Slender Reeds: Jochebed’s Hope

by Texie Susan Gregory

  Jochebed pressed her hands against the pain in her lower back. Why had she ever been in a hurry to look pregnant? She waddled like a duck, looked like a cow, and was cross as a hungry old goat.

  She balanced against a wall, slid down, and stuck her legs out. Her slender feet and ankles had become tree branches—stumps, not twigs. Would she ever look like she used to look? Maybe she’d be the first woman to be pregnant forever.

  Her mother came in with a basketful of cucumbers and melons. Jochebed eyed the melons. It hadn’t been so long ago that she’d stuck a melon under her clothes to see what she’d look like pregnant.

  “Mama, when you were pregnant with me, what did you think about?”

  The lines in her mother’s face softened. “How I could hardly wait to hold you, how much I loved your father, and how greatly the Lord blessed me.”

  “I think that, too, of course, but what if it never comes or what if it won’t stop crying or what if I drop it or—”

  “Bedde, the baby is not an ‘it’ and you can what-if yourself to death. Stop borrowing trouble.”

  Jochebed sulked a bit and then set herself to the unending weaving, begging, “Tell me a story like you used to when I was a little girl.”

  Mama nodded and settled herself to finish the birdcage she wove to barter at the market.

  “When the time came for you to be born, I didn’t tell anyone the pains had started. I swept the floor, shook out every mat, and emptied the pot of dirty water. Between contractions, I set bread to rise and somehow carried fresh water home.”

  Jochebed smiled, watching her mother’s eyes crinkle as she chuckled.

  “That water jug almost didn’t make it back from the river. Then, and only then, I called Sarah to find the midwife.”

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

  Her mother knotted the strand connecting the door to the cage. “Because if Sarah saw my house untidy, the entire village would have heard what a slovenly housekeeper I was.”

  Jochebed laughed. “So she’s always been hateful like that?”

  Mama sobered. “Sarah has always talked faster than I could listen. She could never keep a secret and has always been curious, but no, Bedde, she wasn’t malicious. She married a man who cared for her, and they seemed happy enough. He never said much, a hard worker but not a talker.” She glanced up and winked. “I guess that was a good thing.”

  Her mother looked back at her work. “The babies who lived to adulthood started families of their own, her husband died, and she was lonesome.” She shrugged. “There’s always someone willing to provide gossip and someone willing to listen to gossip. Sharing stories gave Sarah the company she needed.”

  “Well, she’s awful now.”

  “She wasn’t really cruel, but years ago a woman about my age bore a child out of wedlock and Sarah didn’t know how to respond. She was less than kind to them. The woman is dead now, and the child grew up to be…”

  “Sarah was mean?”

  Her mother searched for her cutting stone. Not finding it, she bit off the extra length and continued. “She forgot.”

  “Forgot? Forgot what?”

  “Sarah forgot God has a plan for everyone even when troubles come.”

  Jochebed bit her lip, being careful her mother didn’t see.

  “She forgot that when we don’t know what to do, His answers wait for our questions.”

  “And that made her mean?”

  Her mother raised her eyebrows without looking up. “It robbed her of where to turn when life is uncertain.” She bit her lip. “And life is always uncertain.”

  Determined to avoid a lecture, Jochebed scooted a basket under her feet and changed the subject. “Did you ever think you would be pregnant forever?”

  “Mmm, no, but there is a story I don’t think I ever told you.” Her mother reached for the basket Jochebed held. “If you are not planning to finish that, let me work on it. The quota is due in a few days.”

  Handing over the basket, Jochebed settled in for a story.

  “Is it a true story?”

  “Quite true, and it’s about you and Queen Nefertari.”

  “Pharaoh’s Nefertari? Really?”

  Her mother nodded. “I finished my quota of weaving and took it to the overseer early in the day. Since he was pleased with the work, he allowed me to keep three baskets for barter.” Picking up a handful of reeds, she frowned over the selection.

  “Mama, don’t frown. It makes you look old.”

  “I am old, child. Anyway, it was a festival day for one of the Egyptian gods and the roads were crowded with people. I decided shopping would be easier another day and started to leave town … only everyone else was entering the town. It was like paddling against the current. You were feverish and teething, and the baskets were being crushed—”

  “Which bothered you more?”

  Her mother smiled and continued. “So I slipped into an alley and followed it until it ended, hoping to find a place to nurse you and wait until the crowd cleared so we could leave more easily.

  “What I didn’t know was the alley led to the royal stables. The courtyard was full of horses. You’ve never seen such finery, Bedde. Those horses wore more gold and silver than I’d ever seen in a crowd of people.” She shook her head and tsked.

  “I stopped before stepping into the courtyard, and no one noticed me or at least no one told me to leave.”

  “And then?”

  “And then two things, no three things, happened all at once. Ramses’s Nefertari, she wasn’t queen yet because Pharaoh Seti was still alive, came into the courtyard. Oh Bedde, she was a lovely thing.

  “While everyone was bowing to her and attending her, one of the horses reared and struck out at a little boy who’d run up too close. He fell backward, and I squeezed you so hard you screamed and kept on screaming … and screaming.”

  Jochebed covered her face, pretending embarrassment.

  “My, my, but you could scream.”

  “Mama!”

  “The boy was not hurt, just frightened, but I didn’t know that at first, and I guess neither did the queen. She turned and looked in our direction just as I looked back at her. Guards came and escorted us out of the town. They didn’t question us, just hurried to push us through the gates. You were making such a dreadful racket, I think they simply wanted you gone. Whenever I pass a tiny alley, I think of that day.”

  “Why have you never told me that story before?”

  “I haven’t quite finished it, Bedde. The most remarkable part was when Nefertari’s eyes met mine. For a few breaths, we were not queen and slave, Egyptian and Hebrew; we were two young mothers fearing for the safety of a child.”

  “How did you know she was a mother?”

  “Because of her reaction to the boy’s danger—she immediately shielded her belly from any harm.”

  Chapter 7

  Shiphrah ignored the throbbing in her lame leg, the ache in her back, and the dry grittiness of eyes that had not closed in sleep for two days. She laughed at the dozing goat and threw open her arms to cavort in the soft morning light. Had there ever been such a completely wonderful, glorious day?

  Sarah rounded the corner, and Shiphrah suppressed the urge to run and hug her, grab her hands and dance across the road. As the woman narrowed her eyes, she wondered if Sarah was a mind reader or simply shocked by what she was seeing—the lame midwife prancing beside a tethered goat.

  Sarah cleared her throat, and Shiphrah tried to restrain herself.

  “Well?”

  “Yes, all is well.” Shiphrah’s grin broke through. “Mother and child are resting quite well.”

  “Humpf. I’ll see for myself, half-breed.” Sarah ducked through the low doorway.

  When the door closed, Shiphrah bowed with a flourish. “Please do see for yourself, old woman. Look around all you wish, and when you have finished, you’ll be forced to admit I have done a most excellent job as midwife and perhaps you will say a kind word to
me.”

  Giddy with fatigue and delight, Shiphrah stuck out her tongue and then clapped a hand over her mouth. Aunt Puah and Mama Elisheba would be horrified. What had gotten into her this morning? Being disrespectful was completely uncharacteristic for her.

  Stifling a yawn, Shiphrah started on the road home. She’d walk it with her eyes closed if not for the pale scorpions that sometimes scooted across the path.

  Puah was not there when she arrived home. Shiphrah coaxed life into the grayed embers of the fire pit, packed it with fuel, and refilled the water jar. Collapsing on her mat, she slept—content.

  Stomach growls woke her in the late afternoon. Since Puah was still not home, Shiphrah guessed she must be delivering Deborah’s third child. She would probably return tonight and be hungry.

  After scraping flour from the grinding quern onto the trough, she dusted her hands together and began working water into a flattened ball of dough. With one floured wrist, she brushed the hair from her face, unaware she left a powdered streak against her temples.

  She poked another piece of dung into the fire and tested the side of the tabun to see if its sides were hot enough to bake bread. Shiphrah slapped the sticky dough against the interior walls of the inverted clay jar serving as their oven. The small tabun heated quickly. Soon the bread would be crisp.

  Humming softly, Shiphrah closed her eyes, remembering the moment of birth. She would never forget this first time of midwifing without Puah’s supervision. She’d caught the infant as it slipped out of the mother, cradled a new life with both of her hands, cleared the tiny mouth, and heard the baby take her first breath.

  If only this had been Lili’s child she delivered, it would have been a perfect day.

  Maybe someday Lili would have a child and the three of them could be friends again. Lili wore her barrenness like a crown, an aloofness pushing everyone away.

  Shiphrah peeled bread from the tabun’s side and sliced an onion for their meal. She heard Puah’s voice and left the bread to cool as she hobbled across the room to catch Puah in a hug.

  “I did it, Aunt Puah. It was wonderful, and they are well—did I say she had a girl?—and I remembered everything you taught me.”

  “Good, Shiphrah.”

  “She was about the size we expected, and she breathed right away, and since it was Elene’s third child, she knew how to nurse, so that went well, too.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Puah. You must be tired, and I’m chattering away. I’ve just never been so happy before. I think I smiled even while I slept.”

  “I understand.”

  “Are you hungry? I have food prepared. Have you been at Deborah’s delivery?”

  “No and yes.”

  Shiphrah stilled and peered at her aunt. Puah’s face was ashen, her clothes bloodstained, her hands trembling.

  “Aunt Puah?”

  Puah lifted her gaze, and Shiphrah saw red rimming her eyes.

  “Puah … what happened? Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine, Shiphrah, but Deborah’s baby…” Her shoulders slumped. “There was nothing I could do.”

  “I’m so sorry,” whispered Shiphrah. There was nothing else to be said.

  The next morning Puah and Shiphrah journeyed together to assist the two women who had survived the ordeal of childbirth. Puah went to comfort Deborah in her grief, and Shiphrah to clean and care for Elene and her little ones so the new mother could rest.

  They moved slowly, weary from the days before, sweating under the sun’s white heat. Between them, they served as midwives to several villages. The lengthy walks were a familiar if not welcome part of life.

  Halfway there, they rested in the shade of tall river grasses. Across the road stalked a large blue heron. Shiphrah pointed, and they watched as the waterfowl staggered first in one direction and then the other as if unable to decide which way to go.

  “Is it sick, Puah?”

  “No, just watch.”

  The bird kept its head down, following a jagged path they could not see. Without warning, it plunged its head into the grasses. Immediately the heron lifted its head to begin a vigorous dance, shaking what looked like a long stick caught in its beak.

  “It has a snake, Shiphrah.”

  Fascinated, she watched it violently whip its prey back and forth until the snake dangled limply from the bird’s mouth. With a toss of its head, the heron swallowed it whole.

  Shiphrah shuddered, mesmerized by the fight for survival she’d witnessed. Life demanding death.

  Puah stood and helped her niece to stand. They walked in silence for a while.

  “What will you say to Deborah? What do you say when someone dies?” asked Shiphrah.

  “Not too much of anything. You can say ‘I’m sorry,’ or ‘I share in your loss.’” Puah batted at a fly circling her face. “With Deborah, it is better to say almost nothing. I’ve delivered all her children, and she is still uneasy with me although I’ve never understood why. She has never been comfortable around me, and it puzzles me. But never mind that. It is more important to listen to the one grieving than to think of something to say.”

  Shiphrah cocked her head. “How do you know these things?”

  “I’ve done a lot of my own grieving.” Puah turned her head to look her niece squarely in the face. “Remember, my parents are dead as well as my sister Jebah, your mother.”

  Shiphrah looked away.

  “And for a long time I thought I’d lost you as well, Shiphrah. I thank the Lord every day for restoring you to me.”

  Shiphrah slipped her arm around Puah’s shoulder and hugged her aunt. “Me, too.”

  As the women entered the village, Sarah waddled forward. She ignored Shiphrah to discuss Deborah’s loss with Puah.

  Shiphrah shrugged at Sarah’s rudeness. At least Elene would be glad to see her. Both she and her husband, the bricklayer Joseph, had always been kind to her. Joseph would have left for Pi-Ramses before sunrise, and with the two little girls and a new baby, Elene would be exhausted and need her help almost as much as she had yesterday.

  She knocked lightly and pushed open the door. The two girls greeted her with smiles and wrapped their arms around her legs. She knelt and pulled them into her arms.

  “What have you named your new sister? Have you decided yet?”

  Eyes sparkling, they nodded.

  “Are you going to tell me, or must I guess?”

  “Ella,” reported the older girl.

  “That’s a fine name. I like it. Now, find a comb, and when we come back, I’ll braid your hair. First I need to see to your mother and Ella and then you can help me carry water from the river. Soon you’ll be doing that by yourself. Your mama will need your help more than ever since Ella is here.”

  Shiphrah crossed the room, and Elene handed her the baby. After checking the stump of the cord that had bound mother and child, she changed the tiny girl’s linens. Elene had already nursed Ella, and motioned toward the cradle hanging from the rafters.

  “I think she’ll sleep now.”

  “May I?”

  Elene nodded. “The other two adore you, and I’m sure this one will, too.”

  Shiphrah nestled the infant against her shoulder and fell in love. There was no Egyptian perfume as delicate and intoxicating as the scent of newborn, no music as entrancing as the sound of infant breathing, no flower as soft as its skin, and no power as compelling as the grip of this little one squeezing her finger and her heart.

  She swallowed hard. She loved Elene and Joseph’s girls, but this one, Ella, whom she’d helped to birth, filled an emptiness the others did not. Was there ever a time when someone felt that way about her?

  Reluctantly, Shiphrah lowered Ella into the swinging cradle, pleased to see its height would protect Ella from scorpions and snakes.

  Shiphrah settled the younger toddler onto her hip and lifted the water jug on a shoulder. She limped to the river, making up songs about the birds and flies so the walk seemed sho
rter. She bathed the little girl, filled the jar with water, staggered back to the house, and then repeated the trip with the other child. Needing to rest her leg, she combed out their hair, fed them, and swept the floor.

  Elene awakened and invited the girls to look at their baby sister while Shiphrah began to grind flour on the quern. When Elene took over bread making, Shiphrah carried soiled cloths to the river to clean. Seeing Puah wringing water from the wash she’d completed, Shiphrah hobbled over to work beside her.

  “How is Deborah, Aunt Puah?”

  “Sad. This is not the first she has lost, and the ones who live help to distract her. She knows she will go on. She must, for the sake of those who still breathe.”

  “I’m not sure I could keep going with such a loss,” Shiphrah said, thinking of Ella.

  “It is not a choice. You just do.”

  Shiphrah cringed at the reproof in Puah’s voice. She scrubbed the cloth harder to hide her dismay.

  “There will come a time in your life, it does for everyone, when you discover the core of your being—who you are, what you are made of. I hope you find an untapped strength you’ve never before needed. You keep going; you must.”

  Without another word, Puah spread out the cloths to dry and left. Bewildered by her aunt’s uncharacteristic sharpness, Shiphrah finished her laundering. Lingering by the river, bits of a song, a lullaby, drifted into her mind.

  “I love little Shiphrah, I love her so much,

  I love little Shiphrah, hmmmm, mmm

  Hmmmm, mmmmm, joy.”

  Had she made that up, or was it a memory? Odd she thought of it now when Puah was cross with her.

  She squeezed water from the hem of her tunic and returned to her charges. As the girls ate, Shiphrah talked with Elene, making plans to return the next day. Joseph could bring in the dry linens and haul another jug of water to the house.

  Tired and sore, Shiphrah walked home without waiting for her aunt. They had not made plans to meet at the end of the day. She didn’t want to stop by Deborah’s house. The woman detested her. At least she had not been Deborah’s midwife. She would have been blamed for the infant’s death.