“Kalil,” Mary started. “Is that the person you borrowed money from?”
Amias sighed and nodded. “Many of us borrowed money from him,” Amias said. He spoke slowly to tamper the coughing fits and tried his best to look into Mary’s eyes. She could see the struggle in his brow but didn’t want to interrupt unless he needed water. “He had loaned in that area before.”
“Bayla,” Mary said.
“Yes, but others as well,” Amias responded. “Yaktan had taken money and gone to Egypt to help pay it off,” Amias paused and shook his head. “We didn’t know anything about what happened to him, the accident, or how Bayla couldn’t repay the debt.”
The mention of Yaktan and the accident rushed a memory of his death on the sea. The entire town knew that Yaktan had gone to Egypt for work and left Bayla with enough to survive while he was gone. On his way back, something happened, and he lost his life in a terrible accident at sea.
“You didn’t know Kalil had come to take Bayla’s children,” Mary asked.
“No,” Amias said. “We were persuaded by the immense wealth and ability to help this town,” Amias said and coughed. It was rough as he pushed out the last of his words and paused. Mary quickly gave him a sip of water, for which he was thankful. “We only wanted what we could have until God released his hold on the clouds.”
The rain picked up while Amias talked. The delay in Amir and Amit’s return meant Tamir allowed them to clean the oxen, or they played some game in his home. Either way, the thunder that roared above only seemed in contrast to the weeks before, with no moisture tingling the grass, plants, trees, or soil in Rakkath. “If only,” Mary whispered.
“I’m so sorry,” Amias apologized. The greying man sniffed, not from breathing issues but to hold back the wave of emotions beginning to spring from his soul.
“Why didn’t you mention it before?” Mary asked.
“I learned later how cruel Kalil could be,” Amias started. He took a deep breath and said, “I couldn’t put that weight on you.”
Amias coughed and took another deep breath. Mary knew he could see the concern on her face. Plenty of collectors acted on behalf of governments, merchants, wealthy investors, or themselves. They set up promises of wealth for those borrowing, knowing it would be a winning situation for the collector. The indebted person had to pay their loan with interest, but if they did not have the money, something of value would be taken until the debt was paid in full. Some were lenient when it came to taking someone. Not everyone believed in this practice. Others were different.
Kalil, who showed no mercy or grace, took what Bayla had and her children to work off the debt. Bayla tried everything to raise the money, but eventually, Mary never saw her again. There was a woman in the inn that she had spoken with for a while, and she saw her talk to Bayla. Mary struggled to remember her name until Tabuya came to mind. After that chance meeting, Mary didn’t see Bayla and assumed she had gone to another city or village to get a job and raise some funds in an effort to get her children back.
“The drought,” Amias started. “It’s tough on the land…”
“You made a deal with that devil,” Mary interrupted.
Amias coughed and wheezed. He took a deep breath and winced. “We needed the money.”
“But Bayla…”
“We didn’t know about Yaktan’s circumstances,” Amias said. His shoulders slumped, and he took a few more deep breaths. Mary could tell the man was tired, but she had to press him for more information. Mary paused for a moment, allowing him to literally catch his breath. She thought about giving him rest, but hearing that they owed money to a dangerous collector such as Kalil might put her sons in danger.
“Did we not have any savings?”
“Savings,” Amias said. “The people of this town used to give and give well for prophets.” Amias grabbed his chest and coughed, this time a little blood in the mix, and Mary quickly got a rag for him to wipe his mouth. She looked back at the room where the tea was sitting and then at Amias. Mary decided to give him water, for which he hungrily sipped. “We didn’t want for nothing because the people were faithful to God.”
Mary nodded and remembered when they benefited from the city, giving their family what they needed so Amias could bless and counsel the town freely. She had heard this rant before and knew where he was going next.
“And then the fascination of Baal, Molech, Dagon, and some other Bull god thing.”
“Apis,” Mary answered.
“Yes, Apis. Another deity with horns,” Amias spat out.
“I don’t believe Dagon has horns,” Mary said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Amias said. Mary could see his latest outburst had affected his breathing, and he welcomed more water. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to yell.”
Mary shook her head and caressed his arm. “It’s okay.” Amias smiled and leaned a little forward from the side of his bed. Mary held him tight and guided him to lay back. “Get some rest. We can continue this in the morning.”
“No,” Amias said and grabbed Mary’s arm. “I’m fine. I can continue.”
Mary looked at her husband and, for the first time, really saw him. He was pale and thin, and his chest jumped with each failing breath. Yet she saw in his eyes the same vigor that was there when they first met years before. Sure, he was older than her, but he had a strong spirit that attracted her to him. Marrying a prophet brought joy to her family and the assumption that God would bless their offspring. Mary knew she wasn’t the only one in town with an older husband. Many women were forced into marriage for alliance, wealth, and to help the family standing. Mary chose Amias when they met, as did her friend Rashida with Phashar, who far exceeded her age, and their marriage was strong and full of joy.
“I know that’s why you started the olive grove,” Mary said. “The townspeople's allegiance changed.”
“This town, Hazor, Dan, Jericho, Bethel, even Jerusalem. It is a plague of idol worship, and we are all paying the price with these countless dry seasons,” Amias said. Mary noticed it was the first time he did not cough or spew phlegm.
“It rains sporadically.”
“Not often enough, and our olives are taking a beating. Everyone’s farm is struggling,” Amias responded.
Mary nodded and looked at the water on the stand next to her. Amias had his eyes closed but looked peaceful. She didn’t want to disturb him with another sip. Instead, she rubbed his arm and held his hand. A smile formed on his face, bringing the same to her. “That’s why you took the loan.”
“Yes,” Amias answered with his eyes still closed. “This nagging cough, failing grove, I wanted to set you up with something great. Just in case.”
“Don’t say that,” Mary said.
Amias smiled and slowly opened his eyes. He reached out with his free hand and rubbed the back of Mary’s, which was holding his. Before responding, Amias coughed again, shut his eyes to gather his thoughts, and whispered, “I love you.”
“Same.”
“I wanted to do what I could, provide. I,” Amias paused. Mary could see his face contort, assuming another cough, but tears began trickling down his face instead. “I failed you.”
Mary gasped and gently squeezed his hand. She cleared her throat at the mention of Amias’ raw emotions trembling through the air with those few words. She took a deep breath, hoping that would stanch the tears streaming down the side of her face. “No,” Mary said. Tears decided to travel anyway, but she ignored them. “No, don’t say that.”
“I wanted to provide, and I thought,” Amias said, holding back a cough. “I thought, getting the loan, rebuilding the farm, I thought. I thought I could do something amazing.”
“You did,” Mary responded.
“I’m…,” Amias started and cleared his throat. He tried to repeat something, but his voice got caught in the air. He shook his head and squeezed Mary’s hands.
“You have nothing to be sorry for. I love you.” More tears were flowing from both. Amias pulled Mary’s hands towards his lips, kissed them, and smiled.
“One of my friends might be coming soon. I sent word of my sickness,” Amias said.
“Can he heal?”
Amias shrugged. “Never knew Afra to heal,” Amias whispered to himself. A little bit of faith crept out of Mary with his words. She hoped Afra was a prophet with a healing touch that she had often heard throughout Amias’ tales. “It will be nice to see him one more time.”
Mary nodded and remembered Afra from Amias tales. Like her husband, Afra was a prophet. He lived in Jericho, the city that Amias had left to meet her in Rakkath. The two men had journeyed to various towns, spreading God’s message to the people of Israel. They even had a farmer friend, Doro, who did not go out as often as they did, but the large man would go with them if the prophets visited a particularly dangerous town.
“But, can he heal?” Mary asked.
“He can pray,” Amias said. “Elisha, now that man can heal. I wish you had an opportunity to meet him.”
“With your story, I felt like I have,” Mary responded.
Her joke caused Amias to laugh, which made him cough, and Mary regretted what she said. She apologized, but Amias continued to hold her hand. “I needed that.”
“What?” Mary asked.
“To laugh. And you’re right I have told the story of him and Elijah and our journey multiple times. It was thrilling.”
Mary knew about his story, with many prophets and priests congregating around Elisha looking for his mentor, Elijah. There were reports of a chariot on fire coming and swooping up Elijah and taking him to Heaven while Elisha received the previous prophet’s mantel and abilities. Then, Amias would always talk about how they convinced Elisha to allow the men to search for Elijah. Amias, Afra, and Doro journeyed to a small town where a loyalist to Queen Jezebel and Baal put their lives in danger. She loved the story the first ten or fifteen times he told it, but eventually, it wore her nerves. Mary saw Amias’ shallow breathing, dried tears on his face, and gently rubbed his hand again.
“Would you like to tell me again,” Mary encouraged. The continuous clap of rain seemed to lessen when compared to earlier.
Amias squeezed her hand and said, “No, I believe you know it by now.” Amias smiled and opened his eyes. He turned his head to her and stared intently into her face. “Do what you must to keep our boys out of Kalil’s grasp.”
“Of course.”
“No matter what,” Amias said.
“We,” Mary corrected. “You mean we will do what we can,” Mary said.
Amias smiled, but a slight cough caused pain to reverberate through his chest. “If Elisha comes by way of Rakkath. See him.”
“Amias,” Mary started. “All you need is rest.”
“Tell him who I am. I pray he remembers me. But tell him, perhaps God will work a miracle.”
Mary could feel the warm sensation of tears. She held on to his hand, whose grip started slipping away. His arm was rigid, and Mary looked at his chest. It was still. For a moment, Mary thought blurry eyes fooled her into believing a lie. She wiped her face and looked for movement in his chest. Nothing. There was no flutter or up and down movements. It was still.
Mary’s gaze slowly went to Amias’ face. He had a smile, but there was no warmth or movement. His face did not twitch, and the closed eyes seemed peaceful. “Amias,” Mary whispered. She didn’t want to speak louder, afraid of disturbing his peaceful rest. “Amias,” Mary said, this time more forceful. She shook his arm, and there was no resistance. “Amias,” Mary said again, hitting his chest this time. She thought that was stupid, considering his breathing problems, but there was no wheezing. There was no response. Mary rubbed his hand and could feel the warmth quickly leave the appendage. “Amias,” Mary whispered. She wanted to say more, but her voice would not let her. She took a deep, soul-clearing, mind-numbing breath and let it out. Mary nodded and knew there was no life in her husband. She hung her head and tried to take a deep breath, but her body failed. The sobs were uncontrollable, and instead of holding them in, she let the tears flow.
After a minute, Mary finally looked at Amias, shook her head in disbelief, and gently kissed him one last time on the forehead. “I will never stop loving you. Be at peace.”
