Chapter Three: The Shadow Over Megiddo
It began with the dream. For three nights in the season of early harvest, sleep refused to stay with me. And when it did come, it came bearing visions that froze the breath in my chest. I saw fields drowned in a mist that hid the sun, soldiers shouting yet without sound, and in their midst—Josiah, my son, his armor glinting like a mirror catching the light of a dying day. He stood upon a ridge, his sword lifted high, and an arrow—swift and unseen—found his breast. I heard no cry, only the thud of his body falling into the dust. Blood spread like ink through parchment, and from the mist came the voice of Huldah, the prophetess who first taught me the ways of the Lord.
"Jedidah," she said, "the mercy of the Lord is no shield against the pride of man. Warn your son."
I woke drenched in tears, trembling as a leaf. The dream did not fade in daylight; its specter followed me through the corridors of the palace, whispering with every gust of wind. That morning, I called for Josiah. He entered dressed in royal armor, the lion crested upon his breastplate gleaming under the torchlight. He looked like the kings of old—tall, resolute, the image of strength—and yet, in his eyes, I still saw the child who once clung to my robes in the temple courtyard.
"Mother," he began, smiling faintly. "The chariots are ready. Our scouts say Pharaoh Necho marches north. He will pass through our land within days. I will meet him at Megiddo."
My heart lurched. "You speak as if the battle were already blessed," I said softly. "Has the Lord sent word that you should go?"
He hesitated, just long enough for silence to answer me. "He has not forbidden me."
"Neither has He commanded you," I replied. "That path you walk is dangerous, my son. Pharaoh Necho marches not against Judah but against the Chaldeans. Why provoke a fight not meant for our hands?"
Josiah's gaze hardened. "If he passes through Judah, he treads the soil of the covenant. Shall I stand idle while Egypt's idols defile the land we restored?"
His words struck me—not with anger, but with dread. This was not rebellion but conviction untamed. He had inherited his faith and his fire alike from me.
"Josiah," I pleaded, seizing his hand, "zeal can burn brighter than obedience. Do not mistake fire for light. I have prayed, and the Lord has shown me—danger waits for you there. I saw it in a dream—your blood spilled, your eyes closing beneath the sun of Megiddo."
He laughed softly, though sorrow flickered behind it. "You worry for me as when I was a boy. But the Lord preserved me then; will He not preserve me now? If I fall, I fall in His service." I wanted to shout, to command, to forbid him as only a mother can. But Josiah was no longer my boy. He was Judah's king, answerable to Heaven alone. Still, I caught his face between my hands.
"My son," I said, "remember—God needs no man to prove His holiness through war. Obedience is the greater offering."
He kissed my forehead.
"Pray for me, Mother. When I return, we shall worship together at the temple gates."
But his words fell like stones into still water, leaving only ripples of foreboding behind. The morning he departed, the palace square filled with soldiers in bright armor and neighing horses.
Flags of Judah rippled under pale light, and the sound of trumpets carried across Jerusalem. Yet to me, it sounded not like triumph, but farewell. I watched him from the balcony as he mounted his chariot. He caught sight of me, lifted his hand in salute, and smiled the way he did as a boy when proud of some small victory. Then the command was given, and the army marched, dust rising behind them like smoke. When they were gone, I remained where I stood, gripping the stone rail until my palms ached. The silence they left behind pressed against my heart. Once more, I whispered Huldah's name into the wind.
"Prophetess of the Lord," I said, voice trembling, "intercede for my son if there is mercy yet to be had."
Only the rustle of palm leaves answered.
Three days later, the nightmare became flesh. The messenger arrived before dawn—dust-caked, eyes hollow. I needed no herald to announce him. My heart knew the message the moment his shadow darkened the gate. He knelt before me, head bowed.
"Queen Mother… the king—our lord Josiah—was struck at Megiddo. An arrow of Egypt found him though he rode in disguise. His men brought him back to Jerusalem… but he did not rise again."
The world blurred. I heard the words but felt them as blows across my chest. My knees gave way. I remember the taste of salt, perhaps from tears, perhaps from dust.
"They killed him," I whispered. "Even after I warned him…"
The messenger's voice faltered. "He died as he lived—calling on the name of the Lord."
That pierced deeper than the news itself. For all his righteousness, all his obedience, would the God of Israel not have spared him this? The day they brought him home, Jerusalem wept. The people poured into the streets; the Levites tore their robes. Even the skies wept rain upon the city, as if heaven itself mourned the fallen King. He was laid in his own chariot, his armor darkened with blood, his crown resting beside him.
When I saw him, I staggered forward, ignoring the guards who tried to steady me. My hands found the cold of his brow, and for a moment, all I could think of was how quiet death is—how still the one who once carried a whole nation in his heart.
"I told you, my son," I whispered. "I warned you. You were the hope of Judah."
Hamutal fell beside me, clutching my grandson Jehoahaz. The child looked upon the body, too young to understand the sorrow of kings and too innocent to fear death. He reached out his small hand to touch the lifeless one. I turned away and cried for both father and son—for what had been lost and what would yet come.
When they carried Josiah to his tomb, I followed barefoot. The streets trembled with weeping. Jeremiah the prophet composed a lament so piercing that even the priests sobbed aloud in worship.
"Alas for the shepherd of Israel," the people chanted. "His blood cries from the plain of Megiddo!"
But when the voices hushed and the crowd dispersed, I stayed behind. Alone, I knelt at the entrance to his tomb. The air there was cool, smelling of cedar and stone.
"Oh, Lord," I prayed, "You gave him to me as a sign of mercy. Why then must mercy end in blood? What lesson is there in such pain?"
In the silence that followed, wind passed beneath the olive trees. And in it, faint and tender, came Huldah's voice once more—
"Jedidah, the righteous are gathered like sheaves before the storm. Grieve not their end, but the world they leave behind."
Her words did not take my sorrow away, but they gave it shape.
Each twilight since that day, I visit the tomb to speak to him. I tell him the people still sing his psalms, that they have not returned to the idols he tore down. I tell him Jehoahaz sits upon his throne, though the boy's heart trembles under its weight.
And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I hear Josiah's laughter, the echo of his boyhood running through the gardens, free of burden or blood. In that sound, faint as memory yet sure as faith, I find the courage to keep living. For though the dream came true and the prophecy was fulfilled in sorrow, the God who gave me the dream remains. His purposes are deeper than my grief, His justice more terrible and more tender than mortal hearts can grasp.
And so, I remain His servant still—the mother of a righteous king, and the witness of His inscrutable mercy.