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By the Waters I have completed a multi-generational novel about the Babylonian exile of the Judeans. Here is a brief glimpse into the novel: Bitter Vetch "Sarah!" Reuven cried again over his shoulder as he struggled to keep the furrows of land straight. Sarah wanted to cry. She could not both follow behind the plow to plant the flat little pellets of bitter vetch and chase off the birds that swooped to pick at the newly turned earth, carrying away their precious crop. The sun was beating mercilessly and she felt her head throb as though it were separate from her body. She rose from her knees, running to scatter the birds with outstretched arms and a shrill cry. But when she returned to the little gully of earth Reuven was creating with his homemade plow, the birds lazily flew back again. “Sarah!” Reuven cried. “You have to keep them off!” She couldn’t be two places at once. Their father would have hired a boy from the village to keep the birds away. Desperately, she ran back again, pelting the birds with stones. But she could barely managed to plant another few seeds before Reuven cried out again, “They’re back! Sarah!” With a gasp of mingled exhaustion and frustration, Sarah rose and turned, just in time to see the birds flying off. She looked, bewildered, at the field. In the middle of it stood a man with arms outstretched. He had an unruly crop of sandy grey hair, an unkempt beard, and worn and patched clothing. “I will keep the birds away, child,” he said, his deep voice causing Sarah, already dizzy from the sun, to feel she’d entered some kind of strange dream. “You must continue to plant in this strange field. All of Judea must raise their crops far from home now.” Reuven stopped plowing and approached them. “Who are you?” he demanded. The unkempt man looked toward the sky. “God’s friend. And yours. I was walking to Tel Abib to visit the newcomers from Judea when I saw the two of you struggling. So I turned off my road and will stand here while you complete your work.” “We are grateful,” Reuven said. “It is just my sister and me, now.” “Newly come from Judea?” the man asked. “What happened to the rest of your family?” Sarah and Reuven looked at one another and sighed. The man shook his head. “I’m sorry. New injuries are always the hardest to bear. You keep working. There is nothing like work and time to heal wounds. I will stand here and watch that the birds do not eat your crop.” Sarah felt odd about letting the man in his tattered clothing serve as their living scarecrow, but she realized she had little choice if they were going to finish that day’s planting. For several long hours, Reuven plowed the fields and Sarah followed him, dropping the small beans into the furrows and covering them up with the loosened earth. She watered each row from a bucket she kept refilling. It was so hot, sweat dripped off her head and into her eyes, stinging them. Whenever she stood up, she felt dizzy and sick. She kept looking over her shoulder at the strange man, wondering if he were not tiring. Reuven offered him water — they had little else — but the stranger waved her brother away. He was humming under his breath, something about God and wheels of fire and angels sitting inside the wheels. Sarah couldn’t help but wonder if he were insane. Finally, they finished the long hours of planting. The fields were sown. During the last hour, the man had started to tremble and shake. When Reuven finally called a halt for the day, Sarah straightened and stretched. Then she approached the stranger. “You must have dinner with us,” she said. “We haven’t much to offer, but…” The man put up both hands to ward her off. “W-wait,” he stammered. Sarah reared back, repelled by the sudden purpling of his face. He collapsed on the ground, kicking and muttering unintelligibly. “Reuven!” Sarah screamed for her brother, who dropped the halter he was removing from the ox, running to them. He reached into the man’s mouth and held his tongue, which was thick and throbbing with strange veins. “What’s wrong with him?” Sarah cried. “What are you doing?” “I don’t know.” Reuven’s face was white under the accumulated dirt and flush of the sun. “I saw someone do this in the square in Jerusalem when a child fell into this kind of fit. I don’t know if…” The man jerked with one more, massive convulsion and was still. Reuven let go of his tongue and put his head to his chest. “Is he dead?” Sarah asked, her voice quavering. “No,” came a deep voice, startling them both. “I am sorry I frightened you. God’s grace is hard to bear sometimes.” "Stay still,” Reuven told him. “Sarah, fetch some water.” She ran for the bucket, which still contained an inch of tepid water. Reuven spilled some over his hands and wiped the man’s face, then made him drink from his cupped palms. The stranger sat up. “Can we summon someone for you? Family? Friends?” asked Sarah. “It is fitting you have plowed your fields with bitter vetch,” the man said, his deep voice vibrating with passion. Sarah and Reuven looked at one another, convinced the man must be crazed with sun. “You will water it with tears for three generations.” Despite Reuven’s restraining hands, the stranger rose shakily to his feet. “Farewell, children,” he said. “I am certain we will meet again.” He was a dozen steps away before Reuven called out to him again. “Sir, we don’t even know your name!” Without turning back, the man threw his name over his shoulder. It came back to Sarah and Reuven as though it was borne on the desert winds. They had to strain to hear. “Ezekiel,” he said, “son of Buzi and long captive of this evil land.”
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 Tower of Babel by Pieter Bruegel the Elder |
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