J: The Woman Who Wrote the Bible by Mary Burns

Author:Mary Burns [Burns, Mary F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978 1 84694 324 9
Publisher: John Hunt Publishing

Chapter 22

“You shall not misuse the name of the LORD your God,

for the LORD will not hold anyone guiltless who misuses

his name.” Exodus 20:7

Ireturned to my room still angry and fuming over my encounter with Uzzah. Looking out for my welfare, indeed! I didn’t know why I mistrusted him, but I felt a strong repulsion that I could not ignore. He had seemed friendly with Nathan; perhaps I should share my concerns with him—my one true friend with whom I always felt free to discuss anything, and he with me.

I stood in the doorway to the little courtyard, and glancing back into the room, my eye caught sight of the large rug hanging on the wall next to the fireplace, and I remembered what Michal had said about the hidden staircase. Curious, I walked over to take a look.

I pulled back the rug and dragged a chair over to brace it so it couldn’t fall back in place. There, lighted by the afternoon sun streaming through the windows, I saw the faint outline of a narrow door in the stucco of the wall, perhaps five feet high, though I could see no hinges or handle. I pushed it on the side nearest me, and it seemed to give but did not open. I pushed harder and suddenly, silently, it opened inward to a dark and musty space. The hinges must be on the inside, I thought, buying time to calm my nerves as I hesitated. Then my old love of adventure from my days in the caves surged up in me. I ran back to the table to snatch up and light an oil lamp, and then entered through the little door.

The light from my room penetrated only a little way into the space, and I stuffed a rag along the bottom of the doorway so it would not accidentally close and lock me in darkness. God forbid, I murmured as I held the oil lamp high and took tentative steps forward. Crudely carved stone steps were revealed in the flickering light, spiraling downward along a rock wall, like a vertical tunnel. The air was cool and after a moment, moving—so there must be an outlet, a window of some kind perhaps, another door at the end of the staircase, of course, that would let in fresh air. Emboldened by the thought of not suffocating in an airless trap, I cautiously stepped down, hugging the cold stone wall and glancing back nervously now and then to make sure the little door was still open.

My room was on the third level of the house but backed against and built into part of the hillside, so I believe I descended for about half that height. The staircase went straight down, and as I made my way, I tried to think what was below my part of the house and where the stairway would come out. Were there other hidden doors along the way, leading into other rooms, or was mine the only

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