Scrolls of Legacy: Ancient: Windows to the Past Producing Gateways to the Future.

By Ernest Pickett

This is a Scripture-honoring novel of action-adventure, romance, and real-life struggle. It features a culture of relationships tested through war, love, weakness, and triumph. These heroes are not outwardly exceptional—they fail, they don’t know what to do, they become angry, and some are beaten down by others—but they are used in amazing, life-changing ways that rise to move even the heart of the king!

Go with them into the unknown of far-off exploration. Face the enemy in hand-to-hand combat. Meet the Black Sheik, the old shepherd, and the mysterious “Scrolls of Legacy.” Will the love for a lost young wife ever be felt again? Will a family be split apart by adversity?

Set in the land of Israel around 1000 BC, it is both a link to our faith’s roots, and an understanding of how scriptural principles are timeless.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jul 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781973666790

Ernest Pickett

“I have noticed, those having the greatest Spiritual impact on my life were ordinary people. Ordinary people who were not afraid to seek their Creator and Savior according to the Hebrew Scriptures ( Torah, Prophets, and Writings — the Old Testament ) and Messianic Writings ( the New Testament ) and who were willing to change their lives to follow Him. All of us have gifts and talents. They may take work and practice to develop, but they are there, even if we think we have nothing to offer. It is our Heavenly Father who will utilize us to our greatest joy and potential — if we will give Him control.”

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Copyright © 2019 Ernest Pickett.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Scripture used by permission from: The Scriptures,

(Institute for Scripture Research) unless otherwise noted.

ISBN: 978-1-9736-6680-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-6681-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-6679-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019908286

WestBow Press rev. date: 7/30/2019

Contents

1     The Story

1     The Story

1     The Story

2     Aftermath

3     Returning

4     Uncertainty

5     Friend or Foe

6     Lame

7     Up to Jerusalem

8     Down to Be’er Sheva

9     Into the Arabah

10   New Horizons

11   Out to Sea

12   Mordecai

13   New Worlds

14   The Black Shaykh

15   El’azar’s Son

16   Ethiopia and Cush

17   Winds of War

18   The Advantage

19   Defeat

20   Toward Jerusalem

21   Jerusalem

22   Planting

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Tree – Ya’aqov- son Mosheh - brother

Mera - son Qehath

Tree - C. Wilcox- daughter L. Ralen

(Scroll) 2 – wife Marnie

You are part of a true story.

Everyone has a story.

By your ancestors, your story is ancient—if you could know it.

Speak to your people.

1

THE STORY

Y ou have begun as I began some years ago. In the end, this adventure may mean little to you or it may be more significant— but you will not leave untouched.

It was a cold, dreary, winter’s evening. I was in the back basement of my local library engaged in one of my more pleasurable activities. I was snooping for old books. The air was stale and the poor lighting only added to the fun. Ah yes, the Internet. I know. I know! My kids remind me, in chorus, of that technological wonder, but I happen to enjoy the physical pursuit of old writings and the freedom of not being tied to a screen. I like being independent of the all-powerful web. The interaction between an author and me is personal—as in Show me what you have, and maybe I’ll read you. I don’t care how many great reviews you have in the literary world. It doesn’t matter to me if you got a zillion hits on the Internet. I’m the one looking at your skill; you need to grab my attention. I can’t write a whit. Even the worst of you have my respect, but I’m not trying to write—I’m trying to listen. I have seventy years of listening up against your abilities. You got anything worth my time?

I live in a retirement community. There are people here with backgrounds as varied as spots on a dog. Some have no close family anywhere, and most have no family anywhere close. In these circumstances, when one of us tips over, not many relatives have a burning desire to carry heavy boxes of books back to where they came from. The sentimental books, of course, are taken. But left behind, at times, are treasures of far-off places or volumes of intellectual pursuits. People forget that when someone gets to be seventy or eighty, a lot of living has been done, covering an abundance of experiences that aren’t necessarily in the public domain.

Down here are the old and discarded, those books deemed not interesting enough and whose wisdom wasn’t popular in their time. I’m sure there is some Freudian thing going on with my interest in them, but I don’t care. I happen to enjoy their company. I had not yet been in this section, so I was a little excited to see what I might find. What I saw as I looked down the rows of bookshelves was just what you would think a basement archive would look like. There were narrow aisles of unfinished wood shelves rising from the floor to a low ceiling, cloaked in perfectly choreographed dingy, yellow light. The old oak flooring creaked as I walked, and I could tell it was worn slightly into a trough toward the middle of the aisle. As I looked closer at the books on the shelves, I could plainly see dust on the tops of the books, and I chuckled out loud, Actual dusty books? Come on, would it have broken their budget to send someone down here with a dust rag? I pictured someone doing the blowing-off-the-dust routine in an old movie, and I wondered how many people unknowingly died of hanta-virus after following that bit of cultural iconography. I instinctively reached to my back pocket for my high-tech dust rag (you know, the one that attracts dust without being wet) that I carry to shine up old book covers. Each section of shelves was rough to say the least, and didn’t match evenly with the adjacent shelves. I could see gaps between each set of shelves. They were as close as possible, but due to the rough wood, one-to-three-inch gaps appeared here and there.

I was just about at the end of the aisle where the shelves ran into the corner wall and was thinking something could get stuck in those gaps. Then, as I passed one, I did see something that was down below, far back in one of the larger cracks. These shelves were pushed up tightly against the old stone and concrete wall behind, so no light was coming from the other side, and the gap was barely visible. I stopped to get a better look. The light was dim, but if I moved my head back and forth just right, I thought I could see a bent piece of paper—or the binding of a book. Well, this is interesting, I whispered. I remembered passing a box of two-inch wood slats on a landing as I came down the flights of stairs to the basement. They were about three feet long, and if one of them would fit in the crack, I might be able to retrieve this mystery thing stuck back in there.

After getting a slat that looked about right, I carefully wrapped the dust rag around the end of the wood. That way, I wouldn’t damage the book, or whatever it was, as I put pressure on it to move it towards me. I put the slat into the crack and began to pull the object out. I could tell by the resistance that it was definitely not just a piece of paper but something more like a book. My curiosity was rolling now. What in the world was it? A long-lost diary leading to fame and intrigue? Yeah, right. Probably more like Aunt Bertha’s long-lost book of 101 Fruit Cake Recipes. Actually, either way, I was having a blast—a lot more fun than watching late-night TV.

With a small puff of dust rising into the air, a medium-sized book plopped out on the floor. It was musty-red in color and the cover looked cracked, but it appeared the cracks were only superficial. The pages were yellowed and uneven but not fragile—at least from what I could see of the edges in the dim light. Was it too old? Would I damage it by opening it? I picked up the book and looked it over. It was heavier than I had expected. Older books are like that, but somehow it didn’t look like it would be damaged if it were opened. I rolled the book over in my hands. Holding it in one hand, I stuck the slat in between a couple of books on the shelf above my head so I could unwrap the dust rag from the end. I shook it out quickly, freeing it of the dust acquired from the gap, and wiped the front. Debossed deeply in the cover were some letters, SCROLLS OF LEGACY, and underneath it, ANCIENT: Windows to the past, producing gateways to the future? What are Legacy Scrolls? ancient? windows? gateways? No other words appeared on the cover. Lower down on the cover there was a faded and cracked, painted image of what appeared to be maybe an archery bow and something draped over it. I extended my arms tilting the book toward the light to try to see the image better, but I couldn’t make it out. I opened the first few pages. No publisher page, no nothing, just a title page and then following, some sort of crude map. My eyes caught the first words of the book:

Tree – Ya’aqov – son

Mosheh – brother

Mera – son Qehath

You are part of a true story.

Everyone has a story.

By your ancestors, your story is ancient—if you could know it.

Speak to your people.

1

THE STORY

Y a’aqov, Mosheh, and Hanok were exhausted. Entering the tent, each began to unstrap his garments of war. The aftermath of destroying evil and upholding righteousness came down to the mundane: the thankfulness to be alive, the dried sweat crusted on their bodies, the grime and filth of combat, and a fatigue that demanded rest. At least for now, they were satisfied their families were sa—

Professor? Hey, Professor!

I was blasted out of my thoughts by the loud voice at the brighter end of the aisle. It was the night janitor. His hand was shielding his eyes as he tried to see me at the other end of the long row of shelves.

I have to close up soon, Professor. Jeanie said you were down here and that I should let you know when I had to lock up.

YES, I’LL BE RIGHT THERE. THANKS, NICK, I yelled back. As he turned to go, I wondered if he could tell from my voice how excited I was that I had found this silly little book. I was glad we were far apart and the light was low. If he were interested, I would naturally want to explain to him about the book, how I found it and all, and that would take time. What I wanted, was to read this book not talk to someone about it. I could talk to Nick later and Jeanie, too, if she showed some interest. But right now, one thing was for sure. I had found something very interesting to this seasoned citizen. I smiled as I remembered the words Jeanie the librarian had spoken as I had come in earlier this evening:

Remember, Professor, that lower section is all ‘take it if you want it material,’ so help yourself. You don’t have to show me ether; I trust you. Just leave it like you found it and enjoy the ones you take. We have a lot more where those came from. We’re always receiving more used books. It will actually help us out if you’ll take a few and give us more room.

Well, let me tell you, this Professor was having a good night. I’m not a professor, never have been a professor, but because I like books I guess, the name stuck. Other than an ability to read frighteningly fast, I’m just Charles Wilcox, an ordinary guy who has given up trying to tell other people what to call me. Besides, I kind of like it when my wife Marnie, calls me Professor.

I walked back down the aisle toward the stairs and stopped directly under one of the few lights in that row of shelves. It was a bare socket and bulb, dangling by electrical wires wrapped in black tape. My interest was intensified by the word Ancient on the book cover, and in this better light, what was that faded, barely visible thing draped across the bow? I had read all the books that were considered Ancient Classics—at least all that were translated into English. If this book was truly ancient, and was one I had not heard of, it might not only be interesting to read, but also have historic value. I quickly selected three or four different places in the book and read a paragraph or two at each place.

The books considered Ancient Classics had come down through history usually through somewhat the same channels. Somewhere along the line they were deemed significant works and were accepted as something of interest and worthy of preservation. The powers-to-be of that era provided the finances and influence to translate them into their languages and keep them in some manner so they survived to the following generations. The translations were written by the educated of their day and as a result were for the most part, accurate and well done. Because any work had to appeal to, and be valued by, the culture protecting them, other manuscripts that were not seen as significant were not translated or protected and became lost to the ages.

Finished with reading my sample portions, I tucked the book in my jacket pocket and headed for the light switch and the stairs. What I had read got my attention. It was not polished like the other Classics I had read. Oh, it was very readable for sure, in fact, it seemed very descriptive and clear. But I saw a punctuation error in one place and the grammar wasn’t exactly correct in another. But then…what if a work had been handed down outside of those channels that brought us the other Classics? If that had happened, they might not have had access to the best educated persons to do the translating and there probably would be more errors. In this scenario, having some errors would actually be expected and even, in a way, verify its authenticity. But how would it have been handed down? What would have made it valuable enough to protect and save for the next generations?

Yes, next generations The words stuck as a pet irritation of mine. As I saw my children move out and on with their lives, I was troubled with what I saw as a loss of the family culture caused by the distances that most children live from their parents and other siblings. Of course I encouraged them to pursue their careers and understood the moves they needed to make, but there were losses from that distance also. It may be subtle now, but I wondered what would be lost over the generations. Oh, the basics would remain— the genetics— but the culture of a family had to do with their heart as well. What they felt about things. What were the circumstances of their lives, and why did they act as they did. Were they tested in what they believed? What did they think about world events as they lived through them? What did they laugh about? I was concerned there was simply not enough time together as adults, to bring out the family fabric. All of the things that are handed down and make up their true family culture.

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I blew though my back door on my way to my study. Marnie’s voice welcomed me as I passed through the living room and passed behind the couch she was lying on watching TV.

"Hi, professor, find anything good? She enjoyed kidding me about the professor thing. I rolled my eyes and felt warmed by her little smile and the twinkle in her eye. Yup, I think I have a winner here. I tapped my pocket and kept walking to the study. I was kinda hoping I could get right at it if that’s okay. It really does look interesting."

Sure, go ahead. She answered half yawning, I’m going to bed. You can tell me about it in the morning. But before you get lost in a book, Lisa called,

Lisa? Are they okay? I stopped quickly and turned to face her. Our daughter’s marriage to a college basketball coach was great, but during the basketball season, the demands on their time were such that we scarcely heard from them unless it was important.

Sure, everything’s fine, she assured me, pointing the remote and turning off the TV. In fact they’re coming up for a quick trip and wanted to stay with us Thursday night. Seems Sean wants to take a look at that Marshal boy at Central High, and meet him if he likes him. If he’s as good as he’s heard, he thinks getting his presence in early might be important.

That’s good thinking, I answered. "That kid’s pretty good. You did tell them they’re not welcome unless they bring the babies, didn’t you?"

Marnie groaned and chuckled, "Get in there and read your book, professor."

I smooched her a kiss and continued into the study. She’s so definitely a keeper. My chair fit perfectly around me as I clicked on the reading lamp, put my feet up on my cushion, and looked at the book. Okay, where are we going? You’ve been lost, but not any longer. I opened the book to the first page again…the map… and then the second. Now what is this: Tree? You are part of a true story…?

scrollsblacklogo.jpg

Ancient: Windows to the past producing gateways to the future.

Tree – Ya’aqov – son

Mosheh – brother

Mera – son Qehath

You are part of a true story.

Everyone has a story.

By your ancestors, your story is ancient—if you could know it.

Speak to your people.

1

THE STORY

Y a’aqov, Mosheh, and Hanok were exhausted. Entering the tent, each began to unstrap his garments of war. The aftermath of destroying evil and upholding righteousness came down to the mundane: the thankfulness to be alive, the dried sweat crusted on their bodies, the grime and filth of combat, and a fatigue that demanded rest. At least for now, they were satisfied their families were safe.

Though victorious, their emotions were clouded by near total fatigue and the losses of their friends and brothers-in-arms. Ya’aqov looked over the scene around him. Belts, swords, shields thrown here and there, and two spears propped in the tent corner. A trail of obstacles leading to the two lumps breathing heavily. It was obvious that Mosheh and Hanok had peeled off what was necessary on the way to their sleeping mats and had little energy to organize their equipment. Ya’aqov moved carefully through the mess toward his mat. The only light was the small torch burning outside the tent—the last thing he needed was to slice open his foot as he stumbled over who knows what. He thought about hanging his battle gear orderly on the bedside racks as he was trained, but his arms ached, his back was sore, and besides, there would be plenty of time tomorrow after he had slept. They could clean up properly then, and even perhaps think about going home. Ah, home… now that was a pleasing thought to fill one’s mind. Sweet Sarah and little Eli, were they well? He knew his family would be worried about him. Hopefully it wouldn’t be long before he could be with them again. It had been a great success, this day, and he was thankful. Around the war camp, he could hear a few loud voices, but most were so tired, all they wanted was a little bread and sleep.

The three of them were tillers of the soil. They were all from the same region and had been friends their entire lives. Their families had intermarried, and they were as close as people get— and they had survived this day of battle. They had fought side by side as they always had and protected each other in war as they did in their everyday lives. They knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses and could aid or defend instinctively. Yes, home… That would be so good. Next to their tent were a family of shepherds and the sound of their lyre began to float through the camp. The voices began to taper off … the night took hold… and there was rest.

I don’t see him. Where is he? Ya’aqov whispered to Hanok as they both squinted through the brush into the small gully just below them. Is he close enough?

Ya’aqov and Hanok couldn’t move any nearer after they had slowly, over the past two hours, carefully nudged the stag into the little valley. Mosheh, the best bow shot of the three, had circled around downwind earlier that morning and had set up in a good spot to shoot when the deer made its way up the valley. This was common practice for these animals. If not pushed too hard, and if they could not smell an enemy ahead, they would move slowly up the valley and reaching the top, cross into the next valley. By doing so, they were able to break visual contact and maneuver to stay a safe distance from any hunter. The three boys were getting better at this method of hunting each time they were out. Whenever they had the time, they would join up and go into the hills with their bows and spears. They started to take small forays into the wooded ravines near their village even before their beards began to grow.

Their faces were young and fresh in those years. Their beards were not really beards at all back then, but more like a badly seeded grain field. There were gaps and weak patches, but they were proud of every hair that showed. In fact, their beards looked quite inadequate and scruffy, but they were so enamored with becoming men, that these poor excuses for beards were to them mighty and powerful examples of their obvious maturity. A kind of sure prophecy of the full, rich, beards of their fathers and all the highly respected men in their lives. A portend of their coming lives: wives and children of their own, of taking their places in their society as warriors if needed, leaders of their families, and followers of their Elohim.¹ Their friendships strengthened through these quests and the adventures they shared. Through their experiences, they were getting to know each other at the deepest levels. Though they did not realize it, they were learning things about each other such as reliance, trust, individual talents, and loyalty. You shared your water even when you wanted to drink more. You made sure you carried your share of the meat back to the village, because you didn’t want your friends to think you were a slacker. If you had less ability at something, you still competed, but you also made it known how great it was that the other one excelled. If you were the one with talent, you built up those with less talent, by finding something good about them. You continued to show them respect when there were troubles in their families, and though you couldn’t change the circumstances, you stood with them. These were the bonds and tenderness of a family—and family was everything.

There! Hanok said in a careful whisper. I see the stag.

Ya’aqov nodded as he picked up the stag, too. He’s in good position for Mosh— Oh no! LION! No sooner were the words out of Hanok’s mouth, than he bolted over the bush they knelt behind and he was in full stride, running towards Mosheh’s position, yelling at the top of his lungs.

YIIIIIIE!! YIIIIIIE!

Ya’aqov, startled at Hanok’s burst of action, could see the tawny shape of a lioness sneaking slowly, not toward the stag, but to where Mosheh crouched! Mosheh’s attention was on the stag and was totally unaware of the massive cat stalking behind him and readying herself for the pounce. Her weight would flatten Mosheh into the ground. In the same instant, she would sink her huge fangs into his neck paralyzing and killing him in the same bite. Ya’aqov charged through the bush a second or so behind Hanok and also began yelling as loud as he could. The only hope was to distract the lioness long enough to interrupt her plans and take her out of her kill posture. The bush stung Ya’aqov’s legs, ripping into his bare skin, but there was no thought of it, only getting their yells or their movement to the lion to distract her before she leaped on Mosheh. It wouldn’t matter what happened after she made the decision to jump. Nothing could stop her until she was finished with the kill. Even if she would run off and not defend her prey, which was unlikely, it would be too late for Mosheh. But if they could make her uncomfortable, or startled, or just break her out of her focus for an instant, Mosheh would have a chance.

Ya’aqov knew he could never catch up with Hanok. No one ever caught up with Hanok, much less ever beat him in a race. Ya’aqov couldn’t remember a time that Hanok wasn’t the fastest person in their village, even when growing up and running against those many years older. He was fast as the wind, and whenever they ran together he even looked faster because Ya’aqov was so short and slow. But none of that mattered now. All that mattered was to make enough noise and sufficient movement to distract that killer from taking their friend. In the spilt seconds of his mind as he ran and yelled, his vision blurred with the bobbing up and down of each foot hitting the ground, he thought of all those old lion kills they had found. How they marveled at how little was left. The few gnawed off ribs, a few vertebrae and bones scattered on the ground. Ya’aqov shuddered thinking of his friend being torn to pieces.

YIIIIIIE! YIIIIIIE !

They had to get there in time! Up ahead, Hanok was now waving an arm wildly above his head as he ran. Ya’aqov could only faintly hear his calls because he was now far out in front, and Hanok’s face was facing the cat. Ya’aqov thought he could see the lion stop, and he had a terrible feeling in his stomach because she was so close to Mosheh. That could mean only one thing—she was ready to pounce, and their friend would be no more. Ya’aqov waited for that final movement. But what? Was she hesitating? He slowed a little to see better and also waived his arms over his head. YIIIIIE!

Yes, that’s right! The cat’s head had turned. It was now looking at Hanok! She was frozen trying to understand this new information reaching her. What was this sound? What were these shapes becoming bigger as the noise became louder? At the same instant Ya’aqov saw Mosheh move also. It was the jerk of someone being startled. The sound of their yells must have reached him too. The cat stared with those huge eyes and jerked her head back from Hanok to Mosheh. Mosheh was now waving his arms fully above his head holding his bow, giving her an entirely new shape to visualize. Instinctively, he began moving up the slope to take her advantage away of being above. In the cat’s mind, everything was different now. The prey was gone, there was confusion and noise, and it was just too much. She moved back a few steps and crouched now ready to defend herself. Mosheh saw the change and quickly nocked an arrow and drew on the lion. Hanok was bearing down on her and closing fast. Everything was different for her now.

She threw her head towards her tail, there was a blur of brown, and she was gone! Ya’aqov saw her shape disappearing through the brush just as Mosheh’s arrow struck the dirt where she had been an instant before. Ya’aqov slowed to a trot and began to breathe heavily. He could see Hanok and Mosheh moving together and grabbing each other’s forearms in congratulations, and as he moved closer, he began to hear their excited chatter. He slowed to a walk and looked in pure joy at his friends slapping each other on the back and whooping and hollering.

Ya’aqov came to them, finally, and joined in the fun. Hanok grabbed him by the shoulder and looked at him, grinning wildly. "We did it! As I was running, I was afraid ol’ Mosheh was cat food! But we made enough confusion to scramble her brains a bit.² Just enough—I guess. Praise His Name! That was close!"

When I first heard you yelling, laughed Mosheh, "I thought, ‘Have they lost their minds! Can’t they see the stag was almost ours? Those idiots, why would they be doing this?’ Then I saw those huge eyes on me and in the same thought, I wanted you both nearer and louder! Thank you, both of you. You truly saved me!"

I wasn’t very close—the cat was hearing mostly Hanok, Ya’aqov said quietly almost to himself.

Hanok heard it, looked straight into Ya’aqov’s eyes and said, Don’t say that Ya’aqov. You were just as committed as I was, and you were yelling and running as fast as you could. You know as well as I that with these big cats it’s always a matter of overwhelming them to get them to run. Don’t run yourself down. She could still hear you. Believe me, she knew you were coming and you were just as effective as I was. She didn’t want anything to do with Ya’aqov‘s short sword! She probably thought she could eat the first one easy enough, but the other one coming— and that sword!

Ya’aqov smiled and began to laugh at Hanok’s words. He always enjoyed the way Hanok made him feel like an equal of the group, even though the facts were that had Hanok reached the lion, his spear and Mosheh’s arrows would have made fast work of her. Both of them had nerves of iron, and they were so skilled with their weapons, the cat really made the right choice. It would have been quite a fight, all the same, and both Mosheh and Hanok could have been seriously injured. They all knew how bad it could have turned out and were elated that the cat ran and they didn’t have to get into the mess of a big fight. Ya’aqov reflected on how Hanok always built him up when Hanok thought Ya’aqov’s small stature and slow foot speed were bothering him. Mosheh also was nodding his head in agreement as Hanok spoke. Ya’aqov felt their acceptance and such was his great love for his friends.

Awe, I just knew my wife would have skinned me had I let anything happen to her big brother, Ya’aqov answered. They were all smiling as they started back enjoying the banter and the brotherhood it brought. What great times these were! The adrenalin was slacking a bit now, and the great satisfaction of a task well done was sinking in. What a story they would have to tell the others tonight after dinner—but, what? What is that look of surprise on Mosheh’s and Hanok’s faces? And who was blowing the shofar³? What was happening? Ya’aqov wanted the good feeling back again, but there was alarm and emergency in his mind, and he couldn’t get away from it. There was the shofar again! The shofar? Yes, the shofar—the call of assembly! Something was happening! Wake up! Get up! You must assemble. The war cry of the shofar to assemble with your captain!

Ya’aqov‘s eyes burst open, and he automatically sat up and began to reach to the bedside rack for his weapon. Dreaming about the lion again. I love that dream, but now the shofar— have to get moving! My sword is not in the rack! That’s right, I was too tired, I put it down. The light’s so dim, I can’t see. There! My shield, yes, I laid the shield over the sword. Now, under the shield. There! The blade, careful now back to the handle. Okay, I have it. In one motion, Ya’aqov picked up his sword in one hand and his shield in the other, swung his feet of the mat and stood up. He could hear Hanok and Mosheh moving now and grumbling about how could they be called for assembly at night!

Many pieces of equipment were being pushed around as they shuffled for their weapons and battle clothing. Ya’aqov was mostly ready and starting to move to the door of the tent, still buckling his leather chest covering. He thought he heard someone groan like one who steps on a rock without sandals, but there was such confusion and now the whole camp was on the move and creating noise. There were loud voices and orders were being yelled—shouts of alarm— and while there were no sounds of battle taking place, it was clear that’s where they were headed. Ya’aqov cleared the tent and as he ran to the assembly point, he hoped they could all stay together as they assembled. This would assure they could fight together as always. But there was so much going on! He really didn’t know who was around him.

Reassuringly, Mosheh’s voice rang out behind him, Ya’aqov! Hanok!

Ya’aqov called back quickly. Here, Mosheh!

Ya’aqov saw Mosheh fall in beside him but couldn’t see Hanok. They were almost at the assembly point, and it was forbidden to talk once you were there, so there was no way to find out where Hanok was. There was no time now, because they were falling in with the rest of their group and all were quieting down in anticipation of getting instruction from their captain. Ya’aqov quickly looked up to see the banner on the pole to double check that they were in the right place. He took another hurried look around and then put his attention toward the captain. There was shuffling and the odd clank of shield and weapons, but all was seriously quiet as the captain began to speak in a loud, authoritative voice.

All right men, not long ago, our perimeter forces encountered a large number of the enemy massing together to attack us at first light. As you know, our victory of yesterday was, we felt, decisive. And while we still feel that the main forces of the enemy are destroyed and the few remaining stragglers of no great threat, this force, whether purposely kept in reserve somewhere or possibly delayed till now, is going to attack. They may feel they can somehow make enough of an effect to gain negotiating power or perhaps they simply have a death wish and cannot accept defeat. We know that their strange worship of demons has previously caused them to do impulsive and very self-destructive things. We do not care what particular reason they have; they are to be confronted and destroyed as were their main forces yesterday!

A quick, rousing cheer blurted out instinctively from the assembled men. Then, as if to remember that silence was an absolute must, complete silence immediately followed.

I know men, the captain continued. This has been a hard campaign and driving this plague from our soil has been difficult and costly. However, remember these are fanatical and desperate men and protect yourselves at all times. We are to go to the east in a maneuver to out flank them while others will confront the main group and stall any momentum they may have. There will also be a group like ours to the west. If we are positioned well at dawn, we will attack with the rising sun at our backs and from the high ground in the low hills along the river. We feel they may have been staging a last ditch effort to spearhead a thrust straight into the camp and capture the King’s tent. Now that we are alert, that’s not much of a problem, but we should be aware that they may be one directional in their efforts and not trying to win a decisive blow. We must be alert and move to stop any surprise push toward the camp. As always as you make contact with the enemy, remember that if you don’t stop them, the next ones to deal with them may be your wives and families. Protect your homes!

The men shuffled and moved even as a solid mass at this thought. They had been awake long enough to shake off their sleep and now as the desire for action began to flow, they wanted to get at the task at hand.

I know you are ready for the fight, and I’m proud to go into battle with you, the captain continued, But now listen carefully…we have a good hike ahead of us before sun-up, and I remind you that complete quiet is a must. No talking, and move as quietly as you can. Okay, move out!

Ya’aqov and Mosheh began to move with the group and Ya’aqov knew Mosheh must be wondering where Hanok was. What could have happened to him? He would have never lined up with others instead of finding them. They were close enough to their banner so he was sure they would have seen him if he was there. The only thing he could think of was that maybe one of the King’s Guard had pressed him into service, ordering him to help them in some way. Ya’aqov knew sometimes they did just that, maybe Hanok had to go with them instead of following along to the assembly point. Maybe with the safety of the King as top priority, they needed extra hands to move his tent or some of the equipment. Hanok would not have liked it, but he would have obeyed and done what he was told. The column of men stretched out into the night. Ya’aqov could feel the cool night air and tried to see beyond the men in front of him and what the ground was like. The moon was almost full, and the men put a little space between each other, so it was easier to see the path ahead. Thus far, there were few rocks or bushes, and Ya’aqov realized they were traveling down a wadi.⁴ That made sense, he thought; they would follow the parallel dry streambed and then turn, cross the hills between the two valleys, and be in position to attack downhill.

His mind went back to his friend Hanok. Hanok wasn’t with them, and they were going to have to fight without him. Ya’aqov didn’t like that idea one bit, but he would make a special effort to stay close to Mosheh, and they would just have to do their best! Ya’aqov began to go over in his mind how the ebb and flow of battle might be without his good friend at his side and more importantly, without his mighty spear. Many times in the heat of battle, it was Hanok’s jabbing at the enemy as they closed, that gave him those split seconds of surprise to use his sword for lethal plunges. Mosheh would still be able to use his bow before they closed into ‘hand to hand’ distance, but without Hanok’s spear to give them a little room, he would have to watch Mosheh and make sure he had time to unsheathe his sword and bring his shield off his back and onto his arm. As an archer, Mosheh had his shield slung on his back so he could draw and release his arrows freely. His sword was pushed around on his belt so as not to hinder the movement of his bow. Ya’aqov put his arm around Mosheh’s neck and pulled his ear close to his mouth so he could talk to him quickly and quietly as possible. If anyone heard him he would be in big trouble, but he had to be sure that he and Mosheh were together on their thoughts. He pulled Mosheh’s ear down to his mouth until he could feel it on his lips. With all the excitement and the combination of his short stature and Mosheh’s greater height, Ya’aqov almost pulled Mosheh off his feet as his powerful forearm clamped onto his friend and pulled him to his mouth.

We aren’t going to have Hanok’s spear to give us time so don’t let them get to close before you go to your shield and sword. If you get in a bind, duck behind me and get ready. Don’t let them engage you if you’re not ready. Okay?

Ya’aqov released Mosheh and he stumbled a few steps, caught his balance, thought about what Ya’aqov had said, then looked at Ya’aqov and nodded his head in agreement. They walked for a little while and Ya’aqov knew Mosheh was thinking about all the situations that might arise where Hanok’s absence would be important. Then Mosheh put his hand on his neck, cocked his head at an impossible angle and walked in a jerky, stiff, way as if to say—You broke my neck!

Ya’aqov could hear muffled chuckles from the men immediately behind him who no doubt had seen the way Ya’aqov had manhandled Mosheh to talk to him. Ya’aqov smiled a little, even in these grave circumstances, he had to try hard not to laugh. He knew Mosheh had taken him seriously, but Mosheh could always see the humor in things. He couldn’t ask for a better friend or brother-in-law. Sarah had that same appreciation of fun in her life, and it was one of the best things Ya’aqov loved about her. Oh, how he wished he was with her now. The early morning, she sleeping peacefully beside him, her warmth against him …

He was jolted back to reality as they