Джеймс Миченер - The Source

When Zadok entered the gate he was awed by the maze in which he found himself and by the gray-green towers which seemed to press down upon him. He was confused by the quick turn to the left which brought him up against a blank wall and then by the turn to the right, where guard rooms were joined together by chains of hammered bronze. No man could easily storm his way through this gate, but it was not this military foresight that impressed Zadok most. Beyond the chains the patriarch saw for the first time a Canaanite town, with its crowded streets, its tempting shops, its people of many faces and varied derivations. He was bedazzled by the wonder of this place, yet instinctively suspicious of it, for he could feel the oppressive weight of the walls and the confusing manner in which one house crowded in upon the other, so that no man or house had much space to itself. In his first moment of looking into the mysterious town he longed for the freedom of the desert and wondered again if his clan was making an error in coming to such a settlement.

Governor Uriel, flanked by guards in leather armor, moved forward to greet the old man. “I am Uriel, governor of Makor,” the Canaanite said.

“I am Zadok ben Zebul, right arm of El-Shaddai, seeking a place for my people.”

“Are you prepared to pay taxes?” Zadok nodded, and the Canaanite said, “Along the roads the fields are taken. But beyond them lie rich pasturelands and areas where vines will grow.” His words were more conciliatory than he had intended, but the old man had spoken with such simplicity that the governor intuitively liked him, and judged on the spot that Makor would prosper with such a man as part of its complement.

“Which fields do you speak of?” the Hebrew asked.

“Beyond the olive grove. Beyond the field of oaks. All the area leading down to the swamp.” Then he turned from the empty fields and pointed to the mountain. “But on this land you may not dwell, for it belongs to Baal.” The old man nodded, for wherever he had taken his people during the past forty years certain places had been sacred to certain gods, and although he did not worship such gods himself he understood when others did so.

“We respect the gods of all high places,” he said. He, too, felt that the meeting was going well, and the apprehensions reported by his sons found no echo in him. Obviously Makor was a town of wealth but its distant fields were lying waste, and it was only sensible for the town rulers to welcome strangers. One point however had to be clarified: “We worship El-Shaddai, he of the mountain.”

Uriel frowned and drew back, for this was a matter on which he could not compromise. “The mountain belongs to Baal,” he repeated.

“Of course!” Zadok agreed, and the Canaanite breathed more easily. “The mountain will be sacred to Baal, for the mountain that El-Shaddai occupies is not that pile of rocks nor the one beyond, but the other mountain that no man ever sees.”

“Then there is no conflict?” Uriel asked with relief.

“None,” the patriarch said honestly, but Uriel noticed that the old man’s eyes glowed with an intense fire such as he had never seen before—the passionate fire of zealotry—and at first the Canaanite was inclined to draw back from the Hebrew, as one might from a thing unknown, but then the fires subsided and he saw only Zadok, a reasonable petitioner.

“I will go with you to the fields,” he said. Summoning his Hittite guards Uriel led the way from the town and walked among the Hebrews, who had clustered near the walls awaiting the outcome of the meeting. The Canaanite noticed with respect their manly bearing, the tall, straight sons of the leader and the others who waited easily, ready for either peace or war, but hoping for the former. He saw clear-eyed women and their children, silent and wondering. It was a much better group than the usual rabble which came down that road, and he treated them with appropriate respect.

“The olive grove is mine,” he explained, “but according to our custom you are free to pick the fallen ones and any left on the trees after the harvest.” The Hebrews nodded, for such was the law of all lands. “No one must tamper with the oil press,” Uriel said. In a thousand years of warfare no one, not even the Hyksos, had destroyed the three stone pits; in the lever socket of the press, nearly two hundred different poles had been worn out during that time, one replacing the other, but no invader had ever harmed the press or cut down an olive tree, for whoever occupied Makor required the trees and their press. In fact, without the olives and the well …

“Water?” Zadok inquired.

And here the fundamental problem of Canaanite and Hebrew sharing the same land came to focus. In the swamp the water was brackish, as women who had run ahead were already discovering, and it could not be used; while the waterwall constructed by Uriel allowed no outside contact with the well of Makor. If the Hebrews wanted water their women would have to climb the ramp, pass through the zigzag gate, walk down the main street, exit by the postern gate and walk along the dark corridor to the well. Daily they would pass to and fro, and Hebrew would become intimate with Canaanite and each would come to know how the other lived, and how he prayed, and in time there would have to be marriages—it simply couldn’t be avoided when beautiful Hebrew girls passed handsome Canaanite men day after day—and before long the superior culture of the town must inevitably conquer the rude vitality of the desert. The Hebrew must succumb, not in defeat or humiliation, but in a kind of quiet surrender as he allowed himself to be lifted to a higher standard of civilization and a new system of values. It was this battle that would engage the Hebrews and local residents for a hundred generations, with the outcome never clear and with victory favoring now the townsmen, now the Hebrews. It would involve people like Delilah and Samson, Jezebel and Elijah, Sanballat and Nehemiah, and long after they were dead similar perplexities would confuse men in such places as Moscow cow, Witwatersrand and Quebec. The problem of how Canaanite and Hebrew should share the same land but not the same religion would never be wholly settled.

“Then our women must go through the town?” Zadok asked.

“There is no other way,” Uriel said.

“Couldn’t we open a gate, at the well?”

“No.” In no respect would Uriel breach the walls of safety which he had so carefully planned.

The two men studied each other for some moments, and each appreciated what disturbed the other, but since both were sensible men, eager to devise some system of mutual co-operation, they weighed the situation—and after a while Zadok said, “We will accept these fields and pay taxes on them.” And Uriel returned to the walls, satisfied that he had done right in not using military power to oppose the strangers. “In the past,” he said to his Hittite lieutenant, “Makor has absorbed many kinds of people, always to its benefit. Our only problem here is that the Hebrews are more numerous.”

“We’ll keep the weapons cleaned,” the warrior replied, and when the young man had a chance to meet with Uriel’s son he said, “Today your father has made a great mistake. We should have driven the strangers off.” Zibeon thereupon went out to inspect the Hebrews and returned with the same opinion. He discussed the matter with his mother, Rahab, and together they went to see Uriel.

“You’ve done a wrong thing,” Rahab said quietly.

Uriel had learned to listen to his perceptive wife, and they rarely quarreled. “Perhaps I have,” he admitted, “but in Makor we have scarcely enough people to do the work.”

“But you’re bringing in the wrong ones,” Rahab argued.