The Sons of Isaac(119)

Ahithophel looked down and saw that she was fighting back tears. She’s not one to weep like her mother, he thought. Feeling a sudden flow of tenderness for the little girl, he picked her up and put her on his lap.

“Now, now, don’t be afraid,” he said, patting her on the back, gently but rather awkwardly. “Everything is going to be all right.” When Bathsheba buried her head on his shoulder sobbing, Ahithophel felt undone. He stroked her dark hair and noticed how the tendrils curled around his fingers. Somehow this was more touching than her tears.

At Ahithophel’s call, a servant girl hurried out to the dimly lit courtyard, took Bathsheba’s hand and led her to the sleeping quarters. Ahithophel waited until they were gone, then with a sigh he joined his young grandson on the roof.

“Grandfather,” whispered Machir, “someone is coming down the road to the city gate.”

“Where?” Ahithophel anxiously peered out over the dark houses to the moon-bright space before the city gate.

There was the sound of running feet and excited voices, followed by a frantic pounding on the barred gate. Several men were working to unlatch the bolts when Ahithophel and Machir reached them.

The big gate swung back, and three young men entered, breathing hard. Their clothes were torn and their bodies so covered with blood and dust that only their voices were recognizable. “Quickly tell us what has happened,” Ahithophel urged.

“All is lost … all is lost …” One young man spoke the words through great, wracking sobs.

“What is lost?” Ahithophel demanded. The people of the village had gathered behind him in the shadows.

“Israel has lost to the Philistines. It was a massacre. Wave upon wave of chariots and spears and arrows.”

“Impossible!” gasped Ahithophel.

“Saul was killed,” said a second man from the shadows.

“His sons, too, all but one,” said the third.

“There are only three of you. Where are all the other men of Giloh?” asked Ahithophel.

“The men of Giloh,” one young man said sadly, “may all be dead. If any are alive they have fled with Saul’s son, Ishbosheth, to the city of refuge at Mahanaim.”

Ahithophel’s voice throbbed with emotion. “My son: did you see Emmiel—my son?”

The men struggled for words to answer the agonized plea, for Emmiel had also been their friend. “We don’t know for sure. We were all scattered like leaves before a mighty wind,” the older man said.

“I thought I saw him with one of Saul’s sons,” answered another.

“Then there is hope. They may have escaped to Mahanaim in Gilead,” Ahithophel insisted.

Before the men could answer, a scream pierced the night, and then one by one the women of Giloh joined in the terrible lament for the dead. The men at first stood stunned and silent. Then they, too, began to weep unashamedly for the gallant men whom they now feared would never come home to the pleasant hillside to till their fields again.

“Don’t give up your hope!” Ahithophel shouted. “Some of our sons are alive and well in Mahanaim.” But his voice was drowned by the wailing of the women.

Then a call came from a villager standing on the town wall. “Bethlehem is in flames!”

Before the people could climb the wall to see for themselves, there was another loud, insistent pounding on the town gate. The refugees from Bethlehem poured through the opening gate screaming, “The Philistines have ridden up the valley from the Jordan! They are looting and burning Bethlehem!”

Some of the fleeing people carried goatskin packs of wine and cheeses, and others struggled with coarse, cloth-wrapped bundles of flour and seed wheat. All were terrified and eager to hurry on.

“You will be next,” they cried. “The Philistines are going to march up and take the whole ridge.” With that they hurried off, leaving the villagers of Giloh in a state of panic.

Ahithophel moved among the people. “You can go if you like, but I am not moving. I will not be driven off my land as long as I have a strong right arm and a good sword. We can lock the gate and shoot our arrows from the walls.”

An old man pushed through the crowd and came to where Ahithophel was standing. “It’s no use,” he shouted over the din. “There are thousands of Philistines. They will climb our walls, rape our women, dash our young ones against the wall and take our land. Pack up, Ahithophel, and lead your people to safety in Gilead.”

“I’ll not leave my good land for those fiends of Dagon. I’ll not have them drinking my wine and using my good oil.” Ahithophel suddenly noticed Reba was standing beside him.