15.
Salmon ben Nahshon
Joshua
2; Matthew 1:5
My
commander, Joshua ben Nun, ordered me to keep an account of our actions as
Israel begins to occupy this new land. Three days ago, I returned from a
reconnaissance mission with a man from the Second Sling Group of the Benjamite
division. Joshua wanted detailed information about Jericho and the surrounding
territory.
We
entered the market there unnoticed, because a camel caravan bolted down the
aisle of fig seller’s stalls, creating havoc. The city is rich, and its
citizens display their prosperity in gold and silver jewelry and imported
Babylonian garments.
We
moved steadily through the streets, taking note of gates and guard towers, and
the armaments of the fighting men. Their king must be paranoid—his palace
guards were many and obvious. By the ninth hour, we’d explored much of the city
and were on the upper level of the walls. My partner grew edgy. He grabbed my
shoulder and muttered in my ear. I shrugged him off. He struck my upper arm,
and nodded in the direction of a pair of soldiers. We’d been noticed. One of
them dashed away.
“In
here,” I said, and ducked through a doorway. Three men at a table gnawed the
bones of a roasted fowl.
“Rahab,”
one called, “More wine.”
The
woman who brought the pitcher wore fine linen, and a great deal of kohl and
henna. Her hand lingered on the customer’s shoulders long enough to make me
sure I’d never tell my brother’s family anything about this part of my
adventure. My partner stared, flatfooted. I elbowed him in the ribs, then
wished I hadn’t, since my action caught her attention.
She
set the pitcher on the table, and approached us. She appraised us, head to
foot, and beckoned. When I hesitated, the Benjamite gave me a shove. Through
another room where a loom stood, and up a flight of stairs, Rahab led us to her
roof. It stunk up there. Without saying a word, she made it clear that we were
to burrow under the heaps of rotten flax.
My
pounding heart made shallow breaths difficult, but it was the only way not to
gag. I tried to leave a good-sized gap in the covering, in hope of a breeze,
but she kicked more flax between my face and the sunlight. Through the common
room, up the stairwell, came the sound of a spear butt thudding against the
door. Rahab rushed down the steps.
When
her voice rose to my ears, I pushed aside more of the slimy flax and drew a few
deep lungfuls of fresher air. Downstairs, she was combining smooth lies with
vivid descriptions of the plagues that had forced the Egyptians to set our
ancestors free. I held my breath and eased into a different position. My robes
were soaked and increasingly stained. After the soldiers left, the woman’s
usual customers returned. I rehearsed the day’s events, organizing the report I’d
present to Joshua. Sweat trickled along my nose while the afternoon heat built
to a stewing intensity.
When
the setting sun slid to the top of the wall and shone directly in my eyes, I
squeezed them shut. Eventually the wall blocked the light, and my spying
partner dared to stir. Then Rahab returned and crushed the flax stalks on the
far end of the heap with her hackle. “Come out, Israelites.” She led us into
her weaving room. “Spare the lives of my father and mother, my brothers and
sisters, and all who belong to them, and save us from death.”
“Our
lives for your lives,” I said. Then she tied a red rope to her heavy loom, and
we climbed down from the window and hid in the hills, before returning to
Joshua ben Nun.
Now,
I sprint through dusty air, toward the one segment of wall still standing. I
look up, while wiping my watery eyes. The red cord, the signal of our covenant
with the woman, swings from her windowsill. I clamber over the rubble to her
door. My Benjamite spying partner follows.
“Rahab,”
I shout, “It’s Salmon ben Nahshon. It’s safe to come out.” She steps out,
followed by her extended family. I lead them away from the battle.
My tent is on the eastern perimeter of our camp, and I’ll settle this woman and her relatives just outside the picket line, because she has professed that the Lord is God in heaven above and on the earth below.
Heidi Dru Kortman
DTM
God's gifts and call are
irrevocable.
Heidi Dru Kortman,
a CWG Apprentice graduate, ACFW member since 2004, and Word Weaver member has published devotionals in various newsletters, and a collected volume of devotionals. Her poetry, flash fiction, and short stories have appeared in small magazines, and a website. She is applying herself to the task of writing smoothly polished fiction.
