Slender Reeds: Jochebed’s Hope

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Slender Reeds: Jochebed’s Hope Page 15

by Texie Susan Gregory


  “Shiphrah, sometimes the Lord works through our fears, sometimes He draws on the people we love to guide us, and sometimes He makes the most of what we know about Him through the stories we’ve heard.” Mama smiled and leaned forward to push the hair from Shiphrah’s face. “The important thing is His plan uses what is already a part of our life.”

  “But Mother, what does she do now?” Bedde prodded. “Will God protect her from the pharaoh? Ramses could kill her and Puah for disobeying.”

  “I pray not.” Mama bowed her head and tipped it to one side as if listening before she continued. “But if he does, the Lord will use that, too. When evil comes, He uses it to bring about good.”

  “There is nothing good about Shiphrah being killed,” Jochebed stated flatly, annoyed her mother didn’t seem to understand the danger.

  “I didn’t say that, Bedde.” Her mother coughed hoarsely. “I said He would bring good from it.” She looked at Shiphrah. “The Lord’s answers wait for our questions. Ask Him what to do.”

  “Grandmother,” called Miriam from the doorway of Deborah’s house, “the baby is awake and Deborah is not. Should I wake her?”

  “Somebody always has a problem. Girls, pull me up.” She winced. “These old knees don’t work like they used to.” She stood stiffly and paused to get her balance before resting her hand on Shiphrah’s shoulder. “My dear, when the Lord sends the one who will deliver us, no power on earth will be able to stop him from accomplishing his task.”

  Shiphrah turned the quern, grinding wheat into flour. She was like the upper stone, the mano, and Egypt, the metate, intent on crushing Puah between them. She searched for a way to ease the tension between herself and her aunt. The two women had barely spoken the last week. Rocking back on her heels, she rubbed the flour with her fingers, noting how finely it was ground, a testament to her nervous tension. She eyed her aunt.

  Puah sat in the doorway, shoulders slumped. A frown creased her forehead, and her eyes were closed as if deep in thought. Shiphrah wished she could smooth away her aunt’s sorrow and untie the knots in her own stomach. It would be better if Puah had never looked for her so many years ago.

  Probably Puah bemoaned having found her and taken her in when she ran away from her father. Was her aunt regretting having sought her out and taking pity on her?

  Her stomach growled. Yesterday’s cabbage simmered in the cooking pot, but Shiphrah pushed it to one side. If she never ate boiled cabbage again, it would be too soon. Selecting an onion from the stack against the wall, she cut the root end first to drain the onion milk and then slit and peeled away the delicate skin. Dipping a cup into a widemouthed jar, Shiphrah carried the water and onion to sit near Puah.

  “Puah, you haven’t eaten all day. Are you hungry?”

  There was no response.

  Anxious to break the silence and perhaps delay Puah from sending her away, Shiphrah tried to coax her aunt to talk.

  “Do you want me to bring more water for the day? What do you think? Aunt Puah?”

  Puah blinked and then swiped at a swarm of gnats. “Shiphrah, I have prayed to the Lord … I think it is time you know … that is … well, there are things Jebah, your mother, told me, secrets we shared as sisters, about … things. I was so much younger than she, but there were only two safe people she could talk to.”

  Shiphrah flinched. She did not want to hear about her mother. Retreating to a corner, she scattered more grains onto the low metate, fit the mano on top, and turned the quern furiously. Why did Puah bring this up now? Didn’t they have enough to cope with as it was?

  “It has been in my heart, and you should know.” Without giving her a chance to protest, Puah began. Short of covering her ears or running away, Shiphrah could only listen, or at least pretend to listen. She kept her head down and began silently reciting the prayer to Hathor. It was a convenient trick whenever she wanted to hide but could not leave.

  “Your father, Nege, was from south of Karnak…”

  Holy music for Hathor … Shiphrah concentrated on the words.

  “… poor … eager to learn … scribe and priest in the largest temple…”

  Music a million times.

  “… ambitious … priest of Amun, king of all Egyptian gods…”

  Because you love music, million times music, to your soul.

  “… curious about Aten, the only god of the heretic pharaoh, Akhenaten who abandoned all other gods.”

  Scratching at a mosquito bite, Shiphrah tried to remember the last line of her poem. To your soul, wherever you are.

  “… questions … of one god … Goshen … your mother … the Lord.”

  The Lord? Shiphrah knew of Him from Mother Elisheba’s stories. What did the Hebrew God have to do with her father? Abandoning her silent recitations, she listened in earnest.

  “Nege asked Jebah to tell him about our one God, the Lord. They spent so much time together, there began to be rumors. People disliked having an Egyptian in the village, especially a priest training to be a physician. They suspected he was actually a spy and began making threats to kill him.”

  Shiphrah wiped the back of her neck where sweat had trickled. Why hadn’t they carried out their threats?

  “Nege received word saying he had been banned from ever serving in Karnak at Amun’s temple because of his interest in the one God and Aten. He could never be more than a scribe or a lesser priest.

  “My sister said the Nege she’d known vanished with his dream of becoming a physician priest of Amun. We didn’t see him for a time—I had hoped forever—although Jebah looked for him and wilted a little each day. When he returned to Pi-Ramses, he had a house in the temple precinct and worked as a scribe. Eventually he was restored to priesthood, but he had been shamed, denied the remainder of his training to become a physician, relegated to a lower order of priests.”

  Puah shook her head and sighed.

  “He was convinced he had sacrificed everything important to learn of our unseen God and then our God deserted him.”

  Biting her lip, Shiphrah wondered again how a god could be real but not seen.

  “The man my sister cared for—I can hardly bear to think his name, much less say it—nurtured and nursed a hatred of all things Hebrew. One night he brought Jebah to his house and turned on her.” Puah’s voice cracked. “He violated her, called her a ‘worthless Hebrew.’”

  Shiphrah cringed, remembering when the same words had darkened her lips. Nauseous, she focused on a fly dancing just out of reach, not wanting to hear any more.

  “When Jebah’s water broke and it was time for her to sit upon two stones and push you from her body, I attended her. No one else would. She could not return to our village, not pregnant and unmarried; and the Egyptian servants refused to”—Puah snapped her words—“defile themselves by touching her.”

  Shiphrah stood and hobbled outside. She could not listen anymore, and there were no words worth saying.

  A few days later, still trying to make sense of Puah’s story and of so much hatred, Shiphrah wandered to the water’s edge. As her heels sank into the thick mud, ooze squished between her toes, sneaking over her feet to almost cover her ankles. She wiggled her feet, and the mud floated away.

  A breeze moving through the stand of papyrus clicked the reeds together in a simple rhythm. She caught herself swaying to the beat and blinked rapidly. More than dates and figs, more than clean clothes and oil for her skin, she missed her music, missed dancing and singing with her own instrument. If only she still owned a sistrum … Playing always comforted her, helped her sort things out in her mind.

  It was the one thing Papa had done that she would always be grateful for—music lessons. Closing her eyes and letting her mind wander, she hummed the melodies, yearning for their solace, their steady, predictable rhythm.

  Shiphrah opened her eyes. The sun had disappeared, leaving a sprinkling of timid stars. She sat, not in a music class, but alone by the river. Shivering in the evening’s chill, she wonder
ed if Nege found pleasure in his revenge against her mother.

  She forced herself to stand and splashed water on her muddy feet. Mud washed away; hate did not. Hate stained as surely as the henna plant.

  With a glance at the darkening sky, she hurried to the village. The meal would be late, but at least the barley had soaked all day and only needed boiling.

  Shiphrah added sheep dung to the graying embers, and once they flamed, she placed the pot of barley in the fire pit. With a narrow reed she lit the lamp wicks. The oily flames grew. Her aunt was gone, and in the silence of the house, she thought of Puah’s story—the mother she didn’t remember and the father she knew too well. Would she ever understand? Would she always be stained by his hate like Bedde was tainted by her father’s actions?

  The summons to court came sooner than Shiphrah expected. This time Pharaoh required both she and Puah appear before him in the throne room.

  Shiphrah scrubbed herself in the river. If this day was to be her last, and she did not doubt it would be, she refused to die smelling of sheep. She wished Puah felt the same, but Puah retorted that her people were shepherds and she, a midwife. Ramses would meet her as such.

  In spite of their differences, the two women clasped hands throughout most of the dusty walk. They seldom spoke, and Shiphrah hoped Puah was praying to her Lord and her Lord was listening.

  Shiphrah imagined how she would explain her disobedience to Pharaoh.

  “I couldn’t,” she might offer. Then Ramses would say, “Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

  “I wouldn’t,” she’d admit. Ramses would look at her in disbelief and ask, “You chose not to obey me?”

  If she said yes, would he ask why she made such a choice?

  Shiphrah shuddered, visualizing his face if she told the stark truth. The hope of a deliverer for the Hebrews was exactly what Ramses didn’t want to hear about.

  Maybe she would not answer at all. Shiphrah sighed. Either way they were doomed.

  “You’re sighing a lot, Shiphrah. What’s troubling you? What are you thinking?”

  “Puah, we walk to our death.”

  “Probably.”

  “How can you be so calm, Aunt Puah?”

  “We did the right thing.”

  Shiphrah nodded miserably. “I know, but Ramses won’t…”

  “If we die, it will be for the right reason. We stood against evil in the Lord’s name.”

  Shiphrah moaned. “But all of this is my fault. You’re going to be sent to the mines or die because of me. If I hadn’t angered my father and then run to you for help, you wouldn’t be walking to your death.”

  Puah stepped in front of her niece and blocked her path. “Shiphrah,” she said, holding the girl’s face with both hands, “you are my family, the only child of my sister. It has been joy to have you in my home, to have someone to laugh with and cook for and love. No matter what happens today, know I have never regretted welcoming you into my life. I would do it all over again if given a chance. Are we clear on this?”

  Shiphrah nodded.

  “And dear, it’s not over yet. Give the Lord time to work.”

  The women walked a bit farther, and then Shiphrah, glancing sideways, saw Puah’s lips twitching as if she wanted to smile.

  “Shiphrah, what do Egyptians—or rather, what does Pharaoh know of Hebrew women, any idea?”

  Absently, Shiphrah shrugged. “They think all foreigners are inferior and Hebrews are vulgar, little more than beasts of the field.”

  Puah smiled.

  Chapter 17

  The Great House, Pharaoh’s palace, dominated the city of Pi-Ramses. Towers, designed to intimidate the brashest visitor, loomed above the walls.

  Guests entered between the first set of stone pylons to an impressive view of Ramses’s prowess and mighty deeds inscribed on the massive gates. As supplicants continued on through an open courtyard and passed under a second set of guarded pylons, they saw Ramses’s divine heritage chiseled on the slanted gate sides.

  Those who dared venture forward or those required to answer royal summons continued through yet another courtyard and a third pair of heavily guarded pylons. A brightly lit hall showing scenes of the Nile and river wildlife led to doors opening into the narrow throne room.

  The two women, escorted by a servant, walked through the courtyards and pylons. They paused outside huge doors guarded by twin alabaster lions and waited permission to enter.

  Summoned within, Shiphrah and Puah stepped over the stone threshold, past the white walls with their vividly painted life-size scenes of Egypt’s gods and goddesses. They approached the dais and knelt on the polished floor before the god of Upper and Lower Egypt—Horus incarnate—known in this life as Ramses.

  Without permission, Puah rose from the obeisance. Breaking all rules of court etiquette, she stepped forward, speaking directly to Ramses.

  “We have left our duties as midwives to the descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob and come at your command, Ramses, Pharaoh of Egypt. Our time is precious, we have little to spare.”

  The hissing of swords being pulled from their sheaths hushed the courtiers’ murmurings, and they stared at the small, barefoot Hebrew. Even with a guard pressing a well-honed knife against her throat, Puah’s audacity did not waver.

  Ramses’s face was inscrutable. Silence uncoiled into the corners of the room—a snake straining forward to its prey.

  At last, Pharaoh motioned for the guard to release his hold. “The Hebrew boys live. You disobey.”

  Stammering, Shiphrah began, “Great One, my lord, I … I am your m–most humble servant. The b–blame is all m–mine, not hers. I … I meant to obey your order, and I did try, but I couldn’t k—”

  “—catch the women in birth, Pharaoh. Hebrew women are not like Egyptian women; they are vigorous and give birth before the midwives arrive,” Puah interrupted. “Besides, as you must know, my niece is lame from a childhood injury. She moves slowly, and I…” Puah coughed in a piteous spasm.

  “Indeed.” Pharaoh narrowed his eyes. “And the other midwives, the ones who answer to you—are they, too, crippled and sickly?”

  “Oh no, Great One, but Hebrew women can be contentious. It is difficult for them to change their ways. They are hard to train.”

  Ramses studied the women. The crippled one still knelt, head bowed as if in shame. The other one looked straight … through him. Sheep musk wafted from her clothes. Ramses refused to acknowledge his revulsion. Memories of Umi’s prophecy wedged themselves into his mind.

  “Go.”

  The talker helped her niece to stand. Together they turned their backs to him and left, one hobbling, the other coughing hoarsely.

  Ramses did not blink as he watched them leave. Something was amiss, but it was unlikely that two women were more clever than he. Past unlikely. Impossible.

  Chapter 18

  Jochebed, standing at the foot of the path, saw it happen in the dimming light. One minute Mama stood on the flat rock, but as she turned to take a step on its wet surface, she slipped, calling out as she fell.

  She did not remember running to her or crying for help, but soon people surrounded her where she knelt, holding her mother’s hand.

  Someone brought a mat, and men gathered on each side, lifting Elisheba onto it, trying to keep her leg straight. Elisheba pressed her knuckles into her mouth, her face gray and strained. Jochebed, hurrying ahead of them as they carried her mother across the rocks and up the path, flung open the door and sent Miriam racing for Shiphrah.

  The men lowered the mat to the floor and left the house. Jochebed handed Aaron a papyrus stalk to chew, hoping the pith would keep him quiet and content. She looked up at the sound of heavy breathing. Sarah was not who she wanted in the house.

  Sarah grunted her way to where Elisheba lay and, with a loud snort, lowered herself to the ground.

  “Not as young as I used to be.”

  Irritated, Jochebed decided that was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard.
No one was as young as they used to be. She bit her tongue, not wanting to say something she’d have to apologize for later.

  “You were a fool to be out on that wet rock, you know that, don’t you, Elisheba?”

  Jochebed stared at Sarah, dumbfounded. Couldn’t the old woman see her mother was in agony?

  “We’ve both been fools a time or two, haven’t we, Elisheba? Remember that night when I fell trying to see…?” Sarah poked her nose closer to Elisheba’s face. “You took care of me, but did you ever tell?”

  Her mother groaned and shook her head. “Never. I promised.”

  “What about the time we caught…”

  “I’ll never forget…”

  Speechless, Jochebed listened to the half-sentence remembrances of the women and tried to think of a way to make Sarah hush—or better yet, leave.

  At last Shiphrah limped into the room, hesitating when she saw Sarah. At a nod from Jochebed, she knelt by Elisheba and began to probe the injured leg. When Elisheba gasped, Shiphrah sat back on her heels.

  “Mama Elisheba, your hip is broken. I will try to set it, and then you must not move until it heals. Sarah, I need your help. Jochebed, I left Miriam with Puah. You need to take Aaron and leave. Maybe you could go to Lili’s, but you do not want to be here.”

  Jochebed opened her mouth to protest, but when both Sarah and Shiphrah glared at her, she picked up her son and left. She had not gone far when she heard the scream. She burst into tears for her mother’s pain. Unaware of where she wandered, she saw a door open and Lili’s curved form silhouetted against the light. Without a word, Lili pulled her inside and pushed her down onto a stool.

  “You’re shaking, Bedde. Here, drink this.”

  Jochebed took the cup, hoping she wouldn’t drop it. Lili took Aaron from her and waited until Jochebed began to calm.

 

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