Zipporah, Wife of Moses

by Marek Halter

  One afternoon, as she was encouraging Gershom’s first faltering steps, Sefoba joined her, all smiles. Zipporah got quickly to her feet, ready to receive the good news. But the words she heard were not those she had been hoping for. The reason for Sefoba’s joy was something quite different: She, too, was pregnant at last.

  “I’ve waited so long,” she laughed. “And believe me, I haven’t just waited. But nothing happened, while you . . .” Sefoba lifted Gershom and smothered him with kisses. “I don’t mind telling you now, all this time I was afraid I was sterile, like Abraham’s wife!”

  She was jubilant, but Zipporah could not muster the strength to share her joy. Her own disappointment was too great. She clutched at Sefoba’s shoulders like a drowning woman and burst into tears.

  The next morning, as she was going out as usual to look at the summit of the mountain, Hobab came to her side. “The sky has never been so clear since Moses left,” he remarked, in a puzzled tone.

  They both remained silent for a moment.

  “Where can he possibly be?” Hobab murmured. He pointed at the mountain, a thin smile on his lips, the same smile he had had when they had shared their chores and their games as children. “You watch the summit and I the slopes. If he ever makes a fire, we may be lucky enough to see the smoke.”

  “He won’t make a fire,” Zipporah replied, a haggard look on her face. “Even here, he never made one outside his tent if it wasn’t made for him.”

  Hobab gave her a pained look, as if he resented the slightest criticism of Moses by Zipporah.

  She turned to him, eyes bright and lips aquiver. “In any case, he didn’t take anything with him for making a fire. No wood, and no stones either, I’m sure of that.”

  Hobab put his arm around her shoulders. “There are mouths of fire on the mountain,” he said, calmly. “The fire comes out through faults in the rocks. You just have to throw shrubbery into them and you can keep warm when the nights get too cold.”

  The following morning, Hobab joined her again, and they stood watching the night slowly withdraw from the slopes. He took Zipporah’s hand. “Why don’t you go to our father at Horeb’s altar and help him with the morning offerings?”

  Zipporah assented with a pressure of her fingers.

  Jethro was delighted to see her, but, despite his joy, he was unable to hide his anxiety. Moses had been far too long on the mountain.

  THE whole of spring went by. Summer came, but the heat was still bearable. Not once did Horeb’s mountain rumble, and its summit remained serenely clear. The barley harvest was the best in many years, the flocks were not affected by illness, and the caravans, which now passed more regularly on the road to Epha, came back rich from their sales of incense in Egypt. The merchants bought everything the armorers had to sell without counting the cost.

  Although—as they were to remember later—the sky over Midian had never been so radiant, it was as if a dark, invisible cloud pressed down over Jethro’s domain. Laughter was rare, there were no more feasts, and everyone was grim-faced.

  Jethro flew into a violent rage when he discovered that the oldest handmaids had begun to weave mourning garments. He immediately ordered them to be pulled to pieces and burned. But he could not fight thoughts and silences. Who could sensibly believe that Moses was still alive?

  “Would you be able to find his tracks on the mountain?” Zipporah asked Hobab one morning.

  Hobab hesitated. He looked down at Zipporah’s belly, already heavy with child, and sighed. “It would have been easier a while ago. But now? Who knows how far he climbed? He might be on the other side, where there are no springs.”

  “What if he’s injured and unable to return? What if he’s waiting for us to come to his rescue? I’ve spent days and nights imagining him like that.”

  Hobab looked at the mountain for a long time, as if it were an animal lying in his path. He knew what his Cushite sister did not dare say. If Moses had died, whether by accident, or through hunger or thirst, his body would have to be found before it was completely devoured by wild beasts. He nodded. “Yes. It’s time we knew.”

  Seven days later, he returned. What he had to report was distressing.

  At the western end of the mountain, he had found half of Moses’ flock, wandering unattended. Then, over a distance of five hundred cubits, he had seen the faults and ravines strewn with the corpses of the rest of the sheep, eaten by wild animals and birds of prey.

  “The flock must have scattered in all directions, scared and with nobody to stop them.”

  He had continued his ascent, calling Moses’ name until he was hoarse. At twilight, barely halfway up, where the dusty slopes were full of stones, fallen rocks, and thornbushes, he had seen the tent.

  “What remained of it, anyway. The poles were broken and the canvas had been torn to shreds by the wind.”

  Hobab had been unable to go on without risking his own life.

  “Did you see his mule or camel?” Jethro asked.

  “Neither of them.” He knew what his father was thinking. “There’s nothing up there, Father. Not a blade of grass to chew, not the slightest trickle of a spring.”

  Jethro glared at him. “Think again, son. There isn’t nothing up there. There is Horeb!”

  The sage of the kings of Midian could no longer tear himself away from Horeb’s altar. Assisted most often by Zipporah, he performed all the rites scrupulously, making ever-richer offerings. He sacrificed ten of the finest sheep in his flock, two heifers, and a young calf. Hobab, seeing his father squander his wealth on a man who was neither a son nor a brother nor even a husband, did not protest once. Sicheved even gave his father-in-law animals from his own flock to be offered to Horeb in his name.

  Soon, the courtyard and the surrounding pastures were covered with the thick, black, pestilential smoke of burning meat. They all had to go about holding their noses, but nobody complained. Then, in the hottest part of the day, Zipporah felt the first labor pains, and the linen and bricks were prepared.

  The delivery was much quicker than it had been for Gershom. The sun had barely touched the horizon when she let out a final cry. Sefoba, who herself was already big with child, came out into the courtyard and announced that Zipporah had given birth to a boy. But, before the midwife had even cut the cord and placed the baby between Zipporah’s breasts, there rose the sound of cries—cries so violent, so terrible, that all the handmaids who had assisted with the delivery trembled. Zipporah, her body still burning from the effort of labor, sat up with a groan. Sefoba opened the door.

  “He’s back!” a handmaid cried. “He’s back!”

  Zipporah fell back, the barely born child against her mouth. An icy wave went through her body, freezing the sweat on her skin.

  “Moses is back!” Hobab, Sicheved, and the young shepherds yelled all together. “He’s here. He’s alive. Moses! Moses is here, he’s alive.”

  “He came with you,” Zipporah murmured against her child’s little cheek. “Your father came with you.”

  “HIS mule brought him back!” Hobab said, laughing. “It found its way all by itself with him lying on it. It’s not in a much better state than he is—shivering with fever and thirst.”

  “He’s breathing,” Sicheved cried, “but he won’t open his eyes! But it’s unbelievable. How can he possibly be alive? How long is it since he last drank anything?”

  Sefoba was weeping profusely. “You wouldn’t recognize him,” she muttered. “His tunic is in shreds. Oh, Zipporah, he looks as if he’s made of dust! But he’s alive.”

  Jethro’s eyes were bright and his beard shook as he listened to everyone. “Horeb has brought him back to us,” he kept repeating. “I told you.”

  Although her back was still painful from the labor, Zipporah wanted to go to the room where Moses had been laid, but the old handmaid forbade her.

  “Your place is here,” she ordered, putting the freshly swaddled baby down beside her. “Moses is alive. I’m going to see to him now. Trus
t me, be happy, and sleep. You can see your Moses tomorrow.”

  But when, soon after daybreak the next morning, Zipporah went with the child in her arms to see Moses, she had to bite her lips in order not to cry out. Moses had grown so thin that the bones of his temples seemed about to break through the skin. His torso was covered in scratches, his lips were swollen, and here and there his beard and hair had been burned away. There were dark scabs on his arms, and blood and pus oozed from his feet, soaking through the plasters and linen in which they were wrapped. When he breathed, it came out as a sharp, painful whistle, as if his throat were torn.

  Zipporah knelt and placed her hands on his burning brow. Moses shivered. She thought his dark eyelids were about to open, but it was only an effect of the fever.

  “The wounds on his feet and the scratches on his chest aren’t as bad as they look,” the old woman said. “They aren’t deep, and the plasters will heal them soon. What worries me is his thirst. He must take little sips only. He has a bad fever that’s burning his insides and whatever he drinks evaporates too quickly.”

  After a moment’s thought, Zipporah asked for blankets to be brought, undressed, lay down next to Moses, and demanded her child. The old woman refused.

  “Make a broth of herbs and meat,” Zipporah ordered. “Pass it through a sieve and let it cool down.”

  “You’re going to kill him! A man mustn’t touch a woman who’s just given birth!”

  “I’m not going to kill him. My warmth and the warmth of his newborn son will burn away his fever.” The old woman attempted to argue, but Zipporah cut her short. “Do as I say!” she scolded.

  A moment later, the old woman returned with Jethro and Sefoba, grumbling about blasphemy and calling on all the members of the household who had gathered outside the door to be witnesses.

  Jethro silenced her, and Hobab closed the door. In amazement, they looked at the curious spectacle of Zipporah, Moses, and their son forming a solid mass beneath the blankets. Jethro gave a dry little chuckle and narrowed his tired eyes. “Do as Zipporah asks,” he ordered the old handmaid.

  She left, cursing. Sefoba helped Zipporah to soak a clean cloth in cold water from a pitcher, and Zipporah applied it to Moses’ cracked lips. The water went into his mouth, and he swallowed with a little moan. At the same moment, the baby woke up and cried out for his milk. Sefoba wanted to pick him up, but Zipporah stopped her.

  “Leave him. I’ll give him what he wants.”

  Jethro burst out laughing. “Does my Cushite daughter plan to give birth to her husband after her child?”

  IT took Moses four days and four nights to fight the fever and delirium and finally come back to life. In all that time Zipporah did not leave his side, feeding him at the same time as their child, quenching both his thirst and the fires of his memory.

  In the middle of the second night, having dozed off, she was awoken by a pain in her hand. Moses was clutching it, his eyes wide open. An oil lamp was burning in the room, but its light was too weak for Zipporah to see if Moses had really regained consciousness. With her free hand, she made sure that her child had not awoken.

  “They won’t believe me!” Moses growled. “They won’t listen! They’ll say, ‘How dare you speak the name of Yahweh?’” Leaning on his elbow, he pulled so hard on Zipporah’s hand that she fell on top of him with a moan of pain. “They’d believe anyone else!”

  The door creaked open. Zipporah made out the figure of Hobab.

  “He’s woken up! He’s talking!” Hobab whispered, kneeling beside them. “Moses! Moses!”

  But Moses had already released Zipporah’s wrist and fallen back into his feverish sleep.

  Hobab saw her rubbing herself and grimacing. “He’s got his strength back, hasn’t he?” he smiled.

  Zipporah smiled back at him and gently stroked Moses’s brow. He was breathing in rapid little gulps.

  “Tomorrow, he’ll be even better.”

  The child beside her wailed. Zipporah drew his cradle close to her. Hobab smiled again and went back to his place on the bed outside the door.

  Zipporah was right. The next day, Moses was better. He woke fully during the night. Eyes wide open, half-frightened, half-relieved, trying hard to see in the dark, he discovered Zipporah beside him. “Zipporah?”

  “Yes, Moses, it’s me.”

  He touched her, pressed his dry lips to her neck, and embraced her. “I’m back, then!” he stammered.

  Zipporah laughed, tears welling up in her eyes. “What was left of you came back on a mule.”

  “Oh!” He shivered, and Zipporah feared that the fever was returning. “He spoke to me,” he said, gripping her shoulders. “He called me. He made me come to him!”

  Zipporah did not need to ask who he was talking about. She tried to push him away slightly, but he would not let go.

  “I must tell you. He made a fire come out of the mountain. ‘Moses! Moses!’ he called.”

  He was becoming agitated, his mouth and hands shaking. Zipporah placed her fingers on his lips. “Not now. Tell me tomorrow. You need more rest. You need to eat and drink to have the strength to tell me.” To force him to be patient, she put the baby in his arms. “He came out of my womb just as the mule entered the domain with you on its back.”

  Moses finally seemed to calm down. He hesitated for a moment, then raised the child to his lips and nodded. “I’ll give this one his name. He’ll be called Eliezer—’God is my support.’”

  Zipporah laughed, and relief spread through her body like a sudden intoxication. She hugged Moses and the child Eliezer.

  “You were right,” Moses whispered in her ear. “I have to go back to Egypt. I know that now.”

  THE next day was a day such as nobody in Jethro’s household had ever known.

  Zipporah finally left Moses’ bed. His matting and tunic were changed, he was shaved and scented, and at last, just before the sun reached its zenith, everyone was given permission to come and listen to him.

  Jethro was there, sitting on the cushion he had had carried into the room. Hobab and Sicheved were by his side, as was Sefoba, with Gershom on her knees, and Zipporah, cradling Eliezer. Sefoba squeezed Zipporah’s hand. The others, the shepherds and handmaids, both young and old, stood crowded in the doorway, in such a tightly packed group that daylight barely penetrated the room. Moses’ voice was not very loud, and sometimes they had to listen very carefully.

  “The flame appeared twenty paces from me. Real fire! I hadn’t seen fire since the one Zipporah had lit for me beneath the sycamore! I had nothing at that point. My flock was gone, there was no milk left, no dates. I had nothing but the sandals on my feet. But there was the fire! I was so hungry that the only thing I thought of when I saw it was what I could roast on it. It was then that I realized that although the fire was real enough, the thornbush in front of it wasn’t burning. How is this possible? I thought. Have I lost my mind? So I went closer. Yes, the flames were real flames, I saw that with my own eyes. But the bush was untouched. The flames were blue and transparent, and they came directly out of the earth, with a soft rumbling noise.”

  Moses broke off, his eyes lowered. The only sound in the room was his breathing. He lifted his face again and touched his mouth, which still felt painful, with his thumb. His eyes came to rest on Zipporah, who did not flinch. Beside her, Jethro gave a slight nod, a sign of encouragement to continue.

  “The flames were real flames, and I heard the voice. ‘Moses! Moses! Here I am. Don’t come too close! Take off your sandals. This earth is sacred! I am the God of your father, I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob!’”

  Again, Moses fell silent, and this time he stared at those watching him as if the words he had just uttered might cause laughter or shouts. Jethro’s beard shook, and he slapped his thigh with the palm of his hand.

  “So what did you do?” a woman near the door asked impatiently.

  “I covered my eyes,” Moses replied, miming the action. “The flames
may not have been burning the bush, but they were burning my eyes.”

  “Don’t interrupt him!” Jethro grunted. “Let him tell his story. The next person who speaks will have to go.”

  They looked at Jethro reproachfully. But it was true that Moses still seemed quite weak. If his story was as long as his absence had been, he would have to marshal his strength, so they let him continue without further interruption.

  He spoke of the anger that roared in the voice:

  “I have seen the whip falling on the shoulders of my people in Egypt. I have heard them cry out beneath the blows of the slave drivers! I have come down to deliver them. Go, Moses! I am sending you to Pharaoh. Bring my people out of the land of Pharaoh. Bring the children of Israel out of Egypt. I shall deliver them from the hands of the Egyptians and lead them to a good, spacious land, a land flowing with milk and honey! Go, I am sending you to Pharaoh.”

  “If I go to the Hebrew slaves,” a terrified Moses had replied, “and say to them, ‘The God of your fathers has sent me to you,’ they will ask, ‘What is his name?’ What shall I say?”

  “’Ehye asher ehye. I am that I am,’ the voice had replied.”

  “But I was still reluctant,” Moses said. “’They won’t believe me!’ I protested. ‘They won’t listen! They’ll say, “How dare you speak the name of Yahweh?”’”

  “’Yet that is what you will say to the children of Israel,’ the voice had replied.”

  Moses had again objected that he was no great speaker, that he was not very fluent in the language of the sons of Abraham, and that there were certainly Hebrews who were wiser, cleverer, and more confident than he was, and who would be more suited for such an important mission.

  “Why me? Why me?” he had groaned, just as he had when Zipporah kept repeating, “You must return to Egypt, I’ve known it since I saw you in my dream!”

  Then the voice had exploded with anger. “Who gave man a voice? Who makes him deaf or mute, sighted or blind? Who, if not I, Yahweh? Go, now! Go! I shall be your mouth. I shall teach you what you do not know.”