Dreamers

by Angela Hunt

  “Paneah! Rise at once!”

  Yosef grimaced when he recognized Khamat’s nasal whine. He was not eager to clean up after another drunken soldier who couldn’t hold his beer.

  He didn’t open his eyes. “Can’t it wait?” he called.

  “Paneah! Pharaoh calls for you!”

  That statement brought Yosef bolt upright. He lifted his gaze to the rim of the pit where Khamat stood with a torch. The jailer nudged the rope with his sandal. “Come up, my hairy one, and ready yourself for a bath and a shave. You look more like a monkey than a man, and if you wish to impress the royal eye, you’d best hurry.”

  “Pharaoh wishes to see me?” Yosef stood and grasped the rope, then looked up at Khamat again. “This is not a jest?”

  Khamat glanced over his shoulder, then squatted and gestured for Yosef to hurry. “Master Potiphar waits in my lodge at this moment to escort you to the palace. So hurry, Paneah, before I land in the pit with you!”

  Yosef braced his feet against the mud walls and began to climb.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Tuthmosis paced for over an hour in Tuya’s chamber, and nothing she could say or do would calm him. “Please, my husband,” she said finally, gesturing to the child who slept with his head in her lap. “You will wake Yosef with that loud stomping. Sit, calm yourself and have another cup of wine. Bomani will return as soon as possible.”

  “I must know the meaning of the dream before I sleep,” Pharaoh said, clenching his hands behind his back. “I cannot rest, Tuya, if the vision comes to me again. The dream’s implications grew more frightening as priest after priest failed to explain it. When I think of it my blood roars in my ears like the howling of the Sphinx, and I cannot be calm.”

  Tuya leaned back in her chair. With every step, her husband’s jaw became firmer, his muscles tighter, his heart more eager for a solution to the puzzle. He hungered for an answer, and if Yosef failed to provide it, Pharaoh would not be happy. With every moment that passed, the king became more certain of the slave’s ability to provide an answer to his dilemma.

  Silently, Tuya begged Yosef’s unseen god to provide the interpretation.

  Finally she heard the steady sound of approaching footsteps, then someone rapped on the door. Pharaoh stopped pacing as his eyes lit with expectation. Bomani pushed the door open without a word.

  With the hesitancy of one whose eyes have been burned by the sun, Tuya turned toward the doorway. The guards’ faces, even Potiphar’s, blurred into irrelevance as Yosef stepped into the room, his wrists and ankles bound in shackles.

  A thunderbolt jagged through her. Yosef had been attractive when she last saw him, but the man who stood before her now looked like a god.

  The boy she had known as Yosef had vanished, replaced by a stranger in the prime of manhood. In the golden torchlight of her chamber, the prisoner’s skin glowed over tightly defined muscles. He stood tall and impressive beside those who imagined themselves his guards, and rough black hair fell past his shoulders in a wild tangle. His face, cleanly shaved and sculpted with angular lines, shone with an aloof strength.

  Tuya steeled herself as she gazed into his eyes. The dark orbs that had always made her heart beat faster now blazed brighter than the light from the torches on her walls.

  She hid a thick swallow in her throat and turned away, wishing that Pharaoh had chosen to hold this interview in Queen Mutemwiya’s chamber instead of this one. Only sorrow could come from this encounter. If Yosef failed Pharaoh, he would surely die, and her heart would never be able to erase the memory of him standing in her room. If he succeeded in this test, he would be rewarded. She would have to smile at him, offer her congratulations and pretend that her heart did not knock against her ribs with every breath.

  Pharaoh did not even glance in her direction. He gazed in delight on his wild-haired visitor, and for a moment Tuya thought he would prostrate himself before the slave, so wide were the eyes he focused on the Hebrew. “Thanks be to Horus, you have arrived!”

  Carefully maneuvering around the length of chain that bound his ankles, Yosef bowed and pressed his forehead to the floor. “May the king live forever,” he said, his rich voice resonating throughout the room. “How may I serve you?”

  Tuthmosis heard the voice through a daze of wonder. Surely the gods had fashioned and created this man! In all the temples of Egypt, there was not a priest like this, with tangled hair, a broad chest and skin as golden as ripe wheat! The priests who served the gods of Egypt were bald, flour-faced creatures who spoke in hoarse rasps and bedecked themselves with gold while proclaiming their poverty of spirit. Those weak-minded fools had been helpless before the complexity of his dream, but surely this man could unravel the enigma!

  “Rise.” Tuthmosis jerked his hand in Potiphar’s direction. “Help him up, and remove those bonds.” Stiffly, the captain of the guard knelt at the prisoner’s feet and unfastened the shackles around the man’s ankles.

  Tuthmosis lifted his eyes to those of the stranger. “Your name is—?” he asked, his brows slanting the question.

  The slave nodded in simple dignity. “I am called Paneah.”

  “‘He lives,’” Tuthmosis interpreted. A fitting name for this one, and a good omen. But a king could not declare victory prematurely.

  “Paneah—” he turned toward the chair at Tuya’s side “—last night my sleep was broken by disturbing dreams. No one here can interpret them, but I have heard that you can explain any dream you are told.” The prisoner’s gaze remained fixed on him, and Tuthmosis hoped his excitement did not burn as bright in his eyes as it did in his heart.

  “It is not in me to interpret dreams, mighty Pharaoh,” Paneah said, inclining his head. “God will give Pharaoh a favorable answer.”

  Tuthmosis perched on the edge of his chair. After studying the prisoner another moment, he rested his chin on two fingers and recounted his nightmare: “My dream was this—I stood on the bank of the Nile, and behold, seven cows, fat and sleek, came up out of the water and grazed in the marsh grass. And then seven other cows came up after them, poor and ugly and gaunt, such as I have never seen for ugliness in all the land of Egypt. And the lean and ugly cows ate up the first seven fat cows. And yet when they had devoured them, I could not tell that they had eaten, for they were as ugly and gaunt as before.”

  A shudder shook him at the memory, and he paused to look away. “Then I awoke,” he whispered, his eyes meeting Tuya’s. “I remembered nothing but my fear, and my wife bid me sleep again. But I dreamed again, and saw seven ears of corn, full and good, come up on a single stalk. But then seven other ears, withered, thin and scorched by the east wind, sprouted up after them. And the thin ears swallowed the seven good ears. And I awoke, and remembered all, and told these things to the magicians, but no one could explain these things to me.”

  Every man in the room held his breath while Tuthmosis looked at the prisoner. Potiphar, the guards and even the servants leaned forward in anticipation of the slave’s answer. What would it be?

  Paneah bowed his head as if searching inside himself, then he lifted his chin and stared at Pharaoh with eyes that gave nothing away. “Pharaoh’s dreams are one and the same,” he said. “God has told Pharaoh what he is about to do.”

  Tuthmosis shook his head. “But which god speaks to me?”

  “El Shaddai, the Almighty,” Paneah answered, and the name rang a distant bell in Tuthmosis’s memory. Tuya had spoken of this invisible god.

  “The seven good cows are seven years,” Paneah explained. “And the seven good ears are seven years. The dreams are one and the same. And the seven lean and ugly cows that came up after the others are seven years, and the seven thin ears scorched by the east wind are seven years of famine.”

  “Famine?” The fist of fear tightened in Tuthmosis’s belly. If the people did not eat, the Divine Son must feed the earth…

  “God has shown you what you must do,” Paneah repeated. “Seven years of great abundance are coming in
all the land of Egypt. After seven years famine will come, famine so severe that the abundance will be forgotten, and scarcity will ravage the land. Now as for the repeating of the dream to Pharaoh twice, it means the matter is determined by God, and he will soon bring it to pass.”

  “Famine,” Tuthmosis repeated, his mind reeling. “Of what use are seven good years if famine will destroy us in the seven bad years that follow?”

  “God is merciful,” Paneah said. “Let Pharaoh look for a man discerning and wise, and set him over the land of Egypt. Let Pharaoh take action to appoint overseers in charge of the land, and let them exact a fifth of Egypt’s produce in the seven years of abundance. Then let them store up the grain for food in the cities under Pharaoh’s authority, and let them guard it. And let the food become a reserve for the seven years of famine, so the land of Egypt may not perish during the time of hunger.”

  Tuthmosis leaned on the arm of his chair. This Paneah had no ulterior motive, for he had not asked for an audience with the king. He had no contact with other nations who might wish to rape Egypt and rob it of its produce, for he had been a prisoner and cut off from the world. He had no reason to lie.

  “El Shaddai revealed this to you?” Tuthmosis asked.

  Paneah bowed. “He is the Almighty One, the god who knows all things, the unseen god who cannot be represented by the work of men’s hands.”

  “I will think on these things,” Tuthmosis said, nodding. “You, Paneah, will sleep in the palace tonight as my guest. See to his comfort, Potiphar. You may all leave me now.”

  The knot of servants and guards at the door bowed and slipped from the room, taking Paneah with them. When they had gone, Tuthmosis turned to his silent wife and gestured to the space that still vibrated with the residue of the man’s powerful presence. “Do you believe in him?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, her eyes watering as she stared across the empty room. “I do.”

  Tuthmosis left soon after Yosef had been led away. After placing her son in his bed, Tuya paced in her chamber. How could she sleep knowing that her old love breathed under the same roof? In Potiphar’s house she could not sleep until she had gathered a good-night kiss from him, but those kisses belonged to another lifetime. Surely she was foolish to think of them now.

  How strange that Yosef’s appearance could put her husband’s mind at ease and leave hers in turmoil. Tonight Tuthmosis would sleep like a child, his worries wiped away by Yosef’s assurance, but she would watch and wait and pray—for what?

  There were so many things she wanted to tell him. She wanted to confess her anger at the news that he had been arrested for attacking Sagira, and her falseness in believing him guilty. She wanted to explain the child in her arms, to define her love for the young man who was her king and her husband. She wanted to tell him she had prayed for his deliverance from death, and she had recognized El Shaddai’s work in preserving Yosef in prison.

  His eyes had not once caught hers during the interview with Pharaoh. There had been a time when she and Yosef could read each other’s thoughts—if she looked into his eyes now, would she understand all that had shaped him in the eight years since they parted? Would he understand her precarious position in the palace? Would he know she still dreamed of meeting him in Potiphar’s garden?

  Sighing in frustration, she paced the length of her chamber until a warm current of air brought the promise of dawn through the window.

  Yosef found it hard to believe he was not dreaming when he awoke the next morning. The heady scent of lotus blossoms filled the room where he slept on a cushioned mattress. Gauzy curtains blew about his bed as a pair of slave girls tiptoed through the chamber. When he rose up on one elbow, one of the girls giggled and picked up her lute; within a moment the sweet sounds of music filled the room. The other girl, smiling behind a blush as bright as a desert flower, offered up a bowl of fruit.

  Yosef smiled and waved the girl away, then sank back onto the bed. In prison he had not seen a woman, heard music or tasted the sweetness of fruit, yet all three had been offered to him in one moment. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the improbability of it all. What had God done? And why?

  After a few moments, he sat up and looked around. A basin of water lay on the floor next to a pair of fine leather sandals. A linen kilt had been folded on a nearby chair, and he ran his hand over it, relishing its softness. Last night he had wanted to run his hand over the softness of Tuya’s cheek, but he had forced himself to retain custody of his eyes. Interpreting Pharaoh’s dream had been far easier than avoiding the magnetic pull of her beauty.

  He rose and slipped into the new kilt. He sat in the chair and ate a few grapes, amazed at their juicy sweetness. One of the girls came forward and rested her hand on his shoulder in an attitude of suggestive submission.

  “Dance,” Yosef whispered hoarsely, understanding what she offered him. His skin burned beneath her touch. “Just dance. I must be ready when Pharaoh summons me.”

  And so, while one slave postured and the other played her lute, Yosef waited in silence and wondered what God was about to do.

  A pair of servants—not guards, Yosef noticed—arrived to escort Yosef to Pharaoh’s throne room. He paused at the threshold of the great double doors leading into Pharaoh’s presence, his breath stolen by the opulence of the dazzling sight. He thought he had seen everything Egypt had to offer, but never had he imagined anything to rival the unabashed elegance and beauty of Pharaoh’s royal chamber.

  He walked on shining tiles arranged into the delicate designs of lotus blossoms. The walls of the grand hall glimmered with colorful pictures of the king and queen offering sacrifices to their gods. High windows far above Yosef’s head let in light but not heat, and a gentle breeze swirled throughout the room, dispersing the sweet incense that burned to honor the god upon the throne. Hundreds of people, it seemed to Yosef, moved in orderly rows on the left and right sides of the chamber, but the center aisle had been left open for anyone who wished to approach Pharaoh, the reigning king and god of all Egypt.

  At the end of the long aisle, on a golden throne, Pharaoh waited, his eyes lit with expectation. Next to him, on a similar throne, sat a lavishly decorated woman with eyes too hard for beauty. A gold tiara rested on her massive wig, and by her sandaled feet a monkey scampered on a leash. As Yosef approached, he could read the words engraved on the lady’s chair: “Follower of Horus, Guide of the Ruler, Favorite Lady.” If this woman was Pharaoh’s favorite lady, why had he found Tuthmosis in Tuya’s chamber?

  He could feel Tuya’s presence shining from behind the queen’s throne, and knew without directly looking that she stood with her small son by her side. He wanted to meet her eyes and assure her he was well, but he did not dare acknowledge her before so many others. A richly dressed courtier wearing the Gold of Praise stood at the queen’s right hand, and as their eyes met, Yosef was surprised at the strong emotion that flickered over the man’s face—hatred distilled to its essence.

  Even here, there are enemies. No wonder Tuya is in danger.

  Upon reaching the throne, Yosef bowed before Pharaoh, who today wore his full regalia. His short linen garment was girdled at the waist by an elaborate beadwork belt, supporting a sporran of panther pelt. He wore the tall, helmetlike crown on his noble head, and the artificial beard, another symbol of his divine authority, extended from his chin, held in place by two slender leather loops hanging from the king’s ears.

  Pharaoh stood, extending the crook and flail. “Rise, Paneah, my much-beloved friend and servant,” Tuthmosis said, his voice like a warm embrace. “Last night you visited me and gave me the interpretation of my dream. You were the light that shone on the truth God sought to reveal, and through your voice I saw the path that lies ahead for Egypt. Tell these assembled here, Paneah, how you came to be my light in darkness.”

  Yosef cleared his throat. “I am not the light, mighty Pharaoh. God is the one who reveals all.”

  “And which God is this light?” Pharaoh asked
, spreading his hands toward the scowling priests who had been unable to solve his dilemma.

  “The unseen god of my fathers,” Yosef answered. “The creator. The beginning of all that is, and all that shall ever be.”

  Pharaoh settled the crook and flail across his chest. “Take down my words, scribes, and hearken unto me, all who listen. Two nights ago I did not sleep, for I was troubled by the dream this god revealed to me. Last night I did not sleep, for I spent the night devising a plan to ensure Egypt’s salvation. Seven years of abundance are coming to the Upper and Lower Kingdoms, then seven years of grievous famine. The god who declared this prophecy has also revealed how we are to prosper through it.”

  The room grew silent, as if the walls themselves had paused to listen to Pharaoh’s words. Tuthmosis stood in the hush, then lifted his chin. “I have consulted with my counselors and the priests, and they have agreed with what I am about to do. Can we find another man like this, in whom is a divine spirit?” The king stretched his hand toward Yosef as he glanced around the assembled company. “Can we find a man better equipped to lead Egypt through the darkness than this man who has shone the light today?”

  The crowd stirred, but no one dared offer another name. Pharaoh put aside the crook and flail, and a collective gasp broke the silence as the king descended from the dais and walked toward Yosef.

  “Since God has informed you of the things that are to come,” Pharaoh said, lifting his hand until it rested on Yosef’s shoulder, “there is no one so discerning and wise as you. You shall be the One Over My House! To your orders shall all my people submit. Only by the throne will I be greater than you. I have set you today over all the land of Egypt, and to signify that you speak with my voice, I give you my ring.”

  When Pharaoh dropped his hand and fumbled with the scarab ring on his hand, Yosef caught a glimpse of the seventeen-year-old boy inside the king. The ring resisted, the boy-king frowned, then the scarab slid from Pharaoh’s finger. With a sigh of relief, Tuthmosis held the golden band between his thumb and forefinger and presented it to Yosef.