by Angela Hunt
Dawn crested the horizon at that moment, sending light up and over the earth. Mandisa stirred, brushing sand and dirt from her hair and shoulders. Her mouth curved with tenderness as she spoke to the boy, then he helped his mother rise and they walked together to the riverfront.
From his hiding place, Idogbe cursed his ill luck. Even an attentive and devoted mother could not stay beside the boy forever. Like the hovering spirit of Horus the Falcon, Idogbe would remain nearby. And the moment the mother and son parted, he would make his move.
The sun, a dazzling white blur, stood fixed in the wide sky, packing a punch only a lizard could love. Achy and exhausted, Mandisa forced herself to continue putting one foot in front of the other and wondered if she would faint from the heat. She had never realized how cool and sheltered the vizier’s house had been; she had taken the fans, the cool tile and high, breeze-catching windows for granted. Here the proud sun reigned in the white-blue sky, and only the faintest scribbles of clouds deigned to shelter mortals on the land.
As they walked, she considered the jobs she might have to undertake to support herself and Adom. Women in Egypt generally chose one of four professions: they entered the priesthood, trained as midwives or studied to become professional mourners or dancers. Mandisa knew she was long past the agile age of professional dancers, and the priesthood was not a suitable profession for a woman with a child, for she would have to leave Adom for extended periods of time.
Why would she do that for a god she would not serve? She reached out to run her hand over the dark fuzz that had begun to cover Adom’s shaved head. She might have considered joining a priestly order to serve El Shaddai, but He had no temples and no cults in Egypt.
Before Asenath’s death she might have considered midwifery, for she had delighted in assisting at Efrayim’s and Menashe’s births. But with her mind still heavy with the memory of Asenath’s travail, Mandisa did not think she could bear to watch another pregnant woman endure labor. The grievous memories of her beloved mistress were still too fresh.
There remained the profession of mourning. Professional mourners were well paid for their roles in the burials of esteemed men and women, and the work was simple enough—one had merely to weep, wail and tear one’s robe at the appropriate moments. And—a wry frown twisted her face—of late she had experienced enough grief to give a convincing performance. Perhaps God Shaddai had allowed her heart to break so she might be of comfort and service to others in similar situations.
She lifted her head, relieved to have found a workable solution for her situation. Twining tendrils of hope broke through the surface of her despair, and she knew El Shaddai would provide. If she had to beg for a position to grind corn, she would, but no matter what happened, she would remain free. She would not consider selling herself into slavery, nor would she marry because she had no other options. She would never again allow herself to become a man’s possession.
Mandisa let out a long exhalation of relief when she and Adom reached Elephantine shortly after midday. After begging a bit of bread from a compassionate merchant, they slipped aboard a ferry which carried them to the island city. Adom was wide-eyed with wonder as they walked around the bustling settlement, but Mandisa quickly realized that she would not find a place to live within the walled city. The common people lived on the river’s eastern shore and rowed themselves to work for the noble island families. Shortly after dark each night, they returned to their hovels at the river’s edge.
A grizzled fisherman gave them a ride back from the island. When Mandisa and Adom stepped out into the ankle-deep mud, the man gave Mandisa a valuable bit of information. “My sister had a hut about a hundred paces from here,” he said, pointing to the riverbank. “But last month she died of the fever. You and your boy should take the place. No one will bother you.”
Mandisa felt a warm glow flow through her. “Truly?”
“You’ll find the house right on the river,” the old man said, his round face melting into a smile. “There’s a statue of Sebek by the door. My sister believed the strength of the crocodile god would guard the house.”
Yet apparently the god was not strong enough to guard the woman within. Mandisa thanked the man again and took Adom’s arm as they trudged toward the shoreline.
She found the hut exactly where the man had said it would be, one hundred paces from the boat landing and only ten paces from the dike that would restrain the river during the inundation. The small house, built of sun-baked bricks, stood like a welcoming beacon. The door hung aslant from its supports, but Mandisa pulled it open and stepped inside. Since darkness was approaching, she did not look around, but found a quiet corner in which she and Adom could lie down.
As she watched her weary son sleep in the moonlight, Mandisa lifted her gaze to the sky beyond the window and thanked El Shaddai for his provision. In a pouch around her neck she still had a few pieces of fine jewelry, gifts from Lady Asenath. Surely some noble woman of Elephantine would pay dearly to wear earrings or a bracelet once worn by the vizier’s wife.
“We will prosper here,” she whispered, tenderly stroking her son’s bare back. “We will make this house a home, and I will find work in the city beyond. And you will grow strong. There will be nothing here to remind us of hard times, no one to remind us of the past.”
Tears sprang to her eyes but she held them in check, determined not to mourn for what could not be helped. El Shaddai had led her to this place, so she would not look back.
Outside the house, Idogbe chewed the loaf of bread he’d bought from a merchant and grunted, watching the scene before him with ever-increasing delight. Though Mandisa had led him on an irritating journey out to Elephantine and back again, she had made his task easy by taking the empty hut. She would grow confident here, she would send Adom outside to fetch something…and Idogbe would claim his son.
He took another bite, pleased with himself and the world.
“Mother, do I have to stay inside and work? There are boys my age by the river.”
Sighing, Mandisa put down her borrowed broom and walked to the window. Despite the many warnings she’d heard about hungry animals in the river, an army of boys prowled the dike and the riverbanks beyond. They laughed, scampered over the sand and occasionally dipped into the river to splash the heat from their bronzed backs. Her poor son, who’d had only little boys and older men for playmates, desperately wanted to join them.
“All right. But you must not turn your back on the water. Stay with the other boys, find a friend and do not wander far from this hut.”
“Thank you, Mother!”
Adom raced through the doorway and Mandisa bit down hard on her lower lip. He had lived his entire life in the safe shelter of the vizier’s villa; he did not know about rivers, crocodiles or village boys. But, she supposed, watching him scamper toward the other boys, if they were going to live on the Nile, he had to learn.
“Be careful,” she called again.
She stood at the window, watching as he walked up to a circle of boys. As curious and natural as fish, they circled Adom. Mandisa held her breath, fighting momentary panic, but then Adom said something, and within a moment they were all chattering like magpies. She smiled, dismissed her worries and returned to the business of cleaning the house.
Idogbe’s heart lurched when he saw the boy run out of the house…alone. The lad ran to a cluster of river urchins and began talking, a sure sign of a born leader.
Grinning to himself, Idogbe settled down by a tree, in plain view of the boys, but behind the house. He didn’t care if the children saw him. If his son felt at ease, the snatching would be easier…when the time was right.
Mandisa worked hard, humming contentedly to herself. Occasionally she walked over to the neighboring houses to borrow tools and supplies, always promising to repay. Her neighbors, all of whom were farming families hard-hit by the famine, were cheerful and polite, but expressed no interest in where she had come from or what she intended to do.
&nb
sp; Mandisa surmised that many people had been uprooted by the famine. They probably assumed that she would come, remain a while and then move on like so many others.
The modest house would be quite comfortable. Poor families did not have furniture, for wood was scarce and valuable, but two low mud-brick platforms had been built next to the walls to serve as beds. A few dusty baskets had been left in the house, and in one of them Mandisa found a fire drill and a few pieces of tinder she could use to light a lamp. A small brick dome, open at the top, had been built into the front of the house to serve as an oven. Mandisa smiled when she looked at it. She had not cooked in over five years, so Adom might have to suffer through a few experiments before she produced something edible. But for tonight, this first evening in their new home, she had reserved a loaf of lotus bread, provided by Halima’s generous hand.
She looked out the window. Her son stood outside, waving to one lone playmate who was heading home. “Adom, wash your hands in the bucket by the side of the house. It is time to eat.”
“Yes, Mother,” he called, reluctantly dragging his feet through the sand.
Mandisa’s smile broadened. A boy ought to play so hard that he resisted coming in.
One of the neighbors had lent Mandisa a lamp, a sloping, oil-filled bowl filled with twisted rags soaked in tallow. Mandisa lit the rags with a spark from the twirling fire drill, then lifted the bowl to the window sill. Kneeling on the hard floor of packed earth, she unwrapped the lotus loaf and broke the bread into two generous hunks. Her stomach tightened at the sight and scent of the food, and she mentally thanked Halima and God Shaddai for providing it.
She paused, her hands in her lap, waiting for Adom to open the door. When he did not come, she stood and moved to the window, searching the gathering gloom for a sign of her son. She did not see Adom.
She lifted the lamp and moved to the doorway to peer out at the landscape. The children had all gone home for dinner; the aromas of baking bread and boiling stews filled the air. “Adom!” she called, rising on tiptoe. “Adom! Come home!”
No one answered. Holding the lamp in an unsteady hand, she stepped out into the night, trying not to tremble as fearful images rose in her mind.
An hour later she sat alone by a bonfire on the riverbank, still clutching the glowing lamp. Her frantic screams had brought a score of people from their homes. After hearing her few words of explanation, the men lifted their lamps and moved away, the night filling with the soft sound of bare feet moving toward the Nile.
“Crocodile,” one woman said.
“Drowned,” said another.
Mandisa closed her eyes and shivered with fear and fatigue. El Shaddai, where are You now?
The night became a world unto itself. The dark moments passed, one after the other, indistinguishable. Someone built a fire of dry rushes on the riverbank in hope that Adom would see the blaze and find his way home. The flames leaped up and threw the darkness back, but still Adom did not appear. Mandisa stalked the fire in an endless circle until someone forced her to stop.
Now she sat in the fire-tinted darkness, the flames at her left hand, the river at her right. Regrets and questions buzzed in her brain. Why had she let Adom go outside? Why hadn’t she checked on him five minutes earlier? What devilish spirit had possessed her when she decided to leave the safety of Zaphenath-paneah’s house? And where was the vizier’s Almighty God when she needed Him most?
Someone threw a pile of dung fuel into the fire pit and she cringed as a volcano of sparks erupted into the night sky. Fire shadows danced on the silvery waters of the treacherous river. She clenched her fist, hardening her frightened heart behind a barrier of anger.
What had the cursed river done now? By refusing to flood the valley it had attempted to kill the people of Egypt. Since they still lived, had it settled instead for killing one young boy? Why did it choose her innocent son?
Her nails cut into her palm as something stirred in the darkness at her right hand. Even through the fog of apprehension she heard the steady tramp of a horse’s hooves, a muffled greeting, belligerent voices. She did not turn until a dark, powerful figure strode into the circle of firelight and called her name.
She felt a sudden darkness behind her eyes and a chilly dew on her skin. She had to be dreaming, for Shim’on could not be nearby any more than Adom could be gone.
She lowered her head, confused.
“Mandisa, I’ve just heard,” Shim’on said, kneeling beside her. He was real, his flesh-and-blood hand was holding hers. His eyes, when she looked into them, were filled with compassion. “How long has Adom been gone?”
Mandisa tried to find the words. “I—I looked outside, and he was there. I turned, I lit the lamp and called again, and he didn’t answer.”
“At sunset, then.” The line of his mouth tightened a fraction more. “Not so long ago. He can’t have gone far, Mandisa. We’ll find him.”
“He’s gone to the Otherworld.” She pulled her head to her knees and fought against despair. “Adom is dead.”
“No.” Shim’on’s voice broke with huskiness. “I’ve been riding for two days to find and warn you. Idogbe, your husband, knows about the boy. Tarik himself told me that the man appeared at the vizier’s villa. Zaphenath-paneah decreed your marriage was not valid, but Idogbe the Egyptian left swearing that he would find and take his son.”
His words didn’t register in her confused mind. “Idogbe?”
“He has been following you,” Shim’on repeated, grasping her arms. “At every village where I inquired about you and the boy, those who had seen you repeated that another man sought you, too. Don’t you understand? Adom is not dead. Idogbe has taken him.”
She pressed her hand to her mouth, absorbing his words and their meaning. Idogbe—alive? And wanting her son?
Rage swooped in to replace her desperation. “I will find him.” Alarm rippled along her spine as she grasped Shim’on’s hand and pulled herself to her feet. Her breath came raggedly as she struggled to curb her wrath. “How dare he take my son! Adom is mine, Shim’on.”
He released her and stepped back, studying her thoughtfully. “I am here to help, and I have a horse. I can search faster than you.”
She moved toward the animal before he could protest. “I’m going with you.”
“Wait.” He caught her arm and whirled her around. “I didn’t come only to warn you. I came for another reason, as well.”
“Whatever it is, it can wait,” she answered, wrenching free of him. She hurried toward the horse, knowing he would have no choice but to follow.
Chapter Forty-Three
T hey rode through the night, trying not to make undue noise lest they disturb Idogbe sleeping somewhere along the river. The lush grass at the riverfront made a wet slicking sound against the stallion’s legs, a sound almost muffled by the insect hum that vibrated from the water’s edge. Mandisa strained to sort through the river sounds for any noise that might belong to a struggling twelve-year-old boy.
Shim’on had given her his cloak to cover herself, for the narrow Egyptian shift she wore was not suitable for riding astride a horse. Without arguing, she donned the cloak, then ripped out the side seams of her tunic. She had never ridden anything but a Canaanite donkey, and felt insecure atop the great moving mountain of horseflesh. But her arms were about Shim’on’s waist, and he seemed as immovable as the pyramids. Mandisa was unspeakably grateful for his presence.
Occasionally they stopped to let the horse drink from the moonlit river. “Do you think Idogbe travels on foot or by boat?” Mandisa asked during one stop, noticing the great number of skiffs moored up and down the shoreline.
“He followed you by boat,” Shim’on answered. “But now that he has the boy, I think he will travel by foot. It would not be wise to take a twelve-year-old, particularly an unhappy one, in a skiff. The boats are too easily upset, and too many dangers lurk in the water. He would not want to risk overturning.”
Mandisa nodded, grateful that at
least one of them was able to think clearly. She was not sure how or why Shim’on had come, but she knew El Shaddai had sent him. Clinging to his waist, she felt a strange numbed comfort, almost as if she were clinging to the Almighty God Himself.
As the night passed into day, they cut a wide zigzag swath among the riverfront, venturing inland and then returning to the water’s edge. Shim’on stopped every man with a child, and paused to study more than a few women. At first Mandisa didn’t understand, then she shook her head. “Idogbe would never disguise himself in a woman’s cloak,” she said. “Never. I am sure he is not disguised at all, for he must think I assumed Adom is dead.”
“You may be right,” Shim’on admitted, urging the horse forward with a gentle kick. “But I would never forgive myself if we let this skunk of a man slip by us.”
She clung more tightly to him, closing her eyes against the emotion that swelled hot and heavy in her chest.
For three days they made their way downriver, stopping only to eat, feed and water the horse, and steal quick naps in the shade. Shim’on insisted that they travel through the night, for Idogbe was likely to stop at sunset and rest in the darkness. But in village after village, city after city, Shim’on and Mandisa found no sign of him or Adom.
While they rode, Mandisa tried to guess why Idogbe would take the child. “He wanted a boy, I am certain of that,” she explained, her words falling into the rhythm of the horse’s brisk steps. “He often spoke of the value of sons as a key to immortality. All Egyptian husbands want a house full of sons.”
“But why would he want the boy now?” Shim’on tossed the question over his shoulder. “He does not seem the type to prepare a home for children. When you knew him, how did he make his living?”