The girls gaped at her, and Shiphrah knew they saw the fear shivering in her eyes.
“You must never tell anyone of this place. Never! Do you understand me? We have trespassed onto sacred ground, royal ground. Forget we were ever here. Forget this day. Forget what you heard. Swear this to me!”
For a moment the faces of her friends blurred as she fought the pull of the past.
For once, her Egyptian childhood would benefit someone. Shiphrah chuckled as she stocked Mama Elisheba’s basket with vegetables to use in bartering for a sistrum. She knew which vendor to visit. His wares were a mixed lot, cheap instruments along with valuable ones. He cheated many people, but he would not fool her.
The market, littered with sounds and smells she hoped to avoid, was no different than it had been when she was a child—carts piled with foods, animals protesting their surroundings, and the ever-present flies and dust. She wove her way around the stands until she came to the heavy-eyed man she sought.
Flutes and drums, sistra and lyres hung on the poles. She paused as if to rest her leg and pretended the wares had caught her eye.
“Lovely lady, beauty calls to its own. You know art when you see it.”
Holding her breath, Shiphrah felt her face turning red. She hoped the man would think she blushed at his compliment.
“Look closely at this flute, feel it in your hands.”
Shiphrah lowered her eyes and shook her head as if embarrassed.
“No flute? Hold the sistrum. It is perfect in size, as perfect as your beauty.”
A tiny smile appeared as she fought the urge to laugh in his face. No one ever called her beautiful. The man must think she was a blind fool.
“Ah, you smile. It is the sistrum that speaks to the music in your heart.”
Shiphrah ducked her head in agreement and darted a look at a sistrum behind the vendor. She knew the ones within reach would have a thin sound and be easily broken. The ones behind him were those of value and would be more difficult for a thief to snatch.
The man slipped a sistrum from the pole and pressed it close to her. Shiphrah stepped forward but directed her gaze to the instrument in the back. Slowly she began to sidle away.
“Ah, I am a fool. There is another sistrum. Wait! Let me show it to you.”
Shiphrah took a step backward, and then, pretending to be drawn by the sistrum’s beauty, she inched forward. She stretched forth her hand as if unaware of her action.
Unhesitating, the vendor handed it to her. She turned it over, noting the weight was balanced, the metal disks correct in size.
She offered it back. He pushed her hand away. Again she tried to return it. Again he refused. The time was right.
Shiphrah set the basket on the ground, closed her eyes, and began to play. She spun the circles to mimic the gods clapping, loosened rain upon the river, and finished with the whisper of the wind.
Opening her eyes, she saw a crowd gathered around her. She nudged the basket toward the vendor and backed away before he could refuse. It had all gone as planned.
Chapter 20
Standing in the palace’s Window of Appearance, Ramses II, as the Sun God, held out his hand for Nefertari, his queen, priestess of the goddess Hathor—wife of the Sun God. Together they greeted the morning sun, worshipping Amun-Re, king of all gods, thanking him for the renewal of life.
Ramses knew he held the favor of the gods. He was victorious in battle, the building of his temples progressed steadily, the Nile flooded to new levels, his many wives were—if not at peace—at least congenially producing children, and beside him stood his beautiful wife and lover, Nefertari. Silently, Ramses thanked his father, Seti, for choosing this woman to be his first wife.
“The slaves are being corralled to depart for Abu Simbel. The work on the temples will begin as soon as they arrive.” Ramses handed the crown to a waiting slave and smoothed the stubble of his red hair. “Would you like to see the finished plans for the second temple, beloved?”
Nefertari’s eyes sparkled.
Ramses crooked his finger, and a waiting scribe spread the papyri on a gold-covered table, its legs carved to resemble those of a lion’s. Nefertari glided gracefully to his side, and Ramses encircled her with his arms as he explained the drawing.
“Here, on either side of the entrance, will be a statue of you, and I will be on the outer sides protecting you for all eternity. See, our children are shown gathering around your feet, and there at the temple entrance will be cobras, protecting our family, protecting you.”
“Ramses, it is magnificent. Why, it’s carved out of the mountain like yours.”
“It is a mountain of pink granite. It is indestructible.”
“Ramses, this statue of me, it looks as large as yours.” She pointed and laughed. “Surely that cannot be accurate. The scribe has made a mistake.”
“Nefertari, this temple is dedicated to you and the goddess Hathor. You will no longer simply represent Hathor—you will become a goddess, known forevermore as the goddess Nefertari. Priests are planning the ceremony for your deification. We will be together forever in the eternity of the next life, as we are now. Did I tell you what I ordered carved over the entrance?”
Flustered, she shook her head.
Ramses turned her in his arms and cupped his hand under her chin. “Throughout eternity, no one will ever doubt my feelings for you. I am the Sun God, Nefertari, and you—it shall be chiseled in stone as it is etched in my heart—are ‘she for whom the sun does shine.’ All that I do, my dear, I do for you.”
For five days, torches burned around the festival precinct, purifying all within for the upcoming festival. Although Nefertari, cloistered in her rooms, was not allowed to see any of the preparations for her deification ceremony, Ramses had advised her it would be similar to his coronation.
Ramses and the priests agreed the event should be held just after the New Year’s festival at the retreat of the inundation, the time of rejoicing over the world’s fresh beginning. This was the most blessed time of the year. Crops would soon begin to grow, assuring Egypt’s wealth and supremacy over all other countries.
Word came to Ramses that Nefertari’s maids had completed readying her for the ceremony. Perfume had been massaged onto her skin, her makeup painstakingly applied, each nail painted with an intricate design, a fine linen dress donned, and an elaborately curled wig placed on her head.
He laughed, remembering how many questions she’d asked him. She still didn’t understand how she could change from symbolizing the goddess Hathor to being a goddess herself. She’d insisted she did not need to be a goddess before acquiescing to his wishes—as always.
Mentally, he traced the path she would take. Upon leaving her apartments, Nefertari would be guided along the corridor to the priests waiting to formally escort her to a throne on the royal barge. Even now the oarsmen would be steering the boat slowly along the river’s edge so all who saw her knew of her importance. The oarsmen would dock by the temple’s steps and wait until after the ceremony to escort the royal couple—god and goddess—back to the palace.
Ramses scratched his chin and then readjusted his beard of kingship. Shouts and cheers alerted him to her arrival. He imagined Nefertari wrapping herself in royal poise and descending from her throne to the temple landing, its granite steps crowned with columns reducing the foreign officials to gawking peasants. The five-day festival was about to begin.
Surrounded by smoking cones of incense, Ramses watched her follow the chanting priests with their shaven heads. He had instructed the priests carefully. They had not known what to do since Nefertari was the first queen to be deified during her life in this world.
Priests and nobles elbowed each other to be closer to the raised dais where Pharaoh stood waiting. Ramses saw Nefertari’s shoulders relax when she looked into his face. If she started to make a wrong move, he would warn her. Having been married for so many years, she caught and read every flicker of his eyes.
His beloved
knelt before him at the foot of the dais, symbolically acknowledging his authority over her as husband, king, and god. A priest braced her arm, helping her to stand. Ramses looked past her, knowing she would understand. She was to wait until he instructed her to move.
A priest carrying the folded linen qeni entered from one side, presented it first to Ramses for approval, and then approached Nefertari. Ramses nodded infinitesimally, and the garment was unfolded, draped around her back, and knotted at the shoulder. Only one part of the formal ceremony remained, the act of accession, the becoming a goddess.
Ramses reached out his hand. She lifted the heavy qeni and, one dignified step at a time, ascended into eternal godhood. With each upward step, supernatural powers would come upon her, transforming her person into that of a goddess.
Ramses motioned to a slave, who brought a small alabaster box and presented it to Nefertari. A discreet nod and the gleam in his eyes told her to open it now, not later. Inside the box rested a gold and silver pendant of two lions, side by side, with the sun resting between them. He watched her face. She would know what it meant.
Nefertari looked up at Ramses, her eyes full of love. It was a symbol of this day, a symbol of the two of them, a symbol meaning “yesterday and tomorrow,” “past and future.”
Facing the crowd, they accepted their due praise. All was well in Egypt. The Nile promised new life, a strong god-king ruled the land, and an heir was training as the next pharaoh. Egypt was, as always, indestructible.
Chapter 21
Something roused her. Jochebed hovered between sleep and wakefulness, listening for what had awakened her, reassuring herself with all that was familiar.
Through the palm roof branches the moon hoarded its light but for a sliver of paleness. Still, she could see the two children curled together like puppies and Amram’s chest rising and falling with his uneven snore.
No one called from outside, and next door the neighbor’s baby did not cry. The glowing embers were safely contained in the basin dug into the floor. Nearby, her mother rested quietly, the fire’s warmth hopefully easing the pain in her hip.
In the distance a dog barked. Jochebed hoped it wouldn’t awaken her mother. Mama slept so lightly when she was finally able to sleep. The rumble of barking came closer, and she waited for her mother’s groan as she’d waken, turning to search for a comfortable position.
Mama did not stir.
Jochebed’s heart began to pound faster. Fully awake, she waited. Her mother would stir any minute now. But she did not move.
As Jochebed knelt beside her mother, she realized the ragged breathing had awakened her. Time stumbled, stopping between each breath, hovering between life and death.
Listening to her gasping, Jochebed matched her own breathing to her mother’s, desperate to help her draw in one more fragment of life—just once more to see her mother’s face light up, once more hear, “I love you, darling.”
“Mama, don’t leave me.”
Jochebed held her mother’s hand, feeling its warmth, clinging to her for as long as possible. “Mama?” Even in her own ears, her voice held the fear of a lost child. “What will I do without you, Mama?”
Who would love her unconditionally? For so many years it had been just the two of them, leaning on each other, dependent on each other for survival.
Who would pray for her? Who would guide her through life?
“Mama? I love you.”
The gasps tore at Jochebed’s heart. Mercy, Lord.
Lord. His ways were not hers. His mercy was not hers. His timing was not hers. And His will was definitely not hers.
“Motherrrr.” Did she voice a cry, or did her mother sense the anguish? Elisheba seemed to pause, linger at the edge of eternity, and turn back to Jochebed, opening eyes so tender-soft with love that Jochebed could only nod.
Mama’s breath slowed. Was this the last one? Jochebed stroked her mother’s frail hand, wanting to feel her skin, wanting Mama to know she was beside her, would not leave her, would be with her until the end.
Amram rested his hand on Jochebed’s shoulder. He had added a few reeds to the fire, and in its dim light, she smoothed the thin strands of hair away from her mother’s face, touching the long scar on her cheek. Jochebed cradled her head against her mother’s shoulder one last time.
And she was gone.
Gone.
How could Mama be here one minute and not the next?
One minute. Couldn’t she have had just one more minute? There was still so much Jochebed didn’t understand, so much she needed to ask, so much she wanted to say to her mama.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Jochebed pressed her face against the wrinkled cheek, refusing to accept this was happening. There was no response. Did Mama ever know how important she was to her … that Jochebed realized she had lived life loved because of her mother?
The warmth of her mother’s hand began to fade. Jochebed lifted the frail hand and held it securely against her face—such a thin hand. She pressed harder, memorizing her mother’s touch and the way the gnarled fingers curled against her cheek, inhaling Mama’s familiar scent before it, too, was gone.
Gone.
Amram awakened Miriam and sent her to summon the neighbors. Lili came to silently hold Bedde’s hand, and women, pulled from their sleep, prepared the body for burial.
Jochebed sat, eyes averted, wrapped in pain, her hair loosened and covered in ashes. Part of her died with Mama. Part of Mama lived on inside of her.
Mama had woven strength into her with each strand of faith, with the fiber of her beliefs. She had molded her daughter with deep love and hard work. Even in her dying, Mama had cared for her, waiting for her acceptance and farewell, assuring her of love, teaching her how to approach death. How well she knew her daughter’s strengths and weaknesses, fears and abilities.
They buried her at dawn. Even death dared not hinder Pharaoh’s work.
Amram and Joseph dug a hole in the hot silence of the Red Desert—land untouched by the Nile. The body was wrapped in a grass mat, her face hidden with a scrap of cloth. Jochebed watched, unable to turn away, needing to see her form as long as possible. Gently the men sifted sand over her stillness. Jochebed crouched, unable to stand, trying to breathe, haunted by the realization of never looking on her face again.
The wind began its work of shifting sand. Her grave would be unmarked, her name soon unknown. In Egypt, an unmarked grave, an unknown name, meant her life was insignificant, forgotten. She had ceased to exist for all time. But Jochebed knew that to say the word Mother would forever invoke vibrant memories rich with love. “Mother” would always mean “love.”
Somehow she must be as strong and wise and serene for her children as Mama had been for her. But how deep was the wisdom of one who’d not yet seen twenty years?
Grains of sand stung her face as the winds increased. Jochebed wrapped her headdress over her nose and mouth and fought Amram’s arm as he gently pulled her away.
She was not ready to leave this place, not ready to say farewell, not ready to forever lose sight of her mother’s grave, but the hot wind of a khamsin drove torrents of sand across the land. Again, she had no choice.
The wind hardened. She surrendered, allowed Amram to lead her as he stumbled through the gusts of murky brown, its stinging darkness a picture of her loss.
“I miss Grandmother,” Miriam said. “And I miss hearing her stories.” She paused and frowned at her mother. “But I think she would fuss at you because you haven’t been eating again. You know how she worried when you’re so thin.”
Jochebed stared at Miriam, aware of the concern in her eyes, the careful tone of her voice. When had her daughter become so nurturing, so grown up? In some ways, Miriam was so like her grandmother.
“I miss her, too, Miriam. Every day I think of more I wish I’d asked her.”
Aaron tossed a handful of dirt into the air. Jochebed sighed.
“Mama, at least lie down and rest.” Miriam moved to sit besid
e her brother. “I can watch Aaron.”
Jochebed wanted to reassure her that she was fine, but she wasn’t. She was so tired—too tired these days. She’d never understood the exhaustion of grief. Thankfully, Amram was patient with her in her sorrow. He had loved Mama, too.
Miriam had known her grandmother well, but she wondered if Aaron would remember her at all. He was just two—so little time with her…
Leaving the dough she had been kneading, she crossed to a sleeping mat, each step as difficult as wading through river mud. How heavy grief felt. Jochebed decided if she could just close her eyes for a little while, Miriam would care for Aaron and maybe she’d feel better.
It was dark when Jochebed pulled free from the nightmare battering her, threatening to choke her. She breathed deeply, repeating to herself it was only a dream—although a recurring one. Huge crocodiles would not thrash out of the Nile to snatch away her loved ones while she watched helplessly.
At least she no longer woke sobbing for her mother and lost child. If she could stop the dreams and sleep well, maybe she would not be so tired, so very tired and sick feeling. Turning, she curled over on one side.
Soft as a butterfly wing, it came, and realization flooded through her. Surely this could not be! Yet she knew this delicate fluttering, had felt it three times before. When had she last…?
Wide awake, Jochebed smiled. There was nothing so precious as the gift of life. She could hardly wait to tell Amram and see her mother’s face … Jochebed swallowed hard. Would she ever become accustomed to Mama being gone? “Mama,” she whispered into the night, “I carry your grandchild.” Tears flooded her eyes. Mama would not hold this baby. This child would never know his grandmother’s love.
Jochebed forced her thoughts from grief to joy. She could share the news with Amram. He had been so happy when Jochebed told him about the other three pregnancies and so sad when she miscarried. Jochebed imagined telling him—picturing the slow nod he gave when pleased and his lips curving into a crooked smile.
Slender Reeds: Jochebed’s Hope Page 17