DAMASCUS
The ninth day, shortly after noon, Isaac’s company neared Damascus.
They traveled slowly, carrying the dead body of their comrade, but not
too slowly for Miriam, to whom grief for the past and uncertainty as
to the future loomed larger than the delights of new experiences. They
paused a moment on the heights above and looked down upon the city.
Isaac pointed with pride: “Seest thou, little maid, that the buildings,
crowded so closely together and all covered with gray plaster, make
Damascus look like a pearl. It is a pearl set in emeralds, for it lieth
in the midst of fragrant gardens and shady orchards which entirely
surround it, and in which thou mayest travel for hours on hours before
reaching the desert. All this is wrought by our two good friends, the
River Abana and the River Pharpar, which hath made Damascus possible.
Without them this would be but desert sands. The Pharpar flows through
the plains to the south of us, but the Abana, like a faithful servant
to her mistress, the Queen of Cities, washes off the dust of her feet.
Every street and every dwelling hath its marble fountain supplied by
the Abana’s cold and sparkling waters. Freely doth it flow for rich and
poor alike. Thou shalt see its wonders and its beauty.”
He touched his horse and they moved on, leaving the exhilarating air
of the hills, traversing roads which lay between fascinating vistas
of garden and orchard, such as he had described, and finally entering
the great, crowded gate. To Miriam the city presented more perils than
the wilderness. The bustle of the streets appeared like confusion; the
gayly colored garments everywhere looked odd, even fantastic, while the
cries of the merchandise vendors and the constant din of conversation
in many voices and many languages were bewildering. She drew closer to
the young captain, imploring, fearful.
He smiled reassuringly. “We stop here, nay, not to dismount but only
to leave the men. This is the ‘barracks’ where I live when I am not at
home, but thou and I go further.”
She grew faint with apprehension. Was she now to be sold as a slave?
But what else could one expect in this terrible heathen city?
They were taking the “farther ride” of which he had spoken. “Seest thou
this splendid temple, little maid? Notice its magnificence and its vast
size. It is the House of Rimmon, the sun-god of the Syrians. Nay, not
my god. If I believe at all, and sometimes I wonder how it is possible
to know which god is the true one among so many, it is Jehovah, whom I
was taught to worship even as thou, my mother being a captive from the
Land of Israel like thee.”
He had not meant to bring that pained expression to Miriam’s face.
All at once he noticed how small she was and how forlorn. His voice
became soothing. “I am taking thee to the house where she went, where
she grew up and married my father, who was chief steward there and an
Egyptian. I was born in that house and call it ‘home’ even yet, for I
am much with my master. It is the House of Naaman, commander-in-chief
of the armies of Syria. I think thou wilt wait upon his wife, Adah. My
sister, Milcah, hath a position of authority among the female servants,
and if she seemeth to thee at first somewhat severe, thou must remember
that she hath much care, so much that her heart hath great ado to show
itself. But peradventure” (questioningly) “thou wouldst enjoy a Quest
for the Hidden Heart?”
Her answer was prevented by their arrival at the largest abode Miriam
had ever seen, and the next hour was a very trying one. She did not
meet the mistress she was to serve. Instead, she was taken straight
to Milcah, the soldier’s sister, the Lady of the Hidden Heart, whose
welcome was critical rather than cordial. After a little while Isaac
bade her good-by for the present, holding her hand tightly.
“Thou wilt be happy here, and I will come often to see how thou doest.
Thou must feel free to tell me everything, just as thou wouldst talk
with thy brother, Benjamin.”
But she would not let him depart. She was in an agony of terror,
clinging to him and begging him piteously not to leave her.
He was perplexed and distressed. Stooping, he caressed her; took her in
his arms and attempted to soothe her in quite a big-brother fashion;
told her about his debt to Benjamin, which he should repay to her;
reassured her about the kindness of those among whom he had brought
her; promised to come every day; tried to divert her attention to the
fountain in the peaceful courtyard and the other beauties around them;
sought to arouse her courage and inspire hope. After a time she became
calm and suffered him to leave, but before going he had a few sharp
words with his sister, Milcah, who had looked on coldly, impatiently,
at these proceedings.
“As if I had naught to do but act as child’s nurse! Assuredly she will
be well treated. Hath anything else ever been known in the House of
Naaman?”
With this ungracious promise he had to be content, but never before had
he taken his way to the barracks with such a heavy heart. He paused
two or three times and looked back, as if debating whether or not to
return, but finally went on. Meanwhile, with expedition and no waste
of sympathy, Miriam was bathed, under Milcah’s direction, and dressed
in garments hastily adapted for the purpose out of those intended for
a much larger maid. The rest of the afternoon time dragged. Miriam,
very forlorn indeed, was yet very brave, as she had promised Isaac to
be. She expected to be put to work immediately, to be given tasks that
would try her strength and patience to the utmost, but, apparently,
there was nothing for her to do.
Venturing into the courtyard, she observed that if the dwelling looked
large on the outside, it was immense within and sheltered a household
so numerous that the arrival of one more made no difference whatever.
Somewhat later she had her supper, a bounteous meal that she could not
swallow for the lump in her throat, and then Milcah sent her to bed
in a large room with several of the maid servants. It was a softer
bed than any she had ever known, but not one of ease. She lay there
thinking, thinking until the intolerable pain in her throat was at last
relieved by tears, but she was careful to smother the sobs lest she
disturb those whose regular breathing told her they were asleep. She
could reach out her hand and touch them, they were so near, yet she was
alone, quite, quite alone! No one cared about her except, strangely
enough, the soldier who had brought her hither! If she could only
cuddle down in her mother’s arms, or her father’s! Oh, the sobs would
not be stifled! What if the Lady of the Hidden Heart should hear?
As if in answer to this despairing cry, Milcah stood, looking down
upon her. “Exactly what I feared,” she commented, “and to-morrow no
work will be done because the sound of thy weeping to-night will go
forth to disturb the household. Thus is mischief wrought by a brother’s
thoughtlessness. Do thou come into the room with me, and if thou must
weep, none will be distressed, for much care maketh me always wakeful.”
Not unkindly though entirely without tenderness, Miriam was assisted to
make the change, but the fountain of tears seemed frozen. For the rest
of the night she lay with wide-open eyes, staring but unseeing, sick
to the very soul. Yet did she not suffer alone. From his comparatively
hard couch over in the barracks, Isaac all at once sprang up, alert,
listening. Noiselessly he crossed the room, opened a door, and stepped
out into the starlight. Still were the voices of traffic and people
which had so terrified Miriam that day. The city slumbered. He looked
across roof after roof to two which towered above the others, ghostlike
in the whiteness of their plastered exteriors. One was the palace, the
other the House of Naaman.
A long, long while he stood there, then he returned to his bed,
laughing softly. “I grow fanciful,” he said to himself. “I dreamed I
heard the sobbing of the little maid. As if I could at this distance,
or as if she were weeping when she hath doubtless been asleep these
many hours!”
Yet for some reason the soldier slept but fitfully the remainder of the
night. Into his passive brain swarmed long-forgotten tales he had heard
at his mother’s knee: tales of her captivity; of her loneliness and
home-sickness; but because he had known her only in days of contentment
and prosperity, they had seemed to him but as tales. Now he understood.
With features drawn as if in pain he groaned: “If only, ah, if only!”
In the morning he went home very early, only to find that the little
maid was too weak and ill to rise.
His sister spoke her mind without reserve. “I am not pleased, Isaac,
that thou shouldst have brought this child hither. She will be much
trouble and little help. We can do nothing now except endure it, but I
hope thou wilt never take captive another maid.”
He promised fervently, and Milcah surveyed his retreating form with
great satisfaction. “When I talk to Isaac,” she told herself, “always
can I cause him to see the right, and no other woman hath such
influence with him--so far.”
* * * * *
It was truly a wonderful house to which Miriam had come. In the first
place it had no front door. The outside was just a blank wall of gray
plaster with a few small openings, very high up, and instead of a door
there was a gate: a large, highly ornamented, metal gate at which a
keeper always stood. From this you will understand that none of the
rooms looked out upon the street save through those little, latticed
openings above everybody’s heads, the real doors and windows being on
the other side (the inside), where they opened upon a wide veranda
and then upon a square courtyard. You could stand in one doorway, for
example, and see rows and rows of rooms facing the four sides of this
courtyard but not opening into each other.
You might think you would miss seeing the street, but how could you
when the courtyard had its fountain and grass and flowers and trees and
even birds? All of the courtyards were pretty and peaceful, even that
where the animals were kept, the word “all” being used advisedly, for
while most houses had one court or two or three at most, this one had
seven. You would get lost trying to find your way about. The rooms were
large and high, and so clean and well furnished! On three sides were
low and wide benches, where you sat in the daytime and slept at night
on the soft cushions and thick mattresses which were never put away.
There was nothing else in these apartments, but, of course, there was
nothing else to want except the queer little pans containing lighted
wood or charcoal which would be brought in when it was cold.
The portion of the building set aside for the use of the master and
mistress and their guests had not more but only more elegant furniture.
Here the courtyard was paved with marble and inside the apartments
the low and wide benches were made of carved cedar inlaid with ivory
and mother-of-pearl and tortoise-shell in intricate designs. Here the
cushions were covered with beautifully colored silks, the mattresses
with heavier material, and there were curtains of silk and linen and
rugs spread down to walk upon. Miriam, surveying this magnificence
surreptitiously, decided that while it was quite right and proper in
such a place and for such a purpose, it was entirely unnecessary for
the rest of the household. With the rooms and verandas all floored and
kept so clean, who would need carpets? And there were almost no ants
or mice! As for cushions, silk would not wear nearly so long, she was
sure, as the sheepskin and goatskin stuffed with wool which were so
plentiful in the other apartments. The master, Naaman, must be very
rich to maintain such a splendid dwelling. It was awe-inspiring just to
contemplate its glories.
Out of doors it was even more interesting. You could go up a stone
staircase in the corner of one of the courts and come out on the roof.
You need not be afraid. There was no danger. It was only one story
high--although that was very high indeed--and the roof was flat.
Besides, the wall built around the edge would keep you from falling.
You could see so much and so far! You could look down into the narrow
and crowded streets of Damascus itself, where brilliantly garbed
throngs were constantly coming and going on interminable errands,
and beyond that to miles of verdure and swamp land and several
swift, silvery streams, offshoots of the Pharpar and the Abana, and
beyond that still to the long, low-lying bluish-purple hills and the
dun-colored desert. It would be just according to your mood whether or
not your gaze returned to Damascus and fastened itself upon the one
other building more pretentious than this: the palace where dwelt King
Ben-hadad and his court, and then wandered off to the three great gates
of Damascus, through which many entered and some never returned.
There were numerous people in the household of Naaman, almost as many,
she was sure, as lived in a whole “city” in Israel, so it was not
strange they should have different languages. How very dissimilar each
individual was from the other! Odd that we should all have eyes and
ears and noses and mouths and hair and yet no two look alike! The only
person of the entire household whose ways and speech were the least
familiar was Milcah, sister to the young soldier who had brought her
hither, and Milcah was much, much older than her brother and much, much
harder to please.
Isaac’s daily visits and trifling gifts of fruit or flowers, at first
received listlessly, gradually acquired greater value in Miriam’s
eyes until they were the only bright spots on an otherwise monotonous
horizon. The marvels of her new home had no charms for her at first.
They dawned upon her gradually as, day after day, with wan face and
lagging footsteps, and in response to Isaac’s encouragement, she roamed
through the big house, smiling wistfully upon those who were often too
busy to smile in response. She was not resentful. The hurt came in the
fact that they were absorbed in their own affairs, in which she had no
part. And in Hannathon she had been so necessary!