Shira was nothing if not tenacious. And truth be told, I needed to tell someone. Anyone.
I released a deep breath and told her about Akhum—about our betrothal, his absence during my downfall, and his surprise at my presence that night.
“He was powerless, or perhaps unwilling, to rescue me. I am at the bottom of this pit.” I sniffed, squeezing my eyes against the burn of tears. “There is no hope.”
Shira wrapped a fragile arm around my waist and pulled me tight against her side, causing me to ache for my mother and brother. “No, there is always hope. As long as we have breath in our bodies, there is hope.”
No graceful bowing palms shaded us here, and the tall clumps of papyrus afforded little refuge from the sun’s unrelenting glare. Even the soft morning breeze did little to assuage the heat. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck as tears threatened to spill over.
Shira did not let go. I did not pull away.
Just as I realized the sun had already passed the tip of the obelisk, hundreds of birds lit into the skies in unison. Shrill cries of alarm shattered the stillness of the morning.
Shira gasped and pointed upstream with her free hand. “What is that?”
I stared, blinking, trying to comprehend the darkness spreading across the water as it rushed toward us. No longer a muddy reddish-brown, the river ran a deep, dark crimson.
Mother Nile, the Great Heart of Egypt, was bleeding.
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Like the gush from a fatal wound, the crimson current swirled closer to us.
Dread churned in my stomach. “What is happening?”
Shira dropped her arm from my waist. “We need to get back to the villa. Everyone must know.”
I bent to pick up the full jar and recoiled at my reflection in the dark water. I tipped the jar with my foot and a rush of bloody water stained the ground red.
The water we had collected from the pool had been perfectly clear only minutes ago, yet now it, too, was defiled. How could this be?
I shuddered at the thought that only minutes ago I had been immersed in the now-foul water. We dumped our tainted jugs and hurried back up the path. As we neared the city, shrieks ripped the air. Shira and I looked at each other, eyes wide, and agreed to take different routes back to the city. Red water or no, Tekurah must not know Shira and I had met today.
A guard leaned against the entry post at the front gate of the villa, his face troubled.
I stopped to catch my breath after my jog from the canal. “Is the water here in the villa changed, too?”
He bobbed his bald head. “The kitchen staff found every pot and bowl full of red water.”
The hair on my neck prickled. “And the garden pools?”
He nodded again, face drawn and pinched.
“The river is tainted, too.”
His kohl-rimmed eyes widened. “What curse is this?”
I gagged on my way through the gardens. The pools stood red and fetid—they even smelled like spilled blood. Yes, this had to be a curse of some sort.
Tekurah’s voice echoed through the villa, her demands for a fresh cup of water no doubt audible to all the surrounding neighbors. Dread swirled through me. My already furious mistress would not be pleased with my empty water jar.
The sweet waters of the Nile had always flowed from the veins of Osiris, the god of the underworld and granter of fertile life. But two days after Shira and I had stood on its banks, bloated fish, frogs, and snakes floated along the surface of the river. The rushes and palms drooped with thirst.
The regional Nomarch had ordered teams of slaves to dig additional pools along the water’s edge, although the sand did little to filter out the red color. A complicated process of linen sieves and filters, followed by boiling for hours, made the water potable again, but only barely. No matter what we did, a distinct metallic-sulfur odor remained. Drinking the repulsive result required courage. My every nauseated sip intermingled with horrendous thoughts of priests drinking sacrificial life-blood during temple rituals.
Tekurah’s panic continued to boil over. Bathing in the strong-smelling water nauseated her, and the prospect of washing her body with something resembling blood made her—made all of us—cringe. She insisted evil spirits inhabited the cursed water and purchased magic potions to mix in it, attempting to ward off the bad luck. Whether or not the potions had any effect, the water reeked worse than before.
Still, to my great relief, she insisted Latikah and I bathe in the treated water. Who was I to question protection against malevolent spirits?
Everything smelled revolting—the water, the dead animals, the unwashed people. A stench of death hung over Iunu. Decaying fish and reptiles lined the banks of the swollen canals. Even a few crocodiles and hippos washed up on the shore, their carcasses stained pink. Birds vanished from the once-teeming banks of the Nile, gone to search out fresher waters.
We tried to mask the smell, rubbing myrrh balms and almond oil on our bodies. The villa overflowed with flowers of every variety, but the stench overpowered their subtle fragrances, and without fresh water they withered quickly. Incense burned in every room, causing my head to throb in relentless agony.
When the third day dawned and the water still ran red, a terrified Tekurah ventured to the temple to hear what explanation the priests offered for this curse. Throngs of people gathered outside the temple gates, demanding why Hapi, the protector of the Nile, allowed this strange curse on the land. Tekurah and I pushed our way through the crowd, straining to hear the priests assembled on the grand temple steps.
One of them wore the elaborate beaded headdress that signified the office of high priest. “Please, please.” He stretched his arms wide, like an indulgent father. “Calm down.”
Shouts echoed through the crowd.
“Why is this happening?”
“What did we do to deserve this?”
An elderly man standing next to me lifted his chin to call out. “How long will this last?” The chaos swallowed his voice.
“Let us assure you, this is perfectly natural.” The priest stood with hands spread wide, as if trying to push back the surging emotion of the crowd.
The mob roiled, voices rising like a tide.
“Natural? I’ve never seen it before.”
“This is a curse!”
“Hapi is angry!”
“Osiris is stricken!”
The man next to me lifted his voice again. “I’ve seen fifty-two inundations. Never seen the river turn to blood.”
The high priest’s face belied nothing but serenity. “We have offered many sacrifices to Hapi and consulted the oracles—”
The swell of voices rose again, many accusing the priests of inaction.
“Let me assure you.” He shouted above the melee, his expression losing its careful composition. “Our gods are pleased. It is a natural occurrence. Unusual, but natural. Our histories bear witness to red waters and tides from time to time.”
Tekurah pushed around me to speak to the elderly man. “My husband says every branch of the river, every canal, is affected—is this true?”
He leaned forward on his walking stick, scratching his grizzled chin. “I’ve heard the same. All the way to the Northern Sea.”
“Haven’t there been red waters before, when red dirt washed down the river from Kush?”
“Not like this, such a dark stain. And not mid-inundation.” His silver brows furrowed. “This has not happened before . . . at least, not in my lifetime.”
“The priests have no answers, husband.”
Tekurah washed down succulent bites of roasted beef with wine. My mouth watered as I eyed the scraps of meat she had pushed aside.
“What answer can they give? They don’t know the minds of the gods.” Shefu wiped his mouth with a linen cloth. He glanced at me with a pained look, then pushed away his plate.
“But surely, the oracles . . .” She placed her hand on his.
He pursed his lips and shook his head. “I don’t want to
hear talk of oracles.” He slid his hand away.
Tekurah shrank back in her seat, looking around, no doubt to make sure no one overheard his blasphemy. She must have forgotten I stood at attention behind her chair.
“I don’t know why this is happening. But I am concerned about our crops.” Shefu stood to leave. “With inundation at its highest point, I worry that the silt deposits will not be healthy for the farmland. Thankfully the grapes have already been harvested.”
The annual blessings from the Nile made our fertile land the envy of the world. The lush vegetation and bountiful crops supplied Egypt with food. We exported goods to all the surrounding nations. If even unflappable Shefu was anxious, then the situation must indeed be grim.
Shira placed her empty jug on the ground and hugged me. Unused to such displays of affection, I stood immobile, arms pinned to my sides by her boisterous embrace.
“It has been so long since we talked.” She hoisted the jug back to her hip. “Filtering and boiling became my full-time occupation these last few days.”
“Thanks to Hapi, the water is finally running clearer.” Praise the gods, they heard our pleas.
People pressed into the temple courtyards all day long again—this time to offer sacrifices in gratitude for a lifted curse.
Her brow pinched. “My brother said it would only last the week.”
“Your brother?”
“He came the other day. We only had a few moments, but it was good to hear from home.” A tender smile graced her lips.
“He is allowed to see you?” Jealousy shot through me. I managed only a few stolen minutes in the market with my older brother, Jumo, every few weeks.
“Oh, goodness no, I meet him the same way I am meeting you. He hides here in the rushes.” She trailed a free hand through the tall stalks along the path. “He comes every seventh day of the week. He knew I would be curious about the river and the excitement among our people.”
“How does he get away from his master?”
“He is not a slave.” She lifted a shoulder. “Well, not like I am anyhow. My brother is owned by his master, but he is given unusual freedoms. He is allowed to come and go at will and is paid a small wage. On the seventh day, the shabbat, his master allows him rest.”
I stumbled and then stopped walking. “Why?”
“There is such a thing, you know, as Egyptians who have compassion.” She winked, and one corner of her full mouth lifted. “My brother’s master even secured my position in Shefu’s household.”
“He did?”
A shadow crossed her face. “I had just begun working on the looms. Finally old enough to work alongside my mother, when I was . . . attacked.”
“By whom?”
“An overseer.” Her downcast eyes seemed ancient—they told the rest of the story. “My brother begged his master to find a safer place for me. Akensouris is a friend of Shefu.” She lifted her chin. “Shefu is a good man. He’s been kind to both of us.”
“You and your brother?”
“No, you and me. He’s protected us both. Me, from an evil man, and you, from perhaps an even worse fate.”
Considering that fate, I walked forward again. “What did you mean about excitement among your people?”
“Oh, that!” She slipped her free arm through mine. “It is so exciting! We have been waiting so long. Hundreds of years. I think the time has finally come. The signs have been building for a long while.”
“Signs?”
“Yes, a great number of our people have been turning back to the God of Our Fathers—crying out for rescue. Almost as many have turned away, given up. And many doubt that Elohim even hears us. But he does, and he sent a Deliverer!”
“Who is Elohim?”
“Oh . . . I forget who I am speaking with.” She clamped her hand to her mouth and then spoke through her fingers. “You are Egyptian . . . maybe I shouldn’t tell you.”
She paused and looked deep into my eyes, brow furrowed. Then, after a few still moments, she broke into peals of laughter that echoed across the canal. A gray heron, one of the few birds to brave a return to the Nile, startled out of the rushes, lifted on majestic wings, and flapped away.
“You should see your face. I’m teasing.” She giggled again.
Was every Hebrew peculiar like this girl?
Shira composed herself and sat down on a flat rock near the watering hole. Few souls stirred this early, and the sun tarried low on the horizon.
“I will tell you what I can, but I may have to finish another day.” She patted the rock, beckoning me to sit, and although still a bit unsettled by her mocking, I sank down beside her.
“Elohim, the Strong One, is how we call upon our God,” she said. “The God of Our Fathers—Avraham, Yitzhak, and Yaakov. We also address him as Adonai, or Lord.”
“But what is his name?”
“We call him by many terms.”
“How can you ensure answered prayers if you cannot name him?”
“He hears.” She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath through her nose, as though drawing divinity from the very air around her.
She opened her eyes and gestured to the water. “When the river changed, that was Moses—our Deliverer. The rumor my brother heard is that Moses met Pharaoh that very morning. When he struck the water with a staff, it turned blood-red.”
“Why would Pharaoh do such a thing to the Nile?”
“No, Moses struck the water to show Pharaoh who is the highest god.”
“Pharaoh is the highest god, descendent of Ra, creator of life.” I spouted the creed without hesitation.
“Pharaoh is not the highest god, and Moses will prove it to him.” She stared into my eyes with an unfathomable expression.
Words escaped me. This strange girl had blasphemed Pharaoh without a blink. She could be tied to a pole in the public square and scourged, or worse.
“I know that this is confusing. It goes against everything you have been taught. But I tell you, my friend, it is truth.” She laid her small hand on my arm. “To help you understand I must start from the beginning. Do you want to hear?”
I did. For some inexplicable reason, I thirsted to know more. I gestured for her to continue.
“You see,” she began, “my people, the children of Avraham, Yitzhak, and Yaakov, we are sojourners here in your land. Over four hundred years ago, a prophecy ensured deliverance from our wanderings. We will return one day to our own land.”
Slipping easily into the story of her heritage, she told me how the Hebrews—once a free and proud people—came out of the land of Canaan during a time of famine and were protected by one of their own disguised as an overseer of Egypt, second in command to Pharaoh himself.
Preposterous. No pharaoh would allow Hebrews to hold such power.
“The Pharaoh invited our people to live in Egypt and gave us fertile land to settle in and raise herds. Elohim blessed us and we prospered.” Shira’s eyes shone with a fearsome hope. She was intelligent, witty, and wise—well beyond her years. My perception of Shira tilted, and then shifted. This was no ordinary slave girl.
“How did you become slaves?”
“After many years, a new Pharaoh rose to power who did not know our forefathers and did not respect the invitation given by the former rulers of Egypt. Our numbers multiplied. He feared an uprising, so he enslaved us.”
“How did Pharaoh enslave such a numerous people? Why didn’t you rise up, as he feared?” It seemed my opinion of Pharaoh had shifted as well.
“He began very slowly. First he offered loans and burdened them with heavy taxation. Then he allowed the people to sell themselves into indentured servitude to pay those tax debts. Deceived into volunteering for work crews to prove their loyalty to Egypt, many stepped willingly into shackles. After a few years, volunteering turned into forcible conscription, and within a decade he had enslaved the entire Hebrew population.”
“They sold themselves into slavery,” I whispered, not wanting to interrup
t her story.
She nodded and released a heavy sigh. “Our men serve on the work crews, making bricks, digging canals, building the huge store cities of the Delta, building palaces, fortresses, and of course, monuments for the Pharaoh. Our women do what they can to help: bringing food and water to the men, working linen and weaving baskets, or serving Egyptians in their homes and businesses, as I do.”
Forced, like me, into slavery and daily humiliation. However, I endured only personal shame and pain, whereas Pharaoh had enslaved their entire race. I leaned back on my palms and watched a lone high cloud meander across the barren sky.
“They subjugated us in every way. Except one.” Shira’s voice grew strong as the brilliant sun rose behind her. “Our families. Our numbers grew rapidly. The harder Pharaoh and the Egyptian people worked us, the larger our families grew. They hoped to break our spirit, but instead, they made us more resilient.” The ferocity of her words startled me. “We are bound to one another through our covenant with Elohim. He preserved us . . . prospered us in spite of Pharaoh’s oppression and the faithlessness of many.”
Disembodied voices, of fishermen casting nets far downstream, echoed across the water.
“We should hurry. It won’t be long before others come to wash.” She bent to fill her jar with sweet, clean water.
“If your God is preserving your people, then why are you still enslaved?” I attempted, without success, to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
Shira winked. “I am getting to that.”
“About eighty years ago . . .” Her voice dropped into a sorrowful tone. “Pharaoh made a law that all Hebrew male babies were to be exterminated. The guild of midwives was ordered to kill the little ones while their mothers still stood on the birthing bricks.”
I stared at her. I must have misunderstood. In Egypt, children were highly valued and cherished—pampered even. I could not imagine anyone, let alone Pharaoh, the son of the creator-god, insisting on the destruction of thousands of healthy infants.
Shira said that many of the midwives complied out of fear for their own lives. Thousands of infants were exposed to the elements. However, many midwives refused to take the lives of the Hebrew babies, among them, two leaders of the midwives’ guild, Shifrah and Puah.
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