When Jesus Wept - By Bodie Page 0,53

beside me as gray light spread upward in the eastern sky. “There’s fresh bread and cheese,” she offered, gesturing toward the cookhouse behind our home.

I shook my head. “No, thank you. I’m not hungry.”

“What about the men?” she asked.

“Let them rest. If the locusts come, we may not sleep again for days.”

“Do you think they might not come this way, David?”

“It’s whatever the Almighty wills,” I said, shrugging. “If the breeze has shifted and is blowing more out of the west, then the hoppers are right now crossing Jordan to eat the Perean vineyards of Herod Antipas.”

“And well does he deserve it,” she concluded. Martha pointed toward the Judean hills in the direction of Shiloh and squinted. “The wind must be getting stronger. I think I see a dust cloud rising up.”

I stared toward the north as the sky’s pale blue luminescence increased and the stars faded. “I see it,” I finally agreed. “You have good eyes, sister. A brown smudge against the ridgeline. To left and right the hills look more sharply defined. In the middle they are blurred.”

“A dust storm would be a help, would it not?”

“Sweep the locusts away like Elijah’s whirlwind, eh?”

Samson joined us at the front gate of the estate. “The men are waking, mistress. Are the trays of bread ready?”

That was when I first noticed a persistent rushing sound in my ears, like the noise of surf sliding up and back a sandy shore.

I shook my head. My lack of sleep was already affecting me. I’d be better after bread and a cup of pomegranate juice.

“Bread for the men, of course,” Martha agreed. “My women and I were baking most of the night. There’s plenty.” The hissing noise increased. Now it sounded like the rasp of a pumice stone smoothing a board in a carpenter’s shop.

Over the next moments the rush became a roaring and the rasping noise grew in volume and intensity. A wind storm indeed was approaching.

Samson cupped his hand around his right ear and leaned forward. “Your pardon, mistress. What did you … ”

I saw horrified realization bloom on Samson’s wizened face at the same instant the identical thought struck me. Together we faced Shiloh and stared at the dirty brown wave now obscuring half the northern horizon.

“That’s not dust,” I said grimly. “Martha, get inside and bolt the shutters. Put all the food into cupboards and cover the jars. The plague has arrived. Go!” I nudged her toward the house, and she obeyed as Samson lurched away toward the vines, but I stayed transfixed at the sight.

The force of the wind above the trees was stronger than at ground level. The leading edge of the locust swarm dropped first on vines belonging to Herod. My orchards and vineyards would be next.

Samson moved in a shambling lope toward the crops, shouting for Patrick as he went. “Patrick! Light the smudge pots. Light them now!”

The middle rank of pests arrived. I felt the rush of air all around me. It was not a gentle breeze but the vibration of uncountable wings.

The first of the flying invaders pattered against my face and clothing like raindrops blown sideways. I brushed them away, only to have my hand encounter a half dozen more in midflight.

I turned to race toward the vineyards.

We had taken the precaution of buying tubs of tar. The pitchy substance, collected from the shore of the Dead Sea, was used to seal rooftops against rain. Ignited, it burned with an oily, smelly sputter that produced great volumes of thick black smoke. I hoped the stench and the heat would discourage the locusts. Even if it did not kill them all, perhaps the rest could be deflected into going elsewhere.

At the same time I had to trust I was not killing the vines by trying to save them! Thick dust or soot killed grape leaves. Intense heat would wither tender shoots and destroy the unripe fruit. Had we placed the pots of tar close enough to protect the vineyards and far enough away at the same time? We would soon know.

Patrick raced in one direction, hopping at tremendous speed on his wooden leg. Samson pitched forward at a breakneck pace around the other perimeter. Both men were swinging firepots, clay jars of embers kept alive by being in constant motion at the end of rope slings.

As each man reached a smudge pot, he paused only long enough to set it alight, then raced on to the next.

With the arrival of the swarm, it