Dreamers

by Angela Hunt

  Paneah had worked wonders in the fields outside the walls of Potiphar’s villa. What had been a sprawling field of haphazard planting was now a neat arrangement of small squares, each divided by mud walls the height of a man’s hand. Between the squares a runnel conveyed water from a shaduf at the river’s edge. Each square could be watered separately by blocking the runnel with a mud wall, thus insuring that thirsty crops received plenty of water while the drier crops were not overwhelmed.

  After the floodwaters had receded in the spring, Paneah urged the serfs to walk slowly and drop seed in neat rows across Potiphar’s muddy fields. Teams of long-horned African cows followed the slaves, their hooves burying the seed deep inside the life-giving earth. To ensure that the seed lay snug beneath the silty soil, Paneah had the stockmen drive a herd through the fields. Potiphar had been home long enough to watch the merry affair. A scampering young boy lured the stubborn goats through the fields with a handful of grain while the adult herdsmen chased the beasts with whips of twisted rope.

  With a steadfast and sure hand, Paneah directed Potiphar’s slaves through each stage of agriculture: plowing, sowing, treading in the seed, reaping, treading out the grain, winnowing, loading on donkeys and depositing the harvest in granaries. The result was a crop that filled Potiphar’s coffers to overflowing. In the past he had relied on his wages as an officer in Pharaoh’s army to supply his haphazard household, but after a year of Paneah’s leadership, he was pleasantly surprised to realize that his household might be able to support itself. He might even become rich.

  Quiet laughter interrupted his musings. Someone walked through the garden below, and Potiphar’s hand automatically crept toward the dagger sheathed at his side. Rubbing his tongue against the back of his teeth, he peered through the shadows of the trees, but saw only Paneah and Tuya walking along the edge of the lotus pool.

  Potiphar released his dagger. His training as a warrior kept him too much on edge. Perhaps Paneah had been right to suggest that Potiphar learn to relax in his own home. What better place could there be? The house that used to remind him of his own inefficiency had become a place of refuge, an oasis away from the quicksand of Pharaoh’s court. Paneah had made the villa efficient; Tuya had filled it with the sweet sounds of singing.

  He took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax his rigid posture.

  “You did not!” Tuya’s voice was a teasing caress in the warmth of the night. “You would not do such a thing!”

  Surrendering to the human urge to eavesdrop, Potiphar stepped back into the shadows on the wall.

  “I did,” Paneah said, facing the young girl at his side. Her face, lit by the moon, tilted toward his. From his hiding place Potiphar could see love shining from Tuya’s eyes like a star streaming in the night.

  The nearness of that lovely face seemed to steal Paneah’s breath for a moment, then he caught the girl’s hands and held them close to his breast. “I did,” he repeated, looking at her as if he could drink her in. “I did ask the shepherds to name a lamb for you. So when I go out to the fields, I will think of you instead of—”

  He looked away for a moment, and Potiphar noticed the way her body curved toward him. “The old dreams again?” she whispered.

  “The old memories,” he said, turning his dark eyes to her glowing countenance. “My brothers. I think of them every time I walk under the sun, every time I see a herd of sheep or cattle. I pray that God will rid my heart of my sorrowful bitterness—”

  Tuya’s fingertips flew to his lips. “Speak not of it anymore. Anger is a poison that destroys the soul. It will destroy our happiness, too, Yosef, if you dwell on these things.”

  “I would not destroy your happiness for the throne of Egypt,” the young man answered, his words running together in a velvet sound. As he bent to brush his lips over the girl’s forehead, Potiphar felt the gall of envy burn the back of his throat. How could two slaves without power, position or possessions find happiness while he, Pharaoh’s Potiphar, wandered on the wall of his villa with nothing to fill his lonely heart? It was natural that a handsome youth and a beautiful girl should find each other, for they were young and the appetites of love are fierce in youth…

  But he had always been more stirred by bloodlust than lust alone.

  Potiphar stood motionless until the couple parted to walk to their separate chambers, then the master clasped his hands behind his back and took the stairs down to his empty room.

  Anticipation of nights in the garden with Yosef dulled the cutting edge of Tuya’s loneliness. The young man had stepped into the void left by Sagira and more than filled the empty spaces in her life. He was handsome enough to set even the oldest kitchen slave’s tongue to wagging when he appeared in the doorway, but Yosef’s attraction for Tuya went far beyond his physical appearance. In him she found a depth of understanding and insight sorely lacking in the slaves around her. Her people were simple, cheerful and quick to learn, but most of the Nile’s children were practical and unimaginative. Not given to deep speculation or thought, they were unwilling to evolve or express the abstract ideas Yosef delighted in debating.

  Yosef differed from the typical Egyptian in other ways, too. While the average resident of Thebes was highly superstitious and quick to placate any god he might have offended, Yosef often spoke with deep and abiding respect of El Shaddai, the god to whom he prayed every morning. And yet his devotion could not have been based on blind faith, for though most Egyptians accepted everything the priests said without question, Yosef wanted to know the reasons behind every law or precedent Tuya mentioned.

  He seemed to take a particular pleasure in bantering with Tuya about the pantheon of Egyptian gods. “You say Pharaoh is one of the gods,” he teased one afternoon, “and yet they say Pharaoh has a headache today. How can a god suffer pain? And when Pharaoh’s life is done, how can a god die?”

  “He is both God and man,” Tuya explained, trying not to lose her patience. “When a pharaoh dies, the divine spirit is removed and placed within the heir. The chosen heir becomes God and Pharaoh, and the dead and buried god becomes king of the dead, ruler of the underworld. He becomes the great and terrible judge to whom the dead must answer for their deeds on earth.”

  “I would rather serve a god who cannot die,” Yosef answered, laughter in his eyes. “A god who is the same yesterday, today and forever.”

  Tuya waved him away. “You are a dreamer.”

  She was about to add that dreams were foolish and risky, but the light in his eyes dimmed. “Yes, I am,” he replied, and his expression filled with such pain she had resolved never to speak of dreams again.

  She knew he had come from a large family in the land of Canaan. From his speech she had gleaned that he was a Hebrew, but in the last year he had taken great pains to become fluent in the Egyptian language. With his quick ear and agile tongue, every trace of his Canaanite accent had been erased. He now shaved his beard in the Egyptian fashion and wore his hair covered by a cloth of ribbed black silk. He wore the traditional white linen kilt of a slave, ornamented with an enameled collar and bronze armbands. Nothing of the Hebrews remained but his memories, and Yosef clung to them with the tenacity of a terrier. Occasionally his eyes darkened and he spoke bitterly of his brothers, but he would not dwell on the subject or speak further when Tuya pressed him.

  Like the Egyptians, Yosef was gentle, devoted to his friends and his god and easily pleased. He had the confidence of a lion, a quiet air of authority and even seated he looked taller than any man in the house. She could feel the power of his presence from across a crowded room, and her heart thudded like a drum whenever he happened to pass. Without stopping to analyze her feelings, Tuya allowed her attraction for him to blossom into love. What she couldn’t understand was why he seemed to resist caring for her in the same way.

  His eyes had caressed her in the garden, and she knew by the way he smiled at her that he felt something for her. She could tell from his admiring gaze that he appreciated her skill a
t managing the household fully as much as he esteemed her beauty. Interest had radiated from the dark depths of his eyes from the first day she began to nurse him, and their friendship had deepened on a number of levels. But whenever the conversation turned to personal topics, or whenever Tuya felt Yosef was close to opening his heart, an invisible wall rose between them and he withdrew as surely as if he had moved across the garden.

  Tonight Yosef was intent on the scroll in his lap. The air of the garden vibrated softly with the insect hum of the trees, and Tuya sat on the tiled walkway and trailed her fingers over the still waters of the reflecting pool. The lotus blossoms on the water moved gently in the quiet of the night shadows, a romantic picture, but Yosef’s thoughts were far away.

  “The language is fascinating,” Yosef murmured, running his hand over the papyrus spread between his knees. “Such beauty in these hieroglyphics! You are a good teacher, Tuya, and I a poor student. If I could only learn to write this well.”

  “You will have no more time for learning in this house,” Tuya said, glancing over her shoulder. “Those who go to scribes’ schools labor from dawn until dusk for a dozen or more years. Their signs must be perfect, and the teaching priests believe a boy’s ears are on his back.” She smiled when Yosef looked up with an inquisitive glance. “They are great lovers of the whip,” she explained, leaning toward him. “But you, Yosef, know nothing of this. Potiphar does not beat his servants.”

  “Only because Potiphar does not care for his household,” Yosef answered, returning his attention to the scroll. “I am certain he would not hesitate to use his whip on his soldiers.”

  Tuya jerked upright when leather slapped against the cool stone of the patio. Potiphar stepped out of the shadows and stood before them, his eyes gleaming like lighted coals. What had he heard? She and Yosef might feel the whip yet.

  “Greetings, master,” she blurted out, extending her arms toward him as she touched her forehead to the floor. She closed her eyes and hoped Yosef would have the good sense to follow her example.

  “Good evening,” Potiphar replied. Tuya blinked in surprise. He spoke in a composed voice, like a man out for a casual walk in his garden. Had he heard nothing of their conversation?

  “You may rise,” the master called, and Tuya lifted her head, half expecting to feel the sting of his hand across her cheek.

  But Potiphar stood before them with his hands joined loosely at his waist. Their master’s weather-beaten face was calm, but something flickered in his dark eyes.

  “Paneah—” he began, looking at Yosef.

  “Yes, master?”

  “Why does Tuya call you by a strange name?”

  Yosef hesitated only for the flash of an instant. “It is not because I dislike the name you gave me. I have come to appreciate the name Paneah. The life in which I was known by another is far behind me.”

  Potiphar lifted a brow. “And yet this girl calls you by the other name.” In one disobedient glance Tuya allowed her eyes to leave her master’s face and dart toward Yosef.

  A wry smile curled on Yosef’s lips. “She is my bridge. She brought me from the old life safely into the new. If she had not nursed me—”

  “It was you, master, who rescued him from the slave market,” Tuya added, eager to return the conversation to a more proper vein. “Paneah owes his life to you.”

  Potiphar nodded, but Yosef interrupted. “No. My life is owed to God.”

  Tuya cringed. Apparently Yosef had not been enslaved long enough to learn proper humility.

  Potiphar did not take offense. “They say we owe everything to the gods,” he said, offhandedly waving in the direction of the river. He returned his hands to his waist and squinted in amusement. “Which god do you credit for your health and intelligence, Paneah? Which god gave you those good looks? Hathor? Amon? Osiris, perhaps?”

  “The Egyptians do not know El Shaddai,” Yosef answered, giving the master a look of prideful superiority. “He is the god above all others, the Almighty God who sees and knows all.”

  A spasm of panic shot across Tuya’s belly. Hadn’t Yosef learned that a man was only as great as his gods? With one mention of his almighty deity Yosef had claimed to be greater than everyone in Egypt, even Pharaoh himself.

  Potiphar nodded as if considering Yosef’s reply, and a smile played briefly on his lips. “Believe in whatever you like, Paneah, for you have done well. Though I am sure your success has less to do with divine blessing than with your sharp intellect.”

  “I appreciate your kindness, but I must disagree,” Yosef answered, bowing his head. “I have found that faith is a higher faculty than reason. Though, of course, faith is only as strong as the object in which it is placed.”

  Potiphar pushed his bottom lip forward. “You know I do not worship any gods. Are you saying I am weak?”

  Tuya felt the blood drain from her head. What had Yosef done?

  Ever the diplomat, Yosef smiled. “Each man must test his own faith, and his own gods. You, Master Potiphar, must find strength great enough to sustain you through life. Where you will find this strength, I cannot say.”

  The moon, sailing across a cloud-laden sky, cast a sudden beam across Potiphar’s face. His granite eyes locked on Yosef, but after a moment, he lifted his head and folded his arms. “You are clever,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a grudging smile. “For surely you know that I have the strength I need, Paneah, right here.” His clenched fist knocked on his chest. “And because I appreciate cleverness, one day I shall reward you. Perhaps I shall reward the affection you have developed for this girl.”

  When the master’s bony finger pointed to Tuya, she felt her frantic smile jell into an expression of shock. She had tried to hide her feelings for Yosef, for with one word Potiphar could send her away forever.

  “Who can say?” Potiphar folded his arms again. “If you both serve me well, in time I will allow you to take her as your wife. If you teach my household to run itself, in six years or so I may even grant your manumission.” An understanding, cocky grin spread across his features. “The collar of slavery does not suit you, Paneah. ’Twould be shameful for you to wear it too long.”

  With that astounding promise, Potiphar turned and disappeared into the house.

  Tuya turned to Yosef in stunned surprise. “Freedom!” she whispered, hardly daring to hope. “And marriage!”

  Speechless, Yosef nodded.

  Yosef clasped his hands behind him as he walked down the narrow corridor to the room he shared with the other male slaves. Potiphar’s offer of emancipation and marriage had taken him completely by surprise, and his emotions were still spinning like a broken twig caught in the Nile flood. After six more years of service he would be twenty-four, a young man still, and capable of building an estate of his own. Was this the avenue by which his dream would be fulfilled?

  He stopped in the darkness and closed his eyes, double-checking his memory. In his dream, the sun and moon and stars had bowed before him—could they not represent the merchants of Thebes? He could be a wealthy man before he reached thirty years of age.

  Perhaps. He gave himself a stern mental shake and moved on toward his room. He did not want to second-guess the god who had blessed everything he touched and everyone who touched him. Tuya, without whose guidance he could never have begun to understand the Egyptian way of thinking, had blossomed under his attention. Devoted, dependable and sympathetic, she had worked hard to ensure his success with the other slaves. Her rich, fawnlike beauty warmed his heart every time he looked her way. He could marry her without hesitation if not for—

  The past. She did not know the hidden part of him, the history he concealed beneath industrious activity and casual conversation. She thought him an ordinary son from a large family, a foreigner with only fragile connections to the past. Yet he was the favored son of Yaakov, the firstborn of Rahel, the son who had stood to inherit the major portion of Yaakov’s flocks and treasures and goods. Though he was younger than most
of his brothers, his would have been the blessing and birthright of the eldest son, for Yaakov had loved his beautiful mother most.

  As the snores of the other slaves punctuated the darkness of the room, Yosef lay down on his papyrus mat and settled his thoughts about him. He had not told Tuya the entire story of his past because the act of submerging himself into memory hurt too much. During his illness he had scarcely felt the pain of his shattered arm because his few coherent thoughts centered on his father’s grief and his brothers’ betrayal. Had his unfaithful brothers told their father that insane story about Yosef’s fatal struggle with a wild beast? Had not one of them listened to the convicting voice of the spirit of God and confessed the truth?

  Another, darker fear hovered at the edge of his mind: did they intend to kill or kidnap his mother’s other son in the same way? His brother, Binyamin, was yet a boy, but with Yosef gone, Yaakov would cling to Rahel’s remaining son like a shadow. Binyamin had undoubtedly been forced into Yosef’s place as the favored son, and that gentle boy would never suspect that the older brothers he admired were capable of murder and betrayal…

  A sudden rise of panic threatened to choke Yosef where he lay. He had nursed his wounds for too long. He should escape and join a caravan heading north; he should return to his father and expose his brothers for the misbegotten malefactors that they were—

  Trust me. The voice fell on Yosef’s consciousness even as he realized that the stillness of the room had not broken. The snorers slept on, undisturbed. Yosef shivered with a cold that did not come from the air. He was not alone.

  As I called Avraham from Ur, I have called you to this place. Forget the former things, do not dwell on the past. I am making a new path for you! Now it springs up before you, do you not perceive it?

  Yosef sat up and blinked at the shadows as the hair on his forearms lifted. Abu, the goatherd, and Bebu, the chief baker, tossed and turned as they did every night.