Chapter Ten – The Tale Beneath the Fig Tree

Two months had passed since the cries of childbirth filled their home, and peace had returned in soft rhythms— swaddled coos, warm morning light, and the scent of fresh milk.

Naomi sat beneath the fig tree in the courtyard, the shade mottling her skin with dancing light. Shilion nestled quietly in her arms, his small mouth working against her shoulder in half-dreams. His soft tufts of hair clung to her robe with sweat, and she hummed lowly— a half-song, half-prayer— while her hand rocked him gently.

Mahlon sat at her side, legs crossed and wide-eyed, hands fidgeting with the edge of her robe. He stared at his baby brother for a moment before lifting his eyes to her.

"Ima," he whispered, "do you think God still talks to people?"

Naomi turned to him, her brow raising slightly in amusement. "All the time."

"Even children?"

"Especially children," she said, leaning in and touching his nose. "Why? Did He speak to you?"

Mahlon shook his head, then paused. "No… but I want Him to. I want to hear the stories He tells."

Naomi smiled softly, then shifted the baby higher on her chest and looked to the sky. "Then I shall tell you a story. One that is His."

Mahlon straightened eagerly.

"It happened long, long ago," she began, her voice turning low and rhythmic. "When our people were not free. When they were slaves in Egypt. Builders of cities, beaten by taskmasters, made to carry bricks heavier than their bodies could bear."

Mahlon's eyes widened. "Like the slaves who carry water to the high field?"

She nodded. "Yes, but worse. Pharaoh— the king of Egypt— hated them. He feared them. So he hurt them. But even then, God watched. He saw their tears. He heard their cries."

She paused, rocking Shilion back into slumber.

"And so He called a man— Moses. A shepherd. A man who once lived in Pharaoh's house but gave it all up."

"Why?"

"Because he chose his people. Because he chose God." Her eyes were far off now. "And with that choice, began the great deliverance."

She told him of burning bushes and staves turned into snakes, of rivers turned to blood and skies filled with frogs. Mahlon's mouth opened in awe at every turn.

"And then," Naomi said, her voice lowering, "came the final night. The night of blood and angels. The night we call the Passover."

She described the lamb, the marking of doorposts, the weeping of the Egyptians as the angel of death passed over the houses of the Israelites and claimed the firstborn of the land.

Mahlon grew quiet. "That's… scary."

"Yes," Naomi murmured, brushing his curls. "But also beautiful. Because after that, Pharaoh finally let them go. And Yahweh led them— not just out of Egypt, but through the sea."

She lifted her arm, voice swelling. "The waters split, high as mountains! And our people walked across on dry land. Pharaoh's army followed… but then the sea closed over them. And that day, the people were free."

Mahlon leaned his head on her shoulder.

"God really loves us," he whispered.

"He does," she said, pressing her lips to his forehead. "Even when we forget. Even when the road is hard. He never forgets us."

A soft wind passed through the courtyard.

Naomi looked at her boys—Mahlon, whose heart was wide open, and Shilion, who slept soundly against her chest— and a strange ache stirred in her.

The God who parted seas, who broke chains— He still watched.

But for how long?

The fig leaves rustled again, and Naomi pulled her sons closer, her voice dropping to a whisper, a lullaby woven with faith.

"He who led them by cloud and fire, will not abandon us. Even here. Even now."

The courtyard was still, the echo of Naomi's voice fading gently into the rustle of fig leaves.

Then—

There was a commotion at the gate. Heavy footfalls. A voice— harsh, hurried, and trembling.

"Naomi!"

Elimelech burst through the doorway, his robe damp with sweat, chest heaving. Dust clung to his arms and face like ash, and his eyes darted frantically until they landed on her.

Naomi's body tensed. Mahlon sat up, alarmed by the sight of his father so disheveled. Shilion stirred in her arms.

"Elimelech?" she rose slowly, adjusting the baby against her shoulder. "What is it?"

He stopped, caught in the intensity of her gaze. For a moment, just a heartbeat, the mask fell— his panic was naked on his face. Then he drew in a breath, clenched his jaw, and forced a weak, trembling smile.

"Everything is fine," he said too quickly. "Nothing urgent."

Mahlon stood, unsure, clutching at the hem of Naomi's robe.

"Take the boys inside," Elimelech said abruptly, turning to one of the servant girls nearby. "To their room. Now."

The girl hesitated, sensing the weight in his voice, then gently led Mahlon by the hand. "Come, little one. Your father and mother must talk."

"But—"

"It's alright, Mahlon," Naomi whispered. "Go."

He looked back at them as he was led away, his wide eyes not missing the tremble in his mother's hand.

Elimelech said nothing until they were alone.

He took her arm gently— too gently— and led her to the inner room, closing the door behind them. The quiet wrapped around them, thick and oppressive.

"Elimelech," she said, "please."

He swallowed hard. "It's Zachary."

Naomi blinked. "What about him?"

He looked away.

"Elimelech…"

"He's dead."

The words dropped like stone.

Naomi staggered backward a step, then another, until she found the edge of the bedpost and sank to the floor as if her knees had been cut from under her.

"No…" Her voice came out a breath, a sob caught in its cradle. "No, no…"

Elimelech said nothing. He couldn't.

Naomi's hands shook as she lowered the sleeping child to the bedding beside her. Her face crumpled. Her lips moved, but no sound came— only the rustle of a broken prayer.

Zachary was not just a leader. Not just an elder. He had been their anchor. Their last high priest died and still has no replacement. Zachary was their only remaining judge. A man who spoke, and it was as it were Yahweh's who's words he spoke.

With him gone… what voice would intercede for them?

Naomi folded over, weeping silently, her tears soaking into the wool of the bedding. Her fingers clutched at her robe as if she were tearing at something unseen.

Elimelech stood frozen. He had feared this day, but the reality was heavier than words or premonitions could prepare him for.

He knelt beside her, placing a hand on her back— not to soothe, but simply to be near, to bear even a sliver of her grief.

Naomi pressed her face against her forearm. "We are alone now," she whispered. "The Lord has turned his face…"

"No," Elimelech said gently, though his voice cracked. "He sees us still."

She didn't answer. Her tears spoke for her.

Above them, the wind outside changed direction. The fig leaves danced wildly, and the last warmth of afternoon sunlight faded behind a thick grey veil. The air grew dry. Still.

And though no one said it aloud, both husband and wife felt the shift in their bones.

A season had ended.