The house was perched on a desolate hillside well beyond the protection of Jerusalem’s walls. It was constructed of light gray blocks held together by mortar the color of a muddy stream. In its early days, brilliant snow-white stucco covered the blocks and gave it a clean, cheery appearance, but not now. Long years in the wind, rain, and searing sun had peeled away most of the stucco, and the small patches that still stubbornly clung to the blocks were the color of dirty eggshells.
A narrow path made a straight line from the back door of the undersized house to a wooden gate in a rock wall that surrounded the house. Through the gate, the thorny path meandered down a slight descent to a parched plot of ground that pretended to be a garden.
“She’s changed,” Uzzi said, walking up beside his younger brother and laying his bow and quiver on the rock wall beside where Caleb was pounding a loose rock back into place.
Caleb cast an incredulous sideways glance at his older brother as he hit the rock with a wooden mallet one final time, wedging it in tightly. “She was a slave for two years, Uzzi. Of course she’s changed.”
Uzzi shook his head as he leaned forward and rested his forearms on the wall. “No, no,” he replied quickly, “I don’t mean her attitude. I mean, she’s no longer the little girl who giggles at my funny faces and laughs at my pranks. Look at her; she’s grown up. She’s becoming a young woman.”
Caleb shifted his gaze down the gentle slope of the hill to where Gili was stooped over, carefully ladling cupfuls of water onto a young squash plant. “She was robbed of her childhood,” he said, shaking his head. “At the age when you and I were running around playing war games, she was being abused as a slave in the house of some pagan Syrian.”
Uzzi gave a single nod of his head to acknowledge the comment as he raised his arm and waved to Gili, who was walking to another plant.
“You know,” Caleb said evenly as he too threw his arm into the air in a wave, “she harbors no ill will toward the Syrian man and his wife.”
“How do you know? Has she told you so?” Uzzi asked somewhat surprised, turning his head to look at his younger brother.
Caleb shook his head. “Mother told me.”
Uzzi stood straight and brushed tiny bits of sand from the underside of his forearms where they had been resting on the wall.
“Do you remember a couple weeks ago—the second or third night after the prophet brought her home to us? The night she woke up screaming?”
Uzzi nodded his head. “Of course I do. She was terrified. She said she had a dream that everyone left her, and she was alone again.”
“Mother told me that after you and I returned to our mats, she stayed up rocking Gili to calm her down. As they talked, she asked Gili if she hated the Syrians. Gili told her no and that she had even come to love that man and his wife.”
Uzzi shook his head in disbelief and sent a stream of spit flying through the air. “I spit on the Syrians for what they did,” he said, suddenly angry.
The sound of sandals crunching on dirt and weeds made the brothers simultaneously turn and look down toward the garden. They watched silently as Gili strolled up the narrow path toward them, the empty water pail swinging in rhythm with her steps. “There,” she said, placing the wooden pail on the wall beside Uzzi’s bow. “I have given each of them a good drink of water.” Looking at Uzzi she added, “If I tend them carefully, by the time you and Samara are married in two months, we’ll have big, beautiful squash to eat at the wedding feast.”
“You think?” Uzzi said, reaching out and playfully tousling Gili’s hair.
Gili swatted at his hand, “I know,” she replied. Taking a step backward so she was out of his reach, she rearranged her hair. “What I don’t know is why Samara ever agreed to marry you,” she teased.
Uzzi smiled and took a breath to reply, but Caleb beat him to it. “That, little sister, is the mystery Mother and I cannot solve. Why anyone would choose to marry a soldier—and this one especially,” he said, lightly slapping Uzzi on the shoulder, “is beyond us.”
Quick smiles spread across each of their lips, but Gili’s evaporated almost as quickly as it appeared. Looking at Uzzi she said pensively, “In some ways, you and Samara remind me of Master Naaman and Mistress Karinah. You are a warrior like he is, and Samara is a musician and very artistic, just like her.”
Uzzi’s smile faded completely, and his eyes darkened. “How can you be so charitable toward them?” he snarled. “He killed both Father and Hanan and then took you as a slave.”
“He didn’t kill either of them. It was others who did it,” Gili corrected.
“But he gave the orders,” Uzzi fired back.
Gili paused, inclined her head in the barest hint of a nod and then said calmly, “I despise what they did, but I don’t hate them.”
“Humph.” Uzzi gritted his teeth and reached for his bow. “I don’t make such fine distinctions; I hate them, and I hate what they did to our family.”
Gili leaned forward and placed her hand on Uzzi’s. “Good has come from it,” she said.
“What good?” Uzzi retorted, withdrawing his hand from hers and slinging his bow over his shoulder.
Gili tucked some errant strands of hair behind her ear. “What good? Well, for one thing, you’re marrying Samara. That’s a good thing. If none of this had happened, she’d be marrying Hanan, not you.” Then leaning slightly forward, she added, “Would you rather that Hanan was still alive or be marrying Samara?”
Uzzi rocked back as the force of the question slammed into him. He stared momentarily at Gili then shifted his gaze to Caleb as if seeking some help with a rebuttal, but Caleb simply raised his eyebrows and waited for an answer.
“Uzzi,” Gili quickly said, “I don’t expect you to answer that question. I was just trying to tell you that even with all the bad things, there is also some good.”
No one moved, and except for the soft cooing of a dove perched in an old, twisted olive tree, there was no sound. After a long moment, Uzzi slowly removed the bow from his shoulder, placed it on the wall, and walked through the gate. Opening his arms toward Gili, he said, “This place isn’t as splendid as where you lived in Syria, but it’s our home, and I thank Jehovah that you are here with us.”
“There’s no place I’d rather be,” Gili replied as she stepped into his outstretched arms.
Caleb watched as Uzzi hugged Gili tightly, lifting her off the ground. “Uzzi,” Caleb said anxiously, “put her down; you’ll crush her ribs.” As Uzzi lowered Gili to the ground and released her, Caleb said, “Gili, whatever became of that stone the prophet gave you, the one that caused so much trouble?”
Free of Uzzi’s crushing hug, Gili took a deep breath and smoothed her robe. Smiling, she reached inside the neck of her robe and pulled out an elaborate gold chain that was fastened around her neck. Suspended from the chain was the topaz stone, held in an intricate gold setting. “It’s here.”
Uzzi and Caleb both looked in awe at the necklace. It represented more wealth than they had seen in years. “It’s beautiful,” Caleb said.
“Gorgeous,” Uzzi muttered. “But, where—? How—?”
Gili smiled, and a little beam of light danced in her eye. “It was a gift.”
Uzzi and Caleb exchanged quick glances, and then Caleb asked, “From whom?”
“Master Naaman,” Gili answered.
“But why?” Uzzi asked, perplexed.
Gili held the stone between her thumb and forefinger. “It was his way of saying thank you.”