Chapter Nine : Cries Before the Door

The sky was heavy that morning, veiled in grey like a mourning shawl. A stifling stillness hung in the air.

Mahlon had just finished watering his thirty little corn plants that stood rooted at the back of the house. He had begun humming a song one of the servant girls taught him, when the sound of a sharp cry cut through the stillness.

His head snapped up. It came again.

Another cry. Familiar. Raw.

"Ima?" he whispered.

Dropping his buckets with a splash, he ran toward the house, his small feet slipping on the damp path.

And there she was.

Naomi lay in the courtyard, curled, her hands gripping the edge of the stone bench as her hair clung to her face. Her breath came in broken gasps and trembling moan escaped her lips.

"Ima!" Mahlon cried, his voice cracking. "Ima, are you sick?!"

She couldn't answer—only clutched at her belly as another wave of pain overtook her.

Panicked, Mahlon ran inside, slipping on the smooth clay floor, screaming for the maidservants.

"Tani! Rinnah! Come quick! Ima's Crying...she's in pain!" 

The maids came running.

"She's in labor!" Said of the maids.

Another ran for water, shouting for clean cloths. Mahlon just stood there, eyes wide and welling with tears.

"She peed!" he shouted. "She peed and she's screaming— my brother wants to come outside!"

Despite the panic, one of the women paused just long enough to press a kiss to his forehead.

"Go to Elder Zachary, Mahlon. Run as fast as you can. Tell his wife it's time."

The boy didn't need more prompting. He bolted.

The elder's home was quiet, tucked beneath a fig tree where vines curled like prayer threads around its posts. Zachary was at his workbench, grinding herbs when Mahlon burst in with his wild hair and wet eyes.

"She's crying," he panted. "She's crying and the water came, and Ima keeps crying... I think my baby brother is angry and wants to come now!"

Zachary's hands stilled. A knowing look passed between him and his apprentice. He crouched to Mahlon's eye level, resting a wrinkled hand on his shoulder.

"You've done well, boy. Now— go to your father. Tell him exactly what you told me. He needs to know."

Mahlon nodded, sniffling, and turned to run again.

Elimelech stood beneath the awning near the well, speaking with a pair of foreign merchants from Sidon. Their donkeys snorted as they unrolled maps and goods, describing the journey through Moab and the blessings of that land— grain, olives, rains that came when they should.

He was listening. Half-listening, at least. Until—

"Abba!"

He turned sharply.

Mahlon ran toward him, panting, his eyes red and frantic.

"Ima's in pain!" he cried. "She's crying and the baby's coming out and I think she's in so much pain!"

The merchants stepped back, startled.

Elimelech knelt quickly, gripping his son's arms.

"Did your mother send you?"

The boy nodded, trembling.

"No, elder Zachary did."

Elimelech held his breath a moment.

He knew why the elder had sent Mahlon— yes, to bring him word, but more importantly, to keep the boy far from the chaos of labor. Still… he looked into Mahlon's eyes and saw fear.

The memory of Naomi's last birth—the cries, the blood, the panic. It came back to him.

"I want to go home..." Mahlon whispered, shaking and in a panic.

"...I want to know that Ima is safe" He said, a more determined.

Elimelech rose. "Then let's go."

They left the merchants, striding down the road in silence. The wind picked up slightly, but it did nothing to cool the burning tension in the air. Mahlon held his father's hand too tightly, his little fingers digging in with every step.

As they reached the last bend before the house, Mahlon hesitated.

"What if she…?" He couldn't finish the question.

Elimelech didn't answer. Couldn't.

And neither of them moved.

*******************************************

Elimelech pushed the door open slowly, half-expecting to be met with screams and blood.

But instead, the room was bathed in silence.

Naomi lay asleep on their mat, her face pale and glistening with sweat, but peaceful. Her lips parted slightly with each breath, as though still caught in some dreamless place between pain and peace.

Near the window, Elder Zachary's wife cradled a small, bundled shape in her arms. She looked up when they entered, her face softened with relief.

"She's fine," she whispered, stepping forward. "It was hard… but she is strong."

Elimelech's breath caught in his throat as she gently placed the baby in his arms.

"He is healthy. Strong lungs, just like his brother," she added with a quiet smile.

"Rest now. The women will return later."

She gave Mahlon's hair a gentle tousle, then slipped out with the other midwives, leaving the family to their moment.

Mahlon tiptoed to his mother's side and sank to the floor beside her. His tiny hands reached for hers, clutching them with childlike devotion. His eyelids drooped with the weight of the morning's fears, and within minutes, he was resting against the bed, fast asleep, breathing in time with his mother.

Elimelech stood in stillness, holding the newborn close to his chest.

The baby was warm and impossibly small, his face red and pinched from his journey into the world. But he was here. Alive. Whole.

A soft sound escaped the child — a 'coo', almost a sigh—and Elimelech felt something tighten in his chest.

He looked around the room—the woven cloths, the oil lamp flickering on the windowsill, the patch of worn earth where Mahlon had once taken his first steps. And he felt it again.

The fear.

Not for today. But for tomorrow.

Bethlehem was quiet now, but the hills had grown dry. The wells were shrinking. Rain had missed its season once already, and while others dared not say the word aloud, Elimelech knew what it meant.

Famine.

He tightened his grip on his son.

If another drought came—if the rains didn't return—he would not wait and watch his children waste away. He could not.

His eyes drifted toward the window. Toward the horizon. Toward the idea that had been quietly growing in his mind for weeks now.

Moab.

He didn't like it. Didn't trust it. Foreign gods, foreign customs.

But they had water. And grain. And life.

He lowered his gaze to the child in his arms.

"You'll never go hungry, little one,"

he murmured. "I'll not have it."