a hot needle and pushed him back down into the mud. Indecision immobilized him as he fought against the agony in his body and fear in his mind.
Where do I go from here? I can’t go home. Maybe best to just sit here…and die.
Finally, a surge of resolve, born more of self-pity than purpose, pulled Jonah to his feet, where he swayed on legs cramped from their stumbling flight down the hill. The sprinkling slackened to misting, permitting just enough light to keep to the road—or at least to avoid large obstacles. Steadying himself against the boulder, he stooped to retrieve his bag. He poured out the excess water and slung it over his shoulder. His first thought was to take the familiar turn off the wadi path toward the Jezreel Valley. Uncertainty poked him with another notion, though, and he turned his head the opposite direction toward the Sea of Chinneseret. Why not take the less familiar path? He winced at a sharp pain that stabbed his temple. Oh, yes. To the northeast lie Assyria and Nineveh. That fact alone gave sufficient reason to turn south.
Jonah staggered off toward the big valley, trudging through ankle-deep puddles. His soaked clothing and heavy rucksack chafed his skin as yesterday’s memories chafed his mind. He focused on the road before him, squinting in the gloom and feeling for treacherous footing on the road worn smooth over the centuries. He had no plan, no destination in mind. Anywhere was fine as long as it wasn’t Nineveh. His mother didn’t understand and his family wouldn’t understand, even if they knew. It was simply out of the question, end of the discussion . I’d sooner preach in Sheol than in Assyria.
Seven
L
ate afternoon stuffiness pried Simon’s eyes open to a slit. He yawned and rubbed his forehead, exaggerating an [B9] exhale through puffed cheeks. Arriving at the inn early that morning, he forewent breakfast in favor of a nap. It took him a moment to adjust to a bed not swaying in cadence with the waves, but when he did, sleep came and it felt good. One or two dreams attempted feeble disruptions to his slumber, but his subconscious snubbed them and they slinked away.
The faint aroma of fresh bread summoned a rumble to his stomach, reminding him he’d not eaten since the previous day. He grunted to a sitting position, his face contorting into another massive yawn. He shook his head to dislodge the shreds of sleep still clinging to his brain, and scratched his stomach more from habit than necessity. His waking ritual thus completed, the groggy seaman staggered to his feet and toed them into his sandals. Not bothering to lace up, he creaked open the door and shuffled into the main room of the inn, the sandals’ leather thongs trailing behind him.
Settling at the nearest table, Simon squinted from sunlight pouring through an open window. He propped a leg across his knee and began working the laces around his ankle.
“ Hoi! Simon!” Gali raised a cup of wine in greeting from a table in the far corner. Gali, an old friend and occasional fellow crewmember, shared the table with two other men. Simon recognized one as Lev, a casual acquaintance from his stops in Joppa, but the other man was a stranger. He smiled and nodded.
Gali pointed to an empty chair at their table. Taking the cue, Simon finished tying his sandal and pulled the second one off his foot before rising and hobbling over to the trio. He plopped down and nodded at Lev and the stranger.
“You remember Lev. This is Isaac ben Solomon. Works the cargo ferries. Moved from Bethel last year.” They exchanged pleasantries while Gali signaled the innkeeper’s wife to bring another round of wine, bread, and honey syrup, as well as a cup for Simon.
“How long you been in port?” Simon looked up at Gali as he worked the thongs of his other sandal.
“Lev and I put in from Ashkelon three days ago. We’re waiting for an outbound to Dor, or maybe Sidon or Tyre.”
“You still working the
Where do I go from here? I can’t go home. Maybe best to just sit here…and die.
Finally, a surge of resolve, born more of self-pity than purpose, pulled Jonah to his feet, where he swayed on legs cramped from their stumbling flight down the hill. The sprinkling slackened to misting, permitting just enough light to keep to the road—or at least to avoid large obstacles. Steadying himself against the boulder, he stooped to retrieve his bag. He poured out the excess water and slung it over his shoulder. His first thought was to take the familiar turn off the wadi path toward the Jezreel Valley. Uncertainty poked him with another notion, though, and he turned his head the opposite direction toward the Sea of Chinneseret. Why not take the less familiar path? He winced at a sharp pain that stabbed his temple. Oh, yes. To the northeast lie Assyria and Nineveh. That fact alone gave sufficient reason to turn south.
Jonah staggered off toward the big valley, trudging through ankle-deep puddles. His soaked clothing and heavy rucksack chafed his skin as yesterday’s memories chafed his mind. He focused on the road before him, squinting in the gloom and feeling for treacherous footing on the road worn smooth over the centuries. He had no plan, no destination in mind. Anywhere was fine as long as it wasn’t Nineveh. His mother didn’t understand and his family wouldn’t understand, even if they knew. It was simply out of the question, end of the discussion . I’d sooner preach in Sheol than in Assyria.
Seven
L
ate afternoon stuffiness pried Simon’s eyes open to a slit. He yawned and rubbed his forehead, exaggerating an [B9] exhale through puffed cheeks. Arriving at the inn early that morning, he forewent breakfast in favor of a nap. It took him a moment to adjust to a bed not swaying in cadence with the waves, but when he did, sleep came and it felt good. One or two dreams attempted feeble disruptions to his slumber, but his subconscious snubbed them and they slinked away.
The faint aroma of fresh bread summoned a rumble to his stomach, reminding him he’d not eaten since the previous day. He grunted to a sitting position, his face contorting into another massive yawn. He shook his head to dislodge the shreds of sleep still clinging to his brain, and scratched his stomach more from habit than necessity. His waking ritual thus completed, the groggy seaman staggered to his feet and toed them into his sandals. Not bothering to lace up, he creaked open the door and shuffled into the main room of the inn, the sandals’ leather thongs trailing behind him.
Settling at the nearest table, Simon squinted from sunlight pouring through an open window. He propped a leg across his knee and began working the laces around his ankle.
“ Hoi! Simon!” Gali raised a cup of wine in greeting from a table in the far corner. Gali, an old friend and occasional fellow crewmember, shared the table with two other men. Simon recognized one as Lev, a casual acquaintance from his stops in Joppa, but the other man was a stranger. He smiled and nodded.
Gali pointed to an empty chair at their table. Taking the cue, Simon finished tying his sandal and pulled the second one off his foot before rising and hobbling over to the trio. He plopped down and nodded at Lev and the stranger.
“You remember Lev. This is Isaac ben Solomon. Works the cargo ferries. Moved from Bethel last year.” They exchanged pleasantries while Gali signaled the innkeeper’s wife to bring another round of wine, bread, and honey syrup, as well as a cup for Simon.
“How long you been in port?” Simon looked up at Gali as he worked the thongs of his other sandal.
“Lev and I put in from Ashkelon three days ago. We’re waiting for an outbound to Dor, or maybe Sidon or Tyre.”
“You still working the
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