Balm
The night continued to cool, making Pekah wish for a blanket. Sounds were all around him-the chirping of forest crickets, the buzzing of other unseen insects, even the hoot of an owl off in the distance. He even noticed the low gulping noise of a frog somewhere near the constant gurgle of the stream. These temporary distractions were soon lost to his senses, becoming nothing more than droning background noise as he continued to sink deeper into his depression. Over and over again, memories and images of the siege at Hasor played through his mind. Pekah remembered the dripping rain and damp fields of waist-high grain he had pushed through when his contingent rushed up to the southern garden gates. He could hear the creak and boom of the gates falling, and the pounding feet of charging soldiers upon the streets of the village.
His chest tightened with disgust as he remembered seeing some of the unarmed villagers murdered by his fellow soldiers when they should have been taken prisoner instead. He saw a young boy, not even ten years of age, running down the street away from the invading army, but a Gideonite archer’s arrow had knocked him to the ground before he could escape. The screams of women and children filled his mind.
He also recalled the purported reasons why the army had been sent there, and the dubious mission his detachment had been sent to do. Memories of atrocities committed by his fellow soldiers offended his sensibilities. He squeezed his eyes closed, but he could not shut out the horror.
Pekah’s guilt intensified to the point that he began to feel physical pain, and he groaned under the weight of it. His chest ached. He rolled from side to side, trying to shake the horrible darkness settling over him. As he analyzed the events of the battle, he severely chastised himself at each identified moment where a different outcome would have been possible. Perhaps he could have stopped some of the needless death and destruction that had taken place. But in all of his painful memories, his mind kept stopping at one particular place in time, a moment that disturbed him more than anything else. Pekah remembered the smell of blood as he shuffled past the body of the judge in the Council Hall of Hasor.
An unexpected connection then materialized in his thoughts. Intense disgust poured down upon him like a breaking tidal wave. Pekah recalled loosening the leather belt of the dead captain, sliding the gilded dagger sheath off the end of the belt to remove it, and placing the weapon on his own belt just before they covered the body of Captain Sachar with branches and brush. Sachar’s dagger. A weapon used for murder. The same one which he had sharpened by the campfire.
His eyes opened in alarm, and his hand went instinctively to his side. There he felt the handle: smooth, hard, cold. Revulsion filled him, and he sat up with a start. He stripped the weapon from his waist, throwing it to the ground before him.
There it is.
Pekah frowned at it with extreme distaste.
I have been sharpening a murder weapon.
The scene of blood roiled in his mind.
Why did I ever touch the vile blade?
The detachment’s orders were very specific. Capture the judge. Bring him alive to the emperor. But Sachar had not followed those orders. In anger, Captain Sachar had pulled his dagger from his belt, and like a coward, threw it into the back of the defenseless old man. Pekah remembered protesting, but the deed had already been done. There had been no honor in Sachar’s actions.
He stared at the sheathed dagger in the dirt.
What ever possessed me to touch the thing?
Pekah was no murderer. He had no desire to use the tool of a murderer. As he thought about those ultimately responsible for the death of the judge and king of the Danielites, he questioned his own political leanings. Pekah had felt for a long time that the three tribes should be united as one people. Like many among his kindred, he also felt the Gideonite leaders were the best choice to rule over the Three Brothers. These feelings had provided justification for going to battle.
Were not the Danielites a rebellious and wicked people? Were they not in need of strong leadership? From his youth, he had been taught that the Danielite and Uzzahite peoples were lazy, weak, and prone to hostility towards Gideon. Manasseh, the Gideonite emperor, had warned the people that if they did not attack first, the Danielites and Uzzahites would attack them.
His people were wrong! By Pekah’s impressions, the villagers of Hasor were far from lazy. The city was clean, organized, and beautiful. And from what he could tell when entering the city, the people there were only defending their homes, not preparing to attack the Gideonites.
Was the emperor misinformed by his generals? Or was the emperor simply devious? The more Pekah thought about it, the more he could see that what he had been told could not be true. The emperor. His generals. His captains. They had willfully lied.
This realization sickened him. Oh, how naive he had been. So eager to do something great-to prove himself in battle-he had overlooked the great cost of their campaign. Pekah mentally kicked himself again and told himself he should have known better.
Sitting in the dim flicker of a slow fire, he wondered what he could do to make amends for the great injustice that had been done at Hasor. The pain he felt needed to be expressed, but Pekah didn’t know if Nate would accept an apology on behalf of his people. His thoughts rallied around this idea, however, and he decided to offer a plea for forgiveness at morning’s first light.
Feeling the need to rid himself of Captain Sachar’s dagger, Pekah pinched the pommel between a single finger and his thumb, and then stood. He tiptoed over toward Nate, stooped, then dropped the sheathed dagger into the dirt within Nate’s reach. Nate stirred. Pekah stepped toward his own patch of ground and makeshift pillow and watched, as with a dazed expression upon his face, Nate sat up briefly to look around, but then lay down again and rolled onto his side.
Pekah settled back onto his hard bed and surveyed the stars. “In the morning, I will tell Nate what happened,” he encouraged himself in an audible whisper. For a long time, he rehearsed in his mind how he would tell the story of the fall of Hasor. Sleep still did not come. He sat up again by the fire, and broke up small twigs. One by one he tossed the pieces into the coals. Each one caught fire, glowed, and turned to ash.
In this manner, Pekah passed the entire night, anguishing over the horrible things he had witnessed in Hasor. As the night advanced, the sister moons traced their way across the heavens. Sienna would soon catch her companions. Several times he noted their progress across the stars. Although tired, Pekah still felt restless.
When relief from the darkness finally came as the sky brightened in the west, Pekah stoked the fire again before retiring to the stream to refresh himself. He washed his face, then dunked his head in the water. The frigid stream made him sputter. Dusty from the previous day’s march, he removed his belt, stripped off his dark green tunic, and proceeded to rinse it in the water. After some scrubbing and wringing, he retrieved his belt, then headed back to the fire to hang his wet clothing over a bent branch near the heat.
As Pekah rubbed his hands near the flames, he watched as Eli rose from his bed. Eli smiled and waved a friendly hello, leaving in the direction of the stream. Nate stood up and stretched.
“I hope you slept as well as I did,” Nate greeted.
“Thank you, but not really. I didn’t sleep much.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
Nate looked at the dagger in the dirt beside him. He regarded it with curiosity, then glanced back at Pekah, who was watching for a reaction. Nate didn’t comment about the dagger. He merely stepped around it, aiming toward the stream.
“I’ll be back,” he said as he left.
Dawn approached. It would not be long before the twin suns made their appearance. Pekah tested his shirt, and found it still damp. He turned it around to dry the other side, but after a few more minutes he became impatient with the process, so he shook the wool tunic in the air, pulled it over his head, and cinched his belt. Faint wisps of steam rose around him into the cold morning air.
Eli and Nate returned from the stream together, both with wet hair and clean faces, just as the first beams of direct light fell from the rising suns. As the orbs rose from the western horizon, Pekah could see that Azure had eclipsed Aqua. They appeared to be one body except for the color difference and size of their spheres. Aqua’s almost colorless hue-a light blue with a greenish tint-formed a near-perfect ring around the smaller, almost purple Azure. Now superimposed, they seemed somewhat less bright than they had the day before, yet their intensity still required caution on the part of onlookers.
With the aid of the morning light, Pekah took the opportunity to get a better look at his companions, and found them to be quite a contrast standing together. Nate was tall, with brown hair and a well-trimmed short beard, large blue eyes, of medium build. Eli was taller yet, of a strong build, and his red hair highlighted friendly green eyes.
Pekah glanced over at his polished armor leaning against a log near the campfire. Eli stared at it as if making eye contact with the raven upon the hardened leather.
When Eli noticed Pekah also looking on, he joked, “Perhaps you can get your bird to feed me!”
Pekah was confused by the comment and shrugged his shoulders.
“You do know the story of the raven, do you not?” asked Eli.
“No.”
Eli appeared dumbfounded. “Well, would you care to hear it?”
Pekah still didn’t feel like himself after the horrible night he had, but to avoid offending his new companions, he relented with a less-than-convincing “Sure.”
Eli made a show of clearing his throat, and the three men each found a place to sit on the logs around the fire. Eli apparently loved to tell stories. He began with excitement and animation.
“The written words of my fathers tell us that this raven was a godsend to Gideon, and it kept him alive. Always fond of hunting, Gideon would travel many days, deep into the wilderness, searching for the largest deer or the largest boar to bring to his family for meat. On one occasion, he was far into the forest when a strong storm arose and left a dense fog which caused him to lose his way for many days, without food for most of them. Almost without hope, Gideon felt as if he would not live. But he prayed to God that he would be spared and led home.”
Eli paused at this point, as if to make sure his student still listened. Pekah didn’t have the heart to tell Eli he wasn’t in the mood for a story.
“As Gideon arose from his prayer, this raven descended with a branch of berries in its beak.” Eli pointed at the image on Pekah’s breastplate. “Dropping the branch, it flew away, and Gideon followed. More ravens came, each one bearing fruit. Gideon ate, and then followed the birds until he was back on familiar ground and was able to leave the forest. On the day when Father Noah gave his final blessings to his sons, he counseled Gideon always to follow the path of the raven, and to do so by watching out for the welfare of his brethren. Noah charged Gideon to provide for them in whatever ways he could, so they might all dwell together in joy.”
Pekah now understood the prodding joke from Eli about the raven feeding him, yet the story did not cheer his heart-not in the least. It made him feel worse. At this point in time, Gideon as a people was about as far off “the path of the raven” as the tribe could be. Pekah glanced again over toward Nate’s bed where the dagger lay in the dirt, a reminder of the sleepless night he had passed. An overwhelming urge to clear his conscience made his heart race, but words to express himself would not come. Frustrated, he sat in silence, unable to even acknowledge the story Eli had so eloquently related.
Eli took a deep breath as if he was about to tell more, but stopped short. Out of the corner of his eye, Pekah saw Nate grip Eli’s arm.
Nate suggested that they all pray to begin their Sabbath day, and then partake of a meal together. Pekah mechanically knelt and closed his eyes. Still feeling the effects of a difficult night, his thoughts wandered. At the end of the prayer, he could not remember a single thing said, nor could he remember who had spoken. His mind foggy, he joined the other two men in finding a seat around the dying fire.
Saving the bread and dried meats from Pekah’s provision sack, Nate took the food from his own supply, broke the bread, and passed it with handfuls of dried fruit to the others. Pekah received his portion, but held the crust in his hands, staring down at the ground much as he had done the previous evening.
The struggle he felt within was fierce. Guilt. Sorrow. Fear. Insistence that he had done nothing wrong. Yet still there was confusion as to why he felt so horrible. What was it? Then he knew. The murders-a little boy and an old man. Something surged within him, and he felt the sudden need to clear the air.
“Nate,” Pekah began very abruptly. “I was there on the day my people attacked Hasor. I wanted so badly to stop them, but I could not find the strength to try. I witnessed the murder of innocents. A little boy was killed for no reason.”
Pekah hesitated, and then without regard to what he was saying, he spat out, “I saw other things. The man you killed yesterday, Captain Sachar-I saw him kill the judge. He threw his dagger into the judge’s back, like a coward. That is the knife.” Pekah stiffened, fully expecting some sort of retribution.
How incredibly stupid. I’m alone in the woods with these two, and either one of them could kill me without a second thought.
Nate’s face went pale as he leaned forward to stare at the gilded sheath on the ground. Surprised at himself for what he had confessed, Pekah remained fixed and motionless, pointing at the weapon. Nate was still.
Should he not be angry? The leader of his people was murdered! Why doesn’t he threaten me?
Pekah saw the tears well up in Nate’s eyes, then pour down his cheeks.
“Please excuse me,” was all Nate said. He got up after placing his breakfast on top of his shoulder sack, and left the camp to go sit where he had the previous evening.
Pekah lowered his arm to his side, his eyes once again finding the ground. Grieving, he wiped tears from his face as the stresses of the night began to release.
What was I thinking?
He peeked over to where Eli sat, but did not make eye contact with the Uzzahite.
Eli rose like he was about to get up and follow Nate, perhaps to comfort him, but he did not leave, sitting down again instead.
Pekah set his bread aside. “I don’t understand, Eli. Why was he not angry?”
Eli did not answer, but moved closer. “Pekah,” he said as he sat down, “Nate was not the only person in his family defending Hasor when your army arrived. He has not mentioned it yet, but Nate’s father was killed during the fight. Last evening when Nate and I talked about the fall of Hasor, we shared information with each other about the events of that day. I feel terrible about what has happened to Nate’s father. I have always felt like one of Nate’s family, and I feel his loss as if it were my own.”
Pekah’s chest tightened. Once again, a feeling of intense guilt for his part in the skirmish made him tremble. He folded his arms, his hands squeezed into tight fists.
“And I’m actually quite surprised that you shared the information about the knife and the death of the judge. Pekah, why did you tell him?”
Pekah did not stir, but raised his brows and blinked the water from his eyes.
“Pekah, I need to tell you something. I know of your army’s mission. We had been told by a Danielite spy that the armies of Manasseh were marching, and of the emperor’s intent to capture the judge so they might find his son and either bring him into captivity or kill him. I also know they were searching for the king’s scepter. Is this true?”
Pekah found the strength to speak again. “Yes. Our orders were to find the judge’s son.”
“You didn’t find him, did you?”
“No, we did not. And after what happened in Hasor, I’m glad he was not found.”
Eli smiled. “I, too, am glad.”
They both looked toward the old log in the distance where Nate sat with his bowed head resting in his hands.
“Pekah,” Eli continued in a calm and reassuring voice. “Nate is not just any ordinary Danielite. Nate is, in reality, Jonathan, son of Samuel the Judge of Daniel, true heir to the throne, and now the only living member of his family.”
Pekah’s heart skipped, shocked by Eli’s revelation. He again glanced over to see Nate in the distance. By telling Nate about the blade he had taken from Captain Sachar, Pekah realized he had just thrown a javelin of pain into his new friend’s heart. The old man was Nate’s father?
“Why did I ever pick up Sachar’s weapon?” Pekah moaned.
“War is a terrible thing. Those who started this attempt at conquest are the ones to carry the blame, not you. Try not to let yourself take this burden upon yourself, for the burden is not yours to bear.”
Pekah felt the wisdom of Eli’s words, yet couldn’t accept them. He had personally participated in the battle. The guilt still lingered in his chest.
“Why did you tell Jonathan about the dagger? You could have kept that knowledge to yourself, and not a soul would ever have known what you saw that day.”
Pekah scratched the back of his head. “I couldn’t sleep,” he explained. “I was up all night long with images of death, suffering, and injustice plaguing my mind until I nearly burned with fever. When my detachment attacked Hasor with the rest of the Gideonite army, I immediately felt I did not want to be there. I volunteered to serve the emperor because I believed our peoples would be better served if we were united under one king. I had been told the Danielites were foolishly preparing themselves for war.”
“That is absolutely false!” Eli thundered as he shot to his feet.
Pekah interjected with raised hands. “I know, Eli. It was obvious to me upon entering the village that the Danielite judge had prepared his people for a defense, not for a march on Gideon. I am so sorry my people have caused this great and horrible conflict. Please forgive me. Forgive my people.”
Eli calmed, sighing as he returned to sit on the log. “I, too, am sorry. I’m sorry for all the misunderstandings which have been between our peoples for so long.”
“I don’t think Uzzah and Daniel have the same misunderstandings, do they?”
“No, Uzzah serves all peoples in the temples of our God. Our work is to carry the burdens of many, and we honor the responsibilities of Daniel, our brother. Our hearts are fixed on the same purposes. For the most part, those ‘misunderstandings’ don’t exist.”
Pekah bowed his head and stared at the ground between his brown boots. Then he muttered, “I need to fix this.” He stirred the dirt with a stick, making lines and intersecting circles.
“You are the first…” Eli started. He shook his head in disbelief.
“The first?”
“Yes, Pekah. You are the first Gideonite I have met in a long, long time who felt any remorse for the occasional wars which break out between our peoples. I want you to know that I am sorry for the people of Gideon who have suffered all of these years with the choices of your leaders. Perhaps, someday, your people and my people will both find peace.”
Pekah said nothing. Instead, he stared up into the dark blue sky visible between the branches above, wondering about the turn of events. Just yesterday he had been leading this Uzzahite in chains. Yet today, Eli felt sympathy for the plight of the Gideonite people, after being led by a rope like a dumb ox? He shook his head.
As he stared heavenward, he noticed a brightly colored bird in the trees, singing as if in a duet with the bubbly stream nearby. A pop from the campfire sent the bird on its way. Pekah turned to see Eli watching Nate… Jonathan, who still sat on the log away from the camp.
He wondered what Jonathan would do when he returned. Memories of the short skirmish the previous evening made a lump rise in his throat. There would be no possible way for him to win a match or duel with Jonathan if it came to blows. The very thought of having to defend himself against the Danielite made his heart race. He turned back to the fire, picked up a twig, and played with a dying coal.
When Jonathan finally wandered back to the camp, Pekah prepared himself for a stinging rebuke from the Danielite. But the rebuke did not come. Jonathan went straight to where he had slept the previous night, stooping to retrieve the dagger. Pekah was shocked that he touched it.
“Would you come with me?” Jonathan said with kindness, offering his other hand.
Pekah peered at him in disbelief, but took his hand and was lifted. Jonathan patted Pekah’s shoulder firmly. He felt fear course through him like a gust of wind, but gazed into Jonathan’s eyes and saw no malice there. Still, he shuddered as he followed the Danielite toward the stream, leaving Eli at the campfire. Jonathan glanced back once, but did not invite the Uzzahite to join them. Arriving at the water’s edge, Jonathan turned to face him. Pekah was sure Eli wouldn’t be able to hear them above the bubble of the stream, and for a fleeting instant, wondered if his own safety was in jeopardy.
“Pekah, thank you for telling me about the dagger.” Jonathan’s calm demeanor was unnerving.
How can this be possible? If I were him, wouldn’t I be furious?
“I want you to know,” Jonathan continued, “I’m sorry for the contention between our peoples. If there is anything I can do to repair the brotherhood between Gideon and Daniel, I will do it.” Jonathan’s hand hung loose at his side, holding the dagger more like it was a string of glass beads than a weapon.
“You are interested in repairing? How can you be… I mean, why are you not angry?”
“Angry? Yes, at first, I admit I was. But then I remembered how my father was always able to remain calm.”
“How would he have felt if you had been the one killed? Surely he would have been incensed.”
“I know he would have grieved. But my father was one of the kindest men I ever knew, Pekah. Quick to forgive, never held a grudge. Certainly not perfect, but he was not an angry man. He was always able to let go of those types of feelings.”
“So you just decided not to let hate and rage take over?” Pekah said, incredulous. He laughed as he picked up a small rock and tossed it into the nearby stream.
“Yes, it’s a choice. Out of revenge, I could kill you…”
Pekah flinched, stepped back, and eyed the dagger.
“… or, I could repair the breach. This dagger,” Jonathan said as he lifted it higher, “was a tool used to separate and destroy. It separated me from the love and companionship of my father. It killed him.” He paused. “The chief judge was my father.”
“I know,” Pekah blurted out, regretting it immediately.
“You know?”
“Yes. Eli just told me.”
Jonathan glanced at his friend by the fire and half-smiled. “Perhaps this dagger can also be a tool to unite and repair,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
Jonathan had a faraway look in his eyes. The stress and tension of the situation seemed to dissipate into the cool morning air, joining the thin fog rising from the morning dew. Pekah wondered what Jonathan was thinking.
“This weapon brought us together. We now have an opportunity to turn a tragedy into something better. You and me. We can end this war.”
Pekah almost snickered. “You’re crazy. What can I do to end a war? These things are above me.” He cannot be serious. Yet the grave expression on Jonathan’s face told Pekah he truly believed it.
“It has to stop somewhere, does it not? A war doesn’t end all at once. It ends when every participant decides to stop fighting. But the end starts with the decision of just one.” Jonathan knelt down in front of Pekah, unsheathed the blade, and used it to dig in the sandy dirt near the stream. “The covenant you made with me last evening.. .” he said while digging. “Are you prepared to make another?” He did not look up, but continued to scoop out dirt.
“What manner of covenant?” Pekah asked.
“An oath of peace,” Jonathan said with a smile on his face. “I am Jonathan, son of Samuel, a descendant of Daniel. I will never attack or provoke the people of Gideon, unless I am attacked first. I will only defend. You have my promise that I will do all I can to end this war. Will you do the same?”
Pekah’s chest tightened at Jonathan’s request. Yet, for the first time in many hours, he felt hope replacing his fear and guilt. Gideon could live in peace with Daniel and Uzzah. And he could decide for himself.
“You have my promise. I will do no less.”
“Thank you, Pekah.” Jonathan returned to digging.
When Pekah fell to his knees in order to assist, Jonathan sheathed the blade and set it aside, and with bare hands, the two of them worked together to enlarge the hole. The pit was now about a foot deep. Jonathan picked up the dagger, held the covered blade in his left hand, the hilt with his right, and with a swift, powerful pull, broke it into two pieces across his knee. He handed the sheathed blade to Pekah and tossed the handle into the hole. Pekah threw in his part. The joy in doing so thrilled him down to the marrow in his bones.
The two men then pushed the dirt piles into the hole. After standing and stomping the mound flat, Jonathan reached for a large rock. He dropped it directly on top of the burial site.
“And that is where it will stay, never to be mentioned again!”
Pekah glanced over to where Eli stood near their camp and saw that he had heard the unmistakable declaration. Eli appeared to be surprised. As for Pekah, the moment was exhilarating. Stirring within the depths of his own soul, he felt the healing balm of forgiveness. Jonathan had released him from all responsibility for his association with the tragic death of the old judge.
Pekah beamed with joy, and saw that Jonathan’s demeanor had also changed. Lines of sorrow were softer upon Jonathan’s face, seemingly replaced by peace. The sudden change of mood surprised Pekah. Once enemies, and now friends? He almost smirked at the idea.
Eli walked from the camp to join Jonathan and Pekah at the water’s edge. “I’m glad you two did not attempt to decide this war between you!” Eli rumbled as he reached them and scooped Jonathan into his arms. Jonathan coughed, and Eli let him go.
“I’ve been hugged by a bear!” Jonathan teased, still gasping.
Eli showed all his teeth in a menacing growl, and the three of them laughed.
“I think it’s time we go feed our bear,” Jonathan advised Pekah with a childlike twinkle in his eye. “He looks hungry.”
With that, the three of them returned to the camp and ate. As they talked, the weight of the war briefly lifted from their tired shoulders. Pekah felt as if he had been reunited with long-lost brothers. He noticed every detail of the beautiful morning. Never before had a simple meal of bread and fruit tasted so good.