Slender Reeds: Jochebed’s Hope

by Texie Susan Gregory

  Jochebed listened halfheartedly to the women’s chatter and watched Miriam outrun the biggest boys to scamper up the jumping rock. She reached the top first and spread her arms to jump. Where did that child get her fearlessness? Not from her, that was certain, and Amram was so steady and quiet. Miriam did not seem like either one of them.

  Maybe that was good. Jochebed didn’t want her daughter growing up afraid of everything like she was.

  One of the boys climbed to the top of the rock, slipped, and bumped into Miriam. Unprepared for the sudden jar, Miriam lost her balance and landed hard. Jochebed saw one knee and an elbow bleeding, but Miriam, after a quick glance, brushed away the dirt and started again for the rock. Sometimes, Jochebed thought, she’d like to be more like her daughter—fearless. She shifted the basket to her other arm. Did other mothers ever have such thoughts?

  Wasn’t the daughter supposed to want to be like the mother?

  At home, Jochebed stepped into the yard, scratched the goat’s rough head, and pulled another armful of grass within its reach. She pushed open the door, paused, and waited for her mother to look up from weaving. Mother’s face always, always lit up when she walked into the room, and after what Sarah and Amram said, Jochebed wanted to see, needed to feel, the reassurance of Mama’s constant love and acceptance.

  Mama did not stop her work, but she looked up, the lines in her face softening as she saw her daughter.

  “Has the time of Akhet begun? Have the floodwaters begun to flow yet?”

  Jochebed shook her head. She left the basket near the door, knelt on the ground, and leaned against her mother’s shoulder. “Mama.”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Nothing. I just like to hear you say that.”

  Her mother smiled. “I’ll say it as often as you wish.”

  Jochebed carried the bundle of clean reeds and grasses to where her mother sat rocking Aaron. The fibers, soaked until they bent without breaking, were ready to be separated and woven into baskets—baskets that would keep their skin safe from the overseer’s rod—and if enough were made, the extras could be used for barter.

  “Miriam, dear, take Aaron and lay him on the mat by the wall. He can nap while we work. Your grandmother says you have been working hard and are ready to learn a new pattern today.”

  Pleased at the look of delight in Miriam’s eyes, Jochebed remembered feeling the same way when she was a child learning to weave from her mother and grandmother, begging to be shown harder and harder patterns. Eager to prove she was a quick learner, which would allow her to take another step into the world of acceptance, Jochebed had listened and watched, intent on absorbing as much as possible from the two master weavers. The hardest part of basketry, they taught her, was keeping the tension consistent so the basket would have a uniform shape.

  Miriam’s hands, though calloused and strong, were small, and she struggled to hold the larger baskets in one hand as she twined the reeds with the other hand. Still, she learned new patterns easily and worked hard to perfect her skills.

  Jochebed smiled seeing her mother instruct Miriam. A superior weaver, she was also a patient teacher who explained each step with simple directions. If Miriam did not learn these skills well, the tender skin on her daughter’s back and shoulders would bleed from the taskmaster’s displeasure. Jochebed shuddered.

  Listening to her mother, Jochebed pictured herself years ago, elbow to elbow with Lili and Shiphrah, as Mama taught the three girls new patterns and wove the Lord’s stories into their lessons. Some things never changed.

  “Miriam, as you decide on the warp strand, remember your foundation must be strong,” Mama said.

  “This one?” Miriam held up a sturdy reed for her grandmother’s inspection.

  “Good. Now, remember how in a plain weave, the weft passes first over and then under the warp. You start that and then I’ll show you how to make it round instead of square.”

  The pointy-chinned goat needed to be tended, but Jochebed waited. She knew what was coming next.

  “Miriam,” her grandmother began, “why must your warp, your foundation, be so strong?”

  “Because it is what the rest of the basket is built around.”

  “And what must your life be built around?”

  “The promises of the Lord.”

  “Right. Why do I teach you these stories and the promises He made?”

  “So I can teach my children and my children’s children.”

  Her grandmother nodded. “Good. Which story do you want to hear today?”

  Jochebed left before she heard Miriam’s answer. The goat must be milked so she could begin making the soft cheese. She had heard those questions and stories until she could say them in her sleep. One did not easily forget stories repeated from infancy even when doubts darkened the remembering.

  Chapter 10

  Shiphrah shivered in spite of the late afternoon heat. Why would Pharaoh, god of the Egyptians, summon her for an audience? Had she offended him? Surely Pharaoh would not need her, a half-breed Hebrew midwife, to attend his harem or his royal wives, Nefertari and Istnofret. Unthinkable. Egyptians did not even eat at the same table with Hebrews. She frowned. Why was she here? She had been waiting since midmorning.

  Uncertainty and the demand of standing for so long had tightened her muscles. Slowly, so the guards positioned by the door would not notice, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other and breathed deeply.

  To distract herself, Shiphrah studied the vivid scenes of river wildlife and stories of the gods covering the walls and floors. She would remember as much as possible so she could tell Bedde and Lili about the palace.

  Each detail of the drawings was outlined in black and the pictures painted with vibrant greens and blues, brilliant yellows and reds. High above her head, latticed windows flooded the hall with light, sparkling on pools of floating purple lotus and allowing the breeze to carry hints of incense to every corner.

  Shiphrah raised her eyebrows as high as possible and then tilted her head just enough to see the top of the copper-plated door with its intricate carvings. Even standing this far away from the door, she could barely see its top and would need to throw her head back to see all of the paintings covering the ceiling.

  If only she had learned to read better! Still, she recognized enough of the word pictures to know they told of Pharaoh’s deeds as the god Horus reborn. Above the door, the eye of Horus, a man’s eye with the markings of a falcon’s eye, watched all who entered.

  She chewed her lip. How long would she have to stay? Aunt Puah would need her to help with births, and yet here she stood waiting and waiting. Puah, gentle Puah, would never reprove her no matter how much hardship Shiphrah’s absence caused.

  For the last few years, Puah had been one of the few people who cared if she was dead or alive. Her father never came for her. As an Egyptian priest, he would have refused to enter the Hebrew hovels.

  Shiphrah shifted her weight again. How much longer? She longed to ask for water but, with a glance at the sweating guards, lifted her chin and rejected the thought. She was an Egyptian, too. She could endure—had endured—worse than this.

  In obedience to an unseen order, the two guards stepped forward and lifted their spears as the massive door began to open. A barefoot man wearing the unpleated kilt of a servant motioned Shiphrah to step forward. The way he curled his upper lip made Shiphrah think of a snarling dog. “Hebrew, do you speak Egyptian?”

  Shiphrah nodded. Maybe she should have taken the time to change into Egyptian dress.

  The servant spoke slowly, enunciating each word as if he did not quite believe her. “You will stop beside the guard and prostrate yourself before the god, our pharaoh. Do not lift your head. You will hear and obey.”

  Shiphrah limped forward, her lameness more pronounced after standing so long.

  Ramses tapped the arms of his chair and studied the small woman bowing before him. It had been a long day, and purposefully he had kept her waiting until
last. What he wanted to say was not for everyone to hear. He frowned at her covered hair and the coarse shepherd clothes she wore. She was Egyptian, he reminded himself, and as such, his to command. He lifted a finger, the command understated and understood. The room cleared. Only his bodyguard, the woman, and a shriveled man wearing the spotless skirt of a priest remained.

  “Woman, stand.”

  She didn’t move. Was she deaf, or did the fool not speak Egyptian?

  “Woman, stand.”

  Impatience sharpened the command. The god of the Two Lands was unaccustomed to repeating himself. She struggled to her feet and stood, eyes lowered.

  “You and your aunt are chief midwives to the Hebrews.” It was a statement, not a question.

  She nodded.

  Pharaoh stared at the woman, noting her submission, gauging her intelligence. “Your father is the priest Nege.”

  Shiphrah did not answer.

  Ramses glanced at the priest. Had he noticed the way she tensed at the mention of her father? The flash of scorn, a hint of fear? Interesting.

  Pharaoh allowed a trace of warmth to soften his words. “You are a child of Egypt. Egypt flows through your veins, daughter of the Nile.” Pharaoh lowered his voice. “Egypt needs help, and I, your king and your god, have chosen you.” Plaintiveness crept into his voice. “Will you honor the one who has given you life, whose true child you are? Will you serve your people? Would you serve me?”

  Shiphrah trembled. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Daughter of Egypt, we are in grave danger. The shepherd people, the Hebrews of Goshen, are many.” Pharaoh shook his head and sighed as if saddened by a great burden. “Years ago we welcomed them during the starving time. We provided grain for their survival and gave them the lands of Goshen. Now they seek to rule us. Should they join our enemies and turn against us, we could be defeated.” A twinge of doubt crossed Pharaoh’s mind. Could the worn people in their straggling villages truly defeat Egypt?

  Shiphrah bowed her head lower.

  Pharaoh spoke again, the edge of command in his voice. “You and your aunt will give this instruction to all the midwives: when you help the Hebrew women in childbirth, when you observe them sitting upon the two stones to give birth, if it is a boy, kill him. If it is a girl, let her live.”

  Shiphrah began to sway and dropped to the cool tiles as if bowing again. Her face was hidden, but Ramses, trained to see every flicker of emotion, saw her flinch and pale at his command.

  “You will obey,” intoned the voice of the priest, “and you will save your people. You will be rewarded for obeying your lord’s command.”

  Silence.

  “Woman, you will obey Pharaoh’s command or all Hebrews will perish.”

  “I will obey,” Shiphrah whispered.

  Heavy, soundless doors closed as the guard ushered Shiphrah from the royal presence. The room, emptied of the slaves who stirred the air with their long-handled fans, had become stifling. Sweat glistened on the bald head of the priest.

  He bowed. “She will obey you, Great One. She would not dare do otherwise.”

  “Will she?” Pharaoh’s tone was noncommittal. He removed the beard of kingship and scratched his chin. The goat hair always made him itch.

  It was unusual to direct a midwife to destroy life, but surely her loyalties lay with Egypt. Then again… “Have her watched.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Shiphrah stepped from the palace shade into the afternoon heat and stopped. She turned and looked up at the brightly painted columns. Wouldn’t Ati have been astounded she’d met Pharaoh? She, a Hebrew, summoned by Pharaoh. She started down the palace steps. The summons had worried Puah. She, an Egyptian, known by Pharaoh. Shiphrah moved past the guards with their leopard-and zebra-skin shields. Somehow her father knew of this. She—a bringer of life—ordered to kill.

  Shiphrah’s head began to ache as she limped down the long, dusty road.

  For the first time ever, Shiphrah hoped her aunt would not be waiting for her at their home. Puah would insist on a detailed description of the audience with Ramses, and Shiphrah would be compelled to tell her of Pharaoh’s command and the threat to the Hebrews. She never lied to Aunt Puah.

  She thought of Ramses’s order with every step toward home, turning his words, searching for an answer, but the long walk revealed no answers. Would there ever be enough time to know what to do? Maybe she should keep on going and never turn back.

  It would not be the first time she had run away to find a safe hiding place. But this time if she disobeyed the pharaoh, she could be killed or worse—exiled to the gold mines of Cush, sentenced to grinding gold into dust. Pharaoh would find someone else to kill the infant boys. No power on earth could stop Pharaoh.

  Mama Elisheba said there were always choices, but what choice did she have now?

  Anxious to delay her arrival home, Shiphrah sat by the edge of the river and let it skim under her feet. She pulled off her headcover, wadded it into a ball, and curled herself around the roughly woven material. Lulled by the lapping water’s chill, Shiphrah remembered the cool smoothness of the palace floors.

  She once lived in a house with floors like that—painted tile, cool and clean. Ati, the maid, had brought food and tended her whenever Papa hurt her. When she was old enough to be clothed, her clothes were white linen. Servants scattered the flies and cooled the air with fans. She had never intended to go back, never considered it before now.

  Shiphrah’s thoughts drifted to Pharaoh. Ramses was known for his generosity when pleased. Could there have been a promise in the words of the priest? Was there an escape from the grime and drudgery that ensnared her?

  Her hand brushed against the grasses, and without thinking Shiphrah broke several stems, plaited them, and began to weave the plait through her fingers.

  The memory of Mama Elisheba’s voice teaching her to braid the reeds slipped through her mind unbidden. “Think of it this way, dear. We will give each of the three strands a name: Shiphrah, Bedde, and Lili. When you braid, do it like this: first you, then Bedde, then Lili; now you, and Bedde, and Lili; that’s the way! Good, Shiphrah. I’m proud of you.”

  Proud of you. Shiphrah sat up, threw the plait into the river, and dug her broken nails into her hair, trying to hush that voice with its tenderness.

  Shiphrah approached her home and studied it as if she had been away a long time. She grimaced. In many ways, this morning had been another lifetime.

  The village clung to the edge of a hill, as if afraid it might slide into the cloudy river. Dried mud houses slumped together in defeat, the shared walls slouched inward, each house with its own cramped yard and slit of a door.

  Nearby, trees hunched naked, their branches stripped and used as roofs for the sagging huts. From the open courtyards, she smelled the pungency of burned sheep dung and cooking cabbage. Did it cling to her clothes and skin? Had she carried this stench into the palace?

  Swallowing hard not to gag at the reek, Shiphrah hurried to the house on a corner. Deep cracks showed in its walls, and chunks of mud had crumbled to the ground.

  She pushed aside the tethered goat and opened the narrow door. Her shoulders drooped. She choked back a groan. Puah was home and looking at her with worry in her eyes.

  Chapter 11

  Ramses awakened before the sun, as was his habit. He bathed in scented water and stretched out on a low table. Even as his hands and feet were being groomed, his body massaged with incense and perfumed oils, he barked orders to scribes and studied the roll of papyrus listing urgent matters. He put his work aside long enough for the barber to shave his head and face and did not blink as a thick line of crushed lead ore was drawn around his eyes. Of all the grooming, this was the most valuable to him since it blocked the sun’s glare and deterred the ever-present hordes of gnats and flies. A squinting pharaoh was not godlike.

  The servants’ capable ministrations relaxed Ramses. He allowed himself to consider the preparations for afterlife when he would bec
ome Osiris and his son, his heir, would be Horus. He’d design his funerary temple, plan his burial chamber, and have everything in the afterlife kingdom that he had here—except his Nefertari. Unacceptable. The thought of life without Nefertari was no better than eternal death.

  He donned a short-sleeve shirt—its snug fit resting easily on his lean frame—and a pleated kilt. A slave wrapped the wide belt around his waist before securing it with the buckle that boasted his cartouche, his name carved in hieroglyphs. He raised his arms to allow gold and silver bracelets to be fastened on his wrists and chose rings to wear for the day.

  Additional scented oil was rubbed onto Ramses’s feet. He stepped into his sandals, their upper soles etched with pictures of Egypt’s enemies symbolically crushed with his every step. To honor the morning ceremony, the beard of kingship, a symbol of his virility, was fastened on his chin. He bore the itching stoically.

  Lastly, the double crown of a United Egypt was placed on his head and the golden falcon collar was laid on his chest and around his neck.

  Ramses strode to the Window of Appearance to formally welcome the day. That completed, he moved to the audience room. He snapped his fingers, and a slave scurried to the temple. Ramses waited for the summoned priest to present himself. He tapped his foot impatiently. Nefertari must be with him in the afterlife. It would be so. He would cause it to be thus by his will and his word.

  Life without Nefertari as his Great Royal Wife could not be worth living. He would task the priest with assuring he and his beloved would never be parted. Without doubt, they could find a way for Nefertari to reign with him for eternity.

  The high priest, wearing the leopard skin of his office over one shoulder to show his importance, bowed to the ground before his god and sovereign and listened as Ramses ordered changes for the afterlife. Together, they outlined a plan for Nefertari’s eternity.