In the Shadow of Sinai (Journey to Canaan Book 1)

by Carole Towriss

  Joshua ran to catch up, with Sabba, Bezalel, and Nahshon close behind him.

  Moses strode to the center of the festival and scrambled atop the pedestal on which the calf stood. He placed his foot firmly on the calf’s side and kicked it over. The people below, now acting quite sober, scattered.

  Moses grabbed the tablets from Joshua’s arms and threw them to the ground, where they shattered into thousands of pieces.

  Bezalel leaned toward Sabba. “That’s not very helpful.”

  “That is the sign of a broken covenant,” Sabba whispered.

  Moses addressed the crowd. “Men of Israel, what are you doing? Only forty days ago, you stood here and agreed to obey all the laws of Jehovah, the first of which was, ‘You must have no other gods before Me.’ Yet here you are, worshipping a calf made from jewelry once worn by the Egyptians who enslaved you! Yahweh will not allow this!”

  Michael, however, was not so easily silenced. Bezalel recognized his voice. “And what if we refuse to do what you say?”

  “Who speaks?” Moses scanned the crowd. “You must keep your promises. Yahweh will not be made second to any idol!”

  “But you don’t keep your promises; why should we be made to keep ours?” Michael shouted back but kept his face hidden from Moses.

  “What promises have I made that I did not keep?”

  “You promised to lead us to a land flowing with milk and honey, and yet you bring us into a desert, where we eat flakes of bread and drink water! We were better off in Egypt! We should have stayed there!”

  “Why would you wish to be slaves again? To be beaten, worked from sun up to sun down, in control of no part of your life?”

  “We had food there. All we wanted. And meat, vegetables, fresh fruit—not manna. We slept in houses, not tents. It was better there!” More of the rebels shouted out in agreement.

  “All who agree with them, all who want to go back to Egypt, to slavery, go join them.” Moses called in a clear, loud, and confident voice. “And all who are with Yahweh, come to me now.”

  All the Levites, Moses’s tribe, rushed to him, and many from other tribes, including Bezalel, Joshua, and Nahshon. Kamose joined him as well. The Israelites who had joined neither side backed farther away, retreating to their tents.

  “All those with Yahweh shall take up the sword against those who oppose Him, whether against brother or neighbor. Go gather your weapons, and return.”

  Bezalel raced back to his tent to grab his knife. He stripped off his tunic and tossed it inside.

  Meri and Imma sat together outside the tents. When Meri saw him step outside with a dagger, she stood and opened her mouth.

  Bezalel shook his head. “Don’t say a word.”

  Back by the calf, Bezalel again found himself with blade in hand, but this time it was much different. It would be harder to kill another Israelite rather than an Amalekite. He remembered back to a few weeks ago when he had judged Joshua for doing what he now prepared to do.

  He surveyed the group of rebels. Most of them were quite young, many younger than he was. The rising sun reflected off their sweaty and half-naked bodies. Their bleary eyes showed the effects of their all-day, all-night revelry.

  One rebel rushed toward Bezalel with a short sword much too heavy for him. Michael had obviously raided the weapons cache. The boy didn’t know how to handle it. He waggled it in Bezalel’s direction.

  Bezalel tried to avoid hurting the boy and at first made only defensive moves, blocking the clumsy advances.

  The young attacker, apparently frustrated, swung even more wildly. The blade slashed Bezalel’s arm, the same one the Amalekite had cut in the first battle. Not again. The slice was deep, and blood flowed from shoulder to elbow again. A familiar pain flooded the left side of his body.

  The youth stopped flailing and his eyes grew wide. He laughed at the sight of the blood he had drawn—it seemed to energize him.

  Even at that, Bezalel could not bring himself to kill him. He backed away, holding his knife in front of him.

  His attacker laughed again and charged. He held his sword straight out. Not a particularly smart move, as it left the rest of his body unprotected, but at the moment it was effective.

  Bezalel jumped aside, barely missing the blade. He turned to see the attacker coming at him again. He stepped aside, just enough to miss the charge, but placed his foot in the youth’s path, tripping him. The boy fell on the hilt of his sword and toppled to the side. He grasped his belly as he rolled side to side; the blade remained upright in the ground next to him.

  Bezalel tossed his knife to his left hand then pulled the sword free with his good arm and walked away. He left the boy writhing on the ground.

  He had barely taken a few steps when the youth jumped on his back, reaching for his sword over Bezalel’s shoulder. Bezalel leaned to his left and shook off the boy.

  Bezalel breathed heavily. Blood from his arm streamed onto the boy’s tunic. He still resisted killing him while he lay there, even after the youth had attacked him twice. But he couldn’t walk away again, either.

  The boy grabbed for the knife. Bezalel’s wounded arm was too weak to lift the weapon out of the way; he could barely carry it. Instead, when the youth extended his arm, Bezalel slashed with the sword.

  The youth screamed at the sight of the blood. He rolled into Bezalel’s legs, knocking him down. Bezalel landed on top of the boy, and they scuffled for the weapons. The boy was younger, but tired and undisciplined. Bezalel was bigger and stronger, and possessed both blades, but the pain in his arm grew more intense with every move. Rather than let the boy have a weapon, he pushed himself up on his knees and shoved the short sword into the rebel’s chest.

  The youth slumped underneath him. Bezalel pulled himself away and stood. He looked down at the body. His stomach was a stone in his belly, and movement around him ceased to exist.

  He had killed again.

  The fighting continued with casualties on both sides. With the rebels so severely outnumbered, the battle wound down quickly. Kamose stationed himself near Moses and Sabba, helping where he could, while making sure they were never in danger. There were only a few rebels left—Michael and his staunchest supporters. Most of the fighting was concentrated around the calf.

  In all his years, in all his battles, Kamose had never fought his own people. Many of the rebels he recognized. As opponents, they were easy prey. Physically. Mentally, it was far harder to attack them than the Amalekites.

  Michael slunk toward Moses, brandishing a long knife.

  Kamose rushed to Moses’s side and grasped his arm, pulling him away to the other end of the pedestal. He glanced around for Joshua and beckoned to him. He turned back toward Hur, just in time to see Michael thrust his knife into Hur’s gut. Bright, crimson blood gushed from the slice in his body, and he doubled over then collapsed.

  Michael laughed.

  For the first time in his life as a soldier, Kamose froze.

  “Still say I’m just a little boy?” Michael glared down at Hur, glanced at Kamose, and dashed off.

  Kamose bolted for Hur. He had crumpled in a heap, the front of his tunic saturated with blood.

  Joshua reached Hur just after Kamose.

  Kamose raised his eyes to his young commander. “Get Bezalel.”

  The battle all but over, Bezalel was helping to gather the wounded for medical help when Joshua reached him. “Bezalel, come quickly. It’s your grandfather.”

  The breath rushed from Bezalel’s chest. He was unable to think. The words didn’t make sense.

  “Bezalel! Now!”

  Bezalel sprinted after Joshua then stopped dead, unable to move as he saw his grandfather lying on the ground in Kamose’s arms.

  “Sabba,” he whispered.

  Joshua gently pulled him forward.

  Bezalel looked to Kamose for an explanation as he dropped to his knees. “What happened?”

  “Talk to him first. I’ll explain later.” Kamose transferred Sabba�
��s head onto Bezalel’s lap then stood by Joshua. Kamose’s hands and lap were covered in blood. The ground under Sabba was stained red.

  Sabba groaned.

  Bezalel pulled his gaze from Sabba to Kamose. “But what was he doing fighting?”

  “Later!” Kamose said then added softly, “You have no time to argue with me.”

  Bezalel stroked his grandfather’s face, willing him to open his eyes. He hovered his hand over the soggy wound, fingered the slashed tunic.

  “Oh, Sabba, I’m so sorry.” Tears flowed down his cheeks. “Please, talk to me—don’t leave me yet. I need you. Don’t go.”

  Sabba’s eyes fluttered.

  Bezalel’s heart jumped, but his grandfather’s eyes fell closed again. Please look at me. Just once more.

  Sabba moaned and opened his eyes. But the look Bezalel so desperately hoped for was only a glassy stare. Was his grandfather already gone? He looked at Bezalel as if he had never seen him before. He tried to raise his head but it fell back. He opened his mouth, but no words rose above the sound of his rasping, rapid breath.

  The memories of the last year, of everything Sabba had taught him about Yahweh, about life, about love, whirled in Bezalel’s head. He couldn’t lose him now, not when everything they had waited for, when all that Bezalel had thought was impossible had finally come true.

  Sabba closed his eyes. Blood poured from the gash in his abdomen. His tunic was now completely drenched with blood.

  Bezalel reached for a lifeless hand lying on the ground. It was cold and moist. He clutched it to his chest and leaned toward Sabba’s face.

  “Sabba, what will I do without you? Who will answer my questions now? I can’t do it alone. I can’t.” He slipped his arm under Sabba’s head and rested his forehead against Sabba’s.

  He let go of his grandfather’s hand and embraced him, pulling him close. Wet, sticky blood was warm against his chest. The rapid, shallow breathing slowed then finally stopped.

  Sabba was gone.

  They buried Sabba at sunset. The graves were lined up in rows at the western end of the field near the entrance from the mountains.

  Bezalel’s family surrounded him. Ahmose wrapped his little body around Kamose, his sobs drowning out all other sound. For once Imma’s quiet strength, usually a bastion, did not help. Meri’s arms encircled his waist, but he found no comfort in her nearness. He glanced at Joshua and Nahshon on the other side of the grave, focusing on the grass beneath their sandaled feet.

  Bezalel saw Moses’s lips move, but the words seemed to evaporate before they reached his ears. Time crept as slowly as a Nile turtle. He knew his grandfather lay beneath the long pile of dirt in front of him, but he wanted to turn and ask him why he felt this way. Sabba always had an explanation.

  The ceremony ended and Bezalel began the walk across the field back to the tents. Facing him was Mount Sinai. It mocked him, standing there, pretending to be majestic, the last of the sun’s golden rays illuminating it.

  It’s all Yahweh’s fault.

  Bezalel continued the march to Sinai, to the dwelling place of Yahweh.

  Yahweh, who demanded absolute loyalty and promised to always be there with them, but then left them with no sign of His presence. Again. Took the only person who understood how this new relationship was supposed to work and left them to try to figure it out on their own.

  How could He have expected them to react any differently?

  Twenty

  18 Tammuz

  The retiring sun threw shades of pink and orange over the mountains. Blue agama lizards skittered across the ground. An ibex scaled the mountain to bed down for the night. Bezalel stared at the fire in front of his tent, vaguely aware of Meri sitting next to him. She’d been trying to talk to him all day, offer some comfort, but he’d ignored her. There was simply nothing to say, nothing left in his heart.

  Moses approached the dying campfire near Bezalel’s tent. “May I speak with you?”

  Bezalel jerked his chin at a space near him and pushed a cushion toward Moses with his bare foot.

  The fire sizzled as the old man lowered himself to the cushion. “Yahweh has told me He wants you to build a dwelling for Him. An enormous tent, with gold furnishings: an altar, a lamp stand, a laver—it all requires someone with incomparable skill in working with gold, silver, and bronze, in cutting and setting stones, working with wood. You were a craftsman for Ramses. I am told you would have been chief craftsman if you were not an Israelite.”

  Bezalel’s mouth dropped open. His lungs froze in mid-breath. He could not believe Moses would ask him to do such a thing. He’d buried Sabba only last night. He released a loud breath. “What makes you think I would do anything for Yahweh? Or for you?” He stared at Moses.

  Moses raised his shoulders. “Why not?”

  Bezalel stood. He fisted his hands. “He took Sabba!” He felt Meri’s hand on his shoulder but shook it off.

  Moses grabbed his shepherd’s crook and pulled himself up. “Your grandfather worshipped Yahweh in a way few Hebrews did. He was one of those who kept the faith during these long dark years. He—”

  Bezalel threw his hands in the air. “And a lot of good it did him! All it did was get him killed! It got me a life in the palace away from my family, and it got him killed. I owe Yahweh nothing!” Bezalel sprinted for the low mountains to the right of Sinai, at the edge of the gardens. At the base, he scrambled hand over foot until his breath was gone and then searched for a flat place to rest. He found a spot tucked away under the umbrella shade of an acacia tree.

  He collapsed on the ground. Tears fell that he had not released since he had first seen Sabba’s motionless body. Sobs came faster and louder, and his whole body convulsed. Groans he could not control escaped from his throat. He was no longer connected to anything; he was falling with nothing to hold him. Leaning back against the tree, he sobbed until he had no more tears left.

  He sat for a while, his knees up, forearms resting on his knees, his sorrow spent. He gazed over the darkening grassy field before him. Sabba was the only one who had ever had any answers for him, who had ever helped him make sense of anything.

  What will I do without him?

  Even when he thought Meri was gone, when he thought he would never survive the pain, he knew deep down he could eventually endure, because Sabba was there.

  And now he was gone. Forever. It wasn’t fair. Sabba hadn’t done anything wrong.

  He stood and started to pace in his spot above the camp. Sabba had been faithful all these years, his entire life, during every painful loss, and now he would never see the land Yahweh promised. He would never see his grandchildren. In fact, he hadn’t even seen Bezalel grow up.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Sabba was a good man. This shouldn’t have happened.

  This was Michael’s fault. He had set Sabba up. He had threatened Moses, knowing Kamose would protect him. That left Sabba alone—just what Michael wanted, so he could get his revenge for Sabba calling him a child, humiliating him in front of his followers. Michael had taken Sabba’s life deliberately, maliciously, for no other reason than vengeance.

  The image of Sabba lying in a pool of his own blood filled Bezalel’s mind. Rage replaced grief. Wrath took over for mourning. His breath came faster. He clenched his jaw.

  Bezalel slammed his fist into the tree. It felt good. Pieces of bark broke off, crumbled, and fell to the ground. It should have been Michael’s face, but it was the closest thing he had at the moment. His knuckles were scratched and bleeding from the rough bark. He smashed the trunk once more anyway.

  He pulled his fist away and shook it. He’d tapped into his anger now—it had to be released. He grasped a branch with both hands and ripped it from its trunk. The thorns from the tree dug into his palms, slicing them in several places. Roaring, he slammed it over his knee, cracking it in several places.

  He spun around and spotted a young tamarisk, still more of a bush than a tree. Ripping off the small, reddish
branches, he stripped them of their pink flowers and flung them to the sandy floor before tearing the stems apart. He tugged on the remaining plant, yanking and pulling until most of its roots lost their hold on the foothills. One deep root snaked its way into the recesses of the mountain. Bezalel wrapped his hands around the base of the taproot, set his feet, and yanked. Too bad the root wasn’t Michael’s neck.

  The root held its ground.

  Bezalel tugged.

  It didn’t budge.

  He jerked and screamed.

  The root didn’t give way.

  Bezalel yanked one last time. His hands slipped along the stem and he fell flat on his back.

  He sprang up and returned to the acacia tree. He pulled his foot back and kicked the gnarled trunk as hard as he could. He slammed his sandal against the tree again. And again, screaming until he was out of breath. Sometimes the tree was Michael, sometimes Yahweh, sometimes even Moses.

  He stopped and rested his head and forearms against the tree, chest heaving. For the first time since the battle, his head felt clear. Nothing made sense yet, but he could think. Or at least he could if he wasn’t so tired. He sat down and leaned back. Then he lay down on the dirt and slipped into an unsettled sleep.

  19 Tammuz

  Bezalel awoke the next morning as the sun crested the mountain. He turned his head to look down on the camp. No one was stirring yet; the camp still lay deep in the shadow of Sinai.

  His left arm throbbed from the young attacker’s blade. He could barely lift it. A disgusting mixture of blood and dirt covered his arm. He must have split the wound open again last night without noticing it. He lifted his right hand in front of his face. Dried blood caked his palms and knuckles, and the backs of his fingers were already green and blue. His hands throbbed when he moved them.

  He started to sit up, but agonizing pain shot through his left side. Since he couldn’t use his left arm, he rolled onto his right elbow and pushed himself up on the heel of his hand then rolled to his knees.

  Sabba always said his temper would get the best of him. I guess he was right. He would have a constant reminder of that for at least several days, if not weeks.