By the Waters of Kadesh (Journey to Canaan)

by Carole Towriss

  Tirzah dried the pan in which she’d cooked the manna cakes and set it near the fire pit.

  “More milk?” she asked, holding up the skin.

  “Me, Imma.” Keren held out her cup, and Tirzah filled it.

  “Ahmose? Naomi?” When no one answered, she replaced the skin in its hole just under the tent and covered it with sand.

  “I’m going to milk Sarah and check on Benjamin, and then we can go to the river. Stay here with Ahmose.” She raised her eyebrows at the girls until they nodded.

  Tirzah strolled to the spring on the south side of camp. The stares and whispers didn’t bother her this time. She thought of Kamose. Nothing could ever happen with him; she just enjoyed thinking about him. He treated her well, better than anyone had ever treated her in her life. No man—not her stepfather, not her husband, not her brothers—had made her feel as special, as important, as Kamose did, with only a look.

  As she neared the spring, huge, black birds circled lazily above the herds. A twinge of uneasiness washed over her, but she dismissed it. There were thousands of animals. Only one Benjamin.

  She found Sarah by the water’s edge and led her away to more level ground before filling the goatskin with her milk. Draping the heavy bag over her shoulder by its cord, she made her way through the rest of the sheep and goats, toward the donkeys grouped together at one end. She looked for Benjamin’s graying ears. Where was he? He was so old. If he could just make it to Canaan, he would never have to work again. Had something happened? No, that was a foolish thought. He was fine.

  A loud braying nearby caused her to release her breath. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. That had to be Benjamin. She marched toward the sound, shoving past other donkeys and foals, stumbling over brush. Birds skittered about her feet.

  She found the source of the noise, and her heart sank. It was not Benjamin. The braying animal continued to call, and other donkeys faced the same direction. She turned to look toward whatever drew their attention. Something was happening, something unusual. Something bad? And where was her dear Benjamin? She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and placed one foot in front of the other.

  She pushed aside one last donkey. On the ground, covered with carrion birds, an animal lay splayed. Her heart nearly stopped beating; her legs buckled. She grabbed onto a jenny next to her to keep from falling.

  Maybe it wasn’t Benjamin. There was still a chance. She couldn’t tell for sure; the birds wouldn’t move out of the way. “Shoo! Move!” She clapped and waved her hands over the body, and the birds fluttered away.

  Her pulse pounded in her ears and her breathing quickened. Her treasured Benjamin lay stiff before her, eyes open but unseeing. She fell to her knees as tears blurred her vision. She covered her face with her hands, then dug them into her hair, pressed the heels of her palms into her temples. What would she do without him? He always had a cheery nuzzle for her, no matter how hard the day. He had served her for so many years and never asked for more than a little food and water. Now what? How could she walk and carry everything? And the girls—they could never walk all day without riding on his back.

  “Oh, my poor Benjamin.” She rocked and cried, and after a moment lowered her hands. “Sweet Benjamin.” She reached toward him, hovered her hand over his side, couldn’t bring herself to touch him. Would he be cold, stiff? She didn’t want to know. Bringing her hand back toward his head, she noticed his neck. She leaned in. A long, bloody slash ran from under his jawbone down to the bottom of his neck.

  The bright red of the wound disappeared in her hazy vision. Because all she saw was a lifeless friend—an animal, but the truest friend she’d ever had, nonetheless.

  Who would kill Benjamin? Or any donkey? Her stomach rebelled and her throat constricted, and her food threatened to come up. She forced it down. She jumped up and raced back toward camp.

  She ran, the world around her spinning. She fell into the hot sand. She pushed herself up and fell again. What would she do when she got back to camp? How would she tell the girls? She had no idea.

  There was only one thing she could think of to make this any better.

  Kamose.

  Ahmose was playing with the girls when Kamose strolled up to Tirzah’s tent. Kamose sat on the sand and crossed his legs.

  Naomi padded over, kissed his cheek, and dropped into his lap.

  The same warm feeling that filled him the first time he held her returned. He placed a kiss on her head.

  He glanced up and saw Tirzah running into camp. Why was she running? He set Naomi beside him and stood, but the beautiful, strong woman he expected was nowhere in sight.

  Instead, tears flowed down her cheeks, she stumbled, and blood and dirt covered the bottom of her tunic. His stomach tightened and his pulse sped up as he searched for a wound. Please, don’t let her be hurt. No blood was flowing, only the stains on the fabric. That meant the injury was probably someone else’s. Thank Yahweh.

  But what could make her so upset? Her girls were obviously safe. She was close to no one else that he knew of.

  She neared the campfire and he jogged to catch her. She faltered again and fell into his arms. “Be- Be- Ben …” Her words dissolved into sobs as she slumped to the ground.

  He slid down with her and wrapped her in his arms. Her hot tears stung his bare skin. She struggled to catch her breath. His world narrowed to only her. All he wanted was to erase her pain.

  His training kicked in. The more distraught she became, the more his thinking cleared. He breathed evenly. His pulse slowed.

  He looked to Ahmose.

  The boy pointed toward the spring. “She went to check on her donkey.”

  The donkey? Benjamin. He pulled her face up to his. “Did something happen to Benjamin?”

  “S- Someone killed him.” She sobbed again. The pain in her eyes pierced his heart like an arrow. He glanced at the girls, their eyes wide, clinging to Ahmose. They didn’t need to see their mother like this. “Ahmose, take the girls to our camp and send Meri back.”

  Ahmose nodded. “Yes, Uncle.” He grabbed the girls’ hands and hurried away.

  “Are you sure he was killed? Are you sure he didn’t just die?” That animal was ancient. He probably just died of old age.

  “No!” She pounded her fist on his chest. “His throat was slit. Someone ki- killed him. Why? Why would someone ki …” Her words became unintelligible.

  She had to be mistaken. Then again, she did have blood on her.

  Kamose stroked her head and rubbed circles on her back while he waited for Meri. Her convulsions slowed, and she relaxed against him. He held her close and figured out what to do next. What could he do to ease her pain? He could think of nothing. So he just held her.

  When Meri came, he transferred an exhausted and silent Tirzah into her arms. “I’ll be back,” he whispered.

  He raced to the spring. He soon found Benjamin, lying near the water, throat wide open as Tirzah said. He removed his shenti, leaving on only his loincloth, then slid one arm under the animal’s neck, and the other under its flank, and carried the corpse to the other side of the spring, beyond a small rise.

  He lay Benjamin down and took off his sandal to use it as a shovel. As he dug in the soft sand, he tried to think who would want to kill a donkey. It took quite a while to dig a grave big enough for a donkey. Time enough for him to come up with, and discard, a number of theories. The only reason that remained was to hurt Tirzah.

  He finished burying Benjamin, added rocks to deter wild animals, and walked back to the spring. He was covered with blood and sank into the cool water to wash. According to the law, he was now ceremonially unclean, which meant he had to stay outside of camp until sundown.

  Staying away all day while Tirzah mourned had nearly killed him. He sat on an outcropping studying the sun, willing it to drop faster. Planning ways to slowly, painfully kill whoever had caused her such pain. He hadn’t wanted to take vengeance this badly since Michael had killed Bezalel’s grandf
ather at the battle over the golden calf at Sinai.

  He’d seen thousands of men die, but this was only the second time he’d seen someone kill just to cause someone else emotional pain. The first time was bad enough. This time was even worse. It was a very good thing he had to stay away for almost an entire day. Gave him a chance to calm down before he did something he’d regret for the rest of his life.

  The moment the sun dropped behind the mountains to the west, Kamose returned to camp. He paused at Tirzah’s tent, fingering the closed flaps. With no air, it must be stuffy inside. “Meri,” he called in a low voice.

  Meri crawled out. “She’s sleeping,” she whispered. She took Kamose’s arm and led him to the other side of the fire pit. “She’s scared, and angry, and terribly sad. She finally stopped crying and fell asleep. The twins are at our tent with Ahmose and Bezalel.”

  “She was right. Someone slit Benjamin’s throat.”

  “Her brother-in-law came by. He became very upset when I wouldn’t let him see her. But Tirzah seemed afraid of him.”

  “Nathaniel?”

  “I think that was his name. Not too tall?”

  “That’s him. I’m going to see him. I don’t trust him.” He walked the few tents down to Nathaniel’s. “Nathaniel. Come out.”

  Nathaniel stuck his head out. “Why?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “What do you want?” Nathaniel exited his tent.

  “I want you to leave Tirzah alone.”

  “I don’t want to, and I don’t have to. Gaddiel doesn’t want her. I do. It’s my right—my duty—to claim her. You have no rights, Egyptian. In fact, I want you to leave her alone.”

  Kamose eyed the brother-in-law, the man who intended to force Tirzah into a life she did not desire. But there was nothing he could do about the possibility that the woman he was falling desperately in love with—and her daughters—would be at this man’s mercy every day of her life.

  Nathaniel stood smugly, as if he held a secret. He had his arms crossed, tapping his foot, waiting for Kamose to yield, something Kamose had no intention of doing one moment before it was absolutely necessary.

  Then he saw the blood on Nathaniel’s sandals. Why would he have blood on his feet? Kamose smiled. “Nathaniel, what have you been doing today?”

  “What business is it of yours, Egyptian?”

  “You have blood on your shoes.”

  Nathaniel’s features did not change, but his face blanched. He didn’t look down, which meant he knew the blood was there, or at least it was possible. He didn’t deny it.

  “Perhaps we should check your tent for a bloody knife.”

  Nathaniel stepped back. “You can’t come into my tent.”

  Kamose moved closer, so close that he was toe to toe with the man he had come to hate with all his being. “Perhaps not. But I can make you bring it out. Do it. Now.”

  “I will not.”

  Kamose grabbed the neck of Nathaniel’s tunic with both hands. It wouldn’t take much to lift the shorter man off his feet, but Kamose restrained himself. Barely. “Either you produce the knife—without any blood—or you release Tirzah and tell Moses she is free to marry anyone she wants.”

  Nathaniel didn’t move, but his voice was weakening. “I will do neither.”

  Kamose lifted the man a hand’s breadth and stared down at him. The Israelite’s ragged breath brushed across his chin. “You will, or I will help you. And it will not be pleasant.” He was nearly shouting. When was the last time he’d shouted? Almost certainly during battle.

  The man remained silent a moment longer.

  Kamose suddenly became aware of many sets of eyes on the two of them. Good. There would be witnesses, and Nathaniel would be forced to keep his word. “I need your answer now. Do I take you inside your tent to discover a bloody knife, or do you go to Moses to tell him you release Tirzah from her obligation to marry you?” He made sure everyone could hear Nathaniel’s choices.

  “I will talk to Moses.” His voice was barely a squeak.

  Kamose dropped the man. “If I hear differently by the time the sun comes up tomorrow, I will come looking for you.”

  Nathaniel nodded.

  Kamose delighted at the fear in his eyes.

  He had nearly lost control. He didn’t care.

  Nathaniel would never harm Tirzah again.

  Nine

  13 Tammuz

  Following the wide river, the band of spies stayed to the west. Gaddiel’s ankles ached; walking on this rocky plain was difficult and his sandals had slipped many times. He longed for the grassy fields to the south. Even the desert, though worse in every other respect, was easier to walk on than these rocks.

  The river widened to a deep blue lake, bluer than the Nile. Standing on a hill, Gaddiel and the others could see across to the other side. Steep mountains dropped nearly straight down, almost to the water’s edge.

  Palti let out a deep breath. “I’ve never seen water so blue. It’s incredible.”

  Sethur nodded. “It’s beautiful.”

  Beauty was irrelevant. “It’s about time. I could use some fresh water. And a good wash.” Rocks skittered as Gaddiel started down the gentle, rocky slope to the lake.

  After a refreshing swim and a somewhat less than comfortable rest on the rocks, the group followed the shore northwest for half a day until the end of the lake was visible. The water lapped on the shore, and a light breeze blew down from the mountains in the northeast.

  Gaddiel tossed his pack on the rocks, crossed the beach, and stepped into the lake. The rippling water cooled his feet, and he knelt and scooped a handful into his mouth. He threw more over his head, allowing the soothing liquid to caress the muscles in his neck and back.

  He waded farther into the deep blue of the lake. Tiny silvery fish darted about his feet. He removed his lightweight thawb and pulled it through the water, catching a few. Holding it up, he allowed the liquid to drain through the fabric while the fish fluttered wildly.

  “I caught some fish!” He laughed, holding up the garment of food.

  Sethur waded into the water with him and lowered his own thawb. When he raised his cloak full of flapping fish, he taunted Gaddiel. “I’ve got twice as much as you. Did you even tr—” He fixed his gaze on the sky to the northeast, mouth hung open.

  Ominous, heavy clouds dumped rain, and winds charged down the slopes. Dry gulleys flooded and rushed to the lake.

  Gaddiel stood transfixed. Boats pitched on the water, embattled between winds coming from northeast and west. Seamen lowered their sails and rowed furiously toward shore.

  “Where did that come from?” Gaddiel shouted over the wind, which raged and gusted into his face. Rain pounded his skin so hard it stung. His hair whipped around and struck him. He held his arms in front of his head to block the storm, but it did little good. He looked back to see the rest of the group.

  Palm trees bent nearly sideways under the wind, and leaves and twigs, ripped from branches, flew in circles. He abandoned his fish on the rocks at his feet and watched helplessly as the squall carried his thawb down the beach.

  Sethur grabbed him and dragged him back toward the others. Gaddiel struggled to keep his balance as the west wind pushed him backward and the north wind shoved him sideways.

  They ducked behind trees, hugging the trunks. The trees kept the deadly brunt of the waves from their faces, but they were still soaked as lake water washed over them repeatedly. Debris from the lake, weighty branches and even dead fish smacked their arms as they hugged the palms that stood between them and the raging waves.

  Gaddiel’s wet clothes stuck to his skin and made him shiver. He held tightly to the tree, burrowing his fingers into the bark. The rough surface pierced his cheek and scratched his arms. Sand covered his feet as he fought to gain solid footing.

  The rushing wind moaned on its ride down the mountains, through the trees, up the slopes, and out of the depression of the lake. Gaddiel closed his eyes. How long wou
ld this last? Would he be able to hold on long enough?

  After what felt like an eternity the winds subsided. Gaddiel peeked out from behind the tree. The palms stretched themselves back to their full height. The lake was as still and waveless as before. Boats raised their sails, threw out nets. Sailors rowed back to deeper waters.

  As if nothing had happened!

  From the position of the sun he could see the storm had lasted less than an hour. One of the longest hours Gaddiel had ever lived. First giants, now raging lakes. What else could this land possibly hold?

  Kamose sat at the fire with only Ahmose for company. Bezalel and Meri had taken a fussy Adi to bed early. Rebekah was with a young mother who had just given birth.

  The crackling and popping of the fire soothed Kamose’s mind, at least a little. Why hadn’t Tirzah joined them for dinner? He knew Moses had informed her that Nathaniel had released her. Was she angry with Kamose for stepping in? Had he gone too far? Did she resent his help? Yes, she was strong, but did she really want to handle everything by herself?

  “Uncle Kamose?”

  “Yes, habibi?”

  “How long have the spies been gone now?” Ahmose poured some goat milk into two cups and offered one to Kamose.

  Kamose accepted the drink but set it in the sand beside him. “Almost two weeks.”

  “Have you ever been to Canaan?”

  “No. Egypt has a peace treaty with Canaan now. Her armies have not fought there since before I was born, when Ramses was a very young man.”

  “Ramses young?” Ahmose made a face, probably trying to imagine the old king as a young ruler.

  Kamose chuckled and mussed the boy’s hair.

  Ahmose scooted closer to Kamose. “What do you think the spies will find?”

  Kamose wrapped his arm around his nephew’s shoulders. “Nothing Yahweh cannot conquer.” At the moment he was far more concerned about the next few days, not what the scouts might encounter in Canaan. Had he misread everything? Taken on a task that was not his? Stepped into a place not meant for him? Should he have remained a soldier with no war to fight, instead of hoping for a life he had no business wishing for? He’d obviously made a mess of things trying to live in her world. Perhaps he should back away while he still could.