The days passed like ripples on still water—quiet, patterned, with a gentle sense of waiting. Mahlon continued his morning ritual with steadfast devotion. His tiny feet wore a path to the river, the same distance many grown men groaned to tread. It was almost a half-mile downhill and back, and the uphill journey was no small feat for a child of four, especially with two buckets slung from a wooden yoke crafted specially for his small shoulders. The buckets were no larger than cooking bowls, but filled with water, they swayed and splashed with each determined step.
The women at the river had grown used to his tiny silhouette appearing through the trees.
"Good morning, Little Farmer!" one greeted, hands busy wringing linen.
"Come to fetch the Nile again?" another teased.
Mahlon puffed his chest, trying to stand taller. "I need to water my corn. It'll grow strong if I take care of it."
The women shared amused glances. "Just like you, eh?"
By his third trip, Mahlon's arms trembled with fatigue, and his face glistened with sweat. He poured the last of the water at the base of his plants and sat beside them, cheeks flushed, eyes on the sky.
"I think they like me," he whispered to the corn. "But I like you more."
The workers chuckled as they passed by. Zimri, stooping with age, stopped to ruffle the boy's curls.
"You talk to your plants, lad?"
"They're good listeners."
"Aye," the old man chuckled. "Better than most people, that's true enough."
---
After his morning work, Mahlon found his father near the granary again. The storerooms were quieter today, fewer sacks, fewer voices. Elimelech sat cross-legged, scroll in hand, a deep line between his brows. Mahlon crept in and settled beside him.
"Is it sum time?" he asked.
Elimelech blinked, then smiled. "It is."
He set the scroll aside and reached for a small pouch of dried beans. He poured them into a pile.
"If I have fifteen beans, and I give five to Zimri, and five to Eliab… how many do I have left?"
Mahlon poked his fingers into the pile, whispering numbers.
"Five!"
"Well done." Elimelech nodded. "And if I plant one bean, and it grows into a vine that gives ten more—how many beans do I have now?"
Mahlon's eyes lit up. "Eleven!"
"Why?"
"Because it gave ten, and you still had the first one!"
Elimelech laughed. "You'll be a merchant yet."
"Or a farmer," Mahlon grinned. "Like you."
A shadow passed over Elimelech's face for a brief second—but he tousled his son's hair and pulled him into a warm side hug.
---
At home, Naomi rested in the courtyard, her swollen belly rising like a gentle hill under her robes. Unlike Mahlon's pregnancy, this one stole her energy by the hour. She fell asleep in patches—dozing during the day, restless at night. She often woke with a start, sighing dramatically as she turned on her side.
Elimelech would find her lying there, muttering to the heavens.
"Still not asleep?" he'd ask as he tucked her blanket in.
"How can I sleep? This baby kicks like a mule and the stars mock me with their blinking."
He chuckled, sitting beside her. "Maybe you're carrying a prophet."
"I'm carrying a night demon, that's what I'm carrying."
Elimelech gave her a kiss on the forehead. "You said the same with Mahlon."
"Then clearly, I didn't learn the first time."
"And yet, you look more radiant now than ever."
Naomi squinted at him. "Flattery in the dark doesn't count."
He laughed softly. "You're fierce, my love. But I like you best like this—half asleep and grumbling."
She threw a pillow at him. "Be careful, husband. One more compliment and I may name this child after you."
He caught the pillow and placed it behind her back.
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the night wind.
"Elim…"
"Hm?"
"Is it true? That the fields are drying too early?"
His silence stretched too long.
"Elimelech…"
Elimelech didn't answer at first. His hand found Naomi's and held it, fingers entwined. The wind rustled the fig tree overhead, the leaves whispering in a tongue only the earth understood.
"We still have the river," he said finally, voice low. "And the western stream hasn't dried up yet. My cousin in Ziph says the rains have begun there. So maybe... maybe it'll reach us soon."
Naomi nodded, though her eyes had grown heavy.
"We've still got time," she murmured. "four months, maybe?…"
Elimelech smiled softly. "You're suddenly prophetic?"
"I'm suddenly exhausted," she yawned, settling back into the pillow he had placed behind her. "But I've been thinking of names…"
"Oh?"
"For the baby. If it's a boy—something with strength… Samson? No, no, that's too harsh. Maybe... Kilion."
He chuckled. "Kilion? That sounds like someone always breaking things."
"Well," she said sleepily, "he may have to break the earth open just to survive…"
Elimelech watched her eyes flutter shut as her words melted into breath. Her hand slipped from his and lay limp over her stomach, the round curve rising and falling in rhythm with her breath. A quiet peace blanketed her face, softening every worry line she wore by day.
He remained still, watching her, unmoving. Then slowly, carefully, he rose.
The stars blinked overhead, far too quiet for the questions storming inside him.
They still had water, yes. Streams from the Great Sea still trickled through certain bends. But he'd seen the pattern before. The rains were skipping Bethlehem like an afterthought. Merchants passed through, whispering of shortages in Hebron. Fields grew brittle in Jericho. And the price of barley had risen again.
He stared up at the sky, heart burdened.
"To leave…" he whispered, barely audibly. "To take my wife, my sons… away from our inheritance… from the land Jehovah gave our fathers…"
He swallowed. Even thinking it tasted like betrayal.
"But what father watches his house burn just because the stones were holy?" he asked the wind. "Would You rather I stayed and buried my sons beneath this dust?"
No answer came. Only the wind.
He looked back at Naomi one last time—sound asleep, peaceful despite the ache that bound them both.
Elimelech turned and stepped quietly out of the courtyard.