Cry of Judith (2)
Then the children of Israel cried unto the Lord their God, because their heart failed, for all their enemies had compassed them round about, and there was no way to escape out from among them.
Thus all the company of Assur remained about them, both their footmen, chariots, and horsemen, four and thirty days, so that all their vessels of water failed all the inhibitants of Bethulia.
And the cisterns were emptied, and they had not water to drink their fill for one day; for they gave them drink by measure.
Therefore their young children were out of heart, and their women and young men fainted for thirst, and fell down in the streets of the city, and by the passages of the gates, and there was no longer any strength in them.
Book of Judith: 7:19-22
Pain. Between her thighs, in the wound at her side, at feet still unused to walking barefoot on sand and stone. Was this Purgatory? Bethany wandered among the hills, lost and alone, as if a soul denied the balm of Heaven and the judgment of Hell. What had she done to deserve this? What was her sin? Was this a test? The Hebrews had wandered in the desert, enduring many trials, before coming to the Promised Land. The Lord Jesus had suffered on the cross. Bethany walked in the valley of death, but she feared not. God would provide. He provided the dew she had licked off the leaves of a bush this morning, the dead bird she had eaten raw at noon. He had given her the strength to--
To.
So much blood.
A shadow in the hillside. A cave hidden beneath an overhang and scrawny trees. It was...familiar. Bethany had never been this far north. Yet it was if she knew the land as well as the fields of her village south of Gulu. At times, it was as if she wore rags wrapped around her body rather than a torn schoolgirl's blouse and dress. The knife always clutched in her right hand sometimes became chipped stone rather than rusty steel. Bethany paused at the cave's mouth. Bad, bad, the men had come like the Prophet's men and she cried for Mother and no-one came and they took her down into the earth. Her lips peeled back from her teeth. Run hide fight. Only she was so tired. The cave promised darkness and coolness and a chance to sleep. Forcing herself, she ducked down into the narrow passage leading into the hill.
Dim sunlight coming through the branches concealing the cave revealed paintings on the wall. Bethany had once seen similar painting in a book of Sister Renee's: a cave in France, painted in a time when perhaps Adam and Eve had been cast out of the Garden. Old. Ancient as the land. A stick figure in rags with a short-- What was it? A spear? She chased men that were not men across the walls. Tall and clawed and fanged. Bethany trailed her fingers over the daubings. For a moment, it was if fingertips dipped in earth and blood draw them in torchlight. Deeper. She must go deeper. Down and down as Christ did into His tomb before rising. Bethany slipped a little on a floor that slanted down sharply before.
Her nostrils flared.
Water.
The passage opened onto a vast cavern. Bethany ignored the stumps of torches on the walls. She kicked aside rusty chains on the floor that crumbled to flakes with the slightest touch. There was only the tiny pool in the back of the cave. No deeper than the first joint of her little finger. But the water was clean and cool. She lay down lapping like a dog, as the chosen men of Gideon had done at the stream. She drank her fill, but no more. One did not waste God's gifts. Stripping, she dampened one sleeve of her blouse. Clean. She must clean herself. Bethany wiped the dust and blood so much from her body. The hole in her side was smaller, scabbed over. Had it been that long since she had been shot? She was not sure. Her wound could not have closed up so quickly. The bullet still inside, buried beyond where she could stand to probe. Gritting her teeth, she cleaned the grime from between her thighs. The Sisters had told them not to touch there except when washing or after going to the bathroom. To linger was a sin for reasons Bethany did not really understand, though some of the older girls had laughed about it. Something about pleasure. Only touching there meant hurt and shame--
Men. Shadows before her in the dark.
Oh God she was naked and they had been sent by the Prophet and no no no.
The three men in robes and turbans stood there, staffs in their hands, as she backed against stone. They did not approach, only gesture. Shaking, Bethany crawled forward with knife held so tight in one fist that the handle was slightly crushed. Who were they? Not Achioli by dress. More like pictures of the desert tribes she had seen in another of the books in the library she had spent so much time in. A library the Prophet's men had destroyed, using torn pages to wipe themselves. The closer she came, the fainter they were. Soon they were nothing but empty air. Bethany shuddered. Ghosts, demons, or spirits. Where they had stood once, by the opposite cave wall, was a bank of small stones. Curious, Bethany shifted them. The pebbles covered up a small nook carved into the rock. Sealed within was-- Bones. The skeleton of a young woman Bethany's height and size. This was a grave. The remains were covered by a shroud that Bethany left alone. By the dead girl's side was a short, sharpened stick of gnarled wood that had become almost stone over how many years had passed since body had been laid to rest. Stealing was a sin, and from the dead doubly so. Yet the-- Bethany searched for a word. The stake fitted in her grasp as if it had been hers since birth.
A flicker.
Squatting before a fire in the cave, stone knife in hand, carving her weapon for the night's battle.
More weapons. A sling of braided leather thongs and patch that had somehow survived the centuries. Long wooden spears with sharp tips charred by fire. A stone dagger.
A jar. Opening it, Bethany tested the contents. Greasy, heavy. Paint.
Gifts. The men had guided her to them. The Three Magi, who had brought her these gifts as they had to the Lord Jesus in Bethlehem--
Voices.
Strangers, at the cavern's entrance.
Men.
Dipping into the jar, Bethany painted her face.
+++
Heat.
Miserable, Peter shifted the straps of the pack cutting into his shoulders. The leader of his troop had demoted him to porter, hauling nearly his own weight in food and bullets. One did not question the orders of the Prophet's officers. He had learned that three years ago, in the night of fire and screaming. During the bad nights, he could taste the foulness of his own father's liver the raiders had forced him to eat. Months in hidden camps scattered just over the border in Sudan had taught him to stay silent and serve without questions. Handed a pack, he would carry it. Handed a Kalashnikov, he would shoot friends and family. Given a girl, he would rape her with the others to break her in for a new life as a bush wife in the Lord's Resistance Army.
A whimper.
Glancing back, he saw one of the girls captured in the raid stumble over a boulder. The raid on the boarding school had split up after the army had chased them into the borderlands north of Agoro. His troop had taken a smaller share of the captives. They followed in file, wrists bound before them and stumbling under packs as heavy is his, under the watchful eyes his fellow guerrillas. Peter could not feel much sympathy. They would live, they would be given to officers or serve as camp girls, and probably would die young from the slim or the harsh existence of the camps. Some might even be sold to the Arab traders from the north, to live as slaves in northern Sudan. What of it? No doubt he would die in a year or so, of thirst or by the gun of a soldier.
The girl who had stumbled limped. She was pretty, like Alice from his village had been. Last he had heard, Alice had killed herself after being given to one of the Prophet's captains.
He shouldn't.
Furtively, Peter unscrewed the top of the battered canteen.
If he was quick and the others did not notice--
Later, Peter was convinced offering water to the girl was what had saved him from the naked demoness with a white skull painted on her face that erupted from the earth.
Thus all the company of Assur remained about them, both their footmen, chariots, and horsemen, four and thirty days, so that all their vessels of water failed all the inhibitants of Bethulia.
And the cisterns were emptied, and they had not water to drink their fill for one day; for they gave them drink by measure.
Therefore their young children were out of heart, and their women and young men fainted for thirst, and fell down in the streets of the city, and by the passages of the gates, and there was no longer any strength in them.
Book of Judith: 7:19-22
Pain. Between her thighs, in the wound at her side, at feet still unused to walking barefoot on sand and stone. Was this Purgatory? Bethany wandered among the hills, lost and alone, as if a soul denied the balm of Heaven and the judgment of Hell. What had she done to deserve this? What was her sin? Was this a test? The Hebrews had wandered in the desert, enduring many trials, before coming to the Promised Land. The Lord Jesus had suffered on the cross. Bethany walked in the valley of death, but she feared not. God would provide. He provided the dew she had licked off the leaves of a bush this morning, the dead bird she had eaten raw at noon. He had given her the strength to--
To.
So much blood.
A shadow in the hillside. A cave hidden beneath an overhang and scrawny trees. It was...familiar. Bethany had never been this far north. Yet it was if she knew the land as well as the fields of her village south of Gulu. At times, it was as if she wore rags wrapped around her body rather than a torn schoolgirl's blouse and dress. The knife always clutched in her right hand sometimes became chipped stone rather than rusty steel. Bethany paused at the cave's mouth. Bad, bad, the men had come like the Prophet's men and she cried for Mother and no-one came and they took her down into the earth. Her lips peeled back from her teeth. Run hide fight. Only she was so tired. The cave promised darkness and coolness and a chance to sleep. Forcing herself, she ducked down into the narrow passage leading into the hill.
Dim sunlight coming through the branches concealing the cave revealed paintings on the wall. Bethany had once seen similar painting in a book of Sister Renee's: a cave in France, painted in a time when perhaps Adam and Eve had been cast out of the Garden. Old. Ancient as the land. A stick figure in rags with a short-- What was it? A spear? She chased men that were not men across the walls. Tall and clawed and fanged. Bethany trailed her fingers over the daubings. For a moment, it was if fingertips dipped in earth and blood draw them in torchlight. Deeper. She must go deeper. Down and down as Christ did into His tomb before rising. Bethany slipped a little on a floor that slanted down sharply before.
Her nostrils flared.
Water.
The passage opened onto a vast cavern. Bethany ignored the stumps of torches on the walls. She kicked aside rusty chains on the floor that crumbled to flakes with the slightest touch. There was only the tiny pool in the back of the cave. No deeper than the first joint of her little finger. But the water was clean and cool. She lay down lapping like a dog, as the chosen men of Gideon had done at the stream. She drank her fill, but no more. One did not waste God's gifts. Stripping, she dampened one sleeve of her blouse. Clean. She must clean herself. Bethany wiped the dust and blood so much from her body. The hole in her side was smaller, scabbed over. Had it been that long since she had been shot? She was not sure. Her wound could not have closed up so quickly. The bullet still inside, buried beyond where she could stand to probe. Gritting her teeth, she cleaned the grime from between her thighs. The Sisters had told them not to touch there except when washing or after going to the bathroom. To linger was a sin for reasons Bethany did not really understand, though some of the older girls had laughed about it. Something about pleasure. Only touching there meant hurt and shame--
Men. Shadows before her in the dark.
Oh God she was naked and they had been sent by the Prophet and no no no.
The three men in robes and turbans stood there, staffs in their hands, as she backed against stone. They did not approach, only gesture. Shaking, Bethany crawled forward with knife held so tight in one fist that the handle was slightly crushed. Who were they? Not Achioli by dress. More like pictures of the desert tribes she had seen in another of the books in the library she had spent so much time in. A library the Prophet's men had destroyed, using torn pages to wipe themselves. The closer she came, the fainter they were. Soon they were nothing but empty air. Bethany shuddered. Ghosts, demons, or spirits. Where they had stood once, by the opposite cave wall, was a bank of small stones. Curious, Bethany shifted them. The pebbles covered up a small nook carved into the rock. Sealed within was-- Bones. The skeleton of a young woman Bethany's height and size. This was a grave. The remains were covered by a shroud that Bethany left alone. By the dead girl's side was a short, sharpened stick of gnarled wood that had become almost stone over how many years had passed since body had been laid to rest. Stealing was a sin, and from the dead doubly so. Yet the-- Bethany searched for a word. The stake fitted in her grasp as if it had been hers since birth.
A flicker.
Squatting before a fire in the cave, stone knife in hand, carving her weapon for the night's battle.
More weapons. A sling of braided leather thongs and patch that had somehow survived the centuries. Long wooden spears with sharp tips charred by fire. A stone dagger.
A jar. Opening it, Bethany tested the contents. Greasy, heavy. Paint.
Gifts. The men had guided her to them. The Three Magi, who had brought her these gifts as they had to the Lord Jesus in Bethlehem--
Voices.
Strangers, at the cavern's entrance.
Men.
Dipping into the jar, Bethany painted her face.
+++
Heat.
Miserable, Peter shifted the straps of the pack cutting into his shoulders. The leader of his troop had demoted him to porter, hauling nearly his own weight in food and bullets. One did not question the orders of the Prophet's officers. He had learned that three years ago, in the night of fire and screaming. During the bad nights, he could taste the foulness of his own father's liver the raiders had forced him to eat. Months in hidden camps scattered just over the border in Sudan had taught him to stay silent and serve without questions. Handed a pack, he would carry it. Handed a Kalashnikov, he would shoot friends and family. Given a girl, he would rape her with the others to break her in for a new life as a bush wife in the Lord's Resistance Army.
A whimper.
Glancing back, he saw one of the girls captured in the raid stumble over a boulder. The raid on the boarding school had split up after the army had chased them into the borderlands north of Agoro. His troop had taken a smaller share of the captives. They followed in file, wrists bound before them and stumbling under packs as heavy is his, under the watchful eyes his fellow guerrillas. Peter could not feel much sympathy. They would live, they would be given to officers or serve as camp girls, and probably would die young from the slim or the harsh existence of the camps. Some might even be sold to the Arab traders from the north, to live as slaves in northern Sudan. What of it? No doubt he would die in a year or so, of thirst or by the gun of a soldier.
The girl who had stumbled limped. She was pretty, like Alice from his village had been. Last he had heard, Alice had killed herself after being given to one of the Prophet's captains.
He shouldn't.
Furtively, Peter unscrewed the top of the battered canteen.
If he was quick and the others did not notice--
Later, Peter was convinced offering water to the girl was what had saved him from the naked demoness with a white skull painted on her face that erupted from the earth.