrils assaulted by both the sweet aroma of the ripening apples and the harsh, biting odor of smoke drifting up from the city. Hophni still slept soundly in his arms, completely unaware of the danger in which they both now stood, completely alone in the orchard. Ishmerai glanced from side to side, looking for somewhere to hide his son in case the Moabites would come for him. He might not escape to see another day, but Hophni surely would, he would make sure of it.

He had thought about putting him in the trees, but that seemed too conspicuous. He had also thought about lowering him down the ridge by rope, but then he would be easy prey for the night predators. He could have done a lot of things, but he was running out of time. Then he saw it, out of the corner of his eye… an empty cistern.

With the boy in one arm, he scampered over to the pit, keeping low to the ground in case anyone was watching. Glancing down into the old cistern, Ishmerai realized that it wasn’t going to be as easy as just setting the boy down into the hole and hiding him, especially since it was a eight foot drop to the bottom, so he set Hophni down momentarily against the roots of the closest apple tree and went to look for a piece of rope. As he was, though, an arm reached down out of the foliage of the trees above and grabbed onto Ishmerai’s shoulder, nearly causing him to leap into the air.

“Ishmerai,” a voice whispered into his ear as someone lowered himself from the tree, almost being gutted as Ishmerai unsheathed his pruning knife and spun around. Thankfully enough for them both, he recognized the man who had jumped down from the branch and stuck the knife back into his belt, eyes widening as they both laughed and embraced.

“Maadai, you’re alive!” he beamed, hugging him again and then reaching down for Hophni. “How did you survive the raid? Most of those who aren’t fighting back at the end of the hill are dead.”

“I was up here gathering some fruit for breakfast when I heard the commotion. Not knowing what to do, I took my basket of fruit and climbed up into the tree, hoping to hide until everything was over.”

The older man smirked, “Not exactly the most noble of intentions, I’m afraid.”

“Well, we can’t all be Joshuas, now can we? Anyway, that brings me to an interesting question. What are you doing?”

“Trying to save my son, or at least trying to give him a better chance of survival than the rest of us.” He looked about in every direction, but saw not a scrap of rope within the orchard. A thought then suddenly came to mind and he undid his belt from around his waist and took off his outer robe and tied the two together before taking his son and tying one end around him.

Maddai, all the while, watched his friend undress, tie up his son, and then take him over towards one of the cisterns. Wide-eyed, he ran over and grabbed Ishmerai by the arm. “Hey… hey, what are you doing?!”

“Hiding my son, that’s what I’m doing.”

“Well, Isn’t there anything else you can do other than dropping him into a hole in the ground? What about running?” the younger man looked over and pointed towards the edge of the cliff and the hills that lay below. “You could climb down the cliffs and make a run for Hebron.”

Ishmerai frowned, the lines of age on his face showing as he shook his head as he began to lower his son into the water pit. “No, no, no. It’d never work, I’m getting too old…no, I’m not spry enough to make it down.”

“But I am.”

“You…” he paused, his face aghast at what Maadai said, though he should have known that the young man would have. They had known each other since he was a teenager and Maadai was a toddler, and this young man would have done anything he could have to help Ishmerai’s family, even risk his own life.  Gathering himself, he smiled and placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder, raising Hophni from the cistern and taking him into his arms. “You…will take my son… to safety?”

“Yes, you know I would, even if it would cost me my life.”

“May the Lord bless you, Maadai, son of Gehazi,” Ishmerai held back a tear, and then looked down at his son and kissed him on the cheek. “And you, Hophni, son of Ishmerai,  the Lord bless you and keep you in everything you do. May the God of our forefathers guide you in His will, and may you keep His laws all the days of your life.” In the distance, the thunderous hoof-falls of the marauders’ steeds sounded from the path. They were coming for them, now. “If you’re going to go, go now!”

Maadai took Hophni, still wrapped in his father’s belt, and tied him to his back, making a sprint for the cliff-side. “I won’t disappoint you, my friend.”

Ishmerai said nothing. He merely turned away from them and walked towards the path. It was mere seconds before the raiders were within his sight and the last, and only, survivors of Beth Tappuah descended the cliff to escape. He knew the others, his family and friends who took up the battle at the bottom of the hill, were gone, and soon so would he. Arms extended from his body, he locked eyes with the first of the Moabites as he rode towards him, looking into the turbulent black pools that stared at him from above the man’s mask, and saw the gleaming of his blade as it was lifted from his side. Ishmerai, son of Othniel, stared glassy-eyed and smiled as the sword cut his midsection asunder.

Hophni, my son, I love you…