"Jerimoth, your father is a very busy man. A very important man. Only Yahweh can know for certain when we will see him again. Now, come. Aren't you hungry? I know I am."

Jerusha hugged the baby tightly to herself and stared down the road toward Jerusalem one last time. Hilkiah's words hadn't revealed what he knew, but they lingered in her mind like a prophecy: Only Yahweh knew when she would see Eliakim again.

"Grandpa?" Jerimoth asked as they washed their hands for dinner. "Can Abba's horse see in the dark?"

"Such questions he asks! Am I a horse that I should know such a thing?"

The mealtime seemed strained. Hilkiah's cousins carried the conversation, talking of relatives Jerusha had never met and past events she hadn't been part of. Jerusha ate in silence, her worries and fears multiplying rapidly. By the time the dishes were cleared away, the children were yawning from their long day.

"Time for bed," she told Jerimoth.

"I want to stay up until Abba comes."

"We don't know when that will be, honey. It might be very late." Or it might be never.

"But I'm not tired, Mama."

"Then you may lie in bed and listen for Abba, and if you hear him coming you may get up again, all right?"

"But Abba always says prayers with me. Who will say them with me if he's not here?"

"I would be very happy to say prayers with you tonight," Hilkiah said quickly.

Jerimoth considered the offer for a moment. "Abba told me that when he was a little boy you used to tuck him in every night and say prayers with him, just like we do."

"That's right, I did."

"Do you remember when Abba was a little boy, Grandpa?"

"Yes, I remember." Hilkiah's voice sounded strange. "Call me when you're ready," he said and quickly fled outside. Jerusha looked at Hilkiah's cousins, but they wouldn't meet her gaze. Instead, they busied themselves with nothing.

After the children were in bed, Jerusha wrapped herself in a shawl and went outside to look for Hilkiah. She found him sitting on the low stone wall of the vineyard with his back to the house, staring at the half-moon lying low on the horizon. She sat down beside him.

"Jerimoth is ready to say prayers."

"All right." He started to rise but Jerusha held his arm to stop him. She had to know the truth.

"Abba, wait. Last night Eliakim told me that King Hezekiah was dying-yet today the king was healthy enough to send us here to Beth Shemesh." She paused, but Hilkiah said nothing. She heard the gentle breeze stirring the leaves of the grapevines. "Abba, if Eliakim has known for days that we might be coming here, if the servants knew and had everything packed, why did he rush home to tell us that we had to leave right away? And why did we have to hurry if he wasn't in a hurry to get here?"

Hilkiah still didn't answer.

"I can learn to live with the truth," she said, "but I can't live with uncertainty. I need to know what's happened to Eliakim. If you know, Abba, please tell me."

Hilkiah pa.s.sed his hand over his face and slowly nodded. "My son Eliakim," he sighed. "Not so long ago he was a little boy like Jerimoth, complaining, 'Do I have to go to bed already?' We said prayers together, Eliakim and I, every night. Sometimes he'd try to rush through them-you know Eliakim ... always in a hurry-and then I'd have to say, 'Whoa! Slow down, son! You're not just reciting words; you're having a conversation with the G.o.d of Abraham, the Holy One of Israel, blessed be His name.' " He paused, and an owl hooted in a tree beyond the barn.

"But my son Eliakim is no longer a boy. He's a man now, and Yahweh has seen fit to make him a very important man." He stopped again, and Jerusha felt him shudder. "When your children are little you can hold them close to you, take care of them, protect them. But soon a day comes when you must give them over to the Almighty One's care. I'm sorry for keeping the truth from you, my daughter. But don't you see? How can I tell you what I haven't accepted myself? How can I find the words to say what I don't want to hear?"

Jerusha began to tremble. She felt a sob rising deep in her heart and couldn't stop it. "Oh, G.o.d, no ... please ..."

Hilkiah drew her into his arms and held her tightly, as if trying to hold her together. "Eliakim sent you and the children here so that you would be safe. King Hezekiah is going to die."

"No ... no..."

"The king's brother will inherit the throne, and Eliakim is afraid that Gedaliah will launch a purge of all the men who supported the king's religious reforms."

"Then why didn't he come with us? Why doesn't he escape before it's too late?" She felt Hilkiah's arms tighten around her. He finally answered in a choked voice.

"Because Eliakim is a man of honor and integrity. He's not a man to run and hide. He has chosen to stay."

"Why didn't he tell me himself?"

"He was afraid you wouldn't leave if you knew the truth, and he wanted you and his two children to be safe."

"He has three children, Abba. I'm carrying another child."

"Oh, my sweet daughter. Does Eliakim know?"

"He has been so busy and so upset about the king that I haven't had a chance to tell him."

They held each other in silence for a few moments; then Hilkiah wiped his eyes. "I must pray with little Jerimoth before he falls asleep. I won't be long."

Jerusha sat alone on the wall, numb and shivering, looking out over the fields and orchards that reminded her so much of home. If only Eliakim had been an ordinary man, a farmer like her father. They could have lived a quiet life, raising their children, growing old together. But Yahweh had made him a very important man, a man of honor and integrity. She must remember those words. Her children may forget their father's face, but they must never forget his faithfulness to G.o.d.

Isaiah walked through the palace hallways in a daze of grief. He didn't know where he was going, only that he wanted to get as far away from the palace as possible and be alone. Telling King Hezekiah that he would die had been one of the most painful prophecies he had ever uttered. He had foretold the destruction of entire nations and kingdoms, but they had all deserved their fate. What had this good king ever done wrong?

Soon the entire nation would hear the official announcement of Hezekiah's death. Isaiah would be able to release his grief and mourn along with everyone else. How he would miss this G.o.dly king!

Then, as Isaiah crossed the middle courtyard of the palace, a shout suddenly rang in his ears: "Go back!

" Isaiah halted in surprise. He looked around to see who had called to him. The courtyard was deserted.

"Yahweh?" he asked in amazement.

The voice of G.o.d spoke to him then, with startling clarity: "Go back and tell Hezekiah, the leader of my people, 'This is what the Lord, the G.o.d of your father David says: I have heard your prayer and seen your tears; I will heal you... ."'

Isaiah's heart leaped inside him. He listened to the rest of Yahweh's message as he turned around and ran back the way he had come, bounding up the stairs, reaching the king's chambers, panting for breath. He burst through the door, and Shebna and the startled physicians stared at him in surprise. He hurried past them, into the bedroom. Hezekiah lay alone with his face to the wall. He slowly turned his head when Isaiah entered, and his ashen face glistened with tears.

"This is what the Lord, the G.o.d of your father David says," Isaiah breathed. " 'I have heard your prayer and seen your tears; I will heal you! On the third day from now you will go up to the Temple of the Lord. I will add fifteen years to your life. And I will deliver you and this city from the hand of the king of a.s.syria. I will defend this city for my sake and for the sake of my servant David.' "

Hezekiah closed his eyes as tears of relief ran down his cheeks. Yahweh was a personal G.o.d, his G.o.d. Yahweh had heard his prayers. He had seen every tear Hezekiah had shed. And in His great love and mercy, Yahweh had decided to answer those prayers. He was going to live!

He would live!

At last Hezekiah wiped his eyes and looked up at Isaiah again. The room whirled dizzily as Hezekiah struggled with the ravages of his fever, and he needed proof that Isaiah was real, not a hallucination. He needed a pledge, a tangible sign to restore his strength and hope; he knew how close to death he still hovered.

Hezekiah stretched out his hand and touched Isaiah's arm, feeling the coa.r.s.e fabric of Isaiah's robe, the warmth and life in the prophet's flesh. He wasn't hallucinating.

"What will be the sign that the Lord will heal me? And that I will go up to the Temple three days from now?"

For a moment Isaiah didn't respond. Then he strode across the room and flung aside the heavy curtains, unlatched the wooden shutters and threw them open. Hezekiah winced as painful sunlight streamed into his room for the first time in many days. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he saw Isaiah pointing to King Ahaz's tower in the courtyard beyond.

"This is the Lord's sign to you that the Lord will do what he has promised: Shall the shadow go forward ten steps, or shall it go back ten steps?"

Hezekiah stared at Isaiah in amazement, unable to comprehend his astounding words. He was going to live. It still seemed like a feverish dream.

"It's simple for the shadow to go forward ten steps," Hezekiah finally said. "Have it go back ten steps." His grandfather had told him long ago that Yahweh could do the impossible.

Isaiah dropped to his knees and closed his eyes in silent prayer. A moment later he fell forward, with his forehead pressed to the floor. Hezekiah concentrated on the shadow that blanketed the tower's winding stairs, not daring to take his eyes off it. The air outside shimmered in the late afternoon heat, but he shivered, still clammy with feverish sweat.

Then slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the leading edge of the shadow began to do the impossible, retreating up the stairs the full distance it had traveled since noon. By the time Isaiah lifted his forehead from the floor, the shadow had moved backward a full ten stairs to its noontime position, and the sun blazed with fierce midday heat.

"O G.o.d ... thank you ... thank you," Hezekiah murmured. His strength was exhausted, and he slumped against the pillows again, grimacing in pain. He still felt as if he were dying, but he knew he would live. G.o.d had heard him. His G.o.d.

Shebna burst into the king's bedroom with the terrified physicians right behind him. King Hezekiah lay against the pillows with his eyes closed. He appeared to be dead.

"The sun!" one of the physicians gasped. "Is it an omen? Is the king... ?"

"The king will live," Isaiah said, rising from where he knelt beside the window. "He will live. Prepare a poultice of figs, and apply it to the boil, and he will recover." The doctors hurried from the room to do it.

Shebna remained behind, staring speechlessly, his dark eyes traveling involuntarily from the king, to Isaiah, then to the clock tower beyond the open window. He had been gazing idly out of the window a few moments ago and thought he had seen the impossible- the shadow on Ahaz's tower had appeared to move backward. Shebna couldn't believe his eyes. He stared intently at the tower once again, but now the shadow was back where it should be, on the tenth step. In a little while it would reach the bottom step and the sun would set. Shebna knew he hadn't imagined it. Some of the physicians and servants had seen it, too, and they had been filled with superst.i.tious dread, believing that it was an omen, believing that King Hezekiah had died.

Shebna went to the king's bedside. He watched Hezekiah's chest rise and fall: his breathing was shallow and irregular. He didn't look as though he could live much longer.

"He will live," Isaiah repeated firmly. Shebna turned to stare at the rabbi. He wanted to believe him, but his eyes told him otherwise.

"Are you certain?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm positive. In three days King Hezekiah will worship at the Temple."

"That is impossible. Look at him! The doctors have all said the king cannot live, much less recover in three days' time. You are not a physician-why do you make such outrageous claims? It is cruel to raise everyone's hopes."

"I didn't make this promise-Yahweh did."

Shebna shook his head. "You are bluffing."

Isaiah didn't reply. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest as if to say, "We shall see."

Shebna knew that Isaiah had been right once before when he'd prophesied that the a.s.syrians wouldn't invade Judah. But Shebna had convinced himself that Isaiah had an informant in the north who'd sent him advance word of a.s.syria's movements. This time Isaiah had to be bluffing. He couldn't possibly know if the king would live or die. And yet ...

Shebna glanced nervously at Ahaz's tower again. He had seen the shadow move backward. So had everyone else. How could he explain that?

Suddenly Eliakim burst into the room, gasping for air as if he had run all the way up the hill to the palace. He stared fearfully at the king.

"He's going to live," Isaiah told him.

"But ... I saw the sun. I thought ..."

"It was Yahweh's sign to King Hezekiah that he will recover."

Eliakim slumped onto the chair beside the bed and covered his face. "Oh, praise G.o.d!"

Suddenly Shebna remembered Prince Gedaliah. If Hezekiah lived, then this would be the second time that the prince had come close to inheriting the throne only to lose it again. He would not weep for joy as Eliakim did. Shebna knew then that there must never be a third time. He would never support Gedaliah's claim to the throne again. As soon as King Hezekiah was well enough, Shebna would make certain that he married a suitable wife. The next king must be Hezekiah's son, not his brother.

Suddenly Hezekiah's eyes flickered open. They were filled with pain, but he was fully conscious and aware.

"Shebna?"

He bent closer to him. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

"Arrange a thank offering ... at the Temple ... in three days."He smiled slightly, then closed his eyes again and fell asleep.

Millions of stars filled the night sky as Jerusha sat alone in the vineyard. From the open window behind her, she heard her son's sleepy voice, along with Hilkiah's husky one, reciting prayers together. Blessed are you, Yahweh, king of heaven and earth ...

She hoped she would never have to go back to Jerusalem, back to a house filled with unbearable memories. She wanted to stay here in the country and raise her children far from the political intrigue of the palace.

The new king would launch a purge, Hilkiah had said. Eliakim might already be dead. As the horrible truth slowly took root in her heart, Jerusha felt a cry of grief swelling inside her. She forced it down, knowing she had to remain strong for her children. Instead, she looked around at the peaceful countryside, trying to draw comfort in the familiar noises of the farm: the sounds of hens clucking over their nests, of goats and sheep jostling for position in their pens, the slow clopping of a horse's hooves as its owner led it up the road to the stable for the night.

"Hear, O Israel! Yahweh is our G.o.d-Yahweh alone!" her son recited upstairs with Hilkiah.

The chirp of crickets and frogs blended with the voices in prayer and with the steady rhythm of a horse's hooves as it plodded up the road toward her. Then suddenly all the sounds disappeared again as the truth dug deeper into her heart. She would never see Eliakim again.

Jerusha didn't notice the horse's hooves drawing steadily louder, closer, as her grief overflowed. When the horse suddenly stopped in front of her, she looked up. Eliakim stood with the reins in his hand, smiling at her. She stumbled across the gra.s.s and into his arms.

"I would have been here sooner," he said, "but unlike our daughter, I never could stay on a horse."

9.

THE SUN HADN'T YET RISEN when Hezekiah awoke on the third day. He was terribly weak, but his fever had broken, and his mind felt as clear as the morning sky after the wind has chased away the rain. He called for his servants, ordering them to light all the lamps in his bedchamber. Then he struggled to sit up.

"Shall I help you, Your Majesty?" his valet asked.

"No. I want to do it myself. I'm tired of being sick. I want to be well again." His joints and muscles ached, but it was a good pain, a healing pain, as if the life flowed back into his body with vitality and force.

All his servants hurried to wait on him, and one of them began ma.s.saging balm made with aloe into the fresh pink skin on the palms of his hands. It smelled familiar, and he vaguely recalled his servants doing this several times a day while he was delirious. He was grateful that they had, even though it had hurt him at the time, for although his skin felt tight when he opened his palms wide, the burns had healed well. He would regain the full use of his hands.

They brought him his breakfast when the ma.s.sage ended, and he fed himself for the first time since the fire. He felt ravenously hungry and asked for second helpings of bread with date honey.

"Bring me some parchment and something to write with," he said after the servants cleared away the food. Words of praise to Yahweh were racing through his mind, along with vivid images of his ordeal, and he wanted to get them down in writing before they vanished. He held the quill stiffly, and his writing looked cramped and sloppy, but he composed his psalm quickly as if trying to capture water from an overflowing spring.

First he wrote of his fear of death and the anguish he'd suffered when he thought G.o.d had abandoned him. Eliakim had told him that difficult experiences deepened our relationship with G.o.d, and Hezekiah knew it was true.