Chapter Sixty-Six

Leah

I knew the truth before they told me. I could hear it in the sound of the wind blowing low and forlorn over the plain, and feel it in the way my heart slowed when I stepped outside and faced the rising sun. I saw it in the raven circling endlessly overhead, and in the deer that stopped and stared at me with wide, compassionate eyes.

My Judah no longer lived.

The villagers who returned from the battle avoided my gaze as they trudged back to their homes. Ona, Morit, and Neta looked at me with sympathy, for they had also intuited the truth.

I straightened my spine, pulled my cloak tight against a sudden chill, and went to the well to wait. As I watched our battered men returning, I wondered how I would tell this story. Most of my stories about the heroic Maccabees ended in victory.

Finally, Simon, Johanan, and Jonathan came through the village gate. They huddled for a moment, then Jonathan and Johanan went to their wives. Simon came toward me, Morit hurrying after him.

My knees turned to water, and only the solid stones beneath me kept me from collapsing. Simon must have seen something in my eyes, for he caught my arm and turned to Morit. She stepped up and put her arms around my shoulders, holding tight as Simon gave me the news I dreaded: “Judah was killed today.”

Those four little words seemed to hang on the air, then they vanished, leaving a trail of grief in their wake. I shook my head, not wanting to believe them. What small words they were! They were nothing compared to the power Judah had wielded, and they meant nothing compared to the man he had been: champion, commander, chief encourager. He motivated, inspired, and led by example. He taught his people to believe in the impossible, and he challenged them to do more than they ever dreamed they could. His name shone so brightly, even in the halls of his enemies, that those four little words could not possibly dim his luster.

“Leah, are you all right?” Simon studied me as Morit continued to hold me. “Would you like to lie down?”

I gave Simon a blank look, wondering why he was so concerned about whether I stood or reclined. Why did such things matter now? Judah was gone.

My husband had been everything my father was not: truth and loyalty and love. My lover, protector, and friend. My priest and king.

I met Simon’s gaze and saw the gleam of tears in his eyes. “Thank you for telling me,” I said, attempting a smile. “I think I will go inside now.”

By sunset, Judah’s body had been returned to his family. We women stitched him back together, washed and anointed him, and prepared his shroud. But before we wrapped his body, I stroked the scar I had put on his face and felt tears burn my fingers like hot wax. This was not Judah. It was only a vessel that had once housed one of the brightest lights in all Israel.

I leaned closer, though I knew he was not listening from this empty husk. “You once told me that HaShem had never sent you to do anything. But He sent you to save me, Judah. In so many ways.”

I ran my fingers through his damp hair, then unfolded the linen cloth that would cover his face. When I stepped back, the other women lifted the shroud and respectfully wrapped his body.

We buried Judah next to his unnamed son in the family tomb.

Then all Israel mourned him, saying, “How is the mighty fallen, the savior of Israel!”

Morit and Ona did not want to leave me alone, but I insisted. Their husbands needed tending after the day’s defeat, and I had never been afraid of solitude.

As the members of my family promised to come at once if I should need anything, I bade them good-night and stepped out into the gathering darkness. I unlatched the door and dropped my cloak on the bed, then felt my way to the table in the corner of the room. I lit the lamp and sat on the edge of the bed. “Adonai, what am I to do now?”

My voice echoed in the emptiness as my eyes traveled over so many ordinary sights, made ghostly in the lamp’s flickering light. Judah’s sandals in the corner. His cloak on a peg in the wall. Dark hairs on his pillow.

The resolve that had held me upright all day snapped and I fell over onto the bed as grief erupted within me. “My God, my God,” I cried, “why did you forsake him?”

But even as I said the words, I knew Adonai had never left my husband. HaShem created him to be a warrior and gave him a warrior’s death. How could He have done anything else?

I sat up, wiped my face, and stared at the practice shield Judah had hung on the wall. Eneas had been using it, trying his best to emulate his father’s friend.

“A little Judah,” I whispered. “But no one can ever take his place.”

I lifted my face toward heaven. “What are we to do, Adonai? I do not understand why you have taken Judah when we need him most—”

A reluctant smile twisted my mouth, for when had we not needed the Hammerhead?

In the silence I heard the answer:

He is not gone . . . as long as his story lives.

This time I knew Who put the words in my mind.

I tilted my head, listening for more, and heard nothing but the murmur of voices outside the house. Friends, family, and warriors who had come for the burial were saying their farewells. They would mourn Judah’s loss, and his men, even his brothers, would for a while be like sheep without a shepherd.

But Judah would continue to live through his story, and I would faithfully tell it. He could continue to lead his men through his example. And as long as his story lived, the people of Israel could take courage and know that Adonai had not neglected them.

I knew I would mourn deeply and for a long time, but Judah had not left me alone. He had introduced me to HaShem, who had never been more than an angry figurehead to me until Judah showed me that Adonai listened, cared, and acted on behalf of His people. Judah also taught me that a single person, when inspired by HaShem and committed to the task for which Adonai had formed him, could change the world.

So I would tell his story. “With my dying breath, Adonai, I will tell them everything.”

Then I stretched out on Judah’s side of the bed, because I could not bear to lie across from that empty space.