Slender Reeds: Jochebed’s Hope

by Texie Susan Gregory

A shuddering gasp escaped her, and Jochebed slept, her dreams splintered with a child’s broken cry. She had failed … again.

  Empty cradle, empty arms.

  Chapter 13

  Had it been two months or two years since her audience with Pharaoh? Did she look as old as she felt? Haunted by the thought of Bedde’s pregnancy, Shiphrah cringed in misery.

  Head throbbing, eyes aching, Shiphrah sat on the dirt floor and, for just a moment, missed the soft, thick feel of her father’s floor mats and the beautiful pictures painted on his whitewashed walls.

  This tiny naked room she shared with Puah would not have been considered fit for the lowest of her father’s slaves. Other than the thin sleeping mats, the room was almost empty. A large jar, with the mouth’s rim chipped and a crack near the bottom, seeped water into the dirt floor. Baskets stacked along one crumbling wall protected their meager food supply from the ever-present dust but not the pack of rodents that left evidence of their nightly forays.

  A slave’s house. Shiphrah pressed the heel of her hand against her eyes. She was no more than a slave. Hebrew or Egyptian, either way Pharaoh owned her. Disobedience brought death, either a quick death or a living death for everyone she knew. Bitterness wrapped around her, polishing hurt with anger. She was ensnared by her birth.

  More than ever, she hated her Hebrew mother. She had fought to forget the shadow of the woman who bore her, although once she overheard Ati and the other servants whispering of the night her mother left.

  Dressed in old clothes, a veil wrapped around her head, her mother had walked down the steps of the house, out of the town gates, across the fields, and into the unforgiving desert. What kind of woman abandons her young one to a father such as Nege? Why hadn’t she taken her, too?

  A shuddering breath told her Puah still wept. Heartbroken from hearing Puah’s sobs, Shiphrah longed to comfort her but didn’t know how. The look on her aunt’s face when she admitted agreeing to Ramses’s command would haunt her forever. But what else could she do?

  Pharaoh had asked her, no, commanded her to do this thing. She was Egyptian. He was her ruler. She could not disobey and live.

  Hebrew. Egyptian. No matter what she was, what choice did she have? Puah had no more choice than she did, although Puah refused to accept it. Ati had taught her that what must be done must be done.

  Shiphrah closed her swollen eyes aching with unshed tears. Her thoughts snarled into a knot of anger—frustration at belonging nowhere, hurt from abandonment, fear of returning to her father.

  During the weeks she lived with Elisheba, she treasured the villagers’ nods and hesitant smiles. But when she moved to Puah’s village—even knowing Puah wanted her—life was difficult. Shiphrah had soon realized Puah’s tribe—and her tribe—of Zebulun was not like Lili and Bedde’s tribe of Levi.

  When she first came to live with her aunt and was eager to prove herself worth keeping, Shiphrah gathered grain and milled it to make bread, tended the goat and sheep, and worked in the garden. As long as Aunt Puah was home, she was protected.

  When Puah traveled to a childbirth, away for hours or days, life was not much better than it had been with her father. The people, subtler than her father, nevertheless found ways to display contempt.

  Shiphrah remembered learning to wait until the sun was high before going for water. If she went with the other women, they would “accidentally” swirl the water so her jar filled with mud, or “happen to” bump into her so that she fell against the sharp-edged rushes. One morning when Puah was gone, she found sheep dung smeared on the door.

  Shiphrah understood the message. She did not belong with the Hebrews any more than she did with the Egyptians.

  Her meeting at the palace had reminded her she did not fit in anywhere. Sleepless in spite of the day’s hardships, Shiphrah brooded over her pledge to Pharaoh. What could she do? A promise was a promise.

  She turned on one side in an attempt to ease the tiredness of her weak leg. Sharp pain bruised her side, reminding her of another vow.

  Shiphrah pulled out the amulet and ran her fingers over its bloated features. It had no power, could bring no harm. As a child she had eavesdropped, much to Ati’s dismay, and heard her father’s friends say they did not believe in the gods.

  Still, she wished Lili had not asked her to bring this charm back from town. Shiphrah knew this would be her farewell gift to Lili. When she did as Pharaoh commanded, the Hebrews would have nothing more to do with her than arrange her death.

  Shiphrah found Lili cleaning clothes by the riverbank with some of the older women whose children were grown or gone. Most had finished rinsing their clothes and were anxious to find shelter from the heat. As the others started back, Shiphrah tightened her hand around the amulet. She motioned for Lili to wait. No one would question their lingering to talk, not even Sarah who knew Shiphrah’s limp slowed her walk.

  “Where is Bedde?” called one of the women. “I haven’t seen the three of you together since Bedde’s wedding. It’s not like it was in the beginning.”

  Lili forced a smile and nodded, but Shiphrah moved away, pretending not to have heard and hoping no one had seen her clenched hand. Secretly she was glad Bedde was not there. Bedde would never approve of what she was doing.

  Flies swarmed around her feet, but Shiphrah stayed near the river’s edge and kept her back to the women. Using one hand, she shaded her eyes from the sun’s glare and wished the stragglers would go away. She needed to talk with Lili. Why didn’t the old busybodies leave? One of the flies bit through the mud caked on her ankles, and she took it as justice. She wasn’t being fair.

  Although at first these villagers had looked oddly at her, they had eventually befriended her. The grudging tones of “What is she doing here?” had become a curious, “Why aren’t you three together?”

  Shiphrah hugged the thought until she squeezed her hand too hard and a sharp edge on the amulet cut her finger. The sweet memory bled away.

  As the last straggling women moved out of sight, their arms full of wet laundry, soggy children, or brimming jars of water, she waited for Lili to speak. Lili watched over her shoulder until the women were out of earshot, and Shiphrah guessed she wanted to make sure they were completely alone.

  Shiphrah knew how the Hebrews felt about Egyptian gods. Surely Lili had changed her mind about the figurine, although if it made her friend feel better, there was probably no harm in having the amulet unless she was caught with it.

  “Shiphrah, do you really have it?” Lili whispered.

  “I said I did.” Shiphrah looked hard at Lili. “Do your brothers know you asked for this? Have you spoken with your husband about it?”

  Lili huffed. “No. They do not concern themselves with women’s affairs. Now tell me, how soon will it work? When will I have a child?” Lili clenched her hands together. “This has to work, it has to.”

  “Lili,” Shiphrah began, determined to be honest about her own doubts of the amulet’s worth, “I don’t know if…” She stopped, unable to ruin the hope on Lili’s face. “I don’t know.”

  Opening her hand, she showed Lili the roughly carved amulet. An image of the goddess Taweret hung from a flax cord. Standing upright to display her obvious pregnancy, the clay goddess wore a crocodile-tail headdress on her hippopotamus-shaped head. Her legs and paws, fiercely ready to protect her young, were those of a lion.

  “It’s so ugly!”

  Shiphrah looked at it, trying to see it as if for the first time. She shrugged and held it out for Lili to accept. “You don’t have to take it.”

  “I will. I want to. It’s just…” Lili picked up the small piece of clay between two shaking fingers, as if she expected it to come alive at her touch and she wanted to be ready to run at the first sign of danger.

  “The priestess said it is most effective if worn next to your skin.”

  “Thank you, my friend.” Lili shuddered as she placed the unpainted amulet around her neck.

  “It is called Tawere
t.”

  “This is the goddess of pregnancy?”

  “It’s more complicated than just that, Lili.”

  “How do you know?”

  She shrugged one shoulder and did not answer. Some things did not need to be revealed.

  Shiphrah lingered near the river after Lili left. Watching the sun setting seemed the right thing to do. Life as she knew it was ending.

  The river pulled at her feet, beckoning Shiphrah, inviting her to wander in and explore its dark secrets. A night owl hooted, and something stung her foot. Somewhere in the night a frog’s croak ended abruptly, and Shiphrah listened for the slap of crocodile tail against the water. Jochebed said frogs sang, but Shiphrah thought they sounded more like burps—a signal they had finished gorging themselves and were now available to become a meal.

  Maybe crocodiles would get her even now. If Bedde’s mother, Elisheba, had not found her, either the scaly creatures or her father would have killed her. At least the crocodile would have smiled at her, waiting until she died before weeping its false tears. Death had been close and welcome. Was she still grateful for her childhood rescue?

  Her throat tightened. It was a reckless thing Mama Elisheba did. Most people would have drowned her or left her to die just so there would be one less Egyptian, but no, they brought her home, even if it meant trouble with the overseers. Mama Elisheba and Bedde must not have thought of what would happen to them if they were blamed for beating her.

  Soon no one would be glad Elisheba had carried her home. Would the village turn on Mama Elisheba? Would they shun Bedde and Lili for befriending an Egyptian? Shiphrah scratched at the sting on her foot.

  Aunt Puah’s neighbors had not welcomed her half-breed presence any more than the people in her father’s Egyptian household. Maybe they saw her for what she really was, a misbegotten troublemaker.

  She brushed at a mosquito. At least she kept the insects well fed.

  Chapter 14

  Ramses, trained since childhood to observe what others missed, surveyed the missteps of the acrobats and dancers who somersaulted between low tables scattered throughout the banquet room. Wearing only thin skirts and bracelets, they tumbled and twisted to the music, heavy disks braided into their hair adding another rhythm whenever they swished against the floor. Ramses scoffed. His Nefertari was far more graceful.

  Allowing himself the pleasure of admiring his wife, he saw she watched their daughter, Merit-Amun, pick at her food. The girl must be considering how soon she could leave without incurring the wrath of her parents. Ramses saw the change when she realized her mother watched. Abruptly she stretched a smile across her face and turned her attention to the person beside her.

  Ramses tapped his fingers. What was the name of the man seated near his daughter’s table? The foreigner, inferior and thus forbidden to share a table with Egyptians, had shifted his seating cushion close to the princess. A brash move. A foolish decision.

  Ramses recalled the man’s accent as atrocious and that the lotus-scented cone of wax dripping down his hair did little to cover the sour odor of his body. The foreigner crowded another chunk of food into his mouth. Merit-Amun wiggled in her chair and adjusted her bracelets, probably thanking the gods for his gluttony and trying to think of something to say.

  Her mother would excuse her soon unless angered. If that happened, Merit-Amun might be forced to sit throughout the entire banquet. Ramses left the discipline of his children to their mother, and although Nefertari did not ask much of her children, rudeness to a guest brought a reprimand hotter and more stinging than a khamsin wind with its fiercely blowing sand.

  He lifted his silver cup and listened to the laughter and clapping. His people were happy, enjoying the wealth of Egypt’s bounty.

  Ramses noticed Merit-Amun sway with the tambourine’s beat, her yellow-gold eyes half closed. Music made banquets almost bearable for her. If she could join the dancers, she might not mind these lengthy feasts at all. He knew his daughter resented her dances being sanctified to Amun and the goddess Hathor and her songs confined to honoring the goddess Mut.

  He watched as she drummed her nails on the table, and wondered how long it would take her to learn to play the instrument. She had already mastered the sistrum. Nefertari said the girl was restless. Perhaps she needed something new to amuse her, something interesting to think about, something he could use to … manage her.

  Merit-Amun flinched as the man moved closer. A sudden stillness beside him told him Nefertari had seen it, too. If the foreigner dared offend … Ramses focused his concentration on the two and leaned forward to hear their words.

  “Your hair was still in a side-lock last time we dined together. Such a little girl you were.” The foreigner belched and wiped his greasy mouth with the back of his hand before reaching for a stuffed quail. “You played the sistrum and danced naked for us.” He licked his thick lips. “I hoped you would dance tonight. I often think of that performance.”

  Ramses saw Merit-Amun’s amber eyes become narrow slits. His daughter’s expression should have warned the fool that his comments offended her.

  Merit-Amun stiffened and examined her hands as if to admire a new ring.

  “I dance only in the temple for Amun or the goddess Hathor.”

  Ramses frowned. The foreigner overstepped the bounds of courtesy, becoming too personal with a royal.

  “I wish I could hear you play again.”

  “Impossible.”

  A boisterous laugh from nearby drowned the man’s words, and when Ramses could hear again, the man’s mouth was full, his attention on the table of delicacies.

  Ramses looked at Nefertari staring at the man and knew what he would command. Only when she believed her children were threatened did her face look as it did now—cold and hard as marble. It was most unwise to displease his beloved. Nothing and no one distressed her … and lived.

  Chapter 15

  Crouched beside her mother and daughter, Jochebed wished life unwound as easily as weaving. To teach Miriam the rhythm and pattern of basketry was simple because she could undo her work or, if the basket warped or a flaw appeared in the structure, start over. Of course in weaving, the pattern changes were obvious and the necessary corrections easy to see. Relationships were harder to figure out.

  Jochebed watched her mother showing Miriam something with the basket they were working on as Miriam’s head nestled in the curve of her grandmother’s shoulder. It had not been too long ago since she sat there, resting in that love, safe in knowing Mother could make right whatever went wrong, and believing the God of her fathers still cared about the Hebrews.

  Poking through the reeds in search of ones thick enough for the basket’s spokes, Jochebed smiled, remembering when her mother had first explained the spokes’ purpose to Lili and Shiphrah.

  “What would happen if you had no bones?” Mother had asked the two girls.

  Unsure of the answer, Lili and Shiphrah looked at each other and giggled. “We couldn’t break them?”

  “You would be like water. Spokes are the bones of a basket, like ribs. They give shape and strength. Without spokes, there’s no basket, just a mat to walk on or sleep on.”

  Remembering that time with Lili and Shiphrah, Jochebed sighed loudly. Miriam turned, concern lining her young face.

  “Are you all right, Mama?”

  Quickly, Jochebed nodded. She had not meant to frighten Miriam. Ever since Jochebed lost the baby, Miriam had hovered near with a worried look.

  “I was just remembering your grandmother teaching me those same things and how quickly time passes. I think you learn much faster than I did.” Jochebed forced her lips to curve into a smile to reassure her daughter.

  “I don’t know about that.” Her mother rubbed her hands as if they ached. “Seems to me you two are the quickest learners I’ve ever had.”

  Miriam returned to her work, seeming satisfied, and missed the look Jochebed shared with her mother. Threatened with the telltale warmth of tears that
came so easily these days, Jochebed bent over the reeds scattered in the dirt and chose the last spokes. As she compared their sizes to determine if they would work together, she wondered how different things might be if she had picked and chosen her friends like she chose a basket’s ribs, or if, as with a ruined basket, she could simply start over at the beginning.

  With a little whimper, Aaron announced he had finished his nap, and Jochebed handed him a piece of bread. She crinkled her nose at his pungency, and glad for a reason to avoid her memories and questions, she snatched a clean cloth and followed him as he toddled outside.

  River breezes curled around her face as she washed Aaron by the river. She left the cloth to dry in the sun and settled herself in the shade of a palm tree.

  She eased herself against the trunk. Its ragged cuts dug into her back, and she remembered how as children she and Lili had decided the tree trunk was woven together. It seemed so long ago when she and her cousin had agreed on almost everything. Jochebed leaned a little to one side and thought of Lili.

  Lili had been as much a part of her life as the Nile was of Egypt, comforting in its constancy, predictable in mood, and at times, overwhelming.

  Tears warmed Jochebed’s eyes. She missed those days with Lili, the easy companionship, their agreement on almost everything. The only thing she knew they agreed on these days was the preciousness of children. She’d been delighted when once, Aaron tottered to where Lili sat with her back to them and rested his head against her shoulder. Lili had startled and then reached out to caress his hair.

  She smiled as her son draped himself around her neck to demand more food. Aaron stuffed most of the bread in his mouth and began piling pebbles into a stack. She loved watching him play, enjoying his giggles and squeals as he scattered the pebbles with his hand. Jochebed tucked a loose curl behind one ear. Did other mothers treasure their children more after losing one? She thought of the child she had lost and closed her eyes, allowing herself to remember his tiny perfection. If only she could have held him just once.