Zipporah, Wife of Moses

by Marek Halter

  “We’re going to tell Father what happened at the well. He’s sure to want to see the Egyptian. When he sends for him, the stranger won’t be able to refuse. He’ll be obliged to come to the domain.”

  “No!” Zipporah’s tone was so peremptory that her startled sisters stopped in their tracks, letting the sheep carry on alone. “We mustn’t say anything,” she went on, less abruptly.

  “Why not?” Sefoba asked, softly.

  “Father will want to punish Houssenek’s sons. There’s no point.”

  Orma burst out laughing. “I should think there is! They ought to be beaten, whipped, left to fry in the sun without water!”

  “They deserve a lesson, that’s for sure,” Sefoba agreed.

  “They’ve had their lesson,” Zipporah insisted. “The eldest may already be dead. They wanted to show off how strong they are, and they met someone stronger than them. What’s the point of making them angrier and letting their cries and their plans for revenge poison our pastures?”

  “There goes Zipporah thinking she’s our father again!” Orma sniggered. She threw her veil back over her shoulder and set off again, swinging her hips. “I don’t care about Houssenek and his sons. It’s the Egyptian who interests me. I’m going to tell Father about him as soon as we get home!”

  “Are you that stupid?” Zipporah’s voice snapped in the hot air.

  Sefoba looked at her, startled by her tone.

  Zipporah strode up to Orma. “The stranger said no! You heard him as well as I did, didn’t you? Don’t his words mean anything to you? Can’t you respect his wishes?”

  “His wishes?” Orma repeated, glancing at Sefoba for help. “What do you know of his wishes? He was embarrassed, that’s all. He doesn’t speak our language well.”

  “He speaks it well enough to say yes or no. He knows the difference.”

  “You didn’t even thank him. Not a word!”

  “What of it?”

  “That wasn’t good. Because of you, we owe him—”

  “I know perfectly well what I owe him. I was the one Houssenek’s son attacked, don’t forget.”

  “Father must thank him.”

  “He will do so when he must. I promise you.”

  “He . . . Oh, Sefoba, say something!”

  “What can I say?” Sefoba sighed. “Zipporah’s right: He said no!”

  “His eyes told me the opposite. I know better than you two what a man’s eyes say.”

  “Orma, listen to me!”

  “There’s no point. I’ve heard you. And I say this: I’ll speak to Father, because nobody can stop me, not even you.”

  Zipporah gripped Orma’s wrists and squeezed them hard, forcing her to look her in the face. “Yes, the man saved my honor. He may even have saved my life. I know as well as you do what I owe him. But I also know that he doesn’t want anyone making a fuss over him. He can’t speak our language well; he’s afraid of the words he speaks. He wants to stay in the shadows. Didn’t you see the way he rushed off just now? There’s only one way to thank him for his help, and that’s to respect his wishes and leave him alone. Can’t you understand that?”

  As always when Zipporah lost her temper, she started to sound like Jethro. Orma pursed her lips and lowered her eyes.

  “Why don’t we just give him time to change his mind?” Zipporah went on, more calmly now, as if speaking to a stubborn child. “Orma, please give him time! He won’t forget your beauty. What man could?”

  The flattery made Orma curl her lips. “What do you know? You always think you know everything, but what do you know?”

  Sefoba approached and put her arms around her sister’s waist. “Come on, now, let’s not quarrel! Your prince won’t fly away. We’ll see tomorrow.”

  Orma pushed her hands away. “You always think Zipporah’s right.”

  “In any case,” Sefoba insisted, “what would you do with the stranger tonight? You’re going to be very busy. Remember, Reba will be there.”

  “Oh, him . . .”

  “’Oh, him’! Yes, him. He’s just crossed the desert and he’s thirsty for your beauty.”

  “I’m already bored with him.”

  “We’ll see.”

  The Gold Bracelets

  Jethro’s domain resembled a small fortress. It was an enclosure a thousand cubits long containing some twenty flat-roofed houses of clay bricks, the backs of which formed the outer wall. There was only one opening, a heavy acacia door with bronze fittings that was kept open from dawn to dusk so that approaching travelers could be seen from a distance.

  The doors and windows of the houses, painted blue, yellow, and red, looked out on a courtyard of beaten earth, where the servants would bustle about among the camels, mules, and asses on which Jethro’s visitors had arrived, depending on their wealth and rank. Whether men of power or of lowly status, they came from far and wide, from throughout the five kingdoms that comprised Midian, to ask counsel and justice of the sage Jethro. He would receive them on a platform that had been erected at the end of the courtyard, just in front of his room, beneath a vast canopy of sycamore beams over which the foliage of a precious vine had been placed to provide shade.

  In honor of young Reba, the platform had been covered with magnificent purple rugs, brought at great cost from Canaan. Cushions embroidered in gold had been placed around enormous brass-covered olive-wood platters, piled high with grilled mutton stuffed with aubergines, marrows, and little leeks and decorated with terebinth flowers. The jars were full of wine and beer, and bronze bowls studded with azurites overflowed with fruit.

  Musicians and dancers in multicolored tunics were waiting impatiently on a nearby platform, which had been erected for the occasion. The intermittent crash of cymbals and jingling of little bells increased tenfold the excitement already prevailing in the house.

  So far, the evening had gone as Sefoba had predicted. But Zipporah remained on the alert. Orma might well prove incapable of holding her tongue. Fortunately, the presence of the king of Sheba’s son and the opulence with which he was surrounded captured all her attention.

  Reba arrived on a white she-camel, followed by a troop of servants. On the ground, they unrolled a magnificent Damascus carpet purchased off a caravan from Akkad, and there he sat down before Jethro. After the customary greetings and the thanks to Horeb for the journey, which had passed without incident, he presented the old sage with a gift: cages full of pigeons and doves. Then a cedar chest, inlaid with bronze, was placed before Orma and opened, to reveal a fabulous length of fabric. The handmaids unfolded it. As they did so, it floated in the air like smoke, displaying all the colors of the universe. The fabric was passed from hand to hand, everyone getting a chance to feel how extraordinarily fine it was. At last, it reached Zipporah, who weighed its almost imperceptible touch on her palm.

  “Is it from Egypt?” Orma asked at that moment.

  Zipporah held her breath. Reba, pleased with the reactions to his gift, paused to drink some cool wine. No, he replied, in fact this marvel had been woven somewhere far to the east—not by women, so they said, but by men.

  Egypt was forgotten. The lump in Zipporah’s throat vanished.

  Reba’s gift was so dazzling, had cost so much—perhaps an entire herd of beautiful white she-camels?—and had required so much effort to be brought here and spread at Orma’s feet that for once Orma’s resolve seemed shaken. She did what her father and sisters had so long been hoping she would: She came and knelt on the carpet before Reba.

  Her hands crossed over her chest, which was rising and falling in excitement, she bowed. “Welcome to my father’s house, Reba. I am glad you have come. You are a man after my own heart. May Horeb watch over your destiny and keep his wrath from you.”

  Reba’s face was radiant. Jethro, most unusually, blushed with emotion. Zipporah looked at Sefoba, who winked in return. Was this evening to be blessed among all others? Tomorrow, at last, Reba could ask for the hand of the most beautiful of Jethro’s daughters without
fearing ridicule.

  But, much to the anxiety of his hosts, when the feast began Reba paid little attention to Orma, seeming far more excited by the music and his conversation with Jethro. Everyone wondered if he was merely playing a game or was still being cautious.

  As the jars of beer emptied, the feast became noisier and merrier. The naphtha torches were sputtering when Sefoba began to dance in front of the women, who, like her, had been waiting long moons for their husbands to return. It was a signal. Orma gestured to a group of young handmaids, who now came and danced before Reba. Jethro stopped talking and watched, with a smile on his face.

  When Reba’s attention was sufficiently captured by the dancers, Orma appeared in their midst.

  In the light of the torches everyone could see that she was no longer wearing her tunic, but had wrapped herself in the magnificent length of fabric Reba had given her. Held together with brooches, it covered her from the top of her torso to her feet, leaving only her shoulders, neck, and arms bare. It both clung to her body and surrounded her with a moving aura. As she began to dance, the necklaces and bracelets on her gorgeous skin jangled in time to the music.

  Jethro raised his hand, as if he were about to reprimand Orma and order her to withdraw. But then he put his hand back on his knee and turned away with a somewhat exaggerated casualness, a wicked gleam in his eyes. Like the others, he had seen Reba’s mouth open—and stay open.

  Zipporah had been waiting impatiently for this moment. Nobody was paying her any heed. A shadow in the shadows, she moved away from the circle around the dance.

  She crept into the lean-to that was used as a kitchen. Apart from two little girls sleeping next to a basket of figs, the handmaids had deserted it to join in the celebrations. Zipporah unearthed one of the saddlebags used for carrying provisions on the backs of asses and mules. It was a large sack of thickly woven unbleached linen, with two pockets. In the darkness, occasionally lit by the flames from the ovens, she filled it with all the food she could find: cooked meats, cornmeal, loaves of barley bread, watermelons, many dates, figs, almonds, medlars—as much as the packsaddle could take and her shoulders could carry.

  Bending under the weight, she left the kitchen and went and hid the saddlebag near the door to the domain, which had, as usual, been closed for the night.

  She crouched, and rested for a moment. From the courtyard came the trilling of the flutes, the rolling of the drums, and the tinkling of the dancers’ ankle bells. From time to time, laughter pierced the air. Clearly, nobody cared that she had gone. Zipporah plunged farther into the darkness, creeping as far as Jethro’s storeroom. Carefully, she pulled out the heavy bar blocking the door. Groping her way, she found a jar of beer, carried it out, and hid it next to the sack.

  By the time she returned, Orma had stopped dancing, and now sat on a pile of cushions facing Reba, leaning forward, listening to the words he was whispering to her. A few steps away, two old nurses were sleeping in each other’s arms, having long given up their supervision.

  Sefoba had disappeared. Much to the delight of Reba’s men, only the youngest of the handmaids, taking advantage of what was left of the celebration and the stamina of the musicians, were still dancing tirelessly. Jethro’s noble head was nodding, clearly weighted down with the effects of alcohol. Zipporah slipped her arm under her father’s shoulders, kissed his cheek to wake him a little, and helped him to his feet. “It’s time for bed, Father. Lean on me.”

  “My little girl!” Jethro murmured in gratitude.

  He let himself be led to his bed. As Zipporah was pulling the blanket over his chest, he caught her by the hand.

  “It’s not the wine,” he muttered.

  “Not the wine?” Zipporah repeated, not understanding.

  “No, no . . .”

  “I think it is. In fact, I think you had a lot of wine . . .”

  “No, no!” He waved his hand and grimaced. “Are they still talking?”

  This time, Zipporah had no difficulty in understanding. “Reba seems to have become a bottomless well of words! And, for once, Orma doesn’t seem to be tiring of it.”

  Jethro closed his eyes and began to laugh softly, his old face as relaxed as a child’s. “So much effort to make a silly, beautiful girl marry a rich, powerful, handsome man!”

  Zipporah laughed, too. “But he isn’t silly! That fabric from the East was a brilliant ploy! This time, my little sister isn’t finding it so easy to resist. How could she? Has anyone ever seen such splendor?”

  Jethro muttered some inaudible words and groped for her hand. “May Horeb hear you, my child.”

  Zipporah bent down to kiss his forehead.

  When she got to her feet, he abruptly sat up. “Zipporah . . .”

  “Father?”

  “The hour will come when you, too, will learn what awaits you in the future! I know it. I know it. With my reason and my heart. You will be happy, daughter, I promise you.”

  Zipporah’s lips trembled. Jethro collapsed back on his cushions and began to snore. Zipporah stroked his brow. “Perhaps,” she murmured.

  As she crossed the courtyard, thoughts and images danced in her head, more wildly than the young handmaids. She still had to endure the torture of waiting.

  Thinking of what would happen when Orma returned in the night, how she would talk endlessly about what Reba had whispered to her, Zipporah decided not to sleep in the room they shared. She removed one of her blankets and went and lay down on the straw next to the saddlebag.

  The music seemed to go on forever. She looked up at the blinding stars, searching with difficulty for those areas of total darkness where, it was said, Horeb might be watching.

  SHE was up before dawn. She crept silently to the pen and untethered a mule.

  Some young boys, from among both Jethro’s and Reba’s servants, were sleeping on top of straw baskets not far from the animals. They, too, had been at the celebration, and were snoring peacefully. The mule snorted when Zipporah slipped the saddlebag over its back, but even that did not wake them. She attached the jar of beer with a leather strap. Carefully closing the door behind her, she set off without hesitation on the road to the sea.

  When Moses, at the well of Irmna, had pointed to the seashore and stated that he did not need a tent, Zipporah had guessed the place where he had taken refuge. Wind and time—and men, too—had hollowed a large number of caves in the cliffs overlooking the beach. The caves were occasionally used by fishermen, who would rest in them before setting out to sea. Zipporah herself, when she was only a child, had hidden there after a reprimand from Jethro. She had no doubt it was where she would find the stranger.

  But once she reached the escarpment overlooking the sea, she realized that it would be less easy than she had foreseen. The cliff stretched farther than the eye could see and, in places, the caves could be numbered in their dozens. Besides, from where she was standing, they were not easy to locate, and she could not venture with the mule on the narrow paths that led down the side of the cliff.

  Tying the animal to a bush, she set off at a run along the first path she found, then along a second one a little farther on. What had seemed to her so easy proved to be almost impossible.

  The sun was quickly rising. The shadows were retreating. Zipporah began to have doubts. She thought about her father and Orma. She had supposed she would be back by midmorning, without anyone having noticed her absence, since, after the night’s feasting, everyone would be getting up late. Now time was passing rapidly. Should she turn back?

  She should. She knew it. But to have come this far for nothing!

  She suddenly remembered another path, wider and less steep, which the fishermen used to carry wood down to the shore for building boats. The mule would be able to pass, and, once she got down to the beach, she would have a view of all the cave entrances. Moses might see her, too . . .

  That was what she called him now, to herself: Moses!

  Since she had left Jethro’s house, she no longer though
t of him as the stranger. He was Moses.

  What she was doing was madness. She had never behaved this way before—it was quite unlike her. It was as if she were no longer responsible for her own actions, as if something were impelling her onward.

  She hurried on, nervously lashing the mule’s back with the rope. Then she abruptly came to a standstill.

  Down below, about ten cubits from the shore, up to his waist in the water, a man was standing.

  He was only a silhouette, too far away for her to make out his face. But she could see his hair glinting in the sun.

  After a long hesitation, he cast a small net. From the way he swung his shoulders and arms, she was certain: It was Moses.

  He was fishing. He pulled in the net, folded it carefully, hung it over his arm, and waited, perfectly motionless, then cast it again, with a quick, broad gesture.

  Zipporah saw a fish flashing silver in the dark net. Moses emerged from the water and threw his catch onto the shingle, where the waves could not reach it. The beach, at this point, was a narrow strip of pink and ocher shingle set against the vivid blue of the sea, which glowed like a huge jewel.

  The heat was becoming ever-more intense and stifling. Zipporah had to take deep breaths. An image from her dream came into her mind: the moment when the boat had moved away from the shore, and she had felt the cool sea spray on her brow and cheeks.

  For a moment, it seemed to her that the happiest thing in the world would be to be down there, by Moses’ side, while he turned in the water, seeking another spot from which to fish.

  Apparently, Moses was perfectly capable of feeding himself. The food she had brought with her would not be as indispensable as she had thought.

  Wouldn’t he mock her?

  During the night, Zipporah had chosen the words she wanted to say to him. Now, she had lost any desire to speak.