Джеймс Миченер - The Source

“No.”

“Have you ever wanted to go?”

“No.”

She said no more. Returning home she went about her business of trying to borrow some scraps of meat to make a lentil soup for the evening meal of her hungry son, but there was scarcely any food, so at midday she walked along the Water Street until she came to the rambling house in which Governor Jeremoth lived, and there she appealed to the various women living in the house for any sewing or mending jobs which they might have. None could be found, but the governor’s wife took pity on her and said, “My daughter Mikal has been asking for a new white robe in case she accompanies her father to Jerusalem for the feasts.” And she summoned Mikal, a small, dark girl of eighteen, about whom there was much speculation since she was not yet married. She was a lively girl, appreciated by men and women alike, for she had a merry laughter and a birdlike way of tilting her head to smile at whoever addressed her.

Mikal was pleased that the making of her new dress was to be turned over to Gomer, for she had found the older woman pleasant to work with: Gomer was never late, never unpleasant, never delinquent in getting the dress or the undergarment finished as planned. In addition, she had a peasant’s dignity, talking quietly of interesting matters as she worked, and on this fateful afternoon Mikal and Gomer renewed their pleasant friendship.

But next morning as the widow came back through the David Tunnel, her jug filled with water, she was halted as if a mighty hand were obstructing the passageway and a voice said to her, “For the salvation of the world it is essential that Rimmon see Jerusalem.”

Gomer tried to pass the barrier but could not; her feet were nailed to the tunnel floor. “Are you Yahweh?” she asked.

“I am that I am,” the voice replied, echoing from all sides. “And I command you: Take your son up to Jerusalem!”

The invisible barrier was removed, and after a few hesitant steps Gomer could see daylight coming from the shaft. She ran home and forced ail thoughts of the tunnel from her mind. She worked upon Mikal’s white dress as if it were the sole undertaking in the world, and her preoccupation was so complete that she was able to bury all thought of Yahweh and Rimmon and Jerusalem. But in the evening, when the voice of cattle came to the gate, and when she could no longer see to thread the needle, she again asked her returning son if he wished to visit Jerusalem.

“No. That’s for priests.”

“You have no desire to see the City of David?”

“You’ve never seen it. Why should I?”

“I’ve always wanted to,” she said in the darkness.

“Why didn’t you go?”

“Can a widow go to Jerusalem? At the Feast of Tabernacles? Who would build her a booth?”

He could not see her face, but it had become transfused with yearning. Like many Hebrews of her generation she longed for Jerusalem as bees long for spring to open the flowers or as lions trapped in the valley hunger for the hills. It was the golden city, the site of the temple, the focus of worship, the target of longing. No other city in the world until the advent of Rome would have the profound effect upon its adherents that Jerusalem had upon the Hebrews, and this in spite of the evil days that had befallen the land. After the death of Solomon the vast empire of King David had degenerated into civil war, splitting into two separate nations, Israel on the north, with its capital at Samaria, and Judah in the south, with its capital at Jerusalem. But with the conquests of Sennacherib the northern kingdom was practically exterminated, as the Bible says: “Then the king of Assyria came up throughout all the land, and went up to Samaria, and besieged it three years. In the ninth year of Hoshea the king of Assyria took Samaria, and carried Israel away into Assyria, and placed them in Halah and in Habor by the river of Gozan, and in the cities of the Medes.” However, a remnant of Hebrews continued to exist in towns like Makor, subservient to alien rulers and forbidden to make pilgrimages to Jerusalem. Even so, faithful northerners like Gomer still maintained the City of David as their earthly goal.

“For more than fifty years Jerusalem has been before my eyes,” Gomer said.

“I’m afraid you won’t see it now,” her son replied, not mockingly.

“Suppose I said tonight, ‘In the morning we shall go up to Jerusalem’?”

Rimmon laughed. “We have no money. I must watch the olive press and you must finish the garment.”

Those were Gomer’s ideas, too, and she sadly dismissed from her mind any plans for going to Jerusalem; but next morning in the David Tunnel she was stopped for the third time, and the voice said like the roar of a lion, “Gomer, widow of Israel, for the third time, take your son and go up to Jerusalem, or the penalty will rest upon your children’s children till the end of days.”

In the darkness she answered obediently, “I will take my son to Jerusalem, but may I halt here until the white dress is finished?”

There was a silence, as if the presence were spending his time in judging this humble request, and after a while the voice said, “You are a woman who earns her bread by sewing. For you it is proper first to finish the work and then to leave for Jerusalem.” And Yahweh bided his time.

It took Gomer two days of concentrated work to complete the dress, and when she fitted it on the governor’s daughter that young woman seemed more beautiful than ever. “I shall wear it at the dancing,” she said with excitement.

“Then you’re going to Jerusalem?” Gomer asked.

“Father has decided. It’s been four years, and as governor …” The girl grew grave, with shadows across her youthful face. “Do you think the Egyptians will call us to war again?”

“The Assyrians and the Babylonians and the Egyptians and the Phoenicians and the Aramaeans,” Gomer recited as she cut the last threads, “they call us to war perpetually. Your father has protected us well and I’m glad that he’s going to Jerusalem to talk with the leaders of Judah.” She hesitated. “Would you please ask him if he could pay me today?”

“Of course!” the young woman said, and she ran to find her father, but when he heard of the widow’s unusual request he came into the sewing room, showing displeasure.

“Have the people of Jeremoth’s house ever failed to pay?” he demanded. Ordinarily a widow like Gomer would have been overawed by the governor, for he could be a frightening man, with unsympathetic eyes that had gazed with equal courage upon disaster and triumph. He had governed Makor under seven different rulers and in doing so had developed a hardness that almost glittered.

But this was not an ordinary day nor was Gomer any longer an ordinary woman: she had been commanded by Yahweh to perform an act upon which the salvation of the world depended, and Governor Jeremoth did not cow her. In her soft voice she said, “You have always paid, sir. But in the morning my son and I must leave for Jerusalem …”

“What?”

“This year we shall build our booth in the holy city.”

“You?” the governor sputtered, then he asked, “Does Rimmon know of this?”

“Not yet, but …”

In amused contempt the governor turned away from Gomer and directed one of his guards to summon Rimmon from the olive press, and when the young foreman stood before him Jeremoth said, “Rimmon, your mother tells me that you’re going up to Jerusalem tomorrow morning. Leaving my groves without permission.”

“Jerusalem?” the young man repeated in surprise. “I have no plans …”

Then came the moment of decision, that fragile moment which was to determine so much of Makor’s history in the months ahead. Gomer, seeing the contempt of the governor and her son’s unwillingness to oppose him, was briefly tempted to abandon her plans, but when she tried to withdraw her statement she found herself incapable of doing so. The words of retreat simply would not come from her throat. Instead, she looked directly at the governor and said in a low, soft voice marked by an intensity she had never shown before, “It is commanded that I take my son to Jerusalem tomorrow.”