Viewed through Gili’s eyes, there was nothing miraculous about it, but the half dozen men and women standing around that bed would see it as nothing less.
The day began exactly the same as they had for as long as she could remember—which, given that she was only five years old, wasn’t very long. As the golden streaks of the early morning sun forced the dark shadows of night into retreat, her mother’s gentle voice called each of the children by name. “Uzzi, Hanan, Caleb, Gili, it’s time to wake up.” Her mother was only a room away, but in those hours of deep sleep, the voice sounded as if it came from another world.
The room in which the four children slept was small and teetered on being crowded. It would have been pushed over the edge had Uzzi not insisted on sleeping on a pile of straw covered by a few animal hides. “I’m a warrior,” he proclaimed, “and warriors don’t sleep in beds.” The fact that he’d been sleeping like that every night for nearly two years amazed his parents and gave credibility to his words.
Eleven-year-old Uzzi kicked off the coarse camel-hair blanket and shot up from his bed, anxious to attack the day with the same enthusiasm with which he attacked everything. Hanan groaned and snuggled deeper into the soft sheepskin that encased him like a cocoon, his nine-year-old body craving a few more minutes of sleep. Caleb yawned and stretched his legs and arms to their full extent then, like a seven-year-old, kicked his feet mightily, sending his soft linen blanket flying through the air. It landed in a heap on the hard-packed clay floor.
In the far corner of the room, away from the door, two goat-hair blankets hung from the ceiling creating a room within a room. Little Gili, ensconced in her semiprivate corner, sat up on the edge of her feather-filled mattress for only the briefest moment before dropping to her knees beside her bed. In perfect innocence, she began her morning prayer in a voice only slightly louder than the beating of a butterfly’s wings: “Friend, Jehovah,” she began, as if she was speaking to her best friend in the village. “Thank you for letting us sleep safely last night. I love Daddy and Mommy and Uzzi, Hanan, and Caleb. Please keep us safe from soldiers and protect us today. Amen.” The length of her simple prayer changed every day depending upon what was on her mind, but regardless of what other words she added or subtracted, the plea always included the phrase, “Please keep us safe from soldiers and protect us today.”
* * *
It was a heartfelt request, born from a fear her young mind sensed but couldn’t quite understand. It began a year earlier. Her mother had tucked her into bed, kissed her tenderly on the forehead, and repeated the same ancient Israelite phrase she always did: “A little sleep, a little slumber, for the strength to play and tumble.”
Gili hugged her mother tightly around the neck. “Will you leave the oil lamp beside my bed for a while?”
A thin smile creased Miriam’s lips. “Yes, but only for a few moments.”
Gili wasn’t afraid of snakes or unseen evil monsters; after all, Uzzi was on the floor to protect her. She wanted it because she loved watching the shadows as they danced on the walls, and she would drift to a world of dreams imagining wonderful adventures. But on this night, the dreams didn’t come, and so she sheepishly slipped from her bed and crept toward the room where they ate their meals.
Stopping short of the soft yellow light emanating from the room, Gili stood silently, tight against the wall. Her father sat at the table, and her mother stood at the counter grinding wheat between two stones.
Gili looked on as Gideon leaned back in the chair and unlatched the leather armlets from his left forearm. “Jehieli said it was a complete massacre.” Gideon placed the darkened leather on the table.
Miriam stopped grinding the stones together and turned to look at Gideon in horror. “All of them were killed?”
Gideon pressed his lips together and nodded somberly. “All of the men and women. A few of the older children were taken as slaves, but they killed all the younger children,” he replied, struggling to undo the latches on the armlet on his right arm.
“But why? Why would they do such a thing?” Miriam asked.
“Because they can,” Gideon said matter-of-factly. “And to make a point.” He finally placed the second armlet on the table.
“But the children? What point does it make to kill innocent children?” Miriam asked incredulously.
Gideon looked pensively at Miriam. “Fifteen years ago, as a soldier, I could have answered your question and justified it perfectly. I participated in the invasion and annihilation of heathen cities—killing everyone in the city and then burning it to the ground.” Shaking his head slowly, he added, “But now, as a father, the idea of killing children makes bile rise in my throat.”
“Ramoth-gilead means nothing to the Syrians. It is a desolate little village,” Miriam said. “How does that make sense?”
Gideon let out a deep sigh and rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. “Miriam, what are you feeling right now?”
Miriam looked at him in confusion. “What do you mean, what am I feeling right now?”
“Exactly that. What are you feeling right now after hearing what I just told you?”
“Fear!” she blurted out. “I’m afraid! I’m frightened for our lives, for all of us: you, me, and the children.”
Gideon swiveled his muscular body to face her. “That is precisely why they did what they did. They want to cause fear. Ramoth-gilead is an easy journey from here, and if the Syrians attacked it, then they could easily do the same here. They want to intimidate us.”
Miriam stared blankly at Gideon. “It’s too much, Gideon. I can deal with the isolation, the endless work, even the poor living conditions. But I could not bear losing the children or you.” Turning away from Gideon, Miriam set down the grinding stone and placed both hands on the small counter to brace herself. Her shoulders slumped, and her head dropped.
The muffled sobs gave way to uncontrolled crying as Gideon rose to his feet and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. Turning her around, he used his thumbs to wipe her tears away then hugged her tightly. “You have nothing to fear as long as I’m alive,” he whispered quietly in her ear.
Miriam pushed free from his embrace and stared at him. “When we moved here,” she said in a voice choked with anger and fear, “you told me that it was impossible for Syrian soldiers to cross that volcanic desert, the Sisibe . . .”
“The Shahba,” Gideon corrected.
“Whatever it’s called,” she fired back, barely controlling her anger. “You told me our backs were protected. Now, you tell me a Syrian army has done the impossible and that I have nothing to worry about as long as you’re alive. But what happens if they attack and you’re dead? What then, Gideon? Is it death for the children and me? Or worse, will we be taken as slaves?”
The intense silence that saturated the room was broken by Gili. “Momma?” she said, stepping into the light.
Startled by the voice, Miriam and Gideon quickly turned. “Yes, sweetheart?” Miriam said softly as she quickly strode to where Gili stood. Scooping the girl in her arms, she asked, “What’s the trouble, little one?”
“Who killed little children?”
Miriam shot Gideon an angry look and stammered a lie. “No one, sweetie. Daddy and I were just talking.”
“Are soldiers going to hurt us?” Gili asked.
Gideon crossed to where they stood. Wrapping his arms around both Miriam and Gili, he said, “Everything is fine, Gili. No, soldiers are not going to hurt us.”
Gili looked at Gideon. “But you just said—”
“No, Gili,” Gideon said reassuringly. “There are no soldiers near here. Don’t worry.” Then giving her a quick peck on the cheek, he said, “Now it is time for you to go back to bed.”
Gili offered an unconvinced smile. As Miriam started walking from the room with Gili in her arms, Gili anxiously asked, “Momma, what are slaves?”
* * *
Her morning prayer finished, Gili jumped to her feet and padded her way past a still-sleeping Hanan and walked down the short hallway. A smile spread across Gili’s face. The rich aroma of freshly baked loaves of barley bread was getting stronger with each step. Every two days, her mother baked bread, and Gili loved the warm bread dipped in fresh goat milk, especially on those days when her mother was too rushed to skim off the thin layer of cream to make cheese.
Gili rubbed the last bit of sleep from her eyes as she rounded the corner into the main room of the house, dragging the tattered and dirty remains of a soft sheepskin blanket behind her. The sun had clawed its way higher into the cloudless sky and peeked over the low ridge of mountains behind the house. In not many minutes, the chill of the night would surrender to the heat of the day, and shimmering waves of heat would dance across the distant desert floor. But for now the few rays that spilled through the large window warmed the room and made it the perfect temperature.
Although larger than the other rooms in the house, it seemed smaller. A table, two chairs, and a long bench piled high with cushions and blankets gave the room a cramped feeling. Unlike all the other floors—which were bare clay that had been made hard and smooth from tramping, pounding and sweeping—this one had a large rug made from goat hides that had been tanned with the hair still attached. The hides had been cut in dozens of small perfect squares, and the white, red, black, and brown pieces were stitched together in an intricate symmetrical pattern. The rug and furniture combined to make this room an oasis in an otherwise monotonously colored place.
The elderly man sitting in the corner smiled warmly at Gili. He sat peacefully in the most comfortable chair in the house with his hands in his lap, his wrinkled fingers intertwined. His deep green eyes were the color of emeralds and radiated kindness as they peered from beneath eyebrows that seemed as white and fluffy as lamb’s wool. His beard was white as the snow and stretched to the middle of his chest. The equally white hair was full and wavy; it cascaded off his head and mingled with his beard so that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. He wore a deep blue robe, the color of the morning sky just before the sun rises, and the contrast with his hair and beard was striking. His cloak of the same color was draped over another chair beside him, and on top of that was a brilliant red mantle with fine threads of gold. His nearly worn-out sandals were laced in place, but Gili could see his feet still had a few muted sheen spots where the olive oil he had rubbed on them had not absorbed into his dry and calloused feet.
“Good morning, Gili,” he said in a soft and pleasant voice.
“Hello,” Gili said and abruptly altered her course away from the smell of the barley bread and toward him.
The kindly gentleman stretched out his arms in an invitation, and reaching his side, she tried to climb on his lap while clinging to her blanket. But her little arms and legs couldn’t muster the strength, so he reached down and hoisted her up, wrapping her blanket snuggly around her in the process. He smiled warmly and gave her a gentle squeeze.
“Comfortable?” he asked with a chuckle as she fidgeted briefly before snuggling against him.
Gili rested her head against the man’s chest, giving an almost imperceptible nod. She sat quietly watching the dust particles dance in the sunlight as it streamed through the window. She closed her eyes momentarily, not in sleepiness, but because she felt calm and peaceful in his presence.
“How have you been since I last saw you, my little friend?” the man asked softly.
“Good.”
The man waited for her to expand her reply, and when it didn’t happen, he said, “I’m glad for that,” and gave her another slight hug.
“When did you come to my house?” Gili asked.
“Very late last night. Long after you were in bed asleep.”
“Oh,” she said, content with the answer.
They sat for several minutes enjoying the sunshine and the quiet before Gili broke the silence. “Prophet, I’m glad you’re here,” she said as she wrestled an arm from under her blanket and hugged him tightly around the neck.
* * *
Elisha smiled just as he did every time she addressed him. From the time she was old enough to talk, she had called him “Prophet.” Others might use it as a title, but for her it was his name. It was more than a name though; she used it as a term of endearment. It was the only name she had ever called him. Millions of others in Israel’s Northern Kingdom might call him the prophet or Prophet Elisha or Rabbi or Master, but she simply addressed him as Prophet. Though no ties of kinship bound them, he felt a closeness with the girl because, even at her young age, she had greater faith and trust than anyone he knew—child or adult. When he spoke, she believed.
The three years they had known each other had passed quickly for Prophet. The evils of the Kingdom of Israel weighed heavily on him, but the respite he found on his brief stays in this home rejuvenated him, primarily because of Gili.
Reaching out to the table beside him, Elisha picked up a small leather bag. “I brought something for you,” he said as he handed her the small bag.
Gili looked at him in surprise. He had never given her anything before, and she was delighted with the small present. “What is it?” she asked in wonderment.
“Open the bag and see,” he said smiling warmly.
Gili deftly untied the thin leather cords that held the bag closed and reached her fingers inside, extracting a beautiful stone the size of the fingernail on her little finger. “It’s beautiful,” she said as she held the small stone up and let the sunlight dance on its surface. “What is it called?” she asked as she twisted and studied the stone from every angle.
“Topaz,” the prophet said softly.
“It’s so clear I can almost see through it,” she said, holding the stone so close to her eye that her long black eyelashes brushed against it.
“If you hold it just so,” Elisha said as he gently twisted the stone in her hand, “it has a very slight pink color.”
“Pink?” she said. “That’s my very favorite color.”
“I know.” Elisha smiled.
“Is this really for me? And I can keep it? It’s my very own?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Elisha answered with a mild chuckle.
Gili threw her arms around Prophet’s neck and squeezed him with every bit of strength she had. “Thank you for my beautiful stone. I’ll keep it forever.”
Elisha returned the girl’s hug. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Let’s go show my mother,” Gili said as she slid to the floor.
“Of course,” Elisha said.
Shifting her blanket under one arm, she clutched the stone tightly in one hand and reached up to grasp Prophet’s hand with the other. With a slight tug, she began leading him toward the aroma of the fresh barley bread.
“Momma, look what Prophet gave me,” Gili said, extending the stone.
Miriam set the plate of bread on the table and stooped to examine the small stone. “It’s beautiful,” she said as she twisted it in the sunlight streaming through the window. Rising, she looked at Elisha. “It truly is beautiful. And it was very kind of you to give it to her.”
Elisha smiled and rested his hand lightly on Gili’s shoulder. “She has amazing faith, this little one.”
Miriam nodded her agreement and pointed to a chair. “Please, sit. We have fresh bread and honeycomb.”
“Thank you. It smells delicious.” Turning to the door, he added, “I’ll join you in a few minutes, after my morning prayers. I won’t be long.”
After Elisha walked out the door, Miriam lifted Gili onto a chair, touched her lightly on the nose, and said, “Now, my joy, it’s time to eat.”
Gili alternated bites of warm bread with careful gazes at her pink stone. She had worked through one slice and started on a second when the distant sounds of a man’s agonizing scream filled the home. It hadn’t finished ricocheting off the walls when another scream filled the air, just as intense but from a younger person. The second scream died, only to be followed by hysterical yells of “Help!” and other indistinguishable words.