by Mesu Andrews
Doda reached up to pat his cheek. “You’re a good boy, Eleazar. I know you’ll do the right thing.”
He was trying to do the right thing, but she refused to see it. “I’ll see you tonight with more rations.” He walked away before she could say more.
The sun was already well above the eastern hills. If Eleazar believed in the gods, he could pray that Prince Ram had slept late. It was his only hope of readying the stallion for the prince’s morning ride. Eleazar broke into a jog, hoping the morning air would clear his head so he could craft Putiel’s message.
Eleazar hated deceiving his master, first about Hoshea’s escape and now sending this message, but he simply couldn’t confide in Prince Ram. Though the firstborn of Isetneferet was the best of Pharaoh’s sons, he was still Egyptian, and Eleazar merely his slave.
The waters of the Nile rose ever higher during these months of Akhet, and the paths between the canals grew narrower. Eleazar sidestepped a slave driver who was dragging an injured—or dead—Hebrew away from a brick pile. Glancing back, Eleazar noted four Hebrews stacked in a pile awaiting burial and wondered fleetingly how many of his brethren died each day.
The sad realization spurred the idea for his message to Putiel. Eleazar, as slave commander at Rameses, was within his authority to send a census request asking how many Hebrews remained in Saqqara. Putiel, as Prince Kopshef’s personal guard, would receive the request and order the counting. A slow, mischievous smile crept across Eleazar’s lips. He would simply add a personal note within the scroll asking Putiel for direction on the obstinate she-camel he left in Eleazar’s care.
Eleazar felt the weight of three chariots lift from his shoulders. He could even gain Prince Ram’s permission to send the census request. One less deception made life a little less complicated.
Miriam watched Eleazar jog away and replayed his words in her mind. If you could hear El Shaddai right now, believe me, He’d say I’m not the answer to Taliah’s problems. But she couldn’t hear Him, and Taliah bore the pain of it. If El Shaddai had warned Miriam—as He would have a month ago—she never would have let Taliah go to the river. Please, Shaddai, speak to me again. If it’s me You want to punish, so be it, but please give me counsel to help those around me.
Still she felt nothing but the dry, stale air of another unbearably hot day. Ducking around the curtain, she entered the main room of her long house, poured a bowl of water, and grabbed some towels.
As she moved past Taliah’s mat, the girl stirred. “Has Eleazar come yet? I wanted to thank him.”
Miriam paused, considering how much of the truth to divulge. Setting aside the bowl, she knelt across from Taliah and decided to tell her everything. “I didn’t want Eleazar to come inside this morning.”
Taliah’s right eye blinked her confusion, but her left eye was too swollen from the beating to blink at all.
“You told me last night that you recognized your attacker as a slave driver. I was afraid if Eleazar saw how badly the man had beaten you, he would have hunted the Egyptian down. He wouldn’t have listened to reason—that the beating you took when you struggled probably saved your innocence.”
“Are you saying I should be thankful I was beaten?” The girl’s voice rose in pitch and volume, and she pushed herself up to meet Miriam’s gaze. “I don’t think I can marshal that kind of gratitude.”
Miriam pursed her lips into a knowing grin. This bold, beautiful young woman hadn’t lost her spunk. “No, my girl. Never be grateful for tragedy, but always trust that God can use it in His good plan for you.” She knew she sounded so wise, so sure of God. But how could she tell a girl who already doubted El Shaddai that even His prophetess now struggled to understand Him?
Taliah pulled her hand away. “If this is your God’s plan, I don’t like it.”
“Our God always has a plan. We just don’t always know it.” Miriam started to get up, but Taliah tugged at her sleeve.
“Did Eleazar ask about me this morning?”
“I didn’t give him a chance.” Miriam saw a glimmer of hope for her wedding plans. “In order to keep him from coming inside, I confronted him at the doorway with a topic I knew would put him off.”
“What topic was that?”
“I tried to convince him he should marry you.”
“Marry me?” Taliah was on her feet in an instant, towering over Miriam. “I don’t want to be married—especially to Eleazar. I mean, I appreciate his help and all, but…”
Miriam offered her hand, a plea to help her stand, and Taliah obliged. Once on her feet, Miriam gave her the bowl of water and towels. “Not to worry. He feels the same about you. He’s not interested in marriage—yet. Now, let’s go wash and feed Abba and Ima.”
Taliah followed without a word. Miriam grinned. If this girl was silent, her mind was whirring.
9
I seek you with all my heart;
do not let me stray from your commands.
—PSALM 119:10
As the last shades of pink faded to gray in the western sky, Miriam said good-bye to the women of Judah who had delivered strips of linen for bandages. The linen keeper, Gedor, had heard about Ednah’s crass rebuff of Taliah and wanted to make amends to Israel’s prophetess. As a result, his donations of medical supplies during the past month had nearly doubled. Miriam wished Gedor’s gifts had been motivated by his deep concern for his brother Putiel’s daughter, but she knew he cared only about maintaining the favor of El Shaddai and His prophetess.
She examined the tight rolls of linen, the jars of honey lining the shelf, and various herbs stacked in baskets to the ceiling. However, even a hypocrite’s gifts were welcome.
She set aside the basket just as Taliah emerged from the back room. Her injuries from the beating had healed completely, and she barely limped from the broken leg. The girl had remained in the long house of her own accord. She’d spent most days captivating Abba and Ima with stories of faraway lands and foreign cultures—things Miriam would never have guessed might interest her parents—and Miriam spent most evenings sharing stories about Moses’s childhood and his early days on the Avaris estate. As the memories poured out, one thought rang in her mind constantly. Will my brother really come home?
“Did Eleazar bring tonight’s rations yet?” Taliah poured dirtied water into their gray-water jug for disposal. “I’ve finished Amram’s and Jochebed’s baths, and they’re ready to eat. I also have a question for him.”
Taliah and Eleazar had barely spoken since the attack. Whether it was the awkwardness of what almost happened or Miriam’s push for their marriage, they’d become adept at avoiding each other. “What kind of question? Is it something I could help with?”
Taliah hesitated, offering that impish grin Miriam had come to love. “I want to know if it’s safe for me to leave the long house now. No slave master has asked about me since the attack. Surely, I can go to the river for water and begin to move about the village freely now.”
Miriam reached for a small, crusty barley loaf and four cups. She tried to keep her voice light. “Where’s the first place you’ll go when you leave the long house?”
“I’d like to visit some of the peasants’ homes and ask if I might teach their children in the evenings.”
Again Miriam waited before responding, not wanting to discourage or seem overly protective. “I could go with you, maybe introduce you to some of our neighbors.”
“I need to do some things by myself, Miriam. If I’m going to be a woman on my own, I need to begin building a life.”
A woman on her own? Miriam tried not to panic. Why was she in such a hurry to leave? “It’s late, and Eleazar hasn’t arrived with our meal. Let’s share yesterday’s barley bread with Abba and Ima.” She placed the bread and four cups of the golden-hued beer on a tray, refusing to argue about something that would hopefully never happen. How could Taliah think any woman could live alone in Goshen? “Maybe Abba and Ima will have some ideas on which households you might visit to find stude
nts.”
They exchanged a genial nod and headed toward the adjoining chamber where Abba and Ima lay facing each other, chatting quietly. “And what are you two conspiring about?” Miriam loved watching Ima’s cheeks pink like a maiden when they were caught in these tender moments.
Abba doggedly pushed himself to a sitting position and lifted both hands in victory. Miriam applauded. “Look at you, showing off!”
Ima tried too but couldn’t quite push herself up, so both Taliah and Abba helped her.
“Taliah has been working with us to make our arms stronger.” Abba beamed as if he’d just built the palace single-handedly.
Miriam winked at the girl whose bright and bubbly countenance had breathed new life into her parents. Shaddai, she is so capable yet so foolish. If she is to teach village children, please give her realistic expectations about where she’ll live and the need for others to help her.
As had become the custom, silence answered her prayer, and Miriam fought back tears. She busied herself by unwrapping the bread and breaking it into four pieces, the largest ones, of course, for Abba and Ima.
She offered Abba the first piece, but he held her hand instead of taking the bread, forcing her to look up. “Something’s troubling you, my girl. What is it?”
“I’m so happy you’re gaining strength. Let’s focus on that.” With all her will, she forced her lips into a smile.
Awkwardness blared in the silence, and Taliah rose to her feet. “I’ll go in the other room and grind some turmeric root. Is there anything else I can do to help?”
“You don’t need to leave, dear. I’m fine, really.” She looked around their small circle. “I’m simply concerned about Aaron and Hoshea.” It was true, though not the whole truth. “Eleazar said merchants make the journey to Midian in three weeks. It’s been seven. They should have been home by now.”
Abba stared into Miriam’s eyes, penetrating the surface, digging deeply into her soul. “Perhaps the greater concern is that El Shaddai hasn’t told you when they would return. Or maybe you’re upset that no one has come to you for dream interpretations since Aaron left?” The small room fell silent, and Miriam had no glib reply.
How could she explain her abject emptiness when no one else had experienced her absolute fullness? Shaddai had been everything to her—Husband, Friend, Teacher, Guide, and Master.
“I feel as if I’m withering from the inside out,” she said finally. “I don’t feel hunger or thirst or a yearning to sleep. I feel only a yawning void that was once Miriam but now is an empty shell…because Shaddai has abandoned me.” The last words came out on a sob as she buried her face in her hands.
Consoling hands patted her back. Kind but useless. The only thing that could bring comfort was the return of Shaddai’s warm breath on her spirit.
“Miriam, look at me.” Abba’s voice was gentle but firm when he reached for her. “Look at me.”
Wiping her tears, Miriam felt like a little girl, obeying her abba’s command. “El Shaddai has not abandoned you any more than He’s abandoned Israel. For reasons that only He knows, He has chosen to become silent, and you must trust His silence—as Israel has trusted His silence all these years. Your ima and I have never experienced Him the way you have, but we know Him and love Him.” He lowered his chin, giving her a stern look from beneath wiry gray brows. “You can learn to know Him anew, but you must trust Him in the silence, daughter.”
Learn to know Him anew. Miriam had never imagined that she could know Him any way other than the way she’d always known Him. “Can you teach me, Abba?”
Ima leaned forward and laid her hand across theirs. “We can tell you how El Shaddai makes Himself known to us, but only He can teach you—as you trust Him. It’s like your garden, Miriam. We can plant the seeds, but only God can make them grow.”
Taliah fidgeted behind them, and when Miriam turned, the girl halted a few steps from the doorway. “I’ll leave you alone to talk about your God.”
Miriam felt the crushing weight of guilt again. Had she pushed Taliah further from El Shaddai by revealing her doubts?
“Come and sit with us, child.” Ima Jochebed patted the packed dirt beside her. “Surely, a bright mind like yours would be interested to know how our God distinguishes Himself from the gods of Egypt.”
Taliah’s sagging shoulders lifted. “I have been puzzled by a few of your claims about El Shaddai, but I’ve been hesitant to ask, afraid I might offend.”
“Nonsense.” Abba waved her over. “Ask your questions.”
Miriam wondered at first if they’d forgotten her, but Abba’s furtive wink assured her he hadn’t.
Taliah sat down beside her and scooted close. “It’s more than a little reassuring to know that even a prophetess has questions.”
Warmth flooded Miriam’s cheeks, not with shame or embarrassment, but with a deep sense of awe. Perhaps Shaddai’s silence was nurturing seeds beyond Miriam’s garden.
Taliah addressed Abba Amram first. “Why don’t gods speak to everyone? The Egyptian gods only speak with the priests or through Pharaoh himself, who claims to be divine, and El Shaddai speaks only through Miriam. Why is that?”
“That’s a very good question.” Abba Amram combed his fingers through his long, white beard as he pondered. “I can’t speak about the Egyptian gods because I believe they are false, merely frightening bedtime stories to make naughty children behave. However—”
“Isn’t that why all the stories of gods were created by men,” Taliah interjected, “to control the ignorant masses?”
Miriam felt her defenses rise, but she remained silent, deferring to her abba’s calm and thoughtful reply. “Many gods have been created by men, but only one God created all men. It is that one God that Israel serves—El Shaddai, the Almighty—who chose to make a covenant with Abraham and to bless all nations through his descendants.”
“But why Abraham?” Taliah said. “And why speak to only one man?”
Abba shrugged, maintaining his kind candor. “I don’t know why He chose Abraham, but I’m grateful El Shaddai spoke to more than one man. He spoke to Melchizedek, Isaac, Jacob, and Joseph. He made His will clear to Abraham’s servant, who went to find a wife for Isaac, and Shaddai spoke to women too. Sarah, Hagar, and Rebekah all heard from God.”
Taliah mulled the information, giving Miriam a chance to reflect on the stories she’d known since she was a child. El Shaddai spoke in many ways to many people. Could she learn to hear Him differently? To experience His presence again but through new expressions?
“Ultimately, my dear,” Ima Jochebed chimed in, “it is El Shaddai who must reveal Himself to us. We are but dust and could never climb to the heights of His holiness to reach Him.” She squeezed both Miriam’s and Taliah’s hands. “But He is near to those who seek Him with their whole hearts. We’ve seen it proven repeatedly in our lifetime.”
“But how do you know He’s near, Ima, if you don’t have dreams or visions to interpret?”
Taliah looked at Miriam, seemingly surprised at her question. “That’s what I want to know. How can we common people know any god exists when we don’t feel or see signs of their presence?”
Abba chuckled. “Anyone can develop a God sense similar to the way we use other senses to experience things. Though we can’t taste, touch, see, hear, or smell our invisible God, He sometimes uses those experiences to communicate His nearness.”
“Like the warm breeze I sometimes felt while inside this long house,” Miriam said, “that proved Shaddai was near.”
Taliah looked at her as if she’d grown a third eyeball. “A breeze inside?”
Ima nodded and added, “I sometimes wake in the middle of the night to the smell of fresh-baked bread. The oven is cold, so I know it’s Shaddai providing the most common form of comfort I know.”
“And sometimes it’s simply a feeling.” Abba reached for Taliah’s hand, patting it gently. “You simply know He is. There’s no magic or sign. He just is.”
&
nbsp; The girl examined his blue-veined hands in silence for several heartbeats. “I’ve never had such feelings or sensations. I suppose I’m not special enough to be chosen.” Before anyone could comment, she hurried to her feet. “Thank you for answering my questions. No one has ever talked with me about such things.” She bent down to kiss all three before rushing from the room.
Miriam wanted to call her back and give her better answers, but she had none. Instead, she returned her attention to her parents. “Thank you. I’ll continue to seek Shaddai—and wait for Him to reveal Himself.” She kissed both of their hands and forced a grin. “But I still wish He’d tell me when Aaron and Hoshea will return.”
10
Then Moses told Aaron everything the LORD had sent him to say, and also about all the signs he had commanded him to perform.
—EXODUS 4:28
The sun had set on another grueling day, and Eleazar ached from head to toe—but perhaps his head ached most. He was tired of worrying about Abba and Hoshea. They’d been gone more than seven weeks, and he’d heard nothing. Tugging at the iron locks on the weapons cabinets, he made sure they were secure—and imagined they were Hoshea’s ears. He’d give the boy a piece of his mind when he returned. If he returned. But surely, Hoshea would return even if something happened to Abba Aaron on the journey. Eleazar’s threat had been bluster, his anger overpowering reason again.
After checking the last weapons cabinet, Eleazar surveyed the military complex. The training arena was empty. All Egyptian soldiers had gone home long ago. Only two young slaves remained to polish their masters’ shields—no doubt punishment for substandard performance. Egypt’s soldiers demanded perfection from their slaves. Lives in battle often depended on how well a slave had attached a spearhead to the shaft or how precisely the slave fletched the feathers to guide an arrow’s flight.
“You there,” Eleazar shouted, startling one of the boys. “Lock the gate as you leave.” Eleazar would, of course, check the gate on his way to Doda’s house with rations. These minor duties were Hoshea’s responsibilities, but Eleazar would never trust others to do it right.