The wall of Jericho is solid and thick, stone. I live in its western-facing side, not quite in the city, not quite out. My name is Rahab and I am an outcast: I am a harlot.
When the sun burns red and sets, I see things others do not see. I see the wide plain of Jordan unfolded in the twilight, the waters of the river marching toward death. My days are spent alone, but my nights are not. At night, the men come. They bring their broken hearts, their fears and their dreams. They look through me, they pretend I am someone else, someone they love. I see the hungry eyes of these men, and I become that which fills them.
Some of the men talk. They tell horrific stories of the Hebrew God, who is forever calling people chérem: accursed, or consecrated. Devoted. To Him. I would not believe these wild tales, if it weren’t for their eyes. Their eyes haunt me. I no longer sleep: I fear dreaming. I look at the haunted eyes of men, and I see the past, and the future.
I know what terrors Yahweh hath wrought.
Two Hebrews come on a moonless night. They spend the night inside my stone walls. Their presence in noticed by my King, who does not know what I know. He has not seen the terror of Yahweh as I have. Though the King commands my speech, I fear Yahweh too much. I am silent.
Silence is the loudest scream.
I keep the secrets of God: I fear His mighty wrath should I expose these two hard men. They lie hidden on my flaxen rooftop, holy deceivers waiting to destroy my land, to make us as the Dead Sea and the Amorites: dried up and dead because like them, now Jericho is chérem: devoted, consecrated, and accursed by God. And it seems God often destroys those things He has set apart. God demands our parched land and our red blood. There will be no mercy nor escape.
I am not proud enough to stand with Jericho or brave enough to warn her; I am only part of her walls, not her land, and I am too scared to run. I can only beg for the mercy of a cruel God. I ask Yahweh’s men for my life, and the lives of my family.
His men say I will live if I am silent, and if I spill this scarlet cord from my window as though it were the blood of a lamb on the doorposts during their Passover. And so I will use my silence in order to deceive and yes, to destroy, my own people and appease the Hebrew God. I will be Yahweh’s silent liar. I trust His spies because I have no choice: the Angel of Death cometh, and I hang by a blood-red thread.
Doubt is a pain too lonely to know that faith is its twin brother. -Khalil Gibran
I hold my tongue and help the Hebrews flee to the mountains. I hold my tongue when they return with their trumpets. I tie the red cord tightly, its hard fibers cutting me, and heave it out the window, hating it and clinging to it with my blood-stained hands. I gather those I love under my roof and we lie in silence, uttering not a sound as the walls around us shake and the women and children wail. I do not speak as the trumpets blast over and over and over, a terrible, relentless pounding for six endless days. I am silent the seventh day as the Hebrews march yet again. Seven times. And then, the yelling, and I remain quiet, quaking. I say nothing as Yahweh takes my home, crumbles it around me and crushes it into dust. I say nothing in the dark heat of the battle as I breathe in the death of men and women and children and beasts. I am muted and still. The swords of His deceivers and their troops glow a merciless red, and the men shake and weep as though they are women.
And then, all is silence.
In my heart of hearts, where there is no longer any sound, I thank God that He is not devoted to me. I thank Him that I am not one of His chérem, one set apart for Him. I look out of the window where my red cord is tied. I follow the cord to the ground where its color is lost in blood, and I hate what I am: selfish, scared, and unwanted. I look at my father, and the others in my care, and their eyes whisper horror and thanks to me as though I were some terrible savior. But I am not; I am a traitor and an opportunist, a lonely sinner locked in a wall of silence, who just listened to the stories of scared men and believed them. I look to the west at the burning sun and I can not stop shaking as I thank Yahweh for His mercy to me, someone so undeserving, so guilty. I do not try to understand Him; I can not. I do not try to reason with Him; I can not. I can only give Him what I have: my frail red cord, and my…
…silence.