Farther down the street, Shiphrah saw the double rows of alabaster sphinx rams protecting the path leading onto temple grounds. Following the wide walkway, she mingled with those staring past the towering stone pylons. Shiphrah pushed forward, trying to see into the temple courtyard.
Servants and priests strolled through the grounds. Slaves and workers stayed busy at their tasks. There was no sign of the princess Merit-Amun.
Just as the sun peaked, Shiphrah overheard a woman ask when the highborns would leave the temple and saw the guard shrug. Ati would soon awaken, so Shiphrah dared not linger. If the princess was inside, then she must find a way inside, too.
She crouched against the stone gates and waited until the guard of the outer wall turned away, facing the crowds. Standing, she slid her sweaty palms down the sides of her dress, licked the corners of her lips, and waited. The guard did not seem to notice she’d moved.
Holding her breath, Shiphrah squeezed her arms close to her body and turned sideways, making herself as small as possible, and snuck behind the guard, being careful not to brush against the sword dangling from his belt. Creeping along the shadowed side of the courtyard, she kept her head down until a cluster of temple slaves passed and she could tag along behind them. When they veered to the side of the temple, she edged closer to the forbidden entrance with its columns of granite teeth.
She dropped the tiny knife and knelt in the clean, raked dirt, pretending to search for it. Covering the knife with her hand so she could pick it up quickly, she studied the guard of the inner temple until she caught his pacing rhythm … four, five, turn, pause, step. Darting a last look at the sunny courtyard, Shiphrah hobbled up the steps to the temple’s mouth, allowing its yawning mystery to swallow her.
Temples were strictly for priests and royals, not other people and certainly not half-breeds like her. Even the outer courtyard was open only for certain days. On special days, when people brought their offerings, they were permitted to walk around the courtyard and see where the sacred animals were kept.
Ati said that during feast days the god’s image was removed from the safety of its wooden naos carved into the wall of the temple’s holy of holies, placed in a barque, and paraded by the priests around the temple. Shiphrah attended the feast days and watched the procession, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see the god through its covering of ostrich feathers. If there was a god and it stayed hidden, why bring it outside?
Her father did not believe in the god he served—or any god. Shiphrah knew this because she overheard him talking with the priests. Many of them, it seemed, did not believe in the god spirit but were happy to have inherited a secure temple job from their father or an uncle. The god—or whatever it was—always needed someone to take care of it.
Three times a day a stolist, a high priest responsible for the care of the god, entered the innermost sanctuary to bathe and perfume the image of the god. Another stolist dressed the god and applied his eye makeup before offering him a plate of fresh fruit, breads, and wine. It was their duty, their privilege, said Ati, to keep the god happy so he would have no reason to leave Egypt.
Why did the priests go to so much trouble for a statue if they didn’t believe its spirit lived in the temple? Or, if there was a god, why did it need help taking a bath and getting dressed?
Must not be much of a god.
Coolness seeped from the tiles through the soles of Shiphrah’s bare feet, and she felt herself begin to relax. No shouts rang out, no hands snatched her arm, no spear blocked the way. Safe. She could put away her knife.
As her eyes adjusted to the dusky interior, Shiphrah gasped at the majesty of the temple and forgot everything as she feasted on the colors before her. Never had she seen anything so beautiful. Fiery reds and oranges, brilliant blues and greens, vibrant yellows and deep purples covered every surface. Paintings on the walls, floor, and columns exploded with color despite clouds of incense clogging her nose. Shiphrah coughed before covering her mouth with both hands to block the sick-sweet smell of perfumed smoke.
Chiseled on the walls of the inner temple were pictures of the god Amun and his cohort Abis. Shiphrah stared at the enormous paintings. Studying the drawings to understand the stories, she pressed one hand against the carvings, marveling how they indented her skin. Humming, she traced the floor patterns of lotus blossoms, leading to an altar covered with gifts that must be intended for the god.
Within her reach was the double cartouche of Ramses. She slid her finger over the carving. Touching his name-sign might give her power. She waited but felt no surge of strength or courage. Leaning against a column painted to resemble a lotus in full bloom, she tilted her head back and her chin dropped at the height of the ceiling.
Shiphrah backed away to circle the towering columns. Arms stretched upward, she pretended to touch the top. How many times would she have to stand on her own shoulders to reach the top? Trying to estimate the distance from the floor, she looked downward.
Where before there had been only polished marble, now there were dainty feet with henna-tinted nails encased in silvered leather sandals. Glancing up, she saw Merit-Amun dressed in a tightly pleated linen sheath, her amber eyes glittering yellow-gold in the dim light. The girl stood straight and tall, a dignified and exquisite beauty.
No longer a mere princess, now she was a goddess.
Every word Shiphrah knew faded away.
“Priest!” Merit-Amun did not need to raise her voice for authority to emanate from her. A man, his head lowered almost to his protruding stomach, arms by his sides, hurried to her and bowed low, revealing sores on his oily back.
He straightened. Shiphrah felt the blood leave her face. Swaying, she knotted her fists, digging holes into her palms.
“Nege. I suppose you’ll do if no one else is near.” The princess’s voice was as cold as her goddess eyes. “Explain why this worthless one is here—a knife-carrying commoner, an intruder in the temple! You desecrate the temple and offend the god. If he is displeased, Amun will leave and no longer protect our land.” Her odd eyes slanted at him. “You, a servant of the god, dishonor him.”
“Forgive me, Princess.” He bowed lower, his voice smoldering. “I will speak to the temple guards and on my life guarantee it will not happen again. Surely the god himself will determine his revenge.” Nege turned to Shiphrah, and from the fire flickering in his eyes, she knew it was not the god she need fear.
“Trespass against the god is a serious offense. Remove and dispose of her, unless”—Merit-Amun considered Nege—“you believe this half-breed has proven worthy to acquire the knowledge of the gods. Is that why she enters the inner temple, to take your place? She could do as well as you.”
“No, my lady.” Nege sucked his lip under his upper teeth and bowed. Shiphrah sensed the anger within him would soon erupt.
Before the priest rose from his obeisance, Shiphrah spun on her toes, fleeing into the blinding light and stumbling down the steps.
Shiphrah had not meant to trespass—
Well, she had not meant to be caught, and especially by a priest and a goddess-princess. As she lurched from the temple, thinking of nothing except escape, she was seized by a temple guard and, on the orders of the priest, dragged through the streets and secured to an iron ring in the lowest storeroom of a house.
When her father arrived carrying the telltale knife, she curled into a protective ball. Soon the imprints of his fists blackened her arms and shoulders, and his hand branded her face.
When the beating stopped, the pounding in her ears masked the sounds around her. It was so still, she thought she was alone, and so she raised her head—
She saw the last blow just before it plunged her into darkness.
Shiphrah slept, hovering between fear and pain, only to be awakened with a slap that knocked her head against the wall. Her father’s thin fingers circled her throat. Scratching and clawing at his face, she felt them tighten, felt her eyes strain outward from the pressure.
>
When she regained consciousness, an unfamiliar slave woman sat beside her. Groaning, Shiphrah spit blood and turned her head, searching for her nurse. Ati was always there after Papa’s rages.
The stranger, a woman with blank eyes, offered her a cup of honeyed water. “Ati?” Shiphrah forced the whisper past her bruised throat.
The woman shook her head. Did she not know, or did she refuse to say?
“Ati.” Her voice was as hoarse as a dog warning off an intruder. “I want Ati.”
This time the woman looked frightened, as if her charge would make a scene. She need not worry. Shiphrah learned early how tears and tantrums infuriated her father. She didn’t remember the last time she’d cried or even raised her voice. Beatings were borne in silence. No one had ever responded to her anyway except … A shadowed face flitted through her mind. Had she so yearned for a gentle touch that she dreamed of tenderness?
Blank-Eyes scurried from the room like a worried mouse, leaving Shiphrah alone as she struggled to sit. A tug on her leg told her she was chained to the wall. For someone she angered so often, Papa went to a lot of trouble to keep her here.
Stiff, in pain, she reached for the cup of water and almost cried. It was too far away.
Why wasn’t Ati here to take care of her? Ati would scold her for angering him—
It was too hard to call her father Papa. Him was safer, as if she could keep a guarded distance. But even if Ati was cross, she would rub cumin on her injuries and give her something to stop the hurting.
At least the outside hurting.
A heavy tread on the outside step warned of someone’s approach. It was him. What would he do now?
A flicker of light drew her eyes to the smoking lamp. Would he burn her again? Maybe not, his step was steady. He must have brought the lamp to clear the darkness. In this windowless room she did not know if it was day or night.
Shiphrah held herself motionless, sniffing the air to gauge his anger. Through swollen eyes she tried to see his fists and judge the angle of his shoulders, ready to curl inward for protection. It was impossible to shield herself from his words, but whatever place they could have touched had shattered years ago.
“The day you were born, the gods cursed me.”
That was nothing new. It was chiseled on the stone of her heart.
“You have brought me nothing but trouble.”
She stared at him through slitted eyelids, watching, waiting for the flicker in his eyes that warned he would strike. She dared not speak. He stepped forward and yanked the god-amulet from around her neck, threw it on the ground, and crushed it with his heel.
As he reached for her again, she flinched. Angry at her reaction, she glowered at him, pulsing eleven years of hatred into his eyes, contorting her discolored fingers into claws. Bloody spittle dribbled through her snarled lips.
A look she did not recognize flitted across his long, crocodile-thin face. Backing away, he took the lamp with him and left her.
Later, a man slave unlocked the iron ring and carried her upstairs to the corner she called her own. He placed a cup of water within her reach, washed her wounds, and left her alone. She slept.
Shiphrah woke in the soft darkness. Golden moonlight wove through the tiny window, and she could hear the night calling: a bird’s whistle, the laughter of crickets, the night sounds of mystery. Testing her arms, she pushed herself to sit. When the dizziness passed, she rolled to her knees and forced herself off the thick mat, leaning against the wall until the worst of the queasiness eased.
She hoped no one was awake, but even if he roamed the house, she would not be stopped. Where was Ati? She must find her. Ati cared about her.
Hands flat against the wall for balance, she left the low-ceilinged top floor and felt her way down the steps, past the first floor with its living and dining room, and down to the area built into the ground. If Ati were in the house, this was where she would be.
Her eyes hurt from trying to see in the dark, so Shiphrah closed them, relying on her nose and memory to tell her which section she was in of this lowest level. The workroom for spinning and weaving would be nearest the door where the light was best.
Legs wobbling, she stumbled and fell. Struggling to her knees, she searched for a wall. Which way had she been going? Sliding her hands along the uneven stone, she felt the warmth radiating from the next room and caught a tang of yeast—the bakery.
“Ati?” Her bruised throat protested the effort. Shiphrah stood and shuffled her feet forward until she touched a wall. The stones were cooler here. Was Ati in a storage room?
“Ati?” She whispered the name through swollen lips. “Where are you?”
“Huh?”
Shiphrah wished she dared search for a lamp. Kneeling and crawling forward, her eyes staring into the blackness, she felt along the floor for Ati.
“Ati?”
“Old Ati, sick.”
“Are you dying?”
“All die. You know, huh?”
“Ati, he hit me bad.” The pain in her throat made her nauseous.
Ati moaned.
Outside a cat howled, and the girl rested her hand on the woman’s arm to quiet her. Had the sounds awakened anyone?
The old woman’s voice rasped, grating against Shiphrah’s ears. “You listen, mind old Ati, huh?”
Shiphrah nodded, forgetting Ati could not see her in the dark.
“Leave here, or your papa kill you.”
“He’s not my papa anymore, Ati.”
“Hush up, huh? Find shepherd village and chief midwife.” Ati gasped for breath. “Puah, she your mother’s sister. Puah want you bad, she take you.”
“How will I…?”
“She know. Face cut bad with knife. She made your papa mad.”
“He’s not my—”
“Hush. You go, huh?”
“No, you’re sick, I’ll take care of you. You need me. Don’t you want me?” Shiphrah forced the words past the fire in her throat.
“You go. Go now. Go!”
Chilled, Shiphrah pulled away. The coldness settled. Hardened.
Shiphrah understood.
Ati didn’t care.
Chapter 4
Jochebed, stay where you are.”
She stayed. It wasn’t often Mama spoke in that tone, but when she did, Jochebed immediately obeyed. Scanning the riverbank, she searched for the swishing tail of a crocodile—Mama’s and Lili’s greatest fear—or her nightmare, a writhing nest of snakes. Jochebed tilted her head, sniffing for the stench of rotting flesh, a warning that a crocodile was eating nearby. Nothing.
The ever-present gnats spun around her face as mud oozed over her toes and crawled up her ankles. Jochebed tightened her muscles, ready to flee. If there was danger, she would not leave without her mother, would not lose another parent to a river death.
Mama inched forward, almost crouching. What had alarmed her? Still clutching the reeds she’d gathered, her mother parted a stand of rushes and gasped. Bedde tensed.
“Lord, have mercy.”
“Mama?”
“Help me, Bedde. Leave the reeds and help me with this child.”
Jochebed moved beside her mother and stared at the girl tangled in the river grasses, her leg oddly bent, her swollen face covered with mud and gashes.
Her mother unwound her head scarf and laid it in the black mud. “Lift her shoulders and pull it underneath … now lift that leg. Careful.”
The child startled and moaned before her eyes rolled backward.
“Quickly, Bedde. We need to get her home. Lift.”
Until then, Jochebed had always thought their house was close to the river. Now it seemed farther than walking to the city of Pi-Ramses in midday heat.
Mama lowered the unconscious girl onto a mat on the packed dirt floor. She dipped a rag into a gourd of water and cleaned grit and dried blood from the child’s cuts.
“Bring the jars of oil and honey. They are on the top shelf. Can you reach them? Yes? I’ll
need another bowl, too.”
Jochebed watched her mother make a paste of the oil and honey to dab on the girl’s open wounds. She sliced a garlic clove and rubbed it over the bruises.
“Bedde, I need two sticks—as straight as possible—each as long as your arm from wrist to elbow. Hurry.”
Jochebed winced as her mother straightened the broken leg. She set it with the stick splint, wrapped it in papyrus leaves, and plastered the leg with river mud. Under her mother’s directions, Jochebed sprinkled thyme leaves into a cup of water and set it to steep near the flickering embers. When the water darkened, Mama spooned the painkiller between the girl’s lips. There was nothing more they could do.
The child mumbled in her sleep. Jochebed frowned and then looked to her mother for an answer. Mama sighed and shook her head. “Egyptian. Her words are Egyptian.”
Jochebed stared at the girl. Poor thing. Even though she was Egyptian, she was so thin it hurt to look at her. The sight of her battered face and bruised neck made Jochebed gag.
The stranger opened her eyes. Mama spoke softly. Hearing her, Jochebed’s jaw dropped open. Mama spoke Egyptian? If Deborah or Sarah ever found out…
“Mama, how do you know—”
“Not now, Bedde.”
“But…”
The girl spoke, her words soft and musical.
“She said … this is the … her name is … Shiphrah. Her leg broke when she slipped in the mud.” Mama stroked the girl’s scarred cheekbone, and Jochebed saw a tear slide down her mother’s face. “I have wondered what…” Her mother wiped away the tear. “The Lord has placed her in our care. She is almost two years younger than you.”
“Why would He make us take care of an Egyptian after what Papa did? Haven’t we lost enough? And what is she doing on our part of the river?”
Mama shook her head as if she didn’t understand either, but as tears rolled down her mother’s cheek, Jochebed suspected her mother knew something she wasn’t sharing.
The angriness of Shiphrah’s bruises and cuts faded over the next weeks, and the tight lines around her mouth began to soften. Her face thinned as the swelling disappeared, and she slept less, sometimes saying a few words to Elisheba but mostly watching them weave and listening to Elisheba’s stories of an unseen God.
Slender Reeds: Jochebed’s Hope Page 5